The Lady in Residence - Allison Pittman Page 0,10

Ikea shelving. Unlike most women her age, twenty-four, and relationship status, single, Dini owned her little house in King William outright. This, through no expenditure of her own. It was a property purchased by her great-grandfather and inherited generation after generation, in much the same way as Quin Carmichael described his own family home. The difference was, she could never, ever sell. Not that she didn’t have offers. The neighborhood, like much of the San Antonio downtown-adjacent area, maintained a reputation of being simultaneously hip and historic. But for all the years her three-person family spent on the road, this was always home. Maybe only for weeks or months at a time, but a place where her father kept the key in his pocket, and she didn’t have to wonder who slept in her bed the night before.

Coffee brewed while she took a shower. After, wearing sweat pants, her thick terry robe, and fleece-lined slippers, she sipped it from her favorite mug with a breakfast of peanut butter and jelly on toast. Normally, if she didn’t have a gig, she’d cook up a hearty, complicated breakfast. But this morning her appetite felt pinched, and the second piece of toast got tossed out to the squirrels.

With a second cup of coffee, she reviewed the notes in her calendar. Nothing happened in her life without getting noted in the calendar. Her own memory might be flawless, but Dini couldn’t ever be sure of anybody else’s. Her calendar was her voice: multicolored notations and Post-it notes, stickers. Sometimes neat, bullet-point lists, some illegible, slanting scribbles. She opened to the next day, Sunday, and wrote, Brunch w/Quin. She held the pen aloft for a moment before adding, Carmichael. A bit of coffee sloshed as she wrote, and she wiped it up with her thumb, smearing the ink.

The soothing voice of the Waze app guided her on and off loops and highways as she drove to the party site. Soothing might be an exaggeration. Her pulse still pounded, her eyes darted constantly from the road to the mirror to the other mirror and back. Other people might listen to their favorite music or catch a podcast, but not Dini. She could take a stage in front of thousands of people (or dozens of children) and remain smooth and cool and in total control. But she hated—hated—driving. She clutched the wheel (at 10 and 2) and took solace only in the occasional comforting glimpse at the ring she wore on the first finger of her right hand. This was part of her brand, something distinctive and attention getting and, ultimately, distracting for the audience. A flash of a ring might bring their subconscious to focus on it rather than on the sleight of hand she was performing. Today, in honor of the party, she wore a miniature snow globe with a tiny princess caught midtwirl within the swirling flakes. It had been a gift from her best friend, Arya, who would be one of the moms at today’s party, not to mention somewhat of a mother to Dini herself.

At the locked gates of the Carved Oaks community, Dini showed her ID to the real human guard and checked her pocket for business cards while he waited for the confirming text from the hostess. If even half of the guests came from this neighborhood, that could mean a slew of bookings. Waze led her past one sprawling property after another before declaring her destination on the right, where two young men—teenagers—stood next to a pyramid of pink and gold balloons. They were dressed in fairy-tale prince costumes, and the one who came to her open window could have been the model for Cinderella’s beau.

“Are you here for the celebration of Princess Isabelle’s birthday?”

“I’m the entertainment,” she said, trying not to sound dazzled.

“Very good. If you don’t mind, I will take your car and park it for you.”

Dini motioned. “I have my things—my trunk—in the back.”

“Not a problem at all, ma’am. My friend Charming will get that for you and deliver it wherever you please.” She stepped out of the car and obliged the eager prince.

To Dini’s surprise, her friend Arya opened the front door before the chimes completed their complicated tune.

“You’re here early,” Dini said after the two exchanged their traditional air kiss. This act of affection was a sacrifice on Arya’s part, as she was a hugger by nature but had long since acquiesced to Dini’s zone of touch.

“Three properties for sale in this neighborhood.” Arya,

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