Free Too Far to Say Far Enough: A Novel by Nancy Rue Page B

Chief passed her on the way toward me. It was starting to look like a Marx Brothers comedy.
    “You coming?” he said.
    I nodded him into the foyer, where I only had time to whisper the Skeeter Iseley highlights to him. All I actually got out was, “Would you talk to Desmond again about the girl situation? The Mosquito thinks he’s trying to bed one down by doing therapy with her.”
    “You’re going to explain that to me, right?” he said.
    “After the meeting.”
    I started for the living room, but he pulled me back and put his face achingly near. “Just tell me you’re not seeing talking insects.”
    When we joined the rest of the group, Hank, Bonner, and India were focusing too intently on the hors d’oeuvres, even for a D’Angelo special. Lips were fighting smiles and knowing glances were being furtively exchanged. They were all but blurting, “Aw, aren’t they cute ?”
    “These are fresh tomatoes, aren’t they, Hank?” India schmoozed.
    “Right out of the garden at Sacrament House. Owen said they had more than he could can for them so he gave me the overflow.”
    “God bless him,” Bonner said, mouth stuffed.
    “Oh, here they are!” India tossed back her luscious hair and wafted a silk-draped arm as if she hadn’t had one eye and ear pointed in our direction the whole time Chief and I were in the foyer. “Y’all are missin’ it. I am holding Hank personally responsible for the size of my thighs right now.”
    “Responsibility not accepted,” Hank said. “Is this meeting officially in session?”
    “As official as it’s ever going to get.” Bonner waved the leather book he always took notes in. “Go for it.”
    “Good, then,” India said, “because I would like to start with the boutique.”
    “It’s tanking, isn’t it?” I said.
    She looked at Chief.
    “Not yet,” he said. “Ms. Willa gave us enough seed money to keep us afloat for a while.”
    “Which takes the pressure off the Sisters.” Hank slid the bruschetta toward me. “They can develop their skills like you want them to—”
    “But not their confidence,” I said. “Jasmine and Mercedes are convinced they’re failures because they’re not selling much. I don’t know about Ophelia.”
    We all turned to India, who pressed her fingertips together on her chin. “How can I put this?”
    “You could just say it,” Hank said.
    Bonner gave a soft snort. “No, she couldn’t.”
    “I don’t want to look that ol’ gift horse in the mouth,” India said, each word carefully formed. “Ophelia and I just think that the concept is wonderful and people are drawn to it, but, and again, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because Erin and Ms. Willa and Leighanne and Nita have been so great about collecting clothes for us—”
    “Mercy, India,” Bonner said.
    “Most of the garments are top quality and yet, shall we say, less than stylish.”
    Hank gave a grunt. “No, we should say they’re downright dowdy. I tried on everything they had in my size and I looked like a frump. I bought a couple of things and then gave them to Goodwill.”
    “Tourists aren’t going to do that,” I said.
    “And neither are the townies,” India said. “Now, hear me, the Sisters have done a fabulous job with the displays, and they do everything except kiss the customers’ feet when they come in, but those shoppers take one look at the things we’ve got hanging on the racks and …” She shrugged.
    I glanced at Chief, who was gazing at Bonner. Although Bonner could easily have made it to the cover of GQ, his eyes were beginning to glaze over as well.
    “I’m no help whatsoever with this,” I said.
    India patted my knee. “You have other gifts, darlin’.”
    “So … suggestions?” Hank said.
    “Well, now that we know what the problem is,” India said, “we can focus on it. Meanwhile let’s not encourage any more donations from anyone over forty until we get a handle on this.”
    Erin O’Hare with her garbage bags