I can never remember the difference between Palm Beach and Palm Springs.
“It’s warmer and more relaxed at Chatsworth.”
Chatsworth could be made of ice and still be warmer than this place. As for relaxed… a distant tap-tap of heels on tile floors pulls me up straight like I’m on strings. The sound quiets as if muffled by carpet before it returns just a bit louder. With each tap, the strings pull tighter, and no amount of alcohol can dull the nerves running up my spine. Then I see Edie’s mother across the foyer walking toward me, wearing a floral-print dress that seems to flow about her with every step she takes. I might have been on pain meds and raw emotion the last time I saw her, but I instantly recognize the upward tilt of her head and frozen eyes. She is beautiful and has skin like it’s been kissed with dew.
Her gaze takes in my hair and I can’t tell if she approves of my shiny curls. “Welcome home, Edie.”
Not that it matters. I like them enough for the both of us. She kisses both my cheeks and leaves a trace of Chanel as she pulls away. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate the invitation.” Her lips compress with the first hint of emotion. To her, I sound like a hillbilly. I don’t want to make her mad, but I was raised to say ma’am and sir, please and thank you, and how’s your momma and them. And like Momma always says, good manners are a good habit.
“Your father is in Chicago but will be home in time for dinner. I know that he is looking forward to seeing you. We both are.”
I doubt that, since neither bothered to see me when I was an hour and a half away at Livingston. I just smile and say, “That’s nice.”
“Dinner will be served at seven thirty in the conservatory. It’s more intimate for our small group. Your grandmother is here, so please be on time. Cocktails are in the blue drawing room at seven, but your appearance is not mandatory.”
I could probably use a cocktail or two—or ten—before this night is over. An awkward silence stretches between us like she’s waiting for a response. “Thank you,” I say, and purposely don’t call her ma’am. “I don’t know where the conservatory is, but I’ll be there at seven thirty.” The only conservatory I know about is in El Paso, but I doubt she’s talking about a big building where folks play music and dance ballet.
“Good. Novia will help you get settled in your room.”
I turn to tell Donovan goodbye, but he has already left. I didn’t even hear him go, and when I turn back around, a woman I’ve never seen before in gray and white moves toward me. Her black hair is pulled back and her dress is an honest-to-God maid’s uniform.
“Welcome home, Young Edie,” she says, reminding me that Old Edie is around here someplace.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
I follow Novia up the wide stairs that split at a landing. We continue up the right side, and like everyone I’ve met today, she doesn’t say anything. I wonder if it’s Edie, her family, or the whole state of Michigan, but folks sure aren’t talkative around here. Aren’t Midwesterners supposed to be nice?
We walk down one hall and then another before Novia throws open a set of double doors. Everything is blue and white and silver and it’s like stepping into the movie Frozen. The windows across the room start at about waist height and continue all the way up to silver valances hanging just below the ceiling. I move to the windows and look out at the yard. Dusk is creeping across the manicured lawn, and lights turn on and illuminate pathways and flood a really tall flagpole with four flags flapping in the wind. Across the yard, reflections of light bob up and down on a lake and outline the shore.
“What lake is that?” I ask Novia.
“Saint Clair, of course.”
Of course. Where else would Clarice Chatsworth-Jones live? I point down the shoreline to a lighthouse or something. “What is that?”
Novia comes to stand next to me and follows my gaze. “Grosse Pointe Yacht Club.”
I remember Marv and Claire saying something about not showing their faces at their club. “Do Mar—” I catch myself and say, “Do my parents belong to that club?”
“Yes.”
I turn around and see that Novia has opened a couple of doors, so I walk across the room and stick my head in each. The first is a fancy bathroom and the second is the biggest closet I’ve ever seen. It’s stark white, and the clothes are neatly hung, not at all like my crammed closet at Momma’s house. There are different partitions according to if they’re pants or dresses or whatever, color coordinated (mostly black), and some are in garment bags and clear plastic like from the dry cleaner. There’s a big round ottoman in the center and a wall filled with boxes of shoes and handbags in dustcovers, made by some designers I’ve heard of and some I haven’t. At the end of the closet are drawers and cabinets and there’s a built-in safe, too. I move to the wall of shoes and stop in front of the Christian Louboutin section. Like a homing beacon, my eyes go straight to the word crystals. I pull out the box and find a red felt bag inside. Sensing that I am about to discover sparkle nirvana, I move to the ottoman and take a seat. I reach into the felt bag and pull out a pair of pumps that about stop my heart. They are clear and covered in crystals that dazzle blue and silver beneath the light. The soles are red just like in the pictures I’ve seen in Vogue magazine, but there isn’t so much as a scuff on the red bottoms. My flat shoes are off quicker than a prom dress and the stilettos are on my feet. I turn my ankle this way and that, and I swear to the good Lord and baby Jesus, they look like Cinderella’s glass slippers, only with a five-inch heel. I walk about the big closet, unused to teetering on stilettos. I like how they sparkle like diamonds and click-clack on the hardwood floor. I fall but catch myself on the ottoman on the way down. Just as fast I’m back up, feeling glamorous in Edie’s—no, my—fabulous shoes. Edie was vain and selfish, but it would be wrong to let all these fabulous shoes go to waste because I hate her. After all, Jesus said, “Let nothing be wasted,” and that goes double for sparkly Christian Louboutin pumps.
“Your intercom is on your nightstand. Let me know if you need anything.”
I turn toward Novia standing in the doorway. I got so carried away, I forgot about her. “The time.” I sit rather tha
n fall in front of her. “I’d like to know the time.”
She looks at her wrist. “It’s six thirteen. You have a clock next to your bed and another in the bathroom.”
She glances at my face, then quickly looks away. I can’t tell if she’s shy or if she doesn’t want to risk eye contact. “Thank you,” I say, and Novia just nods and leaves the room without a word.
Again, is it me or are people just tight-lipped around here?
14
I find out at dinner that it’s not Michigan that’s the problem. It’s not Edie’s family either. They all kissed the air above both my cheeks and said how glad they were I was home. Claire asked a few questions about my overall healthy appearance and couldn’t take her eyes off my hair. I’d touched up the curls and height and sprayed it down as best I could with Edie’s light-hold. Marv stared at my thick lashes and winged eyeliner as he inquired politely about my amnesia. Big brother Burton said, “Oh please, Father”; then they all went back to their conversations with each other.