A Proper Young Lady (3 page)

“Melanie!” Dani catches up a breath later and grabs my arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Yeah. For Sale. Stupid leaflets and all.” I throw myself against the post, but it won’t budge, so I beat at the sign with my hands till Dani grabs my shoulders and yanks me backwards.

“Stop it!” She seizes me in a tight embrace before I can take a swing at her.

“He has to come home.” My anger shatters. I press my eyelids closed to hold back the torrent of grief. Adrenaline fades and leaves my body trembling. After my diaphragm spasms end and my heart settles down, Dani releases me.

The girl studies my face, the way she used to when we were little, like she can read my thoughts there. Dani appears about to lecture me, but only shakes her head. “You’re bleeding.”

Inside, I scrub my hands while Dani rifles through the drawers in the master bathroom. She returns with antibiotic ointment and some bandages.

The girl lays a towel across my hands and places a small bag of ice on top of each one. A mother’s concern shines from her eyes. “I don’t recall you having a hissy fit before.”

It’s called puberty.
Mood swings have tormented me for so long I’ve almost gotten used to the roller coaster ride. “It’s my stupid hormone medication. Tommy calls them my bitch pills. If I’m not yelling at him, I’m crying.” 

I try to brush my runny nose against my sleeve. Dani gives me a look like I’m some disgusting little kid, grabs a paper towel from the kitchen counter, and wipes my nose and upper lip clean. I scowl at her, but tamp down my anger. “Thanks.”

“Perhaps you should stop taking them.”

If you were female, you’d understand.

Pain flashes hot across Dani’s face, like she might have read my thoughts for real this time. At least I didn’t share them out loud.

“My periods were wicked bad—cramps, bleeding, nausea. The PMS alone drove me nuts. Tommy says I was worse before I went on the pill.” 

Eyes full of concern scan my face again. She takes a quick peek at my knuckles. “I assume you’ll want help fixing dinner.”

Both of my hands throb. “Well, yeah.”
Mom is gonna kill me.
 

Chapter 3

Danièle

After rinsing the blood stains from my blouse, I put on a new top, brush my hair, and check my makeup. Exhausted from the day’s ordeal, I collapse on Melanie’s bed. What became of the cheery—and often cheeky—ginger-haired pixie I knew? 

My phone chirps.
Why do I get a message every time I have something important to think through?
 

<<
Ethan—call me
 

He answers right away. “Hey, babe. You all settled in?”

“I am. How’s the internship going?”

“Boring. I practically have my PhD, but they treat me like a high school freshman.”

Ethan’s voice holds restrained anger. He’s never been the most humble man. My fiancé expects to lead. He rarely asks for anyone’s advice. Even mine. I roll my eyes at the phone. “I’m sure you’ll win them over, love.”

“That may take some doing. How are things on your end?”

Let’s not talk about my surgeries.
“Melanie and I have been renewing our friendship. She went with me to my first doctor’s visit.” 

Silence follows a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “You can’t have children.”

My stomach tightens. “That’s true. I don’t have a uterus. We’ll need to adopt.”

“Can’t we use my sperm and your eggs and have someone else carry our child?”

I explained all of this months ago. I don’t have any ovaries either.
“My—” The pediatric endocrinologist called them twisted ovaries. Testes would have been more accurate, even though they gave me a feminine puberty and don’t produce sperm. “We’d need to get donor eggs as well. Is it that important? Surrogacy would be twice as expensive as adoption.” 

“Worth the cost to be certain what we’d get. And when.”

Why are we talking about a family now? I have a year of college left to finish before becoming a mother.
“Why the sudden interest in children?” 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Dad lately. He died when I was eight. I swore I’d marry young, have kids, and spend as many years with them—and my wife—as I could.” 

“And you want our children to be from your own sperm.”

“Yeah, babe. You understand that, don’t you?”

At times, my infertility cuts deep. “Yes, love. I do.”

“The company also considers kids a huge plus—an indication of stability and maturity. They look for that when considering executive placement.” 

You’ve got a year left in graduate school, and you’re already planning on a vice presidency?
“Where will we get the money?” 

“Don’t worry about the finances. Okay, babe? I’ll handle that. You work out the details.”

“I guess I’ll look into surrogacy then.”

“Thanks. You’re the best. This means a lot to me.”

We say our goodbyes, but I stare at the phone long after he hangs up.

Melanie pokes her head into the room. “You gonna help with supper, or what?”

Her hands are bruised and lacerated, but most of the swelling has gone away. “Do they hurt much?”

“Nah. Let’s use yours, though. Okay?”

The teachers at Knox Preparatory School instructed me on home economics theory. Mum taught me how to orchestrate a banquet. I’ve never cooked an actual meal, though.

Some of the old Melanie finds her way out as she directs my spaghetti sauce preparation. A fine line separates good-natured teasing from making fun of me, but her contagious laughter never hurts my feelings.

I’ve just put on water for the pasta when Mrs. Fairbairn walks in the door. She rushes to embrace me. “Danièle! Welcome back to Florida. Sorry I missed you yesterday.”

Only five years have elapsed, but the woman in front of me has aged at least a decade. Dark circles under her eyes speak of a lack of sleep. Or ill health. Perhaps both.

My chest constricts as I remember a time—years ago—when Melanie lived with us for several months. Doctors treated Mrs. Fairbairn for an aggressive form of breast cancer. As her mother’s health deteriorated, Melanie became increasingly distraught. At one point she wouldn’t talk to anyone but me. 

When I glance at Melanie, her mother rests a gentle hand on my arm and whispers, “Please don’t upset her.”

I meet the concern in her eyes and dip my head. Her daughter has enough issues.

Melanie hands me a box of angel hair pasta. I dump it into the boiling water and start a timer. She snickers when I get out china plates instead of plastic, and again when I explain why setting spoons on the table is proper, even if no one uses them.

Mrs. Fairbairn takes three bites of spaghetti before dropping her fork and rushing around the table. “What happened?” She removes her daughter’s bandages and examines her hands.

“I’m okay, Mom. I ran into that stupid sign. Why are we selling the house, anyhow?”

“I’m sorry, honey. They were supposed to wait until I’d spoken with you.” Mrs. Fairbairn returns to her seat and pokes at her spaghetti. “I’m sending you to a private school in September, and we have to pay the expenses somehow. I’ll stay with Beatrice and Fred.”

“But Dad...”

“Honey, you know your father’s not coming home.”

Melanie drops her glass and bounces up out of her chair. “Liar! He is so.” Her eyes blaze, and her whole body trembles for a moment before she bolts for the door.

I set down my fork and stare at Mrs. Fairbairn.

What should I do?

Melanie

Dad promised to retire from the military after one final tour in Afghanistan. Six months later, some guy comes to the door and tells us my father died a hero.

Who cares about them or their crummy war, anyhow? Weren’t two tours enough?
I begged him not to go. 

Dad said he loved us, but he had a duty to perform.

Now we’re all alone.

I climb on his motorcycle and slump against the garage wall. What will I do without his hugs and his stories and his motorcycle rides?

The icy numbness wears off, and my hands wake up again. My throbbing right thumb remains swollen, like I mighta sprained the thing. I flash a scowl at the real-estate sign and show it that my middle finger still functions perfectly.

Movement in my peripheral vision turns out to be Dani.
Right. Like I need you to bug me right now.
 

She hugs me and pats my back. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Dani used to hold me whenever I hurt and Dad wasn’t around. Wouldn’t Mom? Well, yeah, but I kept getting mad at her. “Life sucks. Okay?” I’d push her away, but my hands hurt too much. So I rest my head on her shoulder and cry instead.

When my hiccups stop, I back away from the girl. “Gotta get hold of Tommy.” I run back into the house and find Mom. “I’m sorry for calling you a liar.”

She pulls me close and kisses me on the forehead. “I know you didn’t mean it, honey.”

Yeah I did. But I meant the apology too.
“One of Tommy’s friends wants to buy the stuff in the shed—Dad’s motorcycle parts and all.” 

Mom studies my face for a long while before nodding. “All right, but I have no idea where your father keeps—where he left the key.” 

You too, huh? Wish I could fix things for you, Mom.
I squeeze her hand. “Doesn’t matter. Tommy can cut off the lock.” 

One eyebrow drifts up her forehead, but she nods agreement.

I walk into my room, grab my phone, and send Tommy a message.

>> Melanie—Alan wants bike parts?
 

The boy never lets go of his phone, so I plop down on my bed and wait.

<<
Tommy—your dad’s stuff?
 

>> Melanie—yeah
 

<<
Tommy—u sure?
 

>> Melanie—yeah
 

<<
Tommy—bike 2?
 

Keeping my father’s old motorcycle isn’t gonna bring him back.

>>
Melanie—yeah. tues am?
 

A minute passes. He might be in traffic on South Dixie Highway.

<<
Tommy—k c ya
 

So that’s it, Dad.
I toss the phone aside, then kick off my sneakers, curl up on my bed, and dream of a boy who promised to love me always. 

Sunbeams fade to moonlight and shadows to dark emptiness. Somewhere in the house Dani’s lilting voice raises a question.

Mom’s soft reply follows a moment later.

Footsteps pad across the living room and up the hallway. The door creaks open a slit. “Are you all right?” The girl walks right in, flips on the light, and plops down on the bed beside me.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Violet eyes overflow with tender concern.

Hold me.
After five long years, I refuse to ask anything of the girl. 

Yet she reads my desire. As she always did. Dani pulls her dress over her head and drapes it across a chair. After slipping on a nightgown, she runs to the bathroom for a minute. When Dani gets back, she turns out the light, lies on the bed beside me, and works her arms around my waist. For a moment, the girl presses her face into my hair. Hot breath tickles my ear. “I’m sorry I haven’t been a better friend.”

A broken promise stands between us, but her warm hands against my arms sooth my anguish. Back when Mom had cancer, Dad came home from Afghanistan, but he still had to work long hours. Beatrice went to stay with my Aunt Margaret. And me with the Welles family. Dani was all I had back then. She held me and listened to my pain. She told me things would be okay.

In the darkness I seek the girl’s eyes again. “Dad’s gone, and now Mom’s sending me away to finish school.”

Violet eyes shine like pale moonlight. “You didn’t graduate from high school?”

“No. They expelled me for fighting. I got a year to make up.”

“Prep school isn’t so bad. You’ll be all right.” Her assurance fades as my eyes challenge her. “You’re welcome to stay with my parents,” she says. “I’ll be in college, but home most weekends. Mum would love to home-school you.”

Yeah, make a proper lady outta me. Like that’ll happen.

I pull myself closer and nuzzle into her shoulder. Dad’s never coming back, but that doesn’t keep me from entertaining an impossible dream.

Chapter 4

Danièle

Work day. Me
lanie scrounges through a pile of clothes she dumped on her bed and hands me a paint-stained T-shirt. “Mine. Should fit you okay.” Next, she picks out a ratty pair of jeans. “Mom’s. You’ll have to try them on. Mine might fit you better.” Last of all, she hands me some old gardening gloves.

Most of the next several days we spend scrubbing the house, sorting through the family’s possessions, and generally preparing for an agent to show the property. With my hair in a loose ponytail, and grime my only makeup, a grin takes up permanent residence on my face. The daily phone calls from Ethan assure me of his love.

Tuesday morning, as I’m carrying out a box of trash, a couple of young men rattle up the driveway in a decrepit Ford pickup. Melanie introduces the driver as Tommy. Tall and beanpole thin, he’s a cross between a backwoods farm boy and a college-educated nerd. The hug he gives Melanie lingers. A hand wanders up her back. “You sure you wanna sell the stuff?” he says.

Melanie’s jaw muscles tighten. She steps back, easing out of his embrace. After a sharp nod, she glances at me. My cheeks warm as I turn my attention to the other man.

Tommy’s friend Alan might be in his late thirties. “Well, kid, let’s take a look at what you got,” he says. Despite being a bit sloppy, and having beard stubble, he proves as businesslike as my uncle Randy.

Tommy hefts a pair of bolt cutters longer than his arm. He snips the lock off, as though it’s soft plastic, sets the tool aside, and waves her forward. “After you, kid.”

It takes us an hour to sort through and load everything, but less than a minute for Melanie and Alan to agree on a price. All she keeps are a few cafe racing trophies, a box of photos, and an old set of motorcycle racing leathers—pants and a long-sleeved jacket.