Back in Los Angeles at Paxton Cummings’ estate, Amelia Jackson’s son,Jackson, waved his finger with accusation at his father.


“This is obviously your fault, man! Mom’s going crazy!”

“You know better than that…don’t call me ‘man’, Jackson! You call me father or just don’t call me…you get it, son?

“Sorry, Dad.” His eyes shifted away from his father, thinking about the fact that he hoped he’d be able to complete his session with his father before the man’s wife returned from wherever she was. He always made it a point to visit his father only when he knew he wouldn’t have to deal with her.

His father had respected his wishes. After all he was a 28 year-old man, not exactly a kid anymore.


It wasn’t that she was so bad, or anything like that. Actually she was quite a nice, charming woman. It was simply that she wasn’t his mother.

He would never understand why Paxton Cummings never married Amelia Jackson. He knew that his mother was…still is, probably…deeply in love with the man. It seemed that his father was in love with his mother, too.

So, what was the deal?

No one had ever given him a satisfactory explanation.

Nevertheless, he had vowed that unlike his father, he would never have a child with a woman he wouldn’t marry…whatever the reasons. He would always make sure of that.

Always had, ever since he started dating.

He looked at his son, with a weary expression and continued, “Now, why do you think your mother’s going crazy?”

He watched his son fidget in his arm chair, in the library of the estate, noting with the usual pleasure how much they resembled one another. Jackson was a taller, leaner version of Paxton Cummings, who was a stout, compact man who was only a quick breath taller than the petite Amelia Jackson. Both men shared the exact same Hershey’s, bitter-sweet dark chocolate bar complexion.

It had become obvious that Jackson had inherited his build and height

from Amelia’s side of the family, all of the men in her family being tall and all of his being rather short and bulky. The two men, always tended to wear the same intense expression on their faces and in their body language.

“Look, Dad…” he leaned forward, his elbow resting on his thigh, “First she appears on that Gary Prince TV show, talking about why she…like a wild woman…slapped some airport employee in London.”

“Maybe that employee attacked her first. I know your mother…she’s not

the type to…”

“Sure…whatever…and now I have recently read in the papers that she’s

been going out with jugglers!” he almost yelled with indignation.

Paxton let out a hoot of laughter.

“Jugglers, you say? How many jugglers, Jackson? Where did you read that mess?”

“I read it in the…”

“We’ve both told you what we think of those tabloids. Did you ask your

mother about these jugglers?” He broke out into riotous laughter again, and  slapped his thigh with his right hand.

“This isn’t funny!”

“Yes…yes it is. Where would your mother meet these types of individuals? And also, don’t you think you’re a bit old…long in the tooth…I should say…to be believing tales from the crypt? I mean, what kind of anthropology professor are you, anyway?”

“This has nothing to do with my profession! We’re talking about my

mother. A woman who is probably in some stage of menopause…a woman who has moved away across the sea from everyone she knows and loves to live alone in a huge house with a weird swimming pool. You should see the place.” actually he had hoped his father would, “it looks as if she sees herself as some kind of Jungle Princess!”

“Jackson…you know your mother better than that! You mean Jungle Goddess!” he chuckled at both the annoyed look on his son’s face and fond memories of Amelia’s grandiose image of herself.

“Why is she going out with circus people? I also read that not only is she seeing some circus guy, but he’s a kid!”

“Underage?” his father smirked.

Jackson just stared at his father’s seeming indifference to what he apparently thought was just an outlandish rumor.

“Look…I’m sure that none of this is true…what you read. Amelia has

always been a sensible woman.”

“Up until now. You’ve got to talk to her. Go see her. Do something!”

“Why don’t you, Jackson?” He leaned over to his coffee table and picked up his pipe.

“You’re still smoking, huh Pops?” he asked leaning back in his chair, then beginning to fan his hands of smoke that didn’t exist yet.

Paxton placed the pipe back on the table and leaned back.

“Don’t call me Pops. Your mother doesn’t want to speak to me. And she certainly doesn’t want to see me…I think you are already aware of that.”

“Well…I’m flying over tomorrow. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps they are just rumors, but ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire’…isn’t that what they say?”

“Not me. Go see your mother…calm your fears and keep me posted.”

Paxton, got up from his chair, looked at this son, fanned his hands at him

and sighed,

“Jugglers. Ridiculous! Would you like something to eat? Come on…let’s go to the kitchen.”

Paxton had decided at that moment that he’d pay Amelia a visit, after Jackson returned from his. He knew that it was time that he and Amelia put some closure to their relationship.

Ladyfingers: a novel

available in Hardcover, Trade Paperback and Kindle

author, Delorys Welch Tyson



Madame Arthuretta Bozell is the owner of a discreet lifestyle makeover service called Ladyfingers. Needless to say, in today’s world, this business has made her fabulously wealthy.

Meet some of her clients:

Amelia Jackson: The internationally famous Pop Diva, who after ending her tumultuous romance with the record mogul, Paxton Cummings, begins a new life on the French Riviera. She becomes embroiled in a passionate affair with her handsome, but mysterious, and much younger Belgian lover.

The Heiress Leslie Vanderhoven:the sole scion of a media dynasty, who has fled her fireman lover for a new life and romance with her East Somarian Sheik in France.

The Countess Sara Haggener: After spending 5 years in the state prison, simply because she had the wrong boyfriend, is finally able to begin life anew.

The Baroness Kitty Von Denmarke: An untimely injury has forced her to end her career as a ballet dancer for the Los Angeles Ballet Company. To make matters worse, a series of humiliating occurrences compel her to flee the country.

Lolly DaLilla, the celebrated Queen of the Las Vegas Strip, has finally landed the man of  his dreams…the billionaire shipping magnate, Janus Daropopolis;

and finally…bearing whitness to it all, is ex-Psychiatric Social worker andauthor of a best selling self help book, Dr. Desiree Brown Simon!

With such flamboyant personage populating the French Riviera, it is no wonder that a group of East Somarian kidnappers emerge to lay in wait, for the right moment to take hostages for the political and financial demands of their anti-Sanction Society.

Ladyfingers gives new meaning to American foreign relations, during the new millenium Administration of George W. Bush.

(Available in Hardcover and Trade Paperback)

By the way, Ladyfingers is the sequel to Delorys Welch-Tyson’s bestselling novel Gingersnaps!

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Muriel McCracken had left everyone and everything behind. Well, not everyone.

She had every intention of waiting for Eddie to get out of the Penn. But she left her family, her country, her brand new Cadillac (Madame Bozell had told her that her car would be too large for the narrow roads of Europe) and the Condo she had bought in Beverly Hills after she received her Publisher’s Clearing House money.

She had hired Madame Arthuretta Bozell and her Ladyfingers lifestyle make over service to teach her the things she needed to know as a lady of extraordinary means.

She took with her to France, a brand new look, her decorator-magazine subscriptions, some new manners…thanks to  Madam Bozell’s Guide to Elegant and Proper Behavior and Presentation, a big fat book called a thesaurus,

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nearly 20 million dollars…less Eddie’s legal fees…and a brand new name.

She had decided she’d become a socialite, while she waited for Eddie’s release. Muriel decided to rename herself as Countess Sara Haggener…in memory of her beloved Grandmother, Sarah Mae Haggener.

She bought herself a brand new Mercedes, convertible sports car as soon as she arrived in France and christened it with the name “Sadie”. She and Sadie conversed quite often together, since she had known no one else in all of Europe to talk to.

She wrote Eddie often. He loved reading about her new life and he had told her that he was looking forward to meeting her friend “Sadie”.

Eddie, too, had always liked those Mercedes sports cars.

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As soon as she arrived in the South of France, she had checked into the Negresco Hotel in Nice. Madame Bozell had recommended it, telling her that many famous people stayed there.

When she arrived to check in, she had burst out laughing. It looked exactly like the birthday cake that Eddie had ordered for her for her 40th birthday, over ten years ago.

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But the hotel had been a wonderful place to start a new life. Oodles of celebrity-types passed through on their vacations and it was just across the street from the beach. It wasn’t the best beach in the world, because it was full of rocks and no sand…but it was different. On the private part of the beach, they had those mattresses and umbrellas…uhm…parasols…you could rent and have cute beach boys serve you food and drinks and things.

Just the kind of treatment a Countess was looking for.

Muriel…uh…Countess Haggener…created a story for the people she would undoubtedly soon be meeting.

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Since she was from Atlanta…well…from near Atlanta…and still had her southern accent, she would tell people that she was from a rich, old, Southern family. She would claim to be a member of the D.A.R…the Daughters of the American Revolution…that she had read about in one her high society magazines.

She would tell them that she had been married to an English Count.

Since Madame Bozell had hired those people who taught Muriel how to sail (since she had heard that rich people did this sort of thing), she would say that her husband died tragically 10 years ago in a boating accident near Newport Road Island.

She had read about Newport, in one of those lifestyle magazines that Madame Bozell had told her to buy.

Countess Haggener decided that she should start looking for a house…a villa, they call it in France…for herself and Eddie.

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She made an appointment with a real estate broker in St. Jean Cap Ferrat, as Arthuretta Bozell had suggested, to explore the possibilities.

_ _ _ _

On the morning of her appointment with her Real Estate broker, she decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood near her hotel and in the Old Town…la vi-eille ville…la vieille ville of Nice, to acquaint herself with her new surroundings.

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The pedestrian street…the rue Pi-e-tonne…la rue Pietonne, was lined with cafes and fancy designer dress shops mixed in with discount boutiques.


Many of the people in the outdoor restaurants sat eating what looked like


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She had studied the travel magazines that Madame Bozell had told her to buy. So when she arrived at the big plaza area off the boulevard Jean Medecin, she stood there with her mouth open. It looked more like the pictures she saw of Italian cities than what she’d expect from a French one.

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When she descended the steps of la Vieille Ville, she almost bolted back to her hotel.

A teeming mass of foreigners assaulted her view. All those old, narrow streets, mixed in with newly paved ones. The stores were lined up next to each other looking more like those pictures of cities she saw in the magazines of North Africa. Fancy French restaurants mixed in with small foreign cafes selling some kind of meat…vertically…rotating on a spit. An then there were those weird-looking pancakes…all broken up…people eating them with black


As she continued walking, gradually picking up speed, she had begun to wonder how she looked to others walking among this mass of people, as she noticed that the sound of American voices rose above all the others.

She scrutinized those she recognized as Americans.

To her, they looked like pale, gawdy, trinkets in a…in a…Middle Eastern schlock shop as Eddie would probably say.

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When she arrived at the plaza called, Place Garibaldi, she looked around at all the cafes linked together there around the traffic circle and gasped!

Crawddays everywhere!!!

Little old matrons in little fur jackets…eating Crawdaddys! Roughed up looking people eating Crawdaddys! Back packers eating Crawdaddys! Even small dogs eating Crawdaddys!

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What kind of a place was this?

She didn’t feel that this was at all the kind of place for a Countess to live.

She leaned against the traffic light post next to her, to look at her map and get her bearings. She would take another route back to her hotel. She needed to breathe. She had begun to feel suffocated by it all.

She would take the route back along the beach.

_ _ _

Available in Hardcover, Trade Paperback end Kindle!



 available in Hardcover, Trade Paperback and Kindle

“The past is a work of art, free of irrelevancies and loose ends.”

—Sir Max Beerbohm


 chapter 7

  “You’re on in 10, Miss DaLilla!” stagehand had yelled into Larry Plotnik’s Las

Vegas dressing room.

He had dipped his brush into the rouge pot and added the finishing



Magnificent, he thought, as he admired his reflection in the mirror. A perfect


He was performing his absolute favorite impersonations that night. Liza

first, then intermission, then the fabulous Miss Tina, then intermission, then

next, the glamorous Barbara, then intermission, then the finale…leaving the

best for last…Miss Amelia Jackson. Miss Jackson required 5 costume changes

which he always looked forward to.

He had heard that she might be in the audience that night.

Larry Plotnick had come a long way from being a boring old…actually he

wasn’t that old…entertainment contract lawyer, watching every one of his clients have more fun than he.

It had been the new year of the new millennium and he knew that it was

time for a complete change in his lifestyle…to something more personally satisfying.

He had always been a responsible man…meeting all of his obligations…

in the style to which his wife had wanted to become accustomed.

He, like everyone else, had worked toward the attainment of the updated,

baby boomer version of the ‘American Dream’…a husband and wife, both

with glamorous, high-powered careers, after a few years of youthfully misguided…he had finally concluded…attempts at politically idealistic exploration,only to find that they could, most times, barely find two nickels to rub together.

They had decided that what they really wanted was an estate in the Hollywood

Hills and a penthouse co-op on Central Park West, in Manhattan. So he

went back to Law School and became a contract lawyer in order to protect the

rights of high powered, consumer-mad entertainers and his wife worked her

way up to Executive Editor at a major publishing house, helping to mold, not

writers, but aspiring ‘literary celebrities’.

They had enjoyed, he thought, the glamorous transcontinental marriage

they had created. But as his wife approached the tender age of 40, everything

began to turn to mud!

She had known from the beginning his extracurricular inclinations and he

had thought he knew hers. He had thought that this was part of the uniqueness

of their compatibility.

But how wrong he had been.
She up and got pregnant as soon as she made Executive Editor, resigned

from her position and moved to their place in California.

A year later they had a second child, although he knew beyond the shadow

of a doubt that it wasn’t his.

His lifestyle had ended up looking like everything he wanted to avoid all his

life. She had known that he had enjoyed his sideline profession as a female

impersonator, but after they had the kids, she had started insisting that he quit,

because she felt it was inappropriate for a father to dress up in women’s clothing in order to perform in Vegas.

So he left.

 He left everything, without a word of warning to anyone…his clients, his

wife, the kids…everyone! He left a wad of money and the house and the New

York apartment behind for the hen and her two chicks.

You see, Larry Plotnick is a responsible man.

A person only had one life to live and Larry had decided to become Lolly

DaLilla…permanently…and live the rest of his life as a statuesque blonde who

impersonates the grand divas of his time, for a living.

Okay…he had to admit…that to the average person it was a strange life, but

it was fun.

Besides, he realized that he had never really wanted to be a husband. He had

actually always wanted to be a wife. A socialite wife of a high-powered man. A

trophy wife, par excellence.

He decided to hire Madame Authuretta Bozell and her lifestyle make over

service, Ladyfingers to make his dream come true.

It seemed to happen overnight!

One evening after one of his performances, the shipping magnate, Janus

Daropopolis, came back stage and introduced himself where he presented

Lolly the largest bouquet of flowers in the history of the entertainment world.

The other Vegas performers were as jealous as hell, because they were all…the

male and the females…after Janus. He had quite a reputation and villas all over

the world, including an architectural marvel in the hills of the French Riviera.

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“You’re on in 5, Lolly,” another stage hand prompted.

After only a few weeks of lavish dining, dancing until dawn and being showered

with expensive gifts, Lolly agreed to have Janus buy out his contract in

Vegas. Lolly had decided to accept his proposal to live with him in his fabulous

Riviera villa.

Larry…uh, rather…Lolly was going to try out the role of socialite, trophy


He took a last minute glance a Liza in the mirror, smiled and walked toward

the stage.

This had been his last night in Vegas. He hoped that Amelia Jackson would

be in the audience. Her quintessential female glamour had always been his


A person had to follow one’s dreams, right?

Another Hilarious excerpt: LADYFINGERS:a novel

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The winning lotto number back in February 2001 was 5-14-41-11-20-51-1-12-58.

It was the number that would transform Dusty Callahan’s life from the overworked, underpaid and…to her way of thinking…degrading life of servitude and elevate her to the ranks of the pampered and privileged.

Who could possibly deserve it more? She had thought when the news came.

Then she fainted.

One hundred and twenty four million bucks! A serendipitous twist of fate…the luck of the draw made her a very rich lady…on the very day of her long lost daughter’s birthday.

Imagine that!

The numbers she picked had been her birthday, her man, Kirk Munsey’s and the birthday of her only daughter…the daughter she had given up for adoption the day she was born…forty three years ago.

 She had wondered about her child each and every day since February 12, 1958. She had hoped and prayed that one day her daughter would find her. It had never happened. Dusty had finally concluded that the adoptive parents had probably decided to conceal the fact that her daughter had been adopted…to pretend that the girl was their natural child…stealing the child away from her, forever.

Or perhaps the child was angry with her.

She’d probably never find out one-way or another, anyway.

She sighed and picked up her Mister Clean spray bottle, spritzed and wiped clean some spilt coffee from the Formica counter of her kitchen.

Despite the fact that she’s never had a job better than the one she had until recently—a sales clerk in a fancy, dancy Rodeo Drive boutique—she had been surrounded by snooty, rich people all her life. She set the spray bottle down and picked up her cup of coffee.

Dusty leaned against the refrigerator and took the first, precious morning sip from the lovely, china cup of her recently purchased Wedgewood service for twelve. She placed it gently back down on the counter and removed the blue silk scarf from her hair.

Long, ash-blonde ringlets cascaded past her shoulders to their full length, reaching her still narrow waistline. She shook her hair out to its full volume, her long graceful fingers deftly unravelling a couple of tangled strands. She reached past her coffee cup and began to pick through the stack of mail.

Although Dusty Callahan was a tall, slim and attractive woman, she had the kind of shapely but thick, muscular legs of a woman who had made her living standing on her feet for most of her life.

But no more of that anymore! She would from now on sit down and let everyone stand on their feet for her!

No more retail puppet masters for Dusty Callahan!

She took her mail and coffee into the living room. It was a nice room, containing everything she needed for the lifestyle she had had before hitting the jackpot. It was comfortable, with some tasteful touches that she learned from her department store days.

Some of her girlfriends had told her over the years that she had fabulous taste…that she should have been born rich. Well…now she was! Her life was about to change…big time! Dusty sat down on her Kelly green, velvet couch and leaned over to place her cup and mail on the glass and chrome coffee table.

She leaned back, crossed her legs at the ankles, as Madame Bozell had taught her. She had had, since childhood, the backward way of getting comfortable in a chair and plopping her feet up on the table in front of her as a sign of comfort.

Madame Bozell had noticed this habit during their first session on ‘Elegance and Deportment.’ Madame Arthuretta Bozell had said that habits developed at home during one’s humble past, if unaware, generally found their way into the arena of public scrutiny and one didn’t want those things to surface when one desired to change and elevate one’s station in life.

Dusty Callahan had agreed. Of course.

She had found that Madame Arthuretta Bozell’s service had been exactly what she required for the new life she had intended to create for herself.

Dusty reflected on her past life of serving the demands of the muckity mucks. She had worked in fancy hotels, cleaning up after rich people when she was a young girl when she should have been graduating from High School. She had gotten her cosmetology license and worked on rich people’s heads in fancy beauty salons. She had hated the work. At the salons, everybody wanted to look like everybody else…but different. It had been frustrating and she had quickly become tired of listening to their whining stories about their boring little rich lives. Actually, their lives weren’t boring at all, she had covetously concluded. She had had her fill of listening to their tales of trips she could never take to places she’d never even heard of.

They had insisted on confiding in her about their love lives with handsome, big shot, wealthy men. Their reports of private jets and chauffeur driven cars, ski trips, expensive fund raising shindigs, Spanish-speaking maids and Oriental gardeners and all, constantly reminded her of how boring her little working class life was.

She left the hairdressing business to work in chic, rich peoples’ department stores and boutiques, selling everything from fancy china and crystal to designer dresses and furs.

Rich people!

Despite working around all the snobbish rich people she always derived tremendous enjoyment from working in swanky places around beautiful high quality things. She stayed at the boutique she had been working at last because she liked getting paid commissions.

 She never applied for any higher level jobs because she never wanted to take the risk that people might find out that she didn’t have her high school diploma. No one had ever offered her a promotion either, in all those years. She would come home exhausted and unfulfilled from a long day’s work and look in the mirror and wonder. I

n what way had she been different than those bimbos who had been chosen by men who offered them the leisure of shopping in the middle of the day at the kind of places where she worked? She knew that she had always been an attractive, naturally blond-haired woman with large friendly blue eyes that…she’d been often told by admirers…were the shade of color of a robin’s egg.

Rich men had never shown any interest in her.

None were ever curious about neither her outgoing personality nor the soft peach-colored flesh of her voluptuous body. She had often heard that in order to land a rich man that a woman would have to act dumb as to not threaten them. Well, although Dusty Callahan would never act dumb for anyone or for anything, she certainly knew that she had no credentials that would frighten any man away.

 She felt that she had the undemanding personality that could easily fit into the life of the wealthiest man. Yet, that type had never even looked at her. She had worked hard and for her fiftieth birthday she bought her own home. No one had ever come to buy one for her, she’d thought, grabbing the sterling silver spoon from her saucer and stirring angrily.

Buying this ranch style house for herself had been her greatest achievement.

None of that mattered anymore; she smiled to herself, looking through her mail. “There you are, little devil!” she said aloud as the envelope from the Department of Birth Records fell out of the stack and floated to the floor.

Born in my station of life, in that little Nevada desert town, she reflected, there was only just one little inadequate schoolhouse and certainly no Women’s Liberation. A girl got pregnant before she even finished high school in Desertville, Nevada. She either got married to the local boy or he cut out on her. Her local boy had cut out, never to be seen or heard from again. Which, in its own silly way, had worked out fine.

A girl couldn’t stay in that one-horse town with an illegitimate child. So she bought a ticket, got on a bus and moved to L.A. Her only deeply sad regret was that she was unable to raise her daughter. Back in those days a single woman just didn’t do that. She clutched the envelope from the floor and started to open it when her phone rang. She walked over to the credenza to answer. She sat down in the neighboring arm chair and said,

“Callahan residence… Oh…hi Kirk. No…stop it…” she girlishly giggled into the phone, “No…I’m not putting on any airs. That’s how you’re supposed to answer the phone, honey.” Her face hardened with annoyance as he spoke.

“Look, Kirk Munsey…I will talk to you later. I have things to do. Good bye!” She slammed down the phone. She couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine why Kirk was backing out of their plans.

They had split the winnings fifty/fifty. They had made plans to move to the South of France together. Now he’s talking about backing out. How stupid can you get? He couldn’t possibly be thinking that he would stay here in L.A. Winning all that money that they had won behoved him to leave the Fire Department.

All of his friends turned cold on him, just as hers had. What reason could he have for staying on in smoggy Los Angeles? He’s got to be kidding…why on earth would he be talking about buying a house in Beverly Hills! Her face had been splashed over television and news magazines. She didn’t want every sucker in America coming after her money.

How on earth does a lottery winner hide out in Beverly Hills, anyway? She had thought.

She jumped up from her chair and began to pace the room, tapping the envelope on her hand.

They had planned they’d move to France and get married. She and Kirk had been going together…dating…for years, because she had been afraid of getting married again after two brief failures and a couple of live-together disasters. She hadn’t wanted to get married to some man who seemed like the dream boat of life and then after a time turned into a monster who would ruin her life and drink away her hard-earned home.

Dusty loved men, but the ones that she had been with, hardly lived up to her expectations in a practical way.

Her problem, also, was that she just loved those blue-collar men. But then, who else had she ever dated, anyway?

Of all of them, though, she loved those firemen. Not only did they make good money, but they were so heroic and romantic as well. The way they called you ‘L’il lady’ and lifted you in their strong arms and swept you off your feet as if you were as light as a feather, just always took her breath away.

It made her want to open the cage and let the bird fly free, as she liked to say.

They all drank too much, though.

Except Kirk. He only drank on weekends.

Suddenly her face flushed with embarrassment. She stopped dead in her tracks from pacing back and forth when she realized that she mostly saw Kirk on weekends!


She fanned her hands at the phone and thought, I’ll think about Kirk and his

problems later.

Dusty Callahan had things to do.

Looking at the envelope in her hand, she walked over to sit back on the sofa to open it.

Dusty had never seen her birth certificate. Her mother had never given her a copy before she died. When she and her brother, George, had gone through the papers, neither of them found birth certificates of any kind.

Not that a birth certificate was ever of any importance, anyway. What woman needed authentic documentation of her birth year? She giggled at the fact that she’d gotten away with her claim to be ten years younger than she actually really was for over two decades.

Poor thing.

Her mother never did too well in life either, working at that dog food plant on and off for over thirty years. She wished that her mother was still alive so she could be here to share some of this money.

Who knew where her father had gone. He had disappeared somewhere around her eighth birthday.

At least Dusty’s life, despite everything, had been a lot prettier than her mother’s…moving away toCaliforniawhere there were more opportunities for girls like herself.

A chill shot through her, causing her to clutch her house coat snugly around her body as she stared at the envelope.

Her plans to move to the South of France behoved her to get a hold of this document in order to get a passport.

Dusty had never been anywhere outside of the United States, except for Hawaii, once.

That was really just the United States, anyway, she thought as she opened the envelope and began to read:


I Hereby Certify That the Attached is a True Copy of A

Record on File in the Division of Vital Records

Heath Department, Town of Desertville

Place of Birth: Desertville

Full name of Child: Baby Girl Montgomery

Date of Birth: May 14, 1941

“What?” Dusty shot up from her seat. “They sent me someone else’s birth papers! What idiots! Such incompetents! Just wasting my time!”

As she started to throw the paper on the floor her eyes caught her mother’s



Mother’s Name: Wilma Jean Smith

“Momma’s maiden name!”


Color: White

Age of Mother at Last Birthday: 15

Occupation: None

Father’s Name: Timothy Montgomery

Color: White

Age of Father at Last Birthday: 40

Occupation: Businessman

“Who on earth is Timothy Montgomery? What is this nonsense anyway? My daddy’s name was Burt Callahan. My name is Dusty Marie Callahan. Not baby girl Montgomery!” she hissed out loud to herself.

She was profoundly confused by a family history that had just exploded in her face!

Why would some 40-year-old Tim Montgomery be going with a 15-yearold girl, anyway? Her momma’s daddy should have shot and killed him, she thought to herself.

Maybe he had, she laughed. Maybe that’s why she’d never heard of the man.

What was she going to do with this information? How was she going to get a passport now?

Hell…she was now a millionairess! Her money would be able to fix anything!

Dusty Callahan didn’t have time for this foolishness right now. She had things to do. Like her one o’clock appointment with Madame Arthuretta Bozell.

She walked over to her magazine rack to retrieve her guide book, Madame Bozell’s Guide to Elegant and Proper Behavior and Presentation.


This book was part of her lifestyle makeover package that she was spending a pretty penny

for…uhmm…for which she was spending a pretty penny.

She was on chapter 3:

Entering a Room: Professionally or Socially.

Nobody ever taught things like this in Desertville. You just went to work

and hung out with your friends at a tavern.

She sat down on her sofa and began to read…her index finger tracing the

words, line for line.

Upon entering a room, whether it is a social or professional situation, greet everyone (even if it is only one person) by saying good morning, good afternoon, or good evening; depending on the time of day. If people are already engaged in a conversation, say, “excuse me, if I may, I would like to speak with you,” to the person to whom you would like to address.


Proper behavior requires that you acknowledge the humanity of other individuals. An exchange of greetings is essential to creating a gracious first impression in addition to increasing the probability of a congenial exchange between parties. A pleasant, natural smile helps, as well.

Dusty cleared her throat and closed the book, for the time being. She had to get ready for her appointment, and also search for that thesaurus book that Madame Bozell, included in her package.

She had to look up the word congenial.

                                                                           _ _ _

Good Manners are Good Manners

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Upon entering a room, whether it is a social or professional situation, greet everyone (even if it is only one person) by saying, good morning, good afternoon or good evening…depending on the time of day.  If people are already engaged in a conversation, say “excuse me, i f I many, I would like to speak to you, to the person to whom you’d like to address.

Proper behavior required that you acknowledge the humanity of other individuals. An exchange of greeting is essential to creating a gracious first impression, in addition to increasing the probablity of a congenial exchange

between parites.  A pleasant, natural smile helps, as well.”

Excerpt from: Madame Authuretta Bozell’s Guide to Manners, Deportment and Proper Behavior.

See ya’ later!

Another Etiquette Post From Ladyfingers

Another excerpt from Madame Authuertta Bozell’s Guide to Manners and Proper Behavior:


An invitation is an unsolicited and generous offer of hospitality. It generally takes the form of an invitation to one’s home, but it also could take the form of an invitation to a movie, or the theater, to dine in a restaurant or perhaps some sort of excursion.  One should only accept an invitation with the intention of reciprocating in some manner.

Proper behavior requires that if one has been invited to someone’s home for dinner or a party, that afterward, an acknowlesgement of thanks should be conveyed to the host, by a phone call, a note or at times a small gift as a token of appreciation.

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