Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (8 page)
“Yes.” Dusty dragged out the word, suddenly suspicious that someone wanted her distracted and off the phone.
“It’s about my college application essay,” M’Velle said, approaching the desk more decisively than her initial entrance.
At least this was something Dusty felt qualified to discuss. “What about the essay? I thought you’d finished it and were just waiting for a work recommendation from Mr. Newberry.”
“Well, yes. But now there’s this scholarship I found out about and I want to change my essay to fit.”
“What scholarship?”
“DAR.”
“Daughters of the American Revolution. They don’t usually give those to anyone who can’t prove they had an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War.”
“I know. And finding documentation for blacks prior to 1864 is almost impossible. There are only a few bookkeeping entries of the purchase and sale of slaves, often without names. But I’m not all black. My grandfather on my mom’s side is white, and very proud of being able to trace his ancestry back to the Civil War. I think I can prove his family owned land in South Carolina back to the mid-1700s.”
“So what about your essay?”
“I want to write about the difficulty in tracing my black ancestry because slaves weren’t citizens and records of births and deaths, and parentage is so spotty, especially if a baby was sired by a white. It’s worse than trying to trace the kings and queens of Pixie. And then I want to compare it to how easy it was to find out about my grandfather’s family.” M’Velle’s eyes lit up with excitement.
“Sounds like a great topic.” Dusty leaned forward, equally excited. She wanted to bounce ideas off the wall with this girl and help her come up with a solid research plan and outline.
“But will the DAR approve of it?”
“That’s another question entirely. My mom might know. She’s a member.”
“Oh. I thought you knew about every scholarship available.” M’Velle’s expression fell, and her eyes grew dark with resentment and disappointment.
“Let me send out a couple of emails to people who might have some answers for you,” Dusty offered. “Mom’s in England for the summer, and she’s never been good about checking her email or answering it.” Though she called every week. Sometimes twice. Or three times.
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. You do good work; study hard now that you’re over your sophomore slump. I want you to succeed.”
“Thanks, Ms. Carrick.” M’Velle looked as if she might reach across the desk and hug Dusty. Then she thought better of it and straightened her posture again. “Can I run my research notes past you? Make sure I’m not jumping to conclusions without facts to back it up?”
“Certainly. Bring them to work tomorrow.”
The girl waved blithely and retreated. She, too, showed much more determination in her step upon leaving than arriving.
“Uh, M’Velle, is this sudden interest in consulting me a setup?”
M’Velle paused at the door. She looked over her shoulder, directly into Dusty’s eyes. “No. We just want to let you know that we value your friendship.” Then she vanished and closed the door with a firm snick of the latch.
Dusty checked the phone. The red light on line two had blinked off as she stared at it.
“Mission accomplished, whatever you two are up to.” Now to call Dick and figure out a way to send him to buy Thistle some clothes and then figure out what to do with her. She almost wished Dick was still dating Phelma Jo occasionally—though their relationship had been more off than on since high school. PJ Nelson had an innate sense of fashion. Not something learned because she didn’t have anyone at home to learn it from. But when it came to sizes, colors, and cut, PJ was the one Dusty wished she could consult.
Five
P
HELMA JO NELSON PEERED over the top of the résumé she held in front of her face. The applicant, who stood so straight and yet so casual in front of her desk, certainly delighted the eye more than the neatly typed words on the paper. Haywood Wheatland. What kind of name was that?
HELMA JO NELSON PEERED over the top of the résumé she held in front of her face. The applicant, who stood so straight and yet so casual in front of her desk, certainly delighted the eye more than the neatly typed words on the paper. Haywood Wheatland. What kind of name was that?
“I don’t need an assistant,” she said finally. As enticing as this man was, her organization was as complete as she wanted it to be. Adding another body, or a too inquisitive mind, would upset the balance she’d built. Her plans were too close to fruition.
“Yes, you do,” Haywood Wheatland said in a light baritone that seemed to sing the words. Then he smiled.
Phelma Jo found her gaze glued to his marvelous teeth and full sensual lips. She couldn’t look anywhere else if she wanted to. Daydreams of stripping off his clothes—the epitome of style without shouting expensive, a look she had perfected—and throwing him onto her desk seemed so simple and right.
“Why do I need an assistant?” she finally choked out, breaking the thrall of his physical beauty.
“Not just any assistant. You need me.” He paused, the animation in his face and posture froze for half a heartbeat, barely long enough to notice.
But Phelma Jo noticed. She’d trained herself to take note of, and advantage of, every change in body language.
“Not just any assistant. You need me,” he repeated with a widening of that ingratiating smile.
Phelma Jo forced herself to read the résumé again. An associate degree from a community college she’d never heard of. Standard word processing skills, including minor bookkeeping. Nothing exceptional. Just another wannabe business major looking for a job to fund the next degree.
“You can’t do anything for me that I can’t hire out of any high school class at half the wages you request.” She threw down the résumé, letting it slide across her pristine desktop as a signal the interview was over.
But, oh, he was delicious to look at. He’d add something decorative to her very functional staff of real estate agents, accountants, and paralegals, all hired for their skills and because none of them outshone Phelma Jo herself.
“You need me because I know how to put a crimp . . .” Again that annoying frozen pause. “You need me because I know how to put a crimp in Desdemona Carrick’s Masque Ball forever, and at the same time fund your campaign in the next mayoral election.”
Haywood Wheatland planted himself in the guest chair in front of the desk without invitation, as if he belonged there, had always belonged there.
“How . . . how did you know I plan to run for mayor?”
“Gossip.” He smiled, flashing those gleaming teeth that seemed to reflect every color in the office. “Gossip. Besides, it’s the next logical step for you.”
“Tell me more about this gossip.” Phelma Jo leaned forward eagerly. “And your plans for Dusty Carrick.”
“Am I hired?”
Phelma Jo fished an employment contract out of her desk drawer, made a few adjustments to it, and handed it to him for his signature.
“You’ve heard, I presume,” Haywood said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that Ms. Carrick has taken under her wing, a beautiful and mysterious woman . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Dusty is incapable of talking to a stranger, let alone aiding one. Unless she can do it online.”
“Ah, but she volunteers at the senior center . . . volunteers at the senior center talking about history and gathering stories from them about olden times. And she gives tours to the public. She may not like it, but she does it. She does it if she can talk history and nothing else. And now this Thistle Down woman is her newest best friend.”
“I can’t see why everyone in town thinks the world of Ms. Timid who talks to shadows and jumps into them at first sight of a stranger. She’s pathetic and so self-involved she doesn’t know the meaning of true friendship,” Phelma Jo snorted. She should know.
“This is pretty?” Thistle held up a brassiere by one end with two fingers, skeptically examining the sturdy elastic, sheer fabric, and filmy lace. “I could make a great game of launching Pixies to the far side of The Ten Acre Wood with this.”
Dusty suppressed a deep laugh. “It . . . um . . . is designed to support your . . . um . . .”
Thistle twisted the undergarment so that it hung correctly. “My boobs,” she said flatly.
“Yeah.”
Thistle looked from the bra to her chest and back again. “How do you balance with all that weight up front and no wings to lift you from the back?”
She looked totally bewildered. She kept rocking back on her heels and widening her stance as if afraid of falling forward. Good thing Dick had bought only flatheeled sandals for Thistle instead of the high-heeled torture devices he usually admired on women.
“Well, they grow slowly.” Dusty glanced down at her meager display. Thistle was much better endowed, but not out of proportion to her height and slender frame. “We get used to it gradually, I guess,” Dusty replied. “Look, most of the dresses Dick bought for you have halter tops or spaghetti straps. You can’t wear a normal bra with them. The straps will show and that looks ugly.”
“Yeah. I have noticed a lot of teenage girls with that look. I wondered what the extra straps were for.”
They giggled together as Thistle mimicked the girls who constantly fussed with their straps, trying to hide them, when the action only attracted more attention to their dishabille.
“But the fabric?” Thistle shook her head. “It feels hot. I don’t think I’m going to wear this contraption.” She flung the bra into the corner of the room.
“Try this dress.” Dusty pulled a creamy sundress printed with big splotchy purple flowers out of a plastic bag from a large discount store. “It’s cotton, so the fabric will breathe, unlike the polyester in the bra. The colors are right for you, and the top is relatively modest. You won’t flash a lot of cleavage.”
Thistle obediently lifted the hem of her borrowed black T-shirt, exposing her entire body without a flash of embarrassment or modesty.
Dusty lowered her eyes as she fished in the other five bags for panties. Her face grew hot, and sweat trickled down her back. Body modesty was something Thistle would
have
to learn living in this household, with Dick’s bedroom just across the hall.
have
to learn living in this household, with Dick’s bedroom just across the hall.
What would they do if Thistle was still here when Mom and Dad came home from England next month?
Her fingers flipped aside several dresses, packages of hose, another bra. Two more pairs of sandals, one beige, one dark purpley blue. No panties. None! How could Dick forget such an essential item?
This enterprise was getting to be too much. Way too much.
“Let me get you something from my room.” She dashed out of the spare bedroom of the big old house that had been in her family for at least four generations. The room she’d slept in for as long as she could remember was positioned on the other side of the bathroom, across from the master bedroom, and close to the back stairs that led to the kitchen. For the first time in a very long time she noticed, actually noticed, the matching pink curtains and bedspread covered in twirling ballerinas. The bed ruffle and bolster pillow ruffles were white eyelet. Chipped white paint graced her headboard, dressing table, and bookshelves. She hadn’t changed a thing since she and Mom had so carefully selected the furnishings for her fifth birthday.
Had her life stagnated as badly as her décor?
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