Chapter 11
Prudence
There are trousers in four different fabrics. Blouses with buttons and blouses without. And tiny pieces of fabric and lace that I cannot determine the purpose of. Shoes with heels that look as though they’d snap my ankle. Shoes with flat soles. Boots that reach my knee.
A scrap of black lace connected by thin straps catches my attention. I pick it up and turn it over. I hold it against my body—first at my waist, then at my chest. Neither placement seems correct.
The elevator chimes, and I nearly drop the garment when Nicholas breezes into the living room carrying a leather satchel. He wears a cornflower-blue jacket with embroidered lapels and trousers so slim they look painted on.
“Hello, darling bride.” He scans the apartment and sees the chaos I’ve created. His hand flies to his chest. “Oh, sweet mercy. It looks like Bloomingdale’s exploded. We have work to do.”
He drops the bag, crosses to me, and plucks the black lace from my fingers.
“That,” he says, holding it up by one strap, “is a bralette. It goes under your clothes. Against the skin. Supportive yet gorgeous.”
“Under my clothes?”
“Under. Not over, and not around your waist.” He winks. “Although I respect the creativity.”
He scoops up an armful of clothing, sails past me into the bedroom, and begins to organize the wreckage. Garments fly from the bed to the closet with a speed that makes my head spin.
He mutters to himself as he works. “Casual. Smart casual. Evening. Date night. Funeral—god forbid, but preparation is a virtue.” He glances back at me. “Come, come. Stand here. Watch and learn.”
I stand beside him as he works through the closet. He explains each grouping—denim and cotton for daily wear. Blouses and tailored trousers for occasions that require polish. Dresses sorted by formality.
“These are your loungewear pieces.” He gestures to a stack of garments in muted tones—pants that tie at the waist and matching tops. “For home. For comfort. For watching terrible television and eating snacks.”
I do know what television is, and snacks. Ronan and I watched television yesterday evening—a show called Granite Flats—and ate a snack called Cheetos. I enjoyed both very much.
Nicholas pulls out a pad of small colored papers and a pen, and begins sticking notes to hangers and inside shoe boxes. I read them over his shoulder.
This with the brown boots—trust me.
Date night. Pair with gold earrings in velvet box.
Tuesday that feels like Saturday.
I know now that “Tuesday that feels like Saturday” means I can wear it any day.
“Now.” He turns to me with the leather satchel. “Sit.”
I sit on the edge of the bed while Nicholas shapes my hair with a hot tool he calls a curling wand. Then he unzips thebag and produces a collection of small containers, tubes, and brushes that resemble a miniature painter’s kit.
“What is that?”
“Makeup.” He selects a small pot and twists it open. Inside is a cream the color of my own skin. “Women—and men, anyone who feels like it—use these products to enhance their features. Brighten the eyes, define the cheekbones, add color to the lips—that kind of thing.”
“You paint faces?”
He grins broadly. “I am a face-painting genius, and you, my darling, are about to become my masterpiece.”
I hold very still as he works. A soft brush sweeps across my cheekbones. A cool cream touches my eyelids. A pencil traces the line of my lashes, and I have to fight the instinct to flinch.
He talks while he works, narrating each step. Foundation to even the skin. A touch of color on the cheeks—”blush,” he calls it, and a sweep of brown across each lid that makes my eyes look larger. A coat of dark mascara on my lashes that makes them appear twice their length.
“Lips.” He holds up a tube of soft pink. “Open your mouth just a little. Like you’re about to say something scandalous.”
I attempt the expression and he laughs and applies the color with a steady hand.
