Shattered Silk

CHAPTER TWO

THE ringing of the telephone was a vulgar intrusion into the blissful vacuum of sleep. Karen opened her eyes. Rain whispered at the window, and the room was gray with shadows. The illuminated dial of the clock read six-thirty.

The phone went on ringing. Karen squinted unbelievingly at the clock and pulled the sheet over her head. The thin fabric did nothing to mute the sound; putting her fingers in her ears didn't help much either. Who on earth would have the nerve to call at this hour? Pat? He was on his way to Borneo by now. Julie? She never got up at six-thirty. In fact, there was only one person she knew who rose at that unearthly hour.

"Damn," Karen said. She took her fingers out of her ears and reached for the phone. She knew it would go on ringing until she answered.

"Hello?" she croaked.

Julie and Mrs. MacDougal had only one thing in common: their reluctance to waste time on meaningless amenities. "I hear you're going into business," Mrs. Mac said brightly.

"Not right this minute," Karen muttered.

"What? Well, you ought to be thinking about it right this minute. Time is money. Come for breakfast and we'll talk about it."

Karen had been taught to be courteous to her elders, and Mrs. MacDougal was as much her elder as any living person could be. Besides, she adored Mrs. MacDougal. At least she adored her most of the time. The gloomy skies outside, the corresponding gloom that enveloped her spirits, and a hideous fear that she was about to be bullied by not one, but two, MacDougals made it necessary for her to summon up every ounce of good will and good manners in order to refrain from screaming at her old (in every sense of the word) friend.

"I was planning to call you later," she began.

"No time like the present. Just slip on a raincoat and come on over here."

Mrs. MacDougal's bland assumption that she was already up and dressed would have amused her under far different circumstances. While she was trying to decide whether to admit to slothfulness or find some other excuse for delay, Mrs. MacDougal went on, "I was about to suggest some such scheme myself. Delighted that you thought of it too. Now I happen to own a little place that would be perfect for your shop-it's on Thirty-first, just off M Street-and I've been thinking of names. Something evocative but not cutesy. Dreams of Yesterday, or-"

"Mrs. Mac," Karen said desperately. "You're very kind, but I… It was just an idea. I wasn't serious. You know Pat, he always jumps on careless remarks and blows them up into big dramas. I can't… I don't know anything about…"

"Nonsense. What you mean is that you've developed cold feet."

"No, I mean I've come to my senses. It was a crazy idea, and now that I've had time to think about it-"

"Crazy ideas are the best ideas," said Mrs. MacDougal. "Child, I know exactly what you are going through. Your pride has been mashed flatter than a pancake; there is nothing more humiliating to a woman than to have a man tell her he doesn't want her-especially a worthless, low-down creature like Jack. The next few months are going to be hell. You'll be up one minute, and way down the next. But take my word for it-if you decide on a course of action and stick to it, through hell and high water, something will always happen to shake you out of the depths. Now put on your clothes and get over here before I come and fetch you."

The MacDougal house on R Street was almost invisible from the sidewalk; only the massive chimneys showed above the trees that surrounded it, and a high wall enclosed the grounds, which filled an entire city block. It was one of the few remaining mansions of George Town, half a century older than the capital city of which it had become an appendage (a word Georgetowners past and present would have indignantly repudiated).

The gates were closed, but a smaller entrance stood invitingly ajar. Karen shook her head at such carelessness, but as she approached, a voice made robotlike by electrical circuits squeaked, "Good morning, Miss Karen. Please close the gate after you have entered. It locks automatically."

Karen returned the greeting. The closed-circuit television was a new addition, but she recognized the voice of Joseph, Mrs. MacDougal's butler. He must be almost as old as she; the other servants were equally superannuated. Pat was right, it was high time his mother gave up the house, for security reasons if no other. Its museum-quality collections of furniture, fine art, and silver were an irresistible lure to professional thieves, and the aged staff would present no obstacles to a team of burglars.

Like the gate, the front door stood wide open and Joseph waited on the steps, beaming from ear to ear. Ignoring his formal bow, she threw her arms around him and hugged him, and felt a pang at the frailty of the body she clasped. She knew she was the darling of the household and accepted the fact with humility; it was not her own graces that endeared her, but the fact that she and her sister were as close to grandchildren as Mrs. MacDougal would ever have. Pat was an only child, and he had married late in life.

She suspected that Joseph was as shocked by the change in her as she was by his aging, but he was far too well-bred to let his feelings show. He bowed her into the house and helped her off with her coat, tsk-tsking over how wet she was. "You should not have walked in such weather, Miss Karen. Had Mrs. Mac informed me earlier of your coming, I would have sent the car around."

"Sent?" Karen repeated, with an affectionate smile. "I thought you refused to let anyone else drive for Mrs. Mac."

A shadow of vexation crossed Joseph's dark, patrician features. "I regret to inform you, Miss Karen, that the absurd laws of this municipality have forbidden me that activity. However, there is a young person-"

Before he could go on, a parrotlike shriek proclaimed the arrival of Mrs. MacDougal. She wore one of the fantastic garments for which she had long been famous in Washington society. Karen was accustomed to her hostess's eccentricities in dress-Mrs. MacDougal had once received her in a Cossack uniform, complete with slung pelisse and furry hat-but this ensemble reached new heights of bizarreness. It appeared to be a wedding gown of ivory satin, the low-cut bodice encrusted with pearls and brilliants, the skirt overlaid with panels of lace. The effect was marred not only by Mrs. MacDougal's face- which, as her son had once remarked, resembled that of one of the handsomer Egyptian mummies-but by the patter of pearls falling from the bodice and the fact that the dress had been made for a taller, more full-bodied woman.

As Mrs. MacDougal clasped Karen in an affectionate embrace, a perfect hail of pearls splattered onto the floor. Karen gave a cry of distress. "Your beautiful gown!"

Mrs. MacDougal grinned broadly. "My wedding dress. Never think it, would you? I seem to have shrunk. Did you ever read She?"

"No," Karen said, bewildered.

"Immortal woman," Mrs. Mac explained. "Bathed in the fire of Life-two thousand years old-superbly beautiful. Went back into the fire, reversed the process- aged two thousand years in five minutes. Nasty. Felt like that myself when I tried on this dress."

"You look wonderful."

Mrs. MacDougal guffawed. "Age cannot wither nor custom stale my magnificent variety. Or something like that. Let me get out of this antique before it collapses completely. I just put it on to give you a sample of my wares."

She yanked at the dress, and a shower of tiny satin-covered buttons joined the pearls littering the floor. Karen caught at the crumpling folds with careful hands, and Mrs. MacDougal stepped out of the dress. Under it she wore purple jogging pants and a sleeveless, low-cut T-shirt emblazoned in multicolored sequins with a motto so extremely vulgar that Karen's eyes literally popped. Joseph was well accustomed to his mistress's habits; he took the wedding dress from Karen's palsied grasp, and as Mrs. MacDougal escorted her out of the room she saw him advancing on the scattered ornaments with a whisk broom and dustpan, his countenance bland as cream.

Mrs. MacDougal led Karen along a corridor. "Decided to close most of the house last year," she explained. "Too much for Joseph and the others. Moved my bedroom downstairs. Easier for everybody."

The room they entered had been one of the small parlors. It had French doors opening onto a terrace and the famous Japanese garden. Mist blurred the outlines of the bridge and the pagoda and turned the miniature waterfall into a swaying phantom form, but the room was bright and cheerful with its red satin draperies and rose-spattered wallpaper and every light blazing. A small table was set for breakfast. Every other piece of furniture in the room, including the grand piano, was strewn with clothing.

"Show and tell," shouted Mrs. MacDougal, as Karen stared. "Got it out this morning. Lots more where that came from."

The collection resembled Ruth's only in the variety of styles represented, from the beautiful hand-worked lingerie of the Edwardian period to the notorious silver caftan and turban Mrs. MacDougal had worn on her first meeting with her future daughter-in-law. Ruth still hadn't gotten over the shock of that caftan; she talked about it to this day.

But these were no designer copies-they were the originals. One glance would have made that plain to any woman with the slightest sense of fashion. Karen touched a flapper dance dress whose crystal beads shimmered like fragments of ice, and bent over to read the label. "Balenciaga," she said.

Mrs. MacDougal nodded. "There are a couple of Worths around somewhere. He made my trousseau. I gave some things to the cleaning woman-"

Karen let out an involuntary but heartfelt groan. "You gave Worth gowns to the cleaning woman? But he was-he designed for all the royal houses of Europe and England."

"There's still a lot left. I was quite a clotheshorse in my day." Mrs. Mac indicated a white net dress over-embroidered and banded with lace. "I had dozens of those-proper wear for innocent young maidens back then. And this…" She lifted a coat of gold-and-silver brocade whose collar and wide sleeves dripped sable. "I wore this to The Girl from Utah at the Knickerbocker Theater in 1914." She began to croon in a loud tuneless voice. "La-da-de-da-dah, da-da-da-da-"

"Jerome Kern?" Karen said, grinning.

"Right. See, you have a feeling for the antique. What's the term-vintage?"

"These aren't vintage, these are classics-museum pieces." Karen spread her hands in a gesture of denial and appreciation. "I can't accept-"

"Who said I was giving them to you?" Mrs. MacDougal's deep-set black eyes sparkled wickedly. "The markup is about two hundred percent, isn't it? I'll collect my third, never fear."

Karen laughed helplessly. "You're impossible."

"Thank you. Let's eat, shall we? I'm starved." She lifted a silver cover and steam rose from a yellow foam of scrambled eggs framed by sausages.

"I certainly don't need to eat," Karen said. "I'm overweight."

"I'll bet you've started to lose it. Your appetite isn't too hot these days, is it? A little queasy all the time? I had a friend," said Mrs. MacDougal reminiscently, "who lived for a year after her divorce on gin, smoked oysters, and artichoke hearts."

"You're making that up."

"Child, I don't have to make up bizarre stories. People do stranger things than any writer can invent, and after ninety-odd years I've seen it all. She lost twenty pounds," Mrs. MacDougal added. "Not that I recommend her method, mind you. Have a sausage. After breakfast we'll go around and look at the shop I have in mind."

"Mrs. Mac, it's out of the question for me to open in Georgetown. Rents and taxes are sky-high. I'll have to look around in the suburbs-Gaithersburg, Rockville, Falls Church. That's what Julie did; she only moved to Georgetown a few years ago, and I think she's regretting it."

"I agree," Mrs. MacDougal said calmly.

"You do? But you said-"

"Oh, I just threw that out to see whether you had forgotten to use your brains. I'm glad to find that you haven't. What are your plans?"

Karen wasn't aware that she had made any plans. However, prompted by encouraging grunts and nods of approval, she heard herself glibly propounding schemes that must have developed while she slept; she certainly hadn't consciously considered them during her waking moments. Trips to museums to study costume and find materials on textile treatment and preservation, weekend visits to outlying towns looking for a suitable location and checking out future sources such as local auctions and yard sales… By the time she finished breakfast she realized she had a campaign mapped out, at least in broad outline, and she looked incredulously at Mrs. MacDougal, who was licking her fingers after eating six sausages.

She's a witch, Karen thought-a genuine, eighteen-carat witch. How did she know what I was thinking when I didn't even know myself? Or did she put the ideas into my head? No wonder Pat became interested in the history of magic and superstition. He had been inspired by watching his mother in action.

"It sounds as if you have everything under control," Mrs. MacDougal announced. "As for sources, I can help there; I have several friends who adore picking up an extra buck or two on the side."

"I'll have to pay you a commission."

"How much?" Mrs. MacDougal asked hopefully.

Karen started to laugh and then thought better of it. Mrs. MacDougal wasn't kidding. "Are you sure?" she ventured, indicating the finery littering the room.

"Quite sure. I wouldn't give my bossy son the satisfaction of admitting it, but he's right; this house is too much for me and my servants. Joseph would rather die than omit a single one of the rituals he considers essential, and one of these days he will-die, I mean. The rest of them are as old as Joseph-Rachel, my maid-you remember Rachel?-and the cook, and the others. I've tried to get them to retire, but they won't; and to be honest, I couldn't imagine life without them. They're my friends. So I'm going to sell, probably at the end of the summer."

"Pat doesn't want the house?"

"What would he do with it?"

"But it's a shame to have this lovely place pass out of the family after so many years-"

Mrs. MacDougal sniffed. "Sloppy sentimentality, my girl. The place is a damned white elephant; it ruined my father, trying to live up to an income he didn't have, and it was falling down around our ears until I married Jackson. Besides, things don't matter. People matter. There isn't a thing in the house, up to and including the house itself, that I wouldn't give up to add a year to Joseph's life."

"Well, of course. But-"

"But nothing. That's it. Have you finished?" Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. MacDougal rang the buzzer that summoned the maid. Rachel opened the door so promptly that Karen knew she had been hovering outside. Before the elderly servant could enter, a shaggy form squirmed through the opening and made a beeline for Karen. The latter hastily hoisted her feet, and the dog, missing its intended goal, snapped viciously at the leg of the chair.

"Bad dog! Bad dog!" Scolding in chorus, Rachel and Mrs. MacDougal converged on the animal. Mrs. MacDougal reached it first and lifted it in her arms.

Rachel gave Karen a hug. "I hope that nasty creature didn't hurt you, honey," she exclaimed. "I tried to keep him out, but he got by me somehow. I guess I'm not as light on my feet as I used to be."

"He missed." Karen returned to her chair, keeping a wary eye on Alexander.

Alexander's chief claim to fame was that he had won an "Ugliest Dog in Washington" contest. Mrs. MacDougal had been one of the patrons of the affair, held in aid of a worthy charity. It had been love at first sight, and she had persuaded the owner to sell him.

Alexander looked like… Karen's imagination always failed her when she tried to find a comparison. Alexander resembled no other creature, extinct or extant. He was about the size of a miniature poodle, but his legs were no longer than those of a dachshund. He was as fuzzy as a sheepdog from snout to rump, but his tail and rear end were obscenely bald. His coloring resembled that of a calico cat, patches of orange, black, and white on a gray background. But it was his head that had won the title. His ears reached almost to the floor. His canines stuck out at right angles to his jaw, which provided a useful guide to the location of his mouth, otherwise totally hidden by hair. Hair covered both his eyes. From time to time he would give his head an irritable shake, baring one optic for a brief period-mercifully brief, for Alexander's eyes were the most malevolent Karen had ever seen on a living creature. Compared to Alexander, buzzards and crocodiles looked kind. Mrs. MacDougal claimed that he located objects by a kind of radar rather than by sight, and he certainly could home in on an intended victim with diabolical speed and accuracy. His bite was worse than his bark, but not by much, for the acute angle of the canines prevented him from sinking them in, and the rest of his teeth, though sharp as needles, were not very long. He was only interested in two things-eating and biting people. His adoring owner insisted that the two were related, and that Alexander's attempts to take chunks out of visitors were the result of his poor sight. To give Alexander his due, it must be said that usually he only bit people once. Usually.

"Bad, bad doggie," Mrs. MacDougal crooned. "You remember Karen. You mustn't bite Karen. You love Karen. Karen loves you. Karen won't let you come and live with her if you bite her."

"Rrrr," said Alexander disagreeably.

Karen looked helplessly at Rachel, who was clearing the table and watching the proceedings at the same time. Rachel's plump shoulders lifted in a shrug. Rachel sympathized, but Rachel was not going to protest. She hated Alexander and had from the start.

"You mean you're going to give Alexander up?" Karen asked, trying to keep her voice from quivering.

"Of course I'm not going to give up my darling." Mrs. MacDougal squeezed Alexander. He burped in a vulgar fashion. "I'm not going to move into one of those nasty sterile nursing homes where the nurses call you honey. I'll buy a nice boring condo surrounded by barbed wire and security guards. Rachel will come with me, of course, and so will Alexander-was he his mother's darling, wassums? I just want you to keep him for me this summer while I travel."

"Where are you going?" Karen asked.

"Borneo." Mrs. MacDougal's sagging jowls split in a malignant grin. "Can't you see Pat's face when I come riding into the clearing on a donkey, or a gnu, or whatever they ride in those parts?"

"But," Karen gasped. "But-but-you can't-"

"Yes, I can." Alexander began squirming and Mrs. MacDougal put him down. "It will be my last fling. If I survive, I'll settle down at Golden Acres or Bide-a-Wee and behave myself. If I don't-well, hell's bells, Karen, I've had a good run. No complaints. I thought of going some time ago, but I couldn't leave Alexander. He doesn't get on well with Joseph, and Rachel is terrified of him- silly old fool. You are a silly old fool, Rachel, to be afraid of a poor little dog."

"Poor little dog nothing," Rachel exclaimed. "That's no dog, that's part alligator and part devil. Don't you take him, Miss Karen, honey. You won't have a spare inch of flesh on those pretty ankles."

"Nonsense. Once he gets used to Karen, he won't touch her. He never bites me."

"He don't like the way you taste," said Rachel.

"That's no way to talk to your employer," said Mrs. MacDougal, grinning. "Get on out of here or I'll make you go to Borneo with me."

"That's no threat, that's a promise," Rachel said grimly. "I am going to Borneo with you. You think you gonna go traipsing off into them jungles without somebody to take care of you, you got another think coming. You're the one that's a silly old fool. Never heard such a wild idea in my life."

She stamped out with the tray, her heavy tread shaking the table.

"I can't let her go with me," Mrs. MacDougal said. "She's too old."

Karen guessed that Rachel must be in her mid-seventies, which made her almost twenty years younger than Mrs. Mac. She tried desperately to think of an argument that might dissuade the old lady, or a way of preventing her, and realized she didn't have a leg to stand on. Even if she had had the legal right and the moral smugness to take such a step, Mrs. MacDougal could not be declared incompetent; she was quite sane-or, to put it another way, she was no crazier than she had ever been. Moreover, Karen sympathized with her point of view. When one's time approached, how much better to go out in a blaze of glorious lunacy, on a gnu, than to dribble one's life away in a rocking chair.

Alexander, smelling the ghosts of the sausages, was cruising the room. He tossed his head. One large brown, evil eye emerged from the brush. It focused squarely on Karen. She shuddered.

The rain had almost stopped by the time she started along Wisconsin Avenue on her way to work, but the steep slope of the sidewalk was slick with greasy water, and a fine drizzle dampened the shoulders of her raincoat. In the gray summer heat the street looked like any grubby business district instead of the fashionable shopping area it actually was. Traffic snarled the street, exhaust fumes blending with the fog to form a dirty substance that looked, and was, inimical to human health. Throwaway plastic containers and paper napkins from the fast-food stores littered the sidewalk. At least the bad weather had driven the street vendors and the vacant-faced, stumbling alcoholics indoors. Ten years ago she had loved Georgetown, had been stimulated and excited by its eclectic liveliness- bars and fortunetellers rubbing shoulders with chic boutiques, vendors selling cheap gold chains outside a fashionable jewelry store, elegant antique shops sandwiched between People's Drugs and McDonald's. It must be another sign of premature aging that made her find the area tawdry and unappealing.

Julie's shop was not on Wisconsin, but on one of the side streets. Climbing vines rooted in antique iron buckets framed the doorway, and the single window held an eye-catching arrangement of odds and ends, their very incongruity demanding the attention of the passerby. The name of the establishment was lettered in gold: old things. No capital letters, just the two simple words. Smart of Julie. Not only was the name chichi clever, but it made no claim. "Antiques" implied, at least, that the dealer knew what the word meant and was willing to stand behind its implication.

Karen was sardonically amused to see that Julie had a new window arrangement. A rusty well pump stood next to a dainty Louis Quatorze-type sofa covered in delicate brocade. Across the sofa had been flung, with seeming carelessness, the best of Julie's few antique gowns, an Edwardian tea dress of pale-blue muslin. The ensemble was completed by a pair of heavy work boots.

Karen had felt a certain letdown after leaving Mrs. MacDougal. The old lady was like a strong wind; one had to brace oneself to stand upright against it, and when the wind stopped blowing, the victim had a tendency to sag. But the sight of Julie's window stiffened Karen's drooping spine. The Edwardian dress was a promise to customers of things to come-a promise Julie had no right to make.

The bells over the door chimed as Karen entered the shop. Julie was on the phone. Though she noted Karen's entrance immediately, she talked with such machine-gun rapidity she finished the sentence she had begun before she was able to stop herself.

"…just your size, Friday at the latest." After a glance at Karen, her half of the conversation turned monosyllabic. "Yes. Right. Yes. Okay. By."

"Hello," said Karen.

"Hi. Don't just stand there, you're dripping all over my antique Kerman."

Karen opened the door at the back of the shop and went into the office. Rob, the only other employee, was seated at the desk, his yellow curls bent over a pile of invoices. "Hi there, sweetie," he crooned, glancing up. "Want some coffee? Fresh brewed by my own white hands."

"No, thanks."

"But, sweetie, you're drenched, poor baby. Here, let me take your coat."

A gold earring glinted as he rose to his full height- well over six feet-and reached for Karen's coat. He was a pretty thing, with delicate, epicene features, and many of the older women customers assumed he was gay. They were very sweet to him, and Rob cooed and gurgled and giggled at them like one of the girls. The customers could not have been more wrong. Rob's effect on younger women was devastating and was callously exploited.

Despite his air of camaraderie, Karen suspected Rob didn't like her much. He had made a halfhearted pass at her shortly after she began working, and she had complained to Julie. Julie had responded with contemptuous hilarity and had promised to speak to Rob, who had sulked for several days. Dumb, dumb, Karen thought disgustedly. I should have handled it myself, not made a big deal of it. That was one of her problems-she had gotten out of the habit of acting independently, without consulting someone else first.

And to make matters worse, she had realized too late that Rob's motive had been kindness rather than lust. She wasn't his type. He liked his women young, or rich, or both.

Like Jack.

Karen muttered under her breath and Rob turned his head. "What did you say, ducks?"

"Nothing. Thanks, Rob."

She went back into the shop and surveyed the cluttered interior of the small room with a newly critical eye. Julie had a style of her own. The shop was absolutely crammed with objects; one had to sidle sideways through the clutter. Yet the clutter was rather charming, suggesting an old-fashioned general store where customers willing to burrow through stacks of Levi's and yard goods might discover treasures the owner had forgotten and under-priced.

Karen admired the effect, but she knew she could not imitate Julie. She would have to develop her own individual style. A picture formed in her mind-a big, high-ceilinged room with crown moldings and chair rails, the white walls warmed by sunlight from tall windows; ornate, gold-framed mirrors, green plants in Victorian cachepots; some of the more striking garments, like the Chinese ceremonial skirt of Mrs. Mac's, hanging like banners against the walls-

"What?" she said, starting.

"I said you look like Dracula. Didn't you sleep?"

"I slept very well, thank you-until six-thirty, when the damned telephone woke me up."

"Well, for God's sake put on some make-up and try to look pleasant. A customer would take one look at you and run screaming into the street. That skirt is too tight. Why didn't you wear the blue silk? Who called at that ungodly hour?"

"Mrs. MacDougal." Karen glanced into a nearby mirror. It was eighteenth-century Chippendale, with a curved frame and a gilt eagle on top. The wavy, time-worn glass made her face look bloodless and distorted. She fished in her purse for her lipstick.

"Mrs. MacDougal," Julie repeated.

"Uh-huh."

"How is she?"

"Fine." Karen returned the lipstick to her purse. "I had breakfast with her."

"I don't suppose you talked to your aunt."

"Yes, I did. She called last night."

"She said you couldn't wear the dress?"

"What… Oh, that damned blue silk. You have the most incredibly one-track mind, Julie. She said I could have anything I wanted and do anything I wanted with it."

"Marvelous." Julie's eyes glistened. "I'll come over this evening and we'll go through the clothes. You're a friend, so I'll give you a square deal. Half the retail price.

I'm really cheating myself, because the usual markup is three hundred percent-"

"Two hundred," Karen said.

"Not in Georgetown. Do you know what my overhead is?"

"Yes, I do know. You told me at least twice a day every day last week. You can have a few of the clothes to sell on consignment for me. I believe twenty percent is the usual charge. The rest I'll keep. I'm going to start my own business in the fall."

"Son of a bitch!" screamed Julie.

The argument raged for a good ten minutes. Rob came out to see what the ruckus was about and lingered, his eyes moving from one combatant to the other as he emitted impartial cries of encouragement. "That was a good one, Karen. Right on, Julie darling, you tell her."

After accusing Karen of gross ingratitude and predicting instant bankruptcy for her proposed business, Julie suddenly gave in.

"Oh, well," she said coolly. "It was worth a try. You never had much gumption, and I figured you were so down in the dumps you wouldn't have the guts to strike out on your own."

"My pal," Karen said.

"I offered you a job-"

"Because you wanted to get away for a few weeks and you didn't dare leave Rob in charge. Oh, Rob, I'm sorry-"

"No sweat, sweetie," Rob chirped. "I'm a frightful cheat and no one knows it better than Julie. Not vicious, you know, just weak. Now Julie is just the opposite-not weak, just vicious."

"Shut up, Rob," Julie said. "Okay, Karen, what about your aunt's furniture and ornaments?"

"I don't think she plans to get rid of anything," Karen said. "If she does, I'll make sure you get your chance."

"Mrs. MacDougal's too?"

"Oh, for… All right."

"Fair enough. Rob, I want those bills out by closing time. What are you standing around for?"

Her voice was placid, almost cheerful, though she had been screaming like a harpy only a few minutes earlier. Rob retreated, with a grin and a wink at Karen. She was grateful for his silent encouragement; her palms were wet with perspiration and she felt slightly sick. Confrontations always affected her that way. Yet Julie's casual contemptuous words still rankled. "You never had much gumption." Was that really true? Karen had always thought of herself as quiet and well-bred rather than weak, and aggressive self-confidence is not a characteristic possessed by many eighteen-year-olds-especially eighteen-year-old women. Jack had caught her at that most vulnerable of times, and certainly he had done nothing to reinforce her self-esteem… With an effort Karen shook off painful memories.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Straighten the place up. You can start with that table by the door, the one with the books and pamphlets. People make such damn messes-"

The pamphlets, devoted to Georgetown shops and sights, had been disarranged, but not to the extent Julie's comment implied. As she sorted and stacked them, Karen's eye was caught by an item that had not been on the table the day before. Like most of the other local guidebooks, it was paper-bound and appeared to have been published by a small vanity press. The cover bore the title Legends of Georgetown in blazing scarlet letters above a hand holding a dagger dripping with the same lurid shade.

Karen picked up a copy. Julie, who had been watching her, said casually, "Eye-catching, isn't it? I just got it this morning."

"There's no author's name."

Julie chuckled. "Take a look at the table of contents and you'll understand why."

The innocuous title of the book certainly did not suit the contents. "The Sinister Specter of the Murdered Madam" was one chapter title; others included such provocative gems as "The Georgetown Strangler," "Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper?" and "Murder in High Places."

"All the standard Georgetown ghost stories are included," Julie said. "But there are some nice gruesome modern scandals too. That's why the author prefers to remain anonymous. A lot of people are going to be howling for his blood when they read about their family skeletons."

"His? Do you know who it is?"

Julie hesitated. Karen could see she was dying to boast of inside information, but discretion won out. "I used the masculine pronoun for the sake of convenience, darling. Yes, I know who it is, that's one of the reasons why I said I'd stock the book. I always like to give a helping hand to old friends who are down on their luck. Have a copy on me-go ahead, take it. You need something to amuse you during those long, dull evenings alone. Who knows, you may recognize some of the subjects. Wasn't there some funny story about that house of your aunt's?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, of course she wouldn't want to tell you- being all alone and defenseless in the house as you are. You know this area has the highest rate of violent crime-"

The door opened and Julie went to greet the entering customer. A smile of satisfaction curved her wide mouth.

Karen retreated into the office with the book. She had won the battle, but Julie intended to make sure she didn't enjoy her victory. Julie knew a lot of ways to needle people.

Karen was sufficiently disturbed by her hints to examine the grisly little volume in more detail while she ate a late lunch at the cafe next door. There was nothing about Ruth's house. One chapter-the one entitled "Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper?"-mentioned a "certain red brick Federal house not far from Wisconsin Avenue," but the case turned out to be a horrible double knife murder that had occurred several years before Karen came to Georgetown.

She was obscurely relieved. Not that it should have disturbed her unduly to learn that the house had been the scene of a past crime; few houses that age had histories unstained by tragedy of one sort or another. All the same…

She was leafing idly through the book when a name jumped out of the page at her with the impact of a poisoned dart. Mrs. Jackson MacDougal-"the former Bess Beall, spoiled debutante darling of that luxurious era when even adultery had a glittering glamour." The sentence was only too typical of the author's style-bad syntax combined with innuendo that never quite toppled over into actual libel. Karen's eyes widened as she read on, about the ambassador "from a noble family of impeccable lineage," who had cut his throat in the MacDougal billiard room, leaving a note accusing the mistress of the mansion of toying with his affections and then casting him aside. The billiard table had to be cast aside too.

A thin sheaf of grainy black-and-white photographs in the center of the book showed some of the author's victims. Karen would not have recognized Mrs. MacDougal; but she recognized the dress. She had seen it only that morning-a flowing gown of white crepe and satin, dripping with swaths of white fox. The wearer's figure was as fashionably slim as that of a young boy, and even the poor quality of the photographic reproduction could not impair her gamin prettiness. Soft dark hair cupped the beautifully shaped little head, and the wide eyes were framed by extravagant lashes. But the grin was unmistakably that of Mrs. MacDougal.

"Age cannot wither…" Karen's eyes were wet as she gently closed the book. Perhaps that gallant laughter was the only thing time could not destroy.

Business was slow, and by four o'clock Julie's mood was as gray as the weather. "I don't know why I don't just close up for two weeks while I'm in New England," she grumbled.

"Why don't you?" Karen asked.

"I have to pay rent and utilities and insurance anyhow. You never know-some sucker might wander in and fall in love with one of the white elephants I've been trying to sell for months." Julie sighed noisily. "You're out of your mind to think of opening your own place, Karen. If you knew half the headaches…"

Karen ignored this not-too-subtle hint and retired to the office. Rob was out making a delivery. He would probably not return that day; the customer lived in Virginia, and traffic on the bridges during rush hour was horrendous, especially in bad weather, for all of Washington seems to go mad when the roads are wet. Karen sat down at the desk and opened the file containing Julie's purchase orders for the past six months. She was curious about Julie's sources and profit margins. It behooved her to learn as much as she could, before Julie decided there was no sense in running free classes in merchandising for a potential competitor.

It was all she could do to force her tired eyes to read Julie's writing. The interview with Mrs. MacDougal had been exhausting; she felt as if the old lady had turned her inside out, hosed her down to clear out the cobwebs, and hung her up to dry. Then the strident argument with Julie… Julie was right. She couldn't start her own business. She didn't have the guts, or the know-how, or the strength.

She was drooping over the papers-having noted, with a faint surge of malicious interest, that the so-called Pennsylvania highboy had been part of a shipment from Glasgow, Scotland-when she heard the door chimes. Reluctantly she pushed the papers aside and got to her feet. Shoplifting was an everpresent problem, and it was hard for one person to keep an unobtrusive eye on several customers at once without spoiling the air of gracious ease antique dealers liked to create.

As she started to open the door, she heard Julie's shrill voice. "Karen! Karen, come on out; here's an old friend who's dying to see you."

Karen was tempted to close the door and pretend she had not heard. Several "old friends" had visited the shop since she started working, and when she was feeling particularly low she suspected Julie of calling all her former acquaintances and inviting them to come and gloat over her. Morbid and absurd, of course-but she still winced when she thought of Miriam Montgomery, nee Spaulding, and Shreve Danforth. Shreve was now Mrs. Assistant Secretary of State Givens; she was as slim and sleekly muscled as she had been ten years ago, when she and Karen had competed for top seed on the university women's tennis team. They had competed in another arena as well…

Shreve had not forgotten; she had ordered Karen about like a servant, her eyes bright with malice. Just like Shreve; but Karen had rather liked Miriam Montgomery. The latter's cool indifference had really hurt.

Julie hallooed again, more emphatically. Karen knew she was in for it. She eased the door open a little more and looked out.

Even on a sunny day the interior of the shop was not brightly lighted. According to Julie, the dusky illumination created an atmosphere of relaxation and peace. (It also made it difficult for customers to spot stains, scratches, and other minor imperfections in the merchandise.) However, the newcomers were standing directly under a Delft chandelier, and such light as its sixty watts produced shone directly on the face of the taller of the pair.

For a moment Karen felt as if a pair of giant hands had seized her body and squeezed. Hearing, vision, sensation, even breathing were suspended. Then her battered senses rallied, though her hands, fallen nervelessly to her sides, were sticky with sudden perspiration. She had not seen Mark for ten years. Yet recognition had been instantaneous and overwhelming.

He hadn't changed-and yet he had, in a number of small ways. Numbly her mind listed them. The chestnut-brown hair was sleekly, expertly styled, whereas once it had been tousled and unruly. He had tugged at his hair whenever he was excited or intensely interested in something, and he almost always was excited about a theory, an idea, a vision. His expression was intent and slightly frowning, but the parallel lines between his dark brows were deeper now. That was how she remembered him, grave and intent, not smiling. He didn't smile often. He was too serious, too committed to the causes he cared about-more than he cared about individuals…Of medium height and rather slightly built, he seemed taller now. It must be the way he carried himself, straight and erect instead of casually slouching, with a new air of authority.

The greatest change was in his clothes. She couldn't remember ever having seen him in anything but jeans and a faded shirt. She had teased him about that shirt, accusing him of owning only one, which he washed every night and never pressed. Sometimes, when the weather was freezing, he condescended to wear an old navy wind-breaker, worn through at both elbows.

He was now wearing a tan trenchcoat that looked as if it had just come off the rack in one of the more expensive men's stores. It was open in front, exposing a shiny-white shirt and a dignified dark-blue tie-the conventional Washington bureaucrat's uniform, predating the Yuppie era by several decades.

The woman with him was blond and petite and very pretty.

The ringing in Karen's ears subsided and she heard Julie say, "Yes, she's back. Poor dear, I was glad to help her out. You know how it is, she's pretty low. I'm afraid she's changed a great deal. I'll go get her, I know she'd love to see you."

Julie started toward the office. Mark raised his hand as if to detain her, but then shrugged and let her go.

Karen fled, hoping the obstacle course in the shop would slow Julie long enough to let her make her escape. She snatched her coat as she headed for the back door, not because she gave a damn about getting wet, but because if the coat was on the hook Julie would know she had not gone far. She closed one door just as Julie burst through the other, and darted into an adjoining doorway, where she huddled ankle-deep in soggy trash.

Hearing the back door open, she pressed herself back into the alcove. Julie's voice echoed hollowly. "Karen? Where the hell are you?"

Karen put her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders. Her heel had crushed a plastic trash bag. The stench of rotting fruit was so strong it made her stomach twist.

She went to the end of the alley and around the block, and stood under an awning across the street until she saw Mark leave. He didn't look in her direction. His eyes were fixed on the face of the woman, who was smiling up at him from under a very becoming rain hat. After they had turned the corner, Karen crossed the street and entered the shop.

"Where did you go?" Julie demanded.

Karen had had time to invent an excuse-not a very convincing excuse, but it was better than none. "I thought I heard a cat crying outside."

"So you chased it all the way down the alley and around the block?" Julie's eyes narrowed. "By a strange coincidence you just missed an old friend of yours."

"Oh, really? Who?"

"Mark Brinckley."

"Mark… Oh, of course. What shame I wasn't here."

"He'll be back," Julie said, not one whit deceived by Karen's pretense that she had forgotten Mark's name. "His girlfriend is interested in that armoire. She pretended to be interested in the lowboy, but it was really the armoire.

If she comes in while I'm gone, you can give her the usual ten percent, but only if she asks; make it look like a special favor to the dear friend of an old friend. You know the procedure."

"I ought to. It was the first thing you taught me." Karen started to unbutton her coat.

"Don't bother to take off your coat, I'm closing," Julie said. "Mark said to tell you he was looking forward to seeing you again."

Karen doubted that he had said it, or, if he had, that it was anything more than conventional politeness. She did not reply, so Julie abandoned indirection and went straight for the jugular.

"Weren't you engaged to him once?"

"People didn't get engaged in those days, remember?"

"I've forgotten what we used to call it, but I know what I mean-and so do you. He's not married."

Karen shrugged. "The lady may not have been his wife, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one."

"Oh, my, what a little cynic you are. I happen to know he's not married because the Post ran an interview with him. You heard he was elected to Congress last year, didn't you?"

"Oh, was he?" Karen turned to the mirror and stared blindly and intently at its clouded surface. She had heard of Mark's victory. It had not been one of the big, exciting races, but she had heard about it. Mostly from Jack. He had been very interested in that particular House seat.

"So," she said, "he's living in Washington now?"

"Well, darling, he has to when Congress is in session, now doesn't he? He's as gorgeous as ever, don't you think? Oh, I forgot-you didn't see him. Well, take my word; just standing next to him made me break out all over. You two had quite a thing going for a while, as I recall. When you and Jack ran off and got married, we were all surprised. Especially Mark. He couldn't have been too desperately crushed, though; he certainly consoled himself fast enough. Of course Shreve had been throwing herself at him all year. All he had to do was turn around, and there she was, ready and willing. From what I hear, she still is. Of course her husband is a lot older than she. You know how that is, don't you, sweetie? I wonder if Shreve knows about this new little lady. Mark didn't introduce her to me. I can't imagine why…"

Karen stood unmoving, feeling as if she were under attack by a whole horde of wasps; one sting followed the other so rapidly that numbness finally overcame pain and she felt nothing at all.

She turned blindly toward the door and Julie said gaily, "I hope you aren't brooding about the nasty things I said today. You know how I am, I just get mad and let everything hang out. My shrink says it's the only way to cope with stress. I didn't mean anything by it. You do forgive me, don't you?"

A deprecating smile curved her lips and her eyes were wide and candid. She really meant what she said, or at least she thought she did, which came to the same thing. Do forgive me for cutting you into little aching pieces, it's just my cute, harmless habit. No reasonable person would hold it against me.

Karen murmured something noncommittal. It satisfied Julie; with a practiced smile she put up her umbrella and darted into the pedestrian traffic.

Karen stood staring after her for a moment. Then she shook her head and turned toward home.

What a day. What a horrible, tiring, unbelievable day! Only a few more miserable blocks, a few more terrible minutes, and she could collapse. A glass of wine, a chocolate bar, and thou, oh, muscular hero of television-not singing in the wilderness, but wrecking cars, making love to lissome ladies, fighting villains, and always winning. Just what she needed. Someone who always won.

Head bowed against the rain, hands in her pockets, she trudged northward, wondering whether to stop at a carry-out restaurant for something to eat or forage in Ruth's freezer. To hell with the diet she had started. Tonight she needed all the comfort she could get, and a Hershey bar was cheaper than a psychiatrist.

At least she wouldn't have to worry about seeing Mark again. He must be as anxious to avoid her as she was him. It must have come as a nasty shock to him to learn that she was back in Georgetown, a lone, lorn divorcee-to-be. He would assume she would try to renew their old acquaintance. Karen was not the first of her circle to face divorce. She had seen it happen before, and she knew the signs of desperate pursuit-the forced, bright smile, the too-youthful wardrobe, the telephone calls to married friends. "I do hate to ask, darling, but if Jim (or Joe or Bob) has a few minutes, could he come over and fix my stopped-up sink (or check my snow tires or change the lightbulb)…"

Too bad Mark couldn't know he was safe from that sort of thing. Just as she was safe from him. He would stay as far away from the shop as he could. He wouldn't seek her out there.

She was right. He didn't go to the shop. He was waiting for her on the corner of P Street and Wisconsin.

Concentrating on keeping her footing on the wet sidewalk, she was not aware of his presence until she heard his voice. "Welcome back, Karen. You might know it would be raining."

Karen didn't even stumble. One part of her mind wondered why she was not surprised. Another part moaned, oh, well, what's one more disaster on a day like this? Aloud and quite coolly, she said, "Hello, Mark. I'm sorry I missed you earlier."

"Like hell. Where were you, hiding behind a garbage can in the alley?"

"What makes you think-"

"I was right, wasn't I?" It was a crow of triumph. "That's always been your technique-hiding. And usually behind something rotten. Like Jack Nevitt."

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't say things like that."

"Don't tell me you're still defending him. Weren't ten years of serfdom long enough?"

Anger is nonproductive, Karen told herself. Anger accomplished nothing. "What did you do with your friend?" she asked.

"Put her in a cab and sent her home. Don't worry about anyone overhearing; this is just between us."

It was raining harder. Water dripped off the brim of Mark's hat. (Mark wearing a hat? In the old days he went bareheaded in all weather, his hair darkened to carnelian by wet or frosted whitely with snowflakes.)

"There's no point in this, Mark," she said wearily. "I don't intend to invite you to come in-"

"I haven't time anyway. Dinner engagement."

"Oh. Then why-"

"Did I stand in the rain waiting for you?" Mark pondered the question with the same gravity he had once bestowed on serious issues of foreign policy. He had majored in foreign affairs; had been one of Jack's students.

After a moment he said, "I yielded to an impulse. I don't often do that anymore, but… Julie had said you were in the office. I knew you must have seen or heard me and bolted out into the alley in order to avoid me. It made me angry."

They had reached the house. Karen stopped by the low wrought-iron gate. Mark reached a long arm over it and unlatched it, with the careless ease of someone who had performed the same action many times. But he did not open it for her. He wasn't finished.

It was on this exact spot that their final confrontation had taken place. It had been raining that day too- a soft spring rain. The sidewalk was sprinkled with catkins from the budding maples and the young leaves shone as if freshly painted. In the gentleness of April Mark's hoarse, angry voice had echoed like an obscenity. She would never forget the things he had said. She had slapped him-the first and last time, the only time she had ever struck anyone.

He was remembering too. A faint ghost of old anger tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes.

"I thought you had come to gloat," Karen said.

"Maybe I did. I hope not. It would have been a lousy thing to do. You don't need to have your nose rubbed in it, do you?"

She had been sure, only a few minutes earlier, that her spirits had sunk as low as they possibly could. She had been mistaken. Mark's eyes moved deliberately from her limp, straggling hair down to the hem of her shapeless old raincoat. Warm brown eyes, almost the same shade as his hair; but they weren't warm and smiling now, they were as cold as the amber whose color they shared.

He had a right to be angry, a right to gloat. Every prediction he had made that spring day had come true. "He likes them young and pretty and intelligent. He likes to pick their brains and cut them down to size-his size.

You have a lot going for you, Karen, you can be somebody. Don't let him use you. He only wants you because you're my lady, he's hated my guts ever since I raised a stink about that paper of mine he tried to steal, he's getting back at me through you-"

That was when she had slapped him. That was the one thing she couldn't accept-the humiliating suggestion that revenge and spite, not love, had prompted Jack's proposal. She still could not accept it. But Mark had been right about everything else, including Jack's ability to destroy her identity and her ambition.

All at once, like a thin demonic voice inside her head, she seemed to hear Mrs. Mac's screech. "And what is he doing? Seems to me he's no better than your husband. Don't stand there and take it!"

She raised her drooping head and blinked the raindrops from her lashes. "No, I don't need to have my nose rubbed in it! I don't need any more-any more crap from anybody, Mark Brinckley, especially from you. You've had your fun and I hope you enjoyed it, because you aren't going to get another chance. Good-by."

She reached for the gate, but he held it firm, moving slightly to block her way. "Fun?" he repeated, his lips twisting in a wry curve that certainly held no suggestion of amusement. "If you think I've enjoyed this… Maybe it's impossible for either of us to forget the past-even the past five minutes-but can't we at least be civil to one another? I'm very fond of your aunt and uncle, and I'd like to go on being friends with them. Ruth canceled an invitation a while back because she thought you wouldn't want to see me."

So he had renewed his old friendship with Ruth and Pat. Ruth hadn't mentioned him. Neither had Pat, whose tactlessness was proverbial.

Compared to the other emotional blows she had endured that day, this news should have been only a minor slap in the face, but to Karen it was almost the last straw. At least Mark was honest. He wanted to forgive and forget (and give him credit, she thought bitterly, for avoiding the time-worn and hideously inappropriate cliche) only because hostility between them would threaten a cherished relationship.

One last effort, she thought. I've come this far without cracking… "Ruth was mistaken," she said coolly. "I don't care whether I see you or not. As for being civil- if I understand you correctly, my problem has always been an excess of civility rather than a lack of it. You're the one who has trouble being polite to people. If you intend to change your ways you can start by letting me get in out of the rain."

Meekly Mark opened the gate and stood back.

"Karen?"

Something in his voice stopped her as she started up the walk. She turned. He was smiling-a genuine smile this time, the rare, well-remembered expression that had once made her very bones melt. Ten years vanished like blown smoke.

"Congratulations," he said. "When did you learn to start fighting back?"