Page 43 of Welker

“You could put in a good word for me on the way out,” the oldster interrupted, ignoring Moira’s discomfort. “Maybe they’ll hire me.”

The woman looked excited, and Moira immediately got the feeling she didn’t have much of a home life. She probed. “Are you here with family? Friends?”

The wrinkles on the lady’s face became more pronounced. “No. I’m old, you know. I’ll be ninety-six on my next birthday.” She shook her head sadly. “All my friends are gone now, and what’s left of my family…” The woman didn’t complete her sentence, but instead, shrugged while making a moue of distaste.

Moira got it.

“Yeah. I don’t have anything to do with my relatives, either,” Moira comforted, then she had a sad thought. Was this how she’d end up if she kept eschewing friendships? Walking through box-stores helping strangers? Fuck that. And this woman flying solo? Not on Moira’s watch.

“What’s your name?” Moira asked.

“Margaret,” the woman told her. “And you?”

“Moira.”

“What a pretty name.” She got an impish look on her face. “And who’s the boy you want to impress?”

“Welker,” Moira let slip, before she could check herself.

Damn. Had she really admitted that? And was she trying to impress him? Then she laughed internally at the “boy” designation. There was nothing at all boyish about the large, ripped man she was beginning to lust over. “Wait. How did you know there was someone?”

“Just the bloom on your cheeks,” Margaret told her with a chortle. “Now, let’s make sure your Welker’s eyeballs pop right out of his head when he sees you.” Margaret continued, tapping her upper lip. “Hmm. Some strappy sandals will help.” She made an immediate ninety-degree turn, leading them to the shoe department where she honed in on the summer sales. “Size” she asked.

“Uh, eight,” Moira answered, a little surprised with herself that the woman could extract information from her so easily. Normally, she was reticent with any details regarding herself; personal or otherwise.

Margaret bent over and plucked a pair of straw-heeled sandals out of a box. They’d been dyed a light, summer blue.

“These are lovely, and will pick up the color of the grossbeaks in your dress,” she stated assuredly.

Moira was impressed. Not only with her bird-knowledge, but with the shade. Margaret was spot on. She had quite the eye.

“We used to call these espadrilles, you know, back in the day,” Margaret gushed. “But I’m not sure anyone your age still uses that term. Here.” She handed the wedges to Moira. “Try them on.”

Moira had only worn heels during those times when she’d snuck out in college, and that had been twelve years ago. Would she even be able to walk in these shoes?

Toeing off her boots, she wiggled her now bare toes. Crap. It was a no-no to try things on barefoot. She looked around, made a face, then snagged a pair of those awful stretchy things from a box, one-handedly slipping them on. She followed up by sticking her feet into the unfamiliar shoes.

Moira teetered for a moment, then found her center, looking to her new mentor for comment.

Margaret clapped her hands. “They look wonderful, dear. How do they feel?”

Moira took a few tentative steps back and forth, and surprisingly…

“They actually feel good,” she answered, a bit shocked. Her pink-painted toenails looked perfect against the pale blue.

“Just so,” Margaret stated with a nod. “Now let’s pick out a matching purse.” Her eyes went to an overhead shelf where she stood on tiptoe and swiftly snagged a small bag that looked appropriate enough to Moira.

Margaret raised her brows for approval, and Moira nodded.

“Great, then. Let’s head to the dressing room.”

Some amount of time later, after modeling not only the bird-dress—which had hugged her curves to perfection—but also the jeans and t-shirts that fit, Moira was absolutely amazed that her new friend had not only talked her into taking everything, but had convinced her that a sweet, sterling silver bird necklace she’d procured while Moira had been changing, completed the dressy outfit perfectly.

But did she really need to go that far overboard?

“I—”

Moira’s phone buzzed.

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