Chapter 2 Cassidy
Chapter 2
Cassidy
“Wake up, Rosalie, we’re here.”
The car winds up the unpaved road through the towering trees and rolling hills before coming to a stop in front of the two-story inn. Cassidy jumps out, already calculating the number of miles she’ll have to run to offset the hours spent behind the wheel. She’s not sure why she agreed to drive from Chicago, two full days of sedentary torture, but apparently Rosalie expected a road trip adventure of some kind. Cassidy jogs in place to get the blood flowing as Rosalie steps out of the car.
She wavers, taking in the pale-gray building trimmed in white.
“What is it?” Cassidy comes around, noticing the dullness in her daughter’s cheeks. “You’re the one who chose this place. I’ve heard nothing but ‘Vis Ta Vie’ for the last nine months.”
Her daughter doesn’t meet her eyes, though this and her colorless cheeks are nothing new.
Cassidy has made it abundantly clear how she feels about Rosalie’s selection for their annual summer trip. Given the choice, she would have headed west to Tucson’s Canyon Ranch. Nothing is as satisfying as portioned meals, round-the-clock wellness, and calorie counts. But this year was Rosalie’s turn to pick their summer getaway, and Cassidy couldn’t argue, not when her daughter had been such a champ last year while biking through Croatia before landing in the hospital with a broken arm. Okay, two broken arms.
Today Rosalie’s gloominess suggests something else, and there’s a hesitation in her step. Well, let’s be frank here, there’s always a hesitation, except when it involves slathering herself with charcoal makeup and dark lipstick, or scrolling through TikTok and devouring stacks of novels. For those activities, her energy level is at a remarkable high.
Cassidy has felt an apprehension mounting in recent weeks, and now her daughter rubs her belly in a tender, circular motion, which reminds Cassidy of the young expectant moms in her downtown spin class. Like any other neurotic single mother with a fifteen-year-old daughter, her mind wanders to that forbidden place, where she quickly vanquishes the thought. No, impossible.
“You were so excited to come here.” Cassidy drapes her arm along Rosalie’s shoulder, snagging a strand of purple hair. Her daughter is both familiar and foreign. It’s anyone’s guess what’s spooling around her brain.
When Cassidy found out she was having a girl, she imagined spa days and movie nights, shopping trips and Bravo TV. Cassidy had that closeness with her own mother, and she expected the same with Rosalie. Yet the kinship never developed. How could someone who took refuge in her belly for nine months grow to be so alarmingly different from her? Rosalie hides herself beneath the harsh tones of Glam Goth Beauty, her favorite cosmetics brand, and regularly refuses invitations to join Cassidy at the gym. Didn’t all mothers and daughters have an affinity for shared workouts?
Instead, Rosalie keeps to herself, her nose in a fantasy novel, closed off in her room with headphones. She prefers documentaries and dark, ill-fitting clothes that match her smoky eyeshadow, her features obscured by rebellion. She’s smart. Straight As in all her classes. For reasons Cassidy doesn’t understand, Rosalie aspires to be the antithesis of her feminine, active mother, though some would say Cassidy has other qualities. Irresponsible. Careless. She’s heard people call her ditzy . She stops herself from continuing the freight train of negativity. Raising a daughter, alone, is hard. And their annual trip is nonnegotiable.
Rosalie inches closer to the inn, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t forget your suitcase in the trunk. And take the keys out of the ignition.”
Caught, again, Cassidy circles back to the car, reaches in, and lunges for the keys. Slamming the door, she scours the property. Trees. Grass. Pond. Dullsville. Why couldn’t they have gone somewhere else?
Another car approaches, and a life-size Ken and Barbie hop out. Her long blond hair floats down her narrow shoulders; his ass is impeccable in fitted joggers. Cassidy winces at their youth. She’s been trying to replicate the woman’s smooth, dewy skin with a truckload of serums and creams. Their hands and arms coil together, so it’s hard to tell where he ends and she begins. They’ll eventually get to be her age. Life won’t be so kind.
An older couple exits the building. The woman’s got noticeable crow’s-feet and dimpled cheeks, and Cassidy inwardly smiles. Someone closer to her age. They make their way over, pride bursting from the woman’s greenish-brown eyes. “You must be Cassidy and Rosalie.” She smiles broadly. Could use a little filler. “I’m Renée De La Rue, and this is my husband, Jean-Paul.” Behind her, the door swings open, and a woman carrying a tray of champagne emerges. “That would be our niece, Simone.”
The man looks vaguely familiar. Thick salt-and-pepper hair matching a neatly trimmed beard. And then it hits her. A chubbier George Clooney. Renée De La Rue smiles while Simone hands out flutes. Simone looks to be in her twenties. Cassidy can tell by the flawless texture of her skin, the wavy brown hair. Simone attempts a conversation with Rosalie, but her daughter’s nervously biting her lip, eyes darting back and forth. Cassidy’s lost count of how many times she’s had to remind Rosalie of the importance of eye contact.
Renée and Jean-Paul make their way toward Barbie and Ken, and Cassidy overhears their names: “Adam and Sienna.” Charming, cute names. If she’s being honest, she didn’t accidentally overhear them. She craned her neck so she could eavesdrop while Rosalie pelted Simone with one-word responses. Cassidy brings the champagne glass to her lips, pausing as she assesses Sienna embracing the inn owners with her trim body. Pace yourself.
Renée makes a quick introduction, and Cassidy smiles—no teeth, her specialty. Renée motions for them to head inside. To the young couple she adds, “Your friends have already made themselves at home.”
Ken and Barbie skip ahead, disappearing inside the building, and Cassidy’s anxious to follow. “C’mon, Rosie.”
But her daughter hangs back, her black booties planted in the rocky driveway. “I can’t.” Her heavily made-up eyes land on the ground. “I think this was a mistake.”
“You’re just figuring that out now?” Cassidy’s annoyed but does her best to disguise it. “We could’ve been transforming ourselves, hiking the Sonoran Desert.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She turns, stricken. “I made a mistake. This was all a mistake.”
Cassidy sidles up to her, gripping her shoulder. “Rosie, what’s going on?” Rosalie is on the verge of tears. And Cassidy doesn’t do tears, can’t take people crying—the whole empathy thing coupled with drippy noses and flowery soliloquies. “Please don’t cry,” she whispers.
Rosalie stiffens at her mother’s touch. Stopping short of full-blown tears, she begins to count. Fast, consecutive numbers. “One. Two. Three. Four ...” Cassidy finds it almost as puzzling as the crying. The counting is a door that Cassidy can’t pass through, and she eventually stopped trying. When Rosalie reaches a comfortable number—today it’s one hundred and twenty-seven—she lets out a deep breath. “Mom.”
This stops Cassidy dead in her tracks. Rosalie has always called her Cassidy . It was a term of her arm’s-length endearment, and her quivering lips forming this foreign word— mom —means strap in . “I’m sorry ...” She struggles to get the words out. “I’m sorry I made you come here.”
A swearing woman might have asked her what the hell she was talking about. Cassidy is a swearing woman, but this isn’t the time or place. “You’re not making one iota of sense, Rosie.” But her daughter has already picked up her suitcase and marched toward the glass doors. The De La Rues wait nearby, smiling, and Cassidy silently prays Rosalie’s smiled back. Just because her daughter doesn’t make any sense to her doesn’t mean she hasn’t taught her manners.
“Ms. Banks,” Renée says softly as Cassidy enters the threshold. “I think being here will be good for both of you.”
Cassidy sees no hidden agenda on her face, but Renée’s eyes hint that she knows how to read people. And even though it’s a balmy day, a chill finds its way up Cassidy’s leg and spreads up her spine. She’s sure Renée doesn’t mean to sound foreboding, but she does.