What Family Means (5 page)

Amy had stepped into that void in her life. The girl from Iowa had shared her sense of adventure and wide-eyed wonder at their good fortune in freshman year. They’d both left impoverished situations, ending up in the Mecca of American education.

And elitism.

Elitism wasn’t new to Debra.

She’d met Will’s mother.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a class?”

The question ripped her out of her musings.

Amy, also her Parisian flatmate, stood in front of the table, blocking the sunlight.

“No, not until two.” She’d lied to Will. Why did that bother her?

“Great. Want to go check out the library?”

“Which one?”

She dropped the appropriate coins on the table and grabbed her backpack. A walk through yet another beautiful building was distinctly preferable to her Buffalo memories.

October 1972
Paris, France

“D
EBRA
?”
Amy called.

Amy walked back into the small flat’s parlor with the person who’d rung their doorbell.

“Will!”

His presence drew every ounce of her attention.

How had he found her? More important, why?

“I have a class a block away in a couple of hours, and I wondered if you’d like to get a cup of coffee with me?”

Amy’s polite cough distracted Debra. Only then did she see her friend’s curious expression.

“Sorry. Amy, this is Will, Will, my flatmate, Amy.” At Amy’s arched eyebrow, Debra added, “Will’s an old friend from my hometown. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Nice to meet you, Will.”

“A pleasure.”

Will grasped Amy’s hand. Debra was horrified yet intrigued at the stab of jealousy that streaked across her awareness.

Will turned back to her.

“Ready?”

“Let me get my coat.” The temperature had started to drop, and the nights required a jacket or heavy sweater.

“Great.” His expression was so relaxed, as though he and Debra did this all the time. As though he took girls out all the time.

Stupid jealousy.

Debra ignored Amy’s stifled giggles and unspoken questions.

“Later,” she muttered to her flatmate as she and Will left.

Debra was grateful for the sting of the cold night air that hit her cheeks as soon as they were outside.

In silent agreement they headed toward the river.

“So, how have your classes been going?” Will’s expression was one of total concentration on her. Debra had missed their bond more than she’d admitted to herself.

“Great. I still can’t believe I’m here. I’ve always dreamed of studying in Paris, and, well, here I am.” She sounded so dumb, so suburban!

She bit her lip to keep from saying anything else inane.

“I know what you mean. It’s unreal, isn’t it? Paris is so far from Buffalo.”

His stride was much longer than hers, but he fell into step next to her. She didn’t feel rushed or anxious. It had always been easy between her and Will.

She noticed another mixed-race couple passing near them.

“Yes, it sure is far from home.” Her voice had a hitch in it she couldn’t control.

“Do you go back often?”

They waited to cross the street, and she turned to look at him. He smiled at her. The light in his eyes and the shape of his lips were so familiar to her. Yet different.

This was a more intense version of the Will she’d known. The Will she thought of as her first love.

An intense longing started deep in her belly and spread out through her limbs. Her reaction caught her off guard.

The light changed and Debra broke their eye contact.

She stepped off the curb and struggled to resume their conversation.

“When I was in Boston I’d go back at Christmas. I used to go home at Thanksgiving, too, if I could find a ride. But it’s just too far for such a short visit. And with doubling up on my courses, I can’t afford all that time away during the school year.”

“I hear you.” He smiled at her. “And what have you been doing during the summers?”

“I do co-op work to earn spending money.” Her cheeks burned and her ire flared. She had nothing to be ashamed of. “I have a full academic ride,” she went on to explain, “but I like to have the funds for all the extras.” Why did she need to justify herself to him?

Will smiled at her again and the warmth in his eyes made her oblivious to the stiff wind that whisked up leaves on the street.

“I go back home and work at an architecture firm when I have time. These past two summers I’ve been in class, though.”

They walked in silence. Of course he was in class all the time. His parents were able to afford the best for Will.

“How’s your brother?”

“He’s doing great, but he’s pissed off my folks.” He looked at her sideways. “Sorry for the cussing.”

“I’ve heard worse.” She didn’t say that the worst words she’d heard were from her mother. She didn’t have to; Will knew.

“How did your brother upset your parents?” She asked the question knowing it didn’t take much to anger Will’s mother.

“He went to West Point.”

“Really?” she asked in surprise.

“Yeah. He wanted to serve his country, but if he’d enlisted it really would’ve killed Mom and Dad. This was a better choice, although they’re still mad at him.”

Debra didn’t comment.

His family would’ve expected Jimmy to attend a historically black college or university, as Will had, and wanted him to pursue a respected civilian profession. The military was never part of the plans they had for their children, she was sure.

Will’s family was one of the more distressing memories of Buffalo she preferred to leave buried.

She shuddered and shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets.

“It’s getting chilly at night, isn’t it?” she murmured. They were on the right bank of the Seine, walking with dozens, possibly hundreds, of others. Yet it felt as it always had with Will.

As though they were the only two people in the universe.

“Spoken like a true Buffalo gal.”

They laughed.

“Yeah, where else is ‘chilly’ just above freezing?”

“Or a ‘nice day’ any day with sun and less than a foot of snow?” He laughed again. “I’ve missed our conversations, Deb.”

“Me, too.” But she didn’t want to explore why they hadn’t been able to keep in touch. Because, in the end, it always came back to one thing. The chasm between their backgrounds and families.

Several couples passed. What did they look like to others? Simply students? Good friends? Or more?

“Did you already eat?” Polite as ever. Thinking of her.

“Yes, Amy and I eat earlier than most Parisians.”

“And it’s cheaper to eat in.”

“You got it.” Although she doubted Will had to worry about how much any meal cost, even over here. She noticed how he’d matured since she’d last seen him. His facial features were more chiseled, his body more powerful, more purposeful in its movements.

“Do you eat in or usually go out?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I do whatever’s easiest. I basically live on baguettes with ham and cheese. Sometimes I treat myself to a hot meal in one of the cafés at lunch, but not too often.”

“Have you tried the student mess?” She found it the most reasonable place to get a decent meal.

“Yeah, but it’s not practical for me. I only have one class a week near there.”

“Have
you
eaten, Will?”

“Actually, no. Would you mind sitting with me while I dine?”

“That sounds so formal.”

He paused, and she stopped next to him. The wind whipped at their faces and her eyes smarted.

“I don’t mean to sound formal. I just think it’s incredible that we’ve run into each other again, Deb, and I’m at a loss for what to say to you. My family was so unbelievably rude—”

“Stop.” She placed her gloved hands on his arm. “That’s so far in the past, Will. I don’t want to talk about it. We’re in Paris, for heaven’s sake! People are more open-minded here.”

His eyes reflected the glint of the streetlamps off the water.

“Deb, you were my best friend growing up. I’m still angry at myself for allowing my mo—”

She held up her hand. “No, I mean it, Will. If we’re going to be friends here, I don’t want to talk about it. Deal?”

She lowered her hand and offered it to him.

He grasped her fingers and even through her wool gloves she felt the charge of awareness course between them.

“Deal.”

He held on to her hand a beat longer than necessary. Debra tugged it free. She’d have to be very careful or she’d end up believing she and Will were
more
than childhood friends.

“Where did you have in mind for dinner?”

“I have a favorite place near Saint Chapelle. It’s small, loud and cheap. Oh, and the food’s great.” His teeth flashed in the evening light.

“Lead the way.”

Present Day
Buffalo, New York
Debra

“Y
OU SOUND AS THOUGH
you aren’t surprised.” I had the phone tucked to my shoulder as I folded laundry. We’d already discussed Vi’s health and were on to the children. The day had dawned bright, and sunlight danced on the snow-covered ground.

“They’re young and in love. We’ve been there, haven’t we, baby?” Will’s baritone tickled my ear even over the phone, thirty-five-hundred miles away.

I sighed.

“Yes, but our circumstances were quite different.”

“Honey, I know you’re worried about Angie. But I have a feeling this will all work out. Yes, our circumstances were different. To many folks they still are.”

“What about to you, Will?”

“You know me, Deb. I don’t give a flying—”

“I know you don’t care what others think.” I cut him off before he blistered my ear. “But I want you to tell me what
you
think. Has it been worth it?”

“Worth it? You mean you’re not sure?”

“I am as far as you and I are concerned. But the kids, Will, are they still paying the price?”

“They had every comfort growing up, including the best education possible. It wasn’t easy for them being mixed, but life’s hard, sweetheart. And they had it a hell of a lot easier than we ever did.”

I’d angered him. Will was so defensive about the decision we made to share our lives. To raise the kids with all the love and support we’d both missed in our own childhoods. Never mind the issue of mixed race. Will prided himself on having taken the best lessons from his own childhood to use as a measure of how he’d been as a father to our children. He always took it personally when I mentioned my concerns about the kids and their childhood.

“Yes and no, Will.”

“What are you wearing?” He’d lowered his voice and I smiled into the receiver.

“Nothing. I’m folding laundry in front of the kitchen windows, buck-naked.” I looked down at the fuzzy sweats and slippers I wore.

“Mmm, I want you to fold
me
up.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Day after tomorrow, Will. And we’re not done with this conversation.”

“I didn’t expect we were.”

Again I laughed. Will knew me best. I had to talk everything out to the last detail. He was more of an internal-operations type when it came to emotions.

“Still arriving at the same time?”

“Yeah, the red-eye. But maybe you’ll take a nap with me when I get in?” Will hated flying at night. He treasured his own bed, and having me to snuggle up with.

“I’m working out of the home studio all day tomorrow.”

“See you then, babe. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

After we hung up I finished folding the laundry and headed upstairs to get dressed for the day. For the moment I put my frustration on hold—Will always tried to distract me with sex when he didn’t want to deal with the conflicts between us.

I carried the laundry basket upstairs with me and left it on the bed. I would put away the clean clothes later.

I yanked the yellowed doily my grandmother had crocheted over sixty years ago off the top of the long cedar chest at the foot of our bed. Cedar chests were one of my indulgences over the years. They were the best kind of storage for my artwork and items of knitted clothing I couldn’t bear to part with after long hours of knitting, ripping out, reknitting.

The aroma of cedar, wool and baby rose from the chest when I opened the lid. It was as if the old chests breathed. In a sense, they did. They were alive with memories.

Knitting had been my refuge through most of my life.

I couldn’t remember what I was wearing or how my hair looked on any given day. But I did remember exactly where I was when I knit each sweater, each pair of socks or mittens, and of course, all my wall hangings. Just the feeling of a project took me back to that particular time.

So many different wools and other fibers brushed my fingers as I dug through the chest, but I ignored them. I was on a mission. I wanted to find the baby items I’d knitted for Angie.

When was the last time I’d been in this chest?

I hadn’t even looked in here when Blair and Stella got married, or when they started talking about babies. The twins’ items were all in a different chest, in the guest room that they shared as boys.

My fingers rubbed against the soft fuzzy yarn I knew was Angie’s layette.

Eager to remember how small she’d been and how my stitches had formed these tiny outfits, I pulled on the bundle of cloth, mindless of the layers I disturbed.

I smiled in anticipation of my long-ago treasure.

I was wrong. In my hands I held some of Angie’s baby clothes, but my gaze didn’t rest on the pink-and-white cardigans. I stared at the bright red scarf that had been knit by my five-year-old hands.

Sorrow reached up from the depths of the chest and grabbed me, shaking me hard.

This wasn’t some memory I’d shoved down or needed hours of therapy to resolve.

It was what I’d known all my life.

My dad left us when I was five. The last day I saw him, he’d packed his suitcases as he always did before a trip and gave me the usual hug.

“Can you bring me something back, Daddy?”

“Sure, sweetheart. What do you want?”

“A teddy bear. Brown.”

“You bet, Debbie girl.”

He’d tousled my hair and was gone. I didn’t know I’d never see him again, ever. I believed he’d come back, and that he’d bring me my teddy bear. I knitted the scarf for that damned bear, and here it was, fifty-three years later, still alone.

My mother was right, in her coarse, matter-of-fact way.

“That sonofabitch didn’t have the decency to tell us to our faces that he was going for good. Didn’t make sure we were taken care of.”

It was a verse ingrained in my life, as I’d heard my mother sing my father’s curses until well after she’d met her current husband, Fred. But I was a little girl and he’d been my prince.

I fingered the tiny red scarf. If not for my first prince abandoning me, I’d never have met the real prince of my life.

Will.

“S
OY NO-WHIP MOCHA
, right?” Phil O’Leary placed the brand-name coffee cup on Angie’s desk.

“Thanks, Phil.” She looked up at him from the bank of screens that displayed various measures of Buffalo’s meteorological status. As the new Director of Operations, Angie knew her staff watched her closely, and she needed to be as informed as they were on the weather.

“My pleasure.” Angie noted that, indeed, Phil seemed quite pleased with himself. Her assistant had fallen all over himself to impress her since she’d arrived four weeks ago.

At some point she was going to have to tell him she
wasn’t interested, but she didn’t want to seem uncaring or unappreciative. One thing she remembered about this city—it was a friendly place.

Unlike the West Coast where she’d lived during her post-graduate years and early career, people in Buffalo treated everyone like family. There wasn’t much of a “getting-to-know-you” phase.

The weather grid was typical for a northern New York February—including the possibility of a severe winter storm by the end of the week. Angie loved the thrill of watching the huge system take shape. The weather in San Francisco had its moments, but not the unpredictability of a Buffalo winter.

“I hope you’ve bought some cold-weather gear since you transferred.” Phil chuckled and shook his head at the monitors. “It’s going to get dicey over the next few days.”

Phil loved talking. Angie did, too, but not at work. And definitely not when she was putting her own forecast together.

“Phil, have you found out any more about the interns from the university? Do we have enough room for them over spring break? And what about the grad students who’ve requested interviews?”

Phil took the hint and went to his desk, still wearing his benign smile.

Angie’s own smile left her face as soon as she turned back to the screens and morning reports. The watch-floor meeting was in fifteen minutes.

The weather team would have their analysis ready, but she liked to form her own opinion first. That way
there was less chance of missing an important detail or being off on the timing.

The storm analysis wasn’t holding her attention like it usually did. The mess she’d made of her life was distracting her.

The baby proclaimed his or her presence more every day. Her breasts and belly were visibly swollen and her face was fuller, flushed with the new life inside.

She needed to tell Jesse. Mom was right about that. But she didn’t want him to think she’d planned this behind his back or wasn’t listening to his opinions and wishes.

Neither of them had wanted children for the longest time, but she’d been feeling the urge to have a baby over the past two years. She’d mentioned it to Jesse, and while he didn’t say they’d
never
have kids, he didn’t want to plan on it for the near future.

His childhood had been abusive at the hands of alcoholic, drug-addicted parents. Though they were clean and sober now, Jesse didn’t want to pass any risk of addiction to his own children. He had a brother and a sister, both of whom had kids who appeared to be healthy and well-adjusted. But Angie had never been able to convince Jesse that he’d make a wonderful parent, too. He said he was content to be the favorite uncle to his nieces and nephews.

Angie swirled the coffee in her cup. She had to tell him, but she felt it should be in person.

At the right moment.

Hopping a flight to Iraq was out of the question, so she might have to compromise on the “in person” part.

Present Day
Buffalo, New York
Debra

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Will came in before I’d had a chance to start work in my studio. My exhibit was ever present in my mind and I had some finishing touches to research. I’d planned a display of my different artwork over the years, with black-and-white photos of historical events as backdrops to each piece.

“Debra?” His voice found me upstairs in the oversize reading chair we kept in the alcove off our master bedroom. After all this time, I still felt a little shiver of delight at the sound of his voice.

My girlfriends and I agreed that business trips help keep the home fires burning. We had friends, couples, who’d slipped into such a predictable pattern that they didn’t appreciate each other any longer. The respect died, and its bitter embers fueled resentment and loathing.

“Up here.”

I quickly cleared off my lap and shoved the baby book under the chair. Will never took well to my reminiscing. He assumed it meant I was not happy in the present.

Nothing could be further from true. I was just looking for some photos of Angie wearing the outfits I’d finally dug out—after I got over finding Teddy’s scarf.

The hallway floorboards creaked under Will’s steps. He was a large man, but still lean and graceful on his feet. He’d never been a star athlete but his twice-weekly tennis games with colleagues, combined with our weekend hikes, kept him trim.

And sexy as hell.

“Hey, have you been waiting for me?” The twinkle in his eyes sent a tickle through my belly.

“Always, dear,” I answered demurely.

We met each other halfway across the carpeted room. I closed my eyes before his lips touched mine. He gave me his usual I’m-home-dammit-and-I-want-you kiss before enveloping me in his large arms.

I rested my head against his shoulder, accessible due to his half-bent position, inhaling the scent that was Will.

I squeezed him tighter. This was when I felt the best with Will. When we were alone, just us, and none of life’s potential ugliness had a chance to intrude.

We’d learned to put differences aside if we wanted to keep our sex life healthy. There’d always be time for talking and rehashing different points of view.

“What have you been doing this morning?” His gaze took in the still-open chest at the foot of the bed, with knitted sweaters, socks, mittens and afghans strewn everywhere.

“I’ve been going through my treasures, thinking about our future grandkids—and the art exhibit.” I fingered a mohair cap. “Just looking for a little inspiration.”

“Obviously I’ve been gone too long.” He smiled as he observed that his side of our king-size bed was heaped with skeins of yarn and pattern books.

“Yes, you have. You’re going to be a grandparent!” I grinned at his expression. Bemusement mixed with awe, giving him a vulnerable look.

“Yes, I am. We are.” He tugged off his tie and went to the walk-in closet. “Did you have anything planned for dinner tonight?”

“Not really. There’s some stew I froze last week after we had the kids over. I can heat that up and make a quick salad.” When we were younger and Will was gone, I’d often whipped up a gourmet meal for his return. But more recently we both preferred lighter, simpler fare.

“How about I take you out, Grandma?” The laugh that followed his query echoed from the closet.

“How about you let our
grandchild
call me Grandma?”

He laughed again and came back into the bedroom. He’d changed into black jeans and a casual burnt-orange button-down shirt. The color reflected superbly off his still-smooth coffee skin.

“Hey, handsome.” I lifted the hem of my knit top. “Wanna play before you take a nap?”

His hands were on the flat of my belly, the curve of my back, his lips on my neck.

“Sure do, sweetheart. Sure do….”

February 1973
Paris, France

“I’
VE MISSED YOU
.”

Debra’s skin warmed at Will’s statement.

She leaned toward him over the six-inch hedge that separated them as they walked through the public garden. They held hands over the small expanse between them.

“Liar.”

“I haven’t been able to come by as often because of my project. But it’s in the bag now.”

“The papers and exams can be overwhelming, can’t they?”