I’d been so touched by their thoughtfulness that I wore it often and had brought it with me to Paris to remind me of them and of home. I hadn’t meant for it to frighten anyone. “It’s . . . warm,” I said in my defense. “And it was a gift from my children.”
“Do they dislike you?”
I glowered at her as I took my Coca-Cola bottle from the dresser and took a large sip, the bubbles tickling my nose. “Of course not. And there’s nothing wrong with it. It does keep me warm at night.”
“As would the small bonfire we could make using it. Please tell me your gentleman didn’t see it.”
“Of course not. And he’s not my gentleman. He’s a business associate, and his name is Drew Bowdoin.”
“Bowdoin—like the college?”
I stared at her for a moment wondering if I was the only person in the world who didn’t know about Bowdoin College. I shook my head. “Not according to Mr. Bowdoin.”
Her gaze swept over me again and she sighed audibly. “Apparently, we still have a lot of work to do.” She marched across the room to the closet and pulled it open. After some consideration, she took out a bright yellow dress with large white dots that I recalled trying on the previous day. It was another short dress, but not as short as the dress I’d worn the previous evening with the drink stain on the bodice. At least I wouldn’t feel as if I should be wearing trousers with it. But there’d been something else . . .
“It’s got the most adorable cut-out at the top—isn’t it just darling? It’s very clever the way it shows just a wink of your cleavage.” She held it against her chest for a moment, her eyes closed, and smiled. “Beautiful clothes can change your life, believe me.”
I wanted to believe it. That my life could change just by putting on a pretty dress and feeling the sun on bared skin. But I couldn’t. I felt a flicker of annoyance at this woman who’d somehow managed to barge her way into my life without knowing anything about me. “I can’t wear that. It’s too . . . happy.”
She lowered the dress. “And why don’t you feel you should wear clothes that are happy?”
“I’m a widow.”
Instead of replacing the dress in the wardrobe, she began taking it off the hanger. “And your late husband wouldn’t want you to be happy?”
“Of course he would. It’s just . . .” I shook my head, trying to find a way to tell her how utterly miserable I’d been since Kit died. How inside I felt like the barren fields in winter, waiting for a spring that never arrived. Finally, I blurted, “You wouldn’t understand. I loved him.” But I think he loved another woman. I was thankful to have held back that last, shameful secret. Because I intended to take that one to the grave.
Precious watched me in silence, the light shifting in her eyes, her beautiful face unreadable. “I do know,” she said softly. “I once loved someone so much I thought I might die from wanting him. But it was during the war.” She shrugged, as if in that small gesture she could explain the years of hunger and loss. Of waiting and longing. And the eventual devastation of the heart. “Circumstances brought me to France. I never saw him again.”
The room was quiet for a moment as we listened to the faint sound of traffic on Place Vend?me, the confirmation that life did go on. She continued, “I chose to do more than simply survive. I chose to live. To find a purpose in life. To search out the joy and happiness that is everywhere, even in difficult times, if we’re just brave enough to look.” A wide smile illuminated her face. “That’s why I choose to wear beautiful clothes and surround myself with lovely things and interesting people. To go out and live.” She took a step closer to me. “Otherwise, what is the point of surviving?” Her expression turned serious. “I’m thinking somewhere, deep down, you understand what I’m saying. Otherwise, I don’t think you’d ever have agreed to have gone shopping with me yesterday.”
She held out the yellow spotty dress to me. “So come on. Wear this. I’ll put a yellow ribbon in your hair and let you borrow my favorite lipstick—Cherries in the Snow. My mama used to say there was nothing besides a bright-colored lipstick to make a girl believe she could conquer the world.”
For the first time since meeting Precious Dubose, I found myself wondering about her past. There was a minefield there, I was sure, with the same conviction that most of her story would remain secret. But I also knew, in some odd way, that we were somehow kindred spirits, that she did understand. And maybe—hopefully—I could follow her lead and find joy and happiness in my life again, and a purpose besides organizing church fetes and spearheading the Keep Britain Tidy group of the Women’s Institute.