What Mother Never Told Me (4 page)

You could almost hear the raucous laughter over the sound of clinking glasses and the four-piece combo; smell the scent of expensive perfumes and manly colognes, accenting the well-heeled crowd. The long necks arched in laughter while thick fingers sought soft skin and a chance for a little more with the right turn of phrase…
you sure look good tonight
…and a glass of something warm and dark…
another one for the lady
…to wash it down easy.

Nick drifted through the space, absorbing the memories, the melody, not seeing the disrepair or the angst of what was, but what he knew it could be.

Celeste started toward him. “There’s a full kitchen in the back and a large storage room. And as I mentioned the price is right. With renovations this could be a treasure. And—”

He held up his hand to stop her talk and approach. He wanted to do this alone, not distracted by the practiced come-on, but seduced by things she couldn’t possibly see or know.

Celeste, pink-faced, stopped in midstep. She knew she sounded naive but she did believe that in the right hands and with enough work this forgotten wasteland could really be something.

“How many people have you shown this to?” Parris asked as Nick disappeared in the back.

Celeste hitched her purse higher up on her shoulder. “Mr. Hunter is only the second one,” she admitted. “The first guy never got past the entrance. He took one look and walked away.” She sputtered a nervous laugh, her cheeks warming. “I’m still kind of new at this,” she confessed.

“Although it’s not my decision to make, I agree with you. It has potential.”

Celeste brightened. “You really think so?”

Parris cocked a brow and a half smile. “Don’t you?”

Celeste blushed. “Yes, I really think so and I’m sure Leslie would love to get her hands on this place.” She caught herself and looked at Parris. “I mean if he takes it. I don’t want you to think…”

Parris gently placed her hand on Celeste’s shoulder. “Relax.” She bent close. “It’ll be fine.”

A flash of gratitude settled the lines of worry around Celeste’s eyes that allowed Parris to see beyond the armor of her designer suit and the odor of money that held lesser ones at bay, to a vulnerable young woman who was as uncertain about what she was doing as Parris was. The clothes, the car and the practiced attitude of superiority were all part of the elaborate camouflage of one who needed props to help them be somebody. Stripped away of artifice, Celeste Shaw was as ordinary as anyone else.

“Do you live in the city?” Celeste asked,
city
being the euphemism for Manhattan.

“Yes and no.”

Brows rose in query.

“I’m sort of staying with Nick…temporarily until I can find a place.”

“Oh, I see.”

But Parris knew that she didn’t see. No one would. They would all assume that something was going on. That at night they slipped into each other’s bed, shared hot, wet kisses in a tangle of arms and legs, hers spread to give him room. And they’d cry out each other’s names in a language that only they could understand. That’s what everyone would think. And she would look only at the ground when she came out in the
morning barely saying hello to the neighbors who sat in judgment about things they didn’t know.

“Roommates?”

Parris’s neck burned. The heat rose to her cheeks. “Yes, roommates.” She should go find Nick.

“I got the impression it was more than that.”

“Why!” Her voice crested in agitation. “Is it so hard to believe that a man and woman can share a space and not be involved?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything. Sometimes I talk before I think. Bad habit.” She drew in a breath and released her apology. “It’s just that the way you are with each other.” With a short huff she adjusted her bag again as if it had gained weight.

The words were delivered as a statement of fact. An undeniable truth, direct and sincere, leaving Parris no choice but to accept it. In doing so she allowed a seed of trust to take root.

“Why do you say that?”

Celeste glanced up. She looked Parris directly in the eyes, so intensely that Parris took an involuntary step back. “The way you move in unison, but still apart. You’re together and still give each other space. Symbiotic.” The corner of her thin mouth jerked in time to the shrug of her shoulder. “A vibe, that’s all.” She began foraging around in her purse again.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, amusement in each distinct word.

Celeste flushed. “Truthfully? Nothing really. I always start digging in my bag when I’m nervous and blurt out stupid crap that’s none of my business.”

The guileless confession reached down inside Parris and wiggled around between her ribs until she broke out in bot
tomless laughter. The sound was so sudden and alive that it leaped into Celeste’s opened mouth of surprise.

Their laughter rippled and danced the two-step around the overturned chairs and tables, doubling them over from the simple pleasure of it.

“What’s so funny?” Nick looked from one face to the other—both were almost identical in joy.

Their laughter simmered to bursts of bubbles as they sniffed and wiped damp eyes.

“I don’t know,” they said in unison, looked at each other and took up the chorus again.

Nick shook his head. “Some kind of woman thing,” he muttered.

“Ooooh, whew.” Parris dabbed at her damp eyes.

“I haven’t had a good one like that in ages.” Celeste sniffed. “Humph.” She drew in a breath to steady herself then turned her amused gaze on Nick. “What do you think?”

He took a step over to Parris, who was slowly pulling herself together, and looked down at her a moment before sliding his arm possessively around her waist. She gazed up at him, her brows knitted in question. Nick focused on Celeste.

“We’ll take it.”

It took every ounce of self-discipline and years of “coming out” classes and daily admonishments from her mother on proper decorum to keep Celeste from leaping right up in Nick’s arms.

“You’re sure?” she asked instead of something appropriate to the joy of her first sale.

“Yes, very sure.”

Parris’s subtle “I told you so” smile settled the raging butterflies and confirmed that his answer was real and not imagined.

“I’ll get the papers drawn up and give you a call when
they’re ready.” She stuck out her hand. “Congratulations.” She pumped his hand. “It shouldn’t take more than a week.”

“Great.”

Parris leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Congratulations,” she whispered. “I think it’s perfect.”

His gaze dipped into her soul and stirred it. “So do I.”

Celeste stood a bit to the side, watching the exchange, nothing sexual but more intimate than if they’d stripped bare for each other. It was natural and easy and she envied the moment. She and Clinton Avery had been a couple for three years. They were engaged to be married and never in all that time did she ever feel what she felt in Nick and Parris’s presence.

The sudden realization startled her before settling down to an acute sadness. Her life had been spent in the requisite two-parent home. Anything she’d ever wanted was hers for simply being the only daughter of Corrine and Ellis Shaw. Although she’d been showered with clothes, the best education, the right friends, cars and money, affection—at least outward affection—had been missing.

But until now she didn’t know or care. Her parents never touched or passed soft looks between them and she mimicked their life with her own. And it was then that something flared inside her. An emotion so foreign she couldn’t give it a name. She’d never wanted for anything in her life. But she wanted what they had. She wanted to know what it felt like to have someone look at her with adoration—not possession—to hold her as if she might break, not because it looked good on camera. She wanted laughter to bubble up like uncorked champagne, not the artificial sound of practiced humor with delicate hands covering mouths. Laughter like the kind she’d shared with Parris and sometimes Leslie. And she thought perhaps
being with them, that what they had, the magic that she coveted, could be hers, too.

They both turned toward her and the spell was broken. Celeste blinked away the hunger in her eyes and spoke into her purse.

“If you’re done looking around I guess we can go.” She glanced up.

Nick checked his watch. “Wow, I didn’t realize how late it was.” He turned to Parris. “I need to catch up with Sammy. I can drop you off at the apartment if you want.”

Samuel “Sammy” Blackstone was one of Nick’s best friends and a member of the band since its inception. Their years together dated back further than either could remember. They each had a different version of how they’d met that varied with the occasion and the company they were in.

“If you’re in a hurry I can take Parris. If it’s okay,” she said to Parris.

“Sure, if you don’t mind.” Parris offered a smile of surprised gratitude.

“Not a problem.”

They walked out, almost in step.

P
arris settled herself into the lush interior of the Jaguar that still smelled like the showroom. “This was really nice of you to drive me.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m done for today.”

“I’m pretty much on my own, too.”

Celeste flashed her a look as she pulled out into traffic. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

They laughed in time to a Billy Joel tune that Parris realized she liked.

The wind had kicked up a notch and the clouds overhead were thick pearl-gray threats by the time they found a parking spot at Amsterdam Avenue and 110
^th
Street. They stepped out of the cozy warmth of the car and the easy conversation
into the backhand of cold air that lifted skirts and sent cigarette butts flipping and tumbling down the street like untrained acrobats.

Parris pulled the collar of her short wool jacket up around her neck. Even though she’d lived in New York for a few years, she still hadn’t gotten used to the onset of the bitter winters and days so cold that people could actually freeze to death on the street. Those lost souls, whose only source of warmth was the grates that covered the underground railroad, a macabre symbol of freedom in a way that could be as treacherous as lifesaving. Ironic if you thought about it.

Celeste hooked her arm through Parris’s as if they were good old best girlfriends and led her toward Mira’s, a bistro where students from Columbia University hung out between classes.

The heavy glass-and-wood door swooshed closed behind them, securing them in a warm vacuum. Voices buzzed and forks clinked against plates at tables populated by bespectacled and studious types mixed in with those who wandered the halls of ivy simply because they could afford to do so.

The air held the aroma of well-done burgers and fries drowned in ketchup, and there were conversations of politics, unreasonable professors, ski junkets to Aspen, celebrity falls from grace and dreams of summer.

“Stay or go?” a worn-out-looking waitress asked.

“Staying,” Celeste said.

“Right this way.” She led them around the table to a vacant two-seater in the rear, giving them a bird’s-eye view of the comings and goings.

Parris and Celeste shrugged out of their coats and settled into their seats.

The reluctant hostess placed two plastic-coated menus in front of them. “Someone will take your orders shortly.”

Celeste leaned across the table, her voice a pseudo whisper. “The food is much better than the service. I promise. I used to come here when I was an undergrad. Not much has changed.” She opened her menu.

“You attended Columbia?”

Celeste nodded. “Yep. Class of ’02. Barely,” she added with a wink.

“I sense there’s a story behind that.” Parris checked out the menu while waiting for Celeste’s response.

“Let’s just say that my stay at Columbia was checkered at best. I could have been a good student but I didn’t need to be. My parents paid for one of the libraries, the Shaw Research Center.”

Parris’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Hmm. So needless to say many of my professors turned a blind eye to my barely passing grades and missing reports, excessive absences…”

Parris’s sense of perfect pitch registered that the cavalier statement held undertones of melancholy and possibly regret. She angled her head to the side. “Why, Celeste? I mean, so many people would love the chance to go to a university like Columbia.”

Celeste sighed and put down the menu that separated them. “I’ve asked myself that question a million times.” She raised and lowered her shoulders while slowly shaking her head, the combination an outward display of her inner confusion.

“Any answers?”

“What can I get you ladies?” the waitress asked, cutting off Celeste’s response.

“The burgers are the best,” Celeste recommended.

“Fine. I’ll have mine medium well with cheddar cheese and a side of fries.”

“Make that two.”

The waitress picked up the menus with a promise that the wait would not be long.

Parris turned her attention back to Celeste, curious about this woman who had so much and couldn’t care less. She didn’t want to believe that she was like so many that floated through life on a pass and on the backs of those who were truly deserving.

“Tell me why an obviously rich kid is skulking around in depressed neighborhoods peddling property when you could be doing a million other things?” Parris asked, sensing that she wasn’t going to get an answer to her first question.

Celeste reached for the comfort of her purse. “I wanted to do something meaningful.”

Parris arched a brow of doubt. “Then why not work in a shelter, or travel to the Sudan, or build a school or something?”

Celeste huffed. “I do what I do because it makes my parents cringe.” She laughed.

“What? You’re kidding.”

“No. Not at all.” She took a long swallow from her glass of lukewarm water. She glanced at Parris above the rim. “What?”

“Are they that bad?” She couldn’t imagine herself doing something intentionally spiteful to upset Cora or David.

“My parents are the poster children for ‘upper crust.’ Their entire world revolves around appearances and protocol,” she said with disgust.

Parris leaned back. “But you benefit from all of it.”

Celeste didn’t flinch. “I do and I’m not ashamed of it. My family’s money has provided me with things that most people
only read about or see on television. The best schools, clothes, my own car and apartment at eighteen. I’ve always had the right
things
in my life.” Her intense gaze drifted off, her expression settled to one of resignation. She drew in a breath, pushing the images aside, and turned her head slowly toward Parris. She wrapped her hands around her glass. “I suppose in these days of terrorism,” she whispered, “I would be considered a subversive.” She sputtered a light laugh. “Dismantling the system from within so to speak. The system being my family.” She raised the glass, as if in a toast, before finishing off the water.

“You’re serious?”

“Very. Look around you. Look at what’s happening to families, the country. That’s not the doing of those guys on the street corner or the local grocer who can barely make his lease payment just to be able to stock rotten vegetables. Or the family who lost their home and their savings. It’s because of people like Corrine and Ellis Shaw. My family owns several luxury hotels and a string of run-down apartments. They help to keep down the very people they claim to abhor. What I do, trying to bring life back to some of these areas, is to return what the Shaws have taken.”

She spewed her parents’ names with such contempt that Parris almost felt sorry for them, sorry for parents who’d given birth to a child that obviously loathed them or at the very least what they stood for.

“I can’t change every household but I can sure as hell put mine through the ringer. I want to be for my mother and father a shining example of what money can’t buy.”

Celeste tossed her blond hair away from her face and Parris would have sworn she saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes. But Celeste, she was quickly beginning to see, was a master of
disguise. She wondered if Corrine and Ellis had any idea who their daughter really was.

“What about your folks?” Celeste dipped a French fry in a tiny pool of ketchup that she’d meticulously crafted around the rim of her plate that led to thick red rivers surrounding her burger, pickle and coleslaw.

Parris tore her gaze away from the Picasso-like concoction and focused on Celeste. All her life the question that had been asked so many times only required the same practiced answers. My mother gave up her life for me, ’cause she loved me so much. And my daddy couldn’t live without her and disappeared. My Grandma Cora and Granddad David raised me with more love that any one child could ever need.

That was the story she’d told from the time she was old enough to tell it, until she became too old for most folks she ran across to ask or care.

None of the lie was true any longer. She had yet to say the words out loud to anyone besides Granddad and Nick. No one. Not even her best friend Gina, who she’d yet to call and tell of her return.

The letters had a hard time finding their way together to form words that made sense to a stranger. But maybe this stranger, who was a mass of contradictions and misfit pieces, who thrived on comeuppance, would be the one person to understand her rage, her shame and her guilt.

Celeste sipped loudly through her straw, a polite slap in the face to Ms. Manners. “You don’t have to answer. To tell you the truth, I dislike talking about my parents almost as much as I dislike them, period.” She popped an ice cube in her mouth and crunched.

“Actually I believed my mother was dead until about a month ago.”

Celeste stopped chewing. She picked up her napkin and daintily dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “Why?”

That was the question that crept up on her, that sat on her shoulder, whispered in her ear, formed the images of her dreams. It was the question she sought the answer to between the fine lines on the yellowed, cracked pages, in the bottom of the red tin can, on the last fleeting breath that Cora took, in the solace of the church. She’d looked everywhere. Until she finally accepted that any hope for an answer would only be found thousands of miles away.

“It’s what I need to find out.”

“O-kay.” The pendulum of her gaze finally settled and squinted at Parris as if to get her response in line with the image in front of her. “The Shaws paid a small fortune to educate their little girl. I have to brag, I’m no dummy, but I must have missed something.”

Parris tightened her lips in contemplation. She’d already said enough to have the question remain a lingering epitaph to whatever relationship they may or may not forge. She was bound to run into Celeste again, even if only in her thoughts.

She began slowly revealing as much as she could from the fragments of letters, and her grandmother’s halting words, to mesh with what she’d always imagined.

Celeste remained attentively silent while Parris spoke, carried along by the filaments of hope and wistful longing that strung together the painful tale of rejection. As she listened she heard her own story. The story of a girl turned woman, who desperately wanted the love and acceptance of the only person who really mattered. Perhaps together they could find what they sought—meaning for their existence.

“Can I get you anything else?” The waitress hovered, breaking the tenuous bond that had formed.

Identical looks fell upon the inquiring face. “No,” they responded in unison. She dropped the check in the center of the table, which they both ignored.

“What if you can’t find her?” Celeste asked.

Parris settled back into her seat, pushed the remnants of her food around on her plate. “I can’t think that I won’t.”

The intensity of Parris’s gaze and the strength of her conviction, like magnets, drew Celeste forward. “What if she tells you what you don’t want to hear?”

“Like what?”

“That she chose her way of life over you. Are you prepared for that?”

Parris looked away. It was a question she’d asked herself but never listened for the answer. “I don’t know.”

Celeste placed her hands on the table. Her fingertips pressed into the plastic place mat. “I asked my mother once.”

“Asked her what?”

“Why she didn’t love me.”

Parris’s stomach knotted. “What did she say?”

“She just looked at me with that superior expression, laughed and told me I was being dramatic.”

The pain of rejection fluttered beneath the pale cheeks, drew the lips into a line of resolution and the eyes into wells of acceptance.

Parris reached across the table and stilled the drumming fingers. “Some people find it hard to say how they feel.”

Celeste forced a smile. She tugged in a long breath. “When do you leave?”

“Next week.”

Celeste took her wallet out of her bag. “I hope everything works out for you.” She placed two twenties on top of the bill. “Ready?”

No, not really, she thought. But it was too late now.

“Thanks for lunch,” Parris said once they’d pulled in front of Nick’s apartment building.

Celeste turned halfway in her seat. “I should be thanking you.”

Parris frowned. “For what?”

“For listening to my rants.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “And not saying I was crazy even if you thought so.”

“My grandmother taught me better than that,” she teased.

Their laughter bound them in understanding.

“Hey,” Celeste said softly, her words embraced by uncertainty, “when you get back…and get everything straight with your mother…maybe we can get together.”

“I’d like that,” Parris said without hesitation, pleasantly surprising them both.

Celeste glowed. She dug in her bag for her wallet, pulled out a business card and wrote her cell number on the back. She handed it to Parris. “Call. Whenever you’re ready.”

Parris took the act of friendship and tucked it in her bag. “I will.” She opened the car door and stepped out, then turned back to Celeste. “Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.”

“Me!” she said, feigning offense. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Parris used the spare key that Nick had given her and let herself in. It was so strange walking into his apartment as if she really lived there. Although it had only been one night she felt a comfort in the newness.

She placed the key on the rectangular table beneath the
black-and-white photograph of Miles Davis at the Newport Jazz Festival as she’d noticed Nick do the night before. She didn’t know quite what to make of Celeste Shaw. She was certainly different from anyone she’d met before. And she didn’t think it had anything to do with her being white. Although her limited relationships with white women were relegated to the workplace and on television, it wasn’t that. Celeste Shaw was simply different—in an interesting way. She was an amalgam of contradictions that made her often outrageous declarations all the more fascinating.

Parris shook her head in mild amusement as she took off her coat. Now what to do with herself, she wondered as she walked in the direction of her room. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t sleepy. She turned halfway and went back toward the front where Nick kept all of his stereo equipment and incredible collection of music.