She sat next to Darby as she strapped them on. “What do you think?” she asked him as she pulled up the legs of her jeans and looked at the sandals from different angles.
“I think they look like scarecrow shoes.”
She glanced over at him in his favorite silk skull shirt and leather pants and considered the source.
He leaned over and said next to her ear, “I need you to put in a good word for me with Caroline.”
“No way. You insulted my sandals.”
“If you get me a date with her, I’ll buy you the shoes.”
“You want me to pimp for you?”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
Jane glanced at her friend, who was at the Ralph Lauren table eyeing a pair of slides. “Ah-yeah.”
“Two pair.”
“Forget it.” She took off the sandals and shoved them back into the box. “But I’ll give you a few pointers. Lose the skull shirt and don’t talk about Mensa.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
When they finished in the shoe department, she and Marie rode the escalator up to lingerie, while Caroline and Darby headed to the men’s department.
Jane and Marie were loaded down with bags as they found racks of bras.
“What do you think?” Marie asked as she held up a lavender lace bra.
“It’s pretty.”
“I bet it’s uncomfortable, though.” She tilted her head to one side. “Don’t you think?”
“Sorry, but I’m not going to be able to help you here. I don’t wear bras. I never really have.”
“Why not?”
“Well, as you can see, there isn’t much need. I’ve always just worn camisoles or a bandeau or nothing at all.”
“My mom would have killed me if I wore just a camisole.”
Jane shrugged. “Yeah, well, growing up, my dad didn’t like to talk about girl stuff. So I think he just pretended I was a boy for a lot of years.”
Marie flipped over a price tag. “Do you still miss your mom?”
“All the time, but it isn’t so bad now. Just try and recall all the good memories of your mother before she got sick. Don’t think about the bad.”
“How’d your mom die?”
“Breast cancer.”
“Oh.” They looked at each other over the rack of bright lacy bras, Marie’s big blue eyes staring into Jane’s, and neither of them had to say anything about watching a loved one die that way. They knew.
“You were younger than me. Right?” Marie asked.
“I was six, and my mother was sick a long time before she died.” Her mother had been thirty-one. One year older than Jane was right now.