Charm and Consequence (7 page)

“And Happy New Year, Michael,” I say as he waves uncertainly and closes the door behind himself.

Dad appears behind Mom, his hand on her shoulder.

“How was the party, George?”

“Okay. Too many people in one place, though... G’night!”

I start up the stairs and I can hear Mom say behind me, “I don’t like that he brought her home drunk,” but I am too weary and sick to straighten things out before morning. I’m sure once she remembers what the Endicotts have done for the Longbourne community, she’ll recognize that I’m the one to blame for my sorry state.

But before that happens, I have to figure out what it means that I seem to have rung in the New Year by being rescued by Michael Endicott and whether this was a good thing. I guess I at least know now what Michael was trying to warn me about with his cryptic talk about Jeremy and people who “use” people. I accepted the drinks–that’s true–but Jeremy concocted them and when they had the desired effect, he didn’t offer to take me home. He offered to take me back to his house. His empty house.

Instead, Michael took me home. At the risk of having me hurl all over his pristine leather seats. He showed up in Jason Antin’s living room at the right time. Because he knows Jeremy. They both went to the same prep school. And they both got expelled. And they both insist that they are nothing alike.

Which is definitely a point in Michael’s favor.

I finally sink into a troubled sleep knowing one thing: Michael Endicott is a mystery I need to solve. I’d already discovered he was a closet Rastaman, which I would never have guessed.

I wonder what other surprises lurk under that crisp Ralph Lauren collar.

Stephanie Wardrop

Stephanie Wardrop grew up in Reading, Pennsylvania where she started writing stories when she ran out of books to read. She’s always wanted to be a writer, except during the brief period of her childhood in which piracy seemed like the most enticing career option — and if she had known then that there actually were “girl” pirates way back when, things might have turned out very differently. She currently teaches writing and literature at Western New England University and lives in a town not unlike the setting of Snark with her husband, two kids, and five cats. With a book out — finally — she might be hitting the high seas any day now.

Look for THE CINDERELLA MOMENT coming from Swoon Romance this Summer.

THE CINDERELLA MOMENT

Jennifer Kloester

Chapter One

Angel knew the moment she saw it. The colour was exactly as she’d imagined—a deep midnight-blue. She ran her fingers over the velvet, catching it between her palms to test its weight. Just as she’d thought: pussycat soft, but heavy and luxuriant enough to hang perfectly.

She lifted the bolt of cloth down from the rack and carried it to the counter. The salesgirl smothered a yawn. “How much?” she asked in a bored tone.

If she only knew what it’s for, thought Angel. “I’ll need six yards.”

The girl looked at her doubtfully. “That’ll be three hundred and eighty-nine dollars.”

Please let there be enough, Angel thought, digging into her purse and placing the bills on the counter, her heart beating faster as the roll of cash gave up its twenties, tens and fives, until all that was left was a small wad of one-dollar bills.

She counted slowly: three eighty-two, three eighty-three, three eighty-four . . . She was five dollars short. “Maybe just
under
six yards.”

The girl unrolled the heavy bolt of cloth and Angel watched in quiet ecstasy as the fabric flowed in great velvet waves across the counter. It was perfect.

***

The uptown bus seemed to take forever. It was a sultry May evening and Angel’s legs prickled with sweat under the parcel of fabric on her lap. It’d be hot walking home from her stop, but she didn’t care. She’d help her mother with dinner, rush through her homework and get started on the dress. She’d have to go carefully. This dress, more than anything she had ever made, needed to be exactly right, down to the tiniest detail. And when it came time to
cut
the velvet—well, she’d work up to that.

It was nearly seven when she turned into Fifth Avenue and ran up the front steps of the five-storey townhouse. Inside, the marble foyer was brightly lit and she could hear voices upstairs. The hateful Margot by the sound of it, probably berating the cleaner again, unless—had Lily come home early from play rehearsal?

Angel paused for a moment, straining to hear. The first voice reached a new pitch and the answering murmur grew even softer. Definitely Margot and definitely
not
Lily.

It could be Clarissa. Angel hadn’t yet met Margot’s seventeen-year-old daughter, but she’d
heard
her. Last week, after Lily’s dad had left for South America, Lily and Clarissa had fought like cats. Afterward Lily had come down to the kitchen wing and burst into tears.

Angel and her mother had tried to comfort her, but they’d both known it wasn’t the fight that had upset Lily so much as her dad inviting Margot and Clarissa Kane to stay the whole six weeks he was away.

Lily had done everything to convince her dad not to invite them but she hadn’t succeeded. And it was only after the fight that Angel had realized how much Philip’s decision had upset her best friend. She’d never known Lily to lose her cool like that. Sure, she had a passion for drama, but she could always hold it in when she wanted to. Trouble was, as Lily told Angel later, on that occasion she hadn’t wanted to.

In the week that followed, Lily came downstairs so often to report Clarissa’s latest iniquity that Angel suspected the older girl of deliberately trying to start another fight. So far, Lily had managed to refrain from taking the bait, but Angel doubted she’d last another five weeks without biting back.

Angel listened again. The voices were moving away; she heard footsteps, a door close and silence. She sighed with relief and crossed the foyer. As she passed the hallstand she stopped. Thrown carelessly against the antique Japanese cabinet was Clarissa’s discarded schoolbag. Books, folders, pens, an iPad, headphones and a crumpled cheerleader’s uniform spilled out across the floor beside a black-and-white Moschino jacket.

At least, it looked like one of the new Moschino designs . . . Angel hesitated, glanced nervously around and, satisfied she was alone, put down her parcel and picked up the jacket.

She cast a judicious eye over the cut and fabric. It was well-made and she noted with approval the even seams and well-fitted lining. The black-and-white look was very much in the Moschino style, but it wasn’t Moschino. Angel checked the label and felt a tiny shock of recognition. A flamboyant black CLARISSA told her at once who had made the jacket.

Ever since Lily had told her that Clarissa designed her own clothes and had a part-time job working for the up-and-coming New York fashion designer, Miki Merua, Angel had felt a guilty fascination for her best friend’s archenemy. Anything to do with fashion was an irresistible lure for Angel and (despite Lily’s regular catalogue of Clarissa’s vices) she found it hard to believe that anyone who brought their own dressmaker’s dummy and sewing machine to the house could possibly be as bad as Lily made out.

Angel held the jacket away from her—the cut was good and the black panels were a cute idea but something—

Upstairs a door slammed. She stiffened as the staccato
tip-tup
sound of high heels on marble came toward her. Angel dropped the jacket, grabbed her precious parcel and fled.

Opening the door to the kitchen wing, she passed through into the safety and familiarity of her own world. There was no gleaming marble here, but over the years Angel had grown to like the bare walls and worn carpet. This part of the house might be austere but it was quiet and these days that was all she wanted.

She walked quickly down the hallway past the long-disused butler’s room and the former housekeeper’s old room. Angel’s bedroom was opposite her mother’s at the end of the hall. They were next to the kitchen, which made things quicker in the morning—especially when Philip had guests and there were breakfasts to be delivered upstairs.

Angel frowned. Usually Philip de Tourney’s houseguests were pleasant and undemanding, not like Margot and Clarissa Kane. It was incredible: they’d only been in the house a week and already they’d created havoc. No wonder Lily kept staying late at school. Unless . . .

She crossed the hall and entered the butler’s old room. Here lay a treasure trove of unwanted things gathering dust. In the centre of the room, two large wooden wardrobes and a low table formed a makeshift theatre and standing on the table, with her back to the door, was Lily.

“What do I want?” Angel heard her say. “What motivates me?”

“Fame, money, a movie deal—the usual things,” said Angel.

Lily spun round. “I wasn’t talking about me!”

“I know, but maybe it’s what your character wants.”

“No way,” cried Lily, jumping down. “Emily Webb is deeper than that.” She sat down on the coffee table. “Though she’d probably like a new dress if it was offered.”

“Who wouldn't want a new dress?” smiled Angel, holding out her parcel.

Lily's eyes widened. “Don't tell me you finally found it?”

“Look.” Angel parted the paper.

“OMG, it's exactly how you described it—the same colour as—”

“—the dress you were wearing the day we met.” Angel nodded. “I’ve always remembered it. It was the prettiest dress I’d ever seen.”

“You couldn’t have seen many,” objected Lily. “You were only six.”

Angel smiled, “You’re forgetting, I'd seen your mother’s entire wardrobe by the time you came down here.”

“Yes, and you looked so guilty!”

“I
felt
guilty. We’d only been here three weeks and I thought for sure your dad would tell Maman we had to leave.”

“No chance of that. Dad was far more likely to be mad at me for invading Simone’s privacy. He’d made me promise not to come down here bothering her.”

“And we both know you
always
do what your Dad tells you.”

Lily gave her a shove. “I do when he’s reasonable. Anyway, he likes us being friends. He knows what a good influence you are on me.”

This time it was Angel’s turn to shove. “Sometimes you make me sound so boring.”

“As if you’re boring! You just think about stuff. Not like me . . .”

“You do jump into things sometimes,” conceded Angel.

“Which can be a good thing, right?” asked Lily. “Like coming down here that day and knowing straight away we’d be best friends.”

“Even though I was going through your mother’s things?”

Lily looked surprised. “You weren’t hurting anyone. If my mother had been alive I don’t think she’d have minded, and all I wanted was to see the little French girl my dad had brought home with our new housekeeper.”

“I’m a quarter American,” protested Angel. “Papa grew up in France but he was born here and …” she fiddled with the velvet, “… he died here.”

Lily looked at her sadly. “I’m sorry Angel,” she whispered. “I know you miss him.”

Angel managed a tiny smile. “It’s okay. He was sick a long time.”

Lily put her arm around Angel’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s been four months,” she said gently. “I wish I’d been here with you when it happened.”

Angel shook her head. “You couldn’t have done anything. That was the weekend your dad came back from China. Your first real chance to see him since New Year’s.”

“True, but I would’ve given up our holiday if you’d told me about your dad.”

“I know.”

“How’s Simone?” asked Lily gently.

Angel hesitated. She still wasn’t entirely sure how her mother felt about Papa’s death. He’d been ill for so long. It was ten years since they had come to New York for the surgery they’d hoped would cure him. It had taken months and months of waiting and most of their hard-won savings before Simone had finally accepted that, despite the famous surgeon’s best efforts, her husband would never be one of his success stories. It had taken another six months to find a nursing home they could afford for as long as Papa needed care.

In the end they’d had to settle for a place three hours train ride away in upstate New York. Not that the distance had stopped Simone—it was a rare Sunday that they did not visit Angel’s dad. But since he’d been gone, it seemed to Angel as though some part of her mother had gone with him.

She sighed. “You know what Maman’s like, she keeps things inside.”

Lily nodded. “Yeah, but I thought she might’ve talked to you.”

“She has, a bit.” Angel chewed her lip. In the week after his death, Simone
had
talked to Angel about Papa—mostly recounting memories of their life in France when Angel was little, before the accident that ended their happiness.

Angel had been too young to remember the day the tractor had run over Papa, crushing his back and leaving him partially paralyzed. Whenever she asked Maman about it, Simone would always change the subject and talk about how good things would be when Papa was well again. She would never speak about the accident or about having to sell the vineyard or the dreadful months they’d endured with Grandpère before coming to New York. Angel soon learned not to ask.

She had hoped that Maman would tell her things—that she would overcome her sadness and talk to her about the past. Instead, Simone built a wall around her grief and locked it away. She was as loving and affectionate as ever, but she would not share her pain.

Sometimes Angel wondered if she was as stubborn as her mother. She hoped not. It seemed like such a barrier to happiness and more than anything Angel wanted her mother to be happy.

She sighed. Simone had such a fierce pride that it made her impossible to move once her mind was made up about something. Angel shifted restlessly. “I sometimes wish . . .”

“What?” asked Lily.

“Nothing,” said Angel abruptly. She pulled Lily to her feet. “
Maman
is fine and so am I, but what about you? How’s the play going?”

“Good, I think.”