"I sincerely hope we're not talking about Jerry, the prick."
"What? No. I like Rodney." She planted a fist between her breasts. "He makes me feel things I never dreamed of feeling."
"Then go for it." Reaching out, her friend rubbed her left knee. "Who knows, this might be your own Cinderella story. Kinda like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman."
"With one exception, I'm not a prostitute." Melanie reminded her dryly.
Carrie threw back her head and let loose one of her belly laughs.
"Honey, underneath, we all are. Borrow something from that diva's wardrobe and I'll swing by with my bag of tricks and come and work on your face and hair."
She lifted her friend's hand and studied the long, elegant fingers and unadorned nails.
"Just tell me what you decide on the outfit, and I'll work my magic here also."
"I still feel weird going through her closet and borrowing her stuff."
"Don't tell me you've stayed away and resisted the urge to try on some of those fabulous clothes." Her friend's guilty expression had her nodding. "I thought so."
"She has such nice things. I could not resist."
"Nothing is wrong with a little envy now and then."
"That's not what the Bible says."
"God is an understanding one. And the good book also says that people are blessed to be a blessing. Raid that closet and be blessed."
*****
She stood in front of the full-length Cheval mirror and stared at the transformation. Carrie had come and gone and after spending an hour fussing with hair, makeup and nails, the result was absolutely stunning. The girl knew her stuff.
She had decided to go with something retro, so Melanie's thick natural hair was scrupulously shampooed, deep conditioned and gelled and swept back into an intricate chignon at the nape of her neck. Gold hoops swung at her lobes.
The dress she had decided on and borrowed from the vast mountain of clothing from Sylvia's closet was an emerald green cashmere, so light, it felt as if she wasn't wearing anything.
It clung to her curves and stopped just above her knees. The boots, the softest leather she had ever felt, were tan and came to her knees. Fortunately, she and Sylvia wore the same size in clothing as well as footwear.
Whenever she started to feel bad about wearing the woman's stuff, she recalled that Sylvia had preferred to give her stuff to an upscale thrift store that sold celebrity things at a cost, than give it to the woman who cleaned her house.
Her justification was that Melanie had nowhere to wear them to.
"Your local bar and little diners wouldn't do these things justice." She had told Melanie loftily. "And besides, you're used to department stores. You should stick to that."
She actually relished wearing it and had stopped feeling guilty. People like Sylvia Anders who looked down on other people because they happened to be in a better position did not deserve an ounce of respect. But still...
Shaking her head, she turned to the dresser that reminded her of a shelf in Romano's (not that she had ever been!), she chose a small bottle of perfume that Sylvia had boasted was from an exclusive perfumery in Paris.
"A delightful Parisian bought it for me. A besotted one, I might add."
Dabbing a little to her pressure points, she stepped back and eyed herself critically. She looked like a whole different person. Which she supposed, playing this role, she was.
Taking a deep breath, she went to get the jacket matching the boots and slipped it on just as the ringer sounded.
He was right on time.
Trailing a hand down the glossy banister, one she had polished herself, she swept through the narrow hallway to the front door. Taking another deep breath, she disengaged the locks, opened the door, and lost her breath.
He was wearing black. Sweater, dress pants and jacket. His hair was brushed back from his face and glowed with health. His amber eyes burned as they swept over her from head to toe and then back again where they lingered on her parted lips.
