Louise dealt this bridge hand. The four women went around Rose’s card table, draped with the finest white lace from her Duluth grandmother, and bid one spades, two diamonds, and finally Trudy’s three spades when everyone else passed. For once, Rose wasn’t the dummy – this hand, it was Barbara.
“Barbara, would you refill our teacups?” Rose said. “Bring in another plate of scones while you’re at it. Girls, would you believe I ran into Wilma Merkelstein at the Guthrie production of All My Sons last Friday?”
Louise gave an Aha, Trudy grunted out an Uhum, and Barbara muttered an Isn’t that interesting from the kitchen beyond.
“I’ve never seen her looking better. Why, every time I see her, she looks five years younger. It must be that twenty-nine year old boyfriend she found at the last Memorial Day picnic –“
“Hogwash, Rose,” Trudy said. “Wilma Merkelstein is sixty-seven years old. She’s had a little help in the nip-and-tuck department. She needs a little more than a daily ‘vitamin boost’ from Brian Benton.”
“What do you mean?” Rose asked.
“Oh, come on. Surely you know she’s had a facelift, an eye job, a nose job, and filled her forehead with Botox,” Louise said. “Everyone knows that.”
“Why, that just can’t be true. She seems, so ... well, so ... level-headed. Why would Wilma need to do ... that?”
“So you don’t approve?” Barbara said, coming back into the room with the plate of scones. Louise and Trudy grabbed two up.
“Well, it’s not my place to disapprove, but aren’t facelifts for New York and Florida housewives? I see them all the time, but not us Minneapolis ladies. It just seems so, well so, unnatural for a Minnesota farm girl.”
“And what’s your natural hair color, Rose?” Louise said. “Were you born with that shade of blonde?”
“Okay,” Rose said, casting a card down on the table. “Ace of spades on this trick.”
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