“Not just any assistant. You need me,” he repeated with a widening of that ingratiating smile.
Phelma Jo forced herself to read the résumé again. An associate degree from a community college she’d never heard of. Standard word processing skills, including minor bookkeeping. Nothing exceptional. Just another wannabe business major looking for a job to fund the next degree.
“You can’t do anything for me that I can’t hire out of any high school class at half the wages you request.” She threw down the résumé, letting it slide across her pristine desktop as a signal the interview was over.
But, oh, he was delicious to look at. He’d add something decorative to her very functional staff of real estate agents, accountants, and paralegals, all hired for their skills and because none of them outshone Phelma Jo herself.
“You need me because I know how to put a crimp…” Again that annoying frozen pause. “You need me because I know how to put a crimp in Desdemona Carrick’s Masque Ball forever, and at the same time fund your campaign in the next mayoral election.”
Haywood Wheatland planted himself in the guest chair in front of the desk without invitation, as if he belonged there, had always belonged there.
“How… how did you know I plan to run for mayor?”
“Gossip.” He smiled, flashing those gleaming teeth that seemed to reflect every color in the office. “Gossip. Besides, it’s the next logical step for you.”
“Tell me more about this gossip.” Phelma Jo leaned forward eagerly. “And your plans for Dusty Carrick.”
“Am I hired?”
Phelma Jo fished an employment contract out of her desk drawer, made a few adjustments to it, and handed it to him for his signature.
“You’ve heard, I presume,” Haywood said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that Ms. Carrick has taken under her wing, a beautiful and mysterious woman…”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Dusty is incapable of talking to a stranger, let alone aiding one. Unless she can do it online.”
“Ah, but she volunteers at the senior center… volunteers at the senior center talking about history and gathering stories from them about olden times. And she gives tours to the public. She may not like it, but she does it. She does it if she can talk history and nothing else. And now this Thistle Down woman is her newest best friend.”
“I can’t see why everyone in town thinks the world of Ms. Timid who talks to shadows and jumps into them at first sight of a stranger. She’s pathetic and so self-involved she doesn’t know the meaning of true friendship,” Phelma Jo snorted. She should know.
“This is pretty?” Thistle held up a brassiere by one end with two fingers, skeptically examining the sturdy elastic, sheer fabric, and filmy lace. “I could make a great game of launching Pixies to the far side of The Ten Acre Wood with this.”
Dusty suppressed a deep laugh. “It… um… is designed to support your… um…”
Thistle twisted the undergarment so that it hung correctly. “My boobs,” she said flatly.
“Yeah.”
Thistle looked from the bra to her chest and back again. “How do you balance with all that weight up front and no wings to lift you from the back?”
She looked totally bewildered. She kept rocking back on her heels and widening her stance as if afraid of falling forward. Good thing Dick had bought only flatheeled sandals for Thistle instead of the high-heeled torture devices he usually admired on women.
“Well, they grow slowly.” Dusty glanced down at her meager display. Thistle was much better endowed, but not out of proportion to her height and slender frame. “We get used to it gradually, I guess,” Dusty replied. “Look, most of the dresses Dick bought for you have halter tops or spaghetti straps. You can’t wear a normal bra with them. The straps will show and that looks ugly.”
“Yeah. I have noticed a lot of teenage girls with that look. I wondered what the extra straps were for.”
They giggled together as Thistle mimicked the girls who constantly fussed with their straps, trying to hide them, when the action only attracted more attention to their dishabille.
“But the fabric?” Thistle shook her head. “It feels hot. I don’t think I’m going to wear this contraption.” She flung the bra into the corner of the room.
“Try this dress.” Dusty pulled a creamy sundress printed with big splotchy purple flowers out of a plastic bag from a large discount store. “It’s cotton, so the fabric will breathe, unlike the polyester in the bra. The colors are right for you, and the top is relatively modest. You won’t flash a lot of cleavage.”
Thistle obediently lifted the hem of her borrowed black T-shirt, exposing her entire body without a flash of embarrassment or modesty.
Dusty lowered her eyes as she fished in the other five bags for panties. Her face grew hot, and sweat trickled down her back. Body modesty was something Thistle would have to learn living in this household, with Dick’s bedroom just across the hall.
What would they do if Thistle was still here when Mom and Dad came home from England next month?
Her fingers flipped aside several dresses, packages of hose, another bra. Two more pairs of sandals, one beige, one dark purpley blue. No panties. None! How could Dick forget such an essential item?
This enterprise was getting to be too much. Way too much.
“Let me get you something from my room.” She dashed out of the spare bedroom of the big old house that had been in her family for at least four generations. The room she’d slept in for as long as she could remember was positioned on the other side of the bathroom, across from the master bedroom, and close to the back stairs that led to the kitchen. For the first time in a very long time she noticed, actually noticed, the matching pink curtains and bedspread covered in twirling ballerinas. The bed ruffle and bolster pillow ruffles were white eyelet. Chipped white paint graced her headboard, dressing table, and bookshelves. She hadn’t changed a thing since she and Mom had so carefully selected the furnishings for her fifth birthday.
Had her life stagnated as badly as her décor?
From her own underwear drawer she found an unopened package of three pairs of white cotton panties. As she pulled them from beneath neatly piled, still serviceable garments she began to laugh.
At herself. At Dick for forgetting to buy panties. He probably never noticed if women wore them or not, even the women he so casually bedded.
Something to taunt him about. In private. Still laughing, she returned to Thistle’s room and presented her with the underwear as if bestowing the crown jewels.
With more laughter, and no embarrassment, she explained their usage. And while she was at it, she found a box of tampons and demonstrated the toilet and sink.
Their laughter felt natural; embarrassment fled. Suitably clad, Thistle began rummaging through the plastic bags. She jerked her hand away before she’d touched a single garment.
“What?” Dusty asked. She grabbed Thistle’s hand and watched a burning flush spread from her fingers to the back and across the palm. “Let’s get some cold water on this.”
“The bags, and the second dress, they’re fake.” Thistle sighed with relief as cold water from the bathroom tap flowed over her hand and arm.
“Synthetics. Of course! I bet you’ll have trouble with preservatives and processed food, too. Good thing you came to me. Most every other home in town would poison you in about three minutes.”
“Why do people poison themselves?” Thistle asked, cocking her head.
Dusty shrugged. “Convenience, shelf-life, laziness. I’m not sure. But since I was sick, Mom and Dad have done their best to keep me from getting sick again. We eat only natural foods and use only natural fabrics. It’s hard eating out and harder buying inexpensive clothes or towels, or even upholstery that aren’t synthetic. Mom took out all the wall-to-wall carpeting because it holds dust and mold and is largely artificial fibers.”