Mermaid Skirt

The image in the mirror stared sadly back at Georgette, as she tried to gauge what in her physical appearance kept her from being the heart of perfection. Could it be that her hair was too deep a shade of raven black? Or that it was too unruly and curly, swaying down to the small of her back? It was so long she could faultlessly re-enact the famous ride of Lady Godiva, wearing not one stitch of clothing, using her long hair to cover the delicate areas whose exposure society frowned upon. Her frame was petite and almost delicate like a calla lily, but she possessed the strength and determination of a mighty oak.

She knew she could stare at herself for hours and never find the perfection she so desperately sought. A swift shimmer of light flashing in the mirror reminded her that she needed to finish dressing, because Martin would be arriving soon. She had begged off, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He thought that the quicker she got out and mingled in the social world, the sooner the pain would ease. Like he was fond to point out—Trip wasn’t going to sit around and pine for her, so why should she give him that honor.

On her bed, spread out like funeral attire was the source of the shimmer of light that reflected briefly in the mirror. Staring down at it with regret, Georgette wished she hadn’t of been so easily persuaded by the vivacious saleslady at the dress boutique to purchase such a flamboyant gown. The source of the shimmering was a multitude of sequins in iridescent shades of blue and green covering the boned bodice of the gown. Even the thin spaghetti straps were encased in sequins. The skirt was made of black satin and embellished with deep green and blue sequins. But what made the dress so unique was the shape of the skirt. The hem was cut in a pointed shape at each side of the dress, giving it a fish tail—the illusion that it was tailored for a mermaid. A pair of black fishnet sleeves decorated with black pearls and sequins completed the dress. They were to be worn like gloves with a braided loop at the end for the middle finger to slip through.

After she dressed, Georgette had to admit that the saleslady was correct—the dress was a perfect fit. It looked spun directly onto her body by little sea horses. If she became overly bored at the party, she could slip into the pool and sing like a siren, luring men to their doom. She laughed at that thought. The one man she wanted was immune to her charms.

Georgette stared for a long time at her reflection, hypnotized by the glamour and wishing Trip could see her now with her hair loose and falling everywhere, reflecting the sparkle of the sequins. If she closed her eyes, she knew she would be able to feel his hands caressing her hair, wrapping strands of it around his fingers, and whispering how he adored the softness of it. With effort, she fought the urge to drift down memory lane, because time was ticking and Martin would be there soon to whisk her away to the ball.

The thought of letting her hair loose and free was too much painful to consider. Though she was determined to be free of Trip’s influence, she knew that baby steps were needed, so she braided her hair like usual and wound it around her head, pinning it up with rhinestone clips. A few curls escaped but on an impulse, she let them enjoy freedom. Georgette sprayed a cloud of perfume into the air and walked through it, just as the doorbell rang announcing Martin’s arrival. As she walked to the door to let him in, she prayed that she wouldn’t feel like a fish out of water at the party.

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The Swan

“Ms. Swann, you are far from an ugly duckling tonight, my lovely lady. What a vision you are in tempting red,” said the Susan Ritter proclaimed man of the hour, Congressman Redden, “I’ll try to keep my hands to myself.”

“If you forget, I’ll remind you,” said Jennifer, giving him a pretentious smile. He was the first person she saw when she walked into Susan’s almost vacant home—vacant of furniture not people, which turned out to work for the best because there were so many guests.

She quickly untangled herself from Redden, who protested that if she left him alone the crowd would swallow him and he would never see her again. Jennifer pretended not to hear him. She went in search of Susan and found her talking to a platinum blonde with blondish white highlights in her long hair. Familiarity flushed over Jennifer, as she watched the blonde flip her hair over her shoulders, but she couldn’t place why the gesture seemed so familiar. She politely waited for the two ladies to part, before securing Susan’s attention.

“Lovely party, Susan but you are much lovelier,” said Jennifer. “You were born to wear blue.”

“Your curls are darling,” Susan said, touching Jennifer’s hair. “Please excuse the absence of furniture. Elijah moved most of the furniture to our new home to accommodate all our dinner guests. I never know when to stop inviting people. We’ve got tables and chairs set up in different rooms. Once dinner’s over, we’ll move them out to make room for dancing and mingling. Darling, wait until you taste the food. I found the most exquisite cater. Remind me to give you their number.” Susan linked her arm in the bend of Jennifer’s elbow, continuing to praise the catering company, as they walked through the rooms, but a tall man with graying hair at his temples stole Jennifer’s attention.

Dale raised his glass in salutation to Jennifer. His smile curled over the rim, before he took a long drink. She smiled, tipping her head slightly in an acknowledgement of his silent greeting. But the smile froze when a redheaded woman possessively removed invisible lint from his coat sleeve, the phantom Mrs. Dale Larkin, no doubt. Dale never talked about his wife, so it was easy to imagine she didn’t exist. Watching them together, it felt like a fist of ice hit Jennifer square in the abdomen, stealing her breath and leaving her cold.

With her senses running amok in circles, Jennifer barely heard Susan excuse herself so she could attend to other guests. Jennifer found a group of people with whom she was acquainted with and lost herself in their numbers. From her safe hollow, she studied Dale’s wife without being detected.

Much to her chagrin, Jennifer couldn’t find fault with her. She was of average height, fair of face with deep red hair that ended with a flip at her shoulders. A curvaceous woman dressed in hunter green, Mrs. Larkin wore boredom with gold and pretentious smiles. But for all her beauty, there was also an air of contempt inside the glances she gave every woman who passed by her.

His wife might have him penned against the wall, but Dale’s eyes roamed the room, seeking for means of escape. Jennifer in her temptation red dress had the key and she vowed she would use it, when the perfect change of opportunity arrived. In the meantime, she bided her time and joined in the surrounding conversation.

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The Riddle

Georgette’s beauty astounded Martin. He was speechless for a moment. His eyes swept her form and he slowly let out a low-pitched whistle. He said, “Excuse me, Miss, but what have you done with the flower child?”
She held up her sequined handbag. “I stuffed her in here. If you don’t get me to that party soon, I’ll let her out.”

“That won’t do.” He escorted her to his sports car and they sped off.

Martin believed in two things: speedy trials and speeding cars. Georgette was too nervous to chastise him for speeding. She hated parties where she felt like a flower out of a pot. She envied Martin’s calm.

“You look handsome in your black suit, Martin. Most men look like funeral home directors when they wear them, but not you.”

“It’s the bald head. Keeps the focus off the suit. You should try it sometime.” Martin’s jocular reply soothed her spirit a little. Everything would be fine. He would make sure of it. But she had something else on her mind. Knowing that he drove past Trip’s home on his way to her house, made her wonder if he was home. She feared he would be at the party and she didn’t know if she could handle it.

As if reading her mind, he said “Trip’s at home. So don’t get yourself worked up over the possibility that he’ll be there. He won’t. Susan and Elijah don’t know him.” His tone became very dry and extremely serious. “Promise me that you’ll have a good time and forget about Mr. Supercilious for a few hours or I’ll turn this car around and take you back home.”

“Martin, let’s not argue. I’ll do my best to enjoy the evening.” She knew she couldn’t make a promise.

“You’re in luck. We’re here. And what the hell is that?” Martin stopped his car, braking sharp enough to throw Georgette forward towards the dashboard and then back against the car seat. They gawked at an obscenely pink tinted Cadillac, which was parked at an angle in the drive, in an unveiled attempt to discourage other cars from parking beside it.

“Martin, I haven’t seen that shade of pink since the day glow days of the mid-eighties. Hey, the car could belong to the entertainment. Maybe a shock jock.”

“Or Bruce Springsteen,” laughed Martin.

“You may be right if it has plush velvet seats.”

Martin managed to squeeze his sports car into a space close to the Cadillac. As he helped Georgette out of the vehicle, she said, “I can’t believe you got into this small spot, Martin. For a moment, I thought we would have to stuff your car into my hand bag.”

“No way,” he countered. “Remember, we’re not letting the flower child out just yet.”

Elijah Ritter greeted them at the door, wearing a royal blue smoking jacket and holding a brandy glass. Georgette and Martin exchanged quick glances. Elijah was drunk, signifying a long evening ahead of them. His wife Susan didn’t need alcohol to give her courage to face a crowd, for she lived for the moment she could entertain, dominate or woo a crowd. Elijah was the opposite. He enjoyed being a quiet man who loved books and lived for the challenge that the daily newspaper cross-word puzzle offered.

“Martin! Georgia! Welcome to our most extravagant party ever!” Elijah clung to the doorknob for support, swaying a little with it. “Before you can enter, you must first guess the answer to this riddle: What has one mouth that speaks for one million?” He barred the entry way, forcing an answer out of them.

“Your wife,” Martin said in his abrupt way, “Elijah, you fool, you’re drunk. And it’s Georgette, not Georgia. Let us in. It’s cold out here.”

“You’re right Marty, ole chap. The answer is my wife.” Elijah swung the door open, losing his balance and falling against the wall. He splashed the contents of his brandy glass on his elegant royal blue smoking jacket, staining it with an ugly black mark. “Sorry, Georgette. Come inside. Oh dear, I’ve made a mess. Off with my head.”

Martin steadied him. Turning to Georgette, he said, “I’m going to help Elijah upstairs to change. Could you secure a cup of black coffee in the meantime?” She nodded and watched the two men stagger away, bouncing off walls and people.