Venus in Blue Jeans

by Meg Benjamin

  Drat. Where boyfriends were concerned, Mama had a mind like a vacuum cleaner. She sucked up every little detail and kept it for further examination.

  “Yes, ma’am. A few days before that.”

  “What’s this new vet’s name?” Mama put the bowl of salad on the table and tried to surreptitiously stretch a hand to the cornbread.

  “Let me help you.” Docia pushed the basket toward her.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t. Got to get into that stupid dress.” Mama subsided into her chair with a regretful glance at the crispy golden squares. “His name?”

  “Cal. Cal Toleffson.”

  “Toleffson. German?”

  Docia shook her head. “Don’t think so. I haven’t asked him.”

  “Probably is.” Mama tweaked a piece of lettuce her way. “Most of those families in Konigsburg are German.”

  “He’s not from Konigsburg. He moved down from Iowa.”

  “Well!” Mama sat up slightly. “Isn’t that interesting! You need to bring him down here to dinner sometime.”

  “No, I do not.” Docia put her plate down firmly. “Don’t make something out of this, Mama.”

  Mama waved a hand. “Docia, I know someday you’ll find someone. I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy,” Docia snapped. “I don’t need to find someone to make my life better, and I don’t need a man to make my life complete anymore. I’ve seen how well that works.”

  Her mother’s mouth tightened. “Docia, I keep telling you—just because Donnie wanted you to help him do some business with your father, that doesn’t mean he didn’t love you too. It’s not like you have nothing to offer except your father’s and my money. My Lord, just look at you!”

  Docia closed her eyes, remembering the moment she’d finally understood Donnie Branscombe, the day they’d gone to dinner with some of his investors, so they could get to know her—and see visible evidence of his link to Billy Kent. The day he’d asked her to go to her father for a loan so that his development wouldn’t go under, taking a sizeable chunk of her own money with it. It had taken her over a year to get over Donnie Branscombe, and she’d only done it thanks to a lot of work and a new mission—to make herself a life in Konigsburg.

  Now she felt a slight remembered pang, like a phantom limb. “I really thought I loved him, Mama,” she murmured. “Maybe I talked myself into it, but I really did.”

  “Oh, darlin’.” Her mother gave her a hug, holding her tight for a minute. “Maybe he was a dirtball, but I think he loved you too. I know he was upset when you gave him back his ring.”

  “Mama, I’m sure from Donnie’s point of view it was just as easy to love a rich girl as a poor one.” Docia sighed, reaching for her iced tea. “The point is, if I’d gone ahead and married him, I would never have known whether he cared more about me or about Daddy’s money. I’m not going to let myself get into that situation again—wondering whether somebody wants me or some Kent cash. Not ever.”

  “Docia, it doesn’t have to be that way.” Her mother shook her head. “I keep telling you that. There are good men who’ll love you no matter who you are. Who’ll want you just for you. There are honest men out there—you just have to be honest with them too. Just keep looking, baby. Keep your hopes up.”

  Docia looked at her mother, a Texas Brandenburg, born with a moderate fortune that had become a significant one by the time she was eighteen. Mama did not strike her as a model of someone who’d know what it was like to be loved no matter who you are.

  She took a breath. “I’m trying, ma’am. I’m really trying.”

  —

  Wonder grimaced. “Idaho, need I remind you, you’re going to a street dance Friday night? At which, believe it or not, people will be dancing.”

  Cal had a sudden vision of himself at his junior prom, trying very hard not to stumble over his date, who watched him with terror-stricken eyes. Dancing was torture. One false move and it was time for the emergency room. “Yeah, well, I don’t.”

  “You’ve got to!” Janie gasped. “You’re taking Docia. Docia loves to dance. And everybody will be watching you.”

  Just what he wanted to hear. Cal took a gulp of sangiovese, then remembered that he was drinking from a glass of wine rather than beer. He managed not to choke. “We’ll work something out,” he wheezed.

  Allie frowned. “What’s the problem, exactly? Don’t you know how to dance?”

  “Sort of.” Cal tried to think of some way out of this conversation short of heading for the door. “I used to know.”

  If “knowing” meant being able to get around the dance floor without flattening anyone, yeah, you could say he knew.

  “Sort of is fine,” Janie said quickly. “It’ll be very crowded.”

  “No, it’s not fine!” Wonder brought his hand down flat on the table. “The town’s honor is at stake. We’ll have a shitload of tourists wandering around, and you and Delectable will be center stage.”

  Cal frowned. “Why would they look at us any more than anyone else?”

  Everyone at the table stared at him. Wonder shook his head. “You’re both very noticeable. I rest my case. Ingstrom?”

  Ingstrom leaned his elbows on the bar. “Yeah?”

  “Did you ever get that jukebox fixed?”

  “Yeah.” Ingstrom narrowed his eyes at Wonder. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to put your own money into it for once.”

  Wonder got up from the table, grabbing the wine bottle. “Come on. Everybody.”

  Cal considered making a break for it, but then he saw Horace Rankin standing next to the door. Trapped.

  Wonder was staring down at the vintage Wurlitzer Ingstrom kept at one end of the room. “Jesus, Ingstrom, isn’t there anything on here from later than 1952?”

  Ingstrom shrugged. “My jukebox, my music.”

  Wonder dropped some coins into the slot and began pushing buttons. “Ma’am,” he said, extending his hand to Allie.

  Patti Page began singing “The Tennessee Waltz” while Wonder and Allie glided across the floor with considerable grace. Cal watched them, amazed. They were immediately joined by other couples, including, Cal noted with some shock, the clinic assistant, Bethany, and Horace Rankin. At least half the people in the bar were on their feet, pushing aside chairs to enlarge the dance floor.

  Jane tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, Doc, now or never.” She held up her hands.

  She was around the size of his junior prom date, maybe smaller. In fact, she suddenly looked like a six-year-old. Cal took her hand with considerable foreboding.

  Jane slid into his arms easily and followed his shuffling steps with verve. To his amazement, they began moving more quickly. The music switched. Patsy Cline sang “Crazy”. Not exactly a waltz, but he still managed not to step on Janie or any of the other dancers.

  “You’re doing fine.” She grinned up at him.

  Cal tried a quick turn. It worked.

  Someone tapped on his shoulder and suddenly Bethany was in his arms while Janie swooped away with Horace. Willie Nelson sang “Stay All Night”. It definitely wasn’t a waltz and people were dancing something that looked sort of like forties jitterbugging. Cal considered breaking for the sidelines.

  “Country swing,” Allie called reassuringly from his left. “Just go with it.”

  Cal’s brain told him to sit. His feet paid no attention, and he and Bethany bounced around the room. At least what he lacked in grace, he made up for in energy, and he was still managing not to flatten anybody.

  Five minutes later he had Allie laughing in his arms. Willie and Waylon were singing “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys”. Everybody in the bar sang along with the chorus, including Ingstrom in a surprisingly loud baritone.

  Couples swooped around the room in wide arcs, their arms spread wide. Cal and Allie fell in behind Horace and Bethany, twirling happily.

  After a few minutes, Cal found himself singing too, trying to remember the words. Oh yes, Ma
mas, definitely do not let those babies grow up to be cowboys.

  Why exactly didn’t he like dancing?

  God, he loved Konigsburg!

  Chapter Eleven

  The first day of the Liddy Brenner Festival dawned hot, with an ominous pile of dark clouds stacked in the west. As he glanced out the window, Cal wondered if he’d be disappointed or relieved if rain wiped out the street dance. Not that he was really worried after his evening at the Dew Drop. But if he stepped on Bethany, she’d probably just grin and make a joke. If he stepped on Docia…

  He really didn’t want to step on Docia.

  He did want to dance with her, though. Slow dancing, preferably. Maybe one of those where you don’t move much, just stand there and rub.

  Thinking about rubbing Docia was not the best way to keep his mind on his work. Plus it changed the fit of his scrubs in predictable ways. Cal took a deep breath and pushed the thought under the To Be Continued category.

  The clinic business reflected the upsurge in the number of tourists who’d arrived in town for the festival. A lady from Dallas brought in a Lhasa Apso suffering from heat prostration. A Great Dane from Sugarland had had an unfortunate encounter with a prickly pear cactus. Cal removed a thorn from his nose and felt like giving him a lollypop after the dog licked his hand.

  A family from Denison had, for unclear reasons, seen fit to bring along the son’s corn snake on the family vacation. The snake had not been a welcome visitor in their bed and breakfast, and the mother wanted to board it for the weekend. The snake’s eight-year-old owner objected vociferously. Cal left Armando to figure it out since he’d be the one who did the snake-sitting.

  At four, Horace stopped him in the hall. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have a costume to put on?”

  Cal wasn’t sure how Horace would react if he told him he’d pretty much worn his costume to work that morning. He hoped Wonder hadn’t jerked him around on the whole costume thing. If he had, Cal would have to mutilate him.

  “Oh, get out of here,” Horace harrumphed. “Go wash your beard or something.”

  Cal hiked home—he’d left the truck at the barn rather than fight his way through the tourists—and changed his shirt to his favorite denim one that was so worn it was almost transparent. He figured he could always claim to be dressed as a penniless nineteenth-century farmer rather than a penniless twenty-first-century vet.

  On the way back to Docia’s he swung by Sweet Thing, having worked through lunch. Allie and her counter staff were selling chocolate chip cookies and sticky buns at a great rate. Allie waved hello and gave him a spinach kolache to go.

  Munching happily, Cal ambled up Main, treating the tourists as a kind of human obstacle course—giving himself points for avoiding the kid with the taffy apple and for not tripping over little old ladies. One little old lady impediment in a turquoise running suit was bending over in front of Margaret Hastings’ shop window, admiring a set of crystal angels in graduated sizes.

  Margaret.

  For a moment, Cal considered stepping into Angels Unaware, if only to show that he was capable of being civil. Then he checked his watch and decided getting to Docia’s was more important than being Midwestern. Let somebody else be a nice guy today.

  —

  Docia stood in her bedroom taking deep breaths and telling herself to calm down. She wasn’t a complete nervous wreck, but she was close.

  She couldn’t decide about the boots. She kept putting them on and taking them off, looking at herself in the mirror with boots and without. They were great boots. She’d picked them up at an Austin vintage clothing store. Black with sharp, pointed toes and stacked heels. Yellow roses embroidered across the front.

  She loved them but suspected her feet would give out halfway through the dance. And a street dance during the Liddy Brenner festival was no time to be running around barefoot.

  She considered her alternatives: sandals wouldn’t work with her outfit. Heels wouldn’t be any better on her feet than the boots. And her skirt wasn’t long enough to hide running shoes. Blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes, she headed downstairs.

  She walked into the storeroom and stuck her head through the door into the shop.

  Janie stood at the front counter, closing out the register. Docia held up the boots in one hand. “What do you think? Should I wear them?”

  Janie squinted critically, moving her head to try to see the rest of Docia’s body. “Depends. What does the whole outfit look like?”

  Docia stepped away from the door, raising her chin.

  Janie’s eyes widened. “Oh, good gravy, Docia!”

  Docia frowned, biting her lip. Janie was the first one who’d seen the whole ensemble. What if the whole thing didn’t work? “Too much?”

  Janie shook her head slowly. “For anyone else on earth, yes. For you, it works. That’s not your impression of Liddy Brenner, is it?”

  Docia humphed. “Not likely. You know how I feel about that whole Liddy Brenner legend, or Margaret’s version of it, anyway. This is my own idea.”

  “Well, as long as you’re not challenging the local icon, you should be fine.” Janie’s lips spread into a wide grin.

  A slight twinge somewhere south of her conscience pricked at Docia. It would be just her luck to piss off the citizens the day before the wine and cheese party. “Will this outfit upset people? I don’t want them to think I’m making fun of them.”

  Janie’s grin actually widened. “Docia, trust me, nobody will care. It’s all dress-up anyway. They’ll love it. You’ll certainly be memorable.”

  “And the boots?”

  Janie shrugged. “Wear ’em. Icing on the cake.”

  —

  Cal rounded the corner and saw Janie locking the door of the bookshop. “Is Docia in there?”

  Janie glanced up. “In the apartment.” She gave him a suspiciously wide smile. “She’s all dressed and ready to go. Have fun, Doc!”

  Her smile had a sort of anticipatory flavor. Cal had the distinct feeling he was walking into an ambush. He ambled warily around to the apartment door, rang the bell, and stuck his head inside. “Docia?”

  “Cal?” Her voice floated down the stairs. “Come on up. I’m just about ready.”

  Cal wandered up the stairs and into Docia’s living room. The Persian rug glowed warmly in the afternoon sunlight. A jelly jar full of red and yellow zinnias on the coffee table echoed the colors.

  “Hey,” Docia said from the doorway.

  Cal turned and felt his breath whoosh out of his body.

  Docia’s skirt swirled with a deep flounce edged in lace around her ankles. More strips of champagne-colored lace held together gauzy white panels, providing tantalizing glimpses of Docia’s legs when she moved. It looked like a petticoat designed for a frontier lady with adventurous appetites.

  The black satin top covered Docia’s upper body like a coat of paint. Silver roses were embroidered across her bosom, and silver lace rimmed the top edge of the bodice along the sumptuous swell of her breasts.

  A great deal of sumptuous swell.

  Another piece of silver lace circled her throat. She wore her hair in a topknot that looked like a cross between a Gibson girl and a can-can dancer.

  She was a lonely cowboy’s dream girl. A dancehall queen with money, style and a creative imagination. She was also the hottest thing he’d seen since he’d discovered sex at age fifteen.

  Cal reminded himself to breathe. Breathing was important.

  Also well-nigh impossible.

  “Cal?” Docia’s voice sounded anxious. She moved toward him tentatively. “Are you okay?”

  He managed to drag his gaze from her bosom to her face. Her forehead was furrowed.

  “Is the outfit too much? It’s the boots, isn’t it? They take it over the top.”

  Cal stared at her feet. She had on black cowboy boots. He hadn’t noticed them before. He was pretty sure nobody else would notice the boots either. “The boots are great,” he croaked
.

  “What’s the problem then?” Her brow was still furrowed. “Should I put a blouse on over the bustier? Or should I just change the whole thing? I mean, I could always wear jeans and a camisole or something.”

  “Don’t. Change. Anything.” Cal wiped his palms on his thighs. The motion kept him from grabbing her, which was what he really wanted to do.

  Docia’s mouth spread in a slow grin. “You really like it?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He swallowed hard.

  “Good.” She grabbed a black lace shawl from the back of the couch. “Let’s go dance, Doc.”

  The streets were still full of people as they started walking toward the park, but Docia was like a rock in a stream—the crowds parted in front of her and then closed behind. Cal remembered Wonder saying the two of them would be a center of attention.

  Little did he know.

  Thanks to the boots, Docia was almost eye-level with him again. Cal raised a quizzical eyebrow. “So if you aren’t supposed to be Liddy Brenner, who are you supposed to be?”

  She smiled, kicking a pebble out of her way. Three teenage boys stood frozen in her wake, looking at her as if Docia came from another galaxy. A galaxy where they’d clearly like to make an extended visit.

  “I am portraying my personal frontier heroine,” Docia trilled. “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”

  “Sweet Betsy?” Cal frowned. “You mean ‘who crossed the wide prairie…’”

  “‘…with her lover Ike.’” Docia finished in a rich contralto. “Yeah, that’s the one. Notice—not husband, not brother, not father—lover. An independent female. She’s the one who ran that outfit.”

  Cal grinned. “The outfit didn’t run too well, as I recall. Didn’t their cattle die and their rooster run off?”

  “Patriarchal propaganda!” Docia danced along the street in front of him. Cal thought he heard a moan from a guy in a cowboy hat who stood transfixed on the sidewalk.

  “Betsy fights off an Indian attack, she resists advances from Brigham Young, she crosses deserts and climbs mountains and tells Ike to get a move on.” Docia grinned happily. “She’s one tough babe.”

  She looked anything but tough herself at that particular moment. In fact, she looked tasty as hell. What would happen if he nibbled on her neck a little? He took another in a series of deep breaths. Behave yourself.