Fragile Facade (Blind Barriers Trilogy Book 1)

by Sophie Davis

  “Kristoph is your server, and he’ll be right with you,” she told me pleasantly.

  Kristoph appeared a moment later with a bread basket and two glasses of ice water.

  “Good morning and welcome to Phrases,” he said with a thick German – maybe Austrian? – accent as he set down the basket and beverages. “Have you been here before?”

  “Nope,” I replied.

  “Then let me tell you about our specials.” From there he launched into a speech that he’d clearly given numerous times before. Things like lobster omelets, crab cakes benedict, and a smoked salmon scramble with caviar were among the distinctive offerings, and my mouth watered just hearing about them. I was definitely hungry.

  I let him finish, and then ordered Asher’s orange juice and an apple juice for myself. I returned to reading the mammoth menu, only looking back up when I heard a commotion from across the room. The undignified snort of laugher was out before my hand made it to my mouth.

  Asher, a Phrases shopping bag slung over one shoulder, had been attempting to navigate his way through the exceptionally narrow aisle between tables. It was as if they hadn’t wanted to waste an inch of precious real estate. “Bull in a china shop” was the phrase that came to mind. His tall, athletic frame was too big for such a small space, and the bag of books just added to the problem. Apparently, that had been the culprit. Asher was apologizing profusely to a dreamy-eyed blonde who was rubbing the back of her head. By the looks of her outfit, she didn’t have the same concerns I did about labels when wearing the previous night’s clothing. I surmised that his bag had bumped into her while trying to pass by, though I wasn’t positive about the course of events. It seemed as though she’d been startled and had spilled her mimosa upon being knocked upside the head. To make matters worse, she was wearing white satin shorts.

  Instead of ranting and raving at him like any normal person would have, the girl was cooing about how it was, “no big deal,” and “really, these shorts were so last season anyway.” I rolled my eyes, any and all traces of sympathy gone, when Asher’s latest admirer placed her hand on his waist. Of course, that was just to assure him that “accidents happen” and if he’d like to make it up to her, “dinner was always an option.”

  I liked Asher a lot. He was funny, easy to talk to, and, let’s face it, undeniably handsome. But apart from our initial meeting, I’d given little thought to our relationship progressing any further than friendship. Now, though, as I watched the blonde bat her big doe eyes up at him, I had the urge to smack her a second time with the corner of a book. The sudden violent thought surprised me and I felt a little ashamed.

  Before I could obsess over whether my feelings for my neighbor were truly romantic, or if it was just four years at a cliquey high school that had given me a strong dislike for handsy hussies, Asher sent me a pleading glance. His brown eyes seemed to be saying, “Raven, do something.” Luckily, before I had to decide whether to intervene, the hostess appeared with napkins and a fresh mimosa for the girl.

  “I’ll take it from here,” she told Asher pleasantly. Then she pointed to where I sat, chewing my thumbnail into a sharper weapon, and added, “Your girlfriend is right over there.”

  Visibly relieved and without bothering to correct her assumption about me, Asher thanked her, apologizing one last time to the blonde. Now cradling the bag of books to his chest, he hurried over to where I sat. He plopped down in the chair opposite mine, red-faced, and pretending that he didn’t notice all the people staring at him.

  “You okay there, killer?” I asked.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” he muttered, making a great show of opening his menu. “Thank goodness she’s been drinking and was so understanding.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, the teasing tone I’d used a moment before gone. In his embarrassment, Asher didn’t seem to notice. I was pretty sure that being drunk had nothing to do with why she’d been so nice about the situation.

  Asher’s eyes sparkled when he glanced over the top of his menu. “I feel awful, but it was so hard not to laugh when I was apologizing.”

  I smiled, somehow mollified that he thought the whole thing was comical.

  Kristoph returned with our drinks and once again recited his lines about the specials. Asher and I both ordered lox platters with sweet potato homefries.

  Though Asher had been the one to call and invite me to brunch this morning, I’d been on the verge of calling him to tell him about the latest developments with Lark. I was hoping maybe he had some theories about the latest journal entry.

  “That’s so weird,” agreed Asher, after I’d finished explaining the two wildly different versions of Lark and Blake’s first encounter. “What do you think it means? Which one do you think is right?”

  I held up my hands, palms up, and shrugged. “I was hoping you’d have some ideas. Given that she’s left behind this trail of breadcrumbs, I’m guessing that one of the entries is a clue. But I don’t know which one is fake.” I paused for a moment, rethinking that last statement. “No, actually, that’s not true. The first one, where she says they met at the Met thingy? That’s the real story.”

  Asher watched me thoughtfully as he took a long drink from the mocha I’d ordered at the coffee bar. The act was oddly intimate, like I really was his girlfriend and we shared drinks – and a whole lot more – all the time. I liked how comfortable he was around me, I decided.

  He set the plastic cup down in the middle of the small table. “What makes you say that?”

  “Not sure,” I admitted. “It’s just, well, I don’t know how to describe it exactly. But when she writes about Blake, you can actually feel how much she loves him. How much they mean to each other. I didn’t get that when I read the entry about them meeting in the park.”

  Asher had been watching me with rapt attention, his brown eyes thoughtful and inquisitive. His expression softened as I spoke, and his gaze lowered to my chest. At first I was taken aback, almost offended. We were discussing an extremely important topic. Meanwhile, he was ogling my boobs. Then I looked down. Never mind. I’d unconsciously placed my hand over my heart while talking about Lark’s love life.

  I blushed and gave an embarrassed little laugh.

  “She’s gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?” guessed Asher.

  “Yeah, I suppose so. I mean, I’ve been reading her diary. It’s sort of hard not to feel like you know someone after you’ve read her private thoughts. Is that stupid?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Asher reached across the table and held out his hand to me. Tentatively, I placed my palm in his. He squeezed it gently. “I think it’s amazing that you’re willing to help someone you’ve never met.”

  My blush deepened. I averted my eyes so Asher wouldn’t know how nervous I was. Not that I was a hand-holding virgin. But an older, wiser, hot guy? That was uncharted waters for me.

  “Last night, I got the impression that you thought investigating her disappearance on my own was stupid,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

  “Last night–” Asher began, interrupted when Kristoph materialized with our bagels and lox. Luckily, he forgot what he was saying when the server departed; I was not up for an awkward talk right now.

  While we ate, I filled him in on my middle-of-the-night trip to Lark’s apartment and the receipt in her desk drawer. I explained about the clothes, still with their tags, hanging in her closet. I left out the fact that I’d borrowed and was currently wearing said clothes. I also left out the part about falling asleep in Lark’s bed while listening to her iPod. I wasn’t embarrassed about that, like I was about wearing her clothes, but it sounded a little too Single White Female.

  “Don’t do that again,” Asher scolded me after I’d finished. His expression had turned hard and disapproving.

  “What? Why?”

  “Raven,” he began, setting down the second half of his bagel to let me know how important he found his next words. “From what you’ve told me, it sounds
like Lark was involved in some pretty bad shit. People might be looking for her. And not–” I opened up my mouth to interrupt, but he held up his hand, stopping me. Pursing my lips together in a great show of restraint, I closed it. “And not just her parents, her friends, and the police. Like I told you the other night, I am willing to make this easier for you any way I can. Let me help. Please,” his tone softened, “Please, do not 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 to me,” I grumbled. Why was he treating me like a naughty child? Whether or not my earlier feelings of jealousy were indicative of romantic interest, it was clear he didn’t reciprocate. He was treating me like a little sister.

  “This time. And something bad did happen to her. I’m worried about you.”

  I dropped the snarky attitude. “You’re right. And I’m sorry,” I said. “I promise, no more late night adventures alone.”

  Unfortunately, I didn’t keep that promise for long.

  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 highest possible accolade to your place in society. This is 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 of volunteering, furtively contend for these spots. And then there are the committee members, carefully selected for their party planning prowess. Finally, at the bottom of this totem pole of prestige, are the Junior Committee members. As high school juniors and seniors, that’s where my friends and I ranked.

  There are more events in the Fall and Spring seasons than one can possibly attend, let alone lend time to. On any given Thursday, three or more benefits occur simultaneously. Of these, one will be a clear favorite; the one that everyone who is anyone, or wants to be someone, will attend with their checkbooks in hand.

  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 are, 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 – seriously, that’s a thing – the girls and I joined the décor committee. It is by far the least zealous group, with the smallest obligation.

  Not that I mind responsibility. I just find it entirely too difficult to muster the requisite level of anxiety over whether the calligrapher used the proper title for the ex-wife of a remarried doctor who is now engaged to a Count. Or what to do about Georgina Maylan’s vegan, gluten-free, non-dairy meal requests. If it were my decision, I would tell them to give her a carrot and call it a day. Despite my attempts to please my mother and live up to her standards, I just can’t bring myself to care about such trivial issues. Which was why I chose to join a committee whose input was entirely superfluous.

  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. Sure, things like envelope stuffing could be left to the minions. But Ruella made all final decisions. On everything.

  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. All in all, our presence was utterly unnecessary.

  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. We knew that with Ruella around, 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 drapings, 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.”