Molly gasped her approval. “Now that is a six-month anniversary dress!”
“You think so?”
“Lord, yes! It’s fabulous.”
“Not too . . . red?” She twirled before a mirror, looking concerned, but not about the dress.
Her mind began the slow rotation of thoughts that would—too often of late—spin out of control . . .
Pretty red. What if Max hates red? Do I care if he hates red? And what about this special need-a-new-dress-for-it anniversary dinner? It was his idea . . . so obviously he’s been keeping track of our days together. What does that mean? Is it romantic or weird? Or is there a six-month expiration date on the women he dates? Is the dinner a setup to let me down easy? Maybe I should dump him first. Maybe black would be a better color . . . something long and shrouded. No, no. He likes me. I know he does—I feel it. But I thought and felt the same thing about Jeremy. What did I miss in the first six months with Jeremy that I might be missing now with Max? Hell, it took me five years to figure out he was a liar and a cheat. Maybe Max would consider having nine more six-month anniversary dinners . . .
Her sigh was loud and discouraged as she swished the lovely red skirt back and forth around her knees. That would mean nine more amazing dresses I can’t really afford—and five more wasted years of my life. Maybe I should just ask him: Max? Are you planning to stomp on my pride and break my heart?
“I don’t think a sexy red dress can be too red,” Molly said, curbing Elise’s mental debate mid-spin. “Wanna borrow my Judith Leiber knockoff?”
Elise smiled. “Perfect. Thanks.”
“One down, one to go.”
“What?”
“We have a spectacular dress for your special dinner, and now we have to decide on costumes for Liz Gurney’s party.”
“Today?”
“If we wait until the last minute all the good costumes will be gone. I was thinking of Scarlett and Rhett.” She used a thicker-than-thick Southern accent and placed a limp wrist on her forehead, prostrate—then quickly discarded the pose. “But Liz took them for her and the birthday boy. Then I thought of Sonny and Cher, but Roger’s too tall. The kids thought of Bert and Ernie, but I see them all day long—and in my sleep—I’d rather swallow LEGOs. Antony and Cleopatra—there’ll be a dozen sets of those. What do you think?”
Molly gravitated to a nearby sales rack and automatically started to sort through her size. Unable to afford another dress, even on sale, Elise kept close to the mirror, primping.
“How about Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm?”
“For us? That’s more you and Max—still lusty and eager to mate. Rog and I mate plenty, and we have three boys to show for it. Not to mention freezing our fannies off in little furry cave outfits.”
“We have freezable fannies, too, you know. I was thinking Raggedy Ann and Andy for us. That is, if I can’t get us out of it altogether.”
“You said you’d go and bring Max.” Using the mirror to follow Molly around, Elise watched a stubborn streak settle into her features. She’d witnessed her brother cower like a timid puppy at the same expression. “You did.”
“I know.”
“You promised.”
“I know.”
Elise’s Grumpy-self glanced up at the president and rolled her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she won an argument with her sister-in-law.
“I bought extra tickets,” said Molly.
“I know! But see there?” Elise seized the key word. “What’s that about? Why would you sell tickets to a birthday party? Who does that?”
“It’s in lieu of a gift.” Molly’s endorsement was unmistakable as she worked her way to the other side of the rack. “It’s to help defray the cost of the venue. And, frankly, I’d much rather do that than try to decide on what to get a forty-year-old man whose sole mission in life is to fish all day, every day, for his birthday.” That didn’t exactly answer Elise’s question. “And Liz couldn’t very well entertain two hundred guests in costumes at their house, could she?”
“Then why costumes?”
“Why not?” Molly stopped and went thoughtful. “In summer maybe . . . that might work . . . we could wander around outside, eat catered barbecue, but in February—”
“That’s another thing: Two hundred people? I’m not sure I know two hundred people well enough to invite them to a birthday party. Do you? Two hundred people who’d come . . . and pay for the venue, as well? Maybe a wedding or a charity thing, but . . . It reminds me of that time she tried to sell CD recordings of her singing ‘Jolly Old Saint Nicholas’ in Pig Latin at the mall for the Dyslexia Research Trust. Remember that?”
“It’s a good cause—her son is dyslexic.”
“Sure it is, but don’t you think her methods are a little . . . unusual? . . . if not just wacky? What about a car wash or . . . or a lemonade stand? Raffles are always good.”
“She was making a point.” Molly replaced a pretty blue sheath on the stand. “It was symbolic: The jumbled letters in Pig Latin and the jumble of letters a dyslexic kid sees. Clever, really—just disastrously unmarketable.”
“Mmm. You think?”
Wandering off topic briefly, Elise pondered lip-smacking new shoes for her scrumptious new dress versus a pair of old, bland, stale pumps from last year and had barely arrived at the most obvious course of action when something occurred to her . . .
“Liz posted the party invitation on Facebook, didn’t she?”
Molly cringed, but didn’t look up. “To save money on party invitations that could then go toward an open bar.”
“And two hundred people accepted.”
“Only one hundred ninety-two . . .”
“That’s one hundred ninety-two friends, acquaintances and virtual strangers?”
“Within driving distance, yes.” Then she had to admit it. “That’s why she needed the bigger venue . . . and a cash bar.”
“That woman is industrial-strength weird.”
The wavy image dissipated, and Elise felt suddenly alone again without Molly. When she turned back to the president, he looked . . . expectant.
“What? You don’t think she’s as strange as a cow jumping over the moon?”
“Jumping to conclusions makes more sense to you?”
“What?”
Hands on her shoulders, Mr. Lincoln directed her attention back to the murky passage—it pictured Molly and Liz having lunch at Ferdinand’s, her favorite restaurant.
“Hey! I found Ferdinand’s. I was the one who told Molly about it. We go there all the time. It’s our place. What’s she doing there with Liz?”
Shocked, she pressed her fingers to her lips. Did she say that? Out loud? The acerbic tone of her voice jarred her. The words were petty and spiteful. And while she did, on occasion—like now—think and feel exactly that way, not saying so kept it a secret. It allowed her to pretend she was above such socially unacceptable emotions as dejection, jealousy and resentment.
Moreover, the silence protected her from the disapproval of others—those who appeared to have the enviable ability of making the best out of everything; who never had a negative point of view or reaction . . . or at the very least had the talent of giving that impression.
No, prudent people didn’t leave their feelings hanging out; didn’t leave themselves vulnerable. She sighed, resigned to keeping her most unbecoming thoughts and emotions to herself.
“You don’t, you know.” The president spoke softly at her ear.