Page 33 of American Hellhound
Then
“I do like the blue,” Denise said, holding up the dress in her left hand. “But the pink brightens your complexion so nicely.” She lifted her right hand, and the pink dress she held in it. “Which do you prefer?”
Maggie had wilted down onto the bench outside the dressing room about ten minutes ago, feet, legs, and back sore from a day-long shopping trip. They’d started at the mall – at nine a.m. – and spent two hours there before Denise declared the shops there “hopeless.” Then it was back to city center and the upscale dress boutiques. For hours. Hours. With no lunch break.
“Whichever one you think is most appropriate, Mom,” Maggie said, and tried not to sound as weary as she felt.
Denise gave her a thin-lipped, impatient look. “This is for our tea social on Thursday with the Bateses. Which do you prefer?” she repeated, and her tone demanded an answer.
Maggie withheld a sigh. “The blue.”
“But the pink looks so nice.” She extended the knee-length pink number toward her.
“You asked me what I think, and I like the blue.”
“Well,” Denise huffed. “There’s no need to have anattitudeabout it, honestly.”
Maggie bit her lip and said nothing.
“The blue. Really?” Denise spun to face the mirror and judged both dresses again, for the seventeenth time. “If you’re sure…”
“I am.”
Denise sighed. “Well alright. I’ll have Melissa wrap it up for us.” On cue, Melissa the sales associate stepped up to take the blue dress and carry it over to the register. “Oh,” Denise continued. “I was thinking we might pop in and look at shoes while we’re–”
“No,” Maggie said, standing. “I have plenty of shoes at home.”
All the oxygen seemed to go out of the little shop. Over at the register, Melissa’s head snapped up, expression startled. In the years that Denise had been dragging Maggie into this place, Maggie had never contradicted her mother publicly.
Denise sucked in a breath, visibly taken aback. Maggie could see impulses clashing in her eyes: the urge to go on as if nothing was amiss, because a good Southern woman would rather die than reveal unrest within her family; and the urge to slap her right there. She’d never done such a thing, but Maggie knew that it had always been a possibility. Like living with a well-behaved dog with a gleam of violence in its eyes.
Denise would have also rather died than be compared to a dog.
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, vibrating with tension. No matter what happened now, Maggie knew things would be ugly at home later. Maybe even in the car.
Why not push her luck and delay that?
“No, Mom, I don’t need shoes,” Maggie said with forced cheer. “In fact, I think I told Rachel I’d meet her at Stella’s later, so I’m going to head on over there now.” She started toward the door. “Rachel can give me a ride home.” Over her shoulder: “I’ll see you later, Mom! Thanks! Love you!”
The last thing she saw before she pushed out the shop door and was engulfed by sunlight was Denise’s appalled expression morphing into one of incredible anger.
Oh, it was going to be hell to pay later.
But that was later. And at least for now, her shopping trip had come to an end, thank God.
Maggie blew out a deep sigh of relief and pushed her hair off her face, holding it tight at the base of her neck in both hands and letting the autumn air cool her tacky skin. It was a cool afternoon, but the stuffiness of the shop, and the stress of placating her mother, had left her overheated. And thirsty. She had ten bucks in her purse, and the first order of business was finding something to drink.
She set off down the sidewalk, breathing in deep lungfuls of exhaust fumes and restaurant sizzle, eyes scanning the shop fronts. She was about a hundred yards from Stella’s when she saw a familiar figure walking toward her. Dark hair, broad shoulders, sunglasses, black leather cut.
It was Ghost.
And he was leading a dark-haired, pale-faced little boy by the hand.
His head lifted, and he saw her. Despite the sunglasses, she could see recognition cross his face.
Now what, she wondered, and held her ground, waiting.
~*~
