I was almost speechless, opening and shutting my mouth like a fish.
"Oh, Molly. It's… it'sbeautiful."
"I know," she said smugly. "If I weren't a kickass musician, I'd be a world-class fashion designer. Or an astronaut. Oh, damn. I have to go. Try it on and send me a picture! Jack doesn't deserve you."
"I will. Molly, thank you so much! But it's too expensive—"
Click.
Molly, always impatient with gratitude, hung up, and I took one of the most beautiful dresses in the world out of the garment bag.
It was emerald-green silk, which would look amazing with my red hair. There wasn't much to it—it was a deceptively simple sheath. No frills, no ruffles, no decoration except for an embroidered pattern in a deeper green ribbon band that ran round the hem. It wasn't short enough to make me uncomfortable, and the scoop neckline wasn't deep, but it was, in spite of being conservatively cut and oh-so-proper at first glance, an incredibly sexy dress.
It was all in the fit. Molly, who'd grown up with me, probably knew my measurements better than I did, and I'd eat the garment bag if she hadn't had this tailored to fit me like a glove.
I was almost afraid to try it on, but there was no way I could resist.
I yanked off my barn clothes, stepped into the dress, and pulled up the back zipper, and then I ran back to my bedroom to look at myself in the full-length antique mirror I'd restored and refinished a few years back.
"Oh, my goodness," I whispered. "Lou, I'mbeautiful."
And I was. Somehow, the green was the exact shade to make my eyes look even bluer and my skin glow. I released my hair from its French knot, and it fell almost to my waist. I hadn't cut it in a while, partly because I'd been too busy to go the salon, and partly because I really loved it long.
Jack loves it long too.
I told my inner voice to shut the heck up, admired myself for a while longer, and then carefully hung the dress on the hook on a hanger on my bathroom door, where I'd be able to admire it while I was getting ready, later.
But the date was for six o'clock, and it was only going on two now. I pulled on a sundress, because it was at least 80 degrees outside—August in Florida may be all Death Heat and Humidity, but September wasn't much better—and sat down at the kitchen table with my tea and made a grocery list.
I loved my lists. People made fun of me, but I had no idea how anybody in the world got anything done without lists. I had lists at home, definitely lists at work, and even lists of things I wanted to do and places I wanted to see in the future, if I could ever figure out a way to travel while wearing gloves at all times, just in case someone accidentally touched me.
I didnotwant to know how the waiter in the Paris café was going to die. Or the ticket taker at the British Museum. Or the guide at the Vatican.
I sighed, pushed all that out of my mind, topped up Lou's water dish, kissed her head, and headed out for Super Target. We had no real grocery store in Dead End beyond the Pit Stop, and I wasn't a big fan of buying milk and bread in the same place that sold fishing bait.
A short drive later, I was wandering around the big box store, trying to resist the allure of great deals on well-displayed merchandise, because I had a big problem with Target: I could not get out of the non-grocery side of the store without spending two hundred dollars.
Even if I just went in for milk.
There were always such great deals on things I hadn't even realized Ihadto have, and before I knew it, I was wheeling a cart stuffed with two hundred dollars' worth of stuff to my car, not quite sure how it had happened. I figured better safe than sorry, so now I avoided the shiny aisles unless I definitely needed something.
A pawnshop in a small town is not a high-profit business, so I couldn't afford to be frivolous with my money. Also, I'd had a period of being overextended on my credit card just after I bought the house. The new curtains, rugs, and dishes and everything else had been so much fun to shop for, but not nearly as much fun to pay for. So now I was more careful, and my stress level at bill-paying time thanked me for it.
I rounded the corner into the soups and pasta aisle, and almost ran my cart into one being pushed by the pastor's wife.
"Hello, Mrs. Nash."
"Henrietta, please, Tess," she said, smiling. She really was a nice woman when she wasn't trying to keep me from singing in church. She was maybe five and a half feet tall, slender, with dishwater-blond hair and lovely brown eyes, and she still wore her yellow church dress and low heels, which seemed like a bit much for Target, but what did I know about the standards pastors' wives had to hold up? Pawnshop owners were perfectly dressed in jeans and T-shirts, so my sundress was a step up for me.
She was alone, which was unusual. I never saw her anywhere without her three kids, who were all somewhere between five and ten years old.
"Left the kids at home for Pastor Nash to take care of?"
She gave me a worried frown. "No. Well, yes, but mostly because they're all sick. The doctor says it's just a cold, but it's a bad one. I hear it's going around."
"I'm sorry. That must be tough, when all of them get it."
"Yes, and keep an eye on Shelley. She's in Missy's class at school, and I hear half of them are down with it." She gestured to her cart. "I'm stocking up on tissues, chicken soup, and frozen fruit bars for sore throats. It's going to be a long week."
