house like light sweet crude.
She was shaking her head. “You should think twice about that black-and-white tile. It’s awful sterile. I mean, you already have this rugged hiker thing going on in your living room.” She waved toward my Navajo rugs and framed prints of Yosemite. “Your bathroom should say soft and fluffy. You know, feminine.”
“I’m familiar with the concept.” I walked to the living room, spreading my arms. “Please explain this.”
“Don’t get your undies in a bunch. I needed a quiet place to lay out my inventory.”
Draped across the furniture were bras and panties in countless colors and degrees of wickedness. Teddies, G-STRINGS, and . . .
“Is that a codpiece?”
“Saucy, isn’t it? It’s Countess Zara Lingerie’s new collection. His ’n’ hers underwear. It’s called Fil/Fille .” She picked up another bit of male attire and jiggled it in front of me. “Get it? Feel-feel ?”
It was decorated to look like a stallion’s head. I stepped back. “Did you have to give it eyes and a mouth?” Then I stopped myself. “Wait. Just wait. Why my house?”
“Ed Eugene’s old fraternity brother’s here and he didn’t want my dainties fussing up their boys’ weekend.”
I felt like chewing through an electrical cord and ending it all. “Dainties?”
“Our new range—what do you think?” she said.
I turned to the playthings on my coffee table. “That your dildoes look like a missile battery.”
She smiled. “It’s part of the couples theme. We call it Weekend Fireworks.”
“And is she part of the Weekend Fireworks?” I picked up the plastic inflatable doll that was lounging on the sofa.
“Suzie Sizemore. For my lingerie parties, you know, when some of the guests feel bashful about trying on our selections. Isn’t she adorable?”
Suzie’s vinyl grin indicated that she’d been getting gleeful with the missiles. I tossed her back on the sofa.
“Please tell me you didn’t lay all this out in front of the Martinez boys.” The last thing I needed was my bathroom contractors seeing these things.
“Of course not.” She clapped her hands together. “Now hold on. I’m mainly here to talk to you about my plans for the book.”
“ My book?”
Hell, had she spent the weekend rewriting my novel-in-progress? I glanced at the computer. It was off. Thank God.
“Evan, it’s not always about you.” She steepled her fingers in front of her lips. “ My book.”
Light-headedness was the only word to describe the feeling that came over me.
“See, I’ve developed my business talent. Which is more than just sales. It’s my eye for beautiful lingerie as well as my second eye for making ladies feel exquisite, no matter what their figure flaws.”
Damn if she didn’t look at my chest. Her eyes wandered as though lost on the Great Plains.
“But I haven’t even begun to tap my writing talent,” she said.
The light-headedness worsened. I wondered whether my face was expanding like a helium balloon.
“It must run in the family. Everybody who gets my Christmas letter tells me I’ve missed my calling. I should be an author.”
My eyes crossed. Taylor’s Christmas letter was a three-page essay on Her Perfect Life. It omitted her husband’s jealous streak and her taste for junk food and adultery, but did feature a photo of her riding bareback on one of Santa’s reindeer. Taylor was dressed as an elf. Ed Eugene was the reindeer.
“Not that I would ever give up my job with Dazzling Delicates. Besides, that isn’t truly a job; it’s more of a gift.”
“You’re going to write a book,” I said.
“A coffee-table book. Along the lines of Madonna’s Sex . It’ll showcase photos of women looking sexy in Dazzling Delicates lingerie.”
I put my fingers to my temples. “Taylor, that’s called a catalog.”
“No, these are women on the beach, or riding motorcycles down the freeway.”
“The freeway. Sexy women.”
She clapped her hands together.
She was shaking her head. “You should think twice about that black-and-white tile. It’s awful sterile. I mean, you already have this rugged hiker thing going on in your living room.” She waved toward my Navajo rugs and framed prints of Yosemite. “Your bathroom should say soft and fluffy. You know, feminine.”
“I’m familiar with the concept.” I walked to the living room, spreading my arms. “Please explain this.”
“Don’t get your undies in a bunch. I needed a quiet place to lay out my inventory.”
Draped across the furniture were bras and panties in countless colors and degrees of wickedness. Teddies, G-STRINGS, and . . .
“Is that a codpiece?”
“Saucy, isn’t it? It’s Countess Zara Lingerie’s new collection. His ’n’ hers underwear. It’s called Fil/Fille .” She picked up another bit of male attire and jiggled it in front of me. “Get it? Feel-feel ?”
It was decorated to look like a stallion’s head. I stepped back. “Did you have to give it eyes and a mouth?” Then I stopped myself. “Wait. Just wait. Why my house?”
“Ed Eugene’s old fraternity brother’s here and he didn’t want my dainties fussing up their boys’ weekend.”
I felt like chewing through an electrical cord and ending it all. “Dainties?”
“Our new range—what do you think?” she said.
I turned to the playthings on my coffee table. “That your dildoes look like a missile battery.”
She smiled. “It’s part of the couples theme. We call it Weekend Fireworks.”
“And is she part of the Weekend Fireworks?” I picked up the plastic inflatable doll that was lounging on the sofa.
“Suzie Sizemore. For my lingerie parties, you know, when some of the guests feel bashful about trying on our selections. Isn’t she adorable?”
Suzie’s vinyl grin indicated that she’d been getting gleeful with the missiles. I tossed her back on the sofa.
“Please tell me you didn’t lay all this out in front of the Martinez boys.” The last thing I needed was my bathroom contractors seeing these things.
“Of course not.” She clapped her hands together. “Now hold on. I’m mainly here to talk to you about my plans for the book.”
“ My book?”
Hell, had she spent the weekend rewriting my novel-in-progress? I glanced at the computer. It was off. Thank God.
“Evan, it’s not always about you.” She steepled her fingers in front of her lips. “ My book.”
Light-headedness was the only word to describe the feeling that came over me.
“See, I’ve developed my business talent. Which is more than just sales. It’s my eye for beautiful lingerie as well as my second eye for making ladies feel exquisite, no matter what their figure flaws.”
Damn if she didn’t look at my chest. Her eyes wandered as though lost on the Great Plains.
“But I haven’t even begun to tap my writing talent,” she said.
The light-headedness worsened. I wondered whether my face was expanding like a helium balloon.
“It must run in the family. Everybody who gets my Christmas letter tells me I’ve missed my calling. I should be an author.”
My eyes crossed. Taylor’s Christmas letter was a three-page essay on Her Perfect Life. It omitted her husband’s jealous streak and her taste for junk food and adultery, but did feature a photo of her riding bareback on one of Santa’s reindeer. Taylor was dressed as an elf. Ed Eugene was the reindeer.
“Not that I would ever give up my job with Dazzling Delicates. Besides, that isn’t truly a job; it’s more of a gift.”
“You’re going to write a book,” I said.
“A coffee-table book. Along the lines of Madonna’s Sex . It’ll showcase photos of women looking sexy in Dazzling Delicates lingerie.”
I put my fingers to my temples. “Taylor, that’s called a catalog.”
“No, these are women on the beach, or riding motorcycles down the freeway.”
“The freeway. Sexy women.”
She clapped her hands together.
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