Whenever we went to a restaurant, she placed her handbag on the table like it was another guest. Usually, a more important one.
“This is genuine Italian leather,” she’d announce, sometimes to waiters who’d only asked whether we wanted sparkling water.
But I started noticing little things.
I wasn’t a fashion expert.
One supposedly exclusive handbag had crooked stitching. Another had a zipper that got stuck so often Joyce practically needed Colin’s physical therapy services to open it.
Then there was the purse she’d apparently purchased during a luxurious shopping trip to Paris.
Funny, because I distinctly remembered her spending that entire month at home, complaining about the rain.
I wasn’t a fashion expert, but something about Joyce’s collection didn’t add up.
“Limited edition.”
Not that I cared. People could carry their groceries in designer handbags or plastic bags for all I cared.
