The Longest Night Read Online Free PDF

settled.
    Brownie Franks was, unfortunately, subjecting the women to another discussion of her love for paint-by-number kits. The woman was obsessed with crafts. She had probably made the wooden necklace that hung around her neck like an infant’s teething beads. However, watching Brownie attempt to draw Kath Enzinger into a discussion of paint-by-numbers could prove amusing. It was like watching her try to sell Girl Scout cookies to a telephone pole.
    Patty Kinney leaned in toward Jeannie, her green eyes flashing beneath a crop of bottle-black hair. “Look at you, Jeannie! Every inch the lady. Are all the guests here?”
    Jeannie scanned the room, sipping her mai tai. “The new couple is missing,” she said. “That man Collier and his wife.”
    “Have you met them yet?”
    “I haven’t.”
    “Hm,” said Patty, as if this lack of information were somehow information. She was Jeannie’s closest friend in attendance; their husbands had gone through Belvoir at the same time.
    The doorbell rang. “That could be them now,” Jeannie said.
    Patty’s lined black eyebrows shot up with interest. “Stay here, you,” Jeannie said with a laugh, and Patty made a face.
    Jeannie picked her way delicately past the legs of the seated women over to the group of men who stood with their drinks.
    “Mitch,” she whispered. He turned from whatever chuckly conversation he’d been having and looked at her, puzzled. “The door,” she said, taking his arm.
    “Oh.” He sighed and turned with her down the hall. He had told her once that he did not understand why they had to answer their door linked arm in arm like young lovers on a twilight stroll, but she explained that it simply set a tone: for their household, for the gathering. Jeannie believed in gentility. Everything a person did set forth an impression about them, and first impressions, of course, mattered more than any other. That was why her hand towels were ironed, her soap dispensers polished, the vacuum marks freshly ridged into the carpet like paths to righteousness. She tapped her hair as she passed the hall mirror—surely it couldn’t move, it was hair sprayed within an inch of its life—and opened the door.
    “You must be the Colliers,” Jeannie beamed, as she sized up the couple before her. Mr. Collier had dark hair, dark eyes, and a quiet bearing. His wife was no great beauty—her face narrow and a little asymmetrical—but there was a prettiness to her, nonetheless. She wore a navy blue collared shirtdress (not quite dressy enough for an evening party) with a strand of pearls (better), and her hair was up. She was holding a large platter with a brick of meatloaf in the center, covered in cellophane wrap. Jeannie caught herself staring at it and diverted her gaze. The party was not a potluck; Mrs. Collier must have been confused. Jeannie found this both irritating (her invitation had been quite clear) and also mildly pitiable, but she would be gracious about it.
    “Master Sergeant,” Paul Collier said, shaking Mitch’s hand.
    Mitch grinned at Collier’s wife. “And
Mrs.
Collier, so glad you could join us.”
    “Please, call me Nat,” she said. “These are our daughters, Samantha and Liddie.” She nudged her children forward with one hand. They were cute dark-haired girls, the little one round faced and bright eyed, the older leaner and long haired, a spitting image of Nat. “Say hello,” she urged.
    “Hello,” said the older child. The younger one stood frozen.
    On cue, Lupe appeared. “I will take you, girls,” she said, smiling and holding out her hand. The nannies had been well supplied with several boxes of Cracker Jack, an RCA Victor to listen to, and a stash of increasingly sticky dolls.
    For a moment it seemed Nat’s younger daughter might burst into tears, but seeing her older sister trot down the hall she tripped along after her, looking back just once. Nat gave her an encouraging wave and turned back to Jeannie, shifting the plate in