“You’ll just have to make time,” Momma instructs. “I’m always telling Halia here that she needs to make time for a love life, too. Maybe the two of you could make some time together.”
“Momma!” I say, mortified.
“What? You two clearly have a lot in common. You’re both in the food service industry.”
“Yes,” Wavonne chimes in. “And one of you is in his thirties, and one of you was in her thirties . . . like a million years ago,” she says just out of Alex’s earshot. Then she starts with “Rock-a-bye Baby” in a barely audible hum.
“We do have a lot in common.” Alex says this to Momma, but he’s looking at me. “I suspect I could learn a lot from you after tasting some of your wonderful food last night.”
I swallow hard after that comment. This beautiful man is actually flirting with me. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“Not at all,” he replies as another technician appears with an extension cord. “Can you excuse me? I need to take care of this.”
“Certainly. We need to get back to Sweet Tea anyway.”
“Come by the restaurant anytime,” Momma says to Alex as we turn on our heels. Then to me, in a hushed voice she adds. “You should have given him your phone number.”
“He knows where to find me, Momma . . . and I’m old enough to be his . . . well, not quite his mother, but I suspect I’ve got a good ten years on him.”
Momma purses her lips to respond when I hear Maurice’s voice at the front of the room. “Okay. Ladies . . . ladies,” he calls, trying to quiet down the room. “We’re going to start the demonstrations.” He looks around at the crowd. “Who would like to volunteer to take part?”
“I wouldn’t have worn a wig if I’d known Maurice would be doin’ demos.”
“So take it off,” I say.
“I’m not takin’ my wig off in front of these people. My hair’s all matted down underneath this thing.”
“Our volunteer will get a free bottle of Monique’s Crème De Curl and a fifty-dollar gift card toward Hair by Monique products.”
It takes about a nanosecond after Maurice mentions the words “free” and “gift card” for Wavonne to have her wig off her head and in her hands. “Here, hold Gladys.” She hands the wig to me and hurries toward the front of the room before anyone else has a chance.
“You again,” Maurice says when Wavonne reaches him. “What was it? Waverne? Whayette?”
“Wavonne.”
“Oh yes.” He runs his hands through Wavonne’s hair, looking like he just swallowed something distasteful. “Well, I do love a challenge,” he says. “Please, have a seat, dear.” He raises his voice to the audience. “So this lovely young lady’s hair has a . . . a bit of damage . . . from chemicals, probably.” He slides a lock of hair up through his fingers and says something about it having too much “porosity,” whatever that is. Then he goes on to demonstrate the use of a deep conditioner using an oversize plastic comb with widely spaced teeth. He talks about how he would normally have Wavonne sit under the dryer for several minutes, but since they do not have one available at the event, he proceeds to the application of what he calls a “heat-infused strengthener.” He applies a second cream to Wavonne’s hair in much the same manner as he did the conditioner and begins to glide sections of it through a flat iron. “This is the Hair by Monique iron,” he says. “It has ceramic rather than metal plates, which helps prevent damage. It’s on sale here today for $79.99.”
When Maurice is done with the iron, he adds a little mousse to Wavonne’s hair, and gives it a quick style, more with his fingers than the comb, and, I must say, the result is quite nice. He hasn’t worked any miracles, but her hair looks much better than it did when she first pulled Gladys off her head.
“I want you to repeat this process once a week and to only use Sleek to relax any new growth,” he says to Wavonne.
As Wavonne admires herself in the mirror that Maurice handed her, Monique takes a break from her fan photo sessions and approaches Momma and me. She’s looking fabulous in a bright purple pantsuit with ruffles along the sleeves and the lower part of the legs.
“I’m glad you stopped by,” she says to me. “Your restaurant was absolutely perfect. We had such a nice evening. Now that I’m living back in the area, you may see a lot of me and my entourage there . . . after the tour, of course.”
“So you’re living in Maryland full-time now?”
“I still have the apartment in New York, but home base is here now . . . in Mitchellville. We’ve barely been in the new house for a year and, with my hectic work schedule and travel . . . and planning for the upcoming tour, it took me most of that time to get the place furnished and decorated. It’s finally ready for prime time, which is good, as I’m hosting my annual white party there tonight,” she says. “You should come.” She looks at Momma. “And you as well.”
“And me.” Wavonne hurries over at the first word of a party, the mirror Maurice offered her still in her hand.
“Of course,” Monique says. “Starts at six p.m. Ends promptly at ten p.m., so I can get my beauty sleep.”
“A bunch of black folks throwin’ a white party . . . ain’t that somethin’?” Wavonne says. “I think—”
“Thank you, Monique,” I say, interrupting Wavonne. “But I have to work tonight. Saturdays are super busy.”
“Well, I don’t,” Wavonne says. “I’d love to come.”
“You’re on the schedule, too, Wavonne. I need you there.”
“Do you not realize what we’ve just been invited to, Halia? This party will be the biggest social event Prince George’s County has seen in years. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna miss it.”
“That Alex fellow,” Momma says to Monique before I can respond to Wavonne. “Will he be at the party tonight?”
“Yes. He’ll be supervising the food.”
“In that case, Halia,” Momma says to me. “I’ll cover for you at the restaurant, so you can go. And I’m sure you can find someone to take Wavonne’s shift.”
“I don’t have anything to wear to a party like that.”
“How about I make a deal with you?” Monique asks. “You bring a few of your Sweet Tea creations for the buffet table, and I’ll ask Maurice to take you shopping for something fabulous to wear to the party . . . and Wavonne, too. My treat.”
“Oh no. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Of course you can,” Monique says.
“Yeah,” Wavonne agrees. “Of course you can.”
“No, really, it’s not necessary,” I say, eyeing Wavonne as she gives me a pleading look. “Given that Wavonne will likely never forgive me if I deny her this party, I suppose I’d better accept your gracious invitation, but I insist on paying for our outfits.”
“Then I insist on paying for your catering services.”
“I guess it’s a deal.”
“Maurice,” Monique calls in his direction. “We’ll get one of Odessa’s stylists to do the rest of the demos,” she says to him as he steps toward us. “I’d like you to take these two shopping . . . help them find something suitable for the party tonight.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let me get a few things set up for the demos before we go.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me. “I’ll be a few minutes. Why don’t you give me your phone number, and you can walk around until I get things wrapped up. I’ll text you when I’m ready to go.”
“Okay,” I say, and type my number into his phone and hand it back to him.
“So I’m tasked with dressing the two of you,” he says, taking the phone from me and giving both Wavonne and me a good once-over before looking at Monique. “I guess I did just say that I love a challenge.”
Chapter 11
“I thought we could start at Macy’s,” I say after I’ve parked the van in the parking garage of the Fashion Centre at Pentagon City, a multilevel mall just across the bridge from Maryland in Arlington, Virginia.
“Macy’s?!” Mau
rice bemoans as if I suggested we shop for outfits at a flea market. “You may enjoy sorting through heaps of marked-down clothing flung all over the place, but I prefer stores that don’t look like the Tasmanian Devil had a sudden need for a tunic and a discounted pair of leggings.”
“Yeah . . . Macy’s all ghetto these days,” Wavonne says as the three of us step out of the van and walk toward the entrance. “Can’t never find anyone to wait on you, and they all funky-monkey about their returns. I tried to take back that Michael Kors dress I bought there a few months ago—you know, the green sheath dress with the studs on the sleeves . . . the one I wore to Melva’s wedding . . . and to Linda’s birthday party . . . and my date with that cheap-ass brotha that took me to that nasty Cici’s pizza buffet—although I will say macaroni and cheese on pizza crust is not the worst idea in the world. Anyway, the heifer behind the register wouldn’t take the dress back . . . somethin’ about how the tags had been removed, and it had clearly been worn. It was a hundred dollars. I can’t afford a hundred-dollar dress.”
“Well then, maybe you shouldn’t have purchased it in the first place.”
“Save the lecture, Halia,” Wavonne replies as we approach the mall directory. “At least I was able to sell it on eBay . . . got forty bucks for it. So I’m only out sixty, but I’m done with Macy’s for the time bein’.”
“Everyone at Macy’s will be so hurt that you’ve taken your ‘buy, wear, and return’ routine to their competitors.”
Maurice ignores our bickering as he eyes the map and sighs. “What kind of place is this? No Neiman’s, no Saks . . . no Prada, no Burberry . . . no Chanel. We may as well be at one of those outlet malls where women shop in sneakers and sweat pants,” he laments about what I always thought of as at least a semi-upscale mall. There may not be a Tiffany & Co. or Cartier, but there’s a Banana Republic, and a Zara, and a Hugo Boss . . . and Coach and Kate Spade . . . it’s way nicer than any of the malls we have on the other side of the river in Prince George’s County.
“At least there’s a Nordstrom.” There’s a sound of resignation in Maurice’s voice. “I guess it will have to do.” He turns to us. “I’m sorry. I need an attitude adjustment. It’s just that I’ve been on this low-carb diet for two weeks now, which means I’ve been chronically hungry for two weeks now,” he says, before turning on his heel and heading toward the south end of the mall. “Hurry, I think I smell Cinnabon! I can only resist for so long.”
Wavonne and I follow Maurice through the busy mall corridor, and, when we cross the threshold into Nordstrom, he stops to speak to the first salesperson we encounter.
“May I help you?” the young man asks.
“Yes.” Maurice looks Wavonne and me up and down then back at the sales associate. “Where’s the Encore section?”
“Encore?” I ask Wavonne as the sales guy directs Maurice.
“It’s Nordstrom’s fat lady section.”
The salesclerk overhears Wavonne. “Not at all. It’s our department for plus . . . um . . . full-figured women.”
“Well, that’s me. I’m definitely full-figured.” Wavonne looks down at her ample bosom. “My girls ain’t gonna fit in nothin’ petite—that’s for sure. Oprah and Gayle,” she says, looking at her left breast and then her right, “need room to breathe.”
“I’m sure you’ll find some great fashions over there with plenty of room for . . . um . . . Oprah and Gayle.”
Maurice thanks the young man and the three of us set off for, as Wavonne put it, “the fat lady section.”
* * *
“Hello,” a smartly dressed middle-aged woman says when we reach our destination. “What can I help you with?”
“I need to find something suitable for these two . . . for an exclusive event . . . a white party,” Maurice says. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Susan.”
“Okay, Susan. Well, she looks to be about a fourteen.” Maurice points to me. “And she’s a sixteen,” he adds with a finger toward Wavonne.
“Sixteen?” Wavonne scoffs. “I’m a fourteen, too.”
“Wavonne, sweetie,” Maurice replies while waving his hand from her neck down to her feet. “Just because, with a little vigor and a lot of Vaseline, you can finagle all that into a size fourteen, doesn’t mean you are a size fourteen.”
“I’ve been telling her that for years.”
“Don’t be hatin’ on all my jelly. I like a fitted look.”
“There’s fitted, and then there’s buttons hanging on for dear life,” Maurice says. “Let’s just plan to go for a . . . um . . . a less fitted look for the white party. Trust me. I’m highly experienced at dressing generously proportioned women. I’ve been styling Monique for years.” Maurice turns back to Susan. “I want something formal for both of them, but still fun and stylish.” He points to me again. “Let’s go a bit more conservative for this one . . . maybe something from Alex Evenings or Adrianna Papell . . . or Eileen Fisher.” Then he looks at Wavonne. “This one . . . she’s more Mac Duggal or City Chic.”
“Sure . . . sure,” Susan says. “Why don’t I get you both set up in the fitting rooms, and I’ll bring some selections to you.”
Susan is about to lead us to the dressing area when Maurice speaks up again. “They’ll need some Spanx, too . . . and not just the tummy ones . . . tummy and thigh.”
Over the next thirty minutes or so, Susan helps Wavonne and me into these sort of torture devices called Spanx to smooth out our curves and begins bringing dresses to us. We try them on while Maurice sits on a stool outside the stalls and provides commentary.
“No,” he says to Susan, exasperation in his voice, as I model a Pisarro Nights beaded gown trimmed with something Susan calls “sheer-illusion lace.” “Why didn’t you tell me that dress had a drop waist? Anyone can see she’s a pear!”
“A pear? What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means you have small titties and a fat ass,” Wavonne says. She’s standing next to me admiring herself as we share a mirror. “I, on the other hand, am an hourglass.”
I give her a quick look. “More like an hour and a half glass.”
Wavonne scowls at me in the mirror as Maurice looks me over once again.
“Dear God,” he grumbles to Susan. “If the dress was purple, she’d look like that slow-witted creature in the McDonald’s kiddie commercials.”
“He’s talkin’ about Grimace.”
“I know who he’s talking about, Wavonne,” I respond as Susan unzips the back of the dress, and I head back into the dressing room.
“Bring me something flowy with a softly fitted waistline,” Maurice commands before I have a chance to close the curtain and finish getting out of the dress. “Something sparkly above the waist and plain below . . . we need party on the top,” he says, gesturing toward my upper half before lowering his finger in the direction of my waist and thighs, “and all business on the bottom.”
“He’s trying to draw attention away from your big behind,” Wavonne quips, paying me back for my “hour and a half” comment.
I close the dressing room curtain without bothering to respond. As I step out of the dress, I hear Maurice make a few comments about the outfit Wavonne is modeling before sending her back into the changing room for another round as well.
A few minutes later, Susan brings me yet another frock. I try it on and dare to think that we may have finally found a keeper. It’s an ivory-colored knee-length dress by Adrianna Papell with a slightly lower hem in the back than in the front, a scoop neck, and something Susan called flutter sleeves. It ties loosely at the waist and is actually quite flattering.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Maurice says as I step out of the fitting room. He walks a complete circle around me, adjusts the neckline, and redoes the tie so the bow sits more to the right of my waist than the middle.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and he smiles. “Lovely! I think we have a winner.”
I smile back at him and decide that may
be he’s not quite as snarky and irritating as I originally thought.
“Very nice.” Wavonne gives me a long look as she steps out of her stall in Susan’s latest selection. “Girl, they better turn off the detectors, ’cause you smokin’!”
I laugh. “Thank you, Wavonne. You look very nice yourself.”
“Hmmm,” Maurice says, scrutinizing her dress, a floor-length white gown with silver sequins dotted throughout. “It just sort of pours down your body, doesn’t it?” He circles her like he did me a few minutes ago. “I’m not sure about the plunging neckline. That’s a lot of décolletage for a party that starts early in the evening.”
“Décolletage?” Wavonne asks.
“I think he’s talking about your cleavage.”
“It’s not awful, but I don’t think this is it. Maybe we need to go in another direction.” He turns his neck. “Susan,” he calls out toward the main shopping area, prompting her to appear. “I saw a red jumpsuit on one of the mannequins. Do you know which one I’m talking about? That might be a good look for Wavonne if you have it in white.”
“Yes. That’s by Marina. I think we do have it in white. Let me check.”
As Susan returns to the racks I see Maurice look at his watch. “Let’s try the jumpsuit. If it’s not you, we’ll go with this one. We’re getting short on time. I’ve got to get Monique dressed, and only God knows what sort of drama will be going on in that house by the time I get to there.”
“Drama?” Wavonne asks. “What sort of drama?”
“Oh nothing . . . let’s just say I may be her stylist, but half the time I feel more like her therapist. There’s always something going on between her and Nathan that I have to hear about and help her process. The man is a total sleaze.”
“Really?” I say. “I can’t say I particularly cared for him based on what little interaction I’ve had with him.”
“You’re not the only one. He’s always up to no good.”
“What sort of ‘no good’ are we talkin’ about here?” Wavonne asks.
“I’m not one to gossip,” Maurice replies in that way people who love to gossip speak right before they’re about to start gossiping. “You name it. Drinking. Women. And, lately, gambling. Monique will not even tell me how much of their fortune he’s lost over at MGM.” Maurice is referring to the swanky Las Vegas–style casino that opened to great fanfare a couple of years ago in National Harbor, a multi-use waterfront development that has become Prince George’s County’s haughtiest neighborhood. “He’s a regular in the high-limit room. I’ve heard rumors of him losing more than a hundred thousand dollars in a single day.”
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