Male Call

Franco was in the living room. He’d pulled a chair over to the bay window and had taken the shade off the lamps, which he’d turned on. “We’ll need to see how you look in both natural and artificial light.”

Marnie pictured the Carnahan offices. “I spend most of my day in fluorescent light.”

“How ghastly.” Franco grimaced. “I found a nice, plain, black skirt I think will fit you. Go put it on.”

“A skirt? Isn’t denim a neutral color?”

Franco pinched the top of his nose and inhaled. “Marnie, please start thinking outside the box.”

Apparently thinking outside the box meant putting on the black skirt. Fine. Whatever.

Marnie already had on the white T-shirt and now she added the skirt. It slipped smoothly over her head and settled around her hips, swirling around her thighs before brushing its hem around midknee.

Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a skirt or a dress and yet she’d been faithfully shaving her legs just the same. Now was the payoff. Who would have known?

She zipped up the skirt and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Even she, fashion nihilist that she was, could see that the black skirt was probably the most flattering thing she’d ever worn. And it fit. Maybe a little loose at the waist, but that was just lasagna-eating room.

She smoothed her palms against the material noting the thick, rich feel. She turned to the side and thought for a moment that she saw a glimmer, but when she looked closer, it was gone.

What material was this? Some kind of silk, she guessed. Good quality stuff.

“Marnie? Are you about ready, hon?”

“Coming.” With a last look at herself, she headed for the door, the skirt warmly caressing her legs as she walked. She’d taken off her hiking boots and was walking barefoot across the wooden floor. The skirt made her walk differently. She could feel it in the sway of her hips and the placement of her feet and caught herself emphasizing certain movements in order to feel the material of the skirt against her skin.

She could be on to something here.

“Come, come.” Franco gestured impatiently. “And let down the hair—oh those ends…well, baby steps…baby steps.”

Marnie took a seat in front of the window and for the next few hours—actually only about thirty minutes—Franco draped scarves next to her face and made her look into a hand mirror. There were three piles of scarves: those that made something about her “pop,” which she learned was a good thing, and those that made her look like a corpse, which was a bad thing. Then there was the secondary pile, the “only if it’s on sale” pile.

She was gratified that the colors in her parka made the pop pile, but Franco only shook his head. “Colors aren’t everything. However, you lucky, lucky girl, you’re a Deep Autumn. You can wear black.”

“Everyone can wear black.”

“Everyone does wear black, but not everyone should.”

Franco gathered up his scarves then presented her with a swatch sampler. “You may borrow this if you swear that you’ll use it. Also, I will give you a list of acceptable boutiques where you may shop and put your choices on hold. I’ll stop by and approve them and you can make the final purchase then.”

The nerve of him! Marnie did not remember agreeing to any of this: Franco approving her clothes, making her take swatches, for heaven’s sake. She hardly knew him. Marnie opened her mouth, then closed it. Franco seemed to be awfully sure of himself. And she wasn’t.

Marnie smoothed the skirt over her lap and remembered the way it made her feel as she walked across the room. Okay, so what was the harm in buying a few new clothes? She knew she was going to have to change her appearance and if she didn’t find anything she liked, no one was going to force her to buy it.

She gave Franco a sideways glance. Well, he just might. He handed her the swatch cards. “Thanks, Franco,” she said meekly.

Franco snapped his scarf case shut. “I have some errands to run, but in about half an hour, I’m going to Tony’s grocery. You can come with me, if you like, and I’ll introduce you to Tony.”

“Thanks, Franco, I would.”

Amazing how some silly scarves and an offer to go to the grocery store could improve her mood, but it did. Being with Franco was going to be fun.

Marnie went into the bedroom, strangely loathe to take off the skirt. She was standing in front of the mirror turning this way and that when she heard a crash from the balcony.

One of the plants. It had to be. She just hoped it wasn’t the whole plant stand.

The evening breeze had picked up and Marnie was chilled as she opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The giant fern had blown over. It needed a bigger pot to make it more stable, though Marnie guessed that when it was hanging, it didn’t matter.

She knelt and scooped up the dirt that had spilled out of the pot. A gust of wind swirled around the tiny balcony sending the hem of her skirt rippling way up her thighs and making her flash anyone who happened to be walking along the sidewalk—or renovating a house across the street. Marnie grabbed the skirt and the fern tipped over again.

There were tricks to wearing a skirt that she’d forgotten. She darted a quick look across the street but, thankfully, didn’t see anyone. The Bronco was there, so she knew the construction guy was around somewhere. Marnie cleaned up the dirt again and hooked the big fern around the balcony railing. It rolled from side to side a little, but that was better than tipping over.

Marnie stood. While she was out here, she ought to check the plant stand.

The pots were swaying, but Franco had wedged the heavy stand in a corner. Just to make sure, Marnie moved one of the matching wrought iron chairs from the little table set next to the stand.

The chair had chipped white paint and bits of rust on the seat. It looked extremely uncomfortable. Marnie couldn’t imagine anyone—even Franco—sitting in it, but from the street, the tableau probably looked very picturesque.

Another gust of wind caught her skirt and slammed the glass door shut so hard, the pane rattled. Moist San Francisco night air misted Marnie’s thighs before she could yank the skirt back down.

Good grief! The whole block had probably seen her underwear by now. Holding the skirt in place with one hand, Marnie tried to open the French door with the other.

It was locked.

She rattled the handle. She tried pulling up and turning. She tried pushing down and turning. She tried kicking, but since she was barefoot it hurt her more than the door.

Great. Now what? She could break the glass and unlock the door, assuming the lock wasn’t broken, which she suspected it was. Or she could try to get Franco’s attention.

Marnie leaned over the balcony. “Franco! Franco, can you hear me?” The front door was just beneath her.

There was no answer and Marnie remembered that Franco had said something about running errands. He’d also said something about returning in half an hour.

Okay, then. She’d give him half an hour and then she’d break the glass.

Or she’d give him until her feet went numb, whichever came first.

3

M. IS IN THE SKIRT. It was almost too easy. Of course, I shall tell her nothing of its special properties.

It had better find someone worthy of her. We’ll be going out later for a test spin.

ZACH DIDN’T KNOW why he chose that moment to go outside, but he was glad he did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed the pretty brunette on the balcony across the street.

Where had she come from? After three weeks on the site, Zach had learned the rhythm of the street and recognized most of the inhabitants, but he didn’t recognize her and even at this distance, she wasn’t the sort of woman a man forgot.

Speaking of forgetting, Zach couldn’t remember why he’d come outside. All he’d done was stare at her as she sat in a chair and looked up and down the street.

There wasn’t much going on and not too many people were out. Most were on their way home from work or having dinner.