her path. 'I've got a date tonight, Meow. A real, live date with a man who voluntarily asked me out!' She scooped the orange cat up and waltzed into the living room.
Unfortunately, she caught sight of herself as she whirled past a mirror.
“Oh, my God!' she exclaimed, letting Meow escape her grasp. She peered into the glass. 'Hair! Clothes! Makeup!' she said to the disheveled image.
6
Shelley dropped by while Jane was in the midst of a facial. 'Oh, you decided to try that stuff? You look like a mummified raccoon.'
“But underneath, I'm gorgeous. Wait a minute. It's time to wash it off. Come on upstairs and look at my closet. I need your help.”
When Jane emerged from the bathroom, her face scrubbed and shining, Shelley was sitting on the edge of the bed. 'What's up?'
“I've got a date tonight.'
“A date! Who?'
“Mel VanDyne. And I'm behaving like an idiot. I know it. But I don't know what to wear. Something casual, but not sloppy. Feminine but not girlish. He's picking me up from class, so it has to be something I might normally wear to class.'
“Okay. Where are you going?'
“Nowhere much. Ice cream.'
“He invited you out for ice cream? What a cheapskate!'
“No. He invited me dancing, but I don't think I remember how to dance. Shelley, it's been more than twenty years since I've had a real date.'
“But not since you've been asked. Remember that.'
“Oh, sure. The neighborhood sleezeballs whopounce on anybody who looks like they're free. That one who wears the polyester leisure suits is still calling me every month or so. He must have a roster he goes through. And there's the one with the potbelly and load of gold chains who calls everybody 'babe.' You know, he called me a week after Steve died. A
“Pink. An apricotish pink,' Shelley mused. 'I'll be right back.' She dashed off and returned a few minutes later with a blouse in a dry cleaning bag. 'This is it. Do you have a lace bra?'
“One.'
“Good. This fabric is just thin enough that a lace bra will barely show through. Sexy without being blatant. With your white skirt. And you can't carry that hideous saddlebag purse. He'll think you're going on a camp- out.'
“You know I operate on the assumption that I might run into Pierce Brosnan any moment, and if he asks me to run away with him, I'll be ready to go.'
“Ice cream and running away are miles apart. I have a little white clutch you can use.”
They settled on shoes and jewelry and were debating over hose when Katie and Cecily got home. 'Hey, Mom, you've got to see what we—' Katie began, then looked around Jane's bedroom. Rejected clothing was strewn everywhere. 'Hey, this looks like my room. What's going on?'
“Your mother has a date tonight.'
“A date?' A series of expressions crossed her face in rapid succession. She settled on pleased surprise. 'Cool, Mom. Who?'
“Detective VanDyne,' Jane said.
“Yeah? He's okay. For an old guy.”
Jane came over and hugged her daughter. 'You just put everything into perspective. Let's see your new stuff.”
At quarter of six they dutifully assembled to go to Mrs. General Pryce's. They were going in Shelley's van because it had a flat area in the back where they could set the food without it spilling. Jane had the two quiches she'd made under her mother's direction; Shelley had her fruit salad, and Cecily had voluntarily contributed some cheese and olive puffs and a plate of deviled eggs.
“I saw her make them,' Jane said to Shelley in an aggrieved tone when Cecily went back inside for her purse. 'I used exactly the same recipe, and when I cook those olive things, the dough runs down and pools. They look like something from one of those obscene bakeries. Hers puff up.'
“Don't be cranky, Jane. You do lots of things better than she does,' Shelley said.
“Name four. Never mind. I'd hate to watch you struggle to come up with them. I can feel my hair falling.'
“Your hair looks great, and if I catch you near a bottle of hair spray, I'll break your wrist.'
“Oh, Shelley, I'm acting like an ass and I can't stop myself. Priscilla wouldn't behave like this.' 'Priscilla? Who the hell is Priscilla?'
“Never mind. Remind me again why we're doing this.'
“Because Missy will kill us if we don't.”
Cecily came back to the car. 'Mom, are you sure you don't mind my going out tonight after class?' Jane asked.
“Of course I don't. I'm not company, I'm your mother,' Cecily said firmly. 'Katie and I can talk about you behind your back this way,' she added with a smile as Shelley backed the van out.
Mrs. Pryce's home was one of the older ones in the neighborhood. It had been built when their suburb was still a distinct town, before Chicago had oozed out and encircled it. There were uninspired flower beds in front and overgrown hedges along the property lines on either side. A not very subtle marking out of her turf, Jane thought. The harsh white paint on the house looked as if it was ready to peel any second. They were met at the door by a maid in uniform. She was an old lady, vaguely Asian, probably Filipino or Thai, and surly-looking. Who wouldn't be, Jane thought, having to work for Mrs. Pryce? 'Welcome, misses,' she said, relieving them of as many dishes as she could.
Jane walked and was suddenly struck blind in the dark hallway. 'The waste-not-want-not school of lighting,' Shelley murmured, reaching for Jane's arm.
They stumbled into the living room, where there was a little more light. Shelley's hand on Jane's arm tightened and she gasped. The house was so crammed with artifacts that the eye could hardly figure out what to focus on. Mrs. Pryce had apparently spent the last six or seven decades traveling around the world and picking up everything she could find. Oriental brass figurines fought for shelf space with glazed South American pottery. Spanish shawls covered tables and were themselves covered by Belgian lace and mixes of fake and real Meissen ornaments. Japanese lacquer bowls jostled for space with Chinese cloisonne and cheap plastic pennants. A nest of primitive dolls was stuffed into a big, footed silver bowl that sat on a fragile inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl Burmese table.
The air smelled like a neglected museum—warm, musty, with a faint undertone of mildew and marble polish. There was no air-conditioning, just a few feeble table fans barely turning. Jane supposed the only thing that kept them all from suffocating was the fact that the ceilings were so high in the old house.
She stared for a moment before turning to her mother, who was grinning. 'There are bazaar merchants all over the earth who rub their hands together at the thought of her,' Cecily murmured.
“I see you're admiring my treasures,' Mrs. Pryce said.
For a moment Jane couldn't figure out where the voice was coming from, then she sorted out the visual overload and identified Mrs. Pryce near a window that was covered with layers of curtains. She was sitting on a high-backed chair with some sort of finials at the top—slightly thronelike. Her smug expression made clear that she was genuinely proud of all the junk the rest of them considered so tacky.
“This is all very—interesting,' Jane said with a straight face. She heard a noise behind her that sounded like Shelley grinding her teeth.
“Your mother could have a house like this, full of lovely memories, if only she'd planned ahead,' Mrs. Pryce
