The Light of Paris Read Free Page A

shouldn’t have. He was like a well-dressed bloodhound, and if I ate anything other than carrot sticks, he nailed me for it every time, even though I had finally learned to check my shirts for powdered sugar before going home.
    â€œFine,” I said, heading into the bedroom to change into the black dress. Fighting with him wasn’t worth the effort—it was easier to eat what he told me to, wear what he wanted me to, act how he thought I should. He was a little like my mother in that way, though in a competition between them, he’d never win. Phillip was used to getting his way, but my mother could kill you with canapés and kindness.
    I changed into the assigned dress and slipped on a pair of heels thatpinched at my toes. My stomach was tight and painful, but there were no antacids left in the bathroom. After going through a couple of evening bags and the bedside table, I finally found some in my closet and threw them in my mouth, wiping my hands on the hem of my dress as I walked back into the living room.
    â€œI’m ready to go,” I announced, hanging my sweater in the closet.
    Phillip, who had been flipping impatiently through channels on the television, turned and looked at me. “What is that on your dress?”
    I looked down to see the outline of my chalky fingers on the bottom of the skirt. “Oh, you know. I was working a crime scene.”
    No smile. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Just clean up, Madeleine. We’re going to be late.”
    â€œAnd I’d hate to miss a moment with Dimpy,” I said. I walked over to the kitchen and wet the corner of a towel, dabbing at the dust until it disappeared. Throwing the damp towel onto the counter, I sighed loudly, which was my best passive-aggressive effort at letting Phillip know I didn’t want to go to this dinner. I didn’t want to pretend to be interested in real estate investment and development, and I didn’t want to make conversation with the wives. I hated that we were always on the periphery. And maybe it was worse that night because I knew I could have been with Miss Pine. I could have been painting, and afterward I could have gotten a steak sandwich, which was definitely not on my diet and even more definitely would have been delicious, Phillip’s sense of smell be damned.
    Instead, we went to Twelve, which was about trendy cocktails, tiny, artfully arranged portions on enormous plates, and waiters so attentive I felt like I had to put my arm protectively around my meager dinner lest they whisk it away if I stopped to take a breath.
    â€œMadeleine, hellllllooooo,” Dimpy Stockton brayed at me. We’d seen each other only a few days ago at the Women’s Club, and we weren’t particular friends, but you might have thought, from the performance she gave, that we were reuniting after the war.
    â€œHi, Dimpy,” I said as she dropped a cool, perfumed kiss on each of my cheeks. She looked exactly like you would expect someone named Dimpy Stockton to look, with a shockingly tight facelift and a pile of cocktail rings more threatening than a set of brass knuckles.
    â€œI thought I might see you at the historical society board meeting today,” she said, and there was an odd scolding tone to her voice.
    â€œOh, on Fridays I read to orphans,” I said solemnly.
    â€œIsn’t that nice? You’re always so community-minded.” Dimpy patted me on the hand. I tilted my head at her. How disconnected from reality was she? Life wasn’t a production of
Annie
. You couldn’t just go to an orphanage and corral unsuspecting children into storytime. But Dimpy was sailing along happily. “You missed the most ghastly argument,” she said, tossing her head back and regaling me with a story about the trauma of choosing a theme for the annual gala.
    I nodded at whatever Dimpy was saying, watching Phillip glad-handing his way around the table. When he smiled, it was