"Sammy Davis's playing—"
"Oh, he's fabulous. Did you see him the last time he was on Dean Martin? He’s so smooth!"
"I don't watch TV much, but I always try to see whoever's at the Grove when I'm in town. I figured I'd take Estella," he said, naming the loud blonde at the table, "but I'd rather take you, if you can spare the time, that is."
Raylene's hand flew to her heart, as it always did when she was flattered. She was at least ten years older than Estella.
“Oh I would love to, but I can’t wear this,” she said, flustered, pointing to her cotton dress. “I suppose . . . I could pick up something more presentable at Bullocks . . . and I could call my friend Connie to look in after the kids.” She knew Carl would be home late as usual.
“Well, that’s set then. Why don’t you meet me at the Ambassador Hotel coffee shop, 7:00?” Pat said breezily as he hailed her a cab. His kiss on the back of her hand (such a gentleman, she thought) tingled as she rode away.
* * *
Distant shouts from the film crew broke Raylene's reverie. What was she doing, lollygagging around when she hadn't even got inside yet, she thought crossly. She tugged at the locked golden doors. Surely this couldn't be the only way in, she thought and walked quickly past the purple-and-mirror-striped walls toward the theater’s street entrance.
Time had not treated the grand staircase any better than it had treated Raylene. The surrounding atrium glass was cloudy, the red carpet torn, the floor-to-ceiling mirrors cracked. She hurried past, not wanting to see how rail-thin she had become, or how unnatural her frizzy dyed hair looked. She just wanted to remember Pat’s enthusiasm. "June’s just bustin' out all over!" he had said as he kissed her in her new yellow dress with the bow that made her waist so neat.
She closed her eyes and all his scents came back to her: his cotton shirt smelling of starch; a patchouli aftershave that never quite drowned his masculine musk; and the crayola smell of his waxed Burgomeister moustache. She remembered being surprised how thin his lips had been under it. But they were sweet, delicate lips, not like Carl's. She sighed without realizing it, found a small open passage behind the staircase into what evidently had been a backstage area, and pushed aside a frayed black curtain.