Safe in the Fireman's Arms

Chapter Three (#ulink_70a92810-d4cc-5317-87e0-dfbf4984f102)

“Here’s the problem, Susan. I don’t do dresses.” Maggie glanced around the boutique from the door’s threshold and shivered.

Susan patted Maggie’s hand before gently urging her farther into the shop. “I know, honey, but you’re going to have to work with me. I consider it a personal challenge to my creative genius to find you the perfect ensemble for this appointment with destiny.”

Maggie closed her eyes and then opened them slowly. She was pretty certain she’d fallen into a Colorado rabbit hole and would never find her way out.

“Dresses aside, your entire wardrobe is a cry for help. Why, you don’t own anything, besides blue jeans, that isn’t in the neutral family.”

Maggie would concede that on that particular point, unfortunately her trendy cousin was spot-on.

Susan continued. “You probably are unaware that I am the personal shopper for Bernice Harris.”

“Bernice who?”

“Bernice Harris, the reigning Bison Queen of Paradise Valley. She’ll be on a float during the parade Saturday.”

“Parade?” Maggie frowned. “What parade?”

“This weekend is huge in Paradise. The Founder’s Day parade is Saturday morning before the supper. Why, this weekend heralds the onslaught of tourist season. So you can see why we have our work cut out for us.”

“We do?”

“Oh, yes. It’s already Monday. You’ll need several new outfits, besides a dress.”

Maggie uttered a noncommittal sound as she considered a dash for the door. What was the point? Since they were kids Susan and her long legs had always arrived everywhere first.

“Did I tell you that Bernice asked me to go on tour with her? Naturally I turned her down. I’m needed here. This boutique is my calling. I’m sort of a missionary to the fashionless.” Susan offered a benevolent smile. “You, my dear cousin, shall be my coup de grâce. If I can make you look good I can make anyone look good.”

Maggie flinched at the words, before glancing at her utilitarian leather watch. “I’m on my lunch break.”

“Enough time to get started.”

Susan reached out a hand and plucked Maggie’s tan cotton shirt between her thumb and forefinger. “These clothes you wear. They do nothing for you.” She released the fabric and rubbed her hands together.

“What exactly did you have in mind, Susan?”

Susan’s finely shaped brows knit together in deep thought. “Well, first, I’d like to see Chief MacLaughlin brought to his knees.”

“This is not about Jake MacLaughlin,” Maggie sputtered.

“When men are in the equation it’s always about them.”

“No! My goal is simply to not embarrass myself. Couldn’t you help me to blend in? Not stand out.”

Susan shook her head and sighed. “Maggie. Maggie. Maggie. You’re the smartest woman I know. Assistant professor of physical science at age thirty-two. Dr. Margaret Jones. Very impressive.” She crossed her arms and tapped her toe. “Why is it, do you suppose, that you have set such a low bar for your personal life?”

Susan’s words hit the target with impeccable precision. “Um...I...” The air whooshed from Maggie’s lungs, deflating her outrage.

Okay, fine. Susan was right. Maggie had spent a lifetime making her parents’ priorities her priorities, barely eking out a life of her own. Truth be told, she’d never even lived on her own until now. Pretty much everything in her life was a reflection of her parents’ choices.

“Well?” Susan asked as she continued to tap an annoying beat on the tile floor.

Resistance was futile. Maggie took a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

“That’s the attitude. Nothing like a little martyrdom to spark a well-deserved change.”

Maggie glared.

“You go right into that first dressing room.” Susan wiggled her fingers toward the back of the shop. “I’ll bring you some things to try on.”

No sooner had Maggie stepped into the tiny dressing room than the louver doors burst open and Susan entered with a tall stack of clothing in her arms.

“You can’t be serious,” Maggie said.

“We’re simply checking for sizing. If they fit, put them in one pile. Those that don’t fit you can put in another pile.”

“Fit. I’ll give you fit,” Maggie muttered as she quickly held up each garment, discarding most as too revealing, clingy or outrageous.

“How are you doing in there?”

“All done.” Maggie came out holding two hangers. One with an eyelet-trimmed, peach peasant blouse and the other with a pair of forest-green capris.

Susan looked from the garments to Maggie. “They aren’t neutral, I’ll give you that.”

“Good. Right?”

“It’s a start. Now look what I found in today’s shipment from Denver.” Susan waved a coral dress on a pink satin hanger through the air.

The fabric shimmered and shined in a manner that definitely said “look at me.”

“A dress?” Maggie asked.

“Not just any dress, this is your dress for the supper. No point in trying anything else on. This is you, and there isn’t another one like it in the area. You will be the envy of every woman in a twenty-five-mile radius.” Susan shoved the dress at her. “I’ll wait right out here.”

Maggie slipped the confection over her head. “I can’t breathe,” she muttered, easing the fabric over her waist and setting it on her hips.

“Breathe later. Come on out here.” Susan tugged on Maggie’s arm, pulling her to the center of the shop.

“Oh, yes. Definitely, yes,” Susan murmured.

“Yes what?”

“It’s perfect.”

Maggie smoothed down the bodice, appreciative of the modest neckline. The fabric nipped her waist then flared. A layer of sheer material covered the skirt as well as the cap sleeves, adding to the gossamer illusion.

Could she, Maggie Jones, pull off wearing a dress like this?