Everyone seemed to disperse then, except for Della, who was momentarily paralyzed. Overwhelmed by her inexperience and the sheer choice.

“Where do you want to start?”

Winona’s low question to her right startled Della, and she realized she must be standing out like a pimple on a pumpkin, her head swiveling wildly around like a demented owl’s, her eyes just as large. Her first instinct was to pretend she was just looking, because admitting to being here for something specific seemed so…brazen. But hell, she was here for something specific, and Della doubted Winona would be scandalized by anything.

And she was preferable to Rosemary. Della felt enough of a novice without being schooled by an octogenarian in female pleasure items.

“I’m interested in the, um…” It was ridiculous how faint she felt even uttering the word out loud. But hell, if she was going to buy one and use it, she might as well embrace it. “Dildos.”

“Alrighty then.” Winona gave her a smile and her arm an encouraging squeeze. “You’re in luck. I’m an expert in that department. I have quite a collection.”

Della didn’t doubt for a moment she was in good hands as she was led toward a gilded countertop.

“The best part is,” Winona confided, “I get to claim them as a tax deduction.”

Della glanced at Winona, startled. “The IRS lets you claim…female pleasure items on your taxes?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “It’s research. Gotta keep up with the market.”

Della’s brain was officially blown. She’d been impressed she’d been able to claim her work shoes as a deduction, but that didn’t come close to getting the IRS to pay for orgasms.

She was vaguely aware of a clicking noise as she stared at Winona, but it wasn’t until a woman said, “Hi, I’m Frieda,” that Della dragged her gaze from Winona’s grin to face the woman who’d entered via the swinging bead curtain behind the counter.

Frieda appeared to be in her late fifties, with a forehead devoid of wrinkles and a tightness to her mouth that did not appear natural. She had bright pink lipstick, matching bright pink nails, and a genuine beehive hairdo to go with her genuine smile of welcome. She was wearing a fringed, rhinestone-studded shirt that pulled tight across her ample cleavage and spoke with a southern drawl.

Della hadn’t known there was an actual Frieda, but if she had, this was not who Della would have imagined. This very boudoir-style shop seemed to demand a bustier-wearing burlesque dancer or a dominatrix, perhaps. Not Dolly Parton circa 1970.

“Y’all just here for some browsing fun, or are you after something specific?”

“There’s actually a Frieda?” Winona asked, obviously as surprised as Della by the revelation.

“There sure is, honey.” Frieda held out her hand, and Winona shook it. “Frieda Cilento. Pleased to meetcha.”