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  When she came back to the house she had showered and changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. It was so nice to be in Joey’s house, around his things, even though he and his roommates kept it a mess. There was something endearing about all the guy stuff all over the place. Barbells and a rowing machine in the living room surrounded by mismatched furniture that looked as if it had been picked off the streets after three days of rain. Faded curtains with uneven hemlines that were probably already old when Ponce de León discovered Florida. Sneakers and sweatshirts and gym bags and golf balls left wherever they happened to land on the once-yellow carpeting, and it didn’t seem to bother them one bit. She had been tempted to start cleaning up but decided to forget it, remembering the earthy wisdom of her grandmother, “If a guy has a messy apartment, he’s just your typical bachelor. But if a girl has a messy apartment, she’s branded a slob.”

  Backing out of the driveway, Nadine thought that she could really get used to Miami. Now we just have to get Joey used to the idea of together forever. This crosscountry commuting was getting to be too much, not to mention the effect flying was having on her sinuses. She hated the empty unsettled feeling she got when she headed back after these long weekends. Joseph, she thought, when are you going to buy me just a one-way ticket here?

  Nadine drove along the busy two-lane road, lost in her thoughts. Suddenly she came upon a huge sign that said: GRAND OPENING—NAIL SALON. Quickly she glanced in the rearview mirror and decided she had time to make a quick turn into the driveway. She pulled into a parking space right in front. If it’s a grand opening, she thought, then they’ll want to do a decent job and make sure people come back. They don’t have to know I’m not a resident of Miami. At least, not yet.

  AFTER REGAN HAD picked up Richie at the agency, they sauntered up Ocean Drive, back to the Fourth Quarter. Once inside, they headed upstairs to Richie’s apartment to gather the panty hose for the rehearsal. The message light on Richie’s answering machine was blinking.

  “It’s always nice to come home and see that someone has left a message, isn’t it, Regan?”

  “Yeah, except when you play it back and it’s a hang-up.”

  Richie pushed the playback button and an electronic voice that always sounded flat, no matter how many people had called, said, “Number of messages received—one.” Somehow Regan thought the voice should sound more and more excited the higher the number got. Or maybe it should say something like: “Congratulations—you had eight people call.” Or: “You must be really popular—twelve messages.” Or: “Do you have a lot of overdue bills?—twenty-three messages.”

  A moment later, Nora Regan Reilly’s message began. “Richie, this is Nora. I’ve got great news. We have a suite upstairs that we can use for the cocktail party and the fashion show. Give me a call.”

  “Your mother’s a saint,” Richie said breathlessly as he hurriedly dialed the Watergreen, “an absolute saint.”

  “Saint Nora,” Regan said. “It has a nice ring to it. Maybe they should put her books in the religious section.”

  “Hello, Nora,” Richie’s voice boomed. “How are you, love?”

  Regan watched Richie’s face light up as her mother started to give him the details about the party. “Wait a minute, Nora, let me put you on the speakerphone. Regan’s right here.”

  “Hi, Mom,” Regan called out.

  “Hi, Nancy,” Nora said.

  Regan smiled. “You got my message.”

  “Yes, dear. The clerk at the front desk asked me if I liked to carry the mystery theme through everything in life.”

  “Tell ’em you have a son at home named Edgar Allan Poe Reilly.”

  “Hey, Nora,” Richie said excitedly, “tell Regan about what you told me about the arrangements . . .”

  “The manager here is a lovely young man . . .” Nora began and for the next ten minutes they discussed how everything would work on Saturday. They finally hung up, saying they’d see each other later at the Watergreen for dinner with the Durkins.

  “Richie,” Regan said, “have you got any music planned for this fashion show?”

  “Music?” Richie asked with a startled expression. “I never thought of that.”

  “It helps to set a mood, create excitement. Designers always have music at their shows. Do you have a stereo?”

  Richie looked at her guiltily. “Well . . .” He led her over to an orange Victrola with a picture of a bewildered-looking brown-and-white dog sniffing at a horn. The label said, “His Master’s Voice.”

  Regan stared at it. “I don’t think this is going to work.’’ She could just picture herself cranking this thing while the models from the agency strutted their stuff down the runway. “But you do have a collector’s item here, I will say that.”

  Richie’s eyes moistened. “Birdie and I bought it when we were first married. We used to love to turn it on and dance. We had taken dancing lessons before we got married so we wouldn’t look like jerks when we got out on the floor.’’

  “I think Maura and John have been taking a crash course this past week,” Regan said. “Well, let’s not worry about the music right now. We’ve got to get downstairs, they’ll all be here. I’ll call my mother later and see if that ’lovely young man’ has a stereo in his suite that we can use. Now, let’s get out that panty hose . . .”

  “You’re a saint too, Regan, you know that?”

  “Richie, please, you don’t have to go that far. My mother? Maybe. Me? I know I’m not a saint,” Regan laughed.

  “Well, then you’re my guardian angel.”

  Regan’s blood chilled. After what happened last night, it didn’t sound like such a joke.

  NADINE STEPPED INSIDE the red-, white- and blue-streamered doorway of the Hard As Nails nail salon and shivered. Ice-cold air was spewing from an air conditioner in the corner as a workman stood on a ladder trying to fix it. She was immediately greeted by a zealous aesthetician with jet-black hair and lots of makeup, whom Nadine guessed to be in her late forties.

  “You’d like a manicure and a pedicure?”

  Nadine rubbed her arms. “It’s cold in here.”

  “We’re fixing it right away. You’d like a manicure and a pedicure?” she repeated hopefully.

  “Do you sterilize your instruments?” Nadine asked prudently.

  “Yes, of course. We have the special sterilizing machine. It cooks the germs real good.”

  “Okay then.” Nadine agreed to stay even though she was the only customer in sight, always a cause for wonder. But, Nadine reasoned, it was the grand opening and maybe they needed a little time to get cooking on all four burners. Everything certainly looked ready to go. Six manicure stations were set up in the tiny storefront. Magazines were piled on a bamboo table in the reception area, which presumably on busy days would be filled with clients with ragged cuticles and chipped polish, awaiting their turn side by side with others sporting tissue paper between their splayed toes, impatiently waiting for that magic moment when their nails were pronounced dry and it was safe to put their shoes back on.

  “I’m Sophia,” the woman said to Nadine. “Come sit down. I’ll get a nice tub of hot water for your feet.”

  “I don’t want a pedicure,” Nadine said firmly. “I just need to have new tips put on these fingernails.”

  “We specialize in tips,” Sophia enthused, masking her disappointment. “Next time you’ll have a pedicure.” It sounded like an order.

  Nadine sat down at Sophia’s station, listening to her explanation that a couple of her girls weren’t starting until tomorrow, one had called in sick on her first day— can you believe it?—and she still had to hire a few more, but only the best.

  Hurry up, Nadine thought. Get to work.

  Sophia took Nadine’s afflicted hand in hers and studied it. “You did some good job breaking these nails. They look awful.” Then she added reassuringly, “Don’t worry, I fix.”

  As Sophia diligently worked, interrupted by an occasional “Ow, be caref
ul” from Nadine, Nadine watched the air-conditioning guy go up and down the ladder several times to rummage through his toolbox. He’s cute, Nadine thought. But not as cute as Joey.

  Suddenly the door to the salon was flung open.

  “Can I get a manicure?” a robust elderly woman shouted. “I got one of your coupons in the mail.”

  Sophia dropped Nadine’s hand and rushed over. “Of course, of course. One more minute.”

  The woman turned and yelled to someone waiting in a car. “You can go now. They’ll take me. Come back soon, though. I don’t want to sit around here all day.”

  “Come in, come in,” Sophia twittered. “One more minute.”

  You said that a minute ago, Nadine thought.

  Sophia’s newest customer unloaded herself into the seat next to Nadine. “It’s cold in here,” she complained.

  Nadine noticed the repairman throwing her a dirty look.

  “The air conditioner is working too hard,” Sophia joked. “We’re fixing it right away, right away.”

  The woman looked at Nadine’s bare legs. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Freezing,” Nadine said.

  “Thank God I have my panty hose on. Otherwise I’d leave right now.”

  Nadine wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t it a hot day to wear panty hose?”

  “These are different,” the woman announced with authority. She lifted up her long housedress to reveal a beautiful pair of pink hose. ’They breathe. They keep you cool when you want to be cool and warm when you want to be warm. And the best part is they don’t run or snag.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nadine said as she stared at the woman’s legs.

  “Not at all. I didn’t believe it either until I tried them myself.’’

  “Where did you get them?” Nadine asked incredulously.

  The woman let go of her dress and lowered her voice. “They’re not out yet. My son-in-law is an engineer. He’s testing them for his company to make sure they’re for real. They want to buy the rights to them. It’s some big hush-hush thing. He doesn’t say much about it. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t say much at all.”

  “All done!” Sophia blurted as she screwed the cap onto the nail polish bottle. “Be careful.”

  “I know,” Nadine said. She leaned down for her purse at the same moment the panty-hose-clad woman started to get up from her seat.

  “Oh, no!” Nadine wailed as her wet nails grazed the woman’s legs and smeared. “My nails are ruined.” After a pause she added, “And so are your panty hose.’’

  “No problem with them,” the woman said and wiped the bright-red polish off her leg.

  Nadine was awed. “That’s incredible,” she said. “Nail polish is what you use to stop a run. It never comes off.’’

  “I told you,” the woman said, “these panty hose are different. My only question is why did they have to wait until I’m this old before they discovered them?”

  As Sophia reapplied polish to Nadine’s twice-damaged nails, Nadine and the older woman exchanged addresses.

  “As soon as those panty hose go on sale you’ve got to let me know,” Nadine said. “Have you ever tried to buy sheer black panty hose late on a Saturday afternoon during the holidays? The hosiery counter is a nightmare. I’ll buy these in every color and never have to shop for them again!”

  “Me too,” Sophia insisted as she plopped down a bowl of hot soapy water into which she plunged the septuagenarian’s unsuspecting fingertips.

  REGAN AND RICHIE hurried as they set up the folding chairs in the Dolly Twiggs Memorial Room. It was a quarter of three and the models, young and old, were expected at three o’clock.

  “This works out great,” Richie said as he unfolded the last chair. “We’ll be all ready for the memorial service at four.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave the chairs set up after your meeting yesterday?” Regan asked.

  “House rules,” Richie said. “Or should I say, Flo rules. She thinks the place looks like a church basement when these things are set up. Takes away the homey look. She said if we didn’t make a strict policy, then they’d never get put away.”

  Regan looked around. The spacious room was furnished with three floral couches and several armchairs, all arranged so they had a good view of the television set.

  “Do people come down here at night to watch TV?” Regan asked.

  “Day and night,” Richie answered. “Most of the time you’ll find someone in here watching something. The only time it gets real crowded and we have to haul out the folding chairs is when there’s a program on that no one likes to watch alone, you know, like disaster reports, or the Super Bowl, or”—Richie chuckled— “when the President decides to talk to the nation. We get everyone in here heckling and shouting at the TV on those nights. Yeah, that’s one tough job. Must be hard to live knowing there’s always somebody out to get you.”

  “Hi, Richie.” The two young models whom Regan had met at the agency appeared in the doorway.

  “Hi ya, hi ya, how you doing, come on in,” Richie urged.

  By five past three, all the other models had filtered in. Fifteen residents of the Fourth Quarter, along with the five models sent over by Elaine at the agency, made up the cast.

  Greetings were exchanged, and finally Richie said, “Ladies, ladies, please sit down. We have a lot to do and not that much time.”

  As they settled themselves in, Richie waited for absolute silence. He cleared his throat. “Tomorrow is going to be a very important and exciting day, not only for those of us who call the Fourth Quarter our home, but also in the history of panty hose.”

  “We hope,” Bessie Tibbens, who lived down the hall from Richie, yelled.

  “You said it!” shouted another.

  “Your lips to God’s ear,” Flo pronounced as she circled the room with her tray of cookies, offering one to a young model sitting there crunching on a carrot stick.

  “No, thank you. I never touch sweets,” she purred.

  “I’m sure glad I got old before they started pushing that rabbit food on us. A couple of cookies a day never hurt anybody.” Flo moved along with her tray, only to have the next young model decline her offer with a shake of her head and a wave of her Evian bottle. “Land’s sakes,” Flo mumbled.

  “Flo, please sit down,” Richie pleaded.

  “I am, I am.”

  “Tomorrow,” Richie continued, “is a day I liken to the day when man walked on the moon. Instead of ’One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,’ it will be ‘One small step in the Birdie Panty Hose, one giant leap for womankind.”

  “July 20, 1969,” Pearl Schwartz recalled, uninvited. “My little grandkids had just gotten halfway through lighting the candles on my birthday cake when that guy finally decided to come out of his spaceship. So they blew them out and then, after he’d bounced around for a few minutes up there, they relit them. The cake turned out to be a waxy mess. By the time I peeled all the wax off my piece, half the icing was gone.”

  “You should have had a cheesecake in honor of the occasion,” Flo offered.

  “Pearl, Flo, please, we’ll have time for chatting later,” Richie moaned. “Now, as I was saying, tomorrow could be the beginning of a new era for women. To wear comfortable, flattering panty hose that doesn’t run or snag, that dries in about thirty seconds, that doesn’t bag around your ankles in embarrassing folds. This is what we will be revealing to the world tomorrow. I need you to help create the excitement.’’ Richie looked to the young models seated together. “That’s what fashion shows are all about, right, girls?”

  They nodded their heads almost imperceptibly.

  “Right,” Richie said as if to answer himself. “What we have here is a great product, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to get people interested in it. I hope. Hell’s bells, when you think of some of the stuff they try to pass off at those fancy-schmancy fashion shows—those clothes look like they were designed by someone on Pluto. But people buy
them even though their price tag is in outer orbit too. So why shouldn’t a panty-hose company want to buy my invention?”

  “Don’t say hell, Richie,” Flo admonished.

  “Sorry. Now before I get started, I want to thank the models from the agency who came out to lend us a hand. They’re donating their time to help us save our home.” Richie started to clap and was soon joined by the rest of the group in a round of polite applause.

  “And right next to me here . . .”

  Oh God, Regan thought.

  “. . . is my friend Regan Reilly. She’s here to help me out. Stand up, Regan.”

  Regan stood up, smiled, waved, then sat back down. Quickly. That has to be one of the more awkward rituals that human beings subject themselves to, she thought. The introduction to a big group. And having to wave. It made her feel sorry for the Queen and beauty-pageant winners, who probably wave in their sleep.

  “Regan’s going to arrange for us to have some nice music during the show tomorrow.”

  Feeble applause started in the back of the room, and before Regan knew it, she was smiling and waving again.

  “Regan’s mother, Nora Regan Reilly, has arranged a cocktail party in one of the penthouse suites at the Watergreen. That’s where we’ll have the show, too. They’re setting up a runway for us.”

  One of the women in the front row smiled sweetly at Regan. Regan smiled back.

  The woman leaned forward in her chair. “Are you married, dear?”

  “No.”

  “I have a grandson who has a nice little business going for himself . . .”

  “Minnie, please,” Richie said with frustration. “We’ve got a lot to get done.”

  Regan found herself propelled out of her chair by the force of her nerve endings. “Richie, why don’t we distribute the panty hose?”

  “Good thinking.”

  The twenty pairs of different-colored panty hose were handed out after much discussion about who should wear which color, who had a dress to match a certain shade of peach, violet, ivory, rust, et cetera.