She knew her daughter would think she was beautiful, but she didn’t want her to find her mother glamorous. Over the past few weeks she’d grown accustomed to a more natural look and never wore foundation. A faint smattering of freckles emerged, a result of her morning jogs, making her appear younger than her forty-three years. She stroked bronze blush over her prominent cheekbones, added a bit of beige shadow over her vivid green eyes, and a dab of mascara. She needed the confidence that being well turned out always gave her. There had been too many impulsive moves and decisions in her life. This time, Jilly wanted everything to be well thought out.
She’d just finished washing black shoe polish from her hands when the telephone rang to inform her that her cab had arrived. Her sisters were waiting for her. There are times when there are simply no words to say. When all is quietly understood. This was one of those times. Jilly kissed each of them on the cheek, then left to meet her daughter.
She arrived at The Left Bank early. From the cab she searched the sidewalk in front of the charming restaurant for anyone waiting. After slipping a few bills to the driver, she stretched her long leg out from the cab, adjusted her dark sunglasses on her nose and then rose gracefully from her seat. She stood and stared at the glossy black door of the restaurant. This was a life-defining moment. She could either walk through that door to meet her daughter and reclaim her past, or turn away and bury the past forever. Jilly took a deep breath, dug deep and walked through the door.
The smell of delicious food rose up to meet her as she entered the cheery yet unpretentious restaurant. It was designed for ladies; sunny yet cozy, decorated with Provence patterns, murals of The Left Bank and black wrought-iron furniture. Conversation was humming, punctuated by laughter. She caught a few glances shift her way, cool and assessing. Jillian had worn her thick red hair pulled back into a chignon at her neck. Dressed in her black leather coat and her dark sunglasses, she knew she looked tall, sleek and polished.
“Can I get you a table?” asked a smiling woman in a black skirt and white blouse.
“I’m looking for someone. I believe we have a reservation. Anne Marie…” She almost said Parker, but that wasn’t right. What was her married name?
“Are you looking for me?” A voice sounded from her elbow.
Jillian jerked around. Standing before her was a younger, shorter, fresher, more exuberant version of herself. The beautiful woman’s hair was a mass of thick waves that catapulted to her shoulders and was the same fiery red as her own. Her porcelain skin was as fair and her eyebrows as finely arched and dark. But her eyes were different. Instead of Jilly’s brilliant emerald green, they were bluer, a turquoise color that seemed to reflect the warmth and vitality of her personality. Those eyes were round with anxiety now as they looked up at the cool, elegantly dressed, speechless woman staring back at her.
Her baby.
Her knees felt like buckling. “Anne Marie?”
The young woman broke into a heartbreakingly beautiful smile.
Jillian would have known her daughter anywhere, even if she wasn’t wearing the bright red dress that flowed as only silk could from her slender shoulders down her enormously pregnant belly to her ankles. Looking into her eyes, she felt again the connection she’d felt when she first saw her through the narrow span of mirror in the delivery room.
“How do you do.” Anne Marie held out her hand and tried not to stare at her birth mother’s face.
Jillian looked at the outstretched hand with longing. Her child’s hand. She’d never touched her baby. They wouldn’t let her. She stared at the hand, feeling as though the leather straps were still holding her to the table. Anne Marie’s smile slipped and she began to retract her hand. Jilly reached out quickly to grasp it. She felt an instant connection and had to force herself to let go. Her body, so well trained for grace, was choppy and stiff. She was desperately trying to act normal so Anne Marie wouldn’t think that she was some weird, overanxious mother. How could Anne Marie know what it meant for her to just touch her daughter’s hand?
“I hope I’m not late,” Anne Marie said. She seemed a little nervous, smoothing the dress over her belly, looking at her shoes. “It was hard getting out of the house. Lauren wanted to come.”
Jillian licked her lips but couldn’t speak. She could only stare, grateful the sunglasses masked her eyes. “I’ve only just arrived. It’s a lovely place. Very French.”
“Well, you should know,” she replied, seemingly relieved. Her eyes looked everywhere but at Jillian.
“Are you nervous?” Jilly asked kindly.
“Yes,” Anne Marie replied while color bloomed in her cheeks. “I suppose I am.”
“I am, too.”
“Are you ready for your table?” the maître d’ asked.
“Are we?” Jilly asked.
Anne Marie straightened her shoulders and gave her a long, steady, surmising look. There was no question that this was not a child but a woman, a mother, a force within herself. “Oh, yes,” she said, then turned and took the lead with elegance and composure that did not go unnoticed by Jillian.
They were seated at a small round table for two covered in thick damask linen and brightly colored, Provence-style china. Jilly was pleased they were seated closely and would not be compelled to strain to hear each other’s comments in a room already loud with chatting. Jilly removed her sunglasses and sat down. When she looked again at her daughter’s face, she sucked in her breath and felt she might faint with shock. It couldn’t be…
It was faint, delicate and not so visible when she was smiling. But when Anne Marie’s face was still, as it was now while she read the menu, Jilly could very clearly see the unmistakable cleft in her chin.
Dennis’s child.
Jilly’s heart froze in her chest and her hands rigidly clenched the menu. Anne Marie was Dennis’s child.
She felt the blood draining from her face as her breath came quickly. Jilly reached out for the glass of water, forcing her stiff hands to grasp the chilled glass and bring it to her lips. She thought of Birdie in the hotel. Of Hannah. She recalled Dennis’s words, She might look like me, and shivered. God help her, her worst fear was realized. How was she going to handle this?
“The poached salmon is good,” Anne Marie suggested, looking up from her menu.
Jilly cleared her throat and forced a smile. “Wonderful. Good. I’ll have that,” she replied, closing the menu. She was grateful for the interruption when the waiter approached with a basket of bread and a plate of butter. When he laid these on the table, he looked at them expectantly.
They both ordered poached salmon with Hollandaise sauce. Jilly ordered a glass of chardonnay. Anne Marie ordered iced tea. As he scurried off, Jillian told herself that she’d deal with this issue later. If she thought about the repercussions now she’d go mad. She owed it to Anne Marie, and to herself, to make this first private step as mother and child.
They struggled through halted sentences and stiff smiles while they waited for their food. When their dishes came at last, however, Jilly poked at her food and tried to lessen the tension by asking Anne Marie all about her daughter, Lauren, and her husband, Kyle. Anne Marie’s eyes glowed and she visibly relaxed as she talked about those she obviously doted on.
Kyle worked at the local paper mill. Money was tight now, especially with the new baby coming, but they got along well enough. They lived in a small house in De Pere that they loved and were busy decorating. She talked at length about the vegetable garden they were starting that spring. Lauren was a dickens. She loved to laugh and was excited about having a new baby brother or sister. Jilly listened with wonder that her child had, in fact, turned out so well and was so happy.
When it was her turn Jilly spoke about the old Victorian house in which they’d grown up and what her sisters and parents were like, careful to speak in generalities. Jilly deliberately skipped over her past. She wanted them to start their relationship focused on the positives.
“I’d like to
meet your sisters,” Anne Marie said, opening the door to a possible reunion. “My aunts.”
“They’re all here, of course,” she replied, eager to grasp this offering. “They’d love nothing more than to meet you, too. They hoped you’d feel this way, but we didn’t want to all meet you at once. The Four Seasons can be a lot to handle.”
“The Four Seasons?”
Jilly smiled. “That’s what my father always called us when we were growing up. He lumped us all into one group. Lord, we were so embarrassed. Whenever we walked into a room together he’d call out, “Here come the Four Seasons.” Looking back, though, I believe it gave us a strong sense of identity. It bonded us.”
“But you said your sister just died?”
“Yes, she did. Merry, the youngest. She died earlier this month of lung complications.”
“Then, how are there still four Seasons?”
“Ah, I see what you mean. My sister’s daughter is here, too. Hannah. Your cousin. She’s been officially inducted as the fourth Season.”
“Well,” Anne Marie said, looking at her plate, “that doesn’t leave room for me, does it?” She said it as a joke, but once the words were out, they both recognized the hidden hurt at being the outcast.
“It’s just an expression.”
Anne Marie’s cheery countenance shifted and Jilly braced herself, sensing that they were going to enter the murky territory they had avoided on the phone.
“Why did you give me up for adoption?”
The question had the power to bring her shoulders back. She looked around the room and pressed her knees tightly together under the table. Suddenly she felt choked. She brought a shaky hand up to cover her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t break down. The old feelings of loss and desperation ripped through her as fresh and as powerful as they had so long before.
“You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. I was only curious.”
“I never gave you up,” she managed to say, raising her eyes. Anne Marie’s face was pale, revealing a smattering of freckles, so much like her own. Dabbing her eyes with the thick cotton napkin, Jilly managed to collect herself. “I surrendered you. That’s the term used today and it’s more accurate. You don’t just give up your own baby.”
Anne Marie leaned forward. “But why? My mother told me you were too young. Is that true?”
Jilly took a deep breath and nodded. “I was sixteen when I got pregnant. Seventeen when I had you. Just a senior in high school. A young senior.”
“Then you weren’t married to my father.”
“No, of course not.” Dennis’s face flashed in her mind. “We were just children ourselves. It was so different back then. I wish you could understand. When a girl got pregnant, she was sent away. No questions asked. Being pregnant out of wedlock was a scandal. It was a stigma for the whole family. Being so young, the option of keeping you was never presented to me. From the moment I found out I was pregnant, everyone told me it was the best thing for the baby to be given to a family who wanted a child, that it was wrong of me, even selfish, to want to keep my baby.”
“But why didn’t you ever search for me? I used to wonder why you didn’t at least try and find me.”
“Oh, Anne Marie…” Her throat constricted.
“Don’t misunderstand. I love my family. My mom and dad, they’ve been wonderful and I wouldn’t change anything. They are my family.” Her eyes shone now in defiance. “But sometimes, when I hear someone talk about how Lauren’s eyes are like Grandma Marie’s or how my cousin has Uncle Bob’s laugh, I always feel a little left out, wondering where I got my nose, or where my laugh came from.”
“You can look at me and get a lot of your answers,” Jilly said thickly, deeply moved. She glanced at the cleft, then as quickly moved away. “But your laugh is like your aunt Rose’s. High and like bells. It’s music to my ears. And your red hair—” She shrugged in the French manner. “This is the Season trademark. When you see red hair, then you know it’s from us.”
Anne Marie smiled, the light returning to her eyes. “Lauren has red hair.”
“Does she?” Jilly was extraordinarily pleased and her chest swelled. “There you have it. Genetics will out.”
In the aftermath of that tense exchange they both reached for their coffees and sipped, needing a moment to regroup. Jilly studied her daughter’s face. Her eyes seemed larger and her alabaster skin literally shone. At that moment, Jilly recognized the face of the infant that they’d held up in the hospital delivery room. When she saw her baby, even for that brief, fleeting moment, the mother in her saw something—in the eyes, in the features—that imprinted itself into her memory.
“I see so many things in you, Anne Marie,” she said softly, tilting her head as she continued her perusal. “The way you move your head a certain way, the breathiness of your voice, the manner in which you hold your shoulders back when you walk. They say there are blood ties in every family and I believe it. I’d like to tell you everything there is to know about me and my family—your family. Not to detract from the family that you already have, but to add to it.”
“I’d like that,” she said, tears flooding those impossibly luminous eyes and making them even bluer.
The bill came and it seemed a good point to end their lunch. They’d forged past the initial awkwardness well enough, yet the strain was beginning to show. Anne Marie looked at her watch and gasped with alarm.
“Oh, my God, look at the time. It’s almost three o’clock. My mother is going to kill me. She has a bridge game and Lauren will be upset that I’ve been gone so long.”
“I’d like to meet your mother. I don’t want her to ever feel that I’m coming here to compete with her in any way. I’m just grateful to have found you, to have met you, and I hope to meet my granddaughter.” It was a shameless begging for an invitation, but Jilly didn’t care.
“When would you want to meet her?”
“As soon as possible.”
Anne Marie seemed pleased rather than worried. “How about tomorrow? You’re staying at the Embassy Suites, right? Well, there is a wonderful garden restaurant there that has a great brunch. Should we meet there, say, ten o’clock? I’ll bring Kyle and Lauren. My mother, too. I think she’s even more anxious to meet you. And please, would your sisters come?”
“You couldn’t keep them away.”
Jilly quickly settled the bill. Then, because she knew Anne Marie was in a hurry, declined a ride home and hailed a cab.
As she settled herself in the back seat and slipped her dark sunglasses over her eyes, Jilly felt shell-shocked and tired beyond thinking. Maybe after she lay down a while, perhaps when her muscles relaxed and her brain cleared, she could think again of that cleft in Anne Marie’s chin and how that one sweet little dimple might be the bomb that exploded her family apart.
23
JILLY RETURNED TO HER ROOM, drew the curtains and collapsed on the bed. She lay staring at the ceiling, her mind stumbling over one immutable truth that she could no longer deny. Dennis Connor was her child’s father.
Oh, the bitter irony of it. When she got pregnant she didn’t know for certain who the father was and told herself it didn’t matter since she wasn’t going to get married or keep the baby. The father would simply slip into anonymity. Then years later, when the news came that Birdie was dating, then married, Dennis, she was stunned, unable to believe that fate could pull such a jest. Cruel fate! Even the possibility that Dennis could be the father had suddenly became another unsavory, dirty little secret. Then again, when she’d agreed to go on this search for Spring, she’d told herself Dennis couldn’t possibly be the father. There had only been that one time with him. But God wasn’t giving her a single break.
She sat up in the bed, untwisting the sheets that were corded around her legs like a snake. Raking back her hair, she took deep, cleansing breaths, clearing her head. “No more lies,” she said, feeling the conviction deepen. That’s what had gotten her into this problem in the
first place. Yet she couldn’t let Birdie walk into that restaurant tomorrow morning and be slapped with the truth. Birdie would take one look at Anne Marie and figure it out just like she had. If the tables were turned, she’d want to know the truth from Birdie herself.
She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and feel the blood draining from her veins. She imagined this was what it felt like to face a firing squad. She reached out, picked up the phone from the night table and dialed Birdie’s room.
“Hello?”
“Birdie?”
“Oh, hi, Jilly. How’s your headache?”
“Better, thanks.”
“Good. Ready for dinner, then? Rose and I were just trying to pick out a restaurant.”
“Birdie, listen, can we meet for drinks first? Just you and me? I’d like to talk to you. We could go to the lounge downstairs.”
There was a pause. “Sure. I’ll meet you there in say, ten minutes.”
Jilly found a secluded table between a potted palm and the brick wall, ordered two glasses of white wine, then waited. The minutes passed in agonizing slowness as she tried to rehearse what she would say to Birdie. But nothing sounded right and she realized with dread that no matter what words she chose, they were going to hurt.
She heard the bell of the elevator and looked up to see Birdie step out and walk into the lounge. Jilly licked her lips and waved. Birdie’s brows rose when she spotted her and a smile lit her face as she waved back.
“You look awfully serious,” Birdie said, leaning forward for a quick kiss on the cheek. She looked at Jilly, her face clouded with concern. “Is there something you didn’t tell us about Anne Marie?”
She waited until Birdie settled in her chair. “In a way. There’s something I need to clear up with you.”
The Four Seasons Page 32
