Page 23 of Conquer
Chapter Eight
Ihad forgotten how hard it can be to sleep alone. To forgo the teasing warmth of another figure, their body close to yours, their touch pervasive—as if they can’t bear to let you go.
I wake up somehow more exhausted than I was when I laid down in the first place. My nap, it seems, has stretched way beyond dinner, I realize as I scramble to my feet and view the world beyond my windows. Not only did I sleep through the evening meal, but I also tossed and turned right through the night, and it now looks to be mid-morning.
In a daze, I stagger into my old bathroom and try to wake up with a hot shower. Afterward, I brush my teeth, blow out my hair, and skip one of my Chanel ensembles in favor of an old T-shirt and jeans fished from my closet.
By the time I scramble downstairs, Gwen is in the kitchen preparing what looks like lunch.
“Hello, Ms. Tiffany,” she calls as I scramble past, following the faint sounds of girlish chatter into the sunroom.
Sure enough, Mother and Daddy are in the garden, fussing about their plants while a tiny figure races between them, carrying out various tasks with an eagerness that betrays yet another newfound interest to add to Vadim’s list. A gardener in the making, Magda beams with unabashed joy as she chases my father with a water pail before fetching a pair of pruning shears for my mother.
And she isn’t the only one uncharacteristically animated. My mother hasn’t graced the garden with her presence in about fifteen years since one of the influential socialites in her country club declared gardening passé. Though I doubt the flowers are what drew her out into the fresh air and unfashionable sunlight.
Magda is wearing an outfit I know for a fact I didn’t buy for her—an adorable, frilly white dress with frothy sleeves that makes her look more like a little princess than ever—even with her polka dot fanny pack strapped to her waist. Someone elaborately braided her hair as well, adorning it with flowers and an excess of yellow ribbon. In fact, she resembles a seven-year-old Tiffy—whose tortured visage could be found in one of many portraits hanging throughout the house—whose mother enjoyed dressing her up like a doll. Magda, however, doesn’t seem to mind the fuss.
Her cheeks glow a healthy pink, her eyes shining as Daddy speaks to her, no doubt explaining gardening techniques and the process behind their actions. And while my mother appears to be pruning one of the rose bushes, I realize that more often than not, those freshly trimmed roses seem to wind up in Magda’s hair.
When I finally leave the house and join them, my mother jumps so badly she nearly drops her shears like a criminal caught in the act.
“Tiffy,” she says shrilly. “We thought you were still sleeping. We went ahead and had breakfast already, but I had Gwen save you a plate.”
“We had pancakes!” Magda pitches in from across the lawn, where my father is instructing her on how to best tell if the oranges on the tree are ripe enough to pick.
“Pancakes?” Horror constricts my voice. “Magda has diabetes—”
“We know,” Daddy says. “Little Missy was very informative and gave us a list of her dietary restrictions, and we had Gwen whip up the best goddamn healthy nut pancakes a girl could ask for.”
“Language, Harold,” my mother sniffs.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d sleep that long…” I falter, unsure of why I even feel the sense of guilt that I do. “It looks like you guys made out okay without me.”
“Yes,” Daddy says in that reassuring way only he can. “We got little Missy to bed, and even made sure she got her phone call.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Phone call?”
“With her father, darling,” Mother interjects, her tone suspicious.
“Oh, right…”
“Don’t tire yourself out too much,” she adds. “I was planning on showing Magdalene all of your old pageant dresses. Oh, I’m sure she’ll look just darling in that old blue one with the silk, and that imported bit of lace. You remember the one.”
“I don’t think her father will be putting her in any pageants,” I point out.
But Mother rolls her eyes. “She can use them for dress-up, darling. I’ve already offered her the pick of the lot. And she promised to take very good care of them, haven’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Magda nods, the picture of pure charm. I realize in horror that she’s every bit as much of a social chameleon as Vadim. It’s an awe-inspiring and yet terrifying skill to witness in action. Especially considering that my mother once threatened to stab a mover who made the mistake of assuming a box of my old pageant dresses was meant for Goodwill. She clung to those damn things with such sentiment I was sure she’d insist on them all following her into the grave.
“If you’re planning on sticking around, Tiffy, then why don’t you give us a hand?” Daddy asks. “Magdalene here wants to try whipping up her own batch of fresh OJ. You used to be a damn good little picker. Let’s see if you still got it in you.”
I approach them warily and yet find myself biting back a smile. The cynical part of me warns that the fact that she isn’t mine by blood means I shouldn’t take such pride in watching her eyes light up with joy as she finds a ripe fruit on her first try. I shouldn’t relish how seamlessly she’s blending into my family, or that she seems to love my childhood home already.
I shouldn’t be skipping ahead, envisioning Christmases or other holidays spent here with her. And I definitely shouldn’t be picturing another figure alongside her, imagining how he’d look with his lips wet with fresh orange juice, his dark curls filled with roses.
But I do.
And I am.
