CH. 5: ANCHORED IN DENIAL
1430 Words
Clarissa stepped into the glare with a clipboard in hand and a smile in her pocket.
The sun hit the main deck hard—bright, sharp, unforgiving. Polished teak gleamed underfoot, and mirrored stainless steel railings caught the light in thin, blinding flashes. Staff moved briskly, lifting easels, arranging silent auction items, wiping down cocktail tables before guests arrived.
She was already speaking before her heels touched the final step.
“Those paddle numbers need to be renumbered—consecutive, left to right. Not scattered.”
A nod. A shuffle.
“Don’t stack the donor packets—fan them, three-quarter angle. It feels more intentional.”
More nods.
Clarissa moved like current—quiet, directed, fast. Her tone was firm but not sharp, her posture perfect. The clipboard wasn’t for notes. It was for show. She didn’t need to write anything down. She already knew the order of things.
She hadn’t asked where Joel was.
Not because she didn’t care. Because it was easier to care about linen folds and sponsorship banners than about corridors and conversations. She kept her pace quick enough to stay ahead of the thought.
Not now, she told herself. The phrase settled in her chest like breath held underwater. Not now. Not here.
A pair of assistants positioned a champagne station beside the entry arch. Clarissa adjusted the spacing of the glass pyramid without looking at it.
She passed the railing near the deck’s curve and caught her reflection in the metal—glistening, distorted, stretched sideways by the brushed steel.
For one brief second, she didn’t recognize herself.
Then the image moved as she moved, and the spell broke.
Not now.
“Center the sponsor signage between the floral towers,” she called. “Not above. It looks like an afterthought.”
Around her, the day bloomed outward: deckhands zipped canvas to shade structures, floral staff clipped petals, the photographer did a test pan from starboard to bow. Clarissa walked through it all like a current threading through crystal—seen only by its effect.
She didn’t slow.
She didn’t stop.
A tray of auction paddles passed her on the way to the display table. She straightened one as it passed—off by just a sliver, but enough to notice. Enough to need fixing.
The clipboard tapped lightly against her palm—rhythmic, precise.
A voice crackled in her earpiece, confirming the first wave of guests approaching the dock.
Clarissa turned to face the entry arch. Her hair was set, her teeth white, her dress designed to photograph without glare. Her hands were steady. Her voice, when it came, was warm and shaped like welcome.
“Good morning,” she said. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
The chatter near the jewelry table had reached a pleasant pitch—soft laughter, clinking glass, a low hum of admiration for things too shiny to be needed.
Clarissa stood beside the edge of a display featuring a Tanzanite pendant, one hand loosely holding her champagne flute, the other adjusting the corner of a velvet placard. Her posture was immaculate. Her feet ached, but beautifully.
The photographer swept by in a slow arc, capturing candids of delight and quiet affluence.
“Clarissa,” came a voice—low, warm, familiar.
She turned and found Eleanor Harris approaching, wrapped in slate blue chiffon, pearls at her neck, a bracelet heavy with old diamonds and older sentiment.
“You’ve done it again,” Eleanor said, smiling. “Every detail. It’s like breathing in grace.”
Clarissa smiled. “That’s very kind.”
Eleanor looked around—not suspiciously, just… thoroughly. “It’s a difficult thing,” she said gently, “to create a space where everyone feels safe enough to give.”
Clarissa nodded. “We try to make it seamless.”
“You do,” Eleanor said. Then added, more softly, “Are you sleeping, dear?”
The question landed like silk on stone. Too soft for the weight it carried.
Clarissa kept her face open, composed. “Enough,” she said. “Most nights.”
Eleanor didn’t press. She only tilted her head slightly, the way one does when they already know.
“I’ve been there before,” she said. “In a different way. But close enough to recognize the shape.”
Clarissa’s chest tightened—barely.
She could feel it—the swell behind her ribs, the desire to exhale something too heavy for the room. The fingers itched. Her throat ached.
For a moment, the words reached the edge of her mouth.
And then: the photographer again, just past her shoulder. Guests nearby discussing South Africa and safaris. The auctioneer’s voice rising over the crowd.
Not now. Not here.
Her eyes flicked to Eleanor’s wrist.
“That bracelet,” she said. “I’ve always admired it. It suits you.”
Eleanor smiled. She knew. But she let it go.
She reached forward and took Clarissa’s hand in both of hers—soft, firm, warm.
“I’ll be at my table if you need to breathe,” she said. “That’s all.”
Clarissa nodded. The movement was precise—because anything more would’ve been too much.
Eleanor walked away, disappearing into the clot of laughter and linen and light.
Clarissa turned back to the pendant. It sparkled under the spotlight—clear, cut, contained.
She touched her necklace, thumb brushing the clasp—already fastened, already in place. Like her smile. Like her silence.
The sun flared low over the water, gliding the glassware and casting long, luxurious shadows across the auction platform.
Clarissa stood at the center, microphone in hand, her smile turned one notch higher than natural. Her voice was velvet over steel—warm, practiced, buoyant.
“Thank you, truly, for your incredible generosity this afternoon,” she said. “Your support doesn’t just keep programs running—it keeps lives changing.”
Applause. Light, elegant, effortless.
She continued. “Before we wrap, we have one last surprise—a little something extra. Think of it as our way of saying thank you for making this voyage more than just a destination.”
Laughter scattered softly across the deck. Clarissa lifted a sealed envelope from the table beside her and gave it a slight shake.
“A surprise raffle,” she smiled. “No bidding. Just blessings.”
She reached into the bowl of names, drew one, and read it aloud with deliberate delight. “And the compass goes to… Mr. Alcott!”
Polite applause. Smiles. A camera flash.
A crew member brought the final item forward: a brass compass, delicately engraved with the words Where You Lead, I Will Follow. It gleamed in the late light as it passed into the hands of a grinning board member.
Clarissa clapped along with the others, her expression wide and sincere.
Inside, something pulled tight.
She had chosen that item herself. Not for him. Not really. She’d picked it for the story it told. A story she no longer knew how to step out of.
She watched as Mr. Alcott turned it over in his hand, amused, charmed. He said something to the woman beside him and they both laughed.
Clarissa’s smile held.
A few guests turned their attention to the bar. The auctioneer offered a closing prayer. Crew began clearing trays with their practiced, invisible rhythm.
Clarissa stepped down from the platform, posing once more as the photographer swept past.
“Thank you, Clarissa.”
“Flawless event.”
“Beautifully done, as always.”
She nodded, touched hands, laughed at the right moment.
It wasn’t them she was convincing.
It was herself.
Her voice moved like air over glass—higher, lighter, untouchable. She could feel the lift of charm, even as something cracked beneath it.
Eleanor caught her eye from across the deck, a half-glass of wine in hand. She didn’t wave. Just held the gaze, then looked away.
Joel was somewhere behind her. Or not. It didn’t matter.
Clarissa reached the edge of the crowd and turned toward the bar. A server passed her a cocktail she hadn’t asked for, and she accepted it with an easy nod.
The applause was fading now, replaced by mingled chatter and the shimmer of ice in glasses.
She paused near the tinted window beside the bar, watching the reflection move as she did.
A woman in cream held a drink in one hand and composure in the other.
Behind the eyes: something brittle. Something trying not to splinter.
Clarissa lifted the glass and sipped.
It tasted like lime and silence.
- Writer
