Free No Perfect Secret by Jackie Weger Page A

earth’s crust. Shame on me. And maybe, just maybe—that was why the fun and laughter and passion had gone out of her marriage.
    She was so deep in to her interior thoughts she didn’t hear or see Lila come out onto the sun porch. “Anna? You in our world or off in the universe somewhere?”
    “Where ever I was, I’m back.”
    “Did you decide for or against—the Eastern Market?”
    “I’m in.” Anna said. “We’ll make a day of it. Wear your walking shoes.”
    “Huh? What other kinds of shoes do you think old women own—hip busters?”
    Ann went to make war on her closet. No staid Librarian clothes today. She decided on a silk burgundy pullover with a decidedly risqué décolletage, a pair of slinky jeans (please God, let them still fit), a gold chain belt, gold loop earrings, and an armload of bracelets. At the bottom of her closet her hands fell upon a pair of sheepskin-lined pair of Ugg boots —nope. Thirty-four year olds did not have to worry about broken hips. She chose instead a pair of knee-high butter soft leather boots with a modest heel. She added a navy wool car coat and laid it all out on her bed, then went to blow-dry her hair.
    She did not need to define her eyebrows; she knew she was blessed. Her mother’s had been perfect and so were hers. She added a dollop of mascara to her eyelashes, a dusting of bronze to her eyelids, a brush of color to her cheekbones, and a smear of burgundy lipstick. She spritzed Dior into the air and stepped into it. She never wore Dior when Kevin was home. He swore he was allergic. God, but she loved it.
    Clara-Alice and Lila were waiting in the living room, layered up in sweaters, coats, mittens and knit caps; purses and empty totes over their arms. Clara-Alice wore sensible walking shoes; Lila wore a pair of red, high-top tennis shoes. “Good God, Anna,” Lila exclaimed. “You are drop dead gorgeous!”
    “I’m feeling Christmassy,” Anna said.
    “Yes, well, if we run into Santa, you’re gonna have him drooling into his beard.”
    “She looks like a slut,” said Clara-Alice.
    Anna’s jaw dropped.
    Lila looked hard at Clara-Alice. “What the hell has got into you? This is your daughter-in-law! I can’t believe you said that.”
    “I...I... I didn’t mean—”
    “Yes, you did,” Lila said, all five feet of her wound so tight she was sputtering. “We’ve been having coffee together every morning for what? Eight years? Nine? We play cards, go to the movies —and you always find something snarky to say about Anna—and never an unkind thing to say about Kevin, but I’ve been here and seen him completely ignore you when you speak to him. I’ve even heard him complain about Anna’s cooking! Oh, and something else you say: ‘I have to iron Kevin’s shirts because he doesn’t like the way Anna mangles his collars.’”
    Lila so perfectly mimicked Clara-Alice that at any other time Anna would have laughed. This was not a laughing matter. This was open war.
    Clara-Alice began to cry.
    Anna went into the kitchen and leaned against the sink. Her heart was thudding. She could not count the times—didn’t even want to try—that Clara-Alice had made an off-the-wall comment that had undone a nice day. But calling her a slut ?
    Lila came into the kitchen. “Anna, are you all right?”
    “I will be. I just need a minute to pull myself together.”
    “I’m butting in, so tell me to shut up if you want. I know what Clara-Alice has been though. 9/11 was awful for all of us, but girl—Clara-Alice has milked it, and that’s shameful.”
    Anna nodded. “I know she has. Things are not good here right now, Lila. Kevin is in some sort of trouble at work. The stress is getting to us.”
    “Good golly, Anna! Everybody has troubles of some sort. Honey, my troubles would fill a freight car. I lost a lot of good friends during the Great War, and others to old age and so damned many awful diseases it gives me nightmares. I’ve outlived every single member of