Husband for Hire by Susan Wiggs

ovals of a lady. They looked as if they belonged to someone else. To someone who traveled the world, played piano in concert, spoke French to foreign diplomats. To the woman Twyla had once had every intention of becoming.
    “What you thinking, eh?” Diep asked, studying her face. “You got a sad look, Twyla.”
    “I’m not sad. Just remembering the past.”
    “Past is always little bit sad, for everybody.” At the age of three, Diep had made the perilous voyage in a leaky boat from Saigon to international waters, where the fleeing refugees were picked up by a Japanese freighter and left on an oil-drilling platform, then transported to a refugee camp in Indonesia. She never said much about it, but she had lost most of her family members during the migration. “You think about tomorrow, Miss Scarlett.”
    Diep reached for a bottle of red glitter.
    Twyla snatched her hand away. “Oh, no, you don’t. No fancy stuff.”
    “Tasteful fancy stuff. Your dress is red, yes?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Shoes are red?”
    “Yes—”
    “Then hold still and let me work.”
    Twyla forced herself to relax. She had already resigned herself to taking the plunge. If she was going to become a woman of mystery this weekend, she might as well go all the way. Vanity was permissible in a woman—she had built her business on that premise. But she had always had a personal problem with it. There was probably some deep psychological reason that she enjoyed making other women beautiful but was so ambivalent about herself. Pondering that, she caught herself truly reveling in Diep’s attention.
    Her reunion dress hung in the clear plastic zipper bag on the back of the office door. Mrs. Spinelli had had it shipped overnight along with shoes and a bag, from Nieman Marcus, and Diep’s mother had done the alterations. Twyla knew in her heart the dress was too much, too red, too expensive, but the moment she had put it on, she had known it was the one.
    Diep concentrated deeply, using tiny brushes and even a surgeon’s blade for the details. When she was finished, Twyla regarded her nails with amazement. Each ring finger was tipped with a tiny, perfect depiction of the ruby slippers.
    “It’s beautiful, Diep. You’re a genius.”
    “You always say there is magic in the ruby slippers. Now there is magic in your hands.”
     

    H EY, STRANGER .” Lauren DeVane opened the door of her town house. “Long time no see. I missed you.” She lifted up on tiptoe and kissed Rob’s cheek.
    “Missed you, too,” he said automatically, loosening his tie, grateful for the end of a busy day at the lab.
    She had been to something called a “trunk show” in San Francisco. He was a little afraid to ask what a trunk show was, imagining a gross anatomy class from his med school days.
    “How was your flight?” he asked.
    “Fine. What’s that, darling?”
    He handed her the wrinkled plastic bag. “Something from Lost Springs. The auction wasn’t a total loss.”
    She took out the quilt he had won in the raffle. Just the sight of it, the worn and faded pieces forming new patterns, the hand stitching picking out swirling shapes, reminded him uncomfortably of his first meeting with Twyla McCabe. He’d had a powerful reaction to her, and that wasn’t like him.
    Lauren tilted her head to one side, silky yellow hair spilling over her shoulder. “A blanket?”
    “It’s a quilt. I won it in a draw at the bachelor auction.”
    She unfolded it halfway and eyed the soft blues and pearly pastel colors against her black ultrasuede sofa. “Quilts are so weird. Made out of people’s hand-me-down rags.”
    Rob went over to the wet bar, making himself a whiskey and soda and a vodka martini for Lauren. They touched their glasses, and she said, “Finally we get anevening together. I can’t believe you’re leaving again tomorrow.”
    Friday, he thought with a heavy feeling in his gut. He summoned a smile for Lauren. How tall and elegant she looked, like a Charles