Chapter Four: Ladies Sewing Circle and Terrorist Society (Member in Good Standing)
McGee came in through the back door; as a pleasant surprise, Ziva was with him. "I'm giving her a lift to the repair shop," he said in answer to Abby's raised eyebrow. "What's up? Your message was—for you—pretty cryptic."
"Ah—er—" I stammered.
"Well—" Abby spread her hands expressively.
"You see, Timothy—" Ducky started.
"Hi." Chanda stuck out her hand. "I'm Chanda Davis."
"Special Agent Timothy McGee," he said automatically.
Ziva accepted the offered hand as well. "Officer Ziva David."
"We have a bit of a mystery, Agent McGee, and we're hoping you can help," Chanda said with an easy smile.
"Mystery?" He shot me a split-second glance; I had discovered his nom de plume a month or so ago at Book Expo, but hadn't had a chance to reassure him that I was going to keep the secret. I smiled in what I hoped would be a reassuring manner.
"Yes. You see, when my grandfather died, he left behind a locked safe…"
"Safe?" He took advantage of the short pause. "Ziva might be better at getting into a locked safe." She looked pleased as punch at his comment.
"Oh, no—but thank you." Chanda smiled at them both. "I managed to get into the safe. We found ledger books—and a briefcase with computer diskettes in it."
He looked curious—but concerned. "Diskettes?" he asked doubtfully.
Everyone in front of the counter slowly stepped back like he was Charlton Heston doing his Moses gig. Chanda indicated the briefcase in front of me—unlocked and open, the lid resting on the bottom half. McGee cautiously opened the lid. And stared.
After several minutes, he slowly pulled his eyes away from the contents. "You're joking."
"No joke," Chanda said.
He gave me an affronted look. "You told me you didn't have eight inch disks!"
I stared at him blankly for a minute, then almost laughed. When NCIS was investigating the death of Commander David Sutton last fall, part of the investigation involved taking in all of my computers and paraphernalia. McGee had been—ah—verklempt at my five-and-a-quarter inch diskettes, and I had made an offhand comment that he should be glad they weren't eight. He had turned green at the thought. "Good memory—but these aren't my disks."
"So." Chanda gave him a bright smile. "Everyone says you're the go-to guy for computers—"
"Computers, yes, but—this is an Indiana Jones expedition! These aren't old, they're ancient!" He looked at Abby, who had dragged him into this, with horror. "Eight inch floppy disks? Are you insane? Why not ask me about punch cards while you're at it?"
He was really distressed. Timothy McGee is one of the politest people I know. I've never seen him sarcastic.
"I may as well seal them in acrylic and turn them into trivets!"
"Sounds cool!" Abby piped up. "After we check out the data, though, okay?"
He gave her an exasperated look. "Seriously. Media doesn't last forever. What do you expect me to do?"
"They were my grandfather's. He locked them in the safe, so they have to be important. He was killed in 1974—"
He looked taken aback. "I'm sorry." He recovered his equilibrium slightly. "Do you think there's evidence on the disks?" His brow was furrowing rapidly.
"Oh, no, I'm sure there isn't. Mostly we're just curious." Chanda cocked her head slightly and gave him a smile. "Wouldn't you be?"
He reached out a hand and cautiously poked at one of the enormous disks. "Yeah… I would…" He looked at her almost apologetically. "You understand—after all this time, they're probably blank."
"Well—they were sealed in a briefcase, locked in a safe. Wouldn't that help?"
"Not quite hermetically sealed…" He still had miles of lines on his forehead. "I don't know. It might."
"Could you try?" I wheedled. "Brownies," I whispered.
"I'll… try." He sighed. "I don't even know where to get an eight inch drive, let alone the program. Computer museum?" He gave a twisted smile. "I wasn't far off with Indiana Jones. Next time, just get me an abacus."
"Abacus?" Chanda looked puzzled. (I was, too.)
"The abacus is considered the first computer," Abby said almost primly.
"Really low-tech," I laughed.
"I'll… call around," McGee said resignedly. "Where am I going to find an eight inch floppy drive?" he muttered.
"Library of Congress?"
Ziva had wandered to the edge of the group and was idly thumbing through the OED perched on a lectern at the end of the counter. Magnifying glass in hand (the only way to read the tiny type), she smiled at our looks of confusion and interest. "There was a special on the History Channel on the Library of Congress. They have many interesting and educational shows, I find it a very helpful channel."
Ducky's eyes lit up. "Yes! They had a show the other week detailing the history of the trebuchet. Did you know—"
While we were waiting for McGee to arrive, Ducky had come around to sit behind the counter with me. I reached over and covered his hand. "Honey? Later, okay?" I whispered. I leaned past him so I could see Ziva better. "You were saying—Library of Congress?"
"Yes." She abandoned the dictionary and rejoined the group. "They have everything from handwritten manuscripts to CDs, all manner of media. In the case of non-written media, they need the method of reproducing the recording. They have wax cylinders and a player—"
Ducky sat up a little straighter and looked like he was going to interject something. I gave his hand a little squeeze and he settled back, giving me an apologetic smile.
"—equipment for early motion pictures, 8-track cassettes, video tapes—"
"Not a word about my Betamax," I threatened no one in particular.
"—and all types of computers. They said they scour the world for old units to take apart, to—" She frowned. "All I can think of is 'zombie.'"
Abby giggled. "You mean cannibalize?"
"Yes, yes, that is it."
McGee shrugged. "It won't hurt to ask."
Ducky had been sitting the last moment with a thoughtful look on his face and now spoke up. "I believe I have a friend who works there…"
Abby beat me to the punch. "I knew you would, Duckman."
McGee was still fretting. "God knows what program they were running—"
"Maybe there's information in the ledgers?" Chanda suggested. "You're welcome to borrow the whole shebang."
"Thanks." He mustered a smile. "I'll try my best."
Ducky gave him his patent-pending encouraging grin. "If anyone can do it, Timothy, dear boy, you can."
/ / / / /
Fran Peterson was right. Latex is a pain in the ass.
Wednesday was an all-around great night. Charlie wasn't crowing over her summer school grades—Ev and Lily took care of that, thank you very much. Charlie was almost dismissive ("It's easy to get an 'A' if the topic is of interest.") but the fact that her "Fall Review: Math" class was the single B and she was distressed over it made it clear that she did pay attention. Victoria fussed over me like she hadn't seen me for years instead of days. It took a huge effort not to spill the beans; hearing that Ducky and I were expecting would have thrilled her beyond measure. (Hmm. Will Charlie be older sister, cousin or Auntie Charlie?)
But that was later. I came home early because of Victoria's meltdown. For weeks they had been preparing her for Charlie going to summer camp and she seemed to understand the concept, even bringing forth stories of when Ducky went off to camp. She helped plan the going away party for this Saturday. And then something snapped. Not long after Ducky got home, Suzy found his mother in her room, huddled in her bed, sobbing like her heart would break. Suzy couldn't get anything close to a coherent answer and ran to get Ducky, who was upstairs adding to the 'stuff from Ducky's house' list. He wasn't able to get a coherent answer, either. Finally he was able to pick out what sounded—maybe—like "Cassandra" but that was it. He called me; I knew talking to her on the phone was useless, so, with an understanding look from Valerie, I headed west at a rapid clip.
Everyone was crowded into Victoria's room (no mean feat) when I got home. Charlie was asking imploringly, "Grandma, please tell me what's wrong?" as I walked in; Victoria just continued to sob.
Ducky actually looked a little scared. He caught my eye, gave me an 'I have no idea' shrug and hand spread and looked at his mother in consternation. I made my way through the throng to her daybed and knelt next to her. "Mother? Mother, it's Cassandra, what's wrong? Are you feeling ill? Did you hurt yourself?" No response, just more tears. I gently manhandled her into a sitting position so that I could sit next to her. "Come here… come here, come here, come here," I murmured, putting my arms around her. Her head fell onto my shoulder and she really started to cry. "What has you so upset? Tell me. I'll make it better, I promise," I rashly vowed.
About five minutes later, she started to slow up a bit. "You're—going away!" she wailed.
"No," I said slowly, very gently, "Charlotte is going away—to summer camp. She'll be gone for two weeks. And you can chat with her every night on the computer."
"You're going away! You're all going away!"
It took a lot of false starts and do-overs, but we finally got it straight. Charlie was going to camp. When she came back, she and her moms were moving away—and Ducky and I were going with them, leaving her all alone. Hoo-boy.
"Oh, Grandma!" Charlie clambered onto the daybed on Victoria's other side. "I won't ever, ever leave you. The first day I come back from camp, Mommy said I may spend the night here, with you. We're never moving away, not any of us!"
She raised her head from my shoulder and looked into my eyes. "Never?" she whispered.
"Never," I promised. "Mother, Duc—Donald and I are getting married. I'm moving into the house. None of us are moving out."
She turned to look at Charlie. "You will come back?" The broken look on her face made me want to cry.
"I swear it." Charlie held up her hand, pinky out. "Pinky swear," she said solemnly.
Victoria held out her own hand and they linked fingers. Reassured, she burst into a delighted smile. "Even Max?"
I doubt she'll ever call Underfoot by his proper name. "Yes. Even Max."
She thought for a moment. "Donald! Have you started dinner?"
"I… was about to, Mother."
"There's a chipmunk in the back garden," she whispered to Charlie.
"I know," she whispered back. "I have a bag of peanuts for him. Shall we go see if he would like them as a snack?"
"Oh, yes, let's!" Charlie took Victoria's hand and led her from the room.
The rest of us looked at one another in confusion. "Crisis averted?" Suzy asked cautiously.
"I… think so?" Ducky said.
"In that case… what's for dinner? Need my help?" I asked.
"Darling…" Ducky walked over, leaned down and kissed me. "You have done quite enough." He bent closer to whisper in my ear, "Would you like to go upstairs and lie down?"
Oh, yeah, like Evelyn and Lily wouldn't notice that. "Do you need anything from the market? Surely there's something around here I can do," I said with a dramatic sigh.
"Well… could you run to the bakery?"
"No, but I could drive to the bakery. Ar, ar, ar."
Ducky winced. "After an answer like that, I don't know if I should leave the choice of dessert in your hands."
"I'll keep her in line," Evelyn volunteered.
I locked eyes with Ducky. Great. Evelyn was the one who first put the bug in my ear about being pregnant…
"And who will keep you in line?" Lily said sweetly.
"Ow!" Ev protested.
"Truth hurts?" I asked.
"Ow! Again!"
"Actually, Evelyn, you could do me a favor… we're toying with the idea of doing a bit of remodeling when Sandy moves in. I understand you did quite a bit of the work at Papyrus over the years, as well as your own shop…" Ducky slipped an arm about her shoulders and turned her from the room.
Lily looked at me with a big smile. "Me car? You car?"
"You car—if you don't mind," I added quickly, remembering Wonder Woman was still recuperating from two bullet wounds. (I've seen people show more pain over getting their teeth cleaned.) "I'm pooped."
Lily gave me the once-over twice as I got into the car. "You're not kidding, kid. You look like you wuz rode hard an' put away wet," she said in a dreadful drawl.
"Thanks, heaps."
She gave me a sly look as she started the engine. "Late night with the doc?"
I blushed to my roots.
"Say no more!"
/ / /
Over post-dinner dominoes I got the stunning news that our going away party on Saturday was going to be even larger than planned.
"You're joking."
Evelyn and Lily shook their heads in identical no's.
Oh, shit, I thought. Instead I said, "How many?"
"Six," Lily said, her voice as low as mine. "Grandfather and Grandmother Kemmelbacher, three aunts, one uncle."
Ducky managed a smile. After all, he had been the one to suggest inviting the other family, feeling that no matter what they had done and said in the past, it would be rude to not invite them. (He probably never thought they would accept.) "I have conferred with Charlotte and have come up with a plan. We plan to… expanded the guest list somewhat…?"
Suzy snorted faintly. (She was already invited.) "What, put an ad in the Gazette?"
"Oh, she was thinking some of my colleagues who have heard me talk about her. Anthony. Timothy." He smiled faintly. "Ziva." He cocked his head at me. "…Jethro…"
Gibbs is not a party boy. But he took an instant dislike to Mrs. Kemmelbacher when Lily was shot—and an instant like to Charlie. I grinned. "Oh, yeah, I think Leroy Jethro Gibbs would be the perfect addition to the crowd. And—and you must invite Abby."
"I'd never leave her out," he said firmly. "Actually… Charlotte called them before Mother's, ah, problem, and every single one accepted."
Of course they would. They'd do just about anything for Ducky. Even come to what was essentially a kids' party with a smattering of adults scattered about.
Evelyn began to giggle. Lily looked at her in confusion. "What's so funny?"
"Oh! You never met Abby, did you?" Evelyn tipped her head to one side, tapping her chin. "Let's see… she's really tall, wears platform shoes that make her about six feet, coal black hair, really pretty—dresses kind of like a cross between a Catholic schoolgirl and a lightweight biker and a punk rocker with a dash of Goth thrown in, she's got this huge spiderweb tattoo on her neck—"
"And a giant cross on her back," I added.
"I wish you had a pool," Lily murmured.
"Why?" Ducky asked.
"Just envisioning Abby in a bikini… and both of the grandparents. I don't know which would be more interesting: she going all The Lord Shall Smite Thee—or he trying to do the same while ogling her."
"Forgot to mention—she bowls with nuns," I added. My eye was caught by Underfoot standing in the doorway. "Hey, Footers. You miss me?" Apparently not; he stood in the doorway and glared at me. "What? You're used to me being gone for a couple of days. What's your malfunction?" He continued to glower. I leaned over toward Ducky. "You did feed him, yes?"
"Charlie did," Ev volunteered. "She's trying to convince us to get a cat."
"Litter box?" I prompted Ducky. He winced. We were both spoiled by the self-cleaning one at my house; we had yet to find an outlet in the basement that would let us leave the hand-sifted variety behind. "Sorry, Foot. My bad." I wriggled back from the coffee table. "Be right back, won't take a minute, wanna switch to poker?" I added as I left the room.
Ducky caught up with me before I got to the basement. "I'll do it."
"Jeez, Ducky, I'm already here. But thanks for the offer, sweetie."
"No," he said more firmly. "I'll do it."
"Honey, don't feel guilty about forgetting, I can—"
"No. You can't." He took my arm and led me into the basement, shutting the door behind us. "Here." He walked me down to Foot's nook in the wall. "Have you ever read the back of the container of litter?"
"Other than to make sure it's not the scented stuff—he just hates that—no. Why?"
He hoisted the bin up to the table we used for folding laundry and pointed to a paragraph outlined in red and with a big CAUTION above it. In a nutshell: pregnant women should not clean litter boxes because of the danger of toxoplasmosis. "Oh."
"Yes. Oh. From here on out, this is my chore," he said, giving me 'that look' over the top of his glasses.
I held up my hands in surrender. "No argument. But, in my defense, I never had reason to notice that until now, okay?"
"Okay," he echoed. He slipped his arms around me and pulled me close. "I just want to take the best care of you and our baby that I can. If I seem overprotective—well, I will be. You're simply going to have to suffer through it."
I hugged him, rubbing my cheek against his chest. "Oh, all right," I sighed. "I'll lump along as best I can being spoiled…" I reached up and kissed him. "…and pampered…" Another kiss. "…and loved beyond measure…" Another kiss, and I snuggled against his shoulder. "I feel so sorry for all the other women in the world…because they don't have you."
"Flattery—" He tipped my chin up and gave me a kiss. "—will get you everywhere."
"Another backrub tonight?"
"Certainly."
"We can trade…"
"That has a nice sound to it."
"Maybe a repeat of last night…?"
He grinned. "That has a very nice sound to it."
"Remember—the real estate agent is coming over tomorrow."
"How can I forget? Your house is so clean, not only would your mother approve, you could perform surgery on the kitchen floor."
"No," I said, turning toward the stairs. "Then it would be my mother's house."
/ / / / /
I felt a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy bit guilty over Thursday. Yes, the agent was coming over—but I asked her to move the appointment to first thing in the morning instead of afternoon. I had a feeling if I told Ducky where I planned to go and what I planned to do, he would be less than thrilled.
Misty Barillia had saved my bacon almost a year ago, coming up with a fancy dress costume for my first date with Ducky—and providing perfect hair and makeup as well. Just this last weekend, Abby and Ducky had enlisted her aid in disguising Fran so that she could slip out of the hospital without being mobbed by the paparazzi. And here she was helping me out for a third time. I really owe this girl some cookies.
When John Mulder and I met up at the Gaslight Theatre, Misty was ready and waiting.
"How good do you have to look?" Misty asked, scraping my hair back and putting it under a screamingly tight-fitting mesh cap.
"Good is relative. I need to look old."
"How close?" She started cleaning my face, stripping off any dirt and oil so the spirit gum would adhere the latex to my face. "Huggy-kissy close? Medical exam close? Back row of the bus close?"
John snorted. "Not medical. Not this trip, anyway."
"Huggy-kissy, maybe," I said.
"Mrs. Doubtfire, here we come," Misty sang out.
I narrowed my eyes. "Make me look like Sandra Bullock and I'll cry," I threatened.
John looked at me in askance. "Sandra Bullock is smokin'."
"As the old lady in Miss Congeniality 2? God, those teeth!"
Misty used Mrs. Rozhdestvensky's state ID as a guide (I didn't need to look like her so much as I needed to look like her ID—which, unlike most of us, bore more than a passing resemblance to reality) and set about slapping another thirty-odd years on my mug.
(When I looked at the alphabet soup on the card, I almost fainted. Mulder had just introduced her as "Grandma Rosie" and never went any further. She was gung-ho-to-go on our plans, mourning the fact that she couldn't come with us. "My next door neighbor moved in there almost three years ago. So if you run into a Sylvia Carmichael, just tell her you're still waiting for her to return my J. D. Robb books—well, your J. D. Robb books. That'll shut her nosy yap right up. She borrowed almost two dozen books all at one time, said she returned them—every time I'd ask her about them, she'd turn on her heel and stomp into the house. I already replaced them—and, actually, it got her out of my hair, so it was cheap at twice the price." I didn't notice her full name until we were back in the car; at my incredulous look, Mulder just shrugged. "Grandfather was first-gen, Russian immigrant parents." "You wanna teach me how to say my own name, please?" Took me fifteen minutes before I could say it without stumbling.)
It took a couple of hours, but Misty did a very creditable job. I was more stylishly attired than Fran—a pretty lightweight knit skirt and sweater set in heather gray with a high-necked, long-sleeved lacy blouse that covered where the latex disappeared and my skin took over. Fortunately Grandma Rosie only wore reading glasses, and willingly loaned me one of her myriad pair. She also added choice bits of jewelry; when I protested (I was scared I'd lose them), she said, "If you're going to play me, you need to be me." She even handed over her wedding set, saying, "If you do run into Sylvia, that's the first thing she'll look for. She was a real jewelry hound." With a pang, I put my engagement ring on a chain and slipped it under my blouse.
Mulder stared at me. "That's… scary."
"Yeah?"
"You know in Mrs. Doubtfire, when Harvey Fierstein says, 'Any closer and you'd be Mom?'"
"Yeah…?"
"Well—you look more like my grandmother than my grandmother does."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment," Misty said. She handed me a pair of low-heeled pumps (Mulder had said Grandma Rosie would die before wearing "those clodhoppers" when she suggested the orthopedic shoes Fran had worn) and took a number of pictures for her portfolio. Mulder and I hopped into his car, and I spent the last 15 minutes before show time practicing my name a few more times.
Mulder wasn't far off with his assessment of Martin Romero. He was a little smoother than Harvey Bains, but not by much. I could understand the reason—gotta keep the residents (and their money) happy. No residents=no income=applying for unemployment benefits.
"Mis-ter Mul-der," he said enthusiastically, pumping John's hand. "And this must be your dear grandmother."
No, I'm his dear grandfather, ding-dong. Instead I smiled genially and shied away from shaking hands. "My arthritis is touchy this morning," I whispered confidentially.
"Ah. I understand."
Actually, I was scared to death he'd dislodge the paper-thin latex wrinkles on my hands—but that was for me to know and for him to hopefully not find out.
"So, Mrs. Rozh—Rozduh—Roz—"
"Call me Rosie," I encouraged. If we waited for him to get it right, we'd be there all day. I took the clipboard the financial officer handed me; they wanted to know everything short of my blood type. Oh, crap; all I knew was her name and part of her address. "Could I fill this out at home? My fingers are so stiff today…"
"Perhaps your grandson—" the woman started.
"Not a problem, not a problem," Harvey Bains—I mean Martin Romero—said jovially. The financial officer looked a little surprised, but quickly covered it with a smile. Mulder looked surprised—and didn't bother to cover it up. "I know you could buy us outright if you wanted to," Romero joked. "No worry of you paying every month!"
Crass bastard. I gave him a polite smile. As he turned away, I slipped the papers into my huge bag and mouthed, 'I'll fill them out later' to the woman behind the counter. She gave me a relieved smile and nodded. But it was clear Romero had done his own research on Mulder, or he wouldn't have known Rose Rozhdestvensky was rolling in clover.
"Now. What would you like to see first?"
"Why, everything," I said sweetly. He offered me an arm, but I quickly took Mulder's. "Johnny is used to keeping pace with me." Plus, I didn't want him any closer to my makeup job than he had to be.
I had borrowed Rosie's spare four-prong cane and used it to keep Romero at a distance. A couple of, "Oh, I'm so sorry!" clunks against his ankle and he got the hint. If this does turn into a bad edit of "Password to Larkspur Lane," this sucker will make a good weapon. Don't know that I'd have as good a swing as Mother did menacing DeeAnn Dabenow, but I can try!
I listened to Romero spouting statistics as we walked down the corridor. How many people in residence. How many at the private hospital. Waiting list, about six months long. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Oh, my god! Waiting list! Maybe after they've bled someone dry financially, they have a sudden "illness" or "accident" and they end up at the hospital—by the time they die, it looks like natural causes. Like—like "Coma" only they're killing people off instead of stopping at a coma!
I managed to not roll my eyes. Yeah, right. And who is paying for the hospital care? That's part of the perks, why the monthly maintenance is so high. If you end up in their hospital and run out of cash, they keep you there until the end of the line. That stupid little plot line would COST them money.
I sighed; Romero glanced at me and I gave him a vague smile. Nancy Drew made this look so easy…!
Our first stop was the TV room. BIG room. BIG TV. "Residents are allowed to have a television in their room—and most do have one. But we run movies frequently during the week—videos, DVDs, sometimes newly issued movies—" He leaned close (a little too close!) and whispered, "The great-grandfather of the head of Pinnacle Studios is one of our guests."
Next was the "clubhouse." At odds with the weather, a woman (spitting image of Edna from The Incredibles, including gotta-be-a-dye-job jet black hair) was pounding out, "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" with all her might on a baby grand. Residents who had grouped themselves by vocal range surrounded her—and they were doing a darn good job on harmony. "Christmas show," Romero said. (No, duh?) "Never too early to start practicing!"
In another corner of the room, a couple of wicked games of bridge were going on. Ducky plays bridge; so does Mother (well, sort of). I've never picked up the habit. But these gals (and two lone guys) were rabid players; as we passed by, one of the women slammed her cards down, snarling, "You moron!" to the woman across the way. Romero quickly steered us back into the hall.
There was an exercise class going on for wheelchair-bound residents; about fifteen people were enthusiastically doing bends and stretches in time to Taco's version of "Puttin' on the Ritz." "We also have two indoor pools—one full size, full depth, one four foot depth for laps. Family members can visit any time, and, on Sundays, use the pool as well."
Arts and crafts room, library, billiards, for god's sake—I hope they aren't doing something nefarious. When it comes time for Mother to go somewhere, this place is fantastic. Every so often there would be little reminders that this wasn't just a swank resort—signs reading, "Today is THURSDAY July 26, 2007. The weather is HOT (picture of a big sun) and HUMID (cartoon of a woman dripping sweat and fanning herself)" were all over, and the entrance to each room had pictures of the on duty attendants—broad smiles and wearing the No Place Like Home uniform of dark blue scrub pants and a scrub top of their choosing (most opted for a solid color, though one gal in the library had Disney princesses on hers). If we sneak someone in to pretend to be staff, it would be easy enough to fake it, even the nametag and the ID card on the lanyard wouldn't take more than a day to make…
Playacting is hard business, especially pretending to be slow and frail; I was getting tired. When we entered what Mr. Romero called 'the modern morning room,' I was ready to call it a day. Grandma Rosie probably would have done better than I did—both stamina-wise and information gathering.
Romero was starting to extol the virtues of the brand spanking new computers when his cell phone vibrated. He checked the number, and his smile dropped a hair. "I apologize for the interruption, but this is a call I must take." He flipped open the cover. "Martin Romero. One moment, please." He turned back to us. "Please, feel free to check out the room on your own, visit with some of the residents—this will only take a moment." With a game show host-worthy smile, he stepped out to the patio. As he turned away and put the phone to his ear, his smile dropped completely.
"Oh, Papa Bear is pissed," John said, mouth close to my ear.
"Mmmh," I agreed quietly. "You take south half—I'm going to chat up the non-computer people."
The two women working a huge jigsaw puzzle (kittens and yarn) told me how marvelous the place was, how marvelous the staff was, how marvelous Mr. Romero was, how marvelous—I got the drift. At the next table, a gal was working a book of extra-large print Sudoku puzzles; she had such a look of determination, I didn't bother her.
As I passed by an octagonal table, the lone occupant looked up and gave me an engaging smile. "Are you new here?"
"Considering," I said.
She indicated an empty chair. "You look exhausted, dear."
"Thank you," I said, sinking into the seat. "I'm going to need to buy roller skates if I move in here!"
"You could just join the jogging club," she laughed. She held out a hand. "Mary Martin, like Peter Pan."
Another alliterative name. "Rose Rozhdestvensky. Call me Rosie," I added, as she blinked at the consonant-laden syllables. "This is certainly not what I was expecting in a retirement home."
"This is not you father's retirement home," she said. Oldsmobile should be happy. Almost twenty years later and people are still harking back to their slogan.
"Not at all," I agreed. Heck, if Mother doesn't want to move in I will. Now. How would Nancy Drew handle this… "Have you been here long?"
"Just over a year. I should have moved in ages ago! My daughter and son-in-law never made me feel unwelcome, you understand—quite the opposite… but you know how it is. You always feel that you're in the way, even if they feel you aren't."
I made a noncommittal "mm-hmm" noise.
"It's not as though I never see them. Janet and the children come over quite often. Brad gives my car a checkup every other week or so—"
"You have a car? Here?"
"Heavens, yes! I'd say almost half of us do. They have a private covered garage—" She gestured vaguely west. "And Sean will have the car brought around if you let him know in advance."
"Sean?"
"Mr. Romero's major domo." She leaned over. "The extremely good looking former Navy pilot with the dark red buzz cut," she whispered.
"Ah."
"Aside from special trips, that's the only thing not included in our monthly fees—gasoline, car upkeep, such like." She finished addressing the lavender envelope, stamped it and set it aside. "This weekend, we have a trip to New York," she said not-quite-smugly. "The Met is featuring Carmen; we're spending the night at the Marriott, private dinner—oh, it's going to be wonderful! And last week, we had a special behind the scenes tour at the Smithsonian, we were allowed into the conservation room—"
That's it. I'm moving in. She pulled a blank sheet of stationary from a box and I couldn't help but laugh a little. The lavender sheet had shadows of cats and kittens in slightly darker lavender romping all over the page. "That's adorable!"
"Isn't it?" she smiled. "It was a thank you gift from Felidae. I donate to them all the time. One of the reasons I was so taken with No Place Like Home is they have pet wings, so I was able to bring Fafhrd and Gray Mouser with me."
I grinned. "You're a reader of science fiction." (Fritz Leiber, anyway.)
"My late husband was. I lean more toward mysteries and romantic thrillers."
Have I got a plot for you, honey. "I've never heard of Felidae."
"Oh, they're a wonderful group. You know, at the pound, if an animal has been there 'so long' without being adopted, sometimes they have to… ah… make room."
Euthanasia. "Ah. Yes."
"Well, Felidae never does that. The only time they'll put an animal down if it's for severe medical reason, if it would be cruel to keep the animal alive."
"They must end up packed to the rafters in kitten season."
"They are!" She poked through her pile of papers. "Here. They're having a new building fundraiser."
I glanced at the folded brochure. Pictures of puppies, kitten, dogs, cats. Gently worded pleas for money. Surprisingly, the top beg amount was only fifty bucks. We understand that financial needs change from month to month. So that you never have the problem of not being in the position of making a donation in a particular month and having to cancel, we do NOT set our benefactors up on automatic payments as many other charities do. You decide when and how much—and we are grateful for every contribution!
"They've sent me lovely address stickers and cute stickers of dogs and cats before, but this was a thank you for being such a regular contributor."
"It's beautiful stationery."
"I'd help them out anyway—but it's nice to get a little thank you."
"Oh, I understand. I end up donating more to PBS than I had planned because of the books, the CDs, the DVDs…"
"That's another thing I love about Home." She gestured to indicate the building in general. "Some facilities don't want you to get your mail delivered there—why, I don't really know—but they have no problem with us getting mail, packages… I get my book club, my CD club—Janet and Brad don't have to drive out every other day… it really is just like being at home, only I have so many wonderful roommates!"
I laughed with her. "This certainly seems a lovely place. I hear it's very hard to get in."
"Well… not that hard. There is a waiting list, but I don't think I waited more than four months. And it's certainly worth the wait!"
I made another noise of agreement. "I'm just a little… uncomfortable… giving out my financial information," I whispered, giving her a 'you know what I mean?' look.
"Oh, I understand. It's not that intrusive, they just want to make sure we can stay current on the bills. My late husband and I set up a living trust years ago; it's so nice—it automatically pays my monthly rent here, and I can write little checks for my extravagances." She waggled her fingers at the pile of mail.
"You're certainly keeping the post office in business."
"Oh, I have grandchildren across the country. Two in Germany! My youngest son is stationed there."
"Ah."
She reached off to the side of the table, her blouse cuff pulling back to show a clunky breaded bracelet that, frankly, didn't go with her outfit. She caught my glance. "It's not very attractive, is it," she laughed.
"Well…"
"One of the children made it, I felt I should be supportive and at least wear it once."
"Grandchild's summer camp art project?" I asked, thinking of Charlie.
"No, no—it's a home for the developmentally disabled." She looked around the room. "Mayra told me about them," she said, pointing to one of the computer users. Mulder was deep in conversation with her. "The children get help to progress as far as they can physically and academically, but often that's, well, not very far. They encourage them to use their creative talents. They have a little internet store; the money is split between the child and the home—or they'll send something as a thank you." She rotated her wrist, the light glancing off the garish beads. "A dear girl named Lindy Lou made this especially for me. I just got this today." She gave me a bemused look. "There isn't one item I own that this will match!"
"Tie dye?" I suggested.
"At the minimum. But she tried so hard, I just had to wear it at least once."
I nodded understandingly. "Oh, excuse me. Mr. Romero seems to be done with his business call—" I started to rise; it's hard to do when you're not accustomed to using a cane.
"Well, I hope you do decide to join us! We have a cutthroat rummy cube club," she said with a broad wink. Her face took on a forced, polite smile. "Good morning, Sylvia."
As I stood, I turned and came almost face to face with a woman who was about my height but all angles and no padding. She actually blanched and gasped, "Rosie?"
Misty just got an A+. "Well, my heavens. What a surprise," I said drily.
"It's—been a while," she stammered.
"Yes. It has. You wouldn't, by chance, have found those—"
"Excuse me, I forgot my—my watch," she improvised, hurrying from the room.
"Oh, you must move in," Mary Martin said. "Sylvia Carmichael is a crow. Borrows everything, returns nothing."
"She has two dozen of my books."
"She has my favorite brooch. And the worst part is, it's not in her room. Mr. Romero convinced her to let me in to look. I don't know what she's done with it—but everyone tries to keep her at arms' length. If you have the power to make her turn and run, I will stick to your side forever."
Grandma Rosie was going to get a kick out of our report. My part, anyway. But why in the world did Shelly drop Mother like a hot potato? I smiled up at Mulder as he took my arm. "Thank you, Johnny."
Romero was in a much better mood. "Now. How about lunch, mmh?"
/ / /
Whatever There's No Place Like Home is charging… it's worth it.
Lunch in an outside restaurant—just my lunch—would have been thirty bucks, easily. And if breakfast and dinner are of the same quality (no reason to think they wouldn't be), meals alone would cost a resident $80 to $100 a day on the outside. Even figuring a lower average of $60 a day, that's $1800 a month for food.
And, oh, holy crap, was it good food. I resented having my appetite sour at the end. It wasn't a late run of morning sickness. No, it was the sudden appearance of Shelly Romero at our table.
"Shelly, dear, this is Mrs.—" He made several false starts on Rozhdestvensky and laughed weakly.
"Rosie is fine," I was finally forced to say. I didn't want to say word one in front of Shelly but I couldn't very well ignore her husband floundering like a fish on the pier.
"Rosie is thinking of joining our little family. Rosie, this is my wife, Shelly. She's my unofficial assistant here, but she runs the show at home!" He laughed a little too jovially and draped an arm about her waist, giving her a little squeeze.
Boy, did she look uncomfortable. Her smile was stiff—probably as stiff as mine. And her husband has plainly never read an etiquette book.
Mulder jumped into the awkward moment. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Romero. John Mulder. My grandmother and I were just taking the tour today."
Christ on a crutch, don't bring her attention on me! I wanted to scream. I smiled politely, vaguely, my head bobbling a little like I'd sometimes seen in the elderly. (Not Victoria. Her hands, on the other, uh, hand, have a bit of a tremble a lot of the time. I've taken to filling her teacup halfway.)
"If you'd like, we can fill out those application forms, get the ball rolling—"
"Yes, yes, I—" I broke off suddenly and leaned toward Mulder. "Johnny," I whispered (just loudly enough that Mr. and Mrs. couldn't miss it), "I need to go home. I need to go home… now," I implored him.
"Oh. Oh, of course," he 'whispered' back. "We'll have to do the paperwork another day—or I can bring it back—but we, ah, need to leave. Now." He gave Romero a meaningful look.
I kept my face lowered, pretending to be embarrassed. It wasn't hard, but what I was really trying to do was keep out of Shelly's line of sight as much as possible.
"I understand," Romero said sympathetically. He pushed his chair back and carefully pulled my chair back as I stood. (Okay, he read at least one chapter of an etiquette book.) "We'll walk you to your car."
God, no! I almost yelped.
Mulder said, "Thank you," and I barely kept from decking him. (Talk about blowing cover!)
I putzed around, straightening my sweater, smoothing my skirt, hanging my purse and arranging it 'just so,' trying to keep the image of a picky old lady in play.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Neoma—Shelly, I mean, though my first instinct was to call her Neoma—staring at our table, at the remnants of lunch. She was all but transfixed. I took Mulder's arm and turned away and heard a couple of soft clink-click noises. Romero waggled his fingers; Shelly went to his side and he placed a hand on her back, between her shoulders, gently propelling her forward. "Shall we?" As they stepped away, I glanced back.
She had quickly, carefully, quietly arranged the used flatware so the pieces neatly lay across the top third of the plates and re-folded the napkins and set them to the right of the plates. I almost laughed; it reminded me of holiday dinner at Gamma's, the only time we ever used all of our table manners. Then I remember the weeks of her carefully planned lunches. The laundry she'd frequently do, shirts hung with military precision and in order by the Roy G. Biv color spectrum and sub-categorized by sleeve length and pattern. The hand washed dishes from breakfast and lunch—spoons, forks and knives segregated and lined up like soldiers, plates in size order and in neat rows so that if you looked at them face on, the stack looked like one plate, no errant edges poking out.
Neoma? Shelly? Try Adrian Monk.
The walk to Mulder's car was torturously long, even though we were parked near the entrance. I couldn't wait to get away—it was a great place, I still had clue zip as to what was going on, I'd love to delve further, but I wanted to be as far away from Shelly as possible… and the latex appliances were driving me crazy.
Mulder handed me into the car, tucked my purse by my feet, thanked Romero again for the tour and carefully backed the car out of the slot. I gave them little bye-bye waves, still waggling my fingers until we were out of the lot and totally out of sight. "Oh, my god, I almost died when Ne—Shelly walked up."
"You and me both. I thought you were going to run for the door."
"Damn close." I pulled out my cell and scrolled down to Misty's number. "We just left. See you in about twenty minutes."
"Well, I got zip," Mulder said as I shut my phone. "Everyone loves the place, they love Harvey Bains, they love Jane—I think they're putting 'ludes in the stew."
"Who put the Benzedrine in Mrs. Murphy's Ovaltine," I half-sang half-sighed. "Yeah, the gal I was talking to said she should have moved in long ago."
"I get the same feeling you did. There's something slightly off-key, but I have no idea where to go. One of the gals has her billing on auto-pay. One has it billed to her credit card. A third likes to write a check every month. Nobody is being double-dipped. One fee, one payment, no extra charges. Same amount every month, no extras to pad the bill—unless it's an out of state trip. And that goes to the tour group."
"New York to the Met this weekend. Mother would love to go," I sighed. "Maybe nothing is going on. Maybe I'm just being overly suspicious."
"Even paranoids have enemies."
"But why would Shelly Romero pretend to be Neoma Keithley? I keep coming back to that."
"Speaking of which—you got another hour or two free?"
"I could. What's up?"
"Thought we'd drop by the real Neoma Keithley's."
I perked up. "Sure!" I hit the speed dial for the store. "Hey, Val, things under control?"
"We just finished story time, I think we had twice the normal crowd."
I winced guiltily. "Oooh. Sorry I left you hanging in the breeze."
"It was fine. Alan did the reading, they never so much as twitch when he's sitting there. We did just over two thou' sales during and after."
"Dang. I should stay out more often. Speaking of which—can you hold down the fort for another hour or three?"
"Sure," she said affably. "You shopping for a wedding dress?"
"It's—ah—one of the things on my list," I fibbed. I'd make sure to write it down so I could have a clean (belatedly) conscience.
"One of the things? When you're shopping for a wedding dress, that should be the only thing on your list that day."
"I'm just starting," I defended myself. "When I get more focused, then it will be the only thing on the list that day."
"Hey, you're the one who will end up getting married in jeans and a sweatshirt, not me. See you when you get here."
"I'll close," I offered.
"Sold."
Misty made relatively quick work of turning me from eighty-plus back to fifty-one and asked questions left and right. Unfortunately, my answers left and right were, "No clue" and "I dunno." Misty didn't seem to mind the lack of information. In fact, she was chipper about it. "Nancy Drew never got all the clues in the first chapter of the book," she said cheerfully. There was something heartening in the fact that Misty, my mother and I had all grown up reading Nancy Drew mysteries.
/ / /
Neoma Keithley lived in a nice, middle-class neighborhood in the Bloomingdale area. Her house was small, but well kept. It was also powder-puff pink with white trim and looked like it belonged on a sentimental birthday card. A brick walkway bordered with flowers in a riot of shapes and colors completed the image.
The woman who answered the door didn't quite fit the house. I had a mental picture of a short, round, bespectacled, apron-clad, white-haired woman; I got the glasses right. Mrs. Keithley was tall, thin, wearing blue jeans and a madras plaid cotton shirt and her still half-black hair was butt-length and in a big, fat braid.
She actually recognized Mulder from his column in the paper, even though the photo "doesn't do you justice at all" and was thrilled to have him stop by.
"That series you wrote on the home for wayward girls was just outrageous! I mean, your reporting was top-notch—what they did was outrageous. Your articles just made my blood boil. I'm so glad you exposed them!"
It was a huge scandal, sort of a local version of the Magdalen sisters' shameful tale. Mulder's reporting was fantastic, the writing should get him a Pulitzer Prize, but the story had left me literally sick.
Fortunately for my suddenly queasy stomach, Mulder didn't plan to rehash the tale. "I'm glad you found the series interesting, Mrs. Keithley," he said with a smile. "But today I'm here on a more pleasant topic. Your file at the Post said 'no calls, ever' so I took the chance of stopping by—"
She looked disgusted. "Can't hear a blasted thing on the phone, so I let the answering machine take all of the calls."
"Ah. Well, you were our grand prize winner in the holiday bake-off last year, and I just wanted to see how you're enjoying your kitchen." Hopefully she wouldn't ask why a news feature writer was interested in the home arts section all of a sudden.
She waved us in. "Oh, it's just wonderful!"
On the drive over, Mulder had mentioned that Mrs. Keithley had won a brand new kitchen—appliances and redecoration—for the Christmas Cookie Bake-off, her famous (infamous?) Chocolate Chipotle Chews taking the grand prize. (I remembered the recipe. It darn near burned off layers of skin in my mouth. The only people who liked it were Gibbs, Abby and my nephew, Kevin. All three of them eat foods that should come with a fire extinguisher.) For her creativity, she won a brand-new stove, fridge, dishwasher and freezer, plus mixer, blender, crockpot and a zillion other gadgets and small appliances.
"And a $250 gift card to Barnes and Noble for new cookbooks," she burbled. "This is the best prize I've ever won!"
After a good ten minutes of oohing and aahing, she ushered us to the living room for coffee and brownies. (Just plain chocolate brownies. No chili peppers.) (They were out of this world.)
While we munched, we talked about all manner of things. I let Mulder lead the way; I wasn't sure what information he was looking for or how he planned to get it, so I played background.
The phone rang; after only two rings, it kicked over to the answering machine. "Do you need to get that?" Mulder asked politely.
She shook her head. "I can't hear the answering machine, either. My hearing aids work pretty well with normal conversation and even the television, but I just can't hear things worth a tinker's dam on the telephone or that silly machine. My granddaughter used to stop by two or three times a week to write out my messages. But she moved to New York—Sloan-Kettering—she's a nurse, you know—"
No, we didn't. But I swear I saw Mulder's ears come to a point. "Oh?" His casual tone was at odds with the interest in his eyes.
"Yes. I think she might have gone into nursing because she was named after me." She held up her hand in a 'hold on a sec' motion. She went over to a bookcase, pulled down a framed picture and brought it over. "That's Amanda at her capping ceremony." She pointed to the young woman on the stage; with all the white uniforms, it was hard to distinguish anything other than the fact that she had dark hair.
"I haven't seen a nurse in whites since Emergency went off the air," I said.
Mrs. Keithley sighed. "Yes. But they still have them for capping ceremonies—even if caps are almost never worn any more, either."
"So… Amanda was named for you? Is Neoma a nickname for Amanda?"
"No, no, Neoma is her middle name—Amanda Neoma. Her sister's middle name is from the other grandmother. Michelle Marie." There was only the slightest sniff. Grandmother rivalry?
"Family tradition?" Mulder asked amiably.
"Yes. Neoma goes by her middle name because she was sick to death of people singing that "Mandy" song to her." She looked puzzled for a moment. "Where was I? Oh, yes. Neoma always gave me my messages—most of my friends send me emails nowadays—"
I couldn't help but smile. Victoria was having trouble with a couple of cousins who were reluctant to join the computer age. She and Mrs. Keithley just might make good friends.
"—but with her moving to New York, she asked her sister to check in." Her look was both hurt and irritated. "My neighbor has ended up helping me. I don't think I see Marie more than once a month. If that."
"Maybe she's ill? Or—problems at work?" I suggested. I had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Keithley's namesake was the favorite.
"She works from home. She's an accountant. Although that husband of hers is probably causing all manner of problems for her." Now she looked more irritated than hurt. Scratch that. Pissed.
"I'm sorry—" I started to reflexively say, but she apparently didn't hear me and kept on rolling.
"Snake oil salesman. Used car salesman," she corrected sharply. "And a bad one, to boot. Smarmy, greasy—my girls were inseparable before he came into the picture. They used to sit in that chair and read together—Marie studied so hard, just so she could jump ahead and be in Neoma's class. They studied together, went to the same University—Neoma would test Marie in accounting, Marie would help Neoma write up her practice case notes. Such an eye for detail, that girl. And then they met Mr. Wonderful," she said sarcastically. "He dated Neoma, then dropped her for Marie—Neoma would have forgiven her sister, I'm sure she would have, but he occupied all of her time, cut her off from her family—oh, he's just a wolf in sheep's clothing—"
Something told me this was an old litany, that we were just a new audience. I caught Mulder's eye and he nodded slightly; I have a feeling we were on the same track. Mulder reached over for another brownie, turning his head slightly toward me as he did. "Michelle Marie—Shelly?" he whispered. Yep, we were on the same track.
As Mrs. Keithley took a breath, I jumped in. "So the girls were only a year apart? Did they look alike, too?"
"Oh, like two peas in a pod." She hunted in the crowd of photos and selected two more frames. "There they are in their favorite chair—" Same upholstery, even. Two girls, both with long dark braids, a huge book in their laps, the slightly elder one pointing to a page and apparently reading aloud. "And this was from Neoma's birthday." She showed us a picture of a crowd of people. "The year she brought him to the party."
"Harvey Bains," I murmured. Even ten years back, Shelly and Martin were clearly recognizable.
Mrs. Keithley looked confused for a moment. "No… his name is Martin. Martin Romero, I'm sure of it."
"He just looks like someone we know," Mulder said smoothly.
/ / /
"Well, that explains how Shelly got her hands on Amanda Neoma Keithley's credentials."
"Yeah, and as much alike a they look, nobody would think twice if they saw Neoma's driver's license in Shelly's hand, god knows it's easy enough to get a replacement license," I said. "But that still leaves us with why?"
"Your guess is as good as mine."
John dropped me off at the Gaslight; I felt a little sneaky, meeting him away from the store, but I didn't want to deal with the 'who was that, what are you doing' that would ensue. If it got out that I was poking into Shelly/Neoma, I would be tagged Nancy Drew (or worse) and never live it down. (It didn't matter that it was my store.)
Across the street from the theatre I saw a small storefront with—hello—a wedding gown in the front bay window. Hmm. I left my van behind and crossed over; the sign over the door read Fantasea. The window boasted Individual Designs for Formal and Special Occasions. Worth a try.
There was only one clerk, a young woman in her late twenties, dressed in a plain black skirt and white blouse. "May I help you?"
I was going to say, "No, thank you, just browsing," but found myself saying I was engaged, no date set, first marriage, wanting a small, simple wedding and so on.
She listened, nodding every so often, and making little notes. "I have a couple of ideas…" She led me to a rack of white, off white, cream—dozens of bridal gowns.
Don't hyperventilate! I scolded myself.
"Maybe this…"
Even to my untrained eye, it was… plain.
The young woman—whose nametag read Gayle—smiled. "Don't worry. This is just a basic shell. Blank canvas."
"Oh." Still uncertain, I trooped into the changing room and emerged swimming in fabric. I felt like I was playing dress-up in my Aunt Cecelia's clothes. (A real sweetheart, but about 4'9"—each way.) I continued my doubts as Gayle draped, dragged, pinned, folded, gathered and transformed a sea of watered silk into—"Wow!"
Okay, it was a rough draft. But it had gorgeous in it. A standing collar that flattened into a scalloped edge, a deep-V that ended in a fold through my cleavage, making it daring, but, at the same time, modest. I'd avoided Empire waistlines like the plague—contrary to what I've read, I find they tend to make short gals look short—but she tacked an overskirt of lace that left a front panel of plain silk and gave an illusion of height. She gave me two very different sleeves; I fell in love with the sweeping bat wing, even though it would play havoc with eating. (And the unfitted skirt would work even if I were marrying on my due date and carrying twins. Handy.)
"You like it?" Gayle asked with a not quite smug smile.
"Like it? I love it! I mean, I know this is a first draft, but I can see exactly where you're going. This is wonderful!"
She beamed at me. "Oh, thank you. Sometimes it takes a bit of explaining, some women expect to see the finished product, bang, right now. So. You said you don't have a date yet?"
"No…"
"How soon do you think you'll know?"
"Within the month?" I said hesitantly.
"Okay… what do you think the closest date might be? October? November?"
Visions of Abby's Halloween suggestion raced through my head. "November, maybe?"
"We're over the June rush. So long as you can give us a minimum one week's notice—three, if you go for December—we'll be fine."
"Would you like a deposit?" I was still twisting this way and that, admiring myself. Gosh. I actually looked pretty.
"We'd love a deposit," Gayle said with a grin.
She helped me out of the dress, laden as it was with pins, whipped through measurements in record time and snipped fabric samples for me. "With the winter tint to the lace, you'll want to be careful to match your shoes," she said, copying my driver's license info.
"Oh! Wait! I'm moving." Gotta get my addresses changed on everything. Another "to do" list…
I wrote out Ducky's address on one of their business cards and she stapled it to her copy of the receipt. "Have you thought about bridesmaids' dresses?"
"Beyond 'not ugly'—no."
She laughed. "I like to think we specialize in 'not ugly.'" She pulled a book from the counter. "Here. Ideas," she said with a glint in her eye.
Bad ideas. The pictures made me gasp or laugh in shock. Half a dozen women dressed as… angels? Or fairies? Okay, maybe if you're getting married at a fantasy and sci-fi convention… Good god, some of the, um, dresses make the corner pros look overly dressed. "You Can Wear It Again?" I read the title in disbelief. "Wanna bet?" Oh, god, the we-thought-we-were-so-hip dresses from the fifties and sixties. Oy. "Where did you find this?"
"A customer from a couple of years ago. Someone gave her a copy as a gag gift for her bridal shower. She though it was so funny, she bought a copy for us." She pulled out a different book, a large photo album, and flipped to a page. "There's her wedding pic."
"Nice." A little more formal than I like, but still lovely. Creamy-ivory leaning toward a very pale tan; the color was perfect with her skin tone, and the train would keep people at fifteen feet, easy. The bridesmaids' gowns were shimmery bronze covered with a flat gold chiffon, slick and stylish. "You actually could wear that again, as opposed to the ones I got stuck with."
"And each dress includes fifty dollars' worth of post-wedding re-work, so you don't show up at a party wearing the same dress as five other girls." Gayle turned the page. Two of the bridesmaids were in a photo taken in the store, laughing, arms linked; one had turned her gown into a mini-skirted dress, the extra skirt fabric becoming a draped wrap. The second girl had kept the length, but put in a side slit with an asymmetrical hem and turned the chiffon overskirt into an insert under the slit. Very different looks; very hot. Let's see… if we go from my sister-in-law, Barb, out to Abby—good luck covering that spectrum!
I was a very happy camper when I got back to the store. With a clear conscience I was able to prattle on to Valerie about the dress I'd just ordered; she got into the swing of things, dragging out costume and fashion books and we spent the afternoon getting all girly-girly and giggling over websites with some truly gawdawful dresses. When Miyoko hunted me down for receipts that I forgot to put in the petty cash box ("It's deductible, it's deductible," she nagged.), she joined in the fun (showing me a side to her personality I'd've never guessed after knowing her for almost twenty years), describing dresses she had been stuck with over the years. We all agreed that the dresses were just the bride getting revenge for all the ugly dresses she had been stuck wearing. When Ducky called to check on my thoughts about dinner, he was delighted to hear I'd started on dress plans, agreed that it sounded lovely, and laughed himself to tears over stories from bridesmaids' hell. All in all, a very successful day.
4