Three Christmas Wishes. Sheila Roberts

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      Riley came over to pick up the rats the next morning, and when she learned about Noel’s scheduled makeover, invited herself along. “I don’t have anything else going on,” she said, and her lower lip wobbled.

      “It’s okay. You will,” Noel assured her. “We’re going to have a great Christmas and a fabulous New Year’s no matter what.” Even if they were manless and homeless. Don’t think about that!

      So, not thinking, Noel drove to Jo’s place, Riley and the rats following behind.

      Jo took in Noel’s ancient coat, sweatpants and Uggs when she and Riley walked through the door and frowned. “Does your mommy know you’re out looking like this?” she said, and hauled Noel inside and upstairs to her bedroom, where her bed was covered with all manner of sartorial delights—camisoles, Victoria’s Secret bras and panties, jeans, leggings, blouses, jewelry, tops, sweaters, dresses.

      “Better than Nordstrom, huh?” Riley cracked.

      “I only need one outfit,” Noel said.

      “No, you need a wardrobe. Take off those disgusting clothes.”

      Noel obliged, and Jo began grabbing sweaters and blouses and holding them up to her. “No, no, not that... No, not sexy enough... Hmm, might be too small. Oh, yes!” she finally said after holding up a black, bell-sleeved winter top with a sweetheart neckline accented with crocheting around the neck. The crocheting also served as straps. Noel put it on and saw that it left her shoulders exposed and also allowed a peek at her cleavage. “That should do for starters.” Jo handed Noel some tight jeans. “Now, try these on.”

      “Maybe we’re not the same size, after all,” Noel said, struggling into them.

      “We are. You’re just used to pajamas,” she said, eyeing Noel’s discarded sweatpants with revulsion. “Honestly, I didn’t know they even made those anymore.”

      They probably didn’t. Noel had found hers at a thrift store a couple of years ago. “I don’t wear them when we’re out doing things,” she protested.

      “You shouldn’t wear them at all. And the way you dress when we’re all out doing things is barely a step above.”

      She’d heard that from Jo on more than one occasion.

      “It’s okay,” Riley consoled her. “She says stuff like that to me, too.”

      “I only speak the truth,” Jo said, frowning at her sister’s jeans and tennis shoes.

      As the oldest, Jo had tried to guide them. Maybe they were unguidable.

      Noel zipped up the pants and Jo studied her carefully. “Oh, yes,” she said, nodding. “Now you’re starting to look like something this goon might want for Christmas.” She snatched up a pair of gold, chandelier earrings. “Put these on.”

      Noel hesitated. “Isn’t that a little, um...”

      “No, it’s not. Put them on,” Jo commanded. Noel obliged and she smiled approvingly. “Oh, yeah. Sizzle, sizzle.”

      “Sizzle, sizzle is right,” Riley agreed. Jo turned Noel around so she could check herself out in the full-length mirror.

      “Oh, my,” Noel said with a smile.

      “Just what every man wants on his tool belt,” Jo murmured. “Now, your feet.”

      “I can wear those black boots we bought.”

      Jo nodded. “That’ll do.” She pointed at the Uggs. “No, wait. Put those back on. They might work. Anyway, you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard.”

      Noel obliged, and Jo nodded again. “Actually, that’s kind of buff and sexy. I think they’ll be fine, for the first encounter, anyway. You can wear the boots another time. Now,” she said, turning back to the pile of clothes on the bed, “what about the outfit for your second encounter?”

      Noel wasn’t sure there’d be a second encounter. She wasn’t even sure she could pull off a first encounter. Jo handed her a simple white shirt.

      “This,” she said. “And leggings.” She picked up a pair of patterned black leggings. “And the boots.”

      “How about this necklace?” Riley suggested, holding up a chunky stone number.

      “Definitely. Third encounter wear the heels and this dress.” She handed Noel a black dress with a scoop neck. “Redheads look great in black.”

      More jewelry, a Victoria’s Secret bra, a black cashmere sweater, a white blouse—a wardrobe basic according to Jo—a little faux fur-trimmed jacket and Noel was in business. “Thanks,” she said as they loaded her new wardrobe into the back of her car. “I really appreciate this.”

      “They’re just hanging in my closet all sad and lonely,” Jo said. “They may as well be out there doing some good. And I hope they do,” she added and hugged Noel. “Wear the coat when you go see him, but make sure you shed it the second you’re in his office. Got it?”

      “Got it.”

      “And don’t forget to wear makeup. And perfume.”

      Perfume. Oh, yeah. That. She had a bit of Viva La Juicy left.

      So, she was going to look good, smell good, and bring something good as a bribe. Hopefully, by putting her best foot forward, she could impress him enough to convince him to reconsider buying her house.

      She frowned, remembering his comment about price points. Bah, humbug!

      Sunday afternoon she made her way to beautiful downtown Whispering Pines in search of the perfect wine for a house thief. Thanksgiving weekend kicked off the holiday shopping season, and it appeared that every business in town (including ones that often closed on Sundays) was open. She passed her favorite bakery, Hey, Cupcake, as quickly as possible, averting her gaze from the display of holiday treats. She’d indulged in eggnog at Jo’s, and Riley, who was in a manic baking phase, had brought her M&M cookies when she came to collect the rats. If she didn’t turn off the eating machine, she’d eat herself right out of Jo’s wardrobe before she even had a chance to use it.

      She did stop by Wilton’s Hardware Store to pick up a few replacement bulbs for her Christmas lights. Mr. Wilton, Jo’s father-in-law, was behind the counter and gave her a friendly hello as she approached. He had circles under his eyes and she noticed he took in a deep breath while ringing up her sale, as if he was trying to draw in extra energy. She knew the signs of overwork. She’d done that to herself a few times, staying up late at night working on illustrations for her Marvella books, trying to meet her deadline. She wondered how old he was. Her dad’s age? Older? He had some gray hairs and wrinkles. Did he want to retire?

      “Men never want to retire,” Dad often said. Poor Dad.

      “Hey, Darrel, what are you doing still hanging around?” called an older man as he entered the store. “Thought you’d be in Hawaii.”

      “With СКАЧАТЬ