The farm was hopping with harvesting, prepping, and planning for Wednesday’s slaughter. Beth hated slaughtering days but felt it was her duty to her animals to oversee the process. Raoul handled the field slaughter and bleeding of the steers, and she worked with the crew in the barn as they brought in lambs first, then the pigs.
As truckloads of produce headed to the processing barns, she made a list and time line for the morning’s work. She preferred to leave the animals grazing in their familiar surroundings until the very last minute. Then, when Enos arrived, they would head out to walk them in. There were enough of them that the herding was neither stressful nor alarming to the animals. For that, she was grateful.
It was after four when she decided to head into town. The sooner I get the stupid dress, the better. Otherwise, Mother will insist on dragging me somewhere tomorrow. She washed up as best she could and unwrapped a new tee shirt from its plastic baggie. One of the farm’s newest designs, it was pale blue with white lettering and a silkscreen of produce in a riot of colors emblazoned across it. The only shirt she had in the office was size small, so it hugged every inch of her. She surveyed her reflection in the dust-covered mirror and frowned. “You look like a slut,” she said aloud, “but it can’t be helped. Only clean thing in this filthy office.” Slut is actually pretty accurate after last night.
Another transplant to the Valley, Gabriela Huff had started her women’s clothing store nine years earlier, specializing in vintage clothes and reproductions of vintage clothes. Now she carried a number of designer labels and some clothes with a local flair—wide bell skirts that twirled, lacy peasant blouses, and billowing tunics that hid a multitude of sins, especially for wealthy vacationers trying to hide flaws and extra weight until they returned home to their personal trainers.
Beth had been in the shop a number of times and had purchased a favorite skirt that she still wore quite often. As she stepped in out of the sunlight, the woman herself emerged from the dressing room alcove. “Well, well, Beth Morgan. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
In her late forties, Gabriela had shoulder length auburn hair that cascaded in ringlets over her shoulders. She wore the clothes she sold. Today she sported a mauve lacy top, matching bolero pants, and strappy silver high-heeled sandals. Huge silver hoops hung from her ears, and both forearms jangled with silver bangles. Her violet eyes danced with warmth and curiosity as she came forward to greet Beth.
“Hi, Gabby. Nice to see you.”
“Looking for anything special?”
“A couple of cocktail-party-type dresses or outfits. Maybe pants?”
“With your legs, I’d look at the dresses first. What are you, a four?”
“More like a six or eight.”
“Nonsense. Let’s see what we can find.”
They browsed through rack after rack, Gabby chattering the entire time as she pulled out dresses and ensembles, throwing them on the counter. They were the only people in the shop, which helped Beth relax as she began trying things on. The first couple were disastrous in her opinion, although Gabby insisted accessories would make all the difference.
Beth was beginning to despair when she slipped into a silky off-white sheath, overlaid in lace, with strands of silver thread accenting the tatting of delicate flowers. It felt wonderful and fit her perfectly, but since the dressing room had no mirror, she stepped out to stand in the alcove’s three-way mirror.
“Oh, my God, it was made for you, hon.”
For once, Gabriela’s sales talk was right on target. Aside from the dark circles under her eyes and pale, splotchy skin, Beth could not recall a time when she felt prettier and sexier. “I have to say, it feels great.”
“And looks like a million bucks! Professor what’s-his-name’ll probably keel over when he sees you.”
“I’m no longer with professor what’s-his-name.”
“Oh, hon, I’m sorry. What about someone else? Has someone jumped in to take his place?”
“Not really.”
“Hmm…I didn’t hear ‘no.’ My advice is—don’t pussyfoot around. Get back in the saddle soon as you can.”
“Can we just not talk about my love life right now?”
“You got it. Now that we’re on a roll, I think we should keep on truckin’.”
Beth laughed. “Okay, can you put this one aside and I’ll try on a few more. I like that black sheath. I left my little black dress at home.”
“Let’s try that, then. You start. I’ll be right back.”
Beth emerged from the dressing room in a black rayon-and-silk sleeveless sheath that felt like a second skin. “This may be a little snug?”
“Nonsense, it’s perfect. I have the six, but this is the one.”
“Can I at least try the six?”
Gabriela scurried away, returning with the larger size. As always, she was right. The four was much better. They then began accessorizing and wound up with a scarf, two necklaces, bracelets, and three pairs of shoes, two of which were higher heels than Beth liked, but they looked terrific with the dresses. An off-white, open-backed heel for the first dress and a strappy black high-heeled sandal for the sheath. The third pair, which Gabby pronounced to be “boring,” were low-heeled black pumps, but they felt terrific. “At least I’ll have one pair in reserve, in case I break my ankle wearing one of the other two,” Beth called from the dressing room as she threw on her own clothes.
In the course of the marathon shopping errand, she grabbed a few informal tops, two pairs of slacks, and three light sweaters in different shades. With each one, she tried on her usual size. Then Gabby insisted she go a size smaller, “so that they fit ya, for goodness’ sake!” The shopkeeper tried to interest her in a shrug, but Beth declared she was not a shrug type of gal.
“Are you ready, hon?”
Beth grimaced, standing at the counter, credit card in hand. When she saw the total, she considered saying “let’s forget the whole thing” but then decided, what the hell? So what if the total was more than she made in a week? With the exception of the heels, she felt terrific in everything she had chosen.
Transaction completed, Gabriela passed the bags to her. “You okay, hon? You look pale. It’s not spending this much money, is it?”
Beth shook her head, set the bags down and asked if she might sit for a few minutes.
“Course you can, hon. Let me lock the door and put the Closed sign up. Then you can stay as long as you want. I’ve got at least an hour’s worth of work to do before I go home. Can I get you something? Water? Tea?”
“No, thanks,” Beth said and bent to put her head between her knees. This was enough to open the floodgates, and she began to sob.
“Oh, my goodness, honey. What’s wrong? Can I help?”
“My life, that’s what’s wrong! Everything I know is gone, vanished. I don’t know who I am anymore, Gabby.”
“Is it that professor? What’d he do?” Beth shook her head, unwilling to confide in the gossipy shopkeeper. “He’s only part of the problem.” The other is Lang Dillon and me, acting like a wanton harlot last night. I’ve never done anything like that, ever. It was crazy.
Gabriela brought her a box of tissues and a steaming cup of vanilla chamomile tea, which she sipped as her sobs slowly subsided. Then the shopkeeper left her alone and went about her work, straightening clothes racks and piles of pants, tee shirts, and sweaters that were in disarray after a day of business. The straightening completed, she went behind the counter to her paperwork.
Finally, Beth stood and grabbed her bags. “Thanks, Gabby. I guess I needed a good cry.”
She smiled, giving her a hug before unlocking the door. “Anytime, hon.”