When Phee arrived, I took in her full face of make-up, carefully styled hair, pale pink tailored suit, and spiky matching heels. She resembled Newscaster Barbie à la 1986, and I didn’t mean that in a good way. “Wow. That’s… an outfit,” I said. Phee glanced down at herself. “Joel picked it out. He said it was a classic.” I stared. “Is it bad?” Her fingers fussed with a strand of pearls at her neck. Pearls! Was she a sixty-five-year-old grandmother? Actually, Mimi would die before wearing pearls.
