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“I’ll tell you something.” She stood close to him, near-naked body leaning casually against the counter about a foot from his, their heads nearly the same height. The soda can whooshed, then clicked. She took a long drink, head thrown back. Erik’s Adam apple bobbed convulsively. The chips were still suspended in his grip. “You’ve lost already, and you know it as well as anyone. Fighting now just makes you look like a jerk.”

  Jonas held his breath, not sure whether to groan or crack up. In a few words she’d said exactly what he probably would have taken the rest of the afternoon trying to put as tactfully and inoffensively as possible. Erik still would have taken offense. The joys of family baggage.

  Erik’s eyes narrowed. He looked murderous. Sandra gave him a sweet smile and reached up to press a kiss to his cheek, making his eyes shoot wide and the fight leave his body.

  “There.” Sandra trailed a red-nailed hand lingeringly across his jaw. “All better. Easy, huh?”

  She turned, threw Jonas a conspirator’s wink, then sauntered out of the kitchen in that way that ensured he and Erik could do nothing but watch until she was out of sight and their higher motor functions resumed.

  “What was that?” Erik still looked stunned.

  Jonas chuckled and slapped him on the back, relieved when Erik shook himself comically. This was going to be okay. “That was a combination centerfold and freight train.”

  “I think I was just put in my place.”

  “But so attractively.”

  Erik laughed nervously, but at least he was laughing. Then he gave a great sigh of reluctant surrender. “Okay, well, if she’s left us anything to talk about, I guess we should talk.”

  * * *

  Allie: Jonas saw me wearing a see-through outfit today. I think he wasn’t miserable about what he saw. Nothing left to the imagination.

  Julie: Trust me, he was imagining plenty. How’s Erik while all this lusting is going on?

  Allie: I’m wondering if there’s something about to happen with him and Sandra.

  Julie: Gah! You guys could be on a reality show!

  * * *

  ALLIE REACHED for the last drawer on Great-Grandmother Josephine’s trunk, wondering what Erik and Jonas were talking about downstairs—if she’d read Jonas’s signals right and that was what they were doing. She shouldn’t guess and she shouldn’t hope, but of course she was doing both.

  In the meantime...she opened the drawer with eager anticipation, hardly able to believe that all these wonderful clothes belonged to her. She’d never in her life owned anything remotely as fabulous. The knowledge made her a bit giddy.

  What would she find this time? More jewelry? Gloves?

  Books.

  Why here? The house was full of books, and there were a few boxes up in the attic marked “books”, as well. Maybe these were special to Josephine. Maybe they’d be particularly valuable titles—a Fitzgerald or Hemingway first edition? If that were the case, she’d be sure to return them to Jonas and Erik. Her gift had involved only clothing items.

  She picked up one volume from the stack on the right...no title on the cover. Inside, she found handwriting on paper browning with age.

  A diary.

  Her heart beating faster, she turned the pages. The writing was cramped and shaky. 1968 to 1971. Josephine would have been an older woman then.

  She dug down to the bottom of the pile on the far left. The writing in this journal was larger and much more awkward. 1908 to 1912. My name is Josephine and I am eight years old.

  Allie clutched the slim volume to her chest. The rest of the diaries must fall between those two. A lifetime—her travels, her adventures, first kiss, first love, meeting and marrying her husband, her children’s births—all that could be in these books, and more. Did Erik and Jonas know they existed? They should have them, an incredible record of their ancestor’s life and thoughts. A detailed slice of Meyer family history.

  She flipped through the first few books beginning to end, turning clumps of pages, reading a line or two here and there. Nothing earthshaking. A new dress. A visit to a friend. Complaints about schoolwork. Parties with best friends. Something cute her dog did.

  But who was Josephine when she was wearing these clothes? Who was she when she was closer to Allie’s age? Allie fingered the stack of mostly black, navy and green volumes, then picked out a burgundy one—the only red shade—in what she estimated was the bottom third of the chronology.

  1923 to 1927. Perfect.

  She opened the book and leafed through, noticing that in this volume, unlike the other two, the pages were numbered, top center, in thick black ink. Every now and then, a page number was circled. Incredibly curious, she leafed back to read the first one she’d noticed: page twenty-four.

  My dear diary, if I play this right, my spinster years will be over soon. At Smith, they taught us to think and to question, but I’ve discovered that men only want women who’ll obey and agree. However, last week I met Walter Alden, another son of friends of Mum and Daddy’s coming to Lake George to stay with us. Funny how many of these unmarried dullards seem to show up. I was dreading his arrival as usual. But what a surprise! Halfway through the main course at dinner I realized the problem with my theory. Yes, boys want submissive women. But men don’t. Before Walter, I’d only been meeting boys. By the time dessert was served that first night, I knew I wanted him. All that was left was convincing him he simply must marry me.

  I started by getting him alone as much as possible (of course Mum and Daddy were delighted), then I’d act as if I couldn’t care less whether he lived or died. That didn’t work. So I tried subtle flirting instead. He responded just fine, but remained polite and respectful. I didn’t want polite and respectful. I wanted to know if the kisses of a man would bore me as much as the kisses of a boy.

  I suspected not.

  Desperate times... Last night I sneaked out to the cottage with a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. “What’s this for?” he said. “Does it have to be for anything?” I answered. We drank a good deal of the bottle, having a really nice talk, then calm as you please, practically in the middle of his sentence, I stood up and took off my dress. Under it, I was wearing only silk and my sheerest stockings. I sat back down as if nothing had happened and picked up my champagne again.

  I’ll never forget his face as long as I live.

  Yes, the kisses of a man are different.

  Allie blinked up from the entry. Go, Josephine! Maybe this was more than Jonas and Erik wanted to know about Great-Grandma. Allie wished she could have seen her in action. Had the sexy silk she was wearing survived? Was it here in one of the trunks or somewhere else?

  Staring down at the page—the number twenty-four, circled—something clicked. She scrambled to her feet and pawed through the lingerie, looking at tags. Twenty-four. The pink tap pants and camisole combination. Silk.

  Coincidence?

  Turning sharply to the other side of the trunk, she rummaged through the rack of hanging clothes and extracted the sheer nightgown Jonas had seen pretty much all of her in. Hands trembling, she smoothed out the label. Thirty-five.

  Back to the diary. She leafed through quickly—twenty-eight, thirty-four...

  “Hellooo?” Sandra’s voice, coming up the stairs. “Anyone home?”

  Shoot!

  “I’m here.” Allie shoved the books back in the drawer and closed it, instinctively wanting to keep her discovery secret for at least a while longer. Certainly Jonas or Erik should hear about the diaries before Sandra did. “Come on up.”

  “On my way.” Her head poked up over the floor level, then the rest of her followed, flushed from sunbathing, hair wet from a recent shower. She was disgustingly poised and gorgeous, one of those people who made Allie feel her dowdy Brooklyn roots were showing. No wonder Jonas—

  Nope. She wasn’t going to think about that.

  “Wow, it’s amazing up here.” Sandra wrinkled her nose. “And hot. But not as bad as I expected.”

 
“No, it’s not bad with the fan going. Worth it, anyway. Look at this stuff.” Allie steered her to Grandma Bridget’s trunk, not only protecting Josephine’s diaries, but also because those clothes might fit Sandra where they’d flopped forlornly on Allie’s body. Inversely, Josephine’s flapper dresses suited Allie perfectly, but wouldn’t be able to handle Sandra’s height or curves.

  “Oh my sweet heaven, would you look at these clothes!” She took out a royal-blue satin gown and held it up. “Why can’t we dress this way anymore?”

  “I know. Except clothes of this quality would be prohibitively expensive now.”

  “Hey, let someone else pay. Then point me to Goodwill and let me at ’em.” Holding the dress high to keep the hem off the dusty floor, she walked over to the mirror and posed this way and that.

  “Try it on.”

  “Can I?”

  “Sure, Erik said I could have the clothes, so it’s up to me.”

  “Oooh, too fabulous, thank you.” She dropped her shorts and hauled off her shirt in about ten seconds. Under it she wore a purple lace bra-and-panty set—the kind of thing Josephine would be collecting by the crate if she were alive today. Allie cringed at the thought of her mismatched plain underwear. Clearly she’d missed one of the joys of the classy, sensual woman. “I came up to talk to you.”

  “Okay.” Allie watched her, uncomfortable at the thought of what she might be about to say. “Stay away from Jonas or die” came to mind.

  “Just had an interesting talk with the adorable Meyer brothers.” She pulled the dress over her head.

  “About...”

  “You.”

  “Me?” She folded her arms across her chest, feeling undressed herself. What would the three of them have to say about her?

  “Oh la la. Would you look at this!” Sandra put her arms through the gathered cap sleeves and zipped up the dress, which fit as though it was made for her. She looked incredible. Jonas could not be allowed to see her like that.

  “The dress is totally you.” Allie smiled approvingly, hoping Sandra would get back on topic.

  “I feel like a movie star!” Sandra did a three-sixty, craning to look at the plunging vee in the back. “No wonder you’re up here all the time.”

  “Yeah, it’s been amazing. There are tons more gowns, all gorgeous and most in perfect condition.”

  “Fantabulous.” She spread her arms wide, curtseyed to her reflection, mimed waltzing.

  Allie’s smile grew tired. “So, um, what did—”

  “I’ve noticed what’s happening between you and Jonas.” Sandra stopped dancing, catching Allie’s eye in the mirror. “So has Erik.”

  “Nothing is actually happening.” Allie stood stiffly, praying Sandra believed her.

  The other woman turned, her gaze frank but not angry, unless she was good at hiding her feelings and would soon explode in a prima-donna rage. “You know what I mean.”

  Allie bent her head, sort of a nod, sort of not. Until she could figure out Sandra’s mood, and whether there were any fire axes or old swords in her vicinity, she wouldn’t be sure how to handle this.

  “The upshot of the conversation was that Erik realizes he’s being a dork. That you’re not into him and he’s stupid to hold out hope.”

  Allie’s head jerked up. “He said all that?”

  “Of course not.” Sandra, back at the mirror, gathered her long dark hair into a French twist and held it behind her head. “But it’s what he thinks. He just hasn’t come around to admitting it yet.”

  “Oh.” Allie’s heart gave a tiny leap. Where was this going? She hardly dared guess.

  “And I assume Jonas told you there is nothing going on between us but friendship. Or he might not have. He can get awkward around complicated feelings.”

  Complicated feelings? For Allie or for Sandra? Allie was getting impatient. “Would you mind telling me exactly what you’re trying to say?”

  “I’m saying...” Sandra lifted the dress’s hem and turned back and forth, making the material swirl around her ankles. “Let nothing stand in the way of you pursuing some very fine Jon-ass.”

  Allie broke into a short laugh. “Just like that?”

  “What?” Sandra turned in exasperation. “You need it in writing?”

  Allie gritted her teeth. Okay, she deserved that. It probably wasn’t easy for Sandra to come up here, given her past with Jonas, and it was incredibly nice of her to step out of the way. Allie should be gracious about it. “Thank you for telling me, Sandra. If you’re sure you’ll be okay with it. And if you’re sure Erik—”

  “I’ll take care of Erik.” She smiled at herself in the mirror, a small smile, almost dreamy. “By the time I am through with him, he’ll forget you ever existed.”

  Allie burst out laughing, delighted when Sandra giggled along with her. “You like him?”

  “That man needs to be taught a lesson. I just happen to be a very willing teacher.” She took the dress off with obvious reluctance. “Can I come up and try some other stuff on sometime?”

  “Sure, of course, anytime.” She nodded too many times, liar that she was, preferring privacy. “I still have other trunks to go through.”

  “Excellent.” Sandra stepped into her shorts and pulled her tank top back over her head. “Dinner will be ready around seven, but they’re pouring gin and tonics at six.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “Yeah, this life is not exactly a hardship.” She passed close to Allie and touched her arm. She smelled faintly of ginger and something sweeter. “Be nice to Jonas. He’s a good guy.”

  Allie nodded, strangely emotional. “I promise.”

  She watched Sandra descend the ladder, then hauled out her phone, adrenaline rushing. Julie needed to hear about this. They’d have to plan how this would go, how she and Jonas would get together, who’d take the lead, when, where...

  Halfway through her text, she stopped. Wait a second.

  She didn’t need to ask herself or Julie any of those questions. Great-Grandma Josephine had not only sketched out various seductions, but had also provided all the outfits. Allie gave a slow, wicked grin, envisioning some very specific erotic pleasures.

  Tonight, Jonas would be subjected to a full treatment of page twenty-four.

  7

  Allie: Just finished dinner. Champagne on ice. Getting ready.

  Julie: I get Diet Coke, you get champagne. No fair. Is it hot there?

  Allie: Not as hot as it’s about to get, heh heh.

  Julie: Sweltering here. Subway smells like the pee of ten thousand frat boys. Don’t come back!

  Allie: You’re not exactly tempting me.

  * * *

  ALLIE TOOK HER TIME getting ready, immersing herself in the mood she wanted to create, moving languidly, not allowing her breathing to accelerate, aiming for a dreamy, sensual state she could bring with her to the cottage, and to Jonas. She was also bringing champagne, which she’d pilfered from the generous stash in the bar refrigerator, making a note to replace the bottle next time she was in town, though it would probably never be missed. Not sure how well outfitted the cottage was, she’d also grabbed glasses and an ice bucket.

  Allie showered, shaved, applied lotion, plucked and trimmed, then put on the thin flowered robe that had been hanging in her room’s closet, and floated down the hall back to her room. Inside, she crossed to the open window and let the robe fall and the breeze off the lake caress her body, gently finger-combing her hair from bottom to top, wet strands sliding through her fingers.

  Erik and Sandra’s laughter drifted up from the kitchen. After a delicious and relaxed meal on the screened-in porch, talk had grown increasingly sparse until it became obvious they were all trying to figure out how to split into couples with the least amount of awkwardness. Finally, Jonas had stepped in with a really funny and tactful job of saying they’d undoubtedly not see each other for the rest of the night.

  What was Jonas doing right now? Lying in bed? Looking out at the
water? Sitting on the beach?

  How would he react to Josephine’s plan?

  She couldn’t wait to find out.

  The pink tap pants and camisole from page twenty-four of the diary had been hanging on the door opposite the window to freshen them, though contrary to what she’d expected, there was little to no musty smell.

  The camisole—very plainly designed, and probably considered a bra in the twenties—was trimmed with cream-colored lace and ended mid-stomach, leaving some room for the imagination. The style was tight, designed to flatten a woman’s bosom in order to produce the era’s ideal boyish figure. The tops of Allie’s breasts were visible above the lace and her nipples felt exquisite against the smooth, slippery silk. The tap pants skimmed the outline of her buttocks. A tiny silk rosebud wreath had been stitched in the center of the camisole, and another nestled in a patch of lace on the hem of the panties’ right leg. The outfit made her look lean, feminine, and ultrasophisticated. Tonight no one would mistake her for a girl from a rough part of Brooklyn’s Kensington neighborhood.

  Over the lingerie, she pulled one of the simplest dresses from Josephine’s wardrobe: a cream-colored linen sheath lined with peach silk that peeked through a lacy network of floral cutouts from shoulder to waist.

  On her feet—she didn’t bother with stockings—she wore a pair of cream-colored shoes with low heels and cutouts by the button fastener for the strap.

  One last look in the mirror as she perched a cream cloche-style hat on her head.

  There.

  Allie smiled at her reflection. The outfit not only felt entirely comfortable, but also entirely her—not as if she was dressing up in a costume from another era—but as if she was putting on an outfit bought for herself. Maybe it was her longtime obsession with vintage clothes, but clearly she was at ease indulging a spectacular Great Gatsby moment. And why not?