"I’m Mae West, I’m the Queen of England, I’m Oprah Winfrey, I’m Queen Latifah, I’m Michael Jordan,” It sounded stupid in her head, but Aunt Maybee thought summoning the names of successful, celebrated people in the form of a chant would help her fight off the demons that threatened in situations like this, and Lyssa Jones was ready to try anything. She fought to concentrate on the chant, the silver-plated tray clutched tightly in her fists to steady the wobbling, and focused desperately on keeping the shaking to a minimum so the two cups of coffee on the tray wouldn’t spill and ruin the stack of papers next to them. Because if they did, she’d have to go through this torturous exercise all over again.

A drop of sweat trickled down from her hairline, cruising along her temple, tickling her as it neared her ear, and she resisted the urge to shrug her shoulder up to wipe it, since that would really upset the fragile balance she was barely maintaining. That drop was followed by another and then another and another until beads of perspiration popped up all over her face like chicken pox. She had no choice but to pause just outside the conference room doors to wipe the sweat from her eyes. Concentrating desperately to keep her gaze from moving to the mirror above the small table, she continued to hiss her litany, “I’m – Frank Lloyd Wright, I’m Wilbur Wright, I’m Ivana Trump, I’m Mrs. Fields, I’m Shirley Temple, I’m –“

As she adjusted the tray, her eyes raised and she saw her reflection in the mirror. “I’m – oh, God, I’m going to vomit…”

Before the panic could catapult into full-fledged hysteria, she pushed the door handle down with her elbow and forced the heavy oak open with her foot, charged in, and dropped the tray down on the table. Without saying a word to the three people seated at the table, she tossed the file down beside the tray and rushed out, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. Her face felt as though someone had thrown acid on it. She barely made it into the hallway before she lost her lunch into the first container that presented itself, which happened to be an unfortunate rubber tree plant that was on the verge of death anyway. That didn’t make her feel any less guilty for violating it in such a despicable way.

“Sorry, plant,” Lyssa sighed and dragged it into the bathroom so she could perform last rights on both of them. She could just imagine what they were saying: Such a pleasant girl, that Lyssa Jones. If her looks don’t get you, her social skills will. With a groan, she sank to the floor and smacked her forehead repeatedly against the cold plastic toilet seat. Sometimes she was a waste of good oxygen.

***

“I’m home.” Lyssa shouted to the house at large. An excited chorus of dog voices greeted her, followed by the bodies belonging to said dogs. Puppies, actually. The three junior members of the household came careening down the highly polished stairs in a tumble, the boys – one black as midnight, the other the color of caramel – bouncing off each other while their more delicate sister, a pale cream color, followed at as ladylike a pace as a three-month-old lab mix could manage.

“Hello, sweetie,” Maybee Jones leaned over the second floor railing and grinned down at her. The grin vanished instantly. “Ut oh. You look like shit, if you don’t mind my saying. Bad day?”

Lyssa snorted. “And if I did mind you saying? Forget it. Yeah, bad day. I had to take documents in to a group of strangers and I freaked out a little.”

“Judging by the smell wafting from you I’d say more than a little,” Maybee wrinkled her nose. “Take that off, and leave it down in the laundry room. Then hop in the shower while I make dinner.”

“Yes, bossy.”

“I’m thinking comfort food is in order,” Maybee declared. “With a little booze as an appetizer.”

Lyssa grunted. “No arguments from me. Holly may stop by. She called just as I was leaving work.”

Maybee wrinkled her nose again, only this time Lyssa’s aroma had nothing to do with it.

“You’re my aunt, she’s my best friend. You have to co-exist. Deal with it.”

“You just watch yourself with her. She hasn’t been quite right since Zach and all the mayor ruckus.” Maybee pinched her nose with one hand and balanced a laundry basket on her hip with the other as she came down the stairs. “Now do as I told you and take that shirt off before you stink up the whole house.”

Lyssa rolled her eyes but had her shirt and bra off before she got into the big kitchen of the farmhouse. She tossed the offending garments into the laundry room that was off the mudroom that lead to the back yard, and walked back through the kitchen and up the stairs topless. One of the many advantages of living in the country.

After a soothing drench under the super-sized showerhead in her bathroom, she wrapped herself in an ancient but comfortable oversized terry robe with a big cherry on the back and sat down at her computer in her mess of an office to check e‑mail. She wanted to see if there was anything from her editor. Hopefully there would be word about the new book.

Unfortunately, there was. And it was a damn good thing she’d already lost the contents of her stomach.

***

Holly Bliss bounced into the kitchen and flung herself across the wicker chaise in the adjacent sunroom with a dramatic huff. “My goodness, it’s been a day. Wine, please.”

Lyssa curled up on the loveseat next to the chaise, almost asleep, lulled by heat and quiet and the gentle persuasiveness of the very good local wine she’d already started on. The late Iowa sun was just coming through the wall of west-facing windows, turning the lemon-painted plaster golden. At this time of year and this time of day, the room let her imagine she was in the hills of Tuscany, although she’d never actually been. She ignored the waves of annoyance she felt radiating from Maybee, who was preparing dinner at the other end of the room, filled the second wine glass and offered it to Holly, and agreed, “It’s been a day.”

“Something smells fabulous. Whatcha makin’ over there, Maybelline?” Holly was oblivious to the concept that someone found her less than adorable.

“Chicken boobs and Rice-A-Roni. Hope that’s okay with yer majesty,” Although Maybee’s tone was mild enough, Lyssa threw her a warning look anyway. The last thing she needed tonight was the two drama queens skirmishing for position.

“Smells scrumptious.” Holly stretched and yawned, and pushed away one of the boys when they tried to climb onto her lap. She was many things, but ‘dog person’ wasn’t one of them. “Those idiots on the council want to put the new town sign above the Conoco sign. No one will ever see it. I spent a good twenty minutes arguing with them. Ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to waste my time that way. What’s the point of being mayor if people don’t listen to you?”

Lyssa had heard similar complaints a number of times in the last two years so she shrugged and said what she always said. “Too bad you can’t just fire them.”

As always, Holly laughed and agreed. “Definitely too bad. Now tell me what happened in your little world today. You had one of your anxiety attacks at work?”

“Yes, damn it. A bad one. I puked in Bob’s rubber tree plant.” Lyssa took a big sip of her wine. “It was his own fault. He knows what happens when I meet people I don’t know, but Connie wasn’t there and he wanted to look important so he wouldn’t just come out and get the damn papers himself.”

“Did you try that chant we worked out?” Maybee asked, moving between the sink and the stove. The smell of rosemary and lemon wafted across the room and Lyssa’s stomach warbled.

Lyssa nodded. “Yep. It worked until I accidentally saw a mirror. Then it all went to – well, you know. The rubber tree plant. But it turned out that was only the opener for today’s excitement. When I got home I found an e-mail from my editor at Heartsong.”

That got Maybee’s full attention. She brought her own wine over and sat down in one of the chairs that made up the sunroom set. “Oh? And? Did she love the new book?”

“Oh, she loved it all right. So much, she wants a picture. Of me. For the inside back cover of all future Jennifer McNair books.” Lyssa felt her innards flip and churn, and then fill with hot air until her belly grew tight and painful. She’d have to take a muscle relaxant if she couldn’t ease the stress out on her own. Her body was falling apart and she was barely thirty. And it was all thanks to her inability to move past the machinations of a certain ex-mother-in-law.

Maybee groaned. “Ut oh.”
“Oh, dear.” Holly chewed her lip.

“Both of those, yes,” Lyssa nodded, set her wine down on the coffee table and flopped backwards on the couch. Laying flat sometimes made the belly pain ease up. “What the heck am I going to do?”

The women were silent for nearly five long minutes. Then Holly shrieked. “I have a fabulous idea.”

***

Maybee picked up a pair of scissors, cut carefully around the letters of the words she’d copied onto heavy cardboard and blown up to many times their normal size, all found in the pages of a prominent medical journal. She wanted to do this now, while she still had a handle on her faculties. Damn faculties. They kept weaving in and out, like a bad driver. Not that she’d know about driving anymore. Stupid doctors wouldn’t let her behind the wheel. They were afraid she’d have one of her “spells” and forget where she was going or what she was doing and drive herself into a herd of cows or something. She had Alzheimer’s, not stupidity, for chrissake. And only a mild case, anyway.

She reached across the battered kitchen table and dragged the old dart board to her. It had been a task having her friend Earl sneak this into the house without Lyssa noticing, but Maybee wanted it to be a surprise. Poor kid was having a tough time of it. What Maybee really wanted to glue to it was a picture of that evil bitch Margaret Beaumont, but in her heart of hearts, she knew that would only make Lyssa feel better for a little while. Putting the active source of Lyssa’s frustration on the board would be more helpful, giving her a physical outlet to release her anger when episodes like today came up.

Maybee studied the round board, then the letters. She could either leave the words intact, or separate them into individual characters and give them point value. That made more sense.

When she first came up with the idea to make the dart board, Maybee considered putting some facts and statistics on the board, too, but then she decided that knowing how many people had Alzheimer’s wouldn’t make her feel any better, so why would knowing how many people suffered from Social Phobia cure Lyssa? Somehow, Maybee didn’t think the fact Donny Osmond shared her condition would help Lyssa get past this any quicker. Nope, she was just going to use the big letters in all their obnoxious glory. That would be enough.

She sure might like having that dart board with Margaret’s face in her own bedroom, though…especially if she could arrange to have Park’s balls hanging from it. Which she very well might be able to collect personally if the rumors were true and he came home to deal with his uncle’s estate, the lying, cheating, no-good political weasel.

Maybee smirked. It sure would be entertaining to watch him fumble around that house in the dark.

Earl poked his head through the open door. “‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’ is gonna start in 5 minutes. I have the popcorn and beer ready. Get a move on, woman.”

***

Never, no matter how bad things were, had she resorted to blue glitter eye shadow.

Lyssa stared at Holly’s reflection in the large makeup mirror that spanned the width of the room. “Willie, how did we miss the turn for talented, glamorous writer and end up on the road to cheap Vegas hooker? I’d really like to know.”

That earned her a hostile glare.

“And those clothes. I guess I should be relieved you don’t have any leopard-spotted spandex in your collection.”

Stone cold silence accompanied a pointed scowl.

“Can we at least go for call girl if we’re thinking ‘paid by the hour’?”

Apparently, a line was crossed. Willie, the hair-stylist- slash-makeup-artist-slash-costume-designer, stormed out of the small dressing room of Santa’s Studio and Sexy Shots, reminding Lyssa of a cat who had ventured too near a full bathtub. Lyssa turned her attention to the creation he left behind.

“You shouldn’t have been so rude. He’s still mad at you because of New Year’s Eve. I had to really work him to get him to do this on such short notice –” Holly scolded from the makeup chair. She spun around to face the mirror, and shrieked. “God, you were too kind. What the hell did he do to me? You’re the one who tried to set him up with Waldo, not me.”

“Who knew he wasn’t gay? He was in high school. Let’s see if we can undo some of the damage.” Lyssa grabbed a tissue and scrubbed off pancake makeup, fire engine-red blush and the offending blue eye shadow. Once the first two coats were scraped away, Holly didn’t look half bad.

For a performer in Cirque du Soleil.

“Better, I suppose. But the outfit...” Lyssa tugged on the boa, it resisted. She yanked again. It refused to budge, but individual blue feathers floated angelically around Holly’s face. Lyssa grunted and stepped behind her to find the source of this frustration. Aha. The boa had been pinned to the back of the hot pink tube top. At least the safety pin had been hidden amongst the sequins and the rhinestones. Letting it show would’ve been tacky.

Feathers danced through the airless room, lifted by the tiny fan clipped to one of the counters to keep the temperature down to a mere swelter. Holly sneezed and a feather tucked itself into her hair.

“Hmm.” Lyssa inspected a rack of clothes against the back wall. She examined and discarded a black cutaway tuxedo jacket that smelled strangely of fish, another sequined creation in lemon yellow, a peach satin ball gown that had been out of style when it was new, a green one-shouldered disco dress that reminded her why the only thing left of that era was John Travolta, and… one red bolero jacket with black braid trim and a matching red and black hat. “Here we go. This is something Jennifer would wear. We just have to find something to go under it.”

Holly shrugged and looked down at the hot pink tube top that hid Sally and Mae, her impressive womanly virtues, dubbed thusly during a margarita-fest in college. “Jennifer McNair is a wild woman. She’ll show a little flesh, if it’s appropriate.”

She peeled off the tube top, cringing when the band of sequins that had held it in place raked her bare skin. “This thing is evil. Gimme.” She slipped into the short jacket and closed the single button just above her waist. While nothing actually showed, there was enough visible flesh to suggest. With Holly’s lush mane of riotous blonde curls falling around her shoulders, and the matching black and red hat perched on her head, she was femme fatale incarnate. Especially once Lyssa plucked the blue feather from her hair.

“I do believe we have a winner.”

***

“Wouldn’t Jennifer love this?” Holly held up a narrow black knit dress. They were killing time in a boutique while Willie’s photographer partner developed his film. He’d told them to come back in an hour, after Holly pouted at his original three hour estimate.

Holly shook her head. “Hmm, no, it would have to have a slit. You know how Jen feels about slits.”

Lyssa examined a midnight navy silk evening gown. “Ooh, this one is good.”

“Mais oui. Look at that plunging neckline. Look at that fitted bodice. Oh, yes.” Holly grabbed the dress, clutched it to her and spun in the limited area between racks. “Can’t you picture her dancing the night away with one of her glamorous beau hunks? What about Chase from Opus Rox, or Devlin from Butterfly Unbound, or who’s the new one – Mickey. Mickey would look great in a tux, spinning the beautiful and talented Jennifer McNair across a ballroom as all of her admirers watch.”

Lyssa picked up a sweater and checked the tag. On sale, and machine washable. A steal at twenty-four dollars. “And as they leave the ball to jet back to Charleston in her private plane, Jennifer’s editor will call to tell her that Romie and Julia just sold it’s millionth copy and there’s a bidding war for the movie rights to Ariel’s Aria.”

“And her dearest friend, Holly Bliss, will be cast in the lead by whatever studio ends up the high bidder.”

“But of course. No one else could play one of Jennifer’s heroines so convincingly. Miss Bliss knows these women inside and out, since they share many personality traits.” Oh, the eggshell sweater would look great with this peach blouse, also on sale. If she had to dress like a conservative career woman, she was going to do it on the cheap.

Holly squatted to examine a row of linen shorts, and her voice floated up through the fabric around her head. “In New Orleans, she works on her newest novel from her townhouse. She sleeps on silk and down during the day, writes of sin and lust and desire at night.”

Lyssa picked it up from there. “Jen understands matters of the mind, both real and surreal, because before she became a best selling author, she earned a degree in sociology from Texas A&M University, which has aided her in developing richly drawn characters both believable and slightly exotic.” This gorgeous paisley shawl would look beautiful with Holly’s favorite black dress. She wanted to get her friend something as a thank you for helping her with this frustrating problem. Not many people would lie to the whole world to help a friend. Smiling, she continued the biography. “Her mother, an Irish ancestor of Anne Bonne, and her father, the son of Germans who fled the war before Hitler could drag their family into his horrors, met while working in the Peace Corps on a remote island in the Pacific. They instilled in their only daughter the value of listening to people, and collecting their unique knowledge, perspective and experiences, the things that truly make each human being valuable.”

“Unfortunately her older brother Lance misheard the lesson and chose to collect their valuables, instead.” Holly snorted out a laugh and held up an emerald green chiffon nightgown, slit high on both sides and dipped low both front and back. “Yes?”

“Definitely yes. That is a ‘ravish me please’ gown if I ever saw one.” Lyssa grinned and examined the price tag. It was more than the sweater, blouse, and shawl, combined. “Youch. I could never wear something like that in a romantic situation. I’d get hysterical when it was torn off and tossed into the corner.”

Holly shrugged. “It’s just money.”

“Yes, dear.” Lyssa laughed and handed her sale items to the woman behind the register. “But not everyone is filthy stinking rich.”

“A shame, that. It’s a kick.”

***

Lyssa opened the manila envelope and slid out the contents. One letter, one four page document marked “Working Title: HIIK – Jennifer McNair Proposal,” and one handwritten note. The address label on the envelope read “Amanda Smyth-Reeves, Senior Editor, Heartsong Publishing Co.” and had a New York address. Lyssa stared at the collection fanned out across the food court table, and laid her forearm over the photographer’s packet to prevent Holly from pulling it toward her.

“Are you sure you want to do this? You could be stalked by prisoners, you know.” Lyssa teased, but she was only half joking. Most authors were, in fact, recipients of “jail mail.”

“Let – me – see.” Holly gave one mighty tug and succeeded in pulling the envelope out from under Lyssa’s arm, but also succeeded in knocking her soda off the table and onto the floor. She opened the envelope and fanned the contents like a deck of cards.

“Some crazed serial killer is going to get hold of a Jennifer McNair book thanks to the Literate Prisoner Program,” Lyssa grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser on the table and knelt to mop up the mess, “and next thing you know, you’re going to start receiving proposals. Some will even offer to make an honest woman of you. Most will probably just involve conjugal visits.”

“God, you’re dramatic.” A long nail clicked on the plastic table top as Holly scrutinized the photos. Despite having to resort to desperate measures for the photo, their natural resources – namely, Holly – were so good even an underpaid mall photographer and catty stylist with drag queen tendencies couldn’t go entirely wrong. The photos were pretty damn good.

“I know; isn’t it great?” Lyssa grinned. “Besides the prisoners, though, we’re also lying, and not just to a professor about a paper being late or a policeman about why we were speeding, but to my editor and anyone who buys a future Jennifer McNair novel. That’s major.”

“Oh, pulease. It’s just a picture. It’s no worse than having a zit airbrushed out.”

Lyssa snorted. “Having a zit airbrushed out is a tiny bit different than using a whole ‘nother person, I’d say.”

Holly pulled the envelope addressed to Amanda toward her. “I need a new boyfriend now that Zach’s gone. Prison mail has to have better odds than online dating in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.”

“You’re sick. But I thank you, Aunt Maybee thanks you, Daisy, Bo and Luke thank you.” Lyssa picked up one of the dozen photographs, the photo that Holly had laid on top. “You’re sure this is the one?” This picture would haunt them both for a long, long time. It had to be right. Luckily, despite the makeup creature’s attempts at sabotage, the photographer had managed at least four good choices from the dozen of shots Lyssa had purchased. She looked through the others, just to be sure.

Here was ‘Jennifer’ casually stretched out on her stomach, fiddling with some flowers and smiling coyly at the camera… ’Jennifer‘ sitting up, one elbow propped on a knee, chin resting in her palm, obviously planning her next blockbuster novel… here she was with her head thrown back, the hat dangling from a cord around her slender neck, looking like the mischievous brat she really was… and the winner, which showed Jennifer leaning against a wall, huge blue eyes flashing fire and spark, head slightly tilted, daring the camera. Daring what, Lyssa wasn’t sure, but it was a really compelling photograph.

Holly slurped Lyssa’s shake and nodded. “Just enough sass, fire and mischief, with a touch of challenge thrown in. And, you can’t see my nipples.”

“Always a plus, unless you’re aiming for Penthouse.” Lyssa slid the chosen 8x10 glossy behind the thank-you note and sealed the addressed and stamped package. “Once this goes in the mail box, it’s too late. No going back.”

Holly snorted and dug through her Kate Spade handbag until she found what she wanted: a small Cross pen. With a great flourish, she began to sign each of the remaining photographs, announcing each word with great intent. “With. Love. Jennifer. McNair.” She shoved the signed photographs back to Lyssa with an evil grin. “No. Going. Back.”

Lyssa slipped it into the envelope and sealed it up. “I’ll drop this on my way to the University. You headed home?”

“I have to fulfill my responsibilities as Iowa’s Hottest Mayor this evening and entertain the rich and famous of Bliss.” Holly rolled her eyes. “The caterer is coming at three to set up, so my plan is to nap until six, be dressed by six-thirty and step into my ‘hostess with the mostess’ role at seven.”

“Sounds like another glamorous evening of public service.” Lyssa slid the editor’s envelope into her oversized handbag and followed her friend out the mall doors leading to the parking lot. She watched Holly slip her key into the door of her glossy white Mercedes convertible, then slid behind the wheel of her own Corvette soft top, which was older than both of them but every bit as classy as her friend’s mode of transportation. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and expect a full report on tonight’s big shindig.” She smiled. “Thanks, Hol.”

“S’okay. You just owe me, yet again.” Holly dropped her sunglasses down over her blue eyes. “See ya.”