Down the Rabbit Hole

“And if they happen to not be at their best . . . again? What if it is a particularly bad time in their life?” One corner of Elise’s mouth tilted upward in dissent—the odds had already diminished. “But what if they are truly charming and exciting people once—”

“Once they aren’t around me?”

“No. Just . . . once you have had more time to warm up to each other.”

“Eh. I’m to keep rubbing up against people I don’t give a lick for until I can love them like my brother? To make everyone else happy? To make them stop judging me as judgmental?” She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her right foot. “In a pig’s eye! I’m not mean and I’m not uncaring. But I’m also not the type to be making friends with those I’ve got no interest in.”

Martin/Abraham sighed. “But if you do not give them all the chances they need to connect with you, how will you ever know for sure?”

“I won’t.” A Grumpy Elise bobbled her oversized head loosely on her shoulders. “Now I reckon I’m supposed to lose sleep over not knowing about all the things I don’t know about?”

His smile was kind, but not convinced and not discouraged. He opened his mouth to speak—

The muffled growling noise came again, vibrating the floorboards beneath their feet; distant and close at once. It furrowed the president’s brow and alarmed Elise nearly as much as becoming an Angry Bird had.

“What is that?” she asked.

“It’s time. We must hurry.”

CHAPTER THREE

For a second time, President Lincoln bent to take hold of her hand—not to pull her up into his arms but to draw her around another endcap, this one featuring a large Shrek. Once there he stepped behind her and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders; then slowly pushed her forward.

The brightly colored costumes on both sides of the aisle began to fade—first to gray, then completely away, to reveal a filmy image of a woman she knew.

“Molly.”

Abruptly, the figure turned toward the sound of a voice saying, “Ready?”

“Yes,” Molly said.

Elise—looking very much herself—emerged from a cloudy dressing area in the beautiful red cocktail dress she bought four weeks earlier on one of their late-afternoon shopping trips. With a short gossamer skirt and spaghetti straps that crossed over the low-cut back, it had the wow-power to burn her image into Max’s brain until the day he died . . . maybe a little longer.

Molly gasped her approval. “Now that is a six-month anniversary dress!”

“You think so?”

“Lord, yes! It’s fabulous.”

“Not too . . . red?” She twirled before a mirror, looking concerned, but not about the dress.

Her mind began the slow rotation of thoughts that would—too often of late—spin out of control . . .

Pretty red. What if Max hates red? Do I care if he hates red? And what about this special need-a-new-dress-for-it anniversary dinner? It was his idea . . . so obviously he’s been keeping track of our days together. What does that mean? Is it romantic or weird? Or is there a six-month expiration date on the women he dates? Is the dinner a setup to let me down easy? Maybe I should dump him first. Maybe black would be a better color . . . something long and shrouded. No, no. He likes me. I know he does—I feel it. But I thought and felt the same thing about Jeremy. What did I miss in the first six months with Jeremy that I might be missing now with Max? Hell, it took me five years to figure out he was a liar and a cheat. Maybe Max would consider having nine more six-month anniversary dinners . . .

Her sigh was loud and discouraged as she swished the lovely red skirt back and forth around her knees. That would mean nine more amazing dresses I can’t really afford—and five more wasted years of my life. Maybe I should just ask him: Max? Are you planning to stomp on my pride and break my heart?

“I don’t think a sexy red dress can be too red,” Molly said, curbing Elise’s mental debate mid-spin. “Wanna borrow my Judith Leiber knockoff?”

Elise smiled. “Perfect. Thanks.”

“One down, one to go.”

“What?”