“Well, if it ain’t Lowe Mancinkus and the pretty city slicker from New York,” I hear from the back of the darkened shop. Lady Marmalade—aka Sissy Givens—likes to be mysterious. Her shop is always gloomy as the bright overhead lights are turned off, and the only illumination is from a handful of lamps scattered about her vintage clothing store covered in ornate, beaded shawls.
Sissy is a transplant herself into Whynot, but she’s still southern bred straight from the state of Mississippi. She followed her husband to the area for work, and they settled here almost thirty years ago. He’s a lineman with the phone company, and Sissy opened Lady Marmalade’s to keep up on local gossip. Her vintage clothing shop doesn’t get much in the way of business, but it’s always fun to hang out with the woman.
“Hey, Sissy,” I say as I wind my way through racks of clothing and mannequins dressed in garish outfits. Mely follows along behind me.
When we reach the counter, I turn to take in Mely’s reaction so far. I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not been in here exploring yet.
She looks at Sissy in odd fascination, although she’s smiling sweetly.
Sissy Givens is probably just an inch or so over six feet and she’s just as big everywhere else, probably close to three hundred pounds if I had to guess. She’s like an Amazon woman. A tall, black, thick Amazonian with a bald head.
I’m not kidding.
And yet, she’s also pretty. She’s in her late fifties I’d guess, but her skin is smoother than a baby’s butt. Despite her girth, which she hides with big, flowing caftan dresses, she somehow projects an almost ethereal quality when she moves. Her eyes are done up in silvery blue shadow and her lips are always covered in cherry-red lipstick.
And now that I think about it… she actually looks like a drag queen, and the irony of us being here with Morri’s dress is now freaking hilarious.
“Sissy,” I say by way of introduction as I place the box on the wooden counter behind which Sissy is sitting. “This is Melinda Rothschild.”
“Mely,” she says as she holds her hand out to Sissy.
“Welcome to Lady Marmalade’s,” she returns as she shakes Mely’s hand. Her eyes then go to the box. “What have you brought me?”
“This…” I say, patting the box with relish, “is going to be an epic joke.”
“I’m listenin’,” she says with a smile so bright against her dark skin that my eyes hurt.
“Inside this box,” I drawl as I lean my elbows on the counter and hover over said box, “is a beautiful, expensive, and treasured formal gown that just got delivered to Mely’s good friend, Morris D.”
“What kind a name is Morris D?” Sissy asks.
“The kind that would wear the dress in this box,” I explain. “On stage. As a drag queen.”
As expected, this news doesn’t faze Sissy. She loves all people. “Go on.”
“He’s waiting for this right now, over in Mainer House. He’d be completely wigged out if something happened to it.”
“And by wigged out, you mean?” she presses.
“He’d have a complete drama-queen meltdown,” Mely supplies for me.
I turn to find her grinning at Sissy, but then her gaze slides to me. “So, what are we going to do?”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my knife that we’d used just last night to carve beef tenderloin. Flipping it open, I nod over my shoulder at the racks of clothes. “You and Sissy find the most godawful dress in the entire world. I mean… make it ugly, ugly, ugly.”
Both women watch me for just a few moments as I carefully stick the tip of the knife into a taped seam on the box, and delicately slice through it. This must be done carefully, as the box cannot look tampered with, and I know this because this isn’t the first time I’ve done this little switcharoo joke.
Let’s just say my brother Colt expecting a limited-edition Pamela Anderson swimsuit poster from eBay and getting Weird Al Yankovic instead was not as funny to him as it was to me.
As I stealthily break into the box to remove Morri’s dress, Sissy and Mely rummage through the clothing racks. I risk a glance at them, and it’s not lost on me that my heart beats harder when I take Mely in.
Hand over her mouth in earnest consideration as Sissy holds a hideous olive-green dress with orange feathers up for perusal. The playful light in her eyes showing me she’s got a sense of humor to match my own, which makes her even more intriguing to me.
I don’t know how long Mely plans on being around Whynot. As far as I know, she’s here to just flip the property and will be out of here soon thereafter. But I know she’s not going to be leaving anytime soon as there’s plenty of work to do on Mainer House. Based on the fact I’ve kissed that woman twice and it’s been amazing both times, I plan on making the most of her stay here.
CHAPTER 11
Melinda
It’s hard not to let my eyes lift from over the edge of my iPad to watch Lowe from time to time. He’s priming the casing around the front door. I’d plopped down on the porch with my back resting up against the balustrades, flipping through some sample fabrics online for the drapery panels for the living room. I want this house to be true to its nature, but I also want it to represent me as well, and I’m thinking light blues and creams with maybe some touches of yellow to soften up the dark hardwood floors and wainscot paneled walls.
That totally fabulous kiss seemingly forgotten, Lowe works diligently on correcting the damage he’d done. We’d been back from Lady Marmalades for almost half an hour, and I wonder if I’m bordering on creepy sitting out here on the porch while he works.
It’s not that he runs hot and cold, but rather he seems to be a more impetuous, in-the-moment sort of guy. After we’d switched out the contents of Morri’s delivery box, we snuck back onto the porch without Morri being any the wiser. He was always a late sleeper so I figured we were safe, but I’m glad he’s not come down yet. It’s given me a chance to think about things, and I find myself brooding about what life would be like if I lived here permanently.
So far, I’m not sure I can handle the lack of what I consider to be necessities at my fingertips. Like goat cheese and prosciutto.
Neiman Marcus.
Real New York pizza.
But it doesn’t have to be my forever, permanent home. It can be just a getaway. A place to visit. A sanctuary where I can get my breath back from my hectic career and a house where I can feel closest to my grandmother since I miss her so much.
I watch Lowe for just a moment. He’s been quite the surprise to me. A man who was nothing more than a common hoodlum just a few short weeks ago, who then became even thornier when he repaired the initial damage to the house with neon pink paint.
But the more I’ve come to know him, the more I realize he wasn’t doing those things to be malicious toward me. Not to anyone, really.
He was just making a statement.
Lowe is just one of those guys who feels deeply and passionately about things, and when he does, he’s going to let you know about it. I think the message was to his family and this town that a piece of history was let go and it wasn’t going to be in vain.
At least not on his part.
The front door flies open so suddenly Lowe startles and scrambles backward. Morri sort of stumbles out, shielding his hand over his eyes to protect against the bright midmorning sunlight.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Lowe says amiably as he steps back up to the paint can resting on top of the ladder. He casually goes back to priming the side casing as Morri pulls the door shut, then steps fully out onto the porch.
He’s clearly just woken up as he holds a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand and blows on it with a grumpy look on his face. He’s got his kimono robe belted tight around his waist and his black satin sleep mask pushed up onto his forehead.
“I slept terribly because of you,” Morri grouses before taking a tiny sip. He looks at me over the edge of the cup as I sit on the porch. “Total bed hog.”
“Sorry,” I tell him with a smile that’s not sorry at all. I’m a natural cuddler and I gravitate to body heat for some reason, even if it’s in the middle of the summer.
Morri grunts an acceptance of my apology, his eyes dropping to the box sitting beside me on the porch. They go wide for just a moment, and then look back to me. “Is that…?”
“Arrived a bit ago,” I tell him blandly, trying to act natural. “Didn’t want to wake you up.”
I want to start cackling with laughter over the contents inside, but I manage to play it cool. To Lowe’s credit, he doesn’t even turn to acknowledge our conversation, seeming to ignore us both, but I know darn well he’s listening hard right now.
Morri scrambles all at once, hot coffee sloshing over the edge of his cup as he slams it down on the porch railing. His flowy sleeves billow behind him like a spectacle—not that a tall black man wearing silk pajamas with matching robe isn’t one—as he lurches for the box.
I grab it from where it’s sitting next to him and hand it up. The minute he yanks it from me, I lower my face to my iPad, pretending to be thoroughly engrossed in the fabric samples.
When he rests the box on the railing just over my shoulder, I press my lips together and just listen as Morri rips the tape off. Lowe really did an excellent job of sealing it back up. I couldn’t tell it had been hacked.
Cardboard rips, meaning Morri’s not willing to work the tape gently, and then the box falls to the porch to land beside me.
“What the hell is this?” Morri shrieks, and there’s no ignoring that. I smooth my face and look up to see Morri holding out the perfect dress Sissy found.
His face is coated in horror and disgust as he holds it as far away from him as possible. The lace and chiffon dress in a beigey-pink sort of color has ruffles from hip to toe. It’s hideous. Sissy thought it was probably circa the late seventies and was clearly a bridesmaid dress gone horribly wrong with full puffy sleeves and a huge bow on the butt.
From the corner of my eye, I see Lowe has turned to watch the spectacle, and I dare not look at him. I’ll lose it.
“I thought you said it was red sequined,” I ask Morri in a concerned tone as I push myself up to stand. After putting my iPad on the railing next to his coffee, I reach a hand out and pull the dress out by a ruffled hem to look at it in “faux” consternation.
“Does this look like red sequins to you?” he screeches as he starts to shake the dress. “Check the box, Mely. Is there anything else in there?”
I bend over to grab the box just in time, my lips betraying me in a goofy smile that I refuse to let break free into a laugh. I make a show of looking inside with my head bowed over it, managing to wipe my face blank again before looking back to Morri.
And he is a sight to behold in his rage. I swear, I didn’t know his face could turn red under that mocha skin and his eyes are blazing with fury.
“Incompetent baboons,” he exclaims as he stomps his bare foot on the porch. “It’s a heterosexual conspiracy.”
“What’s the problem?” Lowe asks and Morri spins on him, clutching the vile pile of material.
Shaking it in Lowe’s face, he asks with indignation, “Does this look like a red sequined gown that screams sophisticated glamor?”
“Not sure I’d really know what sophisticated glamor is,” Lowe says in a serious voice as he scratches his head and looks at the dress. “But I don’t see any red sequins.”
“You’re damn right you don’t,” Morri hisses like a snake before whipping back around on me to beseech my help, “Mely!”
Except it comes out like, “Mel-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!”
I can’t open my mouth to even respond to him, because I know I’ll lose it.
“Mel-eeeee,” Morri cries out again in distress, taking me by the shoulders so quickly that the chiffon and lace dress smacks me in the face. “What am I going to do? I’ve got nothing appropriate to wear Saturday night. This screw-up will have tremendous implications to my emotional well-being.”
I drop my head, the urge to laugh so strong I’m afraid I’m going to pee.
“Everything okay?”
I turn to look out to the sidewalk. The postman is standing there with his mailbag slung over his shoulder and a pile of mail in his hands, looking up at us.
“Does this look okay?” Morri calls out to the man in indignation as he flaps the dress all around, hitting me again in the face so I take a step back from him. “Do I look like a pink lace kind of man?”
“No, sir,” the mailman calls out even as his head lowers and he bustles away quickly from the crazy man in the silk kimono having a meltdown.
My eyes cut across the street to Sweet Cakes. Larkin stands in her open doorway watching the drama play out. The woman in the daisy duke shorts who flirted with Lowe earlier along with another woman about her age but more sedately dressed are sitting at one of the outdoor cafe tables watching. Behind them, Trixie has come out of her law office and watches as well, and I note several people over on the courthouse square looking this way.
Well, town of Whynot, I think with an inward snicker. This is Morris D. He’s very pleased to meet you.
“That’s abominable,” Lowe says quietly, and Morri and I turn to face him. He’s serious as the day is long, his eyes dropping to the dress with a nod. “I’d be ticked off, for sure.”
“Finally, I see you have some sense,” Morri admits with a sniff.
“I wouldn’t stand for it,” Lowe says with an edge to his voice.
“I’m listening,” Morri says as he leans in with a serious but eager look.
“I’d get on the phone to wherever you made your purchase, and I’d be raising some holy hell,” Lowe tells him earnestly.
“You’re absolutely right,” Morri says as he grabs the box from my hand and stuffs the dress inside. He sweeps regally past Lowe to the front door.
“In fact,” I add on as Morri starts to step inside, adding fuel to his raging fire. “I’d demand a high-up manager as soon as you get someone on the phone. Don’t waste your time with some lowly customer service representative.”
“You know it,” Morri snips back with a whole lot of necktitude before the door shuts tight behind him.
It’s silent a moment as we stare at the closed door, but when Lowe turns back to face me, I can’t hold it in anymore. I start laughing so hard that I double over. The sound of Lowe’s rumbling laughter hits me hard, making me snort and tears start to leak out of my eyes.
“What’s going on over here?”
I straighten up to see Larkin standing there with an amused expression on her face as she looks back and forth between Lowe and me.
I reach a hand out, put it on Lowe’s arm, and tell his sister, “Your brother just pulled a stupendous prank on my friend.”
“That would be the one flapping around in the kimono and yelling?” she guesses.
Lowe’s eyes are sparkling as he pulls back from me, turning to his paint can as he chuckles. “I pulled the famous missing Pamela Anderson poster-trick on him.”
“Aha,” Larkin says with a laugh. “It’s a classic.”
Letting my gaze skim around the town’s square interior, I still see several people standing around, watching us. I’m thinking this was the highlight of the day around here, and I’m wondering if maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, outing a gay drag queen on my front porch to the people of Whynot doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but Morri is a guest here.
And Lowe lives here.
“Don’t even let that thought take hold in that pretty little head of yours,” Lowe says in a deep voice and my eyes snap to his. I can tell by the look on his face that he can read the look on my face loud and clear. “You and Morri are welcome in this town and if anyone says otherwise, I’ll have words with them.”
“Me too,” Larkin asserts with a firm nod of her head.
Warm flutters of appreciation tickle at my belly as I realize that these two mean that sincerely. I didn’
t think it would be easy at all to acclimate to a slower, more closed-off way of life down South, but it sure helps to know that there are good people around.
“Mely… Lowe… I’m going to kill one or both of you,” I hear Morri shriek from inside the house, and I know we’ve been busted in our joke.
Lowe winks at me as we hear Morri stomping down the stairs, and he whispers to me, “I’ll take this one for the team.”
And that’s sweet, and it makes me like Lowe Mancinkus even more.
I could seriously kiss him right now for the fun morning he’s given me, the gallant way he’s getting ready to handle a pissed-off hot mess of a gay man right now, and the fact he’s made me feel positively welcome despite the fact I’ve robbed him of an important piece of family history.
The Gossip Mill
at Sweet Cakes
by Lynette Carnes
“God, he’s so fine,” Stacie says as she turns to look over her shoulder at Lowe doing some painting on the front porch of Mainer House.
That I would agree with, which is why I made sure to yell out at him a little bit ago when I came to meet Stacie for an iced coffee at Sweet Cakes. I had on my sassiest shorts with my shirt tied off, my flat stomach with the jeweled piercing in my belly button looking beyond hot.
He even said so back.
I suggested we sit out here so we could surreptitiously watch him from one of the outdoor tables, because there is nothing like watching a fine-as-hell man doing a manly job like painting.
Of course, he’s not looked our way once, and I’m just a little too proud to call out to him again, what with the woman who owns the house sitting out there in her prissy little white dress. If she’s a virgin, then I am too, and I know that ain’t true.
Lowe knows that ain’t true too, and I’d give anything to get that man back in my bed.
“I don’t get what he sees in her,” I mutter to Stacie, who turns to look at me.
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