everyone in it, and when she stepped from the wings of a theatre into the glow of footlights, you knew you were in for something special. Now, though, Virgie had shrunk to a phantom of her former self, but when Irene peered into the depths of her sunken eyes, it wasn’t fear she saw. It was shame, and even as Irene gazed at her, Virginia Estherbrook turned her face away. “Don’t look at me,” she pleaded. “Wouldn’t you lock the doors, too, if you looked like me? Oh, please, can’t you turn off the lights?”
“It’s going to be all right, Virgie,” Irene replied. “I know it’s going to be all right.”
Virginia seemed not to hear her. “I should be in bed,” she said so softly that Irene wasn’t certain if the other woman was speaking to her or to herself. “I should be conserving my strength.” Her head swung around, and her eyes fixed on Irene. “But for what? For what?” Reaching out with a withered hand, she weakly closed her fingers on Irene’s arm, and began struggling to her feet. Irene offered her free hand to help her, but Virgie shook her head. “I can do it. I’ve never been carried off a stage yet, and I don’t intend to start now!” With what seemed to be the last of her energy, she pulled herself to her feet, clung to Irene for a moment longer while she caught her breath, then let her hand fall to her side. She started toward the door leading to her bedroom. Irene hesitated, uncertain whether her friend wanted her to stay or go, but then Virginia spoke again. “Do you know what I would like?” she asked, and, as always, answered her question before anyone else could. “I would like a martini, with no more than a hint of vermouth, and a single olive. Be a dear, and bring me one.”
“And may I fix one for myself, too, Your Majesty?” Irene retorted, but her sarcasm seemed to be lost on the other woman.
“If you wish.” Virginia Estherbrook moved stiffly through the door to her bedroom.
Irene followed Virginia a few minutes later, balancing the two martinis on a silver tray. She searched for a place to put the tray down, but every surface in the room was covered with silver frames bearing pictures of men — all of them handsome, and all of them looking theatrical.
“Is there anyone here you haven’t slept with?” Irene asked, finally using the tray itself to push enough pictures aside so she could set it down.
“Of course,” Virginia replied, taking no apparent offense whatsoever at the question. She was propped up against a bank of pillows, wearing a peignoir that Irene recognized from a play Virginia had done several decades earlier. She accepted the glass Irene offered her. “Some of them were gay.” Scanning the collection of pictures, she raised the glass shakily. “But for the rest of you, I salute you! You gave me a lot of wonderful memories!” She sipped at the drink, which seemed to lend her a little energy, and patted the empty spot next to her on the bed. “But let’s not talk about me anymore. I’m sick of me, sick to death! So come and tell me all about your day!”
Irene ignored the invitation to join Virginia on the bed, but drew a chair close. “I think I found someone for Anthony today,” she began, and Virginia’s eyes immediately brightened.
“Really? Where?”
“In the park. She’s just about the same age as Lenore.”
Virginia Estherbrook sighed. “I miss Lenore.”
“We all do,” Irene agreed. “But there’s nothing to be done, is there? It’s time for Anthony to move on.”
“Do you think he’s ready?”
Irene sniffed. “Of course he is.”
“How do you know?” Virginia pressed. “Did he say something?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Virgie! What would he say? He’s a man. Men never say anything. But it’s time, and I’m sure this is the right woman.”
Virginia leaned forward, her eyes once again glistening with anticipation. They’d been talking about what the perfect woman for Anthony would be like for weeks now, but until today they hadn’t been able to come up with anyone at all.
“She’s a year or two older than Lenore was, but much prettier. And she doesn’t look anything like Lenore, which I think is a plus. If a new wife looks just like the former one, she never knows whether the man is in love with her, or the memory of his former wife. And wait until you see the children!”
Virginia clapped her hands together. “Oh, I do love children! But not too young, I hope. Babies can be such a lot of bother.”
“The girl’s about thirteen, and the boy a little younger.”
“Perfect!” Virginia crowed. “Oh, it will be so good to have more children around.” Then her expression turned apprehensive. “But are you sure Anthony will like her?”
“Well, he didn’t run away when we met her.”
“He was with you?” Virginia gasped. “Oh, dear, Irene. Do you think that was wise?”
“It doesn’t matter whether it was wise or not. There we were, and there she was with her little girl, and they both just looked so perfect that I couldn’t resist. Anthony made up some excuse and ran away, but I saw something there! I’m sure I did!”
“What are you going to do?”
Irene’s brows arched. “I should think it would be perfectly obvious. I’m going to find out everything about her that I can — which I’ve already begun. She told me where she works, and it couldn’t be more perfect. Now we shall simply rope her in. And wait till you meet her. You’re just going to love her, and the children, too!”
Virginia Estherbrook fell back against the pillows. “I just hope it works out,” she sighed.
“Of course it will,” Irene retorted, for the first time losing patience with Virginia. Why did she always have to be so negative? “Doesn’t it always work out, when we set our minds to it?”
CHAPTER 4
Claire Robinson’s anger hung even more heavily in the shop than the thick curtains that concealed the bare brick walls. Even as the tinkling door chime faded away, Caroline could feel her employer’s angry eyes boring into her, and the set of her jaw — which wasn’t soft even when she was in the best of moods — warned Caroline not even to attempt an explanation for the fifteen minutes that had passed since the time she had promised to appear. Not that the explanation would have meant anything to Claire anyway, since the importance of the home run that Ryan had hit in the bottom half of the ninth inning of his softball game would be utterly lost on her. To Claire, children were an alien species that she could sometimes enjoy at a distance, but had no tolerance for in close quarters. “The idea of being pregnant is bad enough,” she’d once told Caroline. “But the eighteen years that follow are utterly unthinkable. There has to be a better way to propagate the species than that — it’s barbaric!” Since Claire wouldn’t care how hard it had been for her to leave her kids home by themselves, Caroline held her words to a simple apology, which Claire acknowledged with a terse nod.
“Let’s both just hope I’m not too late for Estelle Hollinan’s demilune,” she said as she pulled on the worn trench coat that was her stylistic trademark. No matter what the weather, if Claire was outside her trench coat was on, and there had been a time when Caroline wondered not only how the trench coat held together under such constant use, but also how Claire made do with a single wrap, no matter what the elements might be dealing out. It was Kevin Barnes who finally explained the trick: “She has at least a dozen of them. I think she has some poor Filipino woman locked away in Brooklyn or The Bronx, or one of those terrible places, doing nothing but sewing them up and putting all the same wear marks on them. But all the linings are different — cotton batiste for summer, flannel for fall. Mark swears she even has a mink-lined one she wears to the opera, but I think he’s just being bitchy.” Caroline hadn’t quite believed him until she’d started surreptitiously checking the linings of the trench coats, and sure enough, she found four different ones, all sewn in.
Cinching the belt of the current coat tight, Claire started out the door, but suddenly paused, eyed a large oriental vase critically, then turned back to Caroline. “Add a zero to the price of this thing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Without another word, Claire stepped through the door, and a moment later vanished down Madison Avenue.
“And a very nice afternoon to you, too,” Caroline said to the empty shop. Hanging her own worn coat — that somehow managed to have none of the style of Claire’s — on the hook in the back room, she found a black marking pen in Claire’s desk, and went to the large vase sitting by the door. It had been sitting there since the day Caroline had begun working at the shop almost a year ago, and so far no one had shown the least bit of interest in it. It was
