looked down to see I was wearing a full-waisted black apron with a white top skirt in the front. It was miniskirt length. Both the black sweetheart-shaped neckline and white top skirt were bordered in thick rickrack trim. The overall effect screamed French maid.
Daphne stepped back and took me in.
âOh, thatâs just
dahhwr-lnâ
on yâall!â She clucked her tongue. âI wish we had time to style your hair . . . Your little ponytail will have to do.â
The apron and tutu-like miniskirt circled all around me, completely covering my shorts.
âIâm not wearing this.â
âOf course you are,â cooed Daphne. âI need yâall to look like a legitimate server, and the twins took their uniforms home. Last time they did that, I heard they wore them to some sort of fraternity debauch at the college.â Daphne shuddered. âBesides,â she said, looking me up and down,âif itâs good enough for me, itâs certainly good enough for yâall. I used to wear this little outfit all the time.â
âYou used to wear this outfit? This?â I looked down at the French maid getup, with its ridiculous miniskirted crinoline. âWait. No.
Oh no!
Itâs a French maid costume . . . for the bedroom! Isnât it?â
âIsnât it precious?â
I pictured Big Boomer ripping off the Velcro-wrapped crinoline from my sisterâs lithe frame before he pounced . . .
â
Eeeew
. No way. Iâm sorry, sis, there is no way Iâm wearing this ridiculous thing. Get it off me.â
I reached back to untie the bow at my waist. Daphne grabbed my hand, firmly leading me toward the dining room door.
âBoomer used to love me in this little number! He said I looked like every manâs dream.â She sighed wistfully. âNow, yâall just go on out there and serve the guests. With the black tee underneath, it looks perfectly normal. Yâall look adorable.â
âForget it! Daphne, what are you thinking? This is a guest inn, not a brothel.â
She gave me the look.
âEva, this is an emergency! Yâall canât go out there looking like Daisy Duke.â She turned to Chef Loretta. âDoesnât she look like a classy French server, Chef Loretta?â
Loretta grunted.
âSee? I told you. Now here, take these out to the guests.â
Daphne plopped a delicate china plate brimming with food in each of my hands before pushing open the swinging door and shoving me into the dining room. Before I could turn back, the door swung closed and the guests looked up expectantly from my grannyâs antique mahogany table.
Seated at the formally attired table, under the dimmed crystal chandelier, the two men from New York, Sal Malagutti and Guido Gambini, wore pastel-colored polyester golf shirts with wide collars that framed their thick necks and heavy gold chains. They looked like a pair of grumpy toads.There were big gold rings on their stubby fingers. Sal, seated on the left, with a pristine white linen napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt, appeared to be a bigger, older toad than Guido, who was seated on the right.
Across from her husband, under an overprocessed beehive hairdo, Bambi Gambini wore ginormous false eyelashes that looked like black butterflies had landed on her blue eyelids. Glossy pink lipstick drew too much attention to her artificially puffed lips. Sheâd pulled the zipper on her bright pink velour jogging suit low enough to expose her balloonlike boobs bursting from a teeny white scoop-necked tee. Next to her, Judi Malagutti was slightly older looking than Bambiâmaybe in her fortiesâbut still young looking for her age. Big boned, she was olive skinned with near-black eyes and a very low forehead. A straight hairline defined the thick, somewhat unruly, long black hair. Judi also wore a velour running suitâhers was yellow. And she wore lots of gold