CHAPTER FOUR
The red dress… How to describe it other than to say it’s a metaphor for my life. It’s mine, but I didn’t buy it, nor do I own it. It’s simple and elegant, and all the things I’m not but aspire to be. It’s just a dress, yet it’s so much more than what you see. My gateway to freedom.
Standing in what I call the “Pepto guest suite,” complete with pink curtains and pink carpet, I hold out the long flowing fabric to the sides and pivot in the full-length mirror. “This dress is…” I sigh, “gorgeous.”
“It really is.” Milly sighs, too. She’s a short redhead in her sixties, who’s dressed a first lady, a princess or two, and almost every reigning queen of the R&B charts for the last three decades. Milly knows style, and the only reason she’s dressing me is because my grandmother feels the upcoming party is really hers—an opportunity to show off to all her rich friends.
“Thank you, Milly.” I make one last pivot. “I’m speechless.”
“Well now,” she reaches to unzip me, “it’s the least I can do for Lana Hale’s daughter.”
The sentiment in Milly’s voice triggers my curiosity. “Did you know her?”
“Yeah.” Milly quickly strips off my garment, almost like she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“How?”
“She was a client. Long before you were born.”
“And?” I ask.
Milly shrugs. “And nothing.” She pushes the red dress into a white garment bag stretched across the guestroom’s bed. My room is…well, since I turned eighteen, I’ve been sharing a closet with the maid of the week. All part of Melvin and Gertie’s “You must make sacrifices to be worthy of your inheritance” boot camp. Really, they renovated the wing of the house where I used to stay and added an indoor pool. They want it all to themselves and don’t want me taking up any of their “awesome” guest rooms. As for sharing a room, it’s made me realize that the staff hates it here as much as I do. The maids come and go like lettuce in a vegetable drawer. They’re chewed up or they rot, but either way, they’re gone in seven days. Come to think of it, growing up, all of my nannies and tutors were like revolving doors, too. No one ever stayed around long enough for me to grow attached to. I have to wonder if it wasn’t part of my grandparents’ plan to keep me isolated. No one to trust—other than themselves. No one to put ideas in my head to ruin their scam.
I step into my khaki pants and pull them up. “Well, if it’s really nothing, then you wouldn’t have that sad look on your face.”
Milly bobs her head slowly. “Your mother was special. It’s not easy to talk about her.”
Special? “Like…brain-damaged special or extraordinary-person special?” Because as much as I wish she were alive, I can’t understand her. Not even after reading all her books about people, relationships, and love. The most I got out of them was a confirmation that the worlds she fantasied about were nothing like reality. That isn’t to say that I don’t love reading them. Romance novels are my escape. They always have been. But in the real world, princes don’t pop out of trees, sweep you off your feet, and whisk you away to castles. For me, it’s the other way around. I have to hunt down the prince.
“The best way to describe your mother is that she was like a rainbow”—Milly looks toward the ceiling—“from the most beautiful dream. She could walk into a room and make death smile. She…” Milly shakes her head slowly. “She had a spark about her. You have the same thing.”
“Me? I don’t know about that. I’ve always felt invisible.” Of course, that was just part of the con. I’ve been fed so many lies that I’m not even sure who I really am. Loyal. Smart. Hardworking. Too trusting. Yes, all those things. But beyond that? Where do the lies end? Where do I begin?
Milly’s eyes toggle from side to side as if checking for stray ears. “You are special, Rose. And I adored your mother. Which is why I’m going to tell you to be careful. Watch your back,” she whispers.
Huh? “What do you know?”
“I have to go.”
Before I have a chance to beg or plead, Milly has my red dress and is halfway out the door. “I’ll have my assistant deliver it by noon on Friday.”
A shiver spikes through my veins. What does she know?
Maybe she’s heard the rumors about my grandparents’ greed. Because while my grandma would have me believe I will inherit the estate on my birthday, the truth is there in Paragraph 10: Before my twenty-first birthday, I must be married to a suitable man of “good standing, breeding, and character” whom my grandparents approve of. “Approve” defined as someone they introduce to me or who meets their standards. Not that they have standards. Or hearts. But it doesn’t take a law degree to interpret what’s right there in black and white. If I’m not married, the full estate transfers out of the trust—currently managed by some law firm—over to my grandparents until they feel I am “ready for such a great responsibility.” My annual allowance of one million dollars will continue to be used at their “discretion.”
Meaning, like the past twenty years, I won’t see a dime.
Not of the allowance they’ve been squandering away since my birth—at their “discretion.” Not of the hundreds of millions belonging to the estate, including my mother’s book assets or the house.
I know that’s not what my mom intended, but that’s how the will reads. It left my allowance in the care of my guardians. It’s how my grandparents have been able to syphon off my money to pay for private cruises and champagne. The kicker is, through the trust they were given another million to live off of and manage the property—staff, utilities, and upkeep.
So that leaves two questions:
First, why did my mother trust them so much? The truth is, I don’t know. She was a hopeless romantic who wrote about deeply flawed characters who find redemption in love. But those were books. Fantasies. In real life, why entrust your child to such coldhearted, greedy people? Did she honestly believe there was any goodness to be found inside them? She had to know what they were like. They were her parents, for fuck’s sake.
Maybe my mother really was crazy. It’s what everyone says about her when they think I’m not listening.
The second big question is how I plan to take it all back. This is why I went to see Dr. Bexley Hughes. The will states I must marry a “suitable” man, defined as someone my grandparents choose or approve of, before my birthday. The will also states that they must invite “suitable” men to my party. Therefore, under the terms of the will, if I marry any one of the invitees, I win.
If only I knew who these guys are. But that’s why the party is so crucial. It’ll give me the chance to scope out the candidates. Then I’ll make a list and do a little research on each guy. Hopefully, I’ll find a few prospects I can trust, because my grandparents don’t know I’ve read the will, nor do I want them to. I have to keep my plan a secret until the very last minute, or they’ll stop me.
That’s where Dr. Hughes was supposed to help. I pay him for five evening or afternoon sessions a week, he takes the money and says I’ve been at his office—in case anyone asks. Meanwhile, I’m really out on dates during those four hours (a one-hour session plus an hour and a half walking each way). To save time, I’ll leave the estate on foot, catch a cab down the street, and meet up with my date. I’ll do back-to-backs if I have to. If I’m lucky, my grandparents won’t know a thing until my twenty-first birthday, when I appear before the estate executor and show him or her my marriage certificate.
I’m not going to lie; I know this is a long shot. The chance of finding a man I want to spend the rest of my life with this quickly is slim to none. But not impossible. People fall in love and marry all the time. And while love at first sight is rare, it does happen. So yeah, maybe I am asking for a miracle, but after everything I’ve been through, aren’t I due for one?
Sadly, though, even if I succeed, it won’t answer my biggest nagging question: Why did my mother do this? Why the hell would she put me in the care of such sadistic assholes and then hinge my inheritance on getting married?
Hell, she never married. How’s that for ironic?
The more and more I think about this entire mess, the less it makes sense. And why do I feel like my nightmare is about to turn into something much worse?
I pivot toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the pink room and see my cartoon self staring back.
What the hell are you doing? she says to me. She knows I can’t win this. I know it, too. Still, she doesn’t want me to quit. She wants to be real.