I won’t let her intimidate me. “I can only be the best version of myself. That’s going to be enough for someone one day,” I whisper the last part to myself, mostly as encouragement.
Clara peers at me with a steady gaze, peeling off layers, curious to find if there is something worthy hidden.
“Kenneth’s waiting for us.” Her demeanor changes again. “We’re having a family breakfast.”
I look at Jackie for help, but she loops her arm through mine and drags me to their car. “Let’s loot Quinn’s kitchen. I’m starving.”
She wasn’t kidding. The largest table in the coffee shop is filled with pancakes, bagels with smoked salmon, a large plate of Lobster Benedict, biscuits, monkey bread, and crullers. Luckily, Kenneth has an equally large appetite in the morning, or else I’d be concerned for Jackie.
Quinn tried her best to take our order with a straight face but the moment she rounded the counter and caught my eyes she mouthed, “Kidnapped?”
I have to stifle a laugh, which brings Jackie’s uncle’s attention back to me.
“I was kinda hoping Carter would stay a little longer,” he says.
Me too, Kenneth. Me too. I press my lips together to stop anything stupid from coming out and nod understandingly.
He takes a large gulp of his coffee and decides to throw me to the wolves. “The boy looked ready to drop to one knee if you ask me.”
“Oh, no—” I jump at the same time Clara cuts in, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He laughs heartily, enjoying our reactions. “The girls were asking about you.” He smiles at me. “They’re babbling about ideas for the guesthouse they wanna run past you at a”—he slides his hands through the air—“just ladies, no dads, brothers or boyfriends allowed cocktails-based sleepover.”
“That’d be lovely,” I manage to say.
“You staying for longer this time?” Kenneth asks with the first hint of reproach toward his sister.
“No, the three of us are expected at the Portland Women’s Club luncheon.”
I realize I’m one of the three when she turns to me and says, “I’m sure you don’t have anything suitable in your wardrobe, so Jackie brought an extra dress.”
“Don’t worry. It’s approved by my stylist. He nearly fainted when I showed him a picture of you.”
“I’m going to faint right now,” I grind out the words. “I can’t go with you. Thank you for the invitation, but—”
Jackie dabs at her lips with the napkin. “Nonsense. It’s a networking event. You need to put yourself out there and mother is invited all the time.” She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “Plus, we have unfinished issues to settle,” she says with finality.
“This is a rather casual affair,” Clara tells me in the car, on our way to Portland. “Don’t stress about hair and makeup.”
Iamstressednow she’s mentioned it. Clara and Jackie look effortlessly chic and put together. Even with this blush pink summer dress, I’m a far cry from the polished Rawlings women.
The winding pathway through the lush garden takes us to a private corner of the oceanfront estate. The sheer size of the main house and the land around it are enough to make me feel out of place.
We approach the groups of women already enjoying their drinks and the appetizers sliding around on silvery plates. Clara and Jackie are swarmed the next second with greetings, over-the-top thank yous, and compliments on their appearance. I’m stranded at the fringe of this cloud of soft fabrics and expensive perfumes, stiff as a poker, hands clasped in front of me.
“Ladies, this is Eliza Miller,” Clara interrupts them, reaching out to bring me closer, and the group instantly splits, drawing me in. “The up-and-coming interior designer I told you about.”
Blood freezes in my veins. It’s one thing to daydream in my creative corner, sketching, or talking to people I’ve known for a long time. Coming up with ideas for places I’m familiar with. It’s why I’m taking the classes.
I was not ready for the onslaught of questions that follow for the whole excruciating two hours I spend there. Endless discussions about trends I have no clue about.
“Where did you study design?”
“Did you see the Roche Bobois Spring collection? Oh, my. I want to redo my living room all over again.”
“I heard Gladstone has a secret Serra painting, stashed away. Do you know anything about it?”
A drop of sweat slides down my back. I’m embarrassed. Stressed. Holding my hands tightly behind my back to keep them from trembling. Clara knew exactly what she was doing when she brought me here.
