Chapter 2 - The Stairs Went Quiet Under Their Shoes
The music didn't stop so much as thin out. I could still hear the quartet by the cream curtains, but nobody was pretending to listen anymore. Every face in that warm golden light had turned toward my daughter.
Lily stood in front of my skirt, her little hand fisted in the black fabric of my dress. Her curls had gone wild under the dark blue bows, and her velvet dress with the white trim was twisted at the waist from where she'd been tugging it. She wasn't looking at the blonde woman anymore. She was looking straight at Marcello.
"Marcello, I can show you," she said again, steady.
I felt the silver tray go heavier in my left hand. I'd held it aloft through whole cocktail hours without thinking, but now my wrist ached. Pearl earrings, buttoned dress, tray — I was supposed to be invisible. That was the catering rule. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't leave your station. But my three-year-old was pointing at the grand staircase, and a man in a black tuxedo with a bow tie was staring at her like she was the only real thing in the ballroom.
The blonde woman laughed. It was quick and bright and wrong. Her hand stayed pressed to that prominent round belly under the long-sleeve magenta satin gown, fingers spread wide.
"She's only three, she must have misunderstood something," she said to Marcello, still smiling that nervous smile. Then her voice changed when she looked at Lily. Higher. "Lily, come to Mommy."
Lily didn't move. That was what did it. My daughter always moved when an adult used that tone. This time her fingers tightened on my dress.
Marcello glanced from the woman to Lily, then to me. He had that concerned, restrained look I'd seen on men trying not to make a scene at a charity gala. He lifted one hand, palm down, toward the nearest tables.
"Give us a minute," he said, quiet. Not loud, but it carried. "Please."
A few people turned back to their drinks. Most didn't. I saw two women near the staircase stop mid-sip. The quartet started up again, a little too fast.
I knew I couldn't climb those stairs with a tray in the air. I stepped sideways to the marble ledge by the staircase, where a row of empty champagne coupes waited for pickup. I set my silver tray down there, eased it flat so it wouldn't slide. My left hand felt strange empty after hours of balancing weight. For a second I just stared at my own fingers, red-marked from the handle.
Then I took Lily's hand.
Her palm was hot and a little sticky. She laced her fingers through mine like she'd been waiting for me to choose.
"We're going up?" I whispered to her.
She nodded. "I know where."
"Marcello," the blonde woman said. She reached for his sleeve. The satin of her gown caught the light as she moved, bright pink under the chandeliers. "What is she talking about? We don't need to — she's tired. It's late for her."
Marcello didn't pull away from her, but he didn't look at her either. "Show us what?" he asked Lily. His voice was low, careful.
Lily pointed again, past the banister, up toward the second floor where the light went dimmer. "Where'd she hit it?" she said, half to herself, like she was remembering the sound. "Up there."
My stomach dropped. I didn't know if she'd heard someone else say that or if she'd put it together herself. All I knew was the blonde woman's smile froze.
"Lily, come to Mommy," the woman said again. She held out her free hand, the one not cradling her belly. Her updo hadn't moved, perfect blonde coil, but a sheen of sweat stood along her hairline. "Now."
Lily looked up at me. Those big serious eyes. Insistent, even scared, but not backing down.
"Momma, please," she whispered. "I didn't misunderstand."
That hit me harder than anything the adults had said. My daughter repeating herself because no one believed her.
I squeezed her hand. "Okay," I said. "Okay, baby. Show us."
Marcello nodded once. He stepped to the bottom stair. "We'll be quick," he said to the room, to no one in particular. Then to the woman, quieter, "Come on."
She didn't want to. I could see it in the way her hand pressed harder into her belly, in the way her feet stayed planted on the polished floor. But with everyone watching, she couldn't refuse without it looking worse. She smoothed the front of her gown down over the round shape and followed.
We climbed.
I counted the steps without meaning to. The carpet runner muffled our shoes. Lily went first, pulling me a little, her short legs working hard on the tall stairs. Marcello stayed just behind us, one hand hovering near Lily's back like he was afraid she'd slip but didn't want to touch her. The blonde woman came last, lifting her magenta skirt with both hands now, breathing a little fast.
The stares followed us all the way up. I felt them on the back of my black dress, on my pulled-back hair, on the place where my tray should have been. A busser near the top landing glanced over and then looked away fast when Marcello's eyes met his.
At the top, the air was cooler. The music from below sounded far away, filtered through the high ceiling and the cream drapes. A long hall stretched off to the left, doors closed, sconces low. No guests. No cameras. Just the four of us standing on the landing rug, out of the ballroom's golden wash.
May you like
Lily stopped and looked down the hall. She tightened her grip on my hand.
"There," she said.
