Man In A Million

Now she was part of a committee headed by Mariah Trent to raise funds for an addition to the library and more books.

Prue met Mariah while volunteering at the Maple Hill Manor School outside of town. Mariah had once been a dorm mother there, but now had a husband and two adopted children, and was the backbone of community fund-raising.

When Prue had been living in New York with her senator husband, she’d apprenticed with Shirza Bell, a famous couturier. Prue’s life long dream had been to design clothes, and though she now helped to make a living for the three of them as Paris and their mother did, she still sketched at night and designed in her dreams.

Paris was jealous of her passion—and her face, and her body, and her wonderful ease with people.

She could see her coming from across the street. Late afternoon traffic was light, but Prue Hale stood out like a flame in the cool sunlight of late September. She was several inches shorter than Paris and attractively round without looking plump. Her hair was long and golden and always flying around her in appealing disarray. She had a penchant for long skirts and sweaters, and always looked like a social butterfly on her way home from afternoon tea.

Today, her skirt was a slim gray houndstooth, and she wore a dusty-rose sweater and a brightly colored shawl with a black-and-bright-pink pattern, which hung loosely on her shoulders. She had on black leather shoes with a small heel, a matching pouch purse, and a smile Paris could read from yards away. Paris wondered if Randy Sanford would change his mind about wanting to date her if he could see Prue.

Something good had happened to her sister. Paris would have to listen to every detail as she drove her home. God, she wished she had her chocolate.

Prue pulled the front passenger door open and fell into the cab, filling the small space with the fragrance of White Diamonds.

“Hi!” Her breathy voice burst into Paris’s silence. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

Paris pushed away every other thought to talk to her sister. A conversation with Prue always took up all the space in her head. Randy Sanford resisted being pushed, but she pushed harder.

“What?” she asked.

“Mariah wants to have a fashion show for the fund-raiser, and guess what else?”

“What else?”

“Featuring my designs!”

“That’s wonderful, Prue!” Paris was sincere. Prue’s face was glowing, and Paris could only imagine how much it meant to her to finally have a place to show off her clothing line. Granted, it was just a small community function, but word had a way of getting around. And after finding her husband in flagrante delicto with an intern in his office, Prue’s ego needed the boost. Then Paris began to worry about the practical aspects of the opportunity. “But won’t it be hard to transfer the designs to the real thing? How much time do you have?”

“A little over four weeks,” Prue replied, her excitement dimming just slightly. “I thought about that. But I think I can do it. If you help me.”

Pulling away from the curb, Paris was filled with trepidation. “Prue, I can’t sew a stitch.”

“I know, I know. I can handle that part. But I need you to model.” She said those last words quickly, probably anticipating Paris’s reaction.

“What?” Paris demanded, stopping right in the middle of the narrow, tree-lined road. Someone behind her honked. She drove on to the red light at the corner. “Are you crazy? I don’t know a thing—”

“You don’t have to know anything,” Prue argued eagerly, “you just have to have the body, and you do. You’re perfect. Tall, slender, long legs, great hair. You’ll be perfect.”

Paris stared at the passing traffic and determined that God had to be paying her back for all the tricks she’d played on Prue in their youth. Her little sister had been trusting and gullible, and it had been easy to convince her that candy was poisonous and should always be tested by a big sister, that curly hair reflected dishonesty that could only be overcome if the curls were cut off, that she’d been left as a baby at the secondhand store where their mother and father had bought her for a bargain.

Curious, Paris thought now, that she might have been the one abandoned to someone else’s mercy, considering her doubtful beginning.

“Prue, I’ll only embarrass you,” she pleaded.

“You will not,” Prue insisted. “And I’ve been thinking about it. I knew you’d need incentive, so I thought we’d make a deal.”

A deal? Oh, this couldn’t be good.

“I’ll design and sew during the day,” she bargained, “then drive for you from four to midnight, if you’ll do this for me. You can make more money if Berkshire Cab is available from nine to twelve. There are all those people going home from late meetings who hate to drive after dark, or in the wind and rain.”

“But you’ll be driving after dark. And the wind and rain will be here before you know it. I don’t like it.” It would be nice to be able to expand her hours, but 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. was the best she could do alone. “And what about your job at the dress shop?”

Prue sighed. “Patsy’s closing up. I’ve got my walking papers. Will’s been transferred to New Jersey and they’ll be gone in a couple of weeks. I need employment, anyway.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “And you wouldn’t deprive me of this chance, would you?” Prue’s tone contained just the right element of little-sister pleading.

Paris groaned. “Prue, I’ll model for you, but you don’t have to drive for me.”

“Yes, I do,” Prue insisted. “Nobody’s complained that I took a simple minimum-wage job so I could continue to play with my designs. Well, this is my chance to make something of them and make a bigger contribution to the household. Please don’t argue with me. I’m starting tonight, anyway, right? You have calls to make, or something?”

“Prudie…”

“You’ll have to cut back on the chocolates until after the show,” Prue said.

Paris groaned. “You could have told me that before I agreed.”

“Not if I wanted you to help me.”

“One thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I dropped my cab wallet at the fire station. Would you mind picking it up tonight?”

Determined to look casual, Paris stared at the road as she felt Prue turn to look at her. “What were you doing there?”

“I…had a fare.”

“A fireman called a cab when they have those great trucks to ride in?”

Paris ignored her, concentrating on the turn that would take her to Lake Road.

“Did you go to see that EMT Addy Whitcomb’s trying so hard to fix you up with?” Prue said it teasingly, but when Paris didn’t reply and her color rose instead, Prue shifted in her seat and asked excitedly, “You did?”

“Just to tell him that I wasn’t interested in dating him,” she corrected quickly, “and to assure him that I knew he didn’t want to date me, either. I’ve… I’m just clearing the decks. I’m tired of my life being this mass of confusion.”

Prue was silent for a moment. “Is this the thing about your father again?”

“I’ve just got to get some answers,” Paris said with a shrug of her shoulder, “and it’ll be easier while Mom’s gone because I know how she hates my interest in it. I know you don’t understand.” She forestalled her sister’s protest with a raised hand. “I don’t expect you to. Just let me do what I have to do without criticism, okay?”

“I wasn’t going to criticize,” Prue assured her. “I was going to tell you that I understand what motivates you. If the man I’d thought was my father my whole life turned out not to be, I’d want some answers, too. I just don’t understand why you think it’ll change anything. He’s dead.”

Paris blinked, a little surprised by Prue’s empathy. “I know. I just want to know more than Mom’s willing to tell me.”

“Okay. But a search for details about your father doesn’t mean you have to dismiss the possibility of having an interesting man in your life, does it?”

“He doesn’t want me, either. He apparently has his own reasons for avoiding Addy’s romantic maneuvers.”

Prue nodded knowingly. “His fiancée died.”