Star Promise

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  My gaze must’ve lingered too long. She fussed with her jacket, nervously zipping and then unzipping it. “These are the invitations to Olivia’s charity thing.” She pointed at the envelope. “I was told to bring them to you.”

  I opened the flap and peeked inside, surprised by the number of invitations in it. Obviously Olivia expected me to pull out all stops and rope Fiona into inviting half of Manhattan. “How many people are likely to attend?” I asked.

  “Enough to pay the wages she owes me, hopefully,” she muttered.

  I looked up sharply, expecting to the see the expression of regret that usually comes after speaking before thinking. Clearly, Erin wasn’t regretful at all. She remained completely straight-faced, which only added to her believability.

  “She owes you money?” I asked.

  “Olivia always owes me money,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Why do you think she runs these stupid events?”

  I grabbed the chair from Bronson’s desk. “Take a seat, Erin,” I encouraged. “I’d really like to know more.”

  She hesitated, glancing at the chair. “What makes you think I’d tell you anything?”

  I smoothed down the back of my dress and sat back down. “Because you’re a decent kid, and it’s the right thing to do.”

  Playing to her conscience was merely lip service. For all I knew, Erin was as shady as Olivia. The real reason I knew she was going to spill all was because she was angry.

  After a moment of deliberation, she sat down. “What do you want to know?”

  “How much of the donated funds does she siphon off for herself?”

  Erin shook her head. “All of them,” she scoffed. “There is no charity. Can you imagine Olivia helping disadvantaged children?”

  “No,” I conceded, slumping back in my chair. From what I’d seen, she had enough trouble helping out the privileged ones. I’d never seen a less compassionate teacher in all my life.

  “Every few months she puts some stupid event together, cons spoiled rich women into supporting her fake cause, and makes off with enough money to keep the studio ticking over.”

  “Tuition costs a bomb,” I pointed out. “Surely she makes good money.”

  Erin rolled her eyes again, an annoying but age-appropriate gesture for a disgruntled teenage girl. “She only runs two classes.” She held two fingers in the air. “That’s it.”

  “But why?”

  She huffed out a hard laugh designed to make my question seem stupid. “Because she’s awful. No one wants to be tutored by a class A bitch. It’s only the diehards that stick around.”

  My daughter was one of the diehards. For some reason she loved the regimented structure and discipline of Olivia’s class.

  I held Erin’s gaze for a long time, trying to take everything in. “Why do you stay?” I asked.

  “I’m just waiting for my money,” she replied. “As soon as I get it, I’m out.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  She leaned forward, pushing the stack of invitations across the desk. “What about you, Mrs Décarie?” she asked. “Do you have a plan for dealing with this?”

  No was the answer, but even if I’d come up with the most ingenious plan ever devised, I wouldn’t have shared it with her. I picked up the envelope and sealed the flap. “No plan,” I told her. “It’s business as usual.”

  It had to be for now. Erin wasn’t the only one who was owed money, and a few weeks of her wages didn’t compare to the thirty grand she owed Bronson.

  Erin stood, settling both hands in the front pocket of her hoodie. “You won’t tell her I told you anything, right?” Her nervous tone was probably warranted. There was no telling what Olivia would do if she discovered she’d been sold out.

  “Of course not.” I smiled, trying to reassure her. “My mother and I aren’t close.”

  “Your mother?” She gasped. “Olivia said she hardly knows you.”

  “She’s right.” I nodded. “She doesn’t know me at all.”

  ***

  I’d been avoiding talking to my dad for weeks, worried that I might let slip that I was in contact with my mother. I wasn’t sure why I was determined to keep it from him. Alex had never discouraged me from knowing Olivia, even offering to help me to find her at one point.

  I couldn’t imagine that she even vaguely resembled the fifteen-year-old girl he fell in love with all those years ago. In the few times we had discussed her over the years, he’d remembered Olivia fondly, filling my head with thoughts of a beautiful dancer who made the brave decision to give her baby up to follow her dreams. He’d portrayed himself as the selfish one who couldn’t let me go.

  It was so far from the truth that I was scared to tell him differently. I didn’t give a damn about Olivia, but maybe after all these years, Alex still did.

  In a flash of clarity, I realised why I was keeping him in the dark. With the very best of intentions, I was trying to protect him from finding out what she’d become.

  52. WHINY DISPLAYS

  Adam

  It had been a good few weeks since Bridget had ventured over to the dark side. As much as I hated to admit it, the reason she was behaving was because she knew that stepping out of line would result in us cancelling her dance concert.

  She hadn’t completely reformed. I arrived home from work to find her standing at the sink with a carton of eggs.

  “Good evening, Miss Décarie,” I called.

  The kid nearly jumped out of her skin. “Nothing,” she replied.

  Like a deer trapped in the headlights, she didn’t move. I walked into the kitchen. “I didn’t ask what you were doing.”

  She dropped the carton down on the counter. “I’m not doing nothing.”

  “Anything,” I corrected.

  “That’s right.”

  I peered over the top of her, checking out the smashed eggs in the sink. “It doesn’t look like nothing, Bridget.”

  When worked up, Bridget adopts her uncle’s quirk of talking with her hands. She waved her arms as if she was drawing a picture in the air. “I was just seeing if all the eggs are the same inside.”

  I folded my arms. “And what did you conclude?”

  Bridget didn’t understand my question. She blinked a thousand times but said nothing.

  “Are they all the same or not?” I rephrased.

  “Yes they are.” She reached into the front pocket of her dress. “But I have two more to check.”

  Determined not to smile, I bit my bottom lip and stalled my reply. “Don’t you think that’s wasteful?” I finally asked.

  She stretched up on tiptoes to check the gloop in the sink. “I could make Treasure a cake with them,” she offered. “A lovely one with sparkles.” She took off to the pantry and pulled open the door. “We have sparkles in here.”

  I lifted her up and set her back near the sink. “You’re not baking anything, Betty Crocker,” I told her. “You are going to clean up this mess, though.”

  “Well, I think that’s a little bit mean,” she retorted with a swing of her hips.

  “And I think you’re a little bit naughty.” I handed her the dishcloth. “Where’s your mama?”

  “In the shower,” she muttered.

  “Don’t move until this is cleaned up,” I ordered, pointing at her as I backed away. “I mean it, Bridget.”

  “I will try,” she replied. “But I’m a very small girl.”

  “A small girl with a big cleanup job ahead of her,” I called from the entry to the hallway. “Get cracking.”

  “Cracking eggs?” she asked hopefully.

  I turned back to face her again. “How do you think a very small girl would handle being in very big trouble?”

  Bridget swiped the cloth along the edge of the sink, pretending to be hard at work. “I would play it very cool,” she mumbled.

  ***

  My plan of surprising my wife in the shower didn’t work out so well. Charli was in the bedroom dressed and good to go, which was a
problem.

  “No, no, no.” I groaned out the words. “Where are you going?”

  She twisted her hair into a knot and secured it at the top of her head. “To your parents’ house for dinner. Get dressed.”

  I didn’t want to get dressed. After a long and gruelling few days, I wanted to have an early night and get undressed. “No, Charlotte,” I pleaded. “Call and cancel.”

  She pointed her hairbrush at me. “I will do no such thing. You have a chance to redeem yourself for misbehaving at the engagement dinner. Ryan and Bente will be there too.”

  I dropped to my knees and grabbed her hips. “Please stay home with me. I’m tired of people.”

  The whiny display had her in giggles. “They’re not people, Adam. They’re your family.”

  I pulled her forward, lifted her shirt and kissed her belly. “You don’t understand, Charli,” I mumbled. “I really need to get laid. I never, ever get laid.”

  She ran her hand through my hair. “You poor thing,” she lamented.

  “I know,” I replied. “It’s nothing short of tragic.”

  She took no pity on me. “We’re still going to dinner.”

  “Did you not hear my plea, Charlotte?” I asked dramatically.

  She stepped away breaking my hold. “Yes, I did,” she confirmed. “You never, ever get laid.”

  “I really think we –”

  “Shush,” she demanded, swatting my shoulder.

  I turned around to see Bridget at the door. “I cleaned up, Daddy,” she grumbled.

  “You’re a good girl. Thank you.” I didn’t sound thankful. I sounded like I’d just been busted. “Are you ready to go to Mamie’s?”

  Charli didn’t wait for Bridget to answer. She led her out of the room, mumbling something about getting her dressed.

  I loosened my tie and pulled in a long breath. “We need a bigger apartment,” I muttered to myself.

  53. CAJUN RECIPES

  Charli

  Ryan and Bente’s wedding preparations were in full swing, and the queen was excited. The minute we arrived, she bombarded me with every detail. We ended up chatting in the kitchen while she checked on dinner. To clarify, she chatted. I just nodded a lot and asked the occasional question in the hope of appearing interested.

  “An ice sculpture?” I asked incredulously. “Whose idea was that?”

  Fiona checked that the coast was clear before replying. “Ivy’s,” she whispered. “Dreadfully tacky – but you know me, darling. I’m very amenable.”

  I almost laughed but thought better of it.

  “How about you, darling?” A plume of smoke rose from the oven when she opened the door, and then she quickly closed it as if it hadn’t happened. “What have you been up to?”

  “Just working,” I replied.

  Fiona glanced back at me, smiling widely. “Any news for me?”

  Questions like that made me regret telling her about our baby plans, especially knowing she was probably going to ask me about it every single time I saw her.

  “Not yet,” I replied. “But you’ll be the first to know.”

  Fiona pulled the oven mitt off her hands and cradled my cheeks. “I cannot wait, my darling. We have so many exciting things in the wings.”

  I smiled back. “Speaking of exciting things, I received the invitations for Olivia’s charity luncheon today.”

  I surprised myself by sounding enthusiastic. In truth, the whole notion of helping Olivia commit fraud made my skin crawl, but until I could figure out a way of putting an end to her the best course of action was to contain her. For now, I was keeping her wicked deeds in-house.

  Fiona picked up her mitt and opened the oven again, this time deciding to take the tray out. “Yes, fine,” she replied. “Just let me know the details.”

  I cleared a space on the counter so she could set the tray down. “I had a quick look at the invitations,” I said casually. “There are thirty tables available. Do you think your crowd could book them all?” My voice rose at the end, acutely aware that it was a cheeky request.

  She glanced across at me. “Thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s really gone all out, hasn’t she?” The sarcastic edge to her tone confused me so much that I lost my ability to keep bluffing my way through the conversation.

  “Yes or no?” I asked, getting straight to the point.

  Fiona studied her tray of burnt chicken. “Yes, darling. Anything for you.”

  Too relieved to pretend otherwise, I hugged her. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, Charli,” she mumbled. “Now what are we going to do about this chicken?”

  I looked at the smoking tray. “Tell them it’s a Cajun recipe,” I suggested.

  “Good thinking, darling.” She smiled. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  ***

  Dinner wasn’t a reprieve from the wedding talk. If anything, it was encouraged because it took the focus off the abominable food we’d been served.

  The poor bride looked like she’d been put through the wringer lately, and a quick glance at Ryan showed that he wasn’t faring much better. Not only were they dealing with Fiona’s grandiose ideas: Ivy was in on the action.

  Jean-Luc found the whole subject boring, and for the first time ever I was relieved when he cut in and changed the subject. He turned his attention to Bridget. “How are the ballet lessons going, my love?”

  “I’m a lovely dancer,” she informed him.

  Ryan put his hand to his heart. “And so modest,” he teased.

  Bridget ignored him. “I have a concert soon – with lovely dresses and music for dancing.”

  “Magnifique.” Jean-Luc spoke to Bridget, but looked at Adam. “Perhaps your father will take the day off work to accompany you.”

  Adam winked when I glanced at him. It was a comforting gesture he made often in the king’s presence. It was code for ‘take a deep breath and ignore him’. I tried to do just that. I also had a crack at changing the subject. “Dinner is lovely, Fiona,” I falsely praised.

  She beamed at me. “Thank you, darling. It’s a Cajun recipe.”

  Ryan looked at his plate before scowling at me. “You are such a groveller.”

  “Ryan!” scolded his mother. “Apologise.”

  The notion was laughable. The man had never once apologised to me, even when I deserved it. I couldn’t quite catch the mumble he came out with, but I’m certain it was no apology.

  “It is lovely,” agreed Bente, directing the compliment at her future mother-in-law. “I love Cajun food.”

  “How about burnt food, Bente?” teased Adam, avoiding my attempt at crushing his foot by shifting his leg. “Do you like burnt food?”

  She didn’t skip a beat. “I do if Fiona cooks it.”

  Adam laughed, and I tried not to. Even the King stifled a chuckle. But Ryan was overcome with something else – pure unadulterated admiration for the woman who was prepared to lie to keep his mother happy. “You’re beautiful,” he quietly told her. “I’m going to marry you.”

  Even Fiona smiled.

  “I don’t like black chicken, Mamie,” said Bridget, trying to spear a piece with her fork. “But I will pretend.”

  “You’re a class act, Bridge,” joked Ryan.

  “Yes I am.” She pointed her fork at him. “A lovely one.”

  ***

  By the time dessert rolled around, conversation had returned to the wedding. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the food. In a grand attempt at cutting us all a break, Ryan supplied dessert – a huge gateau from Billet-doux, which in turn inspired Fiona to voice her opinion on wedding cakes.

  “Fruit cake is so traditional and classy.” She lifted a piece of the gateau with a beautiful antique silver cake server, and dropped it into a plastic Smurf-themed bowl. The irony was not lost on me. “For you, my love,” she said passing it to Bridget.

  “I don’t know much about cake,” conceded Bente. “All I know is that I’d like it to ha
ve red roses to match the rest of the theme.”

  “Everything will match perfectly,” declared Fiona. “I’ve even arranged a new carpet for the aisle of the church.”

  “A red one?” asked Ryan incredulously.

  I wasn’t the least bit surprised. Nothing was out of the realm of possibility when the queen was coordinating.

  “Of course, Ryan.” She passed a slice of cake to Bente. “The church is very welcoming of donations. They needed a new carpet along the aisle, and I wanted it red. It’s being laid next week.”

  In one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, my daughter piped up. “My daddy never gets laid,” she announced, waving her fork in the air.

  I think I stopped breathing. Adam let out a strange sound that was one of total humiliation. Everyone else seemed frozen. No one moved. No one spoke.

  Perhaps realising she was the reason for the stunned silence Bridget added to her comment. “Never, ever, ever,” she mumbled.

  Adam finally reacted. His hand flew over her mouth to stop her speaking. Ryan reacted too – by laughing so hard I thought he might burst. “Adam, you do remember the science of procreation, right?” The convoluted phrasing was designed to keep Bridget oblivious. “You’re never going to expand the brood if you don’t figure out how.”

  Adam released Bridget and sank down in his seat, gifting his brother a kick to the shins. Ryan didn’t even care. He kept laughing.

  I could feel my cheeks burning, and it only got worse when the one person I didn’t want to make eye contact with ever again began to chuckle. “Out of the mouth of babes,” said Jean-Luc.

  “His only babe at this rate,” added Ryan, making him chuckle harder.

  Ignoring the idiocy, Bente leaned across the table. “Are you trying to have a baby, Charli?” she whispered.

  “No,” I replied, taking the plate that was frozen in my mother-in-law’s stunned hands. “I’m just trying to have cake.”

  54. PIGEON WRANGLING

  Adam

  Bridget fell asleep on the couch right after dinner, looking too sweet to be the same girl who’d embarrassed the bejesus out of us earlier. As much as I wanted to call it a night and get out of there, I made better use of the quiet moment by grabbing Charli and sneaking out the door.