The Wish. Diane Pershing

she said. “You have all of Dickens. And Thomas Aquinas. And, oh, Des, so many volumes of poetry! Frost and Wordsworth, and look here, Rilke’s Duino Elegies. ” Hands on hips, she turned to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      “Tell you what?”

      “That you’re one of us. The word-lovers. Especially the poetry. How come I never knew that about you?”

      Her enthusiasm made him feel even more awkward; he was already nervous about her being there. He wanted her to like the place, while at the same time he was kicking himself for caring. The woman knew too much about him already.

      “It didn’t come up,” he said with a shrug.

      “Sure it did. How many mornings have I bent your ear about new authors, especially poets, I’d been reading? And you just sat there on your big horse and nodded politely. Des, you’re a fraud.”

      She said it with a grin, so he didn’t feel attacked. And she was right. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, how much of a secret life he’d led always, disguising his love of reading from his family because they would have laughed at him, called him names. He’d kept his books under his bed, read them with a flash-light way into the night, while everyone else slept.

      “I don’t have much education,” he told her.

      “Formal, you mean. Obviously you’ve educated yourself which, in my opinion, is a whole lot more meaningful. You read because you want to, not because you have to, like you do in school.” She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. “You have to come to the shop on Tuesday night. We have poetry readings, you’ll love it. Why haven’t you ever come to my shop, by the way?”

      He’d been there once, Des could have told her, and had seen her mooning over Rance, which had irritated him, so he hadn’t been back.

      “Say you’ll come,” she persisted.

      “I usually do paperwork in the evenings.”

      “Try. Okay?”

      He couldn’t help noticing the eagerness, the openness of her expression. Once again, he shrugged. “I’ll see.”

      Chapter Three

      SUNDAY: Gerri figured there was probably some kind of shopping gene she’d failed to inherit, because, quite simply, she hated the act, especially when it came to trying to pick out clothing for herself. She tended to dress simply, in blouses, skirts and loafers or jumpers and loafers. She knew she had little taste and no real sense of style; her skills were verbal and mathematical, and most definitely, not artistic. And apart from her lack of taste, it always seemed a waste of time because she never found just the right thing to make her look or feel more attractive than she knew she was.

      “It’s an inside job,” her mother used to tell her. “Beauty is from within.” But Gerri always knew her brilliant and beautiful mom said that to make up for the fact that her daughter had gotten the worst of the family traits, physically, anyway: her mother’s intelligence, pale skin and freckles, but not her thick red hair, normal height or buxom, womanly body. Her father’s brain, plus his height, straight brown hair and a tendency to resemble a stork, but not his piercing gray eyes or regal nose. The co-mingling of DNA had worked out fine for Gerri’s brother Ned, who was handsome and tall and, of course, brilliant.

      Still, Gerri knew she’d been lucky in her parents. In their large apartment on Central Park West, there had always been a lot of love and enthusiastic encouragement to pursue any interest she developed. The nightly dinner table discussions were lively and expressions of affection were constant. She’d traveled extensively and been given a lot of personal freedom. She knew her values were pretty solid, knew that when you wanted something, really made up your mind to have it, you needed to work very hard. There wasn’t a lazy bone in Gerri’s body and, self-perceptions aside, she had a real can-do attitude.

      It was armed with this same attitude that she attacked the mall at opening time. She’d probably need all day to accomplish her mission. What a blessing that Didi had agreed to meet her here! This morning on the phone, Gerri had told her friend that she needed help choosing a dress and Didi had agreed, pleased that Gerri was showing some interest in fashion at last.

      Of course, Gerri hadn’t yet been invited to the fund-raiser this coming Friday, but if that happened—and if the wish parameters continued to be followed, it would—by heavens, she would be prepared this time.

      What she’d worn that night just before “the wish” was—she winced at the thought—the bridesmaid’s gown she’d been forced to buy for her brother’s wedding three years earlier. Even at the time Gerri had known it wasn’t the right color or cut for her, but Corrine, Ned’s intended, had wanted pale pink chiffon with lots of ruffles, and what the bride wanted, the bride got. Gerri knew in the dress, she looked like someone had covered a telephone pole with crepe paper bird plumage.

      Needless to say, if she’d had time to get something else last Friday night, she would have. But Rance’s invitation had given her an hour to get ready, so her options had been limited.