But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. Shari tried a dozen new makeups on her, and Cathy spritzed her with her best perfume, Chanel Number Five. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. “We can be alone?” She inquired. Meanwhile, she was spirited away from John and bombarded by half-familiar people who attempted to chat with her above the roar of the crowd.
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