Read Online Chardonnay: A Novel by Jacquilynn Martine - Free Book Online Page A

have much experience with fashion.”
    Micah looked over my dingy clothes from yesterday and said,
    “And by the way you look today you flunked your wardrobe stylist
test. Chile—what’s going on with you, you always look fly !”
    “Whatever, I know a lot about fashion.” I said stuffing my tweed
jacket into my huge purple Chanel bag.
    “Oh honey no, you smashing the cashmere! You know fashion my ass!”
said Micah snatching my jacket from me and rubbing it gently with his manicured
nails.
    “I don’t need—”
    “Chile, you gonna have to kiss Andre Leon Tally’s beautiful behind
to work for Vogue!”
    “Who’s that?!”
    “Oh my, we have a lot of work to do.” Micah said taking a last sip
of his Chai tea and then pulling   my arm up so we could go.
    “What are you doing?” I asked unaware of where he was taking me.
    “To get you out these clothes because you look like a distressed
mess!” he said hauling me off doing his signature masculine, yet feminine
runway walk.
    After Micah
took me shopping, out to eat, and more shopping until the mall closed, I told
him to drop me off at home. I dreaded going but I knew I had to. I told Zasmyth
that I would meet up with her later. When I asked her if she’d talked to Konnie
since I hadn’t heard from her after pulling off with Myron, she said no. I
waved off to Micah as I got out his car and looked head on at the three leveled
Mediterranean style home my father drew out and built with constructive and
diligent Mexicans a little after I was born. My father believed in making jobs
for everyone, yet he didn’t bypass figurative ways to save a dollar. I took the
side entrance door that was always unlocked, leading from the garage and shut
the door silently. My stomach grumbled just as I neared the refrigerator and I
opened it, illuminating the chef’s kitchen my mother had designed custom to her
taste. I took out a carton of milk, a box of cream cheese Danishes, and some of
my father’s baked basil chicken and placed it all on the island,
that stood in the middle of the Italian tiled green and yellow floor. I
poured the cold milk into a wide coffee mug and snatched a paper napkin off the
roll sitting right to the garden sink. I placed the napkin on the revolving
glass in the microwave after opening it and set the mug on top of it. Once the
timer was set, I stepped back and jumped up on the stool to the island table.
This was possibly the first time I had been alone without any interruptions in
three months. I took deep breaths and closed my eyes...
    ...I was four-years-old again, dancing to Whitney Houston’s You
Give good Love to Me in my mother’s red Gucci high heel shoes, black
pearls, and cream colored mink coat. I had on some scarlet lipstick that I somehow
remember being on my lips perfectly. I had used it as a blush as well, just
like I had seen my mother do, before the days of matte or mouse blush creams.
Only mine wasn’t patted on neatly, it was in circles on my pudgy baby face and
mascara was all over my eyebrows. I could see my reflection in my parent’s
mirror that sat above their dresser as I jumped up and down in their huge
circle bed. My golden curls in my hair bounced happily as I giggled and fell
into the pile of pillows. Suddenly my mother stormed into the bed room crying.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in her clothes or make-up but I didn’t know it
would have made mommy that upset. So I sat still, buried in the pillows and
waited for my mother to command me out of her and my father’s bedroom, but that
reaction never came. She ran towards the closet digging for something and then
came back out with a dusty box...I could see her pull a letter out. She didn’t
even notice the scarfs and tubes of lipstick I had strolled all over the floor.
I listened on to my mother speak to herself reading back the letter as I sat
quietly.
    “January ninth. You were never for sale and I must understand that
you are a part of me. That’s what they