“Because Margi is wearing our makeup line that allows a woman to transition seamlessly from daytime to happy hour, and Bernice is wearing a slightly exaggerated version of something we recommend our clients wear to either the opera … or a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
I slapped a hand over my eyes and gave my head a woeful shake.
The loudspeaker system crackled an alert for a pending announcement. Heavy breathing on the microphone, followed by, “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames and messieurs, before we open the doors to the dining room this evening, we would ask you to assemble in the lounge so we might share with you a message of some importance. We look forward to seeing you at six thirty. Thank you.”
“Should I leave my makeup on?” fretted Bernice.
“Only if you wanna scare folks,” said George.
Nana peeked at her watch. “Six thirty? That only gives us a half hour!”
And the race was on.
Elbows flew. Joints popped. Sneakers squeaked. Osmond, Helen, and Lucille were last out of their chairs and slammed headlong into each other while trying to exit, tangling themselves in a hopeless Gordian knot of arms and legs. I let out another whistle that stopped the gang dead in their tracks.
“Hey! You don’t have everyone!”
While Jackie and I began the task of untangling limbs, the Dicks sprinted back. “Come on, you guys,” exhorted Dick Teig. “There won’t be any seats left.”
“Don’t rush me!” sniped Lucille. “I’m trying to figure out where my feet are. I can’t see them.”
“Told ya,” said Osmond.
“Shoot,” scoffed Helen. “I haven’t seen my feet since the day I snapped on my first training bra. DICK!” She grabbed her husband’s hand and slapped it into Lucille’s. “Now everyone else join hands. Okay, boys. Punch it.”
With a Dick at either end of the trio, they shuffled their way across the deck like a Lionel train set.
“Careful on the stairs,” I called after them.
Jackie clasped her hands beneath her chin, watching them with affection. “Aren’t they adorable? When I’m old and wrinkled, I want to be just like them.”
I drilled her with a narrow look. “Cradle-to-grave cosmetics?”
“Wasn’t that brilliant? Honestly, Emily, sometimes I surprise even myself with my genius. They were so over the moon with Walt and Ed’s powerpoint presentation that I knew I could figure out some way to capitalize on it.”
“Are you talking about the undertakers?”
She gasped in horror. “Planning specialist consultants. Really, Emily. Undertaker is so twentieth century.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t people in the funeral industry hire their own staff to do hair and makeup?”
“Yes. But if they can offer pre-funeral planning, why can’t I offer pre-funeral makeup? I can help people reach decisions about all kinds of difficult cosmetic issues before they die. Liquid foundation or pancake? Glitter eyeshadow or noncrease matte? Sheer gloss lipstick or long-lasting stain? My clients can choose for themselves rather than turn the decision making over to someone who might not know the difference between the seasonal palette of a summer and an autumn.”
“Won’t this new sideline interfere with the job you already have?”
Sparks ignited in her eyes. “There’s a whole untapped market out there for Mona Michelle products, and I’m the one who discovered them. So if Bobbi and Dawna are planning to get rid of me the same way they got rid of Krystal, they better hurry, because I’m talking to Victor about my idea at dinner. And if they start talking smack about me again, they’re going to be in for a rude awakening, because I will not allow myself to be mean-mouthed. I’ll say my piece to Victor, then follow the example of what other truly mature females have done.”