Hattie smiled through gritted teeth, once again pointing across the room toward a grouping of furniture. “I’m sure it did, Mrs. Jones. If y’all would just take a seat, please, I’ll be right with you.” She lifted her chin and kept her finger pointing across the room, making it clear she would not unpack one more dress until we complied.
With a collective sigh, the group, including Ginny, Emily, and me, sulked to the waiting area. The mothers politely settled themselves on the flower-patterned furniture while the girls huddled off to the side to discuss the latest debutante news. It was a wonder they never tired of the topic. I, for one, could hardly take much more. For months, I’d been hearing constant chatter about our town’s spin on a high society debut: the presentation, what would be served at the formal dinner and, of course, all about how elegantly Congressman Wheeler’s plantation would be decorated for the Peach Cotillion. Usually the whole shindig was held up north at some ritzy country club, but this year, thanks to the generosity of Congressman Jeb Wheeler, who just happened to be up for reelection, the cotillion was staying local with the ball taking place at his family home, the historic Wheeler Plantation.
“She’s awful pushy for a preacher’s wife, don’t you think?” Ginny whispered.
I looked over to where the other women were seated. “Maggie Jones?”
Ginny’s shoulders waggled. “Uh-huh.”
Leaning back against the cushion, I inwardly moaned. That was why I hadn’t wanted to come; Ginny was taking this cotillion stuff way too seriously. As a matter of fact, the impending cotillion and its accompanying affairs seemed to be bringing out the worst in all the town’s ladies. Like the well-dressed woman across from us who sported an expensive-looking beige leather handbag and an all-too-serious attitude. She was seated with ramrod straight posture and legs folded primly to one side, a proud tilt to her chin as she impatiently—and imperiously—glanced around the room.
“Who’s Miss Proper over there?” I quietly asked Ginny.
She glanced over and quickly turned back, her face screwed with disgust. “That’s Vivien Crenshaw. You know, Ms. Peach Queen’s mama.” She nodded toward the group of girls, where a tall blonde with dazzling white teeth stood in the center. She was gushing dramatically about her date for the dance while the rest of the girls looked on in awe. “Her name’s Tara,” Ginny continued. “Emily says she’s the most popular girl in high school. Top in everything: lead in the school play, class president, and head cheerleader . . . You know the type.”
Yeah, I knew the type. A picture of my own sister’s face formed in my mind. Ida, the star of the Harper clan, always exceeded everyone’s expectations; whereas I always did the unexpected, keeping my family in a continuous state of quandary. Even to this day, there were things I just couldn’t bear to tell my parents, for fear it would put them over the edge. I shook my head, telling myself not to think about all that right now.
Luckily, a movement outside distracted me from my downward spiral. Adjusting my position to get a better look, I gazed curiously at the young girl washing Hattie’s windows. She was dressed in sagging jeans and a too-tight T-shirt topped off with shocking black hair that shadowed her features. This must have been the girl Hattie mentioned hiring for odd jobs. She was nothing like the other girls in town. I felt an instant connection to her. As I continued to look on, the girl paused, reached into the pocket of her jeans and extracted a hair band. She pulled back her hair, exposing several silver hooped earrings running along the rim of her ear and topped off with a long silver arrow that pierced straight through to the inner cartilage. Ew. That must have hurt! I felt no connection now. But still, it was fascinating. It reminded me of some of the extreme piercings I’d observed in remote African tribes during my days as a humanitarian aid worker.
I was about to ask Ginny if she knew the girl when Hattie called out from the other side of the room. “Okay, ladies. I think I’ve got everything straightened out. Now one at a time . . .” She held up the first dress. “Belle Jones.” The preacher’s wife and her daughter scrambled to grab the dress before heading off toward the dressing rooms. “And, this one’s for Sophie Bearden,” Hattie continued, handing out the next dress to a squealing brown-haired girl.
Just as Hattie was reaching for the next gown, jingling bells announced the arrival of a short, stout woman dressed in sensible polyester slacks and a scooped-neck top. She removed her sunglasses and unwrapped a colorful scarf from her head. “Lawdy! Can y’all believe this humidity today?” She patted down her tight black curls before using the scarf to dab at her décolletage.
Hattie’s face lit up. “Mrs. Busby, thanks so much for coming in early.”
The woman waved off the thanks with, “So how many girls spied that early delivery truck?”
“Just a few, but if you could pin them up, it’d save having to make extra appointments.”