Chapter 17
BACK IN THE BEDROOM SHE’D STAYED IN SO OFTEN everyone referred to it as “Emmie’s room,” Emmie stared at herself in the mirror. She hardly recognized the woman who stared back at her with eyes that glittered dangerously above magenta-splotched cheeks. She couldn’t remember ever being so furious. Ever. Fury that made her eyeballs sting and her scalp tighten and made her draw in air in great gulps.
She was angry, and when she looked back she could see she’d been angry a long, long time. She was angry at Davy and Caleb and all the jocks like them who believed she should be grateful they deigned to notice her. Angry at her conniving classmates who vied to be her lab partner because working with her guaranteed an A, but who couldn’t see her in the cafeteria. Angry at her grandmother for not letting her dress like the other girls, for telling her it was only necessary that her dress be clean and modest and pleasing to the Lord, and at all the people over the years who had treated her as if she didn’t matter.
She had convinced herself that she dressed to please herself and didn’t care what anyone else thought. Her indifference had been a carapace she’d grown to protect her vulnerable inside, to contain her anger, and also to hide it from herself.
And she was angry at herself. For pretending that not taking part in life was her choice. She, who had believed her problem was her honesty and her inability to see the point of pretending—she had been lying. She had told herself the beauty game was a competition, and being chosen was an illusion based on shallow values. She had told herself she was above the fray, when in truth, she’d been too cowardly to enter it.
As of this morning that would change. Anyone who saw her from now on would recognize she was a woman to be reckoned with. She didn’t lack a girlie gene. That was another lie. She had more than enough intelligence to bring about her transformation by herself. Eventually. She was on a deadline, unfortunately. She had only two weeks, and Pickett was on her honeymoon. Fortunately, she knew a person who had all the knowledge she lacked. Grace.
Emmie never doubted that Grace would help her. Nothing would please Grace more than to make a project of her. Her fear was that if she made herself Grace’s disciple, Grace would believe she had carte blanche to completely take over her life. It was a risk that had to be taken.
A couple of hours later Emmie found Grace in the living room organizing the wedding gifts. There was no time like the present. Emmie’s newfound nerve would only stretch so far. She ignored the way her heart was pounding.
“Grace, can I talk to you?” Her voice came out a wobbly whisper.
“Sure.” Grace answered absently while she carefully numbered the tag on a present, and beside the corresponding number on a ledger, wrote the name of the giver. Pickett would open the gifts in order, and a description of the gift would be entered in the ledger. “In a minute. Just let me get these—”
“Grace,” Emmie tried again. “Can I talk to you right now—in private?”
Grace looked up, puzzled. As well she might. Now that she could tell herself the truth, Emmie could admit how much Grace had always intimidated her. She felt “weighed in the balance and found wanting” by Grace, and had been more likely to duck Grace’s notice, than to demand it. “I need a makeover.”
Grace’s eyes lit with joy. Then dimmed with doubt. “But, Emmie, why?”
Emmie knew what she was asking. Why after all these years? Why after the discreet hints, carefully worded suggestions, and outright instructions, all of which Emmie had ignored? Emmie couldn’t possibly tell her the real reason, so she offered the one she had settled on—a reason Grace would accept and be flattered by.
“The bridesmaid dress you chose for me, the hair, the makeup, was all perfect. I didn’t know, if I did what you said, I could look like that.”
Grace clearly saw no need to dispute that, but still she gave Emmie a hard look over the little gold reading glasses she used these days. “You’re not very good at taking directions. If I agree to do this, will you actually do what I say? Or will you find excuses not to? Will you argue about every step?”
“No excuses,” Emmie agreed. “I will put myself in your hands and do as you say.”
Emmie regretted that promise less than two hours later when Grace pulled her Lexus into a parking space in front of a lingerie boutique. They’d driven all the way to Raleigh, the nearest large city, to find a place that came up to Grace’s standards.
“Um, Grace, do we have to do this? I promise I’ll buy anything you tell me to, but I’d rather do it in private.”
“Finding the right style for your figure type is all about covering up your flaws and highlighting your good points. Fortunately for you, you don’t have any real figure flaws. We’re mainly looking for clothes that fit.”
Emmie interrupted her. “I don’t understand. You didn’t mention my breasts.”
“What about them?”
“I thought covering up my flaws was what I was doing.”
“By buying clothes that were too big?”
“The clothes aren’t too big. My breasts are.”
Grace gave Emmie a long what planet are you from look. Emmie had been getting them all her life. She had enough experience to know anything else she said would make her look even stupider.
“Fit,” Grace went back to expounding on her theme as if Emmie’s question never happened, “except for rail-thin models, is a matter of having on the right undergarments. In other words, you need bras. With your shoulder, you’re not going to last through a lot of trial and error, while we look for the right ones. This shop has the best fitter I know.” Grace made her tone a little kinder. “I know you have modesty issues. But you know, you haven’t been tastefully covering your body, you’ve been obliterating it. The fact that you have a shape has got to be dealt with. Think of it as going to the doctor—but not as bad. No stirrups.”
It was an awful day, but when it was over Emmie was the owner of three bras that were amazingly comfortable. Even she could see that with them on, blouses didn’t gape, and suit jackets could be buttoned without bunching under the arms. Even though said blouses and jackets were one or two sizes smaller than what she was used to wearing.
“Intense colors overwhelm you,” Grace pronounced, “which is why you’ve instinctively shied away from them. But that doesn’t mean you have to limit yourself to beige. And no, you don’t have to wear girlish pastels. What we will look for are muted shades—rose and heather, plum rather than purple, denim blues.”
After an exhaustive and ruthless discussion of Emmie’s good points and flaws, she laid out her plan. “The most important thing is to emphasize your good points. You have perfect skin—even though you do absolutely nothing to maintain it, and you have good legs. We can’t do much shopping right now, because of your arm. But I’m determined to find a cardigan sweater or two, to wear with slacks and skirts. Something that discreetly shows off your bustline. After your arm heals we’ll get some pullover tops you can wear under them.”
“All right,” Grace said at last. “We have as many outfits as it’s reasonable to buy until your shoulder is better. The next thing is to decide how to have a few trial runs. I know on TV they do the big dramatic reveal, but that’s not really the best way. It’s better to try out a new look in a low pressure environment. You want to get comfortable with the unfamiliar clothes and people’s reactions so that when it’s crucial to look good you won’t transmit nervousness. I suggest Aunt Lilly Hale’s homecoming. I know she always invites you,” Grace added before Emmie could object.
“But it’s a family reunion.”
“So? You are family,” Grace pronounced with sublime disregard for the facts. “Emmie, don’t make me get ugly with you. It’s perfect. There won’t be anyone there you need to impress.”
“Let’s see if we can find some leftovers in Mom’s refrigerator—if we can face turkey again,” Grace said as she opened the front door to her mother’s house with her key. She had called her husband from the c
ar to tell him to feed himself and their teenage sons. “Mom, we’re here.”
Lyle appeared in the family room doorway. Emmie took in her skinny-legged black jeans and black tunic sweater with a wide silver fabric belt (to call attention to her small waist—Emmie knew things like that now).
“Mom’s not here,” she said. “You just missed her. She got a call that her secretary’s husband has been hospitalized with chest pains, so she’s gone over there.” Lyle had declined the shopping trip in favor of a chance to stay and visit with their mother. She didn’t come home often, and it was the first private time they’d had. “What did you buy?”
“Let’s get a sandwich. Then Emmie can try everything on, and we’ll practice makeup.”
“Goody.” Lyle rubbed her hands. “My favorite part.”
“It would be, since you’re the artist. I can do my own makeup, but I’m not as good with other people’s,” Grace admitted. “Shall we see if Sarah Bea wants to come over?”
What Grace was asking was, if Sarah Bea came over, would Lyle behave herself? The two frequently squabbled with each other. “Sure, let’s call her. She’s the best with hair.” Lyle smirked evilly. “And the three of us can gang up on Emmie.”
“Oh!” Grace laughed. “Do you remember the time she cut Pickett’s hair?”
“She thought she could cut out the parts that curled,” Lyle told Emmie.
“Poor child looked like she’d caught her head in a paper shredder!”
Emmie had rarely been around the sisters when Pickett wasn’t present, and she’d wondered how they would do without Pickett to act as peacemaker and arbiter. But they continued to laugh together even after Sarah Bea arrived and they commandeered their mother’s dressing room again.
A few minutes later, their mother, Mary Cole, returned with the good news that her secretary’s husband would likely make a full recovery.
They insisted on dressing Emmie in her new clothes, so she wouldn’t use her arm too much. Soft, feminine hands buttoned, straightened, folded collars back, and twitched seams into place. Tears welled in her eyes.
Grace saw them. “What’s the matter, Emmie? Are we hurting your shoulder?”
“I just remembered something. I was twelve. I was getting dressed to catch the plane to come to live in the States without my parents. My mother came in my room, and she wouldn’t let me button my dress or put on my shoes myself. I was twelve. I hadn’t needed her help with things like that for a long time, but she pushed my hands away and said, ‘No. Let me do it.’”
“It must have been hard, going off by yourself like that.” Lyle’s voice was low, her smile sad.
“And it must have been hard for your mother to let you go,” added Mary Cole with a misty smile. “She wanted a few more minutes while you were still her little girl.”
Emmie’s eyes got wet again. She had never seen that memory from her own and her mother’s perspective at the same time.
Warmth filled her chest and merged into an almost visible bond of understanding between Lyle and Mary Cole and her. They were talking to her, but also talking about Lyle’s need to leave home, and her mother’s need to hold on to her.
After surveying Emmie’s purchases, Mary Cole said, “That reminds me. I’ve got a sweater I bought last year, but I realize it isn’t right for me. Would one of you like it?”
When everyone had tried it and all agreed it looked best on Sarah Bea, Lyle showed Emmie how to use the one hundred and fifty dollars worth of makeup she’d bought under Grace’s tutelage, while everyone leaned forward to learn the latest techniques. Then everyone wanted Lyle to “glamorize” them, while Sarah Bea demonstrated different ways Emmie could wear her hair.
Mary Cole went downstairs and came back with leftover wedding cake and glasses of wine. They rehashed every part of the wedding and congratulated themselves on how well it had gone, while wishing that this or that had been better.
“I’d better get home,” Grace said at last. “I’ve left my menfolk to their own devices long enough.”
“Me too,” Sarah Bea stood and stretched. “I’m glad y’all called me though. This has been the best ending to Pickett’s wedding I could have imagined. Emmie, I guess you and Lyle will be leaving early tomorrow, so I’m going to hug you good-bye now.” She hugged Emmie and then her sister.
Grace came over to hug Emmie. “Thank you, Emmie.”
“I should be thanking you.”
“No. Thank you for letting me—” Grace, who was never sentimental, swallowed and blinked suspicious wetness from her eyes. “I feel like you really are my sister now.”
Chapter 18
DO-LORD TURNED INTO THE DRIVE OF A LARGE WHITE house dripping with gingerbread, and, as instructed, drove around it to the back. There, nestled among huge old camellias and azaleas, their dark green leaves glistening in the bright December sun, sat a tiny, one-story house, formerly a servants’ quarters, where Emmie lived. Tall pines shaded it, and a rusty drift of pine needles had piled up along the angle of the tin roof.
Trust Emmie to live in a storybook cottage. He almost laughed aloud. He’d thought about her often in the couple of weeks since he’d seen her. Knowing he wouldn’t be content to see her only for the weekend, he’d even taken Lon up on his offer to arrange leave. He had two weeks before he had to return to base the day after Christmas. When Do-Lord said he was going to North Carolina, Lon hadn’t blinked. Grinned a lot, but not blinked.
Discovering her connection to Calhoun had been one of the best pieces of luck he’d had in a long time—right up there with the time he accidentally rescued two SEALs.
That had been a major turning point. Until then he had lived on the fringes of society—among the poor and the powerless—all his life. Drifting and aimless after the death of his mother, he just wanted to drive around and see stuff until the three hundred fifty dollars he’d gotten for the sale of the trailer ran out. He could look back and see he’d been on a course that would have taken him from the petty crime of his teenage years to major crime.
He’d been to Six Flags Over Georgia where he rode every roller coaster for a week. He went to Charlotte Motor Speedway, where he lived out of his car and soaked up the aphrodisiacal aromas of chewing tobacco, car exhaust, and beer. The Danville International Speedway was a disappointment. Turned out the little track in the rolling farmland had been shut down a few years before and wouldn’t reopen until 1998.
Looking at a map, he saw that from Danville, Highway 58 went straight across Virginia and ended at the Atlantic ocean. Something about that appealed to him—to just get in the car and drive smack-dab to the ocean and finally see that “end of the road” that everybody talked about.
As it happened he arrived in Virginia Beach on his eighteenth birthday. He parked the car in a lot where the highway really did end, took the concrete steps down to the beach, and walked on the sand with a nor’easter buffeting his ears under a gunmetal gray sky that spit stinging pellets of rain from time to time.
The bar, The Sea Shanty, looked like a place to get warm and buy himself a beer to celebrate his first sight of the Atlantic and his birthday. It hunkered down, less than a block from the ocean, under a massive freeway that connected the beach to Norfolk. It gave the impression that the highway had simply been built over it—which he gathered, was pretty much the case. It had existed there for forty or fifty years in the same state of stubborn dilapidation. Paint had long since been scoured off by salt winds, and with the freeway overhead it didn’t need much roof.
He used the one fake ID (of the five fakes he had) that showed his real birthday—although the year was off a bit, and none of the other facts were right either. It made for a lonely celebration though, since telling anyone why he was there wasn’t an option.
He was two sips into his second beer when the fight broke out. It wasn’t his fight. Staying clear of swinging fists, he retired with his beer bottle to a short hallway that led past the restrooms to a back door exit and stayed there to wat
ch.
Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind. It felt like being clutched in the arms of a tank. He knew dirty moves. He tried them. The tank effortlessly immobilized Do-Lord with a half nelson forcing his face forward and down. He couldn’t see a thing except the way-past-filthy cracked vinyl floor.
“Weed! What the hell are you doing? Leave the kid alone,” a voice, that didn’t seem to be talking to him, demanded.
“I’m getting the kid out of here,” the human tank yelled over the melee, insulted.
“Shit! Are you out of your mind? Leave him. We got to get ourselves out. You know what’s going to happen if we’re picked up by the Shore Patrol.”
The shoulder hold didn’t let up one iota. “Tha’s the reason we gotta save the kid. Can’t let him get picked up. He’s underage,” Weed explained with drunken perspicacity.
“You are so drunk. Okay, okay! We’ll take him with us. Just move!”
Do-Lord was grabbed on the other side by another arm, equally steely.
A thousand thoughts went through Do-Lord’s mind. Noticing he was taller than either of the two men who had him now by each arm. How massive were the arms that held him. Whether he wanted or needed rescue, fighting was pointless. He was dragged backwards through a rear exit and yet without unnecessary roughness.
Then they were outside among haphazardly-parked cars in the chilly wet night. Sirens could be heard in the distance. His two drunken Don Quixotes set him on his feet. They were in their early twenties, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and as he’d already noted, shorter than he. They outweighed him by a good fifty pounds of muscle.
He could have run. He’d been poised to as soon as they loosened their hold the least bit, but Do-Lord had a lifetime of summing up others’ intentions in a split second. Whatever they intended, it wasn’t harm, although the casual competence with which they had immobilized him said they were no strangers to violence. Being saved was a novel experience. He was curious about what they would do next.
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