Nine Ladies Dancing
Dolly Beckett
The next morning, I wake to pale winter sunlight streaming through the gauzy white curtains.
I yawn and stretch, trying to remember the last time I slept in.
Probably last Christmas. There aren’t many days off for working gals in LA.
That thought brings me out of my languid, half-sleep state.
Sure, the bed is about the softest, most luxurious bed I’ve ever been in, but I’m still locked in the east wing of Grampa Darling’s manor house.
I pick up my phone and thumb it on. The battery won’t last another day, but it’s not dead yet. A text pings on the OnlyWords app the moment I open my phone.
SilverSwan: Good morning Doll. You look so beautiful sleeping in my bed. I didn’t want to wake you, but I’ll have breakfast in by the time you freshen up.
I glance around, remembering my suspicion back in LA. No matter how comfortable the bed and how restful my sleep, I’m in a strange place, and I’d wake if he came in. Which means he has a camera in this room.
I shiver and quickly slip from the bed, regretting that I changed in the room last night. It’s silly, I know. Preston’s seen every inch of my body. But it’s different when I let him, when he has permission and I know he’s looking.
Even in the shower, I find myself wondering if he’s looking.
I swear I can feel his eyes on me. I hurry through my routine, relieved to get out and towel off on the plush pink towels.
I only have my clothes from yesterday, but when I step out of the bathroom, my suitcase is waiting, a chocolate bar and a note stuck on top that says, “Dress, eat, and relax today. I’ll see you at dinner, my darling Doll. ”
I grit my teeth and glance around, searching for the camera, but I have no idea where he put it.
I grab my clothes and quickly dress in the bathroom.
When I step out of the bedroom into the big room, the late morning sun streaming through the windows nearly blinds me.
I blink against it, squinting to make out the small figure setting out food on a little table in the corner.
“Mrs. Darling?” I ask, making my way over.
The young woman looks up and smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. It was bad enough when my dad married someone barely ten years older than me. It’s worse that Grampa Darling married someone even younger.
“It’s Mrs. Potter now,” she says, removing the lid from a plate. “I’m glad to see you’re up. I was beginning to think Mr. Darling had finally snapped and made up a woman to love. All that time alone isn’t good for a man.”
I hesitate before sinking into one of the two chairs at the table, my stomach growling at the smell of sausage, biscuits, and gravy. “What—what are you doing here?” I ask, remembering some gossip that went around town when she and Grampa Darling were getting divorced.
“I’m the house manager,” she says with a grin. “Much to the dusty old geezer’s outrage.”
I want to ask a million questions now that there’s clearly no language barrier between us, but it would be rude to pry, and if there’s one thing my parents taught me, it’s to mind my own business about adult affairs.
She may be only a couple years older than me, but she married Grampa Darling, which puts her in their league instead of mine.
So I focus on the question that’s not gossip-worthy.
“Can you get me out of here?”
“You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Darling,” she says. “I’m just a lowly servant.”
She gives me a wink, and I shake my head, trying to figure out what the hell is going on in my surreal new world. Even if I won’t ask, I can’t help but wonder why she’s here, since there’s no way in hell I’d want to work for an ex, even if he wasn’t a sleezy old creep like Grampa Darling.
“That’s fine,” I say. “Where is he?”
“He’ll dine with you this evening,” she says, removing a wooden top from a coffee cup and setting it next to my plate. “Anything else?”
“You’re talking about Preston Darling,” I say, realizing she wasn’t referring to her ex at all.
“Yes, Mr. Darling,” she says. “The other one deserves no title of respect. Although Magnolia calls him Mr. Crusty-Musty-Dusty.”
I fight the urge to feel sorry for Grampa Darling.
Mama always says I’m too tenderhearted for my own good, and I’m sure whatever the Darling patriarch has done in his life warrants worse than a few harmless nicknames.
Still, all these people—grandchildren, ex-wives—are living under his roof, on his dime.
Respect for elders has been instilled too deeply in me to join in on any of that.
“Can I see Preston now, then?”
“He’s out for the day,” Mrs. Potter says.
“He wants you to relax today. A masseuse comes in for the old man twice a week, so you can get a massage and make use of anything you like in here. The rest of the house is off limits until Mr. Darling gives you clearance. I’ll be back after breakfast if you have any more questions. ”
With that, she leaves. I’m too hungry to be proud, so I dig in, devouring the biscuits and chocolate gravy with nostalgia.
This was my favorite meal as a kid, but it’s way too rich and decadent for my LA lifestyle.
Still, I haven’t had it in years, so I let myself indulge.
Afterwards, I work out at the barre, looking down on the Darling estate.
A teenage girl with blonde ringlets appears below the window, skipping along the stone edge of the lazy river while a black-haired little boy toddles behind her.
A knot of sympathy forms inside my chest. I know that must be little Maggie Darling, now confined to Grampa Darling’s secure estate so the Dolces don’t get their hands on her.
I don’t blame the Darlings for keeping Magnolia hidden away here, but I remember the exquisite, almost painful ache of boredom and loneliness that came when playing alone.
She’s not quite alone, but her playmate looks far too young to be a true companion.
Where is her brother? Preston said he’d come back, and he’s only a few years older than her.
I find myself imagining how they must have changed in the three years since I’ve seen them.
Sullivan is a full four years younger than me, which means we were never in school together.
Even if he’d gone to Willow Heights, I’d have graduated right before he started freshman year.
I don’t know them that well, but they’re still part of the town, part of the Darling family and therefore, part of my history and childhood.
Growing up, they were some of the younger kids that we’d ditch and run away from so we could play big kid games.
Now Magnolia’s one of the big kids, but her life doesn’t look exciting or fun.
She’s not running away from the little kid, she’s letting him tag along because otherwise she’ll be alone.
Her life isn’t full of cousins and boyfriends and friends constantly coming and going from the fancy mansion on the north side of town where all the families come to swim and fish, cook out and camp out, and after the parents go to bed, play spin the bottle and truth or dare.
The gates are locked, only accessible through a retina scan.
The house wasn’t lit up by Christmas lights last night.
It sat dark and silent, as if abandoned.
Today, the bright winter sun has chased away the gloom and shadows, but it’s still eerie in some way, so quiet it’s as if I’m witnessing the last people on earth emerge after a nuclear fallout. I guess this is what’s left when an empire crumbles.
Even though I’ve known all along that the Darlings were defeated, this is the first time I’ve been forced to confront the whole of it. My father chose the side of the victors, after all.
I’ve been back several times since graduation, and each time, our family was more distant from the Darlings.
There was the first Christmas, when we didn’t go to the Darling’s annual holiday party because they didn’t have it.
There was the Fourth of July, when we went to a party in Devlin’s old neighborhood, at the Dolces’ house.
We sipped mint juleps and pretended the burned shell of Devlin’s house wasn’t right next door, a crumbling ruin and a reminder of the downfall of the town’s founding family.
Then there was last Christmas and then the Fourth this year, when Preston actually texted me.
He asked if he could see me, if I could come back to his place and watch the fireworks display with him.
When I told him I had family obligations but I could see him afterwards, he asked if I was going to the Dolces for the Fourth.
I told him I was, since my family always does the holiday together.
He went silent for a day and then said he understood that family comes first, and he had to put his family first, too.
On that frosty note, the conversation ended.
He clearly didn’t want to see me if I was going to see the Dolces on my visit home. I spent a week beating myself up about it before scolding myself for letting him get under my skin again. He always had a knack for doing that, for leaving me lingering in thoughts of him, whether sweet or bitter.
That afternoon, I hear footsteps and jump up from the reading nook, ready to give Preston a piece of my mind for keeping me locked up here all day like a prisoner. But when I step out of the bedroom into the huge dance studio, it’s not Preston I see. It’s his cousin.
She stares at me, her blue eyes wide and her glossy lips forming a little “o.”
“Magnolia,” I say, shocked at how much she’s grown up since I saw her getting sick in the fireplace. She’s a young lady now, with curves and her eyelashes and brows done.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” she says, dropping two dance bags. “Oh my god, there’s a famous person in our house, and not some gross old politician. A real celebrity!”