Return to Arèthane

By Kelly Riad

Sixteen-year old Emily’s world is full of dark secrets. She may look like the rebel rich girl who chops off her hair, pierces her lip and drops out of cheerleading, but her heart is quickly failing her, her mother loves her social status and alcohol more than her own daughter, and a friend she trusted betrays her.
One source of solace is her best friend, Dafne and her guardian, Jabari. But little does Emily know her world would be turned upside down when she meets Dafne’s sister and brother, the aloof Karawyn and charming Jarrad.
Emily discovers their family harbors a secret of their own. They are exiled royalty from a different land where Elves live forever and magic is the source of true power. To Emily, elves were only mythical little men who make magic cookies in a tree, not teenagers who bring animals back to life, blow up libraries in a fit of rage, and glow when they think you’re not looking. When their dark and war-torn past calls them home, Emily’s connection with them puts her in danger. Or it could be the very thing that saves her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelly Riad
• Release date: May 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476389523

Book preview

RETURN TO ARÈTHANE

by

Kelly M. Riad

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Kelly M. Riad on Smashwords

Return to Arèthane

Copyright © 2012 by Kelly M. Riad

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Cover credit: Najla Qamber

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Acknowledgements

For Aubrey, who kept this story alive,

And for Sharif, who made it real.

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Chapter 1


An Uncomfortable Encounter

They wouldn't stop staring.  Emily couldn’t blame them; she probably would have, too, had it not been her mother they watched. So she understood. But that didn’t stop her from hating them for it.

For nearly an hour the other diners had watched with sideways glances or out of the corners of their eyes the pretty, middle-aged blonde grow louder and louder with each drink while her teenage daughter sank deeper into her chair.  With the alcohol muffling her hearing, the woman jumped from laughter to complaint with a lunatic speed and a megaphone volume.

The waiters dressed in their crisp, white shirts and wrapped in tight cloth aprons hurried back and forth from the kitchen, outwardly undisturbed by her mother’s interruptions, but Emily knew they intentionally avoided looking her way.  The other customers weren’t so polite; eyes narrow with annoyance or wide with astonishment.  Some leaned in together, whispering while they watched.  They all looked at Emily with pity.

Even though her tea was gone, Emily sipped from the glass every so often, trying to drain a little bit more from the melting ice, reaching deep into the well of her patience for each drop.  Tapping her foot she focused on anything other than her mother as she slurred her words, dropped her fork, and knocked over the saltshaker.

Dinner had been an excuse for her mother to get more wasted.  Her drinking night with friends at the country club had been canceled due to one of them needing to recover from a nose job.  No one had actually said the words nose job, but Emily knew what alteration meant when whispered.  What she didn’t know was how many scotches her mother had already tossed back before they left the house.

Where is that waiter? Emily’s mother asked, one shiny curl falling in her eyes—the only give-away on her otherwise flawlessly made-up face.  "Didn’t I order the chicken?  Has he brought it yet?  I thought I ordered that hours ago.  Is this grass on my plate?  This is grass, isn’t it?  She laughed and tossed a piece of alfalfa off the table.  Why hasn’t that boy brought me my chicken?"

"Because it’s a vegan restaurant, mom, Emily sat forward, tapping her bottle of pills with rapid agitation while losing the battle to control her temper.  She had already taken one before their meal, but it couldn’t overcome the way her mother’s behavior enraged her.  And because we’ve already eaten.  We’re just waiting on our change."

Emily silently cursed their waiter, who apparently had chosen this moment to take a smoke break.  Counting from ten, Emily closed her eyes and rested her chin in her hand.

I need another rum and Coke. 

You don’t need another drink, Emily mumbled through her fingers and looked up. 

Her mother turned in her seat, raising her index finger, leaning forward to flag down someone else’s waitress. 

I do, this one’s worn off, she argued, waving while the table next to them stared in shock. 

Unperturbed by their expressions, her mother turned back forward and leaned in, grabbing her chest.  What I really need is a new set of these.  She laughed loudly, throwing her head back.  Emily’s mouth fell open in horror.  Her mother lifted her glass to her lips, speaking at the rim, Tamara’s boyfriend bought her a new pair.  They look fantastic.  Or maybe I just need a boyfriend, she grumbled, taking a sip of her drink. 

Finally the waiter appeared from the kitchen.  Emily looked at him with pleading eyes and he nodded, hurrying over.

Sorry ‘bout that, he said, pulling the black flipbook from his apron pocket.  He reeked of smoke; Emily fought back a scowl. 

Excuse me, Emily’s mother said.  Could I get—?

No, mom.

But I just—

No, mom, Emily repeated with more force.  You don’t need another drink.  We’re leaving. 

She pushed her lips out in a pout.  You don’t have to be such a little bitch. 

The familiar heat burned Emily’s ears.  Inhaling deeply, she looked up at the waiter and forced a smile.  His face dripped with pity. 

Well, thanks for dropping by! he said. 

Without further hesitation, he whirled around and quickly headed for another table.  His avoidance was almost worse than everyone’s judgmental stares.  A drunken mother was always a spectacle, especially when her teenage daughter had to play the adult. 

Emily sighed and fisted her shaking hands.  After fishing out a tip from the change, she grabbed her bag, dropped her large bottle of pills into it, and stood up from the table.

C’mon, mom.  Let’s go.

It was nights like this that made her regret going out in public with her mother.  She usually just avoided her parents and they ignored her. 

It could have been worse, she knew.  She could have a mom like Shelly’s who hit on every boy Shelly brought home and would wear her daughter’s clothes.  Mrs. Taylor had always been one of those friend moms—insisting that nothing was off limits, the girls could share anything with her, no matter how bad—but as soon as they had made the high school cheerleading squad, Mrs. Taylor changed, suddenly dressing much younger than her age, wearing too much makeup and acting like she was a teenager, too, joining their gossip-fests or encouraging their partying ways.

Then there was Micah’s mom.  Micah was actually Mormon, though she only practiced it around her mother.  Mrs. Anders required her daughter to inform her of her every move, only allowing those moves by permission first which she rarely granted.  Parties were never allowed; boys were out of the question.  But none of this stopped Micah; she just learned how to lie better. 

And finally there was her friend, Dafne, who had lost both her parents when she was a baby and had been raised by her grandfather ever since.  They were close and he played an active role in her life, even driving her to school everyday, though not so intrusive as Shelly’s mom and not so overbearing as Micah’s. 

But Emily couldn’t imagine losing her parents; a drunk mom was better than no mom at all...right?  Sometimes, Emily could convince herself that was better.  But not now. 

Her mother sucked down the last of her drink.  Placing her hands flat on the table, she inhaled deeply and pushed herself up.  Shrugging her mother’s purse on her other arm, Emily stepped back, ready to catch her if she staggered.  Her mother wobbled a little on the first step and then leaned into her as they walked toward the front of the restaurant.

With the weight of her mother against her, Emily quickly surveyed the way ahead, looking out for possible obstacles.  A bag of to-go boxes sat next to the register while a young man in a dark, tailored suit leaned on the counter, wallet in hand.  He and the cashier seemed to be the only two people in the restaurant who didn’t watch the circus that was Emily’s mother. 

Though his face hid beneath a messy mop of blonde curls, Emily thought he must be attractive by the way the girl at the register giggled and batted her eyes.  For a moment she felt relieved there was someone else besides her mother making a fool of herself. 

Soon that thought faded, replaced with worry over how much further they had to go to get to the front door, the space between the register and the wall narrow and long.  She counted the steps and debated their odds; she wanted nothing more than to get past the young man and the flirty girl with some of her dignity still intact.

But her mother had other plans. 

As they passed, some mundane thing caught her mother’s eye and she twisted around to get a better look.  Unable to hold her balance, she slipped out of Emily’s grip, catching herself on the young man’s arm just as he turned their way. 

Even though her mother’s fall was heavy, he didn’t flinch at the impact.  Instead he stood stoic, holding her up with a stiffly bent arm.  His face betraying no emotion, he inhaled, lips parting as though he were about to say something, but then he glanced up at Emily, his gaze meeting hers, and stopped.  No words came out.  He blinked and closed his mouth, wearing a puzzled frown.

In the chaos of the fall, Emily had taken a couple of steps back, her flight instinct kicking in, but now she found herself frozen by the counter.  He wasn’t a young man at all, but a boy about her age, maybe a year or two older.  Despite his youth, he wore the suit well, as if formal attire was a part of his everyday wardrobe.  Made more casual by his lack of a tie, it still gave him an air of importance.  From within his open shirt collar, Emily noticed the pale gleam of a chain, shining against his golden skin.  The muscles beneath it tensed.

Emily frowned at him.  He wouldn’t stop staring at her with a look she couldn’t read, and didn’t really want to, her shame stronger than her curiosity.     

With a heavy head, her mother looked down at his suit sleeve, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. 

Ooh, she cooed. Very nice.  Her head bobbled and fell back, her eyes traveling up his face, before she smiled.  "Verrry nice."

His face darkened.  And finally Emily could see some emotion in his eyes, dancing between her and her mother with a fixed intensity.  Unlike everyone else, there was no pity or shame in his gaze, no shock or intrusive curiosity.  He almost looked angry at her mother. 

Emily burned with embarrassment. 

Sorry, she mumbled, grabbing her mother’s arm.  Red flushed her pale face and neck; her ears were hot and the anger she had been trying to push down swelled.  With her head swimming, she just wanted to get out of there.

As she pulled her mother away, the boy finally found his voice; deep, but soft with a hint of genuine concern.

Can I help?

Emily glanced up at him, brows drawing together again before shaking her head, focusing on the front door.  No, she said as her mother teetered before arriving late to the question, turning at the waist. 

Help with what? she asked loudly.

Nothing, mom, Emily muttered.

The strange boy left his food and hurried around them, pushing the glass door open.  Emily’s cheeks ached from her blush.  Why couldn’t he take the hint?  She just wanted to get away from him and everyone else as quickly as possible.

He stood in the doorway, forcing Emily to pass too closely by him while she escorted her mother out; she couldn’t help noticing he smelled of the outdoors, like a ride through the country on a spring day.  Are you sure? he asked almost at her ear.

Yeah, we’re fine, she answered with annoyance at him and the way her skin had shivered at his voice.  Emily appreciated his offer, but he was making a bigger spectacle of them and that, she didn’t care for.

Is he coming home with us? her mother asked, laughing at her own words, head heavy on her daughter’s shoulder so she could gaze up at him.  He stood with an arm resting on the open door’s handle, his chin lifted like he feared her mother might grab it for a kiss.

Once outside the restaurant Emily’s mother bumped into a fancy black car, setting off its alarm, while Emily struggled to hold her steady and fetch the keys out of her bag.  She heard a beep, quieting the Audi’s alarm and looked back just as the boy put his keys back in his pocket. 

Of course, she thought with a sigh, turning back forward. 

Ignoring the incoming customers who had slowed down to watch, Emily let go of her mother, leaning her against their Acura so she could fish for her keys.  Hands shaking, she quietly cursed everyone that watched and the keys that remained hidden.

Just as her mother began to wander away from the car, the boy was there, opening the passenger side door and taking her mother’s hand.

Emily looked up with the keys dangling from her finger, frowning as he helped her mother inside.  Oh, she said, knowing she hadn’t pushed the button yet.  I thought I had locked it.

Her mother sank into the car, grabbing the boy’s coat lapel to pull him near.  Looking up with glazed eyes, she said, You can come home with us, if you like.

Emily closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips into her forehead. 

Jesus, Mom, she muttered behind her hand.

The boy smiled politely.  Thank you for the offer, ma’am, but I’m afraid I have to decline.  My family’s waiting for their dinner at home. 

Her mother shrugged and pulled her legs inside the car.

He shut the door and straightened, facing Emily. First inhaling deeply, he opened his mouth to say, I’m—

A lot of help, Emily said, cutting him off.  Then she uttered a quick Thanks, spun around, and hurried to the driver’s side.  She didn’t want to know his name; she didn’t want to know anything about him.  Leaving the boy still standing in the parking lot, she couldn’t get away from it all fast enough.

Emily thought that had been the worst of it, but the struggle didn’t end at the restaurant. 

While at home with her dad still gone, her mom poured herself another drink.  Emily didn’t think she had the strength to fight anymore. She only wanted to go to bed, but knew this last drink might push her mother over the edge. 

Please, mom, Emily pleaded with her, trying to take the drink from her grip.  It’s late and you don’t need this.  You should go to bed.

With one pump off, her mother teetered around the immaculate living room, sinking the heel of the shoed foot into the thick area rug, spilling her drink on the expensive pillows that she would promptly replace the next morning.  She looked a lot less put together now with more than just a curl falling in her face, her make-up smudged and her blouse wrinkled.  The ride home had been a whirlwind, trying to keep her buckled in and away from the steering wheel.

Stop it, Emily, she snapped.  She turned her body away, trying to hold out the drink.  "You don’t tell me what to do.  I’m the mother."

So act like it, for Christ’s sake! Emily cried.  She held out her hand, open and waiting.

Fine!

Her mother whirled around, grabbing Emily’s hand and slamming the glass into it.  Emily screamed as it shattered against her palm, spilling amber liquid and shards of glass across the coffee table and rug.  It felt like her hand was on fire, a burning ache that wouldn’t stop.  The blood was quick to come, as were her mother’s tears.  She spun unsteadily away and disappeared into her room, leaving Emily alone with the mess. 

With her free hand shaking, Emily picked up her cell phone and pressed the talk button, knowing it would automatically dial the last person she called.  While it rang, she went to the kitchen and yanked one of her mom’s decorative towels from the oven handle, rapping it around her cut.

Hey, Emily, Dafne answered, her voice always so chipper and filled with happiness.  Just her voice alone could make Emily feel better, calm her nerves.  We were just talking about you.

Oh?  Um…that’s...good?  The living room seemed to swim around her as she returned, careful to circle the mess.  The pain in her hand made it hard to think.  Her breathing came out hard.  I hope it’s good. 

Only inane diatribes came to mind as she held the phone with her shoulder and dug through her bag for her pills, feeling her heart beat increase the longer she kept looking for them.  Somehow through the phone, Dafne knew something had happened.

What’s wrong? she asked, her worry cutting through the fog in Emily’s mind.  She gave up looking for her pills, too weak to keep rifling through her bag.

Could you bring Jabari over? Emily asked.  She dropped her bag on the floor and sank into the armchair, heavy and weary.  A drop of blood stood out against her pale thigh.  Holding the phone with her shoulder, she wiped it away and tried to calm her breathing.  There’s been…an accident.

She knew she wouldn’t have to explain more than that.  Dafne might have been the more recent addition to Emily’s core group of friends, joining their little clique almost two years ago when she moved to town with her grandfather, but it took no time for her and Emily to grow close. 

They had been inseparable ever since.

We’ll be right there.

Emily snapped her cell phone shut and tossed it onto the coffee table, closing her eyes and resting her head back.  Her hand throbbed and she knew she would need a new rag on it soon; she needed to find her pills.  But she also knew Jabari would take care of her and she was just too weak to move. 

Emily envied the relationship Dafne shared with her grandfather. 

The elderly college professor had always been involved in his granddaughter’s life, attending parent conferences (sober, unlike Emily’s mother,) and helping both of them with homework.  He was there at sleepovers, giving them their privacy as he tucked himself away in his study, but still there if they needed anything.  He held conversations with them, asked them about their day with genuine interest.  He loved his granddaughter and even her friends.  And they returned the affection, even sometimes calling him Papa Jabari.

When the doorbell rang, Emily couldn’t move.

Come in, she called out weakly, hoping they would hear.  The door opened and soon Jabari stood before her, clutching a leather satchel to his wool vest-covered chest, with Dafne just behind him.  Thin and lanky, he stood only slightly taller than his granddaughter.  Emily smiled at his red bowtie.  He always wore them and had even shown Emily how to tie one once.

Emily, my dear, he cried, setting his bag down and carefully taking her hand, pulling away the rag.  He looked her over.  You’re ghostly.

Dafne gasped at the cut.  My gods, Emily!

Emily grinned at her friend; she always said the strangest things.

Jabari kneeled before Emily, opening the leather satchel that contained small vials made of thick green and brown glass, several clean squares of cloth, tweezers, little razorblades and other tools.  Almost with a professional’s touch, he took Emily’s hand in his.  His expression remained unchanged as he studied the deep cut in her palm, but Emily felt the cold rush over her at the sight of it and had to look away.

Where are your pills? Dafne asked.  Emily shrugged. 

Leaving Jabari to work, Dafne went in search of the medication, first rifling through Emily’s bag and moving on when that turned up nothing.  Long, curly blonde hair bounced spastically around Dafne’s slender frame as she paced the house.  She always carried herself with a comfort and confidence Emily admired.  For all of Emily’s sarcasm and wit, Dafne answered with genuine sympathy and understanding. 

 You’re lucky you didn’t cut a tendon, Jabari said as he set to work, using the tweezers to remove small bits of glass and fuzzies from the rag. 

Emily tried to focus on the spinning ceiling fan above as she replied, Yeah, I’m really blessed.

He was quiet as he worked, but Emily felt he had more to say.  After a moment, he did.  Have you tried seeking professional help for your mother’s addiction?

She doesn’t need professional help; she just needs to stop drinking.

Dafne returned with the pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

They were on the kitchen floor.

Of course they were.  Emily took the pill and the water and swallowed both down.  The panic clenching her chest subsided.

Appraising the room with her big, sapphire eyes, Dafne frowned at the mess.

I’ll clean this up.

Thank you, Emily said, feeling a little warmth return to her cheeks.  She looked at Jabari.  Really. Thank you both.

Jabari smiled, the soft skin of his face folding into fine wrinkles. 

I’m going to apply a numbing salve and then I have to sew up the cut.  You might want to look away.

Inhaling a deep breath, Emily obeyed.  She heard glass clink and soon smelled the strong scent of something similar to rosemary and mint.  She had once asked Jabari what plants he used in his crazy concoctions, taken from their garden Dafne so meticulously kept.  He had listed off a lot of unfamiliar names, maybe Latin names, and none of the information stuck.  Whatever it was he used, Emily was grateful as a warm, numbing sensation spread across her palm and hand. 

With a faint sigh, her shoulders slumped and she sunk back into the chair.  Dafne returned to the living room after dumping the broken glass and wet napkins in the kitchen trash.

I checked on your mother, she said as she sat on the edge of the seat in the arm chair beside Emily.  She’s sound asleep.

Passed out, Emily grumbled.  It’s not the same thing.

Dafne turned to her, her tan knees nearly touching Emily’s, creating a stark contrast in color.  Her smile was sympathetic as she brushed Emily’s bangs away from her forehead with her fingertips.  I thought you two were going out to dinner?

The restaurant served alcohol, Emily said, wincing as she felt Jabari tugging on her palm.  It didn’t hurt.  But she knew he was sewing her cut now and she forced the image of it out of her mind.  Instead she tried to focus on Dafne’s round eyes; the concern that lurked there didn’t make her feel any better.

Was it bad? she asked.

It was awful, Emily groaned and covered her face with her hand.  She was stumbling by the time dinner was over, running into people.  Emily dropped her hand and recalled the tall blonde boy with hair nearly as curly as Dafne’s; his stern eyes a paler shade of blue.  Just remembering him made her cheeks burn again.  She sighed.  She fell into this really hot guy.  And offered to take him home with us.  I was so embarrassed.  Thank god I’ll never have to see him again.

Dafne made a face that Emily wasn’t sure was pity or hidden amusement.  Dafne had heard all of Emily’s horror stories about her mother.  Sometimes she could even make Emily laugh about them.  It helped numb the hurt.

You’re all mended, my little patchwork doll, Jabari said as he stood up with a slight grunt.  He took out a thermos from his satchel and placed it on the table.  Here’s some tea for you.  It should help with the pain and help you sleep.

Thank you.  Emily smiled at him.  She loved Jabari’s teas.  He knew she was sometimes forgetful about taking her medication and started giving her the teas in a thermos.  He used plants from their garden and anytime her pulse raced and she couldn’t breathe, his teas would calm her better than any drug.  Jabari was a wizard with tea.

Emily watched him gather up his things as Dafne rose from her chair.  She expected them to ask her to stay the night with them; they had done so on many occasions before when her mother had her fits.  But when they began to move toward the door without making any offer, Emily couldn’t help following them with a frown.

Well, thanks so much…again, she said, holding the door open as they filed through onto the wide front porch. 

It was our pleasure, dear, Jabari said before lightly kissing her on the forehead.  She smiled at him as he added, Be sure to keep that wound clean and replace the dressings regularly.  I’ve left several clean strips of cloth for you on the coffee table.

Thanks.

So much for Spring Break, Dafne said with a sympathetic grin.  I’ll see you in school tomorrow.  She waved as she followed Jabari toward their car.  Emily waved back and watched them drive away in the old, unassuming brown Volkswagen, before she stepped back inside and shut the door.

CHAPTER 2


Something’s Different

Patches of fabric lay around the bedroom floor, some catching the morning sun as it broke through the white cotton curtains.  A bright blue and green sewing box sat open among the mess.  Through a sleepy fog, Emily stumbled across the room to the bathroom door, stubbing her toe on the box, barely registering the pain. 

Over the last year she had steadily transformed all the expensive, trendy clothes in her closet into original creations—hodgepodge outfits that were quirky, little concoctions of fashion, representing her own personal transformation.  After last summer, she went through a phase; piercing her lip, cutting off her hair, and making her own clothes in a slightly conscious effort to slowly reshape the image that looked back at her in the mirror.  She had even dyed her hair black, but luckily the color didn’t stay around long and after a couple of months, she faded back to her natural light red. 

Working around thread liberated from the fray of a cut navy blazer that found itself all over her bed, pillow, and bathroom counter Emily showered and dressed for school.  She first had to remove the dressing from her hand, sickened by the sight of the mended cut even if Jabari’s stitches were small and clean. 

It wasn’t easy brushing her teeth with her left hand.  The pain was too much to endure while putting on makeup with her right and it made her clumsy doing it anyway so she brushed on a little mascara and blotted on some lip gloss, contenting herself with the rest of her face the way it was, grateful to her mother for at least passing down her porcelain complexion. 

She tried to tame the ends of the hair growing out in the back and tucked the rest behind her ears with the little pieces at her temple refusing to be held. 

Before she rewrapped her hand, she slipped on eight or so bangles.  Soon they covered up one of her many scars—a thin, jagged pink line drawn across the top of her wrist that wouldn’t go away no matter how many bracelets she used to cover it up—a daily reminder of that summer night.  Much thicker than the one on her wrist another scar marred the center of her chest, drawing a vertical line between her breasts.  She’d had that one since she was five.  Last year it had been further mutilated, made longer.  And now, thanks to her mother, she’d have another one.

I’m becoming Frankenstein’s monster, she grumbled to herself.

With a frown for the ghostly face in the mirror, Emily grabbed her pills, turned off the light, and headed downstairs.

Emily entered the kitchen where her mother stood at the island.  The monochromatic room was disturbed only by the gray granite countertops and slate floor.  Every room of the house was kept immaculate.  Somehow through her near-constant state of inebriation, her mother still managed to clean, dust, and pick up anything out of place.  Of course a maid also came every week, but her mother made it her sole mission to keep the house picture perfect at all times. 

She held her cup of coffee in one well-manicured hand and flipped through a home decor magazine with the other.  Her cashmere sweater matched her neatly pressed pencil skirt, one beige heeled pump dangling from the toes of a bent leg. 

She was like some anti-superhero; typical suburban housewife by day, daughter-slashing, embarrassing drunkard mom by night.  Emily didn’t expect her to remember what happened; she never did.

Mornin’, Emily said, sleep in her throat as she grabbed the coffee pot. 

Morning, hon. Her mother didn’t look up. 

Emily took down a mug and poured the coffee while watching her mother, the words I will never be you repeating in her mind.  Her mother glanced up, then back down to her magazine before looking at her again.  Emily waited for her to ask about her hand, but her mother’s eyes narrowed instead.

"What did you do to that shirt?" she asked.

Emily swallowed the coffee in a big gulp, wincing as it burned her throat, and looked down at the thin pink t-shirt, sleeveless and neck-less, hanging off one shoulder.

I cut it. 

I can see that, her mother said, her words cutting the air.  That was a fifty dollar t-shirt!

Emily shrugged, "Now it’s better.  It’s an original," and gave a theatrical smile.

You’re not really going to wear that to school, are you? She set her coffee mug down on the island with a hard bang.  "You can see your bra strap!"

"But it’s a cute bra, Emily said.  Look at the little, turquoise bow."  She pulled the strap and pushed the bow out with her thumb.  Her mother’s eyes were cold and hard; they did not yet