New Way to Fly

“Better shave again,” he muttered aloud. “There’ll likely be somebody taking pictures, an’ Carolyn’s not gonna like it much if I’m showing a five-o’clock shadow in every photograph.”

He lathered his face and began to shave carefully, thinking about the strange twist of fate that had brought his dream woman to appear to him on the same television screen with Beverly Townsend, the daughter of the woman that his friend Vernon Trent was marrying today.

Because, of course, Brock was fully aware that if he decided to make use of this connection, he could learn more about the mysterious woman, maybe even get to meet her.

He paused, razor in his hand, and gazed into his own dark eyes, wondering if he really wanted to meet Amanda Walker. After all, there was a certain risk to having dreams come true. The woman in his fantasies had warmed and sustained him through a lot of hard lonely years, but would the reality of her be as satisfying as his dreams?

Brock frowned, thinking about the woman in the velvet chair, recalling her air of sophisticated grace and calm elegance. That hadn’t really disturbed him, because he’d always pictured his woman as being quiet, gracious and serenely poised. What did bother him was the kind of superficial ambience the television commercial exuded, the popular idea that “image was everything.” And despite her serenity the woman on the television screen seemed ambitious, almost a little hard-edged.

Brock shook his head, still gazing thoughtfully at his reflection. The misted glass of the mirror shimmered before his eyes and he saw her face again, that lovely pure oval with the warm sapphire eyes and a mouth made for kissing. She was gazing at him, inviting him, lips softly parted, blue eyes full of tenderness and an alluring elusive promise so wild and sweet that his knees went weak and his body began to tremble with longing.

Then, abruptly, she vanished and Brock was staring into his own brown troubled eyes again, feeling strangely bereft.

“You’re such a fool,” he told himself, gripping the handle of his razor in a shaking hand. “You’re such a goddamn fool.”

Grimly he returned to his task, forcing himself to concentrate on the day ahead. But then he remembered the joyous tone in Vernon Trent’s voice and his friend’s unashamed declaration of happiness, and he felt lonelier than ever.

At last he finished shaving, rinsed off his razor and cleaned the sink mechanically, then wandered back into his bedroom to dress.

He paused in front of his closet, gazing in brooding silence at the few clothes that hung there, mostly Western-style shirts and clean folded jeans.

When Vernon had asked Brock Munroe to be his best man, he’d questioned Brock tactfully about suitable clothing for the occasion, and Brock had assured his friend that of course he had a dark suit.

And he did, but it was the same suit he’d worn to his high school graduation, almost twenty years ago. Brock lifted the suit bag from its hanger and unzipped it, examining the garment inside and wishing that he’d taken the time to buy something new for the wedding.

Brock frowned, holding the plain black suit aloft in his brown callused hands and gazing at it. He’d tried it on recently, and it still fitted reasonably well. How could anybody possibly tell that it wasn’t brand-new?

“After all, I only wore the damn thing a couple times in my whole life,” he said defensively to Alvin, who was watching him with sleepy detachment. “It’s just like new. Why should I spend all that money on another one, just for one day?”

He thought again of Amanda Walker’s television commercial, and remembered her sweet voice commenting that image perfection consisted of tiny intangibles that added up to a total look.

“Tiny intangibles!” Brock scoffed aloud to his dog, trying hard to feel as confident as he sounded.

“Like what? Clean socks? No soup stains on your tie? Well, I can look after stuff like that as well as the next guy, Alvin. I’m not worried.”

He dressed rapidly in the dark suit and a crisp white shirt that he’d spent almost half an hour ironing the day before. Finally he slipped on black socks and sturdy polished brogues, knotted his dark maroon tie and glanced at his watch in sudden panic.

“Look after things, okay, Alvin?” he said, heading for the door, rushing out through his cluttered kitchen and down the walk to his truck. A minute later he was back in the room.

“Forgot the damn ring,” Brock said to Alvin with an abashed grin. He rummaged in a bureau drawer for a small velvet case, which he slipped into his suit pocket.

Alvin coughed and gnawed rudely on one of his hind paws.

Brock gave the ugly little dog a cold glance. “Alvin,” he said, “you’re a real hard dog to love, you know that?”

Then he was gone, running lightly out through the house and down to his truck.

Alvin waited a moment, listening to the fading hum of the vehicle motor down the long winding road. Then he stood, yawned and scrambled off the bed. He paused to scratch himself with great energy, then wandered out into the messy living room, checking wistfully to see if any surviving bits of the salami had somehow lodged under the chair or coffee table.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NOISY WEDDING celebration swirled through the entire lower floor of the big Double C ranch house, occasionally spilling out onto the veranda and patio. Lettie Mae Reese and Virginia Parks, cook and housekeeper respectively at the Double C, circulated among the laughing crowd carrying heaped trays of food, exchanging news and jokes with people they seemed to have known all their lives.

In fact, Amanda Walker thought wistfully, everybody here seemed to have known everybody else since birth. The merry gathering exuded family warmth and intimacy. It made her feel lonely and out of place.

Amanda knew hardly any of the people at this party except for the bride, Carolyn Townsend, her new husband, Vernon Trent, and Carolyn’s daughter, Beverly, whom Amanda had met years ago at college. And of course she knew her host and hostess, J.T. and Cynthia McKinney, as well as J.T.’s adult children.

But all these other people were strangers to her, loud-talking sun-browned people with drinks in hand, laughing uproariously and hugging each other and shouting ribald jokes at the smiling couple seated near the fireplace.

Amanda stood quietly beside a curtained alcove, gazing at Vernon and Carolyn, her blue eyes misty with affection. They both looked warmly contented and so deeply in love that when they smiled at each other they seemed to have no connection to the rest of the world. They were alone in their quiet circle of tenderness.

Amanda hadn’t attended the actual wedding ceremony, fearing that her presence might be an intrusion, though Beverly had pressed her to come to the courthouse with the rest of them. Now she wished she’d gone, just so she’d have a memory of these two people exchanging their vows. Vernon Trent and his new wife both seemed so completely happy, so perfect for each other.

Amanda noted as well, with a practiced professional eye, that the bride was dressed beautifully. She wore a trim silk suit of pale smoky mauve that looked wonderful with her fine tanned skin and golden coloring.

From long habit, Amanda glanced around the crowded rooms, playing the familiar game of trying to pick out the best and worst-dressed women guests at the party.

With no hesitation at all she awarded the best-dressed accolade to Cynthia McKinney, even though the woman was very pregnant. Cynthia, who had been one of Amanda’s very first clients, wore a flowing, deceptively simple top of pale glimmering silver that swirled over slim black silk trousers, and she looked graceful and glamorous despite her impressive bulk.

Worst dressed was harder to decide on, Amanda told herself with a wry private smile, because there were some truly atrocious outfits scattered throughout the big room. Bulging velour jumpsuits, low-cut sweaters with rhinestone appliqués, a tight leather miniskirt and patterned panty hose…

Suddenly Amanda’s critical eye fell on the worst mistake of all, a sagging polyester pantsuit of the kind she fervently wished would vanish from the face of the earth. This one was a faded rusty color with shapeless jacket, plastic buttons and a tacky fringed scarf that did nothing at all to improve the look.

The woman, whoever she was, stood sideways with her face turned away from Amanda, and her figure didn’t seem nearly as terrible as her outfit. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, with carelessly styled graying auburn hair and weathered skin.

Amanda was eyeing the woman with pained attention, picturing how a soft windblown haircut and some clothes that suited her wholesome fine-boned look would transform this woman. Possibly a rough slub-linen jacket in a raw oatmeal shade, and a longer soft wool skirt with a…

Just then the object of her attention turned to look past Amanda at somebody across the room. Amanda gazed at the older woman’s face, stunned by the expression she saw there. Amanda forgot her criticism of the woman’s clothes, speculations about image improvement, everything but a wrenching sympathy and a passionate desire to help.

“Having a good time all alone in the corner, Amanda? Come on, why aren’t you socializing and getting to know people?”

Amanda turned to smile at her friend Beverly Townsend, who was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful and well-dressed women in the room. Beverly’s blue eyes shone with excitement, and her lovely golden face was glowing.

Amanda suspected that at least part of Beverly’s glow was due to the young man behind her. Jeff Harris had paused to joke with a group on the other side of the archway while Beverly tugged impatiently at Amanda’s sleeve, trying to draw her friend out into the room.

Amanda shook her head. “Beverly Townsend,” she teased, “this isn’t a college dorm party, you know. We’re both twenty-five years old. Don’t you think it’s about time you quit trying to line me up with eligible men?”

“Oh, pooh, I’m not talking about men,” Beverly protested, though the mischievous sparkle in her eyes somewhat belied her injured tone. “I’m talking about potential customers. Come on, Mandy,” she whispered, leaning closer to her friend, “look at the clothes some of these women are wearing. Now, could they or could they not use some professional help with their image?”

Amanda nodded. “Maybe,” she said, her eyes falling involuntarily on the tight leather miniskirt and black-spangled panty hose that swayed past Beverly at that moment.

“Oh, her,” Beverly said with scorn, following Amanda’s gaze. “That’s Billie Jo Dumont. Forget it, Mandy, she’s hopeless. She doesn’t have the sense God gave a chicken, or she wouldn’t have come here at all today. It’s hardly even decent,” Beverly added, her blue eyes suddenly fierce.

“Why not?” Amanda asked, bewildered. “I mean, it’s a truly tacky outfit, but you can’t really call it indecent, Bev.”

“No, no, I was talking about her gall, coming to this party.” Beverly leaned closer to her friend. “See the woman by the archway, that nice little lady in the awful polyester pantsuit?”

Amanda nodded, trying not to gaze conspicuously at the woman Beverly indicated.