Page 72 of Burning Daylight
Now I’m annoying myself.
I willnotbe that girl.
Beverly walks out of my closet pulling a rack on wheels bursting with colorful garments.
“So, why exactly is Mother Dearest planning to come accost me today?” I ask.
Beverly gives me a disapproving look. “Your mother would like to help you prepare for today’s festivities.”
I make a face.
“Stop that,” she admonishes. “She’s going?—”
Footsteps sound from outside the door, and my spine stiffens. Beverly’s eyes hint at panic, her mouth forming a tight line as she turns fully to the dresses she’s sifting through.
The bedroom doors swing open, and in walks my mother, her arms out at her sides and her chin lifted like nothing can touch her.
Cold and aloof. The same way she’s always been.
“Juliette.” She barely even glances at me as she says it.
“Hello, Mother.”Nice to see you, too.
She looks every bit the proper socialite and queen of Rosebrook Falls that you would expect. Bespoke clothing that whispers its luxury like the passage of time hasn’t come close to aging her. Brown hair slicked back into a classic French twist, so tight it pulls at her temples. Red lips and nails that contrast starkly against her fair skin. A perpetual frown that proves she is the pioneer of resting bitch face.
Her eyes soak me in—not with the gaze of a loving mother, but with the perusal of someone who’s judging what they see.
She’salwaysjudging what she sees when it comes to me. You’d think after so many years, I’d have built up an impenetrable wall that makes me immune to her stare, but as much as I hate to admit it, her opinion still affects me.
It always has, and it always will.
“Hmm.” She crosses her arms, and her fingers are so bony that the oval shapes of her nails make her look like she has claws. She taps one against her sleeve, and I imagine her digging those talons into my chest and ripping out my heart like a she-devil.
That would make a good fantasy story.
She tilts her head and then frowns before she spins around, her navy-blue pencil skirt clinging perfectly to her physique, one that she’s honed with daily Pilates and a very regimented diet.
I know because she always expected the same of me.
She clicks her tongue as she walks toward the rack of clothing. “Beverly, these outfits are atrocious.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Beverly replies, inclining her head. “They were sent by your personal stylist yesterday.”
Mom makes a face of disappointment while she holds one of the dresses and slips her other palm down the side of it like she’s inspecting it for imperfections.
If there’s one thing that Martha Calloway is good at, it’s finding the flaws in everything.
I should know.
“She has to look flawless,” my mom continues, proving my point.
Then she turns toward me.
“You have to look flawless,” she reiterates.
Swallowing another mouthful of coffee, I nod and beam at her. “Should be easy since I’m naturally perfect.”
The joke falls flat.
