Shattered Silk (2 page)

"Excuses, excuses. Don't think I'm going to let you sit there moping and feeling sorry for yourself, and not eating properly."

"It wouldn't hurt me to skip a few meals," Karen said.

"That's true."

"Thanks!"

"You said it first." Julie sighed gustily. "You used to have the most gorgeous figure. Of course you're tall. When a person is five foot nothing like me, every damn ounce shows. I've just discovered a great new diet. You go on that for a couple of weeks-"

"Don't you have any customers?" Karen asked pointedly.

Hints were wasted on Julie. "Only a few wandering tourists. My regulars don't come out when it's this hot. As I was saying, this is a super diet. I'll come for supper and tell you about it."

"I don't want to cook tonight, Julie."

"I'll bring a couple of Big Macs."

"If that's the new diet, I'm all for it."

"Silly girl. We'll start the diet tomorrow. Oops, here comes a live one. See you later."

Karen gave herself the childish satisfaction of slamming the telephone into its cradle. Once she had found Julie's blunt speech and malicious remarks entertaining. Once she had been much more self-confident than she was now.

She wondered what Julie wanted. She had accepted Julie's old-buddy routine with humble gratitude at first, but it had not taken her long to learn that Julie never did anything without expecting something in return.

Now Julie had ruined her first day alone. She had kept her upper lip stiff and her smile nailed in place because she had too much pride to break down in public and too much consideration for Ruth to subject her to a spectacle of blubbering defeat. She had bathed and clothed her disgusting body and brushed her nasty hair and tried to eat, and pretended that these wearisome and meaningless acts really mattered to her. She couldn't even sob and cry at night, for fear Ruth might hear. But she had looked forward to the moment when she could stop pretending, if only for a few hours, and wallow in self-pity. Get out of her bra and girdle, which were too tight-like every other stitch of clothing she had brought-put on a sloppy old housecoat, lie in bed, reading something banal and mindless, eat everything in the refrigerator that didn't require preparation, go to bed early.

And cry herself to sleep.

With a martyred sigh Karen climbed the stairs and entered her room-a guest room now, but once truly her own, when she had lived with Ruth. It looked much as it had then, except that now it was neat; the desk cleared of books and papers and chewed pencils, the floor and chairs uncluttered by clothing, shoes, and other debris. A big mahogany wardrobe served as a closet; houses of the early nineteenth century seldom had built-in closets. "Not that you need them," Ruth had once remarked in a rare moment of sarcasm. "You never hang up your clothes anyway."

A reluctant, affectionate smile curved Karen's lips as she remembered. What a carefree slob she had been in those days! She had come full circle-still a slob, but no longer carefree. She had intended to go back to school after she married, get her degree. It had seemed easy then; after all, Jack was on the faculty. But somehow there never was time. She had taken a course or two over the years, but there was always a manuscript that needed typing or a list of references to be checked; and of course Jack's work was so much more important than anything she could hope to accomplish.

She had learned to type. Jack had encouraged her in that-it was such a useful skill. It had certainly been useful to him, but she supposed she should be grateful that he had insisted, for now it was her only marketable skill. (What a hateful word-marketable-as if she were a piece of lifeless merchandise.) She had acted as Jack's research assistant for ten years, but without the formal title, or the salary. That was going to look great on a resume. Perhaps Jack would write a reference for her.

Karen reminded herself, not for the first time, that she was in a better position than many women whose marriages have failed. Her marriage had only lasted ten years, not twenty-five or thirty. It wasn't too late for her to acquire new skills.

But which ones? There was nothing she wanted to do. Absolutely nothing.

Sunlight sifted through the curtains, warming the soft blue print of the ruffled pillow shams and matching spread, awakening golden shimmers in the polished surfaces of the furniture. The tall pier glass reflected the four-poster bed, with its knotted-lace canopy.

It also reflected Karen. Depression deepened into despair as she studied the pale defeated face and slumped body of the woman in the mirror. What made matters worse-if they could be worse-was that for an instant she had a memory-vision of the girl who had once smiled back at her from that same mirror. A tall, slim girl with long legs and bright dark eyes, and a mane of black hair that shone with a life of its own.

There was no gray in her hair, but it no longer swung free around her shoulders. Lifeless as charcoal, it lay on her head like a wig that might have been plucked at random from a shelf in a department store. Lifeless like her hopes and her ambition and her self-esteem.

The eyes of the memory-girl in the mirror seemed to sparkle, as if in mockery. Don't laugh at me, shadow girl. You, of all people, ought to sympathize--

Karen fumbled with the fastening of her skirt. Her breath came out in an unpremeditated gasp as the zipper parted. She stepped out of the skirt and kicked it across the room, tore off her blouse, and wadded it into a ball. Shoes, pantyhose, and girdle followed. Her spirits improved slightly as her physical comfort increased, but she didn't look in the mirror again.

For once the trite complaint of having nothing to wear was the literal truth. She had packed one suitcase before she fled, throwing things into it without looking at them. She ought to call Jack and ask him to send her clothes. They were of no use to him; he would probably be glad to get the last reminders of her out of the house. But he wouldn't pack them himself, not Jack. He would ask Sandra to do it. Sandy, his super-efficient secretary, soon to be his second wife. Even if Karen could have forced herself to talk to Jack, she couldn't endure the idea of Sandy touching her personal possessions. Sandy would do the job neatly and competently, as she did everything; and she would smile with the intolerable pity of the young as she folded the size fourteens and the shabby, practical lingerie. Sandy was nineteen-the same age Karen had been when she married Jack.

My God, Karen thought despondently, I'm thinking like an old woman. I look like an old woman. When did this happen? How did it happen? I'm only twenty-seven… well, almost twenty-nine. Ten years ago I wore a size 6, played tennis, jogged, watched what I ate. Why did I let this happen?

She slammed the door of the wardrobe and crossed the room, giving the crumpled blouse a kick as she passed it. There must be some garment in the house she could wear without cutting off her circulation. No use looking in Ruth's wardrobe; her aunt was several inches shorter, petite, and small-boned.

Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Ruth had kept some of the clothes she and her sister had discarded or left behind-big shirts or big dresses-floats, or tents, or sacks, or whatever they called them then. Ruth laughed at Pat for being a pack rat, but she was almost as bad, she never threw anything away. Karen remembered once having helped Ruth carry some clothes to the attic to be stored. She had never seen an attic so neat, almost dust-free, smelling of cedar and mothballs.

It was worth looking, at any rate. She had nothing better to do. Slipping her feet into scuffed sandals and her arms into a faded cotton wrapper, she started for the stairs.

JULIE
was late. Business must have improved, Karen thought, as she spun lettuce and chopped vegetables. It was almost six before she heard the doorbell chime and go on chiming, as Julie leaned on the button.

Karen opened the door and stepped out of the way. Julie came through like a bull charging into the ring. She headed straight for the kitchen, hurling words over her shoulder.

"What took you so long? It's hot as the hinges of hell out there; I thought I'd die. I had to go clear to M Street to get hamburgers-"

"Two blocks," Karen jeered, following Julie.

"The discomfort index is ninety-nine. I need a drink. Where's the gin? Where are the ice cubes?"

"Sit down, I'll fix it. Gin and tonic?"

"Right." Julie dropped her packages onto the table and collapsed into a chair. Her red hair, cut in the erratic style made popular by female rock stars, stuck out in stiff spikes, glued by perspiration and hair spray. She wore an off-the-shoulder blouse and a cotton skirt; rows of plastic beads formed a breastplate around her neck, and when she raised her hand to wipe her streaming brow, a matching row of bracelets jangled and clicked. The outfit would have looked ridiculous on most women, particularly the jewelry, which was of the type Karen categorized as "Woolworth's." But it was oddly becoming to Julie's sharp, vulpine features and stocky frame. "I look like a fat fox," she had once remarked, and although Karen had made polite protestations, there was a great deal of truth in the appraisal.

Karen offered a glass tinkling with ice cubes. Julie took it; then her eyes narrowed and she studied Karen as if seeing her for the first time.

"Well, well. I didn't know vintage chic had reached the far-off Midwest."

Karen smoothed the skirt of her dress selfconsciously. It was yellow batiste faded to a soft cream and sprinkled with orange flowers. The deep ruffle framing the neck was echoed by short ruffled sleeves.

"I found it in the attic. It must have belonged to Cousin Hattie. She was a stout woman, though much shorter than I am."

"I thought I detected an aura of eau de mothballs." Julie's eyes moved down the loose, unbelted folds of the dress to the hemline, which reached just below Karen's knees. "They wore dresses long in the early thirties. In the attic, did you say?"

Karen sat down with her own drink, plain tonic and ice. She had never been much of a drinker, and wasn't about to start now.

"Don't be subtle, Julie, you aren't good at it. I know you've been dying to get into Ruth's attic."

"I'd kill for the chance," Julie said coolly. "Acquiring stock is one of the biggest problems in the antique business these days. The good stuff has been bought up, and there aren't any bargains; every little old lady in the backwoods knows her junk is worth money."

"You've told me that a dozen times." Karen sipped her drink. "That's really why you hired me, isn't it? You had your eye on Ruth's attic."

"Hers and a few others."

"Such as Mrs. MacDougal's?"

" She's sort of an adopted grandmother, isn't she?"

"There is no relationship. She's Pat's mother, and he is only my uncle by marriage-"

"But he hasn't any children. I'm sure he thinks of you and your sister as his own."

Julie tried to look sentimental, without success. Her green eyes were as hard and calculating as a huckster's. Karen did not reply; without appearing to notice her distaste, Julie went on, "The old lady is a legend in this town. Her family was old Georgetown, creme de la creme, and she married big money. It was considered something of a mesalliance back then; Jackson MacDougal was one of those robber-baron types, a self-made millionaire with no culture and no class. I suppose his millions made up for his lack of table manners."

"Mrs. MacDougal wouldn't marry for money," Karen said stiffly. "She loved her husband very much."

"I'd have loved him too. Passionately. She was the most influential hostess in Washington for over forty years. And she knew how to spend old Jackson's money. That house is like a museum! I was in it once, on a charity tour. How old is she, a hundred?"

"In her nineties. Julie, you are not only a gossip, you are a ghoul. Do you sit around and pray for people to die so you can buy their antiques?"

"Well, sweetie, they can't take it with them, can they? I've heard rumors that she is going to sell the house and move to a nursing home, and dispose of most of her things. The important antiques will go to Christie's or Sotheby's, of course. I haven't the capital to deal with a collection like that, even if I had the entree. But her odds and ends would make my fortune! In her day she was one of the snappiest dressers in town. I'll bet she's got designer gowns, hats, accessories-"

"I thought you didn't deal in vintage clothes." Karen added waspishly, "We aren't that out of it in the dreary Midwest. I know old clothes are fashionable-collectible is the word, I believe. Not that I would wear things like that-"

"That's exactly what you are wearing," Julie pointed out. "It looks fairly decent on you. And it's comfortable, isn't it?"

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing. I don't specialize in vintage, but I'd market shit if people would buy it." She leaned across the table and fingered the ruffle. "This is in super condition. I could get… oh, say, seventy-five for it."

"Seventy-five
dollars?"

"What do you think, yen? Maybe more. It's a good size, too. A lot of older clothes were made for those Scarlett O'Hara twenty-inch waists. How much more of this sort of thing does your aunt have?"

"Boxes and boxes and bags and bags."

Julie sprang to her feet, her eyes gleaming with avarice. "Show, show."

"I will, just to frustrate you. Ruth isn't going to sell her things."

"You could ask her."

Karen tried to change the subject. "Why don't we sit in the parlor like ladies? I'll fix you another drink-"

"I hate that room," Julie said.

"Why?" Karen asked curiously.

"It's too damned formal. I can't put my feet on the coffee table."

"Oh. Well, you certainly can't. I swore to return Ruth's property in pristine condition, as I received it."

"Don't worry, I've too much respect for antiques to treat them carelessly. Which is why I prefer to sit in the kitchen." Julie gulped down her drink. "Let's go to the attic."

It was not long before Karen was regretting her careless offer. Her hope, that friendship had been at least part of Julie's motive for cultivating her acquaintance, looked more and more forlorn when she saw the look of pure acquisitiveness on Julie's face.