rolled her eyes and started unpinning Sadie. “I’ve heard of those things. Crazed and desperate women bidding on men who think they’re God’s gift. Sounds silly to me.”
“So take a look at this, Miss I-got-no-use-for-a-man. It’s easier than picking out burpless cucumbers from a seed catalog.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s see that.” Sadie grabbed the brochure. Her freshly tweezed eyebrows shot up. Her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise. “For heaven’s sake,” she said again, only this time her tone was quite different.
“All right, we look together.” Diep snatched the catalog and spread it out on the pink Formica counter. She was so short that Twyla could stand behind her and still see over her head—and what she saw extracted a snort of laughter from her.
“What is this, Frederick of Hollywood?” she asked. “Who are these guys?”
“The men of your dreams,” Mrs. Duckworth declared. “Each of them lived at the boys ranch at one time. They’re the fund-raiser.”
“Bimbos. Boy toys.” Twyla turned up her nose. “They’re all alike.”
“Uh-uh,” Sadie objected. “They all have different faces, see? We have to have some way of telling them apart.”
“Honestly,” Mrs. Duckworth blustered. “This is reverse sexism at its worst. I simply don’t understand you young people.”
“What they selling?” Diep demanded, her gaze locked on a studio photo of a dangerous-looking guy on a Harley.
“Themselves, hon.” Mrs. Duckworth studied Diep’s face. “I don’t guess you’ve ever heard of a bachelor auction.”
“Livestock auction, yes,” Diep said. “My father once bought a Nubian goat at auction. But bachelors? These men?”
“Uh-huh,” Twyla said. “You bid on them, like Nubian goats.”
A look of wonderment suffused Diep’s pretty, doll-like face. “And then what do you do with them?”
“I reckon you do anything you want.” Sadie Kittredge flipped the pages, perusing a cop, a park ranger, a businessman, a golfer, a cowboy…and caught her breath. “So long as it’s legal.”
“She’s right,” said Mrs. Duckworth. “The gal who outbids all the others gets a date of her choosing. All the money goes to the ranch, and some of the bachelors have voluteered to match the funds.” Her foil wrap clanked as she turned to Twyla. “So have a look, and tell us which one it’ll be.”
She laughed, half amused, half incredulous. “Pardon me?”
“Which guy?” Sadie said with an excess of patience. “You’re going to pick one out to escort you to your high school reunion.”
“Uh-huh. And then I’ll click my heels together and wind up in Kansas.”
“Really, Twyla. It’s too perfect,” Mrs. Spinelli said, warming to the idea. Her grape-size amethyst earrings bobbed in rhythm with her excitement. “We all agree you need a man, you want to make a big impression at your reunion—what better way than to show up with the perfect fantasy man?”
“Wait a minute. I’ve been trying to tell you—I don’t need a man and I’m not going to the reunion.”
“Yes, you do, and yes, you are.” Mrs. Duckworth injected thirty-five years of stern third-grade teaching experience into the statement.
For the sake of keeping the peace, Twyla changed tack. “Even if I was interested, I don’t have the money. I’m a single mom, my business runs on a shoestring, and the last thing I can afford is to plunk down my hard-earned money for some spoiled…” She made the mistake of glancing down at the rancher in the leather vest and chaps. “Overprivileged…” Her gaze wandered to the next page, where a man in an Armani tux, holding a long-stemmed red rose, smiled up at her. “Narcissistic…” The next photo showed a man in a chef’s apron and cap, and apparently nothing else.
Exasperated with her wayward imagination, she forced her attention to Sadie’s comb-out, taking great care as she unwound her best friend’s honey-colored hair from the pins. “Anyway, I don’t have the money or the inclination, so let’s just drop the idea, shall we?”
Passing her hand lovingly over the glossy pages, Mrs. Duckworth emitted a long-suffering sigh that immediately squeezed Twyla’s conscience. It was for a good cause, after all. And despite her protests, the idea of a bachelor auction was shamefully tantalizing. Suppose a man materialized out of thin air, like a genie from a bottle, to be her date for just one night? Then she’d have something to show off at her class reunion, something besides a life that hadn’t turned out anything like the life she’d envisioned ten years ago.
“Look,” Twyla said, “these guys are out of my league. They’re looking to raise thousands of dollars from each bidder.”
“Out of your league, maybe,” Mrs. Spinelli said, drumming her freshly painted nails on the counter.
Twyla raised a hand in protest. “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not letting you spend your money on a date for me.”
Mrs. Spinelli laughed. “Last year I paid two and a half grand for the prize pig at the state livestock show. And that poor creature wound up at the slaughterhouse.”
“A bachelor would be a lot more fun,” Sadie pointed out. “And you wouldn’t feel sorry for him when it was all over.”
“Absolutely not,” Twyla insisted.
Four long faces fixed her with stony, accusatory stares.
She squirmed, trying to think of a distraction. “Maybe we could go along to watch the festivities. We’ll bring that quilt my mother’s finishing for the county hospital society. We could raffle it off at Lost Springs and make a group donation to the cause.”
“You’re no fun,” Diep grumbled. She pointed to the short bios that accompanied each photo. “You read us this, yes?”
“Here’s a good one.” Mrs. Duckworth stopped at the half-naked chef. “Age—thirty-something. Job—investment banker and aspiring kitchen god.” She rattled off the rest of the bio, and it was all nauseatingly predictable: star sign, biggest achievement, favorite song, car. Most embarrassing moment. “Oh, poor man, he was making chicken cordon bleu for a date and it burned up when they got carried away and forgot to turn the oven off.”
Sadie ran a caressing hand over the smiling hunk. “You know, I read in a magazine article that hunger and passion create the same expression on a man’s face.”
Mrs. Spinelli shook her head. “You mean all these years I could have just fed Roy?”
Giggling, Twyla kept reading. “Oh, perfect. It says here his ideal woman has long blond hair and is free-spirited. Translation—he’s looking for Malibu Barbie.”
“What’s that?” asked Diep.
“Hot sex with no commitments.”
“All right, so that one doesn’t work for you.” Mrs. Duckworth doggedly took her through a few
