Taken aback not only by his words but by his sudden mild demeanor, I was speechless for a moment; he was usually so combative with me.
“Well, you did, didn’t you?” he pressed.
“Yes, you’re right, I did,” I admitted. “I loved you a lot in those days.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I didn’t, not really,” I murmured, frowning. “It was your mother. She got in the way, put herself in between us, so to speak. Your mother took you over, and in so doing she pushed me out.”
“She’s also your mother,” Donald said.
“This is the second time you’ve said that in the space of a few minutes! And no, Donald, she isn’t my mother. She may have given birth to me, but she has never been a mother, nor has she shown me any motherly love.”
“I know that,” he admitted very quietly.
He had startled me again. I couldn’t believe that he had actually agreed with me on something to do with our mother. But I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t help wondering why he had had this change of tune all of a sudden. I was immediately suspicious.
I said, “What’s this all about, Donald?”
He shook his head, but he remained silent.
“Let’s cut to the chase.”
Donald sat back and shook his head again. “I don’t understand too much, because she won’t tell me. But basically it’s to do with the will, her will. Mother won’t tell me anything in detail.”
“What do you mean, she won’t tell you anything? You told me that your inheritance was somehow tied to mine. I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I, because she won’t explain. But after she had her first heart attack, she told me to call you, to get you home, to get you to New York. But you refused to come. She wasn’t too happy, I can tell you that, and then she had a second heart attack. When she was better, she got really forceful about my persuading you to come to New York. She told me it was imperative, she had to see you and that it involved a lot of money. That’s all I know.”
“I see. So it’s all to do with Margot Scott Denning and her money.”
“True.”
“I’m not interested in her money. You can have my share. All of it, Donald.”
“That’s nice, thanks, I accept it,” he said. “But first you have to talk to her, see her. She wants to see you, urgently. Come on, sis, agree to this. Please, for me.”
“Donald, why do you persist in annoying me when you need my help?”
He frowned, looking puzzled.
“You know very well I hate being called sis,” I reminded him.
“Sorry, Val.”
“So, is she at death’s door or not?”
“No,” he admitted. “Not actually. Not now. She seems a lot better, and the doctor says she can go back to work next week, but only part-time, for a few hours a day. She has to take it easy, and she has to rest a lot.”
“That won’t go down well. I used to think she was hyperactive, the way she moved around, rushed hither and yon when we were little. She was never still for a moment, and hardly ever at home, always in her office at Lowell’s.”
“That’s true. Even when we were just small kids, work came first, I guess. And since Dad died, she’s been really committed to business, a workaholic.”
“Oh.”
“Well, she misses him, Val.”
“He’s been dead for ten years, Donald! Has she become keeper of the flame? Is that it?”
He didn’t answer, simply looked into the distance, at the space above my head.
The silence became drawn out.
Donald looked so miserable, so perturbed, I found myself feeling sorry for him. How I used to bully him. He had looked at me in much the same way when he had been a child. He’d been a nice little boy until she’d come along and ruined him. But I had loved him, he was right about that. Until he had been grabbed away by that monstrous woman who’d borne us both.
Taking a deep breath, I broke the silence when I said, “Muffie told me she keeps running into you these days, and that you always have a beautiful girl with you. Is there anybody special yet?”
“Well, yeah, sort of . . . there’s a really great girl and I care about her a lot—” He cut himself off, settled back against the sofa, squinted at me in the sunlight. “So, you saw Muffie Potter.”
“Yes, for lunch yesterday.”
“Val, listen, I think you really must see her, Mother I mean!” he exclaimed with sudden urgency. “She won’t open up to me until she’s talked to you. If she’s said that once, she’s said it two dozen times. I need to know what this will stuff is all about, and only you can find out. Val, this is about my future.”
“I hadn’t planned on seeing her. Nor had I planned on seeing you, Donald. I came here on business with Jake, and it was he who pushed me into making a date with you. He feels I have to get to the bottom of it. Find out why she was so horrible to me when I was growing up.”
“I guess you do, sis. I mean Val,” he quickly corrected himself, obviously trying hard to be nicer to me than he normally was, to ingratiate himself. Well, he wanted something, didn’t he? But unexpectedly he had such a pleading look on his face, I found myself saying, “I’m not going to actually promise I’ll see her before I leave, Donald, but I will think about it. That I do promise.”
This pleased him and he beamed at me. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m appreciative. Anyway, we should both know what’s on her mind, shouldn’t we?”
“That’s true,” I acknowledged.
“When do you think you’ll see her?”
“I didn’t say I’d see her. But, okay, I will phone her. Before I leave New York. Let’s forget it for the time being. Don’t nag me, otherwise I might change my mind,” I threatened, and instantly realized I’d reverted to my bullying of old.
He laughed, obviously thinking the same thing. “Fair enough. Now, when do I get to meet Costner’s clone?”
“Is somebody talking about me?” Jake asked from the doorway.
I looked across, saw him leaning against the doorjamb nonchalantly, looking impossibly handsome, dressed in pristine blue jeans and a white cable-knit sweater. And I acknowledged to myself that he did indeed look a bit like the actor.
“Come on in, Jake,” I said, standing up. “I want you to meet my brother, Donald, who’s being positively sweet today, and not his usual obnoxious self.”
Donald laughed, also rose.
The two men walked toward each other, met in the middle of the room, and shook hands. Jake said, “Would you like a cup of coffee or a drink, Donald?”
“Not right now, thanks, but maybe later, Jake.”
Jake sat down in the chair next to me, gave me a long, questioning look, and asked, “So tell me, have you solved the problems of the world?”
“No,” I answered quickly. “But I have promised Donald I’ll contact his mother before I leave New York.”
Jake nodded. “Why not do it now? Make a date to see her as soon as possible? Let’s get this family stuff out of the way. You and I have so much work to do on the book.”
“Are you two writing a book?” Donald asked, his face lighting up. “What’s it about?”
Before I could stop him, Jake was telling Donald all about Flowers of War, his excitement and enthusiasm more pronounced than ever. There was no way I could curtail the flow of words, and naturally Donald was eating it all up, his eyes fastened on Jake intently. He was mesmerized.
I stood up and walked across the floor. At the door I said, “I’m going to get a cold drink. Either of you want anything?”
They both glanced at me and said nothing, simply shook their heads and immediately went back to their conversation. I shrugged and hurried down the corridor to the kitchen. As I pushed open the swinging door and went in, I couldn’t help thinking that Donald had improved a bit. At least he wasn’t as nasty as he usually was. In fact, he was almost civilized. Wonders never cease, I muttered under my breath. And then instinctively I wondered
what kind of game Donald was playing.
II
Late that evening, when we were getting ready to go to dinner, Jake turned to me and said, “Give your mother a call now; arrange to see her tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” I exclaimed, looking horrified. “It’s too soon.”
“Too soon for what?”
“To see her, Jake. I need time to prepare myself before I venture into her territory. And I must call her and then go over there at once, otherwise I might—” I stopped and stared at him.
“Or you might lose your nerve? Is that what you were going to say?”
I nodded.
Jake came across the room in a few strides, put his arms around me, and brought me into his warm and loving embrace.
“Listen, sweetheart, there’s nothing she can do to you now. Not anymore. You’re no longer a little girl at her mercy. You’re a grown woman, a war correspondent, a woman who has faced every kind of danger, looked it in the eye, and stared it down. You can see her anytime, Val, you don’t have to prepare yourself. That’s silly. Just pick up that phone, dial her number, and tell her about Donald’s visit today—”
“She’ll already know about that!” I exclaimed, cutting him off. “He’ll have told her everything.”
“Okay. Maybe. Just tell her you’d like to see her tomorrow. I’ll go with you if you want.”
“I do want,” I said, and immediately felt somewhat foolish about my attitude of a moment before. What was Margot Scott Denning going to do to me? Nothing, of course. It was just that I had so many bad memories of her and I always felt nervous at the prospect of being in her presence. Not that I’d seen her since my grandfather’s funeral.
“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll do it now.”
“Good girl.”
I went over to the phone, picked it up, and dialed the number of the apartment on Park Avenue.
When she answered, I said, “It’s Val. Donald says you want to see me.”
“Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “How are you, Valentine?”
How am I, I thought. What a damned nerve she has. That was practically the first time she had asked me how I was in my entire life. Instantly my suspicions spiraled into alarm. I said, “When can we meet? How about tomorrow?”
“Well, I—”
I cut her off coolly. “We’d better make it tomorrow afternoon. At about four. It’s really the only time I have available.”
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll see you at four.”
“Fine,” I answered, and hung up.
Chapter 20
I
Although I was nervous about meeting with my mother, and had originally wanted Jake to accompany me, at the last moment I suddenly realized I preferred to see her alone.
It had struck me early on Sunday morning that I probably stood a better chance of finding out more if I went to her apartment by myself. And so I explained this to Jake over breakfast, hoping he would understand my motivation.
He seemed a bit uncertain about my decision at first, as always protective of me, and then he quickly came around to my way of thinking.
Nodding, he sounded more positive as he said, “Okay then, Val, go over there by yourself, if you’re more comfortable with that. As long as you stay cool and unemotional, you’ll be fine. Just be businesslike and matter-of-fact.”
I promised I would do this, agreeing with him that it was the best way to handle the situation. My mother had requested the meeting, I had agreed to go, and I would listen to what she had to say.
But, in point of fact, it was truly my call, and I could leave whenever I wished. It was as simple as that. And very reassuring.
Later that day, as I walked out onto First Avenue, looking for a cab, I told myself I must make the visit brief and to the point, for my own sake.
Lingering at that apartment where I had grown up so miserably would only exacerbate the deep-seated anger that lay buried deep inside me. Certainly I didn’t want it to erupt, because that would not accomplish anything other than upsetting me, making me incapable of dealing with my mother.
She had continued to live at the rambling, traditional apartment on Park Avenue after my father’s death. Obviously she was attached to the place, which she and my father had moved into when they had married in 1965.
As the taxi turned off East Fifty-seventh Street and started to go uptown on Park, I suddenly asked him to stop and let me off.
After paying the driver, I got out, relieved to be outside in the fresh air. In the cab I had suddenly begun to feel overly warm, even a bit claustrophobic, not to mention anxiety-ridden as well.
Breathing deeply, I walked up Park toward Seventy-third Street, where the apartment was located, endeavoring to dispel the queasiness that had settled in my stomach. For a split second I thought I was going to vomit, then I realized that what I was actually feeling was mounting uneasiness at the prospect of seeing my mother. I had never known what to expect, how she would react to me, or what she would say, and in consequence I dreaded being in her presence.
After walking steadily for ten blocks, the nauseous sensation began to diminish, and I suddenly started to feel much better.
Jake had said yesterday that my mother could no longer hurt me, and this was true. I was not that little girl she had been able to wound so easily with her cruel - neglect and lack of love. I was a grown woman, thirty-one years old, a woman who faced danger in the extreme almost daily in her job. A woman who was self-supporting and independent. A woman fully responsible for herself and her life. I didn’t need Mommy anymore, that evasive Mommy I had always longed for as a child and had never had.
My mother had been out of my life for the past fourteen years, so why was I tensing up again about seeing her? Because of the past, of course, I answered myself. As a child all I’d ever wanted was her attention, love, and approval. And they had been withheld. I had never understood why. I didn’t understand to this day . . . and it was a question that nagged at the back of my mind, one of many.
In spite of my tenseness and vague apprehension, all of a sudden I became unexpectedly more confident about seeing her again. Although I was going to visit my mother for Donald’s sake, and because of the pressure he had exerted on me to do so, if I were honest, it was also because I needed to see her. For myself. Jake was correct about that . . . wipe the slate clean, he had said. By confronting her, I hoped I could slay the demons, the demons that had haunted me for as long as I could remember.
II
She looked exactly the same as always.
Margot Scott Denning. Great American beauty.
And she was still beautiful. Black hair coming to a dramatic widow’s peak on her proud, wide brow; light-green eyes below curving coal-black brows; chiseled features; a perfect nose; the wide mouth, bloodred against the pallor of her flawless white complexion. A face that had bowled men over, probably still did.
Tall. Thin as a rail. Elegant in a perfectly cut gray flannel skirt topped with a red cashmere sweater, with a matching cardigan as well, tied around her neck in the way women of her ilk were wearing them these days. The plain pearl studs at her ears, in place as they always were, as was the mandatory string of pearls. Legs sleek and long and shapely, encased in pale-gray, very sheer stockings. Narrow, immaculately shod feet in gray suede pumps.
My mother.
Fourteen years ago I had walked out of this apartment and gone to Beekman Place to my beloved and caring grandparents, who had taken me in eagerly, willingly, and with a great deal of love.
And in all that time, from that day to this, she had not changed. She looked exactly the same. It was not only uncanny, it was unnerving. Nor did she appear to have been ill. She looked to be in blooming health as far as I could tell.
She let me into the apartment herself and said hello in that low, cool voice of hers I remembered so well. But she made no move to embrace me, which didn’t surprise me in the least. She had never been affectionate, and certainly not with me. And, of
course, I didn’t make a move toward her either. I merely responded to her greeting verbally, in a neutral voice.
I followed her into the sitting room.
It was a spacious, elegant room overlooking Park Avenue, and just like her, it had remained unchanged.
For a moment I felt as though time had stood still. My childhood years came rushing back . . . the suffering I had endured, the hurt of her neglect, my loneliness, my terrible sense of rejection. Everything I’d ever felt seemed to tumble all around me, a whirl of emotions in the pale afternoon sunlight that filled this beautiful room.
The decades fell away . . . voices long since stilled, faces long forgotten, all of them were suddenly here with me, echoes and images of the past jostling for prominence among the dust motes rising up in the air. For a second I felt dizzy and undone; I thought I would keel over.
Very swiftly, I pulled myself back into the present, blocked out that unhappiness and pain of my early years. I did not want to look behind me ever again. Peering at ghosts in the shadows was a waste. My eyes were fixed ahead, riveted on the future.
III
My mother sat down in her usual place, on a French bergère covered in oyster satin, positioned near a Louis the Fifteenth sofa in striped oyster-and-burgundy silk and close to the fireplace.
I did not fall into the trap of taking the chair where I had always been instructed to sit as a child. Instead, I remained standing near the fireplace, one hand on the mantel.
She sat looking me over for a moment or two, in much the same way Donald had yesterday.
I stared back at her unblinkingly, my face unreadable.
I knew I looked smart in my black bush jacket, white silk shirt, and black gabardine pants, and this pleased me. I was no longer filled with trepidation now that I was actually there. In fact, any nervousness I’d felt before had totally evaporated. I was completely calm, very cool, and in control.
Where You Belong Page 19
