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  “Here?” Puzzled, Daisy tried to think of anyone in Hillsboro who even remotely qualified as a beauty consultant. “Who? Has someone new moved into town?”

  “Well, no.” Aunt Jo cleared her throat. “We thought Todd Lawrence would do nicely.”

  “Todd Lawrence?” Daisy gaped at them. “Aunt Jo, just because a man’s gay doesn’t mean he qualifies as a beauty consultant Besides, I don’t know if Todd is ‘out.’ I’d hate to upset him by asking, if he isn’t” Todd Lawrence was several years older than she, at least in his early forties, and a very dignified, reserved man. He had left Hillsboro when he was in his early twenties and, according to his doting widowed mother, did quite well for himself on Broadway, but since she never had any newspaper clippings or articles to show mentioning his name, everyone thought it was probably a mother’s fond bias that led her to think he was so successful. Todd had returned to Hillsboro some fifteen years later, to take care of his mother during her last year of life, and since her death had lived quietly and alone in the old Victorian house on the edge of town.

  “Oh, he’s ‘out,’ ” Evelyn replied. “For goodness’ sake, he opened an antique and decorator store in Huntsville. And how many straight men know what color mauve is? At Easter, Todd told me how good I look in mauve; remember, that’s what color my dress was this year? And he said it in front of several people. So he’s out.”

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Jo said doubtfully. “Mauve isn’t really a good test. What if a man’s wife has had him looking at paint chips? He might know what mauve is. Now, puce would be a real test. Ask Todd about puce.”

  “I’m not asking him about puce!”

  “Well, other than asking him outright if he’s out, I don’t see how else you’re going to do it.”

  Daisy rubbed her forehead. “We’re getting off track. Even if Todd is gay—”

  “He is,” both sisters said confidently.

  “Okay, he is. That still doesn’t mean he knows anything about makeup!”

  “He was on Broadway, of course he knows about makeup. Everyone in the shows wears makeup, gay or not. Besides, I’ve already called him,” Evelyn said.

  Daisy groaned.

  “Now, don’t take on,” her mother admonished. “He was as nice as he could be, and said of course he’d help you. Just give him a call when you’re ready.”

  “I can’t do it,” Daisy said, shaking her head.

  “Take another look in the mirror,” Aunt Jo suggested.

  Reluctantly Daisy turned her head to look in the mirror over the gas log fireplace. What she saw made her wince, and she surrendered without even another twinge of conscience. “I’ll call him in the morning.”

  “Do it now,” Evelyn urged.

  FIVE

  Daisy’s insides jittered nonstop. Setting up an appointment with Todd Lawrence had been nerve-racking, even though he was just as nice as her mother had said. Not only was she still worried he was offended—though if he was, he hid it very well—but there was something so humiliating about having to ask for help in something as simple as applying a little bit of makeup. What had she done wrong? She knew she wasn’t stupid, but was she so basically inept at this sort of thing that she was doomed to failure from the start? She could hear the jokes now: Daisy Minor get a husband? Hah-hah; she can’t even put on mascara.

  And did she really want a man who couldn’t see the real her, just as she was, but who needed a layer of gloss before he even noticed her?

  Well, yes. She’d tried the “real her” way and gained exactly nothing. Zippo. If she had to gloss herself in order to get what she wanted—namely, a family—then she would gloss as brightly as needed.

  Her new awareness of how dowdy she was almost paralyzed her as she was getting ready for work. For once, she hadn’t laid out her clothing the night before, and now she stood in front of the closet staring at the selection of boring skirts and blouses and dresses. She couldn’t bear wearing those, not one more time. She dithered until, for the first time in her life, she ran the very real risk of being late to work. Finally she grabbed a pair of black slacks and pulled them on. She had never before worn pants to work, but that was because of her own stodginess, not any rule by the town council. This was yet another break with her old way of life, and her heart hammered in a combination of fear and excitement. She didn’t have any stylish tops, of course, just her regular, boring white blouses, but she put one on and tucked the hem into the waistband of her slacks, then buckled the belt and slipped her feet into black loafers.

  She didn’t dare look in the mirror to check the result, just grabbed her purse and ran downstairs.

  Aunt Jo raised her eyebrows when she saw her, but didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” Daisy demanded, even more nervous under that silent regard.

  Evelyn came out of the kitchen and stared at her daughter. “Nice,” she finally said, nodding her head. “Different. And the pants show the shape of your butt.”

  Ohmigod; now she wouldn’t be able to turn her back to anyone all day long. Aghast, she swiftly checked her watch. There was no time to go change clothes. “Why did you have to say that?” she moaned.

  Evelyn smiled. “It’s okay, honey. If I remember correctly, men are partial to butts. See if you can remember to priss when you walk.”

  “Priss,” Daisy repeated numbly, still unable to take in that her mother—her mother!—thought it was a good thing for her to show the shape of her butt.

  “You know. . . back and forth.” To demonstrate, her mother strolled across the room, her hips swaying in a gentle rhythm that drew attention to her own rear end. The movement was so astonishingly sexy that Daisy was shocked. Her mother? Her intellectual, unsophisticated mother?

  “But not too much,” Aunt Jo advised. “Or it’ll look like two pigs fighting to get out of a sack.”

  That was all she could take. With a mumbled excuse about being late for work, Daisy fled.

  She had barely got the key in the lock of the employees’ door when a white car drove up behind her and Chief Russo got out. He might not be at the top of her list of people she didn’t want to see that day, she thought in exasperation, but he was close. She tried to shift to the side so he couldn’t see her butt, not that he was looking anyway. He was scowling as he strode up to her. “You’re late.”

  Daisy checked her watch. It was twelve seconds to nine o’clock. “I’m right on time.”

  “You’re always about half an hour early. Today, you aren’t. Therefore you’re late.”

  “How do you know what time I get to work?” she asked, feeling flushed and harassed. Just once she was almost late, and that would be the one day someone was waiting for her arrive. Besides, he was standing too close, crowding her again in that annoying way of his, as if he were trying to intimidate her with his size. Maybe it was working, since she felt flushed and harassed. She tried to squeeze closer to the door.

  “The lights in the library are always on when I drive past.”

  Meaning she was always—well, almost always—at work before he was. She barely refrained from smirking and instead, with an effort, assumed her librarian’s expression and tone. “May I help you with something, Chief?”

  “Yeah,” he said in that brusque Yankee way. “I tried to get into the on-line library last night, but it wouldn’t open. You wrote down the wrong password or something.”

  Why was it always the woman’s fault? she wondered, mentally raising her eyes to heaven. “If the page won’t display, then you probably need to upgrade your browser.”

  He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  “Your browser,” she repeated. “How old is your system?”

  He shrugged. “Two or three years.”

  “Have you upgraded at all since you bought it?” She knew the answer even before she asked the question. She would love to leave him to figure it out on his own, but good manners and a lifetime of being helpful prodded her conscience. She was a librarian; it