A sudden gust of wind sent her papers flying. I took off after them, scooping up postcards as I ran. I put my bare foot down on a piece of hotel stationery. I didn't read it. Not exactly. But the words popped up.
It could all explode in our faces
It would be wisest to delay wiring it as long as you can
Then I saw her black sandal, and I quickly scooped up the page and handed it to her.
In one smooth movement she tucked it into her bag. She cocked her head and looked at me. "Do you know that Bev dresses you like a kid? I think I saw you in a pinafore the other day. Really! How old are you?”
“Sixteen in October. October thirty-first."
Her smile flickered for an instant. "Well, boo. It's birthday time. Let's go shopping."
I hesitated. I didn't want to leave. What if I missed seeing Peter?
"Darling, I have a tip," Arlene said. "Never, ever wait for a man. If I have to look at that blue skirt again, I'm going to scream. There's a shop in West Palm that's not bad. My treat, and don't bother to say no. We'll see what we can drum up in this hick town." Then she winked at me, as if I were a grown-up.
We both ran upstairs to change. Mrs. Grayson rapped sharply at my door. Mom opened it, still in her robe. I could hear the shower running and Joe blowing his nose.
"I'm taking your daughter on a spree," Mrs. Grayson announced. "No arguments, my treat."
Mom did not look pleased. "Arlene, I can't let you do that. Besides, she has plenty of clothes."
Mrs. Grayson put her hands on her hips. "Not from where I'm standing. This girl needs some glamour."
Mom smoothed my hair. "She's too young for glamour."
"I said no arguments. Now shoo." Mrs. Grayson flapped her hands at Mom. "Go have a nice long morning with your husband."
Mom held up her hands, as if Mrs. Grayson was about to arrest her. "Don't shoot, I give in."
Mrs. Grayson drove down Royal Poinciana, one hand on the wheel while the radio played Tex Williams singing "Smoke, Smoke, Smoke That Cigarette." I sneaked looks at her, trying to pinpoint her glamour. How did a woman do it, get you to think she was beautiful when she wasn't? She had a flat face and a wide mouth and small nut-brown eyes. It didn't add up to much if you saw her, say, with wet hair in the pool. But if you watched the way she moved through a room or bent over to pick up a drink, you couldn't stop watching.
Today she didn't wear a hat, just a scarf to tie her thick dark hair off her forehead. A puckered top was pushed down off her tanned shoulders, and a full striped skirt swooped all the way to her ankles. A wide silver bracelet with a turquoise stone slid up and down her arm every time she raised her hand to push her hair back or stab the cigarette lighter.
It was hard to remember her now the way I'd seen her that night, with her face blurry with tears. It was like I'd dreamed it.
"Is Mr. Grayson really going to buy the hotel?" I asked.
She let out a noise —ppffff—as she made a left turn with the heel of her hand. "He just has a case of tropical fever, that's all."
Just then I saw a convertible ahead of us. It turned down one of the small side streets, toward the center of the island. My heart thumped, and I couldn't see for a minute. It was Peter's car. He was still here! If only he'd seen me, riding with Mrs. Grayson. Maybe we would have waved, maybe he would have followed us, maybe ...
"The Breakers was a hospital during the war," Mrs. Grayson said. "There was a USO cafe on that corner. So they tell me. The war gave us so much, in a funny way, didn't it? It gave even the small-minded among us something to do. Now they have the Commie spies to focus on, I guess."
I'd never heard anyone talk about the war that way. Maybe it was because Mr. Grayson hadn't served.
"Did you lose anyone in the war?" I asked. It was a question you didn't ordinarily ask people, even if it usually ended up coming out anyway.
"Yes," Mrs. Grayson said. We were on Clematis Street in West Palm now, and she pulled into a space. She reached for her straw purse, and that was the end of the conversation. Usually people would give you names and battles, like "We lost my uncle Jimmy on Guadalcanal," or, "My brother John died on Omaha Beach." And you'd know everything, because you knew every battle in every country, every tiny island in the South Pacific, so you'd know the year and even the month.
But Arlene Grayson had only said yes.
Clematis Street was busy with people walking, shopping, dipping into the coolness of the shops. Mrs. Grayson jumped out, closing the door with her hip like she was doing the rumba. I saw a man literally stop in his tracks to watch her.
I followed her into a shop. She flipped through the racks, the hangers rattling with her speed. She politely ignored the comments of the saleslady — "This is a popular item" and "This peppermint stripe keeps you cool on hot days." I flipped through a few dresses and hesitated over a pink rayon nipped with a peplum and a long pleated skirt.
"No pink," Mrs. Grayson said, putting it firmly back on the rack.
My arms full of dresses, I stepped into the small dressing room. It was hot as blazes in there, and I was afraid of sweating on the dresses. I could feel Mrs. Grayson waiting, and I didn't know how long I had before her impatience would push us out the door. I tried on the first dress, seersucker with bare arms and a cinched in waist. I was surprised at how well it fit.
"Well? Let me see," she called, and before I could reply she moved the curtain back. She eyed me and twirled her index finger, indicating that I should turn around.
"Good. Try the print."
I tried on a rayon print with short sleeves and red buttons, but she shook her head this time. "Now the other one," she said.
I put on a full swinging skirt and a gingham off-the-shoulder blouse, similar to hers.
She nodded. "We'll take that, and the seersucker, and a pair of those white slacks. You can wear the blouse you have on with them. Take that bow off it, though. Borrow one of Beverly's scarves and use it as a belt. Show off that waist, dearie — one day it will be gone, I promise you. Now here. You need something for special occasions." She thrust another dress toward me, a pale blue evening dress, with a sweetheart neckline, bare shoulders, full skirt.
"We call that color moonlight," the saleslady said. "It's the prettiest dress in the store."
"Can we have a pair of high heels to try on with it, please?" Mrs. Grayson asked. Somewhere in her tone she told the lady to stuff her advice.
I slipped into the dress. Mrs. Grayson came in and smiled at me. "You're going to have to lose this," she said, and in one swift move she unhooked my bra and tossed it in the corner. I felt my face get hot. But her fingers were cool and practiced as she zipped me up and slid eyes into hooks. The dress pulled me in and up.
I put on the high-heeled sandals, shoes I could never, ever, imagine wearing to school or church. The dress fit like a dream, tiny waist and a sweep of silk down to my ankles — a blue so pale and shimmering it was almost white.
"I cant let you buy me this," I said. "It's too much."
Mrs. Grayson looked at me in the mirror. "On every shopping trip, there is one indulgence. This is it." She slowly unfastened the back again. "The thing is, Evie, it will give me more pleasure to buy you these things than you know."
"Mrs. Grayson, I don't know how to thank you —”
“Have some fun," she said. "That's how. And stop wearing your hair like that." She reached over and took out the clips that kept it off my forehead. "Wear it loose. Part it on the side, and use pincurl clips at night." She smiled. "It's a good age to have your first romance. Just a little one. So you can go home and tell your best girlfriend about it."
She went to the counter to pay, and I scrambled back into my clothes, embarrassed that she'd seen what I thought I'd hidden. I wanted to tell her that I wasn't thinking of what I could impress Margie with. Not anymore. That would be something a teenager would do. I was already older, and I knew it.