“I don’t see why you have to go if you’re not his date.”
“You make it sound like I don’t exist without Cooper. The same controlling shit he’s trying to sell me.” The door opened and Remy stood there, suddenly dressed in her own jeans and T-shirt.
Cassie sagged against the cushion. “Please, allow me a moment to recover from the crushed dream of my sister being swept away by this gorgeous, incredibly rich guy.”
Remy put her hands on her hips, standing her ground. “Looks aren’t everything.”
“I know that, Boo. Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not really. It’s just . . . I’m going to break up with him, okay? I’ll tell Cooper soon. And knowing him, rich, generous guy that he is, he’ll probably give me my ticket.”
“Don’t count on it. He’ll need it for some other hottie who wants to jump into your shoes. Guys like Cooper do not stay home from prom and cry on Mommy’s shoulder.”
“Whatever.” Remy held out her hand, axing the topic. “Cooper can take care of himself, and so can I. I’m jumping into a limo with some of my girls. Maddie says I don’t have to pay. And I’ll order soup at dinner and make a corsage from the garden. I’ve got it all figured out. Okay? So don’t you worry about me, Mama Bear.”
Cassie let out her breath in a deep sigh. “You know I will.” It had been a long time since Remy had called her Mama Bear, and something about it tugged at Cassie’s sense of responsibility for her sister. She hated the fact that Remy would now be cut off from all the extra goodies she’d been privy to as Cooper’s girlfriend. But at the same time, she didn’t want her sister begging charity from the rich kid. It was getting harder and harder to take care of little Rem.
Remy sank onto the settee beside her and leaned in, giving her a hefty nudge. “So . . . ? Are we getting the blue dress? I can fix it. You know I can.”
Leave it to Remy to bring it back to the all-important dress. “Is that the one you want, Boo?”
“Hell, yeah.”
It was the right price, and perfect for Remy. “Then let’s do it.”
It was impressive the way that Remy dealt with Shanna. Cassie hung back as Remy praised the dress, then lamented over the damage, her small fingers smoothing over the edge as they discussed ways to repair it. She pretended to be undecided about the purchase, which prompted Shanna to knock another twenty bucks off the price. Sweet!
As Cassie swiped her credit card and Shanna wrapped the delicate garment in tangerine-colored tissue paper, Cassie felt herself warming up to the salesclerk, who seemed to have a rapport with Remy. The screen on the credit card keypad flashed: PURCHASE DENIED, and Cassie figured the store was having trouble with its scanner. Shanna told her to swipe the card again, but the same message came up.
“What does that mean?” Remy asked.
Shanna shrugged. “Either the account is maxed out or closed. Do you have another card?”
Cassie tried to tamp down the creeping feeling of dread as she exchanged a wary look with her sister. Had Mom overspent the card again? Cassie had a very specific monthly budget on the card, and she was still two hundred short of reaching it.
“Can you hold the dress for a day or two?” Remy asked. “I’ll come back for it.”
“I’m afraid not. We don’t hold clearance items. Once you leave the store, it will go back on the sales rack. No discount.”
“Okay, then.” Cassie turned away from the counter as mortification flared, warming her cheeks. She hated it when Mom put her in positions like this. “Maybe we should keep looking. There’s still a month till prom.”
“No.” Remy grabbed her arm. “Cass, no. We won’t find anything this good.”
Shanna put the wrapped gown behind the counter. “Let me know when you figure it out,” she said, heading toward the door to greet a new customer.
“I am so embarrassed,” Cassie muttered when the clerk was out of range. “Why does Mom do this to me? She knows the spending limits. She’s the one who does the budget.”
“We have to get this dress!” Remy kept a firm grip on Cassie’s arm. “We’re buying it. Today. How much cash do you have on you?”
“Not much.” Cassie knew she had a twenty that was meant for groceries. Of course, with her stockpile of nonperishables, she wouldn’t starve, and she had a small paycheck waiting for her at the café, where she had cut her hours back until after finals. Resigning herself to a steady diet of lentil soup and mac and cheese for the next few weeks, she opened her wallet and forked over the cash. Remy had sixteen, which left them around twenty bucks short.
“Okay, one of us needs to run home and get the money from Mom, while the other waits here and watches the dress.”
“And I get to be the runner, right?” Cassie winced as she glanced out the shop window over the town square, picturing herself jogging in her flip-flops through packs of shoppers, dog walkers, elderly couples, women with strollers. She was not a runner, even in sneakers. She’d been stupid not to take the car this morning, but it had been a beautiful day to walk, and she’d figured it was wise to save the gas. “I’ll walk home, and bring the car back. And I hope Mom has cash in the house.” Their mother was giving voice lessons in the studio this morning, and no doubt she’d be annoyed at being interrupted.
“Okay, but hurry,” Remy was saying as Cassie gazed across the square at the large church with a white clapboard façade and a spire. Next to the church was a smaller building with the same white clapboard and roof pitch. Years before the little building had been part of the church, but a few years ago Rachel had turned it into a hair salon.
“Holy Snips.” Cassie lifted her hand toward the window. “Rachel will throw in for us. I’m sure she won’t mind, and she always works Saturdays. I’ll run over and talk to her.”
“Oh my God, yes!” Remy’s amber eyes were full of light. “Great idea! And tell her thank you for me.”
“Be right back.” Cassie ducked out of the shop, relieved to avoid a confrontation with Mom for now. These days, everything Ariel did seemed to piss her off. Leaving her sister to watch the dress, Cassie hurried down the street, moving as fast as her flip-flops would allow.
Less than a mile away in the space designated as her studio, Ariel Alexander was about to wrap up Kristina Lee’s voice lesson. Kristina stood erect, her dark hair swept back in a twist so taut that you’d think it would hold her mouth open. She was a super-achieving senior in Gleetime Company, the high school performing group that had become Ariel’s bread and butter in the past few years. All the students in the song-and-dance company came to her for vocal coaching because the music teacher “strongly recommended”—meaning, required—that all his performers take private voice lessons, and Ariel was the only vocal coach this side of Portland. God bless Craig Schulteis. The Gleetime kids paid Ariel’s mortgage and grocery bills, leaving any money she earned from TV or film gigs to go for incidentals. And there were a lot of incidentals when you were a single parent of four kids.
“Don’t move your chin,” Ariel instructed, then watched as Kristina sang: “La-ga, la-ga, la-ga, la-ga, la.”
“Nice. I know it sounds silly, but it’s just an exercise to relax the larynx. That creates more space in the back of your throat for beautiful sound.”
Kristina nodded brusquely and then continued the exercise with fierce concentration. The girl definitely got an A plus for effort. Kristina Lee was one of the most erudite and determined students Ariel worked with. Precise and disciplined, yes, but talented? Not so much. Granted, her voice had improved in the past few years. Technically, she was hitting her notes with a full, clear tone. But the girl lacked artistry and emotion. Her best performance was like Madame Butterfly played on Muzak.
“That’s good,” Ariel said, ending the exercise. “Great, actually. Your tone has really improved. So let’s spend the rest of our time working on your solo audition for the Spring Showcase. Did you pick a song from the list I gave you?”
Kristina frowned, shaking
her head. “I’m not so sure about a solo.”
“Really? Your mom seems to think it’s important.” Nan Lee was the classic tiger mom, hovering, coaching, prepared to pounce on her daughter for any missed opportunity. For Kristina’s mother, getting a solo in the spring performance was all about winning. “Did you talk to her about it?”
The student averted her eyes and flushed with embarrassment. “Not really. But I don’t like being onstage alone, and there are so many kids who are better singers. They should do the duets and solos.”
“Mmm.” Ariel agreed with that, but she knew Kristina’s mom would blow a gasket if she heard her daughter talking that way. Ariel walked a fine line, trying to please the parents who paid her and the students who sang in Gleetime to fulfill their parents’ expectations.
“Well, how about we work on one of the solos?” Ariel suggested. “If you have something prepared, you can audition and know that you tried.”
“And what if I’m not so good?” There was fear in Kristina’s lovely dark eyes.
“Well, then, you get to sing in the group numbers, which is exactly what you want, right?” Ariel got up from the piano and slid an arm around the girl’s shoulder. “You know, kiddo, everyone has their gifts. You can do equations and lab experiments that would melt my brain.”
The girl gave a little snort of appreciation.
“Some kids excel at sports. You’ve got filmmakers and artists, and soon computer geeks will be ruling the world. I think we all have to play to our strengths. You know where you rock. So if I were you, I’d just do the solo audition to keep your mom off your back.”
Kristina grinned, covering her mouth with one hand. “I can’t believe you would say that.”
“Yeah, well, don’t repeat it.” The last thing Ariel needed was an ass-kicking from a tiger mom. She leafed through her collection of sheet music until she found the one she wanted and handed it over. “So let’s try something you can embrace. Pour your heart into it.” Ariel went back to the piano keyboard as the girl scanned the music. “It’s a song from Wicked.” She played a few chords and sang, “It’s time to try defying gravity. . . .”
“You chose a science lyric for me,” Kristina said, then joined in on the next line.
So she had learned the lyrics. Damn, but this girl was scary good. Ariel imagined Kristina’s future in a molecular lab, concocting a cure for cancer or a way to get to Mars and back in three days. One of those Star Trek beam-me-up thingies.
They went over the song twice, once for mechanics and the second time for flow. “Don’t worry about the technical elements this time. Just let it go. You’re pouring jars of paint over a giant canvas. Swirling stars in a pot. Dancing in the daisies.”
Again Kristina pressed a hand over her lips to hold back giggles, but she began to relax a bit, diving into the song. It was better. Still pedantic and measured, but a bit of energy was beginning to come through. When she finished, her face was bright and animated, like a child who’d gotten her first peek of the night sky.
As she rose and smoothed down her pleated gray skirt, Ariel felt good about the lesson. If nothing else, it had been therapeutic for the kid.
“That song is going to come together quickly,” Ariel said as she ushered the girl toward the mudroom, where students entered and exited. The entrance off the driveway was a good way to keep the business separate from family and home.
“What’s my homework?” Kristina asked as she handed Ariel a few crisp twenties. “Some breathing exercises?”
“Nope. You’ve mastered the technical aspects. Instead, I want you to find a comfortable spot in your room, sit in front of a candle, and meditate on how wonderful it would feel to defy gravity.”
Kristina squinted at her. “Really?”
“I kid you not. You need to own the emotions in that song.” Ariel pushed open the door to find Kristina’s mother waiting in her car by the curb. “There’s your mom, right on time.”
“See you Wednesday,” Kristina said.
Grateful for a break between sessions, Ariel let the door close behind her and went back to the studio, where she made herself a cup of mint tea from the water cooler. Alone, she let out a melodic cry of frustration. She hated these Saturday sessions! Yes, they paid the bills, but in all her studies and the personal discipline of her craft, all the auditions and long gigs and waiting around on TV sets, she had never once seen herself reduced to the mediocre, routine life of a suburban tutor.
She tossed the tea bag into the trash, wishing she could toss away her ingratitude and discontent. Ennui sucked. It was part of the reason for her mistakes with men. Too many of them. Now that she had kids, she had learned to be discreet, at least most of the time. The public incident with Stosh last week, well, that had been simply a bad ending to a mutual trade. Commerce. She had provided him with great sex and arm candy, and he had given her access to the life she loved in Southern California: TV gigs and small film roles, parties and red carpet award nights.
Although she had vowed not to see him again, Ariel was already aching for the life she missed. She sipped at her tea, telling herself to cool it. Take a breath. Have an attitude of gratitude.
With the cup lifted to her lips, she caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt-framed mirror that she used to help students isolate and control the parts of the throat.
She lowered the cup, stabbed by the sight of the dejected woman in the mirror. Sad, sallow eyes like dull beads in a sagging face. How did her eyes get so bloodshot? She needed to run upstairs for her Visine. And her face was flat and washed-out. The damned Oregon weather. She should have spent more time on her makeup this morning. Some bronzing and concealer, more color on her lips. She used her free hand to lift her ruddy hair near the part, trying to crimp some body into it. What happened to those great copper highlights that Rachel had woven in for her?
With a last sip of tea, she was about to dash upstairs to paint on a face when the click of the opening door came from the mudroom.
Who the hell was that? Her next student wasn’t due for a good thirty minutes. Or had she screwed up her scheduling? She opened the studio door and peeked in.
He was sitting on the bench of the mudroom, as if waiting for his own appointment.
Wariness tugged at her, a mixture of alarm and acute interest. “I told you not to come,” she said, turning away from him. Her clogs clicked on the wooden floor of the studio as danger and desire cut through her. She pressed her hands around the hot paper cup, willing herself to remember what was real and what was an illusion. The heat was real; desire was a jokester. Sexual cravings bobbed and weaved, tricking a person into dangerous, dark places. She knew that. She had to remember that.
He followed her into the studio as she knew he would. Quickly, she processed that all the children were out of the house; no one was around to hear. But also no one was around to come to her rescue if he refused to listen. Did he know that?
“You can’t be here. Did anyone see you come in?” she asked, staring out the window, not trusting herself to face him, because when she looked into his eyes, she always caved.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “And I think you feel the same way.” Suddenly, he was behind her, pressing against her, drawing her to his hard warmth. “You want me, don’t you? Say it.”
“This is wrong,” she said, even as she molded her bottom to him. Even through the thick fabric of her skirt she could feel the rigid swell of him. She gasped when he yanked her skirt up in the back and thrust against her.
“Tell me you want me. Tell me.”
She was about to step away when his hands swept over her hips, capturing her, claiming her. Her hunger was expressed in a small sigh that escaped her throat before she could check the reaction. How could she? She knew how to channel emotion, pouring it into a song or a scene. But how did a person mask a physical need, ignoring hunger and thirst and desire?
“I do want you,” she groaned. “Why do you do this to me?” W
hen his hands skimmed down over her thighs and then up along the thin material of her tights to her center, she was lost to sensation. Once the teeth burst the skin of a succulent cherry, there was no tearing it from the lips.
Her knees sagging, she lowered the shade. “Just one more time. A farewell fuck.”
He groaned, his lips pulsing into her neck. “I love it when you talk dirty.”
Her conscience hounded her, a barking dog. This was so wrong. She had been right to end it. She knew that.
But no one was home; the teens were out shopping and the kids were visiting their grandfather for the weekend. No one would ever know if, just one more time, they took each other. One more hot, passionate ride.
Chapter 3
When Cassie had burst into Holy Snips looking for Rachel, she had stopped in her tracks at the sight of Tootsie Dover in Rachel’s chair. There was no mistaking her pink, puffy eyes and wrinkled face under the layers of white papers and dye resembling vanilla pudding. Fortunately, Mrs. Dover had her nose in a magazine, giving Cassie a chance to turn away unnoticed. The last thing Cassie needed was to go broadcasting the need for money under the nose of Cooper’s mother. That would be so wrong.
“Hey, honey!” Rachel had called from the reception desk. “What’s up?”
Cassie had asked to talk, in private, and Rachel had ushered her into the salon’s small kitchen.
“Take a load off. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to get back to Tootsie. Want something to drink?”
“No, thanks. Actually, I came to ask you a favor.” Cassie leaned against the kitchen counter and explained that Remy was in the bridal shop across the way, held hostage with her beloved prom dress.
“Sure. I can spot you twenty.” Rachel reached into the pocket of her apron. “Take forty, just in case. Geez, I haven’t set foot in Stardust since KJ had prom. Do you know if they still do tux rentals?”
“I think so,” Cassie said, pocketing the cash. “This is so great. Thanks. Mom will pay you back.”
Rachel waved her off. “No problem. I’m glad Remy found a dress. And I’m glad to see you. I need the scoop.” She kicked the door closed behind her and cocked her head so that her long chestnut hair fell over one shoulder. Rachel wasn’t model-chic like Cassie’s mom, who had acted in a few TV shows and modeled in her younger days. But Cassie always found reassurance in Rachel’s ordinary features: thin lips, wide nose, and warm brown eyes. There was a softness about her that was very huggable. And then there was that attitude, her quick jokes, her giddy smile, her need to please. Rachel was genuine, never acting or posing as a mother, which Ariel sometimes did in public. KJ and Jared didn’t know how good they had it.
Domestic Secrets Page 3
