Cindi touched Daphne’s arm. “Hey, sweetie, I have an idea. Want to try on some slinky lingerie? Something hot for your wedding night? We just got a shipment of sheer, strappy chemises that are to die for!”
Daphne began slipping out of the wedding dress. “Girlfriend,” she said, forcing herself to sound exuberant, fun—not so long ago she never had to force that attitude—“bring them on!”
A few minutes later, Daphne had doffed her bra and was slipping into a bottle-green silk chemise with black lace trim that hovered seductively at the top of her thighs. “Cool,” she purred, eyeing herself in the mirror.
“Some girls are wearing them with skirts and pants. It’s the new skimpy-chic look.”
“I couldn’t wear it in Denver…”
“Take a trip out of town. Somewhere remote, where no one knows you.”
Anonymity. What a treat it would be to be invisible, a face in the crowd. Nobody watching, judging…
Daphne put on her cargo pants and tucked in the chemise. She looked at her reflection. “The pièce de résistance,” she said, stepping into the lime-green Prada heels that gave her bare calves a nice curve.
“You got it,” Cindi murmured.
“I do, don’t I?” It was fun to let down her guard, to be sassy and playful again. She turned sideways, admiring the effect. “I like dressing in different shades of the same color…some days it’s pink, others all blue. Today felt like a green day.”
“Because it’s April?”
Daphne paused. “Maybe. Spring and new beginnings and all that.”
From the other room, a phone trilled.
Cindi stepped toward the door. “Gotta grab that. Hey, check out the turquoise lace camisole on the lingerie rack.”
“Twist my arm,” teased Daphne, following her out of the dressing room.
As Cindi chatted on the phone, Daphne fingered through the sheer, silky lingerie. Outside the tinted windows, she looked down on Denver’s elegant Detroit Avenue.
Jaguars and Beemers cruised down the road. Across the street thin women sipped espressos at a sidewalk café, their groomed dogs sunning nearby. Baskets of bright spring flowers hung from lamp posts. Everything cultured and sophisticated and perfectly perfect…it was as though she were looking into a glass ball at her future life.
She shivered involuntarily, and had started to turn away when something caught her attention.
An old school bus, painted gray with gold trim, sputtered down the street. On its side in cursive script was painted Maiden Falls Tour Bus in bright red.
Maiden Falls. The former mining town in the Rockies, next to where, in the 1880s, her ancestor Charles had staked his claim, Last Chance. It was now a state-preserved historical site. But despite all his riches, for the rest of his life Charlie swore his happiest days were when he’d been a poor and struggling miner.
And could that have had anything to do with your being camped next to Maiden Falls? Daphne grinned, imagining her four-times-great-gramps, before he found the bride of his dreams, being pretty darn happy camped next to Maiden Falls—the tongue-in-cheek term for the ladies of the evening who’d set up business there. After years of usage, the name had stuck. Maiden Falls was now the official town name, a place filled with quaint shops and a lovely old renovated hotel.
At one time, she and Gordo would have been spontaneous and hopped on this Maiden Falls tour bus for a spur-of-the-moment adventure. He’d always justified these excursions with an old legal saying, “No consideration, no contract.” But what he really meant was hey, if you really wanna do it, it’s a deal.
Daphne’s toes twitched as she yearned to break loose, to do something impulsive again.
The bus parked outside the café, next to a sandwich-board sign with Tours written in large black letters on it. A skinny kid in jeans and a baseball cap jumped off the bus and stood next to the Tours sign. Several people—who appeared to have been waiting at the café—began lining up, buying tickets.
Daphne watched, mesmerized, as, one by one, people purchased tickets and got on the bus.
The bus that would be leaving soon.
Her toes twitched again.
G.D. was out of town for the weekend at some political rally. Her parents had back-to-back society functions over the next few days. And her perfectly perfect sister was too self-absorbed to really care what big sis Daphne did.
It’s my last chance to be free, adventurous. Even Cindi said I should escape to some remote town, far away from the rules of high society. If someone asks, I could say I’m anybody, a location scout for a film, a grad student researching old mining towns…
Plus, just as ol’ Charlie Remington had enjoyed his greatest happiness in those hills, maybe so would she. Simple, unadulterated, un-whispered-about-behind-her-back happiness.
That cinched it.
Grinning, she rushed back into the dressing room, tossed on her jean jacket and grabbed her purse. Running through the salon while buttoning up the jacket, she pointed to the top of her chemise and mouthed “Put it on my bill.”
Cindi nodded, her eyes growing wide as she continued talking on the phone.
Half jogging across the street, Daphne felt the exquisite flutterings of an impending grand escape—the way she used to feel all the time. Damn, it felt great to be alive again! Alive and free-spirited, escaping the uptight, rule-oriented world of Cherry Creek.
As she slipped into line for the tour bus, she pulled out her wallet. Fifty dollars cash and a handful of credit cards. Plenty of ammunition for anything she might need on this trip.
As Daphne paid the lanky kid twenty-five dollars for the round-trip ticket, he said, “Have a wonderful trip, ma’am, to Maiden Falls.”
Ma’am? She grinned as she stepped onto the bus. Screw the location scout or grad student fantasies. For these next few days, she’d be a maiden—a fallen maiden—enjoying her last adventure in Maiden Falls!
ANDY BRANIGAN sat in a small parlor nestled in the back of the lobby at the inn at Maiden Falls staring at the sepia-toned photo in the old album, wondering if Maiden Falls was named for this particular group of fallen maidens…or any of the other ladies of the evening who had flocked to Colorado’s mining towns back in the late nineteenth century.
Looking at this picture, however, one would be hard-pressed to claim these were shady ladies. This group was dressed in their Sunday finest, sitting demurely on a blanket in a field having a picnic. Some held parasols, some daintily nibbled on fried chicken.
One would never guess this was a group of hookers who had plied their wares in this very honeymoon hotel, the same place where a savvy Madam Arlotta had once managed her lucrative business and the working girls.
Honeymoon hotel? More like a bridal bordello.
Hmmm, not bad.
He pulled a small spiral-bound pad out of his shirt pocket and jotted down bridal bordello. He stared at the words, hearing Frank, his boss and the Denver Post’s features editor, bellowing, “Forget it, Andy. You’re a sweet-talkin’ guy with a way with words, but no way in hell we’re printing a piece on honeymoon hotels titled Bridal Frickin’ Bordello.”
Andy tucked the notepad back into his pocket, behind his pack of cigarettes, planning his rebuttal. “Frank, buddy, if you wanted safe and sensible, you shouldn’t have sent your best reporter out to write this fluff piece.”
Frank would start to argue.
That’s when Andy would nod, as though commiserating with Frank’s stance, but then he’d say, “Hey, paper’s circulation’s down. You need to boost readership. I’ll write lace and