“I know. I was offering. And I want you to come with me to the gala. Think about it.”
Me at a gala was like a hooker in a nunnery. I would be out of place among women like Julie Van Ness and Bo Dixie Whatever Her Name Was. Besides, I had nothing to wear. I wasn’t even sure what someone wore to a gala, but I was fairly certain it was something sparkly and designer. I could barely afford my cell phone bill. Tuition was reasonable, but living on my own meant I was responsible for all the bills. None of my former friends were where I was in life, thanks to the vacation Ed Earl had given me. Many were married or had gotten the hell out of Louisiana. The ones who had stayed weren’t too different from my Balthazar family. I didn’t need their influence or them telling everyone in north Caddo Parish my business.
Ty looked at me expectantly.
“I don’t do galas. How about meeting at a bar or going to Chili’s or something?”
Ty laughed like that was funny. Like going to Chili’s was a joke. But I liked Chili’s.
“You’re so adorable,” he said, and for a minute I thought he might be gay because I had never had a guy call me adorable. But I knew he wasn’t gay, and maybe guys who drove expensive trucks and dressed in polo shirts often used the word adorable. I wouldn’t know.
“Seriously,” he continued, reaching out a hand and brushing my forearm. “I want you to come with me.”
“Take one of the girls who likes that crap. I don’t want to wear a fancy dress and be ignored by people who I don’t want to talk to anyway. I’m sure you got women lining up to go with you to eat grits.”
He squinted his eyes in confusion behind the glasses. I could tell because it made his nose wrinkle. “We don’t eat grits.”
I had been joking. Obviously he wasn’t good at recognizing dry humor. That and the presumptuous statement about me intentionally playing hard to get were marks against him. Still, the whole package might be worth taking a chance. But I didn’t want to put on heels and a gown to do it. “I’ll think about it.”
“Great.” His resulting smile looked as content as a cat in sunshine.
I didn’t know whether to be pleased or alarmed. Instead I decided to do what I did best—duck out. “I have to get back. Catch you later.”
Then I trotted up the two freshly painted steps to the front porch with the lush ferns. The bell tinkled as I entered the old house that smelled of lemon oil, age, and leather books. Cricket had set a bowl of gardenia blooms in a silver pitcher next to the cash register, and that scent filled my nose as I skirted the counter and sank onto the counter-height leather chair. My phone showed a few texts, mostly from my class group chat. I had been taking business classes at a local community college with the hopes of getting an associate’s degree and a better job. I loved working at Printemps. Well, loved might have been too strong of a word. Printemps was a good job for what it was. Cricket paid me decently, and the work wasn’t hard. The alternatives had been a sandwich-delivery place or a housekeeping gig at a hotel—and they had wanted to do a background check. I much preferred to sit behind the counter, studying for my econ quiz and enjoying the air-conditioning.
Glancing over, my eye caught the white dress I had snagged from Cricket’s Bin of Requirement. She hadn’t gotten the joke, but I assumed she wasn’t a Potterhead the way I was. I reached out and stroked the material. The stiff taffeta provided nice structure to work with, and though it had originally been white, the patina of age had gilded it a creamy color that seemed more pleasant to me. I don’t know why I asked her if I could have it, since the stain under the arm looked rusty and the irregular holes suggested some moths had thrown a rager. Still, my fingers itched to turn it into something that honored its history.
I had only pulled out the sewing machine Gran had bought me with her egg money a few times since moving in, including to make curtains for my sterile duplex. But something about that dress called to me. Cricket said it was a Givenchy. I had heard the name. Maybe a perfume or something.
As I lifted the dress, it made a soft swish. Like a sigh. The pleats were wide, making billowing panels, and it looked as if it were missing a belt. The bodice buttoned up the front to a collarless neckline. The sleeves weren’t exactly capped, more of a sloping end to the bodice. The stain glared at me. I wrinkled my nose and allowed my mind to trip back to what else was in the bin. If I could find a more defined skirt, I could piece the bodice to something in black. Or a deep blue. A wide belt with tiny rhinestones would dress it up. I could create something gala worthy.
Wait.
Was I really considering going to the ball, Cinderella-style, piecing together something old in a trunk thinking that it would be good enough to hobnob with Shreveport’s nobility? And really, how noble were they? No Fortune 500 companies here. Just a few timber guys, a bunch of oil-and-gas people, and old family money. The city was like the stepchild of Dallas society. So why was I worried that I wouldn’t be good enough?
’Cause your mama was a barmaid, and your daddy ran off west to join up with a motorcycle gang. And you’ve been in prison, chickee.
There was that.
I laughed at myself and carefully folded the dress and set it on the back credenza where Cricket kept the Rolodex of suppliers and VIP customers. She was old school that way. In fact, that was the very best way to describe her—like someone out of the fifties.
The phone rang.
I answered. “Printemps. Can I help you?”
“Hey, uh—”
“Ruby,” I filled in.
“Yeah, Ruby,” Scott Crosby said, without a trace of chagrin in his voice. “Sorry about that. I’m bad with names.”
“It’s okay.”
“Is Cricket there?”
“She went home early. I think her chicken-salad sandwich didn’t agree with her.” Why had I offered up that information? But then again, Scott was her husband. It was okay to share such things.
“Oh. Well, I tried calling her cell phone, but it went to voice mail.”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. “Um, well, I’m pretty sure she was heading home. Maybe she put it on DND because she was lying down or something.”
A girlish giggle sounded in the background. I glanced at the clock. Two fifty-three p.m. School wasn’t out yet. Maybe this was about Julia Kate? But for some reason, I didn’t think so. Because Scott grew quiet, and I could envision him shushing whoever it was.
“What’s DND?” Scott asked.
“Do not disturb,” I clarified.