Five
Saylor
It had taken me two hours to get dressed and convince myself that I wanted to go to Mass that next day. I had changed my dress five times. The amount of time I had taken to curl my hair had been ridiculous.
Not that any of it had mattered because I didn’t think Father Jude had glanced my way one single time that day. I hadn’t even gotten a brief flick of his eyes in my direction. No recognition in the slightest that I had come to Mass.
Among the palm branches—which we all had carried, including me, since Mary had shoved one into my hands—I had barely caught a glimpse of him as he led the crowd outside in a line into the church as they waved their branches. Mary had pressed her lips together to keep from giggling every time our eyes met.
Then, Father Jude had stood up on the stage or platform, altar—hell, I didn’t know what they called it—wearing a red robe. He read from the Bible, and then he had begun reciting lines about Jesus’s arrest, stopping to allow the congregation to repeat it. This happened until they got to the part about Jesus’s death. It was all so bizarre.
When it was done, I had thought I might speak to him or he would seek me out to say welcome or, heck, whatever priests said to visitors. But a swarm of people lined up to speak to him as if he were a celebrity. I gave it longer than I should have for him to possibly turn to look my way. But after five minutes, I’d said my goodbyes to Mary and left.
The pitcher of margaritas I’d had by the pool the rest of that day while I worked on my tan helped the snub. If only the lime, sugar, salt, and tequila could have washed Father Jude from my memory.
That had been ten days ago, and he was still in my thoughts.
I needed a purpose in life.
Something to do. A hobby. A job. Maybe move off to college somewhere. I could try going to class. That would take some intense begging and convincing with my parents, but…heck, I’d even go to Louisiana and live with Fia while attending the college she’d gone to. I considered that for a minute. No, we’d kill each other. I hated homework and writing papers. Scratch that.
Back to a job or hobby. What did I like to do?
I slowly pulled the spoonful of sunflower butter out of my mouth as I stared out the back patio doors that overlooked the pool area. Was it bad that I didn’t know what I liked to do?
Yes. It was pathetic. Sad. Eye-opening.
In three weeks, I would be twenty-two years old. I had been able to legally drink for a year, and I didn’t know what I liked to do. If I was good at anything. What if I wasn’t? I stuck the spoon back into the jar. How was it possible that I had made it twenty-two years and didn’t have any idea who I was?
Was that it? I was a rich man’s spoiled daughter, who had been given everything. I had never worked a job, never had a hobby other than shopping, tanning, and Netflix. There was no depth to me. Nothing admirable.
And Crosby had met a girl with a job, who had dreams, knew what she enjoyed, had different layers, and he’d found something to admire. Respect. He was attracted to her because she knew who she was. Unlike me. Who had survived to please him, be with him, do what he wanted, go where he wanted.
While I’d been his lap dog, she’d been an exotic bird.
I did not want to be a lap dog. I wanted to be someone’s exotic bird, dammit.
“Please tell me there is an unopened jar of sunflower butter in the pantry,” my mother said as she walked into the kitchen, wearing her white-and-gold Versace bathrobe, Hermès slides, and her terry-cloth hair wrap from Target.
I stuck the spoonful in my mouth and replied, “Nope,” while my tongue worked the creamy goodness free.
She sighed and placed a hand on her hip while giving me a disapproving look. “Really, Saylor? You have to eat it right out of the jar?”
I swallowed, then licked my lips. “I’d like to remind you that I am the one with the nut allergy in this house. Eat the peanut butter.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Well, I am going through menopause, and I need to cut all the calories I can. Besides, it tastes better than peanut butter.”
My mother had never been fat a day in her life. She was forty-seven and looked like she was in her thirties. She’d never even been thick. Heck, the pictures of when she had been pregnant, she’d still looked fabulous. I had no sympathy.
“There is that sugar-free jam and fake butter in the fridge you can put on your toast.”
Mom huffed as she went to jerk open the left side of the refrigerator. “We have got to hire a new cook. Luciana retiring and leaving us is just unfair. I miss her egg white omelets.”
I screwed the top back on the sunflower butter. “Yeah, how could she? I mean, she’d only had a pacemaker put in. Jeez, woman. Lazy much? ” I drawled, my voice thick with sarcasm.
Luciana had been working for this family for fifty years. My father had been nine years old when my grandparents hired her. It was time she had her freedom. Enjoyed her golden years or whatever.
“I know her health forced her to retire, but I miss her.”
“Then, replace her,” I replied.
It had been three months since she’d left us. I was fine with it, but Mom was the one struggling to move on.
“I can’t find the right fit. Luciana was family,” she said, taking out the fake butter and sugar-free jam from the refrigerator.
“Then, we will make our own meals,” I replied flippantly as I put the sunflower butter back into the pantry.
“Will you get me the loaf of bread? The keto-friendly one?” Mom called. “Pilar should have gotten it yesterday when she did the grocery shopping.”
Pilar was the maid. Now, if she had retired, I might be more upset. Thankfully, Pilar was only fifty and had many years left in her. I could make my own sandwich, but I did not want to clean a toilet. Or do laundry. Or wash dishes.
I picked up Mom’s favorite low-carb bread and walked back out of the pantry to toss it onto the counter beside her.
“Thanks.”
I started to walk outside and paused. I’d already been out there, tanning for an hour today. I swam laps. Tried to read, but focus had been an issue. Did I really want to go do more of the same thing?
Turning back around, I looked at my mom. If anyone knew you, it would be your mother. Right?
“What do I enjoy?” I asked her.
She paused from smearing jam onto the bread and looked up at me. If not for the Botox she got religiously every four months, I was sure her brow would be puckered. “What do you mean?”
That wasn’t the response I had been hoping for.
“What do I enjoy? What am I good at?”
Please let her know. Someone had to know. I couldn’t be that…shallow.
Mom laid the butter knife down and studied me. “I am assuming you mean other than spending your father’s money and, of course, tanning.”
I was that shallow. If I had swallowed one of those smooth, round decorative rocks that lined the flower beds outside, it would have felt better. The boulder sitting in my stomach wasn’t pleasant.
“Never mind,” I said, wanting to flee to my room. Where no one could see me. Where I didn’t have to face my pointless existence.
I was almost to the door when my mother called out, “Do you remember that year—I think you were twelve—you went with me to the bank? It was in late November. The Salvation Army had a Christmas tree there with tags all over it with wish lists from kids who were in need.”
I paused and turned back around. “Yeah.”
A small smile touched Mom’s lips. “You asked me what it was for. I explained that there were kids who weren’t as fortunate as you. That these were lists of things they wanted and needed for Christmas. People would choose a list and purchase the things on it, then return them to this location, where they were picked up and delivered to the children.”
“And I took all the names on that tree and had you take me to buy everything,” I finished, not seeing how this had anything to do with what I liked or what I was good at. It had been a moment when a spoiled kid realized just how lucky they were and felt guilty about it for the first time.
Mom nodded. “Once you realized there were trees like that all over town, you had me take you to them to do the same.”
There wasn’t a point to this.
“Yeah, I remember.”
Mom leaned her hip on the side of the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “The next year, you typed out and printed a list of places that had the Salvation Army trees. You gave Crosby, Gathe, Than, Opal, and Kash all a location and specific instructions on what to do. You enlisted your father to provide the drivers, and for one entire weekend, the six of you bought the things on every child’s list on every tree from here to Jackson.”
I shrugged. I had been a determined kid. And it had felt good.
“You organized the entire thing yourself. The boys hadn’t wanted to do it, but you convinced them they did. You made it fun. Had Luciana prepare a taco bar and make Christmas tree cupcakes to serve while you hosted a movie night outside, under the stars, as a treat for all their hard work.”
I’d forgotten about the after-party. That had been a well-planned out idea.
“Okay, so I’m good at shopping. We’ve already covered that.”
Mom laughed. “Yes, you are, but that is not my point. You have always been a leader, an organizer, a planner. You have the gift of being able to convince people to do things they don’t want to do. That isn’t easy, Saylor. It’s special.”
It was April. There were no Christmas lists on Salvation Army trees for me to go take and fulfill.
I nodded. “Okay, thanks.”
She picked up her butter knife again. “You are more than you see. But for so long, you let someone else be your light. It’s your time to shine, baby.”
I left the kitchen as I mulled it over. What had I liked about that other than feeling less guilty for all I had? I’d enjoyed the planning, organizing, and giving back. I wanted to do it again the next year, but the boys talked me out of it. Then, the teenage years set in, and the trees had been forgotten.
Sinking down onto the edge of my bed, I ran through every charity I could think of that I could donate my time to. Then, I picked up my phone and searched until I found one that sparked my interest.
A local program that provided free clothes for those in need.
Threads of Love and Hope was funded and stocked from donations. I looked through their photos online and cringed at some of the poor displays. That wasn’t appealing at all. Sure, it was free, but if a young mom, with three kids to clothe, needed some help, shouldn’t she have a better option than this? A place that didn’t feel so…desperate?
Smiling, I set my phone down. I had an idea.