“This will only take a minute.” Meggie squeezed into the office, keeping the door closed as much as possible. She kept looking over her shoulder as if needing to keep this visit secret.
Curiosity replaced Dusty’s annoyance at the invasion of her space.
“What’s up, Meggie?” Dusty leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk. “This hesitancy isn’t like you.”
“I know. It’s just that… just that I need some advice and you’re a friend.”
“Huh?”
“Look, I know I don’t usually bother you with this kind of thing, but… but you see, there’s this guy. This guy from school. He’s really cute and everything. We could have true Pixie love, I think…” She trailed off, looking as puzzled as Dusty felt.
“And you’re asking me for advice, why?” She decided to ignore the reference to Pixies.
“You’re a friend-and an adult. It just seems like you know a lot about people, even though you don’t get out much and all.”
Like never, Dusty thought.
“I know a lot about the people who founded this town,” Dusty hedged.
“But people are people, whether they live now or a hundred fifty years ago. And I need to know how to make this guy notice me.”
“Invite him to the Ball,” Dusty said flatly. “Girls are allowed to do that now. Especially since it’s work related and you work here.” That was stretching it a bit. Meggie rarely worked even though she showed up every day.
“That’s a good idea. But how do I know he’ll come?”
“You don’t. Not unless you ask.” Dusty had answered similar questions from the girls, but usually through email and their tutoring sessions. She smiled a bit inwardly. These girls were her friends. Sort of. And, just like friends, they…
Oh, God, this was starting to sound like a setup. Who was going to be the one to comment that Dusty should follow her own advice and ask Chase to accompany her to the Masque Ball?
“Thanks, that’s a really good idea.” Meggie retreated with her usual determination and eagerness to return to the lounge and her can of cola. She left the door open a crack.
Dusty shifted to look at the computer screen. Her eye caught the blinking red light on line two. She hadn’t heard it ring during her conversations, and the girls had strict orders not to tie up the lines with personal calls.
She pushed the chair away from the desk to go investigate-she dismissed the urge to lift the receiver and listen in-when M’Velle slipped into the office with the same furtive over-the-shoulder-glances as Meggie.
“May I speak with you?” M’Velle asked. Dusty noticed how her diction and grammar were more precise than Meggie’s more casual style.
“Yes.” Dusty dragged out the word, suddenly suspicious that someone wanted her distracted and off the phone.
“It’s about my college application essay,” M’Velle said, approaching the desk more decisively than her initial entrance.
At least this was something Dusty felt qualified to discuss. “What about the essay? I thought you’d finished it and were just waiting for a work recommendation from Mr. Newberry.”
“Well, yes. But now there’s this scholarship I found out about and I want to change my essay to fit.”
“What scholarship?”
“DAR.”
“Daughters of the American Revolution. They don’t usually give those to anyone who can’t prove they had an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War.”
“I know. And finding documentation for blacks prior to 1864 is almost impossible. There are only a few bookkeeping entries of the purchase and sale of slaves, often without names. But I’m not all black. My grandfather on my mom’s side is white, and very proud of being able to trace his ancestry back to the Civil War. I think I can prove his family owned land in South Carolina back to the mid-1700s.”
“So what about your essay?”
“I want to write about the difficulty in tracing my black ancestry because slaves weren’t citizens and records of births and deaths, and parentage is so spotty, especially if a baby was sired by a white. It’s worse than trying to trace the kings and queens of Pixie. And then I want to compare it to how easy it was to find out about my grandfather’s family.” M’Velle’s eyes lit up with excitement.
“Sounds like a great topic.” Dusty leaned forward, equally excited. She wanted to bounce ideas off the wall with this girl and help her come up with a solid research plan and outline.
“But will the DAR approve of it?”
“That’s another question entirely. My mom might know. She’s a member.”
“Oh. I thought you knew about every scholarship available.” M’Velle’s expression fell, and her eyes grew dark with resentment and disappointment.
“Let me send out a couple of emails to people who might have some answers for you,” Dusty offered. “Mom’s in England for the summer, and she’s never been good about checking her email or answering it.” Though she called every week. Sometimes twice. Or three times.
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. You do good work; study hard now that you’re over your sophomore slump. I want you to succeed.”
“Thanks, Ms. Carrick.” M’Velle looked as if she might reach across the desk and hug Dusty. Then she thought better of it and straightened her posture again. “Can I run my research notes past you? Make sure I’m not jumping to conclusions without facts to back it up?”
“Certainly. Bring them to work tomorrow.”
The girl waved blithely and retreated. She, too, showed much more determination in her step upon leaving than arriving.
“Uh, M’Velle, is this sudden interest in consulting me a setup?”
M’Velle paused at the door. She looked over her shoulder, directly into Dusty’s eyes. “No. We just want to let you know that we value your friendship.” Then she vanished and closed the door with a firm snick of the latch.
Dusty checked the phone. The red light on line two had blinked off as she stared at it.
“Mission accomplished, whatever you two are up to.” Now to call Dick and figure out a way to send him to buy Thistle some clothes and then figure out what to do with her. She almost wished Dick was still dating Phelma Jo occasionally-though their relationship had been more off than on since high school. PJ Nelson had an innate sense of fashion. Not something learned because she didn’t have anyone at home to learn it from. But when it came to sizes, colors, and cut, PJ was the one Dusty wished she could consult.
Five
PHELMA JO NELSON PEERED over the top of the résumé she held in front of her face. The applicant, who stood so straight and yet so casual in front of her desk, certainly delighted the eye more than the neatly typed words on the paper. Haywood Wheatland. What kind of name was that?
“I don’t need an assistant,” she said finally. As enticing as this man was, her organization was as complete as she wanted it to be. Adding another body, or a too inquisitive mind, would upset the balance she’d built. Her plans were too close to fruition.
“Yes, you do,” Haywood Wheatland said in a light baritone that seemed to sing the words. Then he smiled.
Phelma Jo found her gaze glued to his marvelous teeth and full sensual lips. She couldn’t look anywhere else if she wanted to. Daydreams of stripping off his clothes-the epitome of style without shouting expensive, a look she had perfected-and throwing him onto her desk seemed so simple and right.
“Why do I need an assistant?” she finally choked out, breaking the thrall of his physical beauty.
“Not just any assistant. You need me.” He paused, the animation in his face and posture froze for half a heartbeat, barely long enough to notice.
But Phelma Jo noticed. She’d trained herself to take note of, and advantage of, every change in body language.