* * *
Sonnet hadn’t told her father or Orlando about her
temporary job working on the production. They were mortified enough that she’d
turned down the fellowship. When they heard she’d gone from a directorship at
UNESCO to working on a reality TV show about a notorious hip-hop star, they’d
think she’d lost her marbles.
But that’s what you did for family, she reminded herself.
That’s what you did for your mom. You turned your back on everything else, and
you stuck close, and you stayed there for as long as you were needed. The rest
of life would still be waiting when the storm was past.
This became her mantra as she rode the train back to the city
to sublet her apartment to a former colleague, and put her things in storage.
Orlando was in Washington D.C. for the weekend, but her father had agreed to
meet her at their usual spot, a coffee shop near his home on the Upper West
Side. He’d explained that his daughter Layla was coming home from college today,
so his time was limited.
As she let herself into the building, she thought she might
feel a twinge of nostalgia, but instead, felt curiously detached. She had lived
in the cramped walk-up for more than five years, yet rather than feeling like a
home, it was like the other places she’d been since leaving Avalon—a way station
along her journey, not meant to be permanent. The bank of mailboxes was
utilitarian; she cleared out her junk mail and removed the tab reading S. Romano
and it was as if she’d never been there.
Upstairs, the postage stamp-sized studio didn’t take long to
organize. Because the place was so small, she kept it tidy. There were only a
few personal items around. She picked up a photo collage of her and her mom
through the years. The oldest photo was a shot of her and Nina, who looked even
younger than most teenaged mothers. Sonnet had seen the shot a million times,
but now she studied it with new eyes. Nina wore an expression of desperate
pride, reminiscent of a kid bringing home a straight-A report card, only instead
of a card, she was holding a swaddled newborn. The shot was somehow both
heartbreaking and joyous. Young as she was, Nina surely understood that she was
not going to end up with the life she’d probably always dreamed of having.
Then again, did anyone end up with the life they’d dreamed of
when they were fifteen? Only a select few, and Sonnet was not one of them. In
her case, this was fortunate. If she’d become the person she’d dreamed of being
at fifteen, she would be a prima ballerina with six kids and a horse farm.
When Sonnet got older, she came to understand the sacrifices
her mother had made. Nina had worked two jobs in order to pay for her education,
and Sonnet spent more time with her grandmother than she did with her mom. She
had few memories of Nina giving in to despair, but one was extremely vivid. It
was a school night, and Sonnet had finished her homework and had her snack and
was waiting for her mother to pick her up. Nina had a couple of housekeeping
jobs that made her extra late some nights. Sonnet could hear her talking to
Nonna in the kitchen, and her voice was thick the way it got when she cried.
“Mama, I can’t do this anymore,” she’d said. “I’m so tired at
night I can’t even fall asleep. What am I going to do?”
“Give something up,” Nonna advised. “There is no law that says
you must do everything at once.”
“If I don’t finish my degree program now, I’ll be stuck with
lousy jobs forever,” Nina had said. “That’s no kind of life to give my daughter.
The only thing worse than going on like this is
not
going on like this.”
“Well, then,” Nonna had said with a smile in her voice, “you
just answered your own question.”
Sonnet had felt very solemn and grown up as she’d walked into
the kitchen. “I want to help you,” she’d announced. “I know how to clean.”
At that, Nina had swooped her into her arms. “Yes, you do. But
you have a different job, baby. Your job is to be the kid, and to have fun and
learn things and make me smile every day. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try really hard,” Sonnet had said. Even as a child, she’d
embraced responsibility, applying herself to school and sports and music lessons
with single-minded dedication.
All of the photos in the collage had been shot in and around
Willow Lake. She and her mother could never afford a vacation, but with a little
creativity, they’d taken imaginary trips together. There was a picture of the
two of them wearing head scarves and aprons like Nonna and the ladies from the
old country. They had decorated the house like an Italian village and fixed
Italian food and listened to Italian music every night for a week.
Sonnet smiled at the memories as she packed away the photos in
a box of personal items. There were only a few more pictures around—a portrait
of her and her mom at Nina’s wedding; Nina had been radiant that day, and Sonnet
was ecstatic for her and Greg. There was a picture of Sonnet and her father
embracing when she got her master’s degree from Georgetown. Her father’s
chiseled profile was turned away from the camera but Sonnet wore a look shining
with pride as she held him. She had a shot of Orlando striding away from the UN
with briefcase in hand, the other hand lifted to hail a taxi. Sonnet had always
liked the picture, not just because he looked incredibly handsome in it, but
because the smile on his face was for her.
One keepsake that was in a drawer rather than displayed on a
bookshelf was a picture taken by Sonnet’s stepsister, Daisy. It was a classic
awkward senior prom picture of Sonnet and her date—Zach Alger. They had both
been dateless for prom, so they’d agreed to go together. She remembered feeling
ridiculously grateful to him for that. She loved dressing up, and the thought of
skipping prom had been too depressing to contemplate.
Zach looked so skinny in the photo, and so pale, like an albino
scarecrow. But he had been the perfect gentleman; he’d shown up with a corsage
and a boutonniere in the lapel of his rented tux. Only later did she find out
how hard it had been for him that night to scrape together the money for
prom.
She had thanked him with a hug, inhaling the scent of his
cologne, and she’d told him everything was going to be all right. And it was.
Years later, it still was. The two of them simply needed to find the equilibrium
in their friendship once again. There was no reason they couldn’t put the
wedding mistake behind them and move ahead.
Feeling resolute about her decision, she packed up her personal
belongings to take down to the storage locker and finished tidying up the
already-tidy studio. By the time she was finished, it looked as neat and generic
as a midpriced hotel room.
Then she set out to meet her father. She went to the
fashionable old-world neighborhood where he lived, brownstones with gorgeous
front gardens on a street that ended at the river. She was early for their
meeting, so she grabbed a table outside where she could enjoy the afternoon sun,
and ordered a chai latte.
Halfway down the block she could see his house, as staid and
handsome as Laurence Jeffries himself. The garden was meticulously tended and
the front steps pristine, as were the tasteful sheer curtains that hung in the
bay window in front. The place didn’t shout “money” but it whispered the message
quite clearly. Her father’s wife, Angela, came from money. Her own father had
been a famous civil rights leader who later made a fortune as a broadcaster for
a major network. The Jeffries girls, Layla and Kara, had always enjoyed private
schools, lavish vacations and designer clothes.
When she was younger, Sonnet used to burn with envy, seeing all
the opportunities offered to the younger girls. Thanks to their father’s career,
they traveled the world. Thanks to their mother’s money, they did so in style.
But during college, when Sonnet had studied abroad in Germany, she had come to
realize that she was making her own opportunities, all by herself. Most of the
time, that mature, philosophical attitude was enough to silence the ugly little
demon inside that felt cheated.
As she sat sipping her chai, a black town car glided up to the
front of the Jeffries house. Layla, the younger of the two girls got out, and
the driver unloaded a couple of pieces of luggage, including a duffel bag marked
with the bright red-and-white logo of Cornell. A moment later, Laurence came
out. Layla sped up the stairs and threw her arms around him, and he lifted her
off the ground.
Despite her mature, philosophical attitude, Sonnet felt a
painful twist in her gut. It wasn’t the advantages she envied, it was the
access. It was having a father you could throw yourself at, one who would swing
you around and be full of joy, just holding you in his arms.
Focus, she told herself. Focus on what you
can
have with him. She could have his respect, his pride, his ear
when she had something to say. But oh, how she dreaded disappointing him.
When he arrived at the coffee shop twenty minutes later, she
was on her second chai. She stood and they gave each other a brief, decorous
hug, like colleagues who hadn’t seen each other in a while.
“How are you?” she asked him. “How is the campaign going?”
“I’m told it’s going well. But even if it was going poorly, I’d
be told it’s going well. The only one who really tells it like it is
Orlando.”
“And he says it’s going well.”
“So far, yes.” Her father smiled at her, the pride in his eyes
shining like warm rays of sunshine. “You picked a good one. Orlando’s one of a
kind.”
“I think
you
picked him,” she said
with a laugh.
“I’m just glad you two hit it off. You’re good together.”
“We are, aren’t we?” She picked up her cup, set it down without
tasting it. “So there’s news. I wanted to fill you in.”
“No way,” her father said. “He popped the question?”
She burst out laughing. “I can’t believe that’s the first thing
you thought.” Just for a moment, she let herself bask in the happiness she saw
on her dad’s face. Orlando was a long way from popping any question other than,
“Will you try not to lose
this
key?” And she was
even further away from knowing how on earth she’d answer.
“Any guy in his position would be going in that direction with
you, Sonnet. You’re an amazing young woman.”
“Thanks.” She savored the warmth of his compliment, hoping he
wouldn’t change his opinion when she explained her plan. “I wanted to let you
know I’m subletting my apartment.”
“You’re giving it up?” His brow furrowed, and he stirred his
coffee.
“Subletting it,” she repeated. “To a friend at UNESCO who’s
been dying to move closer to work.”
“Sonnet, I know it’s none of my business, but moving in with
Orlando right at this time could get the wrong kind of attention from
Delvecchio’s campaign. I wouldn’t want them starting rumors about my unmarried
daughter—”
“That’s not the plan,” she said quickly. At the same time, she
felt a twinge of annoyance. Her father always thought first of his campaign—how
would something affect him, his chances at winning a seat in the Senate? “I’m
not talking about moving in with Orlando. I’m resigning my directorship and
staying in Avalon.”
He was clenching his back teeth. She could tell by the way the
side of his jaw bulged out. “And I admire you for sacrificing the Hartstone
Fellowship because of your mother, but your position at UNESCO is something you
should never give up.”
“I don’t really have a choice,” she said. “I’m going to be with
my mother throughout her treatment, and that doesn’t mean a three-hour train
commute.”
“So you’re taking a sabbatical,” he said, steepling his fingers
together.
“I’m not worried about what it’s called. But there’s something
else I wanted to let you know. I’m going to be working while I’m in Avalon. I’ve
got loads of student loans to pay off, and I can’t afford to be out of work.”
She flashed on an image of his other daughter, who would undoubtedly graduate
debt-free from Cornell, and the little demon of envy reared its ugly head. “Work
is important to me,” she hastened to add. “It always has been.”
“What sort of work are you doing in Avalon?”
Here’s where it got tricky. She considered telling him she was
working with children, which was technically true, but it was probably best to
get the explanation over with quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “I’m working
in location and production on a reality show called
Big
Girl, Small Town
.”
The expression on his face would have been comical if she’d
been joking. “Dad,” she said. “I didn’t say I’d taken a job as a pole dancer.
It’s going to be a family show.”
After certain words were
bleeped out
.
“I’m not familiar with that type of show,” he said, staring
down into his coffee cup as if he saw something distasteful in the bottom.
“It’s about a hip-hop singer called Jezebel. Heard of her?”
Even though he was a black man, her dad seemed to turn a whiter
shade of pale. “No, but I suppose my daughters might have.”
“You’re right. Anyway, Jezebel is the star of the show. She’s
going to be filmed working with inner-city kids at Camp Kioga, on Willow Lake.
She’s outspoken and—okay, I’ll be blunt. She’s talented and smart, but she’s
also mouthy and obnoxious. I’m pretty sure the show will focus on her most
outrageous moments.”
“And you’re working for this outfit…why?”
“There aren’t a lot of jobs in a town like Avalon. The pay is
incredibly good, and it’s temporary.”
“How temporary?”
“You mean, how soon before your opponent’s camp finds out and
reports that General Jeffries’s daughter is working with a felon?”
“She’s a
felon
?”
“Sorry, Dad. She got in trouble because of some worthless guy,
but that’s over. She’s doing community service, working with the kids.” Sonnet
pictured steam coming out of his ears.