by Gun Brooke
“Nonsense!” Vivian pulls a cell phone from her purse. “Contacts. New. Name. Gail Owen. Cell-phone number.” She holds it up to me, nodding encouragingly.
Taken aback, I give my number and the phone beeps.
“Excellent. Text Gail Owen.” Vivian gives an address and ends with, “Friday, seven p.m., casual attire.”
It’s my cell’s turn to beep.
“Well, we better go have our belated lunch after all the exercise we just got in the basement,” Vivian says, beaming.
I gawk. I can’t help it. This makes Mike laugh. “Vivian, you have to stop doing that. You’re embarrassing Gail.” Taking pity on me, Mike places a hand on my left arm for a moment. “We have a music studio below, and we’ve been rehearsing.”
Ah. Thank God. “I see. Well, then you deserve to eat in peace. See you Friday.” I want to escape so badly now and process this turn of events that I’m already halfway out the door.
“We look forward to it,” Vivian says and waves in my general direction. Mike does the same, and I’m free to go.
How the hell did I end up in this situation? Yes, the guys will love it, but I’ll be the one having to suffer through questions about my arm, my destroyed career—no, my destroyed life.
Chapter Seven
Romi
Manon’s house is huge. I’ve seen these types of houses from a pavement distance, of course, but never been close to one, let alone inside. I let my hand hover over the button next to the massive door, but then press it for a few seconds. It’s barely audible from where I’m standing. I take a few steps back, certain that it’s not polite to stand close enough for the person opening it to have me hover only a foot away.
It takes a few moments, but then the door swings inward and Manon stands there, looking so elegant and posh, I can’t imagine why she’d want me to enter at all.
Clearly, she does though. “Romi. Welcome. I’m so glad you’re here. Come in.” She backs up and holds the door open for me. “You can hang your coat there.” She points to a small closet just inside. I know my coat is clean for the most part but still hesitate.
Manon seems to think it’s because I’m shy or something, because she opens the, thankfully, empty closet and grabs a hanger. “Here. Let me take it for you.”
Surreal. Manon Belmont, wealthier than anybody in East Quay, or even the East Coast for all I know, hangs my coat for me.
“This way. I thought we could make this a working lunch, if that’s okay?”
“Sure. Thank you,” I say. Another free meal. Two days in a row. Unheard of.
Manon guides me into what Aunt Clara would have called a winter garden, but I know others sometimes refer to it as a conservatory. Around us exotic plants grow in pots and raised beds. I recognize some of the specimens from pictures. Yucca palms seems to be popular in here, and they give the large space a rain-forest feel. In the center, a small, white cast-iron table with four chairs is set for two. Manon motions for me to sit down as a maid comes in with a cart full of food. To me it looks like way too much for two people, but who am I to complain?
“I thought a chicken pot pie with some salad and fruit might be a good choice.” Manon places her napkin on her lap, and I do the same. “When it’s chilly, like today, that’s the perfect comfort food, I think. Thank you, Annette.” She nods at the maid. “We’ll be fine on our own now. Go on your break and tend to Wallace.”
“Thank you, Manon. I will.” Annette leaves, and I’m stunned that she and her employer are on a first-name basis.
“Wallace is Annette’s husband. They live in the annex and have been with my family since I was in my twenties. Wallace needs some help, so I always make sure Annette has a two-hour lunch break.”
“That’s very generous,” I say and accept the piece of pie Manon puts on my plate without showing how greedy for it I am.
“It’s the least I can do. For someone as loyal to my family as they’ve been, they deserve nothing less.” Manon nudges the salad bowl closer to me. “Dig in. Annette will be cross with us if we don’t do our best to finish this lot off.” She grins, which transforms her serious features into something so lovely and inviting, I nearly forget to eat.
After taking a few bites of the fantastic food, Manon rests her hands on the edge of the table, still holding her utensils. Her dark-chocolate hair lies in gentle waves around her shoulders, and she regards me with some curiosity. “Now. Tell me about yourself, dear.”
I’m expecting the question, but that doesn’t mean I know what to say. I’m not a good liar, but I’m pretty okay when it comes to dodging and avoiding questions—unless they’re directed toward me with as much kindness and interest as Manon is expressing.
“Um. I…I don’t know what to say really.” I want to plead with Manon to just talk about that potential job with the choir and not ask anything of me that will destroy this possibility.
“Where were you born? Let’s start with that.”
That was a pretty safe question. “In Boston.”
“And you just moved here from there?” Manon puts a piece of mushroom into her mouth and chews slowly while looking at me expectantly.
“No.” I look down at the plate and wish I could just eat and not have to answer anything. Still, I know I’m here for an interview of sorts, so I try. “I came to East Quay when I was almost five. My mother died when I was four, and it took the authorities a while to find any living relative. I’m not sure how, exactly. My father died when I was even younger, and it was his only relative, an aunt by marriage, that I ended up with.” Surely it must be okay to take a few more bites now? I eat more of the pie and then some salad.
“That’s a rough start. Your father’s aunt, does she live where we dropped you off?”
Shit. I drop my fork, which clatters as it lands on the plate. “She, um, did. Yes.”
Manon doesn’t seem to notice. “You may know, perhaps, that I run the Belmont Foundation. It reaches far into many communities here in Rhode Island. We used to have our main office in Providence, but we’ve moved it to East Quay since this is where I live when I’m not touring with Chicory Ariose.” Manon takes another bite and sips her water before she continues. “I’ve come in contact with more than my fair share of kids and young people who need a helping hand. When I met you yesterday…I don’t want to come off as presumptuous or as a know-it-all, but you struck me as a young woman in need of support.”
I want to run out of there. I want to tell this wealthy woman with the kind eyes that I’ve been surviving for six years on my own without much help from anyone. I haven’t yet resorted to begging in the street, unless you call busking begging. I suppose some might think of it that way, but I don’t.
“This is hard. I realize that.” Manon reaches across the table and briefly touches my right hand. “Charity, especially accepting it, is difficult.”
She’s right—and she’s not. I don’t mind charity—after all, I’ve stayed in shelters and eaten in soup kitchens provided by churches and private donors. For me, it’s all about the spirit in which charity is given and what is expected in return. “Are you telling me that the choir-assistant position is a job that’s construed to be charitable to someone like me?” I slowly raise my eyes from the food and lock them on Manon’s. She doesn’t waver.
“Not at all. We’ve discussed this subject on several occasions, ever since the choir leader, Carrie, started having to opt out occasionally. It’s important that our girls in the choir have consistency and can depend on the choir on the days of practice. For some of them, it’s their only constant except for school.”
My interest grows despite my trepidations. The way Manon describes it, it doesn’t sound like the wrong, demeaning kind of charity, where I would need to grovel. “Why me?” I don’t mean to sound rude and fight to make my voice softer. “I mean, yes, you heard me sing, and I can carry a tune, but you have no idea who I am, if I’m trustworthy or even capable in any way.”
Manon picks up a piece of
cucumber with her fork but lets it hover between the plate and her mouth. “Good question. I didn’t use to work on instinct, at least, not on instinct alone. Marrying Eryn and belonging to Chicory Ariose, I’ve had to learn to listen to what my gut tells me. Eryn and I both felt chills for all the right reasons when you sang that beautiful song, but when you joined us at the table, thanks to Tierney, who is a genuine force of nature, we both felt that you’re the real thing. If you ask me to dissect our response to you, I can’t. I suppose what it boils down to is a matter of taking a leap—and daring to trust. For you and me both.”
“Not my strong point,” I whisper, and the understanding reflected on Manon’s face almost makes me cry. I’ve learned the hard way that if I dare to let the tears run, they won’t stop. I don’t cry, but I pick up the fork I dropped and spear a piece of lettuce.
“How long do you think you need to consider this offer?” Manon is done with her plate and leans back, placing her napkin next to it.
My neck smarts as I snap my head up to look at her. “I can’t decline. I mean, I want to try.” That doesn’t come out right. Isn’t a job interview all about showing self-confidence and knowing your worth and what you want? How can I show those traits when I really don’t have any of them? What was it Aunt Clara used to say when I opposed any of her rules or orders? “Beggars can’t be choosers.” I don’t realize that I’ve said it out loud before the words echo around me. I slap my hand over my mouth, and my tears are as close to overflowing as they’ve ever been without streaming down my cheeks.
“That’s something someone’s said to you enough times for it to fester, isn’t it?” Manon’s voice is soft, but thank God, she doesn’t try to touch me or console me. “This is how this situation is going to play out.” She reaches out to a shelf on the cart holding the food that I haven’t noticed. Pulling out a folder and an expensive-looking pen, she motions for me to keep eating. “Full name, please?”
“Romi Shepherd.”
“Age…twenty-two, was it?”
“Twenty-three in November.”
“All right.” Manon jots down the information. “Did you finish high school, Romi?”
My cheeks grow hot. “Not really. On paper, I mean.”
Manon looks up, her eyebrows raised.
I push at a piece of cucumber, the last morsel on my plate. I’m full. An odd feeling, two days in a row. “I love libraries. I spent a lot of time there the last couple of years and tried to follow the last three years of the high school curriculum. I mean, I couldn’t do any of the labs for chemistry and physics, but I know them in theory.” I wonder if she thinks I’m bragging or, worse, lying. “It’s true.”
“Then we must make sure you get the chance to take your GED.” She keeps writing. “I can tell you’re a pro at shopping at thrift stores. Nothing wrong with that, but you’re going to need a basic wardrobe to set a good example for the kids. Your coat is fine. I understand it’s even in fashion.”
I can’t afford a new wardrobe. I won’t even be able to get all new stuff if I get a part-time salary. Is she insane? I just stare at her, wondering how the hell I’ll be able to tell her.
“And no, I haven’t lost my marbles.” Manon taps the back of her pen against the notes. “There’s a store here in East Quay that my foundation has an account with. I’ll call ahead and have Brittany help you out when you get there.” Manon raised her free hand. “And before you object and think this is out of the ordinary, I promise you, it’s not. The foundation has clothed all the girls in the choir, except for Stephanie, who nowadays comes from a well-to-do household. All the other girls are in foster care or come from low-income—or even non-income—homes.
“As the junior choir leader, you will have to get to know each girl and her background. You will also be required to let them know, to a degree, that your life has not been easy either. No details, other than what you’re comfortable with, of course. When they see you, who are six to eight years older, and that you’ve survived and now lead and assist them—your example will make an impact.” Manon grew serious, leaning forward. “This is the scope of the trust the foundation and I place in you. If you can interact with the rest of the choir like you did with Steph and Lisa yesterday—you will work wonders.”
My head is spinning. The way Manon speaks…she makes me think I can do it. That she sees something in me nobody else has and that she’s certain I won’t fail. Who am I to argue when everything inside me screams that this is my chance?
“I really want to.” I see the faces of the girls in the choir—some with a gaunt look, some with newfound confidence, and some afraid of everything and anything. I straighten in my chair and I know I’ve turned a page, not only in my beloved notebook but in my life. If I can dare to reach out and help someone else, perhaps there’s a chance for me, for a better life?
“There’s one more thing, and it’s non-negotiable.” Manon leans forward and stares at me. “Before you start working, you’ll have to submit to a drug test. As we’re putting you in charge of young people, we have to make sure you don’t have any serious substance-abuse problems. It’s routine at the Belmont Foundation. A registered nurse will administer it, and the only ones who will see the results are her and me. HIPAA applies.”
“I have no problem with that.” This is one of the traps I’ve never fallen into, like so many of the people I came across when living on the streets of Manhattan. I was tempted sometimes, especially since some of the drugs took away hunger, but lack of money and fear of what it would turn me into made me keep my distance.
“Excellent. Just stop by the center and ask for the nurse. Should you need to address anything else regarding your health while you’re there, it stays in your chart with her and has nothing to do with me.”
As Manon follows me to the door after writing down phone numbers, the address to the clothes store, and next week’s choir practice schedule, for me, she places her hand gently on my arm, stopping me.
“Come to think of it, what are you doing Friday evening?” she asks, tapping her chin.
“Um. Nothing?”
“We’re invited to a dinner party, Eryn and I, and I know Stephanie will be there as well. Why don’t you come as our guest? I know our hostesses won’t mind, as they tell us constantly to bring friends. It’s casual attire, so anything you pick out at the store will do.”
I’m sure I’ve misunderstood. “A dinner party?”
“Yes.”
“But I’ve never been to one.” Panic lurks behind my words, and I wonder if Manon picks up on it.
“It’s the same as what we just did, but with a few more people. Everyone there will be friendly, and you needn’t worry. You already know half the gang from yesterday.” Manon smiles broadly. “Please say you’ll come?”
My head spins, but I can’t deny this woman anything. She feels, well, not maternal, exactly, but so very caring and honest. If she didn’t truly want me to come with them, then she didn’t have to mention a dinner party I knew nothing about, did she?
“Thank you. Should I come here first…or…?” I step outside after retrieving my jacket.
“Yes, that’s a good idea. Their house is among the dunes and not easy to spot unless you know where to go. If you get here at six thirty, that’ll give us plenty of time.”
I thank Manon again and then walk down the flagstone garden path. When I turn to look at the house again, I see her still standing there, leaning against the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other. She waves at me and then walks back in, closing the door behind her.
As I make my way toward the center of East Quay, my thoughts whirl constantly in my head. One sentence keeps popping up to the surface, no matter how I try to whack-a-mole it.
How the hell did this happen?
Chapter Eight
Gail
I disconnect the cell phone after hanging up with Neill. He and Laurence aren’t going to be able to join me at Vivian’s tonight, which makes me feel relieved and uneas
y at the same time. Getting stuck in traffic in Manhattan isn’t new, but when you drive like Neill, like a snail on Valium, it takes you even longer. They’ll get here tonight, but two hours later than they thought. I told him I’d leave the key for them under a big stone on the northeast corner of the house, as I don’t expect to be home when they arrive.
After texting Vivian to let her and Mike know I won’t be bringing the guys, I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at the so-called choices before me. I refuse to second-guess myself. I hate any type of indecision, hesitation, or ambiguity—especially within myself. Standing in front of the closet, I see my options are limited, which helps with any such potential character flaws. It’s a good thing Vivian’s dinner party is casual, since I didn’t bother to bring any of my more elegant clothes. But, considering my orthosis and sling, I can’t wear just anything.
Eventually I pick a white, flowy shirt with arms wide enough to accommodate the orthosis. It’s buttoned in the front, and I can manage that even if it takes ten times as long as it used to. Black slacks are always appropriate, no matter how casual the hosts say the party is. I pull on my black ankle boots and then brush through my hair. Since the accident, I haven’t been able to wear it in any elaborate hairdos other than loose, pulled back in a twist with a special clasp, or with a headband. I choose a broad, black, glossy headband that will keep my hair out of my face. I’ve learned the hard way that, with one hand, it’s quite the chore to keep pushing at my hair while trying to manage a fork. Cutting meat is still damn near impossible. The occupational therapist offered me a large number of tools to help with that and other challenges, but I blew her off. I never used to regret being harsh like that, but truth be told, I’ve thought of that kind woman several times and wished I’d harnessed myself better.
