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Marie Bostwick Skinner was born and raised in the northwest. In the three decades since her marriage, Marie and her family have moved frequently, living in eight different states at eighteen different addresses, three of them in Texas. These experiences have given Marie a unique perspective that enables her to write about people from all walks of life and corners of the country with insight and authenticity. Marie currently resides in Connecticut where she enjoys writing, spending time with family, helping out at church, gardening, collecting fabric, and stitching quilts. Visit her at www.mariebostwick.com.

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A Thread So Thin

KENSINGTON BOOKS

Chapter One

Since it was New Year's and I wanted to look especially nice, I tried on all my jewelry before finally deciding to wear my new necklace to dinner with Garrett.

I make a lot of jewelry, but this was my best piece yet: five individual strands of slender silver beads that I'd joined into one necklace, twisting the strands together so they'd catch the light and make a statement. It would be perfect with the deep V-neck of the dress I planned on wearing. But when I was trying it on, I realized that the clasp was too flimsy for such a heavy necklace.

So I put on my winter coat and trudged ten blocks through the snow to the bead shop to buy a sturdier clasp. When I returned, I hadn't even put the key in the lock when the phone started ringing. I dumped my bag on the floor, pulled off my gloves, and ran to answer it.

"Where have you been all afternoon? I've been calling you for hours!"

"No, you haven't. I just went out to do some shopping. I've only been gone an hour." Abigail has a tendency to exaggerate. I like to call her on it when I can.

"Well, it seemed like hours. Listen, darling, I've only got a minute. Franklin and I are going to a party at the Guldens'."

Franklin Spaulding wasn't just my mother's lawyer, he was Aunt Abigail's, too, for years and years. A few months ago, he became her husband as well. He and Abigail make an odd couple, but they are perfect for each other.

"I saw Garrett, and he told me where he's taking you for dinner tonight."

"He did? He hasn't even told me where we're going for dinner tonight."

"I thought as much." She harrumphed. "Men always think women like surprises, but they're wrong. We pretend to like surprises, but what we really like is being prepared."

"That's not true. Women like surprises. I love surprises. Surprises are romantic."

"Of course they are, darling, as long as you're prepared for them. If you're not, they can be simply awful. Which brings me back to the reason for this call: What are you wearing tonight?"

I wasn't surprised by this question. Abigail is always quizzing me about my wardrobe. It's really none of her business what I wear, but I decided to humor her.

"Since it's New Year's, I thought I'd dress up a little. I've got that black jersey wrap dress. It's nice. Very New Yorky."

"It is nice, darling, but not quite nice enough. Not where you're going."

"Abigail ..."

She sighed impatiently. "I don't have time to argue, Liza. Really, I don't. In a little while a deliveryman will be knocking at your door. I called to make sure you'd be there to let him in. I've sent you a dress. It's from my closet, but it should fit you perfectly."

Abigail and I are the same height and wear the same size, but she's sixty-five years old.

"Abigail, you've got to be kidding. You want me to wear one of your old dresses? On New Year's Eve?"

"Yes, I do," she said archly. "And you're welcome. Do you have any idea how much it costs to hire a messenger service to deliver from New Bern to Manhattan on New Year's Eve?"

I tried to interrupt, but she cut me off.

"Liza, don't be difficult. I haven't the time. Wear the dress, darling. Trust me. You'll be glad you did."

"But where are we going? Why would Garrett tell you and not me?"

She ignored my questions.

"Must run. Bye-bye. Have a wonderful time." She made two kiss noises into the phone and hung up before I could say another word.

The new semester wouldn't begin for a few more days. Two of my roommates, Kerry and Janelle, still hadn't returned from vacation. I'd been home in New Bern for Christmas but had returned to the city early because Professor Williams-Selena Williams, who headed up the art history department-had asked me to help her do some research for an article she was writing about the influence of Clement Greenberg on abstract expressionism. She's my favorite professor, so I jumped at the offer. Zoe, who slept in the bed next to mine, was the only other roommate in residence. She had gone home for Christmas, but Zoe's relationship with her mother-and her stepfather, one in a series of stepfathers-is pretty rocky. Consequently, Zoe never stays home one minute longer than she has to.

When I told her that Aunt Abigail was having one of her dresses messengered to me from New Bern and wanted me to wear it on my date with Garrett, Zoe made a face, stuck her finger in her mouth, and pretended to gag.

"Is she serious? Isn't your aunt older than the Chrysler Building? There is no way you can wear one of her old dresses out on New Year's Eve. She's probably worried you'll go out on the town with-horrors!-a hemline that's actually above your knees and that Garrett will be so senseless with lust at the sight of your bare legs that he'll put a roofie in your drink and take advantage of you while you're unconscious or something." Zoe ambled over to the tiny, cube-shaped refrigerator that sat between our beds, pulled out a diet soda, and popped the top.

I shook my head. "She's not like that."

She isn't. Actually, Abigail has very good taste in clothes. Unlike a lot of older women with money to burn, she doesn't go around buying fabulous designer fashions that were created for twenty-five-year-olds but look ridiculous on a sixty-five-year-old. Abigail says that at her age, "Beauty is a ship that has sailed. The most I strive for at this point is to be clean."

That's silly. I've never seen her look anything less than beautiful. Her clothes are very fashionable, great fabrics, but always age appropriate. When I'm her age, I hope I look half as good as Aunt Abigail.

But that's just it. I'm not her age. Abigail has great clothes, but I couldn't imagine that anything in her closet was going to look good on me. Especially not for New Year's Eve in New York.

"Just wait and see," Zoe said between slurps of soda. "Aunt Abigail's henchman is going to show up at your door with something that has long sleeves, a granny skirt, a turtleneck, and matching opera gloves. Something long and lumpy. Maybe a full-length snow parka. I'm telling you, Liza, she's just worried about you showing off too much skin. When the delivery guy shows up, let me answer the door. That way, you can always lie, you can say you had to go out before he came and never saw the dress."

Not so long ago I'd have had no compunction about lying to Aunt Abigail, but I like to think I've grown up a bit since then. Even so, when I heard a knock on our door, I let Zoe get to it first. I stood behind her, nervously eyeing the white dress box as she signed the delivery confirmation slip and closed the door.

Zoe carted the box into our room and tossed it on my bed. We both stared at it. "Well? Do you want to open it? Or should I?"

It was a big box, big enough to hold a lumpy, full-length snow parka. I hoped it didn't.

"No. It's all right. I'll do it."

Taking a deep breath, I took the box top off, pulled back the layers of white tissue paper, and gasped at the sight of the most exquisite evening gown I had ever seen in my life! The design was simple: a long, straight sheath of ivory silk, with a knee-high slit in one side. The fabric of the dress was covered with long, wavy lengths of thin silver ribbon, stitched with silver thread, making a subtle and beautiful pattern, like wind...