I'd better go get dressed soon, too," Trissa suggested as Augusta finished the hem and gave her a hand so she could step down off the table. Trissa pulled on her jeans under it then carefully removed the pin-filled skirt. "Nicholas said about five."
"Yes, mustn't keep the groom waiting," Augusta teased. She shook out the cream sweater and handed it to her and folded the skirt to hem later. When she looked up and smiled, it was with such a merry twinkle in her eyes that Trissa felt warmed by it.
"Oh, Augusta, I don't know how to thank you. This has been like Christmas and homecoming and birthday all in one."
"Don't forget honeymoon."
"Yes. I haven't been so happy in... in all my life." Impulsively, she gave Augusta a quick hug, and Augusta responded by wrapping her in her warm embrace and kissing her on the forehead. Like a mother might. When the moment ended, Trissa turned quickly, blinking away tears, and raced up the steps.
She was to wear the cream sweater and a softly pleated chocolate wool skirt. Both Augusta and Beverly pronounced them their favorites of the alterations they had completed that day. Beverly had tightened the pearl buttons down the back of the sweater, and the skirt had required only shortening and a little nip at the waist to fit her perfectly. Augusta loaned her some pearl drop earrings and a pearl and rhinestone clip for her hair.
When Trissa went to the closet to find her shoes, she was astonished to see how they reflected their new shine back at her. She did not remember their gleaming so, even on the day she had bought them.
Nicholas. Pair by pair, loafers, flats, suede pumps, she brought her shoes out into the light. Each pair was polished and buffed or brushed to perfection. Even the old ankle boots she ratted around in but hadn't worn anyplace beyond the woods in two years shone like brand new. She marveled at the time he must have spent on them. She reassembled them in their straight little row and shut the closet door just as Augusta called her from below.
Nicholas was home. She slipped on her pumps, grabbed her purse and coat, and flew down the stairs.
But it was not Nicholas.
"Dr. Edmonds." Her pace slowed with the shock of seeing him and she was unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.
"Miss Kirk."
The name brought a quick look of puzzlement to Augusta's face. Trissa guessed he had not used it when he gained admittance to the house. "It's my maiden name, Augusta," she said, "I guess Dr. Edmonds forgot that." She cast a chastening look at Edmonds who seemed oblivious to it.
"You may use the front parlor, if you like, Trissa. I will tell Nicholas where you are when he arrives." With a frown of disapproval at Trissa's visitor, she added, "Which should be any moment now."
"Thank you, Augusta."
"And you look lovely, dear." Augusta relieved her of her coat and purse so she could attend to her guest.
"Thank you."
Like someone used to barging in and thus immune from any criticism of it, Dr. Edmonds strode ahead of Trissa into the parlor. He turned to face her as she crossed the threshold. "She's right, you know. You look very nice. Except for the bruises and abrasions, of course."
"And aside from your stubbornness and boorish behavior, you might be very nice as well. I haven't had much chance to judge that yet, Doctor."
"Please call me Bryant." He studied her for a moment with that odd half-smile-half-frown she remembered from the emergency room, then without being asked, he removed his coat and lay it across a chair. "I'm not here as your doctor."
Simmering with irritation, Trissa snatched his coat from the chair, then realized she had no idea where to take it. Rather than stand stupidly holding it, she took it to the hall and yanked open a door she assumed would be a guest closet. It was the stairs to the cellar. She tossed the coat on the top step and returned to the parlor. With his hands clasped behind his back, Edmonds was strolling the room studying the portraits on the wall.
Trissa cleared her throat to get his attention. "Then why are you here, Doctor? "
"Are these supposed to be relatives of his?"
"Whose?"
"Brewer's. I don't see any family resemblance. The line must be wearing thin." He picked up a candlestick from the mantle and turned it over, examining it. "Silver?"