A/N: Hello, everyone! Hope your holidays were a blast! I had time to write some more so here's another chapter for you. There's a small surprise in this chapter (which, if you follow the TMMM Facebook Page, you would've already figured out by now). Hope you have fun reading!
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To call the week that came next crazy busy was a bit of an understatement.
For many years, those who were sartorially stylish came in droves to Fashion Week, mainly in the top four fashion capitals of the world: New York, London, Milan and Paris.
It was an annual tradition—which happened twice in a year—for the rich and fabulous to sit in rows, previewing dozens of designer collections, showing off their own stylish ensembles, and getting their pictures taken with a ton of big names from designers to models to celebrities.
This flock of plump-pocketed fashion birds was too good an opportunity to pass up for the Championettes so five years ago, they started the tradition of hosting what had now been nicknamed as the Teaser even though it was formally called Haute Couture for Hope.
For a weekend, just before the Spring/Summer Fashion Week stormed through its four destinations at the start of September, participating designers would showcase a few creations from their spring and summer collections which would then be auctioned off to the highest bidder, a big chunk of that bid money going to the Championettes’ charity fund. In the last couple of years though, designers started creating specific pieces just for the auction alone while still hinting at the theme of their upcoming collection. They were beautiful, one-of-a-kind pieces that were to be never reproduced once sold, driving the bids up to more sky-rocketing figures.
The clothes were fabulous and for a good cause—it was too much good publicity material to pass up, especially for society big wigs.
It didn’t hurt that it put people in mind of the work that the Society was doing, and that their generosity would be greatly appreciated when the time came to write out the checks.
The Teaser unofficially kicked off the Championettes’ fund-raising events for the rest of the year. While the event was mainly organized by the local association of fashion designers, the Championettes were tasked to do a lot of the marketing, inviting some of the biggest and brightest names in the fashion industry to participate.
When I came into the Society, the designers and guests lists had already been completed, which was a bit of relief, since I personally didn’t know any big fashion leaders to talk into joining. I couldn’t even afford a designer label before I became Mrs. Maxfield a month and a half ago.
But apparently, being a patron/patroness of a designer wasn’t required when you were an overly sensationalized society persona because Felicity showed me no less than five personally handwritten invitations from some major names who wanted me to walk one of their creations.
When Felicity told me the news with all her sunny eagerness, I half-choked on the cup of tea I was in the middle of sipping, and looked at her, feeling quite stupefied I couldn’t manage a sound for a moment.
“They want me to go out on the catwalk?” I asked her incredulously. “Even though I’m way too short to be a model, or that I’m clumsy in heels, or that I barely know more than half a dozen designers, much less know how to pronounce their names correctly?”
Felicity shook her head dismissively, as if my objections were no big deal. Armina and Clyde, who also joined our little afternoon coffee meeting, expressed similar sentiments.
“You’re unique—a breath of fresh air. And most of all, you don’t care,” Felicity said with a shrug.
I arched a brow at her. “Is my not caring supposed to be a good thing?”
“Of course,” she answered with a quick nod. “No one likes publicity-whores, pardon my term. No one wants someone who’s desperate to extend their five minutes of fame that they’ll do anything. They want those who are vibrant and confident, and who hold themselves hostage to no one’s whim.”
“Ah,” I said with a wry smile. “So it’s the same way no one wants the girl who’s throwing herself at every guy’s feet because she needs validation of her worth, which to her perspective, is only measured by the attention and affection she receives from the guy. Problem is, guys want the cool, unattainable chick who would yawn at one of them hacking his heart out open for her because she doesn’t need grand gestures from anyone to like herself just the way she is.”
“Who’ll want the cow if the milk is free?” Clyde said with a snort before popping a piece of croissant into his mouth.
I grimaced although I couldn’t help my smile at Clyde’s analogy. “True. Desperation is like the bad bacteria that turns the milk sour—not into yogurt or any yummy variety of fermented dairy.”
Armina, Clyde and I burst out laughing and Felicity just sighed loudly, shaking her head. “At least, you get my point now. You don’t have to say yes to all of the invitations—you don’t even have to accept any but I strongly recommend that you take advantage of an opportunity like this. It’ll help you meet more people who would help the Championettes’ cause.”
“Or just do it because it’s fun,” Clyde added. “Didn’t you ever wear your mother’s high heels and pearls, smear her lipstick on and walk around the house like a little lady?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. She abandoned me when I was six and my father burned all her stuff.”
All three faces looking at me fell at that blunt admission.
“Hey, cheer up,” I told them with a small laugh. “It’s not a big deal. I’m way over it. I was just answering Clyde’s question.”
Armina reached over and squeezed my hand, her face lighting up. “Well, since you didn’t get to play dress-up as a child, you can do it now, even as a grown-up. It’ll be fun. Besides, Noli is one of these hopeful designers who would love to have you wear their creation.”
“Noli’s a no-brainer,” I told them, glancing at the brief note he wrote me, shyly asking if I would please be so kind to wear his piece because it would mean the world to him to have someone he respected and admired show off his artwork. “I’ve actually worn his creations and loved it both times. I’d do it for him, no questions asked.”
“He’s doing it for the new line Vienne is launching, since they’re finally trying something different from the typical gowns they normally do,” Armina explained. “Vienne is the design house by the highly-coveted gown designer Vivienne Cartwright. She’s expanding into some non-formal evening wear and had taken Noli in. She flew him out to Cobalt Bay after he left Marcellina’s for good. According to Noli, she’s a big fan of yours.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s not always a good thing. If she’s read and believed a lot of the crap that’s been written about me, I’m not sure she’s the best judge of character.”
Clyde scoffed out a laugh. “Dear, you obviously haven’t heard of Vivienne Cartwright’s reputation. She’s a pampered princess as daughter of a luxury liner magnate but she’s no sissy ditz. She’s very poised and elegant but she doesn’t take crap from people.”
“She’s a wonderful woman. I’ve met her and I can personally vouch for that,” Felicity told me, just as her eyes flashed with mischief. “I think she likes you because in a lot of ways, you’re a bit alike. With all the stories that Noli most likely told her in great, dramatic detail, she probably has no doubt about it.”
“Alright, alright. You’ve all sold me on it,” I told them moodily even as a warm flush crept up on my cheeks. “I just hope they won’t take one look at me and realize just how big a mistake they’re making. I’m happy with myself but that was with the acceptance that I am not, and will never be, a runway model.”
If you don’t fit the mold, break free of it.
Promptly after I said yes, I was thrown into a riot of meetings, fittings, press cons and photo ops, and even a short interview.
Since Lily Vienne was a completely new line of the famed fashion house, it was going to launch a few handful of creations to be auctioned off. Since the new line was highly publicized and anticipated, people were more than eager to get their hands on the first of their creations. From what Noli had shown me so far when he flew in a couple days later, the pieces were less formal than the prized Vienne gowns—more wearable and versatile yet still crafted with the same elegant femininity and dreamy quality the designer’s work was known for.
Since there was more than one piece to showcase, Noli put me, Anna, Tessa and Felicity together to walk the small, coveted collection. Even though I was surrounded by natural beauties, the fact that I was doing the catwalk with good friends eased my nervousness and I had no trouble finding myself having fun as we attended fittings, rehearsals and press cons together to talk about the new line as the days led up to the big event that first weekend of September.
The event was set in Historic Faneuil Hall, one of Boston’s most important heritage buildings from the seventeen-hundreds. It had a long tradition of being a public marketplace and a meeting house, actively used during the American Revolution for public meetings and speeches.
It was built in a prime spot by the government center and because of its historical importance, it was a featured stop along the Freedom Trail. The stately, red brick building proudly showcased its historical identity yet it pulsed with a vibrant, modern, urban beat since shopping and dining became huge in the area after the addition of three long market buildings which made up the now much-sought-after festival marketplace. The combination made it an excellent location to hold a high-profile fashion event and highlight the rich legacy and old-world charm of the city.
The Teaser officially opened on Friday evening with a glitzy gala. Everybody who was anybody in the fashion industry showed up in their best attire, mostly by their designer of choice.
It was no ordinary cocktail party. There was a red carpet, a mini-army of formally-dressed servers supplying endless rounds of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, a press panel (a small section where members of the media were clustered at, interviewing and snapping photos of anyone who came that way for a quick chat with them), and a ‘gift lounge’ where guests received a bag full of free stuff from the different designers, fashion brands and beauty companies. I’d heard of these ‘gift bags’ before (like the Oscars and such) and when I saw what I had inside mine (a small, diamond owl brooch worth a small fortune among my loot), I wondered what the point was of giving expensive luxury items to people who could already well afford them. Of course, it was selling the item or the brand to the deep-pocketed customers but it was a little extravagant for a part give-away in my opinion.
No matter how much I get used to this, the glamorous life of being Mrs. Maxfield will always be surreal to me.
Oh, and everyone recognized me, alright.
Sure, many had seen and met me in some of the previous meetings and press cons I’d done leading up to this weekend but more importantly, I’d arrived arm-in-arm with Brandon who looked the intriguing combination of power and masculine appeal in his sharp black suit and bronze tie.
While my being wife to Brandon meant more to me than what the title represented, I’d taken care to look every inch the Mrs. Maxfield no one would miss, just with a few tweaks here and there that was still distinctly Charlotte.
I dressed to the nines in Vienne couture—a simple body-hugging, knee-length jersey-cut dress in a shimmering, nearly sheer rose gold fabric with a deep V-cut in the back and in the front, the fine edges of the gown encrusted with real, dark amber beads that made them look like they were splattered with stars.
My summer tan glowed with the color, accentuating my toned legs and collar bone especially since I’d put my hair up in a loose, nymph-style braid wrapped around into a bun, threaded through with small sprigs of white baby’s breath flowers. My accessories were simple—vintage gold and amber teardrop earrings, rust-colored ankle-strap heels and a pale gold satin-covered clutch.
“Nice dress.”
At the dryly amused tone, I looked up from the wrinkled sheet I’d tucked behind a program schedule I’d been handed earlier. I was going to do a quick speech sometime this evening—yes, a speech!—just right after Layla, and since I had a habit of saying things I probably shouldn’t in public, I thought I’d mentally practice so I didn’t forget.
My train of thought scattered in different directions when I found myself looking at a strikingly glamorous redhead.
Her rich, dark red hair the color of new pennies flowed in a wavy cascade down one creamy shoulder. Dressed in a flowing, deep turquoise, one-shouldered empire-cut gown and accessorized with earrings and a cascade necklace featuring large amethyst stones, she was feminine elegance personified.
“Thank you,” I managed to say with a crooked smile when I recovered from my starstruck moment. “It’s a lovely dress—a classic Vienne creation. I’ve only recently seen their collection but I can vouch that they have the most breathtaking dresses I’ve ever seen.”
The woman’s silver gray eyes shimmered as she smiled broadly at me. “I’m glad you approve since you’re walking one of our creations tomorrow.”
She chuckled lightly as my eyes widened, and extended a hand. “It’s my sincere pleasure to finally meet you, Charlotte. I’m Vivienne Cartwright.”
For some reason, despite the things people around me had said about Vivienne Cartwright—and they had all said quite a bit about her—I hadn’t envisioned her to be this stunning siren-like being.
“No, I’m not secretly a vampire, I don’t eat weak-spined people for breakfast, I’m not a spy, and I haven’t slept with George Clooney,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she released my hand and took a step back to wait for my reaction. “Although I did get offered the role of playing a Bond girl once.”
I blinked, unsure if I heard her words right, because surely, women like Vivienne Cartwright didn’t need a wicked sense of humor to heap on to her already being beautiful, rich, talented and fabulous.
Some people really do have it all—including a healthy dose of modesty.
“I would turn it down myself if only to avoid sleeping with someone who could screw my brains out as easily as he could blow it to bloody slush,” I found myself saying. “And while I’m relieved to know you’re not scouting me as your next breakfast blood bag, or your next mark, I’m still conflicted on the whole sex with George Clooney issue.”
She grinned, her gray eyes crinkling in the corners. “It’s the only rumor about me I partly wish was true.”
I wiggled my brows gamely, smiling back at her. “Really? There was that one where you’re believed to be descended from the ancient gods who used to swoop down in their mystical horses and walk among humans. I’d want that one to be true. I still want a unicorn—a better ride than George Clooney will ever be.”
Our eyes both widened at my words before we burst out laughing, loud enough that some people turned to look our way in amused curiosity.
There was no doubt about it—Vivienne and I were going to get along famously.
“It looks like fun here,” another young woman with dark auburn hair and warm brown eyes said with a smile and a flash of deep dimples as she came over to join us. She was a few inches smaller than Vivienne but just as elegant in a wispy, wine red baby doll dress. “You’re both sporting mischievous expressions on your faces and I want in.”
Vivienne grinned at the woman before turning back to me. “Oh, we were just discussing George Clooney, unicorns and what they have in common.”
Realization quickly dawned on the woman’s face and she chuckled. “I think I know enough to know it’s better I don’t ask you to expound on that, Viv.”
“Such a smart girl you are, Cass.” Vivienne winked before putting an arm around the woman. “Charlotte, meet my younger sister, Cassandra Vice. Cass, this is Charlotte Maxfield.”
Cassandra’s big brown eyes practically sparkled as she shook my hand. Between the her expressive eyes and adorable dimpled smile, Cassandra Vice was as disarming as her sister.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Charlotte. I’ve heard so much about you—even all the way out to Cobalt Bay. Viv and I are big fans of yours,” she said candidly. “You have no idea how many women I’ve listened to whine and wail when Brandon got married—and to you, no less. From everything they complained about you, we decided we liked you.”
A short, helpless laugh escaped me as I shook my head. “Well, people will decide which side of the coin they like. I’ve stopped caring a while back.”
“It’s the only way to do it,” Cassandra agreed with a sympathetic sigh. “I used to have a very private, low-profile life before my husband and I went public with our relationship when we started dating again four years after we broke up. It’s overwhelming at the beginning but you get used to it and you quickly realize it’s just the shiny veneer on your life—not the entirety of it.”
I smiled at her broadly. “Good point. I, for one, don’t mind a few scuffs. I don’t like things to be too perfectly shiny, you know? They won’t seem real.”
“What doesn’t seem real, love?” Brandon’s warm, smiling voice came from behind me and the three of us glanced up just as he and two tall, dashingly handsome men arrived.
One man had a stunning face, thick dark hair, and beautiful eyes as green as emeralds. He had the distinguished air of someone who knew his privileged place in the world. He would’ve been intimidating if not for the casual yet gentle way he put an arm around Cassandra and brush the tip of his nose against the crown of her head.
The other man, tall and lean and arrestingly handsome with the buzz cut and piercing ice blue eyes, exuded sleek, masculine grace. What would’ve been a steely gaze to other people, warmed as he pressed a hand against Vivienne’s back and subtly drew her against him.
Now here’s a showcase of amazingly good-looking couples. I feel like I’m on a TV show—oh, wait—this is actually my life.
I opened my mouth to respond but I couldn’t remember exactly what the question was until I felt the familiar, comforting touch of Brandon’s arm behind my waist, his fingers capturing my awkwardly fidgeting ones in a light interlace.
I looked up at my husband and met his melting hazel gaze. Like a sledgehammer to my gut each time, it knocked my breath away.
“Everything...” I found myself answering as I grinned up at him. “Everything seems unreal sometimes. Fairy tales are only stories, after all.”
“Not if my wife has something to say about it,” the man with the bright green eyes said with a smirk as he extended a hand toward me. He had a faint British accent to add to the deep, husky voice. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte. I’m Sebastian Vice. Brandon and Jake are old friends of ours. We just haven’t seen much of them in the last few years, especially Brandon. Glad to see he’s very happily married to you.”
“It’s my baking, I’m told,” I said pertly as I shook Sebastian’s hand.
“We never thought we’d see the day he’d get shackled but one look at you and we completely understand,” the other guy teased as he took his turn to shake my hand. “Oliver Yates, at your service. We all tried to come to the wedding but it was kind of sprung on us and we couldn’t get out of our plans.”
I grinned. “Did you want to show up for support or to offer rescue?”
The two men chuckled, their women just smiling and shaking their heads.
“I was just glad to not have to bear the taunts from the two of you, plus Max and Stellan,” Brandon said with a good-natured laugh. “Although the both of you really can’t make fun of me because you’re just as nauseously happy as I am, having settled down.”
One look at these couples and no one could dispute Brandon’s statement.
There were practically stars in their eyes and they wore the look of someone whose complete attention was captivated by the most fascinating thing on earth.
“I wouldn’t pause in admitting to anyone how incredibly happy my life is,” Sebastian said in complete contrast to what I was expecting. It was rare to see a man so unabashedly happy about his married state. “It’s also quite something else to have children of your own.”
“I heard about the birth of your son,” Brandon said with a nod. “Congratulations.”
“Are you two thinking about toting a mini-Maxfield around anytime soon?” Cassandra asked with a meaningful smile.
I grinned at the image of mini-Maxfields. “Maybe in a few years. Practice makes perfect, you know?”
I flushed the moment I realized my words but everyone just burst out into laughter, even Brandon, who shook his head in amused resignation.
It was refreshing to find myself being as candid as I was around people who were clearly used to privilege and finding no censure from them.
We spent another twenty minutes together, talking and catching up, making distant plans in the future to come visit, before we finally got called up to the front stage where the official opening of the event was about to start.
Layla gave a nice, proper speech. She was in a shimmery black gown, impeccably elegant and charming to the crowd which gave her a warm round of applause right after.
I wasn’t sure who was in the audience really because when my name got called up, the clapping was a little heartier, mixed in with a few whistles and cheers.
“Don’t mind the people I bribed to come tonight and inconspicuously cheer for me—I’m pretty sure I forgot to pay extra for the subtlety,” I said with a crooked grin when I came up on the stage.
It was easier than I thought—being up there, beneath the hot, bright glare of the spotlight where you could only see a few people close up. You could see their familiar faces and reassuring smiles while the rest of the audience were shrouded in the shadows. You didn’t have to wonder about their possible criticisms or face their disapproving expressions.
To some, the spotlight could be the loneliest place in the world. But sometimes, it’s the only place where you could forget the rest of the world. It’s easier to be yourself when you can’t read on their faces who they’d rather see.
“To many of you, this may be the first time you’ve ever seen me around here,” I continued, gently crumpling the speech I’d written and practiced into a small ball in my hand.
I liked pretty speeches too but I was always the improvising type. “To be honest, around the same time last year, I was watching a feature of this event on the wall TV in the break room of a diner, as fashionable as one could be in a pair of spandex micro-shorts, a tight shirt and an apron.”
A burst of chuckles rippled across the room.
“All this,” I said with a sweep of my arm to the side, gesturing to the grand space that spoke of every privilege and luxury. “All this seemed like a faraway world from the other side. To the average person who doesn’t have as lofty a perspective in life as other people, what we’ll do here this weekend might seem frivolous and insignificant in the grand scale of the raw human condition outside of these glitzy walls.”
As my voice picked up a steady momentum and my words flowed out artlessly, a thoughtful silence drifted over the room.
You have, in your hands, something very precious—an opportunity. An opportunity to speak and be heard. An opportunity to let your message resonate. Don’t waste it.
After all, my life was a study of opportunities wasted by the two people who could've done something good with them.
“While not entirely scientific, I believe that the world turns on the momentum of a chain reaction spurred by perception. It’s so ingrained in us, it’s not worth changing entirely. The only thing we can do is adjust where we look. We can all look in instead of looking out, and gain a different perspective.”
I flashed the audience as best an encouraging smile as I could muster. “Whether it’s a marathon or a catwalk, it’s the same anchor at the bottom of every ship—it’s the desire to help in the best way we know how. The homeless guy who might have his first, nice hot meal in six months may not know a single fashion designer but that’s alright. He’ll know a more important truth—and it’s that the world can afford to be generous with their talents and time where there is great supply of both. At the end of the day, we’ve helped provide someone’s meal, enjoyed ourselves, and know in our hearts that we’re heroes all the same. We don’t have the cape or the super powers. All we have is our talent to translate our creative imagination to not only make beautiful things, but make beautiful lives.”
There was a pregnant pause as I stood back and surveyed the room, wondering if I should expect tomatoes to come flying at me.
It was barely took a few seconds when the first scatter of applause started before they rang out loud and clear all across the room.
My breath loosened inside my chest and I found myself breaking into a grin before a small laugh escaped from me.
I stepped out from behind the podium and executed a brief, graceful curtsy before coming down the steps.
Music blasted through the speakers again as the formal program broke up into the rest of the party. Numerous people came up to talk to me as I made my way back to our table.
Despite my reminder of my once not-so-glamorous life, people seemed enthusiastic about meeting me. A little surreal but that's my new life for you.
An hour or so later, I had just pushed the bathroom door open when I heard the unmistakeable voice of my favorite person in the world for bathroom verbal showdowns.
“I don’t understand why this weekend doesn’t work,” I heard Bessy grumble as I held the door half-open, trying to decide if I really wanted to step inside.
“She’ll be out of town and the cottage is free,” she continued although I couldn’t hear anyone else with her inside. “If there’s a fucking better chance to spend time with me, Donny, this would be it.”
I sucked in a breath.
Donny.
Of course—Don LeClaire.
Even though he really wasn’t the kind of guy someone would dare nickname without risking a limb, I couldn’t think of anyone else Bessy would be calling Donny.
Just like their whole wretched affair, the idea of Bessy giving babyish names to someone as sullen and sinister as Don LeClaire was ridiculous.
“I’m sick of your excuses, Don,” Bessy went on stubbornly. “You either want to be with me or you don’t.”
Well, that cleared up the guesses on our mystery man.
You can do this two ways, Charlotte. You can walk away and pretend you know nothing about this or you can open a can of worms and be prepared to eat them because that’s how it’s going to feel.
Yup. The taste of this ugly confrontation would go down my throat like a mouthful of slippery, squirmy worms.
I involuntarily swallowed hard and pushed the door fully open, clearing my throat loudly as I strode in. Huh. Guess I announced myself the way everyone did.
I beamed at Bessy who sharply glanced up at me like a deer in headlights, and set my clutch down on the vanity counter, turning my attention to the mirror.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she muttered in a stiff voice on her phone. “The cat just dragged in the usual trash.”
“Hmm, you’re right,” I said cheerfully as she took her spot next to me on the vanity, scowling at me on the mirror. “I could smell your stench on the way over here. I should’ve known to stay away.”
“My stench?” Bessy repeated with an incredulous laugh. “Even in nice clothes, people can smell the gutter where you come from, Charlotte. I’m amazed your Cobalt Bay friends weren’t gagging, trying to get away from you.”
I raised my brow at her. “Judge me when you stop reeking of your own dirty secrets, Bessy.”
Her jaw tensed and she narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“This is the thing about accidentally eavesdropping on people in bathrooms,” I said with a sigh. “Sometimes, you hear nasty things that make you want to throw up. Romancing the cousin-in-law seems as bad an idea as slurping down an extra-large milkshake when you have a dairy problem—a huge, stinky mistake that explodes all over the place and drives everyone away.”
Bessy’s eyes flashed furiously. “So you think you know everything? But then, you always act like you do, don’t you, Charlotte—even when you were mopping floors and wearing threadbare sweaters in school.”
This was an old exercise with Bessy but I made the mistake of calling her out about her secrets so now I had to stand still and let her have it out with me.
Someday, I might be awarded for bearing the brunt of Bessy’s bad moods. Better me than the rest of mankind, right? I have a few years worth of callouses to serve as my armor.
“What I know and what I wear, don’t necessarily have anything to do with each other, Bess,” I told her as I pulled out a small tube of tinted lip balm and dabbed some on my lips. “Unless, what you wear sums up all that you know.”
“Don’t preach to me, Charlotte, just because you’re currently deluded with the idea that you’re living a fairy tale,” she snapped at me and for a moment, I could see the resentment clearly focused in her eyes like a macro shot of her soul. “The world is more complicated than you think. Some of us need to go after what we want because not everyone lives like fucking Cinderella with a fairy godmother to help her and a prince who will come and sweep her off her feet. You may have your rags to riches story, your handsome prince, your fancy friends, your fabulous new clothes but you’ve got nothing on what goes on in real life so don’t you dare judge me.”
I stared at Bessy for a long moment.
I could tell her a lot of things—things that might clue her in on the fact that I lived most of my life in this real world—that if there was an outsider looking in on a fairy tale life, it was me. She’d certainly taunted me enough about my previous circumstances to know that.
But those suffering in their own private hell can’t look past the flames that surround them—they’re too busy burning.
I wasn’t really judging her.
To be honest, her mistake was no different than Anna’s. I thought it a lot crueler because Don was her cousin’s husband but without splitting hairs, the two situations were practically the same thing.
Cheating was a rule-breaker for me but then, I only set the rules of my own life, not others’.
What’s that good old quote again? Love the sinner but hate the sin.
If people chose to make mistakes with their eyes wide open, it was their decision to make. I would do my best to discourage it but in the end, my freedom ended where theirs began.
“I’m a terrible romantic and I’ve always insisted that people follow their heart,” I told Bessy gently. “But the heart is like a GPS. It doesn’t always have accurate information and might occasionally lead you to a certain death. The heart is just one part of you. It can’t take the place of your eyes and ears and other senses that will help you get to where you want to go. If you’re not interested in a dive from a very steep cliff where nothing but large, jagged rocks await you, turn around and set a new path. It won’t be easy, and the new path may not be as exciting as the old one, and your heart is going to flip the hell out because it’s suddenly lost but hey—at least you’re alive, which means you can give it another try and possibly actually end up where you want to go.”
There was a strained lull before Bessy threw her head back laughing.
I sighed and rolled my eyes.
Of course, no one had to tell me. A dramatic heart-to-heart with your sworn enemy was no one’s brilliant idea. I should’ve remembered.
“I can’t believe you just gave me some love advice, Charlotte,” Bessy said between gasps as she dabbed tears from the corners of her eyes. “That you actually thought to heap on me some sappy romantic crap as if I’m in some kind of doomed love affair. Didn’t it ever occur to you that I’m just playing? Going melodramatic on me like that suggests you think I have a heart.”
I gave her an irritated look. “Of course, you have one. Where else would all this jealousy and insecurity come from?”
The humor disappeared from Bessy’s expression in an instant. “I’m not jealous or insecure.”
I put the lip balm back in my clutch and picked at a couple of stray strands in my hair. “If you’re not, then you’re just simply contrary. You castigate me for judging you for your decisions because I don’t understand just how limited your options are yet you insist that it’s just all games to you. If you’re convinced you’re in waters as shallow and insignificant as a puddle, then no one should be able to hold your head down and drown you.”
I turned to Bessy and, despite the seething glare she was giving me, smiled. “See you around, Bessy.”
There were no mutters or screams that followed me on my way out so either my words had begun to sink in on Bessy or she just ran out of nasty things to say to me.
Nevertheless, I’d spoken my piece about it.
Sometimes, it’s all you could do.
***
I was never really the kind of girl who lived for sparkles but it didn’t take long to see how potent the glitter and shine of a highly fabulous world were.
The fashion shows started early afternoon on Saturday, right after the ‘media lunch’. It was a press event where all the reporters, editors, fashion bloggers and photographers were allowed to go around the entire backstage where the models were getting prepped for the runway show in the next couple of hours. There was gourmet catering for everyone although glancing around, anyone modeling didn’t eat more than a few chunks of fresh fruits.
I wasn’t sporting bedazzled and bejeweled lingerie and I was fit enough from my regular runs and work-out at home so even though in the last couple of days, I’d avoided food that could make me bloat, I treated myself to a full bowl of water-rich fruits and a few small chunks of dark chocolate so I’d actually have enough energy to walk the runway.
Actually, I need the energy to make it through the long hours of hair and make-up first.
For someone who was only going to be out on the catwalk for a few precious minutes, I was definitely spending quite a bit more time on the make-up chair.
It was fun though, despite all the fussing and the slightly irritating smells of hair products and the occasional jabs of bobby pins into my head. I was sitting in the same station with Felicity, Anna and Tessa, joined by Noli, Armina and Clyde, who all made a rowdy group. Both Vivienne and Cassandra stopped by a couple of times to check on us and chat, bringing in Brandon and Jake who wanted to wish us all luck on their second visit.
Jake’s mouth dropped open at the sight of a very alluring Tessa who was draped in a pearl-blue dress and carefully ignoring the usually smooth-talking man who was gaping at her.
I was just about to jump in and say something to snap Jake out of it before he gave everything away but Vivienne greeted him warmly, their familiarity clearly rooted from an old friendship.
I could see Tessa’s remote expression as she discreetly studied the two while they talked and while I was grateful for Jake’s distraction, I couldn’t help a pang of sympathy for Tessa who found another person to measure herself against, other than her sister.
Vivienne was one of those people both men and women were fascinated with and while there was nothing but old familiarity between the two, Jake’s usual flirty attitude made him a more easy target for Tessa’s already suspicious and insecure heart.
I would intervene if not for the six-foot-three male standing in my way, smiling in a way that drove me to distraction.
“Aimee and a couple of the girls from Marlow’s came to see the show too,” Brandon told me as he pressed a kiss on my forehead. In a hushed voice, he added, “Also, Nicole called to say she might drop in. She doesn’t want to meet anyone just yet but she does want to see your show.”
My eyes widened. “Really? I invited her thinking she probably wasn’t going to go anyway but I’m ecstatic if she is. It’s a big crowd. She can re-emerge without coming in front and center, which is how I’d do it.”
Brandon grinned. “Somehow, I doubt that you could pull off subtly appearing somewhere, babe. You stand out like a neon sign in a sea of people.”
I pouted at him. “You’re probably right. Neon signs are never going to be elegant.”
“I disagree,” Brandon said as he gazed down at my gown, his warm hazel eyes flickering appreciatively. “While your dress is certainly breathtaking, your elegance is in your soul, Charlotte—old, wise, full of beautiful heart, and crowned with sunshine.”
Brandon said the damnedest things, sometimes—the kind that ruined my artfully applied lipstick because I’d suddenly be possessed by the urge to yank him close and kiss him as if my very survival depended on it.
“Someone get these boys out of here, please, especially Brandon,” I heard Clyde say loudly. “By the time Charlotte gets out there, she’ll look like she’d been stung by a bee on the mouth.”
Brandon and I laughed guiltily as we pulled away, just in time as Clyde started herding him and Jake out of the dressing area.
Vivienne had stayed behind to make the final inspection and minor adjustments on our gowns, which, by the way, were some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Noli and Vivienne had created a vibrant sunset palette for the collection—Tessa in pearl-blue, Felicity in soft gold, Anna in a bright coral, and me in rich ruby.
Our make up was soft and muted with just hints of creamy blush and a smoky bronze eyeshadow. The top half of our hair was twisted up into a soft, loose bun, the lower half brushed into wispy waves down our back.
The whole look of the collection embodied everything the Vienne brand was known for—feminine elegance.
Finally, it was showtime.
Historic Faneuil Hall’s old world charm dazzled gloriously, especially the second floor assembly room where the fashion shows were being held.
The focal point was the stage where a painting called Webster Replying to Hayne hung. It depicted a debate between Senators Webster and Hayne about the Union just as the Civil War was brewing.
From that stage stretched a long catwalk in the middle, right along the aisle that usually separated the audience seats below. Both sides of the assembly room featured a mezzanine with white Doric columns, housing more seats which were silhouetted by the large windows that backed them.
The entire assembly room, once a setting of many publicly proclaimed political convictions, was now brimming with the city’s, if not the country’s, richest and most fashionable crowd.
The show consisted of three sets, four designers each, and ours was in the last set so we got a chance to peek from backstage, which also had a few monitors that broadcasted a live feed of the whole event.
We weren’t the only ‘socialites’ invited to grace the runway.
I saw both Simone and Layla walk for different designers. Simone had been a model and her walk was a no-brainer. She got the whole smile-but-don’t smile thing down to a science and her walk was brisk yet fluid. Layla, despite being a few inches shy of the usual height requirements for runway models, owned the stage simply with her confidence. She was a big deal and she knew it very well. Despite the sympathy I felt for her, knowing just how tumultuous her marriage was, I couldn’t help but admire her as she strutted her stuff.
When you walk out there, you’re neither a destitute diner girl nor the sensational Mrs. Maxfield. You’re just Charlotte and you’re having fun.
I’d started the day nervous about all kinds of mishaps that could happen—I wasn’t particularly graceful despite all the social polish and ladylike manners Felicity tried to teach me, but I was surrounded closely by people who were having too much of a great time to worry about anything.
In the end, I just let go.
The whirlwind of being dressed, lining up the backstage, walking down the long, narrow catwalk, posing for the audience and the cameras—it was all a moment in time that I would never ever forget.
When our show was over, the media frenzy began. We were all happily bouncing about with Noli, Vivienne and the small crew they brought from the design house, all beaming in the aftermath of our very warmly received show, when tons of media people started thrusting cameras and mikes and at us for a good half hour.
Clyde eventually shooed them all away and helped us change out of our outfits so we could join the rest of the party at the auction dinner party which was starting to roll out in the main assembly hall. The place was going to be converted into a dining hall and needed to be vacated so part of the break between the fashion show and the dinner was the outdoor concert by a popular local band, out where the street performers normally showcased their stuff.
I’d just gotten into deep cobalt blue one-shouldered dress with a strap clustered with small yet genuine blue topaz jewels in a starfish shape, when I got a message from Nicole.
She’d seen the show and just wanted to quickly say hi before she left, not wanting to really join in on the concert or the auction party and run the risk of bumping into someone who knew Francis.
“Go ahead, you guys,” I told my group as we headed out of the dressing room. “I’m just going to quickly say hi to a friend of mine who’s heading out right away. I’ll meet you at the concert.”
I shrugged on an oversized, slouchy gray coat and perched a black fedora over my head to avoid drawing attention. I made my way to the greenhouse which stood just outside of the building. I sneakily dodged random people with cameras walking about and snapping photos, keeping my head down as I went. I didn’t care to be caught on camera but I didn’t want to risk Nicole getting splattered on the tabloids with me when she was barely out of hiding.
The greenhouse had closed early for the day because of the event but I was only meeting Nicole by the back door where not as many people loitered about.
It was late afternoon and there was still a lot of light but I paused and frowned when I couldn’t spot her anywhere.
I walked around, craning my head around for a sign of her. When that turned up nothing, I took my cellphone out to call her.
A slight blur of movement caught my attention and my head snapped up.
Frowning, I marched up to the back door, peering inside until my nose nudged the cool glass.
There were two people inside—well, three if you count the plump lady sweeping about around them, shaking her head.
Through the thick glass and the dim lighting inside, I could make out Nicole’s form in a mint green dress, her arms twisting around while a man locked them in place with his fingers cuffed around her wrists.
The air suddenly left my lungs as I recognized the man’s familiar dark hair and profile.
Francis.
As the situation sank in, I rapped on the door vigorously, drawing the attention of the woman cleaning. The other two were still busy fighting.
“Let me in! Let me in!” I hollered through the thin gap on the door, pounding my curled fists on the glass surface.
The woman walked up to the door and scowled at me through the glass. I could hear her voice but her lips clearly read, ‘We’re closed.’
“I know, I know, but I’m just here to help my friend!” I told her through the gap, raising my voice louder and pounding on the door harder. “Please, let me in before he hurts her!”
The old woman tried to shoo me away a few more times but I started kicking the door that she finally opened it.
“My goodness, woman! Don’t you—” she was saying when she finally cracked the door open and thrust her large mop at me.
“I just need to get to my friend—I’m so sorry!” I told her desperately before pushing the door and scrambling past her.
The two were standing by a rolling cart brimming with potted plants, their raised voices carrying loudly in the nearly-empty store.
“Nicole!” I ran to her and firmly inserted myself between her and Francis, causing him to take a step back as I invaded his space. “Let’s get out of here.”
The woman was trembling behind me, her voice as shaky as she was. “Charlotte, I’m... I was just...”
“She was just trying to sneak out like she was never here but by a sheer stroke of fate, I happened to be just strolling past the greenhouse and spotted her,” Francis sneered. “She popped inside just as it was closing but I would never mistake her for anyone else. I’ll never forget her face.”
“That might be touching to know if it actually meant anything,” I snapped at him, keeping Nicole behind me. “Considering how you dropped her like a hot potato a couple years ago, dear cousin, the sentiment is lost on everyone.”
His blue eyes flared as he glared at me. “You know nothing of what happened to us, Charlotte, so I suggest you butt out. You and Brandon can take yourselves off of what is none of your business.”
I prodded a finger at his chest. “Brandon had to make it his business, Francis, because you wouldn’t. Sadly, that means Brandon, and me by extension, is part of this business, whether you like it or not.”
“And let me remind you exactly of what it’s going to cost you if you insist on getting in my way,” Francis seethed, grabbing me by the arm, his fingers digging in. “Think of the disgrace you’re going to bring to the family when all of your dirty laundry’s let out in public.”
I gasped and shoved him off by angling the same arm he gripped. He staggered back and I seized the chance to grab a rustic-looking rake from a pile of them that were on display just beside the cart of plants.
It wasn’t the most threatening thing in the world but Francis looked surprisingly pale as I aimed it at his face with surprisingly steady hands—granted, I was holding it with both hands because it was too long and awkward a thing to hold out.
“For someone who craves so much approval from Martin, you sure don’t seem all that concerned as to what your exposure of us is going to do to him,” I hissed at him, taking a step back even as I shifted the rake between the two of us left and right to prevent him from grabbing it. “Because maybe at the end of the day, you’re not doing any of this to please, Martin, are you, Francis? At the end of the day, you just want to prove that you’re so much better than Brandon and you don’t care who you hurt along the way as long as you prove your point.”
“You know nothing, Charlotte! Absolutely nothing!” Francis shouted, the sheer volume and vehemence of his voice startling even me. Both Nicole and the cleaning lady gasped in unison but with my usual stubborn nature, I refused to back down and smacked him on the side of the arm with the flat back of the rake.
“Don’t scream the house down, you goat!” I chided him, frowning when I realized that while his shout certainly pushed my ear drums to a near-shatter, the effort wouldn’t have caused as much strain on him as I was noticing.
Beads of perspiration had formed above his brows and his upper lip, his skin was a pasty white and his lips were dry and chapped. The sleek sweep of his hair was gone, leaving damp brown locks stuck in chunks around his forehead and temples.
As if suddenly realizing my intent scrutiny of him, he straightened his hunched shoulders and pushed his hair off his forehead, the slight trembling of his hands not escaping my notice.
With a deep shudder of breath, he inhaled and exhaled, speaking in a lower, more even voice while his sharp blue eyes fell on me with laser-like focus. “I will not let you or anyone else stand between me and my family.”
I blinked, the rake I was holding lowering slightly. “Interesting choice of words for someone who couldn’t get away from them quickly enough.”
But a hand fell gently on my shoulder and I glanced up at Nicole who stepped around me, her eyes locked on Francis.
“When I’ve decided what’s best for me and Zach, I’ll find you,” she said in a small but steady voice. Atta girl. “But until then, show me that I can trust you to respect my choices. Start by backing off on your threats to the people who’d done nothing but look after me and our son when you’d refused to.”
I watched Francis’s face tighten with what I could only imagine as a chaos of emotions because while his jaw tensed and his lips tightened into an agitated line, his eyes were pleading and... desperate. Just like Brandon observed about his cousin.
“I don’t have time for games, Nic,” he said in a grave voice even though he gave her a stiff nod. “But since time is only one of the few things I’ve got to make up for, I’ll start with giving you that right now. But don’t make me wait too long.”
My eyes widened in disbelief as I stared at him. “If I understand something about what you’re trying to do here, Francis, I’d say you’re in no position to be demanding anything.”
He turned his gaze at me, the fiery blue stare doing its best to scorch me. “Don’t push me, Charlotte. I might be persuaded to get off your case but I’m in no means happy with you or Brandon. I wouldn’t stand around and listen to hypocrites preach.”
I strangely found that remark funny and gave him a crooked smile as I lowered the rake to the floor. “Get off your high horse, Francis. We’ve all got a little hypocrite in us—kinda hypocritical to say we don’t, don’t you think?”
But before Francis could respond, I felt Nicole tug at my arm. “Let’s go, Char, before we all change our minds about this and you end up murdering him with a rake.”
“And I will call the police on all of you and make you clean up all the blood because I’m already on overtime!” the old woman, whom we’d totally forgotten about, said loudly as she stood there with her hands on her hips, looking at us in exasperation. “Now, get out of here so I can go home!”
I cringed and started digging into my purse for some money because while I necessarily didn’t believe in monetary rewards to people, I had no idea what our little soap opera scene had cost her.
“I’ll take care of it,” Francis interrupted, smoothly handing the woman a thick wad of cash. “Thank you for accommodating us, ma’am. Goodnight to you.”
The woman still gave us the evil eye even as she pocketed the cash and pushed the door open to escort us out.
“How are you going to get home?” Francis asked, turning to Nicole as we stepped out of the greenhouse.
“By a pumpkin I’m magically turning into a grand carriage,” I snapped, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re not driving or following her home, Francis. She’d come find you, remember?”
His lips thinned but he nodded. “I remember.”
“Since he’s promised to stay out of your way, why don’t you just stay and enjoy the party?” I asked Nicole hopefully. “There’s going to be lots of amazing food and it’ll be so much fun. I can introduce you to everyone—”
Nicole glanced at Francis before shaking her head at me with a small smile. “I think I’ll go home and spend the evening with Zach. He’d be missing me by now. We’ve never spent this much time apart.”
I watched Francis’s expression from the corner of my eye and felt intense satisfaction at the helplessness that flickered in his eyes, like a man who desperately wanted to do something—anything—to help the situation.
If I didn’t know better, Francis would walk to hell and back to undo the mistakes he’d made. Just a feeling.
“He’s in good hands but if you want to go, I won’t stop you,” I told her gently, knowing that the thought of Zach with his new babysitter (who was a young girl who lived a couple doors down from them) would never completely reassure her. I gave Francis a sideways glance. “And neither is he. We’ll go and get you home, okay?”
“Okay, thanks.” Nicole gave Francis one last surreptitious glance, her face baring all her confused emotions for him for a second, before turning away.
Nicole started toward the hall again with me behind her but as we kept going, I snuck a glance at Francis over my shoulder.
He was staring long and hard at Nicole, his face intense with emotions that of a man who’d zeroed in on what appeared to be a long and difficult way home.
I smiled as I turned away, continuing behind Nicole.
The villains who come out of the shadows are those who crave the light despite all the ugly things it reveals.
===
Thanks for stopping by for another chapter. I'm starting to do a full-edit on this story and there are going to be some changes to it. I've gotten a lot of opinion from the readers on TMMM's Facebook page and I think we've all agreed on changing Charlotte's age but it won't be reflected yet on the current story, as I keep posting chapters. I'll only change it when I start editing the story once it's completed.
The upcoming chapters are going to really get a little twisted. As much as we all love Charlotte and Brandon, this story is more than just them falling in love. It's definitely become a lot about how Charlotte evolved since she'd taken on being Mrs. Maxfield. I'm hoping to tie up all the loose ends and get this done!
XOXO! -Ninya
♪♪♪ Chapter Soundtrack: Mindy Gledhill - Whole Wide World ♪♪♪
I’m gonna walk a hundred miles
I’m gonna whistle all the while
If that’s what it takes to make me smile
I’m gonna walk a hundred miles
I’m gonna run right up this hill
Summer sky or winter chill
If I gotta take a break I will
But I’m gonna run right up this hill
I wanna hold the whole wide world
Right here in my open hands
Maybe I’m just a little girl
A little girl with great big plans
I’m gonna go and take a chance
I’m gonna learn to ballet dance
Learn a little something ‘bout romance
I’m gonna go and take a chance
I’m gonna live a crazy dream
Impossible as it may seem
Doesn’t matter what the future brings
I’m gonna live a crazy dream
[Chorus]
You tell me, “don’t try it”
I’m warning you that I won’t buy it
All failure is fleeting
I trust it always has its meaning