Chapter 9 – Annabelle
Chapter Nine
ANNABELLE
Ididn’t go back to the coffee shop the next day. I couldn’t bring myself to face Charlie again. I’d been mortified. I bet he hadn’t shown up either. He likely thinks I’m full of shit and everything I told him was bullshit, but the truth is, I can’t say he’d be wrong in that.
I’m living a charade, a lie. This is so much harder than I thought it would be.
Working three jobs might be easier. At least when I was waiting tables or parking cars, I belonged where I was.
Still, even there I felt out of place, but people weren't calling me out about it.
Most of us were in the same boat. Here, I am way out of my league.
I hate how that other woman could so easily knock me down, but what I hate more is the fact that it affected me. It yanks me back to when I lived at home in Nebraska with my older sisters. I thought when I left, the bullying would be over in my life. I have quickly realized it’s everywhere.
My thoughts seem to conjure my past, and my phone goes off, a Nebraska number appearing.
That's the fourth one in the past twenty-four hours.
I ignore it and the urge to answer to make sure everything is okay back home.
They wouldn't extend that same courtesy to me.
Still, it's strange that someone from there is trying to reach me.
I get back to what I'm supposed to be doing.
A ladies' lunch. I had to google what they are to make sure I dress properly. I had completely forgotten about it until I checked my emails this morning and saw the invite there. I’d gotten so wrapped up in meeting with Charlie that it almost made me forget my responsibilities.
I had planned to send it to Wick to ask if there was anything I should know, but now it’s too late. He must want me to go. How else would this woman have gotten my email to begin with?
If I reach out now when I should be leaving shortly, he’ll think I’m not doing the things I should be. That I’m disorganized and not taking my duties seriously. He should have picked another woman.
“Not white,” I mutter to myself in the mirror, going back to the closet where I have now pushed my boxes. They were so out of place stacked in the bedroom, so I moved them in here, still not unpacking them. I can't bring myself to do it even though I know I need to.
I dig toward the bottom of one of the boxes and see a bright blue dress that my mother got me for church years ago. I kind of forgot about it. I toss it onto the giant island in the middle of the closet and stare at it. I’m not sure it will still fit me.
When I lived in Nebraska, I was better about eating right.
Better because I didn’t have much of a choice.
My mother and sisters never held back when it came to my appearance.
They said exactly what they were thinking.
Usually, it was about my weight. But with my newfound freedom came food, aka carbs.
“Ope.” I spin around, my eyes going over the boxes and spotting the one I need. I forgot about the dress I’d made. It was a hobby I’d picked up. If hobbies paid, I’d be a very rich girl.
The dress is conservative. It has sleeves that end a few inches after your elbow and the neckline does not show anything.
It fits snugly until you get to the waist, where I'd crafted a belt that you tie into a bow on one side.
Below it, the dress flares out. I stitched in tulle to help give the dress more volume. It has a very fifties vibe to it too.
When I return to the mirror this time, I actually smile. The dress gives me a little confidence. I could use it. I find my lacy short socks and put them on with my Mary Janes. I finish off with lip gloss and mascara. I didn't have to do much to my hair today. It very often has a mind of its own.
I cringe at my purse as I toss everything inside. It completely clashes with my outfit, but maybe I could shove it under a table when I get to lunch.
When I step off the elevator, I want to do a victory dance that I didn’t run into anyone, but it’s short-lived. Mr. Rise pops up out of nowhere.
“Mrs. Wickham.” Not sure I’ll ever get used to the last name being connected with me, but I suppose I don’t have to. This is only for a year.
“Hey,” I chirp. Mr. Rise is emotionless. I need this skill set, but how can one keep oneself from turning red?
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“Yes, the lunch thing.”
“The lunch thing.” His brows pull slightly together. Does he think I’m lying?
“Yeah, the invitation I got.”
“Does Mr. Wickman know?”
“I would assume.” I don’t think there’s much that man doesn’t know. He seems to be on top of every detail when it comes to these matters.
“I'll call for a car for you, then.”
“I'll take the bus,” I tell him. “In fact, I need to get going, or I'll miss it.”
“You can't take the bus.”
“What?” A small laugh leaves me. “I really have to go.” I sidestep him, not needing a lecture right now. I'm sure I have done something wrong.
I barely get to the bus in time but make it early for lunch.
Which had been my plan. I run my hands down my dress, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles as I take in the building.
It’s historical and beautiful. It's also very nice.
It screams wealth as you pass luxury shops to get to the elevator and head up to the rooftop.
When I step off the elevator, there is no one at the stand in the front. Shit, am I that early? I step to the side and pull my phone out of my bag to double-check the time.
“You,” a woman calls. I jerk my head up to see Caroline Winthrop. That's who the invite was addressed from. I googled her, and she was easy to recognize. What I’d found said she was in her mid-sixties, but you would never know it.
Her blond hair falls in waves, a shiny diamante clip pulling part of it back and out of her face. It’s made of diamonds, and I’m betting they’re real. That thought reminds me that I forgot to put my ring back on after my shower.
“Me?” I ask; it comes out in an awkward squeak.
“Yes, you. What is your name?”
“Belle, ah—” Caroline cuts me off before I can correct my name and finish it.
“Is that a new uniform?” Her eyes flick up and down me.
“No?”
“At least throw on an apron and come,” she orders, waving with her hand for me to hurry along.
“I’m sorry, Caroline, I—”
“Excuse me?” Her nose scrunches up in distaste. “It’s Mrs. Winthrop,” she corrects.
“Right.” She rolls her eyes at me, annoyed.
“Are you stupid, or do you want to be fired?” I press my lips together, not sure how to respond to her question. This woman is from my new husband's world; I don't want to ruffle any feathers. “Oh my fucking God,” she huffs before turning and storming off back into the restaurant.
I do the same but in the opposite direction. The one that leads me back the way I came and out of the building before I can mess this up any more than I already have. I pull out my phone and respond to the email with the invite, letting them know I unexpectedly got sick.
It's not a total lie; I do have the urge to vomit.