Page 17 of Craving Dahlia

I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I need time to think.

Time to be alone.

6

DAHLIA

SIX WEEKS LATER

My bedroom in my father’s house in D.C. looks straight out of a catalog—four-poster bed made up in white eyelet, a dark-wood wardrobe and dresser, a vanity by the window. The attached bathroom is luxurious beyond belief, with a marble countertop and gilded vintage mirror hanging above the sink, and a clawfoot soaking tub with an old-fashioned hand-held shower nozzle. Every time I come home, it’s always ready for me, meticulously cleaned and pristine. I have a few pieces of clothing that stay here, but I hung up and put my things away as soon as I flew in this morning, and now I’m standing in front of my bed, trying to decide between the two dresses that were delivered an hour ago. I’m going to wear one of them to the party tonight, and I can’t bring myself to pick.

I wish Evelyn were here. She’d choose one for me. Better yet, she’dmakeone for me, although it’ll still be some time before her boutique is up and running again. I look between the two dresses again, one a deep jeweled blue and the other a light lavender that’s probably too pastel for the season, and let out a sigh.

My father wants me dressed and downstairs for pre-party cocktails an hour before we leave for the party, and I’m sure I know why. He’s going to want to talk about Jude, about the proposal he wants me to accept, and I’m going to have to tell him no. That I’m not going to marry someone I don’t like just because it’s good for his political career.

It’s old-fashioned nonsense, although I’m definitely not going to use those exact words. But I have to hope that my mother will back me up, whatever he threatens. She’s not one to stand up to my father when he’s made up his mind about something, and she encouraged me the last time we spoke about this to go along with his plans. But surely she won’t let him cut me off, from my inheritance or the family. She wouldn’t let him go that far.

I tell myself that as I look down at the dresses again, pulling my pink silk robe around myself a little tighter as I go into the bathroom to start getting ready. My hot rollers are out on the countertop, my makeup bag sitting next to it, and I’m halfway through putting my long hair up in the rollers to set when I hear a soft knock at the bathroom door.

“Come in,” I call out, already knowing it’s my mother. She walks in, already dressed, wearing a modest black gown with cap sleeves and a small gold spray of sequins at the side of one waist, where the fabric is gathered to nip it in. Her hair, colored to a honey blonde that matches mine without a single grey showing, is cut into a bob that falls to her chin, neatly blown out. Her makeup is smooth, her monthly Botox and spa appointments keeping her complexion looking younger than she actually is, and I can tell she’s keeping up with her Pilates. Whatever it can’t tighten up, her plastic surgeon certainly will.

“You have an hour.” She looks at the gold watch on her wrist. “Your father isn’t going to be happy if you’re running late to meet us downstairs, Dahlia.”

“I know. I’ll be down in time.” I roll up another piece of my hair, looking at my mother in the mirror. “I know what he’s going to want to talk about, too.”

She meets my eyes, concern attempting to crinkle the skin at the corners of hers. “You’re not thinking of telling him no, Dahlia?”

My stomach drops. I’d been counting on her support, in the end. Without it?—

“Ican’t.” I turn to look at her, half my hair still hanging around my shoulders. “I couldn’t stand Jude when we were kids. He was an annoying little prick?—”

“Language,” my mother snaps, even though we’re standing in my bathroom, just the two of us. I shake my head.

“I can’t marry him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” She takes a step back, looking at me narrowly. “He’s a perfectly fine match, Dahlia. Handsome, rich, well-connected. He has a good family. You’ll have perfectly lovely in-laws. Your children will get into the best private schools, have an early track into Georgetown. You’ll want for nothing. What else could you possibly ask for?” Her lips purse. “And don’t say love, like you’re a child.”

“Don’t you love my dad?” I fire it off at her, and she gives me the kind of patronizing look that only mothers have perfected.

“I have companionship with your father,” she says firmly. “Affection, and mutual respect. These are things that come with years of marriage, Dahlia, with facing life’s challenges together and supporting one another. They have nothing to do with fleeting passions or snap decisions. And there is no reason why you and Jude cannot have the same.”

“Except that I don’t like him. I don’trespecthim. How are companionship and affection supposed to come from that?”

With a sharp jolt, I remember that night six weeks ago. Alek—his hand in my hair, on my chin, his scarred body pressedagainst mine. The cab, the elevator, my bed.Fleeting passion.Snap decisions. That’s certainly one way to describe that night.

“There’s nothing wrong with Jude,” my mother repeats, and I press my lips together with frustration.

“Even if I don’t bring up the fact that I don’t love him, he’s not my type. And before you say there’s more to marriage than physical attraction, I also find him incredibly boring. I don’twantto be a politician’s wife. I’m glad you’re happy, but?—”

“What? You want to stay in your apartment in New York, and work at the museum?” Her mouth flattens. “You wouldn’t have to work if you came home and married him, Dahlia. Everything would be provided for you. You could stay home, just like I do. Make friends. Work on charity boards, take care of your house and your children. A slower, happier life, not the rat race of Manhattan?—”

“That’s not what Iwant,” I interrupt her, frustration searing through me. It burns into my stomach, making me feel a wave of nausea. I’ve been feeling like this for days now, waves of it that I can only attribute to the stress leading up to this visit. For all that I’ve stuck to the plan of telling my father no when I came back home, that doesn’t mean I haven’t been literally sick with worry over how it would go, even throwing up in an airport bathroom this morning. And clearly, it was with good reason.

“If you want your father to keep supporting your lifestyle, you’ll agree to this,” my mother says crisply. “You can’t live off of our money for years, Dahlia, and then expect to never have to do anything for it.”

“I won’thavethat lifestyle if I come home. So what’s the point? I’ll take care of myself.” I blow out a sharp breath. “I’m grateful for all of it, Mom. I always have been. But I don’t want to come home and be a lady who lunches, showing up to parties on Jude’s arm and corralling our children. I’m happy with my job. With mycareer. With my friends.”

My mother looks completely taken aback. She starts to speak, and then seems to think better of it, shaking her head as she glances down at her watch again. “I’m going to go downstairs, before this conversation makes you late for cocktails. We’ll talk more with your father when you come down.”

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