She whispered. “I don’t need any more of this. And I don’t think you do either.” Then she marched toward the bathroom to wash her face and tidy her hair.
“Here,” Meggie thrust something else into her hand. “This color of lipstick and blush will look really good on you.”
“Thanks.” Meggie had helped her pick out her date outfit, and provided makeup. Just as well as Phelma Jo would have. If she could ever again consider Phelma Jo a friend.
Phelma Jo hid behind her menu as Haywood Wheatland and Dusty Carrick walked into the tiny restaurant tucked between a furniture store and a florist on Main Street. He touched Dusty’s back in an intimate gesture that suggested a long relationship. They looked at each other, not at any of the other patrons, including Phelma Jo. Hay didn’t even acknowledge her presence, though she’d orchestrated the entire evening for him.
Heat flashed across Phelma Jo’s face while her gut turned to ice. She gulped her iced tea.
Hay held a chair for Dusty and helped her scoot closer to their tiny round table at the center of the dining room. Three other tables and six booths along the walls filled the space. The single waiter barely had room to negotiate between, carrying his heavy tray over the top of his head.
Phelma Jo remembered her own humiliation when a waiter had spilled an entire pitcher of beer on her the other night. She wished ardently that this one, the husband of the chef and joint owner, would dump a plateful of messy tomato dishes on Dusty’s head.
The evening was out of her control and she hated the helplessness of just sitting and watching.
However, the entire meal passed uneventfully. Haywood told elaborate and preposterous stories. Dusty laughed. She positively sparkled. Dusty! The woman barely spoke to anyone and here she looked as lovely, happy, and vivacious as any normal teenager out to impress a date.
What was going on here?
Jealousy ate at Phelma Jo, turning her dinner to a heavy lump. She needed Hay to lean across the table and dab at a stray drop of honey from the baklava with his napkin on her mouth, not Dusty’s.
His hand lingered a bit too long. Their eyes met and probed each other too deeply. He looked like he wanted to kiss Dusty right then and there. In public.
That degree of intimacy was above and beyond the call. Hay worked for Phelma Jo. He was supposed to woo Dusty, keep her occupied while Phelma Jo completed her business, not fall in love with her.
Then, finally, as Haywood signaled for the check, his gaze caught Phelma Jo’s. He nodded ever so slightly and smiled.
A secret smile just between the two of them. She had nothing to fear. Their plans continued on track. He was just following orders.
Phelma Jo took a last bite of her own baklava and signaled for her check.
“Not so fast, PJ,” the Thistle creature said, plunking herself down opposite Phelma Jo. She wore a different sundress from yesterday. This one had big splashes of hot-pink flowers with lots of green ferns scattered through the cotton print. She smelled of lavender soap and shampoo.
The way Phelma Jo had wanted to smell when she was little.
All of a sudden a memory grabbed her and took her back to the school counselor’s office. He talked gently about her need to bathe more often. Phelma Jo tried to keep her mouth shut, too humiliated to admit why she avoided the bathtub.
The counselor persisted, worming his way under her defenses, taking control of the interview until she blurted out how she wouldn’t take off her clothes because her mother’s boyfriend watched and drooled, and then he touched her. Sometimes until she screamed.
And her mother snored away in the bedroom too drunk to care.
That was when Phelma Jo learned to manipulate and control her life by how much she revealed and when. By holding back, dribbling bits and pieces, she made the counselor’s horror grow. Made her story more believable. Got herself into foster care where she could take a bath in safety.
“Excuse me, I don’t have to talk to you,” Phelma Jo looked Thistle in the eye, daring her to say more.
“Don’t chew your lower lip, PJ, it makes you look like a rabbit. Bad habit left over from when you were thirteen and state funds wouldn’t pay for you to get braces.”
“I’m not listening to you. Now leave me alone.” Panic nibbled at her belly. She was losing control over the situation.
“I’ll go away soon. So listen closely. Dusty is my friend. I thought I’d better tell you that I won’t let you pull any more nasty tricks on her,” Thistle said.
“What… how…? You don’t know what you’re talking about. And neither do I.” Phelma Jo covered her surprise at the woman’s audacity with wounded dignity. “Dusty is the one who pulls nasty tricks on her friends.”
“Not the way I heard it. And you do know what I’m talking about. I just thought I’d give you fair warning. Trick for trick. I’m protecting Dusty.”
“Very well. If you insist. But who will protect The Ten Acre Wood?” Phelma Jo arched an eyebrow. She threw a twenty onto the table and left without waiting for Dusty and Hay to exit first.
Fifteen
“I’M NOT ON DUTY,” DUSTY CALLED to the two retired schoolteachers who worked the museum on Sunday afternoon. She tripped lightly through the maze of rooms, smiling at the few guests. Intense sunlight took on a softer quality as it filtered through the windows. She paused a moment to admire the bright colors in the braided rag rug on the floor of the parlor and the crazy quilt hanging on the wall.
She kept thinking about the easy camaraderie she had shared with Hay last night, how his funny stories made the Greek food more tasty, how the touch of his hand on hers sent shivers of delight from her fingers to her toes to her heart.
Eventually she yanked herself back to reality and headed for the basement; not to hide, but to finish the neglected piecing together of broken pottery fragments.
Dusty didn’t bother turning on the lights over the stairs. She skipped down them lightly with easy familiarity. As her feet touched the cement foundation floor, she reached overhead for the light chain. An incandescent yellow glow flooded the area. She noticed the shadowed grime for the first time.
How could she have spent so much of her adult life down here hiding from sunlight? And from life?
Instead of heading directly to the potsherds spread out over the left-hand plank counter covered in white cloth that wasn’t really white, she made her way through a maze of packing barrels, sifters, magnification light boards, and other analysis equipment for the set-tub and cleaning supplies beneath one of the few high windows. She grabbed a spray bottle of cleaner and some rags, then turned to survey the full basement. Where to start?
Everywhere. She started at the sink, thinking to move outward from there.
Before she could scrub more than one side of the deep square set-tub, her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her denim skirt. Absently, she grabbed it and flipped it open without checking the caller ID.
“Dusty? Is that you? You sound so far away,” Mom said.
“Hi, Mom. I’m in the basement. Not much signal.” Dusty set aside her cleaning supplies and moved to the next counter beneath a slightly larger window, hoping for better reception.
“Where else would you be on your day off?” Mom said soothingly. “I hope you’re having a lovely time making up stories about the people who used the artifacts you work with.”
Dusty smiled in memory of the Indian princess and the Russian pirate who gave her that decorated ceramic pot. Daydreams and what ifs. She now had a lovely date with Hay to occupy her thoughts.
“Sorry I missed your call last night. I had a date,” Dusty said, half afraid that if she spoke the words aloud her wonderful evening would evaporate just like her dream of flying with freedom and self-confidence.