Burned, page 43
part #1 of Daughters of Salem Series
I wedge my feet into the narrow heels with a pointy toe. My mom gives me a peck on the cheek as I wobble on my way out to the car.
“There’s willow bark in the glove box; it might stave off a heart attack…”
I nearly swerve into oncoming traffic as Pyewacket crawls out of the footwell onto the leather passenger seat. “What the hell!? What are you doing here!?” My GPS loudly instructs me to take the next exit. “Jump out! Now! I can’t be late.”
Pyewacket stretches insouciantly, his skin stretches, outlining each bone in his spine. “I was sure Helen would forbid you to go. She’s far too soft. After today, I’ll be escorting you more often.”
You. Are. Not. Coming. Inside.
“I need to be around to intervene in case you go off your trolley again. I saved your arse today.”
Yeah, and you weren’t at school.
Pyewacket lips curl. “Just drive on.”
I inhale until my lungs fully inflate, then release through my nose. I will not hiccup tonight.
“What’s the expression? If there’s a will…”
Shut up.
I slow as I approach a gate that can’t be less than thirty feet tall, then crane my neck, peering up. A brawny man with a clipboard steps out of a brick booth disguised as a pillar. A gun is strapped to his bulging chest. Pyewacket creeps under the seat again.
If anyone sees you, I’ll deny knowing you and join in on the hunt.
The man bows his head, peering into my car, looking about. “Name?”
“Eleanor O’Reilly?” I whisper, as if I’m unsure.
He takes a step back. “Park in the circle and leave the keys on your seat.”
The narrow road to the house is like driving through a dark green tunnel. My nerves kick up about ten notches as I pass under the shadow of tightly packed trees and shrubbery. The leafy tunnel opens revealing the majesty of Jack’s home.
Now my stomach is doing backflips. A long, perfectly rectangular pond with five sprinkling geysers sprays up the middle. Nick’s friends had referred to the home as “The Capital”, but even that was being modest. This white, federal-colonial mansion is the epitome of American royalty, like Buckingham Palace with a splash of George Washington.
Standing at the front doors, my hand hovers in the air, not sure if I should knock with my hand or use the antique door knocker. It looks centuries old. Is it just for decoration? Do they have a doorbell? If I knock, will anyone hear me? Oh gosh, is this what dinner is going to be like? Maybe I should just call Jack to let me in.
I glance at the time on my cell phone before scrolling for his number, but I nearly drop it when the black French doors open.
A bald man who looks like if Mr. Clean was also a retired MMA fighter steps forward wearing a baby blue polo, a conspicuous earpiece, and khaki pants. “Miss O’Reilly, come in,” he says with an indecipherable accent.
“Thank you,” I whisper nervously. My hands quiver at my sides while I step into the marble and gold encrusted foyer. There’s a round table with fresh, aromatic hydrangeas poised in a crystal vase.
“This way, ma’am.” Mr. Clean escorts me down the left hall until we stop in what I assume is their private art gallery. The elongated windows are adorned with drawn red velvet curtains that ruffle out on the floor like scarlet waterfalls. I feel like a mouse tiptoeing into a museum after hours. Each baroque painting is accompanied by a light and a plaque. Chaise lounges and divans are scattered about the room, methodically angled to best appreciate the priceless pieces on the wall and the towering sculptures in the center.
“Please take a seat, ma’am. I’ll fetch Mr. Woods.” With a bow, he staunchly strides away and disappears down the hall.
I gulp. Which chair am I supposed to sit on? I eventually select a large armchair in the corner of the room wedged between two oil paintings, a Picasso and a Dahli, according to their placards. Shannyn would be in heaven. Maybe she can text me some talking points? My eyes scan the room, wishing I had taken an art appreciation class so I could sound somewhat intelligent over dinner.
I cross and uncross my legs, then adjust in my seat. This armchair has no give. It’s like being perched on a boulder; a very expensive, chic boulder. My eyes fall to a small gold plaque at the base of the wall that reads Dolly’s Roses. I squint, reading more. Oh my gosh, this chair belonged to James Madison. I leap up, realizing this chair is a piece of American history, not furniture. I remain standing and fold my arms, careful not to bump into anything. It’s like being in the Met, just with fewer crowds and more rules.
A booming laugh echoes from down the hall. It isn’t Jack’s. This laugh has more gusto, more stature. I can’t help but think it’s the kind of laugh you’d hear from a king watching the court jester right before a beheading.
I step closer to the doorway while still safely ensconced in the room.
“You’re kidding? A real screamer, huh? That’s why I’ve given up on the sport. I’ll never be satisfied. They recruit the same type and it leaves nothing but disappointment. Team sports are all the same.” The booming male voice sounds too young to be Jack’s father. “I’m telling you only one technique actually works, full proof. No Hail Mary. Ha. I don’t keep trophies, big difference. Yeah, yeah, he’s a CrossFit champion, I think. Of course, I still play. I just prefer to go solo. Hey, look at the top tier, they aren’t playing doubles. Oh, you know Allen.”
I return to perusing the paintings on display, trying my hardest not to eavesdrop on this stranger’s conversation that’s perfectly lost on me. I stop at a modern sculpture encased in glass. It looks like twisted and fraying steel balancing perfectly on platinum rings.
“Iyad informed me you had arrived. There was a part of me that didn’t quite believe it.”
My heart settles in my chest. With my back to him, I hear him draw closer until his arms are around me. “What do you think?” he questions as we both stare at the immense sculpture.
I shrug, the back of my head resting against his chest. “I’ve never been one for modern art.”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah, neither are my parents, but Allen got into a pissing match with Zuckerburg, and well, here it is.” Jack turns me around, taking my hands. His eyes tumble from my lips downward. His brows lift and his mouth parts. “You look beautiful.” He gazes at me like he’s unworthy, as if even in a room as spectacular as this, I’m the thing to admire.
I shrink back under the scrutiny. “It’s my sister’s dress. I feel overdressed, or maybe underdressed? I don’t know.” I try to cover myself up by folding my arms. I only now notice Jack’s attire: light grey slacks, matching coat, pristine white button up, no tie. His outfit, most likely in the six-figure range, cuts his slender form into something bold and regal. I peer down at myself, feeling like a flea market bargain next to the Hugo Boss cologne commercial. I stare up at his face, seeing an exhausted, hounded look. Dark circles cup under his eyes, his handsome features almost haggard. Only hours prior, he seemed perfectly fine.
“Hey are you okay?”
He shakes his head, waving my question away. “You look perfect, Eleanor.” His smile is peaceful when my name leaves his mouth. He tips my chin upward, pressing his body against me. His lips caress mine, moving tenderly, with one hand on my lower back and the other cradling the back of my head. I stretch on my tiptoes; the heels of my feet lift out of my shoes as our kisses quicken in passion. His arms tighten around me and I struggle to reach until suddenly I’m more level to his mouth and… I’m literally levitating. Crap!
I break our mouths apart and push myself back down into my shoes.
Jack frowns, opening his mouth to speak.
“Mr. Woods, Honor has just arrived. Your family is waiting,” the brawny butler announces from the doorway.
Jack sighs, straightening up and adjusting his lapels. “I promise this won’t be too painful.”
Jack guides me hand in hand down the hallway until we stop at a brass caged elevator. I stay silent as we take it up to the third-floor formal dining room, too nervous to speak.
The elevator doors open to an immaculate dining room. I take a gulp of air, forcing my hiccups to stay put. The elegant room is sophisticated in simplicity, but with the architecture of a cathedral with tall ceilings encased floor to ceiling in dark grain wood with a marble fireplace that ten grown adults could party inside. No artwork, no knickknacks, no personal artifacts of any kind. Instead, adorned on either end of the room are two enormous gold frame mirrors giving the illusion of eternity in either direction.
His family is huddled near the fireplace, conversing. Two men in tailored suits are standing with their backs to us, one of whom is regaling the group with a story. An elegant woman, svelte and chic wearing linen pants and a cream-colored cashmere sweater, sits in a high back wooden chair. A much younger woman in her twenties leans against the chair in a black tiered skirt, and an embroidered tulle long sleeve top. The women, whether intentional or not, both have their hair pulled up in a tight chignon.
The woman in the chair tilts her head, peering around the men.
My throat constricts nervously. I didn’t realize I’d be meeting his entire family tonight. He said his older siblings don’t even live in town anymore; his older brother lives in D.C. and his sister attends Harvard in Boston.
Jack strolls up to the group with a confident rolling gait and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Allen, Marshall, Mom, Honor,” he calls to attention, “this is my girlfriend, Eleanor O’Reilly.”
A scorching heat rises in my cheeks as I shyly wave.
The broader of the two men is the first to turn around. He has a broad jaw, flinty eyes, and a clef chin with salt and pepper hair that is more salt than pepper. Allen Woods, the family patriarch, regards me skeptically in a navy suit, a light blue button up with a matching pocket square. With his defined cheekbones and strong features, he resembles what Mattel would design if they were making a sexy Gordon Gekko Ken doll. He forces a polite diplomatic smile with a slight bow of his head.
Evelyn rises to her feet, tugging gently at the hem of her cashmere sweater. “Welcome, Eleanor,” she says, coldly. Her white pants are immaculate, not a single loose thread, not even a wrinkle, like they were sown directly onto her elegant frame. Even her shoes were white and spotless, shining against the light. She holds out her hand, smooth as silk, for a delicate handshake. Her wedding ring catches the light from the chandelier, nearly blinding me.
“This is my mother, Evelyn,” Jack says, motioning to the picturesque statue before me.
Her smile is small and measured, not causing a single wrinkle. Her face gives only the slightest indication of her age. Evelyn delicately retracts her hand from mine. She rubs her fingers together as if there was some kind of residue left behind by our shake. “My daughter Honor, and my son Marshall,” she says, nudging her daughter lightly.
Honor’s tightly bound, sandy blonde locks shine as brightly as her mother’s ring. Her mouth forms a charming, gracious smile that belies her sharp, curt eyes that pierce her target.
My heart pounds in my ears. Please, just let this night to be over with already.
Marshall looks more modern in his sharkskin wool blend tan suit. He salutes me with his half-filled scotch glass before giving me a wink.
Jack’s siblings favor their father’s razor-sharp features, accentuating either their brawny handsomeness or lissome beauty, while Jack’s looks are more inclined toward his mother’s elvish allure, even down to the clear sea-green eyes.
My eyes slide from face to face anxiously, not sure what to do or say. I jump slightly as the twelve-foot door swings open. An older woman with a pageboy haircut and matching polo and khakis leads a crew of identically dressed attendants who silently place small square plates on the dining room table.
“Oh, good. I’m starving,” Marshall complains, eyeing the servants.
Allen extends a hand towards the table. “Shall we?” He strolls to the head of the table, his wife to his right and Marshall to his left. Honor takes a seat next to her mother and Jack pulls out a chair for me two down from his brother, and claims the middle for himself.
I squint down at my plate, unsure of what I’m seeing. On the plate rests an oversized glass spoon. In the bowl of the spoon is some kind of raw pink fish curled and arranged like a flower, dripped with some kind of sauce on a juicy, clear nest. “What is this?” I whisper to Jack.
“Arctic char gravlax with white grapefruit. There’s a set menu. This is served on the third Friday of every month. Allen insists on predictability and consistency,” Jack explains, annoyed by the monotony of it all. He shakes out his cloth napkin and places it on his lap.
A woman hurries in with a bottle of white wine and fills everyone’s goblet, except for mine and Jack’s. Instead, somehow servants materialize beside us and place bottles of sparkling water next to our empty glasses.
I make a quiet study of how everyone eats their first course before I begin, reaching for the same size fork as everyone else. Jack gives me an encouraging smile.
Allen appraises me with stony eyes, slowly chewing his fish. My eyes fall instantly to my plate. My fork rattles against the glass when I try to spear my fish. Before I can even take a bite of the first course, the plates are being cleared. Everyone remains silent, sipping their drinks as bowls of creamy soup are placed in front of us. “Black walnut soup,” Jack informs. The soup’s buttery aroma causes my mouth to immediately salivate.
After ten minutes, another course is presented: a bite-size serving of smoked white fish served on a comically large plate trimmed in gold. No one speaks. Obviously, “family time” was more about familial proximity than actual bonding and discussion.
Throughout every course, each family member superciliously peers at me in turn. All except Marshall. The few times he glances at me, it’s like he’s staring at a call girl, something cheap and made to serve.
Under the table, Jack reaches over, stroking my knee.
“More wine, miss?” the pageboy-haircut woman asks Honor.
Honor’s eyes turn to ice. She turns her head toward her with a disgusted scowl. “No. Not if you plan on serving the same swill as before. No. Get me the ’96 Cabernet Sauvignon. Now,” She dismisses.
Evelyn shudders at the sudden break from the quiet. She glares at her daughter sideways. “It’s unbecoming to yell at the staff, dear.”
Honor shrugs, pushing her glass away. “I didn’t yell, mother. I forcefully stated what I wanted. Besides, did she get that chardonnay from the cellar, or did she scoop it from a puddle?”
Allen rolls his eyes at his daughter before taking a tentative sip from his own glass. “Perhaps your education is being wasted. Maybe your future is as our sommelier.”
Jack’s sister rubs her left temple. “Well, fire whoever is currently filling the position. I’m embarrassed for them.” Honor pushes away another uneaten plate. “I’m not eating this.” By the look of her sunken cheeks and thin frame, it seems she hasn’t eaten in months.
“Sweetheart, that bottle was over three grand. The notes are perfectly balanced,” Evelyn chastises.
Allen shakes his head, scrunching up his face like he tastes something truly foul. “Evelyn, dear, talk like this is vulgar in front of guests.” He pushes his empty plate forward.
Evelyn apologetically smiles at him with a solemn nod.
“I pay my dog walker more than what that bottle is worth, mother,” Honor snaps.
“Unsightly,” Allen mutters, just before dabbing his mouth with his cloth napkin. After that, the main course is served, roast pheasant with quince, blackberries, and honey. Everyone is silent while the old plates are taken, and the new ones placed on the table.
“Quite right,” Evelyn says, picking up seamlessly where the conversation left off. Her eyes flutter in my direction, as if only now remembering I’m still here. “Eleanor, where are you from? I understand you are new to Grigg’s?” Her question sounded polite and earnest, then she immediately turns to a servant waiting silently against the wall. “I want a Sazerac,” she orders, her smile vanishing. Her eyes shoot daggers at the servant before turning back to me, her amiable charm slipping back into place.
“Yeah—I mean, yes, I am new to Grigg’s. I’m from Coral Gables, Florida,” I answer. My hands shake in my lap.
“How lovely,” she says just as a short glass filled with a reddish-brown liquid and a curly lemon peel balancing on the edge is placed before her. I’m unsure whether she was speaking to me or the servant retrieving her drink.
I watch as Allen takes a precise bite of his pheasant. He seems to shift the supple meat in his mouth before swallowing. “Evelyn, how was your meeting?” he questions, staring forward at nothing in particular.
She gently places her glass down with an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, Dorthea Hastings has broken the rule about black tie engagements. You should see the flowers she’s chosen. Apparently, galas for the global climate initiative should look like a first communion in Sicily. Thankfully, Violet Cummings is calling Leo’s people and we’ll get it straightened out.”
