The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [86]
“One hundred, on sale.”
“That’s crazy.” Paisley, of all people, to suggest such a thing. Shock distracted her, lifted her out of her fog.
“Well?” Paisley said.
A joke? Julianne wondered.
Maybe not.
Temptation teased her then, an imagined smell of lemons, sharp with the promise of sweet. She could hide the blouse in the far corner of her closet. No need to hide it, but she would. She could wander her house, wander her life, always knowing it was there. A dark secret, but not so dark. She would take it out and look at it whenever the mood struck. She would . . .
But, no. She wouldn’t.
Why not?
Well, because.
“I couldn’t,” she said.
“What difference would it make, if you already feel this bad?”
“No difference, probably.” The smell of lemons fainter now. An icepack to her fevered brain. Disappointment, yes. But also this: Walk away. Walk away. She said without hesitation, “I can’t. I won’t.” Her heart thundering in her chest.
“Something cheaper, then. Here, this.” Paisley thrust a cream-colored tank top into Julianne’s hand. “I’ll take something, too. That blouse you have on. I’ll even wear it out of the store.”
“You wouldn’t!”
The saleswoman knocked on their door, causing Julianne to jump. “Do you need help, ladies?”
“No, but thanks,” Paisley said.
“I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll get the things you don’t want out of your way.” When the woman moved off, Paisley said urgently, “Take off the blouse. Let’s get going.”
Julianne thought she meant, take it off, let’s get out of here, forget the nutty notion of wearing the blouse out of the store. She pulled the soft fabric over her head, set it on the bench. Watched, dumbstruck, while Paisley lifted the blouse and put it on. “Paisley, don’t! It’s risky. It makes no sense. It’s . . .”
“It’s amazing,” Paisley said. “Come on, Julianne. Put the tank top in your purse. Put it at the very bottom.”
Glancing down, Julianne was surprised to see the garment still in her hand.
“Don’t just stand there.” Paisley’s tone playful on the surface, serious underneath. “We don’t have much time. Do it.”
“I don’t think . . .”
“Hurry up, Julianne.” Beseeching now. “Do it before she comes back.”
“I’m still not . . .”
“Well, decide.” Paisley smoothed down the front of the blouse, hoisted her purse to her shoulder, and started to open the door of the dressing room. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
“No!” Julianne pushed the door shut. “What if we get arrested?”
“We won’t. I guarantee it.” Her cheeks abloom with circles of excitement.
“Think, Paisley. We’d be the Brightwood Trace kleptomaniacs the rest of our days. Is that what you want? Fine! Then go on out of this dressing room wearing that blouse. Just go on.”
To her shock, Paisley did.
Numbly, Julianne stood for a moment alone, looking at the jumble of clothes askew on their hangers or dumped carelessly onto the benches. Shouldn’t they fold them, hang them, make some kind of order? Paisley couldn’t possibly . . . Couldn’t possibly . . . Decide. In the mirror, a pulse jumped wildly in her neck. What should she do? Tell someone? Offer to pay? What? With a vicious flick of her wrist, she flung the tank top from her hand onto the pile of discarded clothing. She walked out the door.
“Well? Did you take it? Where is it?” Paisley patted Julianne’s purse.
“It’s in the dressing room. That blouse ought to be in there, too.”
“Too late now.” Paisley bent her head in the direction of the saleswoman, lumbering toward them in her dark dress.
“All finished, ladies?”
“All those clothes, they were lovely, but there was just too much to pick from.” Paisley engaged her with a brilliant smile.
Julianne held her breath, waiting for the accusation.
“Well, maybe next time.” The woman turned away, opened the door to the cluttered dressing room, and, at the sight of the mess, uttered what sounded like a snort of disgust.
Julianne meant to speak, meant to act, meant to . . . Her thoughts were jumbled. Certainly she didn’t mean to