What Mother Never Told Me (14 page)

“No. I’m good.” Leslie held up her half-filled glass of Diet Coke.

Celeste moved through the tightly wound bodies until she got to the bar. “Apple martini,” she shouted to the bartender.

“Definitely a ladies drink,” a voice from behind her said.

Her heart banged against her chest. She glanced over her shoulder and up into his eyes. Her throat went completely dry and she wished she had her drink before she strangled.

The bartender put her drink in front of her.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, placing his hand on top of hers when she went for her purse.

A charge raced up her arm. “Thanks,” she managed to say. She grabbed her drink and took a sip.

“This is the last place I expected to see you,” Sammy said.

“Why?” she countered, immediately on the defensive.

He held up his hands. “Whoa, take it easy. I’m just saying this place is kind of off the beaten path, that’s all.”

She relaxed her tight shoulders. “Leslie and I have been coming here off and on for about a year.”

His right brow rose and fell.

Silence hung between them, louder than the noise and music.

“So, how have you been? Close any more deals?”

She took a sip of her drink and tried to relax. “No. The market is really bad right now. Everyone is really cautious.”

“Same thing I told Nick. Times are tight. But he insisted that the time was what you made it.” He shrugged. “I gotta agree. You make your own magic in this world.” His gaze swept over her. “What do you think about that?”

Her brain was on scramble. The crush of bodies had pushed them within a breath of each other and the warm scent of his cologne short-circuited her common sense. “Hmm, magic is what two people make it.”

A slow, easy smile moved across his mouth and sparkled in
his eyes. “Yeah,” he affirmed, saying the word like a musical note. He glanced over his shoulder then back at her. “Gotta run. You and Leslie plannin’ on being around for a while?”

“Sure.”

He nodded. “Good. I’ll see you after the set.” It wasn’t a question, and before she could pull herself together he was up onstage taking his place behind the piano.

Somehow she had the presence of mind to return to her table. Her hands were shaking and her back was damp. She wrapped her fingers around her glass.

“I saw him when he came over to you,” Leslie said in a conspiratorial whisper. “What did he say? What did you say?”

Celeste blinked, looked at Leslie and said, “I have no idea.”

The band launched into a series of original pieces that were a mix of jazz and R&B soul that had the crowd on their feet. Then the spotlights dimmed on the band and focused on a lone image.

The slender figure held the stem of the microphone, stroking it like a lover as the sultry and haunting strains of Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” rose through the charged air, bringing a shuddering hum of quiet on the audience. Parris covered the piece with her own unique play on the words and melody, riffing above and below the notes, making it totally her own, before smoothly segueing into an original composition, “When I First Saw You,” that had the audience bobbing their heads and popping their fingers. Then she did a totally soul-stirring rendition of Kem’s “I Get Lifted” that had the audience banging tables and hollering for more.

“She is awesome,” Celeste shouted over the din.

“Told you. And she isn’t even warmed up good. I’ve listened to her some nights when she was at Downbeat and her voice
would make your soul ache.” She continued rocking her foot and bobbing her head to the music.

Parris was in another space, taken on a ride by the music, the emotion held her in its grip as she allowed the words to become an extension of herself. She closed her eyes, let the words flow, and all was right with the world. The disappointments, the losses, the lies, none of it mattered. Not when she sang, not when she rode the crest of Nick’s sax notes. It was like making love in front of an audience, intimate and public, erotic and raw, needing and wanting it so much you had to share the power of what you felt and it didn’t matter that anyone saw you naked and vulnerable. That was music to her and had been since she was a little girl singing in the church choir in Rudell, Mississippi, in the shower, local clubs, in her dreams. This was when she truly came alive.

The roar of the crowd’s applause vibrated within her center. The lights blinded her to the faces in front of her, but she knew they were there, feeling her, feeling the rhythm.

Nick stepped next to her as the houselights came up. “Parris McKay. Give it up!” he shouted into the mic.

Parris stole an ecstatic glance at him then took a bow of her head. “Thank you, thank you,” she said to the audience. She waved and walked off, leaving the crowd on their feet.

Tracey ambled back out onstage. “Let’s have another round of applause for our guests tonight, Turning Point featuring Parris McKay! Give it up! Please enjoy the rest of your evening here at yours truly’s, Tracey’s,” she hollered over the clapping and foot stomping, then sauntered off stage.

“Don’t look now,” Leslie said into the mouth of her Diet Coke, “but here they come.”

Some of Celeste’s drink dribbled down her chin and she quickly reached for a napkin.

“Sam told me you two were here,” Nick said, walking up on them and holding Parris’s hand with Sam close behind.

“Hey,” Parris greeted with a broad smile as she looked from Celeste to Leslie.

“You were fabulous, Parris,” Celeste said in awe.

“Thank you.” She smiled demurely.

“What about me?” Sam asked, stepping into the conversation but his stare and question were directed at Celeste.

“You weren’t half-bad,” she teased.

He pressed his large hand to his heart. “I’m wounded.”

They all laughed.

“Mind if we join you, ladies?” Nick asked.

“Sure. Grab an extra chair,” Leslie said.

Sam snatched an empty chair from the next table and pulled it next to Celeste. Nick and Parris took the two vacant seats at the table.

“What are you ladies drinking?” Nick asked.

“Diet Coke,” Leslie answered.

“Apple martini, right?” Sam said to Celeste.

Her throat was suddenly bone-dry again. She nodded her head in response.

“What about you, babe?” Nick asked Parris.

“I think I’ll take an apple martini, too.”

Nick stood. “Be right back.”

“I had no idea you all would be here tonight,” Leslie said. “It was definitely a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t heard you sing since Downbeat.”

“Nick pulled me in at the last minute. These two kept talking about a jam session tonight. When we got here the truth came out,” she said, laughing.

“How was your trip?” Celeste asked, turning to Parris.

“Not what I expected,” she said, the light dying from her eyes. “But, as they say, it is what it is.”

Celeste thought about Parris’s confession to her about her mother and her decision to seek the truth. It was clear she didn’t really want to talk about it, at least not now. She touched Parris’s arm lightly in understanding consolation. Parris mouthed her thanks.

Nick returned, balancing their drinks like the experienced waiter he once was, and set them down on the table. He took his seat and then raised his glass. “A toast—to good music, good friends and good times ahead.”

They all touched glasses.

“Speaking of good times, are we still on schedule?” Nick asked Celeste.

“I’m hoping to wrap everything up this week, for sure. Then it’s all yours.”

“And I’ll have the first set of drawings and quotes for you in a couple of days,” Leslie added.

Sam raised his glass of Hennessy. “Let the good times roll.”

The DJ switched the tempo to a Luther Vandross classic, “A House Is Not a Home.”

Sam leaned toward Celeste’s ear. “May I?”

She turned and they were practically nose-to-nose. She could see her reflection in his eyes. She’d swear the entire club went dead quiet waiting for her answer. “Uh, sure.”

Sam stood and helped her out of her seat then led her onto the dance floor with his hand at the dip in her back. It felt like a heating pad, Celeste thought as she found a space and turned into his hard body. He looked down at her and lightly wrapped his arms around her waist. They found their rhythm and moved to the sway and pull of the music, the plaintive cry of Luther
begging his baby to be home when he got there, like a magnet, drew them together. For an instant, Celeste’s muscles tensed when she found herself flush against the bold, defining lines of Sam’s long, hard body. Her heart skipped and stumbled in her chest, shortening her breath. He stroked her back as if letting her know it was okay and she could feel the strumming in his throat and chest as he hummed along with the melody. She closed her eyes and allowed her body to unwrap itself from the knot it was in. She rested her head against his chest and was relieved to discover that for all his outward cool, his heart was racing as fast as hers.

Leslie sat at the table alone, nursing her Diet Coke after insisting that it was fine for Nick and Parris to leave her at the table to dance to their favorite song. As she watched the couples that were snuggled up on the dance floor and scattered throughout the club, she took an unfiltered look at her loveless life. A condition she’d been in for longer than she cared to admit. The last man whom she’d been involved with eventually became fed up with her array of insecurities, her own doubts about his feelings for her and her overall dismal view of men in general. That was nearly three years ago. She’d had a date or two since then but it never went beyond the first outing. And then her mother got sick.

She finished off the last of her soda. A woman’s laughter rang out behind her. She turned and saw the thrill of happiness splashed across the woman’s face as she leaned into the man who held all of her attention.

Leslie couldn’t ever remember that kind of laughter, that unabashed joy, and had no clue what it felt like. For so long all she felt inside was a gaping hole that was filled with anger and
resentment, a hole that she tried to fill with food when she reached her teens in an attempt to rid herself of the bitter taste always in the back of her mouth. The one bright spot was long gone, having left its indelible mark years ago. When she was a little girl and her mother worked the overnight shift, her mother’s brother—Frank—would come to keep an eye on her. So many times she’d ask her uncle Frank where her dad was. Did he know him? What did he look like? Why won’t Mom tell me who he is? He’d never answer her directly but would find other ways to soothe her childhood curiosity.

Uncle Frank was so handsome and he always smelled good. He would stroke her ponytails and help her into her pajamas, taking his time as he put the nightgown over her head, and tell her how beautiful she was. Sometimes when she would cry, he would climb in bed next to her and put his hand between her thighs, or rest his head on her budding breasts until she fell asleep. Once when she was about ten he sat on the edge of the tub while she took her bath, talking to her in the deep lulling voice that she loved, while he helped wash between her legs. She remembered the shuddering sensation and the way her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head when he touched her there.

Then one day, Uncle Frank didn’t come back. Leslie blamed her mother. She never saw him again, only in the faces of the men she met throughout her life. His face and the imagined image of her father.

It wasn’t until years later that she understood what had gone on between her and her beloved uncle. She never told anyone, not even Celeste. But she always wondered if her mother had known.

A sob lodged in her throat, rose then stuck in the roof of
her mouth, and in a room teeming with people and laughter, she felt utterly alone.

When the two couples returned to the table, Leslie begged off with a “monster headache,” and bid them all good-night.

As she lay in bed that night, she imagined Uncle Frank’s smiling face, the scent of his cologne, and wondered why he never told her about her father, either.

T
he cab drew to a stop in front of Emma’s destination. Throughout the winding ride from the place that had been her home for more than two decades, Emma barely moved, hardly blinked as the landscape—and what semblance of her life remained—became smaller and more distant.

The only image she could conjure in her mind’s eye was Michael as he’d watched her leave. As she’d walked toward the waiting car, she’d prayed that she would hear his voice calling after her, his footsteps on her heels. And she would turn, and he would be there, tall and still incredibly handsome, with a glimmer of hope in his sea-blue eyes, and he would tell her to come inside out of the rain and they would work it out. Somehow they would work it out.

He didn’t. And the cab pulled away and she watched the house until she couldn’t see it anymore and she knew that her
life was over. She had no one to blame but herself and the choice she’d made all those many years ago. A choice that haunted her mother, Cora, then her daughter, Parris, and destroyed the one person who’d ever made her happy. Michael. Yet, her choice had been made for her before her tainted birth.

“Madame? Madame?”

Emma turned in confusion to see the driver peering at her from the opened passenger door.

“This is the address, madame. We are here.”

Her chest constricted. Here. “Yes, thank you,” she mumbled and reached for her carry bag and purse on the seat next to her.

The driver extended his hand and helped her out.

She dug in her wallet and handed him his payment. Her bags were on the curb. Her knees weakened.

“Madame!” He grabbed her arm to steady her. “Are you all right? Should I call someone?”

Emma drew in gulps of air as her head began to clear. Rain splattered her face. “There’s no one to call,” she said almost to herself. “Thank you,” she added absently. She walked the few steps to the front door and the driver came behind her and placed her bags at her feet then hurried back to his cab.

For several moments she stood on the porch listening to the sound of the rain hitting the roof, bouncing off the sidewalk and sluicing in between the cobblestone paths. She was still standing there when the door suddenly swung open and a young woman jumped back and gasped in surprise.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I did not hear the bell.” She held a bag of trash in her hand. “Come in,
s’il vous plâit.
” She dropped the trash in the can. “Can I help you with those?”

Emma numbly glanced at her bags. “Yes,” she whispered.

The young woman grabbed up the bags and hurried inside. “I do apologize for having you stand out in the rain. I was in back.” She led the way in with a suitcase in each hand and set them down beside the front desk.

“Now,” she said on a breath, a smile blooming on her peaches-and-cream face.

Her shoulder-length hair was the color of a summer sunset, brilliant red with flecks of gold. She would always have to shield her delicate skin from the sun to keep the inherent freckles at bay, Emma distractedly thought.

“How can I help you? Do you have a reservation?”

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Well, you are in luck,” she continued in the same cheery tone. “We have three vacancies. Do you know how long you will be staying with us?”

She couldn’t think. She didn’t know. A day. A week. Forever. “Ahh, perhaps a few days.” She gripped the edge of the counter.

The young woman opened the register to the current date and turned it to face Emma. “If you would sign in for me, please.” She handed Emma a pen. “We still do things the old-fashioned way,” she said by way of explaining the handwritten register.

Emma took the pen, printed and then wrote her signature.

The young woman turned the book around and read the name. “Emma Travanti.”

Emma could do no more than nod.

“Welcome, Madame Travanti. My name is Franchesca. I’m here for the weekend. Should you need anything do not hesitate to call on the room phone. Would you prefer a view of the mountains or the pool?”

“Whichever is fine,” she said in a threadbare voice.

Franchesca looked at her curiously. “Are you ill, madame? You are very pale.”

“I…just need to rest. It’s been a long day,” she said, forcing energy into her voice.

Franchesca hesitated. The last thing she was prepared to handle was a sick guest. “Will you be paying by credit card or cash?”

“Cash.”

Franchesca told her the first night must be paid in full and she would receive a bill daily until her departure. “We believe that our guests are all trustworthy. But just in case they aren’t, I will need to hold your passport, credit card or driver’s license until you check out.” She smiled sweetly.

Emma opened her purse and handed over her passport.

“I’ll put this in the safe and then I will show you to your room.”

Emma had stopped listening to Franchesca’s chatter as they walked up to the second floor and she was taken to her room. She’d tuned out the chirpy monologue about the room’s attributes, meal times and the history of the inn. All she wanted was her husband back and she knew that was an impossibility. Anything short of that was just going through the motions.

Finally, Franchesca closed the door behind her, and Emma found herself alone. She went to the window and drew back the drapes. The sun, which had barely made an appearance all day, had begun its final descent. The overcast sky was ringed in a smoky gray with hints of orange as if something in the foggy distance was on fire. The unrelenting rain made everything look as if it were being viewed through a prism.

She stood there, the ache so deep her chest heaved under the weight of the pain bringing her to her knees. Curled inside herself the sob bloomed in a mushroom cloud spewing out the
anguish that roiled within her. Deep, wrenching cries shook her slender frame like a rag doll thrown into a storm. She cried for her loss. She cried for the lie she had lived. She cried for the love of a mother who she never allowed herself to know. She cried for her husband. And she cried for the child she’d abandoned for a life of happiness that was now a thing of the past. She cried until she was spent and weak. Huddled in the corner in a strange room, exhaustion finally rescued her. Her fitful sleep became filled with images of time gone by and everything she had done since that fateful day at the river had led her to this moment…

She’d been angry with her mother, Cora, and had stormed out of the house, seeking refuge at her favorite place, the flat rock just beyond the riverbank. Why did she always feel this way, so angry and so lonely? she’d thought. And there was no one to share her thoughts, answer her questions about herself, tell her how to be happy
.

One day she would just get away from this place, she vowed, as she stared out across the gentle ripple of the water. She’d get away and make a new life and forget all about Rudell and the people in it
.

The sound of a car coming down the uneven road drew her attention. She craned her long, milky neck to see who was coming. The car drew closer and came to a stop. A white man, dressed in a good-looking blue suit with a black fedora cocked over his eyes, stepped out of the car. Instantly she was on guard as a rush of fear scurried along her limbs. White folks didn’t come to these parts, and when they did it usually meant trouble. She sat perfectly still
.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He politely tipped his hat
.

She blinked in confusion
. Ma’am.
“Ye-yes sir.”

“I was hoping you might direct me toward the highway. I was on my way to Biloxi for the night and got turned around somehow.” He laughed lightly.

Slowly Emma stood. “If you stay on this road, you’ll see a fork. Stay to the left and you’ll find the highway.”

He smiled gratefully. “Thank you, miss. Last place I want to be is lost in these woods after dark.” He looked around nervously and chuckled. He gazed at her for a moment, angled his head to the side. “Pretty thing like you needs to be getting home, too. You know how these Negroes are, see a pretty, white woman—” He let his voice drift off, but his meaning was clear. “Hate to see anything happen to you. I’d be happy to give you a lift into town.”

Emma tried to make sense of what this white man was saying to her. White woman. Pretty, white woman. She couldn’t respond.

He stepped closer and took off his hat; his sandy brown hair glistened in the waning light. He was almost tall, slender in a rangy sort of way, and young—no older than her, she’d guessed.

“Miss, are you all right?”

Emma snapped to attention. Her mouth trembled into a smile. “Yes. Fine, sir.” She bobbed her head.

“Name’s Hamilton. Elliot Hamilton.”

“Emma. Ma-McKay.” Her heart sounded like thunder.

“Pleasure, Miss McKay.” He stuck out his hand, which she tentatively shook. “The offer is still open.”

“Offer?”

“For the ride—into town. Are you sure you’re all right, miss? You look flushed.”

Emma touched her cheek. “No, I’m fine. Just the heat.” She looked straight at him, just to see if she could. No slap came, no flurry of curses, just a curious smile. “Thank you for the offer. But I’ll be fine. I—I’m waiting…on a friend.”

Elliot looked around then checked his gold watch. “I’d wait with you just to be certain you stay safe until your friend arrives, but I really need to be moving on.”

Her chest heaved in and out. “It’s fine. Really. Thank you.”

He put his hat back on and slid his fingers along the brim. “You be careful out here.”

Emma nodded.

He turned then stopped. “I guess you hear this all the time, but…you sure do have the prettiest green eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Emma felt her face heat. She arched her chin just a bit but wanted to hide her face, so unaccustomed was she to compliments. “Thank you…Mr. Hamilton.”

He tipped his hat. “My pleasure.” He returned to his car and drove off.

Emma watched the car until it disappeared in a cloud of dust. Her knees began to wobble and her entire body trembled. She reached behind her for the rock and lowered herself down.

Her thoughts tumbled over each other like a cascade of rocks kicked from the top of a hillside. She raised a shaky hand to her face, ran it over the smooth skin. She touched her hair, stuck her hands out in front of her and stared at them. She gazed down the road where the white man had gone. And for the first time in her eighteen years of life, she felt the inklings of hope.

She’d returned home, ignoring Cora’s offer of dinner on the table. Instead she ran up to her room, stood in front of the mirror and slowly took off her clothes. Inch by inch she examined her body in the reflection with new eyes; the smooth pink-and-white skin, firm breasts with round, pink nipples, tight, flat stomach and narrow waist, the patch of hair that was as silky as the hair on her head, tapering down to long legs and thin ankles. Her excitement mounted. A slow smile crept across her face and brightened her eyes. With a toss of her head she stared boldly back at herself. “Yes. Yes. Yes,” she uttered in a tremulous whisper.

That evening on the rock of the Left Hand River, a door opened for her. A chance was there for the taking. And stand
ing in front of her bedroom mirror she made a decision that altered the lives of everyone she knew, past, present and future. Once she set out on that path there was no turning back. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to.

Living the life of a white woman, in New York City, away from the scorn-filled eyes of the Rudell townfolk, had finally brought her some measure of happiness. It brought her respect, recognition. Not the nasty stares of her youth, the snickers behind her back when she walked the streets of Rudell, a mother that couldn’t look her in the eye, a life of loneliness and heartache. Living a lie had brought her Michael…

He’d walked into her then place of employment, Meridian Real Estate, like a hero from a movie. When she’d looked up and saw him standing in the doorway something inside of her stirred. A sudden rush of heat flowed through her veins, and her heart beat a little faster. Michael Travanti, her future, stood in front of her dressed in full army uniform. He’d swept his cap from his head, uncovering inky black hair that glistened beneath the overhead lights. Even the standard buzz cut looked appealing on him. He was of medium height, not much taller than her, but his ramrod-straight regal bearing gave him the appearance of a towering knight—strong and invincible. His uniform coat spread snuggly across his shoulders, the sharp creases in his slacks, even and severe, fell just above highly polished black boots. One couldn’t help but admire the angular structure of Michael’s patrician face. Perhaps not considered classically handsome by many, there was a warmth and pleasantness about his Roman nose, rugged, square jaw, prominent cheeks, wide mouth and warm olive complexion. What set him apart, for her, were his striking Mediterranean blue eyes that seemed to take in everything around him
.

“May I help you?” she finally said
.

“I hope so.”

He’d been commissioned to the army office in New York, he’d said, and was in search of an apartment, which Emma was happy to help him find
.

And so it began, the start of a romance that surprised them both with its power, its durability, its joys.

Michael met Emma after work each evening and took her to picture shows, dinner or maybe just a walk along the brightly lit avenues. He bought her flowers, boxes of chocolates, embroidered handkerchiefs with her initials. He was the gardener tending to a field that had been left fallow. His tenderness, laughter and easy way of giving showered down upon the parched wasteland of Emma’s soul, spreading its nurturing waters until she bloomed day by day. His touch clipped the thorns from her heart that kept people at bay. His smile was the sunshine that strengthened her belief that she was worthy.