Butterfly (5 page)

Leaving her bag in the entryway, she walked arm in arm
with Robyn to the kitchen, from which wafted the most delicious smells. It was apparent Oscar was cooking. He’d honed his culinary skills during a ten-year stint as a merchant seaman, and when he returned to civilian life he’d continued to cook most of the family’s meals.

Jerome held his son, gently patting his back to stop his crying while Maya shook a bottle filled with formula. Dahlia was setting the table in the dining nook as Oscar removed a roasting pan from the oven. A smile softened Seneca’s face at the scene of domesticity.

Dahlia noticed her first. “I thought you were coming in earlier.”

Seneca’s smile disappeared as she bit her lip until it throbbed. “Hello, Mother.”

Although Dahlia had recently celebrated her forty-second birthday, she could easily pass for a woman in her early thirties. She was tall and slender, with smooth dark skin, and her chemically relaxed hair was fashionable styled to frame her perfectly rounded face. Intense black eyes, a short nose and a full, lush mouth had most men taking a second look.

It had been her sultry looks that had attracted the attention of an older man who’d seduced her with money and gifts before taking her innocence and leaving her pregnant with his child. When Dahlia’s police-officer father came looking for him, the man and his family were gone—never to be seen again. She’d had to endure the shame and humiliation of being an unwed mother until she married Oscar.

Dahlia frowned. “What’s with this mother business?”

Seneca caught her brother’s warning look, but decided to ignore it. “You are my mother, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” she snapped, “but when did you start calling me
Mother?
”

Waving a hand, Seneca walked over to her father and kissed his cheek. “Hi, Daddy.”

Oscar smiled, tiny lines fanning out around his light-brown eyes. His cropped black hair was liberally streaked with gray. “Hey, baby girl. How’ve you been?”

She kissed him again. “Wonderful. Love you,” she whispered sotto voce. “Can I feed him?” Seneca asked her sister-in-law.

Maya set the bottle on the countertop, then tucked wisps of sandy brown hair behind an ear. Her light-green eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Of course you can.”

“Let me wash my hands first,” she said, walking in the direction of the half bath off the kitchen.

Minutes later, Seneca sat feeding James Scott, who sucked greedily from the bottle. Jerome and Maya had named their son for her father, who’d succumbed to kidney failure four months before the birth of his first grandchild.

James Scott Houston was a gorgeous baby. He’d inherited his mother’s fair coloring, hair and eye color, but his features were undeniably his father’s. There was no doubt he would be called exotic, which had become the politically accepted designation for mixed-race children.

“The house looks nice,” Seneca said to her sister-in-law.

Maya crossed her arms under her breasts. “We decided to complete the exterior first, before concentrating on the interior. We just finished the nursery last week.”

Jerome took the platter with a roast turkey from his stepfather. “I told Maya I wanted to remodel the kitchen first only because we spend so much time here.”

Seneca stared at her brother, who looked like a very young Miles Davis. Several of his former girlfriends had nicknamed him “Dark Chocolate.” With his delicate features and sable-brown coloring, she could see why women had flocked to
him in droves, but it was Maya with her flashing green eyes and open, friendly smile who’d enthralled him as the others hadn’t been able to.

“Some people take up to five years to fix up their homes,” Seneca told her brother.

Jerome frowned, the expression reminiscent of their mother’s. “I don’t want to take that long. I would’ve preferred having a post-baptism dinner here at the house instead of in a restaurant.”

“I told you I would pick up the tab, son,” Oscar said.

“You shouldn’t have to, Dad. As a married man I should be able to take care of my family.”

Oscar rested a hand on Jerome’s shoulder. “Dahlia and I were where you are when we first got married, but we had a lot less in those days. You’ll make it, son, but you have to be patient.”

Listening to the exchange between her father and brother made Seneca aware that Jerome was more like their mother than she’d realized. When, she mused, had Jerome become a complainer, or had he always been one? She’d come to D.C. to become godmother to her brother’s son, not become embroiled in a heated family discussion. As teachers, Jerome and Maya didn’t earn six-figure salaries, but they fared better than many young couples in their mid-twenties. They owned their own home.

Seneca knew that living on her own had matured her. Although she shared the apartment with Electra, they rarely got to see each other. They had classes on different days, and when Electra wasn’t rehearsing with a theater company, she was waiting tables at restaurants that catered to those in the entertainment field, hoping to get discovered—even if for a minor role in an off-Broadway production.

She kept her bedroom neat and clean and shared cleaning
duties: one week on and one week off cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, dusting and vacuuming the living room. She did her own laundry, shopped for groceries and prepared her own meals. There were no boyfriends, thereby eliminating angst in the romance department, and the times she sat in Starbucks drinking lattes or espressos with a man didn’t necessarily translate into a date.

When Phillip had disclosed Booth’s plan to link them romantically as a couple, Seneca felt the ruse could work well. After all, she was attracted to the delicious-looking ballplayer, and as long as he didn’t pressure her into sleeping with him, then everything would be perfect.

James Scott was asleep before he finished the bottle. Seneca removed the nipple from his mouth with a soft popping sound, then took the cloth diaper Maya handed her and placed it over her shoulder. Lifting the sleeping infant to her shoulder, she waited until he expelled a loud burp. He squirmed, whining softly, before settling back to sleep. She handed him off to his mother.

“I don’t mind splitting the bill, Dad,” she volunteered.

Jerome shook off his father’s hand and glared at Seneca. “Did I ask you for a handout?”

With wide eyes, Seneca stared at her brother. “No, you didn’t. All I did was offer to help pay—”

“I heard what you said, Seneca. Just because you sell yourself to the highest bidder like some half-dressed, painted, overpaid mannequin I don’t want you to think I need your so-called charity.”

“It’s not charity, Jerome.”

“So, it’s a handout,” he countered. “You probably earn more in two hours than I do in a week teaching, so don’t try to act so fuckin’ smug.”

“That’s enough,” Oscar warned.

“What’s not enough is my busting my ass teaching kids who could give a shit less about math, while Miss Supermodel here doesn’t get out of bed in the morning unless they offer her five figures.”

Seneca threw up her hands. “Forget I offered. I’ll keep my charity.” Turning her heels, she went over to take the silverware from Dahlia to finish setting the table.

D
ahlia, who appeared to have forgiven Seneca for calling her Mother, was in rare form. She’d embraced grandmother status with an attitude that shocked most sitting at the table. She talked incessantly about the outings she planned to take with James Scott.

Oscar stunned his children when he announced that he’d decided to retire at the end of the year. “Working thirty years at the same place gets a little boring.”

“How boring can it be, Daddy?” Seneca asked. “You’re a supervisor.”

“That’s why it’s boring,” Oscar said. “When I was a letter carrier there was always some excitement.”

Dahlia gave her husband a tender smile. “Excitement or gossip, darling?” she questioned softly.

Oscar winked at Dahlia. “Both. If you ever want to know someone’s business, then ask their letter carrier. I could tell you what credit cards someone had, what magazines they subscribed to and if collection agencies or the IRS was hounding
them. Then don’t forget the Family Court summonses for nonpayment of child support.”

“How is getting into someone’s business exciting?” Robyn questioned.

“You’ll understand once you’re older,” her mother explained.

Robyn affected a scowl. “I’ve been hearing that all my life. I’ll be fifteen in a couple of months. Will I be old enough then?”

Dahlia rolled her eyes at her youngest child, contemplating whether to chastise her for her impudent tone. “What you should concern yourself with is pulling up your grades,” she said instead. “You’re never going to get into a good college with seventies.”

Robyn, mimicking her mother, rolled her eyes, too. “I only got a seventy in science. I got nineties in my other subjects.”

“And you only have three weeks before you have to take the Regents.”

“I know that, Mama!” Mother and daughter glared at each other in what was certain to end in an impasse. Robyn was just as stubborn as Dahlia.

“Why don’t you let me tutor Robyn while I’m on leave,” Maya volunteered. She looked at Jerome, who nodded his approval. “The carpenters are scheduled to put in new flooring next week, and I’d planned to stay at my sister’s house because they’re going to apply polyurethane as a finish. If you don’t mind an extra couple of houseguests, James Scott and I can ride back to Ithaca with you.”

“Please, Mama,” Robyn wailed. “Now that Seneca’s classes are over, can she come, too?”

Seneca swallowed a portion of turkey. Although she’d always enjoyed hanging out with her sister and sister-in-law, Robyn had picked the wrong time to arrange a sisterly get-
together. Five pairs of eyes were trained on her, and she knew everyone sitting at the table was waiting for her answer.

“I’m willing to help with the driving, but I can’t go to Ithaca with you.” Uncertain whether her parents had planned on staying in D.C., she’d purchased a round-trip ticket. “I’ve committed to signing with an agency, and that means I’ll probably get more modeling jobs.”

Dahlia set down her knife and fork. “What’s going to happen in September when classes begin again?”

A beat passed before Seneca said, “I’m planning to take a leave from classes.”

“Don’t you mean drop out?” Dahlia countered.

She counted slowly to three. “Yes, Mom, I’m going to drop out.”

“But…but what about your degree?” the older woman stammered.

“I’ll get my degree, because I promised Grandma I would.”

“It shouldn’t be about what your grandmother wanted but what you want, Seneca.”

She didn’t want to get into it with her mother, especially with an audience of onlookers. “I want a degree and I will get my degree—just not at this time. I’ve given modeling full-time a lot of thought, and if I don’t do it now then it’ll never happen.”

Dahlia shook her head. “But—”

“You let her model, and when I asked you if I could you put me down,” Robyn interrupted angrily.

Dahlia shook her finger at her younger daughter. “You’re not going to drop out of school so you can shake your half-naked ass in front of a bunch of freaks.”

“Amen to that,” Jerome mumbled, still smarting because he felt Seneca saw him as a charity case.

Oscar narrowed his gaze at the same time he reached over to cover Dahlia’s fisted hand. “Robyn, please, let’s not talk about this now.”

A rush of color suffused the teenager’s face with her rising temper. “But—I want to talk about it now!”

“Enough, Robyn,” Oscar cautioned softly. “Seneca is a grown woman who can make her own decisions. You forget that your mother and I are responsible for you, not the other way around. And I would like you to watch your tone, young lady.”

Oscar Houston rarely got involved in the verbal altercations between his wife and their children, but lately he’d noticed Robyn behaving oddly; she’d begun exhibiting signs of being extremely short-tempered. A single word would set her off, and Robyn seemed bent on seeing how far she could go before Dahlia lost her temper.

“Daddy, the turkey is delicious.” Seneca had to say something—anything—to lighten the mood. What she wanted to do was kick Robyn under the table.

Oscar winked at her. “Thank you.”

Jerome extended his plate. “I’ll have another helping of turkey and dressing. And don’t forget to ladle on the gravy. I’m eating for Seneca,” he joked. “Ya’ll know models are notorious for not eating.”

“Since when did you become a stand-up comedian?” Seneca drawled. Her voice was filled with sarcasm. “For your information, I do eat.”

Jerome opened his mouth to come back at Seneca, but a warning look from his father quickly ended the interchange. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, apologizing. “I have to admit that you’re the only model I’ve ever seen who doesn’t look anorexic in person.”

She smiled. “I’m probably that rare person who doesn’t photograph heavier.”

Maya touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. “Are most photos touched up or airbrushed?”

“I suppose the ones for the glossy magazines do get Photoshopped.”

Seneca spent the rest of dinner fielding questions about modeling. She was offered a reprieve when the sound of the baby’s cries came through the baby monitor. James Scott was awake.

Seneca maneuvered up the empty space in front of her building, shifting into Park. She’d driven from the restaurant in northern Virginia to New York City, stopping once to refuel outside of Philadelphia. She shook her father gently, rousing him from sleep. Oscar, along with the other occupants of the Toyota Sequoia had fallen asleep before they’d left the Capitol District. The sound of snoring was drowned out by the music flowing from the many speakers in the large sport utility vehicle.

“I’m home, Daddy.”

Oscar’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to focus his gaze on the lighted dashboard. “What were you doing? Speeding?” It’d had taken Seneca only a little more than three hours to make the two-hundred-mile drive between New York City and Washington, D.C.

“Traffic was light,” she said, rather than tell her father that she had exceeded the speed limit whenever possible. “Are you sure you’re going to be alert enough to drive, or should I wake Mom?”

Oscar, stretching out his arms, shook his head. “No. I can drive.”

He unlocked and opened the passenger-side door, got out
and came around the vehicle as Seneca slipped from behind the wheel with a large quilted sack that doubled as purse and overnight bag. She hadn’t changed out of the suit she’d worn to the baptism and the dinner that followed but had exchanged her heels for a pair of running shoes.

She hugged and kissed him. “Get home safely, Daddy.”

Oscar tightened his hold on her waist, lifting her off her feet. “When are you coming up for a visit?”

“I’ll try for the Fourth. Maybe I’ll bring Robyn back with me and have her stay a week or two.”

He kissed her cheek. “I’m certain she would love that. Don’t forget I’ll be in Pennsylvania the first, second and third for the Battle of Gettysburg reenactment. But I promised to be home by the Fourth.”

Seneca smiled. Her father, well versed in military history, was a Civil War buff and had joined a group who reenacted battles from the Revolutionary and Civil wars. “Be careful, Daddy.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve heard the speech from your mother at least half a dozen times. ‘Sit it out if temperatures go above eighty-five.’”

“Please listen to her.” Stepping back, she watched her father get in behind the wheel, adjust the seat and mirror, then drive away, watching until the red taillights disappeared when he turned the corner.

Seneca climbed the steps to the brownstone, unlocked the outer door, then slowly made her way up the stairs to her apartment. She’d volunteered to have Robyn stay with her for several weeks to give her sister a look at another way of a life—a faster, grittier and more dangerous environment. Ithaca, with its magnificent gorges, lush forests, pristine lakes—billed as the gateway to the Fingers Lakes—also had its share of social ills that weren’t as apparent as in larger
cities. One day Robyn would come to appreciate their mother monitoring her every move.

She unlocked the door and was greeted with a blast of frigid air. Electra had left the living room air-conditioning unit on the highest setting. She closed and locked the door, walked into the living room and picked up the unit’s remote device, readjusting the thermostat. Seneca had lost count of the number of times she’d shown her roommate how to program the timer and temperature, but Electra claimed she always forgot. The sound of Electra’s low-pitched, distinctive laugh, followed by a deeper chuckle, meant that the aspiring actress was either rehearsing or entertaining in her bedroom.

“Go for it, girl,” she whispered. Electra’s bedroom was far enough from hers so she wouldn’t be disturbed by loud voices or music. Closing the door to her own bedroom, Seneca noticed the flashing red light on her phone. Punching the code to the voice mail, she activated the speaker feature.

She froze, listening intently to the beautifully modulated female voice:
Mr. Gordon has arranged for a car to pick you up at eleven forty-five. Lunch will be at La Grenouille.

Seneca’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t an invitation but a command.

She would shower, then go online to look up the restaurant, only because she didn’t want to appear gauche if she showed up wearing the wrong attire. Thanks to Luis, she didn’t have to rush out to buy an outfit whenever she had an appointment. Luis had called her his
mariposa,
and that’s how she wanted to be promoted.

Peering into the mirror over her dresser, she angled her head. A slow smile found its way over her features. “Please permit me to introduce myself,” she drawled in a sultry whisper. “I am Seneca Houston. Better known as Butterfly.”