Chapter I. 2007 #4
Her father glanced up, and then resumed his reading. “Isaiah. We were discussing the next Youth Meeting.”
“Judgment and restoration of the virtuous. Seems fitting with the Purity Ball happening so soon,” Pastor Trent said.
Camilla ignored him and focused on her father. “Daddy, I was thinking—”
“Mmm … that can’t be good. Usually means it’s going to cost me money.” Her father flipped a page, his finger tracing the thin paper.
“I was thinking we could have a prayer vigil. For whoever’s sick.”
Pastor Trent frowned. “And where would this vigil be?” he asked, but she kept her gaze trained on her father, who still had not looked up from his Bible.
“At the pavilion?” She knew her father would be more likely to say yes if the vigil was at the church, but the pavilion was outdoors, removed enough from the main campus so there would be fewer prying eyes.
Fewer opportunities for anyone to say the vigil goers weren’t praying at all but instead getting shit tanked on a nice red.
“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Pastor Trent said.
Her father snapped his head up, his face momentarily warring against indignation before settling again into placid lines.
“I seem to remember the last event you had at the pavilion. A Bible study, wasn’t it?
Must have been a good one. Chelsea Puckett was so full of the Holy Spirit, she had to have her stomach pumped. ”
Camilla’s face burned. It wasn’t her fault Chelsea Puckett couldn’t control herself.
And they had talked about the Bible. They played Fuck, Marry, Kill with the twelve disciples and then the Old Testament prophets because why not?
And then Brianna did a dramatic reading of the sexy parts of Song of Solomon.
By the time Chelsea started puking, they’d all participated in a thorough Biblical discussion.
Her father closed his Bible and leaned forward. “Trent, if I could have a word with my daughter. Privately.”
“Of course.”
Pastor Trent pushed past her, she and her father locked in stasis until the door closed quietly behind him. Camilla knew what would come next—she would apologize, and her father would cave, but she wished she didn’t have to go through the motions.
“Daddy, you know what happened with Chelsea wasn’t my fault. I just thought the vigil could be a help,” she said.
His shoulders immediately relaxed, the tension draining out of his body as he picked up his Bible. “I know, princess. I know. You have to understand that Trent means well, but he doesn’t know your heart like I do. And after the last time, I don’t think it’s the best idea.”
She let her lower lip jut out the tiniest bit.
“Sorry, baby. I know you’re trying to do something good, but there’s just no way I can do it. Not so soon after the Chelsea Bible study incident. You understand?”
She nodded her head even as she internally rolled her eyes. But just because he’d said no didn’t mean the vigil wouldn’t happen. There was, as her father was so fond of telling her, more than one way to skin a cat.
“That’s a good girl.” He picked up his suit jacket and draped it over his arm.
“Now, let’s get out of here. Your mother is probably wondering where we’ve gotten off to.
After you,” he said, and she slid her feet back into her shoes and went silently past him, his hand at the small of her back to guide her.
Some enterprising church leader had already gone through the back offices and turned off the lights.
She hated the church when it was dark, emptied of the people who were supposed to fill it with praise and light.
It felt haunted in those hours—a bleached memory of the joint fervor it was supposed to contain.
Her mother was already in the Mercedes, sunglasses in place, the visor flipped down so she could touch up her lipstick. “Where have the two of you been?”
Her father buckled himself in, his eyes trained on Camilla in the rearview mirror. “Just a little father–daughter chat,” he said before the engine roared to life.
Camilla leaned her head against the window and watched as the houses grew farther and farther apart, mansions changing into estates with rolling fields set back from the road, the trees an emerald smear as she focused on her breath instead of the silence fallen between them.
Despite the estates, Hawthorne Spring was a small, insular community.
Practically everything was within walking distance for anyone who might prefer physical exercise to riding in leather-seated, air-conditioned comfort.
Ahead, the road veered right, her father punched in the gate code, and their drive with its arch of oak trees swallowed them.
Finally, the trees gave way to hydrangeas, their branches drooping with heavy white petals, and the house appeared before them.
A European-style imitation of a more ancient house, its pale brick facade stretched upward toward a gabled roof, the arched, full-glass doorway winking in the soft afternoon light.
Ivy snaked along the front, expertly trained around the entry’s cedar beams, the wood adding a warmth to the cooler tones of the house’s exterior.
The driveway looped past the main house and led to a separate four-car garage that housed her father’s everyday vehicles.
His specialty collection lived in a larger garage elsewhere on the sprawling property, next to the stables, pool, guesthouse, and the family’s private tennis court.
“Lunch?” her father said as he cut the engine.
“Not hungry. Besides, Vera’s coming over for Pilates.” Her mother opened the door and stood, not bothering to look back as she drifted toward the covered stone breezeway that led to the main house.
“Ada,” her father called.
Her mother paused, her back still facing them. “Henry?” she asked before turning.
“The Bransons are coming for dinner tonight. Six o’clock. We’ll dress for dinner.”
Camilla bit down on her groan. Dress for dinner meant something that wouldn’t allow her more than a nibble of whatever Chef had decided as the evening meal.
Her father continued. “The gray Kiton would be best, I think. Hair up for that neckline. Don’t want to look like you have a double chin,” he said.
“Of course,” Ada said, and turned back to the house.
They followed behind. Camilla focused on her steps so she wouldn’t scream in frustration. A feral thing set loose in the lovely house her father had built with his faith and money. Because she knew what that final comment meant for her mother. That she would hear it and starve herself a little bit.
She would think it was her own idea. She wanted to fit into the clothes.
No lumps. No bumps. All smooth angles and curves only when it came to her breasts.
Cheekbones sharp and a hollowing in the space behind her collarbone.
A hollowing in her stomach. Beautiful in all the ways men told her to be.
All the ways she came to believe as her own truth.
All those small suggestions. No one had ever told them to starve themselves.
To sweat through hundreds of Pilates classes from private instructors in the name of a tight ass and flat stomach.
To pay for liposuction. A breast augmentation.
A brow lift. But they were quiet daggers offered up at an altar they imagined they’d built.
This was how you found a husband. This was how you kept him.
And didn’t they want that? To be found desirable?
Worthy of attention? Didn’t they want to look good so their husbands would not stray? Would not sin?
It was impossible not to internalize it all.
Those comments. The jokes that wore a veneer of truth.
Whoa! Guess someone was hungry. You can tell this one likes her bread!
Just because they make it in your size, doesn’t mean you should wear it, you know what I mean?
Never hurt to help the natural beauty along, now did it?
They added up to a belief in not good enough.
Not thin enough. Not attractive enough. And the fury within Camilla existed because she believed it, too.
Had adopted those beliefs as her own, and now she felt their fingerprints all over her body.
Marking her as theirs rather than her own.
The ache of that knowledge rooted ever deeper because she knew she allowed it.
Had been the one who let it eat her alive and imagined she liked the way the teeth felt at her throat.
It felt like being haunted by an unattainable version of herself. A ghost she could not exorcise.
Angela, the live-in housekeeper, had already opened the heavy cedar doors for them and vanished into the bowels of the house to finish setting out lunch.
The entryway opened on twin white marble staircases twisting away from each other before meeting once more on the second level; the Baccarat chandelier—a twentieth wedding anniversary gift from the church—hung in the center of the foyer, allowing pale golden light to shimmer through the crystals.
Beyond, the entryway opened into a formal living room done up in various shades of cream, every surface free of dust and clutter.
A rotating team of church members descended on the house twice a week to clean, not because they needed the money—no one in Hawthorne Springs suffered financially—but because it was God’s will to support and aid the head of His church.
“I’ll take lunch in my office. Keep working on next week’s sermon. You should join your mother. Some movement would be good for you,” her father said.