Strangers

chic. Well, perhaps not chic, but at least stylish.
        However, when she stepped into the hall ' and got a look at Rita Hannaby, Ginger felt at a disadvantage, a mere pretender to class.
        Rita was as slim as Ginger, but at five-eight she was six inches taller, and everything about her was queenly. Her chestnut-brown hair swept back from her face in a perfectly feathered cut. If her facial bones had been more exquisitely chiseled, she would have looked severe. However, beauty and warmth were assured by her luminous gray eyes, translucent skin, and generous mouth. Rita was wearing a gray St. John's suit, pearls, pearl earrings, and a broad-brimmed black hat.
        To Ginger, the amazing thing was that Rita's fashionable appearance did not seem planned. One had no sense that she had spent hours getting ready. Instead, she seemed to have been born with impeccable grooming and a fashionably tailored wardrobe; elegance was her natural condition.
        "You look smashing!" Rita said.
        "Next to you, I feel like a frump in blue jeans and a sweatshirt."
        "Nonsense. Even if I were twenty years younger, I'd be no match for you, dear. Wait and see who the waiters pamper the most at lunch."
        Ginger had no false modesty. She knew she was attractive. But her beauty was more that of a pixie, while Rita had the blueblood looks of one who could sit upon a throne and convince the world she belonged.
        Rita did nothing to cause Ginger's newfound inferiority complex. The woman treated her not like a daughter but like a sister and an equal. Ginger's feelings of inadequacy were, she knew, a direct result of her pathetic condition. Until two weeks ago, she had not been dependent on anyone in ages. Now she was dependent again, not entirely able to look after herself, and her self-respect slipped a bit further every day. Rita Hannaby's good humor, carefully planned outings, woman-to-woman shmoozing, and unflagging encouragement were not enough to distract Ginger from the cruel fact that fate once more had cast her, at thirty, in the frustrating role of a child.
        Together, they descended to the marble-floored foyer, where they got their coats from the closet, then went out the door and down the steps under the portico to the black Mercedes 500 SEL in the driveway. Herbert, who was sort of a cross between a butler and a Man Friday, had brought the car around five minutes ago and had left the engine running, so the interior was a toasty-warm haven from the frigid winter day.
        Rita drove with her usual confidence, away from the old estates, out of quiet streets lined with bare-limbed elms and maples, through ever-busier thoroughfares, heading to Dr. Immanuel Gudhausen's office on bustling State Street. Ginger had an eleven-thirty appointment with Gudhausen, whom she had seen twice last week. She was scheduled to visit him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until they got to the bottom of her attacks of fugue. In her bleaker moments, Ginger was sure she'd still be lying on Gudhausen's couch thirty years from now.
        Rita intended to do a bit of shopping while Ginger was with the doctor. Then they would go to lunch at some exquisite restaurant in which, no doubt, the decor would seem to have been planned to flatter Rita Hannaby and in which Ginger would feel like a schoolgirl foolishly trying to pass for a grownup.
        "Have you given some thought to what I suggested last Friday?" Rita asked as she drove. "The Women's Auxiliary at the hospital?"
        "I don't really think I'm up to it. I'd feel so awkward."
        "It's important work," Rita said, expertly slipping the Mercedes out from behind a Globe newspaper truck, into a gap in traffic.
        "I know. I've seen how much money you've raised for the hospital, the new equipment you've bought… but I think I've got to stay away from Memorial right now. It'd be too frustrating to be around the place, too constant a reminder that I can't do the work I've been trained for."
        "I understand, dear. Don't give it another thought. But there's still the Symphony Committee, the Women's League for the Aged, and the Children's Advocacy Committee. We could use your help at any of those."
        Rita was an indefatigable charity worker, ably chairing committees or serving on them, not only organizing beneficent societies but getting her hands dirty in the operation of them. "What about it?" she pressed. "I'm sure