Shattered Silk

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?"

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 pla

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 ca

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 di

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 u

Though Mrs. Mac blandly denied it, she had obviously been pla

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 di

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.