Capital Wives by Rochelle Alers Page B

added several inches to her diminutive frame.
    â€œWhat’s up, Dee?”
    â€œShe’s Damon Paxton’s wife,” Deanna whispered. “I need you to go and get her purse so she can fix her face. If her husband asks, just tell him that she’s not feeling well. Meanwhile, I’m going to try to keep her calm.”
    Deanna studied her face in the mirror while she waited for Marisol to return. She opened her evening purse and touched up her makeup. It had taken her more than two weeks to find a dress for the affair. After trying on the umpteenth dress she had decided on a strapless satin sheath gown in a becoming claret-red with a generous front slit. Fortunately, she’d found a pair of stilettos in the same shade with satin ties that flattered her slender ankles.
    â€œMrs. Paxton?”
    â€œYes?” came a soft voice in the stall.
    â€œWhat’s your first name?”
    â€œBethany.”
    â€œHow are you doing, Bethany?”
    â€œJust say I’ve been better.”
    Deanna smiled. “You sound like a Southern girl. Where your folks from?” she asked, lapsing into dialect.
    â€œAlabama.”
    â€œHey-y-y. A blonde sister-girl from my granddaddy’s home state.”
    â€œWhere was he from?”
    â€œMobile. Your people?”
    â€œThey’re from a little mill town in the northeast corner of the state known as Parkers Corner.”
    â€œAre your folks okay?”
    â€œLast I heard they were,” Bethany replied.
    â€œWhat about your kids?”
    â€œThey’re good.”
    Deanna knew she had to keep Bethany talking until Marisol returned. “What about your husband?”
    â€œDamon’s good—except when it comes to…” Her words trailed off. “What’s your name?”
    â€œIt’s Deanna. Deanna Tyson.”
    â€œAre you the party planner?”
    â€œI’m an event planner,” she corrected. “Keep talking,” Deanna whispered when voices floated through the powder room door.
    â€œI’ve read about some of the parties—I mean events—you’ve put together,” Bethany said in a normal tone. “Do you do weddings?”
    Deanna nodded to two women who’d just come in to fluff up their hair and reapply lipstick. “I don’t think I’ve planned more than four or five. What I mean is I try to avoid them, because I don’t have the temperament to deal with young women who thrive on acting out.”
    â€œWhat about small dinner parties?”
    â€œThat’s my specialty. Are you thinking of hosting one?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œI’m going to give you my business card whenever you’re finished in there.” Deanna removed a card from a sterling card case and placed it on the counter. “Have fun, ladies,” shesaid to the two women who’d washed their hands and dried their hands.
    â€œYou, too,” they chorused.
    â€œI’m back,” chanted Marisol as she walked into the space with a beaded evening bag. “Her husband is outside waiting for her.”
    Deanna knocked on the stall door. “Come on out, Bethany, and make yourself presentable. Your husband is waiting for you.”
    The door opened and Bethany walked out. She was stunning in a black fitted slip dress that clung to her slim body like a second skin. “What did you tell him?”
    Marisol met Deanna’s eyes before she stared at Bethany. “I told him you had probably eaten something that didn’t agree with you, so you were in here hurling your guts out.”
    Deanna gave the interior designer an incredulous look. “Did you have to be so melodramatic?”
    Marisol rolled her head. “Look at Barbie. She’s a dog’s mess.”
    â€œDon’t you mean hot mess?” Bethany drawled.
    â€œNo,” Marisol spat out. “I said what I meant, and I meant what I said. You look like something the dogs dumped on.”