by Dara Girard
Silenced and defeated, Jessie watched her go.
Syrah came home soon after and told Jessie about her day while they washed up for dinner. Later, they began to set the table.
Freda came into the dining room and frowned at them. “What are you doing?”
“Just trying to help,” Jessie said.
She snatched a plate from her. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
Silently Syrah and Jessie went into the family room to wait until Kenneth came home. Time passed. He didn’t come.
“I guess Uncle’s working late,” Syrah said, during the second round of checkers.
Freda closed the blinds. “He’s probably not coming home tonight.”
“He could have called, at least,” Jessie said.
“Mr. Preston is used to being a bachelor,” Freda replied gruffly. “He’s not used to unnecessary ties. Why don’t you two eat dinner before it turns to ice? He can take care of himself.”
Jessie stood.
“How come Freda is in such a bad mood?” Syrah whispered as they walked to the table.
She glanced at Freda as she plumped the pillows. She’d never have guessed that she would end this wonderful day making a new enemy. “She’s had a long day.”
* * *
“You’re angry at Uncle, aren’t you?” Syrah asked as she took off her robe for bed.
“No, I’m not angry,” Jessie lied. “I have no right to be angry.”
“Uncle likes to work. It makes him happy.”
Syrah was right. That didn’t stop Jessie from wishing that Syrah would be angry with Kenneth too. He gave her toys, but never his time. Anytime she got close to him, he would move away or give her a quick pat on the head, as if he were trying to keep some distance between them. Had he been so hurt in the past that he couldn’t accept even the simple affections of a little girl? “Your uncle needs a hobby. Like spending time with you.”
Syrah shook her head. “Oh, no. I don’t need him to be with me. I’m all right.” She changed the subject. “Do you think your sister will write me back?”
“Yes, she’s very dependable that way.” Jessie watched Syrah hang up her robe and saw that the hem of her nightdress was fraying and there was a tear under the sleeve. “Don’t you have another nightdress? That one’s torn.”
“Nah, I really like it. But one day I’m going to save enough money to buy a pair of pajamas.” She got under the covers. “Really nice ones made out of soft cotton with ice cream cones or clouds on it.”
“I’m sure your uncle would buy you a pair if you told him.”
She shook her head. “Nah, he’s busy as it is.” She pulled up the covers. “It’s nice to have a dream, though.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a dream, Aunt Jessie?”
Her present dream seemed to be slipping away from her. Perhaps she’d never have the pendant in her hands again. “I never thought about it, really.”
“I have lots of dreams and I think about them all the time.” She smoothed out her blanket and lowered her voice to a whisper. “One of them is that Uncle will let me stay with him.”
“You know, you have other relatives who—” Jessie stopped, because Syrah was already shaking her head.
“No, Uncle Kenneth is the best. I only want to stay with him.”
“I know you love him, but it’s okay to admit that he gets on your nerves sometimes.”
She scowled, offended. “Uncle never gets on my nerves. I love him more than anyone in the whole world.”
“And I’m sure he loves you.”
“I know he does,” she said, with the arrogance of a child. “I just wish he’d get married, but he never will.”
“Why not?”
Syrah shrugged. “Don’t know.” She studied her for a moment. “Would you like to marry him?”
“We’ve discussed this.”
She sighed heavily. “I know, I know. You’re not interested.”
“Right.”
“Do you plan to get married someday?”
Jessie sat down on the bed. “I never thought about it.” She laughed. “Personally, I don’t think there’s anyone besides my sisters who could put up with me.”
“I can put up with you.”
Jessie playfully tugged on a pigtail. “You’re one of the few.”
Syrah patted one of her pillows and laid her head down. “I’m never getting married.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged then buried herself under the covers.
* * *
Jessie sat on her bed and tried to immerse herself in a mystery novel, her ear cocked, waiting to hear Kenneth’s car drive up. It never came.
She closed her book when she realized that she was still on page two. She leaned her head back and imagined him having a late meeting with Brooke, who wore a skin-tight leopard-print dress, while a fire roared and food sat on silver plates provided by the Garden catering company. In between talks of contracts, they fed each other sautéed apples, deviled eggs, or pâté on radish flowers. The thought of Brooke’s dainty paws near Kenneth’s mouth made Jessie want to spit fire.
This afternoon meant nothing, she reminded herself. It was just a bit of fun. She pounded her pillow. She didn’t care at all. She really didn’t. She buried her head in the pillow, but sleep was far away.
The next day, she received a frantic call from Wendy that buried any thoughts of Kenneth. “We need more hands!” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Montey’s about to have a heart attack. Two people called in sick. We’re desperate. Tell me you’ll come.”
“Will he pay me?”
“Of course.”
She could always use the extra money, now that she would have to save in order to purchase the pendant herself. “I’ll be right there. Where are you?”
“Donovan House.”
Fortunately, Syrah didn’t object to spending the day with Denise. Jessie grabbed Kenneth’s old tux, annoyed that she hadn’t dry-cleaned her own, and sped to the Donovan House. She silently asked for forgiveness as she broke a few traffic laws.
The Donovan House was an impressive structure, its style influenced by gothic castles and Italian villas. It boasted arched windows, gleaming balconies, and lovely landscaping. Since Ms. Donovan owned an antique shop, she could claim the best pieces for herself and usually did. Inside, eighteenth-century tapestries hung on ivory-toned wallpaper. Oak floors gleamed against the aged glow of vintage mahogany furniture. In glass vases, giant white lilies held up their regal heads.
For all its beauty, Jessie only had bad memories of the Donovan House. When she and her sisters would come to visit with their mother, the two eldest boys would lock them in strange rooms and leave them there for hours. Since the house was built during Prohibition by a successful bootlegger, it was equipped with many secret passageways, allowing the bullies endless places to play their tricks.
The torment never bothered Michelle, who pretended she was poor Jane Eyre locked in the Red Room, and Teresa would cry, but Jessie would pound on the doors until her fists swelled. Eventually, they discovered ways to escape their confinement.
Even though she was grown and the two bullies had left the state to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting city of Chicago, Jessie was still afraid that one day they would pop out of nowhere and perform their pranks again.
The first person she saw when she entered the kitchen was Montey. His mustache twitched like a mouse, and his face had turned bright red from rising panic.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” she assured him.
He shoved a tray of stuffed mushrooms into her hands and pushed her out the door.
She graciously assumed her duties, happy to be back in her element. A few guests smiled and absently thanked her.
Wendy sidled up to her. “I’m so glad you could make it.” She frowned. “Are you shrinking, or is your tux too big?”
“It’s the tux.” Jessie tugged on th
e jacket. “I borrowed it from a friend.”
“God, your friend must be enormous.”
Jessie ignored the comment. “I’m glad you called me. I desperately needed something else to do.”
“Is Syrah giving you trouble?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. She’s at my house right now with Teresa.”
Wendy lifted a brow, a knowing smile touching her lips. “So it must be Kenneth, then.”
“I think he’s avoiding me.”
“Uh, oh. That means…crap, Montey’s staring at us.” Wendy jerked her head at the man, who was gesturing wildly for them to keep working. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Jessie moved through the crowd like a ghost. She loved how the guests treated her like a piece of furniture and would say outrageous things in her hearing. During the course of the event, she learned about the marital problems of two local families, the sexual preference of a prominent judge, and the financial crisis of a developer.
The biggest news she overheard was the donation of the Arand necklace, said to have been created by the Arawak Indians of Jamaica and brought to American soil by a Scottish slave who helped found Randall County. He was also believed to be a distant relative of the Donovans. Jessie dismissed most of the chatter, but one conversation snagged her attention.
“Have you heard about Brooke Radson?” a woman asked her associate.
“Of Radson Electronics?”
“Yes, who else?”
The two women lowered their voices. Jessie stepped closer.
“It seems that she might be going down the aisle again.”
“Again? You mean she was married before?”
“Yes. It was a small scandal, of course. The man was…well, her father didn’t approve, and it was quickly crushed.”
“I’ve heard that she has her eyes set on—”
“Hello, Jessie,” Stephanie said, taking a mushroom from the tray.
Jessie sent her a cautious glance. Stephanie had never approached her before. She smiled politely. “Hello.”
“It seems you’ve caused quite a buzz at the office.”
“Me? Why?” She lifted her chin, though they were basically the same height. She felt as if the other woman were looking down at her.
“The flowers. Nice touch. Wish I’d thought of it myself.” She glanced around the room. “So are you and Kenneth…?” She let her words trail off; she was too well-bred to make assumptions.
“We’re friends.”
“Just friends?”
“Yes, but when it becomes any of your business, I’ll let you know.”
“I know what you’re up to, and it won’t work. I suggest you go back to where you came from.” She assessed Jessie’s tux in one unflattering glance. “Oh, I see you already did.”
The warning stung. Stephanie already knew she had lost, but Jessie refused to step down. “So what do you do?” she asked.
“When what?”
“When two sisters are after the same man? I’m afraid you are trailing behind.”
Stephanie’s lips tightened. “You don’t know anything.”
“That’s right. So you have nothing to worry about.” She held up her tray. Stephanie glanced at it, then walked away.
Jessie watched her go. How could she possibly know what she was up to?
Wendy came up to her. “You’re supposed to be working.”
“I know, but I’ve been dodging claws.”
“Whose?”
“Stephanie’s.”
She grimaced. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck. I need nail clippers. She knows—” They both spotted Susan and quickly parted ways.
Jessie disappeared into the crowd and noticed a book under a chair. Something shiny stuck out of its pages. She bent to pick it up.
“Leave it alone,” Susan said. “You’re not being paid to do the housekeeping.”
Jessie abruptly straightened. “I only thought—” Susan’s steely glared halted her explanation.
She measured Jessie’s uniform. “Do we need to go over the dress code again? Tuxes are not to be oversized or touch the tip of your shoes. Your trousers are swallowing them.”
“I’m sorry. It’s on loan. It won’t happen again.”
“Good. This is your last chance. Get to work.” Susan turned on her heel and left.
Jessie mentally lifted a hand in quick salute, then approached another group, offering them the tray and a big smile. The smile fell when she saw Kenneth. He stopped with his glass at his lips. He excused himself from the group and asked her for some more hors d’oeuvres. He discreetly dragged her into the hallway, where they would not become fodder for the rumor mill.
He led her to a room unimaginatively called the Blue Room for the obvious reason that everything from the hangings on the windows and the four-poster bed to the carpet was a dark blue.
“What are you doing here?” they both asked once Kenneth had shut the door.
“I’m working,” they replied in unison.
“Stop that,” Kenneth said.
He looked wonderful. She held her tray with both hands, resisting the urge to jump him. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Why are you here?”
She gestured to her tux and tray. “I’m in a play. Guess what role.”
“Where’s Ace? In the kitchen?”
“No, she’s with my sister.” She rested her tray on the ground, afraid to put it on the antique desk, which held an inkwell and porcelain box.
“You already have a job. What are you doing here?”
She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked on her heels. “I can always use the extra money.”
He folded his arms. “If you’re really strapped for money, I can raise your salary.”
“No, thanks.” She would not look at his mouth.
“Fine, then I’ll make it a loan.”
“No.” Oh, why couldn’t she hate him again?
“You’re being stubborn.”
She smiled at his frustration. “I know.”
He tugged on her jacket. “This is big on you.” He rubbed his chin. “And it looks oddly familiar.”
“It should. It’s yours.”
His mouth softened to a grin. He rolled up her trouser legs so that they didn’t cover her shoes like excess icing on a cake, then he did the same with her sleeves. She looked at his bent head, wanting to ask him if he’d come home tonight, wanting to know if he remembered what had happened between them, if he cared. She bit her lip and said nothing. He straightened her bowtie.
Jessie rested her hands on her hips. “Now all you have to do is wear my prom dress, and we’ll make the perfect pair.” At least that’s what she was about to say before he kissed her.
It was reassuring, comforting, caring. She wrapped her arms around him, wishing their action could be expressed in words. He drew away.
Her voice was an urgent plea when she said, “Please don’t—” then stopped.
“Don’t what?”
Don’t hurt me. Don’t make me love you. But that was ridiculous. She would never give him the power to hurt her again. She knew the type of man he was, knew about the many women in his life. “Nothing.”
He caressed her cheek. “Okay.”
She looked up at him, a series of questions in her eyes. He merely offered her a smile. He opened the door, checked to make sure that no one was around to see him exit, then left. He didn’t come home that night either.
Chapter 18
Brooke rested her foot on the glass dining table and opened a bottle of nail polish.
“Honey, you should put a robe on.”
She glanced towards the bed, at the gray-haired man who filled it. He looked like caramel wrapped in gold cellophane. Derek Allen was a handsome man. Unfortunately, he was a sexual bore. “Why do I need a robe?”
“Because you’ll get cold.”
She wasn’t cold at all. She loved being naked, especially when she had a male audienc
e. Men were such visual creatures; it gave her all the power.
“Please, honey.”
She loved the begging the most.
“All right.” She slowly walked to the closet, making sure the light hit all her attributes at the perfect angle. She arched her back so her breasts would fall just so. She grabbed her robe and wrapped it about her, loving how the red silk clung to her form. It was better than what the hotel offered. “There. Better now?”
“Much.”
“I could really use a drink.”
He began to change. “I’ll get you something, and I saw the perfect necklace for you in the gift shop.”
She followed him to the door. “You’re so good to me.”
His hand slid up her side and cupped her breast. “You make sure this deal with Radson goes through, and I’ll be even better.”
She kissed him, her eyes falling on the rich mauve carpeting of the hall, and then to the cream of the walls. Suddenly a warning of danger shot up her back. She’d received that sensation before from only one man. She drew away.
Derek looked at her, concerned. “Are you okay?”
She tugged on the sash of her robe. “I’m fine. Go get that drink for me.”
He smiled and walked to the elevators.
Brooke took a deep breath before she turned. Nathan leaned against the wall, his cocky arrogance filling the air between them, his devastating smile sending a tremble through her. The door next to him opened, and a husky female voice called to him. He sent Brooke one long, sweeping look that revealed nothing, then disappeared inside.
A few hours later, Brooke watched the setting sun polish the dining table a rich cocoa. She glanced at Stephanie as she tucked into her tiramisu. She clasped her hands together. “I thought you should know something,” she said.
Stephanie looked up. “What?”
“Nathan saw me with Derek Allen.”
“So?”
“He happened to be holding my breast.”
Stephanie choked and glanced pointedly at their mother, who acted as though she hadn’t heard a thing. “You shouldn’t say such things at the table.”
“Oh, please. That woman wouldn’t know if a bee flew up her—”
“Mother, why don’t you finish your dessert in the sitting room? You can watch the sun set.”