5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Emma
There aren’t many things I hate more than being wrong, but proving Dacre Everhart right is at the top of that list. I finger the cloth napkin in my hand and shamelessly breathe in the scent of it. There’s a black D.E. embroidered on the edge.
Okay, there is shame involved, even in the safety of my room.
I didn’t mean to steal it. In my rush to leave Dacre’s family mansion, I must have gathered it up on my way out.
Is it stealing if it wasn’t intentional?
Though I have no plans to give it back for two reasons: one, because Dacre is a jerk who doesn’t deserve it and probably hasn’t noticed it was missing, and two, because it sits on my nightstand, and I can’t bring myself to wash it.
His cologne lingers where he touched it.
He must bathe in the stuff because even though it was used once to wipe his face, there’s no trace of any lingering food odor.
I like the smell, and I don’t care to admit that embarrassment to any soul alive, including my sisters.
I’m having a hard time accepting it myself.
I sigh and grab my phone to type a message:
Mom, Dacre asked me to be his source.
I can’t believe I’m even typing that.
I wait a few more seconds.
Don’t worry, I didn’t say yes. I don’t think I will . . . Probably not. But either way, don’t worry about me. I’m being careful.
There’s a strange, hollow feeling when I hit send, only to see the message notification to myself pop up a few seconds later, and I’m left alone in the silence of my room.
I don’t always feel sad about her being gone. I try hard not to be sad about it, ever. Even on her birthday, I make her favorite cake and try to make it like any other birthday.
Sadness never helped anything. It was grief that nearly tore my family apart. But sometimes, when I imagine what I would do if she were actually alive and able to answer my messages . . . it makes me feel so hollow inside that I don’t know how to make it end.
I type one last message.
I love you. Hope your day is good.
I like to imagine my mother sitting on a warm, sunny patio with a coffee in her hand, reading the morning paper, her dark hair and violet eyes warmed by the sun.
There’s a gaping emptiness that accompanies it, reminding me that there is a hole in my life that nothing is ever going to be able to fill.
Spending time wallowing won’t bring her back, and I already allowed myself my ten minutes of sad time this morning when I put on the locket she gave me and thought about the moment she strung it around my neck for the first time.
I jump as my phone vibrates. It’s not her, but sometimes, for a split second, I throw caution to the wind and pretend it is.
It’s the Doxlothia University News notification: Culinary Club to Announce Its Second Semester Barring New Students From Applying.
A scream curdles in my throat and I snatch the nearest pillow from my bed to smother it. Why is Dacre doing this? Surely, this can’t all be because of me. Doesn’t this man have anything better to do than ruin my life?
“That’s too bad,” he’d said.
I have a radar for bullshit and sarcasm. He never thought I’d say yes. But then, why ask? How does he benefit from keeping me out of the culinary club? What have I done that’s so terrible that he can’t stand the thought of me being there? Why does he care?
Without the prestige of the club, I’ll still get to study in the culinary specialty.
It’s not as if I don’t care about the basic curriculum classes, like Interspecies Reproduction 101 or Potions for the Curious; I even started taking extra classes on the weekend because I find them so fascinating.
But those things won’t get me a position as an executive pastry chef in the city.
The culinary club gets access to legacy recipes, a huge kitchen and lounge, and the top chefs all over Vviveren.
You have to be in the culinary club if you want to be anybody in the culinary world.
The biggest restaurant owners in the city are all Doxlothia alumni and former members of the culinary club.
My pity party is interrupted by the time on my nightstand clock.
I dash from Luxxia House to the castle, nearly dropping the plate full of crepes decorated with little star sprinkles in my hand.
I woke up early to make my dad breakfast so we could eat in his office before classes started.
I learned to bake with my mom . . . Then, when she wasn’t there anymore, I studied as much as I could and cooked for the house.
Tweaked recipes. Worked through any recipe books Dad would bring me.
Practiced and dreamed. That’s when I started to decorate all my dad’s favorite foods with little star sprinkles as my signature. He loves it.
Edwin Osborne has never been into anything mystical his whole life—that was Mom.
She was the dreamer and believer in everything childlike and awe-inspiring.
But now, one of my dad’s and my favorite things to do together is to stargaze and talk about the good days before Mom disappeared and took all that whimsy and life with her.
Now it’s up to me to keep it alive.
Dad’s sitting at his desk with his head in a book when I enter, his golden eyes rimmed with dark circles. He’s been extra anxious since Olivia’s hospitalization and likes to spend any time he can close to us. My sisters don’t always agree to spending time with him, but I do.
I’m the only one who visits him in his office, I think.
He has staff housing on campus, but he’s often working late, as if he’s afraid it’s going to get up and walk away from him at any second.
After Mom died, he stopped working, so he’s been away for a long time.
It’s nice to see him working on his passions again. It’s what Mom would have wanted.
“Honey, I heard the news about the culinary club. I’m sorry.”
It’s been days since Dacre’s proposal, and as the week stretches on, I get more restless. Every day is another day I don’t get to be in the club, and when our eyes meet in the hall, he smirks as if he knows something funny that I don’t.
“It’s almost as if they don’t want me to join.”
“Nonsense. I talked to Dacre’s grandfather this morning at the board meeting. He asked about you.”
“Me? You’re joking. Don’t get my hopes up. I’m not in the mood for blind optimism.”
“Never, honey. They’ve barred new entries this year based on the board members’ wishes.”
“What did he say about me, though? He wants me to join? He’s willing to back my nomination?”
“No, it was a brief conversation, but he doesn’t normally say more than two words to me, so it was noteworthy. He just asked about you and how you were in passing.”
“That’s it?”
He nods and pops a crepe into his mouth. His plump cheeks round into a wide smile. “New recipe?”
“I tweaked it a little.”
So it’s not Dacre barring me from the culinary club .
. . Unless he’s doing it all behind closed doors, giving everyone in charge reasons not to accept new students explicitly so I won’t be able to get in.
But that’s crazy, because why would someone go to such great lengths to keep me out?
What does he think I’m going to do? Besmirch the prestige of the culinary club by poisoning everyone in a fit of revenge for not letting me in sooner?
“What do you know about the Everhart family?” I say, plopping down on the beanbag chair (I personally requested it for his office) and fixing my lip gloss in the little plaque on his desk.
“Dacre’s grandfather, Clyde, holds the oldest standing seat on the board of directors. A proud man. He doesn’t smile much, but many of them don’t. I’ve had some run-ins with him from time to time but haven’t spoken to him since I got back.”
“What kind of run-ins?”
“Just some rumors about his dealings with students. He was investigated by the dean and was proven to be innocent.”
“Dealings? . . . As in . . .”
I’m sure there are things he’s not supposed to tell me, but he knows I’m not one to keep questions lingering in the air. Someone has to pick them up and make a fuss, or nothing will ever be solved.
“He was allegedly caught bribing a student, but there was never any evidence.”
So his family is rich and cuts deals. That checks. Dacre is toying with me . . . but why?
Telling my dad isn’t an option. He’s too close to everything, and it will make a mess. I’ll need to think about it before I bring it up.
“Well, what does the dean think?” I ask.
“They’re great friends.”
I scoff.
“What is this about?”
“Nothing. I just feel like this place has history, and everyone knows everyone.”
“Most places in Vviveren do, honey. Dacre’s family is one of Doxlothia’s founding families and has been a major donor for centuries. And since Clyde’s marriage, he has been the chairman of the Donor Program.”
“So they’re extremely rich, then.”
“Precisely.”
That also means my dad and Dacre’s grandfather likely don’t get along. My dad has hated the Donor Program since my mom died. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. She loved volunteering as a donor, but after years in her career as a ballerina while donating, her heart gave out.
He’s not as vocal about it as he used to be, but I see the crinkle in his brow when he mentions it.
“You’re a grown woman. I know you all don’t need me here. I’m not sure your sisters enjoy me crowding into their lives, but it’s good to be back.”
“They’re happy you’re here. Especially me, a little extra. Now I don’t need to call you multiple times a day.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
So maybe my only way to get into the culinary club is through Dacre, and he’s made it nearly impossible by making a demand he knows I’ll refuse.
I guess that leaves one other option.