The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
NINETEEN YEARS OLD
This is it. You have one shot, so don’t fuck it up.
With my tongue peeking between my lips in concentration, I dip the detail brush into the gold paint, tap it on the side of the pot to shake off the excess, then glide it over the freshly waxed oak into a delicate swirl pattern.
No time to breathe a sigh of relief. I dip the brush again, tap, then glide the tip on the opposite side—
“Poppy!” A shrill voice cuts through the silence and jolts like a lightning bolt, down my arm, and into my wrist.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whimper, snatching up the damp cloth and swiping it over the smear of gold now tarnishing the sixteenth-century jewelry box I’m restoring.
The door flies open behind me and then a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, was that me?” Nellie asks, tugging an AirPod out of her ear. “Is it fixable?”
I smother the annoyance bubbling in my gut and concentrate on wiping the gold off the lid. It’s less of a delicate Fleur-de-Lis symbol now and more of a doodle that a Kindergarten kid would bring home for their mom to stick on the fridge door.
“You better have some incredible news if you’re hollering for me like a banshee all the way from the elevator,” I say through gritted teeth.
The smug smirk stretching across her lips tells me she believes this to be true. “Here,” she says, peeling off the top letter from her stack of mail. “This was in our mailbox, and it’s addressed to you.”
It’s a butter-soft, cream envelope. “What the hell is this?” I mutter, glancing at my name then flipping it over. A red, waxy seal with an intricate ‘O’ symbol is embossed on the flap.
Nellie wiggles her eyebrows up and down. “No idea, but I can guess who it’s from.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Sam.
I slide the tip of my carving knife under the flap and a small card falls onto the carpet.
Dearest Poppy,
You are cordially invited to dinner atLe Papillon tomorrow evening, 8 p.m. sharp, in celebration of your nineteenth birthday. Dress code is formal.
Bring an overnight bag.
I can’t wait to celebrate this special occasion with you.
“It’s not signed,” I laugh as Nellie snatches it out of my hand and hungrily scans each word. “It could be anyone.”
She lets out a squeal of delight and clutches the card to her chest. “You know Sam is the only guy in the world cute enough to do something like this! Le Papillon. Jesus, he must be swimming in cash.”
“Bring an overnight bag,” I muse, sitting back on my heels. The flood of warmth that initially spread across my belly cools a little. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out that he’s booked a hotel for the night. A lump forms in my throat.
A hotel reservation comes with expectations.
Under Nellie’s strict instructions, I avoided Sam the best I could for the rest of my eighteenth birthday party. But when the music got louder and the bodies got sweatier, I found myself drawn back to him. His hot breath tickled against my ear as he asked me questions about myself, and as the beer and vodka flowed, the space between us grew smaller, until his hand was on the curve of my back and his lips were against mine. I stayed the night at his. Not because I really wanted to, but I thought he might offer an extra layer of protection if the Devil came for me. And when he didn’t, I slipped out of his dorm in the early hours, his torn shirt and the ripped piece of fabric tucked under my arm and my virginity intact.
The next day, I brought the shirt back as good as new, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Sam is nice.
He sends me half a dozen roses every other Friday just because. He’ll meet me after class so he can carry my books to the next one, and that one time I drank too much at the Sigma Nu frat party, he held my hair and rubbed my back as I threw up in one of the many marble toilets.
But we still haven’t had sex. Sam being nice means he’s patient and understanding about it, even if I don’t understand it myself. I feel happy when I’m around him, and I enjoy kissing him, sure. I guess I’ve spent a lot of money and effort to get to Stanford, and now I’m here, I can’t let stupid things like losing my virginity distract me from my studies. Because I’m here to become everything my father wasn’t. Successful.
“Better pack some sexy lingerie then,” Nellie drawls, sliding open my panty drawer and peeking inside.
I jump to my feet and slam it shut. “Yeah, let’s worry about that later,” I say. “I’ve got so much to do before tomorrow.”
“Like tanning, getting a blow-out, and a manicure in preparation for your birthday?” she says with a glint in her eye.
“No, like finishing this commission.” I point in the direction of my near-ruined jewelry box, “Then editing my political economics paper.”
Nellie rolls her eyes. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re running a full-time business all while still getting the best grades in every class.” She takes three strides over to her mini-refrigerator and cracks open a can of Coke. “Remember me when you’re a billionaire CEO, yeah?”
I flash her a smile and grab the earphones off my desk to drown out the incoming sound of her latest Netflix binge, ready for the second attempt at painting a Fleur-de-Lis on the jewelry box.