Page 28 of Love Redesigned
Alex, it’s been a while. Listen, I know you’d rather not associate yourself with the LeFrancs considering our criminal business habits, but what can I say. Alicio is more forgiving than the rest of us. You’re getting an invite to the wedding—Alicio says it’s the polite thing to do—but just a heads up, we don’t actually want you there. This is Dad’s day. Please don’t ruin it by showing up.
I closed my eyes. Typical Victor.
I had only been four years old when my mother had met Alicio LeFranc while he’d been vacationing in Charleston. Her divorce from my father had only been final a couple of months when she’d married Alicio and moved to New York. I’d been too young to understand the implications of how quickly everything had happened. But as an adult, I knew better than to assume anyone’s innocence. Even my mother’s.
In retrospect, I was just glad I’d been able to stay in Charleston with my dad and only live with my mother during the summer. Once she’d married Alicio, her life quickly became one of glitz and glamour and social importance. Alicio’s sons had been older than me when they’d gained a new stepmom, but they’d still been young enough to look the part of “darling children.” The press had loved to picture the four of them at fashion shows and other social events. Happy. Stylish. A perfect family.
It’s not so much that I wanted to fit into their world. I was probably better for not having been a part of it. My father had been a philosophy professor at The College of Charleston and had given me a good life full of books and music and culture. But my mother was still my mother. I couldn’t turn my back on the family she’d loved, whether they’d ever loved me or not.
It didn’t help the situation that Alicio, at my mother’s insistence, had bankrolled my entire education. The private schools I’d attended while growing up, then four years of Harvard undergrad, plus a master’s in accounting. That was the reason I’d agreed to go and work for him in the first place. My mother wanted it—of course that was the biggest reason—but I also felt obligated. So much money invested. How could I say no?
I remembered going to see Mom in the hospital as soon as I’d arrived in the city to let her know I’d decided to take the job. She was dying, her cancer terminal, the doctors mostly just trying to keep her comfortable, but I’d never forgotten her face when we’d talked that day. The hope she’d had in her eyes that I would build relationships with Gabriel and Victor, find a place in the family she’d grown to love over the years.
“You do belong here, Alex,” she’d told me. She’d reached up and cupped my cheek with her hand. “You’re so smart, and you have such good business sense. They need you. They may not realize it now, but once they see what you’re capable of, you’ll blow them away.”
I frowned, discouraged by the memory. I suspected accusing them all of fraud and threatening to go public wasn’t quite the “blowing them away” she’d had in mind.
Before leaving New York, I’d visited the storage unit Justine had filled for me. It was a little like entering a time capsule, except the woman reflected back in the clutter of belongings wasn’t someone I actually recognized. A few pieces of art I recognized as things I’d seen hanging in her bedroom in New York, but there was an old chair, worn and weathered, and a vintage-looking lamp that I’d never seen in any of the homes Alicio owned. The photo albums Gabe had mentioned were in a milk crate in the corner, their pages yellowed with age. Most of the photos I’d never seen before. My birth, my parents pre-divorce, still smiling and happy in each other’s arms, our house in Charleston. In one of the photos of the house, I’d noticed the lamp in the background. So she’d taken it with her.
It had brought a measure of comfort to realize Mom hadn’t completely abandoned her old life, but at the same time, it was as painful as it was comforting. Because where was this part of Mom for all those years? Hidden in a closet somewhere? Why hadn’t she ever shown the photos to me?
Finally on the ground in Charleston, I stayed mostly silent until we were crossing the parking lot toward Isaac’s jeep.
“You okay, man?” Isaac asked. “You seem bugged by something.”
“I’m good,” I lied. “Just tired, I guess.”
He unlocked his jeep and opened the back, sliding his suitcase in before turning around and reaching for mine. “Here, I got it,” he said.
“Thanks.”
A few minutes into the drive home, Isaac broke the silence. “Hey, listen I’m sorry about making fun of you on the plane. And about Dani, and all that.”
“What?” His apology caught me off guard. Isaac made fun of everyone, all the time. And he never apologized.
“I know it was real between you two. I’m sorry if I made things worse by...” He waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t know. By making you see her, or whatever.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks, I guess.”
“So we’re cool?” he asked.
“Sure. Of course.”
“Cool.”
I hadn’t expected an apology. Hadn’t really even felt like I needed one. But after listening to Victor’s message, then replaying it in my head over and over throughout the flight home—just a heads up, we don’t actually want you here—it was nice to feel any measure of sincerity, whether from family or in Isaac’s case, a friend.
The simplicity of his apology reminded me of my father and a familiar ache welled up in my belly—a subtle tightening that lasted a moment then disappeared. I missed my mother, was sad that we didn’t have more time together, that we hadn’t had a closer relationship. But missing my father was visceral—a physical reaction that squeezed and tugged and needled like no loss I’d ever experienced before. It had dulled over the past two years since his death, but I still felt it. Still wished for the chance to have one more conversation with him. Still wished to just...belong somewhere.
Chapter Nine
Dani
I clenched my fists together, willing the nerves in my gut to stop with the somersaults. Paige stood in the middle of our living room, wearing the dress—the perfectly crafted, made for her body, gorgeous in every way dress—while her mother circled around her. It had been a good week. Paige’s little sister was maid of honor and she’d pulled off the long-distance planning of a New York City bridal shower from her home in Boston with freakish skill. The shower had been perfect. We’d also managed to squeeze in bridesmaid’s dress shopping and had found a great deal on invitations. And I’d spenthours,most of them in the middle of the night, finishing the dress.
I didn’t technically need Mrs. Perry’s approval to be proud. I knew I’d designed a winner, and Paige’s approval was all that truly mattered. But I still wanted her mom to like it. I wanted the validation of someone not already bound by friendship loving my work.
Well, and validation from Ms. Perry was particularly significant. Her maiden name was Pinkney—which meant something if you lived in Charleston. It was one of the oldest and most prestigious names in the city. Charleston society held firm to culture and tradition and Paige’s family was one of the great pillars of that society. I mean, Paige had had an actual Debutante ball when she’d turned eighteen. Big white dress, formal presentation to society, the whole deal. Paige never really bought into it, but for her mom, it was everything. The fact that they could, if they so desired, afford to pay top dollar for a designer dress made the pressure even greater.
