The Lapone Sisters

Two minutes later, we were around the block and across the street. I turned into the lot that serviced three businesses. The parking lot for Hill and Garden Realtors was shared with People’s Bank and Yannie’s, a fast-food restaurant. I parked my car, only to realize I was nearer to the bank than to the realty firm.
Esmerelda made a sudden gasp from the back seat. Sorina and I both felt a quick chill at the sound of her distress. “Look over there,” Esmerelda said as she pointed to a shiny black convertible Mustang that was pulling into a parking space. The car was spotless, with brilliant whitewall tires and spoked chrome wheels. It was in the next row of cars across the lot from us.
Still excited over the sighting, Esmerelda practically yelled, “Wow! What a cool car!”
A woman was driving the Mustang. She wore a red scarf wrapped around her head. It looked like a turban. As we watched, the driver’s door opened. Seconds later, out stretched a woman’s sculpted leg. As the second leg emerged, we saw a stunning woman dressed in black fishnet stockings, black patent leather high-heeled shoes, and a very short, tight red suede dress with black polka dots, cinched at the waist with the narrowest black patent leather belt. The front of the dress came to a strikingly low-cut V, revealing remarkably deep cleavage and a sinuously voluptuous body.
Sorina was flat-out gaping at the woman as Esmerelda said, “Get a load of her! Geez Louise! She must have those girls tucked into a 44E bra. That waist! It has to be, like, twenty-two inches? Her booty is near the same size as her boobs! My goodness. She’s a billboard for something!”
Now standing and locking her car was none other than the illustrious and divine Helena Montgomery, widely known as one of the prides of Nashville. She turned and looked at her reflection in the window of her car. As she did, she reached into her small, quilted black leather Chanel bag, pulled out a lipstick, and proceeded to touch up her perfect lips. After a momentary pause, she deftly removed her headscarf turban, releasing a long, thick, wavy cascade of raven-black hair that fell just above her tiny waist. We continued to stare as Helena leaned back and shook her head. As she did, her hair and its waves fell into perfect position. Everyone in the city knew something of Helena, or at least thought they did. What was certain was that she had been the first runner-up in the Miss Tennessee pageant about eight years ago and a debutante presented by the NYWCC before that. Sorina knew she was only twenty-eight. Helena was one of the most eligible single women in town.
We tried not to stare, we really did. But we just couldn’t help it. Then from somewhere else in space, Esmerelda’s voice broke the silence. “I can’t believe it! She looks like she’s wearing an awful lot of foundation for this early in the morning! And hey! Those black fishnet hose? Give me a break!” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “The little mole on the right side of her face? See? Just above her chin? I swear to you, it was on the other side of her face last week and was higher up! I think she’s wearing that new fad mole. You know, the one advertised in the back of Beauty Today as ‘Move a Mole by Mary Lynn’? It has to be that! How dumb!”
We all nodded in unison.
Sorina started to sputter, “Will you l-l-look at her l-l-lips? Is she wearing a b-black lip l-l-liner around her red l-l-lipstick? In the morning?”
Helena Montgomery was a stunning woman, but she always looked the same, whether it was day or night. She always wore the same makeup, and she was always overdressed. By day, she worked as a teller at People’s Bank. Thursday and Saturday evenings, she sang the blues and played piano at the Music Box down near Vanderbilt University. She had a smoky, moody voice, which drew a good crowd. The club itself was a favorite hangout for the over-twenty-one group.
As she walked away from her Mustang, she turned, patting a tissue between her cleavage, and noticed us looking her way. She smiled, waved, and said, in the oddest French-ish accent, “Bonjour, so waunderfool to see yous tress togetter. Eese not a booteeful dase, ooey?”