Seven Minutes to Noon

broad categories of expense, and sub-categorized by vendor and account. Every now and then Maggie glanced at Alice and Alice thought now, now I’ll tell her. But each time Maggie’s gaze slid away, she sighed or rubbed her eyes or made some gesture or remarkthat underscored her special fragility today, and Alice couldn’t bring herself to speak.
    Forty-five minutes later, not a single customer had come in, allowing them to burrow in the details of their task until Alice’s stomach rumbled so loudly, even Maggie heard it.
    “Hungry, are you?”
    “Starving. I didn’t realize it until now.”
    “I could use a cappuccino. Why don’t I run out and pick us up something?”
    Maggie reached under the counter for her purse, un-snapped it and rifled inside for her sunglasses.
    Now, Alice thought, and began, “Mags—”
    “Let’s don’t forget this.” Maggie pulled a pair of dinosaur-festooned pajamas out of her purse and shoved them onto the shelf under the counter. “Ethan’s. It’s Simon’s night, and Sylvie’s coming by for these.” Distress gripped Maggie, and her bloodshot eyes seemed to ignite. “Can you believe he phoned me this morning to say he didn’t have any clean pajamas for his son? Of course, he couldn’t get to the washing machine. Oh no, not Simon. Probably too busy boffing Sylvie.”
    “She’s been sick, Mags.”
    “Yes,” Maggie sniffed. “So she says. Her claiming sick time these past few days has made all this with Lauren so much harder for me.”
    Alice couldn’t think of what to say. Lauren’s disappearance and Sylvie missing work were not comparable; linking them was almost beyond belief. Alice took a deep breath, and another, before finally swallowing frustration at Maggie’s histrionic jealousies along with her own urge to confess the possible lapse in friendship. She was glad she hadn’t blurted her confession to Maggie; chances were it would have been misunderstood.
    “Try not to think about it.” Alice stood to give Maggie a few dollars from her purse to buy her customary yogurt smoothie. “Strawberry-banana, please.”
    “Oh, shoot, look at the time. If I don’t hurry up, you’llbe late for Martin.” Maggie slipped Alice’s money into her purse and hurried out, the welcome bell jangling behind her.
    Sitting alone in the shop, in a growing silence, Alice thought the floor seemed oddly shinier, the walls bluer, the ceiling more reflective. She didn’t like the heightened sensations. For a few minutes she didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to think. She loved Maggie, they were sisters, but she had to be managed and it could be exasperating, especially now.
    Alice reached down to put on more music, slipping in a Norah Jones CD. Maggie had had the volume so high, the opening guitar riff blasted. Alice dialed down the volume, and only then, in the ebb of noise, did she realize someone had come into the store.
    It was Sylvie. She smiled when she saw Alice and crossed the store with her casual, lilting walk. As always, a deft line of kohl accentuated her smallish, dark eyes and by contrast brightened the blond hair that frizzed and kinked to her shoulders in stylized chaos. She wore charcoal capris with a short white blouse that revealed a glimpse of belly button pierced by a ruby stud. A tattoo bracelet wrapped around her right ankle. Red leather flip-flops encrusted with rhinestones brought attention to her fresh pedicure, red to match the shoes.
    She kissed Alice on both cheeks.
    “Feeling better?” Alice asked.
    “Ah, yes, it was stomach flu.” Sylvie grimaced, but even that sounded pretty in the French accent that lay like golden sunshine over her otherwise fluent English. “Any news about Lauren?”
    Alice explained about the witness and Sylvie, of course, was very interested in this.
    “Maybe she ran off with an Italian lover,” Sylvie suggested.
    In the direction of the Gowanus? Doubtful. It was well known that Sylvie consumed romance novels and the suggestion of an Italian lover was straight from that fantasyland. Sylvie’s hopeful youth and lightheartednesswere suited to expatriate nannyhood. But not to this conversation. Alice decided to let her off the hook.
    “Let’s hope she did.”
    Sylvie smiled a little sadly, as if she knew she had misspoken and was grateful for the forgiveness implicit in Alice’s answer.
    “How are our babies doing today?”
    “Kicking like mad.”
    Sylvie blew two kisses to Alice’s flourishing tummy. Maggie