House of Bettencourt

by Sandra Cunha

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOKS BY AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  HOUSE OF BETTENCOURT

  Copyright © 2018 by Sandra Cunha

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, except for brief quotations in articles or reviews, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-9939429-4-5

  Author website: sandracunha.com

  For my mom and all moms who tried their best.

  “Beauty begins the moment you decide to be yourself.” ~ Coco Chanel

  PROLOGUE

  “ERIN! ERIN! LADY BETTENCOURT!”

  Camera lights are flashing in my eyes, blinding me. I try to hold my smile and not turn away in reaction.

  They know who I am. I didn’t think they would, but they do.

  I look over at Aaron, who is standing a few feet away from me. He grins and comes to join me.

  We walk the remainder of the red carpet together, stopping every now and again to pose for a photo.

  It feels like I’m in a dream.

  Am I dreaming?

  I have to be. Why else would I, Erin Bettencourt, be walking the red carpet of the Toronto International Film Festival?

  This can’t be real.

  We’re about to enter the theatre, Roy Thomson Hall, when an entertainment reporter who I’ve met before reaches out and grabs my arm.

  “Erin?” She looks surprised to see me. “I guess I don’t have to ask who you’re wearing.”

  I laugh. “No, but I’ll say it, anyway. My dress is a new design from the Lady Bettencourt line. It’s a special edition named The Penny. It’s made from old curtains! Oh, and my bag,” I pause to hold it up for the camera. “My bag is a vintage Chanel 2.55. Medium. Navy. It belonged to my mom.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  4 weeks earlier . . .

  MY HIP IS VIBRATING.

  At first, I think I’m having some sort of localized seizure, then I remember it’s my phone in my dress pocket. I thought I’d turned it off. I’ll have to ignore it. There’s nothing else I can do now, not while my segment is being taped.

  What was I saying? Something about . . .

  “Um, yeah, so that’s how to incorporate patterns into your wardrobe.”

  “Ooh, I love this paisley one,” Marilyn Denis, the TV show host, says as she reaches out to touch the Lady Bettencourt dress worn by a model on the set.

  “Me, too. It’s such a happy pattern.”

  “It is. Thanks for being back on the show, Erin.”

  “Thanks for having me back.”

  “Coming up, a hundred-and-one ideas on how to manage unruly curly hair . . . or maybe just five,” Marilyn says, winking at the camera.

  When the taping stops, Marilyn and I walk past the live audience, where one of the women yells out to me, “I love your dresses!” Another one says, “I’m wearing The Cindy!”

  I yell back, “Thank you!” and “Looks amazing on you!”

  Once Marilyn and I are out of view, she kisses me on both cheeks. “That was great, kiddo. See you in a couple of months.”

  “Thanks, Marilyn. Great shoes, by the way!” I say as she’s walking away.

  In response, she waves her hand over her shoulder, without turning around, and heads back into the studio.

  I still can’t believe I have a regular segment on The Marilyn Denis Show, a national lifestyle program. I’m inside people’s televisions all across Canada!

  This reminds me of my hip vibrating earlier, which could have potentially led to my not appearing inside those televisions anymore. I check my phone to see who the culprit was. My new smartphone.

  My “vintage” Motorola Razr flip phone finally conked out, but it’s been given a place of honour in my sewing workroom. It acts as a constant reminder to never let anyone else tell me how to run my business.

  The call was from Brian at the frame shop. I wonder if he’s reframed my painting already. I listen to his voice message.

  I listen to his voice message again.

  I have to make sure I heard him correctly. Because if I heard him correctly, I need to get to the frame shop as soon as possible.

  It’s probably nothing. I mean, why would a package be hiding behind the painting?

  Not any old painting, the painting: the one that belonged to my mom, depicting a mother and her two young daughters. The one that hung on our living room wall throughout my childhood.

  Unless . . . she never knew the package was there.

  Oh, my God. What if it’s drugs?

  It’s probably not drugs.

  It could be drugs.

  Or money.

  What if it was my mom’s secret hiding place, and the package is full of cold, hard cash?

  I could be rich.

  But what I want to know the most right now is, why did I take the subway? I should’ve taken an Uber.

  Our train has been at a standstill for ten minutes due to someone having a medical emergency. I hope the person is okay, but I feel like I may pass out from anticipation if we don’t get moving soon.

  I need to know what’s inside that package. It feels like my own life depends on it.

  “Where is it?” I ask as soon as I’m inside the frame shop.

  “Where’s what?” Brian, the owner, asks.

  “Sorry,” I say, catching my breath. “Let me start again. I’m Erin Bettencourt. Remember me? You left me a message about a package you found behind the painting I brought in.”

  He looks confused.

  How many packages do they find behind paintings?

  This can’t be an everyday occurrence.

  “Package . . . package. Oh, that package!” he laughs. “I’m only fooling with you. It’s right here.” He reaches under the counter and places the package on top.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s just a normal, padded envelope. I guess I thought it might look special somehow, and that by looking at it, I’d know what was inside.

  “Do you know what’s in there?” he asks, echoing my thoughts.

  “No idea.”

  “Well, if it’s anything good, we take a fifty-percent finders fee.”

  “Really?”

  “Fooled you, again!” he says, chuckling to himself. “But you’d be surprised how often this happens.”

  I’m about to ask him what sorts of things they’ve found, but he keeps talking.

  “We’re having some issues sourcing the frame you requested.
It may take a bit longer than we quoted, but we should have the painting ready for you in a few weeks.”

  “That’s okay. No rush. Thank you for letting me know about this,” I say, taking the package into my hands for the first time.

  Again, I feel nothing when I touch it. I was hoping for an electric spark or something; it just feels like . . . an envelope. But I do know I shouldn’t open it in here. Not in front of “Funny Man” Brian.

  So I clutch the package to my chest and leave the frame shop.

  When I get home, Coco, my cavalier, is there waiting to greet me with her big eyes and wagging tail. I give her a few cuddles, and then place the package I’ve been holding tightly, on top of the dining room table.

  Maybe I won’t open it right away. Maybe I’ll make myself a cup of tea and catch-up on some business.

  But, instead, I pace around the condo while looking at the package, then away from it, then back at it. This goes on for some time. Coco follows my every movement.

  You’re being silly, Erin. Just open it. It’s only a package.

  A mysterious package. I’ve had a somewhat sordid history with those. But this one is most-likely from my mom. Which means, I should probably tell Betty, my sister, about this.

  Except, I have no idea what’s inside of it.

  What if it’s filled with that deadly white powder stuff . . . Amtrak? That doesn’t sound right. Anthrax! Yeah, that’s it! What if it’s filled with that? I can’t expose Betty to Anthrax, not while she’s pregnant. (Or ever, actually.)

  Betty’s pregnant!

  Very pregnant—with twins! I’m going to be an auntie, times two. And I’m pretty sure one of my chief duties as Auntie Erin is to not bring harm to my unborn nieces or nephews or some combination of which.

  Betty is keeping their sex a secret. I tried getting it out of her Ob-Gyn by pretending to be Betty on the phone, but she didn’t fall for it. How was I to know Betty was sitting in her office?

  So opening the package, without my sister present, wouldn’t be to quell my own curiosity. No, it would be to protect the next generation.

  Decision made, I stop pacing and resist the urge to rip the envelope open. Coco senses something is on the verge of happening and makes her way to my side.

  “Coco, if anything bad happens call 9-1-1.”

  She lets out a small bark.

  Having received her confirmation, I slowly tear the top of the envelope and take a peek inside.

  It’s full of paper. And not the dollar-bills kind.

  I reach in and pull out a small bundle of various stocks of paper, held together with an elastic. The elastic breaks once it’s been freed from the envelope. It must have been in there a while.

  As I try to keep my grasp of the now loose sheets of paper, my eye catches on the top sheet. That’s when I see something I haven’t seen in a very long time.

  My mom’s handwriting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEPTEMBER 21, 2008

  My beautiful girls,

  I suppose you’re not girls anymore, although it’s hard for me to think of you any other way.

  Last week, I found you, Erin, in my closet, reading one of my journals. I was upset at first, but then, it confirmed something I’d been debating for a while.

  I know I haven’t shared much about my past; however, there were things I always planned to tell you when you were older. Sadly, I no longer have that option. But I don’t have the energy to go through an oral retelling of my life story, either. And for that, I’m truly sorry.

  During the summer, when you were both away and I found out I was sick, I began going through my things. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it all once I was gone. I also got rid of several old documents. Documents that might have given away my secrets. But I kept a box of journals containing the diary entries I was thinking of sharing with you.

  I’m still not sure this is the right decision; if I’m even in the proper frame of mind to make it. But I feel I have to do something, to give you something. Perhaps from the guilt of not telling you sooner.

  It’s taken all of my remaining strength (and a bit of sneaking around) to go through that final box of journals and select only the most important things I wanted you to know. The things I felt affected you the most. Not everything, of course. Every woman must have her secrets. But those things that may make you understand me, and yourselves, better.

  Why hide the package behind a painting, instead of just giving it to you? For one, that painting is very special to me. And for another, I’d been using it as a hiding spot for years. I’d manipulated the paper-backing specifically for that purpose. So it felt like the right place to keep my final secret. I figure if you’re meant to find it, you will. And if not, then you’ll remember me the way that I am—or rather—the way I was.

  My diary entries are addressed to Elizabeth, sort of like I’m writing to an older version of myself, or an older sister. I always wanted a sister who I could look up to, so I suppose this was my way of having one.

  Please read these together so you can lean on one another should something that you read upset you. You’re blessed to have each other.

  Regardless of what you read, know that I don’t regret anything that has happened in my life. It all happened as it should. You girls have given my life purpose, reason, and meaning. You have been the loves of my life.

  I’m honoured to have had the chance to be your mother.

  Love you always,

  Mom

  P.S. All my other journals have been destroyed. There are no more “hidden packages.” I don’t want you to have any false hope you might find something more. And should someone else be reading this letter right now, please destroy it. If it wasn’t found by my girls, it wasn’t meant to be found.

  P.P.S. Give my love to Matt. He’s one of the good ones.

  P.P.P.S. Know that I tried to do my best for you both.

  ***

  I wipe a tear from my face. I hadn’t realized I was crying. It’s just that, as I was reading the letter, I could actually hear my mom’s voice again. It was like she was talking to me.

  And I don’t want her to stop talking to me, so I turn to the first diary entry before remembering that she wanted Betty and I to read them together.

  Betty! I have to tell her what I found!

  She won’t believe it. She’ll be as excited as I am. I reach for my phone, but then, hesitate.

  At least, I think she’ll be as excited as I am. But what if she doesn’t want to read them? She wouldn’t say no, would she? And if she doesn’t want to read them, does that mean I can’t, either? Is that what my mom meant?

  I don’t know.

  I’m not sure what Betty’s feelings are on diaries. The topic has never come up. She’s definitely not into Hollywood gossip—not that that’s the same thing. Plus, she’s not in the best position to make this sort of decision at the moment, being pregnant and on bed-rest.

  Did I mention Betty’s on bed-rest?

  When Betty found out she was pregnant, she wasn’t very happy. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to have kids, but because she hadn’t planned on having them so soon in her married life. Betty likes to plan things.

  Then, just as she was getting used to the idea, she found out she was having twins, which was another bit of a shock. And now a few weeks before her delivery date, she’s had to go on bed-rest. (I didn’t know that was still a thing.)

  So I’ve been visiting Betty a lot because she’s not used to having hardly anything to do all day. Basically, she’s allowed to only get up to use the bathroom or take a shower.

  When I visit her tomorrow, I’ll gauge her general feelings on diaries before I reveal the discovery I’ve made. I want to go tonight, but it’s getting late, and it might make her suspicious.

  Even though I’m desperate to begin reading the entries now, I need to handle this properly.

  Matt, Betty’s husband, is coming out of their front door when I arrive the next mor
ning.

  “Hey, Matty Matt! How’s she doing today?”

  “You know Betty, she wants those babies out now.”

  “I can imagine. Sort of,” I say, then wave him off to work before making my way inside the house.

  When I reach their bedroom, Betty’s lying in bed. Or, at least, I think it’s Betty. I can’t make out her face because her humongous stomach is blocking it. I creep over to the top of the bed. It’s her.

  “Hey, Betty Boop!” I say, popping my face in front of hers.

  She jumps a little. “Erin! You’re not supposed to scare a pregnant woman. I almost peed!”

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to suppress a giggle. “I didn’t think of that. How are you feeling?”

  “Horrible. I’m so bored. Extremely, extremely bored,” she says while staring blankly up at the ceiling. “You’d think they’d have invented a cure for pregnancy bed-rest by now.” She slowly sits up and begins maneuvering the many pillows around her to get into a comfortable half-sitting, half-lying position.

  Hmm, she’s not in a good mood. Actually, she hasn’t been in a good mood for weeks now. I guess having to stay in bed all day will do that to you, especially when you have a Type-A personality.

  After I help her finish setting up the pillows, I place both my hands on her belly and say, “Hello, Baby Coo-Chi! Hello, Baby Chi-Coo! It’s your Auntie Erin. See you soonish!”

  I want them to recognize my voice when they’re born. I’ve been doing this same routine from the moment I found out Betty was pregnant. (I found out even before Matt did. It’s one of those long stories I might tell you one day.) I used to say, “Baby Coo-Chi-Coo,” but I had to split it up once we found out she was having twins. I’ll be upgrading their nicknames once I officially meet them.

  “How did your segment go on the show?” Betty asks.