Twenty-Eight
Sex after eighty is like trying to shoot pool with a rope.
~ Attalee Gaines’s favorite one-liner
The morning of the calendar shoot had arrived, and all of the participants, except Elizabeth, were assembled in the break area of the Bottom Dollar Emporium. Elizabeth was at home nursing a croupy baby.
Chiffon tinkered with the settings of Birdie’s camera, while Chenille, who was helping Chiffon with the women’s makeup, sorted through her sister’s kit, trying to find the right lipstick shade for Attalee.
“Ahh, Wicked Red Cherry,” Chenille said, unscrewing the top to examine the color. “This ought to do the trick.”
“Cherry sounds good,” Attalee said. “I’m starving.”
“No nibbling on the lipstick,” Chenille warned. “It’s for beauty, not nourishment.”
“I hope you have a whole case of that lipstick,” said Birdie, a puckish glint in her eye. “It’ll take that much to beautify her.”
“You ain’t exactly Pamela Anderson yourself,” Attalee shot back.
“Purse your lips for me, will you?” Chenille asked Attalee.
She obeyed, and as Chenille applied the lipstick, Attalee squealed. “What’s that on your finger? It’s scratching up my face.” She grasped Chenille’s hand. “Well, I’ll be a bug-eyed baboon. This girl’s got herself an engagement ring.”
Chenille smiled. She’d been waiting for someone to notice the ring, being too shy to make the announcement herself, and Chiffon didn’t seem inclined to tell anyone. Mavis, wearing a headful of pink sponge rollers, rushed over to examine her ring.
“Why, that sly fox. I just saw Garnell yesterday, and he didn’t breathe a word,” she said.
“Oh, it’s not Garnell,” Chenille said quickly.
“Not Garnell?” Mavis frowned. “I was under the impression—”
“My fiancé’s name is Drake Dupree. He’s a veterinarian in Augusta,” Chenille said.
“Dupree?” Attalee said. “Do you reckon he’s any relation to the Vidalia Duprees? My third cousin married an Arnold Dupree, although I think they pronounced it ‘Dupray.’ I’ve told you about him, Mavis. He’s the one who was in that terrible accident at the chicken-plucking plant.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Mrs. Tobias said, patting her neck down with moisturizer. “Since your fiancé is a professional man, he’s certainly related to the Augusta Duprees. A very distinguished family, indeed. Made their fortune from bricks.”
“It could be either, I suppose,” Chenille said. “Truthfully, I don’t know where his people are from.”
“What?” everyone said in unison, except for Chiffon, who was curling Birdie’s eyelashes.
“Chenille, dear,” Mrs. Tobias said. “You can’t be serious.”
“She hasn’t known Drake for very long, so she hasn’t met ‘his people,’” Chiffon said, searching through her makeup bag for an eyeliner. “She’ll get to know them soon enough. They’re getting married in a week.”
“A week,” squawked Attalee. “Where’s the fire?” Mavis gave her a sharp look, and Attalee’s eyes brightened with understanding. “Oh, I see. You ate supper before saying grace. When’s the little bundle due?”
“There’s no bundle. I’m not expecting a baby,” Chenille said, shaking her head fervently. “Drake and I haven’t even—” She swallowed the rest of her sentence.
“I’d advise you to make sure the sap rises in that tree before you set down any roots,” Attalee said with a wink.
“That’s enough smut,” Mrs. Tobias said to Attalee. She rose and looped her arm through Chenille’s. “A bride doesn’t have to know her groom in the biblical sense before the wedding, but she simply must know who’s nesting in his family tree.”
“Are we all invited to the wedding?” Attalee asked.
“I’d love for you to come,” Chenille said. “But Drake and I are getting married in Rome.”
“I got me a niece named Delia who lives in Rome,” Attalee said. “She’s a waitress at the Feed Mill over there. If you sit in her section and mention my name, she’ll slip you extra corn-bread with dinner.”
“Actually, we’re getting married in Rome, Italy, not Rome, Georgia,” Chenille said.
“Rome?” Mavis said, unspooling her hair from the rollers. “How romantic! This Drake must be something else.”
“He is,” Chenille said. “I told him I wanted to put off the wedding until my mother got home from her European tour, but he was too impatient. So he insisted we meet her in Rome. We’ll have a civil ceremony there. Drake’s arranging everything.”
“What about Chiffon?” Mavis asked. “She isn’t going to be at your wedding?”
Chenille cast an anxious glance at her sister. “I wanted her to come, of course. Drake even said he’d pay for her ticket, but—”
“How am I going to traipse off to Rome when I have three kids to look after, one still on the bottle?” Chiffon said curtly. “Now, I don’t mean to rush you, but we only have two hours before Mavis is open for business. We should get started.”
The older women exchanged glances. They would have liked to ask more questions, but from Chiffon’s tone it was obvious that she considered the topic of Chenille’s marriage closed.
“So who wants to go first?” Chiffon said, loading the camera with film. She glanced around the room. You could have heard a bug sneeze, it was so quiet in the store.
“Come on,” Chiffon coaxed. “It’s natural to feel nervous.” She set a bottle of wine and some cups on the soda fountain.
“That’s why there’s a little libation, in case anyone wants a taste of courage. Daisy Hollingsworth sent it over.”
“I ain’t chicken,” Attalee said, slowly getting up to her feet. “I’m proud of the body my maker gave me.” She picked up the bottle of wine and tried to open it. “This durn thing won’t twist off.”
Chiffon took the bottle from her and popped it open with a corkscrew. “I put everyone’s robes in the storeroom. Just slip into yours and come on out. I’ll set up the shot.”
“Good luck, Attalee,” Mavis said in a faint voice.
Chiffon positioned the camera on a tripod. The first shot called for Attalee to lean over from behind the soda fountain wearing her soda jerk hat, bowtie, and nothing else. A large banana split would hide her “assets.”
Chiffon stretched a diffusion filter over the lens that she’d fashioned out of a silk stocking. She was ready to go, but Attalee was taking her sweet time coming out of the storage room.
“Attalee, shake a leg,” Chiffon called out. “We’re ready to go.”
“I’m coming!” she said, stumbling out of the storage room wearing a full-length terry-cloth robe. “It takes a while to chugalug a bottle of wine.”
“You drank the whole thing?” Chiffon said.
“I was thirsty,” she said with a belch.
“Never mind. Just come behind the soda fountain. Chenille, she’s got a merlot mustache. Could you wash it off and reapply her lipstick?”
Chenille readied Attalee while Chiffon peered through the viewfinder. “The lighting is perfect,” Chiffon said. “Attalee, you just lean into the banana split and put your hands on each side of the dish as if you were serving it to a customer. I’m ready whenever you are.”
“She’s all set to go,” Chenille said, stepping out from behind the soda fountain.
“All right, Attalee, just drop your robe whenever you feel comfortable,” Chiffon said. “I’ll take a few shots, and then you can put your robe back on while I set up for the next one.”
“Would y’all quit staring at me?” Attalee said. “This ain’t no peep show.”
“Why doesn’t everyone close their eyes so Attalee will feel more comfortable?” Chiffon said. The wo
men dutifully covered their eyes with their hands while Chiffon made one final adjustment to her camera. “There now, Attalee, it’s just you and me.”
“That’s more like it,” Attalee said. “I don’t need the whole world ogling my goodies.” She licked her lips nervously and glanced around the room. “Here goes nothing,” she said, but her fingers continued to clasp her robe together. “Sorry,” she said with a shake of her head. “Can’t do it. It’s too airish in here. I’ll catch my death.”
Chiffon glanced at the thermostat on the wall. “It’s eighty degrees in here. But if you’re really cold I’ll plug in a space heater.”
Attalee stared down at her feet. “Last night I took a good long look at myself, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.” She kicked at the ground with her slipper. “Guess I ain’t nearly as brave as I thought.”
“Thank the Lord,” Birdie said, rising from her chair, her hands clasped together in jubilation. “I’ve been sitting here thinking there’s not enough spirits in this county to make me squeeze out of my support girdle and pose nude for the camera.”
“I concur,” Mrs. Tobias said with a resigned sigh. “And I thought that I was the only one who wanted to back out.”
“I didn’t sleep a wink last night, I was so edgy,” Mavis said. She gazed glumly at the group. “I guess this means we’ll be forced to have a bake sale after all.”
Everyone sat in sullen silence. Chiffon reluctantly lifted the camera from the tripod. First Chenille was getting married in Rome, and now the calendar project was falling apart. She’d so looked forward to taking photos again. The opportunity had just slipped through her fingers. Disheartened, she stared listlessly down the store aisles, until a display caught her eye.
“Wait a minute,” Chiffon said with a slow grin. “I just had a thought. What if we still did the calendar, just a little differently than we planned? No one will have to remove a stitch of clothing.”
“What do you have in mind?” Birdie asked.
The group of women gathered around Chiffon as she eagerly explained her plan.
“I think it’s a novel notion,” Mrs. Tobias said after Chiffon finished speaking. “Campy as well as clever.”
“And we won’t have Reverend Hozey and the hard-shelled Baptists breathing down our necks,” Birdie said with a nod of her head.
“Are we all in agreement, then?” Chiffon said, smiling broadly. Everyone murmured words of accordance. “Good. Attalee, let’s finish your shoot. The rest of you calendar girls, start getting ready. This is going to be a hoot.”
Twenty-Nine
A balanced diet is a cookie in each hand.
~ Magnet on Chiffon Butrell’s refrigerator
The proofs came back for the Bottom Dollar Girl calendar and they looked scrumptious. Attalee, in particular, was tickled pink at how stunning she appeared in the photographs.
“If you close one eye and squint a little, I’m the spitting image of Ann-Margret,” she kept repeating to everyone. Birdie was most impressed by the quality of the photographs. She asked Chiffon if she’d consider working for the Crier as a photographer.
“I just don’t have the eye anymore,” Birdie said. “The pay wouldn’t be much, and you might have to sell an ad or two on the side, but it’d be a start. Plus, if you wanted to do any moonlighting photography work, I’d give you free ads.”
Chiffon didn’t think twice before she snapped up the opportunity. Anything was better than being a waitress, and she loved taking photos. Never again would she have to come home from work smelling like fried onion rings or with feet so tired she had to soak them in bucket of warm water and Epsom salts. She’d be as happy as a dog with three tails if she weren’t worried sick about Chenille.
“What about your passport?” Chiffon asked, a few hours later, as she watched her sister packing for Rome. “Did you pack it?”
“I’ve got it in a special zippered compartment of my purse,” Chenille said, folding a pair of socks and placing them in her suitcase.
Of course she packed her passport. Chiffon was just making idle conversation. Her sister was more prepared than any Boy Scout ever dreamed of being. Among the items she’d packed were two kinds of electrical converters, Euros in several different denominations, a full-color map of Rome, an Italian phrase book, a raincoat that folded up to the size of a postage stamp, a sewing kit, and two extra rolls of Angel Soft toilet tissue. (Chenille had heard that Italian toilet tissue was scratchy as sandpaper.)
Chenille shook out a long white nightgown.
“I’ve never seen that before,” Chiffon said. “Is it new?”
“I bought it to wear on my wedding night,” Chenille said with a blush.
The gown looked about as sexy as a nun’s habit. Then again, Chiffon couldn’t picture her sister in a feather-trimmed black negligee with peekaboo cutouts.
“Is there anything you’d like to know? I’m not exactly Dr. Ruth, but—”
Chenille took a book from her suitcase and shyly presented it to her sister.
“Sex for Dummies,” Chiffon said, reading the title.
“I read it cover to cover. It had many helpful diagrams,” Chenille said.
“I guess you’re all set.”
“And you’ve got my list of instructions concerning Walter?” Chenille asked.
List? It’s more like an owner’s manual. But Chiffon didn’t care; she’d grown close to the dog, regarding him as her furry little nephew.
“I’ll take really good care of him,” Chiffon said, meaning every word.
Chenille zipped up her suitcase and looked at her sister. “I know you think I’m making a big mistake, but I promise everything will be fine. The other night I realized Drake is the man for me.” She smiled dreamily. “Beneath that suave exterior, he’s really just a big pile of mush. I’m so lucky.”
“I guess I’m like Mavis. I kind of always pictured you with Garnell,” Chiffon said.
“Garnell’s a lovely man, but it just didn’t work out between us. Besides,” she said regretfully, “he’s already paired off with someone else.”
“Garnell? That can’t be right. It’s you he’s taken a shine to.”
“Really?” Chenille slung her pocketbook over her shoulder. “He was getting awfully cozy with your friend Jewel. I went by his house to thank him for his influence with Miss Beezle, and he was holding her in his arms.”
“There must be some kind of misunderstanding,” Chiffon said with a frown. “Jewel isn’t interested in dating. She told me herself. Is that why you got serious with Drake all of a sudden? Because I’d wager one phone call could clear this up.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m in love with Drake and I’m marrying him.” A car door slammed outside. “That’s Drake. Don’t worry about me so much, Chiffon. I’m beginning a wonderful in my life with the man of my dreams.”
Chiffon hugged her sister. “I hope so,” she said, kissing her on the cheek. “Send me a postcard of the Eiffel Tower?”
Chenille laughed. “That’s in Paris. How about the Sistine Chapel?”
“I never was too good at geography,” Chiffon said ruefully. “And Chenille?”
“Yes?”
“Tell Drake he’d best treat you right or he’ll have to deal with me. Tell him I’m a sharpshooter when it comes to Super Soakers.”
Chenille pulled away from her sister’s arms. “Drake loves me. I know he won’t hurt me.” She wheeled her luggage to the front door. “Ciao, Chiffon. I’ll see you in a week.”
After her sister left, Chiffon couldn’t relax. She organized Dewitt’s LEGO collection, straightened Emily’s closet, and fluffed the pillows on Walter’s dog bed. She sadly gazed at a photograph Birdie had taken of the two sisters at the Bottom Dollar Emporium. “Silly girl,” she said to herself, placing the frame face down on h
er dresser. “She’s going to Rome, not Pluto.”
She went into the kitchen looking for something to eat. Peeking into the pantry, she saw that it was impeccably organized, compliments of Chenille. All of the items were in alphabetical order: applesauce, bran cereal, carob cookies. Seeing the box of carob cookies made her instantly sentimental for her sister. With tear-filled eyes, she opened the package and popped one into her mouth. Yuck! She immediately spit it out. Dewitt was right. They did taste like dog biscuits.
Chiffon moved on to the “O” section of the pantry and grabbed a box of Double Stuf Oreos. After consuming three in rapid succession, she felt a little better.
She glanced at the copy of Chenille’s itinerary, which was stuck under a refrigerator magnet. Right now she was on her way to New York on a direct flight from Augusta. From there she would pick up her connection to Rome.
Walter barked as someone pounded at the front door. Chiffon wiped cookie crumbs from her mouth and dashed to the living room.
She squinted out the peephole and saw Garnell, nervously shifting from one foot to another, like he was having trouble holding his water.
Chiffon opened the door. “What’s wrong, Garnell?”
“Has Chenille left yet?”
“A couple of hours ago. Why?”
“Darn it!” Garnell said, pounding his fist into his hat. “I was afraid of that. I finally got the goods on that Drake character.”
“Oh my gosh,” Chiffon said, ushering him in. “What’s his story? Ex-felon, con artist, litterbug?”
“He’s Canadian,” Garnell said grimly.
“Canadian?” Chiffon raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s hardly a crime. Some very decent people are Canadians.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Michael J. Fox is Canadian; Jim Carrey; Keanu Reeves—”
“This Canadian’s temporary visa has run out, and he didn’t win the green card lottery this year,” Garnell interrupted. “He’ll be forced to return to Quebec in a few weeks. That is, unless he gets married.”
A Dollar Short (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 2) Page 20