Page 12 of Stick to the Deal
A Thorny Rose
The shock on Reginald’s face was a welcome distraction from the impending confrontation as I left the airport. Ugh. I am so not calling him that. The bustle of the city has long given way to tree-lined motorways and then to narrow country roads. The scenery constantly flickers between rural towns, cow pasture, modest homes, and mini mansions as we make the trek to Surrey. To the house I once called home.
To Grandmama.
As the driver passes through the gates leading to the gargantuan house, my pulse quickens. I blink and find myself staring down the giant oak doors of Rosevale Manor, so named for the pink English roses that climb the white stone facade of the imposing house. A less jaded individual would describe this place as a fairy tale castle, but to me, it’s more like Maleficent’s lair, the thorns a malevolent barricade to my freedom.
The house looks huge as I stand on the steps clutching my tiny suitcase. The social worker smiles down at me, urging me forward. Inside is like nothing I’ve ever seen, is this really a house?
At the bottom of the stairs stands a woman in beautiful clothes, her dark hair with a shock of white by her temple pulled into a bun. I approach her, expecting her to smile, but her firm expression doesn’t change.
“Gr-Grandma?” I ask
“It’s Grandma-ma,” she corrects, then sweeps up the staircase, leaving me confused.
A heavy woman with tight black curls and a friendly face rushes over to me. Her hands are soft and she smells vaguely of spices and sweets. “Welcome, Nicolette. Let’s get you settled into your new home.”
“Nobody calls me that. They say it’s a mouthful.”
She smiles and her eyes crinkle at the edges. “Then I’ll call you ‘Letty.’ My name is Gloria, but you can call me ‘Glo.’ Are you hungry? I’ve got ravioli and fresh grated cheese in the kitchen.” She spends the afternoon showing me my new room and filling my stomach with pasta, bread, and cookies.
With one last breath of clean air, I square my shoulders and open the door. The tinkling sounds of piano draw me to the dining room. Like a queen, Vivienne Atherton sits at the head of the ten-foot table. She is resplendent, wearing a black-and-white tweed jacket with white silk ruffles frothing at her throat and diamonds twinkling at her ears and fingers. Though her face has lined and her hair is white, the beauty of her youth still shines.
Her green eyes are still sharp as they snap to me, scanning my appearance from head to toe. “Nicollette, come sit. Supper is already growing cold.” She rings a bell at her elbow and a young man immediately appears from the kitchen doors with a covered tray.
I sit as quickly but demurely as I can. Not next to her. Oh no, why would we want to be able to have a polite conversation over a meal? No, we must yell from across the room, over monstrous vases overflowing with roses and gladiolas in a pompous display. “Apologies, Grandmama. Customs took longer than usual.”
“Yes, well, it’s good you’re here now. I’ve had Gloria freshen up your old room. Then tea with the hospital charity fund committee is on Thursday. There’s a dinner party on Friday with your grandfather’s old business partner. I took the liberty of buying you an appropriate dress. I also got us tickets for the ballet on Saturday,Swan Lake, your favorite.”
The whole monologue is delivered in crisp tones with no pauses for response—not that she expects any. These are simply her expectations of what a young lady is to do. It’s not all bad. The dinners and teas are mind-numbing, but I do enjoy the evenings at the ballet, theater, or opera.
My stomach drops as I realize the room has gone quiet. Glancing up, moss green eyes stare into mine. A perfectly plucked white brow wings slightly overhead. A clear indication I missedsomething. “Pardon?”
“I asked, dear, how have things been in America?”
Stalling, I pat the soft cream napkin to my lips. “Very good. Time Magazine was thrilled with my photographs. I’ve gotten so many new inquiries I’ve had to turn away clients.”
“You’ll have to cut back on your photos, anyway. Courting takes effort. Plus, your husband will expect you to take on social responsibilities. Chair a few fundraisers and such.” Her eyes narrow on my face. Maybe I wasn’t schooling my features as well as I thought. “I know you think it’s all silliness, Nicolette, but it is a wife’s duty to support her husband. Forging connections and philanthropic commitments in his name is hard work.”
Under the table, my nails dig into my palms. The pain grounds me in this moment until I can swallow my emotions. My phone vibrates against my thigh, and I find a text from Reggie—nope, not calling him that either, need to keep brainstorming. I shoot back a thumbs-up with two wine glass emojis. “I’ve actually already met someone, Grandmama. He’s asked me to coffee tomorrow.”
A surprisingly unladylike clatter echoes as she lowers her silverware to her bowl. “Nicolette, you better not be talking about that rock star again. I was quite clear on my expectations when you begged to go to America for college. You agreed to marry a man from an old English family, with an impeachable reputation. Someone your grandfather would be proud of.”
I never knew my grandfather, but I’d hope he’d want more for me than that. Good breeding is no guarantee in show dogs, let alone husbands. He died from a heart attack before I came to live in this mausoleum. It was quite the culture shock from the California apartment I shared with my parents. A few intense weeks spent with etiquette tutors and then shipped off to boarding school in yet another new country.
“I told you, Grandmama, he was only a client. Your requirements were quite clear, which is why I engaged the top matchmaker in New York.” As she opens her mouth to argue, I rush on. “It’s a firm with a strict non-disclosure agreement who caters to only the most exclusive clientele. I shared your list of dem… requests and received a file of matches. One of the candidates happened to be in New York on business and we met before I left. We hit it off, I wouldn’t be surprised if he proposed soon.” With effort, my lips curve into the semblance of a polite smile.
Her mouth shuts and she blinks rapidly, the only reaction I’ll receive. “Well, it’s good to see you are taking this seriously.” She returns her attention to her soup, all conversation now over.
I lift the steaming spoonful to my lips. Butternut squash, typically a favorite of mine, but the creamy soup turns tasteless on my tongue. She didn’t even ask for a name? After twenty years, I shouldn’t expect any warmth from the woman across from me, yet I find myself disappointed by her indifference.
Look at me, I want to scream.Can’t you see me drowning under your expectations? Don’t you care what I want from my life? When will you realize I’m not her, and I’m definitely not you.I want to hurl that ridiculous vase against the marble hearth and storm out the door.
But I won’t.
I’ll sit here, silently suffocating. Pushing down every thought and feeling. Snipping off every part of my personality that does not fit the perfect little box Vivienne Atherton has set for her only grandchild.
My friends think I’m Nic Kato-Atherton, this fearless woman who speaks her mind freely, and maybe I can in Friendship Springs. Everywhere else I’m Nicolette Atherton. I wear a carefully crafted mask of who society wants me to be, because I’m desperate to gain the love of my only living relative, and absolutely terrified I never will.
