Time’s Embrace (A Box Set)

By Peggy Webb

Three delicious heroes + three sassy heroines = one great read!

Christmas in Time (Prequel to Only Yesterday): An unconventional young woman and an irresistible musician + the voyage of a lifetime = an unforgettable love.

Only Yesterday: A feisty artist and a sexy pilot/polo player + the dream-filled attic of Windchime House = a love that transcends time.

Night of the Dragon: One sassy, California bookseller and a magic ring + one sexy Knight and his tame wolf = more complications in Camelot than King Arthur allows!

“Peggy Webb’s talents shine in this utterly irresistible, sensual dream of a romance.” Romantic Times

“Always a risk taker, Peggy Webb comes up trumps with this wonderfully evocative romance.” Romantic Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peggy Webb
• Release date: Feb 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310800313

Peggy Webb

Peggy Webb is the author of 200 magazine humor columns, 2 screenplays, and 70 books.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Christmas, 1982

Gilly nearly knocked the Christmas tree down trying to put the star on top. When it listed dangerously to port, she wasn’t a bit surprised. What did amaze her was that she was able to snag a mid-sized limb and haul the tree upright again.

That’ll teach you to fool with a smart old lady. There she was, talking to a tree. Lately, she did a lot of talking to herself. She didn’t know whether to blame age or living alone.

It wasn’t the same in Windchime House since her brother Richard Debeau and his wife, Charlotte Ann, had died. It was too quiet, too lacking in the sort of whirlwind pace that goes with a house filled with people.

Gilly made a mental note to herself that she needed to buy a wreath of poinsettias and then see if Margaret would drive her to the Fairhope Cemetery to put it on their double gravestone.

When her phone rang, she scrambled down from the ladder, grateful she hadn’t broken her old fool neck in the descent then trotted into the hall to answer.

Aunt Gilly? It was Richard’s granddaughter Ann, so like her grandmother at that age she caused people who’d known Charlotte Ann to do a double-take when she visited Fairhope.

Which wasn’t very often. Of course, Gilly wasn’t placing blame. Ann was a wonderful, caring great-niece. But she had her own life up in New York. She was a famous potter, always involved in some grand art show opening or racing off to the Metropolitan Opera with that sophisticated fiancé of hers. Gilly never could remember his name. She wasn’t about to blame that little brain fart on age. She didn’t like the man, plain and simple, so she didn’t bother to clutter up her brain with his name.

Besides all that, her niece had never once mentioned that What’s His Name made her toes curl under.

When you find somebody to love, your toes will curl under, Gilly had told her.

How on earth do you know? Ann had asked. Of course, she’d been too polite to point out that Gilly had never been married, and as far as the family knew, never even been in love.

Little did they know.

It’s the Debeau curse, is all Gilly had told her. Some things were best kept private.

The only person she’d ever told was Margaret Finley. They’d known each other since first grade. They’d become instant friends, sitting beside each other at school, then spending summers where their mamas took them to the same spot on the Alabama Gulf Coast beach where they would sit under the shade of striped umbrellas while Gilly and Margaret filled their little tin buckets and each other’s hair with sand.

Of course, the sand bucket incidents were long behind them, but not the friendship. It was the most enduring thing in Gilly’s life except her niece, who was now on the phone, sounding worried.

Aunt Gilly, are you there?

I was just wool gathering.

Ann’s laughter came clearly to her over the telephone lines. All of a sudden, Gilly was struck with such longing to be Ann’s age just once more before she died that her legs buckled. She found herself sliding down the wall, plopped unceremoniously onto the floor with her knees jacked up. She must look a sight. She hoped nobody came in and found her like this.

I called to wish you Merry Christmas, Aunt Gilly.

The same to you, sweetie.

For the life of her, Gilly couldn’t remember whether Ann had said she’d be coming to Windchime House for Christmas or staying in New York. And she wasn’t about to ask. Her niece might think she was going senile.

Did your present arrive yet?

Had it? Gilly had a vague memory of hearing the postman delivering the mail that morning. She also recalled that she’d planned to go onto the porch and get the mail after she finished her morning coffee. But she guessed she forgot.

Not yet, dear. Gilly felt a slight twinge of remorse, but consoled herself that she’d told only a little white lie. But don’t you worry. I’m sure it won’t get lost in the post.

If it’s not there by tomorrow, let me know, Aunt Gilly. I’ve gotta go now. I love you. Ann made kissing noises into the phone, and Gilly made them right back.

But her heart wasn’t in it. She was too worried about getting off the floor. She tried several times, to no avail. The silver lining to her situation was that she was right by the phone and could call somebody to come over.

Silly old fart, she said, a bit alarmed that talking to herself had become a habit.

There was a loud knocking at the front door, followed by a cheerful Yoohoo!

Margaret Finley. Gilly could have cried with relief.

Come on in, she called. The door’s unlocked.

The chimes over the front door sang out, and Margaret bustled in, her hands laden with newspapers and packages. The years had been kind to her. She didn’t look a day over sixty. Nor act it, either.

Gilly, I’ve got your mail. Margaret always spoke in a voice loud enough to wake the dead.

When she saw Gilly on the floor, Margaret looked like one of those cartoon characters digging her heels into the hardwood floor, screeching to a halt.

What happened to you?

Nothing. I’m resting. Gilly held out her hand. Help me up.

Both of them were older than God, and it took Margaret more than one attempt. For a while, it looked like Margaret would end up on the floor, too.

Finally, they were both upright, their gray hair askew and their faces flushed. They gave each other sheepish looks then burst into laughter. When they finally caught their breaths, Gilly said, "I’ve got eggnog in the kitchen.’

Just what the doctor ordered.

Margaret trailed behind Gilly, dumped the mail and packages onto the table, and pulled up a chair while Gilly rummaged in the cabinets for her Christmas cups. She was sure she’d brought them down from the china cabinet in the dining room, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Gilly decided to make do with her everyday china. Her hand shook only a little as she poured the eggnog. With her back turned to her old friend, she dumped one of her pain pills into her cup.

Margaret, look and see if one of those packages is from New York.

It is. From Ann, looks like.

Good. Gilly decided she’d call Ann first thing in the morning. Ann would think the package had arrived in the morning’s post, and Gilly wouldn’t have to say a thing about how she’d been forgetting to do the most simple things.

For instance, this morning she was trying to remember the name of that wretched man who had left Margaret stranded at the altar in 1925. Christmas, it was. And still so hot on the Gulf Coat you couldn’t stand to wear a coat. Why was it Gilly could remember every little detail except the cad’s name?

Probably, the same reason she could never recall Ann’s fiancé; neither of them deserved the fine women who loved them.

She set cups of eggnog on the table then slid into a chair, grateful for one more leisurely visit with Margaret. For all she knew, it could be her last. At their ages, one of them could go anytime. Who was to say Gilly would go first? Just because her doctor said the cancer was too widespread to treat and she wouldn’t live past the spring didn’t make it so.

Sometimes she wondered if she ought to tell Margaret about the cancer, but what good would it do? Margaret would worry herself to death then try to convince Gilly to see doctors at Mayo Clinic or go out to that big cancer clinic in Houston, Texas. And for what? Just a bunch more tests to confirm what she already knew.

Gilly wasn’t about to let cancer rob her and her old friend of their last happy days together. She’d take her pain pills and cram every bit of living she could into the time she had left, and then when it was time to go, she’d slip away with dignity and a sense of peace.

Gilly, if you’re not wearing that black dress with the sequined jacket to the ballet next week, can I borrow it?

Pshaw. You can have it.

I wouldn’t think of it.

I’d like to know why not?

Because you’ll need it.

I’ve worn that dress so many times the dancers in the Nutcracker Suite Ballet can recognize me coming a mile.

Then let’s drive over to New Orleans Saturday and find something new for you.

Great. You drive.

Is the world coming to an end?

Not that I’ve heard. Gilly had to be more careful with what she said, or Margaret would guess something was wrong. She was nobody’s dummy.

Well, what then? You always insist on driving, though I can’t for the life of me figure that out. The last time you ran two red lights.

They were changing to green. Gilly spoke with asperity. She hated to be caught in the wrong about anything, including driving.

Still, you got pulled over by a cop.

Here was one memory that hadn’t slipped Gilly’s mind. Probably because it was so embarrassing. She’s had to show her driver’s license, of course, and the cop, who didn’t look a bit older than the twelve-year-old shoes on her feet, had suggested that women over eighty shouldn’t be behind the wheel.

Who do you think is going to take me where I want to go? Houdini?

That’s what she’d told him. Thank goodness, he had a sense of humor. Otherwise she’d have ended up with a ticket for running a red light.

Are you going to drive, Margaret, or just sit there and argue?

Well, of course. I’ll drive.

Good. I’ll make reservations at that little hotel in the French Quarter close to the market.

Gilly figured if she took plenty of pain pills, she could get through the trip without Margaret suspecting a thing. Besides, she liked the idea of one more car trip along the Gulf coast, one more chance to enjoy the ocean view, one more chance to trek through the fine old shops and admire the architecture of New Orleans.

They sipped their eggnog in companionable silence a while, then Margaret reached for the package from New York.

Aren’t you going to open it, Gilly? I’m dying to know what’s inside.

Gilly untied the red bow and ripped open the gold paper. Ordinarily she’d have opened the package carefully, saving the bow and folding the paper to use again next Christmas.

Margaret, who knew her so well, didn’t comment. Thank goodness.

When Gilly picked up the box to open the lid, there was a small musical sound, like angel wings brushing across a harp. Something inside her yearned, but she couldn’t have told you what she yearned for, nor why.

She lifted the lid of the box, and there lay the wind chimes, silver with a clapper shaped like a star. Gilly heard the distant sound of music, though the chimes lay perfectly still in their nesting of tissue paper.

They’re beautiful, Gilly. Take them out and let me see.

She lifted the chimes, and their music rang through the kitchen with such an insistence her heart hurt. She wondered if she needed to take another pain pill.

Oh, my. Margaret touched the clapper, sending the chimes pealing once more. I’ve never seen anything like them.

They are beautiful, aren’t they? Gilly turned the chimes so the clapper spun. In the glow of the overhead light, it shot sparks around the kitchen. She felt a bit light headed.

They’ll go well with the rest of the chimes on the porch, Margaret said.

The chimes on the porch had been collected from all over the world, both by Charlotte Ann Harris Debeau, who designed Windchime house, and by Gilly, herself. Unless her niece, Ann Debeau, kept Windchime House, this Christmas gift would be the last chimes hung on the porch railing.

It pleased Gilly that they were the most magical of all.

CHAPTER TWO

After Margaret left, Gilly carried her Christmas gift into her bedroom and hung the chimes on the bedpost. Tomorrow she’d call her handyman, Elvin Whitmore, to come over and hang them on the porch.

It galled her that she had to ask somebody else to do the things she’d once done without thinking twice.

Though it was only nine o’clock, Gilly put on her white nightgown and went to bed. The day had tuckered her out. Not that she’d done anything.

Maybe it was true what the doctor said. If that was the case, so be it. She wasn’t about to lie under her quilts fretting and counting the days.

She settled herself onto her back, the way she liked to sleep, pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. She was just drifting off when she heard the chimes.

Strange. Her window was closed, and even if it had been open, there wasn’t a breeze stirring outside. Though she sometimes turned on her ceiling fan in winter just to circulate the air, it hugged the ceiling, silent as a teardrop.

The chimes continued to ring, their music building in volume until Gilly felt as if she were sitting in the middle of a violin quintet. Haunting and familiar, the music seeped through her skin and into her bones. She felt herself spinning along with the star clapper. It shot sparks so that the walls of her bedroom shimmered as if they were lit by a thousand stars. Lightheaded and breathless, Gilly felt herself lifting off the bed, floating through space and time. She was vaguely aware of Windchime House vanishing beneath her, the glimmer of the sea receding until its waters were no bigger than the blue sapphire around her neck.

The scent from the rose garden at Windchime House followed Gilly through a tunnel of clouds and stars and into the Café Parisian. Sunlight glinted on the deep blue waters of the Atlantic and the star sapphire around her neck.

Gilly inhaled the scent of fresh pink roses on her table, closed her hand around her tea cup and tried to get used to the tilting sensation as the luxury liner plowed through the ocean. It was only a second crossing for Gilly and the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic.

The voyage was an eighteenth birthday present from her father, and far too extravagant a gift, according to her mother. Besides, Eleanor had said, Gilly is too young to travel alone.

Jack Debeau had placated his wife by telling her that he had no intention of letting his beautiful daughter loose on the high seas. He had business in Southampton, and it was the opportunity of a lifetime for him and his only daughter to return home on the maiden voyage on such a splendid liner.

As a matter of fact, he’d said, I’ll take the whole family.

Eleanor, who hated water to the point that she never went alone to the beach, which was practically in their backyard, quickly refused the invitation.

And so, Eleanor had stayed behind with Gilly’s younger brother, Richard, while Jack and his adventure-loving daughter trekked all over England, then set sail back to America on the Titanic.

Now, across the table, Jack Debeau stood up and placed his linen napkin on the table. I’m going to my stateroom for a nap before dinner.

Out of the corner of her eye, Gilly saw the band beginning to assemble. This was the trip of a lifetime, and she was determined not to miss a thing.

Go ahead, Papa. I’m going to order another tea cake and listen to the band.

Fine, Gilly. But don’t tire yourself out trying to take in everything the first day. You’ll have plenty of time on the crossing.

It was impossible to believe the organized, disciplined man standing beside her had ever been eighteen.

You worry too much, Papa. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Have a good rest.

Ordinarily, Gilly would have watched her father out of sight. She loved the way he carried himself, tall and proud, his shoulders squared, his gait determined, as if he knew exactly where he was going and how to get there.

Gilly was more like her mother, a bit starry-eyed and given to flights of fancy, a will o’ the wisp who might blow in the direction of any wind. Currently, the wind was whipping her in the direction of the tall, dark-haired violinist who took his place at the front of the quintet.

She leaned forward for a better view. He said something to the other band members, then turned toward the tea room and tucked his violin under his chin. There was tenderness in the move, as if he had a life-long affair with the instrument and couldn’t wait to get his hands on the strings. When he lifted his bow, he looked across the café straight at Gilly.

All the breath left her. She couldn’t have looked away if wild elephants had stampeded into the middle of afternoon tea. She closed her hand around her star sapphire necklace for something to hang onto.

Bow poised, his left hand now wrapped around the neck of the violin, the man turned back to his band and said something Gilly didn’t hear.

She felt little tremors running through her. What was he saying? Would he look her way again?

When the bandleader turned back around, he found Gilly once more. His gaze never left her as he began to play. Gilly had never heard a violin played with such skill, such passion. The music ripped straight though her, tearing down any notions she had about romance – formal introductions and supervised courtships that might lead to a period of engagement and eventually marriage to someone you’d grown to admire. The music exposed her, left her feeling naked, stripped of everything except raw nerve endings and a heart beating too fast.

The violinist was playing Melody of Love, and Gilly felt herself falling, heart first, into a state of such yearning she thought she might jump out of her skin. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Her teacake went untouched; her tea went cold. And still, she sat at her table, napkin wadded into her fists and her breath caught in her throat. When the violinist played Stairway to the Stars, she thought it might be possible to die of longing, to sit with the upper-crust of society in the first class section of the Titanic and expire from love.

Around her, the chatter of passengers enjoying afternoon tea faded into nothingness. There was only Gilly, the violinist and his music - every song a love melody, and every one of them meant for her.

She hoped. She was fanciful, but she wasn’t silly. How could she mistake the way he keep seeking her out, the way he smiled as if she were the only person in the room?

As the sun sank toward the western horizon, the café began to empty. Finally there was no one left at the tables except Gilly.

The last musical note died, and the musicians began to pack their instruments into cases. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not while she could see the man who had spent the afternoon making love to her with his music.

He placed his violin into the case, then turned and strode toward her table. Up close, he looked like something she’d dreamed, sculpted lips and cheekbones, dark eyes that could swallow you whole.

Do you mind if I sit? He had a British accent and a voice filled with cadences.

Too excited to speak, Gilly nodded.

I’m William Wesley. He folded himself into the chair across the table. When his knee brushed against hers, Gilly understood why swooning was so much the rage.

Gilly Debeau, she finally said. And then because she had more than her share of intelligence and had also been brought up to have manners, she added. Your music is exquisite.

I could see that you’re a woman who appreciates the violin.

And the violinist.

His knee was still against hers. Deliberate, she decided. She struggled to compose herself. This man had more passion in one finger than all the boys in her hometown lumped together. And he had called her a woman.

You mesmerized me, she told him, then realized too late exactly what she’d said.

His chuckle was as seductive as his music. Then I hope you’ll do me the honor of a stroll around the deck before dinner.

He might as well have invited her to stroll to the stars. When he pulled out Gilly’s chair and offered his arm, she felt currents all the way down to her toes, which curled under in her sedate patent leather pumps.

But on April 10, 1912, there was nothing else sedate about Gilly Debeau. As she stepped onto the deck on the arm of the man who had wooed her all afternoon with his violin, she felt wild and free and ready for magic.

Forget Alabama and decorum and long courtships. Even forget Papa sleeping in his stateroom. She was on a ship at sea where all rules were suspended. She was on the Titanic where anything at all could happen.

CHAPTER THREE

Never had Gilly been more appreciative of being on a 46,000 ton luxury liner that was almost nine hundred feet long and stood fifty-nine feet above the water line. An afternoon stroll couldn’t begin to uncover the wonders of the ship. If things went well, William Wesley might invite her for a stroll every day for the rest of the voyage, and there would still be things to see on and beyond the Titanic.

Do you travel often? he asked.

Gilly guessed that her nervousness showed. Briefly she considered claiming many voyages, which would indicate a maturity fitting for the woman seen on the arms of William Wesley. She’d guess him to be in his late twenties, but he could have been even older.

She discarded the notion. Tell a lie and it will always find you out.

This is the leg home of my first trip abroad. Papa gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.

"Happy birthday, Gilly Debeau. I’ll have the band play the Birthday Song tomorrow afternoon in the café. Will you be there?"

I will. And thank you. That would be special.

He tugged her in closer so that they brushed against each other as they walked, her wool skirt against his crisp trouser leg. Occasionally she felt the more solid contact of body against body.

Gilly thought that the writer of the lyrics for Stairway to the Stars knew exactly what he was talking about. Being with the person of your dreams makes you feel as if your feet aren’t even touching the ground.

She glanced at William’s face to see if he felt the same surreal sensation. He merely smiled at her then led her toward the ship’s rail where they could get a better view of the sunset.

This is my favorite time of day, he said. After the band finishes the afternoon tea gig, I always try to come on deck for the sunset. He pointed toward the west. No wonder people used to think the earth was flat. See that horizon line.

Gilly stood on tiptoe and strained her eyes across water and a sky turned shades of gold and pink.

The water and the sky look almost the same.

There. William shifted so that he stood behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his left hand on her waist and his right arm around her as he pointed across the ocean. Squint a little. Now can you see it?

Oh, I do. Gilly clapped her hands, a child-like gesture she’d never been able to break herself of. It looks as if the sun is sinking into the ocean.

Exactly.

They stayed that way a long while, standing at the railing watching the sunset, William pressed close against her back. She’d never known this kind of excitement, never dreamed how a man’s hands at your waist could make you feel as if you were growing too big and too hot for your skin, that any minute you might explode into a thousand pieces. She couldn’t have told you the rainbow-like colors the sun made on the water, but she could have told you precisely the scent of William’s aftershave and the pomade he’d used to keep his dark hair in place. She could have closed her eyes and described his strong hands and the exact shape of his fingers and his well-manicured nails.

He had a violinist’s fingers, long and slender, capable of touches both delicate and deliberate. The pressure he exerted on her waist felt deliberate. The heat from his hands easily passed through her wool dress, making her feel so giddy she shivered.

Cold?

I should have brought a wrap.

Evenings at sea get very cold. Especially this time of year. William peeled off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. Then he wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear. Better?

She nodded, too full to speak. He kept his face close to her hair, and she found herself snuggling against him in the way she imagined wanton girls would do. What must he think of her?

And Papa! For goodness sake, what would he say if he came on deck and found her lolling about in the arms of a man she barely knew?

She stiffened and wondered whether she should try to extricate herself to show she was a lady or whether it would mark her as sophisticated to simply stand where she was and enjoy what she had.

Gilly? His face was still so close to hers, his breath stirred her hair. Are you all right?

Oh, perfectly. She tried to make herself relax. She’d been so excited about turning eighteen, she hadn’t thought of all the things she had to learn about being a woman.

Good. His arms tightened around her. I hope I’m not keeping you from another appointment.

Goodness gracious, no!

He chuckled. I admire a woman who doesn’t play games.

Wouldn’t he be surprised to know that she didn’t even understand what he was talking about? Gilly had always been a straight-forward, straight-talking girl. It pained her to think that becoming a woman meant she had to adopt some sort of silly pretense, that she had to act one way when she felt exactly the opposite.

I assumed a beautiful woman like you would have a dozen men waiting.

Not even one. Not here and not back home in Alabama. She twisted to look at him, and almost lost her balance. He drew her so close she had to tip her head to look at him. In the sunset he was golden, sculpted, like something you’d want to put on display to look at. Gilly found herself staring, tongue-tied.

I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that, Gilly Debeau from Alabama.

Maybe he was the kind of man who picked up a different girl for every crossing. For all she knew, William Wesley had left a string of broken hearts all over Europe and half of America. After all, he was a ship’s musician.

Have you played on other ships? She had to know.

Yes. I’ve played on the Lusitania, and most recently the Mauritania.

I guess you meet lots of…people.

That brought another chuckle from him. None like you, Gilly.

All right, then. She nodded. Satisfied. She might be fanciful and a bit too whimsical for her own good, but nobody had ever accused her of not having a brain, of not being a good judge of character.

Besides, her toes were still curled in her shoes. A sure sign that what she was feeling was no passing fancy, no frivolous shipboard romance. It was so much more that Gilly even dared to call it love.

William leaned a bit closer, so close she wondered if he was going to kiss her. If he tried, she’d let him. Her mother cared what people thought, and she didn’t like to cause Eleanor or her father any alarm, but basically, Gilly didn’t give a fig what the rest of society thought.

You’re a strange and beautiful bird, Gilly. Exotic. I’d even say rare.

I’ll take that as a compliment.

You should. He stared down at her so long she felt heat rising in her face. Was he memorizing her as she was him? She wanted every detail of him stamped on her memory.

Finally he said, We should go inside. I have an after-dinner show.

Gilly felt such a sense of loss that moisture gathered in her eyes. Another Debeau curse. Feeling things too deeply.

Tears, Gilly?

I cry at the drop of a hat, when I’m happy, when I’m sad. It doesn’t matter. My body automatically turns on the water works.

Are these happy tears or sad?

Both. Happy because I met you and sad to be parting.

Only until we meet again. He turned her hands over, kissed both her palms then offered his arm. Allow me to escort you to your stateroom.

She felt like a queen walking through the ship on the arm of William Wesley. Everybody turned to stare. Or so it seemed.

Fortunately, Papa was not one of them.

At her stateroom door in the First Class section, William bent over her hands and kissed them once more.

Later, Gilly Debeau.

She stood by her door watching him walk away until he had disappeared down the hall and around the corner. It wasn’t until she was back inside her stateroom that she realized she was still wearing his coat.

She hugged the coat around herself and waltzed around the room, dreaming with her eyes wide open.

CHAPTER FOUR

Gilly didn’t want to take the coat off. It smelled of William and the sunset and the sea. It reminded her of romance and possibilities and the wonders of being a woman.

Still, when it was time to dress for dinner, she knew she’d never be able to explain to Papa why she showed up for dinner in a man’s jacket instead of her own ruby colored velvet cloak.

She dressed with extra care, wearing the necklace and earrings of pearls and diamonds her grandparents had given her for her birthday, and a French-made dress Papa had brought from his last trip abroad that her mother said showed too much cleavage and Gilly thought made her look sophisticated and grownup.

You can’t keep her a child forever, Eleanor, Papa had said, and that settled the matter.

Though she’d wanted her mother and her brother to come on her birthday trip, tonight Gilly was selfishly glad they hadn’t. Her mother would have kept Gilly on a short leash, while Papa would give her a much freer reign.

She finished her toilette and hurried toward the dining room. It was already teeming with first class passengers, their elaborate hair ornaments and expensive jewelry glittering under the lights from enormous chandeliers.

She scanned the room for a glimpse of William, but he was nowhere in sight. Gilly let out an audible sigh. He’d said an after dinner show. She didn’t know if she could wait that long to see him.

But she did see her father, standing at a table near the windows, his hand upraised. She hurried off to join him.

Gilly. He kissed her cheek. Did you have a good afternoon?

Wonderful, Papa! And you?

I took a long nap then a swell turn in the Turkish bath. Papa pulled out her chair then introduced her around the table.

The woman on her right was a flamboyantly dressed, cheerful woman Papa called Molly Brown.

You’re just a pretty as Jack said you’d be. Molly pinched Gilly’s cheek. My, it’s grand to be so young.

I’m a woman now.

Is that so? Molly’s laughter was so boisterous, people all over the dining room turned to look. I bet I can guess what you did today to put such color in your cheeks.

Goodness. Had this Molly Brown seen her with William Wesley?

I watched the sunset from the deck. I guess it was the elements.

My guess is a beau. A pretty little thing like you. I bet you’ve already found a fellow.

Papa cleared his throat.