Page 33 of A Class of Her Own

“Oh, Mer, that’s so thoughtful,” Lizzie squeezed my shoulder.

“That crusty exterior is an act,” Ruby said to Brooks, and I groaned as his eyebrows rose with amusement. “She only wanted to help others like she should have been helped.”

“Go back to the party,” I said firmly to my friends.

With grins and a few laughs, they walked down the hall and disappeared into the family room. Brooks was still waiting when I turned back to him. I silently prayed that he hadn’t picked up on Ruby’s little tidbit about me having needed help in my younger years.

I pursed my lips and did my best to relax. This wasn’t a battle, and I could communicate kindly. “I had a few ideas, yes, about ways the HOA board could make better use of their time and funds. The community needs a leader with some sort of vision. Towel sharing protocols is a total waste of time and resources. I made a presentation to the board, or at least to Hazel and Leland, and they ran screaming to you to save them from me and my ideas.”

“What other ideas did you have?”

I felt suddenly vulnerable, as though we’d shifted our positions. “You said one question.”

“I’m guessing you know from firsthand experience how it feels to be hungry as a child?” Oh great, he’d heard. He said it softly, as though it had the power to blow me over. Which it did, actually. I nodded but didn’t reply verbally. We weren’t to a place of sharing childhood traumas. He stood up straight. “When you’re ready to talk again, which might not be for a while after you see that last ticket, I’d be interested in hearing more of your thoughts on what the board could do to help the community.”

Surprised and a little flustered, I managed to say okay, and then I shut the door quietly behind him.

A few days later I stood in Willow’s boutique, a victim of her inability to do year-end inventory without me badgering her and keeping things on track. She strongly disagreed that she was victimizing me and instead said it was my sisterly duty. She was currently holding up a bright yellow jumper with a floral pattern, trying to press it against me as I squirmed away. Tonight I was apparently a double victim as she’d been hitting me hard with her ideas of how I should be dressing. Make that a triple victim because she was also diffusing oils that didn’t smell good together.

“This would be darling on you. With your thin build and dark coloring, you could really pull this off,” she said brightly, leaning toward me.

I backed away. “It’s yellow. With flowers. No.”

I headed behind the check-out counter to boot up the scanner we used to catalog how many of each item she had. She, predictably, followed. Willow couldn’t seem to stay on track withboringthings, but she was like a dog with a bone when it came to things that interested her. And dressing me had always been high on her list of dreams. Probably because I was on year thirty-something of not letting her do it.

“Mer, come on. You always dress so . . .”

“Professionally?” I smirked when she couldn’t come up with the right word.

“Stoically.”

I blinked as she waved the jumper toward me again, trying to see if it would be long enough. “Stoic is not a way of dressing,” I replied.

“No, it’s a way of being that’s showcased by the way you dress. Your clothing says boring, lacking creativity, uptight.”

I glanced over her outfit of a long, shapeless dress cinched by a scarf around her waist and earrings that touched her shoulders.

“The way you dress is great, for you. But my preferred style is practical for covering the body and looking put together without drawing attention to oneself.”

Her own eyes rolled, and she marched back toward the rack of jumpers. “Maybe a different color?”

“Pass.”

“Ugh. You’re the worst.”

I waved the scanner at her. “Yes, the definite worst. So terrible that I’ve come down here to help you do inventory even though it’s the most tedious thing I have to do all year while getting nauseated at the smell of those oils. What mix did you throw together? My eyes burn.”

“If your eyes are burning it’s because they needed to purge toxins from your soul,” she chirped. “How’s the Santa and cookies planning coming?” She redirected, and I knew I’d won the clothing battle for now.

I picked up the stack of flowery notebooks she kept by the register and began scanning each one into the system. “It’s in six days, and I don’t have a Santa.”

Willow stopped riffling through the clothing she was separating into colors. “What? But you’ve advertised the event to the community already.”

“Yep.”

“And have no Santa.”

“Have you ever tried to hire a Santa? Do you have contacts in the land of jolly elves?”

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