Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Scarlet emerges with a plate loaded with pizza, setting it on the coffee table before curling up cross-legged on the couch beside me. “What are you on about now?”
“The bridesmaid dress that Sara and Isabelle chose.” I hold up my phone to show her the picture.
Scarlet cocks her head. “Okay. It’s not the worst dress she could have chosen.”
“Actually, it is.”
“The lace may be a bit much, but the sage hue’s nice?”
“If I want to look like a corpse.” With my olive skin tone, the only shades of green I can pull off are vibrant. “But that’s not the half of it.”
“Okay … what else is wrong?”
“Nothing. If you’re five foot ten and willowy like Katrina and Isabelle. I’m five feet tall. The high neckline will make me look all boob, this hemline guarantees I have stubby legs, and what the hell is with the flared sleeves?”
Scarlet giggles. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you having the hem shortened when you have it altered.”
“Oh, that’s right, it gets better. Sara says the dress doesn’t come in petite sizes, but a seamstress should be able to make it work. You know why it doesn’t come in petite sizes? Because no petite woman in her right mind would ever choose this dress!” I shake my phone to emphasize my annoyance. “Do you know what it’ll take to alter this? The entire thing will need to be taken apart and put back together. It’s going to cost as much as the dress itself.” Which is outrageously expensive. “Plus, it’s lace. That’s even harder to adjust!”
“You know, my mom’s a pro at altering clothes,” Scarlet admits, never keen on praising Dottie, even where it’s due. “She’s been doing it all her life.”
“Really?”
“How do you think her dresses mold to every curve on her body like they’re a second skin?” She snorts. “She could make this look good on you.”
“Done.” A small wave of relief touches me, but bitterness follows. “I swear, this is all Isabelle’s doing.”
“Come on … She’s already taken Bill. Why would she go out of her way to sway Sara to pick an unflattering dress?”
I hold up the picture. “So I look like a sickly garden gnome.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Nah. We don’t need all them bells and whistles. Something like this is what I’m looking for.” The man ambles to the end of the aisle to inspect the electric coil stove.
“Psst.” His wife hangs back, angling for my attention, waving me closer to her.
I edge over. “Yeah?”
She steals a glance his way. “I don’t care about the stupid stove. I need a microwave. Can you please convince him they don’t cause cancer?” she whispers. “His mother put that idea into his thick skull, and I can’t beat it out, even after fourteen years of marriage. He won’t let me have one.”
Let her … My teeth grind. One of those men. “Then buy one yourself and bring it home.”
“You don’t think I tried that? My parents gave me their old one. It was gone by the time I got up the next day, out on the curb.”
“I would have put him on the curb along with it,” I mutter before I can bite my tongue.
“Believe me, I was ready to. If we didn’t have kids …” She shakes her head. “I’m at my wit’s end.”
“Honey? What do ya think?” he calls out, bending over to peer into the oven. “Big enough for your roasts?”
I think I want to kick him in the ass.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I whisper and then stroll over. “It’s standard size, so it should cover all your needs. Both yours and your wife’s. And you know what goes well with it? That.” I point to the range-microwave combo a few units over. “That’s a popular model.”
He follows my finger, and scowls. “Oh, we don’t need one of those.”
“But didn’t you say you were shopping for a range hood too?”
“Yeah, but we don’t want a microwave.”
“They save counter space. Super convenient.”
“Until you got a tumor the size of a melon in your head.”
I smile politely. “Sir, microwaves don’t cause cancer.”
“That’s what these manufacturers all want us to think. Biggest money-maker out there, those radiation boxes. That and them TVs.”
“You don’t have a TV?”
“’Course we have a TV.” He frowns. “Who doesn’t have a TV?”
“Who doesn’t have a microwave?”
“We don’t, that’s who.” He jabs himself in the chest with his thumb. “I’m telling ya, there’s been studies, back when these things first came out. But the government doesn’t want anyone to know. It’s all marked classified.”
“Oh, you mean like the alien files.”
His eyes widen. “See? You get it.”
“I’m starting to.” This guy is a nutjob.
The door chimes with another customer. Thank God.
“I’ll let you and your wife discuss your decision for a few minutes.” I mouth, “I tried,” to the poor woman before exiting the aisle.