Emerald Eyes
Alicia Danielle Voss-Guillén
Published by Price World Publishing
1300 W Belmont Ave Ste 20G
Chicago, IL 60657-3200
Copyright © 2012 by Alicia Danielle Voss-Guillén
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.
eISBN: 9781619842205
Contents
What Happened in Bermuda
Looking Forward to Nothing
The Resort at Secret Lake
Chet
The Guys
Hanging Out
Enjoy It While It Lasts
“Miss Vanessa”
Hands Like Ice
Mother to Daughter
Invitation
Boat Ride
Terror at Indian Falls
Strange But True
Haunting
Obsession
At the Soda Fountain
Night Watch
What to Wear?
Not As It Should Be
Summer Romance
Fireworks
Deceived
Life and Death
The Whole Story
The Most Special Girl
Farewell
What Happened in Bermuda
I love to look at myself in the mirror. I won’t lie and say it isn’t true. I like, sometimes, to push out my lip in a pout and twist my shoulder around toward my chin like a Vogue cover girl. Don’t get me wrong—I could never be a Vogue cover girl, or any other cover girl, for that matter. I’m too short, too small, and I don’t have…enough.
Enough anything. I’ve got an A-sized bust, and my hips are as straight as a boy’s. I’m sick and tired of being mistaken for someone much younger than sixteen.
While I’m too petite to ever be really glamorous, and I could probably name several dozen other people a lot prettier than I am, I won’t degrade myself completely and say that I’m ugly.
I’m not beautiful, maybe, but I am cute, at least, and I’m not too humble to admit it. I have a sort of triangular face, not long and pointed, but short and rounded at the edges. I’m fair complexioned, and my hair is shoulder-length and straight, the color of honey, somewhere between blonde and brown, maybe a little heavier on the brown side.
But by far, my eyes are my best feature. In fact, I have never seen eyes like mine on anyone else, although I’m told that my dad had them. They’re huge and green and clear, like emeralds. With the help of a little makeup, I can really accentuate them, make them enormous and mysterious and, I hope, alluring.
I fact, I was studying my eyes kind of intently in the passenger seat mirror of our old clunky Ford, the day that Mom and I drove to Secret Lake.
“Mom,” I asked her suddenly, “do you think my eyes are exotic?”
Impatiently, she reached over from the driver’s seat and flipped the mirror up to the car ceiling. “For heaven’s sake, Molly,” she snapped, “we’re on our way to one of the country’s top-rated lake resorts, and all you can talk about are your eyes!”
I settled back against my seat, folding my arms across my (nonexistent) chest. I’d been doing it on purpose—talking about anything and everything unrelated to the subject of Secret Lake.
Not that I had anything against lake resorts. Under normal circumstances, I would have been thrilled at the chance to visit one. But these weren’t normal circumstances….
It all started with Bermuda. Mom had gone there with her best friend Bess about a month earlier, all geared up for swimming and snorkeling and beachfront bands and glass-bottomed boat rides.
I’d been happy for Mom and Bess—it wasn’t often that they could afford luxuries like that—and rather jealous, too. I’d been in school, finishing out the last weeks of my sophomore year at Pinewood High, and besides, I could easily understand why Mom and Bess would prefer I wasn’t with them. I’d readily stayed at my best friend Kathryn Nicoll’s house, and it was a blast, almost like a two-week-long slumber party!
But then Mom came home and dropped a bomb on me. She’d met a man. They’d fallen in love. My mother had a boyfriend!
I’m not so stupid that I don’t know what it means when adults get into relationships, particularly at Mom’s age. Those relationships lead to one, and only one, thing: marriage. And I did not want Mom to get married!
She’s never been married, and I think she’s gotten along just fine. I was born when she was seventeen, and by then my dad was gone, off to some far away city, never to be heard from again. I was raised by my grandparents until Mom was through with high school and, after that, two years of community college—because she was determined to “make something of herself”—and had a job to support us.
Then we lived in a tiny two-room apartment, still near to Nanny and Gramps Hanover’s house, and even when we finally upgraded to a nice, new condominium, we remained in our Chicago suburb of Pinewood, Illinois.
All I really know about my father is that his name is Brian Willis and he has emerald green eyes like mine, and that, before I was born, he was captain of the Pinewood High football team. I’ve even seen a photo of him—only once, though—and it was too small and blurry for me to make out any details. I could tell that he was big and broad and smiling, and that his enormous shoulders were definitely suited to a football team captain. That, really, is all my dad will ever be to me: an unclear, glossy Kodak print.
“You have your dad’s emerald eyes,” Nanny Hanover tells me, “and your mom’s little bird-like build, and both of their hair; his brown and hers blonde.” That is a cute, cozy way to put it, but I’ve never felt anything remotely like cozy when I think about my dad. I don’t need him, though. I was happy and content living with Mom, and Nanny and Gramps were never far away, and neither was Kathryn, or any of my other friends. I was completely satisfied with my life.
Until the day Mom came home from Bermuda. She’d been pink in the face with excitement, her light hair bouncing softly on her shoulders as she sprang on her heels on our living room carpet—up and down, up and down. She had news for me, she’d said, news too important to relay over the phone or scrawled casually across the back of a scenic postcard.
According to Mom, it had all started in the hotel lobby while she was checking in. Bess had been elsewhere (probably off in some restroom, fussing with her makeup; Bess wears more makeup than everyone else I know combined), and Mom was leaning nonchalantly, as she put it, against the marble surface of the front desk when it happened.
A tall, handsome middle-aged man with a deep tan and dark, almost black, hair that was graying at the roots stepped suddenly from behind her, startling her and then making her laugh. I know my mother’s soft, flirty laugh much too well; in fact, I even inherited it from her. It’s much more appropriate to flirt as a teenager, if you ask me, than to flirt as someone in her thirties! But I digress.
Mom proceeded to the next part of her story very animatedly, as though I would be thrilled out of my mind to hear it. She’d had her smooth leather wallet spread open on the countertop in front of her, as she waited to tuck her room key safely inside. It just so happened that her wallet-sized school photo of me, taken that past fall, was in very plain view.
The man apparently spotted it as he stood there next to Mom, because quite suddenly he leaned over to study it and then, in what Mom referred to as “an extremely dignified and charming British accent,” commented on it. “Why, whoever is that pretty little lady in the picture? Such a pleasant smile and most remarkable green eyes—like emeralds. Could she be, by any chance, your daughter, Madam? I daresay she’s lovely enough to be.”
This did not thrill me, as Mom had expected, or hoped, but instead
nauseated me. What a cornball that guy was, and why couldn’t she see it?
But, undoubtedly oblivious in her new little dream world, Mom had continued right along, relating with shining cheeks the way her eyes had met the man’s—“two puddles of gourmet chocolate fudge sauce”—and how she had answered him. “She certainly is my daughter! That’s my Molly; she’s sixteen now.”
“Sixteen?” repeated the man in slight surprise, and he looked Mom over thoughtfully and appraisingly. “Such a delightful, pivotal age,” he said after a pause, and Mom told me that then she noticed his eyes were suddenly very bright, making them seem bigger and shinier, arousing her curiosity as well as further captivating her.
But, with a sweep of his arms and a rumble of what Mom described as “resonant, masculine laughter,” the strangeness of the moment vanished, and he went on to shower her with flattery. How could it be that such a young and vivacious lady had a daughter already sixteen years old? And was Mom vacationing alone, or with her indubitably lucky husband?
Gag, gag, gag me, I’d been thinking as Mom spoke, and it was all I could do to remain upright on the sofa, instead of toppling onto the floor in a dead faint.
But still she took no notice and went on chipperly. The man, she said, introduced himself as Chet Hollingsworth, a native of Wales who had been living in the United States for the past twenty years. He was now on a vacation by himself, he’d told her, a much-needed escape from the reality and rigidity of his everyday work as the owner and manager of a sprawling lake resort in the small Midwestern town of Indian Falls, Wisconsin. He was divorced, with no children, but he kept company enough with his live-in housekeeper and residents of the resort and traveling friends who stopped in to visit from time to time.
Mom had paused dramatically after this description of Chet Hollingsworth, and her cheeks grew rosier and rosier as the rolling feeling of sickness swelled at the pit of my stomach. I knew what was coming next; it was unavoidable, and I could not escape it. I clutched a throw pillow tightly against me and waited.
He was wonderful, she gushed suddenly, simply wonderful, Molly, and if you had only been there, you would have seen it for yourself…and on…and on…and on. Chet had whisked Mom gracefully into an intimate little world of walks on the beach by night and scenic boat tours by day. They had enjoyed relaxing candlelight dinners in the peace and comfort of five-star restaurants and cozy local cafés. They had gone shopping in quaint souvenir shops and outdoor marketplaces, holding hands, laughing and talking and making plans. They had swum with dolphins in a secluded little cove where the water blazed at sunset, and where, Mom told me with a shiver of delight, Chet had cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
(Bess, according to Mom, was an amazingly good sport about the whole thing, and didn’t for a minute begrudge Mom and Chet their privacy. After dark, as Mom and Bess lay awake in their hotel room, they would talk through the night, gushing and giggling like teenagers, so that Bess was every bit as wrapped up in the island romance as Mom herself.)
I was horrified and dumbstruck, sitting there on the sofa, my nails digging defiant little ripples into the throw pillow. Of course, I would kill for an experience like that of my own, but my mother? That was nearly sacrilege.
Looking Forward to Nothing
Believe it or not, that wasn’t all; that wasn’t the story in its entirety. Oh, no. The worst was yet to come. It was very ironic, I thought, that the brighter and happier Mom’s face became, the duller and more miserable I felt. It was as though she were sapping all my light and energy, and it was all I could do to sit numbly, propped by the arm of the sofa, as she told me that Chet’s lake resort was a mere five-hour drive from our condo, and that he had invited Mom and me, both of us, to come up and spend some time with him as soon as “Miss Molly is out on summer holiday,” as he’d put it. He’d absolutely insisted that I “accompany” Mom, she told me; he would not hear of my staying at home, staying with Kathryn or my grandparents.
I fought it tooth and nail, but to no avail. Mom talked to Chet for hours every night; as I sprawled across my bed studying for finals, I could hear her through the wall, giggling and flirting over the phone like a stupid schoolgirl, like me. I kept thinking wasn’t it all so sudden, so out of nowhere, this startling whirlwind romance between Chet and my mother? But no one would listen; no one would sympathize. I called Nanny and whined to her, and then whined to her some more during one of our visits, but all she did was soothe me, with her soft comforting words and her strong warm fingers in my hair. “There’s no accounting for romance, Molly,” she told me. “Sometimes it just happens, and there’s nothing one can do to prevent it.”
For such a young grandmother—only in her fifties—she’s very grandmotherly, with her big, bulky sweaters and sage words of advice. Gramps is different; he’s youthful and athletic and more like a dad to me than anything else. But even he just brushed off my complaint with a wave of his hand as he laughed and said, “Molly, Molly, Molly, your mother’s a young woman still,” and set off whistling down the hallway. I sat helpless and moody, both uncomprehending and loathing his words.
At least, I thought dumbly, I could count on my friends. But what do you know, they all thought it was exotic and the most romantic thing they’d ever heard—in Bermuda, of all places! —and why in the world was I so set against it? “I’m surprised at you, Molly,” said Kathryn, my best friend in the universe. “I thought you were such a romantic at heart! What happened?”
That was it! That was all I could stand, and I couldn’t take any more nagging opposition from my love-struck mother, either. So I became quiet and mopey and pathetically resigned, while Mom bustled about, making all of the arrangements necessary to allow her division of the marketing firm to accommodate her long-distance via telephone and Internet.
Horribly enough, we would be gone an entire month, through the Fourth of July and a little beyond. No one seemed to care that I’d be deprived of my comfortable circle of friends and all of the cute guys from school and the possibility of a summer job in Pinewood; no one except my friend themselves, who, though they told me they’d miss me terribly, were above all intrigued and excited by my mother's fairy tale romance and the twists and turns it might take at the lake resort. I, for one, was fed up with the whole business and looked forward to nothing but some old British sap of a man and endless boring days by the shores of a lazy, placid lake.
The Resort at Secret Lake
Suppressing an agonized moan, I leaned on the passenger door of our car as Mom chattered away, a useless string of words about how Chet seemed so exceptionally eager and interested to meet me. I wondered what in the world I would do with myself in the dreaded month to come. As always, I had brought with me my sketchbook and colored pencils, tucked safely into my suede leather sling-sack, and there was no question in my mind that it would be well put to use this summer.
I plan to enter a fashion design program after I graduate high school and finish my gen-eds at the community college. I’m forever experimenting with clothing creations, drawn carefully in colorful detail off the top of my head. The blank pages of my sketchbook come alive with faceless models dressed in twirling skirts and low-slung jeans and empire-waist blouses, flaring soft scarves tossed over their shoulders and leopard-print purses dangling from their silk-gloved hands.
I sew sometimes, when I feel like it, and bring my creations to life. That very day, in fact, as our car passed the large wooden “Welcome to Indian Falls; Population: 3,756” sign, I was wearing a dropped-waist, off-the-shoulder summer top, cotton and satisfyingly lightweight, that I had finished the previous week. With it I also wore a matching headband; a thick, hemmed strip of cloth tied securely beneath my hair. Both were emerald-green, to mimic my eyes.
Mom pretended not to notice as, upon spotting the dreaded sign, I slumped down in my seat so that the chest strap of my seatbelt dug sharply into my chin. She drove, whistling a happy little tune, through a small and quaint, though crowded, downto
wn area, brimming with old-fashioned flair and touristy knick-knack shops. From there, Indian Falls, Wisconsin, swept upward into hills, at first rolling and then becoming steeper, as the paved road gave way to chalky white gravel. Evergreens clustered suddenly at either side of the road, closing us in like thick textured drapery, and as our car continued to climb the hills, my ears popped slightly from the change in elevation.
The gravel beneath the tires grew gradually darker, tan and the color of golden beach sand, and at long last, we came to what seemed to be the summit of the sloping road. Here, there was another wooden sign. This one, unlike the rustic Indian Falls sign, was polished, smooth and gleaming, with ornate trim carved along the top and bottom. It read: “The Resort at Secret Lake”.
Mom’s face grew bright and rosy, her eyes widened and sparkled, and she turned to me with a squeal of irrepressible excitement, followed by an almost reverent whisper. “Molly, we’re here!”
I tried not to roll my eyes, or groan, or lean out the window and get sick, so purging myself of the terrible butterflies of dread that had decided to take up residence in my stomach. But for all my efforts to resist, I rolled my eyes anyway, and Mom snapped at me. “Molly Elizabeth, please! For my sake?” It was more a command than a question though, and by the look on her face and her tone of voice, I knew I had better shape up.
In a calmer and less urgent tone, Mom added, “Honey, you’ll like Chet. I know you will. He’s a wonderful man, and he’s looking so forward to meeting you. At any rate, please tell me you’ll give him a fair chance? You owe at least that to me.” She said it somewhat wearily (as we’d been through this thing countless times already).
“Okay,” I whispered, but I wasn’t sure at all that I meant it; I only wanted to appease Mom. Besides, I found it hard to believe that I hadn’t yet met Chet, I’d heard so much about him. Hadn’t I already gotten to know him, given him a chance? It would be no use trying to explain all that to Mom, though, this I knew for sure. So I kept quiet and absently twisted my hands together in my lap as I watched out the window.
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