What Mother Never Told Me (6 page)

When she went to bed at night, she’d watch the light beneath
her door blocked by the shadow of his footfalls. “’Night,” he would call out but never come in. “’Night,” she’d reply and wish that he would. He was waiting for a sign from her telling him that it was all right, that she wanted more than the platonic ideal they’d created. She knew that even as she tentatively knocked on his door the night before she was to leave.

Nick opened the door and her heart stopped beating. The air stumbled in her lungs. The darkness of his eyes was that endless stretch of blackness as she fell through the night toward the inevitable. She would survive. Nick would catch her.

“I…”

He took her hand. “Don’t talk. Don’t explain.”

Gently he pulled her inside and shut the door behind them.

Parris awoke not to the strains of Coltrane but the steady beat of Nick’s heart. A flood of peaceful warmth flowed through her, delivering a smile of raw happiness to her mouth. His hard, muscled thigh was draped over her, pinning her to bare flesh. Her senses preened. The air was filled with the scent of them. Heady, muggy, telling.

Nick groaned softly. He nestled her closer. The heat between her thighs pulsed like live wires. She still felt him there, memorized the way he’d loved her—slow, urgent, deep and long. Her muscles hummed with pleasure and as she drifted off to the rhythm of his heart and the warmth of his breath brushing against her hair, she knew why she’d waited.

Parris squeezed Nick’s hand as they walked through the doors of JFK airport. Her flight was due to leave in two hours. She wanted to spend every second of it with him, but that was impossible.

“Sure you have everything—passport, wallet, cell phone, something to read?” he added with a half smile.

“Yes.” She gripped his hand tighter.

“You’ll call me as soon as you land?”

“I promise.” She struggled not to cry.

They were next in line.

“Where will you be flying to today?” the cheery reservationist asked.

Parris swallowed over the sting in her throat. “France.”

“Are you traveling also, sir?”

Nick and Parris exchanged a look filled with a million questions. “No,” he answered.

He curled his arm around her waist and tenderly kissed the top of her head as she handed over her documents and got her boarding pass in return.

They walked together as far as security would allow him to go.

“I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

He brushed her cheek with his fingertips and her eyes fluttered for a moment. “I’ll be waiting.”

Parris joined the security line, glancing back over her shoulder as Nick’s image drew farther away until she couldn’t see him at all. A moment of panic gripped her. What was she doing? This was crazy and impulsive. There was no guarantee that Emma still lived in Paris at the thirty-year-old address. This was a mistake. But like lemmings drawn to the edge, she kept moving until she was walking down the aisle, finding her seat, holding her breath as the world disappeared and she soared into the clouds.

C
eleste turned the key, opening the door to exquisite nothingness. The abyss was alive, traveling along the champagne-toned silk drapes, woven into the threads of the imported Turkish rugs that drew one’s attention to the gleaming teak wood floors, out to the imported antique furniture, upward to the vaulted ceilings. Her emptiness echoed with each footstep, leaving a scent of Chanel in its wake.

Most days the void didn’t consume her. Today wasn’t a sensation, it was a physical weight that draped her shoulders and clung to her ankles, curving her back and sucking her feet into the mire.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, muffling the sound of the phone. It took a moment for her to register the ringing. She dropped her bag on the oxblood leather couch and reached for the phone on the end table. The caller ID highlighted the
number. Briefly she shut her eyes in annoyance, steeled her emotions and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Mother.”

“You would think that with caller ID you could at least pretend to sound happy to hear from me,” Corrine Shaw chastised.

There was no point in debating the issue or insisting that Corrine was wrong. She wasn’t. Celeste opted for silence, her strongest weapon.

“I’m calling to remind you about tomorrow night.”

Celeste fought and failed to contain her sigh.

“It’s important for both you and Clinton to meet these people.”

“Important to who, you and Dad? Not me.”

“You have no idea what’s important.”

Here it comes.

“That’s apparent by this…this job.” Her mother sputtered the word as if she’d eaten dirt. “It’s beneath you. Beneath us. What will my friends say? Of course you don’t care,” she continued, stealing Celeste’s retort. “But I do. Your father does. We have a reputation. This family has a legacy to uphold.”

Begun by your grandfather
, Celeste recited in her mind, rolling her eyes. She’d stopped listening to her mother’s rant. It never changed.
The legacy, the reputation, popular opinion, her disrespect, worthlessness, on and on.

“Celeste!”

Celeste flinched. “Yes?”

“Eight tomorrow. And please be on time.”

“Goodbye, Mother. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up before Corrine could launch into another monologue. The five-minute conversation had successfully drained her of whatever strength she had left.

She took off her shoes and went down the long corridor that featured a Rembrandt, a Picasso and a John Biggers just to piss off her mother.

Maybe a glass of wine and a mindless evening of surfing the cable stations would lift her from her growing malaise.

She should be ecstatic. She’d landed her first deal. The papers were all but signed. Money would change hands soon. She’d finally accomplished something on her own, without the prerequisite of her family name.

Suddenly weary she turned toward her bed and noticed the flashing red light. She pressed the message button and Clinton’s voice reached out through the phone lines.

“I’ll be working late tonight, sweetheart, but I thought I’d stop by, stay over. Call me.”

Next to her mother, her fiancé Clinton was the last person she was in the mood to see. The heavy sigh took what little she had left and dumped her on the bed. She stretched out and stared at the off-white ceiling. She tried to pinpoint when she’d begun to feel so utterly disconnected, her usual fire reduced to soot. She knew Corrine was partly to blame. She had a knack for bringing out the worst in her, which didn’t take much. Corrine also knew how to make her feel like an incompetent child again, one constantly in the throes of a temper tantrum.

But it was more than that. She’d lived within the vise of her mother’s grasp for nearly three decades. She was only able to break free during her college years by getting to know other cultures, different ethnicities, people from all walks of life, something that her grandfather had quietly encouraged, much to her mother’s dismay. She’d often question the credo that her parents and their circle lived by—those that didn’t have, weren’t
worthy of attention. In the minds of the Shaws, wealth was privilege without responsibility. She’d learned how to protect herself from being punctured too deeply by her mother’s caustic tongue. So it wasn’t that. What she’d begun to realize during the past few days was that this engulfing sensation of doubt about the validity of her life and her own happiness had come into question again after meeting Parris McKay and Nick Hunter. What she saw in them was a possibility that she’d never imagined, a realness that for her entire existence had eluded her.

Over the years, she’d thrown stones at the glass window of her wealth and status, from her choice of friends to working a real job. She hadn’t walked away from the shards of glass but pretended to walk over them, like some mystic traversing a bed of nails and not getting hurt. But she had been hurt, little by little, and as she was diminished her resentment at herself grew. Resentment over her weakness to leave behind the things she professed to deplore. She was trapped by the trappings, and the fear of what life would be like without them held her in place.

When she met Nick and Parris she also met an unrecognizable part of herself—envy, an emotion that never before had a place in her life. She wanted what they had and she wanted Parris’s courage to face the unknown.

She had neither. That realization was at the core of her current state of ambivalence. Until she found the way and the will to combat it she’d continue to dance off beat to their music.

The doorbell rang at ten. Since Celeste had arrived home she’d gone through the rituals of preparing for Clinton’s arrival. When she opened the door she transformed into the only Celeste that he knew.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He leaned down from his six-foot height and kissed her briefly on the lips, before breezing inside.

Clinton Avery was the only son of William and Phyllis Avery, heir to a multimillion dollar fortune built on oil and shipping that dated back three generations. Clinton, like Celeste, had been groomed in the world of “better than.” His education had been mapped out before he was born. When William and Phyllis decided the time was right for a child, they’d begun the application process to all of the elite nursery schools in the city. Nothing would ever be too good for their child. It never was. Up to and including forging an alliance with his golf and country club buddy Ellis Shaw and the promise they’d made to each other on the eighteenth hole to wed their children and secure their fortunes.

And Clinton reeked of Ivy League privilege from the cut of his naturally blond hair and his tailored Italian suits, down to the spit polish of his wingtips. Clinton, easily mistaken for a young Robert Redford or a Brad Pitt of
Troy
fame, was, if nothing else, good to look at. He was highly versed in the most obscure facts, which would make him an ideal candidate for
Jeopardy!
, but of course that wasn’t becoming of an Avery. His family’s inherent snobbishness was inextricably tied to old Connecticut money, the musty smell an aphrodisiac to the nouveau riche. However, beneath the expensive suits and two-hundred-dollar haircuts, and a zealous belief that money can buy you everything, he was really a good guy. And all the money he spent on mastering the art of tantric sex was worth his company.

They’d been officially seeing each other for three years. In their world of rarified air, “seeing each other” meant that you’d been photographed by the press, seen at all the major
events together and shared a secret getaway that all the right people knew about. When asked if “you’re an item,” you look at each other adoringly and say “no comment.” The goal, of course, was not to quell curiosity but to stoke it.

Her best friend, Leslie, barely tolerated Clinton “and his ilk,” although she barely tolerated anyone. But according to her, Clinton was too full of his own nonimportance.

“I’m bushed.” Clinton loosened his tie, dropped his briefcase in the foyer and went straight for the bar. “Bitch of a day,” he groused, moving bottles to find the cognac, his drink of choice. “Fix you one?” He held up a short tumbler in question.

“No, thanks.”

“Do you know that in less than a decade the white race will be the minority?” He tossed down a deep swallow and she watched his cheeks glow from the inside. His lips pursed.

Celeste knew that the question, like most of Clinton’s questions, was rhetorical. He simply phrased his statements as questions to give one the impression of being included in the conversation.

“Hmm,” she murmured before staking out her spot on the couch. Clinton loved making love on the couch. It was almost as if he considered it somehow decadent. She watched his sea-blue eyes darken as he approached her. “I saw on the news that the market took another dive.”

He nodded. His jaw clenched. “A bloody mess.” He took another swallow of his drink and sat down beside her. His hand caressed her bare thigh. “Things are bad all over. Even with all of our diversification we’ve already been hit hard.” His hand inched higher.

Celeste allowed her mind to wander while Clinton prattled on about futures and industrial averages. She had no intention
of interrupting him as long as he was making every nerve ending of her body jump and sizzle. She couldn’t conceive of being without. It didn’t factor into her train of thought. But she sensed more than heard Clinton’s deep fears of impending doom. His touch, which had been featherlight and electrifying, had become tight and tense with unspoken urgency.

Her gaze settled on him and she saw the tight line of worry that crossed his brow right between the silken locks of hair that dappled his forehead. Clinton was not one to worry about much of anything. Like her he’d been born into wealth and privilege. However, where they differed was that he was deeply invested in the future of his fortune. She simply accepted that hers would always be there. But seeing the distant look in his eyes, and succumbing to the unfamiliar pressure of his touch, perhaps it was time that she paid more attention.

At some point they’d made it to Celeste’s bedroom and while she listened to his soft snores of satisfaction, she stared out at nothingness. Sex with Clinton was the one worthwhile perk of their relationship. Tonight even that fell short and she had no idea why. Her feelings of disconnect had invaded her last refuge.

Clinton turned on his side, burying his head in the curve of her neck. She smiled. He was sweet and charming, smart and rich, and from everything that he said and did, he loved her.

Of course, she’d told him as much herself, and at times she almost believed it. But Celeste had no idea what real love felt like, what it looked like. She imagined it was what she saw on television and in the movies and between Parris and Nick. It was an aura, an energy that couldn’t be manufactured.

What was that like? Clinton draped his arm across her waist. She closed her eyes and ran a rapid-fire movie of her life with
Clinton, waiting for the spark, that feeling in the center of her being. The movie drifted off without fanfare, without applause, and she’d felt nothing. She needed to know and it suddenly frightened her to think that she may never find out.

The muscles in her stomach clenched and the overwhelming urge to push Clinton to the floor and scream at the top of her lungs was so overwhelming that she trembled. The nerves beneath her skin popped and vibrated. Her heart raced and heat engulfed her. Clinton moaned, turned on his side and away from her. She drew in a strangled breath of freedom.

Tossing the covers aside she eased out of the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, shutting the door in silence. She leaned against the door, pressed her fist to her mouth and wept.

Celeste braked her Jag at the red light on Lenox Avenue. She pressed speed dial on her cell phone, which was mounted on the dashboard. The phone trilled.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Leslie.”

“You just caught me.”

Celeste could hear Leslie huffing and wished that she would do something about the extra weight.

“I have to meet a client in about twenty minutes and I’m running late. Another bad morning.”

Celeste knew what she meant without having to ask for an explanation. Leslie Evans lived with her mother, Theresa—or rather Theresa lived with her daughter—after Theresa had suffered a stroke a year earlier. The dynamics between mother and daughter had always been strained and this most recent alteration in their relationship put it at the breaking point.

“Have you heard from Nick Hunter?”

“No, should I have?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s going to contact you.”

“You got it!”

“Yes.” She laughed. The light turned green and she moved across the intersection.

“Oh, Celeste, congrats. I’m so happy for you. I knew you could do it. What did Clinton say?”

Her buoyant mood spiraled back down with a crash. “I didn’t tell him.”

“Cel…” She sighed, heavily. “Anyway, we’ll talk. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Not tonight. Mother has arranged one of her ‘festive’ gatherings.”

They both snorted their disgust. Neither of them would ever forget the disastrous night that Celeste convinced Leslie to come to one of the Shaws’ gatherings. She hadn’t wanted to go, swore she didn’t have anything to wear. Celeste would not be deterred and took Leslie shopping. When they walked in, heads and eyes turned in their direction. The entire evening was filled with condescending questions and comments from where a woman of her size did her shopping, what her parents did for a living, where she had her hair done, to the appalling revelation that Leslie didn’t summer in the Hamptons, but rather Coney Island or not at all.

Leslie had never been so humiliated or furious in her life. Celeste was mortified. Needless to say, Leslie made her excuses, claiming a headache, and left early. Celeste spent the next week trying to make it up to her friend, until Leslie clearly informed her that her family and friends were pompous assholes, but she wouldn’t hold it against her if she swore never to invite her to anything like that again.

“Try to get through it.”