Butterfly Page 5

  She shook her head in exasperation. “Phillip, I live in a very secure building in a safe neighborhood, so there’s no need for you to walk me upstairs.”

  Phillip glanced up at the four-story brownstone on the Upper West Side half a block from Central Park West. There were brownstones and townhouses lining both sides of the tree-lined street, giving it a suburban feel rather than being in the middle of Manhattan with its high-rise apartment and office buildings.

  “Which floor do you live on?”

  “The fourth,” she said, sighing.

  “Let’s go, baby.” Phillip nodded to the driver. “I’ll be right back.” The man had double-parked in front of Seneca’s building.

  Seneca had no choice but to follow when he practically pulled her along. “Slow it down,” she demanded, “or I’ll turn an ankle in these shoes.”

  “Nice shoes and very nice legs,” Phillip said matter-of-factly.

  She ignored his compliment while she unlocked the wrought-iron outer door, then another solid oak one with stained-glass insets. When she’d first come to look at the apartment, Seneca couldn’t believe her good fortune. The brownstone, erected around the turn of the prior century, had been restored to its original magnificence with marble floors and carved banisters and newel posts. Each apartment boasted parquet floors, tall windows, working fireplaces and claw-foot bathtubs.

  Electra, who’d evicted a former roommate who’d refused to pick up after herself, had asked Seneca if she knew of anyone willing to share a two-bedroom apartment only blocks from the Museum of Natural History. Seneca knew she’d surprised the drama student when she told her she would consider moving in with her. Riding the subway uptown and touring around the trendy neighborhood was all she needed to see. Two days later she moved out of the cramped Alphabet City apartment she shared with three other NYU students. Her rent had more than doubled, but at least she didn’t have to step over winos and crackheads to get to or into her building. Then there also had been the problem of someone indiscriminately ringing intercom bells in the hope that they would be buzzed in.

  “Are you staring at my ass, Phillip?”

  Throwing back his head, Phillip laughed loudly. “When I first saw you I never would’ve imagined you would have a wicked temper with a mouth to match.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “That’s what you get for judging a book by its cover.”

  “That’s true,” he crooned. “But you’ve been a delightful surprise.”

  “In what way?” she asked.

  Phillip stepped off the last stair, following Seneca down the pristine hallway to the rear of the building. “I thought you’d be stuck-up like some of the other models I’ve met.”

  Seneca removed her keys from her purse. “All of us are narcissistic,” she said in defense of her peers, “but it all depends on what degree. I have a theory that the size of one’s ego is usually linked to the number of zeros in their contracts. The more zeros, the more they feel they don’t have to adhere to the rules.” She unlocked the door, then turned and smiled up at Phillip. “We’ll continue this conversation when we see each other again.” Leaning closer, she pressed a light kiss to his jaw. “Good night.”

  Bracing a hand on the door frame, Phillip angled his head, covering her mouth with his, caressing and tasting the sweetness of her parted lips. He eased back, smiling. “Now, that’s a good night.”

  “Go home, Phillip.”

  “Not until you go in and lock the door.”

  Giving him one final sweeping glance, Seneca pushed open the door, stepped inside, closing and locking it behind her. She stood motionless, listening for movement and/or sound from the other side of the door. Then she heard it. Phillip whistling as he retraced his steps, the sound fading with his descent. Bending slightly, she slipped out of the stilettos and walked in the direction of her bedroom. The floor lamp in the living room was turned to its lowest setting, an indication that Electra had decided to visit her parents in Connecticut.

  Neither she nor her roommate liked walking into a dark apartment, so they’d agreed to leave a light on. Electra teased, calling their place Motel 6, where they always left the light on.

  Seneca touched the dimmer on the wall, and her bedroom was flooded with light from one of two bedside lamps. She undressed, walked into the bathroom to remove her makeup, brush her teeth and shower. Her nightly ritual of applying moisturizer to her face and body and brushing her hair and braiding it into a single plait was something she would be able to execute in a blackout. And, like she’d done as a child, but only if her mother wasn’t looking, she raced out of the bathroom and jumped onto her bed. Even at twenty some habits were slow to be relegated to childhood.

  Settling herself on the bed, she reached for the remote, flicking on the television and activating the DVD feature. As a serious film, theater and dance student, she filled the empty hours in her life viewing movies. It didn’t matter the decade in which they’d been made, whether black-and-white or with CGI—computer generated imagery—the art of moviemaking had become her passion.

  At the recommendation of her professor who taught the history of Hollywood films she’d embarked on a retrospective of Bette Davis and gangster films that included White Heat, Little Caesar, Bonnie and Clyde, the Godfather trilogy, GoodFellas and The Departed. Tonight she didn’t want to be disturbed by blood and the sound of gunfire, so she selected the Bette Davis classic Now, Voyager.

  Shifting the mound of pillows supporting her back, Seneca read the opening credits and watched the movie with a critical eye. As a student of film, she had become more than aware of camera angles, dialogue and Paul Henreid suavely performing the archetypal two-cigarette trick.

  What she didn’t want to acknowledge was how closely her life would’ve paralleled the Bette Davis character’s if it hadn’t been for her paternal grandmother. If there was anyone who could put Dahlia Houston in her place, it had been her mother-in-law. Seneca’s eyelids felt heavy as the closing credits scrolled down the screen, and she flicked off the television and the table lamp. She would sleep in late, because she’d made a reservation to take an afternoon train to D.C. The last time she’d seen her nephew he was only hours old, and not only was she an aunt, but she was to become a godmother for the first time.

  The taxi maneuvered into the driveway behind an SUV with New York plates to a century-old farmhouse in suburban Washington, D.C. Seneca’s parents had arrived before she did. Her brother, Jerome, and his wife, Maya, had closed on the property a week before she gave birth to their son. The four-bedroom, three-bath house was advertised as a fixer-upper or a handyman’s special, and the couple had poured all of their savings into making the house habitable. Peeling paint and cracked windows with broken sashes had been replaced with white vinyl siding, black shutters and new energy-saving windows.

  Seneca paid the driver, retrieved her overnight bag, got out and walked up the porch steps. She smiled. The brick steps and the porch floor were also new. Her brother and sister-in-law, both teachers, had married after a whirlwind courtship. No one, Seneca in particular, had expected Jerome to settle down. He’d dated so many women from every race and ethnic group that she’d thought of him as a modern-day Casanova. She didn’t know what it was about Maya, but the high school biology teacher had succeeded where the others had failed.

  The door opened before she could ring the bell. She grinned broadly at her sister, who seemed to have grown at least an inch since she last saw her earlier that spring. The similarities between the sisters were startling. Both had curly hair, but Robyn’s was a shade lighter, with reddish highlights. The fourteen-year-old had hinted she also wanted to model, but Dahlia had dashed her dream when she said one wannabe model in the family was enough.

  Seneca hugged Robyn. “What’s up, kid?”

  Robyn hugged her back, tightening her grip around Seneca’s neck. “Not much. Mom’s complaining…as usual,” they chorused, laughing.

  Seneca had tried analyzing Dahlia
and failed completely. Dahlia had become a mother for the first time at sixteen, when she’d found herself pregnant with a married man’s child. Her life changed dramatically when she met and married Oscar Houston—a man nearly twenty years her senior. Jerome was six when Seneca was born, and six years later Dahlia gave birth to her second daughter.

  Leaving her bag in the entryway, she walked arm in arm with Robyn to the kitchen, from which wafted the most delicious smells. It was apparent Oscar was cooking. He’d honed his culinary skills during a ten-year stint as a merchant seaman, and when he returned to civilian life he’d continued to cook most of the family’s meals.

  Jerome held his son, gently patting his back to stop his crying while Maya shook a bottle filled with formula. Dahlia was setting the table in the dining nook as Oscar removed a roasting pan from the oven. A smile softened Seneca’s face at the scene of domesticity.

  Dahlia noticed her first. “I thought you were coming in earlier.”

  Seneca’s smile disappeared as she bit her lip until it throbbed. “Hello, Mother.”

  Although Dahlia had recently celebrated her forty-second birthday, she could easily pass for a woman in her early thirties. She was tall and slender, with smooth dark skin, and her chemically relaxed hair was fashionable styled to frame her perfectly rounded face. Intense black eyes, a short nose and a full, lush mouth had most men taking a second look.

  It had been her sultry looks that had attracted the attention of an older man who’d seduced her with money and gifts before taking her innocence and leaving her pregnant with his child. When Dahlia’s police-officer father came looking for him, the man and his family were gone—never to be seen again. She’d had to endure the shame and humiliation of being an unwed mother until she married Oscar.

  Dahlia frowned. “What’s with this mother business?”

  Seneca caught her brother’s warning look, but decided to ignore it. “You are my mother, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am,” she snapped, “but when did you start calling me Mother?”

  Waving a hand, Seneca walked over to her father and kissed his cheek. “Hi, Daddy.”

  Oscar smiled, tiny lines fanning out around his light-brown eyes. His cropped black hair was liberally streaked with gray. “Hey, baby girl. How’ve you been?”

  She kissed him again. “Wonderful. Love you,” she whispered sotto voce. “Can I feed him?” Seneca asked her sister-in-law.

  Maya set the bottle on the countertop, then tucked wisps of sandy brown hair behind an ear. Her light-green eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Of course you can.”

  “Let me wash my hands first,” she said, walking in the direction of the half bath off the kitchen.

  Minutes later, Seneca sat feeding James Scott, who sucked greedily from the bottle. Jerome and Maya had named their son for her father, who’d succumbed to kidney failure four months before the birth of his first grandchild.

  James Scott Houston was a gorgeous baby. He’d inherited his mother’s fair coloring, hair and eye color, but his features were undeniably his father’s. There was no doubt he would be called exotic, which had become the politically accepted designation for mixed-race children.

  “The house looks nice,” Seneca said to her sister-in-law.

  Maya crossed her arms under her breasts. “We decided to complete the exterior first, before concentrating on the interior. We just finished the nursery last week.”

  Jerome took the platter with a roast turkey from his stepfather. “I told Maya I wanted to remodel the kitchen first only because we spend so much time here.”

  Seneca stared at her brother, who looked like a very young Miles Davis. Several of his former girlfriends had nicknamed him “Dark Chocolate.” With his delicate features and sable-brown coloring, she could see why women had flocked to him in droves, but it was Maya with her flashing green eyes and open, friendly smile who’d enthralled him as the others hadn’t been able to.

  “Some people take up to five years to fix up their homes,” Seneca told her brother.

  Jerome frowned, the expression reminiscent of their mother’s. “I don’t want to take that long. I would’ve preferred having a post-baptism dinner here at the house instead of in a restaurant.”

  “I told you I would pick up the tab, son,” Oscar said.

  “You shouldn’t have to, Dad. As a married man I should be able to take care of my family.”

  Oscar rested a hand on Jerome’s shoulder. “Dahlia and I were where you are when we first got married, but we had a lot less in those days. You’ll make it, son, but you have to be patient.”

  Listening to the exchange between her father and brother made Seneca aware that Jerome was more like their mother than she’d realized. When, she mused, had Jerome become a complainer, or had he always been one? She’d come to D.C. to become godmother to her brother’s son, not become embroiled in a heated family discussion. As teachers, Jerome and Maya didn’t earn six-figure salaries, but they fared better than many young couples in their mid-twenties. They owned their own home.

  Seneca knew that living on her own had matured her. Although she shared the apartment with Electra, they rarely got to see each other. They had classes on different days, and when Electra wasn’t rehearsing with a theater company, she was waiting tables at restaurants that catered to those in the entertainment field, hoping to get discovered—even if for a minor role in an off-Broadway production.

  She kept her bedroom neat and clean and shared cleaning duties: one week on and one week off cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, dusting and vacuuming the living room. She did her own laundry, shopped for groceries and prepared her own meals. There were no boyfriends, thereby eliminating angst in the romance department, and the times she sat in Starbucks drinking lattes or espressos with a man didn’t necessarily translate into a date.

  When Phillip had disclosed Booth’s plan to link them romantically as a couple, Seneca felt the ruse could work well. After all, she was attracted to the delicious-looking ballplayer, and as long as he didn’t pressure her into sleeping with him, then everything would be perfect.

  James Scott was asleep before he finished the bottle. Seneca removed the nipple from his mouth with a soft popping sound, then took the cloth diaper Maya handed her and placed it over her shoulder. Lifting the sleeping infant to her shoulder, she waited until he expelled a loud burp. He squirmed, whining softly, before settling back to sleep. She handed him off to his mother.

  “I don’t mind splitting the bill, Dad,” she volunteered.

  Jerome shook off his father’s hand and glared at Seneca. “Did I ask you for a handout?”

  With wide eyes, Seneca stared at her brother. “No, you didn’t. All I did was offer to help pay—”

  “I heard what you said, Seneca. Just because you sell yourself to the highest bidder like some half-dressed, painted, overpaid mannequin I don’t want you to think I need your so-called charity.”

  “It’s not charity, Jerome.”

  “So, it’s a handout,” he countered. “You probably earn more in two hours than I do in a week teaching, so don’t try to act so fuckin’ smug.”

  “That’s enough,” Oscar warned.

  “What’s not enough is my busting my ass teaching kids who could give a shit less about math, while Miss Supermodel here doesn’t get out of bed in the morning unless they offer her five figures.”

  Seneca threw up her hands. “Forget I offered. I’ll keep my charity.” Turning her heels, she went over to take the silverware from Dahlia to finish setting the table.

  Chapter Five

  Dahlia, who appeared to have forgiven Seneca for calling her Mother, was in rare form. She’d embraced grandmother status with an attitude that shocked most sitting at the table. She talked incessantly about the outings she planned to take with James Scott.

  Oscar stunned his children when he announced that he’d decided to retire at the end of the year. “Working thirty years at the same place gets a little boring.”


  “How boring can it be, Daddy?” Seneca asked. “You’re a supervisor.”

  “That’s why it’s boring,” Oscar said. “When I was a letter carrier there was always some excitement.”

  Dahlia gave her husband a tender smile. “Excitement or gossip, darling?” she questioned softly.

  Oscar winked at Dahlia. “Both. If you ever want to know someone’s business, then ask their letter carrier. I could tell you what credit cards someone had, what magazines they subscribed to and if collection agencies or the IRS was hounding them. Then don’t forget the Family Court summonses for nonpayment of child support.”

  “How is getting into someone’s business exciting?” Robyn questioned.

  “You’ll understand once you’re older,” her mother explained.

  Robyn affected a scowl. “I’ve been hearing that all my life. I’ll be fifteen in a couple of months. Will I be old enough then?”

  Dahlia rolled her eyes at her youngest child, contemplating whether to chastise her for her impudent tone. “What you should concern yourself with is pulling up your grades,” she said instead. “You’re never going to get into a good college with seventies.”

  Robyn, mimicking her mother, rolled her eyes, too. “I only got a seventy in science. I got nineties in my other subjects.”

  “And you only have three weeks before you have to take the Regents.”

  “I know that, Mama!” Mother and daughter glared at each other in what was certain to end in an impasse. Robyn was just as stubborn as Dahlia.

  “Why don’t you let me tutor Robyn while I’m on leave,” Maya volunteered. She looked at Jerome, who nodded his approval. “The carpenters are scheduled to put in new flooring next week, and I’d planned to stay at my sister’s house because they’re going to apply polyurethane as a finish. If you don’t mind an extra couple of houseguests, James Scott and I can ride back to Ithaca with you.”