Page 43 of These Thin Lines

Whatever breath she’d been holding as Neve had leaned over her, this was on a completely different level. Everything seemed magnified, the water sparkled brighter, her heartbeat was louder in her ears. The aroma of calla lilies was strong in the air, yet it was Chiara she smelled and Chiara she drank in.

“I think youmadeit my color. Thank you.” Chiara smiled, and Vi was happy to see that, for once, it touched her eyes that were filled with warmth, the corners crinkling with those faint crow’s feet.

“I just designed the dress.” Chiara bit her lip and looked into the distance, the gentle waves of the lake seemingly fascinating to her, but Vi could tell she was not seeing them. It was as if she was bracing herself for whatever she was about to say next, hands fiddling with the neckline of her own gown.

“I have to confess, I did not like you in silver. And it wasn’t my place to deny you your stepmother’s gown, but I’ve become a bit proprietary and possessive where my favorite model is concerned…” With a cheeky smile, she winked at her, and it took all of Vi’s endurance to not melt into a rather embarrassing puddle.

Did the temperature suddenly spike? Vi wanted to fan herself and was grateful when Chiara, again, looked away onto the water. “Not that I was hoping you’d ruin your silver piece of couture history. But knowing you…” She stopped gracefully mid-sentence, and now the warmth in her eyes was distinctly mischievous.

“Yes, knowing me, you could probably place bets not so much onwhetherbut onwhenI’d ruin something, right?” Vi gently straightened the skirt of her gown, self-consciously hiding her face.

“Well, in spite of how accident-prone you are, you don’t tend to ruin things on your own, as a rule. In fact, you often seem to be… shall we say…assisted? I think that would be the right word?”

With a steady hand on Vi’s lower back that sent tendrils of both delight and dread up and down her body, Chiara led her down to one of the majestic piers stretching onto the lake.

“Well, I’m sorry?” As they arrived at the railing, the deep azure water shining in the last rays of the setting sun, Vi tried for somewhat honest contrition. It was rather hard, since the gown hadn’t actually been ruined by her clumsiness for once, and she was not about to touch the entire subject of Frankie with a ten-foot pole.

“Don’t apologize. Especially when you’ve done nothing wrong.” Chiara leaned on her elbows, and for a minute she seemed thousands of miles away. “You stumble over your own feet and tumble out of rooms and generally tend to be adorably uncoordinated, Ms. Courtenay. But, when you’re on your game, I have yet to see you damage anything other than your own dignity. I have also yet to see you spill a glass of vodka on yourself, or drink vodka for that matter, period. So, yes, while you believe you’re clumsy—and I assume you’ve had a lifetime of being convinced of it by your illustrious family—I, for one, believe you’ve routinely had some help in most of your so-called ‘accidents.’ So who was it this time?”

Vi’s hand lifted to her chest of its own accord, because as Chiara turned towards Vi and spoke, her words were like arrows, each one hitting their target, the bullseye being somewhere in the area of Vi’s sternum. She rubbed her skin and tried to look anywhere but at the woman beside her.

“Nobody—”

“And then there’s the lying.” This time, Chiara straightened and turned to face Vi fully. As always, their height allowed their eyes to meet without effort. “Just like you never ruin anything by yourself, you don’t lie unless you’re covering for people. And while I won’t ask about some things, out of respect for your privacy, I will very much ask about this one. Because I know only one person who routinely chugs vodka minutes before a showing.” Chiara lifted a graceful eyebrow, and Vi suddenly found the floor to be enormously interesting.

“Chiara… I’m sorry—”

Vi had no idea what to say and why she was even apologizing. In her usual manner, Chiara tsked, and in an even more characteristic gesture, she laid fingertips on Vi’s lips.

“Cenerella, you may not be a good liar, but you really need to start taking my advice. Stop apologizing. How is it your fault that Frankie is drunk and stupid?”

An inventive Italian curse followed, and Vi stood still, relishing the feel of cool skin on her lips before she forced herself to be the one to break contact.

“She’s under a lot of stress, I guess…” She didn’t even bother to wince when her own thoughts spilled out of her mouth, despite reasonably expecting some filter to still be in place.

But Chiara was already looking back at the lake, with boats moored not far from the villas on the shore.

“You know, I was born twenty minutes from here.” Chiara’s voice became unexpectedly low and a touch sad, and Vi waited with bated breath for what would come next.

There’d been a wistful note in Chiara’s statement, and with the quiet in front of them contrasted by the brightly lit hum of the afterparty behind them, Vi leaned in and mirrored Chiara’s stance, looking out on the darkening expanse, hungry to observe every word.

“I spent my childhood among these villas. Maybe not this one in particular, but that one over there, and the one two piers down from it? I remember that yacht. It was a relic even then. Now it must be a precious antique. I’m surprised these people kept it. Though they probably own a Van Gogh or two and exhibit it on that very boat. Some oil magnate or other.”

Vi remained silent, diligently looking where Chiara pointed, observing, listening, wondering.

“My mother cleaned both of these mansions. And several others, if she could manage.” And now there was only coldness in Chiara’s tone, all wistfulness gone. “I ran wild among the empty grandeur, dreaming, playing, occasionally helping. Then, less running and more helping as I grew older and she grew sicker.”

Vi’s hand reached out, seemingly of its own accord, and gently touched Chiara’s forearm. If she’d expected to be rebuked or shaken off, it didn’t happen, but neither did Chiara acknowledge the silent comfort. Vi soon realized it was entirely possible she didn’t even notice it, she was so engrossed in her memories.

“I had a very hard time at school. Funny how it took me years to stop saying I was bad at it and to understand that it wasn’t my fault. But the truth of the matter is that I couldn’t read till I think, fourth grade?” When Vi nodded tentatively, Chiara’s throat worked, but when she spoke again, her voice was steady.

“The reading improved as I grew older and as a professor took pity on me and kept me after class, painstakingly teaching me.” She looked onto the water and her voice took on a didactic quality, as if she wasn’t talking about herself, as if she was distancing herself from the events.

“You see, apparently people like me are driven by fascination. If a task wasn’t interesting, little Chiara could not be bothered. And most everything sounded like boring gibberish early on. Until that one teacher literally took the time to ask me about my interests and bent over backwards to basically create curiosity in me. Get me interested.”

Chiara wrapped her arms around herself, even as the corners of her mouth lifted in a dejected smile. “Ironically, she started with books on fashion and vintage dresses. Thus, reading became less of an anxiety-inducing torture tool, but rather opened horizons to lose myself in. Numbers never did make sense though. Math… Let’s just say it never added up for me and leave it at that without me blathering on about my dyscalculia. Never ask me to count backwards, Ms. Courtenay.”

Chiara smiled, but it was hollow, lips stretching into a sad facsimile of a smile.

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