Please enjoy Part Two of FIRST LOVE.
At a young age
A hot Spring day with low humidity made Keegan appreciate the warmth as he and Cathy entered the fabric shop. Unlike those gals who want to surprise their escorts, Cathy wanted Keegan to partake.
“What about this?” she asked, pointing out a bolt of something soft and colorless. He thought she called it blush.
“Nice. Sets off your complexion,” he said lamely. The store and its contents were as alien as a foray into the deepest jungles of the Amazon. He connected to nothing, yet knew she thought it important.
Again, unlike those buying gowns, Cathy was making hers, having a talent for sewing and a kinship to fashion. Not in the sense of the modern and costly, but in the certainty form and flow over her perfectly proportioned body. Then again, to Keegan, she looked good in old socks, battered jeans and torn t-shirt, what she had worn when they cleaned out her handicapped aunt’s attic.
It didn’t matter what Cathy wore, if make-up adorned her animated oval face, nor was it relevant if she sported a flawless hair style. Cathy’s perfection resided in her essence, her thoughts, how she communicated, and the way she laughed, bright, brilliant, loud without restrain. Keegan failed to communicate any of that, but the sentiment was there nuzzled beneath the surface of his heart.
Perusing various shops Cathy was unable to find it. “I know the dress. It’s as if the fabric exists only in my mind.”
Silently he drove. He just obtained his license, and contradictory to the typical teen mentality of wild, his father instilled in him an observance to safety. “I need to stop at Gram’s. Do you mind?”
“Sure,” she grinned, that winsome grin he adored.
Once at his Gram’s, Cathy began to natter-on about her dress. "I can't find the fabric."
“Wait here,” the elderly woman said, her step quick and her tone bright. She returned a moment later, carrying a bolt of fabric. Even Keegan recognized the beauty of it. "Chiffon." Its pale blue hue immediately complimented the color of Cathy’s eyes.
"It’s gorgeous,” she said in a hushed, reverent tone.
“Bought it to make a dress when my husband returned from the war. It’s yours.”
Cathy hesitated, as if she dare not touch something so exquisite and then she reached for it, held it reverently against her. “Thank you. I love it,” she said, sensing its import. Her own Nana was like that, depression babies squirreled away everything.
Two weeks later, prom night, in her foyer he watched her descend the stairs. That instant he understood beauty. The gown had a princess look to it, layers that flowed from the waist down, billowing, granting the illusion of floating. A snug bodice formed her breasts' fullness highlighting tightness of her waist. It was a timeless look, a forever moment, one that he knew would linger when age was his partner.
“You look… beautiful,” he managed. “The dress is…,” he didn’t have the words.
She smiled. “I made it for you.”
Her words gifted him, startled, honored, and he realized a moment was unique. What he didn’t know was this was the first and last prom he’d ever attend.
TO BE CONTINUED
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