Star Promise (15 page)

Jasmine Davis had been wearing blue sparkly eyeshadow since primary school. It wasn’t a good look, even back then.

“Oh, I love that lady,” chimed Bridget.

“Who? Jasmine?”

She nodded, convincing me that she had no idea who I was talking about. Then she spoke again and changed my mind. “She has a wiggly butt.”

I laughed harder than I had in weeks. Bridget giggled too, but probably had no clue why. I pulled my little girl in close. Thanks to my position on the pink footstool, we were eye to eye. “I love you Bridget Décarie,” I told her. “So very much.”

Her dark blue eyes sparkled under the bright bathroom light. Her lips curled into the most beautiful of smiles, revealing the deep dimple on her right cheek. And just when I thought she couldn’t remind me any more of her father, she answered me in French. “
Je t’aime, maman
.”

By the time Adam arrived home, Bridget had been in bed for hours, and he looked like he wished he had been too.

“Well?” I asked, rushing him at the door. “How did it go?”

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. “Interesting.”

I groaned out loud, annoyed by the lack of information. “Did you buy it?”

Adam’s smile was tired but his eyes were bright. “We did. I think we paid too much, and we only bought two thirds of it, but it’ll work out okay.”

I grabbed his tie and pressed myself up against him. “I see fire in your eyes, monsieur.”

He rested his elbows on my shoulders. “I wish you’d seen it, Charli,” he said quietly. “It hasn’t been touched in years. Parquetry floors, pressed tin ceiling, decorative mouldings …”

Architecture was Adam-porn. He would’ve seen things that his brother didn’t notice. Ryan wouldn’t have given a damn about the history or the charm. The only thing he would’ve cared about was whether he could install a mezzanine level, and how much it would cost to do it.

“The guy who owns it is a cranky old man,” he added. “Tough to deal with.”

“So Ryan did the wheeling and dealing?” I asked, heading for the fridge. “He’s cranky and old too.”

Adam pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “It was a team effort,” he replied. “Good lawyer, bad lawyer, baby.”

I wasn’t a good wife. It was one of the many reasons Jean-Luc thought his son was hard done by. My cooking skills were non-existent, but the salad I put together that night was a decent effort. The wine was better, offsetting any culinary disappointment Adam might’ve been feeling.

Shortly after dinner, a late night visitor put an end to our plans of a quiet night on the couch. Adam answered the door, which probably wasn’t the outcome Bente was hoping for.

She didn’t look good. She looked miserable and cold in the lightweight dress she was wearing, and it was obvious that she’d been crying.

“Are you alright?” he asked, stepping aside to let her in.

“No,” she muttered. “Your brother is an asshole.”

This wasn’t exactly news to us so I couldn’t blame him for laughing. But I could show a little more support. Bypassing my unsympathetic husband, I grabbed Bente’s hand, led her to the couch and demanded that she talk to me. Adam bailed. “I’ll leave you ladies to it,” he offered, leaning down to kiss me. His parting words were reserved for our distraught friend. “Tomorrow’s a new day, Bente. You’ll be fine.”

After hearing her teary breakdown of events, I was pretty convinced she’d be fine too. A silly misunderstanding ended with her going postal with a blueberry bagel. It was funny, and because Bente isn’t a drama queen, she realised it. The conversation started with tears and ended with giggles, which was the best outcome possible.

Ryan wasn’t calm like Adam. He was a short-tempered hothead, just like their father. I’d been on the receiving end of the wrath of both of them at one time or another. It wasn’t frightening, but it was exhausting. Staying away from Ryan for a while was the best solution I could come up with.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” I asked.

Her reply was small and sheepish. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

“As long as you don’t mind crashing on the couch.”

“It’s fine.” She reached forward and grabbed Treasure off the coffee table. “The girls will keep me company.”

“Watch that one,” I warned. “It’s likely to come alive and murder you while you sleep.”

Bridget and I were flying solo the next morning. So far Charli and I had put on a united front and endured ballet lessons together, but she’d been called into work early so the glitter duties were all mine.

After three lessons, relations between Bridget and the red-headed horror were no better. Malibu was relentless in her attempts at rattling her cage, and Bridget wasn’t getting any better at grinning and bearing it.

My pep talk at the door was always the same. “Just ignore her, okay?” I ran my hand through her ponytail. “Do your own thing and pay attention to Miss Ella.”

Bridget promised she would, then took off running. Ella’s offer of sitting in on the class probably wasn’t meant to be an indefinite arrangement, but as long as Malibu had my daughter in her sights, I wasn’t going anywhere. I sat near the wall and watched her like a hawk. It took all of a minute before Malibu started. “Dumb girl,” she baited.

Bridget’s reaction was always the same. She’d spin around and look for me. Making eye contact with her had an instant effect. Her worried expression would dull, but there was no denying the hurt in her eyes.

I couldn’t believe she was sticking it out. She had no reason to put herself through it, but I was so proud that she was.

Minutes ticked by like hours in that damned room.

After a few long and pointless twirling routines, Ella changed introduced something new. “We’re going to do something really special this morning,” she announced, inciting a round of high-pitched squeals that made me wince. She floated off to the side room, returning with a pink helium-filled balloon and a fairy wand. “Fairy dancing!” she announced, waving the props at the girls.

More squealing followed, this time accompanied by bouncing. Bridget was usually the first to lose the plot when presented with anything pink and glittery, but for some reason she wasn’t moving.

“The balloons are very special. See how they float high in the air?” asked Ella.

Every girl in the room looked up as she did.

“I want a balloon!” demanded Malibu in her trademark obnoxious growl. “Give me one!”

Ella ignored her and continued her pitch. “Fairies live in these balloons,” she said with a touch of theatre in her voice. “That’s why they float so high, and if you look carefully, you can see them inside.”

Twelve little girls took a step forward, craning their necks. One didn’t move. Bridget stood cemented to the spot with her hands on her hips and a mighty pissed-off look on her face. I grabbed her attention by calling her name. She glanced at me for a second with a look of pure thunder.

La La Land is subjective – at least, it’s supposed to be. Alex and Charli had been making up stories for years, and I’m sure Bridget’s take on Sea dogs wasn’t factual. But for some reason, Bridget seemed to deny Ella any creative licence.

“Fairies can’t live in balloons,” she stated. Every girl turned to stare, and Bridget didn’t care. “There are no fairies in there, Miss Ella,” she added.

“You don’t know!” screeched Malibu.

“Enough, Malibu,” chided Ella, weak as water. “Bridget, sweetie, fairies live in lots of places.”

“Not in them.” She pointed at the balloons. “Never, ever.”

I wasn’t sure what Ella’s sideward glance at me was supposed to mean. If it was a plea for help, she was out of luck. My little girl was finally taking a stand. Ella was on her own.

“Girls, we’re going to concentrate on gentle turns and pretty feet,” she instructed. “Dance gently so we don’t disturb the fairies.”

Twelve little heads looked skyward. One didn’t.

Bridget made her way over to me to air her grievances to someone who’d listen. She climbed onto my lap, threw her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear. “There are no fairies, Daddy.”

“How do you know, Bridge?”

“They don’t like being stuck,” she explained. “They die when they get stuck in places.”

“What do you think is in the balloons, then?” I asked curiously.

Ella had gone to great lengths to make her story believable. Even from a distance I could see the confetti in them, but Bridget wasn’t buying it.

“
Que des confettis pourris
,” she grumbled.

She must’ve really been pissed. Never before had Bridget referred to sparkles as rotten.

Ella fetched the rest of the balloons and wands from the side room, rationing them out to each little hand that made a grab for them. When there was only one left, she wandered toward us. “How about you just dance with a wand, Bridget? Would you like that?” she asked gently.

The little La La aficionada didn’t have a problem with the wand. She took it from Ella and thanked her.

“Come,” encouraged Ella extending her hand. “Join your friends.”

I liked Ella Daniels a lot. She was sweet and kind and got extra points for putting up with Grayson on a daily basis. What I didn’t like was that she seemed totally oblivious when it came to reading the social workings of her dance class. She had no clue what was going on, which meant my kid was always going to be fair game.

Bridget returned to the group, but something about her mindset had changed. She even looked taller.

“You don’t have a fairy balloon,” Malibu taunted with a swing of her hips. “I’ve got the best one.”

The little brunette next to her piped up. “Me too,” she crowed.

Ignoring Malibu was no longer in Bridget’s game plan. She turned around and growled at her. “There are no fairies in there, dumb girl.”

Malibu was taken aback. The balloon she was holding wobbled a bit, but she recovered quickly. “Yes there are!”

As usual, the teacher’s focus was only on those who were prepared to listen to her. She didn’t see Bridget make a grab for the string Malibu was holding. The little redhead didn’t stand a chance. Bridget was madder than I’d ever seen her.

Popping it was obviously her plan, but she wasn’t having much luck. “
Pas de fées!”
she screamed, futilely trying to burst it with a one-armed hug to her chest.

Malibu took a big step back, hopefully in terror. Her posse followed suit. Ella finally tried diffusing the situation, but calling out Bridget’s name and ordering her to stop didn’t cut it. The balloon wrestling continued.

My kid was nothing if not resourceful. The wand in her other hand suddenly morphed into a weapon. With one stab of a pointed star, her mission was accomplished. The balloon popped, showering everyone with red and white confetti.

Bridget wasn’t content. She grabbed the vapid brunette’s balloon and did the same thing. “No fairies!” she yelled, in English this time.

Malibu dropped to her knees and began scooping up confetti. “You killed them,” she wailed.

“All dead,” whimpered the brunette.

My daughter the serial killer, stood firm. Actually, she didn’t. She thumped around the floor, literally sinking her boot in.

“Now I have dead fairy guts on my boots,” Bridget ruthlessly claimed. “That’s why I have to wear boots.”

I put my hands to my face, peeking at her through my fingers. I’d warned Charli that we couldn’t put anything past her, and this was a prime example of why. Bridget Décarie was dangerous, and at that moment victorious, brilliant and strong.

Best of all, she was mine.

Something was wrong. I could feel it. I could also see it. Absolutely no good could come from having Adam and Bridget show up at the gallery at one in the afternoon.

I met them at the door. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” replied Adam, too fast to be convincing.

I looked at Bridget, hoping for a more honest answer. “I can’t go to the dancing school any more,” she confessed. “I got fired.”

The horrified stare I directed at her father wasn’t nearly strong enough. “She got kicked out?” I think I saw him nod. “Why?”

Again, it was left to Bridget to explain. “
C’est juste des histories
–”

“English!” I demanded.

“Miss Ella didn’t believe me,” she amended. “Fairies can’t live in the balloons.”

I was none the wiser, and close to throttling both of them due to an acute lack of information.

Adam obviously knew it. “Have you had a lunch break yet?” he asked. “We can go somewhere and talk.”

“No she hasn’t,” boomed Bronson, making a grand entrance. “Take her away.” He flapped his hands at me, but spoke only to Adam. “Spoil her rotten and take her shopping.”

Shopping wasn’t high on my agenda, but I couldn’t deny I was eager to get out of there. “Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Of course, of course.” He was walking away, still flapping his hands. “Begone with you and your Wedgwood blue-eyed beauties.”

Central Park was where we ended up. It was one of the few places we could hang out with Bridget as well as have a private conversation. While she ran herself ragged on the playground, we sat on a nearby bench and talked. Well, Adam talked. My only input was the occasional moan as I listened to the story of how our daughter came to be expelled from another dance class.

“It wasn’t her fault,” assured Adam. “It was good to see her finally get one over on Malibu.”

I agreed, but it didn’t make me feel better. “What are we supposed to do now?” I slapped my hands down on my knees. “Wait another year and try again? We could put a sign around her neck.” I drew invisible letters in the air. “Does not play well with others.”

Adam chuckled, riling me even more. “I hope she never plays well with the likes of Malibu Denison.”

I agreed with that, too. In fact, I agreed with everything he was telling me, which made staying angry impossible. “I just want her to be okay, Adam.”

His eyes drifted toward the playground. Bridget was standing near the swings, deep in conversation with another little girl. “Look at her, Charlotte,” he urged. “She’s perfectly fine.”