Condemn Me Not

by Dianne Venetta

  The stab to her heart was quick. Claire fled the knowing look in his eye, seeking refuge in a view of her back patio. Empty, bleak, the bare metal furniture looked cold and uninviting. During the summer it was their gathering place, the seats filled with friends and family, the stainless steel grill a key ingredient to their enjoyment. Jim would grill burgers that called to the entire neighborhood, the boys would toss a football out in the yard, while she and Rebecca would sit and read, sit and chat. They did everything and anything, but all of it was made better because they were together.

  Claire shut out the ideal mental pictures in her mind. Sarah. Her sister, Sarah. Tears of longing pricked her eyes as she hooked her gaze to Rob’s. Joined at the hip for their entire childhood, she and Sarah were closer than two human beings could be. They thought alike, dressed alike, even sounded alike. Only eighteen months separated the two of them, and Claire was devastated when she left. “Sarah and Rebecca are not the same,” she refuted. “It’s a different situation entirely.”

  “Same passion, same spirit. Only difference I see is their mother.”

  Resentment burned through the tears. “I’m a good mother, Rob. Just because I care about my daughter and want to keep her near does not make me a bad person.”

  “I never said it did.” He squeezed her hand. “But you two don’t look at life the same way. You’re pastures apart. You’re not part of the same ranch. Hell—you’re not even trotting through the same valley!”

  Rob’s penchant for his horses pulled memories from her. It was true. She and her mother were very different, especially when it came to their children. Their mother had them, raised them, then set them free.

  “Think of it as an opportunity to test her will against the world. She wants to go places and see things. You don’t want to stand in her way, do you? You don’t want to be the reason she totes a saddle pack of regret ‘til her dying day? She wants to be free, Claire. Let her.”

  She eyed her brother like a rat in the kitchen, about to be dispatched. The word “free” carried the weight of accusation. It meant a mother trying to chain a daughter—a daughter who was trying to escape. Crumbling beneath his level gaze, she murmured weakly, “I’m worried about her.”

  Rob placed a hand to her shoulder. “I know you are and that’s okay. It’s who you are Claire. You’d worry about her at Rhode Island, too.” He tipped her chin up to him. “That’s what moms do.”

  Not their mom. The indomitable Mrs. Alexander never worried about any of them. Sarah’s image floated into her mind. Only Claire, the family worry wart.

  “This isn’t about you.” Rob’s appeal was soft, sensitive. It snuck in while her defenses were down. “It’s about Rebecca and what’s best for her.”

  Claire studied their hands, his masculine and meaty, dwarfing her pale and slender fingers. Rob was her brother, her friend, but she didn’t want to hear this from him. It felt like he was giving comfort and aid to the enemy—the traitor—which was wholly ridiculous. They were talking about her daughter, her sweet little girl.

  But knowing she was being ridiculous didn’t keep her from wanting Rob on her side. She wanted him to say she was right in her concern, right in wanting to keep Rebecca close to home. But he wasn’t. He was calling her for what she was—the hovering helicopter mom who wanted to keep her daughter within range at all times.

  “Let her go, Claire.”

  Rob wasn’t talking about Europe. He was talking about her stranglehold of love. Tears welled quick and hot. “But why does she have to go so far?”

  “Rebecca has big plans for her life. She wants to go for it.”

  “Why can’t she wait until after college?”

  “She’s young and headstrong.” He flashed a smile. “And life is short, sis. Carpe diem.”

  It was a sentiment Claire couldn’t share. Not the way he meant it.

  SIMONE AND MITCHELL

  Simone watched as her husband Mitchell chopped tomatoes. He wielded the large knife with the speed and skill of a samurai, his movements rapid, his blade laser-sharp. Leaning against the onyx granite counter of her kitchen, flecks of blue and gray luminescent beneath the light spilling from the kitchen chandelier, she marveled at how he never cut off a finger. But he didn’t. Ever. All ten digits remained intact, long, elegant and well-manicured.

  Mitchell brushed the diced tomato alongside the minced garlic and rolled a Vidalia onto his bamboo cutting board. He proceeded to slice the sweet onion into rings.

  Normally, Simone enjoyed watching him work his magic. But not tonight. “We have to do something about it, Mitchell. We can’t let her go through with this plan of hers.”

  “I agree. But this is your department.”

  “Why mine?” she snapped, aggravated that when it came to domestic issues, she was suddenly in charge, as if she didn’t have demands pulling at her from all angles, too. She turned from him. Child-rearing was a team sport; a joint effort. She shouldn’t have to be the one to play the bad guy all the time. He should have to share in that responsibility as well.

  Using the dull side of the blade, Mitchell pushed the cut onion into an awaiting bowl and clarified, “You know what I mean. I’ve got a general contractor on the verge of mutiny and a city government breathing down my back for permits.” He lit the stove burner and glanced up at her, his hazel eyes glittering beneath the bright light overhead. A small shadow of hair formed across his jaw line. The buttons of his striped Oxford were opened to reveal the white undershirt beneath. “I don’t have time to mess with Mariah’s grand schemes right now.”

  “And I do?”

  “More than me,” he replied dully and reached for the olive oil.

  “Doubtful,” she muttered under her breath. As Vice President of operations on the investment side of Carlson Bank, she was moving up the ranks. Once Len made it official, she would deliver the news to Mitchell. Simone cradled the wide-mouthed Cabernet glass in her hands, the dark liquid shimmering in deep hues of burgundy red as she stared into its bowl. It was her time. She’d worked hard over the years and deserved this promotion. To be awarded title of President for Carlson’s Chicago’s bank was the feather in her cap, the pinnacle of her career. She had worked hard over the years and she would not miss this opportunity. It required a move, but it was her turn to shine.

  “And anyway,” he said, pouring a dollop of oil into the pan. “It sounds like she’s put some serious thought into this idea. Why are you fighting it so hard?”

  Simone raised her head, satisfaction with her future mingling with her discontent over Mariah’s. “Selling recycle bags at Faneuil Hall? Please...”

  “Collecting recycle materials from restaurants and businesses, then selling them to vendors at a profit,” he corrected. “Or have you forgotten that part?”

  “Be serious. Logan is going to drive his truck around to restaurants and retailers and collect their cardboard boxes. That’s his business plan?” She’d heard the spiel. Businesses had deliveries and deliveries came in boxes—boxes he and Mariah were going to collect and in turn sell to recycling companies. As a side business, Mariah was going to customize recycle bags and sell them for a profit. As if recycle bags weren’t already expensive enough! Add the cost of gas, the cost of insurance, licenses, permits—the whole endeavor was a joke. Simone was so mad at Mariah, she wanted to spit. “She may as well work at the drive-thru and wait for some fairy to pick her up and drop her into a pot of gold. Her chance for success will amount to the same.”

  Mitchell nailed her with a disparaging look. “It’s a growing industry, Simone. They might have a chance.”

  “Chance in hell,” she said, her anger fueled by Mitchell’s lackadaisical attitude. “It’s foolhardy and I think you should talk with her.”

  “What am I going to say that you haven’t already?”

  “Nothing.” Glass in hand, Simone tucked her arms into a cross over her chest. “But she’ll listen to you. With me, she turns rebellious—she has to do the opposite of
whatever I want her to do—which is what’s best for her. Yet to you, she’ll listen.”

  “C’mon Simone, that’s not true.” Mitchell shook the shiny steel pan, dispersing the heating oil to evenly coat the bottom and sides. “She looks up to you. You’re her role model.”

  Then why did she invoke her father’s name in the heat of every battle? Without fail Mariah ran to Daddy in hope of turning him to her side and against her mother. Mariah’s tactics hurt more than Simone wanted to admit. It wasn’t fair that a child pitted parent against parent, especially when she worked so hard to be there for her daughter, to be strong and loving, to help guide her as she matured into a responsible adult.

  But who continually received the praise? Mitchell. Your husband cooks? Oh how lucky you are! It’s sweet how your husband shares an after dinner stroll with your daughter. That’s real quality time between parent and child.

  Simone hated the injustice of perception. Mitchell cooked because she worked late, had clients to entertain, meetings to attend—not to mention it was more a stress-reliever for him than chore. And who did they think was doing the dishes while Mitchell and Mariah were out roaming the neighborhood on their leisurely quality time stroll?

  She was. She was the silent partner who kept the family functioning, but no one cared to give her credit. She crammed more into a twenty-four hour period than most people could manage in twelve. From pumping milk in the office restroom to working through lunch, dodging traffic in last minute scrambles to make school performances, only to be followed by midnight report writing—when the house was quiet and she couldn’t sleep anyway. No one had a clue how hard she worked. Men got an “atta boy” when they spent time at the office and when they spent time with their kids, but women?

  They were neglecting their husband and children if they weren’t home in time to put a hot meal on the table for dinner. They were an uncaring witch of a woman if they didn’t sit idly by and watch their child ride a bike up and down the street when they had a dinner presentation to give visiting financiers, the ones that could make or break her career. Forget the untold hours spent crib side, watching her baby sleep, checking to be sure Mariah was breathing, worrying that she’d have all she needed in life, all she needed to be happy and whole. And did anyone thank her for the surprise batch of cupcakes she dropped off at the elementary school in between meetings so the entire class could celebrate her child’s birthday? No one gave her the first heed.

  Simone constantly felt pulled between the obligations of work and home with no time to just “be.” She always felt the need to be involved, worked to be involved, yet never felt valued for the same.

  Mitchell added garlic to the oil and briskly shook the pan and its sizzling contents. The rich, pungent scent of garlic quickly saturated the air around her. “Well, if she looks up to me, why isn’t she listening to what I have to say?”

  “She is.”

  “She has a funny way of showing it.”

  “Because you two are just alike and she’s equally as hard-headed.”

  Simone glared.

  “Strong-willed.” With his free hand, Mitchell took a sip from his wine. “Is that better?” he asked with a smile.

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not, honey.” Mitchell’s posture softened. He removed the pan from the heat and his tone grew tender. “All I’m trying to say is, she’s tough and strong and is old enough to make these decisions for herself.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Simone pushed off from the counter, blood pumping through her skull like a sledgehammer. “She’s a child! Acting like one, too. Mariah’s only doing this to spite us. This is about that car, I tell you.” Simone set the wineglass down with a hard clink. “Logan put her up to this, I guarantee it!”

  He shook his head. “Logan went out and bought his own car.”

  “That belongs in a junk yard.”

  “Have you ever thought it might actually be what she wants to do? You’ve heard her talk about going green in the past. She’s a conservation fanatic.”

  If Simone had to hear one more time how many trees it took to manufacture a roll of toilet paper, she was going to scream. She shook her head. “This is Logan’s doing.”

  Mitchell shrugged, taking an absent sip of wine. “And what if it is? She’s almost eighteen. In a few months she won’t have to listen to anything we say.”

  “If she wants our support, she will. Speaking of trees, money doesn’t grow on them. It doesn’t magically fall out of the sky.” How many times had Simone suffered through that little lecture? Her father repeatedly instilled the value of hard work and patient determination, and she’d listened. It took a plan and perseverance to earn your way in life. “How does Mariah expect to earn a living without an education?”

  “Not everyone goes to college,” he reminded her quietly. “There are plenty of success stories out there of people who never set the first foot on a campus.”

  “This, coming from the man with an addiction to online legal courses?”

  He laughed and raised his glass to her. “What can I say, I love the law.” He sipped from his wine, then using his wooden spatula, brushed onions from cutting board into the pan, the spit and pop immediate as he mixed them about. “Should have been a lawyer. It would have been fun. But my life didn’t work out that way.” He turned to her. “And I didn’t need a degree to start my business.”

  “No. You lucked out.”

  “Luck is where preparedness meets opportunity.”

  “Mitchell.”

  “Simone.”

  The issue was an old one, but it retained the power to stand between them. She groaned and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling stainless steel refrigerator. Opening one of the lower built-in drawers, she rummaged through plastic-wrapped containers.

  “I saw an opportunity and jumped on it. That’s how real life works, Simone. People seize opportunity and the timing works itself out.”

  If only she could believe him. If only a small part of her thought this situation was good for Mariah.

  “With or without us,” he added, “she’ll do all right.”

  With or without us? Or with or without you. Locating the package of fresh mozzarella, Simone pulled it free. Mariah didn’t care what her mother thought. Only her father’s opinion held weight.

  Returning to the island counter, Simone set the cheese down beside the bottle of balsamic glaze. Mitchell placed his wooden spoon on its glossy ceramic cradle and turned down the heat, before capturing her gaze for a long, intimate moment. The aroma of sautéed onions and garlic rose between them, husband and wife hugging close to opposite corners.

  “I made mistakes and I’m still standing,” Mitchell said.

  Simone didn’t miss the undercurrent in his tone. When he lost his first fortune, she’d been beside herself. How could he let that happen? How could he leverage himself to the point of vulnerability, living one stroke away from bankruptcy? It was a poor decision on his part that cost them both dearly. At the time, her salary had barely covered the bills.

  Mitchell’s expression mellowed to one of contemplation. “We’re fine now.”

  Thanks to me, she mused bitterly. Simone swallowed old resentments. “I don’t want Mariah to have to learn things the hard way. I want her to do things the smart way.”

  “We made it through and so will she—however she chooses to get there.”

  And where she expected to detect animosity, Simone did not. Mitchell didn’t have a malicious thought in his head. He moved with the flow of life. He enjoyed the highs and he endured the lows, but he never complained. Or rarely. Bankruptcy had not sat well with him, but he took it for what it was worth—a lesson. When experience meets money, you could be sure that by the end of the engagement, experience would walk away with the money, while the money-man would walk away with experience to show for his time. But little else, she mused sourly. It had been their first major fight.

  “She must take after you, then,” Si
mone snipped, “because there was never a day I didn’t want to go to college. There was never a day I thought forging ahead without a plan was a good idea. Never. I knew the direction I wanted to go right from the beginning and that’s where I went.”

  Mitchell smiled, warmth opening his features into a loving gaze. He came to her and pulled her into his arms, whispering, “Yes. And it’s one of the things I love about you.”

  “Mariah doesn’t.”

  “Yes she does. She just doesn’t show it. Trust me. She looks up to you. She knows she’s a lot like you and she wants you to recognize the same.”

  “What are you talking about?” Simone stiffened within his grasp. “That may be what she she’s telling you, but I got a lecture about how I was never there for her, only Daddy was. How I’m the big bad monster parent and you’re the sweet kind one.” Which is a load of bull, she wanted to add, but doing so would only hurt her cause.

  Mitchell chuckled. He kissed her cheek with a soft scratch of his beard and returned to his sauté pan. “And you believed that? You know she didn’t mean it. She’s only trying to hurt you, because you didn’t jump on her bandwagon right away.”

  “Like you did?”

  “Not me, Mrs. Sheridan.” He pointed his wooden spoon at her in mock alarm. “Absolutely not. I grilled her, demanded explanation from head to toe.” Mitchell’s voice softened. “But it’s not my approval she wants. It’s yours.”

  Or Claire’s. Rebecca’s mom is proud of me. Why can’t you be?

  As though it were a competition. As though she had to work for her daughter’s love. Simone reached for her glass and pursed her lips against the rim.

  But she didn’t. She didn’t need to compete for her daughter’s affection with anyone, especially Claire. While she was out working, setting a good example for Mariah to emulate, Claire was home feeding her cookies and listening to her vent. She was making the girl feel as though every thought in her brain was a good one. Hostility stirred emotions in her gut. It was the gibberish of daytime television, where everyone claimed you had to elevate a child’s self-esteem, give them your ear and encourage their desire.