Crossroads Page 7

  What is she doing in here? Gwen wondered. There’s no way she can afford to shop in a place like this. . . . That was catty of me. And ugly. She has every bit as much right as I do to be here. It’s just that buying clothes makes me feel terrible—it always has—and she’s standing there looking so pretty in that tacky dress, and—and I just did it again! What a hypocrite I am! I’m always going on about how cruel humans are to each other and how I admire the animals because they don’t attack each other for no reason the way we do, and then I want to lord it over a girl I don’t even know because she’s beautiful.

  But in my own defense, there is something about the way she looks at me. It’s as if she’s looking down on me, and I . . . No, I’m not going to let myself off the hook that easily. I’m jealous of her, plain and simple. And I should be ashamed of myself.

  And that was why she heard herself call out to Jewel, who had started for the door, “Jewel. Hello.”

  And when Jewel turned and smiled her big wide smile, Gwen didn’t give in to the green-eyed monster that was telling her to get the hell away from Jewel. Instead, because she felt guilty, she invited Jewel to have lunch. And Jewel accepted.

  Chapter Ten

  Years later when she looked back on that Saturday lunch with Gwen, Jewel would think that what had taken place was inevitable. It was as if fate had been throwing Gwen at her for weeks, stoking the flames of her anger until the only thing that could happen did. And she could trace everything else—the good and the bad of her life—back to that meal. It had been a true crossroads for her. Of course she wasn’t aware of any of that when she said yes, she would love to have lunch. All she was thinking was, she couldn’t say no to her boss’s daughter.

  * * *

  The Villa Tuscany prided itself on its authentic Northern Italian cuisine and its pricy menu. Gwen had suggested it to Jewel when they left Sofia’s. “I’ve eaten there with Mother,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t know any other restaurants in the mall. If there’s someplace you usually go . . .”

  Try any one of the chain restaurants or the food court, Jewel thought.

  “The Villa Tuscany will be great,” she said. And the anger inside grew.

  “There’s a bit of a wait, Ms. Wright,” said the hostess at the Villa Tuscany. “But if you’ll come with me, I’ll walk you to the head of the line.”

  “Terrific!” Jewel started to say, but then she saw that Gwen was holding back.

  “Thank you, we’ll wait our turn,” Gwen said politely. It was the classy thing to do, Jewel realized. And that made her even angrier.

  The final straw came when they were seated. Gwen ordered a salad with an Italian name which Jewel was pretty sure she’d pronounced properly. Jewel had decided on the lobster ravioli, which sounded very exotic. But as she was about to order, she saw the price. “Oh, it’s so expensive,” she’d blurted out.

  “Please, have whatever you want,” Gwen said with a wave of her hand. It was that casual, dismissive gesture that did it. Suddenly Jewel knew the pasta that cost thirty dollars a serving was going to choke her. She asked for a salad and then after they’d ordered and Gwen had nothing to say—as usual—she started talking about families. And of course she knew where that topic could lead them—even though she tried to tell herself later that she didn’t.

  She told a few anecdotes about her own clan. She was a good storyteller and she could make a tale of five children all getting the flu at the same time sound very funny. She didn’t mention that she’d been ten at the time it had happened, and she’d been the one who had to change the messy bedsheets. From talking about the whole family it was a natural progression to her father.

  “My pop was a hard worker,” she said. “Not as successful as your father, of course, but then he never finished college.”

  Later, she would swear that the fatal words just slipped out, that she hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. But no matter what her intentions were, the effect on Gwen was immediate.

  “My father?” she repeated. “I don’t have a father. Walter is my stepfather.”

  And this was where all Jewel’s later denials would break down. Because at that moment as Gwen was staring at her, all she had to do was laugh a little and say, oh, of course! Stepfather was what she’d meant to say, and how silly of her to make such a mistake. Instead she said, “Yes, I know Mr. Amburn is your stepfather. I was talking about your birth father.”

  The effect on Gwen this time was downright electric. “No one knows who he was. When Mother adopted me, the files were closed. She never wanted to know about either of my birth parents.”

  There was still time to back off, and to say something soothing and reassuring. What Jewel said was “Oh.” One syllable. Loaded with all the cynicism she could muster. And then she added, “Well, I’m sure if that’s what your mother told you, it must be true.” But she might as well have been saying, “Your mother is a liar.”

  It did the trick.

  “You don’t believe that,” Gwen said. “You know something.”

  Now the game was easy. “It’s just . . .” Jewel stammered for effect. “Look, I’m sorry I ever said anything. Why don’t we change the subject?”

  She let Gwen beg, cajole, and demand for another three minutes before she finally—with lots of fake hesitations—laid out the whole sordid story of the womanizing husband and the mistress in New Orleans. Just for good measure she mentioned twice the fact that Bradford Greeley’s hair was a distinctive shade of red/brown. And she waited for it to sink in.

  Now who’s so high and mighty? she gloated to herself. But as she looked across the table at Gwen, she was surprised. Gwen’s only signs of distress were a face that had gone very white and eyes that were dark pools. Well then, it hadn’t sunk in yet. But it would.

  It serves her right.

  * * *

  There was a little look of triumph on Jewel’s face; Gwen caught it even as she was trying to absorb the body blow Jewel had just delivered.

  She’s enjoying this, Gwen thought. No matter how much she says she’s sorry, this wasn’t an accident. She wanted to tell me this—that my father was a cheat and my mother . . . that is, my birth mother . . . was—dear God, what was she? And what about Mother . . . Cassandra Wright? I can’t let myself think about her. Not now. Not here.

  “Are you all right?” Jewel asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Gwen said and she smiled brightly. “I’m not going to pretend that what you’ve just told me isn’t a surprise.” Did that make sense? It was really important right now to make sense. “Obviously, I hadn’t heard it before.” There was no way she could say she had, not after the way she had reacted. “But I have always known that I was adopted. So it’s not a total shock. And when you think about it, it’s an amazing story, isn’t it? I think I’m kind of proud of it.”

  And I’ll be damned if I’ll let you see me cry. You thought I’d fall apart, and I still may, but not in front of you. I’m still my mother’s daughter—in this if nothing else.

  “Would you like some dessert?” she asked cheerfully. “The pastry chef here is from New York and he’s considered one of the best.” She signaled to the waiter and asked for the dessert menu. “Don’t be shy,” she said to Jewel, imitating Cassandra at her most condescending. “And for heaven’s sake don’t worry about the price. This is my treat.”

  Oh, no, she would not cry now. That would come later.

  * * *

  For a second, Jewel was thrown. It was clear that the awful news had finally sunk in, but Gwen seemed calm—even cheerful. But she can’t be, Jewel thought. If someone told me what I just told her I’d be going out of my mind. She can’t be that different from me. She’s not made of stone. Or is she? That’s what I hate most about people like Cassandra and Gwen Wright: You can’t read them. Still, she must be dying inside. She has to be.

  * * *

  Gwen would never remember how she got through the rest of her lunch with Jewel, but somehow she’d done it without breaking
down. She’d planned to save her tears for her favorite spot on the hill. She waited until she was home, then she raced out to the flat stump under the oak trees, and sat down in the place where she’d come to cry her heart out so many times before. But once she was there, she stayed dry-eyed. It was as if there wasn’t a way to cry enough, so something inside her refused to start. Instead thoughts raced through her aching mind.

  And they always came back to the same person—her mother. The woman she had always called Mother.

  What kind of woman adopts her husband’s bastard? Why would anyone do that? Because she was cleaning up his mess? That would be like her. But she must have been so angry . . . no wonder I remember her pulling away from me. No wonder I’ve always felt so alone.

  A squirrel, seduced by a nearby nut, had ventured too close to her for its own comfort; now it scrambled away, the prize left behind. Once, many years ago, a tree that was in the back lawn had fallen and the workmen who were clearing it away had discovered a nest of baby squirrels inside it. Poor little creatures, with pink skin naked to the world because they were just born and didn’t have fur, and tiny eyes blue under lids that had not yet opened. They were too young to live, the vet said when Gwen and Cassandra brought them into his office. He offered to put them to sleep. But Gwen couldn’t bear it. To let those helpless creatures go without a fight, to just end their lives was too heartbreaking. She began to sob. And Cassandra, who must have known how hopeless it was, had told the vet they would bring the little squirrels home and try to save them. For two days and nights she and Gwen had tried to feed them with an eyedropper full of the formula the vet had prescribed. And when they died, one by one, it was Cassandra who had found the perfect place on Gwen’s hill to bury them.

  There were things about me that she understood that no one else did. And she indulged me.

  But then after the deaths, Gwen had made up a story about the squirrels in which they had survived, and were living happily—or at least they were living Gwen’s idea of squirrel happiness. And her mother, who had been so understanding, suddenly wasn’t anymore.

  “They are dead, Gwen. You must accept it.”

  But Gwen couldn’t. Walter tried to explain them to each other.

  “Gwen’s just using her imagination to make the world a place she can bear,” Walter said to Cassandra. “Artists do that all the time.”

  “She’s not an artist, she’s a young child,” Cassandra said. “She has to learn not to dwell on things.”

  “Your mother doesn’t mean to be hard on you,” Walter said to Gwen. “It’s just that sometimes when something hurts her too much all she knows how to do is try to put it behind her. It’s how she protects herself.”

  Now grown-up Gwen wondered, Was that why she didn’t tell me about my father? Because she didn’t want to dwell on something that was too painful? I want to ask her that. But of course she wouldn’t ask. I don’t have the courage. Because then I’ll have to ask other questions—about what she really felt for me. And I’m afraid of the answers.

  So next week we’ll go to Paris together and I won’t say a word. I’ll be a good dutiful daughter who never questions her mother.

  And she still couldn’t cry.

  Chapter Eleven

  We must remember,” Cassandra said, “that the fork goes in the left hand.” They were sitting in yet another of the cafés that seemed to be in endless supply in Paris. This was one of Cassandra’s favorites. There seemed to be an endless supply of those, too, Gwen thought. And her mother was determined to drag Gwen to every one of them—along with everything else she loved about the City of Light.

  If I have to hear one more word about the first time she was here with her father, or all the other trips she’s taken to France, I’m going to scream, Gwen thought. But she knew that wasn’t the reason she was so angry at her mother.

  Cassandra’s eyes were sparkling; she was enjoying this. “I often wonder,” she said, “how these customs develop. At home it would be odd to hold your fork in your left hand, unless you were left-handed, of course.”

  “It’s just people minding other people’s business,” Gwen mumbled. “What difference does it make how you hold your fork? It’s a lot of nonsense, all this stuff about manners and ceremonies!”

  “Well, I guess it can be, but when you think carefully, you see it’s not all nonsense. Manners are the element of society. They keep things in order, they oil the wheels. Haven’t I always told you that?”

  Oh, yes, you have. It’s one of the things you love to preach about. Although, you’re not really in a position to preach to anyone, are you? Not after what you did to me for seventeen years. Gwen slouched low in her chair.

  * * *

  Cassandra watched Gwen slouch down until she looked like she was going to slide on to the floor. Where were the days when her little daughter, eager to please, sat straight and tall at the dinner table as she’d been taught? Clearly, all the childhood training had worn off and now Cassie was facing an irritating rebel. Or whatever role Gwen thought she was playing.

  And I’ll admit I don’t know what that role might be. I’m trying to understand her, but I just can’t. Ever since we got to Paris she’s been sullen and rude. I hate rudeness. And I hate that passive arms-crossed-over-the-chest stance that teenagers take when they’re angry about something. For heaven’s sake if you have something to say, say it!

  But at that second Gwen looked up and there was something in her eyes, something that was almost like a plea. Cassandra sighed.

  Walter would say I should be patient. He’d say there’s got to be an explanation for the way she’s behaving. And of course he’d be right. I don’t know what’s going on in her mind—at her age it could be anything.

  She made herself smile at her daughter, who was now picking at her éclair. “I bought you a little present,” she said cheerfully as she reached into the bag she’d been carrying and pulled out a book. “I thought since we’re going to be seeing the Petit Trianon at Versailles we should read up on Madame de Pompadour. Most people think of Marie Antoinette when they think of the Petit Trianon, but it was actually de Pompadour who inspired it, when she was the mistress of Louis the Fifteenth. Her favorite architect designed it and—”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass,” Gwen broke in. She had finished decimating the pastry and had gone back to slouching.

  “We wouldn’t have to read the entire book, just skim it. . . .”

  Suddenly the slumping figure across the table sat up, her eyes glaring. “I’m not interested in reading about Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress.”

  “She was a fascinating woman, a courtesan in the grand tradition—”

  “I don’t want to hear about kept women or great courtesans or any other euphemism you’ve got for them. I don’t want to hear about their illegitimate children. Or—if you want to be vulgar—their bastards. It hits a little too close to home for me. I should think you’d feel the same way.”

  “What on earth are you—”

  “My mother! She was my father’s mistress—right? And my father was your husband. And I’m his . . . how should we say it? Love child?”

  And there it was. The secret Cassandra had kept at so much cost for so many years. The secret that was hers and hers alone to tell. When she was ready. In her own good time.

  “Who told you?” she heard herself ask through the mists of shock and rage. And she knew from the look on Gwen’s face that it had been the wrong thing to say.

  “What difference does it make? At least someone finally did.”

  “I was going to tell you. . . .”

  “You’ve been lying to me for my whole life.”

  It was the disgust in Gwen’s voice that got to Cassandra.

  She wanted to tell her daughter to drop that tone instantly. She wanted to demand an apology. But Gwen was right. Partially right. “I was trying to protect you. . . .”

  “From what? The truth? I had a right to know.”

  Walter said
that. But I didn’t see it. He was right and I was wrong.

  “It was a complicated situation, Gwen, and I—”

  “Other people knew about it! Didn’t you realize someone would tell me someday? Did you think about what that was going to be like for me? To sit at lunch with my mother’s receptionist and have her tell me what I should have known already?”

  It was Jewel Fairchild! For some reason Cassandra wasn’t surprised.

  “She was enjoying pitying me. . . .”

  I’m sure she was gleeful. That horrible girl.

  “I did what I thought was best—” Cassandra started to say.

  “No, you did what was easiest for you. You weren’t thinking of me.”

  Be patient. Walter would tell me to be patient.

  “Gwen, if you’ll let me explain—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about the great lady who took in her husband’s stray. . . .”

  Be patient.

  “I don’t want to hear that you lied to me for my own good. I don’t want to hear that you, in your infinite wisdom, decided that this was something I didn’t need to know.”

  Later, when Cassandra was full of regret, she would realize that Gwen had touched all her most vulnerable points: her dislike of being wrong, her pride, and, most of all, her sense of herself as a decent person. No one had ever attacked her like this. No one had ever called her a liar. And when she looked across the table all she could see was that red/brown hair. And that jawline and that chin. Something inside her snapped.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said in a frigid voice. “Perhaps I didn’t want to remember that I had the bad judgment to choose an adulterer who married me for my business and my money, then proceeded to destroy the first and squander the second on a woman he picked up while he was slumming. Perhaps I was embarrassed to admit to you just how arrogant and shallow and ultimately stupid he was. However, if you’d like all the squalid details of his life, I’ll do my best to oblige you. As to your birth mother, all I know about her is that she was a barmaid. And, apparently, she had no problem being kept by another woman’s husband.”