The Winter of Her Discontent by Kathryn Miller Haines

person, you know. Or maybe Pomeroy was her one true love and Al was…”
    â€œA career move?”
    â€œIt’s possible.” It didn’t seem fair that we assumed Al couldn’t have been the love of her life. He was a good egg, wasn’t he? And from what he’d told me in the past, he could be a devoted boyfriend.
    Jayne peeled off her leotard and tights and tossed them onto the floor. She plucked her kimono from its hook on the wall and wrestled with it before finally wrapping it around her body. “What’s this?” Her eyes had landed on the Times I’d dragged up from the lobby.
    â€œProbably nothing, but I ran across that downstairs. You ever hear of him?”
    â€œJohnny Levane? It doesn’t ring any bells.”
    â€œYeah, me neither, but I thought gangster, Broadway, murder…” My voice faded. I was looking for anything to exonerate Al and Jayne knew it.
    She put the paper on the nightstand, where it would likely remain until the page was obliterated with coffee rings. “It won’t hurt to hold on to it for a while. How’s Ruby?”
    I would’ve been less surprised if she asked me what I thought about Spam (for the record, I found it too salty but enjoyed it Aloha style with pineapple and avocado). There were certain topics Jayne never willingly broached. “Ruby? I would imagine surly and self-absorbed. You would know better than me.”
    â€œDidn’t she come home?”
    â€œI’m two steps behind you. I’ve been unconscious, remember? Why don’t you give me the lay?”
    Jayne sat beside me. She vibrated with excitement. “Sorry—you really did miss out on something then. Ruby got sick and had to leave rehearsal.”
    â€œHow sick?”
    â€œMind you, I wasn’t there, but apparently she went for her fittingand everyone in the costume shop got to admire what she had for breakfast and lunch.”
    This was too good. The only downside was that we’d missed it.
    â€œAnyway, they sent her home and I just assumed that she would’ve been over here telling you how sick she was.”
    It was a good assumption. There was only one reason Ruby wouldn’t come to visit me and rub in how much worse off she was than me—she was actually ill. And if that were the case, the last things she’d want were witnesses.
    â€œCan you handle a walk across the hall?” asked Jayne.
    â€œIf I can’t,” I said, “I’ll crawl.”

7
Angel Face
    W E KNOCKED ON R UBY’S DOOR for a good minute before her weak voice responded. I pushed it open and found her royal highness hidden beneath a pile of blankets, one pale white arm lying across her stomach.
    The only thing missing was the violin music.
    Ruby lived alone, which was fortunate since I doubt she could’ve crammed a roommate into her Shrine of All Things Ruby. While we made do with the furniture that had come with the house, Ruby had brought in her own sticks, including a canopy bed that rose to within an inch of the ceiling. Everything was pink and white, like an over-iced cupcake. Her walls were covered with photos and reviews, not push-pinned into place like most girls would do, but each tastefully framed and matted. And, of course, where there weren’t photos, there were mirrors, since gazing at the real thing was always better than a reproduction.
    â€œWe heard you were ill,” Jayne said. I had no idea how she managed to convey such an impressive depth of sincerity without drinking first. “We wanted to check on you.”
    Ruby adjusted her position until we could see first the tangled, damp mass of hair at the top of her head, then the red, swollen face dotted with hives.
    â€œWow,” I said. “You look awful.” I hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, but when you’re expecting mink and greeted with mange, you’re compelled to react.
    â€œThanks a lot.” Ruby