Fifty-Two
STORY
* * *
As the month passed, though I kept my head down, whispers surrounded me like thick fog.
I was Grayson Crowne’s mistress.
I was his wife’s new girl.
Strange how I could be Grayson Crowne’s mistress, when for a month Grayson hadn’t so much as looked in my direction. Each time I saw him in the halls and he walked by me like I was air, another piece of my heart crumbled. I was a ghost again.
August had flown by, and we were now in September, the leaves changing. Soon they would dot a colorful mosaic on the white sand beach. The Crownes’ annual opulent Labor Day was just around the corner, and I was back on the side I belonged: servant.
At least Lottie was a lot easier to work with than Abigail had been, though it was more than awkward. Dressing her for public dates with Grayson. Getting her prettied for photo ops. All the while not acknowledging the elephant in the room.
They’d separated his massive wing, so Lottie had one side of it and Grayson the other. Two bedrooms and bathrooms for Lottie, and two for Grayson. It was about the same size as Abigail’s now.
“I’ve drawn your bath, Ms. du Lac,” I said. The water was a subdued aquamarine with floating roses, only candles to light the bathroom.
“Will you stay?” she whispered.
We rarely said anything to one another. So when she asked me to stay, I nearly did a double take.
“Uh…Of course.”
Candlelight flickered against the matte white walls, and her shadow was superimposed against them. She placed her chin in her hands, head out of the tub. I tried not to gawk at her naked body, but she reminded me of the goddesses depicted in oil paintings. She was beautiful, so much more perfect than me.
“Grayson Crowne was my first kiss, and I was his first kiss. We were twelve, I think. Maybe younger.” She scrunched her eyes, as if remembering. “He was always a good kisser, even when we didn’t know what we were doing. Is he still a good kisser?”
Yes. He was the most perfect, heart-scarring kisser. Passionate. Gentle. Tender. Biting. He kissed with his entire soul. Lips that branded and hands that bruised. Every kiss was an occasion, a memory, a phenomenon.
And he’d been my first kiss too. How messed up is that?
My throat closed up.
“I—you—you haven’t kissed him?”
She shook her head. “We fooled around that night…” She met my eyes, and I immediately knew what night she meant. “He didn’t kiss me. Now that I think about it…I’ve been kissing him.”
Tears fell like perfect pearls down her cheeks, so silent I didn’t notice at first. When I saw, I immediately grabbed a cotton handkerchief, bending before her and blotting her eyes.
“I’m so, so sorry Ms. du Lac.” I kept repeating it over and over, like it could wash away the stain.
“Lottie, call me Lottie,” she rasped.
Eventually her tears stopped, and I sat back.
“Crowne Hall is huge, and I don’t have any friends here,” she said. “Back home I had friends, and the servants look us in the eyes, and it’s just…warm. Here it’s so cold.” Her pretty dark-chocolate eyes wandered to the window, to the dark night.
“I can be your friend,” I blurted, before realizing how absurd that was. Of all people in the world Lottie would want to be friends with, I was probably the last.
Her gaze snapped to mine. “Even after my friends treated you so badly?”
“I haven’t been a very good friend either.”
We balanced on such a precarious needle.