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I noticed that Lou tore her gaze off the statue when we followed him left, down the hall that led along the front southwestern leg of the house.
We walked to the very first door, and he stood outside it, again with arm extended, inviting us in. “The Pearl Room,” he stated. “Miss Ryan, I’m sure, will join you shortly.”
He did not enter the room, but we did.
The name of the room was apt. There were more colors here than in the entry, but they were all in the same theme, oyster, and the shimmering golds and pinks and silvers and greens of mother of pearl. The massive chandelier that fell from the ceiling rose in the center of the room looked made of swags of actual pearls.
“Holy shit,” I muttered.
“Agreed,” Lou muttered in return, moving her attention from the chandelier, toward the door.
I looked that way too, to see the young man was no longer there.
“Am I wrong?” she asked under her breath. “Should he have introduced himself?”
It wasn’t the first time I wished my father had been less…my father.
It was his narcissistic, alpha tendencies that not only made his first wife bitter, twisted and angry, and his second wife banished and forgotten, it had also dispatched his last wife and youngest child as incapable of dealing with the world he’d left them in.
“Yes, he should have,” I told her. “I can’t even imagine how big the staff is in this place, but if he was sent to greet us, and he’s taking care of our bags and my car, we’ll probably see him around while we’re here, and I should know who to ask for by name if, say, I want my car fob back.”
“Okay,” Lou replied, drifting further into the room while taking it in.
I stayed where I was, trying to put my finger on why all of this rubbed me the wrong way.
The room was spotless, as was the entry. There not only wasn’t a speck of dust, but also nothing was out of place. And the two porcelain-white sofas looked like no ass had sat in them since they’d been laid facing each other. They were set perpendicular to the white marble fireplace with its veins of gray and lilac and gold. The same unused look with the two armchairs covered in pearlescent leather that sat at angles at the apex of the couches, facing the fireplace.
I knew the living quarters of houses like this tended to be a lot homier than the formal areas.
Daniel and Portia had been seeing each other just over six months. We were to be there for ten days. It wasn’t lost on anyone what this week was about.
We’d barely stepped into the house, and the choice of this room to be our landing spot for tea upon arrival spoke volumes.
And every word was an insult.
“This room is…scarily beautiful,” Lou noted.
She wasn’t wrong.
“All the white is…a lot,” she continued.
She wasn’t wrong about that either.
“Daphne!”
I turned at my name, then froze, because Portia was sailing through the door.
Though, the reason I froze was spying this version of Portia, a version I didn’t know, who was sailing through the door.
She was wearing an ivory sweater, the deep fold of the top made it off the shoulder, the matching skirt was a swish of falling ruffles of ivory tulle. It tumbled in an uneven hem to her ankles, exposing the ivory, velvet, Mary Jane ballet flats with a thin strap and delicate rhinestone buckle.
Her honeyed hair was pulled back at the crown, the rest toppled in waves and ringlets down her shoulders.
For a moment, I felt such an overwhelming sense of nausea, I was worried I’d throw up.
My sister did not wear tulle. Or ruffles. Or velvet ballet flats.
My sister was the cutting edge of Prada mixed with the nuanced macabre of McQueen.
