“Don’t worry,” he adds. “When you and I have our own place again, you can make all your famous recipes that I grew to love.” He reaches over and pats my leg. “Come on. Get dressed. I’m hungry, and I can hear the thoughts of my mother now. She’s pacing the floor. I can bet anything on that right now.”
Not an easy woman, Christopher says.
Not an easy woman.
I guess Papa Rich wasn’t an easy man.
I’ve had practice.
6
Ember
It’s loud when we walk downstairs. I hear voices, and the first thing I see is the television on with both Christopher and me on the screen. I’m on television. My face is on television.
Christopher walks straight to the TV and stands in front of it. I stay near him, because I feel I need to in order to be defended against the storm about to hit, but I divert my eyes from the screen. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to stare the devil that was our past straight in the eye.
“Fuck,” Christopher says under his breath.
“Oh good, you two are finally up,” Mrs. Davenport says as she enters the room followed by a man in a suit and tie, his hair slicked back, and black glasses that seem to barely balance on the edge of his nose. “Jason and I’ve been waiting. He’s come up with some good ideas for us to get ahead of this situation.”
“Looks like the situation is already moving along full force without us,” Christopher says, still watching the news on the television.
“As I was telling Louisa,” Jason says, “I’ve started to work on a statement for you to say. Right now, the media sees you both as victims, which means they are going to be sympathetic to your need for privacy during this difficult time. At least on the surface. Everyone will want to get the full scoop, so we need to decide who we’re giving the story to.”
Christopher turns away from the television and sighs. He then places a hand on my lower back and starts to lead me out of the room. “At least allow Ember and me to get some breakfast in us before we start planning for battle.”
Louisa chimes in, “We need to listen to Jason. He knows how to handle—”
“I get it, Mom,” Christopher snaps, and I suddenly see the man from last night that I don’t recognize. I instantly want the man I was just in bed with to return.
The phone rings as we both take our seats at a long wooden table. An elegant chandelier hangs above us, and the glass is reflecting beams of light around the room. I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t want to touch the table in fear of leaving fingerprints on the shiny surface.
Ms. Evans pokes her head out from a door. “Oh good, you are both here. I’ll have your breakfast out in a second. I hope you’re hungry.”
I start to get up to help her, but Christopher places his hand on my lap to signal for me to sit. Remembering the conversation from earlier about Ms. Evans not wanting help in the kitchen, I remain in place and… wait. I’ve never had someone bring me food before when all I do is sit at a table. I don’t like it. I like to feel useful. I like to serve the ones I love. I want to be Christopher’s wife and cook him a breakfast I know he’ll love. Ms. Evans isn’t his wife; I am. What would Papa Rich say if he knew I’m just sitting here doing nothing?
“Christopher,” Mrs. Davenport says from the threshold of the doorway. “The phone’s for you. It’s your editor at Rolling Stone.”
“I’ll be right back,” Christopher says to me as he gets up from the chair, takes the phone from his mother, then walks to the other room.
Mrs. Davenport then redirects her attention to me, walks up to the table, and stares down at my bare feet.
“We wear shoes at the dining table in this house,” she says between clenched teeth and low enough in tone that only I can hear her.
I glance down at my toes and then back at her, embarrassed I’ve clearly displeased her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to the slippers the police gave us. When I got out of the shower last night, everything was gone.”
“Christopher had everything thrown away. I can’t say I blame him. He’ll want to forget every part of his horrible ordeal, and I’ll do my best to make sure he can.”
So, if she knows my shoes were thrown away, why would she question that I don’t have any shoes on?
Ms. Evans enters the dining room with two plates of breakfast. “I wasn’t sure how you took your eggs, so I made omelets just to be safe for today.”
“What size shoe do you wear?” Mrs. Davenport asks, still towering over me.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I didn’t wear shoes before.”
Her mouth opens wide, her eyes even wider. “What do you mean? You never wore a pair of shoes in your life?”
I steal a glance at Ms. Evans, who just stands motionless with the plates in her hands. I then look at Mrs. Davenport, resentful that I have to discuss this memory that I’d rather not. “Papa Rich didn’t allow me to wear shoes.”
“You poor girl,” Ms. Evans says softly as she places the plates of food in front of me and Christopher’s chair.
Mrs. Davenport clutches her neck for a moment and then gently massages the skin. “Well… Ms. Evans, can you go upstairs and try to find a pair of shoes that might fit her of mine. Her foot doesn’t look too different than my own.” She looks at the dress I’m wearing. “My dress seems to fit you fine enough.”
I nod, looking at the pale pink dress, and force a smile. “Thank you. It fits perfectly.”
When I got dressed this morning in the dress and walked out of the bathroom to Christopher, his nose wrinkled, and he told me that we would need to get me my own clothes immediately. He obviously didn’t like seeing me in his mother’s clothing. I wonder what he will think seeing me wear her shoes.
“I think you should follow Ms. Evans upstairs to receive the shoes,” she continues. When I look at my breakfast, she says, “Your meal will still be here when you return. Plus, it would be rude to eat before Christopher returns to the table.”
Her tone of voice reminds me of Papa Rich’s when he feels I don’t do something Godly. I know better than to ever question that tone.
Without saying another word, I scoot my chair out, stand up, and follow Ms. Evans up the stairs barefoot. I can almost feel Mrs. Davenport’s stare singeing the flesh on my back.
Mrs. Davenport’s foot is a little bigger than mine, but not by much. Ms. Evans finds a pair that she feels will do. “This pair is a bit smaller,” she says. “Mrs. Davenport will suffer for style and squeeze her feet into shoes that are a bit too small if she has to. Lucky for you.”
I reach for the black heels and wonder if they will be considered too fancy, but I also know I don’t have a choice. And looking around Mrs. Davenport’s closet—which is as large as a bedroom—I don’t see any simple shoes or boots. Everything seems so… expensive and luxurious.
“I’m sorry I didn’t help with breakfast,” I say, feeling the need to apologize regardless of what Christopher said. The woman seems so kind, and I want her to know how I feel.