lemon wedges?" she asked, reaching out to reposition the silver sugar bowl to a more attractive angle. "There aren't any lemon wedges."
"Right here," Helen said, hurrying over to place the small glass bowl of sliced fruit on the sideboard.
"Lemon wedges," Susannah said, continuing with her visual inventory, "sugar, milk, cream, cocktail napkins, and fresh lemonade. We're ready for blastoff," she announced, just as the first party guests entered through the front door of The Personal Touch.
In less than a half an hour the reception area and front parlor were crowded with those Personal Touch clients who'd been invited to attend one of Susannah's get-acquainted teas. Although invitations weren't limited to the senior citizens on her client list, the tea parties usually ended up heavily weighted in that direction. Unlike a lot of other dating services in the city, a large part of her clientele was in the sixty-five-and-over age group. She'd found that many of them felt more comfortable meeting new people in an informal setting, alleviating the nerve-racking pressure of a one-on-one encounter. Her late-afternoon teas had proven so popular, she was thinking of adding a dressier evening party to the mix, maybe opening up the doors between the front and back parlors and rolling up the rugs for ballroom dancing.
She filed the thought away for the moment, setting herself the welcome task of mingling with her guests, making sure that those with the most likely chance of hitting it off as a couple met each other.
Three hours later, footsore, talked out and stuffed to the eyebrows with frosted tea cakes, Susannah shut off the lights and went upstairs to figure out what accessories she was going to wear with her flapper dress—and wondering if she had time to fit in a trip to the shoe department at Neiman Marcus before Saturday rolled around.
* * *
"You're early," Heather said as she opened the front door at six forty-five the following Saturday evening. "Suse wasn't, like, expecting you for another fifteen minutes, you know?" She gave him a sly knowing grin, calculated to get under his skin. "Guess you, like, couldn't wait to get your hands on her, huh?"
"It's nice to see you, too, Ms. Lloyd," Matt said with exaggerated politeness, ignoring the deliberate provocation of her words. One encounter was all it had taken for him to realize that's what would bug her the most.
Everything about the girl was calculated with an eye toward its shock value, from the shaggy hacked-off hair to the storm-trooper boots to the collection of silver pentagrams and crosses hanging from the multiple holes in her ears. She was wearing a cropped cotton sweater tonight, in a drab olive green that did nothing for her delicate complexion, and a pair of cutoff denim shorts that looked as if they'd been rescued from the rag bin. The sweater appeared to be at least two sizes too big. The shorts were a size too small. "Is Susannah upstairs?"
"Uh-huh." Heather let the door swing closed behind him with a careless bang. "She said to, like, bring you up and give you a glass of champagne." She turned and trooped up the stairs ahead of him, her heavy black motorcycle boots clumping loudly on each tread, her slim hips swaying from side to side like a pendulum gone haywire.
It was like watching a cross between Marilyn Monroe in a scene from Some Like It Hot and Frankenstein's poor monster stumbling blindly around in the woods. Matt studied the movement as he climbed the stairs behind her, trying to figure out if she was doing it on purpose or if it was her natural walk.
Heather glanced over her shoulder. "See anything you like?" she said with a provocative pout.
"Give it ten or fifteen years, kid," he said dryly, his expression bored and deliberately patronizing. "By then you might have enough experience to make it interesting."
Amazingly, the pout shifted into a smile before she mastered her expression and turned away. "Hey, Suse," she hollered as they
"Right here," Helen said, hurrying over to place the small glass bowl of sliced fruit on the sideboard.
"Lemon wedges," Susannah said, continuing with her visual inventory, "sugar, milk, cream, cocktail napkins, and fresh lemonade. We're ready for blastoff," she announced, just as the first party guests entered through the front door of The Personal Touch.
In less than a half an hour the reception area and front parlor were crowded with those Personal Touch clients who'd been invited to attend one of Susannah's get-acquainted teas. Although invitations weren't limited to the senior citizens on her client list, the tea parties usually ended up heavily weighted in that direction. Unlike a lot of other dating services in the city, a large part of her clientele was in the sixty-five-and-over age group. She'd found that many of them felt more comfortable meeting new people in an informal setting, alleviating the nerve-racking pressure of a one-on-one encounter. Her late-afternoon teas had proven so popular, she was thinking of adding a dressier evening party to the mix, maybe opening up the doors between the front and back parlors and rolling up the rugs for ballroom dancing.
She filed the thought away for the moment, setting herself the welcome task of mingling with her guests, making sure that those with the most likely chance of hitting it off as a couple met each other.
Three hours later, footsore, talked out and stuffed to the eyebrows with frosted tea cakes, Susannah shut off the lights and went upstairs to figure out what accessories she was going to wear with her flapper dress—and wondering if she had time to fit in a trip to the shoe department at Neiman Marcus before Saturday rolled around.
* * *
"You're early," Heather said as she opened the front door at six forty-five the following Saturday evening. "Suse wasn't, like, expecting you for another fifteen minutes, you know?" She gave him a sly knowing grin, calculated to get under his skin. "Guess you, like, couldn't wait to get your hands on her, huh?"
"It's nice to see you, too, Ms. Lloyd," Matt said with exaggerated politeness, ignoring the deliberate provocation of her words. One encounter was all it had taken for him to realize that's what would bug her the most.
Everything about the girl was calculated with an eye toward its shock value, from the shaggy hacked-off hair to the storm-trooper boots to the collection of silver pentagrams and crosses hanging from the multiple holes in her ears. She was wearing a cropped cotton sweater tonight, in a drab olive green that did nothing for her delicate complexion, and a pair of cutoff denim shorts that looked as if they'd been rescued from the rag bin. The sweater appeared to be at least two sizes too big. The shorts were a size too small. "Is Susannah upstairs?"
"Uh-huh." Heather let the door swing closed behind him with a careless bang. "She said to, like, bring you up and give you a glass of champagne." She turned and trooped up the stairs ahead of him, her heavy black motorcycle boots clumping loudly on each tread, her slim hips swaying from side to side like a pendulum gone haywire.
It was like watching a cross between Marilyn Monroe in a scene from Some Like It Hot and Frankenstein's poor monster stumbling blindly around in the woods. Matt studied the movement as he climbed the stairs behind her, trying to figure out if she was doing it on purpose or if it was her natural walk.
Heather glanced over her shoulder. "See anything you like?" she said with a provocative pout.
"Give it ten or fifteen years, kid," he said dryly, his expression bored and deliberately patronizing. "By then you might have enough experience to make it interesting."
Amazingly, the pout shifted into a smile before she mastered her expression and turned away. "Hey, Suse," she hollered as they
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