This would not stand with him. No daughter of Mitchell’s would live with a man before she was married. His parents were staunch in their refusal of the same, as were Simone’s. There would be no playing house—for reasons emotional, financial or otherwise. But rather than argue the point, Simone asked, “Why, Mariah? Why move in with Logan?”
She swung her head up and wrath thundered across her expression. “Why?” Mariah flung her arms open and cried, “How can you ask me that when it was you who insisted I move out!”
“I asked if you had an apartment,” Simone replied calmly, an inferno of emotion churning within her breast, nerves spitting open as her child tossed her into the flames. “I never said anything about living with Logan.”
“Well—where else am I going to live?”
“You’ll get an apartment, like every other young, single, adult female does when she’s on her own.” It took effort to breathe, to speak. It required every ounce of control not to shout her objection at the top of her lungs.
“Like I can afford an apartment in Boston.”
“That’s what roommates are for,” Simone responded in a daze, her mind only half-engaged. But inside, her heart raged for its chance to express—to denounce—to alter the changing tides.
Mariah appeared incredulous. She pulled strands of bangs taut against her head. “Who am I going to live with? You know all my friends are going to college. There’s no one left but me.”
Exactly.
Comprehension swamped Mariah’s gaze in a gush of realization. “This is your way of forcing me to give up my plans.” She punched fists into a knot across her chest. “You think that making me find some place to live and struggle for money will make me fall on my face—which is exactly what you want.”
A sudden sadness enveloped Simone. Mariah wasn’t listening to herself. She wasn’t hearing the obvious, that she was running straight into a brick wall built of her own making, one that would stop her in short-order, and with a painful bruise, to boot. Simone wanted her daughter to succeed in life, not fail. She wanted only the best for her.
But the bull-headed mind of youth was not listening to a word of it.
“Well you’re wrong.” Fury spit from Mariah’s eyes. “I’m going to start this business and I’m going to succeed.”
“Fine,” Simone said, resigning herself to the imploding mess of Mariah’s future. “Should I tell your father about your living arrangements, or would you prefer to do the honors?” It wasn’t a question. It was another stake through the heart—one that would stain the relationship for life.
“I hate you!” Mariah cried. She whirled around and stormed out of the room. “I hate you!” she bellowed down the hall. “I hate you!”
Simone’s thoughts shadowed her daughter’s every step as she envisioned Mariah scaling the stairs two at a time, heading for her bedroom on the third floor. It’s where she usually went after one of their bouts. She’d lock herself inside and sulk. At this late hour it wouldn’t include an outburst of music or television, but would likely entail a fierce pressing of characters into the keypad of her cell phone. She’d text the unfairness of her life to her best friend Rebecca, her boyfriend Logan, and anyone else who would listen.
Shoving the financial papers aside, Simone fell back into her chair. There was no winning with Mariah. There never had been, really. And why not? Was it because she was gone all those years? Was Claire right that her relationship with Mariah wasn’t as close as it could be, because she had been putting in the long hours at the bank to achieve the success she had today?
It was an age-old argument between them. A fundamental difference of opinion. Claire believed she made the right decision by staying home to care for her children and Simone was wrong in going to work. But Simone wasn’t Claire. She would die if she had to stay home. She couldn’t forego her own desire, her own need for fulfillment in lieu of her family’s.
Did that make her selfish? Did it make her an unfit mother?
Simone expelled a ragged sigh. She glanced around the wood-paneled office, the rich sheen of mahogany glowing in the lamplight. This was her work space within her home space. She shared it with her husband, as she did most things. Time and money—she and Mitchell split the cost of life, yet somehow it felt like she paid all the consequences.
It wasn’t like she was trying to avoid time with her children—quite the contrary. How many times had she wished for one extra hour, half-hour, anything to give her the crucial minutes she needed to claim her seat in the front row? Whether it was the spelling bee or a school play, her daughter’s kindergarten graduation or parent’s day, Simone wanted to be there and she wanted to be there on time.
Hauling her body up from the chair, she walked over to the window. She pushed the heavy sateen drapes aside and looked out over the darkened streets. Did people think she liked standing in the back, or staring through the window while her child performed, because she was on a conference call—the one dictated by a client’s schedule and not hers? Did it ever cross anyone’s mind that she worked hard to be there for her daughter, that she knew every shortcut through the city, every light and how long it burned, that she would move skyscrapers if that’s what it took?
Simone followed the taillights of a car as it drove down the crowded street, currently lined with parked cars, sometimes stacked two deep during rush hour. Navigating the city roads was more like weaving a thread through a needle. But that was Boston. That was city living. However, at this late hour, streets were quiet.
Upon further contemplation, Simone decided she didn’t much care if anyone knew what it took to manage the traffic, the timetables that felt like a game of Russian roulette. She knew. Finding satisfaction and reward in her work made her a better mother, even if it made her a “late” mother. She was happiest when productive, happiest when fulfilled. It made her feel whole. How great a mother would she be if she were forced to stay home and care for her children when her heart wanted to work? She wanted to help companies build their businesses and, in turn, build her own. She wanted to create financial security for others and, in turn, create her own. Was that wrong?
Simone settled on the flickering lights of distant buildings, the shadowed outlines of their structures against the hazy glow behind them. The spindly fingers of a migraine began to work their way around her head. With purpose of thought, she tried to ward the pain off by slowing her breath, taking deep inhalations followed by complete exhalations. Her life wasn’t perfect. There were days when Mariah was sick, when she wanted to be by her side, place a cool cloth to her forehead, brush the hair from her face, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t call in sick because her child was sick. How irresponsible would that have been?
Those were the days her job hurt. Days when her nanny June sat vigil, feeding Mariah chicken soup, watching cartoons with her as she allowed a cold or fever to work its way through her system. Silly, but she felt jealous sometimes. Envious that she couldn’t be in two places at once. But that’s how life worked. A woman had to make choices, sacrifices. Whether society approved of her choices or not, ultimately she believed kids needed to see their mothers happy. They needed to see them going after what they wanted, striving and thriving, not miserable and stressed out, trying to be something they weren’t. How else would their children learn to do the same for themselves, if no one set the example?
Especially girls. She didn’t want Mariah to grow up and think she had to be someone’s wife, someone’s mother, in order to fulfill her lot in life. No. Simone wanted her to be who she wanted to be, not what society and tradition dictated.
Allowing her focus to soften against the building tension in her brain, Simone pondered the crisis at hand. How did it reflect on her that her own daughter didn’t want to go to college? Sure, Mariah wanted to start a business, playing career woman in her own mind, but reality would soon hit. She could wake up married and pregnant, struggling for every dime she had. Logan could end up running this business—should it ever
succeed—and Mariah would be home holding the grocery bag. A sense of looming disaster turned over in her stomach. Then all her talk about independence and running her own show would go poof.
Women either worked, or they didn’t. They either made a name for themselves in their chosen field, or they assumed the name of their husband. Her mother was a case in point. She had talked the talk of a career in law, but when push came to shove and the third child was born, she quit. Catherine Richmond, Attorney-at-Law became Mrs. Richmond, wife and mother. She went home to care for the kids where her life became swallowed up and defined by her children and husband. When she wanted something for herself, she had to get it from her husband. She had her own bank account—which he funded—but for anything over and above she had to ask permission. She wanted to take a trip with her girlfriends? She had to ask her husband for permission. Permission. As though she were a child.
Souring in her gut, Simone allowed the bitterness to pass. She resented the financial dependence, much the same way she did her mother’s subservience. Each and every night, she freshened her makeup and spritzed her perfume in anticipation of her husband’s arrival home. She claimed it was to keep their fires burning, their relationship warm and passionate. After all, his days were spent around beautifully dressed and perfectly coiffed women. It wasn’t right his number one lady should pale in comparison. As though a well-done face and sweet scent were all it took to hold a man’s interest. It was a charade Simone abhorred. It was Claire who saw the validity in the tactic. Simone, your mother is shrewd. She understands what you take for granted—an even playing field applies not only at the office, but pertains to the home as well.
Simone begged to differ. Her behavior wasn’t the magic she claimed it to be. It was weakness, submission, and everything Simone detested. And what did her mother have to show for her wisdom today?
Grandchildren. She had no career, no money of her own, no life outside her father. She had grandchildren and nothing more. Simone gazed out over the back yard, a small but finely landscaped space beneath the vine-entangled pergola. Hidden lighting subtly lit the area, making it inviting, romantic even. Especially when the wisteria was in full bloom, when clumps of purple sat tucked away in dense green foliage, cascaded down the posts, delicate petals layering the air with sweet fragrance. It was beautiful and relaxing, the kind of space that made her want to linger, rejuvenate, and it was hers. Hers and Mitchell’s—but without his paycheck, she would not lose it. She could afford this home on her own.
She would miss this place when they left. Ten years here in the South End, she loved this old Victorian home. It was Mitchell who insisted they live in this part of town, declaring it an up and coming neighborhood with the best potential for resale, should they ever decide to move. But it didn’t take much convincing. One look at the line of brick row houses reminded Simone of her hometown. Chicago’s Hyde Park felt similar in both tempo and style. During her last business trip to the city, she had detoured from the financial district for a nostalgic drive along Lake Shore. The sky was crisp, the air brisk, the lake dotted with boats against a glittering sheet of water. It was picture-perfect and she couldn’t wait to return. Excitement swelled. She was looking forward to the move. It was time. It was her turn to shine.
But first there was the business of Mariah to settle. Simone turned from the window and focused on the task at hand. If Mitchell was right, if Mariah wanted to walk in her mother’s shoes, no matter how obstinate and aversive she appeared at the moment, then she needed to understand what it took to fit into them. Dropping out of college was not an option. Moving in with Logan was not an option. But how could she get through to her?
The veins in Simone’s head began to throb. Unfortunately, it was she who was running out of options.
CLAIRE
Claire retrieved another undershirt from the dryer, a waft of warm lavender rose with it. Breathing in the fresh scent, she felt that fabric softener made the task of folding clothes more enjoyable. Knowing her family would pull their favorite T-shirt or gym shorts from the drawer and be treated to the pleasing fragrance gave her pleasure. She was ensuring a cozy feel of home, of comfort, improving the quality of their day. Sometimes she thought it silly, but over time Claire had learned to take heart in the little things. It was the little things her family would remember when gone from home, like the aroma of coffee drifting through the air each morning, the reliable scent of bacon permeating the house on Sundays and the ever-present hint of lavender in their clothing. She pressed her nose to the cotton and inhaled. The scent filled her with calm.
Claire knew these would be the things that evoked childhood memories, because they did the same for her. Though instead of fabric softener, with her mother it had been the scent of paint. Claire chuckled, shaking the cotton shirt free of creases. Something about the smell of oil and linseed stuck with a girl, but rather than acrid and toxic, she had always found the scent comforting. It meant her mother was working, painting. She was in her element, delighting the kids with fanciful renditions of flowers and fields, skies and sunshine. Trained as a landscape artist, she could have made a bundle producing sceneries for home décor, but she never earned the first penny for her efforts. Her mother never had the desire. Home and hearth was where she made her living. It was her passion, the place she found happiness.
Deftly folding Jim’s shirt, Claire placed it on the pile taking form before her and reached for another. Funny how staying home was the last thing she ever envisioned for herself. As a teenager, Claire imagined herself a professional artist. Like her mother, like Sarah, she had the gift. But rather than paint as a hobby like her mother, she was going to make it her career. She was going create masterpieces, display them and sell them. And if that didn’t work out, she could always teach others at a university. Claire glanced up at the ceramic plate. It was adorned with the image of a camellia. A very basic camellia, painted in ten different shades of pink. Displayed on top of the cabinets, it was her first try at painting, accomplished beneath her mother’s watchful eye.
Claire smiled as she recalled her mother’s patient tutelage. Easy, Claire. Let your mind’s eye guide your brush. Although Claire thought it horrid and completely asymmetrical, her mother adored it. Raved about it to all her friends, embarrassing Claire beyond reason. But that was her mother—her number one fan and head cheerleader to this day.
Smoothing the shirt onto the top of the others, Claire thought back to the day she announced her plans to move halfway around the world to work with a Frenchman at his gallery. Her mother had been thrilled. Her daughter was going to be an international jetsetter, a globe-trotter. Her baby was going to take Europe by storm! Then Claire met and married Jim and somehow felt like she had failed her mother, as though she were a coward in her decision to stay close to home.
Claire hoisted the stack of clothes from the dryer top and set off to put them away. It had been the summer between her junior and senior year of college. She and Jacques decided she would return to Brown to finish her final year of school before moving to Paris where the two would begin their life together. The choice was easier academically, but harder emotionally. Yet both were in agreement. They’d survive the separation while Claire finished her degree.
That’s when she met Jim. Enrolled in the same business finance course—a course she signed on for as forethought for the gallery she planned to own one day—they sat next to each other and the proverbial sparks flew. Claire had been attracted to Jim from the very first day. But attributing it to the fact she was high on life, high on love, she didn’t pay it much heed. Everything and everyone around her seemed brighter, more alive, more exciting. After all, she was moving to Paris! She was living her dream.
But when they began studying together, he mostly helping her, Claire soon discovered it was more. Jim made her feel like a star, like the most brilliant, radiant star in the universe. Soon after, he made her feel like his whole world revolved around her. It had been a heady experience indeed,
and so different from her relationship with Jacques where it was he who took center stage, she nothing more than a willing stage prop to his glorious performance.
Claire pulled out the top drawer and packed it with undershirts. Jim had worked himself into her life, something she didn’t fully grasp until she traveled to Paris over winter break. No longer did Jacques seem the incredibly sexy and passionate lover of art and women and all things indulgent. He was simply a man—a man with a free-spirited life and a job offer. The transoceanic flight back home had been consumed with thoughts of Jim. Claire had missed him terribly during her two weeks abroad and couldn’t wait to get back into his arms. She felt no remorse where Jacques was concerned. By his own admission, he was a lover of all women. He wouldn’t miss her.
Claire pushed the underwear drawer closed. Theirs had been a mere infatuation. At the time she had been fairly full of herself, making it an easy step to the perch Jim held up for her. By spring, she knew. As much as she had once wanted Paris, Claire knew in her heart she would not return. That’s when her life took its biggest turn. She and Jim were married and a year later, Rebecca was born. Pausing, Claire thought back to her daughter’s statement, her assertion that her mother had no life, had wasted her degree.
It saddened her. To think that Rebecca had no idea how much she’d enjoyed the last eighteen years nurturing and caring for her was upsetting. More than changing diapers and feeding her, Claire knew what every cry meant, every gurgle, every expression. She knew what her child needed when she couldn’t express it for herself. And when she started walking and talking, Claire alone understood Rebecca’s awkward employment of the English language. Along came Jimmy and Joe, and the same proved true for them.
With childbirth, everything changed in her world. It was she who held the primary connection to her children because she stayed home and connected with them in ways she never would have, had she been working outside the home. Yet no matter how much quality time Claire spent with her children, it never felt like enough. Eventually the kids would move out and she would have plenty of time to work, but those early days...they were crucial. It was time she could never get back, moments she could never recapture. To her very core, Claire believed sharing the stepping stones of her children’s first step to their first word, their first homerun to their first broken heart were the bricks that built a loving home. Anyone could buy a house, but could they create a home? A loving home where family gathered, returned year after year with smiles in their hearts and hope in their soul?
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