Free Shining Through by Susan Isaacs Page A

nuts over them. It so happens I like Mr.
    Berringer. Okay? He’s a wonderful, decent man. And—”
    “Linda, calm down.”
    “No. I mean, how would you feel if I accused you of holding back on me?”
    “I didn’t mean—”
    Don’t back down, I said to myself. “Gladys, I’m a human being. He’s someone I see five days a week, and sure, I’m sorry Mrs. Berringer took a powder. More than sorry. Sad. But I’ll confess something. I’m nosy. So sue me. I asked a couple of questions. You know damn well that if Mr. Avenel’s wife packed her bags, you’d bring in the blood-hounds, and don’t tell me different. I think you owe me an apology.”
    I waited. When she spoke, I could hardly hear her voice. “I’m sorry, Linda.”
    “It’s okay.”

    SHINING THROUGH / 53
    I thought: What’s the percentage in turning to mush under a little pressure? Like that British boob who gave away Czechoslovakia. The only time you back down is when you’re dead.
    Gladys lifted her glass. “Thanks.”
    I gave one of those conspiratorial winks that you see in the movies but never in real life, but we’d just had a very dramatic situation and, sure enough, Gladys not only fell for it but winked back.
    I said softly, “A girl in my position can’t be too careful. If I got tipsy…” I paused. “Who knows? I could start babbling my secret. About my grand passione for my darling, precious John.”
    Then I laughed, and my friend Gladys joined me.
    I couldn’t believe it!
    I’d been trying to pick up the tiny little strings of eraser stuck way down between my typewriter keys with the tip of my pinkie, and there I was with my finger in my mouth, rewetting it, and who should walk by and stare at me but Nan Berringer.
    Was I shocked! I thought she was in Reno! I started to say,
    “Good morning, Mrs. Berringer,” but I was so nervous I hadn’t taken the finger out of my mouth. And she was in such a hurry all she must have heard was “Goo—” By the time I pulled out my finger and got to “morning,” she was past my desk, the heels of her expensive black suede shoes making snappy sounds on the brown tile floor of the corridor where the secretaries sat.
    She’d swept right by John’s closed office door, so she hadn’t come to fling herself into his arms and say either, I forgive you, John, or, My dearest, my love, I’m so deeply sorry. No, she just kept going, and fast. Still, in that second when she passed, I got a chance to see her like never before.
    God, was she pretty! I could see why John loved her. Her skin was so flawless it looked as if it was made out of the stuff that covers pearls. She wasn’t actually beautiful, but what made Nan Leland Berringer a knockout was that 54 / SUSAN ISAACS
    everything was wonderful. Wonderful, nice eyes. Same with the nose and mouth. Her hair may have been a non-breathtaking brown, but somehow it was a richer color than anyone else’s.
    It was styled in a perfect pageboy: longer than her chin, shorter than her shoulders, and unbelievably shiny, as though she’d been given sole access to the world’s best shampoo. If God had worked in a beauty parlor, He would have said, Okay, this is what hair is supposed to look like.
    Naturally, her figure was as superb as the rest of her. Lovely, but not lovely like the figures of other lovely women. Nan was about my height but built on a finer, smaller scale. Not skinny; just petite enough to make a guy feel she’d been custom-made.
    Her clothes were like gift wrapping for her specialness. Her gray dress was superior to anyone else’s gray—the softest color, and the fabric so fine it looked like someone had taken a steamroller and flattened out a couple of yards of wool. It was absolutely plain; this dress didn’t even have a button you could see. Still, it was beautiful. On top it was politely tight; the skirt flared. The dress said, Look at the classy narrow shoulders and the delicate waist, and if you’ve got an extra five seconds,