Needless to say, Pnina Poésy fit in among high society like a solid gold ornament on a Christmas tree.
My mother longed to see me glide through crowds of people, a sparkling fat multi-karat ring on my left finger, tales of the ballet on my tongue. I was to be worldly, cultured. I would speak foreign languages, put names to exotic tasting dishes, and all the while my face and body would be something to admire.
Your demureness will hypnotize them! You have this in you! But the eyes, the eyes will make them weak in the knees. You know how to use these to your advantage.
Maja Resnik had once purred that at me during one of our many training sessions in Slovenian.
Running a fingertip along the simple gold picture frame on the vintage vanity, a picture of Brando and I, I sighed, knowing sooner or later this scene would be inevitable.
I couldn’t help who I was, no more than Brando could help who he was.
Light music floated up the stairs, twirled in the hallway, and snuck under my door. Antonio Vivaldi, “Winter” fromThe Four Seasons. My fingertip continued to caress in time to the music, along the frame, along the wood, over the three-piece diamond and pearl encrusted brush set that had belonged to Maja Resnik during her dancing days.
The need tosmoothover felt overwhelming. Come eight o’clock, the need was out of my hands.
“Is Violet Constance still preparing for the party?”
I blinked at my father. He stood by the window overlooking the balcony, his wide shoulders and back turned to me. He had knocked only moments ago, sent by my mother to check on us. Instead of turning to go after I gave him thumbs up, he dallied.
“Violet Constance is near ready, Daddy. She’s just finishing up in the bathroom.”
He nodded, turned slowly from the window, and fixed me with a stare. “Is that one of your mother’s?”
He meant one of my mother’s designs. A famed Pnina Poésy. I looked down at the gown she had created for me: red crepe de chine the color of oxblood and a plunging neckline that fell into a V just below the sternum. An impressive bow tied around my waist to seal the deal. The fabric moved with me as easily and as luxuriously as cool silk.
I glanced at myself in the mirror. A “friend” of my mother’s had curled my hair in plump waves. Old Hollywood glamour. Or as Violet had called it,à la Jessica Rabbit. For once my part was not centered, but instead, parted deeply to the side.
“Yes, Mati sent this over for me. And one for Violet Constance too.” I grinned, imagining the way Violet’s nose would scrunch up when he called her that.
“It looks fine on you, just fine, darlin’.” He nodded and made his way over, standing behind me. “But I do believe it needs just one thing.”
He reached inside the pocket of his fitted tuxedo and removed a gold necklace, the diamond on the end round and sparkling. I lifted my chin, giving him access to my neck, careful not to mess my hair when I moved it to the side, and then he fastened it with ease.
The diamond rested against my jugular notch, cold and iridescent.
My hand went to my throat. “I—”
“I know.” He smiled. “You don’t like to be showered with presents. But I thought perhaps you would like to carry a piece of your Grandmother Poésy with you this evening. That necklace belonged to her. It’s yours now. I do believe, apart from her wedding rings, that necklace was the only fine piece of jewelry Evelyn Rose Poésy allowed Bennett James Poésy to spoil her with.”
I touched the diamond a bit more reverently. “Thank you, Daddy.” My voice caught. I took a moment to compose myself. “This means a lot to me.”
He nodded, his eyes watching me through the mirror. “Are you nervous because Brando Piero will be your guest this evening?”
A loud laugh escaped my throat—like a pot being beat against the soft tone of the music. My father grinned at me.
“Brando Piero?” I laughed again, this time with smoothness.
“Yes. Brando Piero. If my Italian serves, Piero means ‘rock,’ which seems quite fitting.” He took a breath. “I’ve always thought so.”
“Why do you think so?”
My father was not a man to shrug. When he thought, he did so with a stone face and an imposing stance, almost like a rock willing itself to come to life.
“Scarlett Rose, not every thought has a reason. Or perhaps,I should say, we should not give every thought credence.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You better get a move on, darlin’. The guests have already started to arrive.”
He made it to the door in a few long strides and put his hand on the knob. Whatever he hesitated to say, he thought better of it and left. The only remainder of his presence came in the form of his sweet cologne.
I wondered if the woman he sought comfort in tonight—of course, not my mother—after the soirée, perhapsduring, would wear it on her clothes as well.
