Page 2 of Spicy Ever After
“Well? Can I see how it looks?”
I frown. “It’s my robe. You know how it looks.”
“You’re still in your robe?!” Mom’s volume climbs. I take two steps back from the door. “Hattie, why aren’t you dressed?”
“I am. It’s just my r?—”
“Harriet, I don’t have time for semantics. You know what I mean! Put on that dress. Right now.”
Without answering, I turn and glare at the vicious dress that is currently hanging from my bathroom door.
In my mind’s eye, I retrofit the dress with a wrap-front or an A-line or, if I’m dreaming, maybe even a tent-style design. I swap its silver sage color for garnet or violet. Something that won’t make me turn yellow.
And, of course, I replace the godforsaken tulle with voile.
“Hattie??”
“Hang on, Mom.”
“What?” she bellows.
But I ignore her, pluck the tie on my robe, let the garment pool at my feet, and sigh again. Naked except for my Chantomoo slippers, I turn and catch my reflection in the mirror.
I stop and stare.
My breasts are heavy. My stomach soft. My arms and legs and bottom are a study in geometry. Slopes and curves. Every inch of me is the color of risen dough.
I look delicious, I think, suddenly craving a yeast roll.
I sweep a handful of wavy hair over my shoulder, admiring the way the rich color stands out against my skin.
On second thought, maybe I’m craving a cinnamon roll.
I gently rake my fingers through my hair and let my waves slip between them until I hold onto just a few strands. I rub them between my thumb and index finger the way I did with the Aurifil thread.
“Golden toast. Cinnamon. Copper Brown,” I rattle off the shades on the Italian thread maker's color card that most closely match the strands between my fingers. “Why couldn’t Margaret have picked Copper Brown as one of her wedding colors?”
“What did you say?”
Mom’s bellow yanks me out of my color haze, and I bounce my gaze around the room.
Underwear. I need underwear.
“Hattie, open this door. We’re going to be late.”
I pluck a pair of boy shorts and a brushed cotton camisole from my dresser and shimmy into them.
“Harriet. Eloise. Mercier.” Mom cleaves off each of my names. I yank the dress off the hanger and squeeze my eyes shut before throwing it over my head.
It feels like pulling on a cheese grater.
IhateitIhateitIhateitIhateit, I silently chant, dragging it over my body.
When my arms are ensnared and my head emerges from the neck, I squint my eyes open. The reflection in the mirror looks nothing like a yummy yeast roll.
Nope. I now stare at a spooked turtle. One whose cozy shell just got swapped with a mattress coil. I turn my back on the poor reptile and shuffle to the door.
“Harriet? I’m warning y?—”
