Free Searching for Grace Kelly by Michael Callahan Page A

We’ll come right back.”
    They galloped down the path to the weathered gray dock, their respective white dresses fluttering in the night breeze. Several small boats bobbed in the water. Laura looked back up at the country club, its windows blazing with candlelight, the faint whisper of soft music echoing out onto the pier. The two girls walked down the catwalk that jutted out onto the lake until they got to the end, looking at the dusky night sky, streaked in shades of baby blue and purple and pink. “It’s so beautiful,” Laura said.
    A mischievous look swept over Mariclaire’s face. “A perfect night for a moonlight swim,” she declared.
    Laura laughed. “Oh, yes! I’m sure that would go over well.”
    Mariclaire stepped back, kicked off her satin shoes. “C’mon. Live a little.”
    For a few seconds Laura lost her bearings. “Wait . . . You’re . . . you’re not serious. You can’t do this! Are you insane?!”
    â€œMaybe,” the other girl replied, shrugging. And with that she gathered up her ball skirt, turned, and leapt into the water.
    Later, after all of the hullabaloo and the scandal and the tittering of the other girls watching from the windows, Mariclaire—still sopping wet and bundled in a fluffy beach towel from the club—walked, head high, to the family car, trailing her parents, still tomato-faced with embarrassment and rage. Laura impulsively bolted from Marmy’s side and hustled down the embankment to the parking lot, where it was now her turn to catch the other girl by the arm.
    â€œI don’t understand,” she said breathlessly. “Why?”
    Mariclaire smiled. “Sometimes,” she said, “you just have to save yourself and jump.”

SIX
    Dolly was passing the window of the Barbizon coffee shop when she spied Laura inside sitting at the counter, reading a book. She stopped to hastily look at her watch, then hustled inside.
    â€œI thought you’d already left for
Mademoiselle
,” she said, sliding onto a stool. “You don’t want to be late for your first day of work.”
    Laura put down the book, took a sip of coffee. “I have time. I didn’t sleep well last night. And I don’t have to be there until nine thirty. They start late in publishing.”
    â€œThat’s because they’re all out every night going to parties and generally being swell.” She waved off the counter guy approaching with the coffee pot. “I wish I had time for coffee. I’m so bad in the mornings. I envy Vivian—she sleeps in every day.”
    â€œVivian is also on her feet every night, in heels, selling cigarettes to lecherous men.”
    â€œYes, but at least they’re rich lecherous men.” Dolly picked up the book on the counter. “
Will the Girl and Other Stories
, by Christopher Welsh,” she read. “What kind of title is that? And who’s Christopher Welsh? I’ve never heard of him.”
    â€œI haven’t gotten to the title story yet. It’s the book Connie gave me. You remember, the sweet man who runs the bookshop down in the Village? The shop you couldn’t wait to run out of on Saturday?”
    Dolly rolled her eyes.
    â€œThe writing is actually quite good,” Laura continued. “Intimidating, really. I read stories like this and wonder if I can ever produce prose like that. Connie was right,” Laura said, pointing to the book, “this guy is going to be a famous writer someday.”
    Dolly patted Laura’s arm. “So will you.” She looked again at her watch. “I’m going to be late. Gotta run.”
    â€œYou know, all this talk about my new job and all this time I’ve completely forgotten to ask anything about yours. Where it is it, again?”
    â€œJulian Messner,” Dolly said, awkwardly sliding off the stool and almost tipping over. “Damn, these stools are