Page 13 of Home Body
At the time, Dalia worked at the grocery store in Farmdale. Realizing it would take ten years for her to save enough money for her mom’s bakery, and that would only be if she continued to live rent-free on the farm, Dolly’s story impressed her.
Dolly had made a lot of money in her day so Dalia figured there would still be money to be had. As she secretly plotted a stint as a dancer, she knew she’d have to do it like Dolly had done it. Present standards wouldn’t work for her.
She’d had quite a time selling her idea to the owner of the club but from night one she’d been a success. There was enough bare skin and frenetic music up there on stage. Her act offered something different – a look at what realstripteasehad once been. When one of her songs came on, the room tended to calm down with revelers being intrigued by the change of pace. Heads turned, mouths shut, and eyes riveted to her. Scarlett Blaze, her cheesy stage name, did not fail to deliver.
She’d honed five acts she rotated throughout the night.The Stripperwas her favorite because, like Dolly, she only went sofar as to let one of her gown’s thin straps fall off her shoulder. The others were performed to jazz songs from the ’40s and ’50s, Dolly’s heydays. The furthest she ever stripped got her down to a bikini-type outfit. She’d clandestinely made her own costumes in the back of the barn, hand-sewing every inch because she didn’t want to take a chance on being caught in the sewing room in the house.
The song neared its end. Reluctantly, she prodded her mind to come back to the room to give it all she had. More money flowed including some fifties. It would be a good night.
As was customary, one of the bouncers reached onto the stage, scooped up the cash, and met her at the back of the stage to hand over her tips. That Brody McIntyre wasn’t there, apparently having the night off from his part-time gig.
Most importantly, she needed to get ahold of that deputy to beg him not to blow her cover. If folks in Farmdale knew how she made the money for her mama’s bakery, they might never set foot in the establishment, no matter how much they loved Mamie Blackburn and her yummy creations. It was a chance Dalia couldn’t take.
She’d hoped to talk to Brody that night and had been disturbed upon realizing he wasn’t there. Now she’d have to go looking for him.
“Damn,” she snarled at herself as she got in her truck at the end of her shift. “I have to talk to him!” She smacked the steering wheel, afraid her whole undercover operation would soon blow up in her face.
Like always, she stopped at a Shell gas station, the same one she always stopped at. She went inside to get the outside ladies’ room key from the Middle Eastern woman who worked the night shift all by herself, which always worried Dalia as they were in the middle of the seedy part of Detroit. The quiet but friendly woman always handed Dalia the key and never askedquestions when the stripper in the bright red wig, stiletto heels, and sparkly makeup who’d taken the key returned it as a plain Jane in jeans and a tee shirt.
The two women from different cultures and different lives had an unspoken understanding that bonded them together. Both were doing the best they could to make it in this world. Dalia always put a ten-dollar bill on the counter, smiled at her nameless friend, and left, glad to be on her way home. At least she got to go home to a lovely, peaceful farm. There was no telling what her gas station friend went home to. Sometimes Dalia had an urge to ask if she wanted to come visit the farm for a good Mamie meal.
But that would break her secret wide open. Living a double life truly was getting to her. She had no idea how Mata Hari, the exotic dancer, courtesan, and supposed double agent during World War I, had done it. She herself would make a horrible spy.
Of course, however, Mata Hari had been exposed and executed. It hadn’t worked out so well for that gal. Dalia’s exposure might not lead to such grim consequences, but it would destroy everything she’d work for so hard. She’d maneuvered her life into a tangled mess and had to figure out how to untangle it. She refused to let her mama’s and her daughter’s lives be affected negatively by what she’d chosen to do. They deserved better than that.
CHAPTER 10
When Kenyon and Llayne arrived at the farm, a cheerful woman was leaving with a plump blueberry pie. “Love your dress!” she hollered at Kenyon as she got into her car. Rose and Rover bolted out the door and hopped down the porch steps.
“You came back!” Rose trilled. “You have on a bride’s dress!”
“Do you like it?” Kenyon twirled around while fluffing the skirt.
“Ah ha. I love it!” Rose reached out to touch it but pulled back and looked up in quandary.
“It’s okay, sweetie. You can touch it. It’s so nice and soft.” Kenyon held it out and Rose gently ran her small hand along the delicate fabric. Kenyon surprised her by wrapping her up in it and rocking her back and forth.
Rose squealed with delight. “Did you get married today?”
“Nope. I wore it just for you.” Kenyon let go but Rose didn’t step out of the cocoon of fabric. “Honey,” Kenyon said, placing her hands on Rose’s shoulders and turning her around, “this is my mom, Mrs. O’Brien.”
“Hello, Rose.” Llayne, obviously enchanted, bent down to get eye level with the girl.
“Um, hi.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you. Kenyon tells me your dog’s name is Rover.”
Rose pushed up her glasses and gawked at the pretty, middle-aged woman. “Yeah.” She ran out of words for the stranger.
“Well, I think Rover is a very lucky dog to have you for his best friend.”
The girl guffawed, still not knowing what to say.
The dog loped over and Llayne petted him as he leaned into her hand until he almost fell over. She chuckled at his shenanigans. That got a hearty giggle out of the girl.
“Rose,” Kenyon said, “shall we go show my dress to your mom and grandma?”
“Ah ha! But Mommy’s at work at the res-trant. Grammy’s in the kitchen.”
