Brand New Me

by Meg Benjamin

  Craig gave her his best promoter’s smile. “I’m looking for the owner.”

  The brunette smiled. “That’s me. I’m one of them, anyway. Janie Toleffson.”

  Well, hell. This was going to be more complicated than he’d thought. “Actually, I’m trying to find Docia Kent. Is this her bookstore?” Big John hadn’t been able to remember his niece’s married name either.

  Janie Toleffson’s forehead furrowed slightly. “This is her store, but her name is Toleffson now, too. Are you a friend?”

  “Not exactly.” He upped the warmth of the smile. “We’ve never met. I need to ask her about someone—a common acquaintance.”

  The brunette’s forehead didn’t get any smoother. “I don’t know when Docia will be here exactly. Perhaps you could leave a card with your number so that she could call you.”

  Craig figured he wouldn’t hold his breath waiting for that call, but it was the best he could do at the moment. He handed the brunette a business card, with one more smile. “She can reach me at my cell number. I’ll be in town for a few days.”

  Janie Toleffson glanced at the card, then looked more closely. “Brandenburg, Inc.?”

  He nodded. “I work for Mrs. Toleffson’s uncle.”

  Something flickered behind her eyes for a moment, almost too quickly for him to notice. But he had, and he had a good idea what it meant. She’d made the connection with Dee-Dee, and maybe she knew where Dee-Dee was.

  The brunette smiled again. “I’ll give this to Docia when she comes in.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Craig left the store with a spring in his step. He might or might not hear back from Docia Kent Toleffson, but he’d learned something even more important. He was reasonably certain now that the old man had been right—Dee-Dee was somewhere in Konigsburg. Which made her a hell of a lot easier to find.

  Deirdre wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Too Good To Be Threw, but then she’d never been to a vintage clothing store before. She wasn’t even sure what made something vintage instead of just used.

  Clem introduced her to Carolee Guttenberg, the owner, and Deirdre brought in a half dozen of her suits. She figured she might need to keep something to wear to the bank when she applied for the loan she was more and more certain she was going to need, but she also figured she wouldn’t be wearing most of them any time soon.

  Carolee held them up, narrowing her eyes slightly, then blew out a quick breath. “Good quality. Very good. The labels alone should bring in a nice price. You’re sure you want to get rid of these?”

  “I don’t need them anymore. Do you think they’ll sell?”

  Carolee grinned. “Lord above, they’ll sell in a split second to the right person. Some yuppie from Austin’s going to find this stuff and think she’s hit the mother lode. That’s if I don’t grab them myself first. You want to leave them on consignment or take a payment now?”

  “I’ll take a payment this time—I need to buy some things for myself. I may have some more for consignment later.”

  Carolee grinned again. “Any time, sweetie.”

  Deirdre tucked the money from the suits into her purse, then headed toward the back of the store.

  Clem had already started flipping through a rack. “Okay, grab a few of these and try them on. Let’s see what fits.”

  Deirdre narrowed her eyes. “Jeans? I’ve got jeans.”

  Clem shook her head. “I’ve seen your jeans. They look like boyfriend pants, and not in a good way either. We’re trying to come up with a look that will improve your tips at the Faro, not one that’ll scare the customers away.”

  Deirdre thought about protesting. Then again, she’d bought her jeans for comfort, not fashion. They were what she’d worn to laze around her apartment on the weekend. Maybe comfort wasn’t as important at the Faro.

  Clem pulled a couple of pairs of jeans off the rack and handed them to her. “Try these on first. That way we can get an idea of fit.”

  Deirdre stepped into the minuscule dressing room at the back, pulling off her sandals. The jeans were so old the fabric felt like suede. She pulled them on, zipped them up, and stepped out to look at herself in the mirror. “These look nice.”

  Clem shook her head. “Wrong size. Try these.”

  Deirdre squinted at her reflection. The jeans looked fine to her, but Clem was her personal shopper this time around. And she needed those tips.

  She stepped back into the dressing room and pulled on the next pair. These were a lot harder to zip. She took a breath, pulled up the zipper, and stepped out again, panting.

  Clem narrowed her eyes, studying her in the mirror. “We’re getting there. Maybe a half size more.” She handed her another hanger. “Try these.”

  This time, Deirdre had to ease the jeans over her hips bit by bit, unfolding them gradually until they reached slightly below her waist. It took two tries to get the waistband closed. She worried about the strength of the zipper. Taking a few shallow breaths, she stepped out of the dressing room again, telling herself she didn’t really see spots dancing in front of her eyes.

  Clem broke into a grin. “That’s it.”

  “But I can’t breathe,” Deirdre gasped.

  “They’ll loosen up a little as you wear them. Besides, breathing’s overrated.”

  Deirdre gritted her teeth. “Not by those who do it regularly. Anyway, I can’t bend over in these. How am I supposed to serve drinks?”

  “Try bending your knees.”

  She bent slightly. She could swear the fabric groaned behind her.

  “See? You can bend down like that. And besides, once they get molded to you, you’ll be able to bend over too if you want.”

  “I don’t know, Clem.”

  “Carolee?” Clem called. “Come back here and look at her, will you?”

  Carolee peeked over a clothes rack, then broke into a grin. “Oh my. You’re gonna wear those to wait tables? You’ll start a riot. Everybody in town will be down there.”

  “I rest my case.” Clem handed her another pair of jeans. “Try these, too. Boot cut Levis.”

  After a half hour, Deirdre had three pairs of jeans and a stitch in her side from holding her breath. “I guess they’ll be okay. But I need to buy some blouses to go with them. I don’t have anything besides that knit shirt I’ve been wearing all week.” Obviously, the tailored silks she had for her suits wouldn’t exactly work for the Faro, although they’d be a sort of interesting look with the jeans.

  Clem shook her head. “No blouses. T-shirts. Preferably in juvenile sizes.” She headed toward a table at the side of the shop. “Check these out. Vintage concert shirts. You can load up on country and heavy metal.”

  Deirdre picked up a shirt and then set it down again quickly. “My lord! Did you see how much these cost?”

  “They’re vintage. I told you. Collectibles.”

  “I don’t think I can afford vintage. And I need something for wearing, not collecting. Can’t I just get something new?”

  Clem frowned. “I guess you could go for some of that sequin crap like the stuff Carolee has up front, but they’re sort of obvious. And that’s what Sylvia wears. You need your own look.”

  “Well, I can’t afford this look.” Deirdre picked up another shirt, then paused. “Wait. You want T-shirts? I’ve got T-shirts. And they won’t cost a thing.”

  Clem’s frown didn’t lighten. “What T-shirts? Something you brought with you? You’ll want to clear it with me first, believe me.”

  Deirdre shook her head. “The ones in the back room at the shop. Tom said he didn’t have any use for them. There’s got to be something in there that will fit.”

  “As long as they’re not something your grandmother would wear, I guess they’ll work.”

  Deirdre’s grandmother had never worn anything that hadn’t come from Neiman-Marcus or New York City, but she figured that wasn’t something she needed to share just then. “Believe me, they won’t be.”

  “Okay.�
� Clem rubbed her hands together. “Now let’s talk jewelry.”

  Considering that it was a weeknight, business was surprisingly brisk that evening. Tom did a quick head count—two or three empty tables, and a couple of groups of six. He checked his watch. Deirdre was a few minutes late, which didn’t seem like her. But Tom figured she was entitled to the occasional messed-up day, as long as she didn’t make a habit of it. Besides, she’d stayed late with the lunch shift today.

  Fortunately, Sylvia was on time for once. And making sure everybody knew it. “Where is that Deirdre, anyway? I can’t take care of all these tables by myself.”

  “She’ll be here. Have Chico carry the drinks over for you.”

  Sylvia pouted in his general direction before flouncing back to her tables, giving her hips an extra flip in his direction. Tom made a show of not noticing. He hadn’t taken Sylvia up on any of her earlier implied offers, and he wasn’t interested in starting now. He mixed a couple of whiskey sours and checked his watch again.

  “I’m here,” Deirdre panted behind him. “I’m sorry. I got held up.”

  Tom turned toward her and froze, staring.

  Her jeans were like a second skin that fit better than most people’s first one did. Her bright red T-shirt looked to be maybe a half-size too small—it hugged the curves of her breasts lovingly. She’d pulled her long black hair up in a topknot, but a few strands lapped against her neck and the golden hoops at her ears. And her lips were pinker than usual, as if she’d been chewing on them.

  She was, without doubt, the hottest woman he’d seen within the last month. Possibly year. Possibly decade.

  Tom squinted at the black printing across her chest. “Liddy Brenner Festival 2007?” Somehow he managed to keep his voice from shaking.

  “It was one of the ones in the back room at the shop. I hope you don’t mind.” Deirdre chewed her lip for a moment and Tom felt all the blood leave his brain, heading south.

  “That’s okay,” he croaked. “Use them any way you want.”

  “All right. Could I get some change?”

  Tom went on staring at her, trying to get his brain back in gear again. “Change?”

  “My ten dollars in singles?” Deirdre’s brow furrowed. “Are you feeling okay?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “Never better. Ten dollars, coming up.” He turned hurriedly toward the cash register. Anything to get away from staring at the honky-tonk vision in front of the bar. She’d probably have to slug him in another minute or so.

  When he turned back again, Deirdre gave him a dazzling smile that had his groin throbbing. “Thanks.”

  She started to tuck the money into her jeans pocket, then paused, sliding her fingers in slowly so that she could work the dollar bills under the skin-tight fabric.

  Amazing. He hadn’t thought it was still possible for him to get this hard this fast.

  Deirdre gave him another bright smile then and headed for her first table.

  Tom blew out a breath as he watched her. Something told him it was going to be a very interesting night.

  The first table she walked by stared after her, mesmerized. One kid’s jaw actually dropped in disbelief. Finally, one of them raised a hand. “Miss,” he called. “Ma’am?” His voice sounded as if it was on the verge of cracking, although Tom had already carded them and knew the kid was at least twenty-one.

  Deirdre turned back to him, raising one of those parenthesis eyebrows of hers. “Yes? Can I get you something?”

  The kid stared at her, his face flushing in the dim light of the bar. “Yes, yeah,” he stammered. “Beer. I’ll have beer.”

  “What kind of beer?”

  “A…draft.” The boy winced, probably because somebody had kicked him under the table.

  One of the other boys leaned across the table, waving a bill at Deirdre. “A pitcher. Bring us another pitcher, sweetheart.”

  Tom saw Deirdre narrow her eyes. She was so far out of the kid’s league he should be getting the bends, but Tom had to admire his cojones.

  “A pitcher it is.” She leaned forward slightly, snatching the bill from his hand, then turned back toward the bar, her hips giving a natural swing that looked like the move Sylvia had been trying unsuccessfully to perfect.

  The boys stared after her, spellbound. One of them clasped both hands across his heart, flopping them to imitate a beat. The others broke into desperate snickers.

  Deirdre flicked an annoyed glanced over her shoulder without breaking stride. A couple of the boys looked like they might faint.

  Dear lord in heaven. Tom only hoped they’d all get through the evening without any visible scars.

  Deirdre had felt breathless with excitement, to say nothing of the jeans, when she’d finally made it to the Faro. She’d had to dig through a stack of T-shirts before she found one Clem approved of, but when she pulled it on, Clem nodded slowly, grinning. “Oh boy. I’d almost like to stick around tonight to watch, but I think I’ll leave you to it. Have fun.”

  She had. At least for the first hour or so. Sylvia had cast a few annoyed glances in her direction, but Deirdre had been too busy to pay much attention. All of a sudden, everybody in her station needed something. Beer. Nachos. Pitchers. Margaritas. Even a couple of glasses of wine. They’d kept her hopping back and forth between the tables, so busy that Chico had started following her with a tray of drinks.

  Actually, she figured Chico was following her for reasons other than carrying her tray. The more raucous tables quieted down noticeably when he walked by.

  However, the first fight of the evening actually didn’t involve her at all. A couple of the guys at the pool table got into an argument that graduated to shoving. She’d seen them before, and Harry had called them the Steinbruner brothers. At the moment, they weren’t being very brotherly. Chico stepped up beside them and the two subsided into snarls.

  Deirdre stood at the side of the room, watching with wide eyes. She’d never really seen a bar fight before, although she’d sat through her share of yelling at Brandenburg, Inc.

  “Miss,” somebody brayed from the other side of the room. Deirdre took a deep, calming breath and walked briskly toward the table—four more boys who looked barely legal. She knew Tom checked IDs, but she hoped he recognized fakes. She’d never noticed how many young guys they had in the Faro before.

  “What can I get for you gentlemen?” She gave them the smile she’d begun using, spreading her lips to show just the right amount of teeth. She’d practiced in the mirror a few times after watching Sylvia. It didn’t exactly feel natural, but it seemed to do the trick.

  “Depends, honey.” One of the boys leaned forward with what he probably thought was a sexy smile. “What have you got?”

  The easiest way to deal with juvenile jerks seemed to be to take them literally. “We have Shiner, Lone Star, and Bud on tap. A lot of bottled imports—some new microbrews. And mixed drinks. Would you like to order something?” She delivered the speech without smiling, since smiling seemed to bring out the worst in kids like him for some reason.

  “Yeah.” The boy leaned sat back in his chair, his gaze traveling up and down her body. “Bring me another one of these. A Bud.” He shook his beer stein in her direction. “You can take this back, too.”

  Deirdre stood still. She’d have to lean across the table to get the stein, and she had a feeling that wouldn’t be pleasant. On the other hand, this was her job. She blew out another breath and stretched her hand toward him. As she leaned down, one of the other boys reached up and squeezed her breast.

  She straightened abruptly, staring at him in shock. “You…jerk,” she blurted.

  The other boys guffawed, high-fiving the groper.

  “Out.” A male voice sounded over her shoulder. Deirdre turned, expecting to see Chico. Instead, Tom Ames stood behind her. All of a sudden, he seemed a lot taller than the six-feet-something she’d originally estimated. His blue eyes were glacial. He held a sawed-off pool cue in one hand.

 
“Aw, man,” one of the boys began, “we were just…”

  “I know what you were just. Pay your tab and get out. Now.”

  Another of the boys struggled to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “You can’t throw us out of here. We didn’t do anything.”

  “You groped my waitress. And you’re shit-faced, or close enough to be dangerous. I want you out of my place.”

  The boy took a staggering step in Tom’s direction, and then stopped as Chico stepped up to the other side of the table. “You heard what the man said.”

  “Deirdre?” Tom half turned in her direction. “What do they owe?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. They’re paid up.”

  Chico’s mouth slid into a grin that didn’t reach any other part of his face. “Except for the tip.”

  “Tip?” The first boy stared at him open-mouthed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Chico’s biceps flexed, sending a ripple through his tattoos. “Give the lady her tip, jerk-off. You need to pay her for the insult.”

  Tom frowned. Deirdre had a feeling he hadn’t planned on going quite this far. Chico folded his arms across his massive chest, studying the boy in front of him. He seemed to be considering weak spots.

  The boy reached into his pocket and tossed a wad of singles on the table. “Here you go…Deirdre.” Somehow, he made her name sound like an obscenity. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Place is a shithole anyway.”

  Chico frowned. For a moment, Deirdre was afraid he’d take a swing at the kid on general principles.

  Tom shook his head slightly. “Just go.”

  The boys headed for the door, rolling their shoulders and trying for macho. From the far side of the room, somebody gave a particularly moist raspberry. One of the boys paused in the doorway, his hand clenching. Then his buddies grabbed his arm and pulled him outside.

  Deirdre exhaled slowly. She stuffed the tip in her left pocket, then began piling dirty glasses onto her tray, praying that nobody would say anything to her. The noise level seemed to increase again, everyone talking to fill in the silence left by the boys’ exit.