The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(25)
“You look great,” Faith, the bringer of all this stuff, said reassuringly. Until her sister had arrived a half hour ago, Honor’s dressing table had only contained a hairbrush and a jar of Oil of Olay moisturizer (the same brand Goggy used, Faith pointed out). Now, the table surface was awash in girlie stuff—blush, eye shadow, seven different types of moisturizer, brushes and wands and tubes and pots.
Yes. Honor had agreed to a makeover. Things were feeling a little desperate. Could new eye shadow change her life? She was about to find out at the ripe old age of the years are precious, egg-wise.
But doing things differently...that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Even if she did look slutty. Then again, slutty might be good.
“I hear there’s a makeover,” came a voice, and Prudence banged into the room, clad in work boots and flannel and holding a glass of wine. “Why wasn’t I invited?”
“You can be next,” Colleen said. “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for years.”
“To tell you the truth, I have been wearing some makeup lately,” Pru said. “Carl and I did a little Avatar the other night, and I’m still washing blue off the sheets.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Faith said. “Another movie dead to me.”
“Why? What else have I ruined?”
“Last of the Mohicans, Les Mis, Star Wars,” Faith began.
“Don’t forget Lincoln,” Honor added.
“And The Big Bang Theory,” Colleen said.
“Hey, we didn’t know that wasn’t p**n ,” Pru said, grinning. “And go ahead, make fun of me. I’ve been happily married for almost twenty-five years.” She took another sip of wine. “Honor, you look a little like Pennywise the Clown. Go easy on that foundation.”
Honor gave Colleen a significant look, and Coll sighed and handed her a tissue.
“Is the mascara supposed to look this clumpy?” Honor said, leaning forward. “It’s getting hard to open my eyes.”
“Put on another coat. It’ll smooth out,” Colleen ordered.
Blue whined again from under the bed. “Man-up, Blue,” Faith said. “Little Spike here only weighs four pounds.”
“She’s up to five. And she has the heart of a lion,” Honor said. Blue remained where he was.
“So why were you meeting Tom Barlow the other night, Honor?” Colleen asked.
Honor looked away from her reflection and pulled on her earlobe, then made herself stop. Cartilage started to break down when you were over thirty-five, she’d just read. Didn’t want droopy earlobes to match her AARP eggs. “He’s the nephew of a friend of Goggy’s or something. I was just being polite.”
“He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“I did until he opened his mouth.” She rubbed her lips with the tissue. Still more red. This stuff never came off, apparently.
“Really? He seems nice enough. Single. Keeps to himself most of the time. Too bad he’s not older, or I’d totally go for him. It’s the accent. I practically come when he orders a beer.”
“You should hear Carl speak German,” Pru said. “Très sexy.”
Honor flinched at the image, and Colleen handed her another tube. “Here, try this shade.”
She obeyed as Faith and Colleen doled out tips. Press your lips together. Keep your lips apart. Blot. Rub. Dot. Smear. Who knew lipstick was so hard? Now on to blush and bronzer, both women chattering away like blackbirds. They were being awfully nice, Honor thought, helping her become more appealing to men.
The only trouble was that men were hard to find in a town of seven hundred and fifteen.
You know, it was funny. When Honor had seen Goggy’s friend’s nephew in the bar the other night, she...felt something. Her heart did this weird twist, and hope rose so quickly and so hard that she literally stopped in her tracks.
Tom Barlow wasn’t middle-aged or odd-looking. He was...he was...well, not quite handsome. Straight brown hair cut very short. Normal enough features. But there was something about him—maybe it was just the surprise that he was actually age-appropriate and not a balding, big-toothed math teacher who smelled like mothballs—but no, even past that, Honor liked that face. It wasn’t a perfect, beautiful face, like Brogan’s, but she had the feeling she could look at that face for a long, long time and not get bored.
His eyes were dark, though she couldn’t exactly tell the color, and a scar cut through one eyebrow, and even though she realized she shouldn’t be aroused by the mark of some past injury, she kinda was. His mouth was full and—holy ChapStick, Batman, suddenly, she could see things happening between the two of them; she could feel a strong squeeze not just in her chest, but also from Down Under, the killer combination, and suddenly the eggs were primping in front of a mirror.
In a flash, Honor had imagined laughing with Tom Barlow about their fix-up and strange circumstances, and he’d be so grateful she came to meet him, and heck, what was this? A spark. A connection. He’d walk her to her car, then lean in and kiss her, and she’d bet both thumbs and a forefinger it’d be fantastic.
Tom Barlow had looked up. Smiled. His front tooth was just slightly crooked. For some reason, it made her knees go soft and weak, and those bridge-playing eggs of hers made a rush for the door.