What Mother Never Told Me

by Donna Hill

  "Well, you know how Percy is about wanting what he wants when he wants it," Sammy began. He went on to explain about some kind of mix-up with the fabric and that Percy went completely ballistic and turned his fury on Leslie. She'd let him rant and rail, tossing out some ugly comments about her career, before she simply stepped up to him, slapped him in the chest with the contract, the swatches and his signature, and said that if he broke the contract she'd spend the rest of her life and every dime she had to sue him until the name out front read Leslie's Place. She planted her hands on those wide hips of hers and dared him. Percy was so stunned that all of a sudden he burst out laughing, doubling over until he had to sit down. When he finally pulled himself together, he pointed his cigar at her and said, "I like you. You got more balls than some of these men around here."

  "Leslie became kind of a legend around the club after that," Nick added. "Of course the story has grown to epic proportions since it happened." He and Sammy chuckled at the memory.

  The scenario seemed implausible to Parris as she shook her head in awe. Rumor had it that more than one person had abruptly disappeared after rubbing Percy the wrong way, which was why she was so happy that Nick was finally out from under Percy's dark cloud. As she watched Leslie move into the kitchen area she realized she had a newfound respect for her. In the few times that she'd seen her and spent time with her at Downbeat, she viewed Leslie as a nice, talented, perhaps withdrawn young woman who was trying to make a go at what she loved. But in fact, this was a woman who had a fire deep in her soul, someone who wasn't going to compromise her ethics or be bullied by someone who appeared to have control. She liked that--a woman who dictated her own destiny and would not allow other people or circumstances to do it for her. Maybe that was the glue that connected Leslie and Celeste, an underlying need to be their own woman, at whatever the cost. And each of them had their own way of achieving that end.

  Leslie returned and finished up photographing the front of the space, the bar and stage area, and the entryway. She turned to the waiting trio. "That should do it." She dropped the camera into her purse and handed Nick her card. "If you think of anything or have any questions before I get back to you, please give me a call."

  "I will."

  Leslie released a breath and stuck out her hand. "Thanks for the opportunity. You won't be disappointed. Good to see you again, Parris, Sammy."

  "You, too," they said in unison.

  Nick walked her to the door. "We'll talk at the end of the week."

  "Sounds good."

  "Oh, Leslie," Parris called out.

  Leslie peered around Nick's shoulder.

  "If you talk with Celeste, tell her I'm back and I'll give her a call soon."

  "I sure will. 'Bye, everyone."

  Nick closed the door behind her.

  "So, you and Celeste are friends?" Sammy said under his breath before Nick returned.

  Parris angled her head to one side with a smirk on her face. "More like acquaintances. Why?"

  "Nothing. Nothing. Just asking is all."

  "Hmm. Are you sure that's all it is?"

  "Can't a brother ask a question without something being read into it?" he asked, scowling.

  Parris was not moved by the fake frown. "Methinks thou dost protest too much," she said with a twitch of her eyebrow and walked toward Nick before Sammy could respond.

  "You two fighting again?" Nick asked as he draped his arm around Parris's shoulder. They'd been known to have infamous debates about music and musicians. Their combined knowledge could fill a library and always fascinated anyone who was privy to one of their legendary battles.

  Sammy stared her down and she returned the gesture. Sammy was the first to relent. "Let's go."

  Nick looked at Parris, who shrugged. "Let's."

  The trio stood outside in the bitter cold while Nick secured the gate and the locks on the door. He turned to Sammy. "See you at the jam session tonight."

  "Absolutely. Bring your A game."

  Nick chuckled. "No doubt. We both better."

  They slapped palms before clasping hands.

  "Make sure he's on time," he said to Parris with a wink.

  "I will." She lightly kissed his cheek and whispered, "It's okay, you know."

  His gaze darkened. The corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly.

  Parris slid her arm through the crook in Nick's and they hurried off to the car.

  Michael sat still as stone in the overstuffed chair near the window. A cold ceaseless rain fell for the second day in a row, painting the city and the small town a dull gray, shrouding it in fog. The world beyond his window looked surreal, a reflection of his life. One day everything was the way he'd always imagined it would be--married to the love of his life, with a secure future in the vineyards, traveling and living well. Yet in a matter of days, what they'd built together for the past thirty years began to crumble. His heavy staccato sigh was from one who'd sobbed for hours and all that was left was the unimaginable emptiness that echoed in the soul. He braced his chin on his palm as he watched the water continue to fall. A streak of lightning stabbed the heavy clouds and surely struck his heart.

  The muscles of his throat tightened as the images beyond the window began to blur and his anguish spilled in a single path down his cheek. No one in his family knew what he'd only recently discovered about Emma's true heritage. The initial shock rendered him unable to process the winding, twisted story of Emma's life and the child of theirs that she'd given up in order to have a life with him.

  He'd been moved by her sorrow, imagining what life must have been like for her. The fear that she lived with and the burden of the secret she'd carried. His words had forgiven her for her deceit, even promising that he understood and would stand by her, love her as he always had and be there with her when their daughter came, as Cora's dying letter to her daughter had intimated.

  But in the weeks that passed since that life-altering day he'd had the time and the space and the presence of mind to really think about the enormity of the sham that his life and his marriage had been for the past thirty years. He was in love with a woman he did not know. He'd forgiven her for a sin that surely must be unforgivable. What kind of man did that make him? A fool. A fool, blinded by love and beauty and promises of a forever happiness with a woman who made him feel tall as a mountain. A woman who became the very air he breathed, the blood that flowed through his veins, his only reason for opening his eyes with each new day.

  His weary gaze rose to the sounds of movement above his head. A stranger in his home. A woman he did not know. Some stranger who would turn her own daughter away, their daughter, to keep her secret. His chest seemed to split with the pain, and its wretched ache burned like hellfire.

  With great effort he turned in her direction. Emma. His Emma. He was dying inside as he watched her carry her bags to the door. Her usually pale face was splotched red, her green eyes rimmed in crimson. The lips that he'd kissed even in his dreams were pressed into a tight line, but not tight enough to keep her cheeks and chin from quivering. The knot in her throat worked up and down.

  Water floated in her eyes. She blinked rapidly before finally finding her voice, which was weak and thready. "The car is here." Her nostrils flared.

  Michael couldn't speak. There was nothing left to say. It was over. They were done.

  The car horn blew, startling them both. She picked up her bag. "I'm sorry," she whispered before turning away and hurrying out the door.

  Michael listened to the opening and closing of the trunk. The car door slamming shut. The engine revving. The cobblestones tickling the tires. He listened until there was no sound.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thank God for caller ID, Celeste thought as she popped three ice cubes in a glass and splashed them with Diet Coke. It was her mother again. If her count was right this was call number fifteen in the past two days. She watched the lights on the phone flash with each annoying ring. Finally the ringing stopped. Moments later the
number in the message box showed sixteen.

  Humph, she was off by one. Celeste swung away from her perch by the sink and sauntered back into her bedroom. She'd listened to the ranting messages that her mother had left, lambasting her about her inappropriate behavior the night of the party. How dare she walk out? How dare she make her look bad? Didn't she have any sense of protocol?

  So rather than deal with her mother's outrage and belittling, she chose to ignore her, refusing to pick up the phone, refusing to return her calls. If Corrine could have a temper tantrum so could she. As for Clinton, he seemed satisfied with her explanation of a headache. He'd been, as she suspected, too involved with meeting the right people to notice her absence. What she needed was some space from that life and all that it involved. She was planning to meet Leslie for a rare girls' night out. The times they were able to do girlfriend things had diminished exponentially since Leslie's mom had the stroke and was moved into Leslie's apartment. What a life-altering bitch of an event that was, she thought. She'd been pretty sure that Leslie was going to come completely unglued. It was no secret that the rope of tension between Leslie and Theresa was hanging as tight as a noose, and neither of them was above kicking the chair out from under the other.

  She shrugged out of her robe and tossed it across the foot of the bed. It was sad really, she mused as she flipped through her rack of sweaters in her closet. Leslie's entire existence revolved around her animosity toward her mother for keeping the identity of her father away from her. Year after year, like a disease, it ate away at her spontaneous laughter, her sense of adventure, the warm and funny person that she once was. Now, she went through the motions, and the only thing that gave her any pleasure was her work.

  Guilt is a terrible thing, Celeste concluded as she pulled on a pair of black leather pants. That was the root of it all. Sure, Leslie tried to convince her that it was the way things had always been between her and her mother. But the truth was, the seed of what bloomed deep inside Leslie was guilt. Although all the doctors, nurses and Indian chiefs told her that it wasn't her fault, she didn't believe them.

  She'd let her frustration, anger and insecurity mushroom into a final showdown between her and Theresa, and the next thing she knew she was calling an ambulance with her mother having suffered a major stroke. That was more than a year ago.

  Celeste selected a teal cashmere sweater with a deep V in the front. It was one of her favorites. Unfortunately, she thought as she leaned closer to the mirror and applied her lip gloss, she was the last one to offer mother/daughter advice. Personally, she couldn't stand her own mother.

  She dropped the tube of lipstick in her purse, stuck her feet into her ankle boots, snatched up her coat and was out for the night.

  Tracey's was located in lower Manhattan on West 9th Street and Broadway. It was a favorite hangout for Celeste because it was off the beaten path of the stuffy, elitist restaurants and clubs that Clinton took her to. Here the music was loud, the food was fattening and the crowd was real.

  Celeste stowed her car in the local parking lot and walked the half block to the club. Even for a cold winter night, the smokers of the club were huddled out front taking those few precious puffs. Celeste eased by the group and pulled open the heavy wood-and-brass door and was greeted with a blast of heat-filled, fried-chicken-and-shrimp air and a cacophony of voices and laughter. The dimly lit club was packed from wall to wall. She hoped that Leslie was able to get a table somewhere. She peered over heads and around bodies as she wove her way through the tight room until she reached the bar. She turned sideways, slipped in between two thick bodies and waved down the bartender.

  "Whaddayahavin'?" he shouted.

  "Apple martini."

  "Comingrightup."

  Celeste turned halfway around to continue scoping out the crowd in search of Leslie. She hoped that her friend hadn't been waylaid at the last minute by drama from her mother--which Theresa Evans was notorious for doing. More than a time too many, Celeste had entered Leslie's name for sainthood. Because she knew if she had to take care of Corrine Shaw day in and day out, she would jump out of her parents' penthouse window and slit her wrists on the way down.

  Her drink arrived and she took the first toe-curling sip. Tracey's may not be much for ambiance but they made the best apple martinis in the city. She paid for her drink, tucked her purse beneath her arm and wiggled her way to the other side to get a better look at the door.

  She'd been to Tracey's dozens of times during the week and on the weekends, but she never remembered it being so crowded. The dance floor was full of gyrating bodies. The bar was lined from end to end, two rows deep. Every table was full and now it was standing room only for the die-hard Tracey's fans.

  "Whew, they must be giving something away in here tonight," Leslie said, coming up behind Celeste.

  Celeste turned, and nearly had her drink knocked out of her hand by a young couple trying to get by.

  Celeste rolled her eyes at the duo that didn't bother with apologies. She licked the sweet brew off her hand. "Hey. I didn't see you come in."

  "I got here about a half hour ago, got our table then stood in line for the ladies room," she said with a short laugh. "You know how that can be."

  "Hmm, don't I. Please, let's sit. My cute boots are beginning to pinch."

  Leslie led her around the dance floor to the other side, where they had a ringside view of the stage.

  "Wow, you lucked out with this table." Celeste took off her coat and draped it over the back of her seat.

  "I called this afternoon and made reservations."

  Celeste smirked. If Leslie was nothing else she was organized and efficient. She, on the other hand, was accustomed to walking into a place and getting the best table on name recognition alone. When she went out with Clinton, he made the reservations. It never even occurred to her that a place like Tracey's would take reservations. Live and learn.

  The stage lights shifted and the owner, Tracey, stepped up to the microphone. Tracey was a big girl in size, but not in height. She stood just over five feet, but weighed in at well over one hundred and fifty pounds. She had a voice that would make the hair on your arms stand up, enriched with the soul of Aretha, the angst of Billie, the riffs of Ella and the passion of Shirley Caesar. Her bold, multicolored swing dresses were her personal fashion statement. She had no problem letting people know she was in the room. Tonight her colors were crimson, burnt orange and sunshine yellow that twisted and curled around each other on a diaphanous dress that kissed her midcalf.

  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," she said in a voice that sounded as if it was wrapped in the finest silk. "We have a treat for you tonight. So sit back, order plenty of drinks and enjoy the sounds of Turning Point."

  The lights dimmed and there was movement on the stage as the entertainment took their places. Then the slow, soul-stirring whine of a sax bit into the air. The spotlight silhouetted the lone musician at the microphone, and Celeste and Leslie both yelped in delight, "That's Nick!" The piano tinkled in the dimness before being joined by the deep rhythm of the bass and a tease of brushes against the tight skin of the drum.

  Heat started from the balls of Celeste's feet and rose slowly upward until the warmth lit a fire in her chest. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the piano player, as he held his head at an angle, eyes closed in an almost orgasmic joy and his long, slender fingers made intimate love to the keys. Sammy Blackstone. She'd had no idea when she'd see him again and certainly not here. Breathing was suddenly hard to do. She reached for her martini.

  "This is a treat," Leslie said, sitting back and bobbing her head to the beat.

  Celeste couldn't take her eyes off of Sammy. Seeing him in this environment opened her imagination to him in a new dimension.

  "That's Sammy Blackstone on the piano," Leslie informed her. She turned to look at Celeste. "Are you okay?" She tapped her arm when she didn't respond.

  Celeste halfway looked at her. "Huh?"

  "I was a
sking if you were okay. You looked a little dazed."

  Celeste suddenly grabbed Leslie's arm. "Come with me to the ladies room."

  "Now?" Leslie whined in protest.

  Celeste pressed her polished lips together. "Fine. But the instant they stop playing, let's go," she said, barely opening her mouth.

  "What is wrong?"

  Celeste waved off the question and Leslie reluctantly returned her attention to the band. Maybe things hadn't gone so well with Nick after all. Maybe the financing fell through. Maybe Celeste found a better buyer. Maybe Nick changed his mind. The questions were louder than the music. She grabbed Celeste by the wrist and off to the ladies room they went.

  Leslie checked the stalls, found them all empty, then pressed her back against the door and folded her arms beneath her heavy breasts. "Okay, let's hear it. What the hell is going on?"

  Celeste flushed, tucked her honey-blond hair behind her ears and paced in a circle as she spoke. "I met him the other day. And something went off inside me. I never felt that way before about a man. I can't stop thinking about it. About him. I know he doesn't feel the same way. At least I don't think he does. But I can't stop fantasizing about him." She looked at her friend with pleading eyes, begging her to understand.

  "What in the world are you talking about? Who are you talking about?" Her incredibly smooth features were bunched together into hills and valleys of confusion.

  Celeste took a breath and finally stood still. "Sammy."

  Leslie shook her head as if a fly had teased her nose. "Say what? Sammy? Blackstone?" With each word her voice rose in pitch. She squinted at Celeste to see her better. "Huh?"

  Celeste lifted her chin. "Yes. Sammy Blackstone."

  "Get outta here." She began chuckling until she saw how annoyed Celeste was becoming. She cleared her throat. "Well, I'll be damned. For real?"

  "Never mind," she spouted in disgust. "I shouldn't have said anything." She tried to push past Leslie to get out but that was futile.