Page 59 of Endless Love

“Oh my God, is that what I think it is?”

My gaze followed hers. Her eyes fixed on the original Degas ballerina oil that hung above the baby grand piano. The very painting that had mesmerized my impressionist-loving Allee. Why should I be surprised? Willow was a ballet dancer. The painting would grab her attention. I trailed her as she waltzed in its direction.

Standing behind her, my arms folded over her shoulders, I told her it was indeed an original Degas. My mother’s favorite painting. Something she’d bought herself at an auction many years ago. She’d paid one hundred thousand dollars for it in 1980. God only knew what it was worth today.

“Well, hello, darling!” came a familiar breathy voice, cutting me short.

I spun around along with Willow. It was none other than my whippet-thin mother, holding an almost drained glass of champagne. As stunning as ever in a vermillion silk sheath, her collection of dazzling diamonds adorning her ears, neck, and hands. Beside her was my silver-haired father in his wheelchair, looking thin and frail in one of his custom-made suits, and with him, his caretaker—our former housekeeper, Maria. Maria’s dark eyes brightened at the sight of me. I adored this big-hearted woman, who had literally raised me. The few grays interspersed through her jet-black hair were the only clue that she was now in her early seventies. Her toffee-colored skin was still as smooth as velvet. Not a line was etched in her face—no easy feat, having worked for my demanding parents for close to four decades. About to give her a hug, I held it back as my mother gave me her customary double-cheeked kiss.

“So glad you could come,” she crooned, already giving Willow the once-over. My arm stayed wrapped around her as I introduced her to my parents.

My mother took another sip of her champagne and hiccupped. “Oh, so you’re named for a tree?”

Inside, I was cringing, but Willow held her own. “Yes, actually, I am. A very special weeping willow.”

At the memory of that indeed very special tree on her grandmother’s property, I relaxed a little, even becoming aroused. My dick stiffened beneath the fabric of my suit.

“And, dear, what might your last name be?” My mother, the society doyenne, paid special attention to lineage.

“Rosenthal,” Willow spouted proudly.

My mother’s brows lifted. “Oh, like in Rosenthal China?”

Willow flashed a confidant smile. “Yes, like in the china.”

I smiled too. So did Maria. Score one for Willow. She knew how to play this connect the dots game. Better yet, she knew how to cheat it.

My mother continued to study her. “You look very familiar to me, my dear. Have we met before? Or perhaps you’ve served on one of my boards?”

Before my Willow could respond, my father opened his mouth. The words took a while to form.

“You’re Jeeeew…ish?” he slurred.

Mortification raced through me. Duffy was right. My bigoted father, who despised blacks, Jews, LGBTs, the homeless, and probably every person in this world who didn’t descend from someone who had stepped off the Mayflower, held Willow in his vulturous eyes. They roamed up and down her sexy, lithe body, and for once, I was glad he was confined to a wheelchair and likely impotent. He deserved his fate.

Willow had read my book. We had discussed my parents before coming here. Her knowledge served her well.

With an air of confidence, she responded. “Yes, Mr. Madewell. I’d say I’m ‘ish.’ So nice to meet you.” She extended her hand. Slowly, my father extended his good one. Okay, progress.

Sparing us from further conversation, one of the help rang a bell. The ping resounded in my ears as my mother made an announcement.

“Everyone, please welcome our guest of honor…”

As he strode into the living room, I heard Willow gasp, “Oh my God.”

I turned to face her. Her complexion had turned ashen. Then, her hand grew cold in mine as my applauding mother tapped her champagne flute. Her voice boomed.

“Mister…”

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