Heavens to Betsy (21 page)

He laughs. “Should I have my mother fly in from New York and take pictures, like for prom?”

I shudder at the thought of being within ten feet of David’s overbearing mom. There’s a reason he didn’t go back to New York after we graduated divinity school. “Why don’t we let LaRonda do the honors?”

He laughs. “Bye, Betz.”

“Bye, David.”

I scrape myself off the couch and head for a long soak in my claw-foot tub. With a bit of luck and a new loofah, I can scrub away at least one layer of grief.

The rest of the week provides enough distraction to make me dwell less on Velva’s death and my screwed-up love life. I practice using the Web cam so I’ll be ready for my Sunday-afternoon stakeout. Angelique barges into my office a couple of times, and I quickly switch from the Web cam view to my Outlook. Subterfuge was never my greatest strength. I’m sure I look like a kid with a hand in the cookie jar.

“You really should let The Judge look over your sermon for Sunday. He can steer you in the right direction.”

I’m sure The Judge would be happy to steer me right over a homiletic cliff, but I keep that thought to myself.

“That would be great, but I haven’t written it yet. I usually wait for Saturday-night inspiration.”

Edna purses her lips. “I thought you were going to the fund-raiser Saturday night.”

How does she know that? I narrow my eyes at her, and she has the grace to look the teensiest bit uncomfortable.

“Angelique must have mentioned it,” she says, studying the books on the shelves over my right shoulder.

Which, translated, means she’s been in the reception area for the last thirty minutes pumping my administrative assistant for any information she can get.

“I guess I’ll hope for Saturday-morning inspiration. In any event, I think I can handle the sermon on my own.”

I stand up and move around the edge of the desk. I learned this trick in my last church. If someone plops down in your office and doesn’t show any signs of leaving, you get her out the door by simply getting up and walking toward it. Inevitably, the person will stand up and follow you. Most of the time she doesn’t realize you’ve thrown her out. Sometimes, as with Edna Tompkins, I actually have to walk all the way to the outside door of the church office to get rid of my visitor. Once I had to walk a grumpy parishioner all the way to his car.

“She had a lot of wisdom to share.”

Angeliques eyes narrow, much as mine did with Edna Tompkins, as she assesses me. “You aren’t maintaining.”

“Maintaining?”

“Your makeover. You’re letting it slide.”

Well of course I’m letting it slide. Who has time to use that plethora of hair products and a flat iron? Or age-defying foundation and three carefully blended shades of eye shadow?

“Don’t think of it as sliding,” I say. “Think of it as a sabbatical from the ridiculous demands of perfection our culture places on women.”

“Was that a real sentence?”

“Does it have to be?”

We laugh, and it feels good. Some relief from the intensity of the week.

Angelique eyes me thoughtfully. “You need to make an effort for the fund-raiser.”

“I don’t know. I don’t really feel like it.”

“I have a dress you can borrow.”

Why do those words scare me? I look at Angelique, at her big hair and her leather jacket. She puts it all out there, no holds barred. I could never do that. I don’t have the courage.

“I’m sure I have basic black somewhere in my closet.”

Angelique taps her talons on her desk. “No way. No black. You need a fiery red.”

Well, despite my protests, Angelique shows up at my house late Saturday afternoon with a dress concealed in a long garment bag. LaRonda’s already been here for a while, and I’m now plucked, exfoliated, irradiated, and illuminated. If my face were any shinier, I’d be a reflector shield in the next
Star Wars
movie.

“You’re not shiny. You’re glowing,” LaRonda assures me, but I don’t believe her.

“Wow!” Angelique pops her gum and turns to hang the mystery bag on my bedroom door. “Did you wax her eyebrows, too?” she asks LaRonda.

“After I pinned her to the floor. The legs were easier.”

“Hmm.” Angelique assesses me as if she’s judging a heifer at the state fair. “Nice arch on the brows.”

“Thanks.”

“Hello! I’m here! I have ears.”

“Of course you do, hon.” LaRonda might as well pat me on the head. Then she turns her attention back to Angelique. “I couldn’t decide on the hair. Up or down?”

The next thing I know, I’m shoved in front of a mirror while four hands pile my hair in thirty different directions. Finally, my personal beauty team decides on a loose chignon with lots of wispy curls hanging down.

If I thought Antoine and that masseuse were a nightmare, I’m far more frightened by LaRonda and Angelique. They don’t even pretend to coddle me.

“Ouch!” I cry when they comb out my hair after washing it with three different shampoos.

They won’t let me look in the mirror. I know my hair required copious numbers of hairpins and my makeup is more than I’d ever apply myself, but at least they didn’t slap on as much as those “Holy to Hottie” folks.

“Time for the dress.”

Angelique slowly unveils her offering to the romance gods. But it’s not a dress. It’s a red scarf.

“Where’s the dress?”

“You’re looking at it, honey.”

“Get out.” There’s no way. Time to dig out the basic black from the back of my closet.

“No, really.” Angelique slips it from the hanger.

“What do you wear under it?”

She gives me a blank look. “Why would you want to wear anything under it?”

I’m sure there must be something in the lady minister’s secret handbook about going commando to a charity function.

“Angie, I’ve worn underwear every day of my life since I was three, and I don’t plan to change that now.”

She
harrumphs
, rolls her eyes, and finally acquiesces.

“Okay, but only the minimum.”

“I was thinking full body armor, but I’ll scale back.”

That compromise reached, they unzip the tiny little zipper at the back and order me to step into that siren’s wrapper.

“It really is a scarf,” I protest, even as I acknowledge that scarves don’t usually have zippers.

The dress is soft crepe that drapes from tiny straps at the shoulders.
The neckline drops to a provocative-but-not-slutty V, and there’s no back to speak of. The hem brushes my ankles.

“Better get the double-sided tape. I feel like J.Lo at the Grammys.”

“No way,” Angelique protests. “It’ll stay in place.”

I compare her bust to mine. “Yes, well, for you maybe, but some of us can’t claim your assets.”

LaRonda
assesses
the dress with a practiced eye. “No tape needed, Betz. It’ll stay put.”

And so will I. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going.

“Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea—”

But before I can finish my protest, they whirl me around and open the closet door. I see myself in the full-length mirror, and my breath catches in my throat.

“Oh!”

Very eloquent. But it sums up their work quite nicely. I look amazing. More amazing than I did at the salon makeover, because this time I look more like me, not like some Hollywood version of myself. It’s how I dreamed of looking for the senior prom. Hair upswept, with a few tendrils hanging down. Eyes bright, but a little mysterious, too. A dress that emphasizes every curve. Softer, less hip than my makeover look, but still glam.

“I can’t believe it.” No wonder the Cinderella fairy tale is so seductive. They’ve brought out my inner princess.

“David won’t know what hit him,” LaRonda laughs.

Angeliques ears prick up like a bloodhound that’s caught the scent of a fox. “David? I thought he was just a friend?”

“He is. He is.” I resist the urge to elbow LaRonda in the stomach. “We’re just pals.”

What is it with people thinking I’m going to have a love child? First Edna and now Angelique.

“There will be no love children in my immediate future.” I pick up my evening bag from the dresser and start stuffing in the essentials. Lipstick. Tiny comb. Cell phone. Emergency M&M’s. I force the snap to close because I’m not leaving any of the necessities behind.

“Where are you going for dinner?” Angelique asks. “Not 12th and Porter?”

“No. The Merchants.”

Angelique nods appreciatively. “Sweet.”

“Let’s hope so.”

LaRonda pats my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, Betsy. Tonight’s the night.”

“The night?”

“The night you come clean with David.”

“Come clean with him about what?” Angelique asks, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Um, that I took the interim senior-minister job,” I fib—and shoot LaRonda a knowing look.

“Oh.” Angelique is clearly disappointed.

Thankfully, LaRonda changes the subject. “Well, princess, I think you’re ready for the ball. Make sure you put all this fairy godmother stuff to good use.” She looks at me meaningfully. I know what she’s saying. I have to confess to David tonight. No more stalling. Roll the dice and let the chips fall where they may, to mix my gambling metaphors.

She gives me a quick squeeze and steps back. “Somebody’s got to keep the church going. You people are a lot of work.”

“Aren’t we, though?” I smile back with tears misting my eyes. “Good thing we have you.”

This time when David shows up at my front door, I’m not expecting another man, and he doesn’t have another woman with him. Things are definitely looking up.

Also, this time he says the right things instead of acting shocked and appalled when he
sees
me.

“Wow.” He looks me up and down, something I don’t think he’s ever done before. At least I’ve never seen him do it.

“Is that a good wow or a dear-Lord-why-did-I-agree-to-this wow?”

“The first thing. You look great.” He’s enthusiastic but also a touch bewildered. I think that’s a good thing.

“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.” Which is the understatement of the year. Again, I will remind you to picture a young Sean Connery in black tie. “I see the tux still fits.”

He runs his finger around his collar. “Unfortunately. Otherwise I would have gotten rid of it a long time ago.”