"You go to dinner with him."

"It's not that simple. I don't know what to wear. And I need a babysitter. Where am I going to get a babysitter at this late notice?"

"I'm on my way" I told her, putting the car in gear. "I'll be there in a half hour."

Junior opened the front door and let me in.

"Where's your mom?" I asked.

"Upstairs. She's going nuts because she can't find anything to wear, and she got her hair stuck in a torture device."

I trooped upstairs and found Charlene in the bathroom with a curling iron in her hand.

"Stephanie Plum, full-service matchmaker, available for wardrobe consultation and babysitting," I told Charlene.

"Are you sure you can handle the kids?" she asked me.

"Piece of cake."

Truth is, I'd rather get run over by a truck than spend an hour with Charlene's kids, but I didn't know what else to do.

"I thought I'd wear this pants suit," she said. "What do you think?"

"The pants suit is good, but the shirt isn't sexy."

"Oh God, am I supposed to be sexy?"

I ran to her bedroom and sifted through the pile of clothes on her bed. I found a V-necked sweater that I thought had potential and brought it into the bathroom.

"Try this," I told her.

"I can't wear that. It's too low. I bought it by mistake."

I unbuttoned her out of the shirt and dropped the sweater over her head. I took a step back, and we both looked in the mirror.

Charlene had a lot of cleavage. "Perfect," I said. "Now you're a domestic goddess and a sex goddess."

Charlene looked down at her boobs. "I don't want to give him the wrong idea."

"And that would be, what?"

"I don't know. I'm not good at this. I never have a second date. Everyone always disappears halfway through the first date. What am I supposed to do on a second date? Should I… you know?"

"No! You don't you know until the third date. And then, only if you really like the guy. I've had years where I didn't you know at all."

Junior was watching. "Boy, you have a lot of skin," he said to his mother. "And your hair looks funny."

Charlene's attention moved from her boobs to her hair. "I got the curling iron caught in it, and some of it got singed off."

I finger-combed some conditioner into Charlene's singed hair and fluffed her out with a round brush and hair dryer.

"You must not be a Jersey native," I said to Charlene.

"I moved here five years ago from New Hampshire."

That would explain the hair.

I pulled some lip gloss and blush out of my bag and swiped some on Charlene. The doorbell rang, and Charlene gripped the bathroom counter for support.

"Remember," I said to her, "you're a goddess."

"Goddess," she repeated.

"And you don't put out until the third date."

"Third date."

"Unless he gets carried away with your cleavage and asks you to marry him… then you could accelerate the process."