Crossroads (7 page)

“I want Gwen to believe in herself,” she cried to both Walter and herself. “Is that wrong?”

“Did you believe in yourself when you were her age?”

“No. And I paid for that.”

I nearly lost everything—the glassworks, this house, the gardens,
the lawn edged with my red maples and the hill where Gwen runs
when she needs peace.

“And look at you now,” he said.

She knew what he was saying, and there was no arguing with it. Gwen would have to find her own way, as everyone does. She would make her own mistakes, and she would not learn from Cassandra’s—no matter how much her mother wanted to spare her. And yet . . . Cassandra looked out the window up at the hill where her smart, sensitive, insecure, shy daughter was hiding. And yet . . .

“Why didn’t I ask them to send my secretary out here with those damn papers instead of Jewel?” She let out a sigh of frustration.

“Your secretary . . . she’s the one who wears the orthopedic oxfords?”

“She’s fifty-three years old and her arches have fallen.”

“I see.”

“That darned Jewel Fairchild.”

Chapter Nine

I
t was funny the way things happened sometimes, Jewel thought. For the three years that she’d worked for Mrs. Wright, she’d never laid eyes on her daughter. Then she’d gone to Mrs. Wright’s house to deliver those papers and she’d had that strange little encounter with Gwen in that fabulous library, and now it seemed like every time she turned around, there was Gwen Wright!

First, the girl had dropped by the glassworks to show her mother the new haircut she’d just gotten for their trip to Paris.

“Très chic,” Mrs. Wright said as she whisked Gwen through the lobby. “You’ll look like a true Parisienne.”

Jewel thought the cut was a disaster. Whoever had done it had gone for a tapered bob and Gwen’s reddish brown hair was wiry. It would have been better to have layered it. Jewel had taught herself about hair and makeup; she read every fashion magazine she could get her hands on, and there were three makeover shows on television that she watched faithfully. Gwen probably considered herself much too grand to waste her time with things like that, but as Gwen and her mother walked together down the hallway, Jewel remembered her ride into town with old Albert. Gabby old Albert who told stories about family secrets.

But I know you’re not all that grand, Gwen,
Jewel thought as she watched the two women disappear into the sacred space known as Mrs. Wright’s Office.
I know all about you.

The next time Jewel and Gwen ran into each other, it was early morning and Jewel had run downstairs to the deli below her apartment to grab a bagel and a cup of coffee on her way to work. Gwen was sitting on a stool at the counter. At first, Jewel thought she’d mistaken her for someone else, because what on earth would Gwen Wright be doing in Berger’s Deli? At best, the neighborhood was what real estate people called “marginal.” Yet it was definitely Gwen, looking out of place and lost.

Jewel decided to skip the bagel and coffee, but before she could turn and go, Gwen had spotted her. She’d smiled that tentative smile that seemed to be her trademark, and there was no way Jewel could duck out without saying hello.

“I’m waiting for my stepfather,” Gwen said after the niceties were out of the way. “I have to pick up my passport and City Hall is around the corner. We wanted to get there early and Walter says this place has the best breakfast in town.” She’d shrugged awkwardly. “So here I am.”

Then Walter had shown up and invited Jewel to have breakfast with them, but she couldn’t because it was getting late and she had to get to work.

Unlike some people who have the time for a nice leisurely breakfast while they wait for City Hall to open so they can pick up the
passport they need for their trip to Paris.

As Jewel waited for her bus to take her to the glass works, she thought again about old Albert and the secret he’d told her. And then she thought about luck, and how some people have all of it and some have none. By the time she got to work she was in a rotten mood.

That was happening more and more often. Jewel tried to shake the anger behind her bad temper but the vision of the gleaming white house in which Gwen lived, the diamond and gold bracelet on her wrist, together with the knowledge that Gwen didn’t deserve any of it, ate away at Jewel. And the chance run-ins with Mrs. Wright’s privileged, pampered daughter didn’t help. Then as if Fate was playing a really mean joke, there was yet another encounter. It occurred on a Saturday morning in a shopping mall.

*                           *                           *         

The Algonquin Mall was the pride and joy of Wrights town. All the expensive shops and two of the town’s fanciest restaurants could be found there. And it was to the Algonquin Mall that Jewel went every other Saturday to treat herself to a manicure. While her nails were drying she liked to look through a weekly local magazine called the
Wrightstown Gazette
. It listed all the events that were going on in the area, such as new restaurants and stores that had just opened up, and there was also a society page dedicated to the comings and goings of the citizens of the community. Naturally the Wright family dominated this page. This week the society editor had decided that Cassandra Wright’s upcoming vacation with her daughter was news worthy.

As if there’s anyone left in this damn town who hasn’t heard that
Gwen and her mommy are going to Paris,
Jewel thought
. We
know, okay?

But she asked the nail tech if she could take the magazine with her, and when she passed the food court she bought herself a cup of coffee and settled down to read.

“I’m looking forward to this adventure with my daughter,”

Mrs. Wright was quoted as saying. “I went to France for the first time with my father when I was Gwen’s age. It was a bonding time for both of us, and it gave us cherished memories to share.”

Well, now, that’s interesting, because I had a bonding experience
with my father when I was about Gwen’s age. We watched my
mother die together. Of course he took off a few months later so we
didn’t get to share any cherished memories, and—
Jewel threw the magazine down on the table.
That’s enough!
she told herself.

You’ve got to stop thinking about Gwen and Cassandra Wright. Ma
always said jealousy was what did in Pop, and if you’re not careful
you’re going to wind up just like him!

Jewel stood up, tossed the magazine and her Styrofoam coffee cup into a trash barrel, left the food court, and started walking fast. She was headed toward the one place where she knew she could jolt herself out of her funk—a dress shop named Sofia’s. This store, owned by a world-weary but incredibly stylish émigrée from Milan, was the most expensive shop in Wrights-town. And it was Jewel’s favorite. The clothes Sofia imported from Europe and sold at huge markups were glamorous, sexy, and classy all at the same time. There were nights when Jewel lulled herself to sleep by thinking about them. Of course it was ridiculous for her to even walk in the door because there was nothing in the place she could afford—the smallest silk scarf would have cost two weeks of her salary.

But there was a salesgirl who worked in the store on the weekends who had become a friend. Edie was about the same age as Jewel and she understood what it was like to be broke and pretty and hungry to dress like a movie or TV star. So if there weren’t any customers on a Saturday morning—and often there weren’t; Sofia’s clientele wasn’t big, just rich—Edie would let Jewel try on Sofia’s most gorgeous selections: the coral silk gown with the fishtail train that hugged the hips, the black satin dress with the neckline that plunged, and the backless halter in a shade of green that only the young and perfect could wear. When Jewel had chosen a garment and put it on, Edie would bring out a pair of glittering sandals with stiletto heels and an equally towering price tag, and open a locked case full of one-of-a-kind beaded evening purses. Then Jewel would slip on the shoes, tuck a purse under her arm, and do her best imitation of a model’s catwalk strut up and down the length of Sofia’s cream and taupe shop. She’d look at herself in the full-length mirror and all her disappointments would melt away as the fantasy Jewel smiled back at her. An early Saturday morning visit to Sofia’s was the best antidote Jewel knew for depression.

But this morning as she walked into the shop, Edie hurried up and whispered, “Not today. Sofia is here. We’ve got a VIP in the store and she’s waiting on her personally.”

And somehow Jewel knew even before she looked in the direction where Edie was pointing who the VIP was.

“I think you’ll be happy with the blue, Miss Wright, even if the color does seem a little bold to you,” Sofia said as she closed a glossy box with the store’s logo embossed on the top.

“Thank you for suggesting it; I wouldn’t have picked it out myself,” Gwen said. But she didn’t look very happy about wearing the blue, whatever it was. “I’m afraid I’m not much for shopping,” she said apologetically. “But Mother wanted me to have new clothes to wear on our trip.” A stack of additional glossy boxes sitting on the counter next to the cash register bore testimony to a big spree.

Jewel looked from the bags and boxes to Gwen’s unhappy face and the anger she’d been trying so hard to shake started boiling inside her.
I come into this store to pretend for a few minutes
that I can afford more than bargain basements and discount
outlets. That’s all I ask for, just to pretend. This morning I didn’t
even get to do that because this spoiled brat was buying out the place.
And now she’s whining about it.

She knew she had to get out of the store before she said, or did, something she would regret. She started for the door, and she would have made it, if a soft, slightly snooty voice hadn’t called out, “Jewel. Hello.” And she had to turn and give Gwen Wright a big, friendly smile.

*                           *                           *         

Gwen hadn’t wanted to call out to Jewel; she’d done it because she felt she had to. It seemed to her that every time she turned around these days she was tripping over Jewel Fairchild. And every time Gwen saw her she looked prettier than she had before. Today, for example, she was wearing a red dress that Gwen was sure Cassandra would say was too skimpy for daytime, but you had to admit that Jewel could carry it off. And she would look heavenly in the blue blouse that Gwen had just purchased under duress. It was the exact color of Jewel’s extraordinary eyes. Sofia had said the blouse was perfect for Gwen, but it would look a lot better on Jewel.

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

Y
ears 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.