by Donna Hill
"I really didn't mean what I said about the white-girl thing," Parris said as they rode along the darkened streets to Nick's place.
"Sure you did," Celeste said on a light note. "And you know what--" she glanced at Parris "--it's fine. Made me think about a few things and what it must look like from the outside. If I were you I would have thought the same thing. Probably would have said something much worse." She laughed. "But," she added, blowing out a breath, "I really think that if given the chance we could have something."
"Despite your family's values?"
She hesitated a moment. "If Sam is willing to wing it with a disowned, poor white chick from the Upper East Side that's really cute, we may be able to work something out."
They chuckled.
"Do you really think your parents would disown you?"
"Absolutely."
"What would you do?"
"Guess I'd really have to work this real estate thing."
Parris shook her head in amusement at Celeste's apparent cavalier attitude, which she'd come to learn was merely a front for a young woman who was a real mess underneath, as they all were.
They pulled up in front of Nick's building. Celeste cut the engine.
"You want to come up? Sam may still be there."
"That's what I'm afraid of," she said. "Not quite ready to see him in the real world yet. Besides I'm still supposed to be brokenhearted over Clinton. Remember?"
"What are you going to do about that?"
She reached for the safety net of her purse and began rooting around inside. "Nothing to do but move on. The thing between me and Clinton was always more about what everyone else wanted. We're both better off." She shrugged her shoulder. "Once the dust settles I'm sure it will be fine. And the circle of vultures will find some other morsel of gossip to feed off of." She turned in her seat to face Parris. "What about you? Are you ready to let go and move on?"
"I have to, I suppose. I know it's going to take time for the sting to go away, for the images to get so dim I can't make them out. For me to find a way to forgive my grandmother for lying to me for all those years." She drew in a breath and let it go.
"But she tried to make it right--in the end."
Parris nodded. "Yes...she did." She paused a moment as Cora's face floated before her eyes. "I miss her," she said in a faraway voice.
Celeste patted Parris's thigh. "You'll be fine. You have a great guy, a career in front of you, your grandfather who loves you and two new friends who are just as screwed up as you are," she added with a short laugh.
Parris chuckled. "That last part is definitely true." She unfastened her seat belt and opened the door. "Want me to pass a message to Sam if I see him?"
Celeste tipped her head to the side. "I think I'll give him a call. See if he's free tomorrow."
Parris's brows rose. "Sounds like you may be on the road to recovery."
She grinned. "We'll see."
Parris followed the sound of running water when she came into the apartment and found Nick in the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder.
"Hey, babe. The fellas just left."
She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her head on his broad back. "Had a good session?"
"Hmm-hmm." He turned off the water, dried his hands on a towel hanging over the sink and turned around. He braced Parris's slender form between his hard thighs. "What about you? How was your ladies only afternoon?" He kissed the tip of her nose.
She looked up at him and saw the light of endless possibility in his gaze if she would only give it a real chance, and to do that she, too, would have to move on. "Eye-opening."
"In a good way, I hope."
She nodded. "I think so. Celeste and Leslie are very complicated women."
"Uh, speaking of Celeste, she say anything about Sam?"
"Anything like what?" she hedged.
"Anything about anything."
She wasn't going to be the first one to give up the goods. "We talked about a lot of things. His name came up once or twice."
He watched her hard-fought expression of innocence with the practiced eye of a musician who knows his audience. And unless he gave the audience what it wanted they'd never give up the applause. "Okay, fine. He told me all about them, that he'd been up at her place for the past two days. I'm still in shock."
"I know," she now confessed.
And like two high schoolers, they tossed pieces of information back and forth until they had a complete picture. The bottom line was, Sam and Celeste seemed to really like each other.
"Do you think it can work?" Parris asked Nick as they plopped down in front of the television.
Nick shrugged. "Hey, anything is possible. Sam seems serious."
"You know her family is stinking rich," Parris said, leaning up against his side with her feet tucked beneath her.
"Really?"
"On both sides of the family."
"Maybe Sam really did luck out," Nick chuckled.
"Well, according to Celeste, if and when her parents ever find out they'd cut her off from the family fortune without blinking an eye."
Nick turned his head toward her and frowned. "You have got to be kidding me. Not because he's black?"
Parris bobbed her head.
"In this day and age?"
"The only line they are crossing is from the east side to the west side. Apparently, the melting pot of society has nothing to do with the Shaws of New York."
"Damn, sounds like a bad reality TV show."
Parris snickered and lightly smacked his thigh. She pointed the remote at the television and surfed for a movie.
They finally settled for one in progress about a young girl who looks white but has a black mother and how she grows up to want the life of the white family in whose house she lives and realizes that she can pass, scorning and disowning her mother, who'd sacrificed everything for her daughter.
As the movie drew to its heartbreaking conclusion, for the very first time, Parris caught a glimpse of the dynamics that may well have existed between her grandmother and her mother.
"My mother looks white."
Nick didn't breathe for a second, not wanting anything to distract her from the words she'd been holding on to since her return.
"My grandfather is not my natural grandfather at all. He's not my mother's father. Some other man is. A white man that gave us our green eyes. She has green eyes, too. Much more striking than mine." She pressed her fist to her mouth. "I should have known. How could I not have known the instant I saw her?" she went on, her tone self-accusatory. "I sat across from her in her restaurant. She talked to me, asked me questions and I didn't know. I felt something but I didn't know what." She drew in a shaky breath, her jaw working back and forth forming the words, reliving the moment. "But when I saw her in front of her house...I knew. And she realized that I did. The whole scene seemed to play out in slow motion, like it was happening to someone else. I felt sick inside. My heart started racing and I thought I was going to faint. I saw panic in her eyes. She didn't want him to know. And he stood there looking stunned and confused. Then he called her name. Emma. He looked from me to her. And I knew she'd never admit who I was. Not then, not ever. I would always be her dirty secret. So I ran back to the cab before I was sick all over their perfect lawn."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Nick drew her close, let her cry. She'd been back for weeks and this was the first time she'd actually told him what had happened. That one moment that redefined her life.
After some time had passed, he asked her about the man. "Who was he?"
"I don't know." She sniffed. "I got the sense that he may have been her husband or lover. I don't know."
"Could it have been your father?"
Parris sat up, moved out of his protective hold. She vigorously shook her head. "Couldn't be."
"Why not? Did your grandmother ever talk about your father?"
"No." She frowned, try
ing to recall any mention of her father in the dusty letters that she'd been given or in those final conversations with her grandmother.
"It's possible, Parris. If your mother spent her entire adult life living as a white woman, I'm sure she married a white man--who could very well be your father. In all these years she's never admitted that she was your mother, chances are she never told him about you, either."
"But...but if he is my...father, how could he not know he has a child?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. I just don't know."
Then the jarring thought struck her. "Or maybe he knew, too." She arched her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh, God...maybe he always knew."
Michael sat in the outer office of Marcel Dominique. He'd debated for several weeks about what course of action he should take. He'd been so emotionally wounded by Emma's treachery that he'd been unable to think clearly. He'd met with his attorney earlier that morning to begin the process of reviewing all of his assets, their joint finances and what deeds they shared. He needed to sever his ties with Emma, and coming to that final decision was more agonizing than the months he spent in a German prisoner-of-war camp.
He couldn't remember when he'd last slept for the full night or what meal he'd eaten. Vivienne was fearful for him and insisted that he see a doctor. He looked ill, she'd said as she tried unsuccessfully to offer him soup, his favorite shrimp salad, steak, tea, or crackers as he sat for hours on end staring out the window. His employees at the vineyard had stopped by to check on him as he hadn't been to work or called in, and they were appalled at his haggard appearance.
It wasn't until today, nearly a month since Emma moved out, that he'd reached for what reserve he had left to begin the ugly business of putting an end to a chapter in his life. He still ached for her. At the oddest times he'd swear he heard her laughter. Her scent still lingered in the rooms that they'd shared so he'd sequestered himself to his study. Anytime he closed his eyes, day or night, her face would emerge, so he fought sleep. Like an amputee, he knew he'd lost a limb yet the sensation of it being there persisted. He still reached for the empty space until he was sure he would go mad. Until today.
After waking once again in the chair by the window, he had his first moment of clarity in weeks and he knew it would be his only salvation. Weak from exhaustion and lack of food, he forced himself to bathe, dress and arrange for the car to take him to his attorney's office. It was a grueling two hours of talking about things he didn't want to discuss, but the very act of reclaiming some semblance of his life helped him to put one foot in front of the other.
So here he waited.
The office door opened. A tall, well-built man with soft brown eyes, dressed in a navy suit, stood in the doorway. "Mr. Travanti, please come in. I am sorry to have you wait." His pencil-thin mustache moved as he spoke. "Some clients never want to end a phone conversation."
Michael stood up slowly and walked to the open door and inside. They shook hands.
"Please, have a seat."
The office was small and tight. Every wall was filled with books and memorabilia and the very large desk took up much of the available floor space. But rather than a feeling of claustrophobia, Mr. Dominique's office had a lived-in, comfortable feel that put one at ease.
He went behind his desk and sat, folding his long thin fingers together. "Now, how can I help you?"
Michael withdrew a thick envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on Mr. Dominique's desk. "I need you to find someone and give this to them."
It was smaller than she remembered, if that were possible, Emma thought, when she stepped out of the cab in the center of town. Many other things had changed as well. There were new businesses, the ice cream shop that she remembered on the corner of Huff Street was gone, replaced with an antique shop, and most striking of all was that whites and blacks walked along the same streets, stood out in front of store windows chatting like old friends, and mixed groups of teens shared unified laughter, iPods and the latest celebrity gossip.
This was not the same Rudell that she remembered growing up in, feeling isolated, the town divided by the Left Hand River, one side black and one side white. Divided by race and religion. This was not the same town that harbored the KKK--the night riders--who came under the cloak of darkness and set the house that her grandparents lived in on fire, killing them both to keep them from encouraging the blacks in town to fight for their rights. It was a town with a long, dark, ugly history that had been transformed by new cars, shiny storefronts and government mandates. Or had it? No one knew better than her about the power of illusion.
Emma crossed the busy street and walked to the corner, to the one hotel in town, as the cab driver was very clear that he could not make a U-turn and that if she'd had her cross streets correct he would have dropped her off right in front of her destination. Rather than debate the customer always being right, she paid her fare, collected her luggage and got out. She inhaled the warm, moist air, the scent of the river in the distance. It had been more than three decades, nearly four, since she'd stood on these streets. The feeling was almost surreal, as if that life could not have happened in this picturesque town.
She pulled open the hotel door and walked the short distance to the front desk.
A young man, no more than twenty, in a starched white shirt and navy blue tie, glanced up. "Good afternoon, ma'am. How can I help you on this nice spring day?"
The words did a slow dance, winding their way to her in that sweet Southern cadence that she thought she'd forgotten. She realized with a pang in her chest how deeply she missed the sound.
"I called earlier. Emma Travanti."
"Sure thing, ma'am. Let me just take a look here." He focused on the computer screen in front of him on the desk. "You're sure right. Here you are." He pressed a button and her registration form spit out of the printer. She almost smiled. Rudell had come a long way. He handed her the form and showed her where to sign. "Will that be cash or credit?"
Fortunately, Michael had not cancelled her credit card, which she'd verified with the bank before she left France, and she had substantial savings of her own from the restaurant and several wise investments. Michael had always encouraged her to manage her own finances. She was glad she'd listened. "Credit." She took out her card and handed it over.
Moments later she was being shown to her room on the second floor of the four-story hotel.
"We do have a small restaurant on premises for the convenience of our guests," the bellhop mentioned as he opened the room door. "The hours of service are located on the nightstand. Unfortunately we don't have room service but there are ice and soda pop machines on the first floor."
"Thank you." She glanced quickly around at her accommodations. Small, but clean and bright. She took her wallet from her purse and handed him five American dollars. His eyes widened.
"Thank you, ma'am. Thank you very much," he said, backing out of the door as if he thought she may realize her mistake any minute and take the money back.
Emma locked the door behind him. She crossed the room to the window, pushed the curtain aside and looked out onto the busy street below. She was back, and the town that once shunned her seemed to welcome her home with open arms. She prayed that the man who helped raise her daughter would feel the same way.
Chapter Seventeen
It was Saturday and the townspeople of Rudell tumbled onto the streets and roads intent on weekend chores and errands. The population had grown since she was last here and the expanse of land had shrunk to accommodate the new housing and businesses. Many of the plywood farmhouses were gone now, replaced by sturdy-looking two-story brick homes with cement paths instead of dusty dirt roads. Satellite dishes sat at cocked angles on rooftops and the movie theater that had once relegated Negroes to the balcony now featured the latest Will Smith movie. There were more cars now, but it seemed that the people still preferred walking, as she had done. She wanted to see if she remembered.
Emerging from the cen
ter of town, Emma followed the path of the Left Hand River to where the houses stopped and the trees bloomed. She came to a dead halt, her heart pounding, when she spotted the rock that she sat on many a day and cried, the rock where she sat that fateful night that altered the direction of her life. She stared at it for a few moments, lifted her chin and continued on her way. She came out into the clearing and much of what she'd remembered was the same. The houses were still separated by trees and land, still not as fancy as the houses in town, and the vibration in the air was that all was still slow and easy and everyone knew everyone's first name and who your people were.
Her throat clenched as she walked and recalled the steamy bone-melting summer afternoons when she would run through the woods, stick her feet in the river and collect eggs from the henhouse. Her mother would make deviled eggs--her favorite snack. She blinked away the tears, secured her purse on her shoulder and kept walking.
And then there it was. Right in front of her, just the way she remembered. Her heart pounded. Heat raced through her body. She stood stock-still at the end of the path that led to the house that had once been her home, her prison. She wanted to go forward but she couldn't move. Images played in front of her. She saw beyond the walls of the framed home into the recesses where she and Cora shared more than twenty years together in a war where the day-to-day casualty was another piece of your soul.
The front door opened and a woman and a young child emerged, turned and waved to the tall, dark and very handsome older man in the doorway. Emma gasped. She wanted to run but she was transfixed by the man in the door. She'd had many ideas of what he may look like, the man who'd loved her mother, the man who raised her daughter.
He was taller than she imagined. His close-cut hair was totally white and set against skin that was as rich as molasses. The mother waved again. "Thanks, Dr. McKay."
"You take care now."
The mother and child passed Emma at the end of the path. David started to turn back toward the house when he saw her standing there, an apparition. He gripped the frame of the door. His chest heaved for air. He shook his head to clear the vision but it kept coming closer. Haunts didn't walk by day. They came in your sleep and blew in your ear, opened cabinets and turned on faucets, chilled the air or simply sat at your bedside to let you know they were there.
