Really? Last time she checked, Mariah wasn’t lacking in the self-esteem department. She was lacking in the respect department. Blunt honesty and objectivity would serve her daughter better than the overindulgent flutter of a mother hen every day of the week. Simone shook her head, frustration warring with disappointment. “I doubt she cares one iota what I think. And tell me—where did I go wrong Mitchell? Can you explain that? Since when is setting a good example for my daughter a bad thing?”
Mitchell removed the pan from the burner. “It’s not.”
“Is it the expectation?”
Mitchell shook his head. “I think you’re missing the point.”
“Am I?” Simone was sick and tired of everyone trying to evade the issue—the heart of the issue, the meat of it. “What’s the point, if it’s not to raise a child so that she can become an educated adult? A woman who can play by her own rules and not be dependent on someone else for what she wants in life. There’s so much opportunity out there, why waste it? Why not get her degree and then start her business?” Frustration bit into her. “I don’t get it.”
“Impetuous youth?” he offered with a meager shrug.
Simone found the response pathetic. “Impatience,” she countered. “Mariah’s impatient and immature and doesn’t understand what she’s giving up—that’s her problem. And encouraging her isn’t helping her. It’s hurting.”
“I’m willing to bet on Mariah.” He paused. “Aren’t you?”
The question stung.
“Isn’t there the least little part of you that believes she can do it?” Mitchell continued. “I mean, I don’t care for Logan all that much, but it sounds like they’ve lined some businesses up, like they’ve put some thought into it. I’m at least willing to give them a chance.”
Simone recoiled from mention of Logan. She didn’t care for the boy or the fact that her daughter was following him like a puppy to a treat. It irritated her to think that Mariah would succumb so easily to looks and sweet talk, do anything Logan told her to do because she was infatuated with him. What if he decided she should get pregnant and insist she stay home? Would she do it?
The thought curled her toes. Women needed to maintain their independence. They needed to support themselves so they could make their own decisions—about pregnancy, lifestyle, retirement—the works. Mitchell didn’t tell her when to get pregnant. She told him. She downed a swallow of wine. Besides, men didn’t want to be bothered with those decisions, anyway. It was her body and the younger she had children, the better for her physical health. It’s why they conceived Mariah shortly after they were married and Mitchell was thrilled. Then his business went under and it was decided he would take care of the baby.
Which was only fair. Paying for outside help when they were scraping to pay the bills was financial suicide. But rather than demoralize him as it would have many men, it proved a boost to his creativity. Who’d have thought crafting lullabies for his baby girl would have set fire to his entrepreneurial mind?
That year at home with Mariah tapped into a vein of enthusiasm that contributed in large part to the success that he was today. Simone sank her hip into the counter as Mitchell sliced the mozzarella, overlapping the pieces as he arranged them on a rectangular platter. But working was about more than money. For her, anyway.
It was about retaining the power of choice. Freedom. It was about feeling whole. Simone couldn’t imagine staying home with kids all day, listening to their inane babble as infants, the spit-up, the crying. She cringed inwardly as she recalled the time Mariah hurled the entire contents of her stomach onto the lapel of her white linen suit. What a horrible mess! The cleaners never did manage to completely remove the tomato sauce, thus rendering it a complete loss. In the space of three seconds her daughter had erased three hundred dollars from their bank account.
College was about more than education. She met Claire while at Brown, made some of her best business contacts there as well, many of whom Mariah had met over the years. In fact, the lead for her promotion in Chicago came through an old college roommate.
“It’s her life,” Simone said, more than a little upset she had to convince her husband as well as her child. “If she wants to ruin it, far be it from me to change her mind.” Simone made it to all her child’s important events, but she had no intention of spending her entire life watching them live theirs.
“Are you giving up on her?”
“No.” But maybe she should. No one seemed to appreciate her efforts to the contrary.
“Listen, if you want me to talk to her, I will.”
“Do,” Simone said reflexively. “Convince her, Mitchell. I don’t want her to throw her life away over one impetuous decision. Grandiose dreams are fine, so long as she has a plan on how to get there.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said, the lackluster tone revealing it wasn’t because he agreed with her, but rather was humoring her—a notion that grated. “But it will have to be later in the week.” He placed the tomatoes into the pan, bathing them with the garlic and onion mixture.
“Why?”
“I’ve got a meeting in New York tomorrow and I leave first thing. We’ll discuss what to do when I get back, okay?”
Startled by the declaration, she asked, “You’re going out of town?”
“Yes. Ray and I have a presentation to deliver to the bank. They have questions on the deal, and the guys handling it are based out of New York. So that’s where we’re headed.” Mitchell went for his sprig of basil, but stopped suddenly. “Why? Did you need me for something?”
“Uh...” Simone shook her head, digesting possible schedule conflicts, issues that might require his attention. “No. I just didn’t know you were leaving town.”
“Is that okay?”
“Sure.” In the early days, coordinating schedules was crucial. Between child care and school, sports and extracurricular events, they had to be on the same “agenda page” at all times. But with Mariah practically out of the house and able to fend for herself, they didn’t need to worry about proximity to home. Life ran on auto pilot most of the time, and if Mariah did need them for something, she put it on the family calendar via her mobile.
“How about you join me for dinner Friday night?” he suggested.
“I can’t. Len and I have some important business to discuss this week.” She sharpened her gaze on Mitchell. They were finalizing the details of her promotion—the promotion she had wanted to publicly announce in dual celebration with Mariah during her graduation party. At this point, Simone would have to settle for a quiet celebration dinner with her husband.
“You sure?” he asked in a playful tone. “We haven’t been to the 21 Club in months.”
Memories of their last visit percolated to the surface and drew a reluctant smile to her lips. It had been her birthday, and Mitchell surprised her with a weekend in New York, complete with dinner, dancing and tickets to some of the hottest plays on Broadway.
Raising his glass, Mitchell beamed. “You want to go, don’t you?”
She did—despite the current mess. She walked over to him and said, “You know I would, but I can’t swing it. Not this time. Rain check?”
With a sip from his wine, he leaned down and kissed her. “You bet.”
And maybe we’ll make it the Berghoff in Chicago instead, she thought, the wet mix of kiss and wine lingering on her lips.
CLAIRE AND JIM
Leaning over the pot of chili, Claire breathed in the thick, moist blend of chipotle and smoked paprika. She stirred the sauce of beans and meat, dotted with green peppers and onions, scraped the metal spoon against the rim to remove excess sauce and then returned it to its ceramic rest. As she replaced the lid and turned the heat to simmer, the morning’s discussion rose hot in her breast. Why was Rebecca doing this? Why was she throwing away her acceptance to Rhode Island for an education in Paris?
Claire understood that it was exotic, romantic, the city steeped in history... Her chest tightened. But i
t was so far away. Rebecca was too young. It wasn’t safe. Times were different. When Claire traveled to Europe for her summer sojourn, economies weren’t in trouble. Countries weren’t declaring bankruptcy, driving desperate people into the streets. Today there were riots, regimes being overthrown, terrorists hijacking planes. Flashes of news stories darted in. Or blowing them up. Fear clamped down in a punch of worry as she envisioned a plane exploding mid-air, pieces of aircraft, luggage and bodies spiraling through the skies, never to be seen again. Claire couldn’t allow Rebecca to travel alone to Europe, never mind live there! What kind of parent would that make her?
Simone was wrong. It wasn’t a thrilling prospect. Thrilling in theory maybe, but not in practice. Not anymore. A young woman living alone abroad wasn’t smart. Especially a young, American woman. Claire jumped at the sound of the back door opening and clutched at her pearls.
Jim paused, a queer look in his eyes. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Heartbeats hammered her chest and shoulders, flushed adrenaline through her limbs. “You startled me,” she said breathlessly, smoothing the combed cotton of her shirt.
Continuing in, he closed the door behind him, square briefcase in hand, the edges worn. His five o’clock shadow weathered his jaw, underscoring the exhaustion from a long day at work. Jim’s attention deviated to the stove top. “Smells good in here,” he said, a fond smile forming on his lips.
“My famous chili.”
Satisfaction softened the cragged lines of his face. “Perfect for a day like today.” The day that started with clouds, persisted, the forecast promising more of the same through Monday. Jim deposited his briefcase onto the kitchen table and proceeded to ease free of his leather jacket. “Looks like we’re in for another cold one.”
Although teased by the recent week of temperatures stretching into the balmy eighties, they could always count on one last cold spell. Winds picked up, blew Canadian air through the streets of Massachusetts and sentenced them to another week of icy weather. But Claire was ready for spring. She had plans to start the flower boxes Jim built for her as a Christmas gift. She’d cleared a patch last fall and looked forward to filling it with vegetables and herbs. She was even considering planting a rose garden on the south side.
Accustomed to the injustice of Mother Nature, Claire understood it was another shift in tides, another unexpected glitch. Like Rebecca. And Paris. Nervous energy bumped her back into the moment. “Good day at the shop?” she asked, wiping hands against her apron for lack of anything else to do.
“Not bad. A few new paint jobs, the front end of a Camaro that’s seen better days.” He smiled and walked up to her, a wave of cologne mixed with car exhaust sweeping in around him. “Some guys can’t seem to let go. No matter how bad the damage, they’re willing to pay through the nose to have the car refurbished until it’s shining like brand new.” He kissed her cheek and peered over her shoulder.
“Fortunately for you,” she replied.
Jim’s auto repair business started as a transmission shop but over the years had been expanded to include body and paint work. Earning a reputation for his attention to detail, he eventually incorporated custom pinstriping and design work into his operations. There was big money in customizing cars, to the point he could practically name his price.
“What’s in the foil?” he asked.
“Ribs from Rob. They’re leftovers for the boys.” Jim nodded and she asked, “Can I get you a beer?”
His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “You read my mind.”
Eager for something to do, Claire was biding her time before she delivered the news. She wanted to give Jim a chance to unwind before she sprang it on him. He wouldn’t take it well. Knowing his daughter had lied to him, hearing she would be moving halfway around the world...
He might take it even worse than she had. Grabbing a bottle of St. Pauli, she twisted the cap off and handed him the beer.
“I don’t see a pot of rice.” He glanced at her. “You hiding it somewhere?”
“Rice?” Claire blinked. How could she forget the rice? “I’ll get it right now,” she said and hurried to the pantry, stunned by her omission. She always served rice with chili—always. And corn bread. It was in the oven, right? Plucking the canister of white rice grain from the second shelf, she pushed out through the butler’s door and breathed in, thankful for the aroma of sweet corn and buttermilk. Just to be sure, she opened the oven door. Cornbread. A least she’d only lost half her mind.
Claire hauled out a pot, turned the rear burner to high, measured three cups of water and poured them into the pot. Next up, the rice. As she leveled the cup, she noted the mild tremor to her hands.
“Everything okay?” Jim asked.
She turned, snagged by the sharp assessment hovering in his eyes. He’d noticed her tremor. “Oh fine,” she replied. Everything was fine. Fine, fine, fine. Though her racing heart said otherwise.
He nodded, seemingly placated. “Where’s Becky?”
“Out with Mariah.”
“She plan on joining us for dinner?”
Claire nodded but remained fixed on the business of cooking. “A little later, but yes.” She could hear him breathing, thinking. Jim threw back a few swallows of beer. “How are the party plans going?”
“Fine.” Rice spilled over the rim of the measuring cup and Claire quickly cupped her hand to gather the grains into her palm.
Jim plunked the beer on the counter. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Claire dumped the rice into the garbage. Returning to her pot of water, she willed it to boil. Idle time allowed for talk and she wasn’t quite ready to talk. She needed time to regroup. To think through exactly how she wanted to deliver the news to Jim.
“Claire.”
She angled away from him. “What?”
“When you use the word fine three times, I know something’s not fine.” His voice lowered. “What is it?”
She held a hand to her forehead and looked at him. She never could hide her feelings from him. He always knew when she was upset or worried, and he was always ready to listen. Even when his world was off-kilter, as happened when one was the owner-operator of a small business, Jim was always willing to set hers steady and straight before repairing his own. It was one of the reasons she married him. “It’s Rebecca.”
Alarm scorched his eyes. “Is she okay?”
“Yes, yes.” Claire’s pulse quickened. “But she’s not going to college at Rhode Island. She’s going to Paris.”
His mouth fell open. Confusion swept all trace of apprehension from his features. “Paris? What are you talking about?”
“She told me this morning.” Claire’s heart lodged in her throat. “She’s been accepted to the University of Paris.”
“I don’t understand,” Jim said flatly, expecting her to clarify.
Claire explained as much as she could, relaying the morning’s conversation, along with the bits and pieces she picked up as the girls were leaving that afternoon. She hated to add to his burden, his stress. It was her job to be his sounding board, his source of refuge when he came home after a hard day at work, not dump more onto his load.
Jim lowered to a chair at the kitchen table. Place settings were already arranged for dinner, a woven basket situated neatly in the center, empty and awaiting the corn bread. Looking at nothing, her husband sat back, digesting, absorbing, turning the news this way and that as was his custom. When he decided on a direction, he’d speak.
Claire spotted the first bubbles rising from the bottom of her pot. A few more minutes and she could add the rice. She turned back to him and saw the wheels of his brain slow. “She’s already been accepted, you say?”
“Yes, and I don’t know how to dissuade her. She seems so intent on it.”
He looked at her, an odd speculation taking residence in his gaze. “Why would you dissuade her?”
“Because we can’t afford college in Paris—it’s too far, it’s too much...” Claire
grasped hold of the counter behind her.
“Do you know how much it is?”
“Not exactly, but I know it won’t be cheap.”
Jim considered it for moment. A long moment and Claire was chomping at the bit to intercept his thoughts. He couldn’t seriously be considering sending his daughter to college in Paris, could he? Was he insane? Had her whole family lost their minds?
“I think we should discuss this, Claire.”
“But Jim, how can we afford it? We can barely manage the out-of-state tuition at Rhode Island.”
He swung a low gaze around the kitchen, his mind heavy with contemplation. She could feel him thinking it through, weighing the pros and cons, the prospect of what it would mean to their finances, his business. “It’ll be close,” he said, “but I think we may be able to swing it.” Concern mixed with excitement as he added, “Becky may have to work part-time during the latter years, but I don’t think she’ll mind, do you?”
Faintly, Claire recognized the sound of boiling water as she absorbed the blow. Jim wanted Rebecca to go to Paris?
“If it’s one of the best schools in the world and she’s been accepted...” Pride lit up his face with a grin as he misread her silence. “Then I say we give her every chance we can!” He reached for his beer.
For the second time in one day, Claire couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move, her body numbed by disbelief as she watched him drink. He wasn’t kidding. Jim was willing to let Rebecca go. Claire dropped her gaze as her mind raced with objection. What was he thinking? How could he let her go?
“Claire?” Jim rose and walked toward her. She registered the movement, knew she should respond, but couldn’t. “Are you okay?”
His reaction wasn’t what she expected. She had expected an ally, support. She expected him to refuse, and in no uncertain terms. Claire glanced around the stove, but refrained from grabbing the rice. She was too shaky and would most likely make a mess of it. The thought of making Rebecca’s deception a key factor gave Claire fleeting hope, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
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