Died with a Bow Read Online Free Page A

in
Moonstruck
. But I’m not a movie star and I pictured myself tugging on my gown all evening to keep it from falling down.
    “I mean elegant,” she said, taking a long, sleek black dress by Elie Tahari off the rack and removing it from its flexible hanger. “It may be a bit wintry for April, but I truly think you’d look terrific in it.”
    I went into the tiny dressing room and slipped into the high-necked dress with sheer long sleeves. When I came out, Dolce didn’t say a word, she just fluttered her eyelashes and sat down in her favorite chair as if her legs wouldn’t hold her upright another moment.
    “I love it, but what do you think?” she asked me.
    I looked in the three-way mirror and realized that the back was open to the waist with a low-cut V-shaped embellishment. It was chaste in the front and daring in back. And quite elegant. It made me feel glamorous.
    “It’s a beautiful dress,” I said. For some reason, I’d never seen it on the rack, never showed it to any customer.
    “It fits you perfectly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the men started bidding on
you
,” she said with a chuckle. I smiled,but I was reminded it didn’t matter how glamorous I looked, I would not be leaving with a date because I couldn’t afford one.
    “It will be fun to go and see who’s who and what they’re wearing,” I said. Dolce had provided my dress and the ticket to the event. Just because I’d be forced to watch two men I was interested in being auctioned off to rich society women was no reason to act ungrateful. I would smile my way through this evening, confident I looked my best. So I hung the dress I’d wear on Saturday back on the rack, and after thanking her again, I said good night to Dolce.
    Making my way down the street, I thought of poor Nick the gymnast, who’d not only picked me up from the hospital when I’d had my concussion but who’d also supplied me with Romanian food he’d made himself. Now he was lying helpless in his apartment on Green Street, and where was I? On my way home alone, and of course I was hungry.
    I decided to pick up some food at one of the restaurants in his neighborhood and take it to his house. After all he’d done for me, it was the least I could do. I pictured Nick’s face when I knocked on his door, his mouth falling open when he saw me, then a huge warm, welcoming smile when he noticed the boxes of food in my hand. It wouldn’t be Romanian food, but I’d find something reasonable and tasty in the trendy Cow Hollow neighborhood where he lived. If I was totally honest, I’d admit I hated to eat alone. I never used to mind so much before Vienna. Now when I saw her being whisked off on a motorcycle or in a sports car, I felt a pang of jealousy and curiosity. Who was she going out with? Where were they going? Not that it was any of my business. Still…
    When I got off the bus on Union Street and walked toGreen Street, I remembered hearing that Cow Hollow was named for the cows who’d lived on the dairy farms here in the mid-1800s. Not a cow or a farm to be seen these days. Just ornate three-story Victorian houses with turrets and gingerbread trim built after the gold rush in 1849 when the neighborhood became fashionable. Fortunately the area hadn’t been heavily damaged by the 1906 earthquake and fire that leveled so much of this city, so these converted barns, carriage houses and mansions were still standing, still looking good as I walked down the street, wondering how Nick could afford to live here on the salary of a gymnastics teacher. Maybe the same way I managed to live on upscale Telegraph Hill: by taking the smallest apartment on the top floor with no elevator and scarcely room to turn around inside.
    I was tempted to stop several times at restaurants filled with yuppies wearing what I call boho chic, both men and women in tight denims, boots and—what else—layers of shirts, sweaters and jackets. What would happen if I stopped in for a drink with all