Marrying Butts, Part Five

The dreaded moment arrived. Leta would have to interact with a man with whom she had frolicked in the backseat of his car, a minister no less, who had just finished delivering a somewhat mediocre talk on flowers at his small church. At this moment, she regretted the moment she first consented to attending with her current beau, Mr. Butts. But here they were. Mr. Butts was introducing her to the minister and his plump and frumpy wife.

"--my friend, Miss Bassett," Mr. Butts said quickly.

Leta offered her hand politely, and the minister shook it vigorously, a little too vigorously. Although he seemed a cool as a cucumber, a glint of panic raced through his eyes, and Leta knew he recognized her.

She had experienced that look once before. He was subtly begging her not to indicate anything that might be considered any kind of recognition or familiarity. Like most men, he didn't for a second consider that she might have as much, if not more than he, to lose.

"How do you do?" she said.

Then she shook his wife's hand.

"Do please stay for refreshments," she said graciously.

"Thank you," Mr. Butts said before Leta could excuse them, "we would be delighted.

Leta gripped her handbag tightly and smiled.

"Come," Dorothy said, guiding the couple to the small table.

"Leta raises violets," Butt said, as they walked.

Leta growled a sigh again, her third for the afternoon. For a man of few words, Mr. Butts was awfully loquacious in this setting.

"Is there a ladies' room?" Leta asked, suddenly terribly concerned about her appearance.

"Why yes, dear" Dorothy said in that annoyingly motherish condescending kind of way.

As Leta entered the small room with it's equally tiny mirror in which she could barely see half her face at one time, she shook her head to no one in particular. No wonder the minister sought female companionship, she thought. Dorothy's personality would drive any kind of passionate man to seek release elsewhere.

Then she stood back a bit. She looked worse than she thought. Her hair was lopsided with a large clump following it's own style, and the bags under her eyes were growing. Plus, her skin looked rough.

"Dammit," she said aloud and then quickly covered her mouth with her hands. She was in a house of the Lord, after all. Such inappropriate language signaled to her that she was fading quickly. She needed to get out of there before her growing irritation—born in sleep deprivation and exacerbated by the situation—caused her to say something she would regret.

She washed her face with a little water, pinched her cheeks and applied a little lipstick. Then she adjusted her pantyhose, hand-pressed her dress and adjusted her collar. She quickly ran a comb through here matted and tangled hair. It would have to do. She arched her back and left the lavatory.

But there they were, the three of them. In those few moments, Mr. Butts had ingratiated himself with the minister and his wife, or vice versa. Actually, she didn't care which. Seeing them Standing in a little clump as they were was like getting pushed by a bully. 

To be continued.