overwhelmed by PMS -- but that wouldn't work because she'd used it last week and Ms. Hotshot With a Hyphen had sympathized, that being the politically correct posture at WAACO, but at the same time most likely had jotted the day and time in her notebook just so she'd know if Staci Ellen tried it again one teeny tiny minute too soon.
At last Staci Ellen decided she could spell out each word over the phone. That way her vocal virtue wouldn't be compromised and she could still avoid being accused for the ten thousandth time of losing a message, which she found both an exaggeration and an insult. She picked up the book and found the scene where the count with the slate gray eyes and the dueling scar on his cheek was holding the raven-haired, penniless governess (who was in truth a wealthy heiress but wouldn't find out right until the next to last page) against her will and kissing her so hard it bruised her lips even though secretly she found herself strangely drawn to him and therefore unable to keep her breasts from heaving against his chest and herself from feeling a wave of heat in her loins that threatened to consume her.
It was Staci Ellen's favorite scene, especially after she'd looked up the word loins in the Women Aligned Against Chauvinism in the Office office dictionary. But not when Ms. Hotshot With a Hyphen was there. Staci Ellen Quittle sure as heck wasn't born yesterday, as she was fond of telling herself and sometimes Bruno, assuming he let her get in one little word when all he ever wanted to talk about was handicaps and seventen splits and changing the color of his team's shirts or adding a picture of a skull and crossbones on the back.
A flicker of irritation crossed her face, and she glanced over the top of the book at the calendar. Thursday. Darn, darn, and double darn.
-- ==+== --
Once it was dark, I drove up the road to the bank to see if the protesters were burning dollar signs on the lawn or doing anything else worthy of my professional attention. There were at least a dozen pickup trucks parked on the Assembly Hall side of the road, and twice that many men leaning against the trucks, their arms folded and their expressions mean. I presumed they hoped to intimidate the protesters with their silent vigil, but it wasn't having much effect on the occupants of the lot, who were drinking out of plastic cups and chattering to each other. A few lanterns had been placed in strategic corners, and a foursome was actually playing cards at one table. I couldn't tell if they were playing canasta, bridge, poker, or go fish. In that Dahlia was one of them, I figured it was the least demanding of that list.
Eilene was shooting quick looks across the road, however, and so were several others. Off to one side of the lot, Truda Oliver was fluttering her hands and talking intently to Johnna Mae. Ruby Bee, Estelle, and Elsie McMay were engaged in battle with a pile of army surplus cots, no doubt debating the wisdom of defying tradition (and the Baptist Women's League recipe pamphlet, Blessed Be Thy Suppers) by the inclusion of water chestnuts. Carolyn McCoy-Grunders was bouncing around to supervise the activities.
They were extremely well organized. It was obvious that Carolyn had led more than one protest in the past. I considered stopping to tuck everyone in and wish them all sweet dreams but increased my speed and headed for Farberville to see if a certain amiable state trooper might be willing to offer me a glass of wine in exchange for an incredibly clever recitation of Maggodian current events. Any port in a storm, although personally I prefer burgundy. Hee, hee.
-- ==+== --
Brandon Bernswallow grimaced as he remembered his father's scathing comments, all of which were totally unfair. It wasn't as if Brandon could have done anything to save the bank from the unfavorable publicity -- and there had been a shitload of it on the six o'clock news. A long scene of the protesters coming down the middle of the highway,
At last Staci Ellen decided she could spell out each word over the phone. That way her vocal virtue wouldn't be compromised and she could still avoid being accused for the ten thousandth time of losing a message, which she found both an exaggeration and an insult. She picked up the book and found the scene where the count with the slate gray eyes and the dueling scar on his cheek was holding the raven-haired, penniless governess (who was in truth a wealthy heiress but wouldn't find out right until the next to last page) against her will and kissing her so hard it bruised her lips even though secretly she found herself strangely drawn to him and therefore unable to keep her breasts from heaving against his chest and herself from feeling a wave of heat in her loins that threatened to consume her.
It was Staci Ellen's favorite scene, especially after she'd looked up the word loins in the Women Aligned Against Chauvinism in the Office office dictionary. But not when Ms. Hotshot With a Hyphen was there. Staci Ellen Quittle sure as heck wasn't born yesterday, as she was fond of telling herself and sometimes Bruno, assuming he let her get in one little word when all he ever wanted to talk about was handicaps and seventen splits and changing the color of his team's shirts or adding a picture of a skull and crossbones on the back.
A flicker of irritation crossed her face, and she glanced over the top of the book at the calendar. Thursday. Darn, darn, and double darn.
-- ==+== --
Once it was dark, I drove up the road to the bank to see if the protesters were burning dollar signs on the lawn or doing anything else worthy of my professional attention. There were at least a dozen pickup trucks parked on the Assembly Hall side of the road, and twice that many men leaning against the trucks, their arms folded and their expressions mean. I presumed they hoped to intimidate the protesters with their silent vigil, but it wasn't having much effect on the occupants of the lot, who were drinking out of plastic cups and chattering to each other. A few lanterns had been placed in strategic corners, and a foursome was actually playing cards at one table. I couldn't tell if they were playing canasta, bridge, poker, or go fish. In that Dahlia was one of them, I figured it was the least demanding of that list.
Eilene was shooting quick looks across the road, however, and so were several others. Off to one side of the lot, Truda Oliver was fluttering her hands and talking intently to Johnna Mae. Ruby Bee, Estelle, and Elsie McMay were engaged in battle with a pile of army surplus cots, no doubt debating the wisdom of defying tradition (and the Baptist Women's League recipe pamphlet, Blessed Be Thy Suppers) by the inclusion of water chestnuts. Carolyn McCoy-Grunders was bouncing around to supervise the activities.
They were extremely well organized. It was obvious that Carolyn had led more than one protest in the past. I considered stopping to tuck everyone in and wish them all sweet dreams but increased my speed and headed for Farberville to see if a certain amiable state trooper might be willing to offer me a glass of wine in exchange for an incredibly clever recitation of Maggodian current events. Any port in a storm, although personally I prefer burgundy. Hee, hee.
-- ==+== --
Brandon Bernswallow grimaced as he remembered his father's scathing comments, all of which were totally unfair. It wasn't as if Brandon could have done anything to save the bank from the unfavorable publicity -- and there had been a shitload of it on the six o'clock news. A long scene of the protesters coming down the middle of the highway,
Similar Books
