Forbidden Sister

by V. C. Andrews

  “You’ve been there?”

  She laughed. “Once or twice.”

  We were both careful to have only salads for lunch after hearing about the feast that awaited us for dinner, but the bread was so wonderful I couldn’t stop eating.

  “We’ll walk more now,” she told me. “We both need it.”

  We did, and she surprised me again with how much she knew about the buildings, the museums, and the fine restaurants.

  “Really. How many times have you been here?” I asked.

  “Maybe a few more than I said,” she confessed. “I was with someone for a while who had a private jet that could get to Paris from New York.”

  When we reached Saint-Germain again, she found the café she said was Mama’s favorite. We had some café au lait and sat looking at the Seine, the boats, the never-ending lines of tourists from all over the world streaming past us, all filled with the awe and excitement that came from being in Paris.

  Maybe it was the magic of the city or just the magic that came from being away from where we lived, a magic that blossomed out of the sense of freedom and adventure, but I felt as though Roxy and I had never been apart. We were the sisters we were meant to be. We shared thoughts and feelings, laughed at the same things, wondered about the same things. It was truly as though we had been brought up in the same home and not apart so many years. Was blood so strong that it could quickly mend the split we had endured, fill the chasm between us with an avalanche of the love we both shared and desperately needed? I hoped so.

  “Weren’t there many times when you had to be with someone you couldn’t stand, someone like that man who hit you?” I felt brave enough to ask her now.

  “You close your eyes,” she said.

  She knew that flippant response wasn’t much of an answer.

  “Look, M, it’s really better that you don’t hear about the ugly part of my life, and I don’t relive it by telling you about it, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, and then I added, “I wish you never have to live any of it again.”

  She was silent. “We’d better get back. We need to rest up for tonight. I think they’re planning a big evening for us.”

  I nodded. She paid the bill, and we walked all the way back to the apartment, neither of us very talkative. When we arrived at the apartment, we decided to dress up. Roxy helped me with my hair and makeup. We wore the beautiful new dresses she had bought for us, with the matching high-heeled shoes. When we emerged, Uncle Alain looked as if he was bursting with excitement.

  “I can’t wait to enter the restaurant with the two of you on my arms,” he said.

  It was a beautiful restaurant and already nearly at capacity when we arrived. Our table put us in full view of everyone, and from the way the waiters fawned over us, anyone would have thought we were celebrities. The feast began, and it was truly a feast. Maurice came out himself twice to explain the courses. The waiters spent time explaining the wines and why they were right for each preparation.

  Many of Uncle Alain’s and Maurice’s friends stopped by our table and were introduced to us. Not all of them were gay. There were couples of all ages. They seemed to know so many people.

  Later, after most people had left and the restaurant was calming down, Maurice came out to join us and told us more about the food, the places he had gone for recipes, and more about his own life.

  Everything was dazzling, whether it was the stylish women and men who were there, the conversations, the music and the wine, or just being with Mama’s brother and feeling that I had family again. Sometimes, maybe because of the wine, I burst out with things that made everyone laugh.

  “Everyone is so friendly,” I said. “It’s like being in a small town and not one of the world’s most famous cities.”

  “You’ll see some small towns, too,” Uncle Alain promised. “We have to visit my sisters soon. But somehow I think you’re made more for Paris,” he added, and winked.

  Later, when we were home and getting ready for bed, I went in to see Roxy. She had just slipped under her blanket.

  “Aren’t you exhausted?” she asked.

  “Still too excited. You want me to let you sleep?”

  “No, it’s all right.” She patted her bed, and I sat beside her.

  “Thank you for doing this for me, Roxy. I love them.”

  “They are sweet.”

  “How long has Uncle Alain been with Maurice?”

  “I’m not sure how long, exactly, but more than ten years.”

  “Papa didn’t like having a gay brother-in-law.”

  “Maybe he was threatened.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t say anything about him. I never got to know him. It wasn’t all his fault, either. He was brought up in a very cold home. The military life his father imposed on his own family made it difficult to show emotion. Except for anger, which I was able to bring out of him like no one could. I wanted to hate him, M. It was easier for me,” she admitted.

  “I don’t think he hated you, Roxy.”

  “I know. One of these days, I’ll go to the cemetery and ask them both to forgive me.”

  “They will.”

  “Maybe they already have, through you,” she said.

  We hugged, and then she turned over to go to sleep. I sat for a moment before rising to go to bed myself.

  I never felt as sorry for her as I did that night, but I never loved her as much, either.

  Epilogue

  The next few days became a whirlwind of touring. Uncle Alain was away on business for three days, and Maurice was very busy with the restaurant. Roxy and I did get up the Eiffel Tower, and Maurice, through someone he knew, got us reservations for dinner at the Jules Verne so we could see all of Paris lit up at night.

  The following day, we went to the Louvre, where I could show off my knowledge of art, and we spent a day in Montmartre shopping for a painting Roxy thought would please Uncle Alain and Maurice, and of course, we visited Sacre Coeur. We had trouble finding a painting we thought was unique until we came upon one street artist who had done an oil painting of a man looking down into the Seine. The water reflected images above him that seemed to weave in and out of one another. It was one of the most special paintings I had seen. Roxy thought so, too, and we bought it. We kept it wrapped until Uncle Alain returned.

  When they were both home, we presented it, and they both loved it. We had another special dinner at the apartment. The next day, Roxy and I took a tour of Versailles and saw the opulence and the great gardens. We listened to the lectures but broke for another wonderful lunch and later enjoyed another delicious dinner in Saint-Germain. We complained that we were going to have trouble fitting into our clothes, but neither of us gained a pound.

  It wasn’t the food I was excited about as much as our conversation, anyway. I let her talk as much as she would about other places she had gone and things she had done. She asked me lots of questions about Mama and Papa. Sometimes it felt as if she had been in a strange prison all these years and had just been released. If either of us got too maudlin, the other would change the subject.

  One night, Uncle Alain took us to the famous Moulin Rouge. It was a wonderful show, and I saw the famous can-can dance. Afterward, Maurice joined us at a café near their apartment. The four of us talked into the early hours, but I never felt tired. I thought I could go on all night. Of course, Roxy and I had the privilege of sleeping late into the morning and then laughing about how decadent we were becoming.

  Two days later, she wanted me to see the Latin Quarter, the fifth district of Paris, also on the Left Bank. It was named not for Latin people who lived there but because educated people once spoke in Latin. Here was the famous Sorbonne university.

  “What a wonderful thing it would be to go to school in Paris,” Roxy said. “That’s one regret I’ll readily admit to, M. My lack of formal education.”

  “It’s not too late,” I told her, and she laughed.

/>   “Who knows?” she said. It was the first time she had ever suggested that she might somehow change her life.

  That evening, Roxy finally admitted to being exhausted and was eager to say yes when Uncle Alain offered to take me to dinner at one of his favorite small restaurants. I didn’t want to go without her, but she insisted.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, M. Just enjoy a night with Uncle Alain. You really should get to know him better, too.”

  Reluctantly, I gave in and left her behind, but Uncle Alain was too interesting and entertaining for me to worry. He was almost as knowledgeable about food as Maurice. He told me how they had met and how much they meant to each other now.

  “I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” he began.

  “Oh, no, no. Not a bit,” I said. I thought about how Papa would react, but I also thought about Mama and how she would get him to be more open-minded.

  After dinner, he showed me one of his favorite places on the Left Bank, and we continued to talk about our family, our plans for me to meet the others, and how much he looked forward to showing me more of France. I thanked him and told him I was looking forward to all of that, too. We walked back to the apartment, and I listened and learned more about Mama, her sisters, and their early lives. He told me things about my great-grandparents that I never knew, especially how they had coped with the German occupation during the Second World War.

  I realized I hadn’t thought about Roxy all night until we entered the apartment, and I thought I would look in on her to see how she was, even though it was late. I tiptoed to her room and opened the door slightly, expecting to find her asleep, but to my surprise, her bed was empty. It didn’t even look slept in.

  Uncle Alain was in the living room talking softly with Maurice, who had just returned from the restaurant. They both looked up when I came hurrying in.

  “Roxy’s not here. She must have gone out,” I said.

  Neither spoke.

  Then Uncle Alain picked up an envelope that was on the coffee table and held it up. “She left this for you, Emmie.”

  “What is it?”

  I took it from him, looked at them, then opened it and read the letter.

  Dear M,

  By the time you read this, I will have left France. I am not running away from you. It’s actually because of you that I’m doing what I’m doing.

  Having had you with me, even for this short time, has woken me up. Perhaps it’s ironic, but you were able to do what Papa wasn’t, and that was to get me to take a long and serious look at myself.

  I have never enjoyed my family or seen why so much of the world is beautiful as much as I have with you and because of you. In a real way, you have given me reason to hope and, probably more important, care about myself.

  I am returning to New York to settle my account with Mrs. Brittany. You once asked me if there was someone with whom I could see myself spending my life. There is, but until now, he wasn’t free. I received a message from him while we were in Paris, and he told me he was free and wanted me to be with him.

  I realized after the bad incident we experienced at the hotel and by Mrs. Brittany’s actions that you are simply not safe with me right now. On the other hand, I didn’t want to send you to live with Uncle Orman and Aunt Lucy. I brought you to Paris because I wanted you to get to know Uncle Alain and Maurice, who both want very much for you to stay with them. At least, until you’re old enough to strike out on your own.

  While we were away, I did have most of what was required done. Uncle Alain will have you enrolled in the right school for you, and maybe one day, you’ll attend the Sorbonne or another school in the Latin Quarter. I could see how much you love Paris, so I feel confident that you will enjoy being there.

  Please forgive me for doing it this way. I was afraid you would argue about it, but if you made me change my mind, you would be taking away my new chance, too, and I know you would be sorry forever.

  I’ll see you again someday, I promise, but for now, think of Mama and Papa and how happy they would be that you’re not in my world as it is right now.

  Love,

  Roxy

  I lowered the letter and looked at Uncle Alain and Maurice. “You two knew about this all along?”

  “Oui,” Uncle Alain said. “She wanted it that way.”

  “This was the plan from the start?”

  He nodded. “It was her intention to bring you here. You would make Maurice and me very happy if you would do what she asks and stay with us. For me, it will be like having my sister back, even if only until you are old enough to do whatever you want and go wherever you want.”

  “But . . . what will happen to her?”

  “I think she’ll be fine now,” Uncle Alain said. “I’m doing what I can, too.”

  I shook my head. “I should have been told.”

  “Would you have let her go?” Maurice asked.

  I looked at him. Tears were building behind my lids. I took a deep breath. “No,” I said.

  He nodded.

  How I needed my mother now, I thought. I bit down on my lower lip, and then I turned and walked out of the apartment. There was something about Paris that reminded me of New York. Neither city seemed willing to go to sleep. People were still walking the streets. I could hear music and laughter, and the wonderful lights twinkled like stubborn stars.

  I walked and walked, pausing finally when I heard someone singing to an accordion. It seemed to be coming from just below the street on the riverbank. I made my way down to it and saw him on a bench.

  He was singing “La Vie en Rose,” Mama’s favorite. It was as if the city had hired him to entertain. Or maybe he was simply someone who had found his true love and couldn’t lock up his joy and go to sleep.

  “C’est beau,” a man walking with a woman said. They paused, too, to listen.

  “It’s not just beautiful, it’s true,” I told him, but I said it in French: “Ce n’est pas seulement beau. C’est vrai.”

  They turned to me and smiled. They walked on, but they paused after they had passed our singer and kissed.

  This is Paris, I thought.

  I turned to walk back to Uncle Alain.

  I would embrace him. I would embrace them both.

  It wasn’t Roxy who had brought me back here. It was Mama.

  I was home.

  Pocket Books proudly presents

  Roxy’s Story

  V.C. Andrews®

  Available September 2013 from Pocket Books

  Turn the page for a preview of Roxy’s Story . . .

  “You see the door?” my father asked, pointing his thick right forefinger at the entrance of our East Side town house in New York City. “Pack your things and get out. Go on, get out,” he added, poking his finger in the air repeatedly, as if he were trying to hit the invisible button that would make me disappear.

  Mama stood next to him looking even more terrified than I did, her beautiful cameo face shattering beneath the storm of his rage. She was always easier to read than I was. I never showed my father fear, or cowered or retreated, which only made him angrier. In fact, my defiance usually grew stronger as the volume and intensity of his anger boiled over like hot milk. There was simply no middle ground for either of us to occupy, no well of compromise from which either of us could draw a cup of calmness. Ironically, I was too much like him.

  “You think I won’t?” I fired back.

  “No. I think you had better,” he replied with a level of determination I had never seen him reach. There was no hesitation in his eyes and nothing that suggested an empty threat. This time, there was no doubt that he meant what he had said and how he had said it.

  I glanced at Mama again. She looked far more surprised at his firmness than I had ever seen her look. She confirmed his determination for me. She could see that Papa wasn’t simply having one of his spontaneous temper tantrums. Her eyes were wide open now, her lips trembling. In fact, her whole f
ace looked as if it was vibrating as she paled. She even stepped away from him. I had no doubt that throughout their twenty years of marriage, she had never confronted or witnessed such fury in him and had no idea what else he might do. We had been circling each other like two martial-arts warriors for months lately. This confrontation was inevitable.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, then clicked my black leather boot heels together and saluted him. The proper way to salute was one of the first things he had taught me when I was a little girl. After he had taught that to me, emphasizing how smart and snappy it had to be, with my palm to the left, my wrist straight, and my thumb and fingers extended and joined, I saluted him every time I saw him. In the beginning, even he was satisfied, and Mama thought it was cute, but after a while, he saw that I was really mocking the salute, doing it so often, practically every time he looked at me, that he began to be annoyed by it and eventually forbade me to do it.

  Now whenever I did it, especially with my heels clicking, it was as though I had set off a firecracker in his brain. At the moment, the veins in his neck pressed boldly against his skin. Pea-sized patches of white at the corners of his lips began to spread like a rash. He looked as if he had swollen into some horrid ogre who could heave me and all of the furniture out the window.

  My father wasn’t a terribly big man. He was a little more than six feet tall and had broad shoulders, but he didn’t look like a weight lifter or a lumberjack. Having been brought up in a military family, he had a cadet’s perfect posture, so he always seemed solid and battle-ready, even though he had rejected the military life and had gone into investment management and financing.

  His father was General Thornton Wilcox, who was once considered a top candidate to command NATO. The gilt-framed two-by-four picture of my grandfather in full dress uniform with all of his medals glittering hung in our entryway hall and loomed over us the way the picture of a saint might hover in the home of a religious family. The light positioned above it seemed to highlight the dissatisfaction I imagined in his face. My father’s older brother, Orman, had followed in his father’s footsteps but not mon père.