Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,24

phrasing had been, "If you don't let this dress go, I swear I'll kill you."

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

I jackknifed upward out of a sound sleep. I squinted at my door. I checked my travel alarm: 5:43.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Now what? I glared at the door and mumbled a groggy, "Uff da."

"Uff da" is an expression of irritation and/or alarm used by many Iowans, especially those of Norwegian descent. It's kinda like the "F" word disguised in a rubber nose and glasses.

"Coming," I muttered. I struggled into my dress and sleepwalked to the door. Dick Teig stood in the hallway looking like three hundred pounds of lime Jell-O in his too-small polo shirt embroidered with the words JOHN DEERE. He was as wide as he was tall, with a head as big as a medicine ball, but hey, at least he wasn't naked.

"What can I do for you, Dick?" I asked, unable to stifle a yawn.

"What time's breakfast? I didn't hear last night."

I slumped against the doorjamb. "Starts at seven. Ends at nine."

He checked his watch. By now it had to be at least 5:44. He looked relieved. "Good. We can still make it then."

I forced a smile. "Only if you don't dillydally."

"One more thing." He paused and took a deep, anguished breath, as if he hated to continue. "It's about Helen's...problem."

Helen had lost her eyebrows in a freak accident with a gas grill, so for years now, she'd had to pencil on fake ones, compliments of Revlon, L'Oreal, and Maybelline. His anguish could only mean one thing. "Unh-oh. Did her eyebrow pencil get incinerated in Rome?"

"It's her own fault. I told her she should carry a spare with her at all times. A woman's gotta take precautions when her brows keep sliding off her face. But what do I know? I'm only her husband. You have one she can borrow?"

"I don't use eyebrow pencil. But I have liquid eyeliner. Would that help?"

"Liquid, hunh? She said not to bring back anything that was water soluble."

I took a quick mental inventory of my cosmetic bag. "The only other thing I have is long-lasting lipstick. I can't guarantee its durability, but it comes in six luscious colors."

He slatted an eye at me. "She's tried lipstick before. It smudges. Then her eyebrows end up all over her cheeks. Folks begin to stare. It's not a pretty sight."

I had one last suggestion. "My friend Jackie might have an eyebrow pencil." She no longer had a dick, but she'd bought into something better. A great selection of expensive cosmetics!

Dick shook his head. "Helen's not the kind to borrow makeup from someone she don't know. You never mind about it then. She'll think of something."

I closed the door behind him, thinking I was about to fall asleep on my feet. No more interruptions, I implored as I stutter-stepped across the room. I need my sleep! I stepped into the bathroom.

BLUBblub blub.

Tepid water sloshed around my ankles and splattered the hem of my dress. I hung my head.

Damn.

By seven-thirty, guests were packed into the ground-floor dining room, seated at tables jammed together like stalls in a flea market. Voices echoed off the high ceiling as people sampled the hotel's Continental breakfast, but some people didn't look any too happy as they waved their hands at the small glasses of pink juice and plates of hard-crusted breakfast rolls before them.

"Buon giorno," I greeted the quintet dining at Dick Teig's table. I nodded to Dick and Grace Stolee and Lucille Rassmuson, my gaze skidding to full arrest at the sight of Helen Teig, who had resolved her "problem" with artfully applied slashes that looked to be compliments of a BIC pen. Medium point. Blue ink. Oh, God.

All five friends were wearing doughnut-sized campaign buttons emblazoned with a color photo of Dick Rassmuson, Lucille's cigar-smoking husband who'd died unexpectedly a few months ago. The Dicks had been bosom buddies since childhood, so the loss of their brash - talking, practical-joking ringleader had left a huge hole in their tight-knit little group.

"What does 'bon jorno' mean?" asked Lucille, who was attired, for the second consecutive day, in a red wind suit that could have won her the role as a main entree in Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

"It means hello," Dick Teig said flatly.

"No, no," Grace Stolee corrected. "The word for hello is 'pronto.' "

"You're crazy," Helen accused. "Pronto means 'hurry up.' And I should know. I say it all the time, don't I, Dick?"

"The Italian word for hello is 'ciao,' " Dick Stolee