Page 5 of Purple Panties

She looked over to where Mrs. Whitecloud stood next to Chenoa. What was she doing here? Chenoa had made it quite clear what she thought of her mother’s union activities.

She did not approve of them.

From where Monica stood it looked as if that was the subject of their conversation, for Mrs. Whitecloud was stubbornly shaking her head. Chenoa’s lovely face was set in an equally obstinate frown.

Monica went over to them. “Is something wrong?”

“No, Monica,” Mrs. Whitecloud said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

Chenoa crossed her arms underneath her breasts. Monica couldn’t help noticing how firm and enticing they looked under Chenoa’s butter-yellow cotton T-shirt. She wore jean shorts that hugged her deliciously round ass and from which her long, bare legs extended enticingly.

“No, Mother. There most certainly is something wrong.”

“Chenoa, don’t…”

Chenoa ignored her and looked over at Monica. “Do you have any idea what the temperature is?”

Monica opened her mouth but Chenoa beat her to the punch. “A hundred ten degrees. A hundred ten! And you’ve got my mother out here…”

Mrs. Whitecloud moved in front of Monica and planted herself squarely in front of her daughter. “No, Chenoa. That is not fair. Monica does not control the weather.”

“But apparently she controls you,” Chenoa retorted.

“No! No one controls me! I am here because I believe in the union.” She pointed to one of the bouquets of buttons on her shirt. “What does that say?”

Chenoa looked at the button and frowned. “Bread and roses. So?”

“And do you know what that means?

Chenoa shook her head.

Mrs. Whitecloud smiled and turned to the other marchers who had stopped to watch the row.

“She got one degree and is getting another, but she don’t know everything.” She looked over at Monica. “Tell Miss Smarty-Pants what it means.”

Monica looked over into Chenoa’s large, dark eyes and that delicious shiver had moved even lower, fluttering like the tips of fingers over her soft, inner folds.

Then, realizing with a start she’d been staring into Chenoa’s eyes a hairsbreadth longer than was probably appropriate, Monica quickly looked away and at her watch. It was near the end of the time they’d been given permission to stage their protest.

Monica waved her arms. “It’s almost time for us to go. Make sure you pack up any garbage.”

Mrs. Whitecloud touched Monica’s arm. “Ain’t you going to tell her what ‘bread and roses’ mean?”

“Sure. But she’s right; we need to get you out of this heat.”

Mrs. Whitecloud snorted. “Such a fuss.”

But she joined the others who were loading their union signs into Silas’ van.

Monica looked at Chenoa. “We’re going to stop and have a beer.” She swallowed and forced herself to go on. “Want to join us?”

Mrs. Whitecloud shouted from within the van. “Yes, she can join us. Or maybe she’s gotten too fancy to drink beer.”

A corner of Chenoa’s lush mouth curled up. “No, Mother. I’ll never get that fancy.” She glanced at Monica. “You buying?”

; “Sure.”