Gerard's hand still on my back applies gentle pressure as he bends to my ear. "Smile, Jenna. You know you need to smile." He nods as his guests applaud his charity. His smile engages everyone in the room. The smile demanded of me simply balances my facial features and makes me look more acceptable for the role I'm called to fill.
It is a role I aspired to—a role I longed for: Mrs. Gerard Bouvier. Wife of the famed vintner whose label, Domaine de la Bouvier, originated in Epernay, France in 1743. Gerard was groomed to oversee the Bouvier empire and Brigitte groomed me, the daughter of a native Californian vintner, to be Gerard's wife. I married Gerard on my twenty-first birthday—the day I could legally toast our union. He was forty-three. That was eleven years ago.
After the toast, Gerard guides me to the head table where we're seated with his mother; two members of the de Young Board of Trustees, including the vice president for Annual Support, Carolyn Harris, who organized this fund-raiser, her husband, Bryce; and my brother, Jason, and his date, whom he introduces as Andee Bell. Jason winks at me during his introduction of Andee. Should I know her?
Carolyn smiles. "Andee, it's a delight to meet you in person. You are a dear friend of the de Young."
Translation: Andee's a big donor.
"Thank you, Carolyn. I'm always thrilled when I can play a small part in something bigger than myself." Andee turns to me, "Jenna, so good to meet you. We'll talk. Jason tells me we have a lot in common."
I smile as I shuffle memories—has Jason mentioned Andee?
"Andee, good to see you again. I thought you and Jason might hit it off—it's not every day I get to enjoy the role of matchmaker." Gerard lifts his glass and salutes Jason and Andee.
I raise my glass and then empty it.
"Jenna, of course you know who Andee is?"
At Brigitte's question, a blush begins at the base of my neck and crawls up toward my face. I pull the chiffon scarf close to my neck, reach for my water glass, take a sip, and nod. "Yes, of course. Thank you so much for joining us, Andee."
I turn, make eye contact with one of the servers, and with an almost imperceptible nod, make known my desire for another glass of Domanie de la Bouvier's best. I turn back to the conversation at the table.
It seems I am the only one unaware of Andee's identity. Not unusual. I am often in the dark regarding important people and issues—as Brigitte is fond of reminding me.
As conversation flows around the table, I'm given a few moments to study Andee. Even seated, I can see she is taller than my 5' 4" frame. Her long, thin torso is enviable as are her dark chocolate eyes and thick blonde hair that cascades over her shoulders. Her porcelain skin is flawless and her small chin and delicate jawline are perfect.
Gerard reaches for my fingers—wrapping my hand in his. Startled, I realize I've been tracing the scar on my face. He whispers, "No need to draw attention to your imperfection. You're beautiful." His compliment confuses me but I let it go.
I lean close to him, "How do you know Andee?"
"Why? Jealous?" His tone teases but strikes a chord.
Brigitte, seated on the other side of Gerard, places her hand on his arm and whispers something to him. I'm grateful for the interruption so I don't have to respond to his question. There is truth in what he asks. Am I jealous of Andee? Yes, but not for the reason Gerard implied. What I envy is her flawless beauty and the confidence with which she carries herself.
I push back from the table, bumping it as I stand. Water sloshes over the rims of the glasses. "I'm sorry . . . excuse me for just a moment." I say this to no one in particular, and as I walk out of the ballroom, I can almost feel Brigitte's stare branding my back.
I take the hallway that leads to the elevator—less chance of running into household staff. I press the button and wait for the door to open. Once inside, I exhale, close my eyes, and let the back upholstered wall hold me up until the door opens on the landing of the third story of the house. I step out of the elevator, bend down, take off my patent pumps, and pad my way to the master bedroom. Once inside, I close the double doors and head to the hand-carved Louis XVI vanity. I collapse on the stool and rest my head atop my arms on the vanity. Hot tears spill. Envy hisses its condemnation.
She's gorgeous. You'll never be that beautiful again. You're worthless now.
I pick up the gold hand mirror from the vanity, hold it up to my face, and stare into the cracked glass. The abstract image staring back at me is Picasso-esque—segments of my face reflect in geometric shapes. Sapphire eyes, lined in indigo, seem set at opposing angles. Full, glossed lips are askew. And the angry scar stretches wide.
"Shattered beauty . . ."
I set the broken mirror down, stand, and turn to the mirrored wall that runs the length of the room. "I want to see your reflection no matter where you are in the room," he'd said when we remodeled the suite.
I smooth the fabric of my skirt over my slender hips, and turn to observe my profile. My sweater hugs my torso, and when I pull the scarf around my neck aside, the deep neckline of the sweater exposes my ample cleavage. My long, dark hair is swept up in a twist and sapphire and diamond earrings sparkle at my lobes. I close my eyes then open them. The scar remains and with it the strangling sense of shame.
I turn my back to the mirrored wall and recall the swirling breeze of just an hour or so ago—along with my fledgling awareness of late that, like the breeze swirling in the solarium, a longing for change swirls within me.
I recall the words spoken to my soul last week. Stand back, Jenna. I'd emptied the contents of my aching heart before Him, as I so often do. I cried out. I begged for an answer to the nagging question: How do I please Brigitte? How do I honor You in my relationship with her?
Stand back, Jenna.
I'm still grappling with the meaning. What does it mean to stand back from Brigitte? From my life? While I don't yet understand, there is a knowing that change is on the horizon. Change that somehow rests on my willingness to obey.
Still standing in front of the mirror, I dare myself to glance at my reflection again—to really see what's there. But, dizzy from the champagne, my balance is precarious, and I sidestep back to the stool at the vanity.
How soon I forgot my recent declaration to face the present rather than escape to the bliss of denial. That, I recall, is the chink in my self-protective mechanism: my decision to face reality.
My decision to stop drinking.
It is not a decision I made alone. On this, God was clear. But the awareness was gentle. Tender even. Not an admonishment, but instead an encouragement. Why would I turn to a substance for courage when I could turn to Him?
I hang my head. Change is a slow, zigzagging road. One on which I will lose my way if I go it alone.
I reach for the pumps I dropped by the vanity and put each shoe on. I turn back to the mirror, lift my head, and for just a moment, I see myself as He sees me. But the image is fleeting. I pick up my compact, press matte powder under my eyes, on my nose, and a light dusting across my jawline. I gather the strands of hair loosed from the French twist with one hand, and open the drawer of the vanity with the other. I feel for a bobby pin, sure I have one or two more in the drawer. I reach further back and my hand lands on something hard, cold. I drop the strands of hair, pull the drawer out further, and there, in the back of the drawer, is Brigitte's watch.
I slip the watch over my wrist and fasten the clasp. I look at the watch and a shimmer of hope surfaces. At least one thing lost is now found. But then I look at my left hand and the single platinum band I wear.
How long will it be before Brigitte notices I'm not wearing the heirloom diamond?
What will that loss cost me?
I sigh.
I find the bobby pin I sought and tuck and pin the loose strands of hair back into the twist. I stand, take a deep breath to quell the spinning
in my head, straighten the scarf around my neck, and return to the ballroom.
You seek the honor which comes from men, and you love to occupy important positions. God wants to reduce you to childlikeness.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER TWO
Andee
"I DON'T GET IT. Get you. You barely said two words to Gerard today. He's family, Jason, leverage the relationship. Make it work for you. Wasn't that the point of that marriage—a business merger?"
I lift the lid of the sleek ebony box on my glass-top coffee table and pull out one of the remotes. I point it at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse and the blinds slide open, revealing the twinkling lights of the nighttime cityscape.
Jason, who's sitting on the sectional facing the windows, reaches for me and pulls me down next to him. I sink into the buttery leather. He wraps his arms around me and nuzzles my neck. Then he whispers against my ear. "There are other things in life, Andee. Business isn't everything."
My shoulders tense and I pull away from him. "You really don't get it, do you?"
He sighs and straightens. "Yes, I get it. But you're stepping into territory you know nothing—"
"What? Look around you, Jason. No one handed me the money for this penthouse. I earned every penny of it myself. Have you forgotten? And I earned it advising others."
"Retract your claws, babe. I know who you are." A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "What I'm saying is that you know nothing about my relationship with Gerard. Gerard and I are on equal footing and our relationship is just fine. We're friends. It isn't about business with us. Now, relax and enjoy the view you've worked so hard for."
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm doing no such thing." He sits up, puts his hands on my shoulders, and turns me until my back is to him. His fingers knead the muscles in my neck and shoulders. I lean into him. "You're knotted like a gnarled tree."
"I've earned those knots this week." I do a mental tally of the week's accomplishments, which include negotiations for syndication of my radio program in ten additional major markets, giving me a listening audience across thirty-four states; completion of ten blogs, which I've banked for my recent foray into the blogosphere; a meeting with the editor-in-chief of Urbanity about writing a monthly financial column; and an offer from my publisher for my next book. The column for Urbanity, a local magazine, pays so little it isn't worth doing, but it's an avenue—a means to an end. I sigh.
"That's better."
I turn to face him. "Don't get used to it. You don't get ahead by relaxing."
Jason chuckles. "So I've heard, over and over and over."
"Well, don't forget it." I smile and wink at him. "So what's with your sister?"
"What do you mean?"
I laugh. "What do you mean, what do I mean? For years, I've heard talk of the beautiful and gracious Jenna Bouvier—even in circles where the gossip is vicious Jenna is lauded for her kindness." I realize my tone is sarcastic and check myself. "I mean, I'm sure she is kind, but she was aloof. She barely spoke to me. I expected more."
Jason shrugs. "I don't know." He pauses. "She seems more in her head these days. Distracted, maybe."
"I don't know what you thought we'd have in common."
"You're beginning to socialize in the same circles. Get to know her, Andee. As you said, she's well liked. I think you two could be friends. Besides, she's well-connected, she can open doors for you in this city."
I pull away from Jason again and stand up. "I open my own doors. You should know that by now. I'm making inroads into all the right circles. I told you about the offer from Urbanity. I don't need Jenna's help, or anyone's help, socially. The column in Urbanity alone assures that anyone worth knowing in this city will also know me. Anyway, from what I hear, Jenna doesn't socialize in those circles anymore, not since . . . well, you know."
He shakes his head. "I'm just saying . . ."
I cross my arms across my chest and stare down at him.
"I take it that's my cue to leave?"
"I have—"
"—work to do. I know." He stands and wraps me in his arms and whispers against my ear again. "I love your drive."
I plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. "I love that you love it."
AFTER JASON LEAVES I go to the kitchen, take a bag of cat food from the pantry, and fill one of the stainless steel bowls that sits on the floor next to the pantry door. The ping of the pellets hitting the bowl alerts Sam that it's dinnertime. I wait by the bowl until I see him sauntering down the hallway.
Cool. Independent. Detached.
Sam's my idol.
He sits in front of the bowl, all seventeen pounds of him, as though he can't be bothered to eat.
"I'll leave you alone with your dinner." I bend and scratch the top of his head. He turns and his ice-blue eyes glare at me. "Sorry. I won't intrude, I promise." Before I'm out of the kitchen I hear Sam crunching his food.
I settle at my desk and pull a pile of papers off the top of the black leather in-box. I nudge the mouse on my desk and the 27-inch screen of my iMac comes to life. I click on the stamp icon and see 198 e-mails in my [email protected] in-box. Those arrived sometime between Cassidy's departure at 4:00 p.m. on Friday and now, 8:17 p.m. on Saturday. I'll leave those for Cass to respond to on Monday.
I rifle through the papers in front of me—the recent contract from my publisher. I refuse to hire an agent to handle my business negotiations. Why would I pay someone for something I can handle myself? I reach for a red pen and begin marking changes I still expect the publisher to make before I sign. I look at the advance offered. I cross through the figure in red and scrawl in its place the six-figure number that I'll demand. I won't do it for less.
I've attained financial freedom. I advise the CEOs of some of the top Fortune 500 companies. And because of my radio show, I'm now known across the country. "A household name . . ." I look at the number I've scrawled in red next to the advance and again think of the paltry stipend Urbanity offered for my column. But not everything is about money. I may be known across the country, but this city is where I will be someone.
Where I'll be accepted.
That's why I agreed to work with the Bouviers. Brigitte is a stepping-stone. She and Gerard are known in this community. Though not natives, they made a splash when they arrived from France. They've made a name for themselves here.
As I continue to work, the silence of the penthouse irritates like a nagging gnat.
I stop, reach for the remote on my desk, swivel in my chair, and point it at the flat screen on my office wall. I turn up the volume. "Sam, where are you? Here kitty." I turn back to my work.
The next time I glance at the computer screen, it's 10:49 p.m. I stand, reach for the ceiling and then bend at the waist a few times, I grab the remote, turn off the TV, and stack the papers on my desk. Then I wander out to the living room. I drop onto the sofa and pull my feet up under me and allow myself time to think through this morning's brunch.
What is with Jenna? It isn't just that she was "in her head," as Jason said—she was rude to me during brunch. But what about earlier . . . in the solarium? I'd told Jason I needed to use the bathroom and took a few minutes on my own to explore the Bouvier digs. When Jenna walked into the solarium, I thought I'd introduce myself and maybe apologize for wandering.
I shift on the sofa and stretch my legs out in front of me.
But, as I think about it now, that's when she was "in her head." She didn't even see me. So I stepped back, behind the yards of linen hanging from the windows, near the French doors that led to the balcony. I considered making a run for it undetected, but I couldn't pull myself away.
That look on her face—tension or angst or something. But then she seemed to transform before my eyes. From stressed to serene in sixty seconds or less. N
ow there's a trick I'd like to learn. And what about the tears that followed? Tears of . . . what? She still seemed in that serene state. Until Brigitte intruded, Jenna seemed almost . . . what? I reach for one of the down pillows on the sofa and wrap my arms around it. I search for the right word or emotion to describe what I saw on Jenna's face.
Ethereal.
Yes, that was it. As though she'd been transported to another world.
Whatever she's taking, I want a dose!
As for Brigitte's exchange with Jenna? Ha! "Now, that was something! Anyone who'd pull that act with me would be sorry." Sam, who's sitting on the back of the sofa looks at me, disinterested. I reach forward and let my hand rest on his back. I feel the vibration of his purring begin. Why didn't Jenna stand up to Brigitte? What's wrong with her?
After a few minutes, I drop all thoughts of Jenna. There's time. I'll figure her out.
I get up and walk to the windows and look at the view of the East Bay. I guesstimate where Alameda Island and the naval base are in the sea of lights. The base closed in 1997—the same year I graduated from the University of San Francisco's business school—the closure changing the island forever. But for me the island—and all it represents—lives on just as it was when I was growing up. It represents my past. My present. My future.
I stretch my neck, putting ear to shoulder, and feel a satisfying pull. I turn my head and stretch the other way—my gaze never moving from the imagined locale of the island and the memories it holds. It's this view of the East Bay that sealed the deal on my decision to purchase the penthouse. It's this view—or, at least, the knowledge of the island's presence out there beyond the bay—that reminds me.
Drives me.
I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and speak to the universe the empowering vow I made so long ago. "I will never forget . . ."
A dull ache—that void inside—nags. I place my hand on my chest and feel the beat of my heart—the assurance that I live. I am. Despite what happened there.
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