Bedelia had kept an iron grip on herself, once she’d called Father James to accept his invitation to the Meet & Greet…though, little good it had done to stop her nerves from taking flight.
She discovered a black and white knit tunic and a pair of black slacks which needed no ironing, in the back of her closet, and studied them—they’d have to serve, as she’d had no reason to purchase new clothes since she couldn’t recall when.
Peering at face and hair in the mirror, she shuddered at the ferocious frump staring back at her and nearly called the priest again, to cancel—on any other day, she scarcely noticed her looks.
Finding a near-empty can of old hairspray beneath the sink, she misted then pushed at her coif repeatedly, one way and another till it appeared (and felt like) a tarnished helmet…and her cream foundation began to trickle “bisque” perspiration.
As Father James’ car pulled up, she drew a deep breath and reminded herself she was only obliged to go this once…she hadn’t signed a legally binding five-year contract, for heaven’s sake.
The priest greeted her with effusive cheer, and shaking her hand, he chuckled merrily, saying, “My, you have a firm clasp…to match your iron backbone, no doubt; do relax, Miss Cornell, Saint Barnabas’ folk are warm and friendly…I’m not tossing you in the lion’s den!”
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.