Mother popped up behind the counter. Her newly frizzed gray hair, fire-engine-red lipstick and a waft of lavender proclaimed she was “going out.”
“Late as usual,” she muttered trotting around the cash desk. She grabbed my arm with red talons and hauled me toward the back exit, the entrance to the Prairie Dog hotel.
The site of the auction.
“I’m not going.” I dragged my feet.
“I did the flowers,” she said. “I need your help.”
There was that long e sound. Like the sound of a baby crying for its mother. It hit me in the gut.
She turned the knob of the baize lined door and pulled me into the burgundy plush of the hotel ballroom lobby.
At the door, broad shoulders filling out his pearl-gray waistcoat and black jacket stood Mr. Darcy, back from the past. He beckoned. Blinded by his white ruffled shirt and cravat, I blinked, then couldn't resist a long slow look at a pair of superb thighs encased tight buckskin breeches which ended in a pair of shiny Hessians.
“What?” I croaked. "Who?"
“Fantasy men,” Mother said. “He’s umm,” she gazed at the program. “Regency. There’s Fireman, Star Trek—”
“Whoa.” I raised a hand. “You made them dress up? There are more like this?”
Regency-man’s cheek dimpled with his smile. He bowed. “Come in, sweet lady.” His voice hit my chest like brandy and warm honey on a cold night. “Buy me. I’m David.”
My insides turned to liquid. “Oh boy,” I murmured to Mother. “You sure know how to hit a girl where it hurts.”
She handed me my ticket. Salivating I held it out.
Michele Ann Young