“Yeah, some woman sure did a number on your head, didn’t she?”
“Yes, Ms. Rachel,” I agreed. “I suppose. . .”
“Was it your ex-wife?”
I shook my head. “No, Ms. Rachel, she hated to see me wearing skirts!”
“How about an ex-girlfriend?”
I shook my head again. “No, not really. . .”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
“Well, there is Carole Anne.”
“Oh yeah, I’d like to meet her.”
I curtsied again.
“Yes, Ms. Rachel,” I whispered dejectedly. “But not her.”
“Your Sister, then? She’d be older, I would imagine.”
“No, Ms. Rachel, I’m an only child.”
“There must be somebody else! Who? Your Aunt? A school teacher? A Nun? A girl cousin? Or, maybe it was a boy cousin? How about some special woman friend you haven’t told me about? Or, a special male friend? Who?”
“My. . . my. . . Mom. . . and Ms. Angela. . .,” I managed finally.
“Ms. Angela? Who is she?”
“Ms. Angela Hackett. She’s my Mom’s special friend.”
“I see,” she nodded. “I really must meet her someday! And, of course, your Mom.”
“Yes, Ms. Rachel,” I agreed, caving in under her relentless questioning. “My Mom would like you. She likes dominant women!”
“Does she now?”
“Oh yes, Ms. Rachel, and Ms. Angela is the best!”
“That remains to be seen, Missy!” she laughed. “That remains to be seen!”
I curtsied. “Yes, Ms. Rachel.”
“Now you’d better scoot and get all gussied up for your debut!”
I scooted. I ran into my bedroom, closed the door behind me, and leaned against it while my poor heart thumped foolishly in my chest. What had I gotten myself into this time?
Absently, I stripped to my skin and took a shower, being very careful not to get my long, auburn hair wet. I didn’t want to waste valuable time drying that!
As I changed, I rehashed the past several months in my mind’s eye: