I dig toward the bottom of one of the boxes and see a bright blue dress that my mother got me for church years ago. I kind of forgot about it. I toss it onto the giant island in the middle of the closet and stare at it. I’m not sure it will still fit me.
When I lived in Nebraska, I was better about eating right. Better because I didn’t have much of a choice. My mother and sisters never held back when it came to my appearance. They said exactly what they were thinking. Usually, it was about my weight. But with my newfound freedom came food, aka carbs.
“Ope.” I spin around, my eyes going over the boxes and spotting the one I need. I forgot about the dress I’d made. It was a hobby I’d picked up. If hobbies paid, I’d be a very rich girl.
The dress is conservative. It has sleeves that end a few inches after your elbow and the neckline does not show anything. It fits snugly until you get to the waist, where I'd crafted a belt that you tie into a bow on one side. Below it, the dress flares out. I stitched in tulle to help give the dress more volume. It has a very fifties vibe to it too.
When I return to the mirror this time, I actually smile. The dress gives me a little confidence. I could use it. I find my lacy short socks and put them on with my Mary Janes. I finish off with lip gloss and mascara. I didn't have to do much to my hair today. It very often has a mind of its own.
I cringe at my purse as I toss everything inside. It completely clashes with my outfit, but maybe I could shove it under a table when I get to lunch.
When I step off the elevator, I want to do a victory dance that I didn’t run into anyone, but it’s short-lived. Mr. Rise pops up out of nowhere.
“Mrs. Wickham.” Not sure I’ll ever get used to the last name being connected with me, but I suppose I don’t have to. This is only for a year.
“Hey,” I chirp. Mr. Rise is emotionless. I need this skill set, but how can one keep oneself from turning red?
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“Yes, the lunch thing.”
“The lunch thing.” His brows pull slightly together. Does he think I’m lying?
“Yeah, the invitation I got.”
“Does Mr. Wickman know?”
“I would assume.” I don’t think there’s much that man doesn’t know. He seems to be on top of every detail when it comes to these matters.
“I'll call for a car for you, then.”
“I'll take the bus,” I tell him. “In fact, I need to get going, or I'll miss it.”
“You can't take the bus.”
“What?” A small laugh leaves me. “I really have to go.” I sidestep him, not needing a lecture right now. I'm sure I have done something wrong.
I barely get to the bus in time but make it early for lunch. Which had been my plan. I run my hands down my dress, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles as I take in the building. It’s historical and beautiful. It's also very nice. It screams wealth as you pass luxury shops to get to the elevator and head up to the rooftop.
When I step off the elevator, there is no one at the stand in the front. Shit, am I that early? I step to the side and pull my phone out of my bag to double-check the time.
“You,” a woman calls. I jerk my head up to see Caroline Winthrop. That's who the invite was addressed from. I googled her, and she was easy to recognize. What I’d found said she was in her mid-sixties, but you would never know it.
Her blond hair falls in waves, a shiny diamante clip pulling part of it back and out of her face. It’s made of diamonds, and I’m betting they’re real. That thought reminds me that I forgot to put my ring back on after my shower.
“Me?” I ask; it comes out in an awkward squeak.
“Yes, you. What is your name?”
“Belle, ah—” Caroline cuts me off before I can correct my name and finish it.
“Is that a new uniform?” Her eyes flick up and down me.
“No?”
“At least throw on an apron and come,” she orders, waving with her hand for me to hurry along.
“I’m sorry, Caroline, I?—”
