Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [13]
“How about a long john?” Shirley asked, and opening a drawer, drew out a little white paper bag.
The glorious smell of refined sugar permeated the air. Thompson’s Bakery, I thought, then sniffed again, olfactory nerves twittering. No. Donuts Go Round, I decided judiciously. Two rolls. Fresh-baked that morning. Maple frosting. No filling. “I shouldn’t,” I said.
“You been in a scuffle,” she argued, and came back around the desk, delectable bag held in her right hand like a balm from the gods. “You need healin’ food.”
“Long johns have been proven to have medicinal benefits.”
“Nothing better.”
“And you are wiser than I,” I said.
“It’s God’s truth.” Handing over the bag, she lumbered back to her post. “Got a new client coming in at nine,” she said, but I was still staring at the bag and feeling a little mushy.
“Shirley …”
“I love you, too,” she said, and not bothering to look up, waved me off. “Now go eat that before the new gal shows up and finds you got frosting in your hair.”
Rising a little unsteadily, I turned away, knowing true wisdom when I heard it. I do tend to frost my hair when donuts become involved. Sometimes, in fact, my shoes get a little glaze on them.
It didn’t occur to me till later that I was unwilling to dampen my turquoise blouse with melting ice but willing to risk a frosting encounter.
I had just finished up the second john when my first client arrived. She was tall and slim and as serious as a Hemingway novel.
I stood up and turned toward the door as she entered. According to her chart, she was seventeen years old, but she looked like a leggy fourteen who was trying hard for forty.
“Emily Christianson?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her handshake was firm and quick, her complexion pale. There were purple crescents under her eyes. I smiled. She didn’t.
“I’m Christina McMullen. Have a seat.” I motioned her toward the couch. She went, turned, and sat slowly, sitting very erect on the ivory cushions. She was wearing a pale pink button-up blouse tucked into black slacks that were cuffed at the bottom and neatly pressed. Her hair was dark, straight, and pulled into a high ponytail. Her lips were pursed in a somber expression that looked as if it had settled in for the long haul. “So, why are you here?”
She blinked at me. “I filled out the chart.”
I didn’t glance at it. It only stated the most rudimentary information … just a little less than nothing. “So you came at your parents’ request?”
“They thought I seemed stressed.”
Ah, perception, thy name is parent. “Can you tell me why you’re stressed?”
She shrugged. Economical and stiff, as if she were afraid the motion would take too much precious time. “Isn’t everyone?”
Most were, but I had a feeling she brought it to collegiate levels. “You’re a junior in high school?”
“A senior.” Her lips pursed even more. “Accelerated classes.”
“Ahhh.” I hoped to sound smart, because I had a feeling I was in the presence of an intellect that would make my own relatively impressive brain blush with embarrassment.
“I’m hoping to be accepted into Harvard for my undergraduate courses.”
“How come?”
She scowled at me, just the slightest lowering of her brows. “What?”
“Why do you want to attend Harvard?”
“Education is the keystone to success.” She said the words very succinctly. I had once seen I, Robot with Will Smith. Mostly in the hopes of seeing Smith sans shirt. Eureka! Not only had he been shirtless, there was a shower scene. I remember it vividly. I didn’t recall the robots as well, but I believe they had spoken in a tone similar to Emily Christianson’s.
“And how do you define success?” I asked.
She seemed a little confused. “The generally accepted definition, I suppose. A good career. A nice home. A decent financial portfolio.”
She had a scant two inches of skin showing between her clavicle and the top of her blouse. Otherwise she was buttoned up tighter than Sister Margaret Mary on holiday. Even the cuffs at the ends