The Tycoon's Virgin Bride (9 page)

“Dammit, I'm not!”

“Don't you understand the risk I took? No commitment, you say, and heaven forbid you should get married. So that means that sooner or later in this affair you keep talking about, you'll leave me. Just like my mother did. And my father, too, because he never wanted me. Do you have any idea what it's like to be abandoned by both parents?”

A shudder ran through Bryce's big body. In one swift
movement he stood up, hauling on his trousers. She said in a low voice, “Bryce, I'm sorry…I hit home there, didn't I?”

“You artists are all the same—too much imagination,” he said nastily.

“I didn't imagine that reaction! And how else would you end up on the street if your parents hadn't abandoned you?” She too stood up, her top still rucked out of her waistband, her skirt falling to cover her thighs. “Won't you tell me about it?” she pleaded, resting a hand on his arm. “Was it so terrible that you can't share it?”

He said icily, “At least you've got parents. A mother, a father and a stepmother. Imperfect people, all of them. But real. And wanting to connect with you.”

“Don't you know where yours are?”

He ignored her interruption as if it hadn't happened. “But you're too bloody stiff-necked to let Charles or Leonora into your life, aren't you? No wonder you're stuck artistically. No sex life, no parents, buried in the countryside like a hermit.”

The cruelty of his assessment made her heart go cold within her. She backed away from him, awkwardly stooping to find her underwear and her sandals, pulling them on with no attempt at dignity, then thrusting her halter top back into her waistband. “It's not that easy,” she said raggedly. “How can I suddenly love a mother I never knew? One who left me when I was a baby?”

“How would I know? But you're not even trying.”

Her dark glasses, the newspapers and her little blue purse were lying on the table. Jenessa picked them all up. “Have you ever searched for your parents?” she said steadily, and saw her answer in his face. “Then don't condemn me for something you're not willing to do yourself…I'll see myself out.”

She hurried through the beautifully appointed rooms, blind to anything but her need to find the front door and escape. Struggling with the complicated latch, she let her
self out onto the front steps, which were flanked with pots of boxwood. Later on this morning she was having lunch with Travis and Julie; so she couldn't go back to her hotel and cry her eyes out.

Somehow she had to calm down. Look normal.

She had no idea how.

Quickly she walked away along the narrow sidewalk.

T
WO
days later, a courier delivered a package to Jenessa in Wellspring. She signed for it and went back inside, staring at the package as though it contained a live tarantula. The return address on the top corner was Bryce's, the handwriting forceful and masculine. Like the man himself, she thought. She hadn't left anything behind at his house, she knew that. So what could he possibly be sending her?

One way to find out, Jenessa. Open it.

She poured herself a glass of juice, gingerly picked up the package, and went outside to sit under the apple tree. Ripping off the paper and the bubble wrap, she found a video inside, along with a plain piece of folded paper. Opening it up, she found more of the same terse handwriting.
I borrowed this from Travis,
he'd written.
Sit down and watch it, Jenessa.
The note was signed, simply,
Bryce.

There was no label on the video to indicate its contents. Intensely curious, Jenessa went inside, turned on the TV and inserted the black plastic cartridge. Within moments she was lost to her surroundings.

It was a video of Leonora dancing. A much younger Leonora, strikingly beautiful, strong, flexible and graceful. The music was totally unfamiliar to Jenessa, atonal, its rhythms not always easy to follow; from this unpromising material Leonora had woven patterns of intricate beauty. Some of the video consisted of retakes, in which the same music would play again, and again Leonora would bend to its demands. Improvising, perfecting, struggling to wrest from the notes a truth that would satisfy her.

The unknown editor of the video had chosen not to omit the cost of these performances to the dancer. Leonora's physical exhaustion, her discouragement and her stubborn determination were all there to be seen.

The final performance was in front of a live audience in Paris ten years ago. As soon as it was finished, Jenessa rewound the tape and watched it again from beginning to end, her eyes intent on the screen. The second time she picked up more detail, the third more again. As the applause died down at the end of the tape after her third watching, she suddenly found herself weeping as though her heart was broken.

This woman was her mother. In her own blood flowed that same struggle to wrest some sort of truth from the intractable stuff of daily life. She understood in her bones Leonora's discouragement, knew the cost of striving for a perfection that could never be attained.

Her mother might have abandoned her as a baby. But in a very real way Leonora had always lived within her.

But hadn't she herself, lately, been guilty of giving up? Of dancing to the same pattern over and over again, unable—or unwilling—to break free?

Jenessa swiped the tears from her cheeks, and for a long time sat gazing at the empty screen. Then she made a phone call to Travis.

 

That evening Jenessa sat down at the kitchen table, the telephone in front of her. She knew in her heart the step she was about to take was a huge one; knew also there was a very real risk she could be rejected. Taking a steadying breath, she picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers.

“Leonora Connolly,” a voice said briskly at the other end.

“This is Jenessa.”

After a fractional pause Leonora said sharply, “Is something wrong? With you? Or Travis?”

“No. No, we're fine. I—I just wanted to talk to you.”

Leonora's voice warmed. “In that case, I'm delighted to hear from you.”

“I wondered if we could get together sometime soon,” Jenessa said in a rush. “I could take the Amtrak to New York. If you were willing.”

“As it happens, I'll be in Boston at the end of the week, supervising a choreography workshop. Could you come into the city? How about a late lunch on Friday? I'm getting the train back that afternoon.”

“That would be great.”

Quickly they made the arrangements where to meet. Then Leonora said, “I have to go, Jenessa, I have an appointment in a few minutes. But I'm looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me, too,” Jenessa gulped, tears gathering in her eyes. To the strength of character that Leonora's video depicted, she now had to add generosity of spirit, and the refusal to hold a grudge.

She put down the phone. She'd done it. Made the first move to heal wounds that had been dealt nearly thirty years ago.

Face-to-face, would Leonora reciprocate?

Filled with nervous energy, Jenessa went outside into the long twilight and dead-headed her roses; in the next couple of days she volunteered at the women's shelter, went swimming, froze beans and peas and made strawberry jam. Carefully, the day she left for Boston, she packed a jar of jam into a basket, along with some freshly picked peas and cilantro.

Dressed in a cool white linen dress, her hair loose, her basket over her arm, she walked to the bus stop in the village. The journey into Boston seemed all too short; her heart thumping in her chest, Jenessa reached their rendezvous on the fringe of the theater district ten minutes early. She walked into the attractive Italian restaurant, found Leonora had made a reservation, and was shown to a table
for two in a secluded corner. She sat down, her palms damp, her heart thumping unpleasantly, and buried her face in the menu.

She wasn't the slightest bit hungry.

“Hello, Jenessa…no, don't get up.”

Without fuss, Leonora seated herself across from her daughter. Her trouser suit was boldly patterned in black and white; as always, she looked cool and self-contained. They made small talk for a few minutes, before giving their orders to the waiter. Once he'd walked away, Jenessa blurted, “I saw a video of you dancing. That's why I'm here.”

Leonora fastened her deep blue eyes on Jenessa's face. “Travis gave it to you?”

“No.” Jenessa blushed scarlet. “Bryce did.”

“Bryce?”

“After we'd had a fight. One of several. That's when he mailed me the video.”

“If it's brought about this meeting, then I owe him a debt of thanks.”

“He's the most arrogant, obstinate man I've ever met!”

“Also extremely attractive. I'm not so old that I can't see that,” Leonora said, amused.

Hastily Jenessa tried to get back on track. “I didn't come here to talk about Bryce.”

Their salads arrived, crisp and inviting. “Jenessa,” Leonora said forthrightly, “we can talk about anything under the sun. I'm just so glad to be sitting here with you—I want you to know that.”

Again Jenessa's eyes swam with tears. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “The trouble is, I don't know where to begin. You see, I'm stuck, I'm stagnating—you can't fix that, I'm not asking you to. But—”

“I read one of the reviews of your show. I thought at the time that stagnating was a very harsh word.”

“But it's true. I am. I've known it for some time, but I can't get a handle on how to deal with it. I don't know
what to do!” In a rush of words Jenessa went on, “Your video—we're so much alike.”

“We are, aren't we? To have our type of temperament is both a blessing and a curse.”

Jenessa gazed at the elegant woman across the table from her. “I don't even know what to call you,” she muttered. “I can't say
mother.
It just doesn't sound right.”

“How about Leonora? It's my name, after all.”

With a watery grin Jenessa said, “So it is. Okay, I'll do that. Leonora, I've watched your video half a dozen times. You're struggling with truth, trying to discover and express it. That's the essence, isn't it? But there's a truth I haven't found yet, and I don't know the way. So I'm lost. To use Bryce's phrase, I'm spinning my wheels.”

“There was a space of nearly seven months before that video was shot that I couldn't dance, Jenessa. Didn't have anything to say. And that's not the first time that's happened. I do believe that any artist worth her salt goes through fallow periods.”

Jenessa asked an eager question, which Leonora, searching for the most accurate words, answered more than fully. An hour later, her head whirling, Jenessa said in a dazed voice, “Do you know what? I finally get it—all this time I've been painting Charles. My father. Obsessively. Again and again.”

“That sense of menace that's in all your work?”

“Precisely. From the time I was old enough to notice his reactions, I knew I wasn't the way I was supposed to be. He wanted me to be different. Tried to force me to fit his mold.” She gave a rueful smile. “I called Bryce stubborn. I can be just as stubborn, so I resisted Charles with all my might. But he posed a tremendous threat to the way I wanted to live my life. And all these months that's what I've been painting.”

“You understand that in trying to shape you into someone else, he was exorcising me?”

“The woman who ran away from him.”

“And was duly punished for doing so.”

“But you've forgiven him, haven't you?” Jenessa said slowly.

“Yes, I have…although it took a long time. I'm only sorry that he took out his anger on you and that I wasn't there to protect you. I did run away, Jenessa. But when I flew to Paris I had every intention of returning often to see my children. It was Charles who made sure that didn't happen. Out of anger and pride as much as love.”

In a low voice Jenessa said, “I haven't forgiven him.”

“You will when you're ready. If I can, I'm sure you can. Because you're right, you and I are very much alike. I dance. You paint. But otherwise we're carbon copies.”

Jenessa grinned. “I'm blond, don't forget.”

Leonora ran her hand over her dark hair. “Whereas I'm going gray,” she said ironically. “One more thing—you and I have a vibrant inner world. But Charles lives by externals. Appearances. By whatever-will-the-neighbors-think.”

Jenessa gave a sudden giggle. “Externals? Like Castlereigh?”

“Turrets, moats and battlements…”

The two women dissolved in a gale of laughter.
This is my mother,
Jenessa thought suddenly.
My mother, and we're sitting in a restaurant laughing together.
She said raggedly, “Leonora, thanks so much for agreeing to meet me today. I've been distant and unfriendly ever since you appeared on the scene, and I'm truly sorry.”

“You had every reason to be distant.”

“I'd like to see you again.”

“Why don't we make a date for you to come to New York?” Leonora smiled. “If you get tired of me, there are lots of art galleries.”

“I can't imagine being tired of you,” Jenessa said honestly, and took out her diary.

After they'd picked out a time, Leonora said, “There
are a couple of things I want to add. Charles is happy that he and Travis are reconciled. I do believe, in his muddleheaded way, your father's doing his best to reach out to you.”

Jenessa's smile was twisted. “Buying a painting that goes with the decor.”

“It's a gesture that means more than it seems.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Jenessa said dryly. “What was the other thing?”

“It's about Bryce. Travis has told me how he met Bryce, at the private school Travis had been attending since he was six. Bryce and he were both twelve when Bryce was admitted as a scholarship student. Straight off the street. Angry, rough-spoken, untrusting. I don't think even Travis knows the full story of Bryce's upbringing. Probably nobody does but Bryce. You might want to keep that in mind when you're having one of your fights with him.”

“I'm not the least bit in love with him,” Jenessa said mutinously.

“That's probably just as well,” Leonora remarked. “Jenessa, my train leaves shortly, I'm afraid I have to go.”

They both stood up, Jenessa passing over the gifts from her garden, her throat tightening at Leonora's obvious pleasure. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she hugged her mother, and as quickly stepped back. She couldn't cry again. Not here. “I'll see you next week,” she said.

“I'll look forward to it.” Her smile lighting up her face, Leonora gathered her gifts and wove her way between the tables. Jenessa went to the washroom, then wandered outdoors into the heat. Each individual leaf on the trees seemed to be outlined in light; the colored awnings and the yellow cabs were incredibly vivid. I'm happy, she thought. Happier than I've been in a long time. I'm so lucky to have a mother like Leonora.

A smile curving her mouth, she did a little window-shopping, then took a tram to the bus station. She'd decided that morning when she'd left home that she wasn't going to get in touch with Bryce just because she was in Boston. Now, even though she had twenty minutes to wait before she could board the bus, she was determined not to change her mind.

He might be in New Zealand for all she knew. He might be out with another woman.

She sat down on a bench and did a rapid sketch of the beams of light crisscrossing the passersby, her pencil flying over the paper. Then, from memory, she drew Leonora walking toward her in the restaurant.

Leonora, her mother, who understood her in a way Charles never had.

 

At noon the next day, Bryce was in his bedroom on Beacon Hill, tossing some clothes into his case for a trip to Tokyo and Osaka. His mind was only half on what he was doing. The other half was thinking about Jenessa.

He had to stop this. She obsessed him, night and day. It was crazy. Irrational. And, of course, utterly useless.

All he wanted was an affair. But an affair to Jenessa spelled abandonment.

He knew about abandonment. So how could he push her into a temporary relationship that in the end might hurt her more than it benefited her? He was an expert on balancing cost and reward: he was a businessman, after all.

He had to forget about her. Find himself another woman, if that's what it took.

In an effort to do just that, he'd dated Isabel last night. Isabel was bright, attractive and witty. He'd spent the entire evening wondering what Jenessa was doing. Where she was, and with whom. Tormenting himself by imagining her with another man.