by Dara Girard
“Still…are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” She stopped pacing and stared at him. “I could get a sitter.”
“Diana, I’ll be fine. Stop worrying about me.”
She returned to pacing, this time flexing and unflexing her fingers. “Don’t forget Queen’s appointment. It took me forever to get on Yvette’s schedule. She runs the salon and usually lets her assistants do the work, but I asked for her specifically because she’s the best.”
“Fine.”
“I would have gotten Jenny to take her, but it’s her day off.”
“Fine.”
“So remember—”
Nate got up from the couch and seized Diana’s wrist as she passed him, forcing her to stop and look at him. He grinned. “I’ll remember.”
She hesitated. “Kim was asking about you.”
He released her wrist and his grin fell. “You didn’t tell her where I was, did you?”
“No, but she wants to talk to you.”
“So what?”
“Last year was—”
He sat back down and stretched out his legs, nudging King, who rolled onto his back for a belly rub. Nate obliged him using his foot. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know it was hard for you, but it was hard for us, too.”
He bent down and rubbed King’s belly with his hand.
Diana sat next to him. “Where were you anyway?”
“Tormenting Aunt Penny.”
“Leave her alone.”
“Why?” He sat back and folded his arms. King remained on his back a few moments then, realizing his massage was finished, rolled over and went to sleep. “I don’t come to visit often.”
“Why do you enjoy making her uncomfortable?”
He winked at her. “Because I can.” He shook his head. “You should have seen her today trying to eat up some little dog groomer.”
Diana lifted a sly brow. “Was she pretty?”
“Sure, but she’s not my type.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t go for blond streaks and artistic outfits.”
Diana jumped. “That’s Yvette! And she’s more than pretty, she’s gorgeous.” Diana frowned. “I hope you were nice to her.” She held her hands together as though pleading. “Please tell me you were nice to her.”
“I was nice to her. It was Aunty Penny who could have ruined things for you. As I said, she was trying to bully her just because she had an opinion.”
Diana waved a dismissive hand. “Yvette can handle Aunt Penny, that’s why I recommended her for the job.”
“Aunt Penny would have eaten her for dinner if she could have.”
Diana crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. “You stopped her of course.”
“Of course. She made sense. She seems to be a smart woman.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Let’s just say I didn’t expect someone with that many piercings, who likes to clean dogs, to sound that educated. But I was wrong and I’m glad I made Aunt Penny listen.”
Diana shook her head. “You shouldn’t keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Coming to a woman’s rescue. Haven’t you ever heard of the white knight?”
“I’m no white knight.”
“Remember how you met Kim?”
Nate stood and turned on the radio. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
Diana lifted the remote and turned it off. “You helped her brother’s company out of bankruptcy.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So what?” He kept his back to her and looked out the window.
“One day you’re going to rescue a woman and find yourself in deep trouble.”
He shrugged. “I’m not afraid.”
“I’m serious, Nate. Stop rescuing women.”
“Don’t worry. I’m on vacation.” He turned to her with a smug grin. “What could happen?”
Yvette sat next to two hundred and fifty pounds of moving flesh, wishing she’d run up the stairs when she’d had a chance. Mrs. Cantrell’s son, Arthur, smiled at her as Yvette pretended to examine a small dog—a mutt to be exact—that was in perfect health.
“Isn’t she clever, Arthur?” Mrs. Cantrell said, closely watching Yvette from a rocking chair.
Arthur scooted closer to Yvette until his upper arm pressed against hers. She stifled a groan. “He’s fine,” she said, placing Lancelot down.
“I just wanted to make sure.” Mrs. Cantrell stood. “Let me go get you something to eat.”
“No, that’s okay,” Yvette called after her, but Mrs. Cantrell had already disappeared into the kitchen.
Yvette briefly closed her eyes, determined not to move or say anything. She didn’t want to hurt Arthur’s feelings, but she did not want to encourage any advances.
“Mama’s a really good cook,” he said in a drawl Yvette wasn’t sure was real.
“Yes, I know.” She managed to move a couple of inches away from him.
Moments later Mrs. Cantrell returned with a plate loaded with southern deep-fried chicken legs, greens and biscuits and handed it to Yvette. “Eat up. No man wants a skinny woman.”
“This is really too much.”
“You could never have too much.” Mrs. Cantrell shoved a fork in her hand, and pulled up a collapsible tray resting nearby.
Reluctantly, Yvette took a bite, then made audible sounds of pleasure. Mrs. Cantrell smiled. Arthur did, too. But while the food was good, it was hard to enjoy a meal with two pairs of eyes watching. Yvette started to eat fast. “Thank you. This is delicious,” she said, desperate to fill the silence.
Mrs. Cantrell returned to her rocking chair. “Did Arthur tell you he was promoted?”
Yvette shook her head and continued to eat as fast as she could.
Arthur rested his arm behind her head. “I’m now a regional manager.”
Yvette swallowed before the food stuck in her throat. “That’s great.”
Mrs. Cantrell nodded. “And he got a salary increase.”
“Mama,” he said in protest.
“A woman likes to know these things.” She smiled at Yvette, as though they were best friends. “Don’t we?”
Yvette set her glass down on the side table, accidentally knocking over a picture of a man with a gun and a deer head. “That was wonderful.”
Mrs. Cantrell rushed to her feet and stared at Yvette’s plate. “You’ve hardly eaten anything.”
Yvette stood, determined to reach the door before she did. “I had a large lunch.”
“But—”
Yvette scooted toward the exit. “I really have to go.” She dashed out the door and gulped in the fresh air of freedom. She raced up the stairs, but stopped when someone called out her name. She turned and saw Arthur.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” He saw her hesitation and added, “I promise you it won’t take long.”
Yvette turned and started down the stairs, but stopped before she reached the bottom. “Okay, what is it?”
“I know you’re not interested in me, but I was wondering if you could do me one favor. Then I promise you my mother will leave you alone.”
She rested against the railing. “What is it?”
“My office is having a party this weekend and I’d like you to be my date.” He waved his hands when she opened her mouth. “Before you say no, please hear me out. I know I’m not handsome or debonair. But I’m a good guy and I’d like to show the guys at my office that I’m not some lonely workaholic, that I can get a woman like you interested in me.”
Yvette straightened. “Arthur, you’re fine the way you are. You’ve just been promoted. You don’t need to impress anyone. Besides I’m no one special.”
He took a step toward her and clasped her hand in both of his. “Yes, you are, and it would really mean a lot to me. Please. Just one night.”
Yvette stared at her trapped hand, then sighed. “Okay.”
His face lit up. “Rea
lly?”
“Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Really?”
She pointed at him. “If you ask me that one more time, I’ll change my mind.”
“Right. I’ll send you the date and time.” He pulled her close and kissed her on the cheek, his lips as thick and meaty as the rest of him. “Thanks, Yvette. I’ll make sure we have a great time.”
She only nodded, trying not to wipe the wet residue of his kiss off her cheek, then headed up the stairs to her apartment. Once inside she turned on the stereo, fell onto her couch and picked up On the Town, an upscale magazine. She flipped through its pages, which showed the beautiful, rich and famous at play. Yvette loved looking through the magazine and had stacks of them and others like it, near her bed and on her coffee table. One of her favorite pastimes was allowing herself to imagine living like the people she saw in the pictures; eating sumptuous foods, wearing luxurious clothes and jewelry and traveling to exotic destinations.
This was her part-time hobby and she had learned a lot. Her apartment looked exactly like a room she had seen in Architectural Digest, and she had done it on her budget, by mixing and matching and finding incredible sales at local designer showrooms. Her wardrobe showed the same attention. Just like her furniture, Yvette knew where to find designer clothes at 50–70 percent discount, and loved selecting pieces that made her stand out.
It was nearly eight o’clock before Yvette realized that she hadn’t checked her mail. She snuck down the stairs, relieved when she saw that Mrs. Cantrell’s door was closed. She quickly collected her mail, then returned to her apartment, but before she opened the door her neighbor, Elliot Walker, an orthodontist, poked his head out. He was recently separated from his wife and desperate to catch Yvette’s attention as he segued back into the dating world.
He smiled, his teeth perfectly straight and white as ivory. Unfortunately, everything else about him was crooked from his tie to his business practices. “Hey, Yvette.”
“No.”
“You say that every night.”
“It’s a hint, Elliot.”
He stood in the doorway. “Dinner for one night. I’m a great cook. Or if you don’t want to come over, we can go out.”
“No.”
“I know you’re not seeing anyone. Come on.”
Yvette opened her door and hurried inside. “Good night, Elliot.” She closed her door, walked into her living room and flipped through her mail. Junk, junk, junk. A postcard from her parents, which made her smile. More junk. Then she saw it. An invitation crushed between a magazine subscription renewal and a sample for dryer sheets. Yvette stared at it, intrigued, then opened it.
It was a handwritten note, on expensive parchment paper, lined with finely woven lace in a gold envelope.
You have been personally selected to join The Black Stockings Society, an elite, members-only club that will change your life and help you find the man of your dreams. Guaranteed.
Guaranteed? Yvette didn’t believe in guarantees. She studied the invitation wondering what they were trying to sell, but couldn’t find anything. She continued to read.
Dumped? Bored? Tired of Being Single?
No. No. No. What a silly ad. She began to crumble it and throw it in her wastebasket, but the last question caught her eye.
Ready to live dangerously?
Now that was an interesting question. Her gaze fell on the magazine filled with people living exciting, fascinating lives. She would love to do that just for a while. Yes, she was ready to live dangerously. She sat and continued to read.
Then this is the club for you. Guaranteed Results! Submit your application today.
There was that word again, guaranteed. It was probably not true, but it had piqued her interest and she decided to go for it. There was no harm in trying. Yvette grabbed a pen then began filling out the enclosed questionnaire. Some of the questions didn’t make sense to her. She skipped over them until she read a phrase at the bottom: All questions must be answered as honestly as you can. She sighed and reread the earlier ones:
What’s the most important thing in the world to you? Respect.
Would you prefer diamonds or pearls? Diamonds.
What would your ideal man be like? I don’t have one. Yvette groaned. Why does everyone think you have to have an ideal man? She began to skip the question, then remembered what she had read earlier. She chewed her lip, carefully considering her answer. An ideal man? She didn’t have any idea. She thought of Elliot. He was cute, but needy. Plus she didn’t like that he drove a luxury car although he worked at a government-funded dentistry practice. Definitely crooked. She could never be with a man like that.
She thought about Arthur. He had a good job, but his self-esteem was shaky and his relationship with his mother was cause for concern. And then there was Lewis, but she couldn’t think of him as an ideal anything. As for the other men she’d had in her life—none of them had really impressed her.
She buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t think of anyone. She pushed the questionnaire aside and returned to her magazine. While flipping through the pages she stopped at the photo of a couple lounging on a boat in the Mediterranean. Although they were partially in shadow, something about the man reminded her of Mrs. Kerner’s nephew, Nate. If she could describe him in three words they would be—confident, rich and mysterious. Yes, she could deal with that. A man who would leave her alone, but listen to her when she wanted him to. A man with enough money to afford all of her wants, and yet a man with some mystery—to keep her interested. Yvette quickly wrote down the qualities, then nodded, satisfied.
After completing the form, Yvette read the “sworn oath” at the bottom of the page out loud: As a member of The Black Stockings Society, I swear I will not reveal club secrets, I will accept nothing but the best and I will no longer settle for less.
The next morning Yvette wrote a check for the nominal fee, dropped the application in the mail on her way to work and instantly forgot about it the moment she realized that James had been abandoned. Another day ended without a sign of Margaret. Yvette had trusted her to return and as a result she hadn’t asked for too much personal information. Unfortunately, James was of no help. He didn’t have any identifying tags or a microchip. On the third day, Yvette was anxious because she knew James was headed for the animal shelter.
“You know, he’s kind of old,” Greg, her assistant, said when she told him. “It may not be easy for him to get adopted.”
Yvette attached a new leather leash to James’s collar. He began furiously wagging his tail. “He’ll find someone.” She set him down.
Greg bent down to pet him. “Why don’t you take him?”
“I don’t have time for a dog.”
He straightened. “What if the lady fell on hard times and comes back and realizes James is gone?”
“Or got hit by a bus or abducted by aliens? Things happen. That’s life. That’s why we have shelters. We can’t keep him here indefinitely, and I can’t take him.”
“How about just for a week?”
“Why a week?”
Greg lifted James. “I may be able to convince my brother to take him, but it may take a while. I think that’s better than the shelter, where we don’t know what will happen to him. Look at this handsome boy. Don’t you want to make sure he’s taken care of?” James stared at her.
Yvette looked into the dog’s soulful brown eyes and felt her resolve weakening. She turned away. “Fine. One week. Then he either goes to your brother or to the shelter.”
Greg grinned in triumph. “Thanks.” He turned to James. “Give her a kiss.” James licked her cheek. “See, he’s smart.”
Yvette wiped it away. “His days are still numbered.”
The same day Yvette took James home, a small package arrived. When Yvette opened it, she found four pairs of stockings, a membership card that read: Yvette Pamela Coulier, Member, The Black Stockings Society and strict instructions. Yvette scoffed at them. For an offer that promise
d the recipient they would live life dangerously there seemed to be a lot of rules. But she decided to put her own bias aside.
Welcome to The Black Stockings Society. Your first assignment is to go to your favorite hair salon, where you need to dye your hair a soft black.
Black? Ordinary black? What kind of dangerous living was that? So far this “society” wasn’t anything like she’d hoped. Yvette rushed into her bathroom and looked at herself. She loved her dramatic blond streaks. She hadn’t worn her hair black in years. How did the club know the color of her hair? That wasn’t one of the questions. She rested her hands on the sink and stared at her reflection. Perhaps a change was in order. A new, more conservative look may make people treat her differently. She made an appointment with her stylist for the next day. Unfortunately, she hardly slept that night. James snored. She tried burying her head under her two pillows, reminding herself that there were only six more days, but his snoring still penetrated her flimsy sound barrier. Luckily, she soon fell asleep out of exhaustion.
The next day at the salon when Yvette told Geena, her stylist, about coloring her hair black, she looked at Yvette as though she’d grown antennae. “Black? You want me to dye your hair just black?”
“Yes.”
“Not purple or pink?”
“No.”
“How about just a hint of orange?”
Yvette shook her head determined. “Nope. I’m trying for a more refined look and that starts with having my hair dyed a soft black.”
Geena sighed. “All right. It’s your hair.”
Nearly two hours later, Yvette looked divine with a classic chic cut and black hair. Geena spun the chair around and looked at her, astounded. “The color actually suits you.”
Yvette smiled. “Who knew the biggest change would be looking more like myself?”
Once back home, Yvette looked curiously at her next set of directions. Wear the sheer control stockings to work. Now that was strange. Hadn’t these people read what she did for a living? How was she going to wear stocking while grooming a dog? Her normal work attire consisted of a pair of jeans (designer, of course) in the winter, and either shorts or capris in the spring and summer, with a blouse, sweater or jacket (in bold colors naturally) and funky footwear.