Down the Rabbit Hole

For a second time, President Lincoln bent to take hold of her hand—not to pull her up into his arms but to draw her around another endcap, this one featuring a large Shrek. Once there he stepped behind her and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders; then slowly pushed her forward.

The brightly colored costumes on both sides of the aisle began to fade—first to gray, then completely away, to reveal a filmy image of a woman she knew.

“Molly.”

Abruptly, the figure turned toward the sound of a voice saying, “Ready?”

“Yes,” Molly said.

Elise—looking very much herself—emerged from a cloudy dressing area in the beautiful red cocktail dress she bought four weeks earlier on one of their late-afternoon shopping trips. With a short gossamer skirt and spaghetti straps that crossed over the low-cut back, it had the wow-power to burn her image into Max’s brain until the day he died . . . maybe a little longer.

Molly gasped her approval. “Now that is a six-month anniversary dress!”

“You think so?”

“Lord, yes! It’s fabulous.”

“Not too . . . red?” She twirled before a mirror, looking concerned, but not about the dress.

Her mind began the slow rotation of thoughts that would—too often of late—spin out of control . . .

Pretty red. What if Max hates red? Do I care if he hates red? And what about this special need-a-new-dress-for-it anniversary dinner? It was his idea . . . so obviously he’s been keeping track of our days together. What does that mean? Is it romantic or weird? Or is there a six-month expiration date on the women he dates? Is the dinner a setup to let me down easy? Maybe I should dump him first. Maybe black would be a better color . . . something long and shrouded. No, no. He likes me. I know he does—I feel it. But I thought and felt the same thing about Jeremy. What did I miss in the first six months with Jeremy that I might be missing now with Max? Hell, it took me five years to figure out he was a liar and a cheat. Maybe Max would consider having nine more six-month anniversary dinners . . .

Her sigh was loud and discouraged as she swished the lovely red skirt back and forth around her knees. That would mean nine more amazing dresses I can’t really afford—and five more wasted years of my life. Maybe I should just ask him: Max? Are you planning to stomp on my pride and break my heart?

“I don’t think a sexy red dress can be too red,” Molly said, curbing Elise’s mental debate mid-spin. “Wanna borrow my Judith Leiber knockoff?”

Elise smiled. “Perfect. Thanks.”

“One down, one to go.”

“What?”

“We have a spectacular dress for your special dinner, and now we have to decide on costumes for Liz Gurney’s party.”

“Today?”

“If we wait until the last minute all the good costumes will be gone. I was thinking of Scarlett and Rhett.” She used a thicker-than-thick Southern accent and placed a limp wrist on her forehead, prostrate—then quickly discarded the pose. “But Liz took them for her and the birthday boy. Then I thought of Sonny and Cher, but Roger’s too tall. The kids thought of Bert and Ernie, but I see them all day long—and in my sleep—I’d rather swallow LEGOs. Antony and Cleopatra—there’ll be a dozen sets of those. What do you think?”

Molly gravitated to a nearby sales rack and automatically started to sort through her size. Unable to afford another dress, even on sale, Elise kept close to the mirror, primping.

“How about Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm?”

“For us? That’s more you and Max—still lusty and eager to mate. Rog and I mate plenty, and we have three boys to show for it. Not to mention freezing our fannies off in little furry cave outfits.”