There’s only so much I can read about these dull strangers, and I toss the tablet on the bed. There’s only one nonboring thing to do around here, and I head to Edie’s enormous closet and pull my sweater over my head and shuck my pants at the same time. I’m wearing silky black panties and a matching bra that I found in drawers neatly filled with lingerie. Thankfully, Edie owns more than thongs.
I step over the black pants on the floor and move straight to the rod filled with big garment bags. Each bag is labeled and I grab VERSACE 2019 MET GALA first. It’s stuffed with embroidered red velvet and a corset-like bodice sewn with intricately cut jewels. It looks like some kind of jeweled headpiece is crammed in there, too. I’m curious to see the whole outfit, but there’s no way I can get all that material stuffed back in the bag if I do. I grab a thinner bag and pull out a light blue satin dress that I immediately pull over my head. The fabric is folded and twisted on the shoulders and has a corset built into the lining. I lose the black bra and zip the dress up the back the best I can. It hits just below my knees and I find a pair of light blue pumps that tie around my ankles. I look at myself in the mirrors, fluff my hair, and pull it to one side. “Beautiful,” I whisper. I forgot that Edie was so beautiful. That I’m beautiful. Then I catch a glimpse of my arms and hide my ugly wrists in the fabric. I can never wear this dress in public without long gloves. Or at least until I have the surgery Claire talked about earlier.
Some of the garments are so horrible, I just zip the bag back up and move on. Whenever Lida and I used to thumb through high-fashion magazines at Porter’s or happened to see runway shows from New York or Paris on the television, we’d ask each other, “Who buys that stupid crap?” Now I know.
I try on the gold sequin gown I’d discovered this morning and twist my hair into a classic bun at the nape of my neck. The dress has a train and is heavier than it looks, but I walk about the bedroom waving like I’m a queen. A make-believe queen living in someone else’s castle.
Trying on all these fancy clothes is fun and all, but I feel like I’ve snuck into someone else’s closet. After five months, I am me—neither fully Brittany nor fully Edie. I’m used to looking in the mirror and seeing me, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Edie’s money or the luxury that comes from it. Hawthorne is wrapped in heritage and is a way of life. It represents a deep vein of wealth that drips money and makes me feel like an impostor wearing someone else’s clothes.
I look in the mirror and run my hand across my stomach, disturbing the sequins. This is my life now, and if God didn’t want me to live as an heiress, I wouldn’t be here. The Bible says to obey God in all things, and I’m a good Christian woman at the end of the day. He wants me to wear this golden gown and all the other clothes in this closet. Momma always says that to go against God is a sin.
By the time the integrated tablet beeps, I’m wearing a silky white blouse with a big bow beneath my chin and a pair of black velvet shorts. I move to the bed in thigh-high boots and see Claire’s face filling the screen. She must see me too and says, “I wanted to remind you that dinner is in the dining room at seven tonight.”
I glance at the clock. Uh-oh. “I’ll be there. Thanks.” I have ten minutes to change out of the shorts and boots, dig for the black pants I wore earlier, and shove my feet into soft leather flats. With one minute to spare, I turn a corner and walk into the dining room at Downton Abbey.
Marv and Claire smile at me from the far end of a table that is so long, I can’t guess how many people it seats.
“We thought you’d like to experience the most formal room at Hawthorne.” They wait for me and Claire does the air-kiss, so I follow her lead. Marv pulls out her chair for her, and I move to take the seat across the table from her. “Wait for your father to hold your chair.”
“Oh.” Beneath the sparkling chandeliers and light bouncing off the silver, I feel my cheeks burn. “Sorry.”
Marv pats my shoulder and pushes in my chair for me. “You look beautiful.”
Wow. A pat and a compliment. “Thank you, sir.”
We’re served a pear salad, then chicken with what looks and tastes like bruschetta and pasta. Claire places her napkin in her lap and my etiquette and social norms lessons begin.
We make small talk, strained and at times painful, while I try to remember where to set my wineglass.
“Chester Chadwick’s eightieth birthday is on the fifteenth. That’s a week from this Friday. It’s a small cocktail party. Perfect for your first outing.”
“I don’t know anyone.”
“You need to reintroduce yourself.” I tune Claire out when she starts naming all the different people who will be there, but my ears perk up when she says, “You have a consultation with Doctor Graham on the twentieth.”
I look at my wrists covered in white silk cuffs. “I hope he can help.”
“Edith,” Marv says, and I look up at him. “Money can’t fix everything, but it can damn sure fix most things.” I think that’s Marv’s way of being optimistic, and he raises his wineglass in the air. “Clarice, thank you for another excellent meal.”
I raise my glass, too, and dinner is over shortly after. We air-kiss each other’s cheeks good night and I return to my bedroom. I’ve decided to commit to Edie’s twice-daily skin-care regimen. If I read the labels on the bottles, even those in a foreign language, I can figure it out. It’s just a matter of matching products.
I clean up the mess in the closet before I relax and search the tablet for a television icon. There’s a thumbnail of Magnus, and I type his name as the password and a new screen pops up with just a few different apps. I browse Edie’s emails, which are mostly business related and, again, boring. The few lunch or dinner dates with friends, she signs Smooches, Edie.
There are some photos of art and a few of Edie with a man a few inches taller than her. He has sandy hair and a big smile. They look beautiful together.
One of the icons is the “Find My Phone” app. I click it even though I fully expect a “can’t find” message. Marv said Edie’s old phones had been destroyed and my new phone won’t be here until tomorrow.
To my surprise, a US map fills the screen, then steadily shrinks until it stops on Grosse Pointe Shores. It gives an address, but before I start tearing things apart looking for a phone, I type the address into MapQuest, and a red marker pops up in the middle of Hawthorne. Marv didn’t mention a fourth phone, but maybe he didn’t know about it. If I were Edie, I’d want a line for personal privacy.
I start looking everywhere: under the bed, in the closet, drawers, anything with pockets. I search purses and inside shoeboxes, but after several hours, I lie in the middle of the ottoman, staring at the ceiling medallion and surrounded by hundreds of handbags and shoes.
Novia comes to ask if I need anything before the staff leaves for the night. Her eyes get big and she says, “Are you packing for a vacation?”
Then an idea strikes and I sit up. “Do I have luggage?” I remember glimpsing a Louis Vuitton carry-on in El Paso.
“Yes.” She carefully steps through the collateral damage on the floor and presses on a mirrored wall. It clicks and slides open to reveal more designer luggage than one person needs, but I don’t need to tear through it all. The familiar-looking carry-on is right in front.
“Thanks. Have a nice night.” I wait for Novia to leave before I grab the small suitcase and toss it on the ottoman. Then, like a kid on Halloween, I rip it open and dump it out so I can see what I’ve got. The vanity case falls out, but it’s completely empty. I check the carry-on inside and out, and I’m about to give up when I spot a hidden zipper in the outside pocket. In it I find what looks like a wallet insert. I flip it open and discover Edie’s Michigan driver’s license, a black American Express card, a J.P. Morgan Reserve Visa made out of some kind of metal, and a Dubai First Royale MasterCard trimmed in gold.