This weekend was going to turn out even better than she’d hoped.
* * *
Julie: So? How is Mr. Hottie this morning?
Allie: We went kayaking. Frolicking happened.
Julie: Frolicking! This is starting to sound serious. How is Erik?
Allie: Sullen. Tell me I have nothing to feel guilty about.
Julie: Guilty? GUILTY? OMG, do not even start with guilty. The guy is a putz. You owe him nada.
Allie: Gotta go, Erik’s taking me up to the attic!
Julie: Tie those legs together, girlfriend.
* * *
THE CLOTHES WERE better than Allie had hoped. Much better. She was in heaven, surrounded by four steamer wardrobes. Inside each were stacked sliding drawers on one side and hanging space on the other. Erik had hung around hopefully for a while, but after it became obvious that Allie was completely absorbed in the silks, velvets, satins and sequins of fashion history and paying him only grudging attention, he gave up and went back downstairs, complaining that the attic was getting too hot.
Hot? There was a fan siphoning air out the top of the house, and with a breeze blowing in through the open windows at either end of the room, Allie found the spot perfectly comfortable if a bit noisy.
But then, with a treasure trove like this around her, she could have been sitting on spikes in a lake of boiling oil and been fine.
In the one trunk she’d gone through that morning, one of Grandmother Bridget’s from the 1940s, she’d found a fabulous array of suits in stunning colors—emerald, gold, coral—with feminine fitted jackets with contrasting collars and flared peplums. There were knee-length pencil skirts and A-lines that fell to mid-calf. Full-legged high-waisted pants, blouses with low-cut necklines and full sleeves with wide cuffs. Hats, scarves, furs...and gowns! Black satin with a full skirt and Queen Anne neckline. Turquoise silk with silver sequins forming a flame pattern cinching at the waist. Red velvet with an off-the-shoulder neckline, fitted bodice and a flared skirt. A gold strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline and matching full-length gold coat.
All of the gowns had matching shoes! Allie was ready to weep with happiness.
Of course not everything was in perfect shape. Some colors had faded, some spots had developed, the thinnest fabrics were disintegrating here and there.
Even so, Allie felt as if she’d stepped into the dressing room on the set of an Edith Head movie. Imagine having so much finery stashed in the attic of a summer house! Maybe the clothes were all transferred here when Bridget’s year-round house was sold. Maybe she had a whole other wardrobe somewhere else.
It boggled the mind.
The only disappointment was that the clothes were too large to fit her. Erik and Jonas’s grandmother must have been a tall, imposing woman. Allie would have to ask to see pictures. Maybe they had shots of her wearing some of the outfits.
She stretched, thinking she should go down for lunch soon, or at least get a glass of water. It was heating up as the sun climbed overhead. She should plan to do her work here in the early mornings.
Or...evenings. Because the early mornings might be her and Jonas’s time to cheat on Erik and Sandra.
She rolled her eyes at her own crush-induced idiocy and moved toward the exit, passing an older emerald-green trunk covered with labels of ocean liners and hotels from all over Europe. Was this Great-Grandma Josephine’s? What a life she must have led. The Roaring Twenties...
A glance at Allie’s watch showed almost noon. Her stomach was growling, but she couldn’t leave without a peek inside the trunk, at least. She lifted the lock and undid the clasps, spreading the sides of the trunk to reveal four drawers occupying one half and another bonanza of clothing hung on the other.
She dived in.
Dresses, hats, gloves, costume jewelry, underwear. All from the twenties and thirties. Beaded velvet, green chiffon, elaborate black lace overlays, all wearable, or nearly wearable, after the better part of a century. There must be magic air in this attic.
And lingerie, oh my goodness. Teddies, sheer white nightgowns, tap pants and camisoles, lacy tops, embroidered slips. Best of all, it looked as if Josephine had been much closer to Allie’s size than Bridget. She should probably try on some of these things.
As she riffled eagerly through the drawer, she noticed slips of paper pinned to some of the items. On each slip of paper was a neatly handwritten number. Had the clothes been cataloged somewhere? For an exhibit maybe? She checked the dresses and other items for similar markings. Nothing. Just the lingerie had been tagged, and one nightgown, number thirty-five. Thirty-five out of what? Josephine’s thirty-fifth nightgown? But then where were one through thirty-four? Maybe she could ask Jonas and Erik about the numbers, though most people didn’t know a whole lot about their extended relatives’ underwear.
She unfolded nightgown number thirty-five—an impossibly beautiful garment of white cotton batiste, sheer as a veil—and held it up to her body. Intricate floral vines were embroidered in white thread up and down the gown’s mid-calf length. Delicate white lace trimmed the hem and sleeves. Tiny silk rosebuds bloomed on the bodice, and silk ribbons tied at each shoulder.
Allie had never seen anything so lovely.
A quick look at the attic trapdoor showed no one. She’d change standing behind the trunk for privacy. Erik had said the clothes were hers, that his mother wanted to get rid of them. It should be fine to try them on.
Nervous and excited, she pulled down her shorts and stripped off her bra and shirt, then carefully pulled the delicate fabric over her head. Thank goodness the threads held—she’d been half-afraid of tearing the garment just by picking it up.
It fit her perfectly. The three-quarter sleeves were narrow, connected to the garment only under the arm, their lacy hem circling her biceps and leaving her shoulders bare. Silk ribbons tied on either side of her neck. Who had seen Josephine in this? Had he untied the ribbons and let it slide down to expose her body?
Allie glanced at the huge heavy-framed mirror leaning against the opposite wall and couldn’t resist. Walking carefully, so as not to snag the material on the corner of a trunk or box, she made her way toward the glass, feeling like a siren from the past.
The nightgown looked as if it had been made for her. Her slight tan set off the sheer white and pink beautifully, her eyes shone under her bangs, ruffling in the fan breeze, and for once her plain blond hair didn’t seem drab, though she really needed a bob with a Marcel wave and matching rosebuds pinned at her temple. Maybe embroidered slippers.