“Damn.” Charlotte Withholdt took a quick look around to make sure nobody had heard her language. That would be a one-dollar fine in the swear jar at home, but in church? Even if it was just the recreation hall? Five dollars at least.
Charlotte took another look at the manicure she had just paid thirty dollars for. Her Frosted Peach nails were ruined. “Damn,” she whispered again.
This is all Elizabeth Amanda’s fault, Charlotte thought, brushing back a strand of hair that had come loose from her French roll. She had to go move to her sister’s house in Des Moines. She could have worked something out with the bank. She could have asked her family to pay the mortgage, or at least put up some collateral. But no, she just had to give up and take off. Charlotte hauled another chair from the stacks and dragged it over to the tables she had positioned into a triangle.
This isn’t fair, I’m too old for this kind of work. Elizabeth Amanda knows that, but she just left without a single thought for my wellbeing. And, come to think of it, this is Martin’s fault too. I didn’t know she was actually leaving If he hadn’t of erased her last call, I would have found a place for her to stay in somebody’s spare room. Or our basement. Or something.
Charlotte pulled a lace-trimmed hanky out of her purse, reconsidered, and exchanged it for a tissue to wipe the dust off her hands. Well, this makes me even more determined to keep that Robert Keetone out of the JCBC. I just have to keep talking louder than anyone who doubts my sense of discrimination.
It was a shame though, that she didn’t have anyone to help her celebrate her upcoming victory. None of the other ladies seemed to like going out for cocktails after committee meetings. Elizabeth Amanda was always good for that, Charlotte thought. Even if she did mooch all the time.
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