What Family Means Read online

  They’d never spoken again.

  “Yeah. I guess we…drifted apart.”

  “Call it whatever you want, Will. I have another class in half an hour, across the place.”

  With that she stalked away from him and he just stood there, his breath gone. As though she’d punched him in the stomach, hard. But she hadn’t even touched him.

  She’d given him that look—of contempt? Disapproval?—with her brilliant eyes. The eyes that used to radiate hero worship for him.

  The eyes that glowed softly in the winter moonlight after he’d kissed her, his hands on either side of her face. He hadn’t felt the cold blustering around them.

  Just the wonder of childhood companionship that had grown into something deeper.

  And was cut off.

  Will shivered in the autumn sunshine.

  A moment earlier, her eyes had done the same thing to him. She’d cut him off.

  September 1972

  Paris, France

  DEBRA HAD NO IDEA how she did it. She’d walked away from Will after missing him for all these years. His memory had spoiled the chances of every boyfriend since.

  She liked boys. A lot, in fact.

  But when it came to talking about things that mattered, they were dumb asses compared to Will. How could they be anything else? She and Will had shared a childhood friendship that could never be recaptured with anyone else.

  It didn’t mean she couldn’t find the same level of intimacy with anyone else, did it?

  So far she hadn’t. But she was still young.

  She snorted and heaved her book bag higher on her shoulder.

  Pretty pathetic that she compared college men to a boy she’d known in Buffalo.

  Buffalo.

  Ha! Will’s expression had said it all. He’d never expected her to amount to anything, much less run into her here, of all places. Although a small, hidden part of her was saddened by that, part of her was exuberant.

  She’d far exceeded everyone’s expectations, even her own.

  One of her favorite things about Paris beckoned, and she stopped at a café, ordering coffee and a croissant. The waiter sent her an appreciative glance.

  Debra gave him the smile she’d perfected over the summer. It was her “thanks for the thought but no chance, pal” smile. His own smile faded and he turned away.

  She sipped her coffee and gazed at the people strolling by her table. Since it wasn’t raining, she sat outside to soak up the sun, reveling in the sparkling fountain across the street.

  She was far away from the days of survival in Buffalo, living with mom in their one-bedroom duplex.

  Poor Mom. She’d done the best she could. Eventually she’d met a man who was able to offer her companionship as well as help her out financially. They lived out in Crabapple Lake, a suburb Debra hadn’t even heard of when she was a kid. She thought life began and ended in her city neighborhood.

  With Will.

  She looked at the potted flowers on the café’s terrace. The yellow blooms seemed to be stretching for their last moments of sunlight before winter set in.

  She liked the weather here, much milder than Boston, certainly more so than Buffalo.

  Will hadn’t realized how smart she was. She hadn’t, either, until her SAT scores came back and she’d found out she could go to just about any college she wanted. Harvard was an obvious choice but she’d settled on Mount Holyoke. It seemed more intimate, and the all-girl environment enticed her. She’d hoped to find the sister she’d never had. A girlfriend who wasn’t intimidated by her intelligence.

  Amy had stepped into that void in her life. The girl from Iowa had shared her sense of adventure and wide-eyed wonder at their good fortune in freshman year. They’d both left impoverished situations, ending up in the Mecca of American education.

  And elitism.

  Elitism wasn’t new to Debra.

  She’d met Will’s mother.

  “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a class?”

  The question ripped her out of her musings.

  Amy, also her Parisian flatmate, stood in front of the table, blocking the sunlight.

  “No, not until two.” She’d lied to Will. Why did that bother her?

  “Great. Want to go check out the library?”

  “Which one?”

  She dropped the appropriate coins on the table and grabbed her backpack. A walk through yet another beautiful building was distinctly preferable to her Buffalo memories.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  October 1972

  Paris, France

  “DEBRA?” Amy called.

  Amy walked back into the small flat’s parlor with the person who’d rung their doorbell.

  “Will!”

  His presence drew every ounce of her attention.

  How had he found her? More important, why?

  “I have a class a block away in a couple of hours, and I wondered if you’d like to get a cup of coffee with me?”

  Amy’s polite cough distracted Debra. Only then did she see her friend’s curious expression.

  “Sorry. Amy, this is Will, Will, my flatmate, Amy.” At Amy’s arched eyebrow, Debra added, “Will’s an old friend from my hometown. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

  “Nice to meet you, Will.”

  “A pleasure.”

  Will grasped Amy’s hand. Debra was horrified yet intrigued at the stab of jealousy that streaked across her awareness.

  Will turned back to her.

  “Ready?”

  “Let me get my coat.” The temperature had started to drop, and the nights required a jacket or heavy sweater.

  “Great.” His expression was so relaxed, as though he and Debra did this all the time. As though he took girls out all the time.

  Stupid jealousy.

  Debra ignored Amy’s stifled giggles and unspoken questions.

  “Later,” she muttered to her flatmate as she and Will left.

  Debra was grateful for the sting of the cold night air that hit her cheeks as soon as they were outside.

  In silent agreement they headed toward the river.

  “So, how have your classes been going?” Will’s expression was one of total concentration on her. Debra had missed their bond more than she’d admitted to herself.

  “Great. I still can’t believe I’m here. I’ve always dreamed of studying in Paris, and, well, here I am.” She sounded so dumb, so suburban!

  She bit her lip to keep from saying anything else inane.

  “I know what you mean. It’s unreal, isn’t it? Paris is so far from Buffalo.”

  His stride was much longer than hers, but he fell into step next to her. She didn’t feel rushed or anxious. It had always been easy between her and Will.

  She noticed another mixed-race couple passing near them.

  “Yes, it sure is far from home.” Her voice had a hitch in it she couldn’t control.

  “Do you go back often?”

  They waited to cross the street, and she turned to look at him. He smiled at her. The light in his eyes and the shape of his lips were so familiar to her. Yet different.

  This was a more intense version of the Will she’d known. The Will she thought of as her first love.

  An intense longing started deep in her belly and spread out through her limbs. Her reaction caught her off guard.

  The light changed and Debra broke their eye contact.

  She stepped off the curb and struggled to resume their conversation.

  “When I was in Boston I’d go back at Christmas. I used to go home at Thanksgiving, too, if I could find a ride. But it’s just too far for such a short visit. And with doubling up on my courses, I can’t afford all that time away during the school year.”

  “I hear you.” He smiled at her. “And what have you been doing during the summers?”

  “I do co-op work to earn spending money.” Her cheeks burned and her ire flared. She had nothing to be ashamed of. “I have a full academi
c ride,” she went on to explain, “but I like to have the funds for all the extras.” Why did she need to justify herself to him?

  Will smiled at her again and the warmth in his eyes made her oblivious to the stiff wind that whisked up leaves on the street.

  “I go back home and work at an architecture firm when I have time. These past two summers I’ve been in class, though.”

  They walked in silence. Of course he was in class all the time. His parents were able to afford the best for Will.

  “How’s your brother?”

  “He’s doing great, but he’s pissed off my folks.” He looked at her sideways. “Sorry for the cussing.”

  “I’ve heard worse.” She didn’t say that the worst words she’d heard were from her mother. She didn’t have to; Will knew.

  “How did your brother upset your parents?” She asked the question knowing it didn’t take much to anger Will’s mother.

  “He went to West Point.”

  “Really?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yeah. He wanted to serve his country, but if he’d enlisted it really would’ve killed Mom and Dad. This was a better choice, although they’re still mad at him.”

  Debra didn’t comment.

  His family would’ve expected Jimmy to attend a historically black college or university, as Will had, and wanted him to pursue a respected civilian profession. The military was never part of the plans they had for their children, she was sure.

  Will’s family was one of the more distressing memories of Buffalo she preferred to leave buried.

  She shuddered and shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets.

  “It’s getting chilly at night, isn’t it?” she murmured. They were on the right bank of the Seine, walking with dozens, possibly hundreds, of others. Yet it felt as it always had with Will.

  As though they were the only two people in the universe.

  “Spoken like a true Buffalo gal.”

  They laughed.

  “Yeah, where else is ‘chilly’ just above freezing?”

  “Or a ‘nice day’ any day with sun and less than a foot of snow?” He laughed again. “I’ve missed our conversations, Deb.”

  “Me, too.” But she didn’t want to explore why they hadn’t been able to keep in touch. Because, in the end, it always came back to one thing. The chasm between their backgrounds and families.

  Several couples passed. What did they look like to others? Simply students? Good friends? Or more?

  “Did you already eat?” Polite as ever. Thinking of her.

  “Yes, Amy and I eat earlier than most Parisians.”

  “And it’s cheaper to eat in.”

  “You got it.” Although she doubted Will had to worry about how much any meal cost, even over here. She noticed how he’d matured since she’d last seen him. His facial features were more chiseled, his body more powerful, more purposeful in its movements.

  “Do you eat in or usually go out?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I do whatever’s easiest. I basically live on baguettes with ham and cheese. Sometimes I treat myself to a hot meal in one of the cafés at lunch, but not too often.”

  “Have you tried the student mess?” She found it the most reasonable place to get a decent meal.

  “Yeah, but it’s not practical for me. I only have one class a week near there.”

  “Have you eaten, Will?”

  “Actually, no. Would you mind sitting with me while I dine?”

  “That sounds so formal.”

  He paused, and she stopped next to him. The wind whipped at their faces and her eyes smarted.

  “I don’t mean to sound formal. I just think it’s incredible that we’ve run into each other again, Deb, and I’m at a loss for what to say to you. My family was so unbelievably rude—”

  “Stop.” She placed her gloved hands on his arm. “That’s so far in the past, Will. I don’t want to talk about it. We’re in Paris, for heaven’s sake! People are more open-minded here.”

  His eyes reflected the glint of the streetlamps off the water.

  “Deb, you were my best friend growing up. I’m still angry at myself for allowing my mo—”

  She held up her hand. “No, I mean it, Will. If we’re going to be friends here, I don’t want to talk about it. Deal?”

  She lowered her hand and offered it to him.

  He grasped her fingers and even through her wool gloves she felt the charge of awareness course between them.

  “Deal.”

  He held on to her hand a beat longer than necessary. Debra tugged it free. She’d have to be very careful or she’d end up believing she and Will were more than childhood friends.

  “Where did you have in mind for dinner?”

  “I have a favorite place near Saint Chapelle. It’s small, loud and cheap. Oh, and the food’s great.” His teeth flashed in the evening light.

  “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Present Day

  Buffalo, New York

  Debra

  “YOU SOUND AS THOUGH you aren’t surprised.” I had the phone tucked to my shoulder as I folded laundry. We’d already discussed Vi’s health and were on to the children. The day had dawned bright, and sunlight danced on the snow-covered ground.

  “They’re young and in love. We’ve been there, haven’t we, baby?” Will’s baritone tickled my ear even over the phone, thirty-five-hundred miles away.

  I sighed.

  “Yes, but our circumstances were quite different.”

  “Honey, I know you’re worried about Angie. But I have a feeling this will all work out. Yes, our circumstances were different. To many folks they still are.”

  “What about to you, Will?”

  “You know me, Deb. I don’t give a flying—”

  “I know you don’t care what others think.” I cut him off before he blistered my ear. “But I want you to tell me what you think. Has it been worth it?”

  “Worth it? You mean you’re not sure?”

  “I am as far as you and I are concerned. But the kids, Will, are they still paying the price?”

  “They had every comfort growing up, including the best education possible. It wasn’t easy for them being mixed, but life’s hard, sweetheart. And they had it a hell of a lot easier than we ever did.”

  I’d angered him. Will was so defensive about the decision we made to share our lives. To raise the kids with all the love and support we’d both missed in our own childhoods. Never mind the issue of mixed race. Will prided himself on having taken the best lessons from his own childhood to use as a measure of how he’d been as a father to our children. He always took it personally when I mentioned my concerns about the kids and their childhood.

  “Yes and no, Will.”

  “What are you wearing?” He’d lowered his voice and I smiled into the receiver.

  “Nothing. I’m folding laundry in front of the kitchen windows, buck-naked.” I looked down at the fuzzy sweats and slippers I wore.

  “Mmm, I want you to fold me up.”

  I couldn’t help laughing.

  “Day after tomorrow, Will. And we’re not done with this conversation.”

  “I didn’t expect we were.”

  Again I laughed. Will knew me best. I had to talk everything out to the last detail. He was more of an internal-operations type when it came to emotions.

  “Still arriving at the same time?”

  “Yeah, the red-eye. But maybe you’ll take a nap with me when I get in?” Will hated flying at night. He treasured his own bed, and having me to snuggle up with.

  “I’m working out of the home studio all day tomorrow.”

  “See you then, babe. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  After we hung up I finished folding the laundry and headed upstairs to get dressed for the day. For the moment I put my frustration on hold—Will always tried to distract me with sex when he didn’t want to deal with the conflicts between us.
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  I carried the laundry basket upstairs with me and left it on the bed. I would put away the clean clothes later.

  I yanked the yellowed doily my grandmother had crocheted over sixty years ago off the top of the long cedar chest at the foot of our bed. Cedar chests were one of my indulgences over the years. They were the best kind of storage for my artwork and items of knitted clothing I couldn’t bear to part with after long hours of knitting, ripping out, reknitting.

  The aroma of cedar, wool and baby rose from the chest when I opened the lid. It was as if the old chests breathed. In a sense, they did. They were alive with memories.

  Knitting had been my refuge through most of my life.

  I couldn’t remember what I was wearing or how my hair looked on any given day. But I did remember exactly where I was when I knit each sweater, each pair of socks or mittens, and of course, all my wall hangings. Just the feeling of a project took me back to that particular time.

  So many different wools and other fibers brushed my fingers as I dug through the chest, but I ignored them. I was on a mission. I wanted to find the baby items I’d knitted for Angie.

  When was the last time I’d been in this chest?

  I hadn’t even looked in here when Blair and Stella got married, or when they started talking about babies. The twins’ items were all in a different chest, in the guest room that they shared as boys.

  My fingers rubbed against the soft fuzzy yarn I knew was Angie’s layette.

  Eager to remember how small she’d been and how my stitches had formed these tiny outfits, I pulled on the bundle of cloth, mindless of the layers I disturbed.

  I smiled in anticipation of my long-ago treasure.

  I was wrong. In my hands I held some of Angie’s baby clothes, but my gaze didn’t rest on the pink-and-white cardigans. I stared at the bright red scarf that had been knit by my five-year-old hands.

  Sorrow reached up from the depths of the chest and grabbed me, shaking me hard.