Anne Winston - The Danforths - Toby, Lea and Adam

Toby fell into the same antiquated pattern of speech used to address him. “Well, I declare. If it isn’t Marcie Mae Webster, all grown up into a sophisticated femme fatale.”

Marcie Mae’s laughter tinkled like wind chimes. Heather envied her the ability to blush on cue. She imagined the woman would be just as at home in a hoop skirt as the designer original that she wore.

“I dare say I’ve changed a good deal since the days we used to go skinny-dipping down in the old sinkhole.”

Unable to endure another sugar-cured syllable, Heather excused herself with the kind of euphemism a woman like Marcie Mae was sure to appreciate.

“I think I’ll go powder my nose, if you don’t mind.”

Clearly Marcie Mae didn’t mind at all. Her smile stretched her lips over a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. Taking Toby by the arm, she led him toward a group of old friends she claimed were just dying to see him again.

Heather tried not to smirk as Toby tossed her a helpless glance over his shoulder. That his apparent misery gave Heather a measure of satisfaction made her feel small.

The feeling was only intensified by stepping into a huge bathroom that reflected the sumptuousness of the rest of the hotel. Potted plants and cut flowers decorated sinks gleaming with gold-plated fixtures. The bathroom boasted high ceilings, a chandelier and several white wicker chairs positioned welcomingly around the room. Staring into one of the many gilded mirrors, Heather recognized the same panic-stricken expression she used to wear before becoming sick to her stomach before a performance.

Heather had never felt completely comfortable performing before a live audience. Few people could appreciate the cutthroat nature of her training. Even though it merely underscored the training she had received at home from her parents, such constant pressure had wounded her sensitive spirit so deeply that she had forsaken her musical gifts altogether.

Turning the cold-water spigot, she ducked down to splash her face.

Heather suddenly realized she wasn’t alone in the bathroom. There were two women in a darkened corner of the room, and one of them was sobbing so brokenheartedly, it made her stomach cramp in empathy. Not inclined to meddle in other people’s affairs, Heather intended to make a quick exit without getting involved. She would have made it, too, had not the other woman, obviously trying to comfort her companion, cast a desperate glance in her direction and mouthed a request for a tissue.

Heather took one from a hand-painted porcelain container and walked it over to them. The woman who took it looked to be about her same age. Wearing a beautiful white satin gown that accentuated a petite figure, she looked like a guardian angel. The woman shrugged her shoulders and gestured to the slightly open tall door.

“I stumbled upon the poor thing crying like this,” the lady in white explained. She spoke with a slight European accent of some sort. “I didn’t feel right leaving her alone in such a state. You wouldn’t by any chance be an acquaintance of hers?”

Shaking her head, Heather edged toward the door. Just then the injured party raised her head from where it had been hidden behind her hands to reveal twin rivulets of mascara streaming down a face that was too young and pretty to be so angst-ridden. Not old enough to qualify as a woman or young enough to warrant still being called a girl, she was caught in that terrible in-between stage in which one fluctuates miserably between maturity and juvenile behavior. Heather guessed her to be the traditional age when Southern girls had coming-out parties.

The teen’s voice quavered pathetically as she offered two convenient strangers an unnecessary explanation. “It might seem funny to you, but nothing I do is ever good enough to satisfy my father. Absolutely nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound funny at all,” Heather assured her in a gentle, understanding tone. “In fact, I can relate to that all too well myself.”

“As can I,” added the lady in white.

Surprised to discover a common thread holding them together, the women studied each other. In addition to being approximately the same age, the two older women were of similar height and build. And behind their initial wariness was an inability to abandon someone in need.

Rather than watering down the girl’s drawl, her tears had the exact opposite effect. Heather strained to understand the words that slipped out between sobs.

“Can you believe that my daddy actually expects me to throw myself at some old man in the other room in hopes of landing some big business contract? Have you ever heard of anything so vulgar?”

Heather wondered if by “old” she was referring to someone in his midtwenties.

“It absolutely makes me feel like a whore!”

The young lady’s choice of words required yet another tissue to stem the flow of tears that started all over again. Feeling like she was caught in some Victorian time warp, Heather wondered what kind of father would deliberately use a child as a sexual pawn to advance his own ambitions. The answer came to her in a flashback of the day her own parents hustled her across a crowded room to introduce her to Josef Sengele, the master pianist famous for grooming young prodigies for stardom.

“I know how you feel.”

It was not Heather’s voice but that of the beautiful woman standing next to her. She made note of the flicker of pain that creased the perfect beauty of that face. Her voice held a sad ring of resignation. Eyes as brilliant as the emeralds on her ears softened as she put a hand upon the young lady’s shoulder.

“Sometimes you just have to do what has to be done. No matter how unpalatable it might be, business is business and family is family. Come what may, you only have one father in this lifetime.”

The teenager’s sniffles stopped as she paused to consider the free advice.

“I thought I’d stay just long enough to appease Daddy without having to actually compromise myself.”

Having attended innumerable stuffy functions on behalf of her parents, often as the featured attraction of the evening, Heather could certainly understand the desire to please someone whose respect could never be earned. She could not remain quiet on this point.

“Or…” Heather put a hand on the girl’s other shoulder and finished her thought. “Rather than putting off the inevitable for years to come, years that wear away your sense of worth, you could take a stand right now and claim your life for yourself. Trust me. It’s better to risk being disowned by your family than to disown yourself.”

Though her words were intended for the girl sitting between them, the woman in white turned as pale as her gown. She seemed genuinely moved. And oddly wounded by her words.

“You’ll have to make up your own mind,” the woman in white told the teenage girl. “Whatever you decide, just don’t torture yourself with doubts afterward.”

Heather nodded in agreement. Why she felt such a strong affinity to these two strangers was a mystery. She knew only that a delicate cord connected them for this brief moment.

When the bathroom door opened unexpectedly, admitting a pair of elegantly attired matrons, it jolted them all into remembering that they were not sharing confidences in the privacy of a home.

Sighing, the girl admitted, “I’m tempted to just run away and avoid making any decision at all.”

Heather’s life had been comprised of snapshots of so many fleeting encounters that she longed for a continued friendship, if only for this one strained evening.

“I really want to know how the evening works out for you,” Heather told the distraught teen. “Maybe we could decide on a time to meet and find a good spot to watch the fireworks later.”