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I don’t even bother suggesting that maybe I should be serving the dinner rather than eating it. There’s no hope where Cornelia is concerned. She’s intent on treating me like I’m her guest, and I don’t feel like continuing to fight her on it. I like her and I like living at Rosethorn. Besides, I’ve worked out an arrangement in my head. I’ll continue to make myself as useful as possible to Cornelia, and in return I’ll accept room and board. There’s no refusing the clothing and gifts she seems intent on giving me, but I’ll consider them on loan for the time being. It’s not as if I’ll take any of it with me when I leave. Why on earth would I need tennis whites back in the real world?
I’ve also decided I won’t cash my paychecks. I still only have the one, but it’s been burning a hole in my bedside table, taunting me. I know if I tried to give it back to Cornelia, she wouldn’t take it. I could rip it up right in front of her, but I have no doubt there’d be a new one sitting on my bedside table the very next day, probably made out for twice the amount of the original.
Obviously, I could really use the money. I’ll need it after I leave, but even knowing how far it could get me doesn’t convince me that I actually need it. I can’t accept it. I won’t. She’s giving me more than enough already.
I justify my decision by telling myself I’ll leave here no better or worse than I was before my arrival. Actually, that’s not quite true. I’ll leave here with a whole array of knowledge I never possessed before, all of which pertains to a world I’ll likely never enter into again. Formal dining, floral arranging, dress code for any event under the sun, party planning, hosting duties—it’s all layering over knowledge I’ve used to survive until now. How long to nuke a bowl of ravioli without turning it into magma. How long a pair of shoes will last if you take good care of them. How far $5 will stretch at the grocery store.
At the very least, maybe Cornelia will give me a good reference for another job.
The next day, Vivien returns with garment bags filled with dresses, a dozen of them perfectly tailored to my measurements. I try on each one behind a silk screen in my room and then walk out to oohs and aahs from Vivien and Cornelia. There’s a pale pink ball gown with lots of tulle. A blue strapless midi dress with a sheath skirt. A short flirty day dress with a light floral print. They’re all impeccable and ridiculously well made. My favorite, however, is a silky dark green cowl-neck dress that gathers tightly around my waist before cascading like a waterfall down to the floor. The spaghetti straps crisscross in the back, dipping low, so that a traditional bra won’t work with it. Vivien has me covered, though—naturally. She’s also brought a myriad of lingerie choices, and I’m more than slightly horrified when she starts to pull them out.
Cornelia doesn’t even bat an eyelash.
“You’ll wear the green dress on Saturday for dinner. It complements you so well.”
My stomach squeezes tight at the reminder of Saturday and who else will be present at the meal: the man I’m still not quite ready to see again.12MarenI shouldn’t have worried about Nicholas. He doesn’t arrive at Rosethorn on Friday like Cornelia was hoping he would. Work keeps him in the city through Saturday morning as well, and I’m forced to hide my devious smile behind a rose bush to keep her from asking questions.
In the late afternoon, I help her set the table with Diane. It’s going to be a small group, and we set place cards for ourselves along with Tori, Lydia, and Dr. Reynolds, a humanities professor from Salve Regina University whom Cornelia thinks I’ll enjoy talking to. We put a card out for Nicholas as well, just in case he arrives late, but Cornelia isn’t very hopeful. Just in case, I make sure he and I are as far away from each other as possible, though it’s not nearly far enough. Dr. Reynolds, as Cornelia’s honored guest, has to take the seat at her right, and Lydia will fill the spot to Cornelia’s left. I’m beside Lydia with Tori across from me, and then Nicholas will (hopefully not) be next to her.
We arrange centerpieces with the flowers we clipped from her gardens, and when we’re done, Cornelia goes down into the kitchen to review tonight’s menu with Chef. Everything is written in French, so I don’t know why she insists I join her, but then it’s probably because she wants me to learn. I do actually pick up a bit of what they’re saying. The cherry pie will be stuffed with hen…or something like that. Who knows. The smells are delicious, at least.
