Chap was outside cutting the grass, seated atop Lou’s riding mower. He had on a baseball cap and the shorts he had bought in four different colors at the factory outlet they had stopped at on their way up. It was true of many men: their desire to get a bargain won out over their indifference to clothes. Fran thought about the garment bag she had brought — dresses she would probably never wear. All the restaurants allowed you to dress casually. She had removed her fingernail polish and not repainted her nails. Her hair was clipped back on top, to keep her bangs out of her eyes. She looked at Chap, heading down a line of uncut grass, fanning mosquitoes away from his face. He had covered his body with insect repellent before he went out, though his shirt was unbuttoned and he was pouring sweat, so most of it had probably washed away.
She thought about all the things she liked about Chap: his endearing smile when she came upon him and found him staring into space; his insistence that he had total recall, beginning at the age of five, which of course she could not dispute; his myopic concentration as his big fingertips moved over the tiny buttons of the calculator; the way he always pointed out a full moon; his insistence, every time, that at last he had found an honest car mechanic. When women talked about their husbands, there seemed to be no nice, comfortable gray areas of love: women either detested their mates or bragged or implied that they were great lovers, that they spent their nights joyfully enacting sexual fantasies as they jumped and toppled and fucked, like figures perpetually animated in a flip-book thumbed through time and again.
As Chap turned the mower and steered down another span of grass, she decided that when he headed back she would call out to him. She opened the refrigerator door and took out the half-empty bottle of red wine they had recorked the night before. She took a sip, then poured some into a wineglass. She would hold the wineglass out to Chap and smile a sly smile. She knew that he liked being propositioned in the afternoon; he acted slightly abashed, but secretly he liked it. Aside from surprises, he preferred morning sex, and she liked sex late at night — later than they usually managed, because he fell asleep by midnight.
As she put the glass on the counter, another thought came to her. She would go upstairs and put on one of Pia’s stylish dresses, maybe even Pia’s high heels if she could find fancier ones than she had brought herself. Clip on Pia’s earrings. Make a more thorough search for the perfume.
Going up the stairs, she felt as excited as a child about to play a sophisticated trick. There were small silhouettes — a series of ten or twelve — rising up the wall as the stairs rose. She wondered if they might be family members, or whether they were just something else that had been collected.
In the bedroom, she pulled the shade, on the off chance Chap might glance up and see her undressing. She opened the closet door and flipped through: such pretty colors; such fine material. Pia sewed her own clothes, using Vogue patterns. Friends in Rome sent her fabric. Everything Pia wore was unique and in the best of taste. From the look of the closet — dress after dress — it seemed she still did not wear pants.
The perfume — several bottles — sat in a wicker container. Fran found them when she lifted the lid. She unscrewed the tops and sniffed each one. She put a drop of Graffiti on the inside of each wrist, tapped another drop on her throat. She touched her fingertip to the bottle again and placed her moist finger behind her knee. Then she screwed the top on tightly and began to take off her clothes. She dropped them on the bed, then decided that she and Chap would be using the bed, so she picked them up and draped them over a chair. It was probably Pia’s needlework on the seat: a bunch of flowers, circled by lovebirds — very beautiful.
She took a dress the color of moss out of the closet. It was silk, flecked with silver. It had broad, high shoulder pads. Fran wiggled the dress over her head and felt at once powerful and feminine when the shoulder pads settled on her shoulders. She smoothed the fabric in front, adjusting the waist so the front pleat would be exactly centered. The appeal of the dress was all in the cut and the fabric — a much more provocative dress than some low-cut evening wear. The perfect shoes to go with it, simple patent-leather shoes with very high heels, were only a bit too small for Fran’s foot. She twisted her arm and slowly zipped the back zipper. Facing the mirror, she let her hair down and ran her fingers through it, deciding to let it stay a bit messy, only patting it into place. She clipped her bangs back neatly and looked at herself in the mirror. This was the place where Pia often stood studying herself. She smoothed her hands down the sides of the dress, amazed at how perfectly it fit.
Chap came into the house and called for Fran. The timing was too perfect to believe. She would slowly unzip the zipper, let him watch as the dress became a silk puddle on the floor. She would step out of it carefully. Once free, she could run to the bed and he would run after her.
She called to him to come into the hallway and close his eyes.
“I can’t,” he said. “A goddamn bee bit me.”
“Oh no,” she said. She checked her impulse to run down the stairs. “Put baking soda on it,” she called. “Baking soda and water.”
She heard him mutter something. The floorboards creaked. In a second, he hollered something she couldn’t understand. She went halfway down the stairs. “Chap?” she said.
“You don’t know where she’d have baking soda, do you?” he said, slamming drawers.
“There’s some in the refrigerator!” she said suddenly. She had seen an open box in the refrigerator. “Top shelf,” she hollered.
“The mosquitoes aren’t bad enough, I’ve got to get a bee bite,” he muttered.
“Have you got it?” she said.
He must have, because she heard the water running.
“Do you think taking aspirin would do any good?” he said. “Come in here so I can talk to you, would you?”
She stepped out of the shoes and ran into the kitchen. He was leaning against the counter, frowning, the box of baking soda on the drainboard, the bee bite — he had made a paste and then for some reason clapped his hand over the area — on his bicep. His face was white.
“Sit down,” she said, going toward him to lead him to the nearest chair. “It’s okay,” she said reflexively, deciding to be optimistic. Chap always rallied when someone was optimistic. “It’ll be fine,” she said, taking his elbow. “Go into the living room and sit down.”
“I don’t believe this,” he said. “I was finished. I’d shut the mower off. It came right at me and bit me, for no reason.”
They stepped across a fallen postcard and two cloud magnets he had knocked down as he bent to get the baking soda.
“What are you all dressed up for?” he said, frowning as he sank into a chair.
“Take your hand away,” she said. “Let me see.”
“I don’t think baking soda does anything,” he said. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I haven’t had a bee bite since I was about ten years old. How long is this thing going to sting?”