I saw white. He’d talked to her about my clothes! I felt dizzy, hot in the face. Anna must have kept talking. I think she even left the room, because the next thing I knew, she was standing in front of me with another dress, which I had no interest in, no fucking interest in whatsoever until I saw it.

I could name the designer. Mariano Fortuny. I knew his singular style. I’d seen knockoffs in upscale stores. I’d seen the collection of his gowns at the Metropolitan Museum. I’d studied the craftsmanship, the artistry of his designs in my Fashion Trends and Cultural Influences class at Berkeley.

This particular gown was classic Fortuny, made of hand-blocked silks with a metallic sheen. And the colors! The silver gown was covered in random geometric shapes in two colors, a pale aqua and an ice blue. I’d read that Fortuny dresses were most likely to be in museums and that on rare occasions, they appeared for auction, usually in Italy, for a price equivalent to, at the very least, several teachers’ salaries.

Anna helped me into the dress. With her cool hands, she zipped up the back. For her, it was just another outfit, while it was the dress of my dreams.

“You’d be helping me,” she said. “I’d hate to go alone. And the truth is, I can only wear one of these dresses at a time . . .”

Everybody has a price. Anna Brody had just named mine.

“Kate, are you upset?”

Upset? Please. There I was, facing myself in a full-length gold-framed mirror. I forgot that my husband had been too forthcoming, and I forgot the stubble on my unshaven legs and the regrettable state of my underwear, and for a moment I even forgot about the mess we were making of this planet’s future, because my mind raced with other thoughts, ranging from I could stare at myself for hours to Damn, I’m hot to the near certainty that this dress was made just for me.

BEA MYERLY

BEA MYERLY

Dear Mr. Welch,

I’m sorry for your loss.

Sincerely yours,

Bea

P.S. Please disregard this letter if the homeless man who was found frozen to death on the steps of Plymouth Church was not the same homeless man who is/was your friend. My hunch and fear is that he’s the same person. If he is/was, you must remember you did all you could. It was you who gave him money and food and showered him with clothes and athletic apparel—it was you who made him feel less alone in this cruel and brutal world.

Oh, it just occurred to me that there’s a chance you haven’t even heard this news. My apologies if you haven’t heard!