If the Reverend Mr. Cosmo Bentworth had ever imagined the Ladies of the Church as small birds, delicately moving tiny pieces of straw, it was an image that disintegrated with each new encounter he and Charlotte Witholdt had.
“Look, Reverend,” Charlotte was saying, hands on hips. “The JCBC is a church, for goodness sakes. My church. And there was Robert Keetone, that oaf of a man, thinking he could just come in here without a suite or tie on; just because he’s married to the Collins girl.”
“Well, Charlotte,” The Reverend said steepling his fingers and pressing them to his lips. “It’s just that it doesn't seem one-hundred per cent Christian to bar entry to anyone who wants to enter the Sanctuary just because of what they wear.”
“But you can’t be that friendly to just anybody.” Charlotte insisted. “Especially not any of the Keetone boys. And we need to raise our moral standards for the sake of the parishioners. Being well-dressed will lift everyone’s spirits. Uplifting is good. Right?”
It wasn’t that the Reverend Mr. Bostworth wanted to refute anything Charlotte said, it was more that he knew trying would be futile. Like trying to change the wind by simplely shouting down a well. Charlotte was her own force of nature.
“And you know who is responsible for all this,” Charlotte had attained momentum. “Is that woman at the boutique. I think we ought to shut her down, or ban her store, or something. I’m bringing it up at the next meeting and I’m just letting you know so you can agree with me.”
Reverend Bentworth wasn’t sure if Dress Code was actually a part of Church Edict (in his mind he secretly suspected that this was more a question of Charlotte’s tendency to create dogma where none had existed before.) Nonetheless, he was not in favor of the new mini skirts that were beginning to be in fashion, and there were some ladies of a certain age that he sincerely prayed no one would ever have to see in a short skirt.
Charlotte was a mother cat and they were her kittens, being lugged around by their scruffs; that was the problem. Charlotte just expected the Board to fall in line and, after all, why wouldn’t they? Especially he, himself, could see the value in stopping little hussies like Vanessa Mangenelli from flaunting their seventeen-year-old thighs in front of every man and boy in Church. It was just that the idea of telling people what to wear made him, well – uncomfortable.
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