by Liz Talley
Eleanor’s mouth dropped open. “Mom? Dad?”
Her rotund mother delivered the gentle smile she reserved for students who forgot their lunch money. “Hi, honey.”
“What are y’all doing here?”
“Margaret asked us to drop by,” her father said, his dark eyes flintlike, his posture erect. “She’s very concerned about you.” He leaned against the back of the wingback her mother settled upon.
Bill and Tootsie Hastings could have graced a Norman Rockwell painting. Her father, with his long, studious face and grim mouth, and her mother, with her fluttering hands, dumpling cheeks and beauty-salon copper hair were the epitome of middle-class America. They ran Hastings School for the Gifted on the sunny shores of Lake Pontchartrain, eating, sleeping and breathing the Spartan way—Faith, Honor and Service.
They weren’t horrible parents, but they hadn’t been very interested in their only daughter. Nor in their granddaughter, especially when Skeeter insisted Blakely attend Sacred Heart Academy, rather than their own private Christian school.
“Honey, we understand how painful these few years have been. Losing your husband was very tragic,” Tootsie said, reaching out and patting Eleanor’s arm.
Eleanor didn’t know what to say. They thought she still mourned Skeeter?
“Of course, it’s been hard. It’s been hard on us all,” Margaret added, silently holding up the silver carafe, offering Bill and Tootsie refreshments as if this were an afternoon tea…in the 1950s before women burned their bras and found their voice. Maybe the two older women had inhaled too much Aqua Net and had brain damage. Her father had no excuse. She couldn’t believe they were confronting her about Dez and her dating life over freakin’ coffee in the drawing room.
And they all looked at her as if she were an overwrought fool who needed guidance.
“I’m fine,” Eleanor said. “I don’t understand why any of you feel the need to meddle in my dating life.”
“It’s because of who you are dating, dear,” Margaret said.
“Ah, yes,” her father said, accepting coffee from Margaret, “the street musician.”
“He’s not a street musician. He’s a business owner who happens to be a talented, well-respected pianist.”
“Honey, he didn’t even finish college,” her mother said, tilting her head like a small bird, mouth in a moue. “Who you associate with does impact your daughter. Remember that.”
“This is ridiculous. There’s no reason you two had to come all this way into the city for something as silly as this. I’m a grown woman…a grown woman far from middle-age insanity,” Eleanor said, glancing over at Blakely, who remained quiet, refusing to meet her mother’s eyes.
“Oh, honey. We had an optometrist appointment for your father. We told Margaret we’d stop by for coffee and to see if we could talk some sense into you,” Tootsie said, shooting a look at her husband.
Her father nodded. “We’re not opposed to you dating. It’s only natural you’d want to have a social life. You’re still a young woman—”
“I’m glad someone thinks so,” Eleanor muttered.
“—we just want you to choose someone who is better suited for you. Someone who is settled, has a good job and—”
“Plays golf?”
“Well, that’s not a requirement, of course,” her father said, pushing his glasses up his nose and crossing his arms. “We feel this younger man with such a colorful background might not be the best choice. We do have Blakely to think about.”
“And the Theriot family name,” Eleanor said.
“Now you’re making sense, Eleanor,” Margaret said, a pleased light emerging in her cold eyes. “I know you miss Skeeter. We all do. Porter and I don’t expect you to mourn him forever, but we do expect you to have some standards.”
Hot anger flooded Eleanor, and the kernel of dislike she’d hidden for many, many years exploded. “Oh, do you? Well, I expected some standards, too. I expected your darling son not to stick his pecker in the most convenient place. I expected to mean more to him than his schlepping the secretary.”
“Now, now, Eleanor. We’ll have none of that. Blakely is present,” her father said.
“Really? I didn’t see her. Look, Dad, she’s part of this. Don’t think Margaret dreamed this whole thing up all on her own. My daughter is mad I’m dating a man she wanted for herself. Don’t think this is about me dating. It’s who I’m dating.”
“I didn’t want to date Dez, Mom,” Blakely said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, making it understood exactly what she wanted to do with Dez…at least to Eleanor.
“Blakely’s old enough to know her father cheated on me. That he wasn’t some golden wonder boy who was the victim of some evil woman. He brought what happened on himself,” Eleanor continued.
“How dare you!” Margaret yelped, slamming her coffee cup onto the table. “He did not deserve to die by that floozy’s hand.”
“No, he didn’t. But I was a victim, too, something you conveniently forget. His selfishness took away more than his life. He stole a father from our daughter, and a husband from me. I loved him, but I knew who he was, and he wasn’t some paragon of virtue, so you need to stop treating him as if he was the tragic victim. And I’m not spending my life being a martyr. I’m moving on. Dez is part of that, and I’m sorry none of you like it. But it’s not your life. It’s mine.”
Blakely faced her, tears trembling on her thick brown lashes. Guilt pinged in Eleanor’s stomach, but she squelched it. She meant what she said. Blakely couldn’t stir up trouble and not expect to hear the truth. “Mom, it’s not just your life. You know that.”
“It is my life. I’ve spent the past twenty years—hell, the past thirty-nine years—trying to please everyone but myself.”
She gave her parents her attention. “First I worked to earn your love and acceptance. But I never was as good as the students whose pictures you strung up and down the school’s hallways. I did everything I could, but it was never enough.”
She shifted her gaze to Margaret. “And then I met Skeeter. I thought he was the sun and the moon, but he was just a man. I made gourmet dinners, raised his daughter, ever mindful of the Theriot standards. I worked out so I was thin, smiled when signaled and mastered the art of conversation so I could be the epitome of a politician’s wife. And look what it got me.
“And then I worked to be the perfect mother,” she said to Blakely, “with homemade cookies sent on snack day, clean uniforms for soccer and late nights finishing up school projects.
“The only thing that belonged to me was the Queen’s Box. I didn’t even belong to me.” Eleanor thumped her chest. It was dramatic and over the top, but she meant it. “I feel empty and ashamed I spent so much time trying to be someone else.”
Margaret cleared her throat. “We understand everyone has shortcomings and feels insignificant. Even I have times when I doubt myself.”
“Do you?” Eleanor asked, shaking her head. “I’m glad to know you’re human, because I’ve always wondered.”
Margaret narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t appreciate your attempt to meddle in my life, and I don’t give a goddamn what you think about me, Dez and our relationship.”
“Really, Eleanor Grace, must you use such language?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, “I must. Because I mean it. This is my life. Mine. If I want to marry Dez, I will. If I want to sleep with him, I will. If I want to move on to dating other ‘street’ musicians, I will. My. Life. And Dez makes me happy.”
Eleanor grabbed her purse and stood.
“Mom, I’m going to move in with Grandmother and Grandfather for the summer.”
Blakely’s words brought Eleanor’s exit to a halt. She stared at her daughter. “You’re moving in with your grandparents?”
Her daughter’s declaration cut across her heart as fiercely as a sword. She nearly staggered at the thought of Blakely aligning herself so firmly with Margaret. This was it. Gam
e over. Margaret had won.
Blakely looked directly at her, her gaze apologetic as much as it was resolute. “It will be easier. With all the parties going on and Justine’s wedding, Grandmother needs my help.”
Eleanor swallowed, trying to rid herself of the rawness in her throat. “Fine. You do that.”
And then Eleanor left without saying goodbye to her parents, without thanking Margaret for the coffee and cake, and without the girl she loved more than she loved life.
Because she had to.
The words she’d said to those she held dearest were the truest she’d ever uttered. She’d lived her life as a shell, bowing and scraping to others, and she had tired of being a martyr. She’d lived half of her life for other people. The other half belonged to her. She wasn’t being selfish, but she wasn’t going to dance to anyone else’s music any longer. Eleanor owned Eleanor.
The thought of Blakely choosing Margaret and the snobby Theriots over her…well, there was no description for a heart broken so badly.
But Eleanor would own her pain just as she’d owned her decision to claim a new life. She couldn’t go backward in life, and she couldn’t keep treading water.
The deep end was a scary place, but she would keep swimming.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TRE STUDIED HIMSELF in the store’s mirror. He wore a gray jacket with dull silver zippers across the front. It looked edgy and cool. Like something Dez would pick out as opposed to the gangbangers lining the streets in his hood.
He glanced at the price tag. $79.00.
But it was thirty percent off.
He’d unfurled his shoebox money earlier that day, hating to steal from his education, but banking on the fact he might be getting a break in life.
“So shall I ring it up?” the sales guy asked, lifting his plucked eyebrows. His blond hair was moussed into a faux hawk, and Tre thought he might be wearing blue eyeliner. He didn’t like the way the dude had touched him, straightening his collar and saying things like, “This really looks nice on you.”
“Yeah. Uh, it’s on sale, right?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Thirty percent off, but if you open a charge card, you’ll get an additional fifteen percent,” moussed-up boy trilled.
Tre almost laughed. Charge card? Yeah. When pigs flew. “Nah. Just cash.”
“Very nice,” the man said, clicking his loafers, making Tre feel a little uncomfortable. Who clicked their heels together like that?
Ten minutes later, Tre was back out in the mall, shouldering the plastic bag holding his new jacket that he’d wear for the debut of Dez’s club next week. Nervousness flapped around inside him with excitement. He couldn’t believe how his life had changed in two weeks. Playing with Dez’s band Batiste Blue. Crazy.
Cici, Shorty D and Kenzie were waiting for him down by the Easter train. Shorty D acted as though he was too cool to ride and would only go to take Kenzie on it, but Tre knew his brother liked the silly bunny train.
Tre took his time getting to where his family waited, stopping here and there, and checking out fly shoes behind the shiny glass of the stores. He rarely came to the mall out in Metairie. When you don’t have no money, wasn’t no use in coming out to look at what you couldn’t buy. But Shorty and Kenzie needed shoes, and with him and Cici pooling their money, they’d have enough to get what was needed.
“Hey, where you been leaving me with these kids for hours? Damn, Shorty ’bout to drive me crazy wantin’ them shoes,” Cici said, shaking her head. Her big hooped earrings shook like ornaments on a skinny Christmas tree.
He didn’t say anything, just flicked his gaze over to where Shorty D sat on a bench, pecking at Cici’s phone with Kenzie next to him, sucking her fingers and watching the train go round and round. Cici was supposed to text him when she found the shoes Shorty D wanted, but he’d received no texts…except for one from Alicia.
“What’d you buy?” Cici asked, plucking at the plastic. “A jacket? Don’t a fool like you know it’s too hot for wearing a jacket this time a year? We live in New Orleans.”
He ignored her and walked over to Shorty D, wishing he’d left Cici at home. But he’d been afraid she’d go out again. She’d start talking about DJing again last night. Had called her girls—sissy bounce rappers and DJs—asking about the clubs needing talent.
“Tre?”
He turned to find Alicia standing behind him, dodging other shoppers as they chased squealing kids stampeding toward the train.
Something inside him sank, even as his heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t thought she’d actually come to the mall. He wasn’t ready for her to see the real him. To see Cici. To see him in the role he sometimes resented.
He wanted to be the man he’d been under that Pontchartrain moon, when his lips moved hungrily over Alicia’s. When he’d felt like a man, and not a babysitter with Kenzie’s snot on his sleeve.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said, rubbing his sleeve against the back of his pants and grabbing the phone from Shorty D, who shouted, “Hey!” Tre handed the phone to Cici.
“You didn’t answer your text. Can’t believe I found you—it’s crowded this afternoon,” she said, dropping her hands onto the knees of her tight jeans and smiling at Kenzie. “Hey, Kenzie. You remember me? You going to come play with me on Monday?”
Kenzie didn’t stop sucking on her fingers, but the little girl’s dark eyes studied Alicia who turned to Shorty D. “And who’s this handsome man?”
Shorty D rolled his shoulders and stood, intentionally letting his jeans bag. He slid a worldly gaze over Alicia’s shiny hair, ruby-glossed lips and green jacket and inclined his head. “Shorty D. What up?”
Alicia turned to Tre with laughing eyes. All he could do was shrug. Shorty D was Shorty D. “His name is Devontay, but we call him Shorty D ’cause he’s cool like that.”
Shorty D grinned and gave him skin. It made Alicia laugh. Which made Tre’s heart clinch up. He really loved the way she laughed. Loved the way her eyes danced and her hair curved at her collarbone.
Cici sidled up. “Who you?”
Tre shot his aunt the look—the one that said shut up—but Cici didn’t get no messages ever. She did what she wanted to do and always had. Big Mama had shed many a tear over Cici. Tre refused to hope the woman would change, but he couldn’t ignore her this time. “Cici, this is Alicia Laurence. She works at the school we takin’ Kenzie to on Monday.”
“She don’t look like no teacher,” Cici said, her black eyes greedily drinking in Alicia’s clothes, nails and extensions. Jealousy flamed before she looked away.
“Well, actually I’m working on my certification. My aunt’s the director of the school, and all the teachers there are certified. I’m working as an aide. It’s a wonderful school, and I know Kenzie will like being around the other children.”
“She don’t like other kids.”
Tre saw Alicia look at Cici, who held herself defensively, petulantly, like Shorty D when he didn’t get the kind of cereal he wanted, and he saw the dawning in Alicia’s eyes, and for a moment, the pity.
Something hot flooded him. He knew it to be shame. If he was Alicia looking at him with his ragtag crew of snot-nosed kids and cranky former addict, he’d run the other way.
But Alicia remained, her gaze finally catching his. She reached for his hand. “You all done here?”
“No, we ain’t done. I still gotta get my shoes,” Shorty D said, walking toward the Foot Locker, not bothering to wait on anyone else.
Tre made a face. “Almost. I still got things to get, then we going to visit Big Mama. It’s bingo night at the nursing home and I told her we’d stop by.”
“I’m good at bingo,” Alicia said.
Tre kept one eye on Shorty D and scooped Kenzie off the mall bench. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think we can all fit in my car.”
Cici finally gave Alicia some attention. “You got a car?”
Alicia nodded. “I’ll give you a ride, if you want. I’ve been wanti
ng to meet Tre’s grandmother.”
He hadn’t even told her much about Big Mama and she wanted to meet her? What did that mean?
Alicia was like dark glass—he couldn’t see inside her—yet he liked the mystery about her. She surprised him. Just like on that bus, giving him her number, giving that gift to a little three-year-old. Being a stranger had not stopped her from wanting to make right where there was wrong.
“Well, ain’t nothing much to my mama but a big attitude,” Cici said. “She gonna like you, though. Anyone that’ll come see her in a place smelling like pee will be liked.”
“Hey, Cici, why don’t you go on ahead and get Shorty his shoes? Here’s fifty dollars. Can’t spend no more.” Tre pulled the money out of the ragged envelope and handed it to Cici. “Alicia and I’ll watch Kenzie out here.”
Cici had the money in her pocket before he could blink. Ten short clacks of Cici’s high heels and he stood with Kenzie still in his arms and Alicia sinking onto the bench. She patted the spot next to her.
He sat, shifting Kenzie on his lap. His niece plopped her fingers out of her mouth and stared at Alicia. He stared, too. “Why you come here tonight?”
“Why do you think?”
He didn’t know. That’s why he’d asked.
Thing was, he’d never been this way over a girl before. Alicia made him feel like good things were possible, because ever since she’d come into his life, things had gotten better—a second job, a school for Kenzie and a shiny new horn sitting in a case on the end of his bed, waiting for him to take hold of a new future. “I don’t know what to think. I ain’t been with a girl like you.”
“A girl like me?”
“You know, a girl whose daddy’s a preacher. A girl who’s already been married before.”
Her brow crinkled. “Did I kiss you like my daddy’s a preacher?”
“Nah, I’d say opposite.”
“Good, ’cause I meant it that way. And my being married was what I told you. Stupid. That’s behind me. I don’t hold on to that.”
For a moment, they were both silent, watching a group of teenagers skulk past, followed by an older man and woman who held hands, looking confused yet somehow content. Tre wondered how that would feel—contentment. To date, it had only been a word on a vocabulary test.
