Chapter 5
ROSIE
“Ma Cherie, you don’t understand. Everyone needs botox.”
“No, I’m not,” the second Maggie turned her back on us to finish setting up. I had offered to help, but after the second time I almost trampled over her, she told me to sit and mingle with the others once they got there. Jeanie had been the first to arrive.
She was stunning—I mean, stunning. I had a hard time looking away.
Her emerald eyes were enchanting, her hair was a perfect shade of caramel, and her heels were so tall I seriously worried about her breaking an ankle.
But she floated in on them. And when she introduced herself, and a French accent came out, I knew she was trouble.
“Heels, Jeanie?” a new voice sounded, and I found myself staring at someone new.
“Ah, Evelyn. So good of you to be here, wearing a potato sack.”
“It is not a sack! It’s a smock. I was working.”
“Yes, in a sack.”
“A smock!” Evelyn huffed, and I hated to admit that it did very much resemble a potato sack; it almost looked like straw.
“It’s made of recyclable material.” She turned and pointed her finger at Jeanie, who just smiled a big, toothy grin. “You should try it sometime.”
“I would not be caught dead in a sack, Evelyn.”
“If you tell her it’s a smock one more time, both of you are kicked out for the rest of this club.
” Maggie came over, and I was still staring at the two ladies who couldn’t be more different.
Evelyn was wearing baggy jeans and a graphic T-shirt under her smock.
Both had a thrifty vibe, and the paint splatter that littered every article of clothing she had on, and even her hair, just confirmed that those two women couldn’t be more different.
“Who are you?” Evelyn asked. “Who’s she?”
“Be nice. This is Rosie. She’s new!”
“She’s young.” Evelyn looked at me wearily.
“Are you saying we’re old?” Jeanie inquired.
“We aren’t young, Jeanie. That really only leaves old.”
Jeanie gasped and started mumbling her displeasure in words and phrases I couldn’t decipher because they were in French.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Jeanie.” Evelyn rolled her eyes, but then turned toward Maggie. “Is no one else coming today?”
“Orla said she’d be here once she got away from the diner.”
“Ah. So she won’t be here at all.”
“Have a little faith, Evelyn. Who peed in your cheerios this morning?” Maggie scolded. I was fascinated by them; they all seemed so vastly different, yet there they all were.
“Sorry. Just… stuck on a painting. That’s all.”
“Shall we start?”
“Where’s Meredith?”
“Ugh, talk about a fun sucker,” Jeanie commented now. I was beginning to get the feeling that she really didn’t hold anything back.
“I heard that,” another voice rang out from behind me, and startled me enough that I jumped a little bit.
“Jesus, it’s like ladies of the library in here,” I shot out. They literally kept appearing out of thin air.
“I don’t understand the reference,” the newcomer said.
“Children of the Corn?”
“Ah, Stephen King. A short horror story, first published in Penthouse magazine in 1977. Clever.” She winked at me, her skin almost translucent, like her hair color. She was disarming.
“Let me guess. You’re the librarian?”
“Like I said, clever.”
“Are there any more of you I need to be aware of?”
“Just Orla,” Maggie said. I realized that everyone had taken a seat, and while it wasn’t exactly a circle, it was laid out so we were all facing each other someway in the middle of the space that had been cleared out for things such as this—toward the back and in no one’s way.
“I’m here, I’m here.” I was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of fried food, and my stomach growled. I could only assume this was Orla.
“You could not shower, no?” Jeanie pinched her nose and waved her hand in front of her face.
“Are you not from France? Are you not used to stinky cheeses and stinky men?”
“Excuse moi?” Jeanie ruffled, “And I’m rude.”
“You are rude, but so am I.” She shrugged off her jacket, and she was in a pleated skirt and a yellow T-shirt with the name Orla’s on it, so if I wasn’t sure who she was before, I was now.
“So what’d I miss?” she asked as she sat down. “Where did we leave off again? I believe the Orc was about to…”
“We have a new member! Her name is Rosie! Can we ease her into it, please.”
“Like Daddy Orc was easing…” a French accent said unashamedly.
“LADIES, please,” Maggie pleaded, her cheeks were the deepest shade of red I think someone could sport.
“No, ladies, please tell me what exactly a Daddy Orc is…” I said. My curiosity was piqued, and even though I still felt like someone had taken a rusty knife to my heart, this helped.
I thought Maggie had been right; it was exactly what I needed.