Mrs. Cukor brought up all the packages and bags and boxes that I couldn't carry. Hardly glancing at me, she began putting everything away.
"I can do that, Mrs. Cukor," I told her.
She ignored me and continued to hang up the dresses, skirts, and blouses. Rather than argue with her, I went into the bathroom to take a quick bath, taking great care not to mess up my hair or my makeup. When I emerged, she was gone. Even the makeup had been set out neatly on the vanity table. I shrugged and thought to myself that I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth just because the horse acted strange. I'll just avoid her, I thought. It wasn't critical to my living here that she like me, or I like her.
I thought I would just take a short rest and lie down on my bed. After a few moments, I realized I smelled something new, something redolent. I sat up, and the smell diminished. More curious than ever now, I lowered myself to my pillow and sniffed. Then I lifted the pillow and saw leaves I recognized as dill, basil, and clove. The clove was the strongest smell. I scooped it all into my palms and stared at it.
The odors and the sight of the herbs revived old images and memories, like similar leaves tied on doors and on windows. I remembered why my mother put them there. To find them here, under my pillow, made me angry. It wasn't difficult to understand how these herbs got here I carried them all in my palms to the doorway.
When I opened the door and stepped out, I saw Mrs. Cukor closing the door of the bedroom Basil Emerson used. She had just finished cleaning up in there. I waited for her to turn and look my way.
"Did you put this under my pillow?" I asked, and held out my hands to show her the leaves.
She glanced at them but said nothing and started toward the stairway.
"I know what this is supposed to mean," I said, chasing after her. "Why did you put it under my pillow? Why?" I demanded, raising my voice.
At the top of the stairway she turned, her eyes darkening as she narrowed them and peered into my face.
"I knew it when I saw the dead bird. It was a sign, a warning. You brought it into this house, the evil eye. I must drive it out before it does even greater harm," she said, turning and starting down the stairway.
"Brought . . . what?" I cried after her. "What are you talking about? What evil eye did I bring into this house?"
She paused and looked up at me, a wry smile on her pale lips.
"You know," she said. She nodded. "You know."
She continued down the stairway and didn't look at me again until she reached the bottom. Then she turned, looked at me, made the sign of the cross over her breasts, and walked away. My heart didn't beat fast as much as it beat hard, pounding under my breast. A cold feeling passed over the back of my neck and then, like a melting icicle, dripped and ran down my spine.
I thought for a moment, and then I spun around.
And he was standing there.
Noble.
He had returned, and he was more than simply a memory, more than Dr. Sackett had described, more than merely a projection of guilt or fear.
He was there!
What frightened me, however, was that he was smiling with glee.
.
To whom are you speaking?" Ami asked. She stood in-the bedroom doorway in her
I glanced back at where I thought I had seen Noble, but he was gone.
"I--" I looked toward the stairway. "Mrs. Cukor . . . she put this in my bed under the pillow," I blurted, and extended my arms to show Ami the leaves.
"What is that?" she asked, grimacing and stepping back as though I had a handful of bugs.
"Dill, basil, and clove, herbs."
"What? Why would she put that under anyone's pillow?"
"These are herbs that have certain magical qualities," I said. "She put them under my pillow to drive away evil, the evil eye."
"The evil eye? Is that what she told you? That woman. Something has to be done about her. I'm sorry. I'll speak to Wade about her. This has just got to stop."
"I don't want to be responsible for anyone losing her job," I said quickly.
"I wouldn't worry about it. I doubt she'll lose her job. Throw that junk away and get ready. We have to look like dynamite on heels," she said, backed into her room, and closed the door.
She doubted she would lose her job? What was the hold Mrs. Cukor had on this family? I wondered. I re-turned to my room, crumpled the leaves in my hand, and flushed them down the toilet. I immediately felt guilty about it. Maybe it was important, I thought. Maybe she was trying to help me by keeping the evil eye away. Maybe I shouldn't have been so angry. Maybe . . . visions flowed by, memories of Mama, shadows over the lawn, an owl perched on a gravestone.
I shuddered.
"Noble?" I whispered. "I know you're here. Where are you? I need to speak with you. I need your advice."
It felt strange calling to him, speaking to him. It had been so long.
The curtains on the windows fluttered, even though the windows were closed. I waited, but he did not appear. He's punishing me, I thought. He's punishing me because I have ignored him so long.
After another moment, I felt my heartbeat slow and my breathing get more regular.
Get hold of yourself, Celeste, I told myself. Don't spook Ami. Don't risk losing all this now.
I put on the rhinestone-trimmed tube dress and looked at myself again. I wasn't sure whether I looked beautiful and sexy or simply sexy. Was this a good makeover that I was permitting Ami to accomplish for me, or would I be sorry? Being brought up under such dire and in many ways strict circumstances at the orphanage, I rarely, if ever, thought of myself in the way Ami thought of herself and me: sticks of dynamite, ready to explode in the eyes of every man who looked our way. I never experimented with clothes, with my hair, or of course with makeup. What people saw was what they got.
How different it was now. hi Ann's world, just like her, I could cast myself into different roles, move through life as if we were in a movie of our own making, treat clothing more like costuming, and listen to our own music in our heads. Every time we left our bedrooms, dressed to go out, we were literally making an entrance onto a stage, imagining a spotlight always on us. I didn't have Ami's confidence yet, and I might never have, but I saw how she anticipated and expected applause, admiration, attention. I had only been here a few days, and I was already moving in lockstep with her.
Was this what I really wanted? Was I so desperate for love and for family that I would willingly trade my own identity to have it? Or was this my true identity, hidden and waiting all this time for the opportunity to rise to the surface? Was I more Ami's sister than I imagined I was or could be?
I was usually so good at seeing what lay in waiting for other people. Why was I so poor at doing it for myself?
I heard a knock on my door and grabbed the purse Ann had bought for my dress. One more glance at myself in the mirror sent me to the door, my heart pounding. I opened it and stepped out. At first I didn't see Ami, and then she stepped forward on my right, and I felt my jaw unhinge.
I was expecting her to be wearing something similar to what I was wearing, what she wanted me to wear, so we would look like that pair of dynamite sticks she had described. Instead, she looked years older and far more conservative in her jacket and ankle-length violet column dress. The jacket had three-quarter-length sleeves, and the dress a straight neckline. It was far from a revealing garment. What was the most shocking, however, was the wig she was wearing. We no longer had similar hairstyles. Her wig was shoulder length with straight bangs and a slight curl at the shoulder. Most surprising, however, was the color. It was black.
"Oh," she said, smiling. "You're looking at my hair. Well, I just couldn't get it to do what I wanted in so short a time. That's why I have my collection of wigs. Sometimes I like being a black-haired woman. It's more mysterious, don't you think? Watch, Wade won't say a word. He never does. He'll never question why I wear something or don't wear something.
"But look at you!" she exclaimed, seizing my hands to hold up my arms and turn me about. "You're absolutely a heartbreaker. I can't wait to see how the men look at you."
"I feel half-dressed compared to you," I said.
"Nonsense. I dress to fit my moods, and this just happens to be my mood tonight. That's probably why I chose the black hair. I'm more secretive about everything, even my body, whereas," she added before I could say anything, "you've been kept a secret far too long."
She took my hand.
"And we're putting an end to that!" she cried, leading me to the stairway.
I looked back, expecting to see Wade. Why was he always dressed and downstairs before us? I wondered. I had the answer before we reached the bottom step.
"Wade will meet us at the restaurant," Ami said. "He got tied up at work. And if he's late," she sang, "we'll start without him."
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I turned to look down the hallway; I could feel her eyes on me. There she was, Mrs. Cukor, standing just to the right of the den-office doorway with her back to the wall as though she was making room for someone to pass in front of her. Her head was turned my way. She glared in my direction.
What? I wanted to shout at her. What is it you want from me? What is it you expect I'll do?
"C'mon, silly," Ami chided, and headed to the garage.
We got into her sports car. She smiled at me and touched my face softly with her right hand.
"You look beautiful, Celeste," she said, "more beautiful than even I imagined you could be."
She stared at me a moment, her eyes looking as though they were watering with emotion. The depth of her feeling caught me by surprise. I loved the compliment, but something inside me sounded alarms I did not understand. She saw the confusion in my face and laughed.
"Sorry, I was so dramatic," she said, opening the garage door and backing out. Then she sped down the driveway, the car wheels screaming as we whipped out of the entranceway and around to continue on the street. She turned up the music.
"You don't know how to drive yet, do you?"
"Why would I? Who would have taught me? What would I have driven?"
"Yes, I just thought of that. We need to get you some private driving instruction immediately, along with those piano lessons I promised. I'll tell Wade tonight. When you drive up to the school in your own fancy car, you'll become Miss Popular instantly. You'll see how many new friends you'll have then."
"If they're becoming my friends just because I have a fancy car, they can't be very good friends," I said.
"Oh, stop. That's not you talking. That's one of the nuns or some goody-goody you were under all these years. Just like any princess, you're going to need your entourage," she continued. "When I was in school, I always had a half dozen or so girls surrounding me, wanting to do whatever I wanted to do, hanging on my every word. It will be the same for you soon. You'll see."
"How do you know that's what I want?" I asked. I didn't mean to be mean or contrary. I was simply curious as to what she had seen in me to give her these ideas.
She looked at me and smiled.
"Because underneath that dreary shell the state and these agencies and orphanages put over you, I know there beats the heart of a real woman just like me. I saw it in the way you moved, the way you held your head high, the way you looked at people and especially the way men looked at you."
"But how long did you watch me before you came to the orphanage?" I asked.
"That's for me to know." She laughed. "For a while," she confessed. "I couldn't just take any young woman into my life, could I?" she added in defense. "You understand, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, even though I didn't quite understand. It had bothered me before to know she had been spying on me at all and had spoken to my teachers, but now that she had confessed to doing it for a while, it was even more disturbing. Why hadn't I felt her eyes on me? Why wasn't I warned?
This was Noble's doing, I vaguely thought. He had dulled my senses to punish me for deserting him.
Now there were all these tiny alarms going off inside me continually, but I thought they might be there simply because I was doing so many radically new things. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps I had been living under some shell all this time. Perhaps I had been kept emotionally and socially retarded. I deserve all this excitement and fun, I told myself. Be quiet, my troubled heart. And my tongue . . . stop coming up with platitudes that belong more on the lips of people like Mother Higgins.
What would be so terrible about being popular among my peers, having boys compete for my attention, and having girls want to be my friend? When had I ever experienced such a thing? When had I even dreamed about it? Ami wasn't tempting me toward some pit of disaster. She was giving me opportunity, opportunity to become just what she had described, yes, a vibrant, sexy, and confident woman. And wasn't that what all young girls hoped to be, whether they admitted to it or not?
Go back, my conscience, my paranoid fears, my visions of dark places. Go back into the vault and let me be. I'm not going to cry out for Noble and look for him in every corner. I don't need him now, I told myself. I strengthened my determination.
"Want a cigarette?" Ami asked suddenly.
"A cigarette?"
"Don't tell me you've never smoked a cigarette," she said.
I didn't say anything.
She laughed.
"Well, then," she said, "I guess you've never done pot either."
"No," I said.
"Sister, you're going to feel like you've been reborn," she said.
Voices again tried to clamor inside me, but I shut them down before they could really begin. What good was being alive if you couldn't take some chances some time, experiment, step over the line?
"Don't tell Wade I even mentioned any of that," Ami warned. "He's Mr. Clean when it comes to that stuff, but he doesn't have to know anything about what you and I do together. You know what really ties two people like us together tightly?" she asked me.
"What?"
"Secrets," she said. She nodded. "Secrets. Revelations, getting naked with your thoughts, your ideas, your memories. And you know what, Celeste, it doesn't happen until you have trust. We've got to trust each other first."
"Yes," I said.
"I thought you would understand. See," she said, "I do know you."
She laughed, but her words hung in the air like the odor of smoke, of something burned.
Minutes later, we pulled up to the front of Hunters, and a valet came rushing out to open our doors and park our car. The restaurant itself looked like it had once been a private residence and later I would find out that it really had been. The owners had torn apart the bottom floor and created one large dining room and two small private dining areas. The decor was rustic, the walls covered with old farm implements, historic signs, beautiful mirrors. All the panels and wood were dark oak. There was a beautiful bar on the right with brass fittings and very
comfortable-looking stools, tables, and an area for dancing. A trio was playing, and the bar itself was very busy. Two bartenders were hurrying to fill every order.
The main room of the restaurant was nearly full. Waiters and waitresses dressed in hunter green outfits moved gracefully between the tables. There were servers as well. Everyone eating there was well dressed. I saw some young women who I thought were about my age, but none of them were dressed like I was. They all wore more conservative clothing, less revealing dresses, pants suits and light sweaters with jackets.
The moment we entered the dining room, people turned their heads. Some stared, some whispered, and some laughed. The maitre d', an elderly, distinguished looking man in a tuxedo, hurried to greet us.
"Hello, Mrs. Emerson."
"Hello, Aubrey. I'd like you to meet our houseguest, Celeste Atwell."
"Please to meet you," he said, his eyes sweeping over me as discreetly as he could. Even so, I caught a gleam of disapproval at how I was dressed.
"Mrs. Emerson. Your husband called and left a message he would be late, but he said you shouldn't wait for him," Aubrey told Ami.
"That's because he knows we wouldn't anyway," she said, and Aubrey nodded, smiling.
"Right this way," he said, leading us through the room to a prominent table near the bay windows.
I felt as though I was walking through thick cobwebs. Everyone was still looking at us, especially me. What it really made me feel was naked. I tried not to look at anyone, but I couldn't help catching smirks on the faces of some of the younger men and reproach on the eyes of most of the older women. Some of the young women looked envious, if not a bit annoyed that I was capturing the attention of every male in the room.
Aubrey pulled out our seats for us and then handed us the menus. The waiter, a dark-haired, darkcomplexioned young man anxiously holding in the wings, rushed forward the moment Aubrey left the table.
"Hello, Mrs. Emerson," he said. "Welcome back." His name tag read "Anthony." Although he had addressed Ami, his eyes went to me.
"Good evening, Tony. This is my house guest, Celeste. She's quite fond of Cosmopolitans, so bring us two," Ami ordered.
"Is she of age?" he asked, tucking in the right corner of his mouth. He had nice features, especially his ebony eyes and firm lips and jawline.
"Doesn't she look it?" Ami retorted.
"If you say so, ma'am," he replied. "Be right back."
"But I'm not of age," I said as soon as he left our table.
"It's not what you are; it's what you appear to be," Ami said. "Appearances are everything. Look at these people, all watching us. We've given them something to talk about," she said, and nodded at an elderly woman with blue-gray hair glaring at us. Her bald-headed husband, with a face that looked squeezed between two giant fingers, appeared mesmerized, his right hand holding a fork in midair as if he had been frozen instantly. The woman returned a quick nod and shifted her eyes away, saying something under her breath to her husband, who immediately stopped looking at us.