Smooth Moves. Carrie Alexander

      Cathy took off her apron, wadded it up and stowed it on one of the shelves beneath the checkout counter. “A person who buys the patterns will need needles, ribbon and two kinds of yarn,” she pointed out. “We—I’ll see a decent return.”

      Kay shrugged her wide, bony shoulders. “It’s your funeral.” She slipped a pristine apron over the neat silver cap of her hair, straightening her starched collar with a tug. Her displays had been practical, not imaginative. Her shelves had been stocked on schedule, not on whim.

      Cathy smiled at Kay. Nicely. She understood that it was difficult for the older woman to adjust to a more creative way of doing things. Having grown up under the watch of Admiral Wallace Winston Bell, Cathy had plenty of experience dealing with rigidity. Her father was career Navy—he’d run the proverbial tight ship. His awkward, bookish, imaginative daughter had baffled him to no end. He’d never completely succeeded in shaping her up, which was perhaps the one failure in his illustrious career.

      “I’ll be gone for at least an hour,” Cathy said, tightening at the thought of her impending makeover. “Maybe two.”

      Kay took out a bottle of Zap, her favorite spray cleaner. “No problem.”

      Cathy waved from the door. “There haven’t been many customers, so you should do fine alone. I’ll be next door at Laurel’s if you need me.”

      Kay doffed the bottle as Cathy departed. Looking back, she saw that her employee had yanked the apron out from beneath the counter and was whipping it into a tidy package like a color guard folding a flag. A woman after her father’s heart. Banish the thought.

      Outside, the June sunshine was glorious; it made the pavement shine and the parking meters sparkle. Quimby was as quaint as Cathy had remembered from her yearlong stay as a child. Beneath mature sugar maples and grand old elms, the residential streets were cozy with modest Queen Anne cottages, Craftsman bungalows and wood-frame houses with wide front porches. The downtown business district thrived on what passed for bustle in the small town. Cathy did not regret her move, even though it had meant leaving several good friends and her one dominant family member behind.

      Luckily, her second sojourn in Quimby had thus far not been as socially inept as the first, when she’d been sent to stay with her grandparents while the Admiral was at sea. She’d made plenty of friends this time around, and even gone out on a few pleasant dates. In fact, the residents were so friendly she rarely stepped outside of her little shop without being greeted by several of them.

      “Hallo, Mrs. Timmerman,” said Reggie Lee Marvin, his face completely guileless beneath the bill of a grimy, faded gimme cap. The handyman parked his three-wheeled bike at the curb. A toolbox, spade, rake and other assorted supplies were strapped to the basket in the back.

      “Hey, Reggie Lee. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

      “Sure is, Mrs. Timmerman.”

      “Going to lunch?” Cathy had given up trying to get Reggie Lee to call her Cathy, or even Ms. or Miss. She’d never felt much like a Mrs. Her marriage to Chad Timmerman, handsome hunk but faithless husband, had lasted all of two years, including the divorce process.

      Reggie Lee nodded, his full cheeks turning ruddy. Cathy suspected he had a bit of a crush on her, as was also the case with Laurel, Julia and perhaps even Faith. She’d seen Reggie Lee watching Faith with an absorbed expression.

      The handyman was far too shy to be overt toward the opposite sex. He ducked his head when addressing her, avoiding eye contact. “You coming to the café, Mrs. Timmerman?”

      Cathy stepped under a white canvas awning and opened the door to Laurel’s store, Couturier, which was as high style as Quimby got. “Not today, Reggie Lee. But I’ll see you around.”

      “Okey-dokey.”

      Allie was tugging on Cathy’s arm before she’d even made it over the threshold into the elegant store. “Come on, chickie. We’ve been waiting for you. There’s lots and lots to do.”

      “Well, gee, thanks,” Cathy said with dry amusement.

      Allie chuckled. “Cripes, Cath. You know what I mean.”

      “Sure. I know.” She pressed a hand to her tie-dyed head scarf, feeling at odds with Couturier’s many mirrored surfaces and its refined decor of monochromatic pewter accented by touches of glossy black. “I’m…ready.” The makeover was dreaded, but necessary. Part of her even wanted it. For Zack.

      “Ewww.” Laurel came out of the back room with puckered lips and an armful of garments. “You must take that rag off your head, Cathy. It’s so very sixties. And the blouse…how ethnic.” She shuddered. “That won’t do.”

      Cathy dragged off the scarf and shook out her hair. “What’s wrong with ethnic?” Her closet was filled with imported clothing. The pieces she’d collected were inexpensive, colorful, unique and easy to wear. No binding straps, formfitting skirts or low-cut necklines to worry about.

      “Since this is a makeover, I’ll be straight with you.” Laurel’s smile made a token apology. “First of all, you couldn’t seduce a marine fresh off the ship in that gunnysack.”

      Cathy tucked her hands into the roomy pockets of the plain dress and turned to examine it in a triple mirror. The ticking pinafore was both comfortable and suitable for her work; she’d paired it with a red cotton embroidered blouse from Mexico. It looked okay to her. But Laurel knew fashion, and she certainly knew what attracted men.

      “This one will bring out the blue in your eyes.” Laurel held up a periwinkle slip dress. It dangled from a hanger on skinny straps, shimmering in the artfully arranged lights that beamed from brushed steel fixtures overhead, spilling in subtle pools here and there on the plush gray carpeting.

      Cathy gulped. “But there’s nothing to that dress.”

      Laurel’s lips curved. “Exactly.”

      Allie was looking at Cathy’s chunky sandals. “You’ll need heels.”

      “I can’t walk in heels.”

      “Oh, great.” Laurel rolled her eyes an instant before she turned her face aside.

      “I know.” Ignoring her scraped pride, Cathy took off her glasses and squinted. The details of her reflection were becomingly blurred. “I’m a major project.” As much as the prospect of lipstick and heels and daring hemlines dismayed her, she didn’t ask the women to quit. A psychologically interesting development. Perhaps now that she’d accomplished a career switch, she was ready to change her appearance as well…?

      “Add contacts to the to-do list,” Laurel said.

      “I have contacts. They make my eyes itch and water.”

      “You can do this, Cathy.” Allie was encouraging while she searched her purse for the list they’d started at the calligraphy class. “We can do this.”

      Julia and Faith arrived, both on their lunch hour. Gwen was peeved that she couldn’t get free from her job at the post office and was missing all the makeover fun.

      Faith seated herself on an unobtrusive brushed aluminum chair and opened her neat little brown-bag lunch. Julia flipped through the garments, munching on a juicy apple, ignoring Laurel’s murmurs and fluttering hands.

      “Whew. Hot tamale.” Broodingly, Julia admired a slinky, strapless dress in a deep shade of brick-red. When her gaze turned toward Cathy, she frowned. “You know, it occurs to me…” She glanced at the other women. “Sure, we can glam Cathy up like a living doll, but how will that make her different from every other girl Zack has already had?”

      Julia pitched the apple core and wiped her hands on the piece of silver wrapping tissue Laurel hastily provided. “I’m thinking this seduction has to be as emotional as it is physical.”

      Laurel narrowed her eyes. “And how does one accomplish that?”

      “With