With the help of therapy, Taryn started sorting out her conflicted emotions regarding her mother. It would be a process, of course, but she accepted her mother’s narcissism and the effect that had had on their relationship. Grief, as my own therapist said, dicked with time. She had all the time in the world now.
Her father flew in soon after we arrived in the city, and although I suggested Taryn meet him alone to have a private reunion, she insisted I be there, along with Aunt Pat and Aunt Rhea.
I liked Taryn’s father immediately. Whereas Mrs. Wentworth had been polished and impeccable, Mr. Wentworth seemed far more down to earth, despite a high-powered job that took him all over. I could see Taryn in his warm brown eyes, the way his nose crinkled when he laughed, and the thoughtful way he spoke. He kept reaching out to touch Taryn’s hand as if he couldn’t believe she was real.
There was some discussion about whether Taryn should move in with him, but because he and his husband traveled so much, everyone agreed Taryn needed the stability of staying with us. They arranged a schedule of visits, however, and he said I was always welcome to come with Taryn.
I made a deal with Aunt Pat and Aunt Rhea to give them some of the money from my trust to buy a bigger place for all of us. They insisted it was a loan and they’d pay me back, but I don’t plan to ever accept that.
The rest of the money, I put into one more pageant. I’d had to cancel the one Mrs. Wentworth had signed me up for, but I was able to get into another one, and budgeting carefully, found gowns and shoes that looked great, even if they weren’t as luxe as the ones I’d had before. If the judges were going to knock points down for that, so be it. My goal was to be the best contestant I could be as myself.
I would do it on my terms.
I ended up having a little help, too, although I hadn’t intended on that. What I’d done, I’d done for Taryn.
It took some digging, but I finally tracked down her former coach, Linny, the one Mrs. Wentworth had sent away, devastating Taryn in the process.
I can’t say who was more thrilled to see the other again. Linny was happily married (the name change had made it harder to find her) with two adorable kids, and worked for the state overseeing school and child-development counselors.
She offered to come out of coaching retirement to help me, for free, and I tried to demur, but she insisted. It was the least she could do, she said, for connecting her with Taryn again.
Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Wentworth’s methods hadn’t been uncommon—there were a slew of crazy pageant moms out there—but she’d been out of touch and overly critical. (Shocking, I know.) I was in great shape overall (even though I’d gained weight—Linny said I’d been underweight before), and I’d found my platform: safe spaces/shelters for LGBTQ kids who’d been rejected by their families.
(In the future, I hoped to set up something of my own, dedicated to Taryn in some way.)
We were rebuilding, Taryn and I. Coming out of the dark into the light. Redefining our new normal. Figuring out how to get our happily-ever-after.
With Taryn by my side, I was pretty sure I could do anything.
Thirty
The stage lights are blindingly hot, but my smile doesn’t waver. My makeup doesn’t melt. Around me, the other girls smell like too much perfume, too much nervousness; baby powder sweet and perspiration sour. All sounds seems heightened, from the blood pounding in my ears, to the tiny cough Charlene Carpenter almost suppresses, to the whine of the lead judge’s microphone as he leans forward to speak.
To the sound of his voice, loud and clear, as he asks me the question that for so long, I’d previously feared the most.
“What is the biggest challenge you’ve had to overcome in your life?”
The stage lights mean I can’t see past the judges. But I know who’s out there. I can feel their eyes on me. I can feel their encouragement.
Taryn. Aunt Pat. Madison and her mom. (The others had texted me their support and well wishes.) Linny, even.
I can feel their love. Supporting me. Holding me close.
I take in a deep breath, as unobtrusively as I can, and never losing my smile, projecting confidence into my voice so it doesn’t waver, not one tiny bit, I say,
“The biggest challenge I have faced in my life was when my parents died in a car accident when I was a junior in high school….”
About the Author
Dayle A. Dermatis is the author or coauthor of many novels (including snarky urban fantasies Ghosted and the forthcoming Shaded and Spectered) and more than a hundred short stories in multiple genres, appearing in such venues as Fiction River, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and DAW Books.
Called the mastermind behind the Uncollected Anthology project, she also guest edits anthologies for Fiction River, and her own short fiction has been lauded in many year's best anthologies in erotica, mystery, and horror.
She lives in a book- and cat-filled historic English-style cottage in the wild greenscapes of the Pacific Northwest. In her spare time she follows Styx around the country and travels the world, which inspires her writing.
To find out where she’s wandered off to (and to get free fiction!), check out DayleDermatis.com.
For more information:
www.dayledermatis.com
Also by Dayle A. Dermatis
Novels
The Nikki Ashburne Novels
Ghosted
Shaded (forthcoming)
Spectered (forthcoming)
Waking the Witch
What Beck’ning Ghost
Collections
Devilish Deals and Perilous Pacts: A Spooky Collection of Deals With the Devil and Other Bad Choices
Five Funny Fantasies
Haunted (a Nikki Ashburne collection, forthcoming)
Small Wonders: Ten Short-Short Speculative Fiction Stories
Written on the Coast: Thirteen Stories of Magic and Mayhem Written in Lincoln City, OR
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BEAUTIFUL BEAST
Dayle A. Dermatis
Electronic edition published 2019 by Soul’s Road Press
Copyright © Dayle A. Dermatis. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form, without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Print edition also available.
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