Take Me: A Stark E-Novella (5 page)

“Right. I just—she’s not supposed to be here until Friday,” I lie. I conjure what I hope is a bright smile, but I fear it looks like something out of a low-budget Halloween thriller. “So, right. I guess tell her to drive on up to the house. If you could buzz Gregory and ask him to settle her in the first-floor parlor, I’ll run in and get dressed,” I add.

“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” If he has picked up on my nerves, he is either kind enough or well trained enough not to say anything.

I hurry back up the path and take the stairs to the third floor. I want to ensure that I don’t see my mother until I’m dressed and made-up and looking polished and pretty enough that maybe—
maybe
—she’ll wait an hour or two before she starts in on me.

Once I’m in the bedroom, the first thing I do is grab my phone off the table and dial Damien. The second thing I do is end the call before it has the chance to connect.

I sit on the edge of the bed and suck in air. My heart is pounding so hard, my chest hurts, and I am holding my phone so tightly in my right hand that it is making indentations into my palm. My left hand is curled in on itself, and I concentrate on the sensation of my fingernails digging into my palm. I imagine my nails cutting through skin, drawing blood. I focus on the pain—and then, disgusted with myself, I hurl my other arm back and toss my phone across the room. It shatters from the impact, an explosion of plastic and glass, a smorgasbord of sharp edges now glittering on the floor, tempting and teasing me.

I rise, but I am not heading toward those shards. I will not touch them, not even to sweep them away. They are too tempting, and despite the fact that I’ve grown stronger in my months with Damien, I do not trust myself. Not now. Not with Elizabeth Fairchild just two floors below, waiting like a spider to draw me in, wrap me up, and suck the life right out of me.

Shit
.

My mother.

The woman who locked me in a dark, windowless room as a child so that I had no choice but to get my beauty sleep. Who controlled what I ate so meticulously that I didn’t make the acquaintance of a carb until college.

The woman whose image of feminine perfection was so expertly pounded into her daughters’ heads that my sister committed suicide when her husband left her, because she’d clearly failed at being a wife.

The woman who said that I was a fool to stay with Damien. That once you passed the ten-million-dollar mark one man is pretty much like another, and I should move on to one who came with less baggage.

The woman who said that I’d ruined the family name by posing for a nude portrait.

The woman who’d called me a whore.

I didn’t want to see her. More than that, I wasn’t sure I
could
see her and manage to stay centered.

I needed Damien—I
wanted
Damien. He was my strength, my anchor.

But he wasn’t in town and my mother was downstairs. And while I knew that one phone call would have him returning within the hour, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the kitchen, pick up the house phone, and make that call.

I could do this on my own—I had to.

And with Damien’s voice in my head, I knew that I’d survive.

At least, I hoped I would.

“Well, look at you!” My mother rises from the white sofa, then smoothes her linen skirt before coming toward me, her arms out to enfold me in a hug that is capped off by her trademark air kiss. “I was beginning to think you were going to leave me down here all alone.” She speaks lightly, but I can hear the indictment in her words—I left her unattended, and broke one of the cardinal rules from the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide to Playing Hostess.

I say nothing, just stand stiffly in her embrace. A moment passes, and I decide to make an effort. I awkwardly put my arms around her and give her a small squeeze. “Mother,” I say, and then stop. Honestly, what more is there to say?

“Married,” she says, and there is actually a wistful tone in her voice. For a moment, I wonder about her motive for coming. Is she here because she honestly wants to celebrate my marriage? I’m not quite able to wrap my head around the possibility, and yet I can’t help the tiny flame of hope that flickers inside me.

She steps back and looks me up and down. I’ve taken the time to shower and change and put on my makeup, and I know exactly what she sees as she looks at me. My blond hair is still short, though it has grown out since I took scissors to it and violently whacked off large chunks after the last time I saw her. I like this new shoulder-length style. Not only is it nice not to have the weight of all that hair, but the curls are bouncier and frame my face in a way that I like.

I’m wearing a simple linen skirt that hits just above my knees and a peach sweater over a white button-down. My feet are in my favorite pair of strappy sandals. The three-inch heels are wildly impractical for an afternoon of running wedding errands, but these are the shoes I was wearing the night I met Damien at Evelyn’s party so many months ago, and as I stood in my closet a few moments before, I was certain I’d need the extra bit of magical shoe confidence they impart if I was going to survive my mother.

The truth is, I know that I look good. It’s not possible to have entered and won as many pageants as I have and still hem and haw and pretend not to know how you look. Objectively, I’m pretty. Not movie star gorgeous—that’s Jamie—but I’m pretty, maybe even beautiful, and I know how to hold myself well. Under other circumstances, I’d be standing tall, knowing that I passed the inspection of anyone who took the time to look me over. But these are not ordinary circumstances, and I am suddenly feeling like an awkward teen, desperate for my mother’s approval. And the thing I hate the most? That soft look in her eyes only moments before. She’d knocked me off kilter, and now I don’t know what to expect. My defenses are down, and I’m left hoping for affection, like some lost puppy that followed her home looking for a handout.

It’s not a feeling I like.

“Well,” she finally says, “I suppose if you’re going to wear your hair short, that style is as good as it’s going to get.”

My rigid posture slumps ever so slightly, and I look down so that she can’t see the tears pricking my eyes. I really am that puppy, and she’s just kicked the shit out of me. I can either cower, or I can bare my teeth and fight back. And damn me all to hell, but the cowering almost wins out.

Then I remember that I’m not Elizabeth Fairchild’s pretty little dress-up doll anymore. I’m Nikki Fairchild, the owner of her own software company, and I’m more than capable of defending my own damn haircut. I suck in a breath, lift my head, and almost look my mother in the eyes. “It’s shoulder-length, Mother. It’s not like I’ve been shaved for the Marines. I think it’s flattering.” I flash my perfect pageant smile. “Damien likes it, too.”

She sniffs. “Darling, I wasn’t criticizing. I’m your mother. I’m on your side. I just want you to look your best.”

What I want is to tell her to turn around and go home. But the words don’t come. “I wasn’t expecting you,” I say instead.

“Why would you be?” she asks airily. “After all, it’s not as if you invited me to your wedding.”

Um, hello? Did you really think I would after the things you said? After you made it clear that you don’t like Damien? That you don’t respect me? That you think I’m a slut who’s only interested in his money?

That’s what I want to say, but the words don’t come. Instead, I shrug, feeling all of ten, and say simply, “I didn’t think you’d want to be here.”

I watch, astonished, as my mother’s ramrod straight posture sags a bit. She reaches a hand back, then takes hold of the armrest and lowers herself onto the couch. I peer at her and am astonished at an emotion on her face, one I’m not sure I’ve ever seen there before—my mother actually looks sad.

I move to the chair opposite her and sit, watching and waiting.

“Oh, Nichole, sugar, I just—” She cuts herself off, then digs into her purse for a monogrammed handkerchief, which she uses to dab her eyes. Her Texas twang is more pronounced than usual, and I recognize that as a sign of high drama to follow. But there are no tears, no histrionics. Instead, she says very softly and very simply, “I just wanted to spend some time with you. My baby girl’s getting married. It’s bittersweet.”

She reaches out, as if she intends to take my hand, but draws hers back into her lap. She clasps her hands together and straightens her posture, then takes a deep breath as if steeling herself. “I think about your wedding, and I can’t help but remember your sister’s. I want . . .”

But she doesn’t finish the sentence, and so I do not know what she wants. As for me, I don’t know when, but I’ve risen to my feet, and have turned away so that she can’t see the heavy tears now streaming down my cheeks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, determined not to think of Ashley, and even more determined not to think of the hand that my mother had in her suicide. But these thoughts are hard ones to banish, because they have lived inside me for so long. And now—well, now I can’t help but wonder if this is my mother’s way of showing remorse.

Or am I simply being a fool and wishing, perhaps futilely, that there is a détente to be had between my mother and me.

“Cupcakes.” My mother’s voice is flat, but her smile is perky and falsely polite. She’s speaking to Sally Love, the owner of Love Bites. It’s one of the most popular bakeries in Beverly Hills. Sally has catered dozens of celebrity functions, has been featured in every food and dessert magazine known to man, and is a longtime friend of Damien’s. She’s also an artist with icing and a pleasure to work with.

I am terrified my mother is going to offend her.

Mother’s smile stretches wider. “What a perfectly charming idea. And was that your suggestion?” she asks Sally.

“I believe in working with my clients to figure out exactly what they want, to make their event not only special but uniquely theirs.”

“In other words, you don’t feel bound by tradition or societal expectations?” Her words are venomous, but her tone and manner are so polite that it’s hard to tell if she’s being deliberately offensive or making genuine conversation. I know the answer because I know my mother, and I step in and flash my own perky smile.

“I’m completely in love with the cupcake idea. I saw it in a magazine and it seemed like the perfect way to combine tradition and whimsy.” I turn to Sally, purposefully excluding my mother. “So we’re good to go on the top tier, right?”

Sally grins, displaying rosy cheeks that make me think of Mrs. Claus and Christmas cookies. She’s probably only ten years older than me, but there’s something maternal and soothing about her. I can understand why she does so many wedding cakes. She can calm a nervous bride with nothing more than a look.

“We’re all set,” she assures me. “But we do need to narrow down the choices for the cupcakes.” The plan is to have five different flavors of cupcakes—one for each of the tiers—so the guests can pick their favorite. Additional cupcakes—in case anyone wants seconds—will be scattered artfully on the table, mixed with the fresh wildflowers I have on order from the florist. Daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes that remind me of the incredible arrangement Damien sent me after the night we first met.

Sally nods to the table set up at the back of the storefront, elegantly draped in white linen. It’s topped with a row of ten tiny cakes. “I thought you might want to refresh your memory.”

I laugh. “Even if I’d already decided, you know I’d have to sit down and taste those.” I glance at my mother as I head toward the table. “Do you want to try, too? They’re all amazing.”

Mother’s brows lift sky high, and I wonder when my mother last had a carb that didn’t come from a lettuce leaf or a glass of wine. “I don’t think so.”

I shrug. “Suit yourself,” I say, and see my mother’s lips purse as I settle behind the table. “More for me.”

The first cake is a tiny cheesecake. It’s Damien’s favorite, and I restrain myself from taking a bite because I’m going to ask Sally if I can take it home for him. I can think of all sorts of interesting negotiations we could have if he’s bargaining for cheesecake.

I smile as I taste the next cake, not because I’m a fan of red velvet, but because I’m imagining all those possibilities. The next is a deep, delicious chocolate that I savor with a moan that is almost sexual. Sally laughs. “That cake gets that a lot.”

“It totally stays,” I say, then grin wickedly at her. “In fact, let’s have a dozen packed up to take with us on the honeymoon.”

We’re laughing, and Sally’s asking me about the honeymoon, and I’m telling her that it’s a secret even from me—a Damien Stark surprise—when my mother clicks her way over on her nail-point heels. She stops in front of me, effectively ending my moment of bridal bonding with Sally.

“Chocolate, yellow, white,” she says. “A pound cake. A cheesecake. If you insist on doing cupcakes at least stick with traditional flavors.”

“I don’t know,” I say, taking a second bite of the cupcake I’m working on. “This one—butternut?—is to die for.”

“It’s very popular,” Sally says. “But try the strawberry.”

My mother reaches over and snatches the fork out of my hand. For a moment, I’m fool enough to think that she’s going to get in the spirit and try the cake. But all she does is point the tines at me. “Honestly, Nichole,” she says, in a tone that leaves no doubt that I have committed some heinous sin. “Are you trying to ruin your wedding? Have you thought about your waist? Your hips? Not to mention your skin!”

She turns to Sally, who is clearly struggling to wipe the expression of appalled shock off her face. “Bless her little heart,” my mother says, in a tone that practically drips sugar, “but my Nichole isn’t a girl who can eat cake and then get into something as form-fitting as a wedding gown.”

“Nikki is a lovely young woman,” Sally says firmly. “And I’m sure she’s going to look stunning at her wedding.”

“Of course she will,” my mother says, her voice sounding farther and farther from me. It’s as if I’m sliding back, moving down some tunnel, away from her, away from Sally, away from everything.