“You wanted to slap lipstick on eight-year-olds?” asked Cal.
“We wouldn’t have called it lipstick, hon. We would’ve called it Bare Moisturizing Sunblock with Natural Color for Tender Lips. Kinda like Chapstick, only less affordable.”
Cal frowned. “That’s deceitful. It’s still lipstick. You’re just calling it something different and trying to get little girls hooked on makeup years before they need to wear it.”
“On the other hand,” Jackie broke in, “I’m addressing an issue at the opposite end of the—”
“You know somethin’, hon?” Bobbi directed a narrow look at Cal. “I’d rather have my mind corrupted by a solid hour of MSNBC than talk cosmetics to civilians.”
“Where’s Patricia?” asked Woody, scanning the dining room. “I want to get my dinner ordered.”
“Dad, his name’s Patrice, not Patricia.”
Woody wrinkled his nose. “What kind of damn fool name is Patrice?”
I had this one, hands down. “French?”
“Have you all finished talking?” snapped Jackie. She glanced around the table, her eyes shooting daggers. “Because if you haven’t, I certainly don’t want to interrupt your chitchat with any groundbreaking news or anything.”
“Forgive our manners,” Victor apologized. “Or lack of them. Please, continue what you were saying.”
“Okay.” She leaned forward with breathless abandon and framed her hands in the air. “For the woman who wants to make her last impression on earth a memorable one: Mona Michelle cosmetics for the pre-funeral set.”
“Euww,” cried Dawna.
“Hey, that’s the ticket,” said Woody.
“Pre-funeral set?” repeated Victor.
“It’s a totally untapped market,” she enthused. “Septuagenarians. Octogenarians. Nonagenarians. We provide color palettes to help them choose what they’d like to look like for their final viewing, and if they like the results, they might decide to wear it on a regular basis even before the funeral, so we’re talking millions in added revenue!”
“That’s gotta be the most disgustin’ thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life,” said Bobbi.
Woody thwacked Cal on the shoulder. “How come you never come up with innovative stuff like this?”
“No way am I’m gonna waste my time offerin’ beauty advice to old ladies with liver spots and mustaches,” vowed Dawna. “If the company heads in that direction, I’m leavin’.”
“Me, too,” threatened Bobbi.
Victor bowed his head in contemplation, his breath coming quickly and heavily. When he looked up again, he had eyes for no one but Jackie. “It’s brilliant. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to any of my marketing people before this.”
“Maybe because it’s disgustin’?” said Bobbi.
“We can reformulate our products to be more face friendly to women with thinner skin and sun-damaged complexions,” he continued. “We can develop softer shades to complement silver hair. We can—”
“Schedule mini makeovers for potential customers?” asked Jackie. “Because I’m way ahead of you there. I’ve already done them.”
Victor looked shocked. “When?”