A Palette for Love

by Charlotte Greene

  “And you aren’t anymore?” I made myself meet his gaze.

  He chuckled and moved closer. “Not in the same way,” he murmured.

  My heart rate picked up and I glanced away again. Luckily the band began to play, and all four of us spent the next thirty minutes listening to the first set. As we listened, I glanced over at Charles a few times, enjoying the view. He was, in fact, stunning. For once, Meghan had set me up with the right guy. He nodded in time to the music, seeming oblivious to the fact that I was staring at him.

  The band took a break and Meghan stood up, grabbing my hand. “Come with me to the ladies’, would you?” she asked. She raised her eyebrows at me, clearly trying to tell me something without words.

  I touched the top of Charles’s hand and then slid off my stool.

  Meghan and I were soon inside the dark bathroom. “So…what do you think of Charles?” she asked. She looked positively gleeful, proud that she’d set us up.

  “Well, he’s certainly a beautiful piece of manliness, though we haven’t had much time to get to know each other.”

  “What’s to know? He works for the city, he’s drop-dead gorgeous, and he likes you. What more do you need?”

  “I’m not the kind to jump into bed with the first guy I meet, Meghan.” I shook my head. “I have to know someone better before I can do that.”

  “Oh, and I am?” Meghan said, her color rising.

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “I think that’s exactly what you meant.” Meghan spat out the words. “And I’ll have you know, Zach and I went out for three weeks before we started sleeping together. We’ve been together for almost three months.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, Meghan. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  She nodded. “And I’m sorry to jump down your throat. I guess I’m still kind of sensitive about it. I don’t want to be that person anymore, that’s all. I know I used to sleep around a lot, but you’ve been gone for a long time. I’ve been trying to change.”

  I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Really, I’m sorry. It was rude of me to make assumptions.”

  She seemed to shake off her anger. “Anyway, back to Mr. Gorgeous. Do you think you’ll go home with him?”

  I shook my head. “That’s just not me. I wouldn’t feel right. And anyway, I have to get up early in the morning.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t wait too long, Chloé. Guys like that don’t hang around forever.”

  I shrugged in response. “He’ll wait or he won’t. That’s not up to me.”

  “Well, he certainly seems to like you.” She winked. “He can barely tear his eyes away from your ass.”

  I swatted her arm and laughed.

  When we returned to the bar, both of the men got to their feet as we approached, and I smiled at Charles shyly, pleased with his gallantry. He really was a catch. As we listened to the rest of the next set, he reached over and grabbed one of my hands, and my stomach flipped with excitement. He rubbed my knuckles with his thumb and my face warmed with pleasure. It had been an incredibly long time since I held a man’s hand. Too long.

  Charles and I decided to excuse ourselves after the next set ended, and Meghan pouted. “It’s only midnight!”

  “I have to get up early tomorrow, Meghan,” I said. “I need to get going or I’ll be a zombie all day.”

  “And I’ve been up since five,” Charles explained. Turning to me, he said, “May I drive you home, Miss Deveraux?” He held his hand out for mine.

  I giggled stupidly and took it, turning to wish Meghan and Zach good night before letting him lead me outside.

  The night was still oppressively hot. The summer never seems to want to give up its grip on New Orleans, and autumn had only technically just begun. Just outside the door to the bar, Charles turned toward me.

  “Instead of taking you home, we could stop by my place for a nightcap,” he offered “I live just around the corner.”

  My stomach dropped, but I managed to shake my head. “I’m sorry, Charles. I really do have to get up early. Some other night?”

  His face flashed with anger for a second, but the expression cleared so fast I thought I might have imagined it. “Completely fine, of course, and yes, I’d love to see you again.” His eyes seemed to darken, and he stepped closer. I unconsciously backed up but bumped into the wall behind me. He came even closer, and I caught a whiff of aftershave and sweat.

  He suddenly kissed me, his mouth hard on mine, and my head slammed painfully against the wall. For a moment I let it happen, and then I pushed on his chest as hard as I could. He continued to kiss me, jamming his tongue into my mouth, and I could taste the bourbon he’d been drinking. For a moment, I thought I might gag and managed to wrench my mouth away. His lips moved to my face and neck, and his unshaven face scratched first along my chin and then downward as he pushed into me. One of his hands started to sneak across my chest, and I struggled harder, panicking. Finally, I managed to slide out of his grip and jump away.

  He laughed, but he was panting slightly, staring at me, eyes hungry. Seeing my expression, he seemed amused. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  I backed up a few more steps, keeping my eyes on him to watch for movement. “I-I think I’m going to get a c-cab,” I explained, trying to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for dinner and the drinks.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?” He took a step closer.

  “It was, Charles, and I think you know it was,” I said quietly. “Don’t come near me again.” Steeling myself, I turned and walked in the direction of the police station, hoping I could get there fast enough to get away from him.

  “Oh, give me a break! You can’t be serious!” he called after me.

  Luckily, he sounded farther away, which meant he wasn’t following me, but I wouldn’t take any chances. I kept walking, not responding. As I turned the corner, doing everything I could to stop myself from breaking into a run, I heard him yell again.

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, I really, really didn’t want to go shopping. Last night, after I found my third-cousin Derek at the police station and got a ride back in his squad car, I’d spent the next several hours crying in my room. While things like that had happened or nearly happened to me in the past, I was still shocked and hurt. Charles had seemed like such a nice man—normal, smart, gallant. Instead, he’d been hiding a monster inside. Every time I thought about his tongue in my mouth I shivered and gagged, and the scratches from his beard had left lasting marks on my chin and neck.

  By the time the Rolls Royce appeared in front of our modest house the next morning, I’d managed to get only two hours of restless sleep, and my stomach was still in tight knots. I’d thought of calling and postponing, but as this was my first official duty as an employee of the Winters Corporation, I thought better of it. It wouldn’t do to cancel on a woman like Amelia Winters at the last minute.

  I watched George open the car door for her, and she got out, peering up and down our street with barely concealed disdain. The Bywater is a poorer neighborhood, though parts of it, like the rest of the less affluent parts of the city, were gentrifying. I doubted very much if she had ever set foot in the Bywater before, despite growing up in the city. She looked as out of place as humanly possible. Trying to save her from further sullying her Manolo Blahniks, I opened our front door and walked down our little set of stairs. She looked pleased to see me.

  “Doctor Deveraux,” she said. “Thank you for clearing your day for me today.”

  “Of course.” I shook her hand. “It’s not every day I get an escort to go shopping.”

  She squeezed my fingers before letting go. “I’ve made appointments throughout the morning and afternoon, and we have a reservation for lunch. Please let me know if you’re tired at any point, and we can rearrange our schedule to include a break.”

  “Thank you, I will.” We both got
into the car and George closed the door after us. I glanced up at the window to the house to see my aunt watching us warily. I waved at her as we drove away, but her face looked grim.

  “First up, of course, is your hair and makeup. You refrained from washing it this morning, I hope?”

  I laughed and touched my dirty hair uncomfortably. “That’s what you suggested, though I must admit I feel pretty scummy right now.”

  “Well, you don’t look scummy,” she said.

  I went hot with embarrassment at her compliment and had to look out the window to hide my red face. We spent the next few minutes in, at least for me, an awkward silence. I wasn’t sure what she meant by the comment or why she’d said it. As we drove, we watched the Bywater, the Marigny, and the Quarter go by outside the windows. Finally, nerving myself up, I looked over at her, wondering if she was embarrassed too. Her face remained blank, sealed, giving nothing away.

  Sitting this close to her in the bright morning sunlight, I readjusted my estimate of her age. I had assumed, partly because of her great art empire, that she was my age or older, but I was starting to think I might be wrong and that she might be younger. Also, she was, if anything, lovelier than I’d remembered. Her face was a classic heart shape, with precise makeup framing her beautiful eyes and soft lips. Her thick, dark hair was arranged in lovely, old-fashioned finger waves along the side of her face, the rest of it set up on her head in a complicated French braid.

  Her clothes, once again, seemed new but somehow dated in style, as if she’d gone back in time and brought them to the present. They reminded me of clothes from film noir and flattered her slender, boyish figure. Indeed, her beauty was extremely intimidating, and that attribute, coupled with her extreme wealth, made me feel like a poor, ugly sidekick. I couldn’t imagine becoming this woman’s counterpart, no matter how much money she spent on my clothes.

  She seemed to suddenly sense my eyes on her and looked over before I could glance away. I blushed, embarrassed to be seen staring at her. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking that everything I know about you I’ve read in newspapers and magazines.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure we have plenty to learn about each other in the coming weeks, Doctor, and plenty of time to do it. You’ll know me better than most people, and soon, I hope. I’d like for us to be…friendly, if possible.”

  We pulled up next to an exclusive salon on Magazine Street a few minutes later. After George opened the door and we climbed out, I saw that the sign had clearly said Closed on the salon’s door a few seconds before someone opened it, the bells on the door chiming happily. A small, effete man stood there, motioning us in.

  “Quickly, quickly!” he said, laughing. “I don’t want anyone to see us! If they think I’m open, we’ll have a mob on our hands. So nice to see you, Amelia, and to meet you, Doctor Deveraux. I’m Jean-Paul.” He took my hand in his small, slim palm for a second and pulled me gently up the short flight of steps into the salon.

  Once inside, he and Amelia kissed cheeks and then turned to me, openly appraising every inch of me. I felt hot under their eyes, but neither one seemed to notice my embarrassment. The stylist walked closer, examining my face from inches away, and I blushed harder, chuckling uncomfortably. He touched my dirty hair, running it through his fingers, and I felt as if I’d die from shame. While I didn’t wash my hair every day, I certainly liked to have it clean if someone was going to be examining it so closely. For me it was like brushing your teeth before going to the dentist—common courtesy.

  He stepped away from me and turned to Amelia. “I certainly have my work cut out with this one,” he said, then turned back toward me with a laugh. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m criticizing you, honey. You’re actually lovely, and you have a wonderful complexion. So few people take care of their skin, and it’s obvious you do. Your hair also has a lot of promise. I love the color and your natural highlights.”

  “But?” I said.

  “Buuut,” Jeal-Paul said, “the haircut is terrible, your eyebrows need work, and, from what I can tell, you don’t know how to use makeup.”

  I felt a little miffed but didn’t say anything.

  Jean-Paul turned to Amelia. “May I have two hours?”

  “Two hours! We have an appointment with Tiffany for noon. I wanted to have lunch first.”

  “Lunch will have to be on the go, I’m afraid,” he said. “I need two hours minimum.”

  Amelia sighed and pulled out her smart phone, tapping a few buttons. “I’ll try to reschedule with Tiffany for one then, though that will push everything else back too.” She looked up at me, and I saw the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I’ll be back for you. Try to enjoy yourself, no matter what this poof says or does.”

  Too nervous to respond, I nodded in agreement and watched her leave before turning back to Jean-Paul. He appraised me critically again for a long, awkward moment. His face suddenly brightened and he clapped his hands. “I know exactly what to do with you, my dear. I have a couple of calls to make, so go meet the girl in back, and she’ll wash your hair while you wait.”

  I did as I was told.

  After a nearly orgasmic shampoo and head massage from a teenage apprentice, I came back into the salon to find Jean-Paul and two young women waiting for me. Jean-Paul introduced them as Margaret and Lizbeth and explained that they were here to help with makeup and styling once he’d finished with my hair. They both approached and examined me with the same intrusiveness I’d experienced with Jean-Paul. I was beginning to become used to the scrutiny and managed to refrain from blushing.

  “What are these scratches here?” Lizbeth asked, touching my chin lightly.

  I jerked away before I could stop myself and then just stood there, looking into her startled eyes. I tried to apologize but found that I’d lost my voice. Tears suddenly pricked my eyes, and the next thing I knew I was crying and sobbing in front of three complete strangers. Soft hands led and directed me to one of the barber chairs, and I sat there, face in my hands, crying for several long minutes. Finally coming back to myself, I looked up at them, mortified beyond belief. They were, however, all looking at me with concern.

  “What on earth happened, darling?” Jean-Paul asked quietly, rubbing my back.

  Almost before I could think about it, I told them the whole story about Charles. It gushed out of me, my words almost tripping on themselves in their haste to get out of my mouth. As I finished, I almost bit my tongue in surprise. I hadn’t meant to tell anyone, ever, let alone three strangers. I looked up at them, wiping my face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to burden you with my drama.”

  Strangely, Margaret suddenly hugged me. “You don’t have to apologize, honey. It was a traumatic experience. You can feel however you want about it. I’m so sorry it happened to you.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Jean-Paul said, darkly. “He’ll get what’s coming to him—you mark my words.”

  I laughed and suddenly felt much better, far better than I thought I would about the experience. Jean-Paul took this as his cue to get started, and suddenly all three were on me—plucking, combing, straightening, and prodding. I spent the next two hours with the three of them in close quarters but felt as comfortable as if they were old friends.

  Margaret was the makeup and skin artist, and after giving me some new lotions and scrubs, she soon showed me how to do different kinds of techniques on my eyes with the color palette she’d designed for my skin tone. Apparently, I was also going home with a brand-new makeup set custom-designed for me. It all felt a little bit silly, but I did like the way I looked with a couple of the dramatic shading patterns she showed me. It seemed a bit much, however, for the office, and I told her so.

  “Oh, of course. These styles would really be for parties and dinners. I know you and Miss Winters will attend a lot of functions together. Let me show you some techniques for day-to-day wear next.”

  “I really don’t wear a lot of makeup most of the time,” I said, uncertain. �
�Just some lip gloss, usually.”

  “But Miss Winters will want you to,” Margaret said, obviously surprised. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

  I responded reluctantly. “I guess.”

  She seemed satisfied, then showed me several techniques for daily wear. I didn’t exactly mind the way I looked, but it was certainly strange to see someone in the mirror that I barely recognized. My eyebrows, which I’d always regarded as live-and-let-live, were sculpted and arched, and my dark eyes stood out in startling contrast to my pale skin, the mascara and eyeliner making them pop. I also realized, because all this makeup took so long to put on, I would have to get up quite early every morning before work.

  My hair was next, and, as Jean-Paul had finished cutting it, Lizbeth showed me several ways to style it. Some of the styles were far too elaborate to do myself, and I said so. “Well,” she said, “for parties you can arrange an appointment with me or Jean-Paul. We always make room in our schedule for Miss Winters and her…friends.”

  “She’s a very important client,” Jean-Paul explained, throwing Lizbeth a dark look I couldn’t decipher.

  Lizbeth showed me some simpler styles for every day, and I practiced a few of them several times before everyone seemed satisfied with my technique. As they cleaned up, sweeping the loose wisps of my hair into a pile and putting their instruments away, I continued to stare at the stranger in the mirror, startled by my transformation. My usual mousy hair, now trimmed, was shiny and lighter, making it appear blonder than ever before. They had cut off the dry ends, and, though my hair was still quite long, had layered it along the edges of my face, highlighting my cheekbones. My eyes, what I’d always considered a muddy brown, stood out in darker contrast underneath my shaped eyebrows and the light makeup on my lashes. All of this had a surreal quality I couldn’t get over. The contrast between my expensive makeup and hair and my casual clothes was ridiculous, and I grinned at myself, finally deciding that I actually liked what I saw.