[Blind Barriers 01.0] Fragile Facade
Page 17
When I started to interrupt, Asher held up his hand to stop me. Pursing my lips, I let him finish.
“–and not just her parents, her friends, and the police. Like I told you the other night, I’m here for you. Let me help,” his tone softened. “Please, don’t go running off in the middle of the night alone again. Next time, wait until the sun comes up. If you don’t want to do that, then, hell, knock on my door. I’ll go with you.”
“Nothing bad happened,” I grumbled. “It’s a secure building with a doorman.”
Why was he treating me like a naughty child? Whether or not my earlier feelings of jealousy were indicative of romantic interest, the feelings were obviously not reciprocated. Asher was suddenly treating me like a little sister.
“This time,” he said pointedly. “But something bad did happen to Lark. I’m worried about you getting caught up in the same mess.”
Seeing the concern in his warm brown eyes, I dropped the snarky attitude.
“You’re right,” I replied. “And I’m sorry. I promise, no more solo late-night adventures.”
Unfortunately, I didn’t keep that promise for long.
Twenty-One
Lark
Volunteering is taken very seriously in Manhattan. It is a huge honor to chair a gala or fundraiser for one of the large charitable organizations, the pinnacle of a lifetime for women like my mother. Committee chair positions are just as coveted. Recent Ivy and Seven Sisters grads, and those who decided to forgo higher education in favor of a lifetime spent volunteering, furtively contended for those spots. Then there are the committee members, carefully selected for their party planning prowess. Finally, at the bottom of the totem pole, were the Junior Committee members. As high school juniors and seniors, that was where my friends and I ranked.
Certain causes are classics, and considered the so-called best: the Ballet, the Opera, and the “popular” cancers. Invitations are extended to volunteer for these. Seriously. They also bring in more money in one night than many underdeveloped nations do in an entire year.
Not that I was criticizing these very worthy foundations per se. Of all of the things Manhattan’s female elite compete for, the chance to chair a big charity gala is the one I most respected. I just wished that the less fashionable charities received the same enthusiastic support as the classics or the causes du jour. Why don’t we throw our money at the Deworm the Globe folks? Isn’t helping rid the world’s children of parasites a worthy cause? I thought so. Though, it could stand a rebranding campaign; the name alone makes people itchy.
My disapproval also stemmed from their use of donations. Don’t get me wrong, this season’s Opener Ballet was greatly improved in my eyes with the addition of Prabal Gurung tutus. But the amount of the foundation’s money used to throw these lavish engagements, even with sponsorships, sickened me. If it were up to me, everyone would just send in their donation checks without receiving an extravagant evening of decadence. Wouldn’t that be better for the actual cause, instead of a self-congratulatory soiree? Way more kids would be sans worms.
Since I was alone in thinking that way, my mother scurried to sign me as a volunteer for the Metropolitan Opera Society’s gala. At least my friends’ mothers were likeminded in their choices. Though this was certainly not by chance; they surely spent several afternoons strategically planning this decision.
Like the good society daughters we were, Cam, Annie, Taylor, and I always showed up where and when we were supposed to. Though, no one would mistake us as overeager. It was highly doubtful we’d be tackling each other in just a few short years for the chair positions. Luckily, we had a plan of attack, borne from years of experience and our lack of fanaticism. Instead of spending weeks stuffing envelopes with invitations or sampling fried calf pancreas, the girls and I joined the décor committee. It was by far the least zealous group, with the smallest obligation.
The Gala Board hired Event Planner extraordinaire, Ruella Prince. She was both a perfectionist and a control freak. Ruella took the business of parties very seriously, and her demeanor was as tightly wound as the severe bun always present at the nape of her neck. She did many of our mothers’ parties, so the girls and I were familiar with her protocols.
This facet of my world was how I came to give up my Saturday. All day, I’d been over at the park, beneath the enormous tent set up for the evening. I was supposedly decorating. In reality, Cam, Annie, and I were hindering the catering staff from finishing the place settings. We sat around one of the linen-covered tables, chatting. Taylor was on the other side of the tent, leaning on the makeshift bar with one hip thrust out, her fingers twirling her hair. The young bartender was blushing, fumbling as he lined up rows of brandy snifters. She’d decided a bottle of wine would liven up the afternoon, and set her sights on the poor guy. With his supervisor only feet away, it was looking like an unsuccessful mission.
The florist arrived, and the committee chair rushed over to us. A parade of men carrying centerpieces follow in her frantic wake.
“Ladies,” she said, in a piteous tone, “do you think you can handle supervising the placement of the floral arrangements?” Jen Randolph was much younger than the other chairs, and obviously had yet to understand that her role was simply to carry the title, no more. Her frenzied attitude spoke volumes about her experience with Ruella. Or the lack thereof.
“Of course, no problem, Jen,” Annie replied, hopping up from her chair.
“Great, thanks,” Jen said with a wave of her hand. She’d already dismissed us, her other hand pressed to her earpiece, listening intently. The half dozen men holding flowers turned their attention to us. Annie was surveying the arrangements and looking thoughtfully around the room, but she was beat to the punch.
“Put them on the tables,” Cam said breezily, with a wave of her hand.
“Right,” said one of the deliverymen, “but specifically wh–”
“Doesn’t matter,” Cam replied, smiling. “Thanks, guys!”
With that, our work was basically complete. Ruella had minions like us for several reasons, but mostly so that she’d have a cornucopia of potential victims to berate when things weren’t absolutely perfect. And in Ruella’s shrewd gaze, nothing was ever perfect. No matter where we thought the floral arrangements should go, we were wrong. There was literally no point in even trying.
Taylor returned to the table with a grin and a pilfered bottle of Beaujolais. We all laughed as she poured small amounts in plastic cups she’d swiped as well. They were quickly passed around, and the half empty bottle stashed under the table. Annie and I looked at each other; daytime drinking wasn’t really our thing. I gave her a wink before taking a sip of the light red wine. It was one of my favorites. Annie tasted hers as well, with a quick glance to confirm Ruella’s whereabouts.
The Event Planner from Hades wore an earpiece like Jen’s, except she wasn’t on the receiving end of any communications. Ruella was barking orders in a grim parody of General Lee at the battle of Gettysburg. A young girl scurried after her with a clipboard, constantly flipping the pages back and forth, feeding Ruella pertinent information. It was probably the girl’s first job out of college, though her lack of nerves meant she’d been at the post for at least nine months. Girls went to work for Ruella for the same reason they went to work for Anna Wintour: if they could suffer through one year of torture, they’d emerge on the other side with the knowledge and connections to secure any other job in the industry.
“This is exactly what I want my wedding to look like, it’s the most romantic story!” Annie’s attention had shifted from the event planner to her work. Lanterns, flowers, silk drapes, and twinkling lights were indeed coming together artfully. Candles were being strategically placed, ready to be lit at nightfall. The story Annie was referring to was L’elisir d’Amore, the opera that the decorations were modeled after.
“Oh yeah, definitely,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my words. “A story where the fickle rich girl laughs at the male lead when
he professes his love, solely because he’s poor.”
“Then suddenly, she’s interested in the poor guy because he gets smart and starts ignoring her,” Taylor joined in, getting in to it.
“But no fear, ladies of wealth! Because he receives a huge inheritance, so they can live richly ever after,” I finished. “Yeah, so romantic.” I stole a glance over at Annie, worrying I’d hurt her feelings, but she was giggling along with everyone else.
“Lark, when did you become so jaded?” Camilla laughed.
“I’m not jaded,” I protested. “I just think the whole story is so…shallow.”
“Right, and you’re the expert on deep, meaningful relationships,” Taylor chimed in. “Remind me again, who was it that you were making out with at this thing last year? The guy from Captain America?”
“Seriously, Taylor? Get your facts straight,” I replied in a mockingly serious tone. “One,” I held up my index finger, “we were totally not making out. It was just two like-minded people getting together to discuss the state of global affairs. Two,” my middle finger joined the index finger, “he was in Spiderman. Totally different.” My ring finger joined the other two. “And three, the incident you are referring to happened two years ago.”
My friends all laughed.
“Same difference,” Taylor said. “He was hot.” She held up her wine to toast my accomplishment. I touched my cup to hers before taking another sip. The make-out session in question was a hazy memory. At the time, I’d thought the wanton act—some pretty intense kissing on a bench in a beautiful garden—was fun. But in retrospect, I was ashamed that I’d let the vodka and my hormones cloud my judgment.
“Anyone good coming tonight?” Cam asked. Annie’s mother was in charge of the Invitation Committee, and she always snuck a peek at the guest list.
Annie shrugged. “Same people as always,” she said, sounding as bored as I felt. “Politicians, cardiac surgeons, bank presidents, the Diamond King and Queen of the World.” She smiled and gave me a small nudge at the reference to my parents, before continuing. “A few Hollywood A-listers, a Victoria’s Secret model or two, a couple pro hockey and soccer players…you know, the usual. Oh, and some kid from that show on the BBC that everyone is obsessed with.” Annie cocked her head to the side and wrinkled her nose as if the name was eluding her, but if she concentrated hard enough, she might be able to sniff it out. After a moment she shook her head, obviously giving up. “Whatever. I can’t remember his name, but he is going to be my boyfriend for the night,” she professed with a grin.
“Does he know this?” I teased. “After ‘Black Tie Required,’ did his invitation say, ‘Date Will be Provided’?”
“No way. It said, ‘Sex will be Provided’,” Taylor cut in.
“Oh, ha ha,” Annie said, pretending to be offended. “You’re both comedians now, is that it? Well, keep on joking. Because while Mr. I’m-Not-A-Royal-But-I’ve-Played-One-On-TV is talking all British to me, you’ll be dodging Alfonso What’s-His-Name and his attempts to play grab-ass.”
Cam, Taylor, and I all shuddered in unison. Alfonso Curro was a foreign diplomat who, somehow, always scored an invite to the big social functions. He never failed to inappropriately touch every female he came near. No one seemed to like him, though many seemed more than a little afraid of him.
“I’ve got something in the works,” Taylor said, all mysterious.
My cell buzzed in my lap. I looked down.
Blake: Afternoon, Gorgeous. Leaving home now. Meet you at our spot in an hour?
I couldn’t hide the silly grin.
“Looks like you’re not the only one, Tay. Who ‘ya talkin’ to, Lark?” Cam sing-songed.
I looked up into my friend’s shining eyes and lied smoothly. “Jeanine.”
“Your housekeeper?” Cam asked skeptically.
“Yeah.” I rolled my eyes. “Mom sent her to the Bronx to this weird new age store that specializes in cleanses. Apparently, mommy dearest is feeling a little fat and needs to lose five pounds, pronto. Jeanine wants to know if I need anything for tonight while she’s out,” I lied to my friends as I typed a quick response to Blake.
Me: I’ll start making my goodbyes.
I didn’t know exactly when I started keeping so many secrets from the girls, but it was long before Blake Greyfield came along. Hiding such a large part of my life from my best friends felt wrong, yet it also felt kind of right. In the beginning, I’d been worried they wouldn’t accept him. Now I didn’t really care if they did. But I still kept the truth of our relationship to myself. I loved having something that was mine and mine alone. Our time, mine and Blake’s, was so much more special because it was stolen from our ordinary days. It was rare, and all the more beautiful for it.
Blake: Can’t wait.
Me: Me neither.
Hiding my side, I tuned back in to what the girls were saying. Apparently, my totally fabricated story about my mother needing to do an impromptu cleanse had reminded Annie of a real story about Lydia Gromsley. My best friend was recounting the details of Lydia’s latest fad diet, which purportedly involved lime peels, the oil from a spicy pepper only found in China, and actual gold shavings.
Cam and Taylor were laughing so hard they were crying as Annie imitated the irritating baby voice that Lydia was known for using. Especially around Ilan. She seemed to think that talking like a four-year old was a turn-on. I caught Annie’s gaze and smiled gratefully. Lately, whenever the others seemed to find my behavior suspicious, Annie swooped in and diverted the attention away from me. Lying to her was the worst.
“Hate to break up this party,” I said, after Cam finished trashing the girl Ilan was bringing as his date tonight. Apparently, Lydia wasn’t the only one with her eye on that particular prize. “But I should get going.”
“Seriously?” Taylor asked. She glanced at her watch. “The mice are still sewing your dress, Cinderella. Relax. How much longer are we going to be able to sit around and gossip while others do the work?”
“Um, forever,” Cam answered before I had a chance. “That’s the beauty of being us.”
I laughed along with my friends; the joke wasn’t actually funny, but it was true.
Thirty minutes later, the bell above the doors to the Downs jingled as I hurried inside. Blake was already there, tucked back in the corner in a cozy armchair big enough for two, his forearm on the wide velvet armrest. Blake was absorbed in a book propped on his leg, giving it his full attention, just as he did with everything of interest to him. A lock of dark hair fell forward, curling around his temple. I took a moment to watch him and marvel at just how good-looking he truly was.
He must have felt the weight of my gaze. Blake’s head popped up and his green eyes found my blue ones. I grinned, showing so much tooth that my mother would have been appalled. Blake started to rise, like he was going to come meet me at the door. I quickly waved him back down, but he ignored me. The next thing I knew, we were embracing. His arms were around my waist and mine were around his neck, our lips meeting in the middle.
The public display of affection was reckless and stupid and left me breathless. I was taking too many chances these days, and one of them was going to backfire.
He’s so worth the risk, I thought.
“Sorry,” Blake whispered, his lips brushing my cheek as he spoke in my ear. “I couldn’t help myself. You look too good. It would be a shame not to touch you.”
“Blake Greyfield,” I pretended to chastise him, “At least say it like you mean it. I don’t think you’re sorry at all.”
Blake ran his palms down my arms, sending a shiver of pleasure up my spine, and then grasped my hands in his. He stepped back to look me. Straight-faced, he said, “That’s because I’m not sorry.”
I couldn’t help myself. I giggled and gave an exaggerated eye roll. I quickly sobered, thinking of everything else happening in my life, but managed a real smile when I looked up at him again.
“What’s wrong?” Blake asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. “I’m just nervous about giving you the present I had made. Promise you’ll love it?”
Blake brought our joined hands to his heart and made an awkward X. “Cross my heart.” He nodded towards the chair he’d been sitting in when I arrived. “Want to sit?”
As it turned out, the oversized armchair would’ve been big enough for three people; Blake and I fit comfortably with room to spare. Shirley appeared with a hot chocolate and two giant cookies just as were getting settled.
“First batch of spring,” she announced, setting the steaming mug and plate of cookies on the end table next to the table. “They’re lemon drop. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Shirley,” I called after my favorite waitress as she departed.
The lemon cookie was soft, almost gooey in the center, and sprinkled with large sugar granules, just the way I preferred it. But I couldn’t muster the appropriate enthusiasm for the treat. My stomach was in knots over giving Blake his present.
I reached into the interior pocket of my floral Fendi bag. My fingers closed around the velvet pouch. He loves you. I let my smiling mask fall back into place and shifted in the chair so I could look at Blake without craning my neck.
“I know it’s silly,” I prefaced, “but I really wanted to give you something special.” The pouch was cupped between my palms and I held it out to Blake. “Seriously, though. Please be honest. If you hate it you can tell me. I’ll happily go shopping for something else.” Please don’t hate it. Please don’t hate it.