The Secret Life of Violet Grant. Beatriz Williams

heard the handle before.

      “David Perfect.” I waved my hand. “So why the doubt? Surely Mr. David Perfect wants to make you Mrs. David Perfect? Who better for the job than the loveliest girl in the history of Bryn Mawr College, Hepburn included?”

      “Hardly.”

      “And the sweetest.”

      “Oh, Vivs. You’re too much.” Bubbly bubbles of laughter. “I know I was silly to doubt him; he’s not the kind of man who would ever lead a girl on. I think he must have been distracted with his new job. You know how demanding his job can be.”

      I ransacked the old vault, trying to locate some mention of Mr. David Perfect’s mode of employment amid the endless reels of Gogo’s pleasant background chatter while I was checking my facts. But. Look. I couldn’t even remember the man’s first name without prompting. What chance did his career have? I considered the possibilities: lawyer, banker, broker, doctor.

      Ha, ha. Doctor. Wouldn’t that be funny.

      “I know,” I said. “So terribly, awfully demanding, that job of his.”

      “You see? And I was right. Listen to me, Vivs.” Conspiratorial whisper. “He rang me up last night.”

      “He didn’t!”

      “He did! He wants to have lunch with me today. He has something very important to tell me, he says.” She crushed my wrists with the force of her glee. “Very important. I just know he’s going to propose, Vivs! How do I look?” Elegant twirl.

      I rubbed my grateful wrists. “You look the same as always. Which is to say, no working candles for miles around.”

      She angled her million-dollar cheekbones to the light, just so. “You do say the funniest things, Vivs. What about my dress?”