My eyes searched her body more than once, finally coming to stare at the most ostentatious thing about her (and there were plenty of those to choose from): the plume of black feathers sitting atop her head, waving to and fro with the wind.
For whatever reason, the tiny diamonds of rain adhering to the fluff drew me in. The weather seemed to be nothing but a stunt to make her appearance more dramatic.
I hadn’t realized that my mouth hung open until rain started to get inside. I closed it right away, not wanting to seem rude. But it opened again without consent when she swayed her hips from left to right when the next song started to play. She struck a sultry pose against the doorframe.
Her beauty astonished, and not just her ensemble. It was the woman before me. She was not tall by any means, but her aura made her seem bigger than life. Every curve of her body was set in the most perfect spot for it. Her hair was cut in a similar style to Marilyn Monroe’s when she played in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, but she wasn’t blonde; she was ravishing auburn. The color was a bright enough red that I had to blink in the dull light. Her hair complimented her olive skin, and her olive skin made her hazel (closer to the light brown side of the color) eyes pop in the most vivid way.
She seemed almost unreal, airbrushed, her complexion flawless.
“Something just told me to check and see if it was thunder—I had a feeling it was a girl. I’m touched, you know.” She tapped at her temple. “I have a touch of the sight. But if you want to be thunder, that’s fine by me. Remember.” She bumped the door with her perfect hip. “You can be anything you want to be.” She narrowed her perfect eyes and pointed a manicured finger at me. “Stay right there. Don’t go away. Let me grab my wallet.”
I watched her go, realizing belatedly that I hadn’t released a breath since she scared me. I tried to swallow. I tried again. The ball finally went down, but it only exploded inside, making me feel anxious. Who was this person? I used my palms to put pressure on my eyes. Violet had dropped me off at the wrong house. Or Mick gave us a bogus address.
“I’m back.” She breezed outside of the door, bringing the smell of baking cake with her. “How much is it going to cost me?”
“Wha—” I swallowed again, the letters stuck together. “What?”
She waved a gold wallet around. “Do you have chocolate? Cookies? Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “Do you have wrapping paper? I use wrapping paper all year round! Most people only use it for holidays, but I make my own holidays, my own rules. Why wait until Christmas to give a gift? Every day is a gift, I say. Do you make your own rules, Doll?”
“No.”
“Aww.” She ticked her mouth. “That’s too bad. I named myself.”
“You did?”
“Of course. Maggie is fine, but that other name—Granchio,” she said with an Italian accent, “is just so…depressing.” She tapped her foot in time to the music. “I couldn’t live with that. Maggie Beautiful is much lighter.”
“Maggie Beautiful, that’s your name?”
Her head bopped in a juvenile way to answer my question.
“At your service.” She tipped her plume at me. She had to catch it before the wind took it like a sail. “So, what’ll it be? Oh!” She sucked in air and then she looked me over from head to toe. “You’re not one of those messengers, are you?”
I guessed she meant one of those kids that went door to door trying to tempt people into converting to their religion. I shook my head. “No, no, I’m not a messenger. And I’m not selling anything either.”
“You’re not?” She took a step back, closed her eyes, and then they popped open. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but they were even more stunning this time. “Then what are you doing here?” All of a sudden she sounded suspicious.
“Actually,” I said as I bent down, scooped up my bag, and threw it over my shoulder, “I think I have the wrong house. Sorry to bother you.”
She waved a hand. “You’re such a doll and no bother at all! What house are you looking for?”
“I thought this one.”
She threw back her head and laughed—it seemed to carry on the wind. It was robust. “Such a