The Fortune Quilt by Lani Diane Rich

Author:Lani Diane Rich [Rich, Lani Diane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
ISBN: 9780451220271
Google: HeSOhJlTJ2wC
Amazon: B001G8WU6W
Publisher: NAL Trade
Published: 2011-07-13T14:00:00+00:00

***

At work the next day, Janesse is still prettier than me. I find myself staring at her all day. She’s tall for a woman, definitely, and now that I’m looking for it her wrists do seem a bit bigger than those of most of the women I know. Her feet don’t look that big, though, but then again, mine are size six and every foot bigger than mine kinda looks the same to me, so…

“Who told you?” she asks as she sidles back behind the counter. I realize I’ve been leaning on the counter and straighten up, wondering if I was too obvious with the staring.

“Who? Told me what? Hmm?” I ask in what I hope passes for casual.

She raises one eyebrow at me. “That I used to have a dick.”

“Oh. That.” I sigh and relax. Big deal. She used to have a dick. Get used to it. Welcome to Bilby. “Will. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. Was I staring?”

Janesse laughs. “Honey, if staring bothered me I would have ended up like Mr. Trimble a long time ago. I’m used to it.” She shoots me a sideways glance and a smile plays on her lips. “But really? You didn’t know?”

“No,” I say. “I had no idea.”

She giggles and turns to me. “No, seriously. Even with these hips?”

“What hips?” I say, rolling my eyes at her.

“Exactly. Real women have hips. And booties.” She turns her back to me and shakes what she’s got. “I have no ass.”

I grin at her. “You are one hundred percent woman, trust me. Men are not insecure about their asses.”

She turns back to face me and sighs. “I guess it’s just our curse.”

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Sure.”

“Your breasts are gorgeous. Did you have them done?”

She mocks an offended expression. “No way, baby. These are all mine.”

“But… how?”

“Hormones.” She touches her hip. “Little patch, right there.”

“Wow.” I step back and take a good look. They’re not big, but they look great on her, and they’re perky as hell. Then again, they’re only three years old. “They’re beautiful.”

Janesse beams and practically dances into the stockroom. The bell on the front door rings and Mr. Trimble comes in. I make no eye contact as I walk to the charcoals, pull out a box for him, ring it up at the register, and accept his ready four dollars and eighty-six cents. He leaves without telling me to fuck off. I consider this a win-win.

A moment later Janesse comes back from the stock room with a box full of oil paints for me to stock.

“Why doesn’t he ever buy paper?” I ask.

“Hmmm?”

“Mr. Trimble. Twice a week, with the charcoals. No paper.”

“Baby,” Janesse says, “there are some people you just don’t ask questions about, and Mr. Trimble is one of them.”

I accept this and take the box of oil paints. Janesse and I hum companionably to the Sting song on the radio as we stock the oils and I find myself, for the second time that day, smiling involuntarily.

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