Sleeping with Beauty (7 page)

“Let’s go inside and I’ll introduce you to Audrey. She’ll be your personal director during your stay,” Aurora was saying. “She’ll explain the program to you, schedule your first round of appointments, then see that you’re settled into your room.”

“Thank you, Ms. Favreaux,” Lucy said. “I’m excited to be here.” In truth, she felt like she was going to throw up. What in the hell had she gotten herself into? She glanced over her shoulder, but Grady had already driven off.
Why hadn’t she listened to him?

“Aurora, please,” the older woman once again assured her.

“‘Aurora,’ ” she repeated with a brief smile. “Your place here is beautiful.” She’d received a glossy pamphlet full of background material and instructions on what she was supposed to bring with her. “The photos don’t do it justice.”

“Why, thank you, dear,” Aurora said, a pleased smile creasing her perfectly preserved face.

Aurora seemed the softest of the three. Her makeup appeared as airbrushed in person as it did in her brochure photo, disguising the wrinkles without appearing troweled on; from her perfectly penciled auburn eyebrows, to her carefully lined and painted, deep rose lips. Her hair was an amazingly natural-looking strawberry blonde, all swept up in a loose bun on top of her head, with curled tendrils at her forehead and trailing along her neck. She wore a flowing caftanlike dress of gauzy silk, with a swirling pattern of russet and gold. That, along with the benevolent smile and southern accent, gave the impression she sort of floated along on the cloud of White Shoulders she’d doused herself with. Somehow, on her, it wasn’t overpowering.

No, that description belonged to the shortest of the three, Vivian dePalma. Lucy knew from what she’d read that Vivian was the former Hollywood fashionista and dresser to the stars. She just wasn’t sure what stars Vivian had dressed. Cher seemed an obvious choice. Or Elvis. Her hair was a theatrical red, cut in an equally flamboyant asymmetric style, above-the-ears short on one side, the front dipping over her brow in a dramatic sweep toward a chin-length bob on the other. Her lips matched her hair in tone. So did her eyebrows, in terms of flamboyance. Her snug black suede suit was ruthlessly cut to fit her short, fireplug frame and showed a scary amount of cleavage for a woman over sixty, but the heavy mantle of gold and onyx around her neck and dripping from her ears somehow made it work.

Then there was Mercedes, tall and lean, and the only one whose hair remained its natural color. The vivid steel-gray-and-white upswept do was actually flattering to her pale skin tone and subdued makeup, but her natural expression seemed permanently severe, even when she was smiling. Might be the patrician features. But it was probably more about the dark Beatrice Arthur eyebrows. One look from her made Lucy want to hide her knuckles. And she’d never even been taught by nuns.

“Audrey will have someone show you around the house and grounds later on this evening, but first we’d like you to come in and enjoy a light tea with the three of us.”

Lucy glanced from Aurora to Vivian, who were both smiling approvingly, to Mercedes, who was merely smiling. “That sounds wonderful,” she lied, surprised by the offer and nervous about what a “light tea” with this trio would entail. She hadn’t expected such personal treatment.

She knew they catered to a pretty exclusive clientele, had even hoped to glimpse a Capitol Hill wife or two, but she was an elementary-school teacher. Aka Nobody. The camp was pricey, but she had the distinct impression from the magazine article that their purpose in hosting it was to allow the Everyday Woman to avail herself of their otherwise too-expensive services. She was Charity Barbie.

So, rather than flatter her, their attention made her feel wary and a little nervous. Lucy Harper didn’t rate red-carpet treatments. Didn’t they have an empire to run? Surely they didn’t do this with every client. Could it be she really was the only pathetic idiot to sign up for this?

There was no polite way to ask (and she wasn’t really sure she wanted the answer, anyway), so she was left trailing Aurora as they climbed the wide steps to the veranda and entered the house through a matched set of gorgeous oak doors, each inlaid with oval-shaped stained-glass windows.

“Right this way,” Aurora said, sweeping her arm in an elegant arc, motioning Lucy forward with her heavily ringed fingers. “We serve tea out back on the veranda.”

Lucy followed Aurora, so overly conscious of the two women behind her—Were they sizing her up? Staring at the way she walked? Making mental notes on her hideous hair and fashion sense?—that she could hardly do more than take in her surroundings. The open, two-story foyer had a tile floor set in a swirling circular pattern, with a beautifully restored round walnut table placed at its center. The table bore a towering arrangement of perfectly blooming flowers beneath a stunning crystal chandelier. The hallway leading from the foyer was a polished, dark inlaid wood; the walls were painted a deep leaf green below walnut wainscoting that matched the floors, and papered with a light cream magnolia linen pattern above.

Paneled walnut doors, also with inlaid stained-glass ovals, lined one side of the hallway, but because of the wavy, colored glass, she couldn’t see what went on behind any of them. They passed two sherbet-colored-blazer-clad Glass Slipper employees in the hall before entering a short service hall leading to yet another set of doors—this pair was French in design, with louvered white jalousies covering the glass panes—before leaving the house once again.

The veranda was expansive and shaded beneath a massive white canvas tent. A slowly swirling ceiling fan dropped down from the central peak and provided a steady breeze. The furniture was white wicker padded with thick, flower-patterned cushions. The table was smoked glass, set with an enormous sterling-silver tea set and two three-tiered trays filled with tiny fruit tarts, scones, and assorted pastries and finger sandwiches.

The whole thing was a masterpiece of
Southern Living
perfection.

Adjusting her glasses, Lucy looked down at her sensible shoes and grass-stained knees and realized she’d never felt gawkier or more out of place.

Where was a patented Grady Rescue when she needed it?

“Have a seat, dear,” instructed Mercedes.

They each took their seats spaced evenly around the glass table, but she was still left feeling as if she’d been seated in front of a panel of pageant judges. A feeling that quickly proved to be prescient.

Their business was immensely successful. With the added success of their newly launched magazine, and the opening of another Glass Slipper in Europe, it was truly a global empire. So, despite the fact that, on its face, it looked like Glass Slipper was being run by three women more suited to heading a Broadway revue (
The Headmistress, the Southern Belle, and the Showgirl
), the truth was, Lucy was completely intimidated.

Linen napkins were spread on laps, scones and pastries were selected and arranged on china plates, tea was poured. Lucy cautiously waited for the other three to drink first, slightly relieved when none of them extended their pinky fingers or balanced the delicate china teacups and saucers on their knees. Lucy was just praying to get through the next thirty minutes without dropping a blob of fruit onto her blouse or knocking her knee into the table leg and shattering something valuable.

“So,” Vivian said abruptly, dabbing the corners of her vividly painted lips as she spoke, “tell us why you chose to come to Glass Slipper.”

Surprised by the sudden direct question, Lucy bobbled her teacup, but managed to save it from teetering to the floor at the last possible second. She sent a sheepish smile to the three women and said, “Well, if I can leave here more graceful than I arrived, that would be a nice start.”

Aurora reached over to pat the back of her hand. “There dear, you’re doing marvelously.” Her faded eyes twinkled when she smiled and Lucy found herself wanting to trust in the genuine affection they seemed to be telegraphing.

She took what strength she found there and faced the other two again. There was no way she could explain the complex reasons that had driven her to do this, when she didn’t entirely understand them herself. And she was beginning to think Grady and Jana had a point when they said she was setting herself up for disappointment. A two-week makeover was not going to cure what ailed her.

So she gave them the easy answer. “I picked up a copy of your magazine the same day I received the invitation to my ten-year high school reunion.” She flashed what she hoped looked like an easy smile. “I wasn’t what anyone could term ‘popular’ in those days. So I suppose I’d hoped you could help turn the duckling into a swan, even if it’s only for a night.” Her smile grew. “Don’t worry. I’m not expecting miracles.”

They didn’t immediately smile at her self-deprecating attempt at humor. She twisted the corners of her napkin in her lap.

Vivian spoke first. “You don’t need a miracle. You’re a lovely young woman.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” Lucy said, not believing a word of it. She was paying them to be nice, after all. “But I would feel more confident with a few tricks up my sleeves. I’m afraid I’m severely makeup impaired. And as you can see,” she added, motioning to her shoulder-length hair, pulled back with a wide barrette, “I’ve never exactly gotten the hang of styling my own hair.”

“So, you’ve come for beauty tips?” Mercedes said, the comment sounding more like an accusation.

Lucy faltered. Had she offended them? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Mercy,” Aurora gently chided. “Don’t rattle the poor child.” She turned her beneficent smile on Lucy. “Of course, we can give you confidence in the surface things,” she said, “but there is a great deal more we do here than teach makeup application.”

“Of—of course there is,” Lucy began. This was all going horribly wrong. Barbie Camp was supposed to be fun. She’d imagined perky counselors spouting sunny affirmations while they waved their mascara wands and twirled their round brushes. Not these overly serious, dour old women. Well, not exactly dour, but still.

Vivian chose that moment to lay her napkin next to her plate and shift her chair back. “If you’ll please excuse me.”

Aurora’s gaze went from Lucy’s stricken expression to her partner. “Vivi, must you rush off? We’ve just started.”

Just started?
Lucy fought against the almost desperate urge to bolt. She’d followed the strict directions to leave the demands of the real world behind, which precluded bringing things like cell phones. But surely she could flag down a passing car. Then she would call Grady or Jana and prostrate herself on the Altar of Eternal I-Told-You-Sos if it meant getting herself the hell out of here.

“Don’t get your fancy lace knickers in a twist,” Vivian calmly told Aurora. “I’m merely going to consult with Audrey.” She turned a smile on Lucy that, if it was meant to reassure, wildly missed the mark. “Finish your tea, darling. We’ll see you when you’re ready.”

Hell will freeze over first,
Lucy thought as she watched Vivian sashay back into the house. She’d pay big money to be able to sashay on four-inch heels, or sashay, period. But she was pretty sure that was an inborn trait.

She looked back to the remaining two godmothers. And it hit her. She had, in fact, paid big money. Big to her meager savings account, anyway. But it was all relative, wasn’t it? She might not be the wife of some powerful Capitol Hill bigwig, but she deserved to get what she paid for. And if she had to sit through a grueling tea to get to the good part, well then, she was certainly made of stern-enough stuff, wasn’t she?

She hadn’t survived the public school system for nothing.

In a personal show of defiance, she placed her hands on the table.
Bring it on,
she thought rebelliously. Parochial schoolkids had nothing on her when it came to brazening her way through a bad situation.

Pasting a brave smile on her face, she looked at both women and just put it out there. What the hell did she have to lose? It wasn’t like she’d wowed them thus far. “You’re right. I need more than makeup tips. There are a lot of things I want, more than we could possibly cover in two weeks. But most of all, I want to walk into my high school reunion and feel bulletproof. For that, I need help. A lot of it. I came here because you’re the best.” She lifted her palms. “So I’m putting myself in your hands. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Aurora beamed and Lucy thought she even spied a hint of grudging admiration in Mercedes’s expression. Or it could be she was just dizzy from trying not to hyperventilate.

Both women stood. “Well, then,” Mercedes said, “no point in wasting any more time on pleasantries.”

Lucy almost choked. This had been the pleasant part? She took a last fortifying sip of caffeine and stood. It cost her to resist the urge to present them with her wrists and ask them to take her to their leader. This was, after all, about as alien an experience as she was ever likely to have. But she didn’t think they had much use for her brand of humor. Or any humor, as far as she could tell.

She followed Mercedes into the house and down another long hallway. They stopped in front of a matching walnut-and-stained-glass door. “Audrey is waiting,” she instructed. “You’ll work together to develop your regimen here. She’ll be here for you anytime of the day or night for the duration of your stay, should you have any questions or concerns. Of course, we’ll do our best to make ourselves available to you, as well.” She smiled tightly. Or maybe that was the only way she knew how to smile. “Welcome to Glass Slipper, Lucy.”

Lucy nodded. “Thank you. And thank you for the tea, the personal meeting. I didn’t expect that.”

The door opened and Vivian stepped out. “It’s our trademark,” she said. “We like to make each guest feel as if they are receiving one hundred percent of our attention.”

She was certain they meant to make her feel coddled and special, but she was feeling self-conscious enough right then that she’d have gladly accepted, say, fifty percent of their attention. Or less. It wasn’t their fault. She just wasn’t used to this kind of beneficent scrutiny.
Bugs felt more secure under microscopes than she did at that moment.