Barbara Michaels - Shattered Silk

KAREN had never believed in the virtues of being early to bed and early to rise, but in Washington, in the summer, the second part of the adage made good sense. From dawn to midmorning-sometimes earlier, during a severe heat wave-the temperature was at least tolerable.

It was a surprisingly sociable time of day, too. Joggers and runners and exercise buffs were out in full force, not only because of the relative coolness but because most of them worked during the day. Karen had been jogging, or trying to, for over a week. The first time she emerged from the house into the pale light and long, soft shadows, she had been self-conscious and a little uneasy. Now she enjoyed it. There was a camaraderie among the would-be healthy, a pleased awareness of their superiority over the slothful majority who were still snoring in their beds. The truly dedicated ran in a state of profound detachment from reality, their eyes fixed in vacancy, their faces bright-red and streaming; but there were plenty like Karen, who had time for a friendly wave or grin, or gasped greeting, as they stumbled along. The tree-lined streets seemed cooler than they really were, and the towpath along the old B and O Canal was delightful at that time of day, shaded by surrounding buildings, with the water rippling gently under the footbridges.

Julie had given her a copy of the "new diet." Julie collected diets, though as far as anyone could observe she followed none. Karen was trying to stick to this one, though she found cottage cheese for breakfast an abomination difficult to accept, much less enjoy.

It was only a few minutes after eight when she returned to the house; time enough to do a load of laundry before she went to work. She couldn't believe how much she enjoyed washing clothes-not even in a machine, but tediously and carefully by hand.

The pamphlets she had obtained from the Smithsonian and the book Mrs. Mac had supplied intimidated her at first, with their dire warnings and their insistence on distilled water and special cleansing agents. In fact, they were singularly lacking in practical, precise advice. Most were written by or for museum curators, whose chief concern was preservation rather than appearance or wear-ability; Karen got the distinct impression that if these experts could have had their way, the garments wouldn't even have been displayed, but would have been packed away forever in special containers, safe from damaging light and touch.

The few books written for wearers and sellers of vintage clothing went to the opposite extreme. If the clothes can't be washed and cleaned by ordinary methods, don't bother with them, was the gist of their advice. Karen had had to rely on her own judgment and common sense in most cases. Anxious experimentation had proved to her that the white linens and cottons responded beautifully to soap and water and a careful use of bleaching agents. She learned to detect worn spots that might give way when wet, and she found that some long-set stains such as rust could not be removed without destroying the cloth itself. She tried the old methods-sun-bleaching, or lemon juice and water with a pinch of salt. One of Mrs. Mac's friends, delighted at finding an interested listener, told her how the frilly voluminous undergarments had been laundered when she was a girl-scrubbed by hand on a ridged washboard, starched and sprinkled and rolled and ironed with heavy irons heated on the stove. Karen wasn't moved to buy a washboard or give up her handy electric steam iron, but she searched the stores for old-fashioned Argo starch and followed the directions on the box, boiling and straining and diluting it as directed. It gave a better finish than spray starch, her mentor assured her, and lasted through several washings.

Part of Karen's pleasure was purely sensuous. It was good to handle the natural fabrics, linens and cottons and silks, and to see them transformed as if by magic from dingy, crumpled wads of cloth to garments dazzling in their whiteness and perky with starch.

There was another reason why she enjoyed a job she would once have considered unworthy of her intelligence. This job had visible, tangible results. They hung in lacy elegance from hangers and rods, and danced on the drying lines strung across the garden. They were the product of her own labors and her own good sense, and they would mean money in the bank-money she had earned. All she had ever gained from her long hours of labor for Jack was an occasional line in the finished book. "And finally I must thank my wife, who typed the manuscript…"

In the morning light the laces she had bought the previous night looked even better than she had hoped. She washed and bleached and rinsed again; by midmorning the clotheslines in the garden were full. Karen rewarded herself with a second cup of coffee-black-and sat down on the terrace to relax for a few minutes and admire the results of her labors.

She wondered how long it would be before the neighbors complained. The look was definitely not Georgetown, and even though the high fence ensured a degree of privacy, old Mr. DeVoto, who lived in the house to the north, was a first-class busybody. Let him object, she thought defiantly. But it would be nice to have her own place, in the country or in a small town, where the air was free of exhaust fumes and smog. She couldn't go on living with Ruth and Pat. Even if pride had not forbidden such a course, her uncle's temper would surely crack if he had to fight his way through dangling linens and laces every time he wanted to sit on the terrace or use the bathroom.

Karen arrived at the shop promptly at eleven, to find that Rob had already opened for business. Her surprise and pleasure at this unexpected development were cut short when Rob informed her that he was taking the afternoon off. He brushed her protests aside with an airy wave of the hand. "Darling, you must have more confidence in yourself. It's a piece of cake. I mean, sweetie, what's the problem?"

The problem was that Saturday was the busiest day of the week, when it would have been advantageous to have two people on duty. Rob knew this as well as Karen did, but although she was sorely tempted to give him a piece of her mind, she decided it was not worth the effort. She had no authority to hire or fire employees; if Rob took umbrage at her criticism and quit she would be left with no help at all. Like Alexander, he wasn't worth much, but he was better than nothing. She wondered how he managed to keep his job. He must have some hold over Julie, to get away with such a casual attitude; she had seen him do the same thing before. She couldn't believe Rob and Julie were lovers, though. Surely Rob wouldn't flaunt his affairs so flagrantly if that were the case. Perhaps there had been something between them in the past.

Rob left at two, reeking of some strong, supposedly sexy aftershave, and smirking in a way that made Karen want to throw something at him. Business was brisk. She didn't sell much, but the shop bell never stopped tinkling and she didn't have a moment to sit down. Finally, at around four, the traffic began to slow. The sunshine without was hazy with heat, and most people were heading for Happy Hour.

Karen had just collapsed into a chair when the telephone rang. Instead of reaching for it she eyed it warily; she was still smarting from the last call, from a dealer who had some urgent business with Julie-an appointment she had obviously forgotten, since she had said nothing about it. The dealer, not a well-bred man, had taken his ire out on Karen and she was in no mood for another such encounter.

However, the phone had to be answered. The voice that replied to her formal "Old things. May I help you?" was familiar.

"Karen? This is Cheryl. Mark's sister."

"Oh, hello."

"Hello. I just happened to be in… I mean, I was wondering… I thought maybe you'd like to go to dinner or a movie or something tonight. I know it's awfully short notice-"