Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Amara’s tower rooms were unchanged. The setup was beautiful; even at her most angsty, she could never deny the trappings were sweet.
The queen-size bed with a semicircle headboard (still sporting the clamp reading lights she would attach, her mother would hide, she would find and reattach) was square in the middle of the room, and the curved wardrobe was opposite the fireplace.
A chandelier with artificial candles hung over the middle of the room, and there were the de rigueur overstuffed chairs (two, upholstered in forest green, with matching, uncomfortable throw pillows) but no end tables.
Her mother felt they would look awkward in a round room, comparing them to skin tags.
She went to the wardrobe, opened it, observed the few outfits she’d left behind on her last visit, two—no, three—wait, five?—years ago, and wondered what the hell she was thinking when she’d paired cream-colored clogs with baby blue bike shorts.
There’d be time enough to burn her old clothes later; what she needed was the bathroom mirror.
That room, too, was unchanged; the marble sink still sported a faint mint-colored smear from her green-hair phase, and the drawer of her vanity was stuffed with eyeshadow palettes in various shades of violet.
Why did I keep buying the same basic colors over and over?
A fortune! A fortune on mauve! She rummaged, then scowled down at the tube of Milani’s Pink Frost lipstick.
Why? It made me look like I just guzzled a Pepto-Bismol smoothie.
She made a mental note to have a long soak in the whirlpool tub, then opened the cupboard beneath the sink and pulled out two towels.
Then she opened the medicine cabinet: Tums, Visine, ibuprofen, a box of Band-Aids, a nail clipper, deodorant, Jo Malone’s Sweet Milk perfume.
And a box of L’Oreal Paris Excellence permanent hair color in Dark Neutral Brown.
Not that she needed it, given the stash she’d lugged from Minnesota. But still: good to know.
She checked the expiration date, replaced it with a newer box, and got to work.