April

That afternoon at the country club, Charles was asked about his daughter's business. "She just started out last year but she's already a success. I always knew she'd be able to do anything she wanted and she's making a great reputation as a designer already." He smiled proudly.

Martin Trench, standing nearby, overheard and smiled deprecatingly. "She should have married money to indulge herself in her little 'hobby'." The newest member of the country club threw Charles a sneering look and walked away.

The other members looked embarrassed and Charles himself was annoyed and angered. "Well," he huffed, "the nerve of some people!" and left before his tee-time was called.

He decided not to mention it to Lydia, but unloaded himself to her husband later that week. "Can you imagine? Not only was he so rude, but so wrong, too! I can't stand that guy." Charles threw himself into his chair and fumed.

Beetlejuice rubbed a thumb across his chin, considering. "You want me to beat the guy?" he asked. When his father-in-law looked up, startled, he chuckled. "I mean at golf. Or canasta? Cribbage, backgammon, ping pong, shuffleboard, or anything else." He spread his hands wide. "Just say the word, Chuck, and I'll humiliate the guy."

"No," sighed Lydia's father. "I just want to prove to Trench that he's completely wrong – that she knows what she's doing, that she's a business success. I'm awfully proud of her . . . and you, too!" he added hastily.

"You just leave it to me," soothed the ghost. "Lyds and I will figure out what to do."

ooooo

"Hmm," Lydia had her eyes half-closed, resting her chin on a palm. "I've never met Mr. Trench, but I think I'm going to." She turned to her husband and grinned at him. "You know that jacket we're going to make for Father? I want to give it to him in person at the country club. Then we'll see what people think about my design ideas."

Beetlejuice grinned at her and his voice changed to sound just like hers. "My revenge will be artistic," he quoted her and she grinned back at him.

"Exactly."

"Well, it won't be as much fun as my way, but he's your father." Beetlejuice picked idly at a loose thread in the fabric spread across his wife's desk. "You know you are a success already, right? And you don't need to be mad at anybody stupid enough to say otherwise."

"I know." She tugged the fabric away from him. "Scissors, my darling. If you pick at it, it'll just pull at the pattern." She suited an action to her words. "Actually it's the both of us who're the success. You've been such an enormous part of our business, right from the start."

"Huh?" he said in surprise. "Me?" He looked over his shoulder as if there might be someone else in the room. "Me?" he repeated.

"Yes, you," she chuckled. "Most of our designs owe something to you, and a few are mostly due to you and your experiments."

"Come on, some of the dyes, sure. And the reversible thread, maybe. But it's all your ideas and your ability to make those ideas into clothes. I've got nothing to do with all that." He wrinkled his nose at the very idea. "Or selling the stuff."

"Actually the magnet cuffs were your idea. And the water repellent fabric was your creation almost entirely." She rummaged in a drawer until she found the pinking shears. "And you've helped so much with the fabrics. Not just the dyes, but the materials themselves. The new blue tweed, for example.

"Nuh-uh," he muttered, picking another loose thread apart with his red-polished nails. "The color, the design – that smoke mix is all yours."

"Smoky blue heather mixture," she told him for the umpteenth time. "Not Smoke Mix." She watched him grin in satisfaction as he finally got the thread into three equal parts. "Beej, when did you start painting your nails red?"

"Hmm?" He dropped the three fragments onto her desk and stood back. "These?" He held up a hand and examined the red fingertips. "When I started really getting into my piano lessons. Sometimes my nails would split and then I couldn't play 'til they grew back. Then I figured out a lacquer to use and thought red would be a good color for it. That's all."

Lydia shrugged. "That makes sense. But what about your toenails?"

He returned her shrug. "Figured I might as well do those, too. Besides, look great, don't they?" He held up his hand and admired it.

"I was thinking," she said slowly, then shook her head. "No. Those are fine. I was wondering how they'd look if they matched your shirt, but that bright red is the perfect accent for you."

"You're the designer; you ought to know. And speaking of designs, what did you have in mind for Chuckie's nemesis?"

"I think," she said slowly, smiling, "we'll use the smoky heather to make a well-fitted casual jacket and call the new line for all the heather mixtures – the green, the tan, the dull pink, the gold – The Royal Line."

ooooo

The next week, Charles met his daughter 'unexpectedly' in the country club lounge. "Pumpkin," he exclaimed, "what are you doing here?"

Lydia then ostentatiously presented him with his new jacket and explained that this was the first of her new Royal Line, and that this style and color were to be marketed as Royal Charles, named after him of course.

Charles strutted about, modeling the elegant smoky blue tweed jacket for a few moments, then hugged his daughter in gratitude. "That's him over to your left," he whispered to her.

She nodded slightly without looking toward her left. "I have to get back, but I wanted to see it on you. It fits perfectly! Just wait 'til you see the other models. I'm very pleased with how they came out." She gave him a second hug as a good-bye and waved to the members she knew as she left.

Her father, grinning, continued to saunter about, admiring his new jacket, as did everyone present.

Word quickly spread and before lunch was over, Charles had been asked by three other members about the colors available and if they could place an order with Lydia.

Even the obnoxious Trench was seen to surreptitiously admire Lydia's gift. As he strode briskly past Charles' chair at lunch, he was heard to throw a casual, "Nice jacket," behind him.

Charles laughed and called after him, "My daughter's newest design. Made it herself just for me." The other club members nudged each other, smirked, and winked. Charles preened himself and smoothed a hand down his sleeve. "Thanks, Pumpkin," he whispered, and could swear he heard an eldritch cackle in the distance.