Butterfly

by Rochelle Alers

  “Please, Mama,” Robyn wailed. “Now that Seneca’s classes are over, can she come, too?”

  Seneca swallowed a portion of turkey. Although she’d always enjoyed hanging out with her sister and sister-in-law, Robyn had picked the wrong time to arrange a sisterly get-together. Five pairs of eyes were trained on her, and she knew everyone sitting at the table was waiting for her answer.

  “I’m willing to help with the driving, but I can’t go to Ithaca with you.” Uncertain whether her parents had planned on staying in D.C., she’d purchased a round-trip ticket. “I’ve committed to signing with an agency, and that means I’ll probably get more modeling jobs.”

  Dahlia set down her knife and fork. “What’s going to happen in September when classes begin again?”

  A beat passed before Seneca said, “I’m planning to take a leave from classes.”

  “Don’t you mean drop out?” Dahlia countered.

  She counted slowly to three. “Yes, Mom, I’m going to drop out.”

  “But…but what about your degree?” the older woman stammered.

  “I’ll get my degree, because I promised Grandma I would.”

  “It shouldn’t be about what your grandmother wanted but what you want, Seneca.”

  She didn’t want to get into it with her mother, especially with an audience of onlookers. “I want a degree and I will get my degree—just not at this time. I’ve given modeling full-time a lot of thought, and if I don’t do it now then it’ll never happen.”

  Dahlia shook her head. “But—”

  “You let her model, and when I asked you if I could you put me down,” Robyn interrupted angrily.

  Dahlia shook her finger at her younger daughter. “You’re not going to drop out of school so you can shake your half-naked ass in front of a bunch of freaks.”

  “Amen to that,” Jerome mumbled, still smarting because he felt Seneca saw him as a charity case.

  Oscar narrowed his gaze at the same time he reached over to cover Dahlia’s fisted hand. “Robyn, please, let’s not talk about this now.”

  A rush of color suffused the teenager’s face with her rising temper. “But—I want to talk about it now!”

  “Enough, Robyn,” Oscar cautioned softly. “Seneca is a grown woman who can make her own decisions. You forget that your mother and I are responsible for you, not the other way around. And I would like you to watch your tone, young lady.”

  Oscar Houston rarely got involved in the verbal altercations between his wife and their children, but lately he’d noticed Robyn behaving oddly; she’d begun exhibiting signs of being extremely short-tempered. A single word would set her off, and Robyn seemed bent on seeing how far she could go before Dahlia lost her temper.

  “Daddy, the turkey is delicious.” Seneca had to say something—anything—to lighten the mood. What she wanted to do was kick Robyn under the table.

  Oscar winked at her. “Thank you.”

  Jerome extended his plate. “I’ll have another helping of turkey and dressing. And don’t forget to ladle on the gravy. I’m eating for Seneca,” he joked. “Ya’ll know models are notorious for not eating.”

  “Since when did you become a stand-up comedian?” Seneca drawled. Her voice was filled with sarcasm. “For your information, I do eat.”

  Jerome opened his mouth to come back at Seneca, but a warning look from his father quickly ended the interchange. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, apologizing. “I have to admit that you’re the only model I’ve ever seen who doesn’t look anorexic in person.”

  She smiled. “I’m probably that rare person who doesn’t photograph heavier.”

  Maya touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. “Are most photos touched up or airbrushed?”

  “I suppose the ones for the glossy magazines do get Photoshopped.”

  Seneca spent the rest of dinner fielding questions about modeling. She was offered a reprieve when the sound of the baby’s cries came through the baby monitor. James Scott was awake.

  Seneca maneuvered up the empty space in front of her building, shifting into Park. She’d driven from the restaurant in northern Virginia to New York City, stopping once to refuel outside of Philadelphia. She shook her father gently, rousing him from sleep. Oscar, along with the other occupants of the Toyota Sequoia had fallen asleep before they’d left the Capitol District. The sound of snoring was drowned out by the music flowing from the many speakers in the large sport utility vehicle.

  “I’m home, Daddy.”

  Oscar’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to focus his gaze on the lighted dashboard. “What were you doing? Speeding?” It’d had taken Seneca only a little more than three hours to make the two-hundred-mile drive between New York City and Washington, D.C.

  “Traffic was light,” she said, rather than tell her father that she had exceeded the speed limit whenever possible. “Are you sure you’re going to be alert enough to drive, or should I wake Mom?”

  Oscar, stretching out his arms, shook his head. “No. I can drive.”

  He unlocked and opened the passenger-side door, got out and came around the vehicle as Seneca slipped from behind the wheel with a large quilted sack that doubled as purse and overnight bag. She hadn’t changed out of the suit she’d worn to the baptism and the dinner that followed but had exchanged her heels for a pair of running shoes.

  She hugged and kissed him. “Get home safely, Daddy.”

  Oscar tightened his hold on her waist, lifting her off her feet. “When are you coming up for a visit?”

  “I’ll try for the Fourth. Maybe I’ll bring Robyn back with me and have her stay a week or two.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I’m certain she would love that. Don’t forget I’ll be in Pennsylvania the first, second and third for the Battle of Gettysburg reenactment. But I promised to be home by the Fourth.”

  Seneca smiled. Her father, well versed in military history, was a Civil War buff and had joined a group who reenacted battles from the Revolutionary and Civil wars. “Be careful, Daddy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve heard the speech from your mother at least half a dozen times. ‘Sit it out if temperatures go above eighty-five.’”

  “Please listen to her.” Stepping back, she watched her father get in behind the wheel, adjust the seat and mirror, then drive away, watching until the red taillights disappeared when he turned the corner.

  Seneca climbed the steps to the brownstone, unlocked the outer door, then slowly made her way up the stairs to her apartment. She’d volunteered to have Robyn stay with her for several weeks to give her sister a look at another way of a life—a faster, grittier and more dangerous environment. Ithaca, with its magnificent gorges, lush forests, pristine lakes—billed as the gateway to the Fingers Lakes—also had its share of social ills that weren’t as apparent as in larger cities. One day Robyn would come to appreciate their mother monitoring her every move.

  She unlocked the door and was greeted with a blast of frigid air. Electra had left the living room air-conditioning unit on the highest setting. She closed and locked the door, walked into the living room and picked up the unit’s remote device, readjusting the thermostat. Seneca had lost count of the number of times she’d shown her roommate how to program the timer and temperature, but Electra claimed she always forgot. The sound of Electra’s low-pitched, distinctive laugh, followed by a deeper chuckle, meant that the aspiring actress was either rehearsing or entertaining in her bedroom.

  “Go for it, girl,” she whispered. Electra’s bedroom was far enough from hers so she wouldn’t be disturbed by loud voices or music. Closing the door to her own bedroom, Seneca noticed the flashing red light on her phone. Punching the code to the voice mail, she activated the speaker feature.

  She froze, listening intently to the beautifully modulated female voice: Mr. Gordon has arranged for a car to pick you up at eleven forty-five. Lunch will be at La Grenouille.

  Seneca’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t an invitation but a command.
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  She would shower, then go online to look up the restaurant, only because she didn’t want to appear gauche if she showed up wearing the wrong attire. Thanks to Luis, she didn’t have to rush out to buy an outfit whenever she had an appointment. Luis had called her his mariposa, and that’s how she wanted to be promoted.

  Peering into the mirror over her dresser, she angled her head. A slow smile found its way over her features. “Please permit me to introduce myself,” she drawled in a sultry whisper. “I am Seneca Houston. Better known as Butterfly.”

  Chapter Six

  The driver was standing on the top step holding an umbrella when Seneca walked out of the brownstone. He extended his free arm, and she looped her arm over his suit jacket as he led her down the stairs to the black Mercedes Benz parked at the curb.

  The rain that had started earlier that morning was tapering off to a light drizzle. In deference to the weather, she’d changed outfits several times until deciding on a black pencil skirt, black patent leather pumps and a red blouse with a mandarin collar piped in black. Upon closer inspection one could see tiny embroidered butterflies on the silk fabric. The black obi sash accentuating her tiny waist pulled her winning look together. She’d taken the time to flatiron her hair, styling it into a bohemian knot. Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl studs. With the warmer weather she tended to go bare-legged, but today she wore a pair of sheer black nylons.

  Smiling, Seneca thanked the black-suited chauffeur as he opened the rear door; she sat on the leather seat, then swung her legs around. Having a driver at her disposal was a far cry from trying to flag down a taxi in the rain. She’d discovered that taxis mysteriously became as scarce as hen’s teeth whenever it rained in New York.

  Earlier that morning, she’d had a lengthy conversation with Luis, giving him an update on Booth’s dinner party, her becoming godmother to her nephew and the scheduled lunch date with Booth at La Grenouille. What she hadn’t told Luis was that she’d gone with Phillip Kingston to his hotel suite.

  She could hear the excitement in Luis’s voice when he told her she was about to make it big. Then his tone changed when Seneca promised him that they were to be a package deal. He’d told her not to worry about him, but that was something she couldn’t do. If it hadn’t been for Luis she never would’ve given modeling a passing thought. Now she was on the threshold of signing with one of the premier agents, who’d promised to make her a supermodel.

  Relaxing against the supple black leather seat, she detected the lingering scent of Booth’s cologne. He’d sent his car and driver to pick her up. Why, she mused, did she feel like a lamb being led to slaughter? Shaking off the uneasy feeling, she stared out the window at the passing landscape as the driver took the Seventy-ninth Street transverse road through Central Park to the east side. The uneasiness fled, and Seneca was in complete control when she was escorted through the doors of the exquisite dining establishment and ushered to Mr. Gordon’s favorite table.

  Her vermilion-colored lips parted in a warm smile when he rose, hands extended, to greet her. His hands were cool, soft. “The restaurant is lovely,” she whispered against his smooth-shaven jaw. La Grenouille was a garden where food just happened to be served.

  Booth stared numbly at Seneca before a smile parted his thin lips. He still found it hard to believe that she was even more beautiful in person than in her photographs. She was like a rare D-colored diamond. Seneca Houston was flawless.

  “You are lovely, Seneca,” he said, pulling out a chair at the table and seating her while he lingered over her head longer than necessary. She lowered her chin, the demure gesture enchanting. He stared at the coil of hair on the nape of her long, slender neck. How he longed to place his mouth against the velvety skin to see if she tasted as good as she looked.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.”

  A scowl replaced his smile as he retook his seat. “Please call me Booth.”

  Seneca peered at Booth through her lashes. His navy-blue suit with a faint pinstripe must have set the agent back several thousand dollars and there was no doubt his shirt and silk tie hadn’t come off a department-store rack or shelf. His fingernails were square-cut and buffed. Booth Gordon was the epitome of sartorial splendor. The exception was his hair. It was too long and much too oily.

  “But you’re old enough to be my father,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Booth moved his chair closer, placing his hand over hers. “But I am not your father. Call me Booth.” It was a direct order.

  Seneca stared at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay, Booth. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Do you have another appointment after lunch?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m free for the rest of the day.”

  “If that’s the case, then I’d like to eat, then talk. Is that all right with you, Seneca?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “It’s fine with me.”

  Resting his elbows on the table, Booth tented his fingers. “Is there something about me that bothers you, Seneca?”

  To say his query caught her off guard was an understatement. What did he expect her to say? That the way he was leering at her made her feel as if he were a pedophile preying on younger women, although she was past the legal age of consent?

  “Your hair is too long.” It was the only thing she could say without openly insulting him.

  Booth resisted the urge to touch the hair falling over the collar of his shirt. “How short should I cut it?”

  Her eyebrows shot up, mirroring her surprise. “You’d cut your hair for me?”

  An unnamed emotion darkened the blue-green eyes. “Let’s say I’d take your suggestion under advisement.”

  His response puzzled Seneca. “Does it really matter what I think?”

  “To a certain extent it does,” Booth countered. “Whenever I consider taking on a prospective client I ask them the same question, and I expect an honest answer.”

  “Do you always get an honest answer?” she asked.

  “Nine out of ten times I don’t. Most are so eager to please they lie to me and to themselves.”

  “So, this was a test.”

  Booth smiled. “And you passed. The next time I meet with my barber I’ll have him cut it shorter.”

  Seneca gave him a sidelong glance. “Is there something about me that bothers you, Booth?” If her question shocked him, he gave no indication as his gaze lowered to the pristine white tablecloth.

  “It bothers me that I can’t seduce you.”

  The seconds ticked before she was able to form a response. “And why not?”

  Booth’s head came up, he giving her a long, penetrating look. “Because I’ve made it a practice not to shit where I have to eat.”

  There was another pause. “It looks as if we have the same practice,” Seneca said. “I will not sleep with you and pay you commission. That would make you my pimp and me your whore.”

  Booth’s face paled with annoyance. It wasn’t often that he met a woman like Seneca Houston. She continually challenged him, without regard to the fact that he held her future in his hands. All it took was a single telephone call or the scrawl of his pen to make her a very wealthy young woman. And like all those who’d come before her and would come after her, she wanted fame and fortune.

  Some would say she had a great attitude, while he believed she had a chip on her shoulder—a chip directed at authority figures. What Seneca Houston hadn’t realized is that she’d just used up her first strike with him.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you have an acid tongue?”

  Seneca gave him a sensual smile. “Yes. In fact, Phillip Kingston said the same thing to me the other night.” She’d decided to broach the topic of Phillip before Booth did. “When I told you I had another engagement the night of your dinner party, it was with Phillip. We had an arrangement to leave separately, then go somewhere and talk.”

  “If I’d known you two were getting together I wouldn’t have held him up.”

/>   “Why did you hold him up?” she asked innocently. Seneca knew Booth’s doorman had reported back to him that she’d been waiting for Phillip, but neither of them knew what Phillip had confided to her.

  “I’d hoped you and Kingston would hit it off, because I’d like to market the two of you as a couple. I got an offer from General Motors to sign Kingston as a pitchman for the Cadillac SRX. I was thinking that maybe you could also appear in the ad with him.”

  Twin emotions warred inside Seneca. Appearing in an ad with Phillip Kingston would thrust her into the media spotlight, but only because of the ballplayer. “You’ve told them about me?”

  Booth shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “What makes you think they’ll accept me?” she asked.

  “I’m certain they will once they see photos of you and Kingston together.”

  “What photos?”

  “The ones Mitchell Leon will take this coming weekend. Kingston has agreed to come back to New York for the shoot.”

  “You want me to do an ad with Phillip Kingston before I sign a contract with BGM?” She’d asked yet another question.

  A mysterious smile tilted the corners of Booth’s mouth. “Your contract is being drawn up as we speak. All I need is the name and fax number of your attorney and it will be on his desk before five o’clock today. I’ll attach a memo asking them to expedite it. And don’t worry, Seneca, I’ll pay the billable fees out my own pocket.”

  The uneasy feeling was back. Why, she wondered, was Booth Gordon in such a rush to sign her? Did he see something in her that made her that marketable? What was so different about her that he knew with a single glance that he could make her a supermodel?

  Seneca knew she was only one of millions of women with a unique face and body who were able to live uneventful lives away from the cameras and spotlights if they weren’t sucked into the world of modeling. When Luis had approached her with the possibility of modeling his designs, initially she’d turned him down. But, Luis was relentless. In the end she agreed to model a collection of evening gowns for a private client. And the rest, as they say, is history.