December 22, 2010 11:00 a.m.
I am so far out of my depth that I forget to breathe. Only the decisive click of the door as it swings shut shakes me out of my stupor and I breathe that sweet, sweet air again. Only it's not really fresh air, but the expensive scent of polished wood, pine needles, and warm vanilla candles.
We're standing in an enormous foyer that looks more like a ballroom. Horizontal slats of cherry wood cover the floor and a gleaming mahogany table gets pride of place in the center of the room. A pink marble ballerina is poised in a pirouette on the table, her legs impossibly long and thin. It was the kind of objet d'art that would have already smashed into smithereens in my parent's house but Wolf's house is so magazine-cover perfect that I would warrant that nothing in this place even had a crack or smudge on it.
Arched carpeted stairs wrap around both sides of the foyer, leading to the next floor. Nestled cozily into the curve of the bannisters on each side is a large pine tree, replete with red and gold ornaments. Soft notes of jazz make my ears prick with awareness and I look at Xander with wide eyes. He merely grins, like this was the reaction he expected.
"Please see that this is brought up to Miss Wright's room, Humphrey," Wolfram instructs, depositing my luggage into the butler's waiting arms.
A blush suffuses my cheeks. The butler has to be at least sixty and I have two perfectly strong, healthy legs. I'm not used to letting someone else do my work for me but the protest dies on my lips at the warning look Wolfram shoots me, like a parent silently reproaching a child to ward off any potential misbehavior.
"At once, sir," the butler replies pleasantly. I suddenly notice the distinctive lack of a Dutch accent. His words are accented in crisp, mellifluous English.
"Wolf!" a female voice calls out and my gaze is drawn upwards. From the left staircase, a young woman is descending, her form-fitting emerald sweater-dress clinging to her impossibly-tiny waist and flaring out just long enough to cover her ass, barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Even from this distance, I can tell she's beautiful. While all three of us are watching her, my raised eyes notice the deer antler chandelier on top of the gently vaulted ceiling. It's paranoid of me but I subtly shift out of the way; I've seen too many movies where a chandelier crashes down atop an unsuspecting victim. My shimmy moves me closer to Xander and the girl's eyes hone in on me, narrowing.
"I take it this is the girl?" She doesn't even address me.
"This is Charlotte Wright," Wolfram says, taking a step aside in order to gesture toward me with an elaborate hand flourish.
"My best friend," Xander chimes, shrugging an arm across my shoulders.
I wish he didn't; now the girl is forced to look at me and I can tell by the cool way her eyes move from my shoes to my eyes in a slow, languorous show of boredom that she's less than impressed. Her hair is set in large brown curls that would rival Blair Waldorf's, and jade teardrop earrings twinkle in her ears the same shade as the verdant headband peeping out at the top of her head. Her eyes are the same shade of iron as Wolfram's, except hers are fringed in black mascara and a thin, clean line of winged eyeliner.
"And this is my sister, Graeme," Wolfram says. The similarity is obvious now that I see them side by side.
"Charmed," the brunette says with a coquettish smile. "That's spelled G-R-A-E-M-E."
I guess she's a girl who's had to put up with some teasing in her life about having a boy's name. "It's a beautiful name," I offer.
Graeme smirks. "Yes." Her eyes slant at me, suddenly looking feline and sly. "And Charlotte is lovely, as well. Named after the pig, are you?"
Okaaay, maybe she isn't as bullied as I first thought. She's the type of girl who's more likely to be the bully. My hands bunch into fists at my sides. "Charlotte was the spider," I correct, though I have a feeling she already knew that.
"Was she?" Graeme feigns, looking perplexed. She swivels her attention from me back to her brother. "Diana was looking for you," she informs.
From the subtle inflection she puts on the word "Diana", I get the impression that this isn't a girl well-liked by either Graeme or her brother.
"Excuse me," Wolf says, already walking away.
"I'll take her up to her room," Xander offers. "It's right next to mine, right?"
Graeme nods. "It's okay if you share with Xander, though. My parents are open-minded about premarital sex." From the downward twist of her lips, I get the impression that me having sex with Xander makes her blood boil.
Xander doesn't bother holding back his belly-laugh. "We're not together," he says between wheezing laughs. His arm around my shoulder tightens and he pulls me against his side. He would probably have been more convincing if he had actually let go of me at some point, I thought. But being a boy, he is, of course, oblivious to this kind of female rivalry.
Graeme's expression clears and she presses her feet together, standing rapt to attention. "She's not your girlfriend?" she asks, looking between Xander and me like she's searching for something.
"Not even a little bit," I confirm, sidling away from my best friend. I love him, I really do, but oh my god is he oblivious.
I'm instantly the recipient of her dazzling, thousand-watt smile. "Well, then," Graeme grins, the corners of her mouth flicking upwards.
I smile awkwardly. Xander has this effect on girls. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that it's not the first time a girl has considered me a threat to whatever designs she has on him. Xander is one of those people who has been blessed with both good looks and friendly boy-next-door charm. He has gentle features and a square jaw with a pointy chin - which sounds weird but isn't, really. He has thick eyelashes, warm brown eyes, and an always-ready smile on his lips. When he laughs, it isn't one of those polite "ha ha ha, how funny" droll laughs people always seem to have; he has a side-splitting laugh that makes his eyes crinkle and a deep dimple appear in his left cheek.
Having decided that she can sufficiently lay her claim on him, Graeme links her arm through Xander's with comfortable familiarity. "Why don't we show Charlotte around the house?" she suggests.
"She's just come off a flight," Xander starts to say, but she's already tugging him away possessively, and I have no choice but to trail behind.
We pad through the beige-carpeted hallway into a large room with a cathedral, wood-beamed ceiling. There is a large bespoke fireplace of white marble, engraved with scenes of pilgrims on horses. It looks like something out of the Canterbury Tales, I muse, my gaze sliding from the roaring fireplace to the rest of the room. One wall was pure glass and beyond it, a garden with shoulder-high hedges, dimly lit by fairy lights entangled on bare tree branches.
The room, what I assume is a formal sitting room, is uncomfortably large. A baby grand piano stands in the corner and a few scattered settees aimed towards the fireplace look like they'd make your back hurt if you sat down for too long. In front of the fireplace, an ornate desk with an antique brass desk lamp are bathed in an orange glow. A woman in a floor-length red skirt and white cashmere sweater sits there reading a book and she springs up when we enter, a polite-hostess smile on her face.
"You must be..." she starts to say, then falters, glancing at Graeme. "Darling?"
"This is Charlotte, Mom," Graeme supplies. She moves to stand next to her mother, dragging Xander with her. Side by side, I see the resemblance. In thirty years, she will look like her mother, I can tell. They have the same full-bodied hair and face shape, except Mrs. van der Waals is a few inches shorter than her daughter and has cerulean-blue eyes instead of gray ones.
"It's a pleasure to have you with us during the holidays," Mrs. van der Waals recovers gracefully, inclining her head regally. My gaze dips to her neck, where Graeme's mother is wearing a large emerald-encrusted pendant in the shape of an octagon. "Please, dispense with the formalities and call me Rhona."
Whenever an adult says this to me, it feels like a test. They say it more and more often now that I'm no longer a teenager, and it still feels oddly disrespectful. I smile in lieu of a response. "Thank you so much for inviting me into your home during Christmas. I know it was probably a huge imposition."
"Not at all!" Rhona looks genuinely surprised. "We have plenty of room and any friend of Xander's is a friend of ours." She smiles warmly at him. "This is the first time Wolf brought a friend home."
Not surprising, since dear old Wolfie's kind of an ass. But I can hardly say that to his mother, now can I?
"Mom," Graeme hisses, darting an angry look toward me. Obviously, she doesn't want me to realize what a friendless jerk her brother is.
I stand there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. Somehow Xander has endeared himself to this family and I feel like the outsider horning in on what is clearly a family Christmas. As if on cue, loud laugher bounces off the walls in another part of the house, and resounds in the sitting room.
"Sounds like your father served the spiced rum," Rhona says, her lips pursing in displeasure. "Why don't you kids run along and get ready for brunch?" She seems to catch sight of my outfit for the first time and she exclaims, "Graeme, don't tell me you didn't even let the poor girl freshen up after her long flight!"
She clucks her tongue and makes a shooing motion with her hands. "Xander, why don't you show your friend her bedroom?" To me, she smiles and places her hand on my shoulder gently. "I hope you'll find everything you need in your room, but if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you so much, Mrs. van der -- Um, I mean, thank you, Rhona," I amend quickly.
The older woman beams fondly at all three of us, then claps her hands together in short, uniform bursts. "Chop chop!"
Author's Note: What do you guys think of Rhona and Graeme? Is Rhona as nice as she appears to be? Will Graeme be Charlotte's best friend or worst enemy? And also...who is this mysterious Diana?!