naturally curly hair, a curse from her mother’s side. At home, she had spent an hour straightening it into a smooth waterfall that fell past her shoulders. Now, after exposure to so much dampness, it had sprung into an aura of unruly red ringlets. She did not want the wealthy and sophisticated guests she would meet this evening to see her as some wild creature with out-of-control hair.
“Oh, hell,” she mumbled.
A part of her wanted to give up and go home, but she couldn’t. She had waited three months for this. Had bought the dress, bought the shoes and finagled a free ticket, none of which was returnable for a refund.
She had no hairpins, no clip, no tools except a tiny hair pick. Mumbling a litany of cusswords, she dug the hair pick out of her clutch and went to work. After she finished, she had a saucy curly do with loose wisps and tendrils.
She moved on to her makeup, attempting to preserve it by gingerly patting her face with another sheet of paper toweling, then tried to touch up her blush and lipstick. Hell. Just hell. Half her makeup was gone. She was such a mess, she could be in the ladies’ room all evening redressing herself and applying new makeup, in which case she would never make it to the party.
Giving up, she plopped onto a thickly upholstered love seat and pulled on the warm thigh-high stockings. At least the warmth brought sensation back to her feet. Her toes had started to sting.
She rose and reverted her attention to her dress, tugging and straightening. In her mind, it had become The Dress . She had never owned anything like it. Sparkling when the light struck them just right, strategically placed mirror sequins adorned the long-sleeved, floor-length swatch of dark green fabric. The mesh knit clung to her figure in all the right places except for where it showed bare skin.
With the neckline cut in a deep V in front and an even deeper one in back, it had a sewn-in uplift bra. She lifted and molded her ample breasts until they felt comfortable in the cups. Without a real bra with hooks and straps, she felt naked, which was bad enough, but what was worse, half of a yellow rose tattoo on the slope of her left breast peeked out of the neckline’s edge. On her pale skin, it stood out as if it were neon.
The image wasn’t huge, the flower being roughly the size of a half dollar. Nor was it ugly. As tattoos went, the artistry was good. Though it was ten years old, the lines were still crisp and clear, the yellow petals and green leaves still clean and bright.
She hated it. Too often when she saw it, the recollection of the night she had gotten it and the guy she had let convince her it was a good idea came back.
Fairly certain none of tonight’s guests sported tattoos on their breasts, she adjusted and rearranged until the yellow rose was out of sight. Then, on a sigh, she stuffed a basketball-size wad of paper towels into the trash, picked up her jacket and tramped toward the elevators.
As she rode to the second floor, her alter-ego pecked at her, forcing her to remind herself again why being here had seemed like such a good idea, why mingling with this crowd had felt so important. But before she could finish that argument, the elevator stopped, the doors glided open and she was only steps away from the Grand Ballroom’s entrance.
She paused beneath a wide archway, looking out over the room. The party was under way, the huge room packed. Above the din of many voices she could hear a distant mellow saxophone blowing “Merry Christmas.”
She had expected this to be a fashion show and she had been right. The men wore tuxes, the women had on high-fashion frocks, probably by designer names Shannon had only read about or seen in Neiman Marcus. Names like Armani, Versace, Badgley Mischka. Now she was glad she had bought The Dress .
Though excitement hummed from the roots of her mind-of-its-own hair to the soles of her frozen feet, she hesitated.
Come on, you’re here , the alter-ego’s
“Oh, hell,” she mumbled.
A part of her wanted to give up and go home, but she couldn’t. She had waited three months for this. Had bought the dress, bought the shoes and finagled a free ticket, none of which was returnable for a refund.
She had no hairpins, no clip, no tools except a tiny hair pick. Mumbling a litany of cusswords, she dug the hair pick out of her clutch and went to work. After she finished, she had a saucy curly do with loose wisps and tendrils.
She moved on to her makeup, attempting to preserve it by gingerly patting her face with another sheet of paper toweling, then tried to touch up her blush and lipstick. Hell. Just hell. Half her makeup was gone. She was such a mess, she could be in the ladies’ room all evening redressing herself and applying new makeup, in which case she would never make it to the party.
Giving up, she plopped onto a thickly upholstered love seat and pulled on the warm thigh-high stockings. At least the warmth brought sensation back to her feet. Her toes had started to sting.
She rose and reverted her attention to her dress, tugging and straightening. In her mind, it had become The Dress . She had never owned anything like it. Sparkling when the light struck them just right, strategically placed mirror sequins adorned the long-sleeved, floor-length swatch of dark green fabric. The mesh knit clung to her figure in all the right places except for where it showed bare skin.
With the neckline cut in a deep V in front and an even deeper one in back, it had a sewn-in uplift bra. She lifted and molded her ample breasts until they felt comfortable in the cups. Without a real bra with hooks and straps, she felt naked, which was bad enough, but what was worse, half of a yellow rose tattoo on the slope of her left breast peeked out of the neckline’s edge. On her pale skin, it stood out as if it were neon.
The image wasn’t huge, the flower being roughly the size of a half dollar. Nor was it ugly. As tattoos went, the artistry was good. Though it was ten years old, the lines were still crisp and clear, the yellow petals and green leaves still clean and bright.
She hated it. Too often when she saw it, the recollection of the night she had gotten it and the guy she had let convince her it was a good idea came back.
Fairly certain none of tonight’s guests sported tattoos on their breasts, she adjusted and rearranged until the yellow rose was out of sight. Then, on a sigh, she stuffed a basketball-size wad of paper towels into the trash, picked up her jacket and tramped toward the elevators.
As she rode to the second floor, her alter-ego pecked at her, forcing her to remind herself again why being here had seemed like such a good idea, why mingling with this crowd had felt so important. But before she could finish that argument, the elevator stopped, the doors glided open and she was only steps away from the Grand Ballroom’s entrance.
She paused beneath a wide archway, looking out over the room. The party was under way, the huge room packed. Above the din of many voices she could hear a distant mellow saxophone blowing “Merry Christmas.”
She had expected this to be a fashion show and she had been right. The men wore tuxes, the women had on high-fashion frocks, probably by designer names Shannon had only read about or seen in Neiman Marcus. Names like Armani, Versace, Badgley Mischka. Now she was glad she had bought The Dress .
Though excitement hummed from the roots of her mind-of-its-own hair to the soles of her frozen feet, she hesitated.
Come on, you’re here , the alter-ego’s
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