Celebration

by Fern Michaels

  “Gosh, Mom, you really did do a makeover. This doesn’t seem like the same house anymore.,” Cala said as she walked through the downstairs.

  “Does it feel comfortable and homey?” Kristine asked anxiously.

  Calla squinted through her one good eye. “I’d say so. Wow, what a difference,” she said as she passed the open door to her mother’s room. “When ... why ...

  “It was time,” Kristine said.

  “Do you regret moving all his stuff out?”

  “I don’t know if regret is the right word or not. It was painful. I’ve come to terms with it. Tell me the truth, how do you like your room?” Kristine said, guiding Cala down the hallway.

  “At first I tried to make it into the kind of room you would have loved when you were twelve or so. Then I decided that wouldn’t work. I moved on to a sixteen-year-old theme, and that didn’t work either. Those years are lost to both of us. I finally opted for what I thought was simply feminine. Do you like it, Cala? I made everything myself.”

  “Oh, Mom, it’s so pretty. Did you cover this old chair, too?”

  “Yes, but my upholstery skills leave a little to be desired. The chair was too comfortable to throw away. I know how you like to read, so I made this little nook for you with an ottoman and a good reading lamp. The best-selling books are a few years old now. I hooked the rugs during the winter. The rags were from all your outgrown clothing. The tulip appliques on the coverlet were the hardest. I know they’re your favorite flowers.”

  “I didn’t know you knew that, Mom,.”

  Kristine bobbed her head up and down, her eyes filling.

  “You did all this for me, Mom? How did you know ... you didn’t know if I would ever ...”

  “I hoped. Please don’t tell me it’s one of those too much, too little, too late things.”

  “No, I won’t say that. I think I’m overwhelmed that you went to so much trouble. It’s wonderful. Does the bath connect to another room?”

  “I’m afraid Mike won’t appreciate the feminine touches. I thought powder blue and white was so clean and fresh. The seashell pictures are kind of neutral, as are the blue towels and carpets. The shower is wonderful. Unlimited hot water.”

  “I’m going to take a shower, then I’m going to curl up in that delicious-looking chair and either read or take another snooze. It feels like home, Mom. It really does. Thanks.”

  “I’ll bring you up some lemonade and your egg salad. Stay up here and don’t try those stairs again until your legs are less wobbly. Is there anything in particular you’d like for dinner?”

  “Spaghetti. Lots of garlic bread. Mom, when did you, you know, do all this?”

  “I did it between drinking bouts. I wasn’t drunk all the time. I did it for myself as much as I did it for you. I needed to do something constructive, but, as I said, there are glitches in all this work. Take your time in the shower. Do you need any help?”

  “I think I can manage. Can the dogs stay up here with me?”

  “Of course. That little keypad by the door is an intercom. Call me when you’re ready for your egg salad.”

  Kristine’s heart soared as she heard her daughter speak to the dogs. “This is all so perfect. And, she did it for me. For me. Do you believe that? Of course you do, you’ve lived here longer than I have. A pink carpet and tulips on my bedspread and on my walls! Who could ask for more?”

  10

  She nestled against him, burrowing as close as she could. She loved the way the hollow of his neck felt against her cheek as the silky strands of her hair fell over his shoulder like a veil. She breathed the scent of him. Only the rustling of their bodies against the sheets and the soft sounds of their whispers broke the silence of the night. Her fingers traced through the light furring of his chest hair; her leg, thrown intimately over his, felt the lean, sinewy muscles of his thigh.

  They were like light and shadow—she silvered, the color of moonlight, and he dark like the night. He held her, gentle hands soothing her, bringing her back down from erotic heights.

  It was the best of all times, this moment after lovemaking, when all the barriers were down and satiny skin melted into masculine hardness.

  Kristine snuggled deeper into the nest of Woodie’s embrace. He drew her closer, bringing a smile to her lips. He was the best thing that ever happened to her.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Did she? “Maybe later. I want you to make love to me again.”

  “Do you now?” Woodie drawled.

  “I absolutely do.”

  “I need time to think about it.”

  “I’ll give you thirty seconds,” Kristine said, her hands hot and demanding, covering his flesh with eager deliberation. His lips were pressed against her throat, his husky voice sending tremors through her body. “Make love to me, Kristine,” he croaked hoarsely, the fire in his belly shooting upward to his head, making him feel light-headed, as a deep, aching longing for her surged through him.

  Her body was ready for him, arching, needing, eager for his touch and for his ultimate possession of her. Her head swimming with anticipation, she felt words she never thought she would utter again slip from her lips. Their mouths touched, teasing little tastes of his tongue while he held her so tightly that each breath was a labor. He anchored his body to hers while her senses took flight, soaring high overhead until her thinking became disjointed, and her world was focused on those places which were covered by his hands, by his lips.

  Taking his dark head in her hands, she cradled his face, kissing his mouth, his chin, the creases between his brows.

  “Love me, Kristine, love me,” he groaned, his voice deep, husky, almost a primal cry of desire. Those few words in the silent room made his passions flare. He covered her with his body, holding her fast with his muscular thighs, while he skillfully caressed her heated flesh. She drew his head down to her breasts, offering them. His lips closed over one crest, then the other, nibbling, teasing, drawing tight, loving circles with his tongue. His excursion traveled downward to the flatness of her belly and the soft, darker recesses between her legs.

  Kristine felt herself arch instinctively against his mouth, her head rolling back and forth on the pillow as though to deny the exquisite demand of her sensuality. Her fingers curled in his thick, dark hair, her body moved of its own volition against the caress he excited against her. Release, when it came, was the ebbing of the flood tide, seeping from her limbs and the sudden exhaling of her breath. She was floating, drifting on a cloud, the whole of her world consisting of his lips and her flesh and the contact between them.

  Still, his movements were slow, deliberate and unhurried, although there was a roaring in his ears that was echoed in the pulses of his loins. His hands grasped her hips, lifting her, drawing her against him, filling her with his bigness, knowing his own needs now and demanding they be met. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as though he had run a mile. Lips met, lingered, tasted, and met again. He moved within her imprisoning flesh, insistently, rhythmically, bringing her with him to another plateau so different from the first yet just as exciting. He rocked against her, feeling the resistance she offered, knowing that as she tightened around him as though to expel him from her, she was coming ever nearer to that climaxing sunburst where he would find his own consolation.

  Panting, Woodie’s body covered hers, calming her shudders and comforting her until their spasms passed. It was with reluctance that he withdrew from her and silently pulled the covers up, taking her in his arms to cradle her lovingly. Contentedly, Kristine rested against him, sweeping her hand down the length of his body and finding him moist from her own wetness. Curled together in a dream of their own, they murmured love words until at last they slept.

  A long time later, Woodie, said, “Now that was something to put in the old memory book.”

  “Really,” Kristine drawled. “Would you care to be more explicit?”

  “There’s sex and then there’s sex. What we just had wa
s SEX!” Woodie drawled in return.

  “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Was it as good for you as it was for me,’ or are you the one who is supposed to say that?” Kristine teased.

  “Does it matter? It was heart-stopping, that’s for sure.”

  “That it was. I’ve got to go home, Woodie. I don’t want to, but I have to. I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

  “It’s only ten-thirty,” Woodie said.

  “I know, but Cala and I always have a cup of tea together before we go to bed. I enjoy it and look forward to my daughter’s company. I may be premature, but I think we’re becoming friends. She’s Almost healed now, and it will be time for her to leave soon.”

  “I thought she might be attracted to Pete. Isn’t that working out?”

  “She doesn’t mind Jack or me seeing her, but she’s been shying away from Pete. I take that to mean she could be interested. They talk on the back porch every night after dark. We’re at the point where makeup will cover the worst of the bruises. I think the next few days will be interesting.”

  “I take that to mean you would approve,” Woodie said.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think or if I approve or not,” Kristine said, zipping up her jeans. “It’s what Cala and Pete think. You know what they say about long-distance relationships. They rarely work.”

  “This might be the exception to that rule. I miss you already, and you haven’t even left. Now what am I going to do for the rest of the evening?”

  “Snuggle under the covers and go back to sleep and dream about me.”

  “Kristine, I don’t want to end this evening on a sour note but have you heard anything from Jack’s reporter friend?”

  “Not a word. It’s not your problem, Woodie, it’s mine.” Kristine kissed the tip of his nose before she danced away from his outstretched hands. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  “Will you dream about me, Kristine?”

  “I dream about you every night, Woodie. I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

  “If you moved in, you wouldn’t have to go out in the middle of the night or lock the door,” Woodie said good-naturedly.

  “I know, and I’m thinking about that, too. Night.”

  “Drive carefully. Ring the phone once when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

  “Yesss, Mother.”

  Kristine parked the car and walked around to the backyard. Gracie and Slick woofed their pleasure as they pretended to nip at her ankles. “What are you guys doing out here at this time of night?” She scooped them up just as her daughter’s voice spiraled down from the back porch.

  “I brought them out, Mom. Pete and I are up here having coffee. Want some?”

  Coffee with Pete. Guess that means the mother/daughter evening cup of tea is out. “No thanks. I’ve had my share of caffeine for today. I’m going to check on Jack, then it’s bedtime for me. Shall I take the dogs up with me?”

  “I’ll keep them if you don’t mind, Mom. Do you miss them?”

  “A little. It’s okay, though. I want them to get to know you. I’ll say good night.”

  “Night, Mom.”

  “Night, Kristine,” Pete said.

  Kristine smiled to herself as she entered the house to find Jackson waiting for her. “You look awful, Jack. What in the world is wrong?”

  “Mrs. Kelly, did you know your ancestors and the Kellys were slave traders?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Where did you get an idea like that? Long ago they had slaves, but my family freed them. So did the Kellys.”

  “Where do you think all the family money came from?”

  “What money are you talking about, Jackson? My ancestors made their money from tobacco and cotton. Way back when, before the family moved to Virginia, there were rice plantations in the Carolinas. I think that’s where the bulk of the money came from. My mother always told me her great-grandparents paid the workers a wage. Another point I want to make is they never called them slaves. They were workers. They were given land for their families and my great-great-grandmother taught the children to read and write. I don’t want to hear you say anything different, Jack.”

  “It’s here in black-and-white, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “What is?”

  “Your ancestors, as well as your husband’s, sold slaves to rich Northerners. The payment book is right here. They separated families, sold off children. They made a fortune selling human beings. Yes, they farmed, but the fields were fallow for a long time, the crops were stunted. That was when the Carolina plantations were sold. The bottom line is there was more money in selling slaves than there was in farming.”

  “You better be able to prove what you’re saying, or I’m running you off my property. I don’t want to hear this. My parents were proud of the way their families took care of their workers. My mother always told me stories about how her great-great-grandma took care of the sick children, made sure a doctor came by once a month. I told you. They gave them land to build their houses. They had a church and a schoolhouse, good food and decent clothes. Make sure you write that down, too. I don’t want to hear any cockamamie story you’re making up. Do you hear me, Jackson Valarian?”

  “Mrs. Kelly, the tunnels weren’t to aid the runaways, they were for selling the slaves to the Northerners, the ones they smuggled here from the Carolinas. It’s here in black-and-white. You can’t refute it. Your family’s fortune, your fortune now, was from selling slaves. Like my colleague said, all you have to do is follow the money trail.”

  “This is preposterous.”

  “It’s not preposterous, Mrs. Kelly. It’s fact. I’m really sorry. ”

  “You aren’t printing this crap, ”Kristine said, her voice rising hysterically.

  “We had a deal. It’s not ethical to renege. My colleague is working on your behalf. You agreed to this. You can’t blame me for what I’ve found out.”

  Kristine sat down with a thump on the dining room chair. Her voice was strangled-sounding when she said, “If what you say is true, everything is a lie. All our lives were lies, my parents, my grandparents. Just the way my life with my husband was a lie. What will my children think? I can’t allow you to print ... no, no, no, I forbid it.”

  “We had a deal, Mrs. Kelly. My colleague witnessed it. Let me show you the proof. Think about all those families whose children were ripped away from them and sold to rich people who weren’t as good and kind as some of your ancestors were.”

  Kristine wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. “It’s horrible. It’s despicable. I can’t change it if it truly happened.”

  “Nor can I, Mrs. Kelly. If I print the story, if we’re lucky, some family member might remember another family member and perhaps in time be reunited. Think about that. ”

  Kristine squared her shoulders. “How many families can you account for, Jack?” she asked.

  “Possibly two hundred. It could be more or less.”

  “How many people in total?”

  “I don’t know that yet.”

  “When will you know?”

  “Another week or so.”

  “We can talk about this tomorrow. I need to think. I’m going to want to see everything. Everything, Jack. Put it all in order. I’m going to want to go down into the tunnels with you, too. What about the Kellys?”

  “They did the same thing your family did. It was a whole network. You need to understand that part of it. It’s stated here.”

  A headache found its way to the base of Kristine’s skull, moved upward to hammer away behind her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. It was probably all a very bad dream, and she would wake any moment. How could she be responsible for something that happened hundreds of years ago? Jack acted like she would be held accountable.

  Kristine moved like a robot to the window seat when she finally managed to make her legs work and climb the stairs that led to her room. She sat down, drawing her legs up to her chest, and rocked back and forth, little mewling sounds escaping
her lips. The word reparation came out of nowhere and rocketed through her brain. She thought about Logan and the eight million dollars he’d absconded with. How much of that money could be traced back to the trust fund from her parents? True, Logan had made some very wise investments, but what portion of her parents’ estate came from their parents and her grandparents’ parents?

  Jack’s somber words ripped through her brain as visions of wide-eyed, frightened children being ripped from their parents’ arms surfaced behind her closed eyelids. The vision was so horrendous that she bolted to the bathroom, where the violent churning in her stomach fought with the hammer inside her head.

  When it was over, Kristine perched on the side of the bathtub. What did I ever do to deserves this? What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to separate the slave money from the farm money or my family’s kennels? Am I supposed to give it all back? What about the money Logan made off with? How can I ever make it right? How in the name of God can I ever earn black eight million dollars? Do I have any options? Moral versus legal. Hundreds of years later there can’t be any legal ramifications, can there? Slavery is an ugly thing, but back then it was legal.

  The headache continued to pound inside Kristine’s head. She wanted a drink so bad her hands started to shake.

  “Mom? Mom, what’s wrong? You look terrible. What is it?” Cala asked from the doorway. “Why are you sitting on the edge of the bathtub like that? You’re shaking like a leaf. Mom, what the hell is wrong?” Cala ran to her mother, dropping to her knees.

  “I need a drink. Listen to me, Cala, I really need a drink.”

  “No, you don’t. There’s no liquor in the house. You told me that yourself. I’ll make you some tea, but first you have to tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me, Mom.”