by K. A. Tucker
“There’s an opening on December twenty-second. It’s not the greatest time for an auction, with Christmas and all¸ but that’s why they’re willing to give us space.”
December 22. So I definitely need to stay in New York until then. “Sounds great. And then whatever we don’t sell, I’ll stick in storage and give you the key so you can pull things out after I’m gone.”
“Perfect. And I’ve already shown pictures of Celine’s clock collection to my clock expert.”
I snort. “Your clock expert?”
He ignores me. “He said there’s nothing remarkable, but we can probably get about two grand for all of them.”
“That’s not bad.” Celine really did have an eye for treasures.
“You’re using the gloves I couriered over, right?”
“As soon as I start packing, I will.” The ones that will ensure I don’t leave my “dirty, oily fingerprints” on anything.
“And plenty of foam peanuts and newsprint paper. Not actual newspaper.”
“Yup.”
“And those instructions that I sent you on how to package antiques?”
“Memorized.” I haven’t so much as scanned them. I’ve had no time!
He huffs into the phone. “I’m serious, Maggie. You can’t just throw these things into a box. Even the creepy dolls. I’m pretty sure there’s a French Bisque Poupee in there. That one alone could fetch anywhere from fifteen hundred dollars to twenty-five hundred, depending on the shape of it.”
My eye drifts to the boxes in the corner, where I dropped the dolls in a pile. “Yup. They’re all individually wrapped.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“You can come by and check. And help me pack all thousand-plus items. In which case, I’ll love you forever.”
“Venture to the LES again?” He heaves a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I could.”
I decide that I both like and trust Hans. He’s unlike anyone in my world and he genuinely seems to want to help me, with no benefit other than for Celine. If he were straight, I’d think he were in love with her.
“Hey, Hans?”
“Yes?”
“Is your name really Hans?”
There’s a long pause. “It’s Francis,” he admits sullenly. “But Hans sounds way more cool and artsy. Don’t ever call me by my real name in front of anyone.”
“No one is as they seem, are they?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He laughs. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this packed up so you can go back to saving the jungle, or whatever it is you do.”
“You want to come with me when I go?”
“Oh, hells no.”
“Come on. I’m sure there are some unique finds down there.” I use my best singsong voice to entice him.
“You can mail them to me.”
I chuckle. “That’s okay. You wouldn’t survive a day there anyway.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t last ten minutes there, and I’m okay with that.”
We hang up, my heart temporarily lightened. Talking to Hans was a hundred times more pleasant than the phone call I had with my financial advisor, Clifton, an hour ago, in which he berated me for the forms he received via fax today. Forms from an investment manager in New York, requesting the release of a significant amount of money. Forms that I’d already signed. I’m supposed to discuss all of these decisions with him before I go signing any papers.
I told him not to file anything through the bank yet. That I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. I’m on the fence, between backing out or letting Jace invest my money, mainly because I feel guilty for wasting his time earlier today on my wild goose chase. The problem is, if I invest with him, I’ll just be dragging out the aftermath of Celine’s death. Keeping a tie to a part of her.
And I need to just get this over with.
I drop a box in front of a shelf. I fully intend on filling it today. But first, I promised my accountant that I’d courier Celine’s paperwork to him so he could begin to prepare her taxes. Even the dead have to file, he had assured me.
Celine already had a folder in the back of her desk marked “2015 taxes.” I begin flipping through it, expecting that this is going to be pretty straightforward. And it is, at first. Right down to photocopies of rent checks and interest on student loans and her meager pay stubs, neatly organized by month.
Then I come across several folders’ worth of blue notebooks—like the ones they use in primary schools, and the ones I supply to the missionaries to distribute to village children. The first one is marked “Antiques.” In it, Celine has catalogued each and every item she has picked up and from where, as well as pictures that she has printed, cut out, and pasted in.
The folder is filled with books like this, itemizing every last antiques purchase she made through the years. I can already hear Hans’s squeal when he sees these. I set them aside and continue on.
The next folder isn’t a catalogue of purchases. I frown, trying to decipher the columns of numbers in the little blue book.
Dates beginning back in 2012, followed by dollar amounts and an “hours worked” column, and 2013 has its own pages, as does 2014, and 2015.
Did Celine have another job? It would appear so, and I assume it paid cash. I calculate the hourly rate and my eyebrows jump. That’s a lot of money. It must have something to do with antiques, perhaps? An envelope sits tucked in the back of the book. Inside is a stack of receipts. I begin flipping through them.
And my mouth drops open.
Apparently Celine has purchased a lot of condoms. And lube. And lingerie. She’s racked up waxing bills from an aesthetician. She’s also rented several costumes from some place in Chelsea. There are drink receipts in here, too, from three hotel bars. High-end hotel bars, which she seemed to frequent mainly on Friday and Saturday nights, based on her handwritten notes next to the recorded dates.
Next to the names of men.
A sinking suspicion has me racing to her closet, the tears burning my eyes, making my vision blurry. I had only leafed through her clothing before, grabbing the bold striped dress because it made such a statement. But now I focus more closely. The deeper I go, the shorter, the tighter, the more risqué the dresses become.
My stomach churns as I throw her dresser drawer open and begin rifling through her private things. Basic cotton and white lace panties and bras spill out onto the floor as I dig down. It isn’t until the second drawer that I find the black and red lace, the G-strings and garters, adorned with bows and tassels.
Celine wouldn’t step inside a church without pulling a cardigan on to cover her bare arms, even in ninety-degree heat; and while her curvy figure always made it hard for her to dress modestly, I never saw her in a skirt that didn’t reach at least halfway to her knees. I just can’t imagine her buying these for herself.
It’s when I rummage through the bottom drawers and find her collection of condoms, varying in size and brand, that my dread begins to mount.
I open a metal case sitting on the right-hand side. “Oh my God . . . ,” I groan, slamming it shut to hide all the sex toys that I don’t want to see—or even think about touching.
These are Celine’s most private things. No one was ever supposed to find them.
With slightly shaky hands, I shift my focus to the bottom of the closet, where shoe boxes and storage containers are stacked in tidy piles. I toss them about, rooting through the contents, anxious over what I might find.
Until I come to a decorative box of dangly necklaces and bracelets, made from giant stones. An uneducated person might mistake them for costume jewelry, but I know that the diamonds are real. I can tell by their sparkle. Several receipts sit at the bottom of the box, indicating a pawnshop where it looks like Celine had already sold some pieces.
I crawl on my hands and knees to check under the bed. Nothing but a single dust bunny—the soul survivor of Celine’s excessive cleaning regimen—hides there.
I toss the lamp onto the recently d
elivered and freshly made bed—the silk white shade bends but I don’t care—and pull apart the makeshift end table, yanking the long and narrow crates apart to hit the hardwood in a loud clatter.
Books spill out everywhere.
The crates are full of little books, ranging from pink journals with unicorns to leather-bound diaries with locks. No keys included.
I didn’t know Celine kept a diary. But of course she did. She liked keeping track of everything. It only makes sense that she would keep track of her life.
I gather every last one and spread them out across the bed. Hoping that somewhere in here I’ll find a reasonable answer for all the racy lingerie and slutty outfits and paraphernalia.
Dreading the truth.
CHAPTER 9
Maggie
December 3, 2015
“I’m not sure what’s wrong. I’ll call my advisor when I have a chance,” I lie, my voice hollow.
“Mr. Everett has prioritized you as a client and he would like this all sorted out quickly. He fit you into his extremely busy schedule for a follow-up meeting tomorrow morning. I fit you in,” Natasha snaps.
“Looking forward to your dinner at Per Se?” I throw back and then sigh. I don’t have the energy to outwit anyone. I wonder if Jace is feeding her these words or if she actually cares whether I come back or not. “Look, I’m just . . .” I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes lined with bags, my skin sallow, my hair matted. I look like someone who sat in bed for twenty-four hours, eating cold pizza from the box I had delivered last night and polishing off a bottle of vodka, all while reading the deepest and darkest thoughts from the last fifteen years of Celine Gonzalez’s life. Discovering things that I could have happily gone the rest of my life without knowing.
Which is exactly what I’ve done.
I can barely keep my eyes open and yet I know that sleep will not grant me a reprieve. “I’m dealing with a few private matters.”
“Well, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to fit you in when you decide that you’re ready.”
“You will, because your boss wants my money.” I hang up before I hear her snippy answer and stare at the journal in my hands.
I was torn between starting from the latest diary first and easing myself in with the oldest one, afraid that I wasn’t ready for what might lie within those last pages. That I wasn’t ready to witness just how Celine had lost herself.
And then I picked up a pink book with butterflies on it—the earliest dated journal—and read a thirteen-year-old Celine recount her major crush on my boyfriend at the time: a tall, gangly guy named Jordan who kissed her behind our house one day while I was changing into my bathing suit upstairs. She felt so guilty, she couldn’t sleep for a week. Through tears, I laughed—because I hadn’t even given that guy a moment’s thought in years—and I knew then that starting at the beginning of Celine’s story was the only way to do this.
And so I did, living the past fifteen years through Celine’s eyes, since the days she and Rosa still lived with me. It wasn’t hard to follow along. She dated every single entry. Some days she didn’t have a lot to say. Other days she’d fill an entire page, even writing along the margin. She seemed to follow a simple rule as the years progressed: one page per day, no more.
So many days.
So many confessions.
So many things that made my heart swell.
And so many that made my heart bleed with pain.
Some of them were about me.
It’s only natural, of course. No one is perfect, nor does anyone have a perfect life. And those closest—the people we love the most—are the ones most likely to spot these flaws. To judge them. Maybe through an understanding, accepting lens. Maybe, sometimes, with more than a twinge of hostility. But they bury the critical thoughts, the thoughts that could hurt us, and they continue to smile at us, to laugh with us, to offer their support. To love us.
And apparently some of them then divulge those most inner thoughts on paper.
Celine saw me as I saw her—as family, as a forever friend. As the person she could always call up, who would drop everything to help. Who adored her mother as much as she did. Who shared her childhood.
But she pitied me. I had so much and Celine had so little and yet she pitied me.
And rightfully so.
She saw that I had two parents who didn’t really know me, who put Sparkes Energy and the legacy of the family name before their legacy, their daughter. Who expected straight-A’s from me but never expressed how proud they were, who would throw lavish birthday parties but had no idea what my friends’ names were. Sometimes they weren’t even there. They were clueless that I was bullied as a freshman at the posh high school they paid so much money for me to attend. They didn’t understand why I kept leaving newspaper article clippings of environmental issues caused by energy companies like ours on the kitchen table, on their nightstand. Anywhere that they might take notice of them, and of their budding ideologist’s concerns.
Celine only had one parent to my two, and yet Rosa was so much more to both of us than my distracted parents ever could be. Perhaps that’s unfair, given that Rosa was paid, and paid well, to lavish attention on me. But it’s true.
As hard as it is to recognize Celine’s pity for me, I can handle it. Hell, I’ve pitied myself sometimes, too.
What I can’t handle—what I would never in a million years have believed if I weren’t looking at it in purple ink—is the resentment.
Celine resented me for my money.
For everything I had at my fingertips that I turned my nose up at. For all the ways that my life would always be easy, while she would always struggle. For the ways I’d continuously throw my money at her—for tuition, vacations, clothes—knowing full well that she could never accept it without gravely offending her mother and everything that Rosa did to give her the life she had. As proud as Celine was, she so desperately wanted to take what I was offering.
She never admitted any of this to me. But she wrote plenty about it. About what she would do with that kind of money, how she wished she had been born to wealthy parents instead of a poor Mexican woman, her father’s whereabouts unknown. How she wished I’d realize how lucky I was.
She wasn’t always so focused on the money. Those diary entries started around the time that we moved and Rosa had to find another job. She decided not to get another nanny job because it wasn’t good for Celine, being surrounded by such wealth and greed. It skewed reality for her. Rosa’s words, as quoted in one entry.
Though Rosa had always been strict with Celine about earning her own way, about not accepting extravagant gifts, this was Celine’s first taste of “real” reality, as she was too young to remember what life had been like before coming to La Jolla. Rosa must have saved every last penny she earned while under employ with us, because she had enough to buy one of those prefab homes in Chula Vista, a workingclass suburb of San Diego. She got a job in Walmart making minimum wage and Celine went to a local public school.
She hated it.
There are five diaries dedicated to how much she hated it. How the kids found out that she grew up in La Jolla and she instantly became pegged as “the Mexican Princess,” though she was far from that. How the girls ganged up on her, spreading rumors about her, all because she spoke more eloquently, and seemed more cultured, and carried herself with grace.
They even attacked her behind the school once, leaving her with a swollen eye and a split lip before a teacher broke it up.
The guys weren’t much better. She discovered there was a running bet to see who could steal the Mexican Princess’s virginity. At the one and only party she ever went to in high school, at age seventeen, someone slipped something into her drink. Had it not been for the help of one of her few friends, she would have very likely been raped that night.
And she never told me.
Never uttered a single word, except to say how perfect things were, how happy she and Rosa were. How everything
was just fine. While I bitched about how small my private school room was and how cold it was in Massachusetts, how the technology was three years behind and the girls there sucked, Celine listened and offered apologies for what wasn’t her fault and never once mentioned the Peeping Tom that the police caught sitting outside her window, watching her change. Or the gang shooting two blocks over.
Or how Rosa was robbed at knifepoint late one night, walking home from the bus stop after a twelve-hour shift.
Celine was miserable, having lost her relatively privileged life. She didn’t want to be the girl who used to live in La Jolla and now lived in a glorified mobile home. She wanted to be far away from all of it.
That’s why she chose New York. She would take the money that Rosa saved for her college degree, she’d apply for every scholarship she could, and she’d make something of herself. She’d take her passion and talent and knowledge of antiques and make a real, comfortable life for herself where it might be most appreciated.
She would not be kicked out of her home ever again, and she would stop wishing that she had my money.
The diary entry a few days before my twenty-first birthday is especially scathing.
April 17, 2007
There are two kinds of rich people in this world: materialistic and idealistic. If she has to be one of the two, I guess the latter is more bearable. I just wish she was REALISTIC. She’s never had to live like the rest of us, and here she is, ready to just sign all that money over to some “foundation.” Money she didn’t earn, from someone who gave her everything that she has today. Meanwhile I’m begging for thousand-dollar grants just to finish an undergrad that’s useless on its own. Her mom phoned me last night and asked me to try and persuade her not to do it. The selfish, vindictive part of me wants her to. Wouldn’t that be a cold slap in the face, the day she finds herself looking at bills and wondering how she’s going to pay them? I know it’ll never come to that. But wouldn’t it be nice for her to walk in my shoes for a year. Maybe then she’ll climb down off that self-righteous, ignorant horse she’s been riding all this time.
