He gave it a hard tug, the railing rattling in his hands.
A gasp—quick and high—escaped from Marie’s mouth. Marie, who had not said a single word since the contractor arrived.
And one more tug, as if he might tear the whole staircase loose like a fairy-tale monster.
“The staircase stays,” Dara said.
It was the only time she saw his mask drop, the contractor. That little slash of something—overreach? Irritation? Anger?—stamping his brow.
It was there, then it was gone, the smile returning. The big teeth.
* * *
*
Dara excused herself. Said she needed to take a call.
Walking to the lobby, she felt her breath catching, but she didn’t know why.
Their mother loved that spiral staircase. Their mother said it was cosmopolitan. Bohemian. Recherché.
Their mother, that swan neck, those elegant arms. Her dark hair gathered up tightly with her grandmother’s dragonfly combs. So dignified, so refined, carrying so much inside all the time. Surrounded all day by mirrors and never letting anyone see.
* * *
*
When she returned to the office, the contractor was writing something on a pad of paper, looming over slight Marie and slender Charlie as they waited, two pale figurines, cut like glass.
“I got a tight, lean crew that works like beasts,” he was saying as he wrote. “Sweetheart deals with the best suppliers. They trust me. Your insurance company trusts me. Your claims adjuster, Bambi, we go way back.”
“That’s fine, but—” Charlie started.
“You can go cheap and easy,” he said, slapping the paper into Charlie’s hand. “Or you can transform your little school into that ballet palace you always wanted. Make every little girl’s fantasy come true.”
* * *
*
Suddenly, he had to go, he was in a hurry. His phones were ringing, his beeper. He shook his head like, What can I do, so popular, everyone wants me.
“We’ll let you know,” Charlie said, walking him out. “But it sounds like more than we have in mind.”
* * *
*
Halfway out the door, the contractor stopped, hand on the jamb, one last aftershave gust.
“So,” he said, grinning, eyes dragging across all three of them, “who decides?”
“We’re partners,” Dara said. “We make decisions as a—”
“I do,” Marie said, her voice low but insistent. “I decide.”
Derek looked at her and laughed.
Then Charlie laughed, too, the hollow, soundless laugh he used when mothers asked if he could help them correct their posture. Dara didn’t laugh. Marie didn’t laugh either.
“I thought so,” Derek said to Marie, grinning, opening the door, his eyes now only on her. “I thought you were the one.”
* * *
*
So you’re the big boss now,” Dara said after, her lip curled, both of them smoking feverishly, the visit feeling so big, “Princess Marie?”
“I wanted him to look at me,” Marie said.
Dara looked at her.
“The Big Bad Wolf,” Marie said, her cigarette shaking slightly in her hand.
Dara shook her head. “Well, it’s all over now.”
“Yes,” Marie said, flicking tobacco from her trembling thumb. Taking another long drag. Smoking for dear life.
* * *
*
He was gone more than an hour before Dara felt her shoulders relax, her arms hanging lamely at her sides.
Strangers were in and out of the studio all the time, new parents, servicemen, the mail carrier. But this felt different, invasive. You show someone your damage and they know all your weak spots. They know everything.
For the next hour, Dara dragged a mop and bucket and she scrubbed all the floors, every place he’d stepped, the gray sludge his shoes left behind.
* * *
*
That night, at home, the itchy feeling in her palms she’d felt all day was finally gone.
Taking the kettle off the stove, she poured Charlie a cup of white tea. She sat down and put her feet, thick and throbbing, in his lap and he rubbed them delicately.
Everything was right again. Dara hadn’t even bothered to look at the estimate the contractor had left them, a sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook like a schoolboy.
“I’ll get some more contractor recommendations,” Charlie said. “I’ll find us someone good who can just do the job we asked for.”
“I know you will,” Dara said. Charlie always fixed everything.
“Unless you think maybe . . .” Charlie said, glancing at the estimate on the table.