Perfect Girl - Weebly

“That’s why I’m here in Odessa, Ruthie,” she continues,
her mascara beginning to look very Marilyn Manson. “I’ve
moved out of my apartment. We sold the house in the
Hamptons.”
“White couches,” I whisper to Celeste, desperate to turn
the clock back to a time when Aunt Marty knew everything
and wasn’t all blotchy.
“I had to get away for a while,” she says, sniffing hard.
I dig deeper for that Kleenex. “Everything in New York
reminds me of Richard.”
“What about your column? What are we going to read
about next month?” Celeste stops patting Aunt Marty’s
shoulder.
“My editor and I did a bunch of them before I left. Not
that anyone will care. As soon as word gets out that I can’t
even keep a husband happy, who’s going to listen to me
advise them about men?”
“I will,” Celeste says.
“I will, too,” Frankie says.
“Me, three,” I add sincerely, finally finding a Kleenex
and handing it to her.
Aunt Marty blows her nose, then wraps both arms
around us and squeezes. “What would I do without my
family and friends?”
The waiter swings by our table and asks, “Would you
like anything else?”
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