The Mafia King's Bride

3 | Voila

Eloise

Normally I am reticent about claiming that any which shower is the best shower I have ever had, but I can confidently say that the first shower I ever took in Dominic Marino's guest bathroom was the best shower I have ever taken. I am usually quick in the shower, maybe thirty minutes tops if I decide to shave, but this morning I waste about an hour and a half in there. The hot water never runs out. The water from the shower both steams and streams over me. At one point I am so relaxed I almost fall asleep standing up but when I am about to tumble onto the porcelain-enameled steel I wake right up, shut off the water, and step out of the tub.

At home I would usually crack the door open a smidge to allow some of the steam out but I do not take the risk of making such an innocuous action seem like an invitation. It makes getting dressed trickier, since my clothes cling to me like plastic wrap as I try to pull them up and down limbs, but once I am fully dressed, hair liberated from the soft eggshell-colored towel provided for me, I open the door a crack. The incriminating squeaking sound prevents me from opening it any further.

I brush my hair, putting in my oils and serums, and tuck it behind my ears before I apply my makeup. The rules are clear: glowing, fresh, but not tacky. You don't want it to be obvious that you are wearing makeup. Flashy makeup is only for going out, or upon request. I loved that your mother never looked cheap unless I wanted her to, my father said to me once, drunk, and I don't think I will ever forget not only what he said about her but how he said it—proudly.

I put on a thin layer of foundation over a thin layer of primer, followed by a pale pink blush and icy highlighter on my cheeks. The same highlighter is used on my eyelids, above my eyebrows, on the tip of my nose, and just above my cupid's bow. I used to wear a light swipe of brown eyeliner but my father said it was too harsh, so I stopped, settling instead for white eyeliner on my waterline. To complete the look all that is required are a few strokes of mascara and tinted lip gloss. Voila! Now I feel human again.

I blow-dry my hair and am grateful that my hair dries straight enough that it doesn't require a flatiron. My arms would not survive having to iron my hair into uncooked spaghetti noodles. Once my hair is dry I spray it with a leave-in conditioner, brush it, and finish with a couple spritz of perfume on myself. The reflection in the mirror that regards me looks confident, strong, and in control; she is only a two-dimensional representation of myself, however, so she cannot accurately capture the turmoil that spins inside of me. What my reflection does not capture is the sweat on the back of my neck, the sick feeling in my stomach, the shaking of my knees.

Taking a deep breath, collecting everything in my arms, I step out of the bathroom and back into my temporary room, returning everything to their proper spots in my luggage save for my used clothes which I put in a hamper that hides in plain sight just outside of the closet. Although I am just as put together as I was, if not even more so, than the day Dominic and I met, I feel like there is so much more I should have done, or can do, to make myself more presentable. Blowing a tenth of the day getting ready should hardly be considered tardy, yet here I am.

I must sit on the bed for ten minutes deciding if I look presentable enough, but ultimately when I leave the room I have done nothing else to enhance myself. Dominic waits for me at the kitchen table, reading from a novel as he sips a coffee, but he closes the novel when he hears me walk in and puts it on the chair next to him before he stands. I wonder what he is reading but I am too shy to ask.

When Dominic really takes notice of me he furrows his brows. There is something in his expression that indicates amusement and it is quite disarming.

"You look riveting. What are your plans for today? Going somewhere?"

"Oh—" I blush, confused. "What...what do you mean?"

"I mean: you have your makeup done and you are dressed to the 9's. It's an awful lot of work for just slumming it around here all day. You must have other plans, yes?"

"No," I shake my head, almost insulted, even more confused. "I did this for...you?"

"For me?" his head jerks slightly. "Do...we have plans later?"

"I'm so embarrassed," I think aloud, covering my forehead with my hand as I close my eyes. "I wanted to look nice for you; not like I was trying too hard, and definitely not like I was implying anything. I am sorry."

He is silent for a few beats which prompts me to look up at him. Dominic is studying me, reading me like a test he has not prepared for and so must, instead, think on the spot. I want to say something, anything, but my mind has blanked with humiliation and I feel like a clown who has forgotten to remove their makeup after a long day. Eventually he says something that is meant to be comforting but isn't.

"You look much too beautiful for just settling in today. How about I take you for dinner later. What do you say?"

"If that is what you would like to do, then yes."

"Perfect. It's a date. Our first, isn't it?"

I try to stop my eyes from widening but fail; clearing my throat I say, "I suppose it is."

✿✿✿

Dominic takes me on a tour of his sophisticated, ornate, and spotless home. Even though there is no doubt that I am clean I feel as though I am a walking hazard. The floors, cherry-stained hardwood, are polished and free of scuffs. The walls, a shade of gray with undertones of pink in the sunlight in the living room and front entrance, and a shade of light brown with warm undertones of red, carve out the kitchen and indicate ambiance. The fabric furniture is all neutral; eggshell, ivory, shades that are not jarring or startling. All the wooden furniture is dark like the floors; contemporarily rustic. He would have exquisite interior decorating taste, I admit, if not for the fact that it feels like half of his house is missing.

After getting a tour of the place, the spare room doesn't feel much different from the rest of the house—it doesn't even feel much different from Dominic's bedroom. He has a king-sized bed with an elaborate headboard and footboard—a chain of foxes swirling around a bundle of grapes—and white cotton sheets in the middle of the room, a dresser without a mirror straight across from the bed but with a television, and an en-suite bathroom alongside a huge walk-in closet with respective doors on either side of the dresser. His bedroom door comes in from the side so you don't see all the magnificence right away. Once you take it all in, however, you realize nothing is dulled by the sparseness of style aside from your own impression.

Dominic helps me unpack my suitcases, which is a chivalrous if not awkward gesture. I unpack into the drawers deliberately so he doesn't have to handle my bras and underwear, and he unpacks into the closet and is responsible for all the clothes that are hung up. He organizes shirts, pants, skirts, dresses, and scarves by color, which is quite the gesture since I didn't ask him to do it and I have never really had the patience to do it myself. Some shoes he puts in the closet, and I put the rest by the front door. He compliments my sense of fashion and drops a hint about a dark red dress for tonight. Last thing I need to do in this room is put my jewelry boxes on the dresser.

We unpack my toiletries into the guest bathroom. Dominic makes a comment about how little I have packed and I don't respond, which he notices. What would have been the point of bringing my whole life here when I have been prepared for years to start a new life from scratch? I don't want any reminders of the life I have left behind. I will inherit my share one day, anyway. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be more sentimental about things.

"Thank you for your help," I say, zipping up the suitcases and pushing them under my new bed.

Dominic kisses me softly and takes my face in his hands. His mouth is glossy from mine and I can tell that when he licks his lips he can taste the flavor. Cherry. He smiles.

"I must go for a few hours. Be ready for 6pm. I will leave the spare keys on the kitchen table for you to lock up behind yourself when you leave."

I nod. That is the extent of our exchange. He leaves. I am alone. What to do, what to do...