Shattered Silk Read Free Page A

skirt and kicked it across the room, tore off her blouse, and wadded it into a ball. Shoes, pantyhose, and girdle followed. Her spirits improved slightly as her physical comfort increased, but she didn't look in the mirror again.
    For once the trite complaint of having nothing to wear was the literal truth. She had packed one suitcase before she fled, throwing things into it without looking at them. She ought to call Jack and ask him to send her clothes. They were of no use to him; he would probably be glad to get the last reminders of her out of the house. But he wouldn't pack them himself, not Jack. He would ask Sandra to do it. Sandy, his super-efficient secretary, soon to be his second wife. Even if Karen could have forced herself to talk to Jack, she couldn't endure the idea of Sandy touching her personal possessions. Sandy would do the job neatly and competently, as she did everything; and she would smile with the intolerable pity of the young as she folded the size fourteens and the shabby, practical lingerie. Sandy was nineteen-the same age Karen had been when she married Jack.
    My God, Karen thought despondently, I'm thinking like an old woman. I look like an old woman. When did this happen? How did it happen? I'm only twenty-seven… well, almost twenty-nine. Ten years ago I wore a size 6, played tennis, jogged, watched what I ate. Why did I let this happen?
    She slammed the door of the wardrobe and crossed the room, giving the crumpled blouse a kick as she passed it. There must be some garment in the house she could wear without cutting off her circulation. No use looking in Ruth's wardrobe; her aunt was several inches shorter, petite, and small-boned.
    Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Ruth had kept some of the clothes she and her sister had discarded or left behind-big shirts or big dresses-floats, or tents, or sacks, or whatever they called them then. Ruth laughed at Pat for being a pack rat, but she was almost as bad, she never threw anything away. Karen remembered once having helped Ruth carry some clothes to the attic to be stored. She had never seen an attic so neat, almost dust-free, smelling of cedar and mothballs.
    It was worth looking, at any rate. She had nothing better to do. Slipping her feet into scuffed sandals and her arms into a faded cotton wrapper, she started for the stairs.
    JULIE
was late. Business must have improved, Karen thought, as she spun lettuce and chopped vegetables. It was almost six before she heard the doorbell chime and go on chiming, as Julie leaned on the button.
    Karen opened the door and stepped out of the way. Julie came through like a bull charging into the ring. She headed straight for the kitchen, hurling words over her shoulder.
    "What took you so long? It's hot as the hinges of hell out there; I thought I'd die. I had to go clear to M Street to get hamburgers-"
    "Two blocks," Karen jeered, following Julie.
    "The discomfort index is ninety-nine. I need a drink. Where's the gin? Where are the ice cubes?"
    "Sit down, I'll fix it. Gin and tonic?"
    "Right." Julie dropped her packages onto the table and collapsed into a chair. Her red hair, cut in the erratic style made popular by female rock stars, stuck out in stiff spikes, glued by perspiration and hair spray. She wore an off-the-shoulder blouse and a cotton skirt; rows of plastic beads formed a breastplate around her neck, and when she raised her hand to wipe her streaming brow, a matching row of bracelets jangled and clicked. The outfit would have looked ridiculous on most women, particularly the jewelry, which was of the type Karen categorized as "Woolworth's." But it was oddly becoming to Julie's sharp, vulpine features and stocky frame. "I look like a fat fox," she had once remarked, and although Karen had made polite protestations, there was a great deal of truth in the appraisal.
    Karen offered a glass tinkling with ice cubes. Julie took it; then her eyes narrowed and she studied Karen as if seeing her for the first