Behind Her Smile (2 page)

“At the time, this bracelet was the most magnificent gift I had ever received. You’ve managed to outdo yourself dozens of times over.” I allow my expression to soften. “No one spoils me like you do, David.”

A cloud of Armani cologne wafts around me as David leans closer. He releases my hand, only to drag his fingertips along my cheek. David presses his warm lips against mine in a short kiss. “You’re the one who spoils me,” he croons.

It happens when David shifts back into his corner of the car, so quickly I’m sure he doesn’t think I notice. But I see it. David’s eyes flicker to the driver, making sure that he’s watching the show. If I’ve learned anything in the five years I’ve been married to David Morgan, it’s that appearances are of the utmost importance.

Carlo had been David’s driver long before I became his wife. William Morgan had hired the weathered Cuban refugee who was his most-trusted man for twenty years. Eventually, my husband inherited the employee who lives on our Coral Gables estate to be ready whenever David demands. With well-practiced ease, Carlo navigates the way home from Key Biscayne. The rest of the short drive is silent, giving my imagination the chance to run with Adriana’s gown specifications. I desperately want to start sketching tonight. When Carlo glides the sedan into the circular drive, my hand finds the lever to open the door.

Then I remember.

And pause.

A lady does not open her own car door
especially
when hired help is present.

As if I’ve been burned, my hand drops to my lap where a Swarovski crystal-encrusted clutch sits. I run my fingers over the ridges of the shimmering bag, waiting patiently. From the corner of my eye, I watch David’s lips press into a thin line. He hates when I forget my place.

Carlo swiftly pulls the passenger door open, allowing a stifling blast of Miami humidity to swarm the interior of the car. Shooting David a sheepish smile, I carefully twist to slink one leg out of the vehicle. Carlo extends a hand to assist me. Using his hand as leverage, I plant one high-heeled sandal on the stone driveway, then the other, and maneuver my body to stand out of the car. Carlo and I exchange a fond glance, and I nod my head in a silent thanks. David insists a verbal acknowledgment is unnecessary. After all these years, I’m still not able to follow that rule.

Sturdy fingers grasp my elbow, steering me through the lush foliage toward the front door. French Lavender, Santa Barbara daisies, and a sprinkling of planted pots line the front walk. Flickering in the moonlight, the gas lanterns illuminate the familiar wrought-iron doors. It’s customary for David to unlock the front door and, if it’s activated, disable the security system. On any day, various members of the house staff filter through the palatial Mediterranean-style home, making the alarm system a burden. Given the late hour, the house is empty and security should be armed.

By now, Carlo has disappeared to his residence. He and his wife, Miranda, also our housekeeper and cook, live in a small two-bedroom home on the perimeter of the property. Their home is far away enough to provide privacy but close enough that they can arrive upon David’s immediate request.

The cavernous house is empty except for David and me.

The coldness of the silent home doesn’t escape me. If I were to categorize the interior, it would be museum chic. Exquisite artwork hangs on the walls, an original Chihuly sculpture sits in the dining room, and the furniture is so pristine, at times I’m afraid to sit on it. This home was built to impress. As we walk, the only sound is the click of my stilettos and tap of David’s shiny tuxedo shoes against the marble floor. Halfway up the grand staircase, I realize that David didn’t deactivate the alarm.

“That’s odd,” I say. “Miranda must have forgotten to activate the alarm when she left this evening. The alarm didn’t sound when you opened the door.”

“Perhaps,” David says, unconcerned by the change in protocol. A whispered worry slithers through me, but I shove it away.

After that, neither of us speaks when we cross through the wide hallways on the second floor and head to the master bedroom. At one time, I stared at my surroundings in wonder. The expensive furnishings, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the Coral Gables waterway, and the yacht parked at the foot of the dock screaming wealth and privilege. For a girl from a small town in Central Florida, this life is more than I could have ever dreamed for myself.

David walks into our closet with me trailing behind him. There are two rooms. You have to walk through David’s to get into mine, the Morgan version of a his-and-her closet. David’s suits hang by color code; the laundry is done daily so that he never has to go without an item of clothing due to wear. At David’s request, my side of the closet is organized by item type—skirts, blouses, gowns, etc.—and then color. A marble-topped island in the center of the room holds my undergarments, a safe for our jewelry, and any item of clothing that doesn’t require a hanger. For most women, the rows of exquisite shoes, bags, and exclusive designer labels is a fantasy come true. To me, all of these physical displays of wealth are just costumes to hide my unsavory upbringing. Underneath all the glitz and glamour, I’m still that little trailer park girl who forgot which fork to use at the mayor’s dinner.

First, I sit on the cushioned bench next to the island and remove my midnight evening shoes. They go on the shoe shelves, next to the other Italian and French heels. It takes a few twists and turns to unzip the length of my purple gown. Carefully, I hang the dress in its appropriate spot. Next, I place the diamond bracelet and dangly earrings back into the safe. This dress wouldn’t allow for a bra. Instead, I had to paste cups to my skin to protect from a wardrobe malfunction. The adhesive stings when I peel the material off my breasts, leaving ugly red marks in its wake. Free of my fancy costume, I pull a silky black negligée over my head and shrug in to the matching robe.

When I walk into the stark white bathroom to scrub away the cosmetics covering my face, David is washing his hands at his sink. If I had it my way, I’d wear as little makeup as possible. Blessed with few blemishes all my life, makeup seems like an unnecessary addition. But a plain face wouldn’t translate well to the photographers, so David insists I get a full face of makeup by a professional artist before every event.

“There are some business matters that need my attention,” David says, wiping his hands on the white, 100-percent Egyptian cotton hand towel.

“Okay. My brain’s running a mile a minute with design ideas for Adriana. I’ll be in my office for a bit, too,” I respond.

“Don’t stay up too late, Karolina. You need your beauty rest.” From any other husband, the words could come off as affectionate. From David, I hear the underlying command.

“Okay. No more than an hour,” I readily agree, not wanting an argument. David nods and glides out of the bedroom. Even when there’s no one to watch, he moves with well-practiced elegance.

My studio is at the opposite end of the home’s second floor. The square room is larger than any bedroom I had while growing up, including my dorm in college. Like the way my closet is arranged, every garment, needle, thread, and piece of material has its own place. Built-in drawers occupy the wall and the closet hides two dress forms. No matter the pristine state, just being in this space,
my
space, lets my mind drift to contenment.

The moment that my pencil hits the sketchpad, my fingers move almost without thought. Time disappears as I envision what would suit Adriana’s tall, slender frame. Red silk would go exquisitely with Adriana’s blue-black hair. Not to mention, the dress would be patriotic for a presidential gala. Several minutes later, I settle back into my desk chair and critically study the first sketch. I chew on my bottom lip, another habit David detests, assessing the lines.

Then the room goes black. Absolutely pitch black minus light from a smattering of stars and the full moon filtering through a large window. A quick look outside lets me know electricity is out for other homes across the waterway. There must be some sort of outage.

Instantly, my heart rate picks up and my lip curls in disgust. An adult woman afraid of the dark. Pathetic.

I jump to my feet and yank my robe closed as if to shield myself from the monsters lurking in the corners of the house. I creep out of my studio and into the hallway overlooking the great room below.

“David?” I call with a trembling voice.
Don’t be silly,
I scold myself,
you are fine. The lights will probably turn on in a minute.
“David?” I try again when I get no response, my voice rising in fear. Try as I might, I can’t stifle the building anxiety.

Evil roams free in the dark.

At a near run, I dash toward our bedroom. Maybe David’s sleeping. I’ll join him in bed, and when I wake up in the morning, the electricity will be back on. There’s nothing for me to worry about.

“David!” I whimper at the bedroom door. The heavy black drapes are drawn, and no moonlight streams into the room to offer light. He must be in bed. Quietly, I shut the door behind me, engulfing the room in darkness. David insists on complete black when he sleeps, saying any small sliver of light keeps him awake.

My hand trembles where it keeps my robe closed at my chest. I can feel my heart racing underneath my skin; my breaths are speedy and uneven.
Just a few more steps and you’ll be in bed.
I inch closer to the king-size bed even as my body whimpers that something isn’t right here. Blindly, I reach forward to feel for the mattress when it happens.

A gloved hand clamps over my mouth before I can scream. An unyielding arm wraps around my waist, halting me in my tracks.

“Don’t move, bitch.”

“I
s it weird to like the scent of sunscreen?” I slather the lotion over the crook of my elbow, moving past my bicep to my shoulder.

“Only you, the hottest person I’ve ever seen up close, are dorky enough to admit to liking the smell of suntan lotion.” Dora, my best friend, is not one for flowery language. “What makes you weird is that you practically only eat junk food and never gain any weight.”

Giggling, I toss the tube of lotion onto her lounger. “I can’t help it if I was raised on hamburgers and mac-n-cheese. As I was saying, something about the smell of coconut all over my skin makes me feel carefree. Did you know Bond no. 9 makes a perfume that smells like summer? Not that I can afford it, but still, I’m not the only one who likes the scent.”

Next to me, Dora rolls her eyes. “Karolina, we live in Miami. It’s always summer here. We don’t need expensive perfume to remind us of the sun.”

“Touché.” Despite Dora’s reality check, I can’t keep the huge, sunny smile off my face. “Anyway, thanks for inviting me today. This pool is unreal.” Awe, probably dorky too, leaks into my voice.

“You’re my bestie. Of course, I want you with me. Besides, Dad doesn’t want me to hang out here by myself. He says there are a lot of vultures, whatever that means.” Dora shifts onto one elbow and gestures to a waiter in an all-white uniform of shorts and a polo. “Two spiked lemonades,” she orders.

“Sure, Ms. Gold. Do you need anything else?”

Dora cocks her head in my direction, and I shake mine in a silent no. I’m not used to all this splendor.

“Still, it’s pretty swanky your dad owns
the
place to be on South Beach.” I lean back into the plush white chair. If it weren’t for Dora, I’d never be able to visit a place this posh. Between classes and my two jobs—part-time help at the library shelving books and part-time seamstress at a local tailor—there’s not much extra time or cash for indulgences like an afternoon at Hotel Monroe.

“What’s the big deal? Everyone’s dad has to do something to make a living.” Immediately, Dora winces, and my heart squeezes at the involuntary dig. “I’m sorry. That did not come out how I meant. Ack! I’m uncomfortable and talking like an idiot because all this is so over-the-top. I don’t know what made my dad want to buy a hotel.” She gestures around wildly along the length of the rectangular pool. Professional athletes gather in cabanas, and party girls walk around in skimpy bathing suits looking for a sugar daddy. A professional DJ mixes tunes to amplify the party atmosphere. We’re at Miami’s hottest daytime, outdoor party. “I didn’t mean to bring up your family,” she says helplessly.

“It’s okay. You weren’t making a jab at me. Maybe I didn’t have a dad growing up, but my mom and sister both had jobs. I get it.”

Dora smiles sheepishly. “All the same, I’m sorry.”

The waiter appears, setting cocktails in clear, plastic cups on the short table between the lounge chairs.

“Cheers to the last year of midterms, finals, papers, and projects. One more year and we’re done!” We lift our drinks and the plastic cups clink together after my impromptu toast. “Yum. You can hardly taste the booze.”

Dora smirks and then settles back into the raised chair. “That’s how they get you wasted and not thinking clearly so you buy more drinks.”

There are many times when I’m with Dora that I feel like an uncultured bumpkin. Roommates since our freshman year, she has taken me under her wing. Dora got us into all the parties and got me a fake ID.