Chapter 36. Jade
Jade
I’m beginning to regret my promotion.
We’ve been working together for an hour, but somehow it feels like a full day.
Maeve’s usually organized environment is in disarray.
Papers are strewn across her bonheur du jour—that’s the proper name, according to Maeve, for her delicate writing desk, which is now cluttered with invitations and notebooks, all part of her party-planning tool kit.
She’s converted a plush stool into a makeshift workspace for the overflow paperwork.
The work is taking a toll on her—or maybe it’s her declining health.
By anyone’s standards, Maeve looks ready for the opera, but I know better.
Her perfectly coiffed hair has a few strands out of place.
Her eyes are sunken, like a college student after pulling an all-nighter.
A brooch hangs askew on her silky blouse, and her nails no longer have the sheen of a fresh weekly manicure.
It’s hard to work knowing my boss’s days are numbered, and Rose’s warning weighs heavily on me. Meanwhile, I’m toying with a mildly hazardous plan to ignore Conrad’s orders. I’m not vying for Employee of the Year, that’s for sure.
As for this party, we’ve already accomplished a lot in a short period.
The first task was the menu, which Maeve and I reviewed with the caterer.
For the record, if I were the caterer, I’d have quit.
Maeve made enough last-minute changes that it felt like starting from scratch—and she did so without even an apology.
On top of that, she added twenty more people to the guest list.
I could tell the caterer was fuming. Her tone was clipped as she acquiesced to one change after another until all of Maeve’s requests were approved. I’m guessing this is her biggest job of the summer, and she can’t afford to say no.
Next, we went over lighting, music (trust me, Maeve and I didn’t see eye to eye—all jazz?
no dance music? no hip-hop? gimme a break), and lastly, attire.
Maeve reviewed the dress code for the Barefoot Beach Ball, which unsurprisingly insisted upon no shoes.
It’s bright dresses, festive colors, upscale beachy.
Don’t show up in your ratty old bathing suit, she warned.
“This party is my ode to the ocean,” Maeve explains. She walks to the window, where she gazes at the vast expanse of water stretching out before her, like a sea captain’s wife keeping watch for her husband’s return.
With her back to me, Maeve whispers, “Finis…”
She’s talking to herself, but I speak up, “Finis? What does that mean?”
Maeve turns around, narrowing her eyes. “It’s Latin, often used at the end of a play or a film. People these days are so unsophisticated. Google it, you might learn something.”
Ouch. For a second, I thought Maeve and I were having a moment, but I’m quickly grounded back in the reality of her hierarchy.
“Also, we need to work on your outfit. You can’t look like you shop at Goodwill,” she quips. I don’t bother telling her that I’ve actually stolen from Goodwill. “What sort of dresses do you own?”
Shame washes over me, then a rush of sadness. My mother was too busy drinking to take me shopping. Besides, appearances aren’t so important when you’re focused on survival.
“I don’t actually own a dress,” I confess, assessing my jeans and Converse sneakers, feeling woefully inadequate.
Maeve shakes her head with the judgment of a Catholic school nun. “I figured as much,” she grumbles.
From her closet, she removes a garment bag.
“I found this when I was going through some old things. I know, I’m supposed to leave that job up to you, but I get bored spending my days convalescing.
” She gestures to the bag. “Open it. I’m pretty sure it will fit.
I have an eye for these things. Of course, you don’t have to wear it, but you certainly can’t come to the party in that.
” Her side-eye is harsh, but I swear she follows it with a half smile.
Maeve Carmichael, you might just like me.
“Th-thank you,” I stutter, unzipping the bag.
“If it fits, I would love to wear it.” And that’s not a lie.
Just because I like dark eyeliner and studded jewelry doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate pretty clothing.
It’s a sleeveless shift dress by Lilly Pulitzer in a vibrant blue, decorated with an intricate swirling paisley pattern in shades of teal and white.
The light fabric and above-the-knee hemline make it breezy and summery.
I thank Maeve for the dress, which is perfect and has a neckline that would show off my necklace if it hadn’t been trampled on.
Which reminds me … “Mrs. Carmichael … I don’t suppose you’ve seen a necklace like this around town?
” I take the silver chain out from under my tee and show her the jade stone that’s always in my pocket.
“I know it’s not your caliber of jewelry, but I want to get it repaired at the same place that sold it.
It’s definitely from around here—I just don’t know where. ”
Maeve examines the jewelry shrewdly, flipping it over to inspect the inscription on the back.
If eyes could scoff …
“Probably came from a trinket shop on the boardwalk,” she says. “I wouldn’t waste time trying to fix it.”
I must look disappointed, because she adds, “But if it’s important to you, I’ll find someone to repair it.” She places it on a small tray on her desk. I almost protest—I don’t want to leave my necklace behind—but a high-pitched beeping noise interrupts us.
Maeve looks up, annoyed. “That’s my medication alarm. Dr. Hill prescribed new medicine I have to take four times a day. Four times. Who can be bothered?” She heads to her bureau to get her pills. She has five different pill bottles lined up in a row.
“Fetch me some water from the tap, will you, Jade? It’s filtered.” Maeve hands me a glass, and I dutifully go to her private bath. I still can’t get over how obnoxiously ostentatious it is—marble everything, gold fixtures everywhere.
When I return, she’s fumbling with the cap, unable to open it.
“Enough with these childproof caps already. Who do they think is going to get into my heart medicine?”
“Here, let me,” I offer as I place the glass on her bedside table.
It’s humbling. I struggle to get the cover off, too.
I feel genuinely sorry for Maeve. Someone should be organizing her pills, putting them into those cases with the days and times.
It’s too easy to get confused when you take so many medications.
I worry Maeve will need full-time nursing soon, but I’m glad that’s not part of my job description.
I’m still struggling with this ridiculous cap when all of a sudden it pops off and pills go everywhere—and I do mean everywhere. At least they’re blue and the carpeting is a pinky-beige, so they’re relatively easy to spot.
“Oh shit.” The swearword slips out as I get down on my hands and knees to retrieve the tiny tablets. They’re under the bed, under the dresser, inside Maeve’s slippers, and she is none too pleased.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll get them all, I promise.” It takes a while, but I’m fairly certain I’ve collected every last pill. To be sure, I check with Maeve. “Do you know how many there should be?”
“I haven’t taken a dose yet, so there should be a hundred and twenty capsules. Count them all. I don’t want a single pill vacuumed up.”
I may have fallen back out of Maeve’s good graces, but I carry the handful of pills to the dresser, where I placed the bottle.
I count and recount like a banker—all hundred and twenty pills are there.
As I drop each one back into the bottle, I notice something else.
I don’t remember the exact names of the medications I overheard Conrad and Dr. Hill discussing, but this one doesn’t sound famliliar.
I sneak a peek at the other four bottles, and I don’t recognize those either.
Were Dr. Hill and Conrad discussing a different patient? If so, who?
Either way, Maeve doesn’t look well to me at all. She sprawls out on her chaise, feet up, back of her hand pressed to her forehead as if she’s suddenly spiked a fever. “Take a break, Jade,” she orders. “I’m going to rest for a while.”
I check the time. Normally at this hour, Maeve would be getting ready for her daily swim. But not today. Her swimsuit is nowhere to be found. Sadness washes over me as I wonder if she’ll have the strength and vitality to dive into the salty waters of her beloved ocean ever again.