by Susan Wiggs
This became her mantra as she rode the train back to the city to sublet her apartment to a former colleague, and put her things in storage. Orlando was in Washington D.C. for the weekend, but her father had agreed to meet her at their usual spot, a coffee shop near his home on the Upper West Side. He’d explained that his daughter Layla was coming home from college today, so his time was limited.
As she let herself into the building, she thought she might feel a twinge of nostalgia, but instead, felt curiously detached. She had lived in the cramped walk-up for more than five years, yet rather than feeling like a home, it was like the other places she’d been since leaving Avalon—a way station along her journey, not meant to be permanent. The bank of mailboxes was utilitarian; she cleared out her junk mail and removed the tab reading S. Romano and it was as if she’d never been there.
Upstairs, the postage stamp-sized studio didn’t take long to organize. Because the place was so small, she kept it tidy. There were only a few personal items around. She picked up a photo collage of her and her mom through the years. The oldest photo was a shot of her and Nina, who looked even younger than most teenaged mothers. Sonnet had seen the shot a million times, but now she studied it with new eyes. Nina wore an expression of desperate pride, reminiscent of a kid bringing home a straight-A report card, only instead of a card, she was holding a swaddled newborn. The shot was somehow both heartbreaking and joyous. Young as she was, Nina surely understood that she was not going to end up with the life she’d probably always dreamed of having.
Then again, did anyone end up with the life they’d dreamed of when they were fifteen? Only a select few, and Sonnet was not one of them. In her case, this was fortunate. If she’d become the person she’d dreamed of being at fifteen, she would be a prima ballerina with six kids and a horse farm.
When Sonnet got older, she came to understand the sacrifices her mother had made. Nina had worked two jobs in order to pay for her education, and Sonnet spent more time with her grandmother than she did with her mom. She had few memories of Nina giving in to despair, but one was extremely vivid. It was a school night, and Sonnet had finished her homework and had her snack and was waiting for her mother to pick her up. Nina had a couple of housekeeping jobs that made her extra late some nights. Sonnet could hear her talking to Nonna in the kitchen, and her voice was thick the way it got when she cried.
“Mama, I can’t do this anymore,” she’d said. “I’m so tired at night I can’t even fall asleep. What am I going to do?”
“Give something up,” Nonna advised. “There is no law that says you must do everything at once.”
“If I don’t finish my degree program now, I’ll be stuck with lousy jobs forever,” Nina had said. “That’s no kind of life to give my daughter. The only thing worse than going on like this is not going on like this.”
“Well, then,” Nonna had said with a smile in her voice, “you just answered your own question.”
Sonnet had felt very solemn and grown up as she’d walked into the kitchen. “I want to help you,” she’d announced. “I know how to clean.”
At that, Nina had swooped her into her arms. “Yes, you do. But you have a different job, baby. Your job is to be the kid, and to have fun and learn things and make me smile every day. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try really hard,” Sonnet had said. Even as a child, she’d embraced responsibility, applying herself to school and sports and music lessons with single-minded dedication.
All of the photos in the collage had been shot in and around Willow Lake. She and her mother could never afford a vacation, but with a little creativity, they’d taken imaginary trips together. There was a picture of the two of them wearing head scarves and aprons like Nonna and the ladies from the old country. They had decorated the house like an Italian village and fixed Italian food and listened to Italian music every night for a week.
Sonnet smiled at the memories as she packed away the photos in a box of personal items. There were only a few more pictures around—a portrait of her and her mom at Nina’s wedding; Nina had been radiant that day, and Sonnet was ecstatic for her and Greg. There was a picture of Sonnet and her father embracing when she got her master’s degree from Georgetown. Her father’s chiseled profile was turned away from the camera but Sonnet wore a look shining with pride as she held him. She had a shot of Orlando striding away from the UN with briefcase in hand, the other hand lifted to hail a taxi. Sonnet had always liked the picture, not just because he looked incredibly handsome in it, but because the smile on his face was for her.
One keepsake that was in a drawer rather than displayed on a bookshelf was a picture taken by Sonnet’s stepsister, Daisy. It was a classic awkward senior prom picture of Sonnet and her date—Zach Alger. They had both been dateless for prom, so they’d agreed to go together. She remembered feeling ridiculously grateful to him for that. She loved dressing up, and the thought of skipping prom had been too depressing to contemplate.
Zach looked so skinny in the photo, and so pale, like an albino scarecrow. But he had been the perfect gentleman; he’d shown up with a corsage and a boutonniere in the lapel of his rented tux. Only later did she find out how hard it had been for him that night to scrape together the money for prom.
She had thanked him with a hug, inhaling the scent of his cologne, and she’d told him everything was going to be all right. And it was. Years later, it still was. The two of them simply needed to find the equilibrium in their friendship once again. There was no reason they couldn’t put the wedding mistake behind them and move ahead.
Feeling resolute about her decision, she packed up her personal belongings to take down to the storage locker and finished tidying up the already-tidy studio. By the time she was finished, it looked as neat and generic as a midpriced hotel room.
Then she set out to meet her father. She went to the fashionable old-world neighborhood where he lived, brownstones with gorgeous front gardens on a street that ended at the river. She was early for their meeting, so she grabbed a table outside where she could enjoy the afternoon sun, and ordered a chai latte.
Halfway down the block she could see his house, as staid and handsome as Laurence Jeffries himself. The garden was meticulously tended and the front steps pristine, as were the tasteful sheer curtains that hung in the bay window in front. The place didn’t shout “money” but it whispered the message quite clearly. Her father’s wife, Angela, came from money. Her own father had been a famous civil rights leader who later made a fortune as a broadcaster for a major network. The Jeffries girls, Layla and Kara, had always enjoyed private schools, lavish vacations and designer clothes.
When she was younger, Sonnet used to burn with envy, seeing all the opportunities offered to the younger girls. Thanks to their father’s career, they traveled the world. Thanks to their mother’s money, they did so in style. But during college, when Sonnet had studied abroad in Germany, she had come to realize that she was making her own opportunities, all by herself. Most of the time, that mature, philosophical attitude was enough to silence the ugly little demon inside that felt cheated.
As she sat sipping her chai, a black town car glided up to the front of the Jeffries house. Layla, the younger of the two girls got out, and the driver unloaded a couple of pieces of luggage, including a duffel bag marked with the bright red-and-white logo of Cornell. A moment later, Laurence came out. Layla sped up the stairs and threw her arms around him, and he lifted her off the ground.
Despite her mature
, philosophical attitude, Sonnet felt a painful twist in her gut. It wasn’t the advantages she envied, it was the access. It was having a father you could throw yourself at, one who would swing you around and be full of joy, just holding you in his arms.
Focus, she told herself. Focus on what you can have with him. She could have his respect, his pride, his ear when she had something to say. But oh, how she dreaded disappointing him.
When he arrived at the coffee shop twenty minutes later, she was on her second chai. She stood and they gave each other a brief, decorous hug, like colleagues who hadn’t seen each other in a while.
“How are you?” she asked him. “How is the campaign going?”
“I’m told it’s going well. But even if it was going poorly, I’d be told it’s going well. The only one who really tells it like it is Orlando.”
“And he says it’s going well.”
“So far, yes.” Her father smiled at her, the pride in his eyes shining like warm rays of sunshine. “You picked a good one. Orlando’s one of a kind.”
“I think you picked him,” she said with a laugh.
“I’m just glad you two hit it off. You’re good together.”
“We are, aren’t we?” She picked up her cup, set it down without tasting it. “So there’s news. I wanted to fill you in.”
“No way,” her father said. “He popped the question?”
She burst out laughing. “I can’t believe that’s the first thing you thought.” Just for a moment, she let herself bask in the happiness she saw on her dad’s face. Orlando was a long way from popping any question other than, “Will you try not to lose this key?” And she was even further away from knowing how on earth she’d answer.
“Any guy in his position would be going in that direction with you, Sonnet. You’re an amazing young woman.”
“Thanks.” She savored the warmth of his compliment, hoping he wouldn’t change his opinion when she explained her plan. “I wanted to let you know I’m subletting my apartment.”
“You’re giving it up?” His brow furrowed, and he stirred his coffee.
“Subletting it,” she repeated. “To a friend at UNESCO who’s been dying to move closer to work.”
“Sonnet, I know it’s none of my business, but moving in with Orlando right at this time could get the wrong kind of attention from Delvecchio’s campaign. I wouldn’t want them starting rumors about my unmarried daughter—”
“That’s not the plan,” she said quickly. At the same time, she felt a twinge of annoyance. Her father always thought first of his campaign—how would something affect him, his chances at winning a seat in the Senate? “I’m not talking about moving in with Orlando. I’m resigning my directorship and staying in Avalon.”
He was clenching his back teeth. She could tell by the way the side of his jaw bulged out. “And I admire you for sacrificing the Hartstone Fellowship because of your mother, but your position at UNESCO is something you should never give up.”
“I don’t really have a choice,” she said. “I’m going to be with my mother throughout her treatment, and that doesn’t mean a three-hour train commute.”
“So you’re taking a sabbatical,” he said, steepling his fingers together.
“I’m not worried about what it’s called. But there’s something else I wanted to let you know. I’m going to be working while I’m in Avalon. I’ve got loads of student loans to pay off, and I can’t afford to be out of work.” She flashed on an image of his other daughter, who would undoubtedly graduate debt-free from Cornell, and the little demon of envy reared its ugly head. “Work is important to me,” she hastened to add. “It always has been.”
“What sort of work are you doing in Avalon?”
Here’s where it got tricky. She considered telling him she was working with children, which was technically true, but it was probably best to get the explanation over with quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “I’m working in location and production on a reality show called Big Girl, Small Town.”
The expression on his face would have been comical if she’d been joking. “Dad,” she said. “I didn’t say I’d taken a job as a pole dancer. It’s going to be a family show.” After certain words were bleeped out.
“I’m not familiar with that type of show,” he said, staring down into his coffee cup as if he saw something distasteful in the bottom.
“It’s about a hip-hop singer called Jezebel. Heard of her?”
Even though he was a black man, her dad seemed to turn a whiter shade of pale. “No, but I suppose my daughters might have.”
“You’re right. Anyway, Jezebel is the star of the show. She’s going to be filmed working with inner-city kids at Camp Kioga, on Willow Lake. She’s outspoken and—okay, I’ll be blunt. She’s talented and smart, but she’s also mouthy and obnoxious. I’m pretty sure the show will focus on her most outrageous moments.”
“And you’re working for this outfit…why?”
“There aren’t a lot of jobs in a town like Avalon. The pay is incredibly good, and it’s temporary.”
“How temporary?”
“You mean, how soon before your opponent’s camp finds out and reports that General Jeffries’s daughter is working with a felon?”
“She’s a felon?”
“Sorry, Dad. She got in trouble because of some worthless guy, but that’s over. She’s doing community service, working with the kids.” Sonnet pictured steam coming out of his ears.
“And you considered all of these things before taking this step,” he said, his voice taut with disapproval.
“Actually, no. The only things I thought about were the fact that Mom needed me and I needed a job. And if your opponent has a problem with that, they’re really digging to find some way that makes you look bad.”
He glanced at his watch. He had to go. Of course he had to go. He had a family waiting for him. A wife and two daughters who were not going to embarrass him.
Sonnet decided to leave preemptively, something she never did with her father. Standing, she leaned down and placed a swift kiss on his cheek. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m taking the evening train back to Avalon.”
As she walked toward the nearest subway station, she hoped he would get over his anger at her. Orlando would understand. She soothed herself with the thought. He’d be a lot more understanding, and maybe he’d find a way to explain it to her father.
Chapter Nine
“You’re being completely irrational,” Orlando said. So much for sweeping romantic gestures, Sonnet thought. Stepping off the train, he’d looked as handsome as a prince. For a moment she’d let herself fantasize that he had come to throw his arms around her and pledge his undying love and support. No such luck. After a quick hug, he’d scowled at her as though she was a naughty child.
“You know me better than that,” she said, miffed. “I’m never irrational. And by the way, welcome to Avalon, my hometown.”
He gave a cursory nod out the window. “It’s cute.”
“In other words, you didn’t come here to see where your girlfriend grew up.”
“Yes, of course, I do want to see it, but we have other things to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“You’re ending your career over something that is going to be resolved in a matter of months.”
“First, I’m not ending my career. I’m on hiatus. And second, it’s not ‘something.’ It’s my mother. She’s sick. She needs me. That trumps everythi
ng. There’s really no other decision to be made. I thought you would understand.”
“Darling, I do understand. You’re scared. Cancer is scary stuff. But think about it. Your mom needs the best doctors in the field, the latest treatments, and I know you love her and I know you’re worried, but you can’t give her that.”
“I can give her my support. My energy. It’s hard to explain, but I really believe it matters.”
She pulled up the drive. This was not the way she’d envisioned bringing her handsome boyfriend home to introduce to her mother. She’d pictured both of them a little nervous, wanting the meeting to go well, wanting her mom to see that she’d found someone she could be happy with, that her life—not just her career—was moving forward.
Instead, here was Orlando, distracted and annoyed.
“Welcome to the inn,” she said, trying to keep a note of irony from her voice.
“It’s gorgeous here,” he said. “But you have to know what you’re giving up.”
She parked in front of the annex house. “And what I’m gaining. This is everything to me, Orlando. I really want you to understand that.” To her surprise, she felt a sting of tears.
And to her further surprise, he reached across the seat and put his arms around her. “I do understand. I do.”
She shut her eyes, silently grateful that he was finally showing some compassion. “Let’s go inside. My mom’s going to love you.”
* * *
“Don’t give me that crap.” Nina’s voice shot through the house with sharp edges, just as Sonnet walked in with Orlando. “I won’t have it. I won’t.”
“Fine,” Greg said, his voice taut with exasperation. “You pick what you want for your chemo playlist, then.”
