by Donna Hill
Parris turned her attention back to Celeste, curious about this woman who had so much and couldn't care less. She didn't want to believe that she was like so many that floated through life on a pass and on the backs of those who were truly deserving.
"Tell me why an obviously rich kid is skulking around in depressed neighborhoods peddling property when you could be doing a million other things?" Parris asked, sensing that she wasn't going to get an answer to her first question.
Celeste reached for the comfort of her purse. "I wanted to do something meaningful."
Parris arched a brow of doubt. "Then why not work in a shelter, or travel to the Sudan, or build a school or something?"
Celeste huffed. "I do what I do because it makes my parents cringe." She laughed.
"What? You're kidding."
"No. Not at all." She took a long swallow from her glass of lukewarm water. She glanced at Parris above the rim. "What?"
"Are they that bad?" She couldn't imagine herself doing something intentionally spiteful to upset Cora or David.
"My parents are the poster children for 'upper crust.' Their entire world revolves around appearances and protocol," she said with disgust.
Parris leaned back. "But you benefit from all of it."
Celeste didn't flinch. "I do and I'm not ashamed of it. My family's money has provided me with things that most people only read about or see on television. The best schools, clothes, my own car and apartment at eighteen. I've always had the right things in my life." Her intense gaze drifted off, her expression settled to one of resignation. She drew in a breath, pushing the images aside, and turned her head slowly toward Parris. She wrapped her hands around her glass. "I suppose in these days of terrorism," she whispered, "I would be considered a subversive." She sputtered a light laugh. "Dismantling the system from within so to speak. The system being my family." She raised the glass, as if in a toast, before finishing off the water.
"You're serious?"
"Very. Look around you. Look at what's happening to families, the country. That's not the doing of those guys on the street corner or the local grocer who can barely make his lease payment just to be able to stock rotten vegetables. Or the family who lost their home and their savings. It's because of people like Corrine and Ellis Shaw. My family owns several luxury hotels and a string of run-down apartments. They help to keep down the very people they claim to abhor. What I do, trying to bring life back to some of these areas, is to return what the Shaws have taken."
She spewed her parents' names with such contempt that Parris almost felt sorry for them, sorry for parents who'd given birth to a child that obviously loathed them or at the very least what they stood for.
"I can't change every household but I can sure as hell put mine through the ringer. I want to be for my mother and father a shining example of what money can't buy."
Celeste tossed her blond hair away from her face and Parris would have sworn she saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes. But Celeste, she was quickly beginning to see, was a master of disguise. She wondered if Corrine and Ellis had any idea who their daughter really was.
"What about your folks?" Celeste dipped a French fry in a tiny pool of ketchup that she'd meticulously crafted around the rim of her plate that led to thick red rivers surrounding her burger, pickle and coleslaw.
Parris tore her gaze away from the Picasso-like concoction and focused on Celeste. All her life the question that had been asked so many times only required the same practiced answers. My mother gave up her life for me, 'cause she loved me so much. And my daddy couldn't live without her and disappeared. My Grandma Cora and Granddad David raised me with more love that any one child could ever need.
That was the story she'd told from the time she was old enough to tell it, until she became too old for most folks she ran across to ask or care.
None of the lie was true any longer. She had yet to say the words out loud to anyone besides Granddad and Nick. No one. Not even her best friend Gina, who she'd yet to call and tell of her return.
The letters had a hard time finding their way together to form words that made sense to a stranger. But maybe this stranger, who was a mass of contradictions and misfit pieces, who thrived on comeuppance, would be the one person to understand her rage, her shame and her guilt.
Celeste sipped loudly through her straw, a polite slap in the face to Ms. Manners. "You don't have to answer. To tell you the truth, I dislike talking about my parents almost as much as I dislike them, period." She popped an ice cube in her mouth and crunched.
"Actually I believed my mother was dead until about a month ago."
Celeste stopped chewing. She picked up her napkin and daintily dabbed at the corners of her mouth. "Why?"
That was the question that crept up on her, that sat on her shoulder, whispered in her ear, formed the images of her dreams. It was the question she sought the answer to between the fine lines on the yellowed, cracked pages, in the bottom of the red tin can, on the last fleeting breath that Cora took, in the solace of the church. She'd looked everywhere. Until she finally accepted that any hope for an answer would only be found thousands of miles away.
"It's what I need to find out."
"O-kay." The pendulum of her gaze finally settled and squinted at Parris as if to get her response in line with the image in front of her. "The Shaws paid a small fortune to educate their little girl. I have to brag, I'm no dummy, but I must have missed something."
Parris tightened her lips in contemplation. She'd already said enough to have the question remain a lingering epitaph to whatever relationship they may or may not forge. She was bound to run into Celeste again, even if only in her thoughts.
She began slowly revealing as much as she could from the fragments of letters, and her grandmother's halting words, to mesh with what she'd always imagined.
Celeste remained attentively silent while Parris spoke, carried along by the filaments of hope and wistful longing that strung together the painful tale of rejection. As she listened she heard her own story. The story of a girl turned woman, who desperately wanted the love and acceptance of the only person who really mattered. Perhaps together they could find what they sought--meaning for their existence.
"Can I get you anything else?" The waitress hovered, breaking the tenuous bond that had formed.
Identical looks fell upon the inquiring face. "No," they responded in unison. She dropped the check in the center of the table, which they both ignored.
"What if you can't find her?" Celeste asked.
Parris settled back into her seat, pushed the remnants of her food around on her plate. "I can't think that I won't."
The intensity of Parris's gaze and the strength of her conviction, like magnets, drew Celeste forward. "What if she tells you what you don't want to hear?"
"Like what?"
"That she chose her way of life over you. Are you prepared for that?"
Parris looked away. It was a question she'd asked herself but never listened for the answer. "I don't know."
Celeste placed her hands on the table. Her fingertips pressed into the plastic place mat. "I asked my mother once."
"Asked her what?"
"Why she didn't love me."
Parris's stomach knotted. "What did she say?"
"She just looked at me with that superior expression, laughed and told me I was being dramatic."
The pain of rejection fluttered beneath the pale cheeks, drew the lips into a line of resolution and the eyes into wells of acceptance.
Parris reached across the table and stilled the drumming fingers. "Some people find it hard to say how they feel."
Celeste forced a smile. She tugged in a long breath. "When do you leave?"
"Next week."
Celeste took her wallet out of her bag. "I hope everything works out for you." She placed two twenties on top of the bill. "Ready?"
No, not really, she thought. But it was too late now.
"Thanks for lunch," Parris sa
id once they'd pulled in front of Nick's apartment building.
Celeste turned halfway in her seat. "I should be thanking you."
Parris frowned. "For what?"
"For listening to my rants." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "And not saying I was crazy even if you thought so."
"My grandmother taught me better than that," she teased.
Their laughter bound them in understanding.
"Hey," Celeste said softly, her words embraced by uncertainty, "when you get back...and get everything straight with your mother...maybe we can get together."
"I'd like that," Parris said without hesitation, pleasantly surprising them both.
Celeste glowed. She dug in her bag for her wallet, pulled out a business card and wrote her cell number on the back. She handed it to Parris. "Call. Whenever you're ready."
Parris took the act of friendship and tucked it in her bag. "I will." She opened the car door and stepped out, then turned back to Celeste. "Don't do anything crazy while I'm gone."
"Me!" she said, feigning offense. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Parris used the spare key that Nick had given her and let herself in. It was so strange walking into his apartment as if she really lived there. Although it had only been one night she felt a comfort in the newness.
She placed the key on the rectangular table beneath the black-and-white photograph of Miles Davis at the Newport Jazz Festival as she'd noticed Nick do the night before. She didn't know quite what to make of Celeste Shaw. She was certainly different from anyone she'd met before. And she didn't think it had anything to do with her being white. Although her limited relationships with white women were relegated to the workplace and on television, it wasn't that. Celeste Shaw was simply different--in an interesting way. She was an amalgam of contradictions that made her often outrageous declarations all the more fascinating.
Parris shook her head in mild amusement as she took off her coat. Now what to do with herself, she wondered as she walked in the direction of her room. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't sleepy. She turned halfway and went back toward the front where Nick kept all of his stereo equipment and incredible collection of music.
She browsed the shelves of albums and CDs. She found Betty Carter's Greatest Hits, which included duets with Ray Charles. She put the album on the turntable. The grooves hissed seductively beneath the tease of the needle and the husky timbre of the Godmother of Jazz filtered into the room and wrapped her in the security blanket of every perfect note.
Parris wandered over to the well-worn couch that had a faded cream-colored fabric. She sank down into the surprisingly cushiony pillows, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her.
Humming along to the familiar refrain, "Baby, It's Cold Outside," she rested her head on the armrest and closed her eyes. The lyrics played with her, taunted, soothed and carried her off to that place that was all her own. The world she'd created as a child sitting by the Left Hand River listening to the melody of the cicadas, making time with the bass beat of the bullfrog, serenaded by the sweet soprano of the mockingbird, smoothed and blended by the gentle brush of water over rocks and the rustling leaves of the willow sizzling under the Mississippi sun.
Parris...Parris...
The light was so bright against her eyes. Her eyes flickered open.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
It took a moment for her thoughts to clear. She struggled to sit up.
She ran her fingers through the spirals as the final notes of Betty Carter's "People Will Say We're In Love" drifted away.
Nick lowered himself down next to her.
"So Celeste got you back here safe and sound," he said.
"We went to lunch."
"Lunch?" His brows rose. "Really? How did that happen?"
Parris smiled at the look of disbelief on his face. "We were both hungry so we went to get something to eat."
Nick's brow wrinkled.
"She's really...interesting, for lack of a better word."
"I kind of picked up on that. What I'm trying to figure out is what you two could possibly have to talk about."
The confessions and secrets that they'd shared over juicy burgers and crispy fries drowning in rivers of red would only be understood by the ones who'd spoken them.
"Hmm, girl stuff." She stood and stretched her tight limbs. "So aren't you excited about your new place? What did Sammy say?" she asked, steering the conversation.
Nick's dark eyes lit from beneath. "He's probably more excited than I am. He'd always been pushing me to get out from under Percy." He stood and paced the room as he spoke. "This is what I've dreamed of, worked for." He shook his head. "I still can't believe it. And I probably won't until the papers are signed and we have our grand opening." He turned to her. "With you as the star."
Parris stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. "There's a lot of work to be done before then."
"I know. But if we can get everything in place, a contractor, proper licenses, I think we can be ready by July. That's what I'm aiming for. Sammy knows some people and I'm sure Leslie will be on board. We're going to need a staff...."
Parris held up her hand. "Let's figure out the staff thing and how you're going to advertise and where. And you need to apply for your liquor license immediately."
Nick blew out a breath. "I know, I'm running ahead of myself. Did Celeste mention when the paperwork would be ready while you two were having your 'girl talk'?"
Parris chuckled. "Let's go over your business plan and work out a checklist in order of priority."
Nick spread his arms wide. "I'm all yours."
Her neck heated.
He moved toward her and the world around them seemed to vanish. All she could see was Nick. The bottomless darkness of his eyes, the soft shadow of his beard that outlined his rugged jaw, the expanse of his chest barely contained in the black T-shirt, and the scent of him that loosened her muscles and lightened her head.
Nick touched that hot spot on her neck, sending heat rushing through her limbs.
"This is for us," he said, his voice low and thick, like the bottom note on the sax. "Everything I do now is for us. Me and you. You need to know that, understand what it is that I'm saying."
Her heart hammered, raising her shirt up off her chest with its pounding. "Tell me."
His eyes glided over her face. His lips parted. "In time." He kissed her lightly on the mouth. "In time." He took her hand. "Come on, let's make that list."
As he led her down the hall toward his office, Parris wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed; only that one day the time would be right for both of them.
"You're staying with Nick?" Gina squealed through the phone. "I can't believe it."
"Me, either," Parris confessed. She leaned against the headboard and crossed her ankles. It was so good hearing Gina's voice again. They'd been the two most unlikely people to become friends but they had, much to the delight of the office gossips, as it provided them with more watercooler fodder. Gina had developed a reputation for being "loose," because she always boasted about her hot dates. No one really knows when all the rumors started, but Parris discovered it was far from the truth. If anything Gina was simply lonely and looking for attention, and a real friend. Parris and Gina didn't care what other people thought. If anything the alienation from the staffers drew the two closer together.
"So...have you two...you know?"
Parris giggled. "No. We haven't...you know," she replied to her friend.
Gina sighed. "Girl, that fine man gave up a business, packed his bags and came way the hell down to nobody never heard of Rudell, Mississippi, to be with you during one of the hardest times of your life and you haven't jumped all over him! Girl," she admonished.
Parris chuckled even as she realized how right Gina was. But so much had been happening to both of them, and she was sure that when the time was right they would both know it. The last thing she wanted to do was tumble into a physical relationship with Nick fo
r all the wrong reasons.
Gina switched gears and brought Parris up to date on the happenings at the office. "Frank is still obnoxious. You don't know how happy I am that you're out of that relationship. No good would have ever come from it. He wanted to control you, control your life."
Even while Parris was in the short-lived relationship with Frank, the warning bells of trouble were like oncoming headlights destined for a collision. The end was tragic and inevitable. "All water under the bridge."
"Which is why I can't understand why you haven't crossed the line with Nick."
"I told you why."
"Uh, beep, wrong answer. No, you didn't."
Parris emitted an exaggerated sigh. "For the better part of the time that I've known Nick, his life has been entangled with someone else's. You know that. He was seeing Tara when we met, not to mention that he was in partnership with her father, Percy. The both of them were pulling strings from every angle. And I was dating Frank--for all that was worth," she added with disgust in her voice. It was true that the tug between her and Nick was undeniable from the moment she laid eyes on him. They'd done everything short of draw a line in the sand to keep them from acting on how they felt. Until that one time. It was innocent. She'd just come off the stage totally elated from her performance and the thundering response from the audience...
They'd opened with a jazz medley of tunes by Cole Porter, then segued to a collection of songs by Duke Ellington, tossed in some classics from the pen of Gershwin, then changed the tempo with a Chaka Khan ballad, "Your Love is All I Know," and closed with an original composition by Nick, written especially for Parris's range and versatility, called "Since I Met You, Nothing Seems the Same."
The applause was deafening, vibrating the walls, the glass, then slipping out the door to dance on the street and finally running back inside to start all over again.
Parris did three encores, and the crowd couldn't seem to get enough. Finally she made it to her dressing room as the band played their closing theme, elation running through her in waves that kept her pacing back and forth across the floor, reliving every instant of the set. Something had happened out there. She'd felt it. She'd become one with every note, every dip and curve. She was the music.
