Part 9 (1/2)
Every feature in her face telegraphed defeat. ”No luck with the speed daters?” I said mildly.
”Plenty of luck, all bad. Only one hit. The tall, blue lady e-mailed me yesterday, couple of minutes after the organizer sent out matches.”
”I know she wasn't your first choice, but it's a start.”
”Could have been but wasn't. I didn't want to bother writing back and forth. Breeds a false sense of intimacy. Figured I'd ring her up but didn't want to seem antsy. Planned on calling this afternoon to invite her for a walk in the park or a cup of coffee. Shouldn't have stalled.”
”What happened?”
”Blue e-mailed me this morning, shared that she'd hooked up with the alpaca farmer last night.”
”Hooked up as in-?”
Fran slumped in her seat until she was more horizontal than vertical. ”You think I wanted gory details. I have a st.i.tch of pride left. Hooked up as in doesn't want me. Can you believe it? I failed at speed dating. Not fast enough.”
”You don't know that,” I said soothingly. ”Maybe the sleigh-maker, or the professional plaintiff, or the alpaca farmer selected you.”
”Big whoop! What's the thrill in being wanted by someone you don't want?”
”Good point. What's your next plan?”
”Plan?”
”You always have a plan.”
Fran smiled shyly and sat up straight. ”You been reading my mind. Next step is to answer this ad in Westword.” She dug in her tattered backpack and retrieved a page from the weekly newspaper. ”Saw it this morning.”
”A personal?”
”Missed connection ad,” she said, her eyes alive with promise. ”Check this out. 'You: gray hair, broad shoulders, natty dresser. Me: flowing brown hair, blue eyes, red dress, black pumps. Last Tuesday, at the King Soopers on Ninth Avenue, you let me cut in line. I loved watching you watch me. Can't get that look out of my mind. Let's meet again at the Imperial Ball next week.
”You think this is you?”
”Has to be. I shop every Tuesday at that store.”
”Natty dresser?” I said, fixing on Fran's rumpled T-s.h.i.+rt that proclaimed, ”Speed Kills!”
Fran glanced at her paint-stained sweats and bedraggled sneakers. ”This ain't the only look I sport. I have more sophisticated outfits.”
”Meaning you iron one of your T-s.h.i.+rts with a less provocative saying and change to jeans?”
Fran nodded and cracked a mischievous smile.
I peered at her closely. ”You remember this, er, woman from King Soopers?”
”Not specifically, but it could have happened. Me, with the full buggy, I always let women with a few items cut in. Common courtesy must have paid off. Good thing I spotted this ad. Gives me a second chance at fate.”
”And you know about the Imperial Ball?”
”Never heard of it.”
I couldn't contain my laughter any longer. I burst into an explosion of peals that caused tears to run down my cheeks and aches to form in my sides.
Fran looked more confused than amused.
As soon as I could catch my breath, I enlightened her. ”The Imperial Ball is the drag queens' annual coronation.”
A look of dismay crossed her face. ”It's not me?” she said weakly.
”I hope not,” I said haltingly, the words eked out between spasms of laughter.
After a long pause and a hard stare, Fran rummaged in her backpack again for a typed sheet of paper, which she thrust at me. ”Forget that then. Gimme your opinion of this.”
I read the personal.
Lesbian, 67 going on 47. Wholesome, financially independent broad loves golf, s...o...b..arding and Fantasy Football, looking for same. Forget about candlelight dinners and moonlight walks, let's share more substantive adventures.
Fran gave me a hard look. ”Think it'll draw response?”
I shrugged. ”The financially independent part should do it.”
”I don't want that to be the slant. How about you punch it up for me? Add a few lines that'll lure the girls.” You want me to rewrite this?”
Fran dismissed my put-upon pout with a wave of her hand. ”Or start from scratch. Your call. With my attributes and your wizardry, gals'll be lining up for a crack at the Green.”
The green, indeed.
I couldn't stop smiling as I constructed Fran's personal ad. I'd asked her to leave the office, because it was impossible to exaggerate her attributes when I could look across my desk and see the truth. In her absence, I'd cracked myself up with dozens of versions of an ad, none suitable for publication. Around five o'clock, I realized I had to set aside frivolity and concentrate. The ring of the phone, however, interrupted my best intentions.
I answered pleasantly, still in a relaxed mood from Fran's foibles, but at the sound of Carolyn O'Keefe's voice, I tensed.
”I believe I directed you to attend the Urban Teens fund-raiser at the Botanic Gardens.” Before I could reply, she added in the same clipped tone, ”Where were you?”
”Most of the time, next to the chocolate fountains.”
”Oh.”
A long pause ensued, one which I refused to fill.
”Did you have a chance to observe Destiny Greaves?”
”Yes,” I said, feeling dizzy.
”And?”
”And what?”