Forbidden Sister

by V. C. Andrews

  “Really? Well, I guess I don’t have to ask how your date was, then,” she said. She even sounded a little jealous that Papa knew more than she did.

  “I had a good time, Mama.”

  She stood there, smiling at me. “Merveilleux, Emmie. I’m so happy for you.”

  She glanced at Papa. I think he knew as well as I did that Mama was always afraid that I wouldn’t have a happy time as a teenager or when I was a young woman off on my own. For a moment, at least, it was truly as if the clouds had parted on our ceilings, and we could feel the rays of hope and happiness again.

  I practically lunged at my phone when it rang later on in the morning. I couldn’t wait to tell Evan that I could come to his house, but it wasn’t Evan.

  “So, how was your date?” Chastity asked as soon as I said hello.

  “Oh. Very nice. The movie was very interesting. You should try to see it.”

  “Why would I want to see a French movie by myself?” she countered. “Unless you would go again.”

  “Oh, I would,” I said.

  “Oh. Well, are you coming over tonight?”

  I sucked in my breath. She wasn’t going to like this. “No, I can’t. I was invited to Evan’s house for dinner.”

  “What? His parents invited you?”

  “Yes. It wouldn’t be nice to say no, right?”

  She was silent.

  “I mean, my parents approved, and you know my father.”

  “Right,” she said. “Maybe you could come over on Sunday, then. Tell your father we’re studying again. We could still see your sister, I bet. And you can tell me all about your fancy dinner.”

  “I didn’t say it was going to be fancy.”

  “Sure.”

  “Actually, Evan took me to a very simple, inexpensive place last night. He’s not stuck-up.”

  “Whoop-de-do. Are you going to come on Sunday or not?”

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” I said.

  “Right. Call me,” she said sharply, and hung up without saying good-bye.

  I felt sorry for her again, but I was determined not to let that spoil my happiness.

  Twenty minutes later, Evan called.

  “That’s great,” he said when I told him my father had said yes. “I guess it was smart bringing you home a little early, huh?”

  “Absolument. Très intelligent.”

  “Hey, I have a great idea. I’ll have the car pick you up an hour earlier, so you and I can practice a short French dialogue to impress my parents, okay?”

  “Je consens.”

  “Um . . . I . . . consent?”

  “Agree, consent. Or you could just say d’accord. See, it’s not as hard as you think.”

  “How’s five sound?”

  “En français.”

  “Five, five . . . cinq,” he said.

  “Bien. Cinq. Oh, how formal is this dinner?” I asked, thinking about what Chastity had said.

  “My father wears a jacket and tie. For a Saturday-night dinner, we do dress, but it’s not black-tie.”

  “Okay,” I said, a little unsure. Now I wished I had saved my dress for that night.

  I hung up but was immediately overcome with worry.

  “I just made you an appointment today for your hair,” Mama said, stepping into my room. “Two o’clock. I thought it would be a good excuse to do it, no?”

  “Yes. They dress a little formally, Mama. I don’t know if I have anything nice enough.”

  She thought a moment and then ripped off her apron. “We’re off to shop.”

  “Really? But you just bought me new clothes, Mama.”

  “That was a start. I’ve got a lot of making up to do, for myself as well as for you,” she said. “Allons.”

  Papa didn’t put up a syllable of resistance. It was as if we all wanted this incoming tide of new happiness to keep washing onto our family shores.

  But there is a lot out there in the sea, and the shore has little to say about what washes onto it.

  7

  This time, Mama and I knew we couldn’t get past Papa’s scrutiny so easily, but she wanted me to have a more conservative look anyway, so we bought a black dress, but it was calf-length. She bought me a purse to go with it and then another pair of shoes. Afterward, she bought herself a new dress and a pair of shoes, too. I felt this was a different sort of shopping spree, very different from when she was buying me new school clothes. It was as if my going on a date and being invited to a boy’s home for dinner had opened up a new world to us both, a world I thought she had missed with Roxy.

  I could feel how she was looking at me differently, too, talking to me more like one grown woman to another. I sensed that there was a moment in time, perhaps, when your mother becomes more like your sister. We giggled over some of the clothes we both tried on, complimented each other when something looked good on us, and then went to celebrate our successes at lunch. Mama talked more about herself as a young girl, some of the boys she had dated and thought she had loved. There were revelations about her family that I had never heard. According to what she told me, her mother was almost as strict as Papa. In some ways, what her sister Manon had done had put her in a place very similar to the place I was in because of Roxy.

  “My mother was always worried that I would have the same fate as Manon,” she said. “I could see it on her face whenever I went with a boy or a boy came to our home. Fortunately, she was very fond of your father. She saw he was a no-nonsense man right away. I think she liked him more than I did in the beginning. Suddenly, everything he said and wanted was sensible, and everything I said was questionable.

  “But my love life was far from perfect. I had many disappointments, especially when I was your age or a little older. Affections were more fleeting. We were all so eager to have a romance, to be involved with someone, but it didn’t take long to realize that it wasn’t wise to put too much faith in someone so quickly. After all, we were both just exploring our own feelings, going into what your father calls ‘uncharted territory.’ Just as you’re doing now, we were exploring, testing ourselves.” She smiled, and I could see that she was smiling at some memory.

  “Was there one special boy before Papa?”

  “Oh, there was, but it wasn’t as deeply felt. There wasn’t that sense of commitment, what my father described as an investment of life in someone else. He was a bit of a romantic, my father. No one but me knew it, but he loved reading Daphne du Maurier. He’d see one of my mother’s or sister’s romance novels and say he was going to read it to see what the big deal was.”

  She laughed, and then she looked at me intently, deeply, and said, “I envy you for the journey you are about to begin.”

  “Are you sorry about anything you did when you were younger, Mama?”

  “No. I’m with Edith Piaf. Je regrette rien.”

  I hoped I would regret nothing, too. She hugged me, and we finished our lunch.

  Hearing my mother talk about her past like this, revealing more of her intimate memories and her feelings, drew us closer to each other than ever. It was always difficult to imagine your parents when they were your age, even when you saw pictures of them back then, but her willingness to share with me enabled me to have at least a glimpse of her as a young girl.

  Papa thought we had drunk too much wine or something when he saw us afterward. We were still giggling and making jokes about the people we had seen and the things we had done.

  “Who’s the teenager here?” he cried, pretending to be upset.

  Afterward, Mama talked him into taking a walk with her in the park. “For a little while,” she said, “we’ll be like we first were.”

  I watched them go off together. All these years, I had viewed them only as my loving guardians, here to provide for me and guide me. Although there were certainly many flashes of affection between them, they were always quite aware of my presence. They loved each other very much. That was obvious, and despite the tragedy of Roxy, we were still a strong family,
but when they walked off together holding hands, I could see my mother’s reminiscences with me still in full bloom on her face, especially in her eyes, and I realized that my father was obviously touched. The love he’d had for her at the very beginning, that passion, had been resurrected. For a while, at least, he would act more like a young man again. In fact, the way they held on to each other, stayed close as they walked off, made them look like two teenage lovers.

  Was this a side of them that Roxy had never known? If she saw them now as I did, would she regret even more what she had done and lost, if she regretted it at all? I sensed how important it had become for me to know this, but I didn’t want to go searching for her with Chastity again. Having Chastity there ruined it for me. She was just a voyeur looking for some titillation. I was looking for answers that were critical to who I was and who I would become.

  Later, when the Styleses’ family driver called to say that he was waiting outside, Papa and Mama came out, too, to see what sort of car they had sent. It was a black Town Car, and the driver was in a chauffeur’s uniform.

  “I hope that’s not on the public’s dime,” Papa muttered.

  “Don’t spoil her night,” Mama warned him.

  When I had come down in my new dress and shoes, Papa had looked speechless for a moment. Just as you would suddenly enter a new world with your mother, you would with your father, I realized. Fathers, I decided, were far more comfortable seeing their daughters as little girls, while mothers couldn’t wait for them to grow up and get into dresses and hairdos and makeup. When the realization came to fathers that their little girls were on the threshold of being women, they first recoiled. There was safety and comfort when your daughter was a child. She moved in that bubble-gum-and-lollipop world, with little or no idea of what eventually would awaken inside her and make everything she did and everything she said suddenly far more complicated.

  Except for the danger of pedophiles, of course, boys and men didn’t hear any sexual suggestions in what a little girl said or see any passionate interest in a little girl’s smile or the look in her eyes. Little girls were really only cute; women were pretty. Little girls could sit on their fathers’ laps with no one raising eyebrows. That would more likely raise smiles. Young women couldn’t. You could hug and kiss your father at any age, of course, but there was always that awareness that you were a woman now. The affection had to be more sophisticated.

  Maybe Papa had seen this happening too quickly in Roxy. Maybe he had tried, as they say, to put the toothpaste back into the tube, and that was impossible. She had crossed over, and the little girl was not coming back. He wasn’t prepared for it, not that he ever would be, but it was just too soon, not only for him but for Mama, too.

  The chauffeur stepped out quickly when he saw us and came around to open the door for me.

  “I hope that turns into a pumpkin at midnight,” Papa called to him.

  The chauffeur smiled and tipped his hat. “No worries, sir,” he said. He had an Australian accent to go along with the expression.

  When I looked back as we drove off, I saw Mama put her arm through Papa’s and watch the limousine disappear. They were watching me do a very grown-up thing. They knew I was moving on. It made me sad, and I thought, why couldn’t parents return to their youth when their children were old enough to be on their own or when their children were wives and husbands, mothers and fathers? Why couldn’t they become carefree and adventurous again? They had completed their obligations and fulfilled their responsibilities. Wouldn’t a nice long drink from the Fountain of Youth be a wonderful way to go on?

  Of course, all grandmothers and grandfathers might protest. That was something special, too.

  Evan’s family lived on a cul-de-sac on one of the most expensive streets on the East Side. He was waiting at the entrance when we pulled up and rushed to open my door before the chauffeur could do so.

  “You look beautiful,” he said when I stepped out.

  “Thank you.”

  There was a doorman and a man behind a desk in the lobby manning security cameras. The lobby was all gold and black tile, and there was a large chandelier illuminating the statuary and the artwork. There were small tables and chairs that looked as if they had never been used. I saw that someone had to have a special card to use the elevator.

  “This is like a museum,” I said, gazing at the pictures.

  “Sometimes it feels like it,” Evan said. “I have to warn you,” he continued when we stepped into the elevator, “my mother can come off snobby sometimes. She’s a stickler for perfection when it comes to her dinners. Another couple is coming, the Vincents. Mark Vincent works with my father in the mayor’s office. He’s okay, but his wife, Millicent, outdoes my mother when it comes to snobbery.”

  The elevator door opened right to their apartment entryway. When I commented, Evan told me that every apartment in the building was that way. I thought the place was more difficult for a burglar to break into than Fort Knox. The Styleses’ apartment looked twice as large as ours. It was on the twelfth floor. I could see that the living-room windows and the dining-room windows faced the East River and provided magnificent views.

  Evan’s father was the first to greet us. It was easy to see that Evan got some of his handsome features from him. He wore a black sports jacket and a black tie and looked to be about six feet one. He had a tan face and was slim and athletic-looking.

  “You did pretty well for yourself, Evan,” he said when he saw me. “Welcome, Emmie, or should I say bonsoir?”

  “Whatever you wish, Mr. Styles,” I replied, and he laughed.

  Evan’s mother then appeared. She looked as if she had just walked off a photo shoot for Vogue. A more elegant and beautifully put-together woman I had never seen. She wore a black dress, too, and a wide diamond bracelet and diamond teardrop earrings. Evan had her beautiful eyes, I thought.

  “Mother, this is Emmie Wilcox,” Evan said.

  “Welcome, Emmie. You look very nice,” she said. I saw the way she had been inspecting me from the moment she saw me.

  “Thank you.”

  “You must have done something special to impress my son,” she continued. “He rarely, if ever, asks to invite any of his friends, especially a young lady, to one of our dinners. Adults are too boring.”

  “It’s easy to see what she did to him,” Evan’s father said.

  “Yes, whatever,” his mother said. She sounded as if she had expected a real answer and was disappointed. “The Vincents are here.”

  “Already?” Evan said, glancing at me.

  “You could sound a little happier about it, Evan. We’ll have dinner in fifteen minutes. You can introduce her to the Vincents and then show her the apartment, if you like. I have a few other things to tell Martha before she begins to serve.”

  “Will do, Mom,” Evan said, and either for my benefit or just as a joke, he saluted. He glanced at me, and I shook my head.

  Evan’s father led us into the beautiful living room. There was a black-and-white marble bar with cushion seats. The Vincents were sitting there having cocktails.

  “Hi, Evan,” Mr. Vincent said quickly.

  His wife just smiled. Her eyes were all over me. I thought she wore twice as much makeup as Evan’s mother. Whoever had done the work on her nose and lips was probably in hiding. Her features had that exaggerated look that worked as a flashing billboard announcing, I had plastic surgery.

  “Hi. This is Emmie Wilcox,” Evan said. “Mr. and Mrs. Vincent.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “We heard you speak French,” Mr. Vincent said. “Were you born there?”

  “No, but my mother is French and was brought up there,” I said.

  “Do you get there often?” Mrs. Vincent asked. “Paris, perhaps?”

  “Not for a long time,” I said. “We might go again soon.”

  I didn’t know why I said that. It just seemed like something Mrs. Vincent expected to hear. My mother often talked about another trip t
o France, but Papa still hadn’t committed to any.

  “I love shopping on the Champs-Èlysées,” Mrs. Vincent said.

  “You love shopping anywhere,” Evan’s father told her, and Mr. Vincent laughed.

  “Well, that’s what people do, especially in Paris. When in Rome, do as the Romans,” she said. “That’s a very pretty dress,” she told me. “Where did you get it?”

  “Don’t tell her,” Mr. Vincent said quickly. “She’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Saks,” I replied.

  She looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, they do have some nice things from time to time, but next time you look for something new, I have a great boutique that caters to junior fashions.”

  “We have two daughters about your age,” Mr. Vincent said as a means of explanation.

  “Oh, do they go to our school?” I asked Evan.

  Before he could reply, Mrs. Vincent said, “No. They go to a very upscale private boarding school in Connecticut.”

  “I’m going to show Emmie around before dinner,” Evan said quickly. He spoke with the desperation of someone who needed to escape.

  Everyone smiled. Evan’s mother returned as we left.

  “About ten minutes, Evan,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” Evan said when we were far enough away for no one to hear.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess it wasn’t fair to put you on display so quickly.”

  “I’m not on display. If anything, I think they are.”

  That struck him as funny.

  Both his mother and his father had home offices. His father’s really looked like an office, with machinery, shelves of books, and a desk with papers in neat piles, but his mother’s looked more like the showcase for an office you might see in a furniture window. There was more art on the walls, nicer furniture, but a smaller desk with nothing on it.

  “My mother is very concerned about my parents’ social life. Her file cabinet is full of guest lists. There are drawers for the A list, the B list, and the C list,” he said. “And then there is the never-ever-invite list.” I looked at him and he laughed. “Just kidding. Come on.”