Forbidden Sister (The Forbidden 1)

I watched them go off together. All these years, I had viewed them only as my loving guardians, here to provide for me and guide me. Although there were certainly many flashes of affection between them, they were always quite aware of my presence. They loved each other very much. That was obvious, and despite the tragedy of Roxy, we were still a strong family,

but when they walked off together holding hands, I could see my mother’s reminiscences with me still in full bloom on her face, especially in her eyes, and I realized that my father was obviously touched. The love he’d had for her at the very beginning, that passion, had been resurrected. For a while, at least, he would act more like a young man again. In fact, the way they held on to each other, stayed close as they walked off, made them look like two teenage lovers.

Was this a side of them that Roxy had never known? If she saw them now as I did, would she regret even more what she had done and lost, if she regretted it at all? I sensed how important it had become for me to know this, but I didn’t want to go searching for her with Chastity again. Having Chastity there ruined it for me. She was just a voyeur looking for some titillation. I was looking for answers that were critical to who I was and who I would become.

Later, when the Styleses’ family driver called to say that he was waiting outside, Papa and Mama came out, too, to see what sort of car they had sent. It was a black Town Car, and the driver was in a chauffeur’s uniform.

“I hope that’s not on the public’s dime,” Papa muttered.

“Don’t spoil her night,” Mama warned him.

When I had come down in my new dress and shoes, Papa had looked speechless for a moment. Just as you would suddenly enter a new world with your mother, you would with your father, I realized. Fathers, I decided, were far more comfortable seeing their daughters as little girls, while mothers couldn’t wait for them to grow up and get into dresses and hairdos and makeup. When the realization came to fathers that their little girls were on the threshold of being women, they first recoiled. There was safety and comfort when your daughter was a child. She moved in that bubble-gum-and-lollipop world, with little or no idea of what eventually would awaken inside her and make everything she did and everything she said suddenly far more complicated.

Except for the danger of pedophiles, of course, boys and men didn’t hear any sexual suggestions in what a little girl said or see any passionate interest in a little girl’s smile or the look in her eyes. Little girls were really only cute; women were pretty. Little girls could sit on their fathers’ laps with no one raising eyebrows. That would more likely raise smiles. Young women couldn’t. You could hug and kiss your father at any age, of course, but there was always that awareness that you were a woman now. The affection had to be more sophisticated.

Maybe Papa had seen this happening too quickly in Roxy. Maybe he had tried, as they say, to put the toothpaste back into the tube, and that was impossible. She had crossed over, and the little girl was not coming back. He wasn’t prepared for it, not that he ever would be, but it was just too soon, not only for him but for Mama, too.

The chauffeur stepped out quickly when he saw us and came around to open the door for me.

“I hope that turns into a pumpkin at midnight,” Papa called to him.

The chauffeur smiled and tipped his hat. “No worries, sir,” he said. He had an Australian accent to go along with the expression.

When I looked back as we drove off, I saw Mama put her arm through Papa’s and watch the limousine disappear. They were watching me do a very grown-up thing. They knew I was moving on. It made me sad, and I thought, why couldn’t parents return to their youth when their children were old enough to be on their own or when their children were wives and husbands, mothers and fathers? Why couldn’t they become carefree and adventurous again? They had completed their obligations and fulfilled their responsibilities. Wouldn’t a nice long drink from the Fountain of Youth be a wonderful way to go on?

Of course, all grandmothers and grandfathers might protest. That was something special, too.

Evan’s family lived on a cul-de-sac on one of the most expensive streets on the East Side. He was waiting at the entrance when we pulled up and rushed to open my door before the chauffeur could do so.

“You look beautiful,” he said when I stepped out.

“Thank you.”

There was a doorman and a man behind a desk in the lobby manning security cameras. The lobby was all gold and black tile, and there was a large chandelier illuminating the statuary and the artwork. There were small tables and chairs that looked as if they had never been used. I saw that someone had to have a special card to use the elevator.

“This is like a museum,” I said, gazing at the pictures.

“Sometimes it feels like it,” Evan said. “I have to warn you,” he continued when we stepped into the elevator, “my mother can come off snobby sometimes. She’s a stickler for perfection when it comes to her dinners. Another couple is coming, the Vincents. Mark Vincent works with my father in the mayor’s office. He’s okay, but his wife, Millicent, outdoes my mother when it comes to snobbery.”

The elevator door opened right to their apartment entryway. When I commented, Evan told me that every apartment in the building was that way. I thought the place was more difficult for a burglar to break into than Fort Knox. The Styleses’ apartment looked twice as large as ours. It was on the twelfth floor. I could see that the living-room windows and the dining-room windows faced the East River and provided magnificent views.

Evan’s father was the first to greet us. It was easy to see that Evan got some of his handsome features from him. He wore a black sports jacket and a black tie and looked to be about six feet one. He had a tan face and was slim and athletic-looking.

“You did pretty well for yourself, Evan,” he said when he saw me. “Welcome, Emmie, or should I say bonsoir?”

“Whatever you wish, Mr. Styles,” I replied, and he laughed.

Evan’s mother then appeared. She looked as if she had just walked off a photo shoot for Vogue. A more elegant and beautifully put-together woman I had never seen. She wore a black dress, too, and a wide diamond bracelet and diamond teardrop earrings. Evan had her beautiful eyes, I thought.

“Mother, this is Emmie Wilcox,” Evan said.

“Welcome, Emmie. You look very nice,” she said. I saw the way she had been inspecting me from the moment she saw me.

“Thank you.”

“You must have done something special to impress my son,” she continued. “He rarely, if ever, asks to invite any of his friends, especially a young lady, to one of our dinners. Adults are too boring.”

“It’s easy to see what she did to him,” Evan’s father said.