Where You Belong (25 page)

III

It was after lunch that Donald broached the subject of seeing our mother. “Please, Val, let's go and visit her now. Get this worked out properly, before you go back to Paris.”

“Donald, I'll give you the company when I inherit it, I've already told you that half a dozen times. I don't wish to see her.”

“She said she wanted to see you again, to explain something, to come clean with you, I guess. So let's go up to the apartment. And at the same time, maybe you can reiterate your feelings about Lowell's. And me, I mean.”

I looked across the table at him and saw him very objectively for a split second. He really was a handsome young man, twenty-six and very virile-looking. He has movie-star good looks, I thought, just like our mother. He wasn't so hard to take. If I were honest with myself, I guess I'd always been jealous of him because she had favored him above me and spoiled him. And he was a bit devious and gossipy, but not a bad young man, just human, really, like all of us.

I sighed and shook my head, and then I said slowly, “Donald, you can't imagine what a hardship it is for me to go and see her, really you can't.”

“I guess I can,” he answered swiftly. “I admit she wasn't always . . . loving with you, Val.”

“So, at long last you're finally admitting that, Donald.”

“I've always known it,” he said, sounding defensive. “But we haven't really had a heart-to-heart conversation since we've been grown-up, have we?”

“Only too true.”

“Look, I realize what a pain in the ass she can be,” he said, “and how painful it is for you to see her, but surely it'll help if I come with you.”

“Actually, Donald, what do you want me to say to your mother when we get there?”

“Our mother,” he corrected me. “And I want you to ask her to have some sort of paper drawn. A paper that says if you want, you can give the company to me and that I, a man, can inherit it.”

“You mean a legal document, is that it?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Don't you trust me?” I asked, swallowing a smile. I was playing with him now, and that wasn't really fair.

“Yeah, sure I do, that's one thing about you, Val, you've always been straight. But don't you think there ought to be a document? Look, God forbid something happens to you in your job, then what? I mean, who gets the company?”

“You have a point there,” I said, leaning back in the chair, sipping my coffee. If I got killed covering a war somewhere, my mother would have to leave the company to Donald. “You,” I said at last. “You would, Donald, or, rather, your wife.” I paused and looked into the distance, then muttered, “Gee, I wonder how they work that out when there's a divorce?”

Donald said, “I guess there's never been one. Maybe we should ask Mom.”

“No,” I said, coming to a decision. “Let's not ask her anything. Let's go up there to see her, present a united front, and explain that we think there should be something in writing about me wanting you to have the company. Just in case I die in the line of duty as a war photographer.”

“Okay,” he said, and looked at me curiously. “I wonder what it is she wants to explain to you.”

“I don't really need to hear what she has to say, Donald. I'm just going up there to make sure she does right by you.”

“Why? Why do you care about me, Val?” he asked, looking at me intently, frowning.

“Because you're my little brother and I loved you a lot when you were a small boy, and besides, it's your right. We're almost in the year 2000 and we've got to move on from a rule made in 1898. It was a good rule, I'm certainly on the side of women, but it needs—”

“Updating,” Donald volunteered.

IV

Donald took out his cell phone and called our mother, asked if we could come over, made a date for three-thirty, and then clicked off.

“That's all set,” he said, slipping the phone into his jacket pocket. “Let's have another coffee.”

“Okay.” I glanced at my watch. “We do have a little time to waste. So tell me some more about Lowell's.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, you've talked about the packaging and the marketing, but what about the products? I guess they're good, that people do like them.”

He nodded. “According to Mom, they do, and I guess the success of the company proves that. Alexis loves them; she says the creams are very rich and very effective.”

“You said Lowell's will be launched in Europe. Where exactly?”

“London and Paris to begin with. Mom hasn't really said. Listen, I don't know as much as you think I do. She's never said anything about Lowell's to me in the past, I've only just found things out since she had the heart attack, I told you that. Plus Alexis has filled me in a bit, since she's studied the financial side of all the cosmetic companies for her job.”

“I realize all that, Donald. When we get there I want to get straight to the point with our mother. You know, let's talk about the legal document for you right away. I don't want to start discussing other stuff.”

“I understand. We'll go in and out. And there'll be no discussions, no explanations from her.”

“Correct. I don't want to hear anything at all. And if she starts yammering at me, I won't listen.”

But how wrong I was about that.

V

My mother was still under doctor's orders to take it easy, so she wasn't spending as much time at her office as she usually did.

When we arrived at the Park Avenue apartment, the door was opened by a maid in uniform.

“Hi, Florina,” Donald said, nodding to her as he struggled out of his overcoat. “This is my sister, Valentine Denning.”

The young woman stared at me with interest, smiled, took my coat, and said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Denning.”

“I'm glad to meet you, Florina.”

A moment later my mother was walking into the foyer, looking staggeringly beautiful in a black wool jumpsuit trimmed with velvet with a large pearl pin on one shoulder. She was wearing very high heels, which made her even taller, but then, so was I today, and I matched her in height.

Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a chignon, and her face looked all cheekbones and eyes, and I wondered unexpectedly how she had ever coped with this amazing beauty. Had it been a burden? Had it ruined her life? I had no idea. It suddenly struck me that I knew so little about this woman who had given birth to me.

I

“Hello, Val . . . Donald . . .” Margot Denning said, and with an airy wave of her hand toward the sitting room she added, “Shall we go in there and have tea?” Without waiting for our responses, she glided into the room.

I followed her, saying, “I don't want anything, thanks. Donald and I just finished lunch.”

“Nothing for me either, thanks, Mom,” Donald muttered as he trailed after me.

Naturally she went and sat in her usual chair, because she had been sitting there for years. She obviously knew she looked her best in that particular area of the room; certainly the lighting near the fireplace was flattering to her.

I went and took up a position near the fireplace, standing as I generally did, and Donald came and joined me. He was apparently my ally now since we were presumably presenting a united front.

“I'm happy you came, Val,” she murmured, looking directly at me, smiling faintly. “I told Donald I wanted to explain something—”

“Oh, but I don't want any explanations . . . about anything. I haven't come for that reason. I've come to do the talking, not the listening. And I'm going to talk sense about Lowell's and your will.”

She stared at me, frowning. “We've had that discussion already.”

“But it was not to my satisfaction.”

“There's nothing more to say.”

“There's a lot to say. Donald has told me about Lowell's as it stands today, and the success you've made of it. You're obviously a very clever businesswoman. That's why I can't understand why you cling to some antiquated tradition started a hundred years ago. Donald tells me there's no legal document backing up this tradition, so you can very easily leave the company to him.”

“I can't. A female descendant of Amy-Anne Lowell's has to inherit.”

All of a sudden it hit me why she was being so stubborn, and I exclaimed, “Don't tell me you believe all that crap about bad luck for Lowell's if a woman's not holding the power.” I began to laugh. “Oh my God, you do!” I went on laughing.

Donald gaped at me. Our mother was poker-faced. I noticed a vein pulsing on her temple. She remained totally silent.

I said, “Lowell's is no longer the same company it was. Its structure has changed radically. You're going into worldwide distribution imminently, from what Donald tells me, and next year you're apparently going to do an IPO on Wall Street. You've pushed this dinky little old-fashioned company into the twenty-first century, yet you yourself are still lingering in the past, clinging to an antiquated idea started by the founder.”

“No I'm not!” she protested, her voice rising shrilly.

“Yes, you are. Please get it through your head once and for all. I don't want your company when you die. Leave it to Donald, who would love to be involved with it. And he's entitled, as your only son. He should be your heir. And he was always your favorite anyway. Forget about this tradition nonsense and act like the smart businesswoman you apparently are.”

“Is that why you don't want Lowell's?” she asked.

“I'm not following you,” I murmured, but I was. I just wanted to hear what she would have to say.

“I mean because you believe, mistakenly, that I mistreated you as a child?”

“No,” I replied, but I was telling a lie.

“The company is going to be worth millions,” she said suddenly, obviously believing this would influence my decision.

“Billions, more than likely, Mother. But I'm still not interested. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Please, Val, reconsider.”

“I can't.”

“You mean you won't,” she snapped in her snooty voice.

“Look, I have a life of my own. I don't want a life you're trying to create for me, suddenly, out of the blue, after years of indifference and neglect.”

“You're bearing a grudge . . . how ridiculous when there's so much money involved.”

“I couldn't care less about the money.”

“More fool you!”

I sighed. “If I said okay, I'll take Lowell's, leave it to me, what would it entail? Just out of curiosity, what would you expect of me now? What would you want me to do?”

I felt Donald tense, he was standing so close to me at the fireplace.

My mother sat up straighter in her chair and studied me for a moment.

I hated this close scrutiny of hers; almost frantically I wished I could escape, get out of her presence. I disliked her intensely, and I now regretted that I had come. I had done so because I wanted to help Donald, who wasn't such a bad guy after all. I thought he was getting the short end of the stick.

My mother said carefully, in that well-modulated, upper-class voice of hers, “I would expect you to come home, Val, to live in New York. And of course I would want you to work at Lowell's alongside me. I would train you, teach you the business, teach you everything I know. It would give me great pleasure, Val.”

“You've had two heart attacks, unexpected because you've always been so healthy, and you're young. And so now you feel a bit . . . vulnerable, and it occurs to you that you need . . . a daughter. Is that what all this is about?”

“Don't be ridiculous! I want you to come home because this is where you belong. With me. In the business.”

“This is certainly not where I belong,” I almost yelled. Taking a deep breath and clinging to my control, I added, “We're not getting anywhere. If you won't change your will, I must certainly go and see my lawyer, have some legal document drawn that protects Donald if something happens to me. After all, I'm a war photojournalist, I could easily be killed when I'm working. I will leave Lowell's to him.”

Donald said, “Thanks, Val.”

Our mother was silent.

II

Florina came hurrying in with a large tea tray, which certainly curtailed the conversation for a moment or two. She placed it on the mahogany coffee table in front of the sofa and said to my mother, “Shall I pour, Mrs. Denning?”

“No, no, we can manage, Florina. Thank you.”

Florina hurried out.

“No tea for me,” I said. “I'm leaving.” I walked toward the door.

Donald called, “Wait for me, Val.”

“I'm in a hurry,” I responded, but I paused in the doorway and turned. “Good-bye, Mother. So long, Donald. I'll see you around.”

“No, wait, Val. I'll only be a second.” Donald went to our mother, pecked her on the cheek. “I'll talk to you later, Mom.”

I was halfway across the entrance foyer, heading for the front door, when she said, “But I want to explain!”

“I don't need an explanation. Not anymore,” I replied without turning around.

“Don't you want to know why . . . I was never able to love you?” my mother asked.

This stopped me in my tracks. And of course her words were irresistible.

Very slowly, I walked back to the sitting room, stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. My eyes did not leave her face.

III

“Come in and sit down, Val. And I think you, Donald, should leave. This is private.”

“Donald stays,” I snapped.

“Yes, I'm staying,” my brother said, surprising me, since he'd never argued with her in the past, or defied her.

“I'll stand if you don't mind,” I said. “I'm sure this isn't going to take long.”

Donald joined me by the fireplace. He stood close to me and reached out, took hold of my hand, as he had when we were small.

How often we had been brought to task for something or other in this very room. We had always stood in this exact spot and our mother had always seated herself in that antique French chair.

But today I was not afraid of her. And I was certain that Donald wasn't either.

Together, showing our united front, we waited for her to speak.

“This really doesn't have anything to do with Donald,” she said, addressing me directly. “I do think it would be better if we were alone, Val. This is very private.”

“No way Donald leaves. He stays.”

Donald said, “I sure do, Mom,” and squeezed my hand.

Margot Denning didn't say anything for a very long while. She simply sat bolt upright in the chair, her posture superb, her head held high, remote, her regality intact.

Finally, she said, “It all began a long time ago, when I was very young, just a girl. . . .” Her voice wavered. She stopped and steadied herself, gripped the arms of the French chair.

If I hadn't known better, I would have said she was suddenly emotional. But this wasn't possible, she had ice water in her veins.

Because I so disliked her, I said, “A very short story indeed. Well, so long, I'm off.” I began to move toward the door.

“No, no, I was just . . . trying to formulate the words . . . to get things in order in my mind, Val. I was a girl, just seventeen, when I met a young man. His name was Vincent Landau and I fell in love with him, and he with me. Unfortunately, my mother did not approve of him, and his parents did not approve of me. We were from different worlds, you see. And I—”

“Why didn't your mother approve?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Because he was Jewish.”

“And his parents disapproved because you were a gentile?”

“Yes, but it was more than that. The Landaus were extremely rich, they owned a private bank, and they were aiming high for Vincent. They thought he should marry someone of his own ilk, someone in society. I was a nobody as far as they were concerned.”

She paused again and Donald said, “So what happened, Mom?”

“Vincent was sent away to Europe, he was a few years older than me, and his father sent him to work in the Berlin branch of the family bank. Eventually—”

“I hope this isn't going to take too long,” I interrupted. “Because I have an appointment, and I'm starting to run late. Can you cut to the chase?”

“Yes,” she answered tersely, and leaned back against the chair. “Two years later Vincent came back to New York and sought me out immediately. We began to see each other in secret, and not long after we had resumed our relationship I discovered I was pregnant. I was nineteen. I knew if I told my mother she would push me into having an abortion, and so I didn't tell her I was pregnant until it was too late to do anything. Vincent was worried about his parents' reaction, but at the same time he was pleased. He hoped that once they met me and knew I was having his child, they would relent, accept me, allow him to marry me.”

She paused, took a deep breath, and smoothed her hand over her hair.

I said, “But they didn't.”

“That is correct. In fact, they were more furious with him than ever, and did everything to break us up.”

“Did they succeed?” Donald asked.

“Oh, yes, they did.”

“And you miscarried,” I said.

“No, I didn't,” she answered with a small frown.

“The baby was born dead, then?” I asserted.

“No, the baby wasn't born dead,” she replied. “She was a beautiful little girl. Perfect in every way. But my mother was beside herself, bitter about Vincent's behavior, because she thought he should have defied his parents and married me. She didn't know how to cope, and she was also angry and frustrated. Here was I, not quite twenty, and the mother of an illegitimate child.”

I began to feel cold inside and I became fearful. I didn't want to hear any more, but I knew I couldn't stop the flow of words from her mouth. As for me, I was frozen to the spot, unable to leave.

Donald was saying, “So what happened, what did you do?”

We stood there together, he and I, holding hands, united for a short while, protective of each other, and I sensed that Donald was as apprehensive as I was. I realized I didn't want to hear the rest, because I knew I wasn't going to like it.

She said, “I settled down to being a mother. Vincent came to see me all the time, he loved us both so much, he loved little Anjelica. She was such a beautiful baby. So perfect. His presence kept my mother calm for a while, and she began to believe we would ultimately marry, and then out of the blue Vincent was sent to the Paris branch of the Landau bank. Soon after he left New York, his engagement to the socialite Marguerite Shiff was announced in The New York Times. I called him up in Paris and he admitted he'd been forced into the engagement.

“My mother made me put Anjelica up for adoption, and I had to do as she said, I had no alternative. I never saw my baby again. It broke my heart. Vincent came back to New York, and we did meet a few times, but we knew it was an impossible situation, quite untenable. So we said our good-byes. He killed himself a week before his marriage. He drove to his family's country estate, locked himself in the garage, turned on the ignition, and died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“So you never saw your baby again, Mother, and your lover killed himself. But what does all this have to do with me?” I asked. I was icy inside now, very fearful.

“Please let me finish.”

“All right,” I responded, looking across at her. I thought she seemed pale all of a sudden and her expression was stark, her mouth taut. It was apparent she was having difficulty with this.

“I met your father several years later, and we were married. He was very kind to me, good to me, but I could never love him. At least, not in the way he wanted to be loved, not with the same passion I had loved Vincent Landau.”

“And you couldn't love me either, is that it?” I exclaimed in a cold and angry voice. “Is that what you're leading up to?”

“I tried, Val, I really did try to love you. But whenever I looked at you, I thought of little Anjelica and my guilt overwhelmed me. I couldn't bear to think of her being out there without me, living with another family, being brought up by another woman. Losing Anjelica and Vincent shattered me completely, my heart was broken and I knew it would always be broken. I lived in a kind of netherworld for years. I was like a zombie in some ways, I suppose. I thought of Anjelica every day. She was never far from my thoughts. When Donald was born it was different, because he was a boy.”

I was gaping at her, stunned, and so was Donald. Neither of us spoke.

“I'm sorry,” she said at last. “So sorry . . .”

“Sorry,” I screamed at her, losing it completely. “Is that all you can say after thirty-one years of torture? Sorry. Well, thanks a lot, Mother. Thanks for the indifference, the injustice, the neglect, and that monumental lack of love and caring. I had a miserable, tormented childhood because of you! Oh, how you made me suffer, and all because of your selfishness, and your ridiculous self-involvement.” I was shaking with rage, and it took all my self-control not to rush at her and strike her. “You talk about your broken heart, but what about mine? You broke my heart, Mother, you punished me because of your mistakes. My God, you're monstrous, wicked! No, more than wicked, it goes beyond that . . . you are evil!”