Page 57 of On Thin Ice

“Makes sense.” I didn’t feel comfortable talking much because I didn’t know if it would make her job harder. It wasn’t like being at the dentist’s office, but I still wasn’t sure if the movement of my mouth was disrupting her work.

Instead, as she worked on my face, she kept talking—and she didn’t seem to need any prompts from me. As she applied blush, she told me I had beautiful cheekbones. Before I could even ask what she meant, she told me they were high, giving me a bit of an exotic look.

At that point, I thought she was simply flattering me to pass the time and make me feel better about myself.

“Okay,” she said, stepping back for a bit. “How do I want to do the eyes? Mr. Whittier said I needed to keep it conservative—but that’s pretty hard when you’re wearing red. You’ve got the perfect hair and skin tone for red lipstick, so we’ll do that and keep everything else subtle.”

I gave a quick nod, acting like I agreed—or maybe like I fully understood what she was talking about.

She worked rapidly, far faster than I could have done my own makeup, underscoring her expertise. I closed my eyes and felt the liquid eyeliner being applied to my upper lid along the lash line. Barely a minute later, she was applying shadow and talking again. “I’m using golds and browns here because they’ll look subtle and make the green of your eyes the star. Next to the red lipstick, of course.”

I’d never worn red lipstick before, never had a reason to even try, so I wondered how I would look—but that would have to wait.

After much blending, she asked me to open my eyes. When I did, she said, “That’s fantastic.” But she wasn’t done. She added tiny lashes to make mine appear longer before adding mascara and moving on to my brows. “Last but not least,” she said, pulling out a tube of red lipstick that she applied with a tiny brush. “By the way, this gives you twenty-four hour coverage, so you won’t have to reapply it all night long. You’ll look as fresh and beautiful five hours from now as you do right now.”

“Wow.”

“Yep. I use waterproof mascara too, because you never know.” After she seemed happy with my makeup, she said, “Let’s work on your hair.” Closing my eyes, I enjoyed feeling her brush move through the strands down my back before she began manipulating it as one big mass, making it conform to a shape against the back of my head. As she did so, she said, “I wish Mr. Whittier hadn’t said conservative. With your eyes, I would have loved having you wear red shadow and taupe lipstick. You’ve got the right face for it.”

“I’d say let’s go for it, except for the—”

“Twenty-four hour lips. Yeah, that pretty much sealed the deal, cupcake.” I nearly laughed but the way she twisted my hair brought me back to the present. “Sorry about that.” Part of me thought she might have been a fun friend if I’d been born in a different place and different time. I’d never had the pleasure of keeping friends, because when you’re at the bottom, people are content to leave you there—especially if you can be a stepping stone.

It dawned on me then…whether I liked it or not, Denver was for me a clean slate—exactly what I’d hoped to get when I left Winchester someday. Sinclair, my sworn enemy, had rescued me from that awful place—and when my ten years was up, I wasn’t going to look back. By then, I would have a degree and, I hoped, a line on a good job. And, if he continued to be a stand-up guy, I might even leave with a good reference or maybe even a shoe in somewhere, considering his family’s connections. And I’d take my dad away from there and we could live in Denver—or anywhere in the world, so long as we shook the dust of Winchester off our shoes.

That damn town didn’t deserve a man the likes of my father.

After sliding several bobby pins in place, whatever she’d done was making my hair stay put. But she wasn’t done yet. She’d left two long locks at the front of my face, hanging down past my cheeks, and those she took the curling iron to. Its heat radiated against my cheek as Emma worked her magic.

Seconds later, she said, “All done!” Then, after pulling the cape off my shoulders, she shook it over the trashcan before whisking over to her big case still on wheels and pulling out a hand mirror. Holding it up to my face, she asked, “What do you think?”

I stared…and stared and stared. I could barely recognize the strikingly beautiful woman looking back at me through the glass. All I could manage was “You’re a miracle worker.”

Would Sinclair even recognize me?

Emma laughed, removing the mirror. “I’ve had to perform miracles before, but not today. Your skin and bone structure made it easy.”

I smiled, feeling a little uncomfortable. When Emma began putting everything back in the cases, I asked, “Can I help with anything?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a system. If you want, you could wipe the evidence off the table.” When I looked, I noticed a few flecks of various powdered colors on its surface—something the cleaning ladies might not appreciate wiping up on Monday. But Emma had me pegged correctly: I still didn’t feel comfortable asking others to clean up after me. I’d barely gotten comfortable leaving dishes overnight for Edna to deal with the next day, regardless of how many times she told me she liked having something to do.

Quickly, I made my way to the nearest bathroom and rolled off several squares of toilet paper so I could simply brush off the powder on the table in the library into the trashcan. Before I left, though, I caught another look at my face—and it dawned on me.

Tonight, I really would be like Cinderella all dressed up for the ball, ready to enamor the prince.

Unfortunately, deep down I knew that glass slipper would never fit my foot.

Chapter 21

Soon, Emma and I were upstairs again. She was there to make sure I could get the dress on without ruining my makeup and hair.

The gown almost completed the look.

After Emma left in an Uber, I headed back upstairs and slipped my feet into the heels Marco had chosen. Then I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom and took a selfie, because I knew I would never look this beautiful again.

But I had to ask myself—was I really beautiful? I didn’t even look like myself. I looked like a stranger…which made me feel like I was an imposter.

Thus, the picture. It would remind me of this night, an evening I still anticipated with glee, although seeing myself in a mirror filled me with some apprehension as well.

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