Holding

by Jillian Quinn

Dodging a few girls in opera masks and various shades of red and green dresses, I walk into the living room, pounding my beer. The brim of the cup pushes my mask up slightly, forcing me to pull it back down to conceal my identity. Not that it would be hard to figure out. I’m the tallest guy in the house, and even though some of my brothers are close in height, my muscular build and the few extra inches gives me away.

  In this suit, my chest and arms are thick and tight against the fabric, the material too restricting to allow myself to be comfortable without the proper amount of alcohol. I’m lucky I was able to find a jacket on such short notice. I’d outgrown the one I had for our last fraternity function, which didn’t leave many options. Even Mark’s was too small for me to squeeze into without ripping it to shreds like The Hulk.

  Doing my best to avoid the girls in barely there dresses, with cleavage spilling out from their tops and their skin matted with sweat from dancing, I keep my eyes on the door and stand with my back pressed against the wall. The music vibrates the floor, sending a tremor up my legs and back. Somehow, I find it relaxing, and people watch, as I drink my beer.

  A few songs go by before everything changes. Even the DJ scratches the record wrong, throwing off the tempo he mixed when a girl walks through the front door. There’s something about her. Dressed in a floor length pale blue gown and an elaborate gold and purple mask, she could stop traffic. In this case, she caused most of the people in eyesight to stop and notice her arrival.

  My heart pounds against my chest, beating faster with each step she takes toward me. She appears to be alone. Despite the mask that covers most of her face, I can tell without seeing the rest that what is beneath is just as beautiful as what I can see. She has long, blonde curls pinned up and fall from various places, framing her face.

  Who is she? The question of the hour.

  She scans the room, the mask shielding her eyes, giving away no indication of her next move. Is she meeting a date? A girl this beautiful would never come to a party alone. Men on campus would fight each other for a chance with her. I would be one of them. So, why don’t I recognize her? Between football and frat parties, I know just about every girl at our school.

  I cannot stop staring at the masked girl and the blue fabric that hugs her delicate but curvy frame. Her skin is like alabaster, and even without touching her, I imagine how smooth her skin would be and think of how she’d react from my touch. Then, she locks onto me, holding me in her clutches. I feel it. For a split second, what my mother had told me about sends a rush of adrenaline through my body, catapulting me toward her.

  My mother was right. She’s always right. Just one look is all it takes to feel that connection to this strange girl. Once her eyes wander away from mine, and she reappraises the room, I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach that she has other plans. But mine include claiming her for the night.

  She moves further into the crowd that has now resumed their dancing and grinding on each other, too consumed to pay attention to the masked girl any longer. But all I can think about is her. I follow behind her, through the masses, and down the long hallway at the back of the house. Because of its size, the house can be somewhat intimidating to those who are not familiar with the layout. I assume she knows where this path leads and is baiting me into a trap, or she is genuinely lost and trying to get away from me.

  Either way, I cannot stop myself from hunting her down, like a beast stalking its prey. I push forward, past the couples making out in the hall, determined to catch up to the girl. Every few feet, she glances over her shoulder, almost as if she’s running away from me, or maybe even waiting for me to catch up. But the people in the way make it hard for me to move any faster.

  If this was part of her plan to lose me, she underestimated her opponent in this game, though I have a feeling this is what she had intended with the way she looks at me with a purpose. She smiles at me one last time before she turns to the left. I return the smile, even though she can’t see it now, because I know I can take my time to get to her.

  Soon enough, my masked beauty will realize she has hit a dead end. And I will be there by the time she turns around to correct her mistake. Then, we can play another game, one on my terms.

  Chapter Three

  Ella

  Mrs. Feighry leads me by the hand to her estate, through the hedges that divide our properties. The shrubs create a thick wall that reaches high enough that it reminds me of a castle.

  Unlike my house that is crumbling because of neglect, Mrs. F’s house has the same pristine shine that mine once had. I’d never wandered onto this side of the wall after my family had sold it to the new owners.

  I was never curious enough about my previous neighbors even though they were more reclusive than my family. People in town would speculate who they thought lived there. I suppose my parents had known who owned the house, but they never said a word. The main house and its grounds are not visible from the street with the gate closed and locked, making it impenetrable to outsiders.

  My eyes glaze over the monstrous stone front and manicured walkways that lead to the entrance. “How do you keep up with this place on your own?”

  “I hired a lawn service to tend to the grounds, but I do all the cleaning and cooking myself. My husband did most of the work when we lived in North Carolina. He was good with his hands.”

  I knew her Southern twang sounded familiar. It’s hard to forget when she sounds so much like my dad. Mom was a Northerner and had never even left this area until she met my dad. Sometimes, she would bust on my father for the way he said certain words. I thought it was funny. She probably even did it to give me a good laugh when I was a kid.

  “My dad was from North Carolina,” I mutter, keeping pace with Mrs. F. “What part are you from?”

  “I was born and raised in Raleigh—”

  “My dad was from Raleigh. What are the odds of that?”

  “Raleigh is the second largest city in North Carolina, so I’d say the chances are high. Most people claim to be from the big cities like Raleigh or Charlotte when they live just outside the city lines.”

  “As far as I know, he was from the city. My mom always joked that he was more of a country boy.”

  She smiles. “A fellow Tar Heel. He sounds like a good man to me.”

  “He was the best.”

  A beat passes between us with nothing more than the gravel crunching beneath our feet filling the void. Just thinking of my dad on a night like this almost brings tears to my eyes once more. But I suck them down and hold my head high.

  “What brings you here?”

  “Well, my husband was from High Point. He owned a custom furniture store not far from our house. We lived there until his death last year. I guess I needed to get out of there, you know. Sometimes, you need a break from life. Change can be good when it’s the right kind.”

  Her words bring a smile to my face. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Mrs. F sticks a key into the lock and leads me into the dark house. “It gets lonely in this big old house. I would love some company if you can get away sometime.”

  “You have no idea how much I would love that. Thank you. I appreciate your help and the offer. It means the world to me that you would go out of your way to help a complete stranger.”

  “There’s nothing strange about you, my dear. If you miss the party, you won’t get the chance to meet this boy, and I cannot allow you to do that. I met my Charles at a party. We were inseparable for over fifty years. I want you to have the same opportunity I had. Meeting him changed my life, and I suspect that this boy could change yours, too.”

  “I could use some luck,” I say, deflated by how this night turned out. My sisters are such bitches for what they did to my mother’s dress.

  Mrs. F stops in front of a large oak door and sticks the key in the lock. With the snap of her fingers, a huge chandelier illuminates the expanse of the open space. Two staircases join in front of us, rounding out the circular foyer. Decorated in wh
at appear to be intertwined branches stained a light green color, the beams that lead upstairs mirror most of the wood throughout the house. I’ve never seen such attention to detail.

  At the center of it all, an oversized pumpkin sits atop a small round table with leaves carefully placed around it, as if intentional. This is a home. I remember the days when my mother would plant in her garden and come inside with whatever fruit and vegetables were ripe enough to eat. She’d set them on the kitchen counter and pull up a stool alongside her for me to sit and watch as she attempted to cook her latest cuisine.

  Despite living alone, there’s so much warmth to Mrs. F’s house that I wish I could live here instead of the dump next door. Being here with this sweet woman only makes me miss my family even more. As I take everything in and allow myself a few seconds to recall the past, Mrs. F stays quiet at my side. That is until we hear the sound of feet pounding on the tile floor, coming toward us.

  A dog rounds the corner and jumps up on her leg, desperate for attention. “Bruno.” She scratches the brown-haired dog behind his floppy ears, taking a few seconds to show him some love. “Okay, boy. Sit down and be good for Mama while I help our new friend.”

  He responds to her voice so quickly that I’m a little surprised by how well he listens. Bruno sits at her feet and wags his tail, looking up at Mrs. F.

  “Well, dear, shall we find you something more appropriate to wear to this party?”

  “I’d love that,” I say in a hushed tone. “Thank you again for helping me. If there’s anything I can do—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, cutting me off. “There’s no need. You’re in need of help, and I’m more than happy to get you to that party to meet the boy you are so impressed with.”

  I chuckle, the blush rising to my cheeks at the thought of Shawn Finch. “I’m more than impressed by him. He’s…” I’m not even sure what words to use to describe him. He’s just Finch. And he has no idea that I exist.

  Tonight, I’ll make him notice me if it’s the last thing I do. I have one shot.

  “I had that look about me when Mr. F. was alive,” she says, leading me up the stairs. “He swept me off my feet. I was about your age when we met.”

  I take my place next to her as we make our ascent, the staircase wide enough to fit us both. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “For such a young girl, you know a thing or two about loss, so I don’t need to tell you that the pain is always there and that some days are better than others.”

  I nod. “I know what you mean. My mother passed away when I was ten years old and my father a few years ago.”

  She places her hand on my back when we reach the top landing and guides me toward our destination. “You could use some love in your heart to replace the sadness. I’ll be rooting for you tonight.” Her smile is contagious, wide and bright, and having a mirroring effect on me.

  “I just want one kiss from him. That’s all. For one night, I want him to look at me and see me if that makes sense.”

  “Perfect sense,” she says, pushing open a bedroom door for us to enter. “But it’s never just one kiss, you know. I thought the same thing with my late husband, and then over fifty years later, I was packing up our house in North Carolina to move to Pennsylvania to deal with some unfinished business.”

  She doesn’t offer more, and I don’t dare push her.

  The bedroom has the most ornate wallpaper and woodwork I have ever seen. It’s as if someone transported a bedroom from The Great Gatsby, with its Art deco rugs and intricate designs that remind me of the 1920’s, to this house. By the looks of it, I assume whatever garments are inside the walk-in closet are equally as old as the rest of the décor. My mother loved vintage clothes. She would have loved this room even more than the gowns Mrs. F sifts through, sliding each hanger to the side until she finds the right one.

  “Here it is,” she says, lifting the hanger from the rack to hold up a pale blue gown with a silver accent.

  Overwhelmed by her choice, my hand reflexively covers my mouth, as my eyes widen at the beauty of this dress. “This is too much,” I mutter. “I can’t wear this to a party at a frat house. Someone will end up spilling beer on me, or someone will step on the hem. Too many things could happen. I just can't…”

  She sighs. “You can and you will, my dear. I want you to wear this dress. It would mean the world to me if you do. It’s good luck, and I hope it will bring good luck to you. Lord knows you could use it.”

  Lowering my hand from my face, the corners of my mouth turn up into a wide grin. This dress is everything I ever could have imagined and more. It holds a special place in Mrs. F’s heart, which makes me even more nervous about wearing it to the party. I’m so afraid of something happening outside of my control that my limbs tremble.

  “How about I leave you to it?” Mrs. F. hands me the dress that I take with a shaky hand. “I’ll be waiting on the other side for you.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, and then she disappears, closing the door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  The closet is more like an extension of the bedroom, with a chaise lounge in one corner, a chair in the other, and a long, ornate bench made of navy-and-white striped fabric. We have unused rooms like this one in my house that my stepmother had boarded up and left unattended now that she has stripped the beauty from every crevice of my childhood home. My mother would not recognize the place if she were alive to see the neglect.

  I hang the dress on a hook, long enough to strip down to my underwear and lower Mrs. F.’s dress over my head. After I shove my arms through the holes and tug it down and in place, I stand in front of the mirror to appraise myself. I stare in awe of this gown and how it hugs each of my curves as if made for me.

  Mrs. F was right about the dress. It’s perfect. I hope Finch loves it. Every time I think of Finch, I get giddy all over again. And nervous. He makes me super nervous when he’s just passing by my table in the library.

  Is it weird to have feelings for someone who I have never spoken to? Probably. In fact, it makes me sound like a stalker. I’m not. But my chest gets tight every time he walks into the school library. My heart beats a little faster when I see him on my way to class or when he plays football on the lawn in the Quad with his fraternity brothers.

  Shawn Finch is perfection in every way. Except for the fact that he’s doing bad in school. I could help him. If only I had him for tutoring.

  When I step out from the closet, Mrs. F is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing me with a smile on her face. “It looks even better on you than it did on me. This boy will not know what to do with himself when he sees you.”

  I consider what he might do to me and smile. I hope that Finch will be unable to keep his hands off me if he’s not already busy with another girl by the time I get there. The party started over an hour ago, and who knows how many girls have thrown themselves at him by now.

  Mrs. F gets up with a mask in hand. “You said you were going to a masquerade and that mask you were going to wear just won’t do with this dress. You need something special, something that will make you stand out in the crowd.”

  She moves closer, revealing a gorgeous glittery gold mask with purple accents and feathers that stick up on the left side. It looks so regal and refined as if owned by someone famous, the type of person who would own a room as elaborate as this one.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have impeccable taste?” I ask, as she lowers the mask over my eyes and adjusts the strap at the back of my head.

  She chuckles in response.

  Consumed by this moment, I almost forget that I’m Ella Fitzgerald, house slave to the witch next door. Tonight, I can be whoever I want. The longer I spend with Mrs. F, the clock ticks.

  “I have to be home by midnight. Do you mind if I keep my mother’s dress somewhere to change back into before I go home? Clarissa will have a fit if she sees me in yours.”

  “Don’t be silly, girl.” Mrs. F clamps her han
d on my shoulder and smiles. “I’m a night owl. Ring the bell, and I will let you in to change before you go home. Don’t worry about your stepmother or anything else. Just find that boy and have a good time. Make this night about you instead of putting someone else first.”

  “I wish you were my stepmother,” I blurt out. “I mean…”

  She gives my shoulder one more tap in acknowledgment before she releases her grip on me and escorts me downstairs.

  Once we reach the door, I take a deep breath and open it. A cool breeze smacks me in the face, sending chills throughout my body. I was so upset when I ran from my house that I’d forgotten to grab a jacket.

  As if reading my mind, Mrs. F places a winter coat over my shoulders and helps me slide my arms into the holes. “How are you getting to the party, my dear?”

  I hadn’t given that much thought. Considering I ride the bus, I will look like a lunatic in this outfit.

  I shrug. “The bus, I guess.”

  “Do you have a drivers license?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t driven in three years. My stepmother took my car and sold it to buy one for her daughters.”

  She lets an exaggerated sigh, shakes her head in disapproval, and removes a set of keys from her pocket. “You poor thing. Take my car.”

  I push out my hand. “No, I couldn’t. You’ve done enough for me already.”

  “Please, I would feel better if you use my car. Philadelphia public transportation at this hour is not safe for a girl like you, and you will be sure to attract attention in this gown.”

  She’s right. The three buses I take to get to Strickland University in the daytime are bad enough, let alone the creatures that might lurk at night.

  “Thank you,” I say with a smile.

  She slips the keys into my palm, and I close my fist over them, praying that I make it there in one piece and that nothing bad happens to the car or the dress. That would be my luck.

  The ride to the fraternity house was rougher than I had imagined. Either I drive too slow, after all these years out of practice, or the people in this city drive too fast. They almost ran me off the road, inciting such fear inside me that my fingers trembled beneath the leather steering wheel the entire ride. Parked at the corner of Greek Row, I take a minute to compose myself before I get out of the red Mercedes coupe.