Bright, Precious Days Read Online Free PDF

recalling how much she loved their banter, when a blonde in a lavender gown suddenly appeared at Luke’s side.
    And even before he said “
There
you are,” there was something in the ease of her comportment, in the serenity of the smile directed at Luke, and in Luke’s sudden discomfort, that provoked a sinking feeling of nausea in Corrine.
    “Giselle, this is Corrine Calloway. A very dear friend.”
    Oh, thanks for that, she thought.
Dear.
Friend.
    “Corrine, this is my…wife, Giselle.”
    “How nice to meet you,” Corrine managed to say, although it was all she could do to remain standing, feeling suddenly light-headed and faint.
    “Likewise,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet so many of Luke’s old friends. I’m afraid we got married in such a terrible hurry, I feel I’ve a great deal of catching up to do.” She was very pale, with white blond hair, although an athletic physique and an air of boisterous vitality undermined the impression of Pre-Raphaelite delicacy. Likewise her accent, which seemed like a muscular, rusticated version of upper-crust English.
    Corrine caught sight of Russell and waved frantically.
    “Were you two school chums?” Giselle inquired politely.
    “We met doing some volunteer work together,” Luke said quickly, as if he were afraid of what she might say.
    “After September eleventh.”
    “Ah, yes. At the soup kitchen. Luke told me about that. It must have been a terrible time.”
    “Best of times, worst of times,” she said, regretting it as soon as it was out of her mouth. “I mean, as terrible as it was, it brought out the best in a lot of people.” God, what an idiot she was being tonight. She realized how clichéd this sounded, which was only slightly better than glib.
    To his credit, Luke was looking slightly pained. She was improbably grateful to Russell as he bumped into her and splashed some of his drink on her arm. He had this kind of overflowing physicality, a puppyish lack of coordination, a sort of comical deficit of grace that had earned him the nickname “Crash.”
    “Hello, my love. Sorry.”
    “Hello, Russell. I don’t know if you remember Luke McGavock. And this is his wife, Gazelle.”
    “Giselle, actually.”
    Yes, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself, and was that a look of amused complicity on Luke’s face? “My husband, Russell Calloway.”
    “The man of the hour,” Russell said, shaking Luke’s hand.
    “I’m grateful to you and all the other guests,” said Luke before excusing himself to be towed off by a woman with a clipboard.
    “Interesting guy,” Russell said after they’d both been swallowed by the crowd. “Tom was just telling me his story.”
    “I know,” she said. “We worked together for six weeks.”
    Russell looked blank.
    “Ground Zero, soup kitchen.”
    “Oh, right.”
    Five years later—another era. “You met him once outside Lincoln Center, just before
The Nutcracker.
”
    Russell shrugged. He didn’t seem to remember one of the pivotal moments of Corrine’s life, had no idea that the complex emotional transaction of that encounter had preserved his marriage. Russell’s obtuseness had been a blessing in the event; he’d never suspected anything, so far as she could tell, never noticed how thoroughly she’d withdrawn from him back then, how close she’d come to leaving.
    The lights were pulsing, summoning them to the main event. “We’d better find our table,” he said. She felt the familiar pressure of Russell’s hand on her elbow, guiding her forward into the throng, the radiant, bejeweled women with their taut faces stretched back over their ears, and their sinking cleavage, the men in their bespoke tuxedos with faraway stares, thinking about share prices in Hong Kong and mistresses in condos in the East Sixties.
    Seeing Casey, their hostess, standing at the table, Corrine wondered if this had been some kind of setup. How could she not have mentioned, when she invited Corrine, that this was