Forbidden Sister (The Forbidden 1)

“First chance we get,” Roxy promised. “Well, I’ve got some preparations to make. I’m going to have to live with a teenager.”

Uncle Alain laughed.

“You all right?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“You can bring more than two suitcases and whatever pathetic makeup you have,” she said.

We watched her leave, and then he and I both felt we needed to hug. Everything was happening so quickly now that I felt as if I had been shoved out of the space station and was floating helplessly. Soon he would be gone, too, and I’d have no one but Roxy to go to for advice.

And then there was the realization that I would be leaving my house. Even when I had been contemplating going to live with Uncle Orman and Aunt Lucy, I had not really understood that I would be walking out our front door forever and leaving behind all of the memories a warm, loving home could provide. For a moment, I stood in the living room, turning very slowly to absorb every little thing, from the figurines Mama had collected to every piece of furniture, every crease in every chair, especially Papa’s, and every picture on every wall.

Maybe Roxy would want some of this, I thought, but probably not. It wouldn’t fit into her world, and she wouldn’t be as fond of the memories. No, this eventually was going to be a permanent good-bye.

Mama had once told me of a similar experience when she had left her family home in France. She was excited about marrying Papa and coming to America, of course, but “it was as if another umbilical cord was being cut,” she told me. “A home is truly a lifeline, a place where you feel safe and secure, a place to run to when you’ve been hurt or frightened by something or someone. Everything in it is part of your family and so part of you. The aromas of the food my mother prepared. The smell of my father’s pipe tobacco, my sisters’ perfumes, my brother’s cologne, and the fresh scent in washed linens and towels. All of it lives inside you. It was a lot to leave behind,” she said, her voice drifting into almost a whisper. I could easily imagine the expression on her face when she had turned to look back, and I could feel her sadness.

Now I was feeling the same sadness.

Surely, despite Papa’s self-confidence and abilities, she was also a little afraid when she left France to live in America. She would have to learn new customs, more English, and new rules that governed everyday life. It took almost as much courage as love.

For me, the prospect of going to live with Roxy was probably not so far from the prospect of going to live in another country. I was excited and intrigued, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit to being afraid. Would Uncle Orman and Aunt Lucy be right? Would I find myself in an even more terrible situation? Where would I go then?

Once I was terrified of merely talking to Roxy because of what Papa would think and how betrayed he would feel.

If a corpse could really turn over in its grave, Papa might do just that the next time I went to visit. He would show me his back.

Or would he?

Maybe, just maybe, this was a way to bring Roxy home and not vice versa.

Maybe all that was Papa in me would be welcomed and loved again.

Maybe we would be sisters in every sense of the word.

I hoped so. Then Mama’s and his passing would have some meaning for both of us.

I would soon know.

20

Even with Roxy’s limousine driver helping me carry out my suitcases and bringing them into the hotel, I felt like a trespasser. I could see the curiosity and what I thought was disapproval in the eyes of the desk clerk and the bellman. Roxy didn’t even look their way. I told myself I had to learn how to ignore people the way she did.

When the elevator doors opened, I saw that there were only three apartments on her floor. Hers was to the right. It had a short marble entry with a small but expensive-looking teardrop chandelier. There was a coat closet on the immediate right and a work of art on the opposite wall. It was a picture of a flower cut out of black velvet with pink cloth petals. There were artificial flowers everywhere.

Fleur du Coeur, I thought. The room was designed to fit her image.

The entryway opened to a surprisingly large living room with elegant leather and wood furniture. The centerpiece was a softly curved, L-shaped sectional that consisted of a sofa, a corner back, and a loveseat. Directly across from it was a swivel accent chair with a round bottom frame. Accent pillows were on everything. A matching coffee table and end table filled out the center of the room. To the right was a large panel window that looked east, and down from it was another, smaller window. A set of four different versions of what looked like the same flower were hung high on the far wall. The walls were painted white with swirls of soft red and pink. The wooden floor was covered with a very large area rug that matched the furniture.

My eyes took in everything quickly. I saw the sculptures, the lamps, and the bouquets of artificial flowers, but there was a fresh real plant at the center of the coffee table. The flowers on it looked heart-shaped.

“What are those?” I asked. “They look like hearts.”

Roxy laughed. “They are. They’re called dicentra or bleeding heart. I have a client who has them shipped in from Japan. He’s actually very sweet. Okay, let’s get you settled in,” she said, and nodded at the small hallway down to the right. Her driver was already heading there. The floors were marble everywhere but in the living room, and the walls were painted with the same white with pink swirls. I followed him into a large bedroom. There was a king-size four-poster bed with oversized pillows and a comforter, plus a nightstand, dresser, and mirror. Everything had a cherry veneer. There was an en suite bathroom with a small vanity table and an oval mirror in a cherry frame.

“Just leave the suitcases, Mark. We’ll take care of it from here.”

The driver nodded and headed out without saying a word.