“It’s actually not that sexy,” I say. “She sewed it herself, off a 1940s dress pattern.”
“I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring the sexy,” Margot says. “What’s John McClaren wearing?”
“I have no idea. He says it’s a surprise.”
“Hmm,” she says. It’s a very suggestive hmm, which I ignore.
Daddy’s taking one last shot of me on the front porch when Ms. Rothschild comes over. “You look amazing, Lara Jean,” she says.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Daddy says fondly.
“God, I love the forties,” she says.
“Have you seen the Ken Burns documentary The War?” Daddy asks her. “If you have any interest in World War Two, it’s a must-see.”
“You should watch it together,” Kitty pipes up, and Ms. Rothschild shoots her a warning look.
“Do you have it on DVD?” she asks Daddy. Kitty is aglow with excitement.
“Sure, you can borrow it anytime,” Daddy says, oblivious as ever, and Kitty scowls, and then her mouth falls open.
I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible Mustang driving down our street, top down—with John McClaren at the wheel.
My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan belt and hat. His hair is parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He grins at me and waves. “Whoa,” I breathe.
“Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are forgotten; we are all staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed him up. He parks the car in front of the house, and all of us rush up to it.
“Whose car is this?” Kitty demands.
“It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise to park really far away from any other car, though, so I hope your shoes are comfortable, Lara Jean—” He breaks off and looks me up and down. “Wow. You look amazing.” He gestures at my cinnamon bun. “I mean, your hair looks so . . . real.”
“It is real!” I touch it gingerly, I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious about my cinnamon-bun head and red lipstick.
“I know—I mean, it looks authentic.”
“So do you,” I say.
“Can I sit in it?” Kitty butts in, her hand on the passenger-side door.
“Sure,” John says. He climbs out of the car. “But don’t you want to get in the driver’s seat?”
Kitty nods quickly. Ms. Rothschild gets in too, and Daddy takes a picture of them together. Kitty poses with one arm casually draped over the steering wheel.
John and I stand off to the side, and I ask him, “Where did you ever get that uniform?”
“I ordered it off of eBay.” He frowns. “Am I wearing the hat right? Do you think it’s too small for my head?”
“No way. I think it looks exactly the way it’s supposed to look.” I’m touched that he went to the trouble of ordering a uniform for this. I can’t think of many boys who would do that. “Stormy is going to flip out when she sees you.”
He studies my face. “What about you? Do you like it?”
I flush. “I do. I think you look . . . super.”
It turns out that Margot is, as ever, right. Stormy has shortened the hem on the dress; it’s well above the knee. “I’ve still got the gams,” she gloats, twirling. “My best feature, from all the horseback riding I did as a girl.” She’s showing a little cleavage, too.
A silver-haired man who rode over in the van from Ferncliff is making appreciative eyes at her, and Stormy is pretending not to notice, all the while batting her lashes and preening with one hand on her hip. He must be the handsome man Stormy mentioned to me.
I take a picture of her at the piano and send it directly to Margot, who texts back a smiling emoji and two thumbs up.
I’m setting up the American flag centerpiece, watching John lug a table closer to the center of the room at Stormy’s direction, when Alicia sidles up beside me, and then we’re both watching him. “You should date him.”
“Alicia, I told you, I just got out of a relationship,” I whisper back. I can’t take my eyes off him in that uniform with that side part.
“Well, get into a new one. Life is short.” For once, Alicia and Stormy are on the same page.
Stormy is now straightening John’s tie, his little hat. She even licks her finger and tries to smooth his hair, but he ducks away. Our eyes meet, and he makes a frantic face like, Help me.
“Save him,” Alicia says. “I’ll finish the table. My internment camp display is already done.” She’s set that up by the doors, so it’s the first thing you see when you walk in.
I hurry over to John and Stormy. Stormy beams at me. “Doesn’t she look like an absolute doll?” She swans off.
With a straight face John says, “Lara Jean, you’re an absolute doll.”