“Were you paid for it?” Doris sits forward. “Did you work in Florida?”
She says work like some people say pus.
“Not work,” I say with a smile, even though I feel like I’m choking on every word. “More of a favor for someone who needed some guidance.”
“Tina,” my mother cuts in smoothly, addressing the seamstress. “Can you please add another half inch to the straps? We don’t need to remind everyone why she has tan lines.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I straighten my shoulders and hold still, giving Tina a reassuring smile as she works to widen the material and keep it in place. She’s not jabbing me on purpose. It’s clear that she’s new to the job and I don’t want to think that’s why my mother hired her, because that would just be too much. More than anything right now, I want to rip this green silk off my body and wear the loose, casual clothing I grew accustomed to in Florida. They’re still under my bed, locked in the suitcase I can’t allow myself to open.
“Did you…meet anyone interesting in Florida, Naomi?”
That not so subtle question comes from Ugly Brooch and I ache—ache—to tell her I met the most incredible person on this planet. An honorable man who can also be a grouch but would die to protect the ones he loves. My throat aches with the effort to keep the truth trapped. Oh God, I can’t stand here much longer. I want to scream.
No, I’m going to scream. It builds in my chest—
Elijah’s mother walks into the room, escorted by a maid. I deflate.
“Mrs. DuPont has arrived, Mrs. Clemons.”
“Thank you,” sings my mother, standing to greet her.
I’m frozen on the pedestal, my gaze locked with Elijah’s mother’s in the mirror. She’s another person I should have apologized to by now. For ruining her son’s wedding day. I just needed more time to stop being in actual, physical agony. More time to stop missing Jason so bad my legs refused to move.
Elijah’s mother doesn’t look angry with me, though. Or even disappointed. If anything, she looks kind of…conflicted. “Welcome home, Naomi,” she says. “You look well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Du Pont.”
Between us, heads are moving like the crowd at Wimbledon.
“Mrs. Clemons,” the maid prompts, handing my mother an envelope. “This came in the mail. It’s addressed to Miss Clemons, but I thought you’d be interested since—”
“No need to go into detail,” my mother clips out, taking out her glasses and perching them on her nose to study the envelope. Whatever she sees visibly flusters her. “It’s from Elijah. For you, Naomi.”
The gentle version of an explosion goes off in the room. Murmuring and hand fanning ensues. My stomach drops to the floor. No. No, I’m not ready to deal with this. Not ready to deal with anything. I turn on autopilot to accept the note from my mother, noticing Mrs. DuPont’s confused expression and wondering what it means.
“Well, open it, Naomi,” my mother snaps, laughing somewhat hysterically. With all eyes on me, I slide the note out of the envelope, my heartbeat deafening in my ears.
Dear Naomi,
I still love you. I know we can get past what happened. Please come see me.
Elijah
I almost fall off the pedestal, but Tina steadies me.
“Well,” prompts Doris. “What does it say, dear?”
“Yes,” drawls Elijah’s mother. “I’m quite curious myself.”
I’m unable to form words when shackles are tightening around my wrists and ankles. Deep down, I’m not sure I ever believed my eventual marriage to Elijah was salvageable. I didn’t want it to be, I finally, finally confess to myself. Of course I didn’t. I’m in love with someone else. Someone who knows me, through and through. I don’t want to marry a stranger and live as a dutiful ornament the rest of my life. Elijah moving on was my only hope for having more. If I can’t have Jason, can’t I at least keep my renewed sense of self? I could build on that. With the reading of this note, however, all of those hopes are dashed. My choices are gone.
If Elijah wants a second chance and I don’t give it to him, I’m as good as disowned, my financial security stripped away. There’s nowhere to go but back to the start.
“It says…to come see him,” I manage. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I leave the room full of pins.
*
I walk up the steps of the home Elijah and I were supposed to inhabit after our honeymoon. Lord, it’s more intimidating than I remember. Needing to stall, I look up at the second floor at what I’d planned to make my meditation room. Why? I don’t even meditate. My friends insisted mediation rooms were as essential as kitchens, that’s why. Did I ever have a mind of my own?
Memories drift back to me. Renting my motel room in St. Augustine, food shopping in a strange place for the first time, the sensation of a paintbrush stroking down my ribcage. Telling Jason I wanted to be used hard. The carbonation of a beer tickling my throat.