by Kristy Tate
She glanced out the window and saw Ian talking to a circle of her employees from the foundation. Marie laughed and placed her hand on Ian’s sleeve. White heat flared through Laine and she closed her eyes against the pain and anger.
When she opened her eyes she saw a dress hanging in the closet. Long sleeves, high neck, black lace over a strapless taffeta under-bodice, a pleated band at the waist. The sort of thing she’d never buy.
And yet.
She looked back out the window. Marie had on an impossibly short skirt, something no one over the age of thirty should ever wear. Allison, a mother of four children, had on a blouse that lifted when she moved her arms and exposed a bright strip of white belly. In a world of inappropriateness, Laine, the good daughter, the philanthropist, could wear a black lace dress.
She took off her suit, kicked it into the closet’s corner, and stepped into the dress. To her surprise, it didn’t smell of violets or mildew, but of Chanel Number 5. The lining felt luxurious against her skin and the lace clung slightly as she moved.
Considering her reflection in the mirror, she decided she couldn’t wear the muddy flats. Tearing into the shoe boxes on the closet shelf, she discovered black lace shoes with pearl buttons and three-inch heels. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t be able to walk. With the shoe box tucked under her arm, she went to the bed, sat down and slipped on the heels. They fit perfectly. Odd.
Looking at her herself in the mirror, she wondered when and where her aunt had bought the dress and matching shoes. She tried to imagine the woman she’d known, the wearer of shapeless muumuus and of the collector of Cabbage Patch dolls, wearing such a dress, wearing Chanel Number 5 perfume. There are so many things we don’t know about the people around us, even the people we love, she thought, and we pass so quickly through our lives, briefly colliding before sailing away.
On an impulse, she reached up and took the pins from her hair. Her curls spilled down her back. Remembering the handkerchief in her suit pocket, she drew it out and promised herself that she wouldn’t use it. No one would see her cry, but if they did, they would think she cried for Sid. Not Ian. Perhaps Ian would cry and she could magnanimously lend him her handkerchief and give him a condescending smile, accompanied by a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. She smiled at her reflection, braced her shoulders, and left the room.
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About the Author
Kristy Tate lives in Rancho Santa Margarita, California with her family. She studied English Literature at Brigham Young University and at BYU’s International Center in London. Stealing Mercy is her first published novel. For more information and updates on Kristy’s next novel follow her blog at: kristystories.blogspot.com. To receive a free book, sign up for her newsletter at http://www.kristytate.com/#welcome
