I.
Annette looked across the large yard of the vacation villa which her family had been staying in for the summer. A long gravel driveway lined the outer edge of the yard and a fancy motor car was sitting there, the family's suitcases being loaded onto the back of it.
Annette's sister, Jean, came up next to her suddenly and craned her neck across the yard, looking for something…or someone.
Annette was two years older than Jean and betrothed to a man in New York, to whom she would be married when they returned. The trip from the villa in central Florida back to their primary residence in Jamestown, New York would take about two days by train.
Jean had turned nineteen years old just a month prior and their mother had been attempting to marry her off in earnest. But since they'd been in Florida, she'd dismayed the family by going around town with a Latin man who, although quite handsome and charming, was certainly not the first choice, socially, that they had for their debutant daughter. They were certain, however, that their return to the north would put ample distance between Jean and her undesirable beau, leaving her free to become attached to a more suitable man.
They were blissfully unaware that Jean and her love had planned for him to follow her north, where they would, he said, marry, with or without her family's blessing. Clinging to this information, Jean now sought any sign of him.
Annette noticed the urgency in her sister's eyes and crossed her arms, leaning against the carved white wooden railings along the long porch of the villa. "What are you looking for, dear sister?"
Jean blinked. "I'm looking for Fernando. Have you seen him?"
Annette shook her head slowly. "No. Is he coming to say goodbye?"
Jean looked back out over the lawn longingly, her petite frame leaning gracefully against the railing as the late summer breeze wafted through her soft brown curls. Her blue eyes desperately sought even the smallest clue that Fernando was on his way. She turned back to Annette, hoping that she could trust her sister. "No. He's coming with me."
Annette's brown eyes widened. "Jean, dear, that's impossible! Mother and father would sooner find some reason to have him arrested!"
Jean was not deterred. "We're in love, he's going to marry me…"
Annette held her stomach, as though she were attempting to prevent her stomach from flipping out of her throat. "Father will never allow it, Jean, you know that!"
Jean fidgeted with her fingers, still looking out. "He'll have to."
Annette grabbed her sister's arm. "Jean, sister, are you…are you in trouble," she hissed urgently.
Jean shook her head. "No, no! At least…I don't think so. It's too soon to tell…"
The girls stopped talking suddenly when a messenger approached them. "Miss Jean Rand?"
Jean nodded slowly. "Yes?"
The messenger handed her an envelope and tipped his hat before turning to leave. Jean stared at it, recognizing Fernando's handwriting on it, but she couldn't bring herself to open it. She knew, without having read a word that she would never see him again and she handed it to her sister. "Read it to me," she said sullenly.
Annette trembled softly as she opened the envelope and unfolded the thin paper inside. "Dear Jean," she began quietly. "I hope you'll forgive me for not going to New York with you. We had a very enjoyable summer, but I am returning to the island. I'll remember you fondly. Always, Fernando." She lowered the letter slowly and looked at Jean. "Oh, sister, I'm so sorry…"
Jean stopped her, holding her chin high and fervently refusing to cry. "Don't worry about it," she said coldly as she turned to go back into the villa.
II.
To Jean's silent relief, her illicit romance with Fernando did not result in the conception of a forbidden child. With this knowledge, Jean was able to resume the life of a wealthy businessman's daughter in Jamestown, where she now submitted herself to the will of her parents' desires for her life. To this end, she accepted an arranged visit from a young man whose father was an associate of Jean's father.
Her mother carefully selected her outfit while Annette, now married, fixed her hair. When the young man came calling, Jean stood in their home's vestibule while her parents opened the door to him.
He was tall and stoic, handsome in a different way than Fernando had been. He had striking green eyes, a fair complexion with a smattering of freckles across his nose and dark blonde hair. He was introduced to her as Alastair MacGillicuddy, himself born in New York to parents from Scotland.
Jean and Alastair spent the afternoon on the sun porch in the back of the house as her parents drank tea in the sitting room next door. The two made small talk about his business aspirations and her social activities, and after a dull afternoon, Alastair took his leave. They planned to see each other again for a dinner out.
He seemed a kind man, well-spoken and warm. Most importantly to Jean's interests, he was of a wealthy family and would potentially grow that wealth through his own work. No longer interested in love and, in fact, having a bitter taste for it, she decided to follow her mother's instruction to make herself an attractive catch, with the ultimate goal being to become his wife.
III.
Jean laid wearily in bed, the baby girl she'd birthed only hours before fussing quietly in the frilly, lace covered bassinet to her side. She turned her head and looked over at the girl, already quite pretty. Jean had named her Lucille, after her paternal grandmother.
But as pretty and delicate as the newborn was, Jean did not feel maternal. She waited for her husband to return from the parlor downstairs, where he'd gone to give cigars to the members of their families who'd been waiting for word of the child's birth. When the doctor had gone to the next room to inform him of his daughter's arrival, Jean heard him laugh happily and give the doctor a cigar. He was quite pleased to be a father; Jean had simply believed that having the child was the natural, social progression from marriage to motherhood.
When Alastair appeared, his smile was broad and he sat between his wife's bedside and his daughter's bassinet. He scooped the baby into his arms and smiled into her bright eyes; as yet, they were of an undetermined color, but the doctor had remarked that they were quite vivid and would likely turn blue or green or some variation therein. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
Jean nodded. "Yes, dear."
IV.
"Lucille, sit straight and don't play with your oatmeal." Jean scolded the four-year-old as she sprinkled a small amount of sugar on top of her grapefruit.
Alastair looked at his wife over the top of his newspaper. He was accustomed to the way in which Jean wanted to bring up their daughter and although he did want her to be a refined young lady, he believed it would come in its own time and saw no need to rush her through the normal phases of being a child.
Lucille responded to her mother's directive by taking a bite of oatmeal and setting her spoon down on the table. "The circus is here, Mommy!"
Jean looked up, eyebrow raised. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Alastair smirked from behind his newspaper. "The circus train was coming through downtown last night. I'm going to take her to see the show on her birthday."
"Goodness," Jean sneered. "All those animals and people acting like fools. What will she learn from that?"
"There was a tiger!" Lucille tucked her legs under herself, sitting atop her knees excitedly.
"Now, Lucille, you sit correctly. That's not the proper way for a young lady to sit in a chair." Jean tapped the girl's leg until she corrected herself.
Alastair put folded the newspaper and laid it on the table. "Lucille, darling, would you do Daddy a favor and go play with your dolls?"
Lucille slid from the chair, knowing that her parents were going to have another of those loud discussions that she'd grown used to hearing. "Yes, Daddy."
Alastair turned to Jean glaringly, but she largely ignored him as she dug her small spoon into the grapefruit. Over the last several years, he'd started to question what had made him marry her because he was no longer sure. He normally shook himself free of those thoughts because for all the tension between them, she'd borne him a beautiful daughter. He could deal with the cold brutality with which she interacted with him; he was a grown man. But as Lucille grew older, the brunt of Jean's indifference was being aimed at the child more with each passing day. There was an unshakeable rumble of resentment within his wife that he couldn't appease no matter how well he treated her, but he wouldn't tolerate the mistreatment of innocent Lucille as long as there was breath in his body. "I've seen wards of the state treated with more compassion than you give to your own daughter," he said with a quiet strength in his voice.
Jean looked at him and he thought to himself that she had aged in the time they'd been married. Where her eyes were once a dreamy blue color, they had taken on a dull quality, as though they were absent any spark of life. He didn't want that the brightness of Lucille's shimmering sapphire eyes ever disappear as her mother's had.
Jean set her spoon down on a saucer in a dainty, yet sarcastic manner. "What would you have me do, Alastair? Raise her to believe that her life will be a series of shooting stars and rainbows? She'll grow to be a woman living in the same world that every other woman in New York is subjected to. She'll thank me when she realizes I've prepared her for it." She turned her attention calmly to the cup of coffee sitting in front of her and she took a sip, as though they'd been discussing the weather.
Alastair stood up, taking the linen napkin from his lap and dropping it onto the table. "Oh, yes, Jean, you've been subjected to such cruelty! You suffer so," he mocked, motioning around him at the lavish patio on which they took breakfast. "Shopping until noon, lunching with those society matrons, being a mother for five minutes every day between Lucille's 'training' and somehow finding the time to make love to me a couple of times a month with all the enthusiasm of a cold, dead trout! All the while with your hand in my wallet!"
Jean was unmoved, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an emotional response, even if the emotion was anger. "We all have a sad story to tell, dear husband."
Alastair smirked, an exasperated laugh escaping his lips. "It's too late for you. Your sad story is written in stone, I'm afraid, and mine is irreversibly joined with it. But you aren't going to write one for my daughter." He walked away from the table, leaving his wife to watch after him. "Lucille! Come along, darling, you aren't going to see that damn tutor today…"
V.
It had been quite a while since Jean and Lucy had spent any great amount of time together. Since Jean didn't approve of Ricky, they were estranged for a good part of Lucy's marriage. But with the birth of little Ricky, Lucy didn't have the heart to keep him separated from his grandmother. If they did not know each other, she decided that it would be because that was her mother's choice. Initially, she feared that Ricky would forbid her from allowing Jean near their son; he was all too aware of Jean's disdain for him and preferred to stay clear of her. But he didn't do anything of the kind, saying simply that he would make sure to be at rehearsal when she visited.
Lucy smoothed a hand over her dress as she went quickly to answer the doorbell. When she opened the door, she took a deep breath, seeing her mother for the first time in several years. "Hello, mother," she said quietly.
Jean nodded, a measured smile gracing her lips as Lucy motioned for her to come in. "Hello, Lucille. You look very well, how are you?"
Lucy smiled. "I'm wonderful. Getting my figure back," she joked nervously. "How are you?"
"I'm very well," Jean stated, an equal amount of apprehension creeping into her voice.
Lucy began to lead her to the bedroom. "Follow me, mother, I can't wait for you to meet your grandson…"
They gathered around the little crib that stood in the corner of the bedroom that Lucy shared with her husband. Lucy lifted the three-week-old boy from the crib; he was dressed in a tiny pair of slacks and a pale blue collared shirt and his dark, wavy hair was combed back. She gingerly placed the baby in Jean's arms. "This is little Ricky, mother…"
Jean held her breath as she looked at the wiggling bundle in her arms, his dark eyes looking up at her curiously. As she took in the sight of him, she warmed, realizing that it had been a great many years since she'd allowed anyone to crack the wall she'd built around her heart. "He's very handsome, Lucille," she choked.
Jean sat in a nearby chair, still cradling her grandson. After watching her rock him for a long while, Lucy handed her a bottle so she could feed him, which she did gladly, still not averting her gaze from him.
As the baby drank from the bottle quietly, Jean looked up at her daughter, who sat on the bed across from her. "Your husband…is he taking care of you?"
Lucy nodded. "Yes. He's a very good husband and father. I…I wish you could see him with the baby, he loves this little boy so much…"
As she spoke, they both looked toward the bedroom door when they heard Ricky walk in. He stopped when he saw Jean sitting there, surprised that she was still in the apartment. He hadn't imagined that she would stay long. "I'm sorry," he said, turning away. "I'll leave you alone."
"Micky," Jean said suddenly.
Ricky raised an eyebrow and turned back, acknowledging that she was speaking to him.
Jean stood up as Lucy watched her carefully, completely unsure of what her mother was going to say. "Don't leave on my account. I know you want to see your son."
Ricky blinked, not knowing how to respond to her. She hadn't spoken to him so cordially in ten years. He approached her slowly, smiling softly when his eyes fell upon the baby. "He's somethin' isn't he?" After he'd said the words, he immediately regretted that he hadn't said something of more substance to impress his mother-in-law. But he was still thrown by the fact that she was speaking to him, rather than speaking to Lucy about him as though he weren't there.
Jean handed the baby, who'd by now finished the bottle she'd given him, to his father and watched. She watched as he smiled into the boy's eyes and spoke softly to him.
Ricky looked across at her, still unsure of her intentions, and saw what appeared to be a softness that he'd never seen from her before. But as quickly as it had appeared, any expression of emotion was wiped from her face as she motioned to her daughter. "Lucille, I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave of you and the baby, but I'll be back next week if that's alright."
Lucy paused before following her mother out of the bedroom, smiling at Ricky and touching his arm lovingly.
Ricky watched her leave, the baby still in his arms, as Lucy called out to her. "Yes, mother, that's fine!"