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BETTY ANN WORRIED as she planned for the afternoon’s VIP visit. Word of a White House dress would fill her appointment book for months to come, but then, no dice if Mrs. H. acted up. Betty Ann had to think of something, but she couldn’t sit idle. She picked up her tablet and ran through her list. Dust. The studio was spotless, tabletops and cabinets clear, but she tied a blue scarf over her French-curl hairdo, got a feather duster from the closet, and began the rounds.
A picture painted by Lucy Saunders, another NCO’s wife, hung above the hi-fi set Ray had bought secondhand. Betty Ann flicked the duster over the frame of the oil painting, which captured the romanticism of a real Parisian atelier. Warm light refracted across half-sewn dresses and played in a spill of royal blue velvet. Betty Ann liked to think that her studio was as genteel as this imaginary room, but she might have a real cat fight in it if the general’s wife turned nasty. Mrs. H. could call her out in front of everyone and threaten Ray’s livelihood, or even force her to do the dress for free! She needed reinforcements, someone who could stand with her against the clout of Mrs. H., if she was going to go through with this meeting. She tapped the handle of the duster against her chin.
Betty Ann had few true women friends, since she preferred the company of men, but Lucy was quiet, didn’t ask too many questions, and she listened when you wanted her to. Lucy was about as good a friend a military wife could have. They lived on the same block and their husbands worked together, but they hadn’t really gotten to know each other until they had both been volunteered by their husbands for the Air Force Fifteenth Anniversary Committee. Betty Ann felt comfortable with Lucy to the point that she had almost told her about Martin as they made flag place card holders for the anniversary gala on Armed Forces Day. Yes, Lucy was the right choice.
Betty Ann propped the feather duster on a straight chair and went to her work table. She took a deep breath. She knew Lucy’s number by heart.
A young voice answered. “Master Sergeant Saunder’s residence, Erica speaking.”
In the background Betty Ann heard, “Erica, give me that phone and get ready for school.” A moment passed before Lucy’s voice came in more clearly.
“What are you doing around three this afternoon?” Betty Ann said.
“God, I thought you were Sonny.”
“Come on, what are you doing?”
“Minding my own business—I said NOW, little miss—if I know what’s good for me.”
“I need you down at the studio. Mrs. Hepplewhite’s dressmaker can’t finish the gown for her White House invitation, so she called me.”
“No, sir!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re kidding me. How’d that happen?”
“Fill you in later. Bring your portfolio—this will be great for you too.”
“You don’t need me there,” Lucy said.
“Yes, I do. I’ve had a little run-in with Mrs. H. before and . . . it’ll just be easier if you’re here.”
“What happened?”
This was not a story to tell over the phone while her friend was urging her daughter to get ready for school. And Betty Ann’s assistants could arrive at any moment. This was certainly not a tale she wanted them to overhear.
“I’ll tell you when you get here. About two thirty. And Lucy?”
“What?”
The resigned tone of that one word told Betty Ann that her friend would show. Her dimples deepened. “Wear something nice, hear?” Lucy was an artist. Nothing wrong with that, but sometimes she forgot she was going out into polite society and showed up in an old, paint-smudged man’s shirt half-tucked into her dungarees.
The studio’s door swung open, and Terry and Mimi clipped in with waxed brown bags from the plaza’s coffee shop. Betty Ann felt hopeful again about the appointment with Mrs. H. and greeted her assistants with a smile.
“Morning, Miz Johnson,” they replied in unison. They both wore regulation black skirts. Above these, Mimi’s flat front was covered by a conservative button-down white blouse, while Terry’s curves rounded out a yellow angora sweater. The girls knew each other from junior college. Betty Ann had hired tall spare Mimi first, but soon after, the quiet girl’s more vivacious friend had talked her way into the shop.
“Hurry up with your coffee,” Betty Ann said. “We have a lot of gowns to do and Mrs. Hepplewhite’s coming today.”
“Here? Mrs. H.?” Mimi said.
Neither of the girls were Air Force, but they lived within Betty Ann’s world and knew all about General Hepplewhite and his Southern belle wife.
Betty Ann recounted the early morning phone call. When she paused, Terry said, “Lord have mercy.” She twirled and snapped her fingers.
Mimi shook out the doughnuts and arranged them on a plate. She claimed to love them but usually ate only half of one each day. She had potential but starved herself like that in so many ways. Betty Ann decided to take her on as a serious project once this Hepplewhite affair was over.
The two young women complained about Betty Ann’s strict dress code and fussy neatness, but it was idle chat. They both adored their boss and the worlds they glimpsed through her. She also taught them things that none of their gal pals were learning. Things like how to make all the yardage of a full five-foot diameter circle skirt lie flat at a twenty-three-inch waist, or how to shake their hips under a demure, black wool skirt until men came crawling on their elbows. Useful things.
“Come on, girls, we have work to do and customers coming,” Betty Ann said.
“Yes, ma’am.” They moved off toward their workstations.
Mimi settled behind her sewing machine. “Why didn’t Miss Sonia take Mrs. Hepplewhite to one of her white friends?”
“You mean to one of her competitors?” Betty Ann asked.
“But why here?” Terry asked. She hung a pink satin number on a rack and turned on the steamer.
Betty Ann perched on a stool at the cutting table. She picked up a microscopic piece of thread with the pad of her ring finger. “She owes me. I told you about the white major’s wife that blew in from North Carolina a while ago. The one I decided not to work with and sent along to Miss Sonia.”
“The one you said had a ridiculous bouffant and called the studio filthy?” Mimi asked.
“Um hmm.” Betty Ann deposited the speck of thread in the wastebasket. “I found out later she left the major for a Congressman from her home state and wanted an entirely new wardrobe. Miss Sonia made enough money to take a Caribbean cruise.”
Mimi slid a length of pinned chiffon under the presser foot of her sewing machine. “Guess that major’s ex-wife was lucky for you. Even if she was mean.”
Indeed, thought Betty Ann. She blessed Sonia for returning the favor.
“The Loco-Motion” played on the radio while Betty Ann spread out a champagne satin and overlaid it with the pattern for the skirt of Mrs. Neville’s gown. She concentrated on aligning the pattern for the optimum drape of the slippery fabric but couldn’t keep her mind away from her first non-meeting with Mrs. Hepplewhite. She pinned the paper and fabric along one seam but soon pricked her finger. She needed to move more than just her hands. The janitor did an adequate job of sweeping the stairs, but it wasn’t good enough for Betty Ann. Mimi usually swept after he did, but today’s agitation sent Betty Ann into the closet for the broom and dust pan.
She opened the glass door to the stairway and squinted into the sunlight. She swept with strong, swift strokes. Near the bottom of the stairs her broom stuttered over a curled edge of the rubber mat. No one else would notice it until it had lifted far enough to slip a finger under, but Betty Ann believed in catching trouble early. She made a note to bring it to Mr. Paul’s attention.
She returned upstairs and put away the broom. Despite the interlude, her mind again flashed to that moment when she stood barefoot beside the captain. She had been stupid to think good could result from that relationship. She slid the ring out of her pocket and wondered if she should hock it. It had been her talisman during the base buildup, but she had treated it casually on purpose. No sense in getting attached to a thing if you weren’t really attached to the man that gave it to you. She angled her body so the girls couldn’t see what she was doing as she unearthed the magnifying glass she used when sewing on sequins. She checked the ring’s gold stamp. Eighteen karats. Not bad. It would bring in more than enough for a new steamer, maybe a down payment for a serger. She noticed another inscription. To BA with love. What?
That poor fool. He hadn’t been practical like Betty Ann. There were rules, even when you played out-of-bounds. Love had never entered into the equation. It couldn’t. Betty Ann hadn’t allowed it to. She couldn’t afford it. Now she definitely would have to get rid of the ring. What if someone else saw the inscription? They might get the wrong idea. She was not in love with him. Not really. She dropped the ring back into her pocket and settled down to work on the satin gown as she waited for her first clients to arrive.
