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now!”
    There went my aspirin. At times like this, when his gayness flames more orange than an oil well fire, I feel singed and in some ways a failure.
    Man, this outfit is hurting my head! And why did I put my hair into this tight braid? How stupid can I be?
    Maybe Pleasance will deliver some painkiller.
    It isn’t hard to find her. The Amazonian-sized fashion designer paces the floor of the conference/lunch/workroom like some moxie feminine superhero, the cool morning light from the Palladian windows softening her intense brown features. Imagine an elegant, whittled ebony walking stick in goldenrod chiffon, strappy shoes, and an eight-stranded pearl choker and you’ve got Pleasance Stanley, clothing designer by day, “Stealth Jaguar Woman” by night.
    Together, with Cristoff’s red hair, we compose a sunset.
    The portable phone appears ready to heave its innards out of the antenna, her large hand clutches it so tightly.
    “Of course it’s fine!” Her airy voice, high, pleasant, and tamed by vocal nodules, contrasts directly with her forceful boxy movements. “No, no. We have people change the fabric all the time, Jaime. Just glad you didn’t wait one more week, Jaime.”
    I roll my eyes at Pleasance as I realize that Jaime Pickerson haunts the other end of that line. Her wedding is scheduled for the beginning of November, only two months away. Romance-book theme. Guess the word extreme means different things to different people.
    “So you’re sure you want to change from Victorian to Regency?” Pleasance Stanley points a finger at me with two quick jabs that say, “You’re not off the hook either, girlfriend!”
    I pull out one of the mismatched wooden chairs Cristoff had lacquered a bright red and lean my elbows on the old library table he’d marbleized in a shiny, luminous plum. My brain swells as I listen. Cheez Whiz. All that work swirling right down the toilet. And then I remind myself we opened up shop less than a year ago, that red ink threatens to drown us. We must make these changes with smiles on our faces because Jaime Pickerson’s father owns eight appliance superstores and two Jaguar dealerships, by gosh by golly.
    Pleasance now towers over me on top of the conference table, her high, goldenrod platform sandals shocking the center of the wooden plane via lopsided jumping jacks. I swear the woman could beat Evander Holyfield if he had the guts to fight her. “Well, of course you’ll have to speak to Lillian about that. With the mansion already reserved…oh sure, she’s right here, honey!”
    Talk about light on the feet.
    Pleasance literally throws the phone in my direction. Line-drive Frisbee shot toward the gut.
    I catch it with one hand.
    So there.
    “Jaime! Hi! What’s this I hear?” Fake voice alert!
    And then she rambles on and on. And on.
    Jaime Pickerson is the only person I know who can draw in on a cigarette without a break in her speech flow. A bechimnied Tower of Babble, Jaime hosts a conservative political talk show on Radio 680 called “Let’s Kick Butt.” I catch it when my schedule allows. Only the most intrepid of callers hang onto the other end of the phone line.
    She’s my kind of gal.
    So I let her simmer on for a bit to buy myself some time, begging Pleasance to go get my Coke off my desk, mouthing, “Aspirin… please,” as clearly as I can. She returns a full five minutes later with both, and I swear I uttered less than a dozen words in all that time.
    And I thought my headache was bad before this.
    I promise myself a trip to the shooting range after work. And I’ll look at that target and think, “Jaime Pickerson and every bride in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area!” and I’ll squeeze off five rounds. And I’ll feel better for a full twenty minutes.
    Jaime had picked up a Barbara Cartland book about the Regency era, and realized her fiancé Brian looked like a modern Beau Brummel. Cravats explode sexiness if worn by the right man, and doesn’t