Chapter 10 #2
By the time June’s done with her, Grace’s eyebrows, eyelashes, eyelids, cheeks, lips—hell, even her neck is painted with foundation and then dusted with some sort of iridescent powder—are all done up.
When June begins to pile everything into her carry-on-suitcase-size makeup bag, Grace thinks she’s done, she’s finally been released and can go look at herself in the mirror.
But as she starts to stand, June pushes her shoulders back down, forcing her to plop back onto the toilet.
“No,” she says, then reaches behind Grace to gently release her ponytail.
She fans her brown locks over her shoulder, the slightly frizzy almost-waves falling down her chest. June kinks an eyebrow, tapping her lip with her index finger.
“Now we need to do something about this.”
An immeasurable amount of time passes before June finally takes a step back from where Grace stands in front of the bathroom sink, looks her up and down, and smiles brightly. “I knew I was good,” she muses, shaking her head in wonder. “But I didn’t realize I was this good.”
Grace lets out a little sigh, her patience already far past its limit.
When June had started clamping swaths of hair into a curling iron, Grace had realized that this is why she never cared to learn how to primp herself.
The task itself outweighs the reward by a long shot.
She’s going to wear this makeup and hairstyle for a couple of hours, and then she’s going to come back here and scrub it all away.
Three hours of work, gone with one swipe of a washcloth.
But then June gently twirls her around to look at herself in the mirror, and all her internal mutterings—ridiculous waste of time, can’t believe I’m letting her do this, how the hell am I going to keep this dress from riding up—cease entirely.
Because—for perhaps the first time in her adult life—Grace looks like a woman.
A real, red-blooded, rosy-cheeked woman with shiny, bronzed skin, unblemished and unfreckled beneath the dewy foundation.
Her brown eyes sparkle under the harsh fluorescent lights, and there’s a perfectly placed touch of color on the apples of her cheeks.
When she turns her head, she finds a glow that crawls up her cheekbone toward her temple—a gold-and-silver-flecked streak that reminds her of a river glistening in the sun.
The chestnut-brown curls she keeps tucked in constant ponytails cascade loosely, freely over her shoulders and past her breasts—they’re what June referred to as “beachy,” because they’re supposed to mimic the effortless waves that form after a day drenched in salt water.
She doesn’t realize tears are welling in her eyes until June’s face morphs from ecstatic pride to concern in the flash of a second. “What the—” She steps forward, coming shoulder to shoulder with Grace and looking at her in the mirror. “Don’t cry. If you ruin that eyeliner, I’ll kill you.”
A wet little laugh bursts from Grace’s throat, accompanied by a sniffle.
“Honey,” June says, reaching for one of Grace’s hands. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Grace replies quickly, sucking in a deep breath and looking up at the ceiling. “I’m fine. You did a really great job.”
“Well, obviously,” June touts. Then she squeezes Grace’s hand, beckoning her to look at her. When Grace does, she says, “So, why the tears?”
Grace manages a shaky smile. “I, um—” She peeks at herself in the mirror, and the person staring back at her stuns her all over again.
“No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.
” She looks at June, swallows down the emotion as it floods back in, this time with a vengeance. “I’ve never seen myself like this.”
Something changes in June’s face at Grace’s words.
It looks like an altering, a glimpse of the woman she is underneath it all.
A softness she doesn’t let others see. Nurturing.
Protective. Warm. “Grace,” she says, rubbing her thumb over the back of Grace’s hand.
“You’re beautiful.” The statement brooks no argument.
She has a way of making statements sound irrefutable.
Like if she were to declare the sky is green, then it simply would be.
June swings her around by the arm to look at herself again, all the softness turning into supportive resolve. “And it’s about damn time you knew it.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
The sun is still high in the azure evening sky when music begins to resonate throughout Halcyon.
The ranch hands walk over to the lawn in a jumble of pearl snaps and shiny leather boots, some nearly hopping on their heels with excitement.
Grace feels decidedly less agile in June’s white ostrich boots, which are a size too small for her but—according to June—looked too good with the sundress to leave behind.
Emerging from the bathroom once June finally deemed her ready had been quite the experience.
The reactions to her new look ranged from silent, slack-jawed awe to loud whoops and whistles.
Only Forty had managed to actually form words in response, walking up to Grace once the frenzy had quieted down and telling her, with that gentle sincerity he always carries, “You look gorgeous, darlin’.
Don’t let any of these idiots get too close—they might drool on your pretty dress. ”
They arrive at the lawn; the party and all its bells and whistles are laid out before them like a portal into another world.
How a team of people managed to plop this perfectly curated scene into the middle of a ranch in the dead of summer, Grace has no clue.
But it’s beautiful, and, in Renata Caldwell fashion, not a single detail is unimportant.
People Grace has never seen before are mingling among the tables, holding bottles of beer and wineglasses, dressed in expertly starched shirts and felt hats molded with care to perfectly fit their heads.
They all look like they share the same tax bracket with the Caldwells, and even in her new state of feminine glamour, Grace can’t help but feel a bit underdressed.
The guys all make a beeline toward the bar, Grace following a few paces behind with June. “What do you think?” the blonde asks, clearly not nearly as impressed with all of this as Grace.
“It’s really something,” Grace replies, still taking it all in. Renata and Clint are near the dance floor talking to a man with a guitar hanging from his neck. He looks familiar, but Grace can’t quite put a name to his face.
June follows her line of sight and smirks, nodding knowingly. “That’s Bryce Carrigan, in case you were wondering.”
Grace looks at her, eyes widening. “Bryce Carrigan, like—”
“The guy who just won a Grammy and did a duet with Kacey Musgraves? Yeah.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yep,” June says, nodding. “Honestly, I’m kind of surprised. He’s small potatoes, comparatively.”
Grace isn’t sure she even wants to know what that means, but her eyebrows tilt up in question anyway.
June smiles, her eyes glittering with playfulness. “Last year was George Strait.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Cold beers in hand, Grace and June decide to make a lap around the party.
A sea of strange faces stretches out before them, and Grace can’t ignore the flare of nerves that rises up in her belly at the sight.
She knows her uncle wouldn’t come all the way here—the drive would take hours, and what would he even do once he arrived?
There are men in all-black attire with walkie-talkies and guns at their hips strategically placed around the perimeter of the party.
Close enough to blend in, far away enough to be invisible, depending on where a person is standing.
Against that kind of muscle, her uncle would fold like a cheap polyester suit.
Whether June notices her unease or not, Grace can’t be sure, but she chalks it up to a woman’s intuition when June leans in and starts whispering in Grace’s ear about the guests.
It’s a welcome distraction from her paranoia.
Grace indulges her by following her gaze as she looks out at the dance floor.
A man and a woman sway near the center, neither really moving their feet.
He’s silver haired and large in stature, dwarfing his petite companion.
His arms are wrapped possessively around her shoulders, and she seems to smile only when he looks at her.
Otherwise, she seems like she’d rather be anywhere else.
The closer Grace looks, the clearer it becomes that the woman is younger than him. Much younger.
“Julian MacArthur,” June says, nodding in his direction.
She looks slightly disgusted, and soon, Grace understands why.
“Oil baron kind of money—richer than the Caldwells. Richer than God, honestly. He’s got his hands in all kinds of pots, but mostly horses and sponsoring bull riders.
And that’s his new wife, Makayla.” June looks at Grace, kinks a judgmental brow, and says, “She’s twenty-three. ”
“Ew,” Grace replies. “New wife?”
June nods. “Left his first wife after forty years or something like that. Four kids, all grown. And—” June folds her arms over her chest, staring once more at the man, who, to Grace, somehow looks colder, more menacing than he did seconds ago.
“The real kicker is he made her sign a prenup before they got married. She got to keep the house and one of the Porsches. One. He took the rest.”
One Porsche—a cool hundred grand, tossed over this man’s shoulder like scraps for a dog. Grace lets out a humorless laugh at the thought.