huh?"
"Yes." Sarah cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter, which Vivian would not have thought possible. "I grow . . . pumpkins in the lot next door to my house. We'll sell them at the party to raise money for a child in need."
"Sounds like a plan." Sounded like self -indulgent crap. Pumpkins ? How much money could you get from pumpkins? Sell shots of tequila and hold a drinking contest, then you could make some money. "How much do you fi gure you can raise?"
All heads back turned to Sarah, who sat stiffly as if she were being questioned by a grand jury. "I'll have well over a hundred pumpkins this year. We can sell them for fi ve to ten dollars each, depending on the size and variety. I grow several different kinds."
"Really." Vivian took another sip of coffee. Who the hell would go to a party at Halloween still needing a pumpkin? And who wanted to buy anything but the standard big orange kind at that time of year? "So even if you sell them all, that's probably only going to make around six hundred dollars."
The women shifted nervously. Color started climbing up Sarah's neck. "Yes."
"How much need is this kid going to be in?"
"We haven't selected a child yet."
Okay. Save the eye rolling for when she got home."Have you thought about other ideas that might be more lucrative?"
Sarah turned her head and fixed Vivian with a please -dienow stare. "Like what?"
"I don't know, but how many people around here really get excited about pumpkins?"
The women looked at Sarah and provided Vivian's answer: one.
"How about something with broader appeal, shoot for a signifi cant amount of money?"
"What do you suggest?" Ice formed around Sarah's words.
"Oh, I don't know . . ." Vivian shrugged. "A hand job booth?"
Erin snorted suddenly, like a horse with something up its nose. The rest of the women achieved instant rigor mortis.
"Hello? Ladies? I'm kidding." Vivian winked at Erin, who actually smiled, though she immediately ducked her head to hide it. Okay, Erin was weird, but at least she had a sense of humor. "In New York I organized a fund -raising party around a fashion show for a bunch of Ed's friends. The designers and models donated their time and everyone came, because that's what those people were into. We made ten thousand dollars for cancer research."
She looked around the room, surprised to fi nd herself feeling mildly excited. Planning parties was something she was good at, something she liked to do. One look at Sarah's face, however, and she realized her little moment of semi enthusiastic sincerity had hailed poopballs on the Queen's pumpkin patch.
Tough. If they wanted to help a child in need, and undoubtedly they had no idea how staggeringly many kinds of need there were, six hundred dollars would be a drop in the Pacifi c. They might as well do it up right.
She studied the squirming ladies, colorless Erin, Nancy with her thick glasses and A -line hairdo that made her look like an Afghan hound, Betty with tresses screaming for highlights and clothes that fought her body shape, Joan . . . okay, well, never mind . . . and an extremely obvious idea popped into her head. "Why don't you sell certifi cates for makeovers? Women love them and men can buy them for—"
"What, would you do them?" Joan finally came to life, glaring witheringly at Vivian's outfi t. "Who'd buy one?"
Murmurs in the room. Nancy glanced anxiously at Sarah.
Sarah was still indulging tasteful rage in her Chair of Leadership. "I'm happy with how I look."
Vivian bit her tongue. Literally. Because the remark on its tip would serve no purpose.
"And let not your adornment be merely external—braiding the hair, and wearing gold jewelry, or putting on dresses; but let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God." Betty folded her hands across what was left of
"Yes." Sarah cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter, which Vivian would not have thought possible. "I grow . . . pumpkins in the lot next door to my house. We'll sell them at the party to raise money for a child in need."
"Sounds like a plan." Sounded like self -indulgent crap. Pumpkins ? How much money could you get from pumpkins? Sell shots of tequila and hold a drinking contest, then you could make some money. "How much do you fi gure you can raise?"
All heads back turned to Sarah, who sat stiffly as if she were being questioned by a grand jury. "I'll have well over a hundred pumpkins this year. We can sell them for fi ve to ten dollars each, depending on the size and variety. I grow several different kinds."
"Really." Vivian took another sip of coffee. Who the hell would go to a party at Halloween still needing a pumpkin? And who wanted to buy anything but the standard big orange kind at that time of year? "So even if you sell them all, that's probably only going to make around six hundred dollars."
The women shifted nervously. Color started climbing up Sarah's neck. "Yes."
"How much need is this kid going to be in?"
"We haven't selected a child yet."
Okay. Save the eye rolling for when she got home."Have you thought about other ideas that might be more lucrative?"
Sarah turned her head and fixed Vivian with a please -dienow stare. "Like what?"
"I don't know, but how many people around here really get excited about pumpkins?"
The women looked at Sarah and provided Vivian's answer: one.
"How about something with broader appeal, shoot for a signifi cant amount of money?"
"What do you suggest?" Ice formed around Sarah's words.
"Oh, I don't know . . ." Vivian shrugged. "A hand job booth?"
Erin snorted suddenly, like a horse with something up its nose. The rest of the women achieved instant rigor mortis.
"Hello? Ladies? I'm kidding." Vivian winked at Erin, who actually smiled, though she immediately ducked her head to hide it. Okay, Erin was weird, but at least she had a sense of humor. "In New York I organized a fund -raising party around a fashion show for a bunch of Ed's friends. The designers and models donated their time and everyone came, because that's what those people were into. We made ten thousand dollars for cancer research."
She looked around the room, surprised to fi nd herself feeling mildly excited. Planning parties was something she was good at, something she liked to do. One look at Sarah's face, however, and she realized her little moment of semi enthusiastic sincerity had hailed poopballs on the Queen's pumpkin patch.
Tough. If they wanted to help a child in need, and undoubtedly they had no idea how staggeringly many kinds of need there were, six hundred dollars would be a drop in the Pacifi c. They might as well do it up right.
She studied the squirming ladies, colorless Erin, Nancy with her thick glasses and A -line hairdo that made her look like an Afghan hound, Betty with tresses screaming for highlights and clothes that fought her body shape, Joan . . . okay, well, never mind . . . and an extremely obvious idea popped into her head. "Why don't you sell certifi cates for makeovers? Women love them and men can buy them for—"
"What, would you do them?" Joan finally came to life, glaring witheringly at Vivian's outfi t. "Who'd buy one?"
Murmurs in the room. Nancy glanced anxiously at Sarah.
Sarah was still indulging tasteful rage in her Chair of Leadership. "I'm happy with how I look."
Vivian bit her tongue. Literally. Because the remark on its tip would serve no purpose.
"And let not your adornment be merely external—braiding the hair, and wearing gold jewelry, or putting on dresses; but let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God." Betty folded her hands across what was left of
Similar Books
The Creation of Inequality: How Our Prehistoric Ancestors Set the Stage for Monarchy, Slavery, and Empire
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus
