Chapter 9
NINE
DEENA
The dress my mother got for me wasn’t bad, exactly, but it wasn’t my style. I went for interesting cuts and solid colors, and this dress was…not that. It would fit right in this evening, though. Much more than the black midi dress I’d brought—the one I’d worn on my disastrous date with Mr. Podcast.
I sat on my bed, my hair wet from my shower, and looked at the dress she’d hung from the top of the closet door.
The baby pink fabric wouldn’t look bad on my skin tone, but it wasn’t a shade I would have chosen for myself.
And I definitely wouldn’t have chosen so much bedazzling.
Straps held up the scooped neckline of a boned, structured top, and the satin skirt was overlaid with a diaphanous, crystal-encrusted overskirt.
To finish it off, the waist was embellished with a perfect pink bow.
Standing up off the bed, I grabbed the cushioned, satiny coat hanger and turned the dress around. The back dipped low—almost as low as the skirt’s waistband—so I wouldn’t be able to wear a bra. Wonderful.
I could wear my black dress. Pulling open the closet door, I grabbed my black dress from inside and laid both garments down on the bed.
Black would be more comfortable, but it would invite comments and criticism. It also wasn’t black tie—I didn’t own any floor-length gowns that were—so it wasn’t exactly event-appropriate. Pink would be fine, and it would keep my mother happy. Keep her feeling like she had some control over me.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and reminded myself that the goal was to make it through the weekend.
Even though I felt like I’d reverted back to an angry, hormonal teen as soon as I set foot on my parents’ property, I was still a rational adult.
I could wear an event-appropriate dress that I wouldn’t have bought for myself just for the sake of peace.
My own peace and my parents’. It was their anniversary party, after all.
Resigned to a future where I was stuffed into a pink princess dress with lots of crystal embellishments, I got my hair dryer out and gave myself a blowout.
With my hair in Velcro rollers, I did my makeup carefully.
The familiar motions eased some of my nervousness.
I dabbed on my concealer, took my time with my eyeshadow, and finally brushed on my mascara.
Some of the tension in my body dissipated.
The event would be fine, and I would congratulate my parents, tolerate whatever criticism they dished my way, and then in the morning I would get on a plane and go back to my life. Everything would be okay.
By the time I’d taken the rollers out and brushed out the curls, my mother was calling my name from downstairs.
“Almost ready!” I yelled back. Then I turned back to the bed, took a deep breath, and grabbed the pink dress.
It just about fit, but was a little tight through the bust and hips. I was able to loosen the bow at the waist for a bit of added comfort, but there was no saving my breasts from spilling out of the top of the dress.
It was just one event, and I had to admit that I didn’t look bad.
My mother had also left a shoe box. Inside, I found a pair of pink satin open-toed shoes with a floppy tie at the ankle.
The heel was a ridiculously high stiletto, and it guaranteed I’d break my ankle.
No way. I’d brought comfortable black pumps with a two-inch block heel to go with my dress.
They didn’t really go with the soft pink of the dress, but they’d be hidden, so they’d do.
I sat on the bed and leaned an ankle on the opposite knee to get the shoe on when there was a knock on the door. My mother poked her head in and immediately zeroed in on the heels.
“Deena, no. You can’t wear those. I gave you shoes to wear.”
“I’ll break my neck. They’re like six inches high.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Now hurry up, we have to go.” She grabbed the shoebox where I’d left it by the closet and brought it to the bed, opening it expectantly next to me.
I still had my well-worn pump on my foot, my fingers wrapped around the chunky heel. I looked at the pink shoes, then at my black ones.
The pink ones really would look better, and they would be the path of least resistance.
Make it through the weekend, I reminded myself.
When I’d tried to resist, it had ended with my mother on the phone with Callum Frost. That couldn’t happen again.
There was no sense in being childish. I could wear the dress and the heels and smile for photos like the good little daughter I’d never been.
Then I’d get back on the plane and go home—to my home—and everything would be fine.
With one bracing breath, I slid off my comfy heels and grabbed the pink satin stilettos. Once they were on, I teetered for a few steps, then found my balance.
“Good. Now come on, Deena. We’re all waiting for you.”
I grabbed my clutch—white with silver hardware, which would match just fine—and followed my mother out of the bedroom. My father waited at the bottom of the steps, his hair combed back, his tux jacket slung over a chair by the front door.
He looked at me and gave me a small smile. His hands went to my shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You look beautiful, Deena.”
My throat grew tight, and it was all I could do not to cry. It felt good to be called beautiful by my father, to have a small droplet of acceptance from him. But at the back of my mind, I knew that I’d had to dress like a different person in order to receive it.
Would he call me beautiful if I’d been in a simple black dress? Or did I have to perform exactly how he and my mother expected me to just to get the barest whisper of approval?
We rode to the venue, which was at the country club where my parents had been members for twenty years. A valet took the car, and we were immediately swept up into the hubbub inside.
The main reception room had been transformed, with round tables covered in white tablecloths and beautiful floral centerpieces.
Lights dangled from the ceiling, giving the room a warm glow, while the wall of windows opened onto the huge patio overlooking the water and the marina full of yachts below.
A cool, salt-laden breeze blew through the room, and I detached myself from my parents to grab a drink at the bar.
With a vodka cranberry in hand, I stood to the side and watched the mingling. It didn’t take long for my mother to find me again. She was accompanied by two of her closest friends. The three of them looked me up and down, assessing.
“Hello, Deena,” Lisa said to me, her hair bleached to within an inch of its life and chopped at the shoulders.
She wore glittery chandelier earrings to match the gigantic oval diamond her husband had given her for their thirtieth anniversary.
“You look lovely this evening. Your mother tells us you’re seeing someone! ”
I kissed the air on either side of her face and glared daggers at my mother. “I am,” I lied. “He couldn’t make it this weekend.”
“He owns a venture capital firm,” my mother cut in.
“And he couldn’t make it?” Alison asked, tilting her head as she stared at me.
Her hair was dark and swept in a complicated updo.
She hadn’t changed her makeup style in decades, and her pale blue eyes were all the more piercing for the thick black liner that circled them.
“That’s curious. I would have thought he cared about making a good impression with your family. ”
“What’s his name again?” Lisa asked.
I cleared my throat. “Callum,” I replied.
“Callum who?” Alison probed.
I gave them a closed-lipped smile. “Do you not believe me? Why the inquisition?”
“Honey,” my mother chided with a laugh. “Of course they believe you. I spoke to him yesterday. He texted her about how much he missed her. Show them.” She flapped her hands at me.
“I’m not showing you the text from my…my b-boyfriend,” I said, stumbling on the falsehood.
“You’re no fun,” my mother said with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “They’re just surprised, is all. After Austin, we didn’t think you’d ever find someone who’d put up with you.”
“I dated Austin when I was seventeen years old, Mother,” I said through gritted teeth, scraping the bottom of the barrel for the last of my patience. “It wasn’t exactly a love story for the ages.”
“I met your father when I was seventeen,” my mother said, turning up her nose. “And look at us now.”
Yes, look at you now, I thought uncharitably. Living separate lives, with you serving him hand and foot and him rotting in his office every chance he gets. Not exactly a marriage to envy.
I took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside.
“Is he going to propose soon?” Alison asked, returning to the matter at hand. The matter being me, the big fat liar who was pretending to date my billionaire client.
I gulped through a tightening throat and tried to laugh, but it came out tense. “I don’t think so,” I said, which was the first true statement I’d uttered about Callum all day.
“Well, why not?” Lisa cut in. She clicked her tongue and looked at my mother. “You know, my Macie was married within six months of meeting Xavier. They knew what they wanted and didn’t waste any time.”
Alison nodded, throwing me a sideways glance. She didn’t believe the Callum story one bit.