V Is for Vengeance

days a week for the past seventeen years. Over time, the consistent low-key exercise had changed the shape of her body and reduced her weight by a pound a year where other women her age were picking up three annually. Ordinarily, she set out at 6:00 A.M. but she’d wakened to just enough early morning drizzle to make the outdoors look grim. She’d postponed the walk and now the sun was out.
    Twice that week, she’d had occasion to run errands downtown. Crossing State, she couldn’t help glancing up at the three circular second-floor windows that marked Dante’s office, wondering if he was looking down at her. She still blushed when she thought about the man Maurice had referred her to. Dante looked respectable at first, but he was clearly accustomed to bending the rules—if he recognized the rules at all. And what was it he’d said to her? “Your husband’s a fool if he’s giving you grief.” There was something sweet about that. He’d been protective of her, a gallantry that brought tears to her eyes when she thought of it. Once upon a time, Channing had protected her from pain. Now he was the source.
    The walk dispelled some of the free-floating anxiety she’d flirted with over the past few days. Turning to Maurice Berman had helped. At least, she felt she was doing something for herself. Her conversation with Dante was disturbing in ways she couldn’t identify. Staying busy was her only hope of diminishing her uneasiness. She showered and washed her hair, then wrapped herself in a robe while she considered what to wear. She was having a late lunch at the club with a woman she’d met through the friend of a friend. They’d talked about tennis afterward, but that was still up in the air. Late afternoon she had an appointment at a local spa where she was scheduled for a complimentary beauty package, whatever that consisted of. Probably not much. The masseuse in Beverly Hills had raised her rates, and Nora had lost interest in the round-trip drive through heavy traffic for something that was meant to soothe and relax. That evening, of course, she and Belinda and Belinda’s younger sister had tickets for the symphony. Sorting through the hangers in her closet, she decided on a pair of close-fitting wool slacks and a cropped wool jacket—not a suit, but separates that worked well together.
    Mrs. Stumbo had put the issue of Los Angeles Magazine on her bed table. Nora thought she’d thrown it in the trash but perhaps she had not. She picked it up and carried it to the bench in front of her dressing table. Perversely, she turned to the back of the magazine and worked her way forward, page by page, until she found the two-inch-square photograph that had changed so many things. There was Thelma with her red hair and doting smile, smug in her role as Channing’s consort for the evening. The term zaftig came to mind, meaning the sort of blowzy female sexuality men lusted after: big breasts, narrow waist, flaring hips. The tops of Thelma’s breasts bulged upward, threatening to flop out of the strapless white evening gown. The bodice was so tight that when she’d zipped it up the back, two mounds of underarm fat were forced over the edge of the dress in puffy white rolls.
    Nora squinted and looked more closely at the photo. The dress had to be a Gucci. She knew the care he took with every stitch, the tucks and darts, the beading.
    Shit.
    She got up, took the magazine to the window, and peered again. Details came into sharper focus as the sunlight streamed in. Was that her gown or was she seeing things? Thelma’s diamond earrings looked like duplicates of hers as well. She’d noticed the similarities when she first saw the photo, but she’d been so taken aback by Thelma’s transformation she hadn’t registered the fine points. For a moment, she stood stock still, immobilized by indecision.
    She tossed the magazine aside and crossed the hall to the study. Her day planner was open at today’s date. In the square for each appointment, she’d written the telephone number of the individual she was scheduled to see. The lunch date and the spa visit were simply dealt with. She picked up the phone and in two calls cleared her afternoon. It was as though the real Nora had stepped aside and someone else had taken her place. She was clear-headed and single-minded. The symphony tickets would be trickier to finesse. She was on the verge of dialing Belinda’s number when she stopped. The symphony was at 8:00. If