by Dara Girard
“Five years?”
Richardson nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would never have done this if I’d known. The poor, little thing.”
Richardson stifled a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, Mary’s not exactly little.”
“She’s little to me,” he replied in a quiet voice that had dared Richardson to argue.
Richardson quickly nodded in agreement, but looked as though he’d just stepped into dog mess.
“You should have stood up for her.”
“Against you?” he sputtered.
“Against anyone who would hurt her.”
Richardson shook his head, confused. “You’ve got Mary all wrong. She’s a real trooper. You should have seen her in my office. She was fine. Not a tear or a frown. No emotion at all. She took the news the way she always does—like a professional.”
But Edmund knew Richardson was wrong. The woman he met on the elevator had looked near tears and he was the reason.
Edmund now looked at Gregory and drummed his fingers on his desk. He’d gotten what he’d wanted, and somehow he knew he’d need to make sure she’d get what she wanted. But the thought still didn’t make things right. He hadn’t meant for Mary to lose her promotion. However, he’d make it up to her. He had to. Once she finished his project, he’d make sure she’d get her promotion.
But Mary’s unfortunate situation didn’t bother him the most. What bothered him more was her description of him. Or rather her invisible Edmund—the chain-smoking workaholic who didn’t care about others. Number one, he didn’t smoke. He’d tried in high school and had been so sick he’d never tried again. Number two, yes, he liked to work, but within reason. Okay, so he did put in more hours than most people but only because he wanted to. Number three, he did care about people. He wasn’t in the habit of running over people to get his own way; he preferred to use the word persuasive. And he could be very persuasive.
Besides, after the horrendous experience with the previous supervisor, they needed someone totally different. He knew that Gregory would be able to handle Mary. Edmund was pleased to have gotten a chance to talk to her. She would be very easy to manipulate…no, to work with. He’d made the right decision. Gregory didn’t need any hassles.
The newly designed senior community Gregory and he had envisioned was his life—his heart, if he were to be completely honest—and he wanted it to work. There were a lot of people ready to see them fail, but Edmund couldn’t afford to. He’d lose almost everything if he did.
“Oh, by the way,” Gregory said with a slight smile, “Wanda called. She said she couldn’t reach you.”
Edmund stared at him. “I thought I broke up with her.”
“No, you were going to do that today.”
He softly swore. Instead of calling her, he’d gone back to Richardson’s office. “I forgot.”
“That’s not like you.”
No, it wasn’t, but the incident with Mary had distracted him. He wouldn’t let that happen again. “I guess I’ll have to do that tomorrow.” He frowned. “Did she say why she called?”
“No, only that she wanted you to call her back.”
Edmund glanced at his watch, then lifted the phone; Wanda picked up on the third ring. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi, Edmund. We need to talk.”
He hated those words; they were never good. “Fine. Tomorrow. I’ll reserve a table at the—”
“No, we need to talk today.”
“Fine. Talk.”
“Can you come over after work?”
“Sure.” He hung up.
Gregory looked at him expectantly. “What did she want?”
“She wants to talk to me.”
Gregory gave a low whistle. “That can’t be good.”
Four hours later, Edmund found out how bad it was as he sat in Wanda’s apartment while she tearfully told him that she’d fallen in love with someone else. He didn’t think it was a good time to burst into laughter. He’d been trying to figure out a nice way to break up with her for the past three weeks.
He patted her hand. “It’s okay.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“That’s all right. It wasn’t working between us anyway.” It had been a disaster. He’d met her at a charity function and had initially found her attractive and entertaining, but she had soon made him regret giving her his number. She’d called him all the time. At first he’d thought it was cute; then the calls had increased from every day to every few hours. She’d wanted to know what he was doing, where he was going and with whom. He soon felt he was being stalked and had started lying. Now he was free again. He struggled not to whoop with joy.
Her wet eyes immediately dried up. “You mean you don’t care?”
He stiffened. Dammit, he’d said the wrong thing but didn’t know what. He felt like he’d just fallen into a hole he’d dug himself. “I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s how you feel.”
“How can you know how I feel?”
She pulled her hand from his. “That’s the problem—I never did.” She rested a hand on his shoulder and shook her head in regret. “Edmund, you’re not normal.”
He drew back. He wasn’t normal? The woman who had three psychiatrists telling her the various ways to blame her parents for her separation issues was telling him he wasn’t normal? Perhaps she was right—what normal man would date a woman like her for six months? “Wait a minute.”
“It’s true. You don’t socialize, you spend all your time at that geriatric center or buying property. I don’t understand you.”
“I like my work.”
“You never introduced me to any of your family.”
“I don’t have family.”
“I thought you said you had a sister.”
“I did,” he said in a deceptively neutral voice.
“Where is she?”
He stretched his arms the length of the couch. “Doesn’t matter. What’s his name?”
“Who?”
“The man you’re in love with.”
“Don’t change the subject. I hate when you do that.”
He stood. “So I guess that’s it.”
She darted in front of him. “No, that isn’t it. I want you to see someone.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You want to set me up with one of your friends?”
“No, I want you to go to a psychiatrist.”
He laughed.
“Edmund, this isn’t funny.”
He laughed even harder.
Wanda folded her arms and glared at him.
He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “Take care of yourself.”
“Edmund, I only want to help you.”
He opened the door. “You did. You set me free.” He waved, then left.
Edmund knew he should have been heartbroken—no, insulted—but he was too busy thinking of his newly found freedom and the attention he could now give to his work. Anyway, he didn’t need any more women trouble. His relationships never lasted long. Wanda had been a diversion after a long dry spell. His relationship with her would sustain him over the next few months until he wanted a woman’s warm body in his bed again.
Suddenly, he thought about thick high heels and open brown eyes on a plain face. He shook his head. Mary wasn’t his type at all. He liked his women sophisticated, not looking as though they’d scold you if you held your fork wrong. But he had enjoyed talking to her. He wondered what Mary would have said if he’d introduced himself. She probably would have clammed up and ignored him. That would have been a shame. He found her honesty refreshing, although some of what she said about him had bruised his ego. He knew she was going to be stunned when she discovered who he was, but he knew she would handle it like a professional. He wouldn’t have to worry about her making a scene. She wasn’t the type. He began to whistle. She thought she’d never see Edmund Davis. He’d have to prove her wro
ng.
Chapter 3
Mary sat huddled in the corner of her apartment, wrapped in a blanket as the lights from the city seeped through the blinds, mingling with the reddish glow from the setting sun on the wooden floor. She was about to close her eyes when someone knocked on the door.
“Mary, open up. I’m worried about you.”
She recognized the voice but didn’t respond.
“Mrs. McQueeth called me. You forgot to visit her.”
Mary scrambled to her feet. Poor Mrs. McQueeth. She’d forgotten she had promised to see her today. She had hoped to tell her all about the promotion and services she would now be able to afford for her. Edmund Davis had crushed that dream. Mary opened the door and saw Sara Leon, her friend of ten years. Sara lived in a colonial two blocks away. She was best described as lean, with short hair and a habit of wearing noisy jewelry. Today, large wooden beads hung from her neck.
“I didn’t think anything would be wrong with you,” Sara said. “Then Mrs. McQueeth reminded me that you were going to be promoted and…” Her words trailed off as she stared at the empty apartment. She pushed past Mary and slowly spun around. “Are you trying to achieve a minimalist effect or something?”
Mary shook her head. “No.”
“Are you moving?”
“No.”
“Curtis dumped you?”
Mary nodded.
“That bastard.”
“He took my champagne,” she said bitterly. “Even though I’d bought it with my own money.”
Sara clasped her hands together with joy. “So you got the promotion?”
“No.”
Her hands fell to her sides. “Oh, James is a bastard, too. I’m sorry. What was his excuse this time?”
“It wasn’t just James’s fault. Edmund Davis, the investor of one of the projects, asked for me specifically.”
“Why?”
“James didn’t say.”
Sara walked around the room. “This is unbelievable. That bastard Curtis took everything?”
“He was kind enough to leave the bed.”
Sara paused. “Did he leave the sheets?”
Mary shook her head.
“I didn’t think so. Those sheets were expensive.”
“I didn’t really like them anyway. I would have preferred something else besides brown or black.”
Sara sighed. “I really am sorry.” She bit her lip. “Look, why don’t you stay with me and Larry? You’ll get back on your feet soon.”
“That’s okay. I can afford this place and I’ll find furniture. It won’t be as upscale as what Curtis liked, but it will do. Did Mrs. McQueeth get her dinner?”
“Yes. She’d really love to see you, but I know you’re not in the mood to see anyone right now.”
Mary sighed. “It’s all right. I need to get out anyway.”
Moments later she and Sara sat in Mrs. McQueeth’s small two-bedroom track house. Mary controlled a shiver in response to the cold dampness that clung to the air. Because of the increase in oil prices, Mrs. McQueeth couldn’t afford much and was unable to keep the house adequately heated. Luckily, spring was slowly breaking winter’s hold, and warmer temperatures were predicted soon. In spite of her arthritis, Mrs. McQueeth kept her house impeccably clean. The tiny living room had a fading sofa, with fraying all around. Two hand-crafted wooden side tables held bronzed Tiffany lamps (gifts from her only daughter before she died) and a handmade oval rug. But although the house was chilly, the smell of her cooking scented the air. As usual, Mrs. McQueeth had baked Mary’s favorite zucchini bread and made a pot of lemon tea. Once settled, Mary told her what had happened, delivering it as cheerfully as she could so she wouldn’t depress her friend.
“I was worried about you when you didn’t show up,” Mrs. McQueeth said, her coarse hands reaching for a teacup. She had the face of a woman who had enjoyed her seventy-two years and claimed every laugh line and the few wrinkles she had embedded on her cinnamon face. “But I couldn’t have imagined the day you had.” She went to a side table and pulled out a book. “His name goes in my magic book.”
Mary laughed. “You still have that?”
She sent her a stern look. “Don’t make fun. It allows me to rest assured that everyone in here gets what they deserve.” She scribbled something down, hiding her words so that neither Sara nor Mary could see, then closed the book and put it away.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call. That was unfair of me.”
“You’re better off without that Curtis character. He may have been rich and good-looking, but he was rotten to the core.”
Mary looked at her, surprised. “But he was always nice to you.”
“But he was never nice to you. You were his personal dishrag. I know that sounds harsh, but I have to say what I saw. You decorated that apartment according to his tastes, ate the foods he liked, vacationed where he wanted to and never got that wedding he’d been promising you for years. No, I’m glad he’s gone. Now you can meet a good man.”
“I’m through with men right now.”
“Don’t say that,” Sara said. “There are plenty of good ones still out there.”
“Most of them are married,” she said, thinking of Sara’s husband, Larry.
“I know Larry is a catch, but he isn’t the only good man around. There must be others.”
Mary briefly thought of the stranger in the elevator. She wondered if he was single. She doubted it. Single men like him didn’t stay single long. But if she’d been a lucky woman, he would be single and she would be his type. She scoffed at the thought. As if a man like that would be interested in a plain woman who needed her cheap, ugly heels stuck back on her shoes with superglue.
But he had been nice, and Mary could imagine spending a day with him and a night and another night…
“What’s his name?” Sara said.
Mary’s face grew hot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” her friend said with a knowing look. “We were talking about men and suddenly you started to smile. You’ve already met Curtis’s replacement.”
“No, I haven’t.”
Sara and Mrs. McQueeth shared a look, then stared at her with doubt.
Mary glanced down at the floor. “I did meet someone today who I thought was very nice.”
“What was his name?” Sara asked.
“I don’t know.”
Her expression fell. “You didn’t catch his name?”
“I didn’t think to ask.” Mary waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never see him again.”
Sara and Mrs. McQueeth agreed and changed the subject. After visiting for an hour, Sara left to run errands and Mary left soon after. Before entering her apartment, Mary checked her mailbox. She quickly flipped through the stack of bills and junk mail and saw what looked like an invitation. She was about to toss it away along with the “Still Single?” junk mail she received every few months, but something about it made her curious and she opened it.
It read: 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.
Yeah, right, Mary sniffed. It’s probably just another scheme wanting to get her money. Black Stockings Society, indeed.
She was again about to toss it in the recycling bin when she noticed how it had been addressed: “To Ms. Mary Antoinette Reyland.” Only a few people knew her middle name. Who had sent the invitation? Why hadn’t they signed their name? She grew more curious as she noticed it was a handwritten note, on expensive parchment paper, lined with finely woven lace in a gold-lined envelope. Mary thought for a moment. Things couldn’t get any worse. It was probably someone trying to cheer her up. Why not? She read more.
Dumped? Bored? Tired of being single? Ready to live dangerously?
Yes, yes, yes!
Then this is the club for you. Guaranteed results! Submit yo
ur application today.
Mary rushed into her apartment and began filling out the enclosed questionnaire. Some of the questions seemed laughable.
How would you spend a day at home? With someone wonderful.
Would you prefer roses or daffodils? Roses.
What would your ideal man be like?
This question made Mary pause; then she thought of the man in the elevator and wrote, Attractive, kind and sexy, then added, with warm brown eyes. Her stranger may have been the first three, but his intense cool gaze was unsettling.
She didn’t think the questionnaire made much sense and doubted her answers would be very helpful but filled it out as truthfully as she could. When she was finished she carefully read the “sworn oath” at the bottom of the page: 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.
Mary hesitated, wondering if she’d be able to keep it a secret (if it were true), then thought about the promise of a new life and recklessly signed. Before sealing the envelope, she attached a check for the nominal membership fee, then decided to post the application that evening. She drove to her local post office and with fingers crossed popped it in the drive-by mailbox.
Two days later, a medium-size package arrived. When she opened it Mary stared at the contents in horror. It had to be wrong. Someone had sent her the wrong package. She couldn’t wear these, she thought as she held up a pair of black fishnet stockings. Where would she wear them and with what?
The package included four pairs of different types of stockings, a membership card that read, Mary A. Reyland, Member, The Black Stockings Society, and strict instructions. Always one to follow rules, she read them immediately.
Welcome to The Black Stockings Society. Your first assignment is to take your membership card to Mimi’s Hair Salon, where you will ask for their deluxe special. Then you will go to the Boutique Nouveau and ask for Rania. Set aside plenty of time for each of these appointments. Directions, including a map and phone numbers, were included.
Once you have visited these two locations, you will select one of your pairs of stockings to wear to your next business meeting.
