When we’ve driven a couple blocks, Amelia turns to me, looking excited, but nervous. “You okay?”
Amelia smiles and nods. “Yeah. I think this is going to be a lot of fun.”
I’ve known her long enough to hear the slight hesitation in her voice, so I prod her on. “But?”
“But,” she continues, “do we tell people who I am? Do we tell them the truth and go public before we tell Dad? Or do we play the masquerade to its fullest advantage and keep my identity hidden? What if we choose the first option and Gretchen shows up?”
The questions come out quicker and quicker, and, while I know they started off as an innocent inquiry, I have no trouble sensing her rising anxiety. It’s not unusual to see her behaving this way considering how we’ve been careless and been found out on more than one occasion.
“We tell people whatever you feel comfortable telling people,” I tell her honestly. It was never my intention to have her lie tonight; tonight was supposed to be about the two of us getting out and having a good time in a public setting without the fear of being found out, and I am going to make sure that damn-well happens. “If you want to introduce yourself as Amelia, then that’s what you’re going to do. I just want us to have fun tonight.”
Amelia exhales, relaxing back against the seat and resting her head on the back, letting it fall in my direction as she smiles appreciatively. “Okay,” she agrees. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Not wanting to ignore her other fear, I give her hand a squeeze. “And if Gretchen does show up, we’ll handle it. What’s going on between us is none of her business, and I don’t plan to include her in it now.”
In addition to the conversation, we also decide to avoid any blatant acts of public affection. Dancing and hand-holding are deemed appropriate, perhaps even a kiss to the hand or cheek, but nothing that could easily get out of hand. Amelia’s worried about how this might be perceived with my divorce not being quite final, so I agree to her request.
We arrive at the banquet hall that the company had rented for the ball, and I hand Amelia her mask before slipping mine over my face. She smiles, raising her hand and tracing her fingers over it. “It’s beautiful,” she says of the hand-painted black and gold mask. “I love the music notes. It’s very you.” Between us, she raises her hand, holding her mask. “Would you mind helping me?”
Always happy to oblige, I nod. Amelia turns around and places the mask over her eyes. I reach out and take the black satin ties on either side and pull them back to fasten the mask securely. When she turns back around, and I see the mask on her for the first time, I’m completely blown away. Sure, I was skeptical that the unique mask may not conceal her identity given its thin metal construction, but it did, and the eye makeup she chose to wear really makes the blue in her eyes stand out.
I can guarantee that she’s going to be the most beautiful woman at this party, and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine.
My hunch is only proven right when we enter the grand hall and all eyes are on us. Women drop their classic masquerade masks to their sides and gawk while their husbands look on, trying to be discreet—and failing, I might add. In truth, I’m sure a part of all the ogling is due in large part to the fact that most of these people are my colleagues and recognize me while wondering who the beautiful stranger on my arm is.
As one of the hired servers walks by with a tray of champagne flutes, I grab two and offer one to Amelia.
“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip and looking around, her eyes wide and glimmering with excitement as she takes in our surroundings from the formal decor to the elaborate dresses that all of the women wore. Her smile grows wider as she admires the beauty of original architecture and elegant lighting fixtures that bathe the room in light, setting the scene for tonight’s party. There are quite a few people dancing on the floor while the others mingle all around the room or near the bar.
Now, maybe I am being a bit biased, but there isn’t a woman in this room that can hold a candle to Amelia. It would seem that most, if not all, had chosen to wear a more traditional ball gown while Amelia’s is sleek and modern, fitting her body like a glove and showing off more skin than should be legal. Perhaps this just confirms the generation gap between them and Amelia.
“Is it weird that I can totally picture everyone breaking out into Masquerade?” She looks up at me, her eyes locking with mine. She must see my confusion, because she quickly tacks on, “You know. From Phantom of the Opera?”
“Oh,” I reply, choosing not to tell her that, while I’d seen it when the latest movie first came out, I didn’t really remember it, nor stay awake through it all. I do seem to recall the scene at the masquerade ball, and, after looking around, I can see how she’d think that to be a possibility.