looked better if you were directly under it. A faint scent of new wood and plaster and paint emanated from the room. The most notable feature of the “library,” however, was the fact that the shelves were as empty as old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.
I suddenly realized I was being watched. An old oak desk stood at the rear of the main room, a couple of wooden filing cabinets behind it. Two older women were at the desk, one sitting in front of a computer, one standing. I approached them. Often, as an inconspicuous older woman, I feel quite invisible, but that was not the case now. Both women were staring at me as if I were quite fascinating, and I wondered if I’d unknowingly had a major wardrobe malfunction, and the thong panties Sandy had sent me were tangled around my ankles. More likely, I reassured myself, it was just that since I was the only visitor, I was the only one to watch. But perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen today as the first day to try wearing the thong panties. They did feel quite peculiar.
I approached the desk. “Hello. I’m Ivy Malone. Lucinda O’Mallory told me you were looking for someone to organize and catalog the books for the new library.”
“Yes, we need someone to do that, if we can find someone with suitable qualifications. Lucinda called me about you, but we were thinking of”—she gave me a critical appraisal from my possum-gray hair to my short legs and sensible shoes—“someone somewhat younger. It’s a challenging position.”
The woman who spoke was the standing one, a tall, thin lady about my age, with a formidable beak of a nose, severely pulled-back hair dyed crow-black, large diamond earrings, and a stark black pantsuit. She’d probably been aiming for a look of elegance and sophistication, but, unfortunately, the effect was more scarecrow-in-mourning. I thought about nicely reminding her about laws concerning age discrimination, or not so nicely asking what a skinny old scarecrow like her was doing acting as if age were a blight on a person’s abilities and character.
However, because I needed this job, I diplomatically said, “Did you have some particular qualifications in mind?”
“Can you revive a computer?” the one with her plump fingers on the keyboard of the older computer asked. Brick-red lipstick and fingernail polish matched her improbably brick-red hair, but the blue eyes she turned on me had an unexpected girlish friendliness. “I think I’ve killed this one. See?”
She angled the screen toward me. The plump fingers raced over the keyboard, hammering haphazardly at letters and numbers and control keys. The arrow on the screen ignored her spirited activity, like a child blithely ignoring a screaming mother.
“Does it do this often?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Marianne usually runs the computer, but she’s down in Texas visiting her daughter, and this important letter needs to go out. You want to give it a try?”
Skinny Scarecrow protested. “Stella, I don’t think—”
“Oh, come on. How much damage can she do? It’s already on its last legs. Or last kilobytes, or whatever it is computers have.” She stood up and smiled. “By the way, I’m Stella Sinclair, and this is Victoria Halburton. You said your name was Ivy?”
“Yes. Ivy Malone.”
Stella held out her plump hand, enviably unveined or age-marked, and we shook. The name Sinclair sounded vaguely familiar, and after a moment I placed it. Perhaps this was the Mrs. Sinclair Kelli had mentioned, with the Godiva-–chocolate-guzzling potbellied pig. “You’re new in town?” Stella asked.
“Yes.” I hesitated briefly. I didn’t want to jinx a job possibility, but neither did I intend to dodge my connection with the young woman who had befriended us, a woman whom I was convinced was quite innocent of the accusations against her. “Kelli Keifer is letting us stay at the McLeod house.” Out of the blue, words came out of my mouth that I hadn’t even thought about saying.
I suddenly realized I was being watched. An old oak desk stood at the rear of the main room, a couple of wooden filing cabinets behind it. Two older women were at the desk, one sitting in front of a computer, one standing. I approached them. Often, as an inconspicuous older woman, I feel quite invisible, but that was not the case now. Both women were staring at me as if I were quite fascinating, and I wondered if I’d unknowingly had a major wardrobe malfunction, and the thong panties Sandy had sent me were tangled around my ankles. More likely, I reassured myself, it was just that since I was the only visitor, I was the only one to watch. But perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen today as the first day to try wearing the thong panties. They did feel quite peculiar.
I approached the desk. “Hello. I’m Ivy Malone. Lucinda O’Mallory told me you were looking for someone to organize and catalog the books for the new library.”
“Yes, we need someone to do that, if we can find someone with suitable qualifications. Lucinda called me about you, but we were thinking of”—she gave me a critical appraisal from my possum-gray hair to my short legs and sensible shoes—“someone somewhat younger. It’s a challenging position.”
The woman who spoke was the standing one, a tall, thin lady about my age, with a formidable beak of a nose, severely pulled-back hair dyed crow-black, large diamond earrings, and a stark black pantsuit. She’d probably been aiming for a look of elegance and sophistication, but, unfortunately, the effect was more scarecrow-in-mourning. I thought about nicely reminding her about laws concerning age discrimination, or not so nicely asking what a skinny old scarecrow like her was doing acting as if age were a blight on a person’s abilities and character.
However, because I needed this job, I diplomatically said, “Did you have some particular qualifications in mind?”
“Can you revive a computer?” the one with her plump fingers on the keyboard of the older computer asked. Brick-red lipstick and fingernail polish matched her improbably brick-red hair, but the blue eyes she turned on me had an unexpected girlish friendliness. “I think I’ve killed this one. See?”
She angled the screen toward me. The plump fingers raced over the keyboard, hammering haphazardly at letters and numbers and control keys. The arrow on the screen ignored her spirited activity, like a child blithely ignoring a screaming mother.
“Does it do this often?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Marianne usually runs the computer, but she’s down in Texas visiting her daughter, and this important letter needs to go out. You want to give it a try?”
Skinny Scarecrow protested. “Stella, I don’t think—”
“Oh, come on. How much damage can she do? It’s already on its last legs. Or last kilobytes, or whatever it is computers have.” She stood up and smiled. “By the way, I’m Stella Sinclair, and this is Victoria Halburton. You said your name was Ivy?”
“Yes. Ivy Malone.”
Stella held out her plump hand, enviably unveined or age-marked, and we shook. The name Sinclair sounded vaguely familiar, and after a moment I placed it. Perhaps this was the Mrs. Sinclair Kelli had mentioned, with the Godiva-–chocolate-guzzling potbellied pig. “You’re new in town?” Stella asked.
“Yes.” I hesitated briefly. I didn’t want to jinx a job possibility, but neither did I intend to dodge my connection with the young woman who had befriended us, a woman whom I was convinced was quite innocent of the accusations against her. “Kelli Keifer is letting us stay at the McLeod house.” Out of the blue, words came out of my mouth that I hadn’t even thought about saying.
Similar Books
