Unfinished Business (25 page)

“She's got to go with Senator Newman to an event tonight,” Fantine was saying. “I told her you can sew anything. But I don't know if you have time.”

Gladys's face broke into a smile that showed the slight gap between her two front teeth. “Well, I suppose for our visitor from up North, I could clear a
little
time.” She quirked an eye toward Fantine. “But you're gonna have to finish Allison Wells' wedding dress before she comes in here at five thirty for the final fitting.”

Fantine's expression made it pretty clear that she'd rather not deal with Allison Wells or her wedding dress. “Lord, that child is so particular,” she muttered under her breath. “But I'll get it done.”

“Thank you,” Erica said, stretching her hand toward the woman, but to her surprise, Gladys pulled her into her arms and hugged her like a long-lost sister.

“My little great-nephew got himself killed in that Iraq,” she muttered into Erica's shoulder. “Seems like we've lost a lot of local boys. I'm glad you're doing
what you're doing. And it'll be a pleasure to make your dress.”

“Oh for the love of God,” Bitsi muttered impatiently. “Why can't you just pick a dress off the rack? It's not like this is Oscar night and you're up for Best Actress.”

Erica ignored her, focusing all her attention on the two older women.

“I promise it won't be too complicated. Did you see the NAACP Image Awards this year?”

“Girl,” Gladys gave Erica's arm a playful slap. “I never miss that. Did you see what that Beyonce had on?”

“I'm not going there.” Erica laughed. “Don't have the assets, if you know what I mean. I was thinking more of Victoria Rowell? You know who she is? She's on a soap opera. I think it's—”

“The Young and the Restless
. But I liked her better on
Diagnosis Murder
. Don't have much time for soap operas, but I like mystery shows, and that one was pretty good.”

“Do you remember her dress?” Erica asked. “Simple little black thing.”

Gladys eyed her with a frown. “It ain't so simple, child. What makes a dress like that is the fit and the fabric.”

“I have a specific fabric in mind for the bodice,” Erica told her. “But I want to be a little more, uh…” She hesitated. “
Creative
with the skirt.

Gladys perched her glasses on the broad bridge of her nose and stared at Erica like she was reading the lines of her genetic code. “Creative, huh? You sure we're going to have what you're looking for here in Billingham?” she asked at last, squinting at Erica. “Milan, this ain't.”

Erica nodded. “Oh, I'm sure,” she said calmly.
“Positive.”

Gladys paused for just a second, eyeing Erica coolly. Erica held her breath, hoping the woman hadn't completely read her mind—or if she had, that she wouldn't call her out here and now in front of Bitsi and ruin everything.

She must have decided to keep it confidential, because at the end of her consideration Gladys said, “Then that leaves the fit. Strip!”

“What?”

“You heard me. Take off that T-shirt and those jeans, girl,” she barked, sounding more like a drill sergeant than a seamstress. She pulled a tape measure and a small notepad from an apron pocket. “Let's measure what you're working with, so I know how much material to buy.”

Erica hesitated. The idea of stripping down to skin under the judging eyes of Bitsi didn't feel right. And then, of course, there was the strawberry-shaped hickey strategically placed right at the base of her neck. The memory of how it had gotten there made a warm flush of desire rise to her throat.

It was a one-time thing,
she reminded herself.
After all, I'm just another woman he supposes to be “in love” with him. Which is about what I should have expected from that neo-fascist pig. He's in league with the devil. He's first cousin to the Antichrist. He's…

One hell of a kisser.

And just like that, her mind took her body back to the pleasure that was an evening in Mark Newman's arms, Mark Newman's lips, Mark Newman's long, hard—

“Take it off,
now,
” Gladys demanded, recalling her to the moment before her underwear could get too moist. “I need to see the shape of your body. The dress you're talking about fits close to the bust.” And when
Erica still blinked at her nervously, she laughed. “You ain't got nothing I ain't seen before anyway. C'mon, now.”

Erica sighed, lifted her shirt and pulled it over her head, hoping no one would notice anything unusual at all.

When she looked at them, the older women were already busy with their tape measures, assessing her with calmly professional eyes. If they'd seen the hickey—and there wasn't much of a way they could miss it, considering the fact that she was standing in only her panties in the middle of the room—they had tactfully decided not to comment. Bitsi had apparently become uncomfortable enough to wander away, and now stood before a rack of dresses in sizes that would fit only the tiniest of flower girls, pretending to be engrossed.

“Does the fabric store have kente cloth?”

Gladys shook her head. “Not usually. I know where to find it, but I'll tell you right now, you can't make a ball gown out of kente cloth.”

“I was thinking of using it to wrap my hair.”

Gladys shook her head. “I'll design you something out of the same thing we use for the dress. It'll be afrocentric, if that's what you want. But a little more elegant. You'll see. I've done a lot of them,” she said, raising her eyebrows toward her own turban.

“Whoa, whoa.” Bitsi interjected herself back into the conversation. “Turbans, kente cloth?” She shook her head. “I'm not going to let you embarrass him like you did last night with all that crazy peacenik singing. You'll embarrass him again over my dead body, you hear?”

“I didn't embarrass him,” Erica shot back.

“Did too.”

“Well Mark didn't seem to think so.”

Bitsi's lips were clamped tight with suppressed rage. “This is so ridiculous,” she muttered when she'd calmed herself enough to speak again. “I can't believe you're still here at all. Mark's just too kind, too good-hearted and too distracted by your boobs and your butt and your big brown eyes to see that everything about you is calculated to destroy him. But I see it. I know what you're trying to do, and believe me, I won't let you!”

“You really
are
in love with him.”

Erica released the words calmly, as matter-of-fact as the weather report. Immediately a crimson flush suffused Bitsi's face.

“Absolutely not,” she huffed. “It's—it's—it's just my job to protect him. And that's all!”

Erica glanced at the two older women who had ceased their ministrations to listen to the exchange. She read in their faces that they were buying Bitsi's denials about as much as Erica was.

“Look, Bitsi. For the last time, I'm not trying to embarrass him, but I'm not turning into some big-haired pageant queen for him, either.” She shot a quick glance of forgiveness toward Fantine. “No offense.” The woman nodded her on, and Erica continued. “I'm more than willing to skip the whole thing all together. Why don't you buy
yourself
a dress and go with him?”

“No,” Bitsi said abruptly, the red flush in her pale skin deepening to the color of her jacket. “He's made it very clear. He wants to go with you. God only knows why,” she added under her breath. “You have absolutely nothing in common. Nothing to offer him, except—”

“Except?” Erica slipped her T-shirt back over head and slid her jeans up over her hips, and then turned toward the woman.

A nasty smirk creased the woman's face. “Well, you
know how oversexed you people are.”

Erica's hand went up in a flash, the vision of her palm print on the woman's sickly pale skin already crystal clear in her mind. But it didn't happen. Something stayed her hand, kept her arm from its follow through. Erica looked up to find Gladys, holding on to her upper arm for dear life.

“Now, now,” she muttered, though she stared at Bitsi with eyes hard with dislike. “We ain't gonna let it come to that.”

“No, we certainly are not!” Fantine exclaimed. “Bitsi Barr, you ought to be ashamed. I've known you your whole life—your mother, too. Your grandmother is one of my dearest friends. I know full well they didn't raise you to say such things. Especially not”—she cut her eyes in Erica's direction—“to a guest here in Billingham. What must she think of us?”

I think this is a town full of racists. I think this is a state full of racists. I think this is the most backwater, hostile, awful place I've ever been, and I can't wait to get the hell out of here and as far from Mark Newman as I can get!
The words were on the tip of Erica's tongue, but she tamped them down and mastered herself, letting her hand and arm drop back to where they belonged.

“I'm sorry,” Bitsi said, sounding sorry only for having been called on her bullshit, but not for letting it fly free in the first place. “I only meant…” she shrugged. “Well, you see she doesn't even wear a bra! What kind of woman goes around without a bra?”

“Plenty of 'em,” Gladys replied, chuckling. “White or black don't have nothing to do with it.”

“Amen,” agreed Fantine. “Why back in the seventies, I went around without one a few times myself. Remember, Gladys?” she elbowed the other woman, a girlish grin on her pink lips. “We marched with Dr. King in the sixties, then burned our bras in the seven
ties?” “Sure did.” Gladys nodded. “Those were the days, girl.”

Bitsi stared at them in unadulterated horror and then grimaced. “Well, things are different now. Thank God.”

“Too bad,” Fantine muttered. “Anyway, she won't be wearing a bra underneath that dress, so she'd only have had to take it off for us to measure anyway.” She inhaled, drawing herself up in righteous indignation. “I didn't march with Dr. King down the streets of Billingham for
your
generation to say things like that. I think you owe Ms. Johnson here an apology.”

Bitsi glared at Erica like the whole thing was her fault and curled her lips in an expression that made it perfectly clear these would be among the hardest words she had ever spoken. Swallowing like she had a mouthful of cod liver oil, she murmured, “I'm very sorry.”

Erica just stared at her. A thousand responses filled her brain, but not one of them was gracious enough to be spoken out loud. Finally, Gladys stepped into the silence with, “That's all right. She understands. We're all a little in love with that Mark Newman. Shoot, if I was a few years younger…” and she ended the sentence with a whooping chuckle that settled over them all like a soothing balm.

“Besides,” Fantine picked up the last hanging edge of discourse and yanked it neatly into place. “He's such a gentleman. It's appropriate that he invite his guest with him to the fund-raiser, and I'm sure Ms. Johnson here has no intention of embarrassing him—or herself—in any way. Isn't that right, dear?”

Erica felt all their eyes turn toward her again, in
quiring, waiting for the reassurance.

“I have no intention of embarrassing him,” Erica said loudly and slowly, feeling a little like a little girl with her fingers crossed behind her back. “And, for the record, I'm not trying to seduce him, I'm not out to destroy his career and I'm not in love with Mark Newman, either.”

In love with Mark Newman.

Mad as she was at Bitsi and the whole damn situation, mad as she was at him and scared as she was knowing that X-rated picture was floating around in the world, waiting to be used for no good purpose, she couldn't help feeling that same little quiver she'd felt from the very first moment she looked into Mark Newman's eyes.

It didn't make any kind of sense. Quivering and shivering over Mark just made her like the woman in one of Aretha Franklin's old songs. Added to a chain of fools.

And now the three women were looking at her with equally revealing expressions on their faces: Gladys and Fantine with frustratingly knowing smiles on their faces, and Bitsi with a cold and certain jealousy.

“I'm serious,” Erica said, struggling with her face, but it didn't seem to want to cooperate. “I'm not in love with Mark Newman! He's not my type! He believes in all the wrong things. I mean, he shoots animals, for the love of God! And—and—and—there's that annoying little smirk he gets on his face. Like he thinks he's some kind of—of—sex god. God's gift to women, I mean,” she corrected, afraid of the possible admission the use of the word
sex
might betray. “Surely, you've seen it. That look he gets? That frustrating, I-think-I'm-so-good-looking look?”

But the other women just stared at her like she'd
sprouted three heads. Mark Newman danced in the air around her, invisible to all but her. He seemed to be almost laughing at her.

Oh go away, you big show-off,
she told him in her mind.
Some creep is about to make me a porn star, and it's all your fault.

“Never mind,” Erica grumbled aloud, feeling the heat that had warmed her insides now warming her cheeks and ears. “I'm ready to go the fabric store now.”

“Yeah, we'd better git. It's gonna take all afternoon to stitch your dress together.” She eyed Bitsi. “I'm guessing you got better things to do.”

“Yeah. Much better things,” Bitsi grumbled. She shot Erica a final parting glance of war. Then, without another word, she turned away from them and stomped out of the store.

“I'm ready,” Erica told the women.

“No, you're not.” Gladys jotted the last of Erica's measurements into a little spiral notebook and then looked up, frowning disapproval.