There are a lot of mothers in "Damsel in the Red Dress" but of course I have to lead off with Mrs. Moon:
I wring my wrists until the skin lights on fire - raw and anxious. Mrs. Moon stands stunned in the doorway, eyes locked on the painted peonies. One thin manicured hand, raised in dumbfounded surprise, rests in her dark hair, the other is suspended halfway to her mouth, brilliantly agape. The red-tinted lips move without words, her head shaking slowly as if unable to fully grasp what she’s seeing.
My heart beats wildly, pounding against my ribs like a frantic bird, trying to break through the cage. My lips part - my mind imagines feelings into motions and motions into rambling silence as I try to make an excuse for myself, but my tongue stays frozen in place. I’m not sure what I’d do or say anyway.
Sorry.
I look a mess - hair pouring over my shoulders in frizzy ringlets. I try to push back the heavy mass of curls and realize my hands are all smudged with scarlet. Acrylic smears. I wipe them off quickly on my blue jeans and set about setting the room to rights, making a mess of the coffee table, as I knock the brushes over and spray new paint over the old, permanent stains.
“Are you ready to go?” I breathe over the burning, nervous pressure filling my lungs, “I’ll just wash up real quick-”
Rather than answer, she steps over toward me and places her hands on my steaming cheeks, using her thumb to wipe the paint from my temple.
“Oh, hush, ‘Licia. Calm down.” her voice trills. “There’s, no hurry, my darling, no need to rush.”
When she says my name, I sound soft, and delicate, like a song. But for some reason, I still feel guilty, staring at the red stains on my hands, seeing the peonies, laughingly pink, out of the corner of my eye, watching me from their place on the canvas, even as Mrs. Moon holds my face in her hands.
And Lillian:
Everyone else is already sitting around the table, Lillian rolling her eyes exasperatedly. I make my way to an empty seat in the least sunshiney part of the room.
“Well, now that everybody’s here…,” Lillian sighs, and her cheeks seem to deflate as she shakes her head. “We’re behind schedule on finalizing the concept for our summer showcase, but we’ve finally gotten some design ideas back from the marketing team.”
She points her remote at the screen on the wall, and the words 'Spooky Summer' appear in large drippy cursive above a romance novel cover. A pale red-haired woman in a red dress is visible from the nose down, all “up close and personal” with a man who is obviously a vampire - if not for his cloak and faux-Victorian blouse, for the dribble of blood by the side of his mouth.
“‘Spooky Summer,’” She reads out loud for the benefit of any of us editors who might be illiterate. “This is what we’re going with for this year, so we’ll be spotlighting all of our vampire and werewolf themed romance novels.”
Tiffany just looks at me, but Lillian catches the movement.
“You don’t like it,” for some reason she’s addressing me instead of Tiff with an expression that’s halfway between frowning and pouting. “What’s wrong with ‘Spooky Summer?’ Scarlet likes it.”
Lillian waves her remote-holding hand with a flourish toward Scarlet, who nods and raises her cup of coffee as if she’s toasting Lillian’s good health.
Tiff looks indignant as her eyebrows jump to the middle of her forehead again, and she raves and signs defensively, “Scarlet loves everything! You could put Scarlet in a tank full of sharks and she would love it!”