What Mother Never Told Me (18 page)

Celeste’s cheeks flushed for a minute as her eyes lit with surprise and a hint of admiration. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Parris tossed her a sharp look of annoyance. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Celeste sat up straighter. “You just come across as this reserved, not an ugly thought ever passed through your head type of person.”

“You don’t know anything about me, who I am, what I’ve had to deal with. I know what it feels like to be dismissed, not considered a person of value.” Images of her mother standing in front of her house flashed in her head. Her stomach fluttered.

“I think we’ve all had a dose of that,” Leslie chimed in.

“Have you ever been scared, Parris? I mean deep down in your gut terrified. Scared to let go of everything that’s familiar, even as much as you hate it? Knowing that the decision you make will change your life forever?” Celeste’s voice shook. “It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down, and if your parachute doesn’t open the landing is going to be really ugly. That’s how I feel about Sam.”

For a moment they remained silent, each caught up in their own worlds of personal angst.

“I feel like that every day,” Leslie said quietly. Her gaze jerked toward the hallway where her mother’s room was. “Each morning I wake up with this knot in the pit of my stomach, a sensation of foreboding. My heart races and I go to my mother’s room with a sense of hope and dread. Part of me wants it to be over. The other part dreads that it will be. When I see that she’s still breathing, those two parts war with each other. Every day. Every day.” She drew in a shaky breath.

“My mother and I have never had a mother/daughter relationship. We co-existed together when I was a child and I always felt that she put up with me only because she had to. I
wanted her to look at me—” Leslie turned to each of them “—I mean really look at me. Love me, tell me that I was special and important, that I could be anything I wanted to be.” She shook her head. “It was almost as if by withholding her love and affection she could somehow punish me for being here.” Her lips tightened. Her nostrils flared. “For being a reminder of my father, who she has refused to tell me about. Ever!” She sputtered a nasty laugh. “Not even his name.” Her dark brown eyes lit with hurt and anger. “You know what’s on my birth certificate under father? Nothing. Blank.” Her neck arched and her laughter was filled with scorn.

“I was so hungry for someone to love me, to care about me that—” her brow creased “—that I welcomed Uncle Frank’s…touch.” In anguished fits and starts she spilled out the memories of her uncle and how she blamed her mother when he stopped coming around, and how she’d tried to find what she’d lost in food, something that would always be there to comfort her.

“Les, you were a kid, and what he did wasn’t right. He molested you,” Celeste said, squeezing her hand. “You have to know that.”

Leslie sniffed. What he’d done to her changed her forever; the way she felt about herself, relationships, intimacy. For that she would never forgive him. “I blame her for that, too. It would have never happened if she’d been a real mother.”

“Does she know what happened? Did you ever say anything to her?” Parris asked.

Leslie shook her head. “No. I’ve never told anyone what happened.”

“Until recently,” Parris said quietly, turning to Leslie to share what she’d told Celeste, “I believed my mother was dead.”

E
mma gathered her things and meticulously folded each item before depositing them in her suitcase. In the time that she’d spent with Marie, talking about life and the decisions she’d made, she’d slowly come to accept that she could no longer hide behind the guise she’d created, the imaginary life she’d lived for so long. It had ruined everything she’d struggled to attain, leaving her with nothing but her conscience. She’d tried to take the easy way out and even that had resulted in ruin. She’d attempted to reach Michael several times in the weeks that she’d spent at the inn. He’d refused her calls.

“You’re making the right decision,” Marie said quietly from her perch on the side chair. “We all must reconcile at some point with our lives.”

“I know that now.” She closed the suitcase and looked at the woman who’d become her savior, her mentor and her friend
in a few short weeks. “Things will never be the same for me, but as my mother tried to do before she died, make things right, it’s what I must do as well. For the sake of my daughter. She deserves that much. At least if I am not forgiven in this lifetime—” she glanced at Marie “—perhaps in the next,
oui?
”

Marie smiled. “It is what we all hope for.” Slowly she stood. “I am terrible with goodbyes. First your daughter and now you. Fate.” She walked over to Emma and held her in a tight embrace. “My doors are always open to you,” she said against her cheek. “I wish you well, Emma Travanti.” She stepped back, seeing the images of mother and daughter merge and switch places. “Marc will drive you.”

Emma sniffed, reluctant to leave the sanctuary that had embraced and healed her, yet she knew that she must. “Thank you,” she said, her voice swaying with emotion. “For everything.”

Marie bobbed her head once, turned and left Emma with her thoughts and her impending future.

It was nearly eight by the time Parris and Celeste said reluctant goodbyes to Leslie. Save for several of Theresa’s bell ringing interruptions, the trio had spent the better part of the afternoon into evening peeling away the layers of their lives, amidst tears, laughter, shame, anger and hope. After Leslie’s admission of what happened to her as a child, the dam burst and the waters of all of their sorrows, hopes, dreams and fears rushed out, unchecked and unstoppable. Their confessions weren’t prompted by tongue-loosening alcohol or the hourly rate of a therapist, dares or one-upmanship, but rather a sense of solidarity; a knowledge that they were not alone because there was someone who understood for having walked in their shoes.

“I really didn’t mean what I said about the white-girl thing,” Parris said as they rode along the darkened streets to Nick’s place.

“Sure you did,” Celeste said on a light note. “And you know what—” she glanced at Parris “—it’s fine. Made me think about a few things and what it must look like from the outside. If I were you I would have thought the same thing. Probably would have said something much worse.” She laughed. “But,” she added, blowing out a breath, “I really think that if given the chance we could have something.”

“Despite your family’s values?”

She hesitated a moment. “If Sam is willing to wing it with a disowned, poor white chick from the Upper East Side that’s really cute, we may be able to work something out.”

They chuckled.

“Do you really think your parents would disown you?”

“Absolutely.”

“What would you do?”

“Guess I’d really have to work this real estate thing.”

Parris shook her head in amusement at Celeste’s apparent cavalier attitude, which she’d come to learn was merely a front for a young woman who was a real mess underneath, as they all were.

They pulled up in front of Nick’s building. Celeste cut the engine.

“You want to come up? Sam may still be there.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said. “Not quite ready to see him in the real world yet. Besides I’m still supposed to be brokenhearted over Clinton. Remember?”

“What
are
you going to do about that?”

She reached for the safety net of her purse and began rooting
around inside. “Nothing to do but move on. The thing between me and Clinton was always more about what everyone else wanted. We’re both better off.” She shrugged her shoulder. “Once the dust settles I’m sure it will be fine. And the circle of vultures will find some other morsel of gossip to feed off of.” She turned in her seat to face Parris. “What about you? Are you ready to let go and move on?”

“I have to, I suppose. I know it’s going to take time for the sting to go away, for the images to get so dim I can’t make them out. For me to find a way to forgive my grandmother for lying to me for all those years.” She drew in a breath and let it go.

“But she tried to make it right—in the end.”

Parris nodded. “Yes…she did.” She paused a moment as Cora’s face floated before her eyes. “I miss her,” she said in a faraway voice.

Celeste patted Parris’s thigh. “You’ll be fine. You have a great guy, a career in front of you, your grandfather who loves you and two new friends who are just as screwed up as you are,” she added with a short laugh.

Parris chuckled. “That last part is definitely true.” She unfastened her seat belt and opened the door. “Want me to pass a message to Sam if I see him?”

Celeste tipped her head to the side. “I think I’ll give him a call. See if he’s free tomorrow.”

Parris’s brows rose. “Sounds like you may be on the road to recovery.”

She grinned. “We’ll see.”

Parris followed the sound of running water when she came into the apartment and found Nick in the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey, babe. The fellas just left.”

She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her head on his broad back. “Had a good session?”

“Hmm-hmm.” He turned off the water, dried his hands on a towel hanging over the sink and turned around. He braced Parris’s slender form between his hard thighs. “What about you? How was your ladies only afternoon?” He kissed the tip of her nose.

She looked up at him and saw the light of endless possibility in his gaze if she would only give it a real chance, and to do that she, too, would have to move on. “Eye-opening.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

She nodded. “I think so. Celeste and Leslie are very complicated women.”

“Uh, speaking of Celeste, she say anything about Sam?”

“Anything like what?” she hedged.

“Anything about anything.”

She wasn’t going to be the first one to give up the goods. “We talked about a lot of things. His name came up once or twice.”

He watched her hard-fought expression of innocence with the practiced eye of a musician who knows his audience. And unless he gave the audience what it wanted they’d never give up the applause. “Okay, fine. He told me all about them, that he’d been up at her place for the past two days. I’m still in shock.”

“I know,” she now confessed.

And like two high schoolers, they tossed pieces of information back and forth until they had a complete picture. The bottom line was, Sam and Celeste seemed to really like each other.

“Do you think it can work?” Parris asked Nick as they plopped down in front of the television.

Nick shrugged. “Hey, anything is possible. Sam seems serious.”

“You know her family is stinking rich,” Parris said, leaning up against his side with her feet tucked beneath her.

“Really?”

“On both sides of the family.”

“Maybe Sam really did luck out,” Nick chuckled.

“Well, according to Celeste, if and when her parents ever find out they’d cut her off from the family fortune without blinking an eye.”

Nick turned his head toward her and frowned. “You have got to be kidding me. Not because he’s black?”

Parris bobbed her head.

“In this day and age?”

“The only line they are crossing is from the east side to the west side. Apparently, the melting pot of society has nothing to do with the Shaws of New York.”

“Damn, sounds like a bad reality TV show.”

Parris snickered and lightly smacked his thigh. She pointed the remote at the television and surfed for a movie.

They finally settled for one in progress about a young girl who looks white but has a black mother and how she grows up to want the life of the white family in whose house she lives and realizes that she can pass, scorning and disowning her mother, who’d sacrificed everything for her daughter.

As the movie drew to its heartbreaking conclusion, for the very first time, Parris caught a glimpse of the dynamics that may well have existed between her grandmother and her mother.

“My mother looks white.”

Nick didn’t breathe for a second, not wanting anything to distract her from the words she’d been holding on to since her return.

“My grandfather is not my natural grandfather at all. He’s not my mother’s father. Some other man is. A white man that gave us our green eyes. She has green eyes, too. Much more striking than mine.” She pressed her fist to her mouth. “I should have known. How could I not have known the instant I saw her?” she went on, her tone self-accusatory. “I sat across from her in her restaurant. She talked to me, asked me questions and I didn’t know. I felt something but I didn’t know what.” She drew in a shaky breath, her jaw working back and forth forming the words, reliving the moment. “But when I saw her in front of her house…I knew. And she realized that I did. The whole scene seemed to play out in slow motion, like it was happening to someone else. I felt sick inside. My heart started racing and I thought I was going to faint. I saw panic in her eyes. She didn’t want him to know. And he stood there looking stunned and confused. Then he called her name.
Emma
. He looked from me to her. And I knew she’d never admit who I was. Not then, not ever. I would always be her dirty secret. So I ran back to the cab before I was sick all over their perfect lawn.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Nick drew her close, let her cry. She’d been back for weeks and this was the first time she’d actually told him what had happened. That one moment that redefined her life.

After some time had passed, he asked her about the man. “Who was he?”

“I don’t know.” She sniffed. “I got the sense that he may have been her husband or lover. I don’t know.”

“Could it have been your father?”

Parris sat up, moved out of his protective hold. She vigorously shook her head. “Couldn’t be.”

“Why not? Did your grandmother ever talk about your father?”

“No.” She frowned, trying to recall any mention of her father in the dusty letters that she’d been given or in those final conversations with her grandmother.

“It’s possible, Parris. If your mother spent her entire adult life living as a white woman, I’m sure she married a white man—who could very well be your father. In all these years she’s never admitted that she was your mother, chances are she never told him about you, either.”

“But…but if he is my…father, how could he not know he has a child?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I just don’t know.”

Then the jarring thought struck her. “Or maybe he knew, too.” She arched her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, God…maybe he always knew.”

Michael sat in the outer office of Marcel Dominique. He’d debated for several weeks about what course of action he should take. He’d been so emotionally wounded by Emma’s treachery that he’d been unable to think clearly. He’d met with his attorney earlier that morning to begin the process of reviewing all of his assets, their joint finances and what deeds they shared. He needed to sever his ties with Emma, and coming to that final decision was more agonizing than the months he spent in a German prisoner-of-war camp.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept for the full night or what meal he’d eaten. Vivienne was fearful for him and insisted that he see a doctor. He looked ill, she’d said as she tried unsuccessfully to offer him soup, his favorite shrimp salad, steak, tea, or crackers as he sat for hours on end staring out the
window. His employees at the vineyard had stopped by to check on him as he hadn’t been to work or called in, and they were appalled at his haggard appearance.

It wasn’t until today, nearly a month since Emma moved out, that he’d reached for what reserve he had left to begin the ugly business of putting an end to a chapter in his life. He still ached for her. At the oddest times he’d swear he heard her laughter. Her scent still lingered in the rooms that they’d shared so he’d sequestered himself to his study. Anytime he closed his eyes, day or night, her face would emerge, so he fought sleep. Like an amputee, he knew he’d lost a limb yet the sensation of it being there persisted. He still reached for the empty space until he was sure he would go mad. Until today.

After waking once again in the chair by the window, he had his first moment of clarity in weeks and he knew it would be his only salvation. Weak from exhaustion and lack of food, he forced himself to bathe, dress and arrange for the car to take him to his attorney’s office. It was a grueling two hours of talking about things he didn’t want to discuss, but the very act of reclaiming some semblance of his life helped him to put one foot in front of the other.

So here he waited.

The office door opened. A tall, well-built man with soft brown eyes, dressed in a navy suit, stood in the doorway. “Mr. Travanti, please come in. I am sorry to have you wait.” His pencil-thin mustache moved as he spoke. “Some clients never want to end a phone conversation.”

Michael stood up slowly and walked to the open door and inside. They shook hands.

“Please, have a seat.”

The office was small and tight. Every wall was filled with
books and memorabilia and the very large desk took up much of the available floor space. But rather than a feeling of claustrophobia, Mr. Dominique’s office had a lived-in, comfortable feel that put one at ease.

He went behind his desk and sat, folding his long thin fingers together. “Now, how can I help you?”

Michael withdrew a thick envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on Mr. Dominique’s desk. “I need you to find someone and give this to them.”