Drop Dead Gorgeous, page 13
I touch my fingertips one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, and smile and nod like I have amnesia.
“That’s what your parents told everyone,” she continues, and I wonder who “everyone” is. Old Edie points a fish knife, which I’ve realized is different than a dinner or butter knife, at Edie’s brother. “Isn’t that right, Burton?”
“That’s what we’ve been told.” If Edie is a duplicate of her mother, Burton is a younger version of Marv.
Old Edie isn’t done and points to the woman sitting to my right, Burton’s wife, Meredith. “How about you?”
“I haven’t heard anything.” Meredith has natural auburn hair, brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles she’s covered with powder. She’s the kind of woman that the more you look at her, the prettier she gets. I’d guess she’s a few years older than Edie, but she looks tired. I’ve been told she and Burton have a six-month-old baby boy named George and a four-year-old daughter, Rowan, which could explain it.
“Of course you haven’t. You wouldn’t speak up even if you did hear something.” Old Edie scowls at me. “I heard you were in a hospital to get your memory back.”
Harold lets out a snore that revives him, and he looks around to see if anyone noticed. “Capital idea.” I guess he’s not dead. “I’ll have a cognac.”
Old Edie ignores him and stares at me until I say something. “Which hospital, ma’am?”
“Which hospital, Marvin?”
“It’s not important, Mother.”
I smile, and everyone goes back to their conversation that Old Edie interrupted. I dig back into my bass covered in almond slices and cream sauce and topped with carrot ribbon. It’s almost as good as fish tacos but a lot fancier; I’ve never seen such a fuss made over a meal in my life.
There’s a different plate and set of utensils for everything. I wasn’t born in a barn, but I don’t recognize half of them. After a few obvious false starts, I watch Meredith out of the corner of my eye so I know what to use for which course, and I notice they rest their knives and forks at certain places on their plates. I reposition my utensils to match theirs, and I feel like the girl in band who’s one beat behind everyone else in school. For some reason, they don’t eat dinner rolls like regular people. They tear off a bite-size piece and spread it with a dab of butter before they eat it. It seems a waste of time, and my left hand makes it even more difficult. I give up and slather the inside of my roll with butter all at once. They all seem to notice, but no one says anything. Probably because I have amnesia.
“Excellent meal, Clarice,” Marvin says, and I turn my head to one side to look at him. I’d guess him to be in his sixties, and if it wasn’t for his hair, he might not be bad-looking for a guy his age. “You always know what to serve.” He lifts his wineglass as if to toast her.
“It’s Edie’s favorite.” She looks at me and smiles like she’s making an effort to welcome me home.
“It’s delicious,” I say, and since she’s made Edie’s favorite meal, I’ll make an effort, too. “How did you get the almond slices in such perfect rows?”
Her smile falls a bit and everyone looks at me as if I’ve been hit with a stupid stick.
“I didn’t,” she says. “Chef Larry cooked for us tonight. We’ll have him for another month before Chef Paulette takes over.”
“I thought Mar—Father said…” Am I the crazy one around here?
“I plan the meals at Hawthorne,” Claire explains, like planning and cooking have equal importance.
“Fine job.” Harold rouses himself and joins the others in a toast.
I raise my glass, too, like it’s normal to toast a meal plan. I take a few small sips of white wine instead of chugging it like I usually would. I didn’t quite catch the name of it, but it must be fancy because everyone swirled it in their glass and smelled it. Someone said it was harvested on specific days under a full moon, and they all raved about hints of this and that, and spicy notes, and something on the nose. For all the hoopla, it’s okay, I guess, but I’d rather have a Shiner Bock or a Lone Star Das Bier Y’all.
After the fish is cleared from the table, we’re served lemon sponge cake with brandy glaze and wash it down with little cups of espresso. This time Claire did have something more to do with dessert than just planning. She selected the lemons from the trees a few feet away.
“What did you do to your hair?” Old Edie asks me.
I look up from my boozy cake, feeling tipsy just off the brandy fumes. “Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely,” Meredith tells me.
“Thank you.” As with the rest of the family, her smile is kind of tentative, but I think she’s sincere. “Your hair is beautiful. Lots of women pay a lot of money to have hair like yours,” I tell her. “Have you ever rinsed your hair in cranberry juice? Of course, it’s sticky as all git-out, but it’s a natural boost for gingers and smells wonderful.”
She goes stiff, like my expert color analysis has turned her to stone.
The same can’t be said for Old Edie. “Your hair reminds me of my old cocker spaniel, Elvis,” she tells me, then leans forward and yells down the table, “Marvin, do you remember Elvis?”
“Of course, Mother. Father had him delivered when I was home for Christmas my junior year at Yale. Beautiful dog.”
“Yes.” She smiles as if reliving a fond memory and picks up a dessert fork. “Such a lovely scamp.” She turns to me and her scowl reappears. “Silky, but I would not want to wear him on my head.”
“No, ma’am.” I don’t know if it’s the wine, or cake, or the vision of Old Edie with a cocker spaniel on her head, but I start to giggle.
“Did someone tell a joke?” Harold wants to know.
“Ask Young Edie.”
“Huh? What did you say, dear?”
Old Edie cups her hand around her mouth and yells at her boyfriend, “Young Edie’s hair looks like Elvis.”
I shake my head and put my napkin on the table. “You’re a hoot and a half.” I scoot my chair back and stand. “If any of y’all would kindly point me in the direction of the ladies’ room, I’d appreciate it.”
They all stare at me, then point to the doorway. “Down the hall, through the music room, first door between the Chinese urns,” Burton says, and I think that’s the most he’s spoken to me since I met him.
“Thank you.” I follow Burton’s instructions and find the two urns. When I reach for the door handle, a child’s voice stops me. I catch a glimpse of a girl dressed in frilly pink and holding something white and furry. Her voice is joined by the deep laughter of a dark-haired man by her side. They disappear into the conservatory as quickly as they’d appeared.
I guess we’ve got company. The good news is that no one wants to talk to Edie, so I can just say, “Hello, it’s nice to meet y’all and good night.” Then I can take another soak in Edie’s tub, maybe turn on the jets this time. Before I leave the bathroom, I wash my hands and fluff my hair at the crown. I’m liking this new blonde bombshell look. It takes the kind of time I never had for myself when I was working at the Do or Dye.
By the time I make it back to the conservatory, the table has been cleared and the family is sitting at the far end of the room on big stuffed couches. A little red-haired girl in a pink dress and white stockings is sitting at Meredith’s feet and a small white dog is in her lap.
Claire looks up at me. “Rowan’s come for a visit and look who she’s brought.”
I glance around for the man with the deep laugh, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Who?”
“Magnus, of course.”
I remember Dr. Lindbloom asking about Magnus, and I wonder if that’s the name of the dark-haired man. If so, it’s unfortunate.
“Mommy’s home,” the little girl says, but she doesn’t sound too happy.
“Your dress is very pretty,” I tell her so maybe she won’t be sad about her mommy being home, although that doesn’t make sense. Meredith told me that she lives down the street. The little dog’s ears perk up and it lifts its head. “I love pink.” The dog jumps out of her lap and runs at me like I’m made of bacon. It yips and quivers and dances around on its hind feet in front of me. My daddy has always had a dog or two. The kind that fetches stuff, rides in the back of a truck, and would kill a rattler if it came down to saving Daddy. This is not that kind of dog. This is the fussiest poodle I’ve ever seen. It’s white and its fur is shaved into pom-poms on its head, feet, and the end of its whippy tail. There’s a blue bow between its ears and a pale blue collar around its neck. “I have a dog?”
“For three years now.”
“Is this a boy?” I’d never make a male dog look like such a sissy.
Rowan comes to stand beside me, and I get down on one knee as she pats the top of its head. “Magnus is a good boy.”
So Magnus is the dog’s name. Its beady black eyes look into mine and the stupid thing growls at me. “It’s all right,” I say in a smooth friendly voice and reach for his collar. The damn thing snaps at my hand and I pull back just in time.
“I know you think I’m too rough with Magnus, but I took really good care of him while you were away.”
“Well, thank you. He looks like you took good care of him.”
She nods as the stupid mutt snarls at me like he has a super animal sense and can detect I’m not Edie. “Don’t get mad at me because your fur’s cut like a girl,” I say, and the sound of my voice makes him snap his teeth at the air in front of his nose as if he wants a chunk of me. Apparently, he has a problem with the new Edie. He’s not alone, and needs to get in line right behind Dr. Lindbloom. “He likes you better,” I tell Rowan, and lean back.
She nods and her brown eyes look into mine. “We love each other, Aunt Edie.”
“Rowan,” Meredith calls to her daughter. “Come here. You know that’s Aunt Edie’s dog. He doesn’t belong to you.”
Rowan hangs her head and walks back to her mother. The little dog gives one last snarl and follows.
He doesn’t belong to me either. I rise to my feet and look around. None of this belongs to me. It’s foreign and uncomfortable and I miss Momma and Daddy. I miss Marfa, and the Do or Dye, and knowing where I belong. My heart is so homesick, my chest aches. The beautiful glass room is suddenly stuffy and the scent of citrus is heavy in my lungs. I excuse myself with the pretext of taking Magnus outside before bed, but no amount of coaxing can persuade him to stop barking at me, let alone follow.
I step outside without him and shut the conservatory door behind me. The chilling lake breeze tousles my curls and invades the loose weave of my sweater. I pull in my shoulders and cross my arms over my chest. The house casts wide swaths of light and shadow across a stone terrace and concrete banister. The railing runs the length of the house and is lit up every ten feet or so with lampposts that continue down the stairs and into the garden. I walk to the railing, and the sound of my boot heels joins the rhythmic clang of metal hitting the flagpole. Beyond the garden, moonlight cuts a path across the lake’s surface. It’s like The Great Gatsby out here minus Leo. Breathtaking and beautiful, and I can’t wait to leave.
These people don’t want me here any more than I want to be here. I’m uncomfortable and they’re uncomfortable, and I don’t know what they expect or how long I have to stick around. Marv and Claire and I are meeting with Dr. Barb in the morning. I guess we all need to discuss an aftercare plan and my life going forward. I don’t know about them, but all my life needs is money, a cell phone, and a one-way airline ticket.
The breeze brushes my hair across my face and carries the scent of lake water and damp garden and a cigar. A flash of orange catches my eye and I turn and look into a corner of the terrace hidden in inky shadows. The orange flash fades to a red glow. I gasp as a dark outline pushes away from the railing, and a man walks through a trail of weak light, shifting across him with the breeze. I glance at the door and then back at him. I don’t think I could make it to the house if he decides to grab me, but I can scream really loud.
He’s dressed in a black sweater and black jeans. Patches of light slide across his dark hair and the side of his face, and I think this is probably the man who brought Rowan and Magnus. Either that or he’s waiting around to rob the place or kill us all in our sleep. “Howdy.”
He stops within the variegated shadows, and I can’t get a clear look at him. “Howdy, Sunshine.”
Sunshine? “I don’t think we’ve met.” I don’t offer my hand for obvious reasons. “I’m Edie.”
“I didn’t recognize you with all that puffy hair.”
He doesn’t give his name and probably assumes I know it. “I added dimension and volume.”
“You look like you’ve been in a beauty pageant. Down south where big hair seems to be a competitive sport.” He raises his cigar to his mouth and his cheeks get sucked in as the end glows red.
Well, that’s true enough. “Thank you.” I’ve styled pageant hair and I know.
He tips his face up and blows a thick cloud of smoke that lingers in the light above his head. “It wasn’t a compliment.”
I feel my brows lower. “Are we friends or family?”
“Neither.”
I guess I can add him to the list of people who don’t like Edie. He can get in line behind Magnus. He steps further into the light and I get a better look at his face and shoulders. Now he makes me nervous for a whole different reason. He’s hot as hell and all of Tinder. He’s big. The kind that comes from lifting weights and rescuing women from burning buildings. I wind a curl around my finger out of habit. “Are we sworn enemies?”
“More like we have a mutual aversion.”
Aversion? “You mean I don’t like you?” I ask, because I can’t imagine having an aversion to a man who looks like Mr. February in the Houston Firefighters Calendar.
“I don’t lose sleep over it. You don’t like anyone.”
That’s probably true of Edie, but not me. “I take it you don’t like me.”
“No, but you don’t lose sleep over it, either.”
There’s an obvious history between him and Edie that didn’t end well. It’s like that saying about heaven having no rage like love turned to hate. “Were we lovers?” I ask, because getting hot and steamy with this guy would be one memory worth recalling.
He chokes on cigar smoke. “Jesus.”
Jesus doesn’t have anything to do with it. “Were we?”
“No.” He coughs and clears his throat. “This is the most we’ve spoken to each other in over ten years.”
You don’t have to talk during sex. Sometimes a man can open his mouth and ruin the fantasy you got going in your head, but I get what he means. He’s not friend or family but he brought Rowan and Magnus. “I get the feelin’ that no one around here wants to speak to me, either.” I think of Marv and Claire and our short conversation before dinner. “Just my parents,” I say, because maybe they’re trying.
“Your parents are stuck talking to you.”
That’s not nice, but it might be true.
“You have your girlfriends. At least that’s what you call them.”
The closest I’ve had to friends since I left Marfa are the women in my cognitive therapy group, and I don’t think that counts. Well, except for Katrina, but I don’t know that I trust her with sharp instruments. “Since you seem to know so much, what would you call them?”
He chuckles and takes a pull of his cigar. A smoke cloud streams off his lips, but he doesn’t answer.
I shiver from the cold and rub my hands up and down my arms. He’s handsome and I wouldn’t mind hearing what else he knows about Edie. I could ask the family, but they all look at me like I just got let out of the loony bin, which I did. “Everybody around here is walkin’ on eggshells—except Old Edie. She said my hair looks like her old cocker spaniel.”
“Elvis?” His chuckle turns to laughter.
I smile because it was funny. “I guess that’s what passes for ‘welcome home’ in this family.”
“I’m sure your mutt is glad you’re back.”
“Magnus? I tried to pet the dang dog and he almost bit my hand.” I shake my head. “He snapped and snarled at me for no reason.”
“Maybe because you named him Magnus.”
“Maybe because he’s as ugly as a stump full of spiders and just as cuddly.”
“That’s a fair description of all your dogs.”
All? “How long have we known each other?”
He looks at me like Donovan did. Like he doesn’t want to keep answering questions that he thinks I know the answers to.
“How long?” I push him.
He turns his attention to the lake and his voice is as deep as the shadows stretching to the shore. “I can’t think of a time when I didn’t know you,” he says.
A shiver runs up my spine but I’m certain it’s from the cold this time. “It’s probably a good thing we don’t like each other.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, and raises his cigar.
“Talkin’ to you is a chore.” I sigh. “Like puttin’ socks on a rooster.”
A lazy stream of smoke fills the air in front of his face. “I’m trying to be nice.”
I shake my head and look at the toes of my boots. “I’d hate to meet you on a night when you’re not tryin’.”
The conservatory door swings open and Meredith steps outside. “There you are,” she says. “How long have you been out here?”
I didn’t know anyone was keeping track.
“Not long.” He moves closer to put out his cigar in an urn filled with some kind of plant. I was wrong about him being Mr. February. He’s the whole dang calendar. “Edie’s been keeping me company.”
“And it’s been a hoot and a half.”
Meredith turns her head as if she sees me for the first time. “Oh!” Her gaze shifts between us. “Edie, I see you’ve met my brother, Oliver.”
“Now serving zero-zero-zero, zero-zero-one, two-seven at window fifty-three.”
