by Stella Noir
“Deja-vu,” a voice interrupts me from below and I nearly tumble off the ladder, it scares me so badly. As it happens, I miss a step and fall straight into someone’s strong arms.
Blushing furiously, I look up into Frank’s face, and he’s stifling a laugh. “Hello,” he says and I giggle, which makes him erupt in laughter as well.
He sets me on my feet and in seconds, we’re both laughing like it’s the end of the world. I managed to calm down some and grip the book I’ve chosen to my chest, inspecting Frank out of the corner of my eye.
I’ve never seen him laugh. All he does is smirk and mope around the house, and no one really makes an effort to interact with him. The Banes are cold and distant – Dylan’s Dad, Frank’s own father, barely acknowledges him, while Mrs. Rawlings looks at him with such hatred in her eyes it scares me sometimes. As for the kids, we have lives of our own – Dylan’s always with me, and his sister, Venetia, is always locked in her room.
I’ve often noticed Frank just wandering around the house, not knowing what to do with himself, and I feel a little sorry for him.
I suddenly realize I’m staring and look away, blushing. He doesn’t seem to notice though, and instead points to the book in my hand. “What did you choose today?” he asks me.
I raise the book for him to see and he nods approvingly when he sees a newer title. It’s by a famous author writing a pseudonym that not many people know off. The topic is dark, a thriller that may be inappropriate for my age, and would surely be taken away by my parents if they knew I had it.
“Your parents know about that?” Frank asks me with that signature smirk.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” I smile devilishly and he laughs again. It feels good to know I can make him laugh when he’s always so serious. His presence has become a comfort in this house.
He comes closer to me and takes the book out of my hands suddenly, placing it on a random bookshelf along with his always-present glass of amber liquid.
I look up at him, my lips slightly parted, feeling confused.
Then, Frank reaches down for me with a purpose, his hand wrapping around my hip and pulling me closer, into him.
My heart nearly explodes out of my chest and I push him away furiously, realizing what he was going to do. “What are you doing?” I ask, adrenaline coursing through my veins, my heart thumping loudly.
Before he gets the chance to answer, Dylan appears in the doorway.
“Hey, Lola?” he asks and I look at him, still flushed and feeling weirded out by my encounter with Frank. “Can we talk?” he asks sheepishly.
I nod and without shooting another look at his brother, I follow Dylan out of the room, my book lying forgotten on the shelf. I promise myself I will never, ever, tell anyone what just happened in the library. It was a mistake and I’m sure Frank is already regretting it …
*
Dylan and I walk out into their veranda, which has a roof and a swinging bench where we sit, my legs folded under me and his hands nervously twitching in his lap. The air outside is misty, the rain coming down in torrents, but creating a pleasant atmosphere.
Their housekeeper brings us two glasses of incredibly sweet iced tea, and I relish the flavor. I need something to take my mind off of things.
Dylan speaks up. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asks desperately, and I look at him, feeling surprised. I didn’t even think he noticed the way I’d been behaving. “I see how you are,” he says sadly. “I know something’s wrong, but I’ve been too much of a coward to ask you. I was scared,” he admits.
I look at him questioningly and feeling more than a little confused. “What were you scared of?” I ask him softly.
He runs a hand through that sandy hair of his, sighing deeply, and I realize whatever it is, and it must have been bothering me more than he let on. “I know the summer’s almost over,” he starts hesitantly. “And I know … I mean, look at yourself, Lola. You’re gorgeous … you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
I look away, feeling embarrassed. I’ve always been praised for my beauty, and I do like the way I look – classic California blonde. Yet Dylan hasn’t complimented me on my appearance very many times, and it feels strange hearing this from his lips.
“I don’t know,” he grunts. “I’m worried, Lola. I’m worried what will happen when the summer rolls around, and I know what you want to tell me … I know you want to break up.”
My eyes bulge and I just stare at him dumbfounded. That is just about the last thing I want, in the whole world!
As we sit there, both miserable for the most stupid reason, I can’t help but laugh. I erupt in giggles, holding my sides as I collapse in laughter and Dylan looks totally confused.
“Dylan,” I manage to get out. “I never wanted to break up! I was upset because I know I won’t see you for another year. I was sad. I want to be with you every day, every month! Not just these stupid summers – as much as they mean to me, they’re not enough … it’s not enough, Dylan …”
Before I can finish, he’s on me, pulling me into his lap and kissing me hard as I moan against his lips. This kiss is different than our usual encounter, the innocent, soft kisses we used to share. This is pure passion, and even at the tender age of sixteen, I recognize it.
“Dylan,” I whisper against his lips, moaning softly.
“Remember what I said, Lola,” he says, his voice strained. I can feel the hardness between his legs, and I get incredibly hot. I realize, for the first time in my life, I’m turned on. “I’d do it all for you, baby,” he whispers in my hair, raising goose bumps along my necklace.
“Kiss, kill, kiss, kill, all for you, baby,” he sings in my ear and I grin from ear to ear before pressing another kiss on his parted lips.
“I want you Dylan,” I whisper and he pulls away, looking at me with surprise. “I want you to be my first,” I whisper, and I flush at my words, feeling embarrassed. My gaze slips away, but Dylan grips my chin and makes me look at him.
“Whatever you want, baby,” he whispers as he kisses me again, and this time, his lips promise more than they ever did before …
Chapter 14
Today is the day I get married. Today is the day I stop being a bride and become a wife.
And I couldn’t be more excited about it.
After long, arduous days spent in the company of my wedding planner – but thankfully no Barbara Roberts, who retreated to her lake house, to lick her wounds, I presume – the big day is here.
Matt booked a room in a hotel in the city for the night so we wouldn’t spend the day before the wedding together, ever the man of traditions. I spent the entire night roaming around the house, unable to sleep and too hyped up to rest.
Love trailed in my footsteps, following me wherever I went and looking at me with confusion, as if she were trying to tell me it was time for bed.
Finally, at around 5 a.m., I fell in a fitful sleep, plagued by nightmares of two men – Dylan and Matt …
I had tried my best not to think of Dylan. And indeed, he did the same, staying away from me. I did sometimes wonder whether he would make it to my wedding, be there for my big day. But the truth is, I don’t know what I want – for him to skip it, or be there.
I guess all will be revealed tonight.
After two hours of terrible sleep, I am thankful to be woken up by my alarm. A look in the mirror reveals enormous under-eye circles and I only hope the makeup artist comes properly equipped.
It’s strange wandering around the house. Any other girl would have been surrounded by family and friends, yet I was completely alone.
I didn’t bother asking my family to come to the wedding. I’m sure they know of it – it was in all the papers, but I don’t want them here. They would spoil it all, just like they always do.
My work friends were all miraculously busy when it came to attending this event, even though I know for a fact their lives consist of sleeping days and going out at night. I g
uess they don’t think I’m that special, if they can’t even come to my big day.
Soon, the doorbell rings and I rush to open with Love at my heels, desperate for some company. The past few weeks have been lonely, and there is no denying it is in part because of Dylan’s absence.
The makeup artist, hairdresser and wedding planner all file into my room and soon, it’s filled with chatter and commotion. Somehow, the hectic atmosphere soothes me and there is a smile on my face as they sit me down in the boudoir, starting to prepare me for the big day.
I think of Matthew and my heart contracts with the pure love I feel for the man.
Finally, today is the day I become his, officially. My heart has belonged to him for years.
As the stylist is putting hot rollers in my hair, the doorbell rings again and one of the assistants rushes to open it. I can feel the tension in the air, which tells me my mother-in-law has arrived.
Immediately, my skin erupts in goose bumps of fear and excitement. I want to see her defeated as much as I want to apologize, and the two conflicting emotions are wrecking havoc in my mind.
Finally, Barbara Roberts walks into the boudoir, refusing to meet my eye. She’s wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses and her hair is in immaculate curls, as always.
“Lola,” she greets me coolly, before sitting down in a chair next to me.
I say hello in the same tone as she did and an unpleasant silence settles over us. I know we’re both thinking of what happened in the salon, but neither of us wants to mention it.
The hair stylist clears her throat uncomfortably, and in that moment, I realize the situation is completely laughable. It’s my wedding day, and some old witch is most definitely not going to ruin it. I’ve stopped her once and I’ll do it time and time again.
A giggle escapes my lips.
Mrs. Roberts turns her head towards me quickly, her expression shocked and appalled. It makes me giggle even more, until I erupt in a fit of laughter.
“Miss Lexington,” the hairdresser scolds me. “I am absolutely going to mess up your hair if you don’t stop right this minute!”
I try hard to stifle my laughter, I swear I do.
But then my eye catches Mrs. Roberts’s, and I see a sparkle there I never have before. In a split second, the corners of her mouth start to twitch upwards, and she laughs a soft, quiet laugh.
I am in complete shock for a moment – I’ve never heard my mother-in-law laugh. Not once.
I stare at her in shock, but quickly avert my eyes for fear of scaring her off. This is the moment, which is the closest we’ve come to bonding, ever, and I don’t want to waste it. For a split second, it feels like we’re partners in crime, allies, not enemies, fighting for their territory.
The manicurist arrives along with her assistant and they start to work on our nails, showing us a display on nail polishes to choose from.
“I’ll go for Mother of Pearl,” says Mrs. Roberts, and I see her smile softly, probably thinking how appropriate the name is. It melts my heart a little, because as much as I can’t stand her, I know she loves her son just as much as I do.
But the she goes and spoils it all by saying, “And she will have Princess Pink.”
I shoot her a tired look, because I’ve had enough of her deciding things for me, and to my utter surprise, she sighs heavily and waves her hand in the air dismissively.
“Or maybe not,” she states. “Let Lola take a look herself.”
I’m still in shock when the manicurist display some shades in front of me, and I inspect them with dazed eyes. “Yes, I think I’ll go with Princess Pink,” I say, and I feel Mrs. Roberts’s eyes shoot towards me, fighting back a smile.
It feels like a truce, even if it is a temporary one.
And surprisingly, it feels better than when I humiliated her in front of the salon.
*
The day goes on for a few hours and my head is feeling heavy with the weight of rollers on hair spray, my hands stiff after holding out my fingers, waiting for the nail polish to dry.
Now it’s time to put on the dress.
Carefully, the assistant from the salon – the very one who nearly had a heart attack because of me – slips the dress off the hanger as I’m being laced into my lingerie.
I insisted I wanted to be alone with the seamstress and the assistant, as I really have no desire for my mother-in-law-to-be to see me in my underwear. Grudgingly, she agreed, and I’m enjoying the few moments of inner peace before I have to face the music.
I step towards the dress, admiring the way the light breaks on the beautiful ivory silk. I have to agree – the dress Mrs. Roberts chose is absolutely gorgeous. It is most definitely not something I would choose for myself, but it is a gown fit for a queen.
And today, I feel like one.
I step into the dress and the assistant laces me up. I have to hold my breath, my hand resting on my chest as she does so, and I realize I’ll be holding my breath the whole evening. How much fun will that be, I wonder bitterly.
I have to stand up as the hairdresser comes in, undoing my hair, which falls to my shoulders in soft, voluminous waves. She starts pinning it up artfully and I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, which I’ve been avoiding looking at all day for fear of what I’ll find there.
But it seems like my team of assistants has done their job beautifully. My tired, sallow skin gleams with a layer of foundation and translucent powder, the baby pink blush the perfect color to compliment my complexion. My hair is pure honey, shiny, beautiful.
And my lips are trembling softly with fear, but at the same time, a small smile breaks through and lightens up my entire face.
Today is the biggest day of my life.
“You look beautiful,” a soft voice tells me and I look around to see Mrs. Roberts peeking in through the door which someone forgot to lock, even though I said to do so three times.
Immediately, I want to recoil from her, our war not yet forgotten. But something – perhaps her misty eyes, perhaps the emotional day – has me motioning for her to come closer.
Mrs. Roberts approaches me until she’s standing in front of me, a tiny figure compared to me, even when I’m barefoot. We’re two opposites – me, light, her, dark. Yet I can see some similarities now that I look closer.
We both look frail, yet I know for a fact we’re stronger than most people I’ve ever met.
In her eyes, I recognize my mirrored expression. I see her pain, know she’s been through things, just like me. I see her for the wounded soul who she is, and for the first time, I don’t see her as the executioner, but as the victim.
“What happened to you?” I ask softly, before I can stop myself.
She looks down and her walls go back up, just when I thought I had penetrated them. I think she won’t say anything at all, but she speaks up now.
“Please, leave us for a few moments,” she says softly to the assistants, and even though her voice is hushed, they file out of the room, leaving us alone.
Mrs. Roberts takes my hand and leads me to the nook, the window seat in the room. We sit down on the plush seat and she doesn’t let go of my hands, looking at them.
There’s such a contrast here – her frail, wrinkled hands are full of dark blue veins and pigmentation spots. Mine are milky white, adorned with my beautiful engagement ring – hands that have not seen true work for one day of their life.
I look at my ring, imagining it on her finger so many years ago. I know it’s a family heirloom, but this is the first time I’m imagining her wearing it.
Her husband has been dead for several years, yet you would never tell. She seems like she’s always been the head of her family – the strong one.
“Lola,” she begins, and , I lift my eyes, even though she keeps her head down.
“Yes?” I ask, expecting some speech about my supposedly first night with her son.
Instead, her lips begin to tremble and I stare at her in shock as a tear rolls down her
cheek.
“Is something wrong?” I wonder out loud, and she shakes her head, wiping the tear like it somehow offended her. I want to tell her this is perfectly normal, and if today is not the day to be emotional, when is it?
But before I can utter a single word, she begins to speak, and I’m too shocked to say a word.
“I’ve been keeping secrets from you, Lola,” she admits, and I want to speak up once again, but as soon as I open my mouth, she signals for me to wait. I do so impatiently.
“I have been hiding something for years,” she goes on. “I … I have to tell you now, because I won’t have you breaking Matthew’s heart when he is too attached.”
I would love to let her know all the ways her son is attached to me, but I bite my tongue and nod like a good girl, curious to what her secret might be.
She lifts her head and looks me straight in the eyes as she continues her confession. And this time, my mouth literally drops as the words escape her in a rush.
“My husband … he was not a good man,” she starts. “He would hurt me, hit me. I never protected myself, because I always thought I deserved it. He was an alcoholic, and in the end, it was me holding up the entire company, even though he was the head of it.”
She looks down as if gathering strength to continue, and I’m wondering what else she could possibly tell me. It seems like this admission took all the strength out of her body.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this,” she sighs heavily. “There is more to the story.”
Involuntarily, I scoot closer and my hand automatically squeezes her to reassure her, make her feel better. This woman who was an enemy only days ago, has become a fellow tortured soul.
“My mother was very sick for a while, and she lived in a different state, hours away by plane,” she says, every word a confession that breaks her further. “My husband would not allow me to go see her until it was very near the end. She was on her deathbed, and after days of pleading, he allowed me to go see her. I packed up Matthew’s things and mine – he was just a baby, and I was still breastfeeding him. I booked the flight, knowing it would put him in danger.”