Page 12 of Quiet as Kept
She saw the confusion on my face and continued talking. “My apartment was a studio. I packed what I wanted, sold what I could, and tossed everything else. I was always taught that you can’t receive new things in a hand that’s closed clinging to old things.”
“Okay,” I told her, taking both the suitcase and the duffel bag from the trunk. “The girls are asleep. Now is a good time for me to give you a quick tour of the place. After that, I’ll give you a rundown of the job expectations.”
She followed me into the house through the two-story foyer, past the dining room and my office. Right before we got to the kitchen, I made a quick left turn.
“This is your bedroom.” I led her inside.
Her gasp was audible. “Are you serious right now?”
My initial thought was flippant.What did she mean am I serious?Then I looked down at her and saw the wetness in her eyes.
“This room takes my breath away.” Her voice croaked, full of emotion. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
I looked around the room that I had seen no less than a million times since I drew up the plans. But I was forced to look at it with new eyes. I looked at it in the way somebody who was seeing it for the first time would look at it. I mean, the designer I worked with to lay out and furnish the rooms was one of the best in the Low Country. I shared my vision, and I was happy with what she put together.
The room was aesthetically pleasing, and it was cohesive with the rest of the house. But I silently took it in the way I imagined Xarielle was taking it in . . . from the perspective of somebody who’d grown up in my aunt’s loving but definitely modest home. The way somebody who was very familiar with survival and unfamiliar with thriving would take it in—the soft blue-gray walls and the snowball white trim, the position of the queen-sized bed between two large windows that not only let in tons of sunlight but offered views of the blue ocean, the white oak furniture, the natural and earthy jute rug, the flowy white curtains, the artwork that brought nature inside the room, the navy blue and white accents that added a little nautical element to the otherwise coastal theme room.
The room looked pristine but also cozy and comfortable. The room had soul, and I’d never noticed.
“I’m glad you like it.” And I was glad she liked it. “If there’s anything else you need to make it feel like home, just let me know or pick it up. It’s your room now, Xarielle. Feel free to decorate it however you see fit.”
“Oh no. It’s perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.” She hesitated.
“What?”
“I’ll add flowers. I love flowers. Never really been able to justify the cost because you know . . . they die and everything. But the only thing I think this room could use is some white flowers.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
She blushed. “I only really know roses. But now that I’ll be able to afford to buy them, I’m going to start doing my research. The girls can help me. I’ll take them on an outing to the nursery.”
“I’m sure they’ll enjoy that.” I paused as I thought about the truth to that statement. “Let me correct myself. Dakota will probably enjoy that. She sees the beauty in nature, loves flowers, seashells, leaves, feathers—anything related to nature. Destin is going to get you invited to leave the nursery.” She laughed. “I’m not lying. She’ll have the whole heads of flowers balled up in her little fist. She’ll pluck the petals and rip leaves off plants. I hope you’re prepared to be embarrassed.” She kept laughing. “You’re laughing. I see embarrassment in your future, Xarielle. I’m going to give you a credit card so you can pay your way out of trouble. I don’t want you getting arrested because my youngest is a natural born bad ass.”
“Kept.” Her tone held correction. “She’s a baby.”
“A bad ass baby.”
She was still looking at me with that . . . teacher face.
“Okay, you want me to pretty it up. My great-grandmother would’ve called her a rascal, or her worst insult, a rapscallion.”
She guffawed. “My fourth grade teacher used to say stuff like that. She was about one hundred years old when I was like nine. My granny says hellion. She’s always liketake your hellion ass right back to hell.”
We cracked up together.
“Anyway, let’s finish the tour before the angel and the imp wake up from their naps.”
I showed her the walk-in closet, and she got teary again. I showed her the en suite bathroom and walked her out onto the sliver of side deck that led to the main deck.
“I’m never going to want to leave here, Kept. Like, I won’t need vacation time, and when it’s time for Destin to start school, I won’t want to go. It’s beautiful,” her voice turned wistful, “and peaceful.”
I sighed. “Life in Londynville, where we come from . . . yeah, there’s not a lot of peace to be had.”
“Where we come from?” She repeated, and I turned to find her looking up at me. “Sir, I come from the Morrisette area—one of the most economically depressed, impoverished, and racially segregated neighborhoods in the city. I don’t remember you coming from there. What I remember is a chauffeur-driven limousine pulling up collecting you from Mama Reese’s house, and taking you back over to Briar Heights or some other exclusive neighborhood.”
“You’re remembering wrong then. I only lived with my father part-time. I lived the other half with my great-grandmother.”
“In Morrisette?”