Perfect Girl - Weebly

one another in the center of the room. Throw pillows, in
antique flag fabric, add color; a quilt made from embroidered
handkerchiefs is draped over the back. Mr. Arthur’s
burled coffee table (that was once used as an ashtray, judging
by the burn marks) has been replaced by a hand-painted
pine chest. The formerly dust-bunnied wood floor is covered
with a huge braided rug in different shades of yellow.
Mom’s mismatched curtains are gone. Window treatments,
in a Ralph Lauren-ish floral, complement the overstuffed
striped cushions of the new white rocking chairs. Our
crummy old house in Odessa is now a magazine cover.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” I’m speechless.
“Just a few pieces from my house in the Hamptons,”
Aunt Marty says. “They arrived an hour ago. I figure, why
not surround ourselves with lovely things? The painters are
finishing up the sunporch.”
“Are we allowed to sit in here?”
She laughs. “Of course! The true sign of being a grownup
is having a white couch. We’re grown-ups, aren’t we?”
Isn’t that so like a Goddess?
“How did this happen so fast?” I ask.
My aunt puts both hands on my shoulders. “Once you
decide to do something, it doesn’t take long to get it done.
Most people waste all their time deciding.”
That reminds me. “Where’s Mom?”
“In the garden, I think,” Aunt Marty says, knocking on
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