Shattered Silk

CHAPTER THREE

THE rain continued all night, dripping mournfully from dull skies, but for some reason Karen didn't wallow in chocolate as she had planned. Supping virtuously on soup and salad, she realized that the encounter with Mark had actually lifted her spirits. Perhaps it was simply that she had finally sunk so low there was no way to go but up. However, she knew she had been subconsciously dreading the possibility of such a meeting ever since she returned to Washington. Had she but known Mark had renewed his former acquaintance with Ruth and Pat, she would have had greater cause to be concerned. There was nothing surprising about it; they had once been close friends. But to think that Ruth, sly Ruth, hadn't mentioned Mark…

No, that wasn't fair. Ruth was never sly. Tactful, sensitive, considerate of other people's feelings… Why should Ruth suppose it mattered to her? The mere fact that Ruth had avoided the subject-hadn't mentioned the invitation or its cancellation-that, in itself, implied an assumption Ruth had no right to make.

At any rate, the worst was over and, as is so often the case, the reality had not been as bad as the anticipation. Besides, she was proud of herself for standing up to him in the end. Two head-to-head confrontations in one day, first with Julie and then with Mark, and she hadn't done badly. Thanks in part to the inspiration of a bossy old witch! I could have sworn I actually heard her voice, Karen thought, smiling.

Mrs. MacDougal might not be a genuine witch, but she was unquestionably a canny lady with a profound understanding of human nature. In the next few days Karen suffered frequent spells of depression, but as Mrs. Mac had predicted, something usually happened to shake her out of them. Mrs. Mac administered a lot of the shaking herself. She nagged Karen unmercifully about the shop, and kept her so busy she had little time to brood. She made appointments with friends who might have things to sell, and bullied Karen into keeping the appointments. She introduced her to realtors in Maryland, Virginia, and the District, bought and borrowed books for her to read, and quizzed her on the contents. There were times when Karen wished she could tell Mrs. Mac to go to Borneo- or someplace even hotter-and she developed a nervous habit of reaching for her notebook every time the telephone rang. Mrs. MacDougal had given her the notebook; she never failed to ask what progress Karen had made, and Karen knew she had better be able to report progress.

It wasn't easy. If she had realized how many endless and diverse details must be covered before she could even open for business, she would never have had the courage to begin. What terrified her most were the practical aspects-keeping books, borrowing money, arranging for permits, dealing with realtors, regulations, and taxes. Sheer nerves would have kept her awake nights if she hadn't been so tired that she often fell sleep over the book she was reading.

The books were the ones Mrs. Mac had supplied, on the care of antique textiles and the history of costume. At first it was only fear of the old lady's acerbic tongue that made Karen give up her favorite mysteries and romances, but before long she became genuinely fascinated. Her ability to conquer a new subject increased her shaky self-confidence. After all, research was what she had been trained to do; the basic methods were the same for any field. But in this case she could actually touch and feel the objects of her study, and apply the methods she read about. The clothes themselves thrilled her. It was not only their beauty and their charm that moved her, but a growing sense of identification with the past. "Jumping Jack" MacDougal had showered his pretty young bride with jewels and furs and lovely gowns, the best money could buy. As she and Karen sorted the clothing, Mrs. Mac's reminiscences brought to life a world that had been as remote to Karen as ancient Greece-the last lazy summer afternoon of aristocracy before the Great War.

Mrs. Mac had worn the chiffon-and-lace evening dress at the captain's dinner on a 1913 voyage of the Lusitania, two years before the luxury liner was sunk by German bombs, precipitating the United States' entrance into the war. The black lace over oyster satin had attended the first performance of The Three-Cornered Hat, with Leonide Massine, at London's Alhambra Theatre in 1919. (And what, Karen wondered, had Jumping Jack thought of the ballet? Had he slept through it-had he snored?) The Schiaparelli suit, with huge hand mirrors in lieu of jacket buttons, had dazzled the dignitaries at FDR's first inaugural. Karen could almost see Mrs. Roosevelt's well-bred eyebrows rise at the sight of it. She felt as if she were touching history itself.

Not that Mrs. MacDougal wasted time mourning her lost youth. The expectation of playing one last practical joke on her son had given her a burst of demonic energy; she dashed around the house chortling and chuckling and driving her assistants wild. Karen was not one of them; her offers of help had been politely refused, and she soon realized they were unnecessary.

Though Mrs. Mac blandly denied it, she had obviously been planning the move for months. The larger, more valuable antiques were going into storage until their owner returned. If, as she cheerfully remarked, she survived the trip, she would then select the things she wanted to keep or give away. The rest would go to Sotheby's. Since an inventory had been kept up-to-date, this part of the moving process was relatively simple.

What wasn't simple was the question of how to dispose of the thousands of less valuable odds and ends Mrs. MacDougal had accumulated over the years. These ranged from modern pottery to Spode and Royal Prussian dinnerware, from paperback novels to first editions-and included, of course the clothing and accessories. There were enough of the latter to stock a small shop in themselves-hats, shoes, handbags, scarves, gloves, belts, costume jewelry. Karen's last compunctions about taking them vanished when she saw the piles of discarded miscellany grow to mountainous proportions.

The clothing dated from around 1910, when Mrs. Mac had attained debutante status-and a millionaire husband. However, several of her cronies had garments that had been stored away since their mothers' and grandmothers' day, and before long Ruth's neat little house resembled a flea market. Every wardrobe was full, the bedroom furniture was heaped with fabric, and dresses hung from temporary stands. Karen was glad Pat was not there to see it, and comment on it.

Something else happened that week to stiffen Karen's sagging spirits-the arrival of a United Parcel man with several boxes. The surgical precision of the wrapping told Karen who had packed them; the folded corners of the paper looked as if they had been measured with a ruler and pressed with a hot iron. Inside one box was a typed note. It was cool and formal, and very forgiving. It deplored her impetuous and ill-considered action in leaving so precipitously and requested-implicitly, if not in so many words-her humble appreciation for the consideration that was being shown her. The boxes contained her clothes and personal belongings, swathed neatly in tissue. Not a scrap had been overlooked, including a couple of limp bras she had meant to throw away, and a pair of sneakers with holes in both toes.

Karen methodically tore the note into tiny bits and flushed them down the toilet. Then she threw the piece of chocolate cake she had been about to eat into the disposal and went out and jogged for four miles.

She did not see or hear from Mark. She didn't expect to. (At least that was what she told herself.) Nor did she expect the encounter that took place one afternoon toward the end of the week.

Julie had left early, to finish shopping for her approaching vacation. Not five minutes after Julie took her departure Rob followed her, with a look that dared Karen to object. She was at the back of the shop, checking a shelf of costume jewelry over which one customer had lingered long without buying-it was all right, everything seemed to be there-when the door chimes rang. Half concealed by a hanging tapestry, she looked up to see the girl who had been with Mark on his first visit.

She knew she should emerge at once, smiling and helpful. Instead she hunched her shoulders in a half-crouch, hoping the shadows would hide her, while her thoughts raced in uncontrolled confusion.

He's not with her. Of course not-he won't come again. It's probably the armoire she wants. She's attractive, but not as glamorous as I thought…Her hair is beautiful-lovely curling red-gold. It looks real, too. Get out there. Stop skulking. She'll see you in a minute and you'll feel like a fool. Say something. Something witty, intelligent…

She edged out from behind the tapestry. "Hello."

The girl turned with a start. "Hi. I didn't see you at first. It's so dark in here."

It was a common complaint, and Karen seized with relief on the memorized response. "I'll be glad to turn on more lights if there is something you want to examine closely. I'm afraid Julie has stepped out for a moment, but if you need help-"

"I know she isn't here, I saw her leave. I wanted to see you. You are Karen, aren't you?"

"Yes."

The girl came toward her, smiling, her hand out. "I'm Cheryl Reichardt. Mark's sister."

"Sister," Karen repeated blankly.

Cheryl laughed. "I don't blame you, everybody reacts that way. We don't look one bit alike."

The statement was certainly correct. Cheryl was as fair as Mark was dark, and her round face and dimpled cheeks were the antithesis of Mark's austere features.

Karen gathered her scattered wits and took the outstretched hand-just in time, for Cheryl, flushing slightly, had started to withdraw it. "I'm glad to meet you. Are you visiting, or do you live in Washington?"

"I live with Mark, actually. He asked me to come and keep house for him after my husband died."

"I'm so sorry." Karen's response was genuine; it seemed impossible to think of this cheerful young woman as a widow.

"It's been a couple of years," Cheryl said, her lifted chin and determinedly matter-of-fact voice assuring Karen that sympathy would be unwelcome. "But I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for Mark. Joe left a few thousand in insurance, but we didn't have much saved, and my folks are living on Dad's pension, and with a baby to support…"

She paused to draw breath. "You have a child?" Karen asked.

"Little Joe. He's not a baby, he's four now. Want to see his picture?" Without waiting for a reply she reached in her purse and took out her wallet. "This was taken on his last birthday."

Karen's heart gave a queer, painful lurch. The little boy had his mother's mop of fair curls and a funny turned-up nose, but his shy smile reminded Karen of a look she had sometimes seen on Mark's face.

"Do you have any kids?" Cheryl asked.

"No." Jack had not wanted children. He never actually said so, but somehow it was never the right time.

"That's too bad. I was hoping I could borrow one." Cheryl giggled. "One of these days I'm going to be arrested. Whenever I see a kid in a grocery store or someplace, it's all I can do not to grab it and squeeze it. I miss Little Joe so much."

"He isn't with you?" Karen returned the wallet, adding, "He's adorable. I don't see how you can stand to be away from him."

"I didn't have much choice. He'd just got comfortable with Mom and Dad and I didn't want to uproot him again. Besides, it wouldn't have been fair to Mark. He's renting a town house in Foggy Bottom, all neat and shiny and modern, but not very big; and he's always having people in for drinks and talks and dinner and stuff. I'm pretty busy myself, trying to adjust to Mark's schedule and going to school. I'm studying bookkeeping and computer science."

"Good for you."

"Well, I don't want to be a checker in a grocery store all my life." Cheryl leaned against the counter, arms crossed; she seemed quite prepared to stand there for the rest of the afternoon. "I never went to college and I don't have any training-"

"No marketable skills," Karen said with a wry smile.

"Yeah, doesn't it make you feel small when they say that? Like you were a sack of potatoes that's gone bad. I'm doing pretty good in school, though. I think I'm going to get an A in accounting."

Karen offered appropriate congratulations; Cheryl's beaming smile of pride was as irresistible as her cheerful chatter. "So you don't want to become a Washington hostess?" she said.

"Hell-I mean, good heavens, no. All this protocol and formality drives me crazy. Besides, Mark is sure to get married someday. He's got women chasing him all the time."

Karen could think of nothing to say to this. Cheryl realized that she had been tactless and she flushed again, and said awkwardly, "Say, isn't it just about closing time?"

"Don't let that worry you. Take your time-"

"I came to see you. I was glad when that other woman left. I know I shouldn't talk about a friend of yours, but she gives me the pip. I thought maybe if you had time we could have a cup of coffee or a drink or something."

"I'm afraid…" The refusal was instinctive, but the words were scarcely out of her mouth when Karen realized, with some surprise, that she didn't want to refuse.

Cheryl was too sensitive to miss the implication. She blushed more deeply. Her skin had the translucent pallor that goes with red hair and that shows every emotion in the ebb and flow of the blood.

"Mark said I shouldn't come. He said I'd open my big mouth and put my fat foot in it. But I thought… well, she's like me in a lot of ways, she hasn't lived here for a long time and probably most of her friends have moved away, and could be she's a little lonesome-like me…"

She stuttered to a stop, her cheeks flaming. She's shy, Karen thought in surprise, shy and a little insecure, under that chatty facade of hers. That was something else they had in common. And although Cheryl had described herself as tactless, she had not mentioned another thing they shared-their loss, by one means or another, of the men who had dominated their lives.

"I'd love a cup of coffee," Karen said. "But why don't we go to my house? I only live a few blocks away, and the cafes around here charge an arm and a leg."

SHY was not exactly the word for Cheryl. She was acutely aware of her inadequacies as a hostess for Mark, but the rueful humor with which she related some of her funnier faux pas made it clear that they didn't keep her awake nights. Since her failures had been the result of a blunt tongue, a kind heart, and a complete lack of hypocrisy, Karen was inclined to agree, and to hope, that her new acquaintance would never become a successful political wife.

It was obvious that Cheryl wanted to become a friend, not just a casual acquaintance. Her confession that Mark had tried to talk her out of visiting the shop removed one of Karen's reservations; she was damned if she wanted Mark to think she was running after him, trying to pick up their former relationship, but she was also damned if she was going to let him decide with whom she could associate. After the rudeness of her old classmates, and Julie's barbed malice, Cheryl's candor and lack of false pride was very refreshing.

If she had not already been predisposed to like Cheryl, the latter's breathless interest in her new project would have won her over. Karen had not intended to talk about it, but the subject inevitably arose during the tour of Ruth's house that Cheryl requested. "I'm trying to get Mark's place fixed up for him; most of the furniture is rented and it looks tacky, but I don't know what's right."

When they went upstairs Karen apologized for the state of the bedrooms. "This isn't the ambiance you want for Mark, believe me. It looks like a junk shop. But you see, I'm in the process of opening a vintage clothing store-"

"Vintage? I thought that was wine."

Karen explained. She would have left it at that, but Cheryl peppered her with questions and her answers took on the length and the style of brief lectures. When at last they went to the kitchen for the coffee Karen had offered, Cheryl carried a lacy garment with her, and she was still asking questions.

"What did you say this is?"

"A combing jacket. That's what the lady wore when she sat at her dressing table while the maid arranged her hair."

"It looks like a fancy blouse." Cheryl stroked the filmy ruffles admiringly. "Can you imagine wearing a thing like this just to get your hair combed? You couldn't throw it in the washer and the dryer, it would have to be washed by hand, and starched, and ironed, and all that."

"You didn't do any of those things if you were the mistress of the house," Karen said. "The maid did the dirty work. Or the laundry maid; some big establishments had one girl who did nothing else."

"That would have been me," Cheryl said with a grin. "I sure wouldn't have been the lady of the house. I wouldn't mind that kind of work, though, it's a pleasure handling something as pretty as this."

The comment prompted another lecture, on cleaning methods, to which Cheryl listened with openmouthed interest. "You are just fantastic, Karen. I can't tell you how much I admire you. It takes a lot of gumption to start your own business."

"Gumption or stupidity. Sometimes I think I've bitten off more than I can chew."

"Oh, no, if anybody can do it, you can. This is all new to me, and you seem to know everything about it."

"A few weeks ago I didn't know vintage chic from a hole in the ground," Karen admitted. "I still have a lot to learn."

"I guess there is a lot to it. Have you found a place yet?"

Though Cheryl had been in Washington less than a year, she had a number of sensible suggestions about good locations-so sensible, in fact, that Karen wondered whether she had considered opening a business of her own. When she asked, Cheryl admitted she had thought of it.

"It was just wishful thinking, though. I don't have the experience or the qualifications yet. Joe's insurance is stashed away, and if I'm lucky I won't have to use it for an emergency; so some day… But I'll never be able to get into anything as glamorous and exciting as what you're doing. You're so lucky."

"Lucky," Karen repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, I am."

"Oh, I didn't mean it was just luck. Without brains and hard work-"

"You were right the first time," Karen said, smiling. "It was luck-and a lot of help from my friends-that got me started. The brains are questionable, and the hardest work is yet to come, but I'm going to give it my best shot."

Cheryl was clearly reluctant to leave. "I can't miss class, though, not if I want that A. Thanks for letting me bug you, Karen. I haven't had so much fun since I came to Washington."

Karen stood at the door watching as Cheryl trotted through the long shadows of early evening toward Wisconsin and a taxi. Cheryl certainly was easy to please. A woman who found a few hours of idle talk more entertaining than embassy dinners and cocktail parties would be thought hopelessly stupid by most observers.

I had a good time too, Karen thought-and then, with a self-conscious smile-probably because I monopolized the conversation.

She had been a little lonely, though not for former friends. The faculty wives with whom she had associated were almost all older than she, with interests and careers of their own. Jack didn't approve of her getting too friendly with academic inferiors. She knew what Jack would say about Cheryl. Not our kind. Her grammar, her manners, her lack of education…

What a snob Jack is, Karen thought casually. She went back inside and closed the door, never realizing that a landmark had been reached, a bridge had been crossed. She was thinking how quiet the house was, and how she really ought to get back to work on her records and lists.

ON Friday Karen went with Mrs. MacDougal to the airport. She did not offer to drive; this was to be the penultimate, perhaps the last, voyage of the 1938 Rolls Silver Cloud that was as much a Washington landmark as its owner. Karen half expected a motorcycle escort.

They had said good-by to Joseph and the other servants, who were about to leave on well-deserved vacations. A security agency would watch over the house. But Mrs. MacDougal was not setting off for Borneo alone. "I may be old, but I'm not senile," she said tartly, when Karen expressed her concern. "I'm taking Frank."

As if Frank were a suitcase. He was, in fact, the grandson of a friend of Mrs. MacDougal's, a graduate history student who had jumped at the chance of earning a substantial salary for gallivanting around the Eastern Hemisphere all summer. Karen made a point of meeting him and decided he had the necessary qualifications: intelligence enough to deal with schedules and officials, strength enough to pick Mrs. Mac up bodily if she fell down. He treated the old lady with a burlesqued gallantry that did not attempt to conceal his genuine affection.

All the same, Karen felt a mournful foreboding as she watched her friend walk toward the terminal on Frank's arm. Mrs. MacDougal did not look back. She had refused to let Karen come to the gate with her. At the last moment she had thrust a small shabby box into Karen's hand and said brusquely, "A little something to remember me by. No, don't start crying, dammit. I hate long, mushy good-bys." And she glanced at the elaborate leather carrying case in which Alexander reposed.

She certainly had not received any mushy farewells from the dog. Alexander knew something was going on and he thoroughly disapproved of it. All that could be seen of him was his hairless rump, for he had turned his back on the proceedings.

The big glass doors of the terminal building glided smoothly aside; the comically ill-matched pair, tall young man and withered old woman, passed through. The tears Karen had been forbidden to shed blurred her vision, but she saw Mrs. Mac stop to greet a man who was offering her something… flowers? Yes, long-stemmed red roses.

An upstart Volvo, impatiently awaiting its turn to unload passengers, had the effrontery to sound its horn, and the chauffeur put the Rolls in motion. Karen turned and craned her neck for a last look, without success; people and cars obscured her view. She could have sworn the man with the flowers was Mark.

It was possible. Mark had met Mrs. Mac while he and Karen were dating. Mrs. Mac had taken a fancy to him because he would argue with her about everything from politics to religion, giving back as good as he got without making polite concessions to her age and dignity.

Pat had liked him for the same reason. The degree of Pat's approval could be measured by the loudness of his voice and the number of times he banged on the table during a heated debate.

Pat had never argued with Jack. The antipathy was mutual; after the first few visits Jack always found an excuse for not accepting Ruth's invitations. He had tried to keep Karen from going, but that was the one issue on which she stood up to him. Even after they moved to Iowa she managed to get to Washington every year or two- when Jack was also out of town, so her absence wouldn't inconvenience him--

With an effort she forced her mind away from thoughts of Jack, and from the inevitable corollary the memory had induced-"How could I have been such a wimp?"-and leaned back, enjoying the luxurious ride. It was unlikely that she would ever occupy such an elegant vehicle again. The Rolls was on its way to storage, and a long list of potential buyers was anxiously awaiting Mrs. Mac's final decision.

Gliding in air-conditioned, velvet-cushioned comfort through the summer countryside, Karen began to feel more cheerful. The feeling that she would never see Mrs. Mac again wasn't a premonition of approaching disaster, only a normal reaction to seeing an elderly friend off on a long trip. Whatever happened, she could rejoice in the knowledge that Mrs. Mac was doing precisely what she wanted to do, and would certainly have a wonderful time doing it.

To be sure, the ominously silent presence of Alexander was not calculated to lift her spirits. She avoided looking at the carrier; in any case, Alexander's rump was not a pretty sight.

Through the glass partition that separated the front and back seats, she could see the chauffeur's head and his heavy shoulders. She had met him for the first time earlier in the week, when he helped Joseph deliver Mrs. MacDougal's clothing. He was the only one of the servants who had not been with her for many years. He seemed to be good at his job; the huge car slid sinuously through the traffic, with no change in speed and no delays.

Not until then did Karen remember the worn leather case Mrs. MacDougal had given her. It lay on her lap, forgotten in the turmoil of departure. An amused, affectionate smile curved her mouth as she turned it in her hands, seeking the catch that would open it. Heaven only knew what Mrs. Mac would consider an appropriate farewell gift; the box might contain anything, from diamond earrings to a Mickey Mouse watch.

Her fingers found and pressed the catch. The lid fell back. There were earrings, and a matching necklace; but not, thank goodness, of precious stones. The earrings were long dangles, heavy and ornate; the necklace choker length. Sections of black enamel edged in gold scrolls formed a background for flower-shaped insets made up of small pearls and sparkling stones, pale green and colorless. Karen detached one of the earrings from its mount and turned it over. Antique jewelry was one of the subjects she was still learning about, but she knew enough to feel sure the set was not particularly valuable. The gold wash had worn off in places, showing a lighter metal beneath. Ordinarily she would never wear anything so ornate, but the necklace would look nice with some of the Victorian clothes.

When they left the parkway and started up Wisconsin, Karen reached for her purse. She would never have dreamed of offering a tip to Joseph, but this young man was not of the old school. What was his name? That at least she could offer, some acknowledgment of the fact that he was not simply an anonymous machine. Hawkins? Higgins? No-Horton.

There was no parking space open near the house. Horton double-parked and was out of his seat and opening Karen's door before she could move. He lifted Alexander's carrier.

"I can manage it," Karen said.

"There are the other things, miss."

"Oh, yes."

Horton unloaded Alexander's bed, his food and water dishes, and his toys. A three-month supply of Alexander's favorite foods had already been delivered, but it was unthinkable that Alexander should be deprived of his toys for so much as a second.

"Just leave them," Karen said, as the pile increased. "I don't want you to get a ticket-"

Horton's lips parted in a small, amused smile. They were full, fleshy lips, of the sort some women might consider sexy. His other features and his bulky, heavily muscled body also fit the exaggerated macho image made popular by certain film stars. The trim jacket didn't actually strain across his broad chest-no subordinate of Joseph's would ever be seen in public in improperly fitted clothing-but the fabric looked as if it wanted to stretch.

"I have my instructions, miss," the chauffeur said sedately. "Please allow me."

Of course, Karen thought, watching him lift the boxes as effortlessly as if they had been empty. Of course- Mrs. Jackson MacDougal never gets parking tickets.

Horton followed her into the hall. "Where would you like me to put them, miss?"

"Miss" instead of "madam." Was that because Joseph couldn't break his habit of referring to her as "Miss Karen," or were they all obeying instructions from Mrs. Mac, who would be delighted to see her resume her single status? Mrs. Mac had never liked Jack…

Irrelevant and immaterial, Karen thought. Aloud she said, "Anywhere. Here. It doesn't matter."

"The carrier is rather heavy, miss. Perhaps in the kitchen?"

His manner was perfectly respectful, but suddenly Karen realized that she didn't want him to go any farther into the house. His body seemed to fill the entire hallway.

"No," she said. "Just leave everything here."

"Yes, miss." Horton touched his cap and turned to go – Karen thanked him and held out a folded bill.

She was not sure she was doing the right thing, and was prepared for a well-bred rebuff, of the sort Joseph would have given her. Horton's reaction was even more disconcerting. His full lips parted in a broad, uninhibited grin. "Save it, doll. You probably need it worse than I do."

Karen gaped at him as he strutted-there was no other word for it-down the walk, his hands in his pockets, his uniform cap pushed rakishly askew. As the car glided away, he put his arm out the window and gave her an impudent wave.

Karen laughed and waved back, though she knew Joseph would have fainted with horror at the gesture and her response. Horton must have had a hard time conforming to the formal standards the butler insisted upon. This was his last day on the job, his final public appearance; he had nothing to lose by letting go.

She forgot Horton as soon as she closed the door. There had been no comment from Alexander, but his face was now visible behind the grilled front of the carrier. Both eyes were hidden by hair, but something about his pose told her Alexander was not in a good mood.

Nerving herself for the encounter, she opened the carrier. "Okay, Alexander, this is it. I don't like it any better than you do, so don't give me a hard time."

She retreated behind the carrier, hoping it would blunt the fury of Alexander's attack. To her surprise he gave her only a cursory glance and then set out on a tour of the house. Because of his short legs and poor vision, this took an interminable time, necessitating the prolonged sniffing of every piece of furniture. Karen was tempted to hurry him along with a well-placed kick, but she was afraid to press her luck, even though she felt like an attendant pacing with measured steps behind some arthritic-ridden dowager empress.

Not until he had inspected every room did Alexander return to the kitchen, where he sat down with a thump and gave a hoarse demanding bark. Karen ran to get his food dish.

After eating, Alexander went outside and smelled the yard, pausing long enough to lift his leg and sprinkle one of Ruth's prize roses. Karen was too intimidated to protest. At least Alexander knew what needed to be done; she wouldn't have to stand in the doorway exhorting him as she had heard Rachel do. Rachel was so nice-minded she refused to use even the polite euphemisms. "Now be a big doggie," she would cry, in a horrible falsetto. "Be a good, big doggie, Alexander."

Karen had hoped Alexander would prefer to spend the day out-of-doors. The yard was fenced and shady; but it was a hot day and Alexander didn't like hot weather. Before she could close the back door, he had returned. This time he went straight to the parlor, where he collapsed with a thud and a grunt on Ruth's treasured pastel needlepoint hearthrug.

Karen made an involuntary movement of protest, but before she could order him off the rug Alexander shook his head vehemently, producing one eye that fixed itself on Karen with the clearest message she had ever seen in a single optic. She stepped back. Alexander wriggled into a comfortable position and began to snore.

Annoyed as she was by the dog's air of aristocratic hauteur, an air that accorded strangely with his distinctly plebeian appearance, Karen was also amused. Alexander had good taste. Perhaps the elegance of the room appealed to him. When Ruth was at home there were always flowers in the big silver bowls, according to the seasons-tulips and narcissus followed by lilac and sprays of dogwood, then roses and baby's breath, and, to round out the year, great bunches of chrysanthemums in the pink and lavender shades Ruth favored.

The dog's snores were rather soothing. I'll make up his bed for him later, in the kitchen, Karen told herself. In her heart of hearts she knew she had already lost the fight. Alexander had chosen his place and there he would stay. She would probably find herself arranging flowers in the silver bowls, to please his aristocratic tastes.

The soft chime of the clock on the landing reminded her that she was late. She hurried upstairs, tugging at the belt of her dress. Julie had grudgingly given her a few hours off so she could accompany Mrs. Mac to the airport, but this was Julie's last day; she was leaving for New England that evening, and for the next two weeks Karen would be in charge of the shop.

Alexander was still asleep when she left the house, feeling decidedly self-conscious in the vintage dress Julie had insisted she wear. It was an Edwardian afternoon gown, formal enough for a modern wedding, with a high, boned collar and a semi-train edged with lace. Karen had spent much of her spare time that week washing and ironing and mending and altering the dress. It was still too tight, but, she thought hopefully, not quite as tight as it had been when she first tried it on. One of Julie's customers was coming in from Potomac to see the dress and the other gowns Karen carried, chastely enclosed in a garment bag.

Karen had to give Julie credit. It was decent of her to let an employee use the premises to sell her own merchandise. Not that Julie's motives were entirely altruistic. She got her cut. Besides, Mrs. Mac had graciously allowed Julie to acquire a few bits of bric-a-brac, china, and crystal. Julie hoped for more-much, much more. It had been her idea that Karen should model her wares whenever possible, and Karen had been forced to agree that it never hurt to advertise.

In fact, she attracted less attention than she had expected. Georgetown was blase about unusual costumes. A few people stared, and one girl stopped her to ask where she had bought the dress. So Julie was right, Karen thought; one potential customer in a three-block walk wasn't bad.

Her positive mood didn't last, though; Julie's behavior that afternoon would have driven a saint to homicide. She showered Karen with instructions as confused as they were impossible to carry out; and when, for the sixth or seventh time, she clutched her flyaway hair and moaned, "Oh, God, I must be crazy to leave town!" Karen's temper snapped.

"Then don't. Lord knows I've got enough to do without running your business for you!"

"Oh, sweetie, don't pay any attention to me," Julie cried. "You know how I am-"

"To my sorrow. You don't even need me, Rob could handle things here. And if an emergency should arise, you're only a few hours away."

"Don't you dare call unless it's a real emergency." Julie's eyes took on a faraway look. "I have a really interesting two weeks planned, if you know what I mean."

"Nothing will go wrong," Karen said. "Why don't you leave right now? You aren't accomplishing anything except driving both of us up the wall."

"And me," came a voice from the rear of the shop. "Listening to you two screaming at each other is absolutely shattering my nerves. I shall burst into tears if I hear one more unkind word."

Julie paid no attention to this pathetic speech. She glanced at her watch. "I can't leave until Mrs. Schwarz comes, she'd be horribly offended. Damn the woman, where is she? She said three, and it's already three-thirty."

Mrs. Schwarz arrived at 4:10, apologizing and complaining about the traffic on the bridge. It was a handy excuse for anyone coming into the District, because it was usually true.

She shrieked with rapture at Karen's dress and asked to try it on. Karen complied, though one look at Mrs. Schwarz's comfortable contours convinced her the customer hadn't a prayer of getting into the dress. She did get into it, with a great deal of assistance from Julie and Karen, and the collapse of only one side seam. However, the dress refused to meet at the back.

Mrs. Schwarz said wistfully, "Perhaps if I wore a tighter girdle…"

"I'm afraid not," Karen said, looking at the six-inch gap.

"You couldn't let it out?"

"I've let it out as far as it will go." Karen added, "I shouldn't wear it either; it was made for a girl with a tiny waist and hardly any bust. You know, it's impossible to wear clothing like this if it's even the teeniest bit too small. The fabric is old and fragile, and the styles weren't designed for active women."

"I suppose you're right." Mrs. Schwarz was appeased by the tactful phrase "teeniest bit too small," though it most certainly did not apply in her case. "Oh, well, such is life. I hope I haven't damaged the dress, dear. If I have, I'll be happy to pay-"

"No, that's all right," Karen said, carefully skinning the dress over Mrs. Schwarz's head. "One of the seams gave a little, that's all. I just basted it."

"Oh, you do your own alterations? That's nice to know. I must tell my friends about you."

Mrs. Schwarz bought one of the other dresses, a turn-of-the-century day dress of gold linen, hand-embroidered at the neck and hem. After she had departed in triumph, promising a return visit when Karen had more clothes ready, Karen stared in disbelief at Mrs. Schwarz's check. It was made out for two hundred and fifty dollars.

"I wouldn't have dared ask that much," she exclaimed. "I must say, Julie, I admire your nerve."

"You won't get prices like that out in the boonies," Julie said sourly. "That's fifty you owe me. I ought to get more, actually, since I set the price, but since it's you…"

"She must be crazy," Karen said. "The dress didn't even look good on her."

"That may be your opinion and it may be mine, but I suggest you keep such opinions to yourself. And remember, don't accept a check from anyone except the people on that list I gave you. Not even if the customer arrives in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes and is swathed in mink. Some of the richest people are the biggest crooks."

"I remember."

"And if I find a charge that hasn't been okayed, I'll take it out of your salary."

"All right, all right!"

Julie wrung her hands. "Oh, God! I must be mad to do this!"