I hung up. I felt like taking a cold shower. The clock on the wall behind the counter showed twelve minutes past ten. I had until three p.m. to find a dress and read through Doolittle’s report. Then I’d go to see the mechanic with a check from the mysterious woman and her towed car.

Since I was near a shopping district, I tackled the dress first. When you are short and curvy, your choice of dresses is limited. I had decent breasts, muscular calves, and strong, pretty legs. There was a magic point about two to three inches above my knee, where dresses and skirts looked great on me. Anything else had to be floor length, because people generally looked at me from above, and lengths in between made my legs look shorter and wider. Styles that made my neck look shorter than it already was, like bateau and collar necklines, were right out. On top of that, dresses with a bold pattern or bright mix of colors completely swallowed me, overwhelming my pale face and blond hair.

When I needed formal wear, I usually shopped at Deasia’s, a family-owned shop ran by Deasia Randall. The owner, a stern-looking black woman in her mid-fifties, had impeccable taste.

After an hour at Deasia’s, I’d tried all of the usual suspects: teal, peach, blue…I even tried a chartreuse, which made me look like a barrel dyed in pea soup. Things that should have looked good on me, because they always had, suddenly didn’t.

Deasia examined me with the critical eye honed by thirty years of fashion experience. “What is the dress for?”

“For a formal birthday party at a millionaire’s house.” And I had to look presentable enough to get through the door.

“Who’s escorting you?”

“My ex-boyfriend.”

Deasia’s eyebrows rose. “Ah. Mystery solved. Has he moved on?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to make an impression?”

“I want to knock his socks off. I want him to see that I’m just fine on my own. I want to be vibrant.”

“Vibrant or shocking?” Deasia asked.

“I’ll take shocking.”

“Wait here.”

She disappeared between the racks of clothes. I surveyed my latest attempt. A violet, high-waisted number should have been flattering, but it wasn’t. My face had changed, too. I used to be able to pull off fresh and even sweet. The woman who looked at me now looked good in a duster and a pair of guns. Draping pretty purple fabric on me was like coating a razor blade in a Skittles candy shell.

Deasia reappeared, carrying a hanger with something black and lacy.

“I appreciate it, but black is not me,” I said. “It washes me out.”

Deasia fixed a junkyard dog stare on me. “Try it.”