- #1
Lily pulled the white lace gown over her head and slid it gently over her slender shoulders. Her hair trailed over the fabric in back — in front the gown was low-cut, “sensual,” she’d been told. She knew he’d come for her soon, there wasn’t much time to prepare. She smoothed the soft material across her hips and turned first one way, then the other, to admire herself in the mirror. She smiled.
The makeup was a ritual, a mechanical exercise she could have performed in her sleep . . . that she had performed countless times in her dreams. It was Sunday, though, and the church would just be opening to the new day. So little time, and every detail had to be perfect. She would accept no less.
He would come, she knew, dressed to break hearts, and she must be the complement of that dark beauty, yin to his yang, white against ebony, light to shadow. She was the only one worthy, he the only match she would not overshadow.
Her mother had warned her away. Her sisters, envious of her beauty, catty whores to the end, had snipped at her, bombarding her with meaningless insults and predictions of darkness. He would come, she would go to him, and the rest would fade.
She knew this. She’d spent long hours in front of that same mirror, studying herself, seeking some flaw that she might have overlooked, some imperfection that might mar her beauty in his eyes. There was nothing. John Moore would come for her because it was fated. He was the perfect man, wealthy, handsome graceful as a great, lithe cat. She was his match. Others might not see it, but Lily Lived it. She knew it as she knew her reflection, and she could have carved that image from stone . . . could have painted with her clever fingers, the same fingers that painted the highlights onto her pale visage as she waited.
She’d driven the others away, Brett with his tousled hair and child’s eyes, Shane with his slender grace and train of ladies in waiting, and Eddie, poor Eddie, who’d knelt at her feet like a servant to kiss the hand that had pushed him away in disdain. Unworthy. She’d tried, each time, to explain herself, to open their eyes to the obvious flaw in their advances. Brett had drifted away, confused. Shane had flown, reluctantly, to a different blossom. Eddie had crumpled in pain, had wailed like an animal in torment . . . had seen no other, even in his dreams.
She loathed him.
Throughout it all, John Moore had remained aloof, biding his time. She’d caught his eye each Sunday in church, had graced him with a smile as their paths crossed in the square. He knew her mind. He would come, and when he did, she would be ready.
The last touches of color brushed the lids of her eyes. The blush spread soft and evenly across her cheeks. She had high cheek bones and full lips — classic features. The soft burnish of lipstick set off the fiery green sparks that centered her eyes. She had always known her eyes were her strength — her greatest weapon. They had made first contact with John Moore, but it was her gaze, framed by her beauty, that would bind them together.
She turned from the mirror, walked to her closet and pulled the door open wide. Shoes lined the floor just inside, and she slipped a delicate foot into a silver slipper, its four inch heel so thin and smooth it resembled spun glass. She slipped into its mate and pirouetted back to catch the effect of spinning gown and perfectly curved calves in the mirror.
Nothing remained but the gloves, long, white, leather with tiny embroidered designs that ran nearly to her elbows. She slipped them on slowly, sensuously, enjoying the feel of the leather as it slid over her skin and dreaming of how she would slide those same gloves off when she and John were alone.
The bells chimed in the distance and she knew it was time. Destiny called, and they would see, all of them, that she was as she had always told them she was, the perfect bride, a queen among servant girls. John’s presence alone could dazzle them. As a couple they would blind the world.
A card door slammed outside and she turned expectantly at the sound, waiting. Her heart fluttered, but she didn’t allow emotion to mar the image she’d created. She moved slowly and regally to that door, and as the gentle knock beckoned, she pulled it wide.
He stood awkwardly, hat in hand, staring with dog-eyed devotion. Eddie. She fluttered like a moth caught in a light too bright to bear; the long white gown caught the sunlight, the silver of her shoes twinkled, and the snow-white of her hair drifted over the soft mounds of her shoulders; not as full as once it had bee, but still lovely.
She turned from him in the endless cycle that led to her destiny, not deigning to speak. She shut the door, though she heard his protests, muffled by the sudden intrusion of oak, stifled as she cut him from her world. She would not. Could not. John would come, and when he did she would be ready.
As the bells continued to chime in the distance, Lily sat before her mirror and watched in silence as rivers of salt and pain etched trails through her beauty and mocked her dying smile.
He would come.
Written by David Wilson - Visit WebsiteFollow me on Twitter
