Immediate Family (15 page)

“And did you?” Nancy looked at him with her unwavering gaze that on more than one occasion had forced a confession out of Stevie the times she’d gotten into trouble as a teenager.

His shoulders slumped, and he slowly shook his head. “Can’t say that I did. Not until it was too late. Guess a lot would’ve turned out different if I had.” He glanced over at Stevie wearing a look of profound regret.

“It’s never too late,” Nancy said, placing a work-roughened hand over his. Not as if they’d ever been intimate, but as if he were a wayward soul she’d taken in. “In fact, I was just thinking about taking in a meeting when Stevie called. Would you care to join me?”

Stevie was pretty sure AA had been the furthest thing from her mother’s mind until now. Nancy regularly attended meetings but nothing short of an emergency—or, in this case, a seminal event—could pry her away when she was in the middle of work.

Grant thought for a moment, as if weighing his options, then nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”

The following morning Stevie had a hard time concentrating on her work, her thoughts were so wrapped up in yesterday’s strange turn of events. When it was time for her six-thirty
A.M
. broadcast, she was so preoccupied she almost missed her cue. Only her years of experience kept her from flubbing it when the cameras rolled to her.

“He’s number one with a bullet,” she began, switching into autopilot as the words scrolled down the monitor. “The rapper known as Fifty Cent once again killed the competition with his album
Blood in the Streets.
This week, he’s number one with a bullet, selling twice as much as his nearest competitor, Jay-Z.” B-roll of the rapper strutting down the red carpet at the Grammys, then she was segueing into “Next, Brad Pitt is Down Under this week, making nice with the crowds who turned out for the premiere of his new movie
American Original,
costarring Gwyneth Paltrow…”

Stevie flew through the rest of her segment, until the floor director’s voice in her earpiece cued, “That’s a wrap.”

On the way back to her pod, she checked in at the assignment desk. She was covering the Russell Crowe–Nicole Kidman press conference at the Peninsula in less than an hour—they were in town on a press junket promoting their new picture—and she needed to line up a crew. Luckily, she was able to snag Matt O’Brien, who’d just come in. While he was assembling his gear and lining up a truck, she ducked into the break room to grab a quick bite. She hadn’t eaten all morning; she’d been in too big a rush as she was leaving for work.

Liv Henry walked in as she was tearing open a bag of chips. “Hey, nice work on the Andrews piece.”

It was a moment before Stevie realized Liv was referring to her obit on silent-film star Verna Andrews, who’d passed away over the weekend. The piece, which had aired on Sunday, had been in the can—standard practice with older and ailing celebrities, one that might strike the uninitiated as ghoulish but saved reporters from having to drop what they were doing and dash to the newsroom when the sad news came.

“Thanks,” she said, unused to receiving compliments from Liv.

“I looked for you at the screening last night,” Liv said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I must have missed you.”

“Which screening was that?” Stevie asked distractedly. She got invitations to so many she couldn’t keep up with them all.

“For your boyfriend’s new picture.” Liv wore a look of studied innocence, but Stevie could tell from the quickness with which her gaze slid away that she wasn’t just being chatty.

“Ex-
boyfriend.” She kept her tone mild, not wanting to give Liv the satisfaction of knowing how much it still hurt to hear his name.

“Oh? I didn’t know you two had broken up.”

“Months ago. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.” Stevie nonchalantly crunched down on a chip, concentrating hard to keep from choking as she swallowed it.

“That explains it.”

“What?”

Stevie was already kicking herself for falling into the trap even before Liv answered, “The woman he was with.” Liv tore open a packet of sugar and dumped it into her coffee. “I thought maybe it was his sister.”

“He doesn’t have a sister.” Stevie spoke more sharply than she’d intended.

“Oops.” Liv flashed her a sympathetic little smile. “Come to think of it, they did seem awfully cozy.”

“If he’s seeing someone, it’s fine by me,” said Stevie, a bit too blithely.

“That’s the attitude.” Liv gave her a you-go-girl pat on the arm before sailing out of the room with her steaming mug.

As soon as she was out of sight, Stevie dropped her uneaten chips in the trash can and collapsed into the nearest chair. Her appetite had vanished along with any hope of a reconciliation with Ryan. It shouldn’t have come as a shock that he was seeing someone. He’d made it pretty clear that he had no intention of waiting around for her to come to her senses. Nonetheless, she felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. He hadn’t even sent her an invitation to his fucking screening. Somehow, that’s what hurt most of all.

That afternoon, she phoned Franny from her car on the way home from work. They hadn’t talked in a while and Stevie wanted to firm up plans for when Franny was in L.A.

“How’s Junior?” she asked.

“Doing gymnastics at the moment. At this rate, I’m not sure which of us is going to get to the delivery room first.”

“Where are you?” Stevie could hear traffic noises in the background.

“In a cab on the way to my Lamaze class. Like I can even bend over, much less get down on the floor,” Franny groaned.

“Is Em with you?” Emerson was Franny’s labor coach.

Franny hesitated before answering. “Um, well, the thing is, there’s been a slight change in plans.”

“How so?”

“I have a new coach.”

“Who, the cabbie?” joked Stevie.

“No, Jay.”

“Wow. When did that happen?”

“Don’t act so surprised. He
is
the father, after all.”

“But I thought…”

“I know. Me, too.” Franny rushed ahead, not letting her finish. “But it was his idea. He says he’s ready to move on.”

“Does Vivienne know about this?”

“He hasn’t said. Who knows if she’ll even be back by then.”

“Poor Jay. It hasn’t been easy for him.”

“He has his down days,” Franny acknowledged. “But lately more up than down.”

“Knowing you, you had something to do with it.” Franny was no doubt cooking him meals and nagging him into getting out more. But there was something else, too, something in her guarded tone that was making Stevie’s reporter’s nose twitch. She knew better than to try and get it out of Franny over the phone; she’d have to wait until she could quiz her in person. Which reminded her…“Listen, if you don’t have any plans for the Sunday you’re in town, my mom’s having a barbecue. You and Keith are invited.”

“Sounds like fun. I’ll check with him, but as far as I know we’re free.”

“You guys won’t be off in some romantic hideaway?” she teased.

Franny laughed. “In my condition? Marine World is more like it.”

“Seriously, how’s it going with you two?”

“Great. He says he can’t wait to see me.” Franny didn’t say how excited she was to see him.

“Any idea what he’s getting you for your birthday?” Stevie asked.

Franny was silent a moment. “From the hints he’s dropped, I have a feeling it’s coming in a small box.”

Stevie sucked in a breath. “You think he’ll pop the question?”

Her mind traveled back to when Ryan had asked her to marry him. All morning the thought of him with another woman had been throbbing in her head like an infected tooth. She should have seen it coming. He hadn’t returned any of her calls and the one time she’d run into him at a function, he couldn’t get away fast enough. Even so, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, she’d nursed the tiny hope that she could win him back. More and more lately, she’d been thinking that marriage wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. She still wasn’t quite ready to take that leap, but it didn’t seem so scary anymore. Maybe the trick was not to look down.

“It’s a definite possibility, though I’m not holding my breath.” Franny sounded less than ecstatic about the prospect for some reason. Puzzled, Stevie was about to ask if she was having second thoughts when Franny announced that her cab had arrived at its destination. She said a hurried good-bye and hung up.

Leaving Stevie to wonder what possible hope there was for her if Franny, the Cinderella in search of Prince Charming to her Typhoid Mary of Commitment, was getting cold feet.

Y
ou’re looking a little peaky, dear. You really should think about hiring extra help. You’re working much too hard.” Marjorie peered at Emerson in the grainy light of the waning afternoon.

“I’m fine, Mother. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure,” Emerson said with a cheeriness that had nothing to do with their sad little meal on TV trays in the living room. Sleep was a thing of the past these days. Between work, caring for Ainsley and her mother, and juggling her schedule to snatch stolen moments with Reggie, she was running on empty.

“Nonsense. You’re stretched too thin. In my day, women stayed home to look after their children.” Marjorie’s gaze drifted to Ainsley, who’d finished eating and was on the floor putting a puzzle together.

Like you did with me?
It was all Emerson could do not to give in to the derisive laugh swelling in her throat. What she recalled was a succession of nannies, until the money ran out; after that, the only adult she could rely on was Nacario. What did it say when you got more affection from the doorman than your own mother?

“Honestly, Mother, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,” she said.

“God knows you made out well enough from the divorce,” Marjorie went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “However you feel about Briggs, you can’t say he hasn’t been generous.” Marjorie was fond of reminding her of Briggs’s wealth.

“True,” Emerson agreed. No, Briggs didn’t stint, especially with Ainsley. But she saw no point in pursuing the subject. “More chicken?” she asked, though her mother had scarcely touched what was on her plate.

It was painfully apparent she was going downhill. Her skin had a waxen cast, and the shawl she was swathed in couldn’t disguise how skeletal she’d become. Still, Marjorie clung to the false hope that she’d be back on her feet in time, only joking about her imminent death as a way of warding off her fears. You had to admire her for it, Emerson thought. No one dictated to her mother, not even the Grim Reaper.

“Thank you, dear, but I don’t seem to have much of an appetite these days.” Marjorie carefully folded her napkin and placed it on her tray. “It’s no wonder, the way that new girl is always shoving food at me.”

“She has a name, Mother. It’s Chanel.” Emerson could barely contain her impatience. Marjorie’s last day nurse had finally thrown in the towel, and the agency had had to scramble to replace her on such short notice. They were lucky to have gotten anyone at all.

“As if anyone with an ounce of class would be named after a fashion label,” Marjorie sniffed.

Emerson bristled. These days, she was more sensitive than usual to such remarks. “You named me after my grandfather,” she said dryly. “Lots of people would think that was strange.”

“That’s entirely different.”

Just because that’s how our kind does it?
Emerson had been dealing with the same convoluted logic all her life. Rules ordinary people lived by didn’t apply to them. But she didn’t dare get into it with her mother, lest she accidentally let the cat out of the bag about Reggie.

Wasn’t it bad enough that Ainsley had almost walked in on them the other day? Her nanny had brought her home early after Ainsley had thrown up at Callie Whittaker’s birthday party. Poor Reggie had had to hide out in the bedroom while Emerson hustled Karen out the door, then tended to Ainsley. By the time she’d gotten her cleaned up and into bed, he was gone.

Now Ainsley was running over to them. “Grandma, look, I got all the pieces!” She held up the puzzle Marjorie had bought her, or rather had Nacario pick up at the store. Lately she’d been prevailing on him for all kinds of errands that went well beyond his duties as concierge. Yet he refused the tips Emerson tried to press on him, saying it was between him and Mrs. Fitzgibbons—never mind that Marjorie had no money of her own.

“What a clever girl you are!” Marjorie leaned forward to hug Ainsley, her shawl slipping off her shoulders and revealing a collarbone so prominent it was all Emerson could do not to wince.

Ainsley beamed. “I read the book you got me, too. Reggie helped me with the hard words.”

Marjorie reflected on this for a moment before saying sweetly, “You’ve certainly been spending a lot of time with Reggie, haven’t you?”

Ainsley nodded vigorously. “He’s my friend.”

“That’s nice, dear. But we mustn’t forget he’s an employee.”

Emerson felt the mouthful of potatoes she’d just swallowed push its way back up her throat. It was history repeating itself, Marjorie attempting to poison Ainsley’s mind just as she’d tried to do with her.

“Ainsley can be friends with whoever she likes,” she said, a bit too sharply.

Marjorie cast her a long, speculative look, and Emerson realized too late she’d tipped her hand. Oh, God. Why did she have to bite? Why couldn’t she have let it go and explained to Ainsley later on that her grandmother had old-fashioned ideas about some things?

“It looks like Ainsley’s not the only one with a new friend.” Marjorie went on studying her with those cool, assessing eyes.

Emerson’s face went hot and panic rose in her, beating like the wings of a captive butterfly. Her mother suspected something. She was almost sure of it. “Of course, we’re friendly. I’m over here all the time. Who else is there to talk to?” Not until the words were out did she realize her gaffe.

But it was too late to take it back. Flags of color appeared on Marjorie’s cheeks and she seemed to shrink into the mound of pillows at her back. She looked like a baby bird without its feathers, tiny and vulnerable.

“I meant when you’re asleep.” Emerson tried to smooth it over.

But her mother wasn’t buying her flimsy explanation. “I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you,” she said in a small, hurt voice.

“I didn’t say that.”

“If you’d rather not come, just say so. No one’s holding a gun to your head.”

Emerson blew out an exasperated breath. “I’m sorry, Mother. That came out wrong. It’s just that I’m a little stressed at the moment.”

“You’re overworked, is all.” Somewhat mollified, Marjorie seized the chance to drive home her earlier point. “If you’d stop being so stubborn and find someone to live-in…”

Emerson tuned out the rest. She felt a headache coming on. Why couldn’t she have been honest with her mother? But it was useless, she knew. If she’d told her about Reggie, it would only have made matters worse. Marjorie’s doctors had warned that her heart, weakened from the chemotherapy and radiation, could very well give out if subjected to any undue stress.
How would I feel,
Emerson wondered,
knowing I was responsible for robbing her of what little time she has left?

No, there was only one person she could talk to right now. Someone who wouldn’t judge her or make her feel guilty. “Why don’t you see what’s on TV while I take some of this food down to Nacario?” she said when her mother had finally run out of breath. She picked up their trays and carried them into the kitchen. Leaving the washing up for later on, she made up a plate and carried it down in the elevator.

“Ah,
chiquita,
you know the way to an old man’s heart,” Nacario said, peeling off the tin foil to eye the leftovers as if this were a gourmet feast.

“I still don’t see why you have to work weekends,” she said as they settled on folding chairs in the box room where the staff took their breaks. He certainly had enough seniority to assign this shift to one of the more junior employees.

He shrugged. “Jamal and Ernesto, they have young children at home.” Nacario’s were grown, the four eldest with families of their own and the two youngest off at college. “Besides, I’ll be retiring soon enough.”

She smiled and shook her head. Nacario had been talking about retiring for years. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Soon it won’t be up to me to decide.” He pressed a hand to the small of his back, wincing a little. “My spirit is strong, but the body is not so willing these days. There’s no getting around it,
chiquita.
I’m old. There comes a day when even the most stubborn man has to face that fact.” In that instant, as he sat there hunched over the plate of food balanced on one splayed knee, he
did
look old. But his familiar face, even with its sagging jowls and the pouches under his eyes, was all the more dear to her because of it.

“If I know you, you’ll be doing chin-ups while your buddies are being pushed around in wheelchairs,” she said with a laugh. Even so, she felt a touch of unease.

“God willing.” He rolled his eyes heavenward as he made the sign of the cross. He was digging into his food when he paused to inquire about her mother. “I haven’t seen her in days. I hope she hasn’t caught that flu that’s been going around.”

“No. Just this latest round of chemo—it’s really knocked her out.” On nice days the day nurse usually took her out to get some air, but lately Marjorie hadn’t been feeling up to even that.

“And how have
you
been,
chiquita?”
he asked, eyeing her as if he sensed something was on her mind.

“Either miserable or happier than I’ve ever been in my life, depending on when you ask,” she said with a sigh. She lived for the stolen hours with Reggie, when he was between classes and Ainsley at school, but then there were the days when they were apart, when she’d long for him and feel angry at Marjorie for forcing them to sneak around. Taking note of Nacario’s puzzled expression, she explained, “I’ve been seeing someone, and let’s just say my mother wouldn’t be too happy if she knew.”

“I take it she wouldn’t approve of this man?”

Emerson smiled thinly. “Actually, it’s Reggie.” It felt good to let the secret out, if only to Nacario.

“Ah.” Nacario nodded slowly, taking it in. “This is a delicate matter, I agree.”

“If my mother found out, it would kill her.”

“Meanwhile, you are the one who is suffering,” he pointed out.

“I’ve looked at it from every angle, and I can’t see a way out.”

“Are you sure it’s only your mother that’s holding you back?” His gaze was gentle but probing.

She thought for a moment before reluctantly acknowledging, “I suppose a part of me is afraid of making another mistake. And we’re so different—on the surface, at least.”

“True love knows no obstacles,” he said, no doubt thinking of his wife, whom he’d married when they were just sixteen. They’d arrived in this country penniless, speaking no English, and with a baby on the way. Forty years later they were still very much in love.

“From your lips to God’s ear, as my friend Franny would say.” Though in Emerson’s experience, love rarely conquered all. With a sigh, she rose to her feet. “I should be getting back. My mother will wonder what’s keeping me. Don’t worry about the plate. I’ll come back for it later on.” It was no use telling him, she knew. The plate and flatware would be delivered to their door sparkling clean before the day was out.

She hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder a moment before drawing back. “Thank you,” she said.

“He’s a good man. You chose well,” he told her.

As she rode up in the elevator, Emerson thought about all the bumbling first dates and blossoming relationships Nacario had witnessed through the years. He’d been there to listen and when need be provide a shoulder to cry on, but until now he’d always kept his opinions to himself. The fact that he’d given Reggie his approval meant a great deal to her.

Now if only she could get her mother to see it the same way….

The following Thursday, Emerson was leaving the office at the end of the day when her cell phone rang. It was Reggie. Her heart leaped at the sound of his voice, but just as quickly fell when he told her why he was calling. There was something he needed to talk to her about, something urgent he couldn’t tell her over the phone. From his tone she guessed it wasn’t good.

“I’m on my way home,” she told him. “Why don’t you meet me there? Ainsley will be at a play date until dinnertime.”

By the time he joined her half an hour later, she’d worked herself into a state, convinced this was it, he was going to break up with her. He was tired of sneaking around, he’d say. If she couldn’t see him openly, he had no choice but to end it. It took her completely by surprise when instead he pulled a folded letter from his back pocket and wordlessly handed it to her.

Reading it, Emerson felt the blood drain from her face. “It says your visa has been revoked. This can’t be right. It has to be some mistake.” She shook her head in disbelief. “They don’t even give a reason!” Just some governmental gobbledygook that made no sense.

“Apparently they don’t have to.” He spoke with the bitter resignation of someone used to the byzantine ways of the INS.

“But they can’t do this! You haven’t done anything wrong!”

She looked up to find Reggie smiling sadly. He looked as if he’d run the whole way, his face lightly sheened with perspiration and dark half-moons of sweat standing out under the arms of his shirt. “You forget I don’t have the same rights as you.”

“Okay, so you weren’t born in this country, but that doesn’t mean they can just throw you out without an explanation,” she went on, growing more indignant by the moment.