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I've made a fucking mistake.
CHAPTER13
Denise
The hours before Tinsley Simon's party are swiftly ticking away, and when I'm down to just two hours left, Sheila finally knocks on my door.
I whip it open, expecting to see her makeup bag in her arms. But while I do see the makeup bag, I see something else in her arms as well.
"I'm sorry, Denise." Sheila brushes past me, and I realize how exhausted she looks. "Peter was running a fever this morning, so I couldn't send him to daycare. You know how kids are—one of them gets sick, and the next day, everyone else in the house has it too."
My nephew screeches, and Sheila bounces him to her other shoulder. "After I feed him, he'll be out like a light, and then all my focus will be on you. I promise."
Although I'm disappointed, I refuse to complain. I know what it's like to be a mother with a fussy baby. And little Peter was one of the fussiest I'd ever seen.
And probably because it's such a minor problem compared to what I've been going through, I almost feel relieved. Finally—something I know how to handle.
Holding out my hands, I gesture for Sheila to give him to me. "Come here, sweet boy," I say. "Let Auntie Denise have a try."
She puts him in my arms without hesitation, and I cradle him close against my chest, his head nestled in the crook of my arm. He's almost too big at ten months old to hold this way. The poor thing kicks and cries as I bring him inside the house, and Sheila follows close behind me, shutting the door as quietly as she can.
As I walk, I bounce him, humming so deeply in my chest that he can feel it. And while he's still not very happy, he at least stops his screeching, replacing it with a muffled and closed-mouth whimper against my chest.
"I don't know what I'd do without you, Denise," Sheila says through a sleepy smile.
Taking my nephew's hand and putting it gently to my lips, I say, "Now we're even. I don't know what I'd do without you either."
I give Sheila the guest room to feed him and a stack of pillows to keep him safely on the bed as he sleeps. After about half an hour, she meets me in my bedroom. With a quiet thumbs-up, the signal is clear: the baby is napping, and thus my makeover can finally commence.
I've already got on my pantyhose and my slip, and with her help, I can tug myself into my dress. It's the stereotypical little black dress, the one all women should have. And while I don't wear it very often, after the disappointment with Brett, I just want something simple and elegant. Something to make me feel beautiful but not garner too much attention from wayward men.
As I curl my hair with the curling iron she's brought, Sheila pulls all manner of creams and powders from her makeup bag.
I laugh. "Just some mascara and lipstick for me."
"Really?" Sheila groans, disappointed. "I was so excited to doll you up."
"Don't bother. It's not like I have a date going with me tonight." It comes out more harshly than I mean it. While I've told Sheila about what happened with Brett, I've been careful not to give away how much his rejection hurt me.
Thankfully, she doesn't make a big deal out of it. Patting my hand, she says, "I know, sweetie. But I wasn't talking about doing this for a man."
"You weren't?"
"Nope. I was talking about doing this for revenge." She winks. "Revenge for all the times you used to dress me up when I was little."
I'm so surprised by her answer that I laugh so hard I nearly burn myself with the curling iron. "I totally forgot about that!"
"I never did."
My heat protectant sizzles against the heat of the iron again. "Don't pretend you didn't like it," I tease. "Besides, I was always jealous of how good of a model you were."
Sheila pauses, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "You really thought so?"
"Of course. I was insanely jealous of your blond hair. You were like a little two-and-a-half-foot Madonna."
She giggles. And even though she nudges me in the side, playing it off like a joke, I still catch her eyeing herself in the mirror and playing with her beautiful blond tresses.
Once my hair is curled, Sheila helps me with my mascara and chooses a lipstick color for me. It's more purple than what I usually go for, more of a burnt burgundy than my usual red. But once it's on, I realize she was right to pick it. It's perfect. With my black dress and the deep brown of my curled hair, the whole ensemble makes me look like a dark, mysterious lady. Someone at this fancy party who is worth knowing.
