Scarlet Redemption

by Lani Wendt Young

  Beyonce made it sound easy. Possible. Doable. I didn’t share her positivity. Because when a man like Jackson offers you the world, and you politely say no thanks? The world doesn’t give you a second chance at that. The fact that I even got a first chance at that is crazy ridiculous in and of itself.

  With every passing day though, I am kicking myself more as I second-guess my breakup with Jackson. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. The noble, morally upstanding thing to do. The choice that heroes in artsy Oscar-winning movies make all the time, where she walks away from her one true love because she’s too damaged to love the way he deserves…or because she has to sacrifice herself and save the world instead…or because she knows he would be happier and better off with someone else. And then everybody dies tragically.

  Fuck I hate those movies. They suck.

  My Aunties Amalia and Mareta are loving my news. They insist I give them an entire signed set of all my books and then invite me and Nina over for Sunday lunch so they can proudly show off their shelf display.

  We walk into the living room and stop still and shocked at the sight. The Jesus portraits are no longer the main feature. The Aunties have framed the New York Times article and now my scarlet-wrapped susus are forever immortalized on their wall. And my books! Each book is on its very own little easel stand with plastic flower leis draped in between so that the collection takes up an entire shelf on the main wall. It means the covers are on full display. Blade’s rippling muscles and glistening chiseled torso leap out at you the minute you walk in and its impossible to miss Farah’s heaving bosom and luscious curves busting out of her baker’s apron as she kisses him enthusiastically. I don’t think I ever noticed before how big Westley’s hands are as they grip a rugby ball, holding it in a strategic position in front of his naked tattooed self. Oh my… My books have turned the Aunties living room into a showcase of steamy allure.

  The Aunts stand there smiling proudly as they wait for our reaction.

  “You like?” asks Amalia eagerly.

  “Wow,” says Nina, walking forward with her hands outstretched. “Like? I love! Isn’t it beautiful Scarlet?”

  I have no words. I’m torn between cringing and laugh-crying.

  “It’s so lovely to see how proud you are of Scarlet’s work,” continues Nina, giving me a sharp nudge. “The silly girl had been worried that you wouldn’t be happy about her writing.”

  Amalia and Mareta exchange bemused looks. “Not happy? But why?”

  Aunty Mareta goes to straighten the framed news article. “Scarlet, you’re in the newspaper! You make our family famous and bring us so much pride.” She looks near-tearful as she beams at me. “We so happy for you. Malo lava.”

  ‘Y’hear that Scarlet? They’re so HAPPY for you.” Nina nudges me again. I’m getting bruises from all the #IToldYouSo poking that I’m getting here.

  Amalia frowns, “Yes, but I don’t know why you kept it a secret from us for so long? We worried about you staying at the bakery forever when we know you got a talent from God for writing. The Bible says, don’t hide your talents Scarlet.”

  Mareta jumps in. “Yes. You must use your talents to bring honor to your family. And bring joy to others. I’m thinking these books are making many people feel happiness.”

  Nina arches an eyebrow. “Oh ah know they do! Have you read any of them yet Aunty? No? Can I suggest you begin with the first book in the Red Card rugby series? It’s called ADVANTAGE. There’s a few scenes in there that I think will bring you quite a bit of happiness…” The three women move to the kitchen, as Nina continues telling the aunties about how deliciously happy the books make her.

  I should be horrified that Nina’s recommending my elderly aunty read the most erotic out of all my books, and that Mareta is nodding earnestly. I should tell Nina to shush. But I can’t because I’m trying not to cry. My aunts are proud of me. Happy that I have brought honor and recognition to our family. They’re glad I’m using my talents to write romance novels. Their living room wall is practically a shrine to their pride in me, their celebration of me.

  It’s beautiful. And so very humbling.

  In that moment I am dreadfully ashamed. Why didn’t I have more faith in them? They had always treated me with love and kindness, and taken me in as their own, treated me like their daughter. Why did I think that they would condemn me for my books? Why was I so determined to believe the worst of everyone who loved me?

  It seemed that some of the walls I’d been trapped behind for so long, so much of my worry and fear – had been of my own making. Elaborately constructed inside my own imaginings. The lighted path had always been there, but I had chosen to see only the mists of darkness.

  The truth is - we can’t leave Pulotu until we are ready.

  I sit at the table with a smile frozen on my face as Aunty Amalia dishes me up huge servings of faalifu kalo and chop suey, as Aunty Mareta announces they got pisupo because it’s a ‘day for celebrating!’ I listen as the Aunties ask Nina about her boyfriend, and then make sympathetic noises as she tells them about her breakup.

  Mareta leans across the table to pat Nina’s hand soothingly. “He was not good enough for you. Be patient. The right one will come one day. But make sure you’re not distracted by a trash man in case you miss the right one.”

  “It’s not easy to find the right person,” adds Amalia sagely. “But when you do, you don’t let them go.”

  Nina jumps in, “Did you hear that Scarlet? When you find the right person, you don’t let them go.”

  I ignore her teasing and instead I get up and go to hug first Amalia and then Mareta. Emotion catches in my throat and words are difficult but I try anyway. Just because we are staunch Samoans, doesn’t mean we can’t change. Adapt. Bend. Soften. And love each other out loud. “Thank you Aunty. For always loving me and taking such good care of me. For being proud and encouraging of me. I love you both so much.”

  They are surprised, but pleased. “Teine lelei. Good girl,” they say and there is so much love and unity in the room that we nearly forget about the caramel coconut puligi that Aunty Mareta made for dessert.

  Jackson

  The buzzer on my desk goes and I swear. Can’t I ever get a single minute of peace around here? What’s the point of being the CEO of the company if nobody listens to anything you say? I ignore it but it buzzes again.

  “What is it Rex?” I snap.

  Rex is apologetic. “You have a visitor Mr. Emory.”

  “I said no visitors. Tell them to fuck off.” I disconnect before he can say anything more and stride over to the window. It’s an incredible view looking out over the expanse of city, but I don’t see it. Instead I see a lush green rainforest thousands of miles away, and a woman laughing at me with her arms full of ruby red flowers. A woman who walked out of my life without looking back. Leaving me a note.

  Again the buzzer goes and I lose it. Pick up the machine, yank the wire out and throw it across the room where it smashes against the wall. The rage is building. It’s been simmering for a while now, but it’s getting to break point.

  I hear the door open behind me

  “I’m sorry Mr. Emory. I tried but…” says a hesitant Rex.

  I turn, ready to curse him out, but stop when I see who’s standing beside him in the doorway.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “It’s not his fault. He did try to tell me to ‘fuck off’ but I wouldn’t take no for an answer,” she says with a smile as she pats my subdued assistant on the shoulder. “Thank you Rex.” He nods, avoiding my gaze, and scurries away. Relieved to be escaping no doubt.

  My second mother strolls in and sits at my chair. Which used to be her chair. She kicks off her heels, leans back and puts her feet up on my desk. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  “I haven’t changed anything since you were here last month.”

  She shrugs and stares pointedly at the heap of metal and wire in the corner. “Oh really?”

&nbs
p; “An engineering malfunction,” I say.

  “You should know. Since you’re the engineer,” she says. “But it looks more like a temper tantrum to me.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask again.

  “Oh, I was in the neighborhood. Thought I would stop by and see my favorite son.”

  In the neighborhood? Stop by? - It’s a three hour direct flight from Houston to Vegas, and we both know it. I grit my teeth and fight to calm the turmoil within. Walk over to give her a hug. I’m only doing it because it’s what I’m supposed to do, but when she holds me close, I feel some of my tension ease. She lets me go but not without first whispering, “It’s good to see you son.”

  Since she has my desk, I sit on the couch and brace myself for whatever has brought Elizabeth to my office. She gets straight to the point with her characteristic incisiveness.

  “What’s happened?”

  I deflect. “What do you mean? All our projects are on target. We just scored another building over in the East district.”

  She says nothing. She simply waits. It’s a trick she used on us all the time when we were kids. Sit there and say nothing, let us squirm, and then one of us would end up cracking and blurting out answers to questions she never even asked. I often use it now in negotiations and I am not going to let her use it on me.

  “So you’re not here to talk about business.”

  “Of course not,” she says. “This isn’t my company any more. I’m retired, remember?”

  “Why don’t you save us both some time then and ask what you came here to ask?” I counter.

  “How was your trip to Samoa?” she asks.

  ‘Fine,” I say. “Did you see the wedding photos I sent to the family chat?”

  She smiles. “They were beautiful. Troy looks so happy. And such interesting wedding customs. I’m proud of you helping that woman give birth safely. It’s so beautifully sweet that now there’s a little baby named after you all the way on a distant tropical island! I told Mark we should take our next holiday in Samoa. Maybe we can finally wrangle all you boys to do that family vacation I’ve been wanting for ages now. With enough advance warning, surely you can all get your schedules aligned so you can go on vacation with your aged ailing parents?”

  Elizabeth and Mark are in their early sixties and the perfect picture of health, but still her choice of words has me worried. “Are you two okay? You haven’t come to tell me you’re sick?”

  Her face softens at the concern in my voice. She comes over to sit beside me on the couch. “No. I’m fine. And so is Mark. He was on the roof this morning repairing the guttering. Right after we went for our ten mile run. We have our marathon next weekend remember?”

  Since Elizabeth stepped down as CEO of Emory Steel three years ago, she had thrown herself into retirement with the same intensity she had brought to the company. Mark would have been happy with his horses and playing cards with the usual crowd every Friday night, but Elizabeth had roped him into taking up running with her. Now they were adventure tourists, travelling the world to run in different events, and forever trying to persuade their sons to go with them.

  “I promise you, I’m not here because Mark or I are sick. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression,” says Elizabeth. She reaches over and hugs me again, and for a moment I am a teenager. In a hospital, watching my birth mother die of cancer, with Elizabeth and Mark there to support me through it.

  “No, I’m here because while I may be retired from this company, I will never retire from being your mother and from worrying about you,” says Elizabeth firmly. “Now you know I wouldn’t interfere in your life, you’re a grown man now.”

  I have to smile at that because Elizabeth wouldn’t be Elizabeth if she didn’t ‘interfere’ in my life and my crazy brothers lives. She sees my grin and knows why. Gives me a prim sniff and continues.

  “But when I get calls from your brothers, worried about you – then I have to respond. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t?”

  Screw those idiots. What have they been telling her?

  “Look Mom, I don’t know what the guys have told you, but I’m fine,” I assure her.

  “You haven’t been going to Saturday basketball with them,” she accuses me.

  “I’ve been busy working on a quote. I had to miss a few weekend games. Big deal!”

  “Matilda says she hasn’t seen you or heard from you in over a month,” adds Elizabeth, her eyes flashing with determined fire as she builds her case for my not being okay. “She’s your best friend. Why wouldn’t you be talking to her?”

  “Mom, Matilda just had a baby. I’m giving her and Theo some space with their new daughter. It’s not a sign that I’m falling apart. It’s your son being considerate and thoughtful.”

  Elizabeth takes a deep breath and says in a quiet tone of finality. “You crashed your Ferrari. And you didn’t tell us.”

  There it is. The biggest missile warning in her arsenal. I don’t even want to know how she found that out. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she had contacts at every mechanic shop in the state.

  “What’s going on Jackson? Are you racing again?” And the unspoken question is stamped in the air between us. Are you fighting again? She reaches across and takes my hand in hers. “You can tell me. Mark and I, we only want to help. But you have to tell us what’s going on.”

  The long-ago kid I used to be would get angry right now. Push her hand away. Get defensive aggressive. Yell. Storm out. Look for someone to beat the shit out of.

  Elizabeth knows this, and still she is here, asking, searching, worrying. My adoptive parents have been through a lot with me. My acting out, rebellious stage had lasted a little longer than most teenagers and included an addiction to the high of illegal drag racing and the thrill of fight clubs. It’s been ten years since they last had to extricate me from a mess of my own making, but I accept that this visit is a sign they care. Not of a lack of trust.

  “I wasn’t drag racing. And I’m not back in the ring again. I promise. But I was speeding that night. Took a corner too fast and spun out,” I explain.

  “Were you hurt? Was anyone else hurt?” she asks.

  “No.” Then I go for total disclosure. Because she’s my mother and she’s flown all the way here to check up on me. “I did give the cops some hassles though when they responded to the accident. I had to go in to the station. They pulled up my record.”

  She doesn’t like that. “Oh Jackson, you should have called us.”

  “What for? It was late. I sorted it out. Got my lawyer. Everything’s been dealt with.” Give her a reassuring smile. Squeeze her hand. Project reassurance, calmness and general ‘Your son is a mature adult who has everything under control…’

  She’s not convinced. “Why were you speeding anyway? Remember what the therapist said about pushing limits and crossing boundaries? Warning signs?”

  I concede. “I’ve had some things on my mind. That I need to figure out. Personal things.”

  She’s visibly glad that I’m letting her in. Even that little bit. “Have you talked to someone about it?” she asks. By ‘someone’ she means a therapist.

  “No. I’m dealing with it,” I say. Brusque, because I don’t want her to push any further than she already has.

  “Alright. But son, that there?” She points at the debris that used to be the intercom machine. “The cursing out of your PA? That’s not you. Not you at your best anyway.” She stands. “I’m going to get out of your way. I promised Mark I would get back in time for a late supper. I wanted to see you, and tell you in person that we love you and miss you. Come down to the ranch soon for a visit, okay? Please?”

  I assure her I will. I’m touched she’s come all this way to check on me and now has another flight to take back home. All in one day. “I love you Mom. Tell Dad I miss him.”

  But Elizabeth isn’t done. She is almost to the door when she pauses, turns back. That calculating look in her eyes is one I’ve seen many times wh
en she was in CEO mode. “You extended your stay in Samoa. Why?”

  “Umm, what do you mean?” Immediately I mentally kick myself. Wrong move. By trying to sidestep her, I have put a screaming siren on this path of questioning.

  “You were only supposed to be gone a week. But you stayed longer. Why?” She’s looking around the office now as if some clue to the puzzle might be somewhere in plain sight. She’s talking softly, almost to herself. “You’re not sleeping, you’re speeding, bursts of rage, you didn’t shave this morning or yesterday either by the looks of it, you won a big contract worth twenty million but you’re not happy, work isn’t giving you what it used to…” She spins around to face me again. “You met someone there.”

  It’s a pronouncement, not a question. There’s not much point my refuting it. This is Elizabeth Emory after all.

  I shrug. Tired. Defeated. You got me. “But I don’t want to talk about,” I say.

  She doesn’t fight me on it. Instead she comes to hug me tight. “Oh son, you don’t have to.” She steps back, looks up at me, astute observation. “She means a lot to you. I can tell. But I’m not going to pry. You’ll tell us when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting to hear from you. But Jackson, I didn’t raise you to sit around and mope. To fester like this. I taught you to act. If something – or someone – is this important to you? Then you get out there and you fix whatever’s wrong. You do your best, you go all out and you do what you have to do.”

  With that final reminder, she blows me a kiss and exits.

  Scarlet

  The invite comes to my inbox. Along with plane tickets. Richard’s exhibit is opening in Los Angeles. It’s called FIERCE. I click on the attachment. It’s a flyer for the show. There’s a black and white image of a woman. She laughs into the camera, head thrown back, arms crossed. A dusting of sand on gleaming wet skin. Bold thighs and lush curves. It’s titled JOY.