The Second Mrs. Adams

Joanna dressed quickly, without giving much thought to her selections. What was there to think about, when all her clothing had a grim sameness? Even her underwear was dowdy and utilitarian.

She paid even less attention to her hair. She hadn’t yet grasped the knack of neatly knotting it low on her neck. Ellen had been fixing it, most mornings, but today was her maid’s day off and even if it hadn’t been, Joanna was too impatient to wait while her curls were brushed and sprayed into submission. So she simply caught her hair in one hand, gave it a twist, then pinned it into place.

Ugh, she thought, grimacing as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she looked even more funereal than usual.

Not that it would matter, after this jaunt…

My God, Joanna, are you sure you know what you’re doing?

“No,” she said, into the silence, “I don’t.”

She thought of her husband’s biting comments about her dress, about the way she wore her hair. She thought of her doctor’s admonition that she give up searching for the past and instead concentrate on the present and the future.

She thought of Morgana, and tonight’s party.

And then she took one last deep breath and set out to face New York.

* * *

She let Hollister drive her to the first store on her list, then told him not to wait.

It was not an order that pleased him.

“But, madam…”

“Go on, Hollister. Go to the park or something. Take your girl out for a spin.” Joanna laughed at the look on his face. “You do have a girl, don’t you?”

“Madam, really—”

“Hollister, really,” she said gently, “I much prefer to do my shopping on my own.”

Once inside the store, the giddiness that had been bubbling inside her since she’d read the entry in her appointment book was all but swept away by a sense of near panic.

The store was so big… Why had she come? Nothing about it was familiar; she had no idea where to start or even what to start looking for.

“Madam? May I help you?”

Joanna turned toward the smartly dressed young saleswoman who’d materialized at her elbow.

“Yes,” she said gratefully. “I’d like to buy a dress. Something—something special, to wear to a party tonight”

The girl’s eyes moved quickly and professionally over her.

“Certainly, madam,” she replied, “if you’ll just come with me…?”

Within moments, Joanna found herself in a sea of dresses.

“Here we are, madam. Did you have a preference as to color?”

“Does it matter?” Joanna said with a little laugh. She turned in a slow circle. “The only color I see is black.”

The salesgirl smiled coolly. “Black is always fashionable, as madam can attest.”

Joanna looked down at herself. She was wearing the first thing that had come to hand in her closet, a long-sleeved, long-skirted, incredibly expensive and incredibly unattractive two-piece dress and yes, indeed, it was black.

“Always,” she said, and smiled politely at the salesgirl, “but not always interesting. Haven’t you got other colors? Something in yellow, perhaps, or pale blue?” Her gaze lit on a mannequin in the next department. “Something like that, for instance.”

“That?” the clerk said, her voice losing its cultured purr and rising in dismay. “But that dress is…it’s heliotrope!”

“I’d have called it violet,” Joanna said. The girl trailed behind as she walked toward the mannequin. “But perhaps you’re right. It’s lighter than a true violet.”

“I don’t think this is quite what madam is looking for,” the clerk said with a quick, artificial smile. “The neckline is rather low.”

“Shockingly low.”

“The skirt is very short.”

Joanna nodded. “It seems to be.”

“This dress is definitely not madam’s style.”

“How do you know that, Miss…” Joanna peered at the salesgirl’s identification tag. “How do you know that, Miss Simpson?”

“Why, from looking at…I mean, it’s my job to listen to what a customer tells me and then determine what will best meet her needs.”

“Then do it, please,” Joanna said with a pleasant smile. “I’ve told you I need a special dress for this evening, and that I particularly like this one. Please show me to the fitting room and bring me this dress in a—what would you think? A ten?”

The baffled clerk stared at her. “I don’t know, not for certain. It’s difficult to assess madam’s proper weight and shape in the dress she’s wearing.”

Joanna smiled wistfully. “So I’ve been told.”

* * *

Size ten was too big.

Eight was perfect. And so was the dress, Joanna thought, staring at herself in the three-way dressing room mirror.

The color was wonderful, almost the same shade as her eyes and a perfect foil for her creamy skin and dark hair.

The neckline certainly was low and the skirt certainly was short…not that Fifth Avenue wasn’t crowded with stylish women wearing their necklines just as deeply cut and the hems just as high. Still…

“Madam looks…” The salesclerk’s stunned eyes met Joanna’s in the mirror. “She looks beautiful!”

Joanna turned, frowned, and peered at herself over her shoulder. She had a sudden vision of David, seeing her in something so outrageous.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Maybe you were right This dress is—”

“Stunning,” the girl said. “With your hair done differently and the right shoes…”

The women’s eyes met in the mirror. Joanna could feel her courage slipping.

What are you doing, Joanna? What would David think?

There was no way of knowing. But I know what I think, she thought suddenly. I think I look—I think I look…

She reached behind her and gave the zipper a determined tug.

“I’ll take it” she said, before she lost her courage completely.

* * *

The rest was easy.

The right shoes turned out to be conveniently waiting one department over, a pair of silver sandals with slender high heels and narrow straps, and there was a tiny purse on a silver shoulder chain to match. The right underthings—an ivory silk teddy with lacy garters and a pair of gossamer-sheer stockings—were just a couple of blocks away, almost calling out Joanna’s name from the window of a stylish boutique.

There was only one last step to take.

Joanna stood before the mirrored door of a beauty salon. Her appointment book had confirmed that she had standing appointments at this trendy place three times a week.

The door swung open and the scent of hair spray and expensive perfume came wafting out, born on a cloud of lushly romantic music.

Joanna squared her shoulders and march

ed inside.

The girl at the reception desk did a double take. “Oh, Mrs. Adams,” she squealed, “how lovely to see you again. We’d heard you were in an accident!”

Joanna admitted that she had been, assured the receptionist that she was well on the road to recovery and said she was here to have her hair done.

“I know it’s not my day but I was hoping you could fit me in.”

The girl smiled. “Of course.” She motioned to the glittering mirrors beyond them. “Arturo’s just finishing up with a client so if you wouldn’t mind waiting just a couple of secs…?”

Joanna followed the girl’s pointing finger. Arturo confirmed he was her usual hairdresser by waving his hand and smiling. He was a gray-haired man in late middle age, as was his client whose hair was being pinned and sprayed into a style that was the duplicate of Joanna’s.

“That’s OK,” she said quickly, “someone else can do my hair today.”

“We wouldn’t dream of letting that happen, Mrs. Adams. I promise, Arturo will only be—”

“How about him?”

The girl’s eyes widened. The man Joanna had indicated was young, with shoulder-length hair and a tiny gold stud in one earlobe. He was cutting the hair of a woman in her midtwenties—just about my age, Joanna thought with a surprised start—and shaping it into a style that was swingy, sexy and feminine.

“Oh, but, Mrs. Adams,” the receptionist said nervously, “I don’t think Mick’s the right guy for—”

“I think he’s perfect,” Joanna said, ignoring the butterflies swarming in her stomach. She smiled, sat down in an empty chair and piled her gaily wrapped packages beside her. “And I’ll be happy to wait until he’s free. Oh, by the way…the sign outside says you do cosmetic makeovers, too. Is that right?”

The girl’s throat worked. “Uh—uh, yes. Yes, we do. In fact, Mick is the one who—”

“Great.” Joanna plucked a magazine from a lamp table, opened it and buried her face inside. After a moment, the receptionist took her cue and fled.

Joanna let out a shuddering breath and thought how perfect it would be if only the butterflies would do the same.

* * *

She taxied home, locked herself into her bedroom. Then, like a cygnet exchanging its dull feathers for the glorious plumage of a swan, she took off her old clothes and replaced them with the new.