Phoebe and the Fundraiser

“Oh, I just had supper with Dorcas,” she told him. “Damaris was here with her daughter’s foster-son, and she brought us an indoor picnic.” She nodded toward the cooler she was holding.

“Good,” he said, “I’m glad you weren’t working this late. They don’t pay you enough.”

Phoebe laughed. “How much would be enough, Andrew?” She figured that he must make only a fraction of what he’d earned in L.A. “We work for love, not money, right?”

He rolled his eyes, but then his expression changed. A new gleam in his eye looked almost cunning, she thought.

“Speaking of love,” he said, “I need your help with a fundraiser tomorrow night.”

“What kind of help?” she asked, not bothering to veil her suspicion.

“Remember? I told you weeks ago that Cora asked me to do hair and make-up for the Hope House fashion show this year, and Sylvia Ellis has shingles. We’ve got to find another model.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, starting to walk toward her car. “Good night, Andrew.”

He pursued her into the parking lot. “I’m not kidding, Phoebe,” he said. “Please consider it. We need someone else with white or silver hair. We’re selling products as a part of the fundraiser, and I need a model on whom I can use the Sexy Sterling shampoo.”

“Sexy Sterling?” she said, incredulous.

“It’s a really good product,” he pleaded.

“No way.” she called over her shoulder.

“Cora’s going to model, too. You’ll have fun with her.”

She whirled around to look at him. “You don’t give up, do you?” she said, sounding uncharacteristically testy. “I enjoy spending time with your aunt Cora, but not that much.”

“I’m not asking to cut your hair,” he protested, “just a wash and style. If you insist, you can even wear your covering.”

By this time, Phoebe was opening her trunk to stow her purse and the cooler.

“No, no, no,” she said. “Back off, Andrew.”

“Okay; okay,” he said, raising his hands, palms toward her, in a gesture of resignation. “But wait a minute,” he said as she started to slide into her seat. “Please, Phoebs. I really am desperate. Help me think of somebody else with great hair.”

The pleasure Phoebe found in his flattery exasperated her further. She stabbed her car key into the ignition as a signal to Andrew that he needed to step back and close her door.

Then a name came to mind.

She spoke slowly, careful not to over-promise. “I might have someone for you,” she said. “She does have beautiful hair, but I have no idea whether she’d be willing. You’ve got to promise not to push her, though,” she told him.

His face lit up. “Really? Who is it? Someone here?”

“No,” she said, exercising caution ever so briefly. Then she spilled it: “Beatriz.”

He released his breath in a low whistle of surprise. “Hey,” he said. “You’re right. She does have great hair—with that dramatic Mallen streak in the front.” He smiled broadly. “Can I follow you home now and ask her?”

“Why not?” Phoebe said. “You won’t let up on me until we find somebody.” Struggling to contain his delight, Andrew closed her car door gently before bounding to his own vehicle, a bright green sports car with a long Italian name Phoebe could never remember.

They found Beatriz behind the house, gathering clothes from the line while Rafael and Irene played in the sandbox with a Congolese brother and sister about their ages who lived in the red-brick apartment building next door. Beatriz smiled a greeting, then looked a bit startled by Andrew’s obvious eagerness. He had hurried toward her after leaping from his car, dashing past Phoebe as she’d made her way behind the house from the driveway.

“Hello, Beatriz,” Phoebe said, as she joined them.

“Hello,” Beatriz replied. “Andrew, Rafael will be happy to see you. He may be even happier to see your car.”

“Oh, yes,” Andrew said. “I told him I’d take him—all three of you, if you’d like—for a spin soon. First, though, I was wondering—“

Phoebe nudged him with her elbow. These negotiations would be delicate.

“Beatriz,” she said, “Andrew could use your help.”

Beatriz’ eyebrows, dark as ravens’ wings, rose in inquiry. “Yes?”

“He’s helping host a fundraiser for a ministry that houses mothers and children.” Phoebe watched as Beatriz’ expression shifted from wariness to interest, even sympathy.

“That’s good,” Beatriz said approvingly. “I could prepare some food to sell—pupusas? Or nogodas? When do you need them?”

“That’s a great idea!” Andrew said. “But not this time. The SSLC is catering the dinner. And it’s tomorrow night.”

“How would I help?” Beatriz asked, looking puzzled.

Phoebe reached for Beatriz’ hand. “It’s a fashion show, where women walk around wearing stylish clothing. Andrew is helping plan it, and he needs another person to model.”

“Someone beautiful,” Andrew explained, “and Phoebe won’t do it.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes, but Beatriz blushed. Then, dropping Phoebe’s hand, she said, “Thank you, but I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Andrew asked, crestfallen.

“I understand completely why you might not want to,” Phoebe said, “but if childcare is the only issue, I could stay with Rafael and Irene or line up a Schleitheim student and come provide you with moral support.”

Beatriz shook her head slowly. Then she looked up at Andrew, her eyes brightening as she suggested an alternative. “You can ask one of the students.”

“Won’t work,” Andrew said. “We need someone with at least partly gray or white hair.”

Beatriz looked skeptical. “America is a country for young people,” she said. “If you want someone beautiful, you should have a young person.”

“No, no,” Andrew protested. “For one thing, we want to feature more mature models because of the hair-care products we’re selling. My salon supplier is donating them, and proceeds will go to Hope House. For another,” he said, looking at her intently, “young people are not necessarily more beautiful.”

Phoebe watched as Beatriz blushed again.

“I would like to help the mothers and babies,” Beatriz admitted, “but I am not so stylish.” She shrugged, smiling apologetically as she waved her hand in front of her plaid shirt, probably red and white once but faded now to shades of pink. “I hope you can find someone.”

Andrew saw an opening. “But we provide the clothing, Beatriz. My aunt Cora’s on the Hope House board and buys up the trendiest Relief Reprise donations all year, just for this event. She’ll have something that fits you, I’m sure.” He turned to look at Phoebe. “Beatriz is about the same height as Sylvia Ellis, don’t you think? She might just be able to go right into her ensemble.”

“I don’t know, Andrew,” Phoebe said, feeling uncomfortable. She didn’t want to be responsible for guilting Beatriz into anything.

“What time do you get off work?” Andrew pressed. “Phoebe could pick you up and bring you straight to the SSLC salon tomorrow afternoon.”

Phoebe can pick you up? thought Phoebe indignantly. Phoebe has to work, too—but she stayed silent, watching.

“Well….” Beatriz hesitated. Her eyes began to sparkle. Did she like the idea of dressing up for an evening? Phoebe wondered, not for the first time, about the gaps in her knowledge of Beatriz’ past.

Then she spoke up. “I could drive you. I have some comp time coming. I can get the children first, leave them with one of the Bible study girls, and then drive out to the plant to pick you up. Just think of my car as Cinderella’s coach.”

“And I’ll be your fairy godfather,” Andrew said with a grin, shooting Phoebe a sidelong glance.

“Okay!” Beatriz conceded, even laughing a little. “If you are sure.”

“We’re sure,” said Andrew and Phoebe in unison. Then they smiled at one another.