Nell and Lady: A Novel

by Ashley Farley

  His father sounded irritated when he accepted the call. “Where are you, Booker? I’m waiting for you at the Brown Dog Deli. Are you on the way?”

  “I’m leaving the library now,” Booker said, pulling on his windbreaker.

  “Hurry. I’m holding a table for us.”

  Booker left his books spread out on the desk. The library was practically empty, and he didn’t plan to be gone long. He jogged down the block and around the corner to the deli. His father rose to greet him when he entered the restaurant, but Booker dodged his hug and slid into the booth opposite him. Before he could look at the menu, the waitress, who was about his age and wore thick glasses, approached the table for their drink orders.

  Booker nodded at his father’s glass of tea. “Sweet tea, please. And I’d like a grilled cheese with bacon for lunch. I’m kinda in a hurry. Can you put the order in as soon as possible?”

  “Sure. What kind of cheese would you like on your sandwich?” she asked, pen poised above notepad.

  “Yellow,” Booker responded, not caring what kind of cheese they put on his sandwich.

  She turned to his father. “And you, sir, would you like to place your order now?”

  “No, he’s gonna wait until I’m finished eating to order,” Booker snapped.

  His father offered her an apologetic smile. “I’ll have the same.”

  “You didn’t need to be so rude, son. I’ve never known you to be unkind. What’s gotten into you?”

  Avoiding his father’s gaze, Booker reached for the container of sugar packets, separating them by color in neat stacks on the table in front of him. “Suffice it to say, I’m having a bad year. For starters, my father cheated on my mother and ruined our family.”

  “I’m not here to discuss my marriage to your mother.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. You let Mom handle the unpleasant family talks.” Booker stuffed the sugar packets back in the container and slid it into place beside the napkin dispenser. “Why are you here, then, Dad, if not about the divorce? Are we planning a family vacation sans Mom?”

  “Be serious, son. We need to talk about college.” His father folded his hands and placed them on the table. “May first is approaching fast. Not counting today, you have exactly nine days to make a decision about college. I’ve spoken with the head of admissions at Duke, who happens to be a classmate of mine, and he’s offered to personally give you a guided tour of the campus at a mutually agreed upon time next week. I know you’ve already visited once, but it wouldn’t hurt to see it again.”

  He looked his father in the eye. “I’m not going to Duke, Dad.”

  “As difficult as it may be, I think it’s time to face the reality that Harvard may not be in the cards for you.”

  Booker glared at him. “I face that reality every single day. Did you not hear what I just said? I’ll decide on one of the other schools by May first, but I promise you it won’t be Duke.”

  “Then I promise you I won’t pay for it,” Desmond said, his body perfectly still despite his flaring nostrils.

  Booker’s mouth fell open. “That sounds like a threat to me. Either your school or no school. Is that what you’re saying?”

  His father shrugged. “Pretty much. You’re too young to make this decision on your own. Your future is at stake, and you need my guidance. The relationships you’ll make at Duke will serve you well for the rest of your life. None of those other schools will afford you the same opportunities as a school of Duke’s caliber.”

  “Cut the admissions crap, Dad. I’d rather not go to college than go to Duke.” He scooted to the edge of the bench seat. “I should’ve known you’d pull something like this. I won’t let you control my life like you’ve controlled Mom’s.”

  The waitress approached the table with their food at the exact moment Booker stood abruptly, nearly knocking the tray out of her hands. “Cancel my order. I lost my appetite,” he said, and stormed out of the restaurant.

  He walked back to the library in a stupor and wasted the afternoon staring blindly at the empty tables and chairs around him. His classmates were spending the day getting ready for the prom—the girls bronzing their skin by their backyard pools, having their nails done and their hair styled in elaborate updos. He didn’t know what his guy friends were doing that afternoon. They were certainly not in the library. Their college decisions were made, their deposits submitted. The fat lady had sung. The party was the only thing left for them.

  Meanwhile, Booker had no clue where he’d go to school, if he could even afford to go to school. His mother would help him, if she was financially in a position to contribute now that she was single. He’d accumulated a small savings account, money he’d earned working the snack bar at his neighborhood pool during the summers. Was it too late to apply for financial aid? Scratch that idea. He wouldn’t be a candidate, considering his father’s income. He’d have to find a higher-paying job this summer in order to afford even one semester at the least expensive school. Maybe he could work construction. One of his friend’s fathers was a residential contractor. Not only would he earn a better salary, working hard labor would benefit his physical appearance. He smiled at the image of himself going off to college looking buff for the ladies.

  Hours later, however, the sight of his scrawny tuxedo-clad body reflected in the mirror erased any hope of him ever developing muscles. His mood darkened from stormy gray to pitch black. He’d accomplished absolutely nothing that afternoon. He’d stayed at the library until he could no longer stand the silence and the walls began to cave in on him. After dumping his backpack in his car, he walked down to the waterfront and spent the rest of the afternoon pacing up and down the seawall trying to make sense of this new development in his life.

  His mother had been waiting for him when he arrived home. She was so proud of the flowers she’d purchased for Regan from the florist.

  “I thought girls wore flowers on the wrist,” Booker said when he saw the small bouquet of blue and white flowers with matching satin ribbons wound around their stems.

  Nell shook her head. “Apparently not. I asked Stuart’s mother, and she assured me the girls prefer a nosegay over wearing a wrist corsage.”

  Booker shrugged. “Moms know best.”

  He felt sorry for his mom. She was being a good sport, but he could tell she felt left out. He’d been disappointed when an invitation for Nell to join them at the Bellemores’ home for pictures before the prom never materialized. His mother’s confrontations with Lady at the hospital were no doubt responsible. Still, he viewed his prom date with Regan as an obvious first step toward reconciliation.

  Booker didn’t understand grown-ups. If Regan’s mom was upset with Nell for shutting them out of her life all those years ago, why wouldn’t she be thrilled when Nell begged to be let back in?

  Before he left for the prom, his mother insisted on taking pictures of him outside on the patio. He felt silly standing alone, dressed in his tuxedo and holding Regan’s nosegay, but he forced a smile on his lips to humor her.

  As he drove through the streets of downtown toward Regan’s house, Booker’s palms sweated, his chest ached, and he worried he might vomit all over his rented tuxedo. He was one racing heartbeat away from having a full-fledged panic attack. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve been ecstatic to meet his mother’s adopted family, but considering Lady Bellemore’s hostility toward Nell, he wondered if he’d even be welcome in their home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  REGAN

  Regan backed out of her room and into the hallway when her mother came after her with a can of hairspray. “Mom, stop! You’ll mess it up.” After evening up the length, the stylist had fastened her bangs back with a rhinestone hairpin, letting the rest of her hair fall in soft curls around her face.

  Grabbing hold of her wrist, Lady took aim at her hair with the can of spray. “I’m just going to spray a little to hold it in place.”

  “I’m not kidding, Mom, stop it! The stylist
already coated it with spray. It’s glued into place for life.” The doorbell rang, offering her an escape, and she ran down the stairs to answer it.

  The look of approval on Booker’s face brought a smile to Regan’s lips. “Wow! You look amazing. These are for you,” he said, presenting her with the small bouquet of flowers that matched her dress perfectly.

  “Thanks!” She took the flowers from him. “You look pretty darn good yourself.”

  And he did look handsome, despite how nervous he seemed. Regan could tell he was worked up about something, something that probably had nothing to do with meeting her family, but he did a good job of hiding it when she introduced him to Lady and Willa. To her relief, Lady was pleasant, although somewhat reserved, while Willa babbled on about her own prom night as she pinned his boutonniere, a single white rose with a sprig of greenery, to his lapel.

  When Lady suggested they go outside to take pictures, Booker offered Willa his arm for support. He walked patiently by her side as she carefully put one foot in front of the other on the way down the porch steps to the small walled garden behind their house. Willa, determined to rid herself of the walker, was growing stronger every day. She’d dismissed the nursing services the day before and had spent an hour working in her garden that morning.

  Regan and Booker posed in front of a row of pink rosebushes while Lady snapped a continuous stream of pictures with her smartphone.

  An awkward silence fell over them when Booker held his phone out to Lady. “Do you mind? I’d like to send one to my mother.”

  Lady hesitated, and Willa took the phone from him. “Here, I’ll do it.” She took several pictures and handed him back the phone. “Your sweet mama came to see me this week. We had a lovely visit. I hope she’ll come again.”

  Booker’s faced glowed. “Yes, ma’am. She’s planning on it.”

  Regan tugged on Booker’s tuxedo sleeve. “We should probably go.” She sniffed the flowers she was holding. “Am I supposed to take these with me?”

  “I would think you’d want them with you for the photographs,” Lady said.

  “Of course,” Regan said. “I didn’t think of that.”

  Arm in arm, Lady and Willa followed them out of the garden. Regan turned and waved as she and Booker continued down the driveway to his car.

  She waited until they were on the way to Janie’s before asking, “Is something wrong, Book? You don’t seem like yourself.”

  He hesitated, then said, “My dad’s being a jerk about college. I’ll tell you about it later. I don’t want to think about it tonight.”

  “As long as you promise we can talk tomorrow. We’ve had this tension between us lately that has everything to do with our mothers and nothing to do with us. I’ve missed our friendship. Do you think it’s possible for us to get back to the way we were?”

  “I do,” he said, nodding. “I’m spending the night at Stuart’s tonight. Why don’t we go to brunch tomorrow and talk?”

  “I’d like that,” Regan said with a smile.

  Janie’s parents had planned an elaborate dinner for their friends. One long table, flanked by white folding chairs, draped in white linens and set with silverware and china, extended across their small backyard. Small bouquets of green hydrangeas in square mirrored vases were spaced intermittently with hurricane lanterns bearing cream-colored pillar candles down the center of the table. A dark cloud loomed in the distance, but Mrs. Jensen assured her young guests that the rain wasn’t forecasted until later.

  Popular tunes played on low volume from outdoor speakers as her classmates mingled among themselves. Most sipped soft drinks from red Solo cups. Some had spiked their drinks with alcohol, but when Stuart offered Regan a splash from his flask, she declined.

  “I’ll wait until the after-party,” she said. She had too much at stake to get into trouble before graduation. Her grandmother was determined to attend the ceremony, and Regan, in turn, was determined to honor her by delivering the valedictorian address.

  Shortly before they sat down to dinner, Regan was snapping selfies with a group of her girlfriends when she noticed Booker pluck a tiny object from Owen’s palm and pop it in his mouth. Regan knew he was stressed, and assuming he was taking an Advil to relieve a headache, she thought nothing of it until later when they got to the prom.

  “The band is awesome. Let’s dance,” she said after they’d been at the prom for a while. They were sitting together in a corner watching their classmates on the dance floor. Booker was a great dancer, which was one of the reasons she’d agreed to go with him to the prom. But he’d sulked all throughout dinner and barely spoken a word to her since they’d arrived at the school’s auditorium.

  “I’m not in the mood to dance, but you go ahead.”

  “Right, Booker. Everyone’s here with a date. You’re the only one here who will dance with me.” She shifted in her seat toward him. “Are you on something, Booker? I saw Owen give you a pill.”

  His head shot up. “I’m stressed out, Regan. He gave me a sliver of Xanax to take the edge off. And don’t go getting all sanctimonious on me. I have no intention of becoming an addict.”

  “What’s gotten into you? You’re—”

  “Save it, Regan. You have no idea what it’s like to have an asshole for a father.” He turned away from her, lost again in the movement on the dance floor.

  She stared, mouth agape, at the side of his head. He had no clue what he’d just said to her. Whatever his father had done paled in comparison to what her father had done.

  She’d made a mistake in coming. All of their friends were coupled together, either with longtime boyfriends and girlfriends or with someone they had a crush on. She had no desire to go to the after-party. She would have Stuart’s father drop her at home after the prom.

  “Fine. You keep pouting. I’m going to get something to drink,” Regan said and left him in search of refreshments.

  She was in the bathroom thirty minutes later when she overheard a group of girls talking about her. “Regan is killing it in that dress.”

  She peeped through the crack in the stall door. The group of girls congregated at the sink counter were part of the popular crowd from the grade below.

  “Did you hear the rumor going around about her?” said a pretty blonde as she smeared on a slutty shade of red lipstick.

  “That rumor has been confirmed,” one of the others said. “Regan’s father raped Booker’s mother.”

  “And his mother got pregnant,” a third girl chimed in. “Which makes Regan his half sister.”

  “Ooooh,” the slutty blonde said. “She’s his date tonight. Isn’t that like incest?”

  The shrimp and grits Regan had eaten for dinner threatened to come back up. How ignorant of them to even think the last part of the rumor could be true. That would make Booker thirtysomething years old. How did the rumor get started in the first place? She certainly hadn’t told anyone. Booker must’ve blabbed his mouth to one of his friends. Why would he do such a thing? He’d used the word rape instead of assault, but that was just a technicality. Either was unforgivable.

  She waited for the girls to leave the bathroom before exiting the stall. Biting back tears, she opened the door slightly to make certain the hallway was empty before fleeing the restroom. She darted to the end of the hall, flung open the exit doors, and took off on foot into the stormy night. She didn’t care that her beautiful dress was soaked through within seconds. All she wanted was to go home. She considered calling an Uber but decided she’d get there quicker if she ran.

  With tears blurring her vision and hair clinging to her face, she stepped off the curb and into the path of an oncoming motorcycle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  BOOKER

  Booker had been staring at the couples on the dance floor for so long, his eyes had grown tired and blurry. The crowd had dwindled as prom attendees had headed off to various other festivities. The band played a series of slow songs for those few couples remaining, most of whom w
ere shamelessly making out. Owen’s magic pill had succeeded in taking away his anxiety, but Booker felt drowsy, like he could sleep for a week. He didn’t trust himself to drive home to his own bed. As soon as he got to the Dixons’ house for the after-party, he’d sneak up to Stuart’s room and crash. Hopefully, Regan would understand. He would find her and explain.

  He circled the auditorium, but she was nowhere in sight. As he walked down the hallway toward the restrooms, the beat from the band grew dimmer, and the faint sound of sirens drifted toward him. He opened the exit door at the end of the hall and peered out into the foggy night. A light drizzle fell, and the air was thick with humidity. The storm that had threatened earlier had finally moved through, leaving the lawn and sidewalks and trees saturated. Red and blue lights flashed from a number of emergency vehicles parked near the crosswalk in front of the school. Booker let the auditorium door close behind him and joined the group of onlookers gathered along the curb. When a pedestrian in front of him shifted, he caught a glimpse of the body lying motionless in the street. Several excruciatingly long seconds passed before his mind registered where he’d seen the blue-and-green floral pattern on the victim’s dress.

  Regan! He pushed and shoved his way through the onlookers. “Move! Please!” he repeated over and over. “That girl is my friend.”

  By the time he made his way through, the EMTs were carefully lifting Regan’s body, her head supported by a neck brace and her honey-colored hair matted with blood, onto a stretcher. She looked so fragile and wounded. This was all his fault. He’d been so self-absorbed in his own problems, he’d let her wander off on her own.

  One of the EMTs, a middle-aged woman wearing designer tortoiseshell glasses, pulled him aside. “Do you know her, son?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Her name is Regan Sterling. She’s my date to the prom tonight. We got separated. I don’t know why she would’ve left the auditorium. What happened to her? Did she get hit by a car?”

  The EMT shook her head. “Not a car. A motorcycle.” She gestured at the biker standing nearby, helmet in hands, his motorcycle a crumpled heap of metal at his feet.