Francine was trying to help. But Aubrey curtly rejected, had stamped away to pout.
“I’ll put my suit hack on,” Lenore said. “You can send my dress to the house.”
Francine replied anxiously, “But I’m not sure we can get a messenger this late! And it’s Saturday. And Monday’s Christmas. You’ll want it before Tuesday!”
Lenore had a thought, at once weird and charitable, shattering and kind. She ran to the dressing room, pursued by the manicurist. She picked up her handbag, fumbled, produced a five-dollar bill. “You live out toward Edgeplains, isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes. But I won’t get off for two hours.”
Lenore pressed the bill in her hand. “I’ll speak to Aubrey. He’ll let you bling it out—early, perhaps. And then go on home.”
Francine showed delight. “I could help do our tree!”
Lenore was head-deep in her skirt. “Sure,” she said. She thought that Francine could do what Francines did, now. Now and forever. Kit could have her if he wanted, the Kits of the world.
Francine could revel in the little bought pleasures of life, the pleasures she longed for so intently that all wisdom was excluded by desire. It was the only thing you could accomplish for some people: condemn them to their bliss and its going price, big or little.
She presented Aubrey with a twenty-dollar bill: “ Merry Christmas!” Lenore’s dark, dark hair rode her neck like a mane; her dark blue eyes were excited; her long fingers shook: “Look!