Echo Soul Seekers

twenty-six

Daire

“Stop fidgeting. And stop eye rolling too. The longer you resist me, the longer this’ll take.” Jennika frowns, hooks her thumb under my chin, and tilts my head toward hers as she swipes an arc of deep purple shadow over my lids. “I thought you were in a hurry to get out of here and hang with your friends?”

“I am. And if you’ll remember, that’s exactly what I was trying to do when you barged in and insisted I needed a makeover.” I shoot her a mock-scathing look that quickly turns to laughter when she returns it with one of her own.

“Well, excuse me for saying so, but no daughter of mine is going to a party looking like…” She cocks her head and squints, searching for the perfect way to both finish the sentence and properly offend me.

“Like what?” I take a surreptitious peek at my reflection. Seeing a left eye turned smoky and deep, while the right languishes in a state of semi-hazy with only the promise of sultry.

“No daughter of mine is going to a party looking like she’s ready for church.” Jennika smirks, pleased with herself for her ability to surprise me by saying something I didn’t expect. Going on to add, “There are church looks, there are party looks, and then there are holiday party looks, which, I’ll have you know, call for lots of drama, bling, and yes, deep smoky eyes. Especially deep smoky eyes. So if you can just bear with me for another ten minutes, I’ll give you a look so killer, I guarantee you know who will keel over and die the second he sees you.” She dips her brush into a pot of dusky charcoal shadow and comes at me again.

“Dace,” I say. “His name is Dace. You’re allowed to use it, you know?” Uttering the words through lips that barely move. A sort of ventriloquism I learned out of necessity when she used to practice her special-effects makeup techniques on me when I was a kid. “And if it’ll help speed things along, feel free to make my eyes a little less fatal. I’d really prefer he doesn’t die when he sees me. I like him better alive.”

“Aha!” Jennika draws away. Her face lighting up as though I’ve just revealed something we didn’t both already know. “You still like him—there it is.” She wags her finger before me. “And therein lies the problem.”

I open my mouth to speak, then close it just as quickly. Deciding against the way-too-defensive, not-at-all-believable reply that first springs to mind.

If defense is the first act of war, then anything I say will only escalate this into an argument I’d prefer not to have. If I have any hope of getting out of here in time to meet Dace, then I’m going to have to cooperate.

After today’s session with Paloma, when I not only learned the firesong but actually whipped up a small little windstorm, followed by a brief burst of rain (though sadly the snow I tried to summon remained a wish unfulfilled)—I’ve got this surge of empowerment I’m reluctant to waste.

For the first time ever, I feel fully prepared to go head-to-head with Cade.

And I will.

Just as soon as I find him.

But before that can happen, I need to see Dace.

I have something planned. Something that, just yesterday, I wouldn’t have had the courage to go through with—but now everything’s changed.

I’ve changed.

And I can’t wait to tell him.

Show him.

Now I just need to convince Jennika to hurry.

“Et voilà!” Jennika holds me at arm’s length and inspects her work with a critical eye. Deeming the job a success, she smiles with pride. “You, my darling daughter, are perfection—a total knockout! You remind me of me when I was your age.”

“And that’s a good thing?” I joke, remembering the pictures I saw of her in her wannabe Courtney Love phase. All pale of face, red of lip, wearing a panty-skimming baby-doll dress and a tiara planted on the top of her bleached-blond head.

“It’s a very good thing.” She smiles. “And since you’re new at this game, take it from an old master like me—this is how it’s done. This is how all the best love wars are won.”

“Love wars?” I can’t help but scowl. There’s just something really wrong about that. “So, all of this—” I arrow my finger toward my face. “This is really just war paint to you?”

She tugs her black long-sleeved sweater over her leather-clad hip and continues her scrutiny. Rummaging my features for traces of her—traces of Django—too absorbed in the past to really see me.

“Honestly, Jennika, I think that’s crazy. My feelings for Dace are no game. Love is not some old Pat Benatar song—it’s not a battlefield or a war to be won or lost. And if you truly view it that way, then all I can say is poor Harlan.”

The mere mention of her off-and-on-again but mostly off-again boyfriend shakes her out of her reverie, bringing an immediate frown to her face. “Really, Daire? Poor Harlan, you say?” She shakes her head, causing a spray of wispy blond strands to sweep across her delicate cheekbones before receding again. “Do you know he actually had the nerve to propose?”

I grip the bathroom counter to keep from toppling into the sink. Stealing a moment to absorb the surprising blow of her words. I didn’t see that one coming. But now that she’s said it, her impromptu visit makes perfect sense.

“When?” My voice rises with suspicion. “Exactly when did Harlan propose?”

She turns away, fumbles through her makeup case in a lame attempt to stall. Sighing in surrender, she admits, “Last week. On Malibu Beach. At sunset.” She makes a face of distaste, as though he committed a detestable act in a hideous way.

“So that’s why…” I shoot her a knowing look, purposely leaving the sentence to dangle unfinished.

“That’s why—what? What’re you getting at, Daire?” She dips a big fluffy brush in a pot of glittery bits and swirls it over my cheeks.

“That’s why you’re here. That’s why you hopped the first plane to Enchantment. You’re running away from Harlan—from commitment—from life!” My eyes blaze on hers. So caught up in the excitement of discovery, of being absolutely sure that I’m right, I almost miss the twitch of pain that crosses her face. Almost—but not quite.

“I’m here because it’s Christmas and I wanted to spend time with my daughter.” She insists on sticking to her story, despite the fact that the jig is up. “Why’s that so hard for you to believe?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe it.” I watch her closely. “It’s just that it’s not the full truth. There’s more to it than that, and you know it. C’mon, Jennika, why can’t you just admit that as much as you claim to hate it, Enchantment has become your new go-to spot when you can’t take the heat?”

Her face grows dark in a way that tells me I’ve ventured way past her personal limits. But as someone who’s recently freed myself from my own iron-clad cage, I know deep in my heart that she needs to hear it. So I go on to add, “Even you have to admit that now that you’re settled full time in LA, it’s getting harder and harder to escape all the things you once fled. You know, things like love. And commitment. And the very real, very tangible possibility of settling down with a guy as great, and talented, and nice, and patient—and, yes—even good-looking—or at least for an old guy—as Harlan.” I smile when I say it, but she refuses to return the smile. “For the first time in a long time, you have a permanent address—a place for all of your personal demons to pile up on your doorstep, waiting to be dealt with. And now that you’re all out of excuses—now that you can’t just up and leave for the next makeup gig on the other side of the world—you’re forced to face all of this and it scares the crap out of you. So, what do you do? You come visit me.”

I fold my arms across my chest, challenging her to refute it. But she just rolls her eyes and says, “Well, who turned you into Dr. Phil?”

“Why don’t you give him a chance?” I urge. “Why don’t you plug your nose, close your eyes, and jump in? See how far you can fall without losing yourself? I’m pretty sure Harlan knows what he’s getting into. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t expect you to give up your career or even your name. I’m pretty sure he just wants you for you.”

Jennika takes a moment. Whether to consider my words or wait for the subject to die an inevitable death, I can’t be sure. All I know is that when she looks at me again, her voice is as resigned as the expression she wears on her face.

“You can either let me do your lips or you can continue to psychoanalyze me. Your choice, Daire. You decide just how soon you get out of here.”

Our eyes meet and I decide to let her have this one. By planting the seed, I’ve already won.

Then I raise my chin, pucker my lips, and settle before her again. Allowing her to swipe a thick layer of gloss across my mouth as I mumble, “I’m just sayin’…”

“Yeah, me too.” Her voice rings tired and agitated but in a good way. In a way that tells me she’s considering a future she’s denied herself for too long. “I’m just sayin’ too.”