The Boulder Holder, where she’d spent countless hours after work giving it a fresh, new, youthful look—a transformation, really—was packed full of customers. Women of all shapes and sizes—curvy, petite, willowy, and buxom—had turned out in a show of support. The problem was, they were all retired.
There wasn’t an arthritis-free or girdle-less gal among the group. Except for one—the runway-ready thirty-something with shiny black hair and perfect allure who stood at the entryway of the shop, a red journal in hand, frantically taking notes as someone asked where the banana-hammock display had been moved.
“Grandma,” Harper whispered, dashing over to the register, her head pounding each time she watched a customer rifle through the racks like it was the yearly bloomers blowout and not the most important day for the shop. “Why are all these people here? We have the Lulu Allure meeting today.”
“That’s why I called in backup. I figured if the rep saw how packed the store was she’d change her mind. All it took was me mentioning a free banana-hammock with every purchase of twenty dollars or more before noon, and the knitting club cleared out and the girls started lining up.” Clovis took in the crowded store and smiled, big and proud.
Harper took in Clovis with her blue eye shadow, coral lips, and emerald lace bustier she was wearing as a top and groaned.
“We wanted to prove we have a youthful edge. Flirty summer romance, boudoir sexy—that was the plan, remember?” It was a good plan. One that ten minutes ago Harper had been certain would sway the rep’s opinion of the shop.
“Oh, I remember all right. That’s why I told the girls no dentures or orthopedic shoes allowed.” Which explained why Mrs. Sharp was moving her lips like she was a ventriloquist.
“These aren’t girls, they’re grandmas,” Harper pointed out. “And call me crazy, but when I think of Summer of Seduction, saggy breasts and Bengay don’t really come to mind.”
“We might be up there in age, but we are all widow’s peak women,” Clovis chided, clearly offended.
“Widow’s peak women?” Harper asked.
“Women in their seventies who are embracing their sexuality. In fact, WPWs are enjoying the best sex of their lives, and enjoying it three times more often than you and your youngster crowd. Just ask Giles.”
Harper gagged a little. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Giles Rousseau was weathered, pushing eighty, and Clovis’s gentleman friend. They had both stubbornly circled each other for two decades, then last year Giles finally made his move, taking them from foes to frisky in a single night, and now they cohabitated in a quaint cottage off Main Street and co-parented their dog, Jabba.
“Good sex or not—”
“Great sex, dear. There’s a difference.”
It had been so long, Harper wouldn’t know.
“The point is, how am I supposed to present our ideas to the rep when your widow’s peak women are rifling through the merchandise and picking apart the store we worked all last night finishing up?”
Clovis took in the store once again, the swarm of biddies, the picked-over displays, and leaned heavier on her cane, letting loose a deflating sigh. “Oh my, I really blew it, didn’t I?”
Clovis didn’t understand the concept of moderation. Everything she did, she did with gusto—including love. Which was why Harper pulled the older woman into her arms and whispered the same comforting phrase her grandmother had told her a hundred times as a kid: “Anything done from the heart can’t be wrong.” With a final squeeze, she pulled back. And then because she didn’t want to let down the woman who had sacrificed so much to be both a grandmother and a mother, Harper added, “Now you find a way to clear some of the customers out and I’ll go do what I do best.”
Making friends wasn’t Harper’s only superpower. She could also tell a story and captivate an audience through images. Today she was doing both.
Pretending the shop was in tip-top shape, Harper headed toward the window display—and the woman who held the fate of her grandmother’s shop in her hands. Determination pushed her shoulders back, even though nerves had her heart pounding.
“I’m Harper Owens, senior merchandising manager.” Harper stuck out her hand. “You must be from Lulu Allure.”
The woman studied her for a long moment, taking in every inch of Harper’s attire—especially the shoes. She didn’t appear overly impressed, but she also didn’t appear as if she were going to ask for tips on papier-maché crafts for kids. Harper considered it a win.
“Chantel,” she said, offering Harper a glossy black-and-gray business card that read, CHANTEL LARUE, VP OF SALES AND MARKETING, LULU ALLURE.
Harper swallowed. They hadn’t sent a low-hanging sales rep—they’d sent in the big guns—which had Harper wondering just how bad these contractual changes were going to be.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Harper said, but her voice got lost in the chatter and shuffle of the customers.