by Sophie Davis
Somehow, without my noticing when, an older man had replaced Blake. The fingers in my hair belonged to him. As I gasped for breath, the man stepped back with a grin that would’ve given the Cheshire Cat a run for his money.
“There. A diamond fit for the future Diamond Queen,” he said with the pride of a new father.
The man was completely oblivious to my distress. My sight became blurry, my eyes were swimming, and the threat of a sob was deep in my chest. I was positive my face was the color of a ripe grape. I blinked, forcing the tears down my cheeks. When they fell, the sensation felt wrong on my skin. The feeling was softer, cooler, drier. I opened my eyes and was standing in the middle of a place I’d been only once in my life, yet recognized immediately: The Key West Butterfly and Nature Conservatory.
Butterflies of all sizes and colors were circling my head. The wings that skimmed my cheeks were soft and sensual. More of them glided back and forth between the fragrant flowers lining the pathway, while others perched on tree branches near the top of the glass atrium. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the gurgle of a stream sliding over rocks. The man was nowhere in sight.
Large ivory wings appeared directly in my line of sight, blocking the conservatory from view. Thin veins of gold formed a delicate design on the wings and pulsed with each beat; the effect was mesmerizing, and I found it impossible to look away. It was as if those wings held the meaning of life. For what felt like forever, I just stared at the insect with rapt attention.
The spell finally broke in the most unpleasant way possible. A car horn – no, a car alarm – blared inside my head. I blinked rapidly, desperately trying to recapture the image of the butterfly with its beautiful wings. The noise was unrelenting as it continued to wail. And it wasn’t inside my head. It was all around me.
Fully awake but still disoriented, I shifted and tried to sit up, only to find that I was already sitting. The backs of my thighs itched, and sweat had my tank top plastered to my back. I started to panic.
Calm down, Raven, I ordered myself.
The fog in my brain was starting to clear, and I remembered that I’d fallen asleep on the couch in the living room of my apartment. That horn was probably on TV. Except, when I looked around at my surroundings – really looked around – I realized I was definitely not in my living room. There was a window to my right, a headrest directly in front of me, and my left arm rested on the same itchy material as my legs.
A car. I was in the backseat of a car. What the fuck? How did I get into the backseat of someone’s car? Terrified thoughts raced through my head. Had someone come in to my apartment? Why would they put me in the backseat of their car? Holy shit! Asher was right! I never should’ve been investigating Lark! How long had I been out? Where had they taken me? And where were they? I was definitely alone in the car. The same people who….
Frantic now, I reached for the door handle and realized the car keys were in my right hand. Wait, why would they give me the keys? Why did the view from the windshield look so incredibly familiar? With only the dim light from a nearby street lamp to aid me, I examined the keys I was holding. Wait. These are–
I was sitting in the backseat of my own car. The alarm stopped shrieking. Someone must have turned it off, or it’d been ignored long enough to realize its incessant cries wouldn’t be answered. In the silence that followed, I finally felt like I could think. Breathe, Raven, I told myself. Just breathe for a minute. Everything’s fine. My fingers were trembling so much that I dropped the keys into the slim space between the seat and the door. I didn’t bother retrieving them right away.
Sleepwalking was not exactly new to me. On several occasions, when I was a child, I’d awoken in a different place than I’d fallen asleep. It hadn’t happened in almost a decade, though. But all the fear and confusion that I felt now was exactly as I remembered from back then.
My heart was racing so fast that it took me several rounds of long, labored inhales and exhales before I was able to focus. As soon as I had my emotions in check, I reached for the interior light and switched it on. The dull light it provided was a shock to my senses. Again, I needed a moment before I was able to concentrate.
I was still wearing my pajamas, making it easy to assess my arms and legs for any signs of damage. No obvious bruises or bumps, I noted. That, at least, was a blessing. Then I saw my bare feet and groaned. Great. Even the short walk from my apartment to the car would have meant the soles of my feet were exposed to the grime and filth that covered all city sidewalks. I would examine the damage once I was safely back inside, I decided.
Finally, I wiggled my fingers into the crack that had claimed my keys, sighing with relief when I felt the warm metal brush against my fingertips. With one last look around the car, I went for the door handle, preparing to exit. That was when I realized the armrest in the middle of the backseat was down. Honestly, I hadn’t even known that my car had an armrest in the backseat. This fact wouldn’t have been alarming, save the small velvet pouch in the cup holder.
Rich black fabric with gold embroidery and delicate drawstrings sat innocently, staring up at me. I ran my fingers over the velvet, and then picked up the pouch. It was heavy, suggesting something substantial was inside. Jewelry? I guessed, given the look and feel of the little bag. It reminded me of the ones that nicer jewelry stores gave out with the purchase of an item. I only knew this because my next door neighbor in PA had come running over when her boyfriend bought her a gift from Tiffany and Co. It had probably been the least expensive item in the place, with him paying more for the robin’s egg blue box and small suede bag than the slim resin heart charm.
I slid a finger into the mouth of the pouch and worked it open. More curious than nervous now, I reached two fingers inside the bag and pulled out the contents.
Looking back, I cannot say which was more terrifying: the pounding on my car window or the sight of the ivory and gold butterfly pendant resting in my palm.
Scandal rocked the Upper East Side. At least, you’d think that it had by the way my mother was reacting.
“Lark, that is just not acceptable. I’m sorry, that is not going to work,” her voice switched between stern and pleading, unsure how best to deal with my noncompliance. “Go get ready, right this minute. Henry will drop us off, and then he will come back for you. We simply cannot wait, we will miss the carpet.” She looked helplessly at my father for support.
“Mom, it’s one night. One party. One event. We’ve been to three already this week, and I have a term paper due.” It was the one excuse that I knew would draw my father to my side. “If I don’t stay in tonight, then I’ll have to tomorrow. Because of that stupid committee, I’ll be at the Park all day tomorrow setting up, and then I have to go straight to my hair appointment.”
“That committee is not stupid. You’re making lifelong friends and connections. You’re building your place in society and meeting the proper people,” she responded, ignoring everything else I’d said to defend one of her precious causes.
“Eleanor, she is being responsible,” my father finally stepped in. “She is showing maturity by passing up a night of frivolity to honor her commitments and live up to her responsibilities.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” I beamed at him. Sure, I was milking it a little, but his support meant a lot to me. It wasn’t often that my parents told me I was doing something right. My father went through life just assuming others would follow his orders. Because they did.
“Phillip, this is not a good idea…,” she gave my father a pointed look. “Do you really think Lark should be home by herself? What if she needed something or…there will be no one here. I gave the staff the night off.”
“Lark is almost an adult. She will be fine for one evening,” my father responded, patience with my mother’s theatrics waning. That made two of us. Her tendency to be wildly overprotective drove me crazy. “Besides,” Dad continued, “Jeanine can stay for a while.” He didn’t bother to ask the housekeeper, or even to spare her a qu
estioning glance. His word was the bottom line in our house.
“But this is such a big night–” my mother began, trying another tactic.
“Lark is staying home.” My father’s tone was definitive, and it effectively ended further protest from my mother. She pursed her lips and crossed the foyer to where Jeanine was awkwardly standing with her coat, trying to pretend she was not privy to our family drama.
“She is my daughter too, Phillip. It would be nice if either of you,” she shot an icy glare at first my father, and then me, “cared about my opinion.” My mother was sulking, plucking at my father’s emotional strings. When she pouted, he melted. At least, as long as he wasn’t on the phone or poring over contracts or working in general. She had a captive audience in him tonight, and it was clear she was taking advantage. He’d pay handsomely for siding with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if some new, rare jewel found its way to her in the coming week.
“Eleanor, of course we care. I just want our daughter to have her priorities in order. How am I ever going to retire, to travel the world with you full-time, if she doesn’t have the proper education to take over? Lark has to put in the time. Her application to Columbia will include this semester’s grades, so she can’t let up now.” My father’s spiel left a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. Of course he wasn’t actually proud of me. I hadn’t done anything to be proud of yet. Admission to Columbia would be the first step, no doubt. No pressure or anything, just get into Columbia or don’t have a future, Lark.
There were so many things I wanted to say to my parents in that moment. As usual, I held my tongue. There was no point. Mom might have felt as though Dad and I were ganging up on her in tonight’s fight, but, in the ongoing battle for control of my future, they always stood united against me. Both had their own agendas, and neither gelled with mine.
“Have a great time tonight, guys. I wish I could go,” I said, forcing a smile.
From where I stood, just over halfway down the staircase, I took a moment to appraise my parents. They really were a striking couple. My mother’s floor-length Valentino gown was dark blue-gray silk, a color that made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow. Actually, that was probably the facial she’d had this afternoon. A large blue diamond in an antique cushion-cut setting was around her neck, dangling from a delicate strand of platinum with impeccably clear diamonds inset the entire way around. The necklace went perfectly with her flawless blue diamond engagement ring and diamond tennis bracelet. Dad wore a Valentino tux and a bowtie the same color as Mom’s dress. The initials of his monogrammed cufflinks were separated by sparkling diamonds. Between the flashbulbs and the bling adorning my parents, every person within three city blocks of the red carpet would be seeing spots tonight.
My parents had paid ten thousand dollars a plate for tonight’s dinner, the proceeds going to an organization that fought world hunger, yet all they needed to do was pluck just one of the smaller diamonds from its setting to feed a child for a year. Every day, people around the globe were killed over less money than was resting against my mother’s slim throat. That thought made me shiver. Parading their wealth was asking for trouble.
I descended the staircase to place a kiss on each of my parents’ cheeks and to wish them a good night again. There was a heaviness deep within me, almost like my soul had suddenly donned a leaden belt. I swallowed back the knot that developed in the back of my throat to smile and wave as they swept into the elevator. Like a parent seeing her child off on a first date, I waited until the steel doors slid shut before closing and locking the front door behind them. I leaned against it as an overwhelming sadness washed over me.
“Can I get you something, sweetheart? Maybe a cup of tea?”
I’d forgotten that Jeanine was still in the foyer until she spoke.
“No, no. Thank you, though. I can make my own tea, Jeannie,” I said, using my old nickname for her. “Go home, you’ve done more than enough today. Oh, and take those sandwiches and stuff for the boys. They’ll just go to waste here.”
That afternoon, my mother had hosted a luncheon for the committee chairs of whatever cause she was heading this year. The kitchen staff had prepared a variety of tea sandwiches, salads, fruit skewers, and bite-sized lettuce wraps. Of course, the women had stuck with the carb-less choices, and our Sub-Zero was now so full of sandwiches that we were in danger of being mistaken for preppers.
“I think your parents wanted me to stay…,” she trailed off, torn between their wishes and the prospect of getting home at a decent hour.
“Seriously Jeannie, I’m fine, I promise. I’m just going to be upstairs working on my term paper. Go spend some time with the boys. Nick and Greg deserve more mom time.”
Maybe imploring her to spend time with her children was cheating. I knew for a fact that she worried about spending so much time away from them, when the oldest would be leaving for college in just a few short years.
Jeanine crossed the marble checkerboard floor and pulled me in for a quick hug. She’d been working for my family for four years now and was well aware of our dysfunction. She felt sorry for me, wanted to dote on me and show motherly affection, since my own mother clearly lacked the instincts. Still, Jeanine only dared to cross these lines when my mother was nowhere to be found.
“You are so sweet, my Lark. Thank you. They will be more than happy to have those for dinner. And I won’t have to cook.”
It was always startling to remember that she had her own duties and responsibilities on top of my mother’s. I returned her hug, wrapping both arms around her and giving her a tight squeeze.
“Thanks for everything you do, Jeannie. We all appreciate it so much,” I whispered. We both knew that wasn’t entirely true. But at least she knew that I appreciated her. And that was what mattered to me. “Now get out of here. And have James call you one of our cars. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m sure Francisco is bored. He can run you home.”
“Goodnight, Lark. Good luck with your studies.” Jeanine went to the kitchen to gather her things and the leftovers for the boys, and I headed upstairs.
I sat in my room for eleven minutes, tensely watching the clock make its slowest progression ever. I’d planned to wait fifteen minutes – plenty of time for Jeanine and Francisco to leave – but I literally could not sit there a minute longer. I was clutching the sky blue velvet cushion of my armchair, trying to focus on anything besides the numbers that refused to advance, when I decided it had been long enough.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then sprang to action. My mother would have been appalled at the way I dashed across the cushiony bedroom carpet, through the hallway, and down the stairs. When I’d almost reached the foyer, I used the banister to keep me upright as I swung around the end of the stairs. Past the entrances to the formal living and dining rooms, down the main hallway, to the fork in the road. The breakfast room was on the left, another smaller hallway on the right. My bare footsteps slapped the marble floor, the sound amplified by the vaulted ceilings, as I tore down the path to my father’s study. Had anyone else been home, eyebrows would’ve raised at the oddness of the noise. People in my world didn’t run anywhere. No one had any reason to be in a hurry; everyone else would wait.
Being here alone was a novelty. My mother was a constant presence. Despite her regular social engagements, our schedules were such that we were almost always home at the same times. Sometimes she was only here long enough to exchange her tailored suit for an evening gown before a night of schmoozing with the locals. An entourage of hair and makeup lackeys followed her around, ready to transform her from a lady-who-lunches to the wife of the Diamond
I had nearly as many nighttime commitments as my mother and was frequently out at the same time. On the evenings that I stayed home, Jeanine was always there, as well as the chef and several other staff members. Having the house to myself tonight was the result of careful planning and meticulous timing. Had I announced earlier in the day that I wouldn’t be going with my
parents, there was no way the house would be empty now. My mother would have insisted the staff stay, just in case I needed an apple washed, a soda opened, or clean towel in the bathroom. You know, because I’m too helpless to take care of myself.
Though I was alone by design, I couldn’t help but feel slightly unnerved by the silence. The sheer size of the house meant that all sorts of evils could be hiding in any number of rooms, and I would have no idea. The hairs on my arms stood up as I fully appreciated how creepy my home suddenly felt.
My ears were alert, listening for even the slightest of noises that would signal the presence of another person in the house. Darkness hung over the vast spaces, and I flipped on every light switch I passed.
Breathe, Lark, I told myself. No one is here. Exactly what you needed. You’re an adult. There is no one lurking just around the corner. No one is waiting to steal you away. Not tonight.
French doors led to my father’s study, I closed both behind me once I was inside. I flipped the light switch with one hand, turned the lever of the brass lock with the other, and was rewarded with a click. That small barrier served the dual purpose of providing a line of defense against an intruder and buying me several extra seconds should my parents return early. You never can be too careful.
I appraised the room and wondered where to start. The space was vast, though made less cavernous by the interior designer who’d sectioned it into two distinct areas. To the right, my father’s massive walnut desk was the focal point. It had been passed down from his great-grandfather and bore the ornate scrollwork of the late nineteenth century. Situated in front of the desk were two high-backed, calf skin leather chairs in a buttery tone. To the left, on the other side of the room, was a small seating area. Two small couches sat across from each other, flanked by a matching armchair on one side and a large fireplace on the other. My father used this area for informal discussions, friendly meetings, and his evening scotches.
