Chapter 6
SIX
In the pages of the program, row after row of toothy women smiled, all of them wearing a rose somewhere on their person: woven into their hair, behind an ear, on a wrist corsage, or—and this was my favorite—in their mouths.
Props to that lady, I decided, glancing down at her bio.
Tina Kline likes to bake dairy-free, gluten-free cheesecake in her free time. Yuck, never mind.
In my other hand I held a bag containing the welcome packet, an itinerary, and a tiny jar of honey with a label featuring a purple bee.
Rose Palace Honey, the words across the front read.
Hand-harvested by Mr. Frederick Finch. Perhaps he was trying to seem like an approachable everyman rather than a millionaire who invited dozens of gorgeous women into his home once a year.
I wasn’t sure that this jar could accomplish that.
Aunt DeeDee still hadn’t appeared or answered my calls or texts.
I’d officially checked in, and though my room wasn’t ready yet, staff would be delivering my bag to my tiny cottage somewhere on the grounds.
According to the itinerary, I was scheduled to appear in the Main Ballroom in less than an hour.
In the meantime, I’d settled into a chair in the expansive lobby and was flipping through the pageant program that the lady at the front desk—who’d also been my driver’s ed instructor—had handed me, along with an electronic key and a pitying smile.
“Good luck, sweetheart,” she’d said, patting my hand. How had I gone from the top ten percent of Aubergine High’s senior class to… I don’t know… Most Likely to Evoke Pitying Glances?
On the front of the glossy program, published by our very own Aubergine Press, Savilla Finch stood in front of a wreath of pink and white roses, a crown featuring a multitude of gems on her head, and “Page 7” written next to her name.
I flipped to it and found a double spread featuring the First Daughter of the Rose Palace Pageant.
Savilla Finch hails from Aubergine, Virginia.
She’s been an honorary contestant every year since her twenty-second birthday, and before that, she acted as pageant mascot.
As seen in last year’s talent show, Savilla can shoot archery, but that’s only one of her impressive accomplishments. After graduating from Sarah Lawrence—
After Daddy bought a building, I added mentally.
—with a degree in Art History, she returned home for a week each summer to help her family run the show. Though the Finches now spend most of the year in New York, Savilla helps with planning in and out of season.
Strange that Aunt DeeDee and Lacy had never mentioned Savilla’s involvement.
Just like bees drawn to roses, every attendee and contestant is drawn to our very own First Daughter of the Rose Palace Pageant. Congratulations!
I read that final word a couple of times. What exactly was this writer congratulating Savilla for? Her birth into this family? Then I spotted the author name at the top of the article. Ah. It was Savilla, congratulating herself. That checked out.
I leaned my head against the soft chair and closed my eyes, thinking of the heiress of this estate and the flawless contestants I’d seen checking in.
I thought of Momma writing the letter shortly before she died, filling out the application on my behalf, deciding I could be one of them.
My chest ached with longing to see her again.
I must’ve dozed off because I startled a few minutes later when a gentle chime sounded above and around me. Next, my aunt’s voice—prerecorded, it seemed—came across the sound system, reminding contestants that their presence was required in the ballroom.
“The festivities are about to begin!” Aunt DeeDee’s drawling timbre proclaimed from a discreet speaker hidden behind numerous plants in the corner.
I stood and ran my fingers through my hair, taking a deep breath as I tucked the pageant program under my arm. The first C was confidence, so I tried to gather my courage and ready myself for whatever came next.
When I arrived on the second floor for the meet and greet, I walked past another long gallery where gems were displayed along the wall, lights shining on the topaz and jade, opals and quartz, emeralds and aquamarines.
Some of the jewels had been grafted into patterns fitted into necklaces and crowns, labeled with the year of the pageant in which they’d been worn, but others stood uncut as giant, glittering wonders.
I passed a case with a massive rock that had been sliced open, showing off sparkling purple and white stones, in front of a sign for The Rose Palace Pageant Color Gallery.
I knew from Aubergine lore that this was how the Finches had continued to make money: finding, excavating, buying, and trading precious—and perhaps illegally obtained—gems, which they then turned into exquisite jewelry, a tiny percentage of which the pageant winners wore.
The slogan, placed strategically at every Aubergine event they sponsored, read, Finch Gems for the Jewel in Your Life.
Police officers milled around one empty case, devoid of treasure, along the periphery of the hall, which was probably larger than the entirety of Momma’s house. One policeman was dusting for fingerprints, another stood watch, and a third jotted notes in a handheld spiral notebook.
My eyes were drawn to the case like a homing beacon, maybe because of the police presence or maybe because it was on the outskirts, like I wanted to be. The light still shone on the empty black velvet that had once held a crown from… Miss 2001.
My breath caught. The year of the missing pageant queen—and the missing cardboard cutout. What was it with that year’s winner? Had she suddenly resurfaced to reclaim her crown? Was someone trying to remind us contestants what might happen to us if we won?
I stepped into the ballroom, where banners featuring the names of the winners hung around the room.
I tried to recall what I knew about 2001’s winner as my eyes scanned the names until I landed on Glenda Finch, Savilla’s beloved “StepMommy.” But I knew—everyone knew—that Glenda hadn’t been the actual winner that year.
That title had gone to the disappearing queen, and Glenda had merely stepped in and taken the crown second-hand. Runner-up turned royalty.
At least two dozen contestants, giggling and hugging one another as if they were old friends, were already swarming around me.
Each of them wore not only a symbolic and colorful hat atop their head, but also had a refined beauty that no amount of Aunt DeeDee’s ministrations could impart to me: the swoosh of hair, the soft laugh, the swanlike movements of hands and arms and feet.
These women looked like they belonged in this ballroom awash with banners and glinting gold fixtures and shimmering chandeliers, but as I walked through them, parting the crowd, all eyes turned to me.
Confidence, comportment, conversation… I chanted in my mind, forgetting the stupid last C.
Calm? Cheerful? Clean? Dammit. My stomach roiled, but I planted my feet and thought of the prize money and my family’s financial situation.
I needed to place this weekend. I didn’t have to win, but I needed to appear in the top three.
I pasted on a smile, hoping to compensate.
It must’ve done the trick because they looked away and resumed their chatter.
Savilla shrieked as she ran over to me and grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin.
“I think I’ll just watch from the corner,” I said, motioning with my head as I tried to yank my arm from her grasp.
“Don’t be silly,” she insisted, as she pulled me back to the women with whom she’d been speaking.
I considered running in the opposite direction but noticed the other ladies watching with curiosity.
I wondered if they knew I was DeeDee’s niece, if they were judging me as much as I was trying not to judge them.
Regardless, it seemed that if I was friendly with Savilla then they wanted to know me.
The connection alone could serve me well this week.
“Ladies, this is Dakota Green,” Savilla said, showing me off. “She’s a top contestant this year, comes from a geriatrical line of queens. Her great-grandmother and aunt were winners.”
“I think you mean matriarchal,” I said quietly, so as not to embarrass her.
“You’re hilarious,” Savilla said in response. “But those winners… they are old now, aren’t they?” She blinked innocently enough.
I supposed she was right: Aunt DeeDee was in her sixties and my great-grandmother would have been close to a hundred and thirty now. Touché.
The first woman, Jemma Jenkins, smoothed her platinum-blond hair and looked me up and down with her steely blue eyes as if sizing up the competition. She didn’t seem to recognize me from earlier, even though I must have still looked like the help in her eyes.
“Dakota Green, this is Jemma Jenkins. She’s an aspiring actress, lives in New York,” Savilla continued. “She’s been in two off-Broadway shows and is trying out for a much-anticipated musical in a few weeks. It’s Hamilton meets Cats. Very nouveau art.”
Very.
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Jemma put out a hand and offered a strained smile.
“And this is Summer Patel,” Savilla said, motioning to a woman with dark brown hair, cut and highlighted to perfectly frame her face. Her hat was red and wide-brimmed with a giant bow stuck on the back. “She’s a kindergarten teacher, and this is her third year competing.”
A kindergarten teacher was a surprising occupation for this crew, who I’d assumed either had pretend jobs—artiste, actor, writer—or lived off of family money. But going to work every day surrounded by little people with sticky hands and runny noses was real work. I was impressed.