Read Online Aftershock & Others by F. Paul Wilson - Free Book Online

shopping, and when she was shopping in midtown—heaven.
    At the curb she stopped and turned to stare at the pert blonde who’d just passed. She couldn’t believe it.
    “Helene? Helene Ryder, is that you?”
    The blonde turned. Her eyes lit with recognition.
    “Ohmigod, Denise! Imagine meeting you here! How long has it been?”
    They hugged and air kissed.
    “Oh, I don’t know. Six months?”
    “At least! What are you doing in the city?”
    “Just shopping. Accessory hunting.”
    “Me, too. Where were you headed?”
    “Actually I was looking for a place to get off my feet and have a bite to eat. I skipped lunch and I’m famished.”
    “That sounds good.” Helene glanced at her watch. A diamond Piaget, Denise noticed. “It’s tea time at the Waldorf. Why don’t we go there?”
    “Wonderful!”
    During the bouncy cab ride down Park Avenue, Denise gave Helene a thorough twice-over and was impressed. Her short blond hair was fashionably tousled; her merino wool topcoat, camel’s-hair sweater, and short wool-and-cashmere skirt reeked of Barney’s and Bergdorf’s.
    Amazing what could happen when your husband got a big promotion. You could move from Fairfield to Greenwich, and you could buy any little thing your heart desired.
    Not that Helene hadn’t always had style. It was just that now she could afford to dress in the manner to which she and Denise had always hoped to become accustomed.
    Denise was still waiting to become accustomed. Her Brian didn’t have quite the drive of Helene’s Harry. He still liked to get involved in local causes and in church functions. And that was good in a way. It allowed him more time at home with her and the twins. The downside, though, was that she didn’t have the budget to buy what she needed when she needed it. As a result, Denise had honed her shopping skills to the black-belt level. By keeping her eyes and ears ever open, buying judiciously, and timing her purchases to the minute—like now, for instance, in the post-holiday retail slump—she managed to keep herself looking nearly as in style as someone with a pocketbook as deep as Helene’s.
    And on the subject of pocketbooks, Denise could not take her eyes off Helene’s. Fashioned of soft, silky, golden brown leather that seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy windows of the cab, it perfectly offset the colors of her outfit. She wondered if Helene had chosen the bag for the outfit, or the outfit for the bag. She suspected the latter. The bag was exquisite, the stitchwork especially fascinating in its seemingly random joining of odd-sized and odd-shaped pieces. But it was the material itself that drew and captured her attention. She had an urge to reach out and touch it. But she held back.
    Later. She’d ask about it during tea.
     
    Sitting here with Helene on a settee along the wall in Peacock Alley at the Waldorf, sipping tea and nibbling on petits fours from the tray on the table before them, Denise felt as if she were part of the international set. The room whispered exotic accents and strange vowels. Almost every nationality was represented—the Far East most strongly—and everyone was dressed to the nines. The men’s suits were either Armani or Vacca, and a number of the women outshone even Helene. Denise felt almost dowdy.
    And still…that handbag of Helene’s, sitting between them on the sofa. She couldn’t escape the urge to caress it, could not keep her eyes off it.
    “Isn’t it beautiful?” Helene said.
    “Hmmm?” Denise felt a flash of embarrassment at being caught staring, and wondered if the envy showed in her eyes. “The bag? Yes, it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”
    “I’d be surprised if you had.” Helen pushed it closer. “Take a look.”
    Soft. That was the first thing Denise noticed as she lifted it. The leather was so soft, a mix of silk and down as her fingers brushed over the stitched surface. She cradled it on her lap.