They picked up Lila’s gown from the cleaners first, and Roxanne tried her best to keep her mouth from hanging open. The garment was stunning, a floor length, spaghetti-strapped number of shimmering turquoise. The incredi-dress was peppered with silvery beads that grew denser from bodice to floor until the very bottom was pure sparkle. Even on the hanger, Roxanne could tell that the dress was a knockout and perfectly suited to the honey haired model. Roxanne was going to look like a poor relation in her hand-me-down gold.
What did she care? Or maybe the question was why did she care?
“Okay, chickadees,” Lila purred. “Where to now?”
“The Shoe Barn,” Miss Gertie answered, turning her wheelchair and leading the way.
The Shoe Barn was quite an impressive shoe store for a town the size of Jefferson County, but as Miss Gertie so eloquently pointed out, “Where there are women, there are shoes.”
Roxanne looked around, trying to find a suitable pair of black pumps to add to her growing collection, while Lila and Miss Gertie browsed. There were two or three pair that would work, and Roxanne asked the young salesclerk to get them in her size. While she waited for him to return from the stockroom, she examined the other shoes.
“They’re beautiful,” Miss Gertie said from behind her.
Until then, Roxanne hadn’t realized she had been staring at the most gorgeous pair of dress sandals she had ever seen. Black patent with a T-strap and three-inch stiletto heels, the shoes said sexy, sexy, sexy and in capital SEXY.
“Try them on, dear.”
Roxanne shook her head. They weren’t at all what she needed. They wouldn’t be appropriate for her ugly gold dress. They wouldn’t go with the sixteen pair she already had at home … in her apartment … in Chicago. With their designer label, they were a little out of her budget this month. Or this millennium. Whatever.
“Oh, try them on. It’ll be fun.”
“I’ll pass,” Roxanne said, wishing the words weren’t at all what she had to say. Something about the shoes called her name. Made her want to buy them and wear them tonight with her ugly dress to show Malcolm that she had some measure of taste, at least where shoes were concerned. The thought was ridiculous. Malcolm didn’t care what she wore, no matter how attracted he was to her, and it certainly wouldn’t make any difference in the outcome of her case or her ability to get the story if she had those shoes. Come Monday she would be out of this town, and it wouldn’t matter what Malcolm thought of her or her shoes. She would go back to her life, and he would go back to his.
But she had owned a pair like that once, before her marriage, before the baby, before everything, but she had given them away along with the rest of her “suitable attire”—as her father would say. But after … everything, she just couldn’t seem to wear them anymore. No matter how perfect they had been.
“They’re perfect,” Lila said behind her. “Do they come in silver?”
Art, the young salesclerk, shook his head as he brought out Roxanne’s requested pairs of suitable black pumps. “Sorry, Miss Lila. We only have them in black and red.” He set up Roxanne’s shoes where she could try them on and walked around one of the display tables holding up a pretty dress sandal for Lila’s perusal. “But this one is similar. And it comes in silver.”
It was close, Roxanne noticed, but not nearly so sexy as the black. She sat down and began trying on the pumps. She didn’t know why, but she felt almost sad, putting on the boring shoes. Maybe she should buy something with a little more pizzazz. Maybe a sling-back.
“Let me try on those, Art,” Lila said. “And the black ones too, please.”
“What about you, Miss Gertie? Do you need anything?”
Roxanne looked up just as the older woman smiled. “Yes, bring me out the black ones in Roxanne’s size.”
Roxanne knew she should have protested, but bit it back. Why not? Why shouldn’t she at least try on those wonderful sexy sandals? Instead she smiled her thanks and reached for the next pair of boring black pumps.
Art returned a couple minutes later, carrying the requested items. He didn’t have Lila’s size in the black, and she pouted prettily as she tried on the silver. Roxanne was irrationally glad at the turn of events.
And she was undeniably, unexplainably excited about trying on the black strappy sandals. She put them on and immediately felt like a princess—a hottie princess. After years of Doc Martens, it took her a minute or so of walking around on the carpeted area to get used to wearing three inches of nothing on her feet. She went over to the full-length mirror to get a better look. It was an odd ensemble, hot pink T-shirt, black short-alls and come-and-get-me heels. The shoes were amazing. But she already knew that.
Lila sashayed up next to her wearing the silver shoes and holding up her dress to see how the two would look together.
“What do you think?” she asked Roxanne.
The combination was stunning, but some mean-spirited sprite inside Roxanne wouldn’t let her say so. “It looks fine.”
Lila smiled prettily. “Malcolm always likes me in turquoise.”
Yuck! Had he actually said that?
“I wore turquoise when we went to the governor’s ball last year.”
“With Malcolm?” Now why did she feel a stab of jealousy at that?
Miss Gertie nodded. “Malcolm and Lila have been an item for a couple of years now.”
“Is that a fact?” Roxanne said in her best reporter’s voice, interested but not too interested. She knew it. Had known it all along. She shouldn’t be surprised. Better yet, she shouldn’t be jealous. Even after the kiss she and Malcolm had shared. Or maybe because of it. Hard to say.
She took her seat and removed the shoes. They were way out of her price range, especially since her opportunities to get a story were running low. Maybe in another time, in another life, in another universe, she would own them, but that time wasn’t now. She put them back in the box and reached for the third and final pair of black pumps.
Lila turned this way and that, studying her reflection in the mirror. “Uhmm-hmm,” she murmured. “We’re practically engaged.” She turned back to Art. “I’ll take them.”
Roxanne choked, then stumbled in the boring pumps. And she saw red. Or rather, green. Big jealous green. She didn’t know why. After all, she had only known Malcolm for a couple of days. What did she care if he and Lila were practically engaged? Why should she care that Lila was everything that she wasn’t. Tall. Beautiful. Sexy.
Yet there was this part of her that rebelled at the thought, that wished things could be different. But one thing was certain. Even if she were a beauty like Lila McCreedy, Roxanne knew she could never give Malcolm the family he would need to compliment his image, his career. Still she had her father’s rebellious streak, and it was that sliver of Roxanne which gathered up the sexy shoes and handed them to Art. She smiled at him and pushed her I Spy credit card across the counter. Later she’d figure out how to explain to Newland why she’d purchased designer shoes on her expense account, but for now her choice was clear. “I’ll take these.”
Chapter Nine
“Now don’t get me wrong,” Miss Gertie said once she and Roxanne were back in her apartment at Magnolia Acres. “But … ” Her voice trailed off as she wheeled herself into the bedroom. Not knowing what else to do, Roxanne followed. Miss Gertie just seemed to have that kind of effect on people.
After their stop at the shoe store, the elderly woman decided that they all had to have manicures and pedicures. Roxanne glanced down at the disposable, bright green flip-flops that the salon had provided and waggled her raspberry-tipped toes. She had to admit that her feet had never looked better—her fingers either—but she couldn’t say that the deep pink color would have been her first choice. In fact, she usually kept her nails au-natural, but not tonight. Oh, no. Miss Gertie had insisted, and somehow Roxanne couldn’t tell her no. So here she stood with Flaming Flamingo nails to go with her dull gold dress.
“But—” Miss Gertie
repeated, picking up right where she had left off. “Lila and Malcolm? Well, let’s just say that maybe it’s time they realize there’s other fish in the sea. I’ve invited my great-nephew up from Hattiesburg. He and Miss Lila would make the perfect pair. So that just leaves you and Malcolm.” She winked. “I’ve got a good feeling about this,” she sing-songed.
“But—” Roxanne couldn’t get the words out. There went that effect again, that for-some-reason-I-can’t-deny-you-anything phenomenon. As much as she wanted to clarify her relationship with Malcolm—or lack of a relationship with Malcolm—she couldn’t bring herself to actually say it to the sweet old lady.
“No buts.” Miss Gertie wheeled herself and Pablo into the large closet muttering, “I know it has to be around here somewhere.”
Roxanne perched on the side of the bed. She didn’t have long before she would be pressed for enough time to get ready for the party, but she honestly didn’t want to put on her hand-me-down dress any sooner than was absolutely necessary.
“Miss Gertie, what are you doing?”
“You’ll see, dear. Just as soon as I can find it.”
Roxanne looked around the lacy bedroom filled with antiques and memorabilia from days gone by as she awkwardly waited. One wall of the room was completely covered with framed photographs, most of them black and white. Roxanne’s interest was piqued, and she wandered over to see who had made it to Miss Gertie’s wall of fame. Most all of the pictures were of people she didn’t recognize, but there were a few of Miss Gertie with her arm around a celebrity. One picture in particular piqued her interest. It was of Miss Gertie and the same man that was in the photograph in Malcolm’s office. Truman Silverstone. Had to be.
“You’ve lived in Jefferson County a long time, haven’t you, Miss Gertie?”
“Sixty-three years,” her muffled voice replied. “Walter and I moved here the year we got married.”
“Tell me about Truman Silverstone.”
Miss Gertie wheeled herself out of the closet just enough so that Roxanne could see her face. “He’s a good, good man, Roxanne. They don’t make ’em better.”
“How so?” Newland would have called this an interview, but Roxanne just genuinely wanted to know about the man who had raised Malcolm from a small child into the person he was today. Besides, she didn’t have her tape recorder. She didn’t even have a pen and paper handy. It wasn’t an interview. It was just neighborly interest, so to speak.
“Oh, Roxanne, he loved his Miss Elizabeth. She was his first wife, but they were never able to have children. It was so tragic when Beau and Elizabeth were killed. Malcolm’s parents.”
Roxanne squinted her eyes in confusion. “Malcolm’s mother was Elizabeth, and Truman’s wife—”
“Was Elizabeth, too. They were all good friends. We called them the Elizabeths. Anyway, Truman took that boy in, and he and Miss Elizabeth Silverstone raised him as if he was their very own.”
“How did Malcolm’s parents die?”
“Automobile crash. So terrible. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old at the time.”
She pushed herself back into the closet, and Roxanne moved to the bed to better hear her. She would have loved to sit down and tuck her feet under her but she was afraid that would smudge her nail polish, so she settled for propping her bottom against the edge of the bed, feet out, pedicure safe.
“What happened to Truman’s Miss Elizabeth?”
“Breast cancer,” Miss Gertie replied. “Tragic. I guess it was the year Malcolm graduated from high school. Truman was in a bad way. Malcolm was headed off to Vanderbilt, Miss Elizabeth was gone. I’ll tell you I don’t know how that poor man survived.”
“Is that when he married Della?”
“Oh, no. He married her about four years ago, I guess it was. He met her at a pro-am golf tournament in Knoxville. She was the coordinator or some such. It was love at first sight. I couldn’t have made a better match myself. Matchmaking is my specialty, you know. Tonight is a magical night. Love is in the air and that, dear, is why you must wear this to the former governor’s party.”
She emerged from the closet once again, this time holding up the most exquisite ensemble Roxanne had ever seen. It wasn’t a dress, not quite. But it did have a skirt that attached at the waist and flared out behind to reveal slim-cut cigarette pants underneath. The bodice was heart-shaped and tapered with covered buttons and Oriental-styled looped fasteners. The tiny cap sleeves seemed more for decoration than actual construction benefit, but it was the fabric that really set the garment apart. It was a soft shade of butter cream with dragons and flowers scattered throughout, outlined in black and tinted in jewel-tones—turquoise, teal, ruby red, and raspberry pink. Asian characters penned next to the dragons only added to its vintage appeal.
“Go ahead,” Miss Gertie urged. “Try it on.”
Roxanne hesitated, but only for a second. Even more than she wanted to wear such a beautiful garment, she didn’t want to wear the ugly gold dress. Tonight she wanted to be a modern-day Cinderella in a vintage dress. “Okay,” she said, smiling at her bird-like fairy godmother in a wheelchair.
Miss Gertie clapped her hands in pure joy, and Pablo barked his appreciation, when Roxanne emerged from the closet a few moments later. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and she had to admit that she did look good. Okay, more than good, she conceded as excitement bubbled up inside her.
“You must wear it tonight,” Miss Gertie squeaked. “You must.”
Until today, Roxanne wasn’t aware that an eighty-year-old woman could squeak.
“Say you’ll wear it,” Miss Gertie continued. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Roxanne didn’t want to give no as an answer. Yet as much as she would like to blame her decision on that don’t-tell-me-no effect that Miss Gertie spread around like pixie dust, Roxanne wanted to wear the outfit. She wanted to look as stunning as possible. As good as Lila McCreedy. Even if she, Roxanne Ackerman, and the state senator from District Twenty-Seven could never be together.
• • •
Elliot Douglas pulled his low slung Jag onto the magnolia lined drive that led to his aunt’s apartment. Or rather, the drive which led to the antebellum mansion that housed his great aunt’s apartment.
No matter how much he cajoled, badgered, and downright begged her, he couldn’t get his Aunt Gertie to move out of the damned place. Not that it was a bad place. But she was over eighty now and had no right living on her own.
Okay, okay so maybe she had a right, but he still worried about her. After all, she was practically his only living relative—and he hers. Even then, she was the closest one. Everyone else was scattered about. He had another uncle—one not so great in more ways than one—living in Michigan. And he had a cousin who did mission work in Houston—after all, everyone knew how godless those Texans were.
The way he saw it, he had the right to be worried about his aunt. He’d found her a perfectly nice retirement village in Natchez—even better than the ones they had in Florida. They allowed pets, but she still wouldn’t hear of it. If there was one thing certain about Gertrude Johnson, it was her mile-wide stubborn streak. Just like tonight. She had asked him in her patented I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tone that he was to come up here and escort a Miss Lila McCreedy to the former governor’s birthday party.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to attend the celebration or escort Lila. He didn’t know her from Eve’s house cat and wasn’t really sure he wanted to. But he couldn’t deny his aunt anything. She beckoned, and he came. Just like always.
Yet his aunt asking him to escort Lila to the party wasn’t what was bothering him. No, what had his feathers in a ruffle was that his aunt had never once mentioned Lila’s looks. He saw beautiful women every day; all day. They were a dime a dozen. Ninety percent of them couldn’t hold a thought in their head more intellectual than the name of their current nail polish color.
When he’d specialized in plastic surgery, he’d env
isioned working with burn victims and catastrophic birth deformities, not rich bitches with too much money and not enough sense. He supposed there was nobility in everything—including plastic surgery—but damned if he could find it.
It worried him that his great aunt never mentioned a thing about Lila’s physical appearance. That was usually the first selling point, but Aunt Gertie had only said Lila was lively and fun and smart and amusing—aka she had a good personality aka she was mostly likely a dog.
Buck up, Douglas. Life goes on.
Ah, well, this date just might not turn out to be so bad after all. In fact, if she was ugly enough, maybe they could talk politics and world events. Hell, she could be ugly enough to even talk baseball.
Dear God, when had he turned so shallow? When had he become so cynical? And what was he going to do about it?
Elliot unfolded himself from the tiny coupe. At six foot six, he was far too tall for the car, but in his line of work, it was all about status and symbols of success.
He straightened the lapels of this tuxedo jacket and rang the doorbell. It was only for one night, then once he fulfilled his promise to his aunt, he could go back to Mississippi and the myriad of traumatic physical problems his clients faced, like having one eyebrow a little higher than the other.
“Coming,” Aunt Gertie sing-songed from the other side of the massive entry, the sound mixing with the melodic chiming of his summons and Pablo’s sharp little barks.
Then the door was snatched open to reveal his aunt framed in the backdrop of the beautiful foyer reminiscent of days gone by.
“Aunt Gertie.” He bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and she patted his in return.
“My, my, Elliott, land sakes, you are getting better looking every day.”
Oh, so she could notice his looks but not those of his date. How very convenient. Ah, well, no matter, it wasn’t like he was looking for his soul mate or anything, just fulfilling his duty to his favorite relative.
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 14
