by Donna Hill
Parris took it all in with a smile as she watched from the stage, having just finished the last song in the set. She draped a towel around her neck just as Nick came up beside her and kissed her cheek.
"Fantastic as always, baby," he said up against her ear. A shiver of delight ran through her.
Since coming to terms with her mother and their unique and tumultuous beginnings, she'd slowly begun to accept who she was, or rather know who she was. And in doing so, she'd allowed herself to be better at loving herself and loving Nick. She looked forward to waking with him in the mornings and going to bed with him at night. She'd gotten used to being lulled awake by the pull of his morning playing, and simply thinking about it made her smile. The fact that they worked together making music seemed to intensify their passion for each other. When he played, he played for her, and she sang for him and together they made an exquisite sound.
They stepped down off the stage just as a middle-aged man came through the door. He looked around in the dimness. Nick walked over.
"Can I help you?"
The man took his hat from his head. "Yes, I'm looking for Parris McKay," he said with a decided French accent.
Nick looked him over. "May I ask what this is about?"
Parris came up behind him.
"My name is Marcel Dominique. And I have a package that I promised to deliver to Mademoiselle McKay."
"I'm Ms. McKay." She looked at Nick then back at the man.
He went inside his jacket and took out a thin legal-sized envelope, and handed it to her. He put his hat back on his head. "Good day." He turned and walked out.
The envelope wasn't postmarked, nor was it formally addressed. It simply had PARRIS in block letters on the front.
"What in the world..." She walked over to one of the tables and sat down. Nick took a seat. "You think he was a process server or something?" she asked.
"Got me. Have you done anything to warrant being served?" he said, trying to lighten the suddenly tense moment.
She turned the envelope over and unsealed it, pulling out a single sheet of handwritten paper. She read the words aloud.
Dear Parris,
I pray that the skills of Mr. Dominique are as good as his advertisement and he finds you safe and well in New York City. It has been many years since I have been in New York, the city where I met your mother. I will always have fond memories of it.
I can never hope to make up for the years that we have lost, that my wife Emma deprived us of. I believed I could never forgive her for what she had done. I could not understand how someone could be so cowardly, so selfish, so evil. It took all these weeks and months, months without her, time apart to realize that I will always love your mother. God help me. I will never agree and never forget what she did to all of us, but I understand. And I believe over time I will find a way to forgive her.
The need for love and acceptance is a powerful thing. It, like water, like air, nurtures us. We live and feed off of it and when it is denied, we wither and die--at least inside.
I hope to get to see you one day, more than a fleeting glimpse. But if not, I want you to be assured that you will always be taken care of.
I am enclosing the number of my attorney and his address. He has all of my papers, which will be delivered to you upon Mr. Dominique's confirmation that he has found you. The papers contain the deed to the villa--yes, the one you came to, the lease to my vineyards to which you will gain full control or sell if you wish, and a share in the bistro.
I know that things can never make up for what we all have missed, but these are the things, part of the life that your mother and I built together during a loving three and a half decades. And no one is more deserving of the love we built together than you.
I don't know if your mother will seek you out, but if she does tell her that my love for her will never end.
I am also enclosing my number and I pray that one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me.
Until we meet. Your loving father, Michael.
The words blurred and danced in front of her eyes. Her body shook with the force of tears. Tears of sorrow, and lost joy, but most of all hope.
Nick wiped her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. She kissed the inside of his palm and pressed it to her face.
"My dad," she warbled in disbelief, over tears and laughter. "My dad." She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "We have so much to celebrate tonight, Nick--the club, us, my mother and now my father."
"I know, baby, I know." He leaned in and kissed her tenderly.
She wished her grandmother could be with her at that moment, to witness that after so many years, after so much hurt and betrayal, the healing had finally begun. She blew out a shaky breath, and stared at the letter again before refolding it and returning it to the envelope. She pushed up from the seat, wiped her face one last time. "I'll be right back."
"Sure." He watched her walk away, amazed at the cycle of life, how paths cross and lives intersect. He was just happy that his path had crossed with Parris's, and hoped that for as long as they had breath they would continue to walk that path together.
Her hands shook and her heart pounded so loudly she barely heard the ringing in her ear.
"Hello?"
For an instant she stopped breathing.
"Hello?"
"May...I speak with...Michael Travanti?"
"This is he? Who is this, please?"
"It's Parris. Your daughter."
WHAT MOTHER NEVER TOLD ME
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4973-2
(c) 2010 by Donna Hill
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author's imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
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