The Slow Rise of Clara Daniels

by Christy English

  “Mind if I walk back with you?”

  Clara swallowed the truth that rose to her lips. “No.”

  She moved back the way she had come. She saw nothing of the desert on their return, though the walk to the house was usually the most pleasant aspect of the trip, with the sun dazzling her eyes as it began to sink into the west. Darren walked in silence beside her until they were in sight of her mother’s gardens.

  “Well, that was nice,” he said. “I always wondered where you disappear to when you come home.”

  In spite of her mental shields, Clara saw into his mind in that moment. He had seen her leave the house and had followed her. The brightness of the day seemed tarnished with that knowledge. She swallowed hard against the bile that rose in her throat.

  “I don’t go far.”

  He stopped and looked at her as they stepped onto her mother’s lush lawn.

  “No, I guess you don’t.”

  She turned away from him, heading for the part of the lawn that was currently being watered. He didn’t move to follow her but shaded his eyes against the setting sun.

  “I’ll see you at dinner, Clara.”

  She didn’t answer, raising her hand in a half-hearted wave. The cold water of the sprinklers hit her, and she gasped. She felt the need to wash after spending an hour in his presence. She didn’t look back but felt it when he went into the house. Once inside, he was too far away for her to read his thoughts. She had no way of knowing whether or not he continued to watch her from one of the downstairs windows. She didn’t want to know.

  Clara wore her new green silk dress to dinner that night. She had bought it in one of the fashionable shops in the village near her school. It was the kind of dress her aunt would have bought for her in a different world, the kind of dress to wear to the theatre in New York. The dress clung to her hips, and she smiled at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She wasn’t going to hide herself because her stepfather was a lecherous bastard. Even at fourteen, Clara wasn’t a woman to hide from anything.

  As she came down the curved staircase, Clara heard her mother cursing in the kitchen. Jessica was trying to warm up the gourmet dinner Brenda had left for them, and it sounded as if her mother’s attempt to turn on her own oven wasn’t going well.

  Clara stood in the hallway and heard Darren speak to Jessica in a soothing voice.

  “Jess, don’t worry about it. I’ll call for a pizza.”

  She heard her mother’s indistinct voice as she wept on her husband’s shoulder. He gathered her into his arms and murmured to her softly so Clara couldn’t hear what he said. She stood framed by the kitchen doorway, and Darren turned his gaze on her, meeting her stare over her mother’s head. He saw her green dress, and Clara flinched as his gaze touched her. She wanted to go upstairs and take the dress off, but she wasn’t one to retreat, even when she knew she had been defeated.

  When Darren spoke, his voice sounded normal, the way any man would sound when speaking to a child.

  “Well, kiddo, what do you want on your pizza?”

  They sat in the dining room. Carol had set the table two days before, so all they had to do was lift napkins from china plates. Dust had settled in Clara’s wine glass, and she brushed it out with her linen napkin. Darren filled her glass to the rim, and Jessica didn’t comment.

  Clara turned to look at her mother where she sat at the foot of the table. Her mother looked oddly fragile, her blue eyes wider than usual. Jessica didn’t take her eyes off her husband, watching him as if he held the answers to all her questions. She was still upset about burning the dinner.

  Darren was carefully attentive to her mother, even going so far as to feed her a bite of pizza from his own plate. His sweet attentiveness made Jessica laugh, and she lost the look of bewilderment that had filled her eyes after the burned coq au vin. Clara repressed a sigh. She was a stranger in her own house. Seeing her mother with Darren made her ever more aware of that.

  Darren got a charge out of having her there. Clara could feel the sexual attraction roll off him in waves, though he sat at the other end of the table, next to her mother, crooning in her ear. He loved to lean close to Jessica, knowing that Clara was watching. Clara silently counted the days until she could get back to school. There were too many.

  She was contemplating whether or not she should fly back a week early, when her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “Clara, honey, eat some more.”

  Clara smiled at her thoughtless mother, basking in her momentary attention.

  “No, Mom. I’m full.”

  “Well,” Jessica’s eyes gleamed with childish glee. “We have a surprise for you.”

  Clara blinked. She hadn’t gotten a Christmas gift from her mother in years. She watched as Darren brought in a big box tied with red and green ribbon.

  “Not a puppy, I hope,” Clara joked half-heartedly.

  Jessica laughed, a sound like the tinkling of bells, as if Clara had made a witty remark.

  “Open it and see.”

  Clara tried to ignore Darren’s eyes trailing over her skin as she tore away the ribbon and paper that covered her present. She opened the box carefully, savoring the moment. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had given her a gift.

  She pulled back the tissue paper and found a black nightgown nestled inside. It was beautiful, trimmed in delicate lace and beads of jet. It looked like something a thirty-five-year-old woman would wear, the gown of someone’s mistress. Clara swallowed and kept her face scrupulously blank so she wouldn’t reveal her pain. She knew Darren had bought the gift. Her mother had nothing to do with it.

  Clara touched the silk nightgown gingerly before closing the box.

  “Thank you.” She took a deep breath before meeting Darren’s gaze.

  “I’m glad you like it, kiddo.” He watched her, carefully, trying to gauge her reaction.

  He couldn’t tell what she thought of it, and he wondered.

  “Well, give your father a kiss, sweetheart, and then give me one, too. We’ve got plans tonight, and we’ll be out late.” Jessica settled back in her chair, smiling.

  Clara rose from her seat and moved to Darren. He lifted his face to meet her lips, but she kissed him on the forehead.

  “Thank you, Darren.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She could see he was disappointed and that he wished they were alone. She frowned at his boldness. Clara realized that she was going to have to stay away completely.

  She turned to her mother, and Jessica lifted her cheek for Clara’s kiss. Jessica smelled of a sweet, light perfume, like the scent of summer rain on the trees in Colorado. Clara leaned close to her mother for a moment too long, but she couldn’t force herself to pull away.

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

  Later that night, Clara climbed the staircase of the empty house, carrying her Christmas present. She laid the box on her bed and drew out the gown Darren had given her. She saw that it had been hand-sewn in France.

  She took off her clothes and pulled the nightgown over her head. It fit perfectly, as if she’d been measured for it. She felt a chill, wondering how long he’d watched her, that he could have given her measurements so accurately to a seamstress she had never met.

  Clara stripped the gown off in one quick motion and tossed it back into its box. She pulled on a flannel nightdress and hid the new gown in the bottom of a drawer, where she wouldn’t have to look at it again.

  She felt a creeping distaste slide over her skin, and a cold stone threatened to settle in her stomach. Clara forced herself to laugh so that the cold stone was dislodged before it could take hold. She would be damned if she’d let his sickness enter her mind and infect it like a cancer. She forced herself to make a joke, though she wasn’t laughing.

  Darren was a lecherous bastard who needed to die, but he had exquisite taste.

  7

  Colorado, 2013


  At sixteen, Clara lay in bed, looking into the dark. She could hear the girls around her, whispering. She would have sighed, but Clara knew she would be heard, so she swallowed it. She hadn’t had a phone call from her mother in over a month, and when she called the house in Palm Springs, Darren and her mother were always out.

  She had known what life would be like after her mother’s marriage. Darren was always lurking in her mother’s house, lying in wait for Clara. His constant presence was what had driven her away to boarding school in the first place. Though she had known what life would be like after her mother’s honeymoon, foreknowledge hadn’t made the reality any easier to live with. She resented having to flee her own home. For the last three years, she’d felt like a refugee.

  There was always the possibility that Darren would die, killed by a blow to the head from some socialite’s misdirected tennis ball. Clara hoped for that idly, the way one wished for rain in a desert, knowing it wouldn’t come. She couldn’t bring herself to wish him dead. Clara found that she was still too superstitious for that, though she had gotten over her fear of the dark when she was three.

  Clara shared a room with a girl from England, who spoke with a drawling accent and carried herself like a queen. The girl’s name was Clarice, and her parents called her once every week, though they lived five thousand miles away. She wondered why the girl had come to Colorado of all places for boarding school. Most wealthy Europeans sent their girls to school in Switzerland or France. Clara thought perhaps that Clarice wasn’t bright enough to get into those schools, though money often paved over any such difficulties. Perhaps the girl was running from some demon of her own. Clara didn’t look into her mind to find out, and she knew better than to ask.

  Though she had lived with Clarice for two years, she knew almost nothing about her. After the first week, Clarice had given up her polite, guarded inquiries into the state of Clara’s affairs, and had since not questioned her at all. Clara found the girl’s presence soothing, her British reserve covering any faults she may have had, like her propensity to toss stockings over the radiators in their room.

  Clarice had just returned from her month away with her parents in Nice, and now she lay next to Clara on the carpet. The girls in Clara’s dormitory had decided that tonight, New Year’s Eve, was the perfect time for a sleepover in the rec room. They were fresh from the holiday break, having been sent back to school so their parents could enjoy welcoming the New Year without restraint.

  Clara had attempted to avoid the sleepover altogether, but the dorm mother had come to her and insisted that she be there. Since Clara had spent Christmas break at the school—on her own, for the most part—the dorm mother was certain that she needed some time with the other girls. Clara knew better than to argue with the diminutive woman. Mrs. Perlman was soft-spoken and always wore cardigan sweaters in pastel colors. Her soft tones covered a will of steel. She was the voice of authority in their dorm, and no one ever challenged her. Clara didn’t consider a fight with Mrs. Perlman a battle worth winning.

  She lay on her cashmere blankets, listening to Clarice snore lightly, and sighed. No one heard her, as the girls who were still awake chattered about the boys they wanted to sleep with. The girls who’d already had sex were doling out details to the girls who hadn’t, as carefully as a pharmacist handed out pills. The knowledgeable girls hoarded their information with great care, and the other girls paid top dollar for it in deference and status.

  Clara had status because she was a loner. She was as beautiful and as rich as any of the other girls at the school. Her mother’s family was more famous than most, and the family money was about fifty years older. Clara kept to herself, by choice, so her company and interest were coveted prizes that most of the girls never won.

  There were whispers behind Clara’s back that she was a snob. Clara had always been able to hear the secret whispers of other people’s thoughts. She wasn’t surprised when people thought ill of her. People had evil thoughts most of the time. They thought evil of each other, of her, of people they didn’t even know. Clara didn’t take it personally that no one liked her. She knew they didn’t like themselves, either. She could see into their minds, and she knew they held themselves in as much contempt as they held her.

  Clara sighed again, and again no one heard. She wondered how much longer the chattering would continue, and when she might be able to sleep. It was three in the morning, and she had a chemistry exam the first day of the new quarter, which she hadn’t studied for.

  She was an indifferent student, not from a lack of intelligence, but from a lack of interest. Clara wasn’t going to be a mathematician or a writer or a politician and had no need of the classes she took. She was careful to maintain a C-average, however. She didn’t want to be forced to leave the school because of academic failure. The school was her haven, and she guarded it jealously.

  The door to the hallway opened, and a streak of light fell across the plush carpet. Mrs. Perlman stood in the doorway, a sweater over her flannel nightgown. The girls fell silent, wondering if they were going to be forced to sleep.

  Mrs. Perlman didn’t censure them, however. She stepped into the room and stopped by Clara’s bedding. She reached down and gently touched Clara’s shoulder.

  “Miss Daniels, may I see you for a moment?”

  Clara felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. She stood and followed the woman into the hallway. Darren stood out there, hat in hand, shifting his weight and looking uneasy. He hadn’t slept in a few days, and there were dark circles under his blue eyes.

  Clara knew something was wrong with her mother, but she couldn’t see any further into their thoughts. A wall of fear rose inside her, blocking their minds from her, and she was cut adrift. She stood looking at the slim fingers of Darren’s hands as he clutched his hat. Mrs. Perlman touched her arm, and Clara forced herself to meet her gaze.

  “Clara, your mother is very ill.”

  She swallowed and found her voice. “I know.”

  Mrs. Perlman didn’t seem surprised by this admission but accepted it as sleepiness or confusion.

  “Your stepfather has come to take you home.”

  Clara blinked to hear Darren described as being any relation to her, and the fog over her mind cleared. She looked into his thoughts then. Her mother had been ill for some time, and he hadn’t told her.

  She turned to Darren. “Do you have a plane waiting?”

  “At the airport.” He stated the obvious in his eternally inane way.

  His gaze never left her face, except once, to slide over her body, seeking its contours under her heavy flannel gown. She felt her contempt for him rise in a wave of bile, and she swallowed it.

  This bastard was her mother’s next of kin and would make all medical decisions for Jessica. Clara felt the precariousness of that, coupled with sickening fear. She hoped her mother’s doctor would tell her what was going on. If not, she would have to delve into Darren’s mind, cesspool that it was, so she could find the answers she sought.

  “I’ll pack a bag.” She heard her own voice, as calm as if it were that of another.

  Mrs. Perlman touched her shoulder again, gently. “I’m sorry, Clara.”

  She looked into the woman’s mind and saw that Jessica was dying of cancer, the same cancer that had killed her grandfather years before.

  Clara forced herself to speak. She made sure her voice was soft and kind, because Mrs. Perlman had always wished her well.

  “Thank you.”

  She turned to walk to her room, and Darren moved to follow her.

  “Do you need help?” His voice was coated with a sugared attempt at sympathy.

  Clara wanted to strike him but held herself still until the impulse passed.

  “No. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”

  “All right.”

  Darren watched her walk down the oak-paneled hallway until she disappeared around a corner. Only then did he turn back to Mrs. Perlman and begin to
arrange for the rest of Clara’s things to be shipped to California the next day.

  She would not be coming back.

  8

  Palm Springs, 2013

  Clara sat in the hallway outside her mother’s bedroom. She could hear Carol weeping somewhere down the hall. Dr. Matthews stepped into the hallway and stopped by Clara’s chair. She gripped the mahogany arms convulsively. Her face was a blank mask.

  “I’m sorry, Clara.”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze. She could see his concern, and that it was a professional reaction, a part of his job. Still, it was the only genuine sympathy she was likely to receive. She took the hand he offered, grateful for his kindness.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  The older man moved off down the hall, his footsteps whispers on the deep carpet. Clara watched his retreat and heard a new sound, the sound of Darren’s thoughts as he stepped out of her mother’s bedroom.

  She turned to look at her mother’s husband. He was only thirty-four and had been made a good deal richer by her mother’s death. He hadn’t loved Jessica, but he had sat by her side every day at the end, not leaving her even to sleep. In spite of what Clara knew of him, she respected that. Having access to the surface thoughts in his mind, and to occasional flashes of deeper thoughts, Clara was surprised to find that much honor in him.

  Darren’s face was haggard from a lack of sleep, and his tennis player’s tan had faded. There were deep circles under his eyes, and his blue eyes were bloodshot. For a moment, Clara thought that he might actually shed a tear over her mother.