Condemn Me Not (7 page)

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 it 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.”