The Four Seasons (30 page)

The decree proclaimed to the world that Jillian Season had abandoned her daughter. It declared in black and white that Baby Girl Season was born illegitimate.

“What's wrong?” Birdie asked.

Jilly held her hand up for her to wait, unable to speak. Through tears, she read till the end of the document. The decree judged that Anne Marie, by virtue of her adoption, obtained all rights, privileges and immunities of children born in
lawful
wedlock.

“I hope to God no one ever showed her this,” Jilly said, letting her hand fall in her lap.

Birdie picked up the paper and read it, followed by Rose. They exchanged worried glances as Jilly sat quietly, staring off into space.

“You realize of course this is all ignorance on their part. Absolute stupidity,” said Birdie in a huff.

“You can't take this to heart,” said Rose.

“Oh, can't I? What did it state that wasn't true?”

“That's the letter of the law,” Birdie countered. “Not the spirit.”

“That's all just formality. What matters is that you've got her name now,” Rose said, trying to drum up enthusiasm again. “And her parents' names. We have a real hope of finding her.”

“And then what?” Jilly asked. “What if she doesn't want to meet with me after we make contact? Me, the terrible, sinful mother who gave birth out of wedlock. They make me out to be some derelict who had a child outside of the law. Why should she want to meet
me
when she already has a good, solid, happy life with the perfect mother, the one who saved her from the stigma of illegitimacy?”

“Anne Marie wouldn't be like that,” Hannah said in defense of the cousin she'd never met. “She'll want to meet you. If it was me, I'd want to meet my real mother.”

“That's birth mother,” Jilly said, silencing her. “What a god-awful term. It sounds like someone who just dropped the baby at the hospital, then strolled off. But I suppose it's better than
real
mother versus
fake
mother.”

“Don't do this,” Birdie said.

“Do what? I'm just being honest. Look at this. I'm not even named on the adoption form. It's as though I don't exist.”

“But you do exist,” Birdie said, using her authoritative voice for the first time since the miscarriage. “And you are her mother. And Rose and I are her aunts and Hannah is her cousin. By blood. This child is a Season. No one is discounting that the woman who adopted Anne Marie is her mother in every nuance of the word. Her real mother, as you put it. We should all pray that it's true, for Anne Marie's sake. This isn't some kind of contest. Susan Parker is Anne Marie's mother and we have to face that clearly and accept it—or stop the search now.”

“I do accept that.”

“Good. The fact remains, Jilly, that you are her biological mother. Half her DNA comes from you. We know too much about heredity and genes these days not to realize how critical that transference is. Anne Marie must know it, too. Believe me, Jilly, she'll want to meet you.”

But Jilly had already stopped listening. She felt the walls of the small room closing in on her. She slowly stood and began walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Rose asked.

“For a smoke. I just need some time alone.”

“Stay with us,” Birdie said. “It's nasty out there.”

Jilly gave off a short laugh as she opened the door. “Great. I'll fit right in.”

 

When she left the motel room, she would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that she didn't know where she was headed. Jilly only knew she had to leave. It was unseasonably cold out, a result of the gray clouds that hovered over them, low and threaten
ing, for days. She sniffed and tasted snow in the air. She found that incredibly depressing. “Snow in April,” she muttered. “That's perfect.” It was an omen. They'd never reach spring.

As she walked along the river road, she heard in the misty twilight the taunts and jeers that she had quieted for the glorious days with her sisters. In this strange little town that held no ties to the life she'd created for herself these past twenty-six years, she had allowed herself the luxury of thinking herself as one of the four Seasons again. In her mind she was still young and unscathed. She was Jilly the creative one, the ringleader, the fun sister. The search had been like an elaborate game that bound them together again. Just another Season make-believe with elaborate rules to follow.

The Adoption Decree, however, held enough brutal truth to strip her of any pretense.
Abandoned. Illegitimate. Out of Wedlock
. No more pretending, Jilly, she told herself.

She walked till her Italian leather shoes were soaked and she found herself standing in front of a small redbrick house surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence, high on the hill overlooking the town of Hodges. A light was on upstairs. It appeared warm and inviting behind the drawn shades. She stood for a while at the gate, looking up at the light, wondering if he was lying in bed reading a book. She didn't see the telltale flashing of a television. As she stood in the garden, the night was so quiet she could hear herself breathe.

The gate squeaked loudly in the darkness. Pirate Pete sprang up from where he was lying and trotted up to the gate to investigate, growling deep in his throat. When she stepped inside the property, he began barking his high, shrill alarm.

“Hush, shh,” she said to the dog. “Pete, hush.”

The dog came closer, sniffing with his ears back. When he caught her scent, his growling stopped immediately and he
began wagging his tail excitedly. But it was too late. The back porch light flicked on. She heard a click of a lock, then the door swung open.

Jilly stood with her hand on the gate and looked at the tall, dark silhouette standing on the porch. He was wearing a robe. His hand was on the doorknob and he held his body tense and attentive. With the light at his back, she couldn't see his face, but she could feel the intensity of his stare.

Another Jillian Season would have fixed a sultry smile on her face and walked with the forward, pelvic rolling gait of a runway model. But this Jillian Season was not so sure-footed. Her face was tearstained and puffy. Her clothes were wrinkled and worn. Her hair was pulled back in an elastic, unbrushed and wild. And she was cold, so very cold. This Jillian stepped forward, open and unsure. One foot in front of another along the crooked little garden path with wobbly stones that wound around old trees with thick, split trunks, and up the six cracked cement stairs to him.

“I need a friend,” she said softly.

He held out his hand to her and she took it. She knew from the way his dark eyes quivered that he read everything in her gaze. She felt it in the electricity of his touch. She knew it in the way he stepped aside and ushered her wordlessly into his house.

The kitchen was a small, unremarkable room dimly lit by fluorescent task lights under the cabinets. Beyond, in the other room, she caught sight of bookshelves and a leather sofa, very modern and spare. Her wandering eyes fixed on a patch of bare skin in the V of his pure white terry robe. It was so marvelously smooth that she couldn't resist reaching out to touch it. Her fingers were icy. She heard his breath intake, but he didn't move away. Moving slowly, she slid one hand then the other under the terry cloth, gliding her fingers across the warmth. She
relished the feel of his hard muscles and the sensation of his nipples tightening under her palms. When he reached up to tug her elbows and draw her away, she resisted.

“Please,” she pleaded, bringing her lips to his bare chest. She rested her cheek against his skin and stood still, waiting. She could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

He reached up to touch her chin and lifted it enough so that she was staring into his eyes. His hair was soft and flowed down in thick black waves, framing his jawline. His dark eyes seemed to glow from the shadows as he pressed his fingertip to his lips to indicate silence. Then, with a finely arched brow raised, he took her hand and led her across the tile floor to his bedroom. In the small, neat room he held up his hand, gesturing for her to wait. Then he turned and went into the bathroom. She heard the creaking sound of faucets turning followed by the gush of water flowing into a tub.

Looking around she noticed that there were books everywhere—in shelves along the wall, on the floor beside the bed and stacked on the bedside table. Many of them were written in Hindi, but there were many others in English, mostly of classic literature and computers. And she was surprised to discover many in French aswell. She picked up a well-worn leather book: Sartre. Opening it, she found several passages marked.

When he entered the room, she set down the book quickly, embarrassed for prying. He didn't seem to mind. He was smiling and holding out his hand to her, heightening the suspense with mystery sparkling in his eyes. His was an elegant body, not an athletic one. Slim at the hips but very firm. She remembered seeing him work in the river.

Taking her hand, he led her into the small bathroom. She stepped into a cloud of fragrant, warm steam and flickering, perfumed candles. There were candles everywhere—along the
rim of the tub, atop the toilet, on the floor. He helped her undress, then guided her into the tub, balancing her as she eased herself into the sweet scented water. He left her there to soak, closing the door behind him.

How did he know she needed this solitude? she wondered. A soft moan escaped from her lips as she closed her eyes, sunk to her neck in the hot water and just let go. She didn't think of anything save for the feel of the hot water lapping against her breasts and the faint, rhythmic dripping of the faucet. She didn't know how long she soaked there, but when he came for her the water had begun to cool and she was ready to take his hand and be guided into the enormous, thirsty towel he held out for her. He was intent on pampering her. She was not permitted to do so much as lift her own foot. She'd never been treated with such tenderness, such reverence, and she found it both exhilarating and humbling.

He began toweling her dry, gently stroking her outstretched arms, her neck, her breasts, placing a kiss here and there gently. She luxuriated in his attention. His valetlike restraint was tremendously erotic.

He led her once again to his room. He'd put clean linen on his bed. Water glasses on the bedside table dripped with condensation. While she sipped, Rajiv moved the candles until once again she was surrounded with the flickering flames. Then he pulled back the blankets and laid her in the center of the bed. Sitting beside her, he began to smooth a small amount of sweet scented oil over her body. It had the echo of sesame and something heavenly in it, and her moist, warm body soaked it in thirstily. He looked into her eyes as he massaged her arms and breasts, then smiled wickedly as he spread the oil along her inner thighs, tracing small, sensuous circles with his nail. She rolled her hips in pleasure, longing for his hand to linger where the need was beginning to build.

But he was not to be hurried. Rolling her on her belly, he spread the oil along her back in strong kneading motions that eased away knots of tension from her shoulders. She groaned and slipped to another, deeper level of relaxation. The music was a soft background in the room; an Indian woman sang what could only be songs of love. His hands continued to massage, more gently, her lower back, then her bottom, her thighs, running his hand in between them, just flirting with her inner softness. When he rolled her again onto her back he gently spread her hair out on the pillow, then her arms and legs out to the side upon the crisp white sheets so that she was fully open to him.

Her breath came heavily now. From under half-lowered lids, she watched as he reached up to take the red rose from the vase and crush the blossom with his hand. He then sprinkled the sweet red petals over her naked body. As each delicate petal floated to her body, landing on tender, pliant skin with an inexpressible softness, she felt overcome. The petals, the candles, the oil, the chanting music, all combined to make her feel as though he were a high priest and she a virgin on an altar. What was the sacrifice? she wondered. What was the prayer?

He moved to straddle her. Looking at him through sex-drugged eyes she saw his dark-skinned thighs against her pale ones, as she had imagined so many times in her fantasies. His hands moved once again to touch her face, her lips and her breasts, then glided over her belly to begin new caresses. When she whimpered, cheating and voicing his name, he spread her thighs wider, moving to kneel between them. She raised her eyes and saw his, gleaming and dark with desire. There was a moment's communication, then he was within her.

She arched against him, feeling as though he was splitting her in two. She clung to him, kissing his ear, his neck and his mouth as he slowly, rhythmically, drummed the pace of their
passion. She closed her eyes and from a distance heard the high, nasal chant of unfamiliar lands. A strange, heady incense permeated the air. She was in a hot, humid jungle where stars flickered overhead like candles and the man she loved was Rajiv and tiger all in one. They were human, they were not. They were two lovers joined for one perfect night. They rolled and pressed, kissed and caressed. She felt her climax rising, felt his body drum with increased urgency into her own. She flashed open her eyes and saw the eyes of a tiger before he lowered his dark head and put his teeth to her shoulder. He plunged one last time and they both cried out to the stars.