by Ann B. Ross
Thinking back on the dinner party, I pictured Dr. Crawford on my right and realized that most of the time his face had been turned toward the rest of the table, only occasionally glancing sideways to include me in his audience. I had had little opportunity to notice what he did with his eyes, nor, I realized, had Sam, who, as a concerned host, had directed most of his attention to Lauren.
Well, it was a conundrum, there was no doubt about it. But was it worth worrying about? No, I answered myself. In fact, if I had to call on the doctor because of ill health, I would want him to give his full attention to whatever problem I or Sam had. So stare all you want, Doctor, I thought to myself. Make sure you see everything there is to see. Don’t overlook a single thing.
Chapter 10
*
I declare, February is the longest month of the year and usually the coldest. Not only did it seem to never end, I could never warm up. The days were short and drizzly, the evenings long and dreary in spite of my efforts to stay in a cheerful frame of mind.
To fill the never-ending evenings—which started about four in the afternoon and lasted till dawn—I went so far as to set up a card table in the library and get out one of Lloyd’s old jigsaw puzzles. Sam was entranced with the seascape puzzle and quickly put the outside pieces together. My interest, however, waned after realizing that there was almost a square yard of unrelieved ocean to fill in. I mean, how many similiar-looking pieces do you have to try in order to fill one empty space?
“Sam?” I said one evening while we pored over the puzzle, “aren’t you glad we don’t live in Sweden or Norway—one of those places where it stays dark all day long for months at a time?”
He glanced up. “Yes, I can truthfully say I am.” Then he laughed. “Why’re you thinking of that?”
“I’m just tired of winter, that’s all. I don’t know how people stand to live in semidarkness for most of the year.”
“Oh,” he said, snapping a puzzle piece in place, “it’s probably not that bad. People adjust to whatever climate they live in, and Nordic people compensate by excelling in winter sports. Especially in the Olympics.”
“Well, more power to them,” I murmured, slightly sarcastically, being unimpressed by athletic prowess cultivated in order to stay warm.
Sam sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, giving me his full attention. “Now what’s all this about?”
“Boredom,” I quickly said in an effort to shrug off my melancholy. “Which is my own fault. There’re plenty of things to do, I just can’t bring myself to do them. So I’m blaming my laziness on the weather and the time of year. Just overlook me, Sam. I’ll get over it.
“Actually, though,” I went on, “I’ve had the Hargroves on my mind, wondering how they’re enjoying Europe in midwinter. I would’ve picked a better time of the year, if it’d been me.”
“Well, you know the main reason they went was so he could attend that meeting in Stockholm. And I expect Sue was just glad that he was willing to take time off at all, so the time of year didn’t matter.”
“Oh, I know,” I said. “And I’m happy for them.” Finally finding one puzzle piece that fit, I decided to stop with a win. “I’m through for the night,” I said, getting up from the card table. “This thing is making me edgy.”
“A little testy, too?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows.
I smiled. “Yes, but not at you.” Then, reaching the fireplace, I turned and said, “Sam, you mentioned the word Nordic awhile ago. That’s the word that came to mind when I first saw Lauren Crawford. Bless her heart, she is so fair that she’s just plain washed out. No color at all. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see what she’d look like with a proper makeover?”
“I don’t know about that,” Sam said, a cautionary note in his voice. “Young women today know all about cosmetics, so if she doesn’t use them, she probably doesn’t want to.”
“But I’m talking about a professional makeover—very lightly applied with just a smidgeon of color so that it looks natural. She could be a beauty. And think of this, Sam, wouldn’t that help her self-confidence? To know how good she looks? Why, she might blossom out with a perfectly delightful personality.”
“Maybe so,” Sam said, giving up on the puzzle. “But you could also be opening a can of worms, even damaging what little self-esteem she has. Of course, I don’t know what you have in mind, if anything in particular, but . . .”
“Hazel Marie,” I said, my mind racing ahead to visualize a makeover to end all makeovers. “I have Hazel Marie in mind.”
And right then, my mind went into overdrive as I imagined a beauty session that would include makeup application, hair styling, and the selection of clothing that enhanced the figure rather than smothered it.
“I’d be careful about that,” Sam said, “if I were you. To suggest such a thing would make her think she needs help.”
“Well, she does.”
Sam laughed. “I know, honey, but it could really hurt her feelings. Shame her, even, and I know you don’t want to do that.”
“No, of course I don’t. I’ll just have to think of a way to include her without letting her know it’s about her. Maybe invite her to a class with one or two others. That way, she wouldn’t feel singled out.”
“Maybe,” Sam said without enthusiasm. “Still, I’d be very careful, whatever I did.”
Assuring both him and myself that I was always careful, especially when there was a possibility that someone’s feelings could be hurt, I went to bed feeling energized. I’d told Lillian that I had a great urge to fix something, and what better project could I take on than a young woman who badly needed fixing?
* * *
—
I woke up that Saturday morning with renewed vigor—I had something to sink my teeth into and be helpful to someone else at the same time. I was well aware, however, that I had to step gingerly, move carefully, and use great delicacy if I was to accomplish my plan. In fact, I was so acutely aware of the need for care that I’d even prayed about it.
As Sam had pointed out, there could be some deep, embedded reason that Lauren Crawford avoided cosmetics when they were abundantly available and so easily used. Perhaps she had religious qualms about using them, although I’d gotten no hint that the Crawfords were anything other than members of a mainline church. I mean, she’d not worn an organdy cap or anything like that.
So I decided to let things alone for a while and let them perk along in my mind. If it was meant to be, something would occur to show me how to approach Lauren without either humiliating or enraging her. I would simply bide my time.
* * *
—
Lloyd helped by offering a distraction. He came over that morning to see if Sam wanted to go downtown with him. They often did that on Saturdays—going to the sports store and looking at new fishing rods and equipment, then having lunch at the Bluebird.
Sam and I were still at the breakfast table when Lloyd joined us. Lillian set a cup of coffee at his place, and I had to smile. The boy had always liked coffee, but I had limited his intake when he was younger out of concern that it might stunt his growth. Come to think of it, maybe it had.
After welcoming him, Sam said, “We’re all atwitter waiting to hear which girl you’re going to take to the dance. Or,” he amended with a smile, “which girl you’re going to let take you.”
“Oh, boy,” Lloyd said, almost moaning as he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Looks like I’m not even gonna go. At least as anybody’s date.”
“Why?” I asked. “What happened?”
“Well,” he said, his shoulders slumping, “the word got around that I was gonna have more dates than I could handle and none of the girls wanted to be turned down. So they got together and decided that none of ’em would ask me. So that means,” he added with a frown, “that I’ll have to go stag or not go at all.”
Sam smiled with sympathy. “Oh, the perils of popularity.”
Lloyd gave him a sickly smile, and I said, “Oh, Sam, it’s not funny. I’m so sorry, Lloyd.”
“Oh, I don’t really mind,” he said. “And I guess Mr. Sam is right. Better to laugh than get strung out about it. I don’t mind going stag, except I can’t decide whether to ask any of those girls to dance when I get there or just ignore them. Like they’re doing to me.”
“I think,” Sam said, “that those three girls could’ve handled it better. In fact, I’m surprised that one of them hasn’t broken off and snagged you for herself. All’s fair, you know. But there’s one compensation for going stag, Lloyd—you can drive Pickens to the dance without worrying where your date is sitting.”
“That is true,” Lloyd said, looking up with his bright smile back in place. “And he’ll probably let me drive around for a while before we get there—which I couldn’t do if a date was in the backseat.”
* * *
—
Sam and Lloyd had just gone on their way when LuAnne Conover called. She was in high spirits, exclaiming as soon as I picked up the phone, “Julia! Guess what! I have the best news!”
I am sorry to say that my first thought was that something terrible had happened to Leonard, her longtime cheating husband whom she was in the process of divorcing. I was able to hold my tongue just long enough, though, and thank goodness for that, because her news had nothing to do with him.
“I got the job, Julia! They just called and told me. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Well, yes,” I said, somewhat mystified, “if it’s what you want. I didn’t know you were looking for a job.”
“Oh, yes, you did. I told you weeks ago that I needed something that paid a decent wage.”
She’d not said one word to me about looking for a job, but you don’t argue with LuAnne Conover, so I didn’t. And the fact of the matter was that she’d probably told everybody she’d seen and had just assumed I’d been one of them.
“Well,” I said, brushing aside who told who what, “tell me about it. What kind of job is it?”
“It’s perfect, that’s what it is, although I wasn’t expecting to hear anything on a Saturday. But,” she went on, “I guess in a business like theirs, one day is as good as another.”
“What kind of business is it? Did you apply at just the one or at several?”
“A half a dozen, at least,” she said with a touch of exasperation. “I declare, Julia, you would think that a good receptionist would be a valued employee. But you know I’ve been doing part-time work for a nonprofit, and the only ones who don’t profit are the people who work for them. I might as well have volunteered my time for all the salary I got. But now,” she said, taking a deep breath, “now I have a decent job with decent wages in a business that knows the value of having the right person interfacing with the public.”
“Well, tell me,” I said again. “What business is it? Where will you be working.”
“At the Good Shepherd Funeral Home!” she said. “Isn’t it wonderful!”
“Um, well,” I said, not wanting to commit myself, “it certainly sounds interesting. What will you be doing?”
“I’ll be the face of the funeral home—the first person that the public speaks to on the phone or meets when they come in. It’s a very important position, Julia, and they chose me for it.”
“I am delighted to hear it, LuAnne. It sounds ideal for you. You’re always so warm and welcoming, eager to meet people, and never at a loss for words. You’re perfect for it. I’m not surprised that they offered it to you.”
“Well, it wasn’t a given, I assure you. They told me last week when I interviewed that they were looking at two other applicants. So after my interview, I sat in the car and watched who came and went to see who the others were—what my competition was like. I knew right away that one of them didn’t have a chance—too young, for one thing. And I ask you, who wants to look down a cleavage when they’ve come to buy a casket? The other one, though, was my real competition. I didn’t know her, but she looked professional—I could tell by the way she walked. But I think what did her in was her frown. She was one of those women who frown even when they smile because the frown is really a wrinkle. So, anyway, the job is mine and I’ll start the week after next.”
“My sincere congratulations, LuAnne. I am so happy for you.”
“Well, I do need your help, Julia. They told me how important a first impression is—especially for grieving families, which are their primary customers. Except, of course, those for whom they’re grieving. I have to be friendly, but not bubbly. I mean, who wants a perky little twit trying to sell you an urn for cremains? I’ve got to be sympathetic, but not so much that I’m not businesslike because they are in retail, you know. It’s actually a selling job. And I have to dress carefully, too—not so plain that I look like I’m the one in mourning, yet not so flashy that I’m inappropriate for the circumstances. It’s a fine line I have to walk.”
“My goodness,” I said, impressed with the demands of a receptionist’s job. “I had no idea how much is involved. I am really pleased for you, but how can I help?”
“You can help by asking Hazel Marie if she’d show me how to get a more natural look—I think sometimes I may have a heavy hand when I contour. And I’d love her to look through my closet to see what I’ll need to reach that perfect balance between plain and flashy, and maybe make some suggestions about a more professional hair style. She did work as an Avon Lady at one time, didn’t she?”
“A long time ago,” I said, my heart lifting at the perfect opportunity for a styling session that more than one stylee could attend. “But you don’t need me to ask her. Just give her a call—I’m sure she’d love to do it.”
“I know, and I will, but I thought you’d be interested in sitting in. We could all use a little help now and then, you know.”
No, I hadn’t known and still didn’t. And, furthermore, I could do without LuAnne’s opinion on what I needed, cosmetically speaking. Stifling a sharp reply, however, I let her get away with it, for I now knew how not to approach Lauren Crawford.
Chapter 11
*
I couldn’t decide if LuAnne had hurt my feelings or simply enraged me. What did she think I needed help with—my face, my hair, or my clothes? As far as I was concerned, not a one of the above. But even if I did need help, I certainly wouldn’t advertise it by admitting it to her—it would be all over town by nightfall. No, I’d go to Hazel Marie by myself, get the benefit of her expertise, then let the changes, if any, speak for themselves.
So with that, I determined to leave Lauren Crawford alone for good. I would not hurt her feelings as mine had been hurt. After all, it wasn’t my business to introduce her to Estée Lauder or to Ann Taylor. I realized now that the minute I even hinted that she could use some help, she’d begin agonizing over every aspect of herself, wondering why she hadn’t noticed, as well as wondering who else had.
* * *
—
“Julia,” Sam said late Monday afternoon, “I think I’ll run over to Barnes and Noble tomorrow. Is there anything you want?”
“I don’t think so. The good books don’t come out until April or May, and again in the fall. I’ll just look through whatever you get.”
“Well, we’re in for another month or so of bad weather, so I need something to read. Having a stack of unread books around is like having money in the bank to me.” Then as he started to turn away, he stopped. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you, but while you were at your circle meeting this morning, Don Crawford called.”
“I hope it was to thank us for having them to dinner.”
Sam grinned. “He mentioned it, but he was calling to ask me about a good handyman.”
“Handyman!” I put down the newspaper I’d been scanning. “Surely they haven’t broken something at
the Hargrove house?”
“No, nothing like that. Seems the good doctor is into real estate. Instead of investing in the stock market, he buys small houses in the towns where he spends a few months—if he likes the town, that is. And if the houses need updating, he gets that done while he’s around to supervise, then rents them out when he moves on. It’s a pretty good plan,” Sam said, nodding in approval, “and if he’s chosen well, they’ll gain in value over time. Anyway, he called to ask if I could recommend somebody. Apparently, he doesn’t like dealing with a construction company—too many hidden costs, he said. He’s had better luck dealing one on one with somebody who can do a little of everything.”
“I hope you knew who to recommend, both to him and to us. Just as soon as spring arrives—if it ever does—there’re a number of things around here that need repairing.”
“You’re right, but the only person I could think of was the man who bought the apartment building where Miss Mattie Freeman lived. Remember? He was updating the empty apartments and doing all the work himself. What was his name?”
Ah, yes, I recalled, dredging my memory, he of the well-turned arms. “Mr. Wheeler,” I said, “Nate Wheeler, that was his name. But, Sam, if he was well-off enough to buy that whole building, why would he hire out as a handyman?”
“I don’t know that he would, but I spoke with him a couple of times while you were busy in Miss Mattie’s apartment. He showed me one of the kitchens he was working on and said doing that kind of work was beneficial to his mental health.” Sam smiled at the memory. “And he had the grace to say it ironically and laugh about it. I liked him.”
“I did, too, and so did LuAnne and Helen Stroud. He’s a widower, if I remember right.”