4
“No.” I cross my arms and glare at Ginny. “Don’t even think about it.”
Too late. She’s positively wild-eyed with excitement. Aren’t the drugs supposed to be making her sleepy? When does the drowsiness kick in?
Because right now she’s practically manic with glee. “It’s the perfect solution.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a terrible idea.” So terrible that I might even sue that quack of a doctor for malpractice for putting it in Ginny’s head.
“Why? I mean, it would take some work, obviously. A lot of work.” She looks me up and down. “Like a ton of effort . . .”
I glare even harder. She’s in no position to critique my appearance at the moment.
“But you could totally do it. We’ll just need to do something to your hair. And your face. And your lashes. And your—”
I hold up a hand. “For the love of God, stop.”
She gives me the same sympathetic head tilt she uses when she’s waxing poetic about sad, unwanted shelter pets. “I’m not trying to be mean, but you know how pageants are.”
Yes, I know exactly how pageants are. Which is precisely why I’ll never, ever participate in one of them. Has she lost her mind? Just the thought of draping one of those sashes across my body makes me sick to my stomach.
“It’s hot in here.” I fan myself and start pacing the tiny space again. “I need some water.”
Ginny ignores my suffering. Big surprise. “A makeover wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know. I don’t remember the last time I saw you without a ponytail.”
“What’s wrong with my hair? You’re the one who talked me into these bangs.” I gesture at my forehead.
Of course Ginny never mentioned that said bangs would need trimming every three weeks. Who has the time to go to a stylist so often?
“You’ve been cutting them yourself, haven’t you?” If she could move her face right now, she’d be curling her glossed lips in disgust.
How has this medical crisis turned into an all-out war on my image? It’s mind-boggling.
“Everyone cuts their own bangs.”
“No one does that,” she says flatly. “Also, what happened to those makeup samples I sent you? They were Chanel, for crying out loud.”
I can’t tell her that I gave them to one of my teacher friends so her daughters could use them for playing dress-up. She’d kill me. “I’m not a makeup person. You know that.”
Her retort is brutal. “I also know that you haven’t been on a date in over a year.”
I rear back as if I’ve been slapped.
She’s going there? Seriously?
Why didn’t I call 911 against her wishes and have her paraded through the Huntington, swollen face and all?
“Come on, Charlotte.” Ginny’s voice goes soft. And, nonsensically, it’s the sudden kindness that cuts me to the quick. “Has there been anyone since Adam?”
I wrap my arms around myself. Hold it together. “I’m not having this conversation.”
There hasn’t been anyone. Adam is my ex-fiancé, emphasis on ex. I’m still not over what happened between us, and I probably never will be. Dating is the absolute last thing on my mind, but I don’t want to admit as much to Ginny. She’d never understand. . . .
Probably because I still haven’t told her the real reason I called off the wedding.
And I never will.
“I’m not interested in dating right now.” My gaze is fixed on the sterile tile floor.
Ginny sighs. “That’s what you’ve been saying for nearly a year and a half.”
“Well, it’s true.” I don’t bother explaining that even if I had any interest at all in a relationship, I still wouldn’t want a makeover. I’d want to meet someone who was attracted to my inner beauty, not what he sees on the outside.
Does such a man exist?
Not in my experience—hence the dating drought.
“Anyway, what does my love life, or lack thereof, have to do with the Miss American Treasure pageant?” Nothing at all. That’s what.
“I’m just saying that if you helped me out it would be good for both of us.”
I can see the wheels spinning in her swollen head. She wants to make me over, just like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries. And Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada.
Anne Hathaway is spectacularly gorgeous. Why does she keep getting made over? Because the world is a shallow place and all anyone cares about is appearances.
Poor, persecuted Anne Hathaway. I know exactly how she feels right now.
“Stop trying to convince me that you want to do this for my benefit. There’s only one reason you want me to take your place.” And it’s because she wants that rhinestone-covered plastic crown to be placed on her head.
“It’s my last chance, Lottie.” Her voice goes soft again, and combined with the use of my childhood nickname there’s now a vulnerability in her tone that I can’t ignore, no matter how desperately I try. “I’m twenty-nine years old.”
The age limit for Miss American Treasure is thirty. Next year, Ginny will officially be too old to follow in our mother’s footsteps. More specifically, to duplicate her reign.
“There are other pageants.” It’s a weak argument, but it’s all I’ve got at this point.
“Miss American Treasure is different. I’ve dreamed of winning this crown since I was a little girl. You know that.”
There’s a crack in my resistance. I take a deep breath. “We can’t, Ginny.”
“Why not? Give me one good reason.”
I could give her fifty. The problem is that she won’t hear any of them. “For starters, it’s dishonest. I know you want to win the crown, but you’re not a cheater.”
I could say that our mother wouldn’t want her to win this way, that she and our dad never condoned outrageous ploys like this, but it feels too cruel to utter out loud. It also seems unfair, since I barely remember our mom. But if we do this, it would be lying in a really major way. I know she’s desperate, but Ginny is a good person. Switching places is too deceitful even for her to contemplate.
“But it’s only for the preliminaries. Winning the finals would be all up to me, fair and square. You said yourself that I’m a lock for the top twenty. I always coast through the prelims. I just can’t do it like this.” She gestures toward her horribly puffy face. It really does look bad.
I have a hard time believing it will be back to normal in just three days, maybe because I’ve completely lost faith in her lunatic doctor.
“So go ahead and compete in the prelims. Maybe the whole allergy thing won’t matter so much.” I can barely get the words out. Of course it would matter. They can call it whatever they want, but it’s still a beauty pageant.
“I just need help for the first few days. The finals aren’t until next week.” She makes little prayer hands. “Please.”
She shouldn’t have mentioned the pageant finals. The final event is going to be televised. My mind is snagging on the possibility of having to stand onstage in front of a bunch of cameras.
What if she’s not better by then? Would I have to keep going?
She’d never let me quit. Not if I make it that far and she can’t step in.
“Ginny . . .” I shake my head.
She has no idea what she’s asking of me.
Maybe if she’d been the sister who’d been compared to her gorgeous beauty queen twin for her entire life, she might. But that’s my role. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, being Ginny’s sister isn’t the easiest thing in the world.
Take, for instance, how it wasn’t easy in tenth grade when the most popular boy in our class mistakenly invited me to homecoming and then withdrew the offer when he realized I wasn’t my twin. Or how it wasn’t easy when we turned eight years old and got new dresses for our birthday—Ginny’s was pink, glittery, and flouncy while mine was a plain blue, Anne of Green Gables–style pinafore. Or how it especially wasn’t easy nearly two years ago when I found out my fiancé was smitten with my twin.
It sounds bad, I know. Ginny has no idea, and I don’t want her to find out because it would crush her to know she had anything to do with my failed engagement. But as much as I wish I could forget how it felt to discover that Adam preferred Ginny to me, I can’t.
I might never have even known if I hadn’t stumbled upon a whispered conversation between him and his best man on the day of our couples’ shower.
“Ginny’s hot,” Adam’s friend had said. “Any chance you could set me up with her?”
Adam’s response had been a bitter laugh that’d stopped me dead in my tracks. Then, while I stood in the hallway of my parents’ house pressed against a wall of Ginny’s framed pageant photographs, I heard him admit that, just like that boy in tenth grade, he really preferred my sister.
“No way. I’m hoping to eventually trade up, if you know what I mean.” Adam’s words had been quiet, but they’d echoed in my head so loudly that I’d wanted to cover my ears. “Swap twins. It’s pretty much the only reason I’m going through with the wedding.”
I don’t remember much after that, other than sliding to the floor and wrapping my arms around my knees as bile rose up the back of my throat. I just know I don’t want to feel that way ever again—no one should. So I throw myself into books, the library, and making sure my innocent kids are as prepared for the cruel world as possible because I never want them to feel what I did. And if I focus on them, I don’t have to look too closely at me.
Sometimes I think about how much easier life would be if Ginny and I didn’t look alike at all—if Ginny could be Ginny and I could just be me.
Would people still compare us?
Would it still hurt so much to always be the sister who fades into the background?
I don’t know the answer, but I can’t stand the thought of all those eyes on me at the pageant. Being the center of attention is Ginny’s thing, not mine. Back when I was engaged, even being the bride-to-be felt uncomfortable. I think about the wedding dress hanging in the back of my closet—the one I can’t bring myself to get rid of, even though I know I’ll never wear it. Even if I do manage to walk down the aisle someday, I’ll never step into that fancy gown again. It’s not me.
None of this is me.
“I can’t.” My gaze drops to the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid the disappointment in her eyes.
But the hurt in her voice is equally hard to endure. “Don’t say no. Not yet. We’re stuck here for a few more hours. Just think about it.”
I don’t say anything. There’s no way I’m changing my mind. We could be stuck here all night, and my answer would still be the same.
Miraculously, she lets the matter drop.
But it’s still hanging there between us as Ginny drifts off to sleep and I’m left in that little room with nothing but the ugly truth to keep me company.
Here’s the thing.
Every word I said to Ginny earlier was true. I despise beauty pageants. I absolutely hate them, and it’s not as though I haven’t given the whole thing a chance.
Before our mother died, when Ginny and I were just four years old, she entered both of us in a beauty pageant for children.
It wasn’t the sort of pageant where little girls wear bright red lipstick and fake teeth and huge bouffant wigs like on Toddlers & Tiaras. (Those are known as “glitz” pageants, by the way.) Ours was the other variety—a “natural” beauty pageant.
Full disclosure: that’s somewhat of a misnomer. Natural pageants aren’t totally natural. They’re simply less extreme than the glitz ones. Contestants are still likely to wear lipstick and hair spray, just normal amounts of both. Inasmuch as lipstick on a four-year-old can be considered normal.
Anyway, like generations of beauty queens before her, our mom thought it would be a great idea for us to follow in her perfectly poised footsteps. Ask any woman competing for Miss America how she got involved in pageants and I guarantee that at least half of them will say their mothers were pageant girls too.
I suppose some of the moms are the scary, dominating stage mothers everyone hears about. But the majority of them are moms who did the pageant thing with their own mothers and want to continue the family tradition. It’s a special kind of sorority. Pageant girls grow into pageant moms who believe that the system instilled them with confidence, grace, and poise. And for the most part that’s true.
But there are exceptions to every rule.
News flash! I’m the exception.
My pageant experience was a disaster from start to finish. I tripped on the runway. Not a tiny little misstep either, it was a full-on face-plant. During my talent portion, I forgot the lyrics to “I’m a Little Teapot” and ran offstage, crying.
As my swan song, I peed in my pants during the Sunday-dress portion of the competition.
Need I say more?
It was a long time ago, and while my actual recollection of the mortifying experience is admittedly a little fuzzy, our mother videotaped the entire ordeal. The recording still has a place of honor on a shelf of DVDs in Dad and Susan’s living room.
Oh joy.
Needless to say, that was the end of my career as a pageant girl. If our mom had lived longer, I have no doubt that she would have encouraged me to give it another go. I’m sure she would have at least made me stick with it long enough to have a positive experience before calling it quits.
But my mother got sick shortly after my one and only pageant. Even Ginny gave it up for a while—it was like without the pageant mom, she didn’t know how to be the pageant daughter. My sister was ten before she found the black-and-white pageant photo of our mom in her Miss American Treasure crown and glittering evening gown with a bouquet of roses in her arms. She carried that picture everywhere she went until our dad finally agreed to let her enter another pageant.
And she’s been chasing that crown ever since.
I, on the other hand, found my hope in books. Books were there for me when I was a little girl, growing up without a mom. They saved me, over and over again. I was in third grade, on the afternoon of the Mother’s Day tea, one of the first times it happened. I was the only child in the class who didn’t have a mother or stepmom. My dad’s sister was supposed to come sit beside me during the event, but she got mixed up and showed up at Ginny’s classroom instead.
Sitting all alone at that table was one of the loneliest moments of my life. When my teacher realized how upset I’d become, she took me by the hand and led me to the school library. While the other kids celebrated their mothers, I spent the afternoon with Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. Their words gave me an escape—a place where I belonged. That experience is one of the reasons I decided to become a school librarian. I want to help kids find the same kind of solace and sense of acceptance.
Ginny, however, finds that acceptance in a stranger’s applause or a judge’s score. My days spent among the stacks mean I’m not required to have a spray tan, painted fingernails, or perfectly coiffed hair. I prefer the scent of ink on paper and old library books to perfume. And while I want to see world peace happen, I’m not convinced that a real-life Barbie can hasten it by uttering those words into a microphone.
So, yes. Everything I said to Ginny is 100 percent accurate. I’m no pageant girl. I also believe that taking her place in the preliminaries would definitely be cheating, no matter how you slice it. We were brought up to be honest, and this flies in the face of everything I try to teach the kids at my school.
But I also love my sister with my whole heart. She’s my twin. My other half. As Charlotte Brontë wrote, “You know full well as I do the value of sisters’ affections. There is nothing like it in the world.”
I’m the first to admit we’ve drifted apart over the years. It was probably inevitable, considering our diverging paths. But even though I wish Ginny would spend her time on something more meaningful, I’m still there for her when it matters most.
Ginny might drive me nuts sometimes, but I’d gladly give her a kidney if she needed one. I’d do just about anything for her.
So why can’t I do this?
Because I’m scared, that’s why.
It’s a humiliating thing to admit—so humiliating that I can’t make myself say it out loud.
While I’m fairly certain I could get through the experience without wetting myself this time, there’s definitely a part of me that’s afraid of letting my sister down. Of disappointing her. Even though we’re twins, I was born first. I’m officially two minutes older than Ginny, and this knowledge has always instilled me with a sense of responsibility, especially once our mother passed away. I was the one who cut her sandwiches into the perfect triangles she liked so much for her school lunches. I helped her with her homework. But she missed our mom’s influence the most when it came to the “girly” things, like braiding her hair or picking out her prom dress. She cried rivers of tears on our first homecoming in middle school when we were the only girls without “mums,” the traditional chrysanthemum corsages Texas is famous for. While all the other girls moved from class to class with streamers, bells, and ribbons fluttering from the enormous flowers pinned to their shirts, we were plain and unadorned. My twin was crushed.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t make up for our mother’s absence. I still can’t, especially if it involves heels and an evening dress. This pageant is the most important thing in the world to Ginny, and while I think it’s beyond silly, I’m not altogether sure I could hack it, even for a few measly days of prelims.
After three hours hooked up to the IV, Ginny is released from the urgent-care clinic. She’s still drowsy from the massive dose of Benadryl she was given and sleeps for the duration of the short ride back to the Huntington Spa Resort. It’s just after six thirty in the morning when I sneak her back up the stairwell and down the hall to our room with the sorting hat jammed on top of her head.
Once we’re safely inside, she crawls into bed without asking if I’ve had a change of heart about the pageant. I should be relieved, but I’m not. Quite the opposite—I feel guilty as hell.
“Buttercup needs to be walked.” The poor dog keeps running from the dresser, where her pink leash is draped over a drawer knob, to the door and back. I can take a hint. “Will you be okay by yourself for a few minutes?”
Ginny is a lump in the bed now. She nods, and the covers barely move.
“Okay.” I bite my lip. God, she looks so pitiful. “We’ll be back in a few.”
Buttercup sits somewhat still while I attach her leash, and I let her drag me to the stairwell. The hallway is empty, but I can hear a low murmur of activity behind the doors as the women start their day—it’s a mix of blow-dryers, televisions, and beauty queen chatter. The personal interview portion of the pageant prelims is happening all day today, and it starts in less than two hours.
Ginny’s interview is slotted for six thirty this evening. At least I think it is. Honestly, I’ve only halfway been paying attention to the details thus far. But if I’m right, and her interview is twelve hours away, there’s technically still time for her swelling to go down. I mean, the doctor didn’t entirely rule out the possibility, right?
Twelve hours is also undoubtedly sufficient time for me to undergo a pretty thorough makeover, but I push that thought away before it can take root.
Outside, the sun is just coming up, bathing the hotel’s fancy cabana and infinity pool in dazzling pink light. In the distance, a row of paddleboats shaped like swans is lined up along the edge of the resort’s man-made lake. It’s all rather breathtaking, despite the fact that the moisture in the air is so thick that I can barely breathe. Even the palm trees droop a little.
Buttercup starts making a horrible wheezing noise as she picks her way through the grass, and I pause. She’s hunched over, frozen, looking like she’s having some kind of asthma attack.
Perfect. This is just what I need right now.
“Buttercup, are you all right?” I squat down beside her. She’s not all right. The wheezing grows worse, and my heart clogs in my throat.
Nothing bad can happen to this silly dog. Ginny would be crushed, and she’s already teetering on the depths of despair.
Just as my concern reaches full-blown panic, I remember Lisa Ng—Miss Nevada, the world’s most glamorous veterinarian. Is she in room 520? Or 530? I can’t remember. I’m going to have to grab Buttercup, race upstairs, and start knocking on doors.
But just as I reach for the rasping dog, someone else crouches into view.
“She’s okay. It’s just a reverse sneeze.” It’s him—the man from the stairwell.
I swallow. His calm demeanor does nothing to stop the flutter of my heart, which suddenly seems to be dancing a little rumba in my chest. “A what?”
“A reverse sneeze. It happens sometimes, especially with Frenchies.” He cups a hand gently over Buttercup’s tiny muzzle and almost instantaneously, the terrible sound stops.
“Wow.” I stare at Buttercup for a beat in case it’s a fluke, but it’s not. She’s back to her snooty, buggy-eyed self and continues inspecting every blade of grass in search of the perfect place to relieve herself. “That was . . .”
“Magical?” His mouth curves into a half grin, and his dimple flashes as if it’s winking at me. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for, Hermione.”
An unladylike bark of laughter escapes me. Oh God. His subtle grin spreads into a full-blown smile. It’s every bit as dazzling as the Florida sunrise.
I straighten, fighting the sudden urge to flee. I’ve been up all night, and I’m still wearing my Darcy T-shirt—which, now that I think about it, is probably a couple of sizes too big. The last time I got a good look at my reflection was a few hours ago in the silvery surface of the paper towel dispenser in the urgent-care exam room. Spoiler alert: It wasn’t pretty.
In short, I’m a hot mess. And he’s . . .
Well, he’s perfect-looking—again. He’s impeccably put together in a sleek suit and tie, and his hair is slicked back from his chiseled face, still a little bit damp on the ends from his morning shower.
I wonder if he smells good. I’ll bet he does. Nice and clean. Manly.
The Old Spice theme song rings in my head like a bell.
What is it about this man that reduces me to such a neurotic train wreck every time I see him?
My face is aflame. “Thank you for the rescue. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Happy to help. If that’s your first exposure to a reverse sneeze, you must be a new dog owner. Or at least new to French bulldogs, I’m guessing.” He stands, and I finally notice Hamlet sitting politely by his feet. Together, they look like they walked right off the set of a Hallmark Channel rom-com.
“Sort of.” I clear my throat. “Actually, she’s not mine. I don’t think she likes me much, but we’re making it work.”
“I see.” His eyes narrow, ever so slightly, and I get the feeling he’s concentrating on something.
“Fine. I’m just ‘meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.’ ” The dimple flashes again.
I might faint.
Did he just say I had fine eyes?
Did he just call me pretty?
He gestures toward my shirt. I look down at it as if I’ve never seen it before, even though it’s one of my favorites. The words emblazoned across my chest come into focus. Talk Darcy to Me.
Of course. He’s just parroted Fitzwilliam Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, which means he’s literally talking Darcy to me. It also means he’s complimenting Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes, not mine.
The smile wobbles off my face. Of course that’s what it means. No one actually talks like that in real life.
Especially not to me.
Still, the fact that he’s once again rattling off quotes from my favorite books like they’re as permanently ingrained in his head as they are in mine makes me weak in the knees. As does the way he continues focusing on me, even when a flock of pageant contestants glide past us, as graceful as the swan boats bobbing in the distance.
“I’m desperately trying to find a fault in you,” I manage to sputter.
It’s not an exact quote from the book, but close enough for him to recognize it.
He laughs, and I can tell he’s enjoying this little game every bit as much as I am. Off to the side, a few of the pageant girls gather in a cluster. They’re looking this way, but his blue eyes are twinkling and he’s still smiling.
At me.
My head spins a little, like I’ve been sipping champagne. Is this what it’s like to be noticed? To be seen?
If so, I like it more than I should.
“I should go,” I blurt.
Ginny is upstairs all alone, and I am running out of things to say to this beautiful stranger. I can’t hide behind Jane Austen and J. K. Rowling forever.
“Of course.” He nods toward Buttercup. “Best of luck with the dog that’s not yours. Don’t worry. I have a feeling she’ll warm up to you in no time.”
“You too.” What?
He lifts an amused brow.
I square my shoulders and do my best imitation of a person who engages in flirty banter on a somewhat regular basis. “I mean, thanks for the wizardry.”
“Anytime.”
I turn to head back to the room on shaky legs. The beauty queens linger on the paved walkway, pretending not to watch. But their laughter is too loud, too forced to be real. They’ve definitely been keeping tabs on our interaction, probably wondering what he sees in me.
To be honest, I’m wondering that myself.
He’s just being nice. It doesn’t mean anything.
But the heady feeling lingers, and I’m practically floating when I let myself into the hotel room and unclip Buttercup from her leash.
She jumps onto the bed and curls around Ginny with a sigh. At least my sister has gotten something out of this whole pageant mess. I’m 100 percent sure she only adopted that dog as part of her platform, but they look adorable together. Buttercup worships Ginny.
I’m happy Ginny has something real in her life, especially now. Or maybe I just want to believe that she’ll be okay without ever winning the crown in order to alleviate my nagging sense of guilt. I pull my cell phone from my pocket so I can call the airline and book our flights back to Texas, but my gaze snags on a framed photo on Ginny’s nightstand.
It’s the picture of our mother taken the day she was crowned Miss American Treasure. Ginny’s brought it all the way here from Texas, and I hadn’t even noticed it until now.
I pick it up, studying the smile on my mother’s face. It’s pure elation. Pure joy. And for the first time in my life, I have the tiniest inkling of what it must have been like to feel like the prettiest girl in the room.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible.
I take a deep breath. Could I do it? Could I walk across a stage and hold my head up high while a panel of judges scrutinize everything about me?
I’m not sure I can, but I think I have to try.
For Ginny.
And maybe, just a little bit, for myself.
“I’ll do it.”