"Lucky"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2000, All rights reserved)

Chapter 9

The big day, or big night, was a week away when I enlisted Lonna's 
help.  That week went by so quickly that it was a strange inversion of 
the life I had been leading.  In the weeks immediately after Trish had 
died, days ran by leaving no trace, as though they never existed.  Weeks
of lightning-quick days vanished, for all that they were comprised of 
infinitely-long hours and minutes.  

     The hours and minutes of the week before my 'date', though, raced by 
at a frantic pace, full of energy and purpose.  Each day seemed too full 
to absorb, and at the end of it there seemed little more in the way of 
clear memories.  But there were clear accomplishments.  I must have tried 
on 20 dresses, and 50 pairs of shoes.  And then, after Lonna insisted I 
get a tighter corset - despite what she called it, it felt enough like a 
corset that no other name seemed to fit in my mind - I had to go back and 
try half the dresses on again.  

     The day approached with implacable determination, however, and it was
clear from the first evening that Lonna was the expert, and a very capable
one indeed.  Any resistance I might have felt at what seemed like 
redundant activities leading to artificial urgency were buried beneath her
confidence and commitment.  I did balk, though, when she told me I had to 
come by her salon on the Saturday of my big adventure.  

     "I shouldn't need a haircut, yet.  Besides, I'll be wearing the wig."

     "Exactly.  We need to set the wig while you're wearing it to get the 
right look.  And I really want to get Shannon to give you a makeover.
She's a lot closer to your color tones, and she might have some good 
ideas."

     "Shannon?  You want someone else to know about me?  Why not take an 
ad in the paper?"

     "Oh, calm down.  What makes you think you're the only 'special' 
customer we have?"

     "You mean other guys come in there for makeup and things?"

     "If you don't know, then we must be doing our job, including the 
job of keeping our mouths shut.  Shannon won't take advantage of you.
She already knows about Trish - everyone does - so she'll understand."

     Somehow, the argument about letting someone else in on my 'secret' 
distracted me from the more important issue.  What was Lonna going to 
do to me when I got there?  I should have asked.  I should have known 
I was being set up when she told me I had to be there at noon, though 
Bud wasn't coming for me until 7:00 that evening.  I should have figured
out a lot of things before I found myself walking through the door to 
Lonna's salon, dressed per her suggestion in one of Trish's warmups.  

     Things started out safely enough.  We went to Lonna's working area,
actually a small room and not just an exposed chair, and she worked for a 
while to make sure the wig was securely on my head.  Some of that was 
glue, some of it was pulling my own hair through the weave of the wig cap,
but by the time she was done, I think she could have lifted me out of the 
chair by all that fake hair.  The wash and set that followed were not much
of a surprise, either.  Every time I had been in the place there had been
lots of people with hair in rollers.  

     Then she told me to take off my clothes.

     "You have *got* to be kidding!"  

     "Not at all.  We need to do your legs."  

     "*Do* my legs?"

     If you haven't ever had your legs waxed, trust me, it hurts.  It 
hurts even more on places other than your legs, and Lonna seemed 
determined to eradicate any hair, any where, on my body.  She even did
the wax thing on my eyebrows, not removing all the hair, but yanking 
everything except a surprisingly high arch.  I didn't think my eyebrows 
went up that high.  Maybe it was a residual effect from the shock of 
having so much hair yanked out by the roots.

     Lonna had removed the breast forms when she was forcibly extracting 
all my body hair.  When she put them back, she fussed for the longest time 
getting the edges blended in, but I had to admit that when she finished,
even I could hardly tell where the real me ended and the silicone me began.  

     It was almost a relief to get back into my warmups and lie back 
while they worked on my face.  The greenish mud stuff looked positively
vile, but it felt surprising good when they rubbed it into my skin. And
at least they let me relax for a few minutes while it did whatever it 
was supposed to do.  

     I must have dozed off.  The next time I opened my eyes, a dark-haired
girl was leaning over me and I jerked like she had stuck me with a pin.

     "Hey!  Who are you?"

     "I'm Shannon.  I thought Lonna told you about me."  

     "Oh, yes, um, I'm sorry."

     "Don't be.  It's time to take the mudpack off, though, and do your
nails."

     "There must be some mistake.  I'm wearing gloves tonight."  

     "Oh, really?  Lonna was real definite," Shannon said as she peeled 
the now-stiff gunk off my face.  At some ways it felt like it had rooted
into me as deeply as the wax.  But instead of hurting when she pulled it
off, my skin felt like it had been slapped awake or something.  Tingly, 
like when you've just done a fast ski run down a frosty mountain.   It was
really sort of nice.

     "That's amazing," I said when she pulled the last of it off.

     "Glad you like it.  It really helped, too.  You need to get a facial
more often."

     "Yeah, right," I said, barely suppressing a most unfeminine snort.  
I was saved from having to explain my lack of enthusiasm by the arrival 
of the nail technician, accompanied by Lonna.

     "Oh, wow!" Lonna said, before I could say anything.  "That really 
did a good job.  You need to do that more often."

     The next interruption in what I wanted to say was from Shannon, who 
giggled at the delayed echo of her own sentiment.  By the time she ran
down the nail tech had a hold on my hand and was starting to trim the
cuticles.

     "Lonna, why do I need to have my nails done?  I'm wearing gloves."

     "Well, for one thing, you might take your gloves off at some point.  
But more than that, it will make you feel more feminine all night long.  
The grace you need when your fingers get longer will show even when you 
*are* wearing your gloves."  

     "Ah, I see," I said, sighing.  Why was it women were always so 
logical when they wanted you to do the most illogical things?      

     The rest of the things they did to me, well, maybe I'll just describe
the rest as part of explaining what happened later.  

     After they let me loose, Lonna followed me back to my house so that 
she could help me dress.  I needed the help.  Not only was the newest 
corset-thingy way too tight for me to get into by myself, I was too nervous
to do even the simple things like brush my teeth.  Especially since I had 
to do it without messing up Shannon's makeover.  Somehow, Lonna managed 
to get me ready.  Yet another big one that I owed her.

     When the doorbell rang, she made me stay in the bedroom while she 
answered it.  I heard Katy's voice first, as usual, but Lonna's, "Hi, Bud" 
made it clear they were both there.  Per directions I waited until I was 
told to come in and 'make an entrance'. 

     The response was not what you would call tumultuous.  Katy and 
Bud watched in dead silence while I swayed into the room.  The heels 
Lonna had made me wear were way too high for anything *but* a swaying 
sashay that looked like a deliberate enticement.  The only sound was the
whisper of silk on silk as the dress I had picked out - a dark blue number 
that should have been in the dictionary next to the word 'slinky' - 
slithered over my dark stockings.  I felt both exposed and covered up at 
the same time because my shoulders and a *lot* of cleavage were showing, 
yet I had on gloves up past my elbows.  That same contradictory feeling 
was reinforced at my neck.  Lonna had all that hair up in an arrangement 
even *I* could tell was very elegant, and that made my neck feel very 
exposed.  Yet I wore a triple strand of pearls that seemed almost like 
armor as they circled my neck.  Dangly pearl earrings added to the 
feeling, swishing almost to my exposed shoulders and sometimes clicking 
ever-so-faintly on the necklace.  Lonna had been most emphatic that pearls 
would be my jewelry theme for the night, so there was another triple 
strand around my left wrist and pearly-white combs accenting the darkness 
of my hair.  

     The silence continued, sounding even louder after I reached the 
others and stopped walking.  When I got close enough, I could see that 
Bud was back into lawyer mode.  Not a hint of his impression showed, 
except in the fact that he wasn't letting a hint of his expression show. 

     Katy, on the other hand, had so many complex emotions on her face 
that I couldn't sort them out.  There was surprise there, which I sort of
expected, but there was also more than a hint of frown.  It made me even
more nervous, so I blurted out, "Somebody say something."  

     "Dear God," Katy said, letting out breath I hadn't realized she was 
holding.  "I don't believe it."  

     That didn't really help.  "What's wrong?"

     "Nothing," she said quickly, reflexively.  Then she tried again, 
though it sounded strangely forced, "Nothing at all.  You look fabulous!"  

     "Oh, um, thank you."  

     Before I could say anything else, Katy turned to Bud and said, 
"Doesn't she look fabulous?"

     "That's as good a word as any," he agreed.  

     Then he did something I absolutely didn't expect.  He looked at me.  
I mean *really* looked at me, one of those long, slow looks that made it
clear he was enjoying the view.

     I blushed so brightly I think it showed in places that weren't really 
me.  But the frown was back on Katy's face.  I could tell she wanted to 
say something, but she held whatever it was back.  

     Lonna saved us all from the ensuing silence by her own observation, 
"Tami picked the dress out herself.  She has great taste.  Oh, and you 
look nice, too, Bud."  

     He did.  His black tux fit his trim body like it had been tailored 
for it, which I knew was the case, but it combined with his shiny dark  
hair to make him look like he belonged in the dictionary, too.  Next to
'tall, dark, and handsome'.  And even as I thought that, I felt myself 
blush again.  

     "Hadn't we better be going?" I asked, after what seemed like 
another long silence.  Maybe it was just that my heart was racing so 
fast my time sense was all screwed up.  

     "Oh, yes, we should," Bud agreed, visibly shaking himself as though
to throw off a spell.  

     Katy sort of woke up, too, though her expression was still complex.  
She put a smile on her face and said, "I need some pictures."  

     It triggered my sense of humor.  I don't know why.  Maybe it was a 
way to try and let out the tension I was feeling, but the image of a 
mother taking pictures as her grown-up little girl goes off to the prom
was too vivid to stifle.  I started giggling and reached out to put my 
hand through Bud's arm.  

     "Oh, Mother.  You are *so* old-fashioned."  

     Lonna bubbled over with a laugh she had lost control of, too, and in 
minutes we were all hoorawing almost too much to stand up.  Bud steadied 
me on my heels as he led me over by the fireplace, and Katy dug a camera 
out of her purse.  

     "Oh, that reminds me," Lonna said.  "Wait a minute while I get her
purse and stole.  You need the whole look."  

     Lonna ran into the bedroom to get the mink stole that had once upon a
time graced Trish's shoulders.  It, and the pearls, were the only things 
of hers I was wearing that night, and I had almost refused.  But then it
seemed like it was right, somehow.  As though it proved that this was all
about getting closer to my memories of Trish.  In any event, a few seconds
later the mink was draped around my shoulders and a purse that was almost
too small to be useful was in my hands.  

     "Geez, Tami, lighten up," Lonna ordered.  "You're clutching that 
purse like it's a matter of life and death."  

     Now it was my turn to take a deep breath and try to settle down.  
After a moment, I managed a weak, "Well, you told me it was a 'clutch' 
purse.  I thought that's what I was *supposed* to do."

     "Oh, no, that's too bad even for you," Bud groaned, but Lonna giggled 
and Katy snorted, so it did serve to keep things from tensing up again.  

     With the tension relieved, I wished I hadn't made the comment about 
being time to leave.  When I said it, it seemed like we needed to so 
*something*, and that's all I had been able to think of.  Now I wished I 
had suggested we have some coffee or something.  But Katy was recovering
from whatever had been bothering her and was in full bustle.  Posing us 
alone and together, she even took one of Bud all by himself.  Then Bud
was doing the watch thing, making us all feel like we were holding up the
wheels of progress and I found myself being ushered outside.  

    Bud walked me to his car like I was the Queen of England, bowing a 
little as he opened the door.  I was grateful for his helping hand as I 
tried to get into the seat while gathering up my dress without dropping
my purse.  Hopefully he didn't see any more than he should have, well, 
I mean he'd already seen all there was to see when we were in the locker
room together, but somehow that didn't apply any more.

     My 'date' for the evening was very quiet as we drove toward the site
of the writer's ball.  We were well on our way to the tension that had 
already made its presence felt that evening and I was trying to think of
something to say, when Bud blurted out.

     "Did you really pick that dress out yourself?"

     It cracked me up.  Of all the screwy things to worry about!  I had to
laugh, which made my denial seem less than convincing.

     "Oh, no, not really.  We were in this store and there was a rack of 
dresses hanging along the wall.  Lonna told me to pick one, and I thought 
this one was a nice color.  I always did like dark blue.  Anyway, the next
thing I knew, Lonna as gushing over it and I was in the dressing room.  
When I came out, it seemed everyone in the store was just adamant that 
this was the dress for me."  

     He was listening in lawyer mode, no hint whether he believed me, or 
understood how 'those things happened' or, well, no hints of anything.  It
made me feel like I had to break that neutral distance, even if I had to 
use a sledge hammer.  

     "So, Bud, do you like it?"

     "Oh, um, sure, it's very . . . . " 

     He ran down, but I wasn't letting him off the hook that easily.  "Very 
what?"

     Taking a deep breath, he looked over at me and smiled.  He must have
recognized his own stiffness, because he said, "Miss Piper, you look 
lovely tonight.  The dress is beautiful, but never so beautiful as when 
you wear it."

     "Oooh, you are smmoooothhh.  I'm gonna tell Katy on you," I said, 
letting a bit of Trish tease-giggle into my laugh.  

     "Oh, no, anything but that," he laughed in turn.  "If she finds out 
I was using my best lines on another woman, I'll be sleeping on the patio
for a month!"  

     "A line?  Is that all your words mean to you?  A line to woo an 
innocent damsel?"  

     "Innocent?  Goodness, you better slide over to that side of the 
car, so when the lightning strikes I don't get hit, too."  

     "Whah, suh, Ah don' know what y'all ah talkin' 'bout.  Ah'm jus' a 
li'l country gal, all wide-eyed at bein' in the big city."  

     "Try again.  Katy uses that country gal shtick on me all the time.  
I've developed an immunity."  

     "Oh, dear.  Immune to my charms and the evening so young yet.  What
ever will I do as the night wears on?"

     Whatever he might have suggested was forestalled by our arrival at 
the site of the ball, an overpriced hotel in the heart of downtown.  But I 
had to admit, when the valet rushed to open my door and offered a hand
to help me stand, I really appreciated that particular indulgence.  

     Then I wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not, as I ran out of 
hands trying to control my purse and my dress with one hand already 
occupied by him, without letting too much leg show through the slit in my 
dress.  Lonna had promised it wouldn't be a problem, since it was only 
split just a bit higher than my knee.  Of course, that was when I was 
standing.  When I was sliding across the seat, it rode up a *lot* higher 
than that.  

     But the only result of my display was a wide grin on the part of the
valet.  By the time Bud was around the car, I was standing with the dress 
falling quite demurely back to my feet.  Smoothing non-existent wrinkles 
from the sleek lines of the gown was more an attempt to stall than a 
necessary part of recovering from the ride, a ploy so transparent that
Bud just smiled at me and offered his arm with exaggerated gentility.     

     Maybe there was another result, at that.  As we walked into the 
hotel, those highest-ever heels made me walk with a sway that caused
the thin material of my dress to swish on my fanny.  It could just have
been my awareness of that unfamiliar sensation, but I swear I could feel
the heat from that valet's eyes - right below here the mink stole draped
down my back.  It was *not* something I took pleasure in.

     I was glad when the door closed behind us, shivering a little with 
an uncontrollable little attempt to make that tickle at my tush go away.  

     "Are you okay?" asked Bud.

     "I'm standing here wearing a thin gown in cold weather, and I've 
just been ogled by a guy," I whispered sharply.  "What do you think?"

     "I *think*," he whispered back, "that that was the point of this 
exercise."  

     "Oh, yeah.  Well, it's not working so far."  

     Being a lady, as in formally dressed, was as much of an increase in 
the 'issue' factor as getting dressed at all.  The first time I was really 
out in public as Tami, I was wearing clothes I had practiced in and doing
things that were, I don't know, discrete.   The sensations could be 
separated out.  The feel of the lingerie and the restriction from the 
heels were things I could deal with one at a time.  But as a lady, they 
all piled on top of each other.  One hand seemed useless, tied to a purse
that couldn't just be slung over my shoulder.  The heels were so high that 
I had to think of them all the time.  Just getting on the escalator was a 
cause for incipient panic.  And the dress, even aside from not being able 
to breath in the tight corset, the dress was just *everywhere*.  It 
swirled around my legs with the faintest breeze, and it snapped at my 
heels when I tried to walk.  It revealed my leg with every movement, but 
it seemed like there were a thousand yards of fabric when I tried to step 
up without stepping *on* the hem.  Somewhere in there I felt Bud take my 
wrap and turn it in to the hatcheck counter, but I was too distracted by 
the long skirt to notice just when.  

     Then we arrived at the ballroom.  

     Five hundred heads rotated to aim at us.  A thousand eyes burned 
holes in fabric that was too thin to begin with.  If Bud hadn't been 
moving forward at a steady pace, I'd have turned and ran (ha!, I'd have 
crashed to the floor, but I'd have *tried* to turn and run).  It didn't
help a bit that there was a long staircase leading down to the main floor
of the room.  Clutching at Bud's arm in real need, I gathered up a bit of 
my dress in the hand that was also trying to hold my purse and prayed that
I wouldn't bounce too many times as I tumbled to the bottom.  
   
     "Relax," Bud whispered.  Yeah, right, let *him* try and get down 
those stairs in these stilts.

     I'm not sure I would have made it without his arm for support, but
halfway down I realized he was providing more than physical support.  He 
was standing tall and showing pride that I was on his arm.  And he was
doing it without chiding me for my own ungraceful cowering.  My awareness 
of that must have shown in my posture or something, because just as I 
looked up at him to show my gratitude, he smiled at me.  

     "You go, girl," he whispered, then smirked as my eyes widened.  

     "Thank you," I said.  "I owe you big time."

     "I'll put it on your bill," he said, laughing as he stepped to the
registration desk and showed our tickets.  Though he was only a few feet 
away, I was left alone for a moment and for the first time I started to
see individual faces in the crowd that seemed to press around me.  

     And of course the first face I noticed in the crowd was someone I 
already knew.  He was headed toward me, a short man, thinning hair, with
a body that would never grace the cover of one of his books.  

     Before I could turn and run (yeah, right), he was standing in front
of me and lifting my gloved hand to his lips.  "Allow me to introduce 
myself," he said, "for we have surely never met.  I would have 
remembered despite the intervention of years and continents."

     Since this was the night for dictionary images, I decided he belonged
next to the word, 'oily', but I found myself blushing anyway at his 
overly-courtly mannerisms.  His introduction was no surprise, except that
he gave me the whole story without embarrassment.

     "I am Johnathon Layton, though it is perhaps more likely that you 
have heard of my nom de plume, 'Brenda Carstairs'."

     Bud's deeper voice as he returned saved me from the need to say 
anything.  "An interesting pen name."

     "Hmmm, of all the words I've heard used to describe it, that one 
would seem to convey the least information.  Which is, of course, 
information of a sort, is it not?"

     While I was trying to sort out that sentence in my mind, Bud did 
the gallant escort thing, and I found I appreciated the . . . protection?
Whatever the feeling was, it made me glad that Bud was there in a way 
that I had never considered before.

     He took my right arm in his left, then offered his free hand and 
said, "Hello, I'm Benjamin Weiserman."

     "Mr. Weiserman," Layton repeated, then looked pointedly at me.
    
     "This is Tami James," Bud replied, smoothly slipping in Trish's 
maiden name.  That was a close call.  I hadn't even thought that if 
I told people I was Tami Piper, the similarity to Tim or Trish Piper
would be noticeable.  

     I looked up at Bud with shock and gratitude warring for precedence
in my eyes.  He grinned back at me, winking where Layton couldn't see.  
That whole interchange took only a heartbeat, even at the racing pace
my own was keeping, and Bud turned smoothly back to Layton, saying, 
"Is there a particular reason you've chosen such an . . . incongruous
pen name?"  

     "It's not incongruous if you write romance novels," Layton replied.
"Ladies who read those like to think that the author is capturing their
fantasies, something a man could not do.  Or so they think." 

     "Ah, then perhaps I might be excused for not recognizing your work,"
Bud said, nodding.

     Layton refocused his eyes on me and asked, "Perhaps the lady has 
read some of my little tales?"

     I actually had read a couple.  The style of romance novels is fairly
distinctive and I had considered using it as the basis for an embedded 
code in one of our spy novels.  Layton, or Brenda Carstairs, wrote in 
the sub-genre called, 'bodice rippers' which I thought might have enough
action words to support coded commands to a secret agent.  They had other
elements as well, and the memory brought a smile to my lips as I nodded.

     "Yes, I have read a few.  They were certainly . . . passionate."

     "Why thank you, my lady.  I don't think I've had such a pretty 
compliment in a long time.  And certainly not from such a pretty 
complimenter."  

     Bud was suddenly overcome with a fit of coughing.  He waved his 
arm at the refreshment area to define an excuse, and with a nod to Layton 
offering apology, we escaped.   

     When we were out of earshot, Bud whispered, "I'm going to slap you if
I hear another word, all evening, about being 'smooth'."

     "That guy is not smooth, he's just slimy," I whispered back, but I had 
to giggle, too. 

     My escort abandoned me again when we got to the bar.  And again a man
stepped up to me as soon as Bud had left. 

     "Hello.  I don't think I've seen you at one of these before," he 
began politely.  "I'm Jason Michaels."  

     "Tami James," I said in my turn, reflexively offering my hand for a
handshake.  I had never met this man before.  He was quite a bit younger
than the average attendee and I wondered at his background.  At the 
prices for tickets, most beginning writers couldn't afford to come.  

     "Are you a writer?" he asked, before I had a chance to do the same.

     "Um, well, not really.  I have a, uh, friend who is."  

     Once again Bud returned to claim me.  He had two glasses of what 
looked like champagne, and I frowned for a moment.

     "A beautiful lady needs at least one glass of champagne on such an
elegant occasion," Bud explained, bowing slightly as he handed me the 
flute.  

     "Smooth," my lips mouthed, voicelessly.  He jerked a bit, then nodded
his head in acceptance of the accuracy of my jab.  

     The men did the guy thing, shaking hands and repeating 
introductions.  I took a careful sip of my champagne and vowed silently 
that it would indeed be a single glass for the evening.  

     When I tuned back in on their conversation, I almost spewed what I
had sipped as well as dropping my glass, as I heard Jason saying, 
"Actually, I had hoped to meet Tim Piper here.  I've long appreciated his
work.  But I understand his wife died."

     "Yes," Bud confirmed.  "Tim took it very hard.  Trish was special to a
lot of people."  

     "Indeed," Jason said.  Then he lifted his own glass and said, "To 
Mrs. Piper, the inspiration for a talented writer."

     It was more than I could bear.  My eyes flooded and I sagged against 
Bud.  He was instantly supportive, taking my glass before I dropped it and
handing both to Jason.

     "I'm sorry," Jason said.  "I didn't mean to distress you."

     "It's alright," Bud explained.  "Tami knew Trish, too.  They were 
very close."  

     "Ah.  I am sorry.  I meant only respect and admiration."

     "Of course, but perhaps you will excuse us for a moment."

     He nodded, stepping back politely.  I wanted to tell him it was 
okay.  But it *wasn't* okay.  It would never *be* okay again.  Ever.

     "Are you going to be okay?" asked Bud.  No, you idiot.  That's the 
point.  

     But I straightened up a little, and tried to get my legs under 
myself again.  I fumbled in my purse for a tissue, not really able to 
see though eyes too full of tears.  Bud was pulling a handkerchief
from his jacket when I finally got something from my own meager supply.
Even though I tried to dab at my face instead of smear everything, the
colors on my tissue showed that I would need some repairs.  I blinked
rapidly, trying to find a powder room.  Bud pointed toward one and 
led me that way.