clerk—who must be new, because she hadn’t seen her before. Teri was a regular at Second Hand’s Shop—and at the Salvation Army and St. Vincent DePaul stores—where she somehow always managed to find things to fit both her and her meager budget. Rattled her enough to come into the dressing room with a bikini—chainmail, no less—that wouldn’t fit her, and even if it did, would be as uncomfortable as all get out.
And she’d have no place to wear it.
Except to maybe a comic book convention, and she hadn’t picked up a comic book in ages.
“What the hell was I thinking? I don’t have time for this.” And she didn’t—she was on company time.
Teri figured she’d been in here just long enough to have tried on the bikini. She’d tell the clerk it wasn’t her style, which it certainly wasn’t . . . and which the clerk would certainly agree with. Still . . . she eased off the bench and undressed, reached for the bikini. Good lord, what was she thinking?
“I’m not thinking.”
But she tried it on.
And it fit.
“Dear God.”
The fold of skin that had lopped over her belt was gone. The cottage cheese thighs . . . it was as if they’d been airbrushed out by a Photoshop artist. The skin under her chin was tight. She looked a little pasty. Okay, a lot pasty, and the loafers didn’t go well. But she thought she could give Red Sonja a run for her Hyborian currency.
“Damn. I’m . . . friggin’ gorgeous!”
Red Sonja? Well, not quite—there was the too-pale complexion, but . . .
“Double damn.”
How was it possible, that years and stretch marks and flab could just . . . just . . . vanish? Magic . . . The chainmail was magic. It had to be. She’d seen the Lord of the Rings movies, watched Bilbo put on a chainmail shirt made of mithril. Magic.
The chainmail bikini was magic . . . even though magic couldn’t possibly exist in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Moments later, Teri added the chainmail bikini to her pile on the counter. She didn’t care what it cost; she’d take out a loan to buy it.
“Doesn’t have a price tag. But I want it.”
The clerk raised both eyebrows, the pierced one with the hoop in it seeming a little off-kilter.
“I said, I’ll take it, the bikini. How much?”
“That’ll be twenty-eight even,” the clerk repeated. “It was just fifteen until you added the bikini. Even second-hand, I gotta charge you thirteen for the chainmail.”
“I’ve only got a twenty. Wouldn’t you know it? I hate to write a check, but . . . ” But she had to have the magic bikini.
“Make the check out to Second Hand’s.”
Teri dropped the wallet back in her purse and reached for her checkbook, scribbled in the amount and signed it, and passed the check over with a flourish. She drummed her fingers against the counter while the clerk bagged her treasures and then picked up the check.
“El-eff-tear-ia,” The clerk slowly sounded it out, studying the check.
“I go by Teri.”
“Elefteria,” the clerk repeated with confidence. “Elefteria Murphy. That’s an interesting name. I need to see a driver’s license, Elefteria.”
“The check’s only for twenty-eight—”
“Gotta see the license, Elefteria. Interesting name.”
Interesting. Teri rummaged for her wallet again and tugged out her driver’s license. Not “that’s a pretty name” or “charming.” “Interesting.” It’s what people usually said about her name—when they said anything at all.
“Elefteria.” The clerk chomped her gum.
“It’s Greek, though I’m not. Irish, mostly.” Teri put her wallet and checkbook back. “It means freedom.” She reached for the bag.
“Interesting.” The clerk gave her an insincere smile.
“Interesting,” Teri parroted when she was on the sidewalk and heading for her car, the worn soles of her loafers slapping rhythmically against the pebbled cement and her coat drawn tight to cut the early November chill. She’d parked across the street from the thrift shop, right in front of Turkish Delights, the restaurant she’d eaten lunch at a scant half-hour ago. A cold appetizer of yalanci dolma—vine leaves stuffed with pine nuts and onions and rice, topped with black currants—had been followed with akdeniz levrek izgara, chargrilled Mediterranean sea bass. She could still taste the fish and saffron.
The meal would have set her back at least what she’d paid for her finds at the thrift shop, but the newspaper had footed the bill. It always footed the bill when they sent her out to review a restaurant. She’d wanted to try the Narince from the Black Sea, a white