RETURNING HOME, CLARA is in the kitchen cooking. I unwrap the scarf from around my neck and walk over to the kitchen to greet her.
“Clara, hi,” I say as I look on the stove to see what she’s making.
“There you are. I feel like we keep missing each other.”
“Smells good,” I say, eyeing the skillet of beef stroganoff.
With a warm smile, she responds, “I figured you could use some comfort food with the nasty winter we’ve been having.”
I open the fridge to pull out ginger soda, saying, “It’s perfect. I haven’t eaten all day, actually.”
Turning to me, she spots my drink and asks, “Is your stomach upset?”
“A little.”
I always tend to feel a little queasy after my visits with Pike. The after sex blues followed by the upsetting goodbye. It tends to have this effect on my stomach when I leave, turning back into the emotionless machine I’ve been forced to become ever since I was a little kid.
“There’s a package from Mr. Vanderwal in the living room. It was delivered earlier today when you were out,” she says, and when I walk over, I see the large, white box wrapped in a gold satin ribbon.
My stomach churns, and I down another gulp of my ginger soda.
I pick up the lightweight box and untie the ribbon, letting it drop to the sides. Inside lies a masquerade mask. Black, laser-cut metal, which gives it an almost evil, seductive feel. The black, double-faced satin ties hang as I pick it up out of the box. It’s probably more perfect than anything I could have found on my own and that annoys me, the fact that he can be so good at nearly all he does. I look in the box for a note, but there isn’t one, so I turn and ask Clara, “Was there a note or anything with this?”
“No, dear,” she answers over her shoulder from the kitchen and then my cell rings.
Cringing when I see who the caller is, I answer with charm, “Jacqueline, hello.”
“Where have you been?” She’s huffy in her question.
“What do you mean?”
“Neiman’s? Shopping? Yesterday?”
I completely let it slip from my mind that I was supposed to meet the girls yesterday. I was so distracted with spending the night at the hotel and then hanging out with Declan that it didn’t occur to me that instead of being with him, I should have been at Neiman’s.
“I’m so sorry; I must have forgotten. You’re not upset with me, are you?”
“I’m not, but Catherine was running her mouth about how you’ve been acting like a bitch towards her.”
And this is the shit I hate about these women. I have absolutely nothing in common with any one of them. They have way too much time on their hands that they seem to enjoy filling with petty drama. They’re all spoiled and entitled, yet I’m forced to grin and bear it, and so I respond, “I don’t even speak to Catherine outside of when we’re all together.”
“Exactly. She thinks that you think you’re better than her.”
I am. As sick as I may be, I’m still better than the shallow depths of them.
“Jacqueline, you know I don’t enjoy the gossip, so if there isn’t anything else, I should get going.”
“I was hoping we could get together soon. It’s been a while—the gathering at Lotus, I believe,” she says.
“Of course. I’ll check my calendar and call you,” I reply before we say our goodbyes.
Walking over to Clara, I smile as she moves around the kitchen. I wonder for a moment what my life would have been like if I’d had a mom. For one, I wouldn’t have ever gone into foster care after my father’s arrest. I never met my mom. I don’t know anything about what happened to her since the only one who could have explained it to me was my father, and I was so young when he went to prison.
I’ve seen a few pictures to know I got my red hair from her. She wore it in a short bob, where mine is long with just a hint of waves. She was pretty. I used to imagine her living with my dad and me when I was tied up in that closet. She’d smile and kiss my father while I cringed but secretly loved watching them like that. She would hold me at night, rocking me while my dad sang to me. He always sang to me at night. I’ll never forget the sound of his voice as I would fall asleep.
The top of my nose tingles at the thought of him, and I don’t even realize how tight I have my teeth clamped shut when Clara asks, “Are you okay?”
Unlocking my teeth to answer, an ache shoots through my gums at the release. “Will you stay for dinner?”
Her warm smile penetrates my mournful thoughts, and I smile back at her when she says, “I’d love to.” She turns to pull a couple plates down as she inquires, “Now tell me, what did that lovely husband of yours send you?”
“A very beautiful mask for the masquerade.”
“Have you gotten a dress yet?”
She fixes our plates as we begin to talk about all the details of the party I’ve been working on. We eat and talk and laugh, and for a moment, I pretend she’s my mom.
But only for a moment.