Forbidden Sister

by V. C. Andrews

  He showed me an entertainment center with a nearly wall-size television screen.

  “My dad gets screeners from Hollywood producers, so we get to see first-run movies here,” Evan explained.

  He opened the door to his sister’s bedroom. It had a beautiful canopy bed and very pretty matching furniture that included a vanity table with a large oval mirror. The frame picked up the theme of doves embossed on her bed’s headboard.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah. I know she misses it.”

  We just glanced in through the doorway of the master bedroom. It was, I decided, almost as large as our entire downstairs. There were separate his-and-her en suite bathrooms.

  “That’s a customized bed,” Evan said. “My mother has the sheets and pillowcases customized, too.”

  “A family of four could sleep on it,” I commented.

  “Yeah, well, my sister and I were always discouraged from crawling into bed with our parents. My mother claims she needs the space because my father is too restless a sleeper. Voilà,” he said when we continued down the hallway and stopped at his doorway. “My pied-à-terre.”

  I laughed.

  “Isn’t that a good French expression for it?”

  “Not really. A pied-à-terre is usually a second residence, part-time, in a big city away from your primary residence.”

  “Sort of a hideaway?”

  “In a way, maybe.”

  “Well, that fits. I hide out here,” he said, and we walked into his room.

  “Is it always this neat?” I asked immediately.

  “No,” he said, laughing. “I’m supposed to impress you, right?”

  I looked at his posters of old movies. He was obviously a Scarface fan. He had two of those. There was a little nook for his computer and desk, with windows that looked out toward the East River. Right then, the lights were dazzling.

  “I don’t know how you work here. I’d be staring out the window.”

  “You get used to it, I guess.”

  “Evan!” we heard.

  “Dinner bell’s ringing,” he said.

  “I hope I don’t use the wrong fork or something.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. If you do, you’ll be tossed out the window.”

  As soon as we sat at the long and beautiful dining-room table, two men in jackets and ties, both wearing white gloves, began to bring out salads and open bottles of wine. The red was poured into a decanter. I could feel Evan’s father’s eyes on me as everything was being done.

  “Being French, you might know about wine,” he said with a smile.

  “She’s only a young girl, Martin,” Evan’s mother said sharply.

  “I know a little,” I said modestly. “The decanter is used to aerate the wine. Aerating it softens the tannins and makes it a more enjoyable experience.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “Well, maybe we should let Emmie taste the wine first.”

  “We’re not serving wine to someone her age, Martin,” Evan’s mother said.

  “Do you drink wine with your meals at home?” Evan’s father asked.

  “Quite often,” I said. “It’s not unusual for people my age and even younger to drink wine in their homes in France.”

  “The French,” Mrs. Vincent said, as if that explained everything.

  “If she drinks it at home, she can certainly taste it here,” Evan’s father insisted. He nodded at one of the servers, who poured a little into my glass.

  “Well?” Mr. Vincent asked, smiling at me.

  “Do you really want me to do it?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Evan’s father said.

  Mrs. Vincent rolled her eyes at Evan’s mother.

  I looked at the wine. “You should use three senses to judge wine properly,” I began. I lifted the glass so I could see the color. “Tilt the glass away from you to reveal the width and hue of the wine’s rim.”

  Mr. Vincent’s face brightened, but his wife’s expression didn’t change.

  “There’s good clarity,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?” Evan asked.

  “You don’t want the wine to be hazy. The color should be rich and full. What year is the wine, Mr. Styles?”

  “Oh, my God!” his mother exclaimed. “I can’t believe you’re letting her do this.”

  “I believe we have a 1997,” Evan’s father said, ignoring his wife. He looked up at one of the servers. Both were standing there and looking fascinated with me.

  “Yes, sir,” the server closer to me said.

  “Well, it’s not very young. We should see a ruby, sort of brownish-red. We do.”

  Next, I swirled the wine in the glass by holding the glass’s stem. Then I smelled it.

  “What are you looking for now?” Evan asked. He was obviously enjoying how I had taken on the challenge and how it seemed to irk his mother.

  “The smell of a wine is called its nose. Smelling is important to tasting. Most of what we taste is what we smell,” I said. I was reciting it the way Mama had explained it to me and didn’t mean to sound like a wine lecturer, but I could see that Mrs. Vincent and Evan’s mother were reacting to me as if I were.

  “It’s a bit fruity,” I said, “which is fine.”

  I sipped the wine but didn’t swallow. Instead, I worked it around in my mouth for a few seconds.

  “What are you doing?” Evan asked.

  “We call it chewing. You get more of the flavor this way, and then you should sip it and suck a little air in to continue aerating.”

  I held up the glass. There was just a little remaining.

  “It’s very good, Mr. Styles.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” Evan’s mother said, shaking her head.

  “Remember, a child shall lead them,” Mr. Vincent said.

  “How much wine do you drink a week?” Mrs. Vincent asked me.

  “Oh, not much. A glass or so when it’s appropriate,” I said.

  Under the table, Evan felt for my hand and squeezed it. I looked at the big smile on his face.

  The adults took over the remaining conversation and direction of the dinner. Occasionally, Mr. Styles would ask me a question. He knew the firm Papa worked for, and I was able to tell them a little about Papa’s life as the son of an Army general. After that, their conversations went from places they had been to politics and then the real-estate situation in the city. We were almost forgotten.

  As soon as he could ask for us to be excused, Evan did so.

  “You don’t have another bottle of wine hidden in your room, do you?” Mr. Vincent kidded.

  “Nothing that good,” Evan replied.

  His father laughed, but his mother didn’t.

  As soon as we stepped into his room, Evan closed the door, and then he kissed me.

  “You were terrific,” he said.

  He had his iPod in a speaker base and turned it on. Then he sat on his bed, flipped off his shoes, and lay back with his hands behind his head.

  “Take a load off,” he told me.

  I sat on the bed.

  “So, are you impressed with everything?”

  “Mais oui.”

  He sat up and swung around so he was lying beside me, looking up at me. He touched my hand and then tightened his grip and pulled me down slowly. We kissed again, his hands moving up to my shoulders and then around to my breasts.

  I started to sit up again, looking toward the door.

  “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They’re too into their own stuff to remember we’re even here.”

  “Have you ever brought anyone else up here, Evan?”

  “By anyone else, you mean female?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “It’s happened,” he said. “Not for dinner, but then again, none of them knew squat about how to taste wine,” he added, smiling, and reached for me again. We kissed, and he moved his hands around my shoulders and down to the back of my dress. I felt him working on the catch and the
zipper. He kissed me on the neck, and as he started to undo my dress, he moved over me. Were we going too fast? How old was Roxy when she first did this with a boy? How old was Mama? As Evan moved his lips softly over my shoulders and then onto my chest, pulling on my dress to lower it, I felt myself tighten. How could we be doing this with his parents and their friends out there? What were they thinking we were doing?

  “Relax. Don’t worry,” Evan said, but as soon as he lowered my dress and began to undo my bra, I pushed back.

  “We’re going too fast,” I said. It came out like a gasp.

  “Too fast? I really like you,” he said, “and I thought you really liked me.”

  “I do, but . . .”

  “But what? No one’s going to bother us. Stop worrying about it.”

  Despite what he was saying, I couldn’t help but think that if it were my father out there, he’d be worrying about it.

  Evan moved toward me again, and I moved a little farther from him.

  He smiled. “Okay, okay. We’ll go slowly. I promise,” he said, holding up his hands.

  Just then, we heard his mother calling.

  “What?” he shouted back.

  “Your father has something to tell you, and he is showing those new pictures of the 9/11 memorial. Maybe your friend wants to see them. They haven’t been released on television yet.”

  “Her name is Emmie,” he shouted back.

  “Emmie,” she said.

  “What’s he got to tell me?”

  “I don’t intend to stand here and talk through a door, Evan. Come to the entertainment center,” she said.

  “Okay, Mom. We’ll be there in a minute,” Evan called back.

  We heard her walking away. I was working on getting my dress zipped up again and quickly fixing my hair.

  He smiled at me and kissed me on the neck. “Saved by the bell,” he whispered.

  I thought he wasn’t wrong as we left his room to go to the entertainment center.

  8

  Everyone else was already in the entertainment room. Evan’s father looked up at us when we entered. The way the others looked at us made me feel they knew we weren’t only talking in Evan’s room and that now I had my dress on crooked or something.

  “What’s up?” Evan asked.

  “You can sit,” his mother said, and we did.

  “You know,” his father began, “that there has been some talk about my running for Congress.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Evan said, glancing at me.

  “Well, I just received a phone call from the nomination committee. They unanimously decided that they want me to run. Part of the reason for this dinner tonight was to wait to hear their decision. Mark is going to be my campaign manager.”

  “That’s great, Dad.”

  “You know how it is with people running for national office, especially these days,” Evan’s father continued.

  “Expensive?”

  “Yes,” he said, laughing. “That’s true, but what’s also true is we’re going to be under a magnifying glass held by the press and the opposition.”

  “Magnifying glass?”

  “What your father is saying,” his mother continued, “is that all of our actions and words take on more meaning now. That includes you.”

  “Evan’s never done anything to embarrass you guys, and I’m sure he won’t now,” Mark Vincent said. “But your mother’s right. It’s squeaky-clean time, okay?”

  “I’ll be clean, but I won’t squeak,” Evan said, and that broke the serious mood.

  “We’ve opened a bottle of champagne,” his father said, rising. He handed glasses to both Evan and me. “We voted on you and Emmie participating in the toast.”

  “Especially since she knows so much about wine,” Mrs. Vincent added. “And isn’t champagne wine?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Legally, only that coming from the Champagne region in France can be labeled champagne. That’s why you see so many called sparkling wine.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “My God,” Mrs. Vincent finally said, “this girl is a walking encyclopedia on alcoholic beverages.”

  “I know only a little about wine,” I said. “No other alcoholic beverage.”

  “Do your parents generally approve of your drinking wine anywhere else but your home?” Evan’s mother asked.

  “No, they don’t, but they won’t be upset about tonight and this,” I said, looking at the bottle of champagne Mr. Styles was holding.

  “Just a little,” Evan’s mother warned his father.

  His father looked at her and then poured us both a good half-glass.

  “To the next congressman from New York,” Mark Vincent said, standing. “Good luck, Marty.”

  “Yes, bon chance,” Evan said, and looked at me. “Right?”

  “Oui,” I said.

  We all drank.

  “Well, now, let me show you guys these pictures,” Evan’s father said, and turned down the lights.

  Afterward, Evan decided to ride back to my house with me in the Town Car.

  “I’m sorry everything turned out to be so formal and serious,” he told me almost as soon as we got into the vehicle.

  “I’m glad I was there, Evan. It turned out to be a very special night for you and your parents.”

  “I guess. But I wish I had spent more time with you. Alone! It was supposed to be my special night. I mean ours.”

  “I hope we’ll have others.”

  “Will we?”

  “Yes,” I promised, and he kissed me. He wanted to do more, but I was very nervous with the chauffeur glancing in the rearview mirror.

  When we arrived at my house, Evan got out with me and walked me to the door.

  “Maybe we can do something tomorrow. We could go to the park or something.”

  “I have a ton of homework that I put off,” I said.

  “We’ll go late in the morning. I’ll take you to a fancy lunch, say a hot dog in the park,” he added, smiling. “I’ll come by about eleven-thirty,” he said before I could protest any further. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, “but I want to be home by four at the latest.”

  “Deal,” Evan said, and he kissed me a little more passionately than before. He held me for a moment afterward and just stared into my eyes.

  “What?”

  “You’re a real discovery and a wonderful surprise in every way,” he said, and then returned to his Town Car. I watched it drive off. He waved before it disappeared around a turn.

  I couldn’t help feeling wonderful, even though I knew Evan was somewhat disappointed. I thought I had handled myself like a lady, a mature lady. It was as if I had passed some test I had created for myself. Roxy wouldn’t have been as successful at the dinner when she was my age, I thought. Was it wrong for me to feel so confident now? So superior? Would I suffer for it somehow?

  I looked up at the lights on the buildings and the skyline and smiled. I can’t help it, I thought. I’m pleased with myself.

  Both Mama and Papa were up and waiting when I entered. I was in such a dazed state for a few moments that I didn’t see them sitting there.

  “Emmie?” Mama said.

  “Oh.”

  “So?” Mama asked. “How was your evening?”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I said, and then just did. I described the apartment, the views, and the formal dinner. I told them I was asked to taste the wine and then related the way I explained how to do it, the way Mama had taught me. I said nothing about going into Evan’s room, of course, but I finished by telling them about the reason for the champagne toast.

  Papa wanted to know all about that, but Mama was impatient to hear more about the apartment and how the women were dressed.

  “You don’t sound as if you like his mother and her friend that much,” she said when I finished my description of Evan’s mother and Mrs. Vincent. I thought my mother could sense everything going on in my body and my mind, no matter how small or insig
nificant the change was. She was attuned to every little gesture or inflection in my voice. Sometimes I thought she could pick up my thoughts even before I thought them.

  “Well, Evan warned me they were snobby,” I said.

  “Congress, huh?” Papa said as if he had heard nothing else. “Well, this is the best year to run against an incumbent. He might win.”

  “Evan’s father knew about your company, Papa.”

  “Oh? Well, why shouldn’t he? We’re pretty big and growing bigger every day,” he said proudly.

  I thought this was a good time to mention Evan’s coming around to take me to lunch and a walk in Central Park.

  “Now, don’t go neglecting your schoolwork over some school romance,” Papa warned.

  “I don’t think you have to warn her about her schoolwork,” Mama said.

  He gave his usual grunt. “Let’s go to sleep,” he said, standing.

  That was easier said than done, at least for me. I lay there for hours reviewing the night and my feelings for Evan. I don’t think anyone had to be a fortune teller to see that our feelings for each other were going to get intense. A part of me had wanted to give in to his advances in his room, but the rest of me had held back. That resistance was bound to grow weaker as time went by and we spent more and more of it only with each other. Was that a bad thing or just what should naturally happen? It excited me to think about it.

  But it was exactly when I thought these thoughts, titillating myself with the sexual possibilities, that Roxy came to mind. She would always loom there beside and above me. Could I end up becoming like her? Could I be fast and loose with myself and maybe more sexually active than other girls my age? I had an older sister whom my father called nothing more than a glorified prostitute.

  I had no doubts about many of the girls I knew. For them, virginity was always a burden. It was as if once you got over it, you were free in more ways than one. You broke the ties that chained you to your childhood, the ties that kept you from being taken seriously as a young woman. In their way of thinking, if you didn’t do this, you had no right to speak. You hadn’t paid your dues, and you weren’t in the club. I could see this in the way the more sexually experienced girls talked and looked at the less experienced.