\u201cYour family is planning a dinner, isn\u2019t he?\u201d she asked, adjusting a hanger near me. \u201cI think it is time you did something just for yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words felt heavy in the quiet room. I looked at the tag hanging from the sleeve: one hundred and forty dollars.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe dressing room is right through there,\u201d she said, gently taking the hanger off the rod and pressing the silk into my hands.<\/p>\n
Inside the small curtained booth, the mirror was framed in warm yellow bulbs. I took off my denim jacket, unbuttoned my plain cotton shirt, and let the green dress slide over my head.<\/p>\n
The silk was cool against my skin, fitting close around my waist before falling in soft folds to my knees. For a second, I did not recognize the woman in the glass; she looked taller, her shoulders straighter than they had been in years.<\/p>\n
I smoothed my hands down my thighs, feeling the weight of the fabric.<\/p>\n
\u201cDoes it fit?\u201d the saleswoman called out from behind the velvet curtain.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.<\/p>\n
I took the dress off quickly, as if I were stealing it, and dressed in my own clothes again. My old shirt felt thin and stiff.<\/p>\n
At the counter, I counted out seven twenty-dollar bills from the envelope in my purse, the money I had saved from selling my hand-knitted blankets at the autumn fair.<\/p>\n
The saleswoman folded the dress into white tissue paper and laid it inside a glossy gray box with a silver ribbon.<\/p>\n
The receipt she handed me read exactly one hundred and forty dollars, the ink still slightly damp.<\/p>\n
The drive back to the house was quiet, the gray box sitting on the passenger seat like a passenger who knew all my secrets.<\/p>\n
When I parked in the driveway, I looked at the front porch, half expecting to see Damon\u2019s car already there, even though it was only three in the afternoon.<\/p>\n
I hurried up the steps, the heavy box tucked under my arm, my keys clinking against the brass lock.<\/p>\n
The house smelled of morning coffee and old wood. I ran up the stairs to our bedroom, my heart rate rising with every step.<\/p>\n
I opened the heavy oak wardrobe, pushing aside Damon\u2019s gray suits and my own row of beige cardigans.<\/p>\n
At the very back, behind a stack of winter blankets we had not used in years, there was a dark, narrow space where the floorboards met the wall.<\/p>\n
I slid the gray box into the corner, covering it with a wool shawl.<\/p>\n
If Damon found it, he would ask why I needed to draw attention to myself, his voice calm and reasonable while he made the dress seem like a foolish mistake.<\/p>\n
I closed the wardrobe door slowly, ensuring the latch clicked shut.<\/p>\n
I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled the small dresser drawer toward me until the old pine wood squeaked. My mother\u2019s velvet jewelry box sat under a stack of winter scarves, its blue fabric worn down to the grey thread at the corners.<\/p>\n
I lifted the small lid and took out the pearl earrings, holding them in my open palm. They were small, slightly yellowed by thirty years of storage, and one of the silver backs was loose.<\/p>\n
I held them up next to my ears, wondering if they looked too old-fashioned for a fancy restaurant. I reached for the small mirror on the wall, but my hand stopped before I could lift it.<\/p>\n
The sound of the television downstairs hummed through the floorboards, a quiet drone of afternoon news. I looked at the little pearls, remembering how my mother only wore them on Sundays or when my father took her to the county fair.<\/p>\n
Damon came down the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards, and stopped by the bedroom door frame. He adjusted his shirt collar, his eyes moving from my face down to my hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre we wearing the family heirlooms now?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was just looking at them,\u201d I said, my voice trailing off as I went to put them back in the box.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood,\u201d he said, turning back toward the stairs. \u201cWe wouldn\u2019t want you looking like you\u2019re trying too hard at your age.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey were my mother\u2019s,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know whose they were,\u201d he said, his voice carrying back from the stairwell. \u201cI\u2019m just saying, let\u2019s keep things simple.\u201d<\/p>\n
He laughed, the quick, dry sound he always made when he was teasing, but I kept my hand on the velvet lid until I heard him reach the kitchen. I decided right then that I would leave them in the drawer.<\/p>\n
The next evening, I stood by the small mirror in the downstairs bathroom and applied the new lipstick I bought at the drugstore. It was a shade called Warm Berry, brighter than the pale pink I had worn since our wedding day.<\/p>\n
I smoothed my hands down my apron, trying to decide if the color made my teeth look yellow. A floorboard creaked in the hall behind me.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs there a parade in town?\u201d Damon asked from the bathroom doorway.<\/p>\n
He had a mug of black coffee in his hand and was checking his watch.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wanted to try something different for the dinner next week,\u201d I said, looking down at the sink.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt makes you look like you\u2019re heading to a high school dance,\u201d he said, taking a sip from his mug. \u201cAt fifty, Elena, we should probably leave the paint to the girls.\u201d<\/p>\n
He smiled to show he was just kidding, but the coffee mug clicked hard against the tile counter when he set it down.<\/p>\n
I took a piece of damp toilet paper and wiped the berry color off my lips until they were pale again. I threw the paper into the trash bin and did not look at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou always take my little jokes so seriously,\u201d he said, laughing as he walked into the living room.<\/p>\n
I stood there for a long time, watching my reflection in the dim light of the bathroom. I rubbed my hands down my thighs, feeling the rough cotton of my apron against my palms.<\/p>\n
On Thursday morning, the mail carrier left the monthly credit card statement on the porch. I sat at the dining room table with the envelope, sliding a silver butter knife under the seal to open it quietly.<\/p>\n
The charge from Evelyn\u2019s Dress Shop was right there near the bottom, one hundred and forty dollars, standing out against the utility bills and the grocery totals. I heard Damon\u2019s heavy boots descending the wooden stairs.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I slipped the small paper receipt from the boutique under my thigh, smoothing my skirt over it as he walked into the room.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs the electric bill in there?\u201d he asked, adjusting his collar.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said, holding out the white sheet but keeping the envelope flat on my lap. \u201cIt\u2019s about the same as last month.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took the paper, squinting at the numbers before folding it and putting it in his shirt pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need to watch the spending this month,\u201d he said, his eyes lingering on my lap. \u201cI saw a charge from some boutique on the bank app yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n
I held my breath, waiting to see if he would ask for the name on the receipt.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt was just some gifts for the kids,\u201d I said, looking down at my hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cRight,\u201d he said, turning toward the kitchen. \u201cJust make sure we aren\u2019t buying things we can\u2019t afford to show off.\u201d<\/p>\n
The paper receipt felt hot against my skin under the fabric of my skirt. I waited until I heard the kitchen faucet run before I pulled the receipt out and tucked it deep inside my old leather purse.<\/p>\n
In the afternoon, I went out to the front porch to sweep the dried oak leaves off the steps. The air was cool, but the sun was bright enough to make me squint as I worked the broom into the corners.<\/p>\n
Mrs. Gable, my neighbor from across the gravel driveway, was leaning against her mailbox, watching the yellow school bus pass. She was sixty-eight, with silver hair kept tight in a bun, and she always wore a blue cardigan even in the early autumn heat.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re turning fifty next week, aren\u2019t you, Elena?\u201d she called out, walking over to the edge of my lawn.<\/p>\n
\u201cOn the twelfth,\u201d I said, resting my hands on top of the broom handle.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre the kids taking you somewhere nice?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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