That Touch of Ink by Diane Vallere

reconsider.”
    I slammed down the phone.
    When I wandered out of the office into the studio, I found Connie studying a shelf of mid-fifties kitchen appliances in shades of yellow and aqua. She didn’t hear me approach and jumped when she saw me.
    “What’s your big news?” I asked.
    “I finally got reimbursed for a car accident two years ago. Totally not my fault, by the way, so don’t let that affect your decision to let me drive your car some day. Anyway, Ned agreed that we should use the money for the kitchen. I’ve got one word for you: atomic ! Can you fit me into your schedule?”
    “Sure,” I said. Immediately, I pictured Rod Taylor’s kitchen in The Glass Bottom Boat . I hoped both Connie and Ned knew what they were in for.
    Connie was the closest thing I had to a girlfriend in Dallas. The rest of my friends were either still in Pennsylvania or people I’d befriended over the Internet through decorating forums and volunteer work at the theater.
    “Come to my office. I’m having a hard time getting started this morning.” I ushered her in front of me and trailed behind her.
    “No offense, but you don’t look so good,” Connie said when she reached my desk.
    She wore a fitted baby doll T-shirt with a picture of a pin-up girl on the front, dark denim jeans with a two inch cuff, and black penny loafers. Her black hair was held back with a pair of cat eye sunglasses, and her bangs, trimmed to land above her eyebrows, hung perfectly straight across her forehead.
    “I had a rough night,” I said.
    “I can tell.” She handed me a Styrofoam cup of coffee that had come from one of the many 7-Elevens in Dallas. “I couldn’t remember if you had a coffee maker here or not, and I don’t really function until after I’ve had at least three of these.”
    “Thank you.”
    “It’s black,” she warned.
    “That’s fine.” I sipped the bitter beverage out of necessity, not desire.
    “You need something, I can tell. I’m good at reading people. What is it?”
    “I need a change of clothes, but I don’t want to go back to my apartment.”
    She leaned forward. “You spent the night here?”
    “I’d rather not get into details, if you don’t mind.”
    “I can bring you clothes. I have a whole closet full of them. Anything else?”
    “Knock on the door when you’re back. I’m going to lock up behind you.”
    “Madison, are you in some kind of trouble?”
    I considered the truth, but I knew too little about my situation to know what the truth really was.
    “I’m avoiding someone, that’s all.”
    “Ex-boyfriend?”
    “Something like that.”
    “I knew it had to be juicy. Listen. Stay put and I’ll be back in a jiffy and you can tell me all about it.”
    That’s what I was afraid of.
    Connie returned with a change of clothes and an overnight kit. I freshened up in the powder room behind my office, changed from the wrinkled peony printed dress into a tight red pencil skirt and a short sleeved sweater with a scoop neck. A pair of red patent leather kitten heeled pumps was in the bottom of the bag. Connie didn’t understand the reason I wore ballerina flats and canvas sneakers most of the time had as much to do with functionality as it did style. Judging the rockabilly style of both of the Duncans, I wasn’t surprised by her taste.
    “If I looked that good in a wiggle dress, I’d wear one all the time,” she proclaimed when I returned to the room. “Here, tie this in your hair.” She handed me a red and white polka-dotted chiffon scarf. I handed it back.
    The door chimes sounded again. “Madison?” called Tex.
    Connie put one hand palm-side out toward me and held the other in front of her mouth, motioning for me to be quiet. She stepped into the studio.
    “You bastard!” she said.
    I followed her into the studio just in time to see her slap Tex across the face.

SEVEN

    Tex’s hand flew to his cheek. The slap left a red mark. Connie stood in front of him with her hands on her hips.