by Celia Aaron
“What themes have you identified?”
She moved over to me and perched on the arm of my chair. “Oh, that’s the easy part. Racial identity. The impossibility and perniciousness of European notions of beauty.”
Impressive. “And what sort of opposite perspective were you thinking about?”
Her brows drew together in thought. “Well, my teacher wasn’t clear, but I was thinking of doing something like pretending the book was about a white girl who wanted beautiful brown eyes, and like, writing maybe a creative piece in that light.”
I thumbed through the pages, though I had no need to read them. I’d become quite familiar with them during my breakneck education with Ms. Temple and again in college. “I think that’s an interesting viewpoint to take, but can you pull it off? Are you able to imagine a world where brown eyes are just as beautiful, or more so, than blue?”
She blushed and looked down at me. “Well, there are beautiful brown people.”
“Right, but it’s not person-specific. It’s the idea that, in totality, brownness is the preferred look. Kinky hair”—I ran a hand through mine—“left in its natural state, is the height of beauty. The darker the skin, the browner the eye, the better. I’m not the best example since I’m mixed, but you get the idea—”
“Oh, I think you’re perfect.” She covered her mouth with her hand like she’d cursed.
“Look, Adele. The way things are now, being dark-skinned makes you more likely to be jailed, to be killed by police, to be any number of things that are highly disfavored in our society. You’ll have to turn that notion on its head. Make black beautiful. Make it virtuous. Make it the default. Do you think you can put yourself in that head space?”
“I can try. I mean, I know I live, like, here. Very white. Very privileged. And I go to school with a bunch of other kids just like me. And there aren’t, you know, a lot of kids who look like…” She faded off into a hum and went back to work on her pinky nail.
“Who look like me?”
“Oh, the boys my age definitely don’t look like you.” She grimaced and tapped her foot against the chair cushion. “Um, I mean, the boys at my school. They don’t—don’t have your looks. But I don’t mean the color, but yeah, that’s true, we only have a few minorities, but they don’t look as good as—well, I mean, you know…”
The color in her cheeks heightened until she looked faintly sunburned.
“I definitely think you should give the creative writing idea a try.” I smiled up at her in a way I hoped would put her at ease.
“Right,” she said a bit too loudly. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
When she smiled back, braces and all, adoration was writ large across her face. I knew that look, remembered the same look in Helen’s eyes all too well. I didn’t deserve it then and still didn’t now.
I handed her the book. “And that’s a great start. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”
“Do you think you could read over it—”
“I should have known you’d drag him back here to your messy pile of books.” Rosa stomped into the room. “Dinner’s on the table in the small dining room. Vámonos! Wash up and get on in there.”
We followed Rosa to the dining room through an entirely different set of heavy wooden doors.
“Inviting such a man, muy guapo, dios mío, for dinner and then not even letting him eat,” Rosa grumbled under her breath.
Adele snickered as we followed the fuming housekeeper.
After we’d washed up, we sat down in the dining room that had seats for a dozen people, three sparkling chandeliers, expansive windows looking out into a perfectly symmetrical garden, and enough food to feed a small army.
Eden was sitting and waiting, twirling a butter knife around in her hand. She narrowed her eyes at Adele. “I hope you didn’t interrogate Jack.”
“No, but he did help me with my book report homework.”
Eden’s face brightened at her daughter’s words, love written in the curve of her lips, the attentiveness of her posture. Maybe Adele was the missing piece of the Eden puzzle. But there was another piece as well—Mason.
Rosa doled out small chickens on each of our plates, or maybe they were some other sort of bird? I draped my napkin in my lap and waited for Eden and Adele to eat. I’d gotten pretty good at following others’ leads when it came to social situations I was unfamiliar with. They started cutting into the meat, and I followed suit, mimicking their movements with an air of confidence that implied I’d eaten these little birds several times before and there was absolutely nothing to see here. Move along.
Eden took a bite as Rosa placed serving plates of potatoes and green beans along the center of the highly-polished table. “What book is it?”
“The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison.”
Eden coughed a little and took a sip of water before getting her breath back. “Oh?”
Adele continued, unruffled. “Yeah. Jack’s read it. He was helping me take a different approach to the Eurocentric beauty notions that permeate our culture.”
Eden stopped chewing, mouth hanging slightly open. I smiled down at my plate.
“I’m gone for a couple days, you talk to Jack for all of five minutes, and now you’re using phrases like ‘Eurocentric beauty notions’ and ‘permeate our culture.’ Harvard, here she comes.” Eden beamed with pride.
“Aw, Mom.” The girl blushed and plopped a spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth.
Eden shot me a glance and nodded slightly in thanks.
The food was delicious, and we quickly fell into a steady conversation about the Belle Mar development and what sort of work schedule Eden would have over the next month or so. Adele was remarkably self-sufficient for her age, and with Rosa’s help she managed her busy school and extracurricular activities like a champ. She’d clearly gotten her drive from Eden.
Despite the enjoyable company and conversation, I found my thoughts straying to Mason, wondering about the story behind the man who’d threatened Eden. I hated to think of him as Adele’s father, but she had the same blonde hair. More than that, Eden seemed genuinely afraid of him.
I looked around the table at Eden and Adele, both chatting excitedly about plans and futures. This was a family, a real one, full of love and open affection. I’d had no experience in this realm, but I knew this was the way it should be—dreams shared and lives lived fully together. Though the family wasn’t mine, I knew I’d do anything I could to protect it, including dealing with Mason.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EDEN
WE WORKED STRAIGHT THROUGH the following week, making good on contracts, getting the condos sold. I fielded call after call on the remaining units and pushed hard to get the pricier upper floors sold as quickly as possible. I was making progress, but I still hadn’t had any luck on the crème de la crème penthouse that topped the entire building. It was over five thousand square feet of breathtaking views and amazing luxury, and with a price tag to match. It was turning into my white whale.
Still, the buzz was building for the grand opening sales party. The guest list had ballooned to triple digits. We had to hire additional catering staff, and even needed additional doormen and servers before all was said and done.
Gray’s construction foreman was on my speed dial. I hounded him constantly, making sure the lobby and pool would be ready for the party. He assured me every time that it would be and further assured me that if I’d just leave him the hell alone, he’d likely be able to finish ahead of schedule.
Jack treated me the same as he always had. He was respectful, polite, efficient…except he called me Eden now. The only one who noticed the change was Fairfax.
“Looks like Jack’s going to beat the month time frame.” Fairfax leaned against my desk and surveyed the damage. Contracts and sales data sheets thrown to and fro, a list of phone calls I needed to return, and it was already five o’clock. I had a long night ahead of me. Opening weekend was only a week away.
“You’re going to get it sold. Don’t worry.”
I wobbled my head back and forth.
“Surely Gray isn’t serious about that deadline.”
“Oh, he is.”
“Why’s he being such a hard-ass all of a sudden?”
Pretty Emily down the hall. “I don’t know.”
Fairfax had been around long enough to know the game. Sometimes it took more—a lot more—to get deals closed than it should. I had more reason than most to keep my books in order and my properties selling. Mason made sure of it. I would do whatever was necessary to keep him away from Adele, to keep him silent.
Fairfax, like everyone else, didn’t realize that losing the game wasn’t an option for me; it never had been. Scraping together enough money for Mason on Tuesday had depleted what little savings I had. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if I didn’t get the complex sold according to Gray’s wishes.
“Seems to me like he’s shooting himself in the foot with all this pressure and deadline and such, but what do I know?”
“Drop it, Fairfax. There is one thing you do know, though. What’s for dinner?”
He laughed and patted my shoulder. “I’m thinking of ordering in some Trainstation?”
My mouth watered. Trainstation was the best meat-and-three in town. “Yes.”
“Chicken pot pie?”
“Yes.”
“Fried green tomatoes, greens, mac and cheese?”
“All of the above.”
“All right. I’ll throw in some buttermilk pie and get the order placed. Anything else you need?”
I raised my head and flinched against the late afternoon sunlight cutting through my windows. “Another pot of coffee.”
“Coming right up.” He left me as my phone buzzed.
Jack’s voice came through, smooth and deep. “Clara, broker from Miami, calling.”
I rubbed my eyes lightly. “Which one is she?”
“Has a family from the Dominican Republic looking for a landing pad on the coast for when they come to visit relatives. Parents and three small kids.”
Damn, he was good.
“Fine. Put her through.”
I worked for four more hours, talking the entire time, giving the same spiel on repeat, but tailored to meet each broker’s needs. It was family friendly; it was perfect for retirees; no better place for newlyweds; it was a singles haven; career driven? Perfect! And on and on.
It was working; eight more units reserved. At this rate, I’d be over fifty percent sold by the time the party rolled around. Then the real battle would begin, selling off the not-so-attractive lower floors and the super pricey top floor. In-between was easy.
By the time I came up for air, I was certain the food was cold, which made me sadder than a sane person should have been over cold food. But soggy fried green tomatoes would make any self-respecting Southerner cry.
I pushed out my glass doors. Jack and I were the only ones still left in the office.
“Hungry?” He looked up at me with those eyes, the ones that watched me so intently the night I laid bare beneath him. His collar hung open, and his sleeves were rolled up. I wondered if any more clothes would come off as the evening progressed. I licked my lips.
“Yes.” On multiple fronts.
“Come on.” He rose and led me past the cubicles and into the kitchen.
I sat in one of the plastic chairs, common to office kitchens the world over, as he slid on an oven mitt. He pulled out tray after tray of food from the oven and set them on top of the stove.
I moaned when the aroma hit me. “Oh my God, I’m so hungry.”
He shuffled over, grabbed a couple of paper plates from the cabinet, and spooned up servings from each of the trays.
“Roll or cornbread?” he asked.
“Both.”
He gave me a wry glance over his shoulder. “Correct answer.”
His dark slacks made his ass look perfect, rounded but masculine. All muscle. Something a girl could really sink her teeth into.
He turned, and I found myself staring at his crotch. I looked up and away, but not before catching his half-smile out of the corner of my eye. He laid the plates down on the table, both overflowing with Trainstation deliciousness.
He went to the fridge. “And now for the pièce de résistance.”
He pulled out a bottle of pinot and uncorked it as I dug into the feast. A couple of red solo cups full of wine were more than I could have hoped for to accompany the luscious chicken potpie, spicy greens, and crunchy fried green tomatoes. We ate in silence for a while, always the hallmark of a good meal.
“Feel better?” he asked and sipped his wine.
“I didn’t feel bad.”
He laughed. “You were verging on biting the brokers’ heads off when they were calling to hand you money.”
I smirked. Adele always said I got “hangry” whenever I needed a snack. I supposed she wasn’t the only one who noticed.
I nodded. “Yes, much better.”
“Good.”
“Thanks, by the way.”
“Eating good food is its own reward.” He smiled, the dimples in full force. He was beautiful, even under the horrendous fluorescents in this room. I cringed at how I must have looked in their soul-sucking glow.
“No, well yes, thanks for the food. But I meant thanks for helping Adele with her book assignment. She hasn’t stopped talking about you since the night you came over. She keeps saying how ‘Jack has the bluest eyes.’” My dreamy imitation of Adele made him smile even wider. My heart made a funny pitter-patter sound at the sight of it.
“She’s a great kid. Glad I could help.”
“She is. And I wanted to mention the other thing, too. I, um, know you sort of walked into the mess with Mason.” I felt my hands moisten. I’d practiced what I would say to Jack, how I would explain, several times. Nothing ever came out right. When things are as wrong as they were between Mason and me, no gloss or even tweak could make the retelling better. “And I’m sorry about that.”
“No worries.” He studied me, smile gone, though no judgment passed across his face.
“It’s just that it’s a family thing. I can’t really explain it.” I could. I wouldn’t, though. “He’s not someone I ever want Adele to know about.”
He kicked back in his chair, the classic male pose of openness, self-possession. “You don’t have to worry. Your secret’s safe with me. And I understand about the family thing. It’s okay.”
“Thanks.” I took an unladylike gulp of wine. “You never really told me about your foster family. What were they like?”
He looked away, no longer giving me the clear blue window into his thoughts. “They weren’t very good people. They…” He shook his head. “Let’s just drop it.”
I rested my elbows on the table. He’d seen my Adele, my heart. Even though I wouldn’t give him everything, would never tell him the whole truth about me, I still wanted his story. I was selfish, wanting more from him than he was ready to give. “Are they the reason you changed? The reason you started controlling your emotions?”
He sighed and folded his napkin next to his plate. “I see you aren’t going to let this go.”
“I think you already gave a pretty accurate rundown of my personality a couple weeks ago in the elevator. So, no, I won’t let it go.”
He crossed his arms in front of him, his biceps framing the expanse of his chest. I wanted to feel the dark hair along his arms. It looked soft.
“I’ll speak about this once, and then I don’t want to speak about it again.”
I nodded. Anything that needed a prologue like that was bound to be good. I wouldn’t ruin it by broaching it again.
He looked up, as if seeking the words he wanted to say somewhere on the squares of the kitchen ceiling.
“I had a sister. At the foster family house. Helen.” He smiled when he said h
er name, as if it was the only way to say it. Just one thing could make a person do that—love. “She was so chill. All the time. She was like a nine-year-old saint. I say that, but I remember plenty of times when she’d get in trouble with the Reeds, our foster parents, and have to skip meals or worse.”
“Worse?”
He shrugged. “The Reeds took on fosters like me and Helen so they could cash the check from the state each month. They would have at least four kids in their house at any given time. We were a business for them, more than anything else. If we got out of line, they would whip us right back into line. They—”
“Please don’t tell me you mean they literally whipped you.” I tensed at the thought of anyone hurting a child. In my mind, it was always Adele, someone hurting her. I couldn’t handle the thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have goaded him into talking, telling his story. Could I bear it, finding out who he really was, what he’d been through?
He met my eyes. “Yes, literally.”
Jesus. “I’m sorry.”
Another shrug. “I’d already been through four other foster homes by the time I’d gotten to them. I was fourteen. You couldn’t tell me anything. A little whipping never really hurt me. I was used to having it rough. Being half-black, half-white made it so that I didn’t really fit. Girls fell for the blue eyes, and boys wanted to beat the hell out of the white half of me.”
“That would never have occurred to me. You’re just so…” I took another swig of wine. What the hell. I’d already laid my cards on the table that night at the beach. “You’re just so fucking handsome. And still dark. But, I mean, not super dark, but dark.”
He smiled at me, really smiled, and my heart sort of fell all over itself, drunk.
He pointed to his eyes. “Can’t get past these. And my skin passes the paper bag test.”
I set my cup down. “The what test?”
“I don’t know where it came from. I read about it while I was in… Well, Ms. Temple gave me a book about race and identity, and it was in there. People used to keep blacks and mulattos out of certain establishments if their skin wasn’t light enough. The litmus test was a brown paper bag. If you were light enough and could pass, like me, they let you in. If not…” He shrugged. “It may be just a myth. I don’t really know. The idea of it sort of stuck with me, though.”