Jennifer sat at the vanity in front of the mirror and skimmed
her fingers along the length of the raised scar on her cheek.
For a second she was transported from her hotel room, back in
time to a dark night and a rain-slicked road. The metallic taste of blood, the
smell of smoke and gasoline and fear flooded her senses as if the accident had
happened minutes ago instead of months before. She felt the warm, thick blood
drip into her eyes, blurring the chaos around her, the same as she had felt it
that night. Tires squealed and people screamed. Sirens echoed in her mind, too
far away to offer any comfort whatsoever.
Coming to her senses, she whispered, “I can’t do it.”
Jennifer snatched her hand away from the ghastly scar as if the gash burned her
fingertips. The long curl of dark hair flopped back into place to hide the
jagged mar across her otherwise perfect features. “I can’t go through with
it.”
“You can,” said her sister Marlene, the practical and
rational voice of reason. “And you will.” She also leaned toward being
bossy.
Taking after their father’s side of the family tree, Marlene
had come to grips with her plain
appearance long ago, actually embracing her ordinary looks. Instead of dabbling
in the finer points of makeup application like Jennifer, Marlene focused on her
education and interpersonal skills, sort of how a blind man develops a
heightened sense of smell and hearing. Not that their father wasn’t an
attractive man. The handsome features and large bone structure simply didn’t
translate as well on the face and body of a woman. What Marlene lacked in
striking beauty she made up for by being chatty and opinionated and amusing.
Also like Dad.
Jennifer took after their mother, a beauty icon in their
circle of friends. Fashion forward. A lover of fine footwear and trendy
eateries. Jennifer was like the Macgyver of accessorizing. Give her a couple of
hair pins, a silk scarf and a skinny belt and she’d give you glamour.
Finger-combing the curl of hair for maximum coverage,
Jennifer asked, “What if people are horrified?”
“Then they’re dirt bags who aren’t worth your time or a
second thought,” Marlene replied with a wave of her hand.
Jennifer snorted a laugh.
Easy for you to
say. Jennifer’s fingers glided over the embossed invitation to the
Forty-seventh Annual Volunteer Appreciation Masquerade Ball. A yearly excuse for
adults to dress in costume, drink to excess and pat each other on the back for
their charitable endeavors. She’d been attending all her adult life. Her mother
too. Her Grandmother before that. Goodwin gals came from a long line of
volunteers. Each year the celebration grew bigger, the decorations more
elaborate, the invitations more expensive. Why was a pressed invitation with
gilded lettering a beautiful thing and her raised scar triggered double-takes
and gasps? It wasn’t fair. On a man a scar added character. Intrigue. Danger. On
a woman, it overshadowed all else.
“I can’t take one more sympathetic comment or pitying look,”
Jennifer said, her voice cracking with emotion. Suck it up. Be strong.
“I dare anyone to be so stupid,” Marlene said. “My advice,
Jenny—forget about the scar. If you do, everyone else will. Swear to God, I
don’t even notice it anymore. Focus on having fun. If it makes it easier, leave
the mask on. Get hammered. Be mysterious. Flirt with every hot guy. Get
laid.”
Get laid! Nothing
could be further from her mind. She hadn’t flirted since way before she’d broken
up with Gage, her Marine pen pal turned love interest. Her intention had been to
brighten the life of one Marine in Afghanistan with care packages and cheery
news from home. Soon she’d been in love with Gage. Yes, in love with a man she’d
not yet met. They’d never said the word—love—but she’d felt it stronger than any
force of man or nature.
Jennifer had wanted to save her declaration for when she met
him face to face. Shortly after the car accident, she’d broken his heart. Hers
too. No explanation. She’d decided it was better that way.
Marlene had pulled no punches at the time and had called her
a moron.
Jennifer turned to Marlene and couldn’t manage to stifle a
burst of laughter. Her sister, dressed like Rhett Butler, mustache and all,
cracked her up every time she laid eyes on her. It would never get old. Her
husband was somewhere in the hotel dressed as Scarlett O’Hara, wearing a hoop
skirt and a wig with corkscrew curls.
“How do I look?” Jennifer asked.
Wearing a white peasant blouse and a multi-colored flowing
tiered skirt she’d made herself—no rental costume for her—Jennifer decided to
embrace the mystical Gypsy deep inside and take her sister’s advice. Well, some
of it, anyhow. She could get on board with being mysterious, drinking, flirting
and possibly some fun.
“Gorgeous,” Marlene said, twisting the upturned ends of her
fake mustache. She handed Jennifer a colorful, glittery mask adorned with
peacock feathers.
Maybe it would be a magical night after all.
| 
