Wanna Get Lucky? (22 page)

“Whatever you want.” I said it calmly, my resolve fortified by multiple ounces of champagne diluted only slightly with orange juice. I needed a new look to match the new me I hoped to be.

My pronouncement clearly startled the hair-meister. Her eyes grew just a smidgen wider. One corner of her mouth lifted briefly—or maybe I imagined that part. “Really?”

I nodded and snagged another mimosa from a passing Samson. “No weird colors or asymmetrical cuts—other than that, consider me your blank canvas.”

The next hour and forty-five minutes passed in a flurry of activity—washing, dying, cutting, styling—even a stop at the makeup artist while my color set. The only time I almost lost my nerve was
when Linda brought out the scissors. I shut my eyes while she worked her magic. She took my hint and turned me away from the mirror.

Sometimes Linda chatted while she worked, sometimes not. Today was one of her chatty days.

“How’s your life going?” she asked as she took a big snip. “You have a different glow about you.”

“Same ol’, same ol’.” A big lock of newly dark hair fell into my lap.

“I’m not sure I believe that, but I’ll let you off the hook.” She took another snip. Another lock of hair fell in my lap.

“I am going to have some hair left, right?”

“A strand or two. So, anything new about Lyda Sue?”

“You knew her, too?” That girl really got around.

“Not well. I used to run into her at Carne.”

“Really?” I tried to keep my voice in a conversational tone. “What was she doing there?”

“What almost everyone does there—trying to find another couple interested in switching.”

“Really?” I squeaked. So much for the conversational tone.

Linda didn’t seem to notice. “The bar at Carne is the place local swingers look for action. I only saw her there a couple of times, both of them within the last two weeks or so. She was always with a tall, dark and handsome type who had the whole aw-shucks cowboy thing going.”

I grabbed my bag and pulled out Dane’s picture. “This the guy?”

She tapped it with her comb. “Yeah. Real smooth, that one.”

“Did they ever find any action?”

“Didn’t notice.” Linda went back to her snipping.

“Did they want to switch with you and your husband?”

“Us?” Linda laughed. “Hell, Joe would kill me if I even thought about doin’ it with another guy. And he knows I’d Bobbitize him if he ever put his weenie where it shouldn’t be. The bar is our local watering hole.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, but all I could see was Linda with a huge knife chasing poor Joe. Then a picture of Dane and Lyda Sue
together. For Dane’s sake, when I had dinner with him, I hoped the knives were kept out of my reach.

“Almost done,” Linda announced.

Every now and then I caught a glimpse of Miss Patterson in passing. Each time she was clutching a mimosa in one hand and a Samson in the other.

Finally, it was time for the unveiling. I sat in Linda’s chair, my eyes closed. I felt her turn me so, when I opened my eyes, I’d be looking at myself in the mirror. I could hear Miss Patterson in the chair next to me. I assumed she also had her eyes closed and was facing the mirror.

“Voilà!” Linda announced.

I opened my eyes. For a moment I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. The rat’s nest of overprocessed blonde hair had been replaced by a cloud of soft, shiny, medium-brown curls with golden highlights. A few tendrils drifted across my forehead, drawing attention to my eyes. I’d forgotten they were such a deep blue. The understated makeup accentuated my cheekbones. Where had they been hiding? While not stunning, I was actually . . . pretty.

Who knew?

“Wow.” Words longer than three letters had momentarily abandoned me.

Linda smiled. She was standing between Miss Patterson’s chair and mine. With a satisfied nod, she crossed her arms and stepped aside.

Miss Patterson was radiant. Gone were the gray and the granny curls. She now sported a sleek, blond style that took a decade off her appearance and made her eyes look as big as salad plates. She reached up and touched her face, a smile tickling her lips. Her eyes glistened.

She looked at me, but she didn’t have to say anything—I knew exactly how she felt. “Linda,” I said. “I know you charge a king’s ransom, but you are worth every penny.”

She nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “I just let out the real you. You’ve been fighting with yourself for years, Lucky.”

So how come everyone knew that but me?

PUTTING
my clothes back on felt like donning somebody else’s old coat. I kept looking at myself in the mirror as I dressed. Everything about me was different—the old didn’t quite fit anymore.

Although she didn’t say so, I could tell Miss Patterson felt the same way. When she emerged from the changing room, she looked like a teenager dressed in her mother’s clothes.

After I paid, and added generous tips for everyone, I grabbed her elbow and steered her out into the Bazaar. Instead of turning toward the hotel, we took a right, heading deeper into retail-land.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The makeover isn’t yet complete.” We stopped in front of the Palace. A large closed sign hung in the door. I knocked.

Miss Patterson hung back. “I can’t afford this place.”

“No worries. We’re getting the Ted Kowalski discount. He’s one of their most important customers.”

She looked doubtful, but after a saleswoman opened the door, she stepped inside with me.

Designed to provide each customer with the royal treatment, the Palace was every inch a retail oasis. From the deep couches scattered liberally around the cozy space, to the small café in the corner, to the ever-present sales staff that bordered on obsequious, the Palace provided a customer-centric shopping experience. None of the store’s inventory was on display. Instead, the customers—or as the staff referred to them, the clients—took a seat on one of the lovely sofas. The staff then brought out various, carefully selected items, one at a time.

I sank into the nearest couch, pulling Miss Patterson down with me. This wasn’t exactly my normal shopping experience either. Sitting there was like waiting for a show to begin. I half expected the lights to dim and the music to start.

Instead, Teddie appeared dressed in a rather risqué gown. Iridescent, beaded and practically see-through, it was reminiscent of the stuff Bob Mackie used to design for Cher in her heyday. He started to pirouette then stopped in his tracks. He walked over to me and extended his hand, a smile splitting his face. His eyes locked on mine like a tractor beam.

Nervous as to what he thought of my new look, but powerless to resist, I let him pull me up. He turned me around in front of him. When I again faced him, he stepped in close, and very tenderly kissed me.

I’d never been kissed by a man in a dress before. I think I liked it. I’m not sure what that meant.

“You look fabulous,” he whispered. He led me to a mirror. “Look at the you you’ve kept hidden behind that wall of feigned indifference. You blow me away.”

Blow him away? For sure I liked that.

I lost myself in our reflection—me in my pants, Teddie in his dress, and for some odd reason, nothing about us struck me as unusual.

Miss Patterson cleared her throat. “You guys are attracting some attention.”

She was indeed correct. A small crowd, their noses pressed to the glass, lined the storefront. Teddie stepped toward them and turned slowly for their perusal. His performance elicited cheers and an occasional wolf whistle.

The show was on.

As he strode by me on his way to the changing room, he winked and asked, “How do you like my dress? Think it’ll look good in the show?”

I pointed to his chest. “You don’t have the right equipment to really take advantage of the design.”

He looked down then grinned. “I left my boobs at the theatre.”

“At least you know where yours are,” I said as I surveyed my own inadequate cleavage.

He laughed then ducked around the corner. “I’ll be right back. Just let me change.”

The minute he left, the parade began—dresses, pants, silky tops—all in a riot of color. Tentative at first, then warming to the fun, Miss Patterson pointed to the ones she liked, and waved her hand dismissively at those she didn’t. She even wrinkled her nose at a particularly offensive pantsuit.

Arms crossed and a serious expression on his face, Teddie watched as he leaned against the wall. All the original selections had been his. He had a wonderful eye.

Finally, Miss Patterson had narrowed her items down to about twenty. After she made her selections, Teddie grabbed her hand, pulling her with him around the curtain to the dressing rooms.

I took full advantage of the intermission. Up to this point, lunch had consisted of champagne and orange juice—not exactly the meal of champions. I wandered over to the café tucked discretely in the corner of the shop behind a counter sporting a few barstools in front, and snagged a sandwich and two Diet Cokes. I returned quickly, settling back in my place on the sofa and promptly inhaled half the sandwich. The other half was for Miss Patterson.

Teddie appeared from behind the curtain and, like Ed McMahon introducing Johnny Carson, mimicked a drumroll, gestured toward the curtain and said, “Heeeere’s Miss Patterson.”

The salesgirls, the crowd, Teddie, me, we all waited. But nobody appeared.

Teddie disappeared around the curtain, then reappeared with a very reluctant and blushing Miss Patterson in tow. He released her hand and stepped back.

For a moment there was silence, then all of us erupted in loud cheering—even the crowd outside.

Miss Patterson was a vision in a silky peach shirt and loosely fitted white slacks. She had a beautiful figure, curvy in all the right places. Why in the world had she hidden it under those old sacks? Why indeed? Only those not guilty of the same sin could question
and criticize, so I kept my mouth shut, but added a few wolf whistles of my own to her applause.

Miss Patterson couldn’t keep the grin off her face as she modeled all the outfits she had chosen. At the end of the show, we decided there were five absolute must-haves—two shirt-and-pant ensembles and one very flirty little black dress.

She didn’t need much time to find shoes to match.

We congregated at the cash register, and Miss Patterson swallowed hard as the salesgirl presented her with the bill—seven hundred dollars. Her eyebrows shot upward. “That’s all?” she asked. She looked first at me, then at Teddie.

We both shrugged and kept our expressions bland.

“Wow. That’s one heck of discount you get, Mr. Kowalski,” she said as she proffered her credit card.

I noticed a sign on the counter that read, “Return policy: All items may be returned for full refund within ten days EXCEPT for any lingerie that has touched your choochilala.”

“Is ‘choochilala’ a word?” I asked.

The salesgirl shook her head. “I made it up, but everybody knows what it means.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

Miss Patterson walked with the saleslady to the front door. Teddie and I followed, his arm hooked through mine. Just before the doors opened and the hoards descended, he whispered in my ear. “You’re pretty sneaky. I don’t get that big of a discount.”

I just smiled and extracted my arm from his as the crowd surrounded him, all asking for his autograph.

I had made it out into the mall when Dane appeared at my elbow. God, he was worse than a bad penny.

“Do you know what time it is? Are you actually going to work today?” he asked.

I glanced at my watch. Four o’clock! Shoot! I needed to get a move on.

“Like the hair, by the way,” he added.

That was a long way from “You look fabulous” and “You blow
me away,” but he got points for noticing—even though he played for the opposition. “Why are you always where I am? Is there something you need?”

“I work here. And, no, not really.” He nodded toward Teddie. “You’re an interesting lady, Ms. O’Toole. First you let a porn star kiss you and then a gay guy who wears women’s clothes for a living. When are you going to let a real man in on the action?”

I put my hands on my hips and looked at him. “That is the sleaziest line I’ve heard since I talked to you yesterday. Did you take a course in creepiness?”

That wiped the grin off his face.

“Do you ever get anywhere with a line like that?”

He shook his head. “No.”

I nodded toward Teddie. “And what makes you think he’s gay?”