Thank you for your continued interest and support. I appreciate it. I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own The Billionaire's Embrace.
MERCEDES
I spent the rest of my shift worrying about the up and coming dinner with Sam's mother.
And most of that night...
And all day Tuesday...
While I rode the subway to work...
While I waited tables...
And while I rode the subway home in the evening.
Did I have anything to wear?
I could probably just wear my work clothes, but even though they were completely innocuous business attire, I was sure they would scream...
"I work at an expensive strip club."
Maybe Joss could loan me something...
I had a hard time falling asleep that night and when my alarm went off on Wednesday, I felt pretty out of it.
I made coffee and settled at my laptop...
I hadn't checked any of my usual lifestyle blogs in a few days, even though I was still trying to turn myself into a fashionable tour de force, but it was just so hard to make myself care about what celebrities were wearing.
Well... No progress without struggle. I sighed and opened a new tab.
I scrolled idly down the page, skimming through the headlines...
THE SEASON'S HOTTEST NEW LIPSTICK COLOR... SUPERMODELS WEARING SWEATPANTS... BLIND ITEMS... SAM EVANS...
Stop.
Rewind.
"SAM EVANS STEPS OUT WITH MYSTERY WOMAN! WHO KNEW HE LIKED ART?"
A shot of pure adrenaline hit my veins. And my face turned hot.
My temples felt like they were pulled taut, like my scalp was too small to contain my skull.
I clicked the link...
But I shouldn't have...
I regretted it even as I did it, but the motion was automatic. It wasn't a conscious decision. My hand moved and clicked the button and the page opened.
The picture was grainy, like it had been taken from across the room and zoomed in as far as it could go. Someone with their phone, probably.
But the quality wasn't so bad that the people in the photo were unrecognizable.
One of them was definitely Sam. The other was me.
I recognized his sweater and the way his hand rested possessively at the small of my back, my head tilted up to look at him.
We were standing in front of a marble statue, smiling at each other and ignoring the artwork.
It was the Greek wing in the museum. I remembered that room and all of the half-naked sculptures. And Sam cracking mild jokes about the ways of the ancient Greeks.
We had been laughing about a corrupt art dealer he used to know, who would chop the hands off modern sculptures and claim they were thousands of years old.
And someone took a picture of us... I hadn't even noticed anyone else was in the room.
Anyway, I should've stopped there, closed the browser, shut down my laptop, and tried to put it out of my mind. But I didn't. How could I?
I'd opened Pandora's box and it was too late to turn back.
I ran a search for "Sam Evans museum," and blindly clicked on the first link that came up. It was something innocuous about his mother's work with the board.
Maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought...
I went back and clicked the second link.
"SAM EVANS: JUNGLE FEVER?"
It wasn't as bad as I thought... It was worse.
I didn't know what to do. I called Joss.
She picked up...
"Girl, this had better be important. I'm at work."
"There are pictures of me," I choked out. "On the internet."
A pause...
"What?"
"With Sam. We went to the museum and someone took pictures of us. And everyone's trying to figure out who I am, and..."
Joss exhaled...
"Oh, honey. Well, it was going to happen. He's a pretty big deal, and if you're seen in public with him, sooner or later someone's bound to get curious."
"They're saying he has jungle fever."
My voice cracked and I closed my eyes.
"Shit!" Joss said. "People are racist assholes. Look, you already knew that. Don't let it get to you."
She was right, but it was getting to me. I couldn't help it.
"I don't know what to do," I said.
"You've got two choices," she said, and this was why I had called her, why I always called her when I was having a crisis. She would go into matter-of-fact problem-solving mode and talk me down from the ledge. "You can stay with him and accept that public notoriety is part of the deal. As long as you're dating him, people are going to be interested in you, and you're going to have to give up your privacy. Or... you can break up with him."
I didn't like either of those options.
"I don't want there to be pictures of me on the internet," I said. I heard the whiny note in my voice and despised myself for it.
"Tough," Joss said mercilessly. "Get rid of him, then. Look, I really can't talk. Do you want to meet up after I get off work? We can eat some ice cream and watch bad television."
"I can't tonight," I said. "Thanks, though. I'll be okay."
"Okay," she said, sounding skeptical. "Don't do anything crazy. I'll talk to you later, baby girl."
I got up and stared out the window, looking at nothing, seeing nothing, my mind racing.
Maybe Sam would know what to do. He dealt with the tabloids all the time; maybe he could get the pictures taken down.
I texted him...
MERCEDES: Someone took pictures of us at the museum.
He didn't respond right away, so I poured myself another cup of coffee and stood over the kitchen sink to drink it. Then my phone buzzed, and I looked at the screen.
SAM: I know. Saw them a few days ago.
I stared at my phone in disbelief.
MERCEDES: You knew about this and didn't tell me?
My phone buzzed again. He was calling me. I picked up and said,
"Hi."
"Hi," he said. "Mercedes, I'm sorry. It didn't occur to me to let you know. I deal with these pictures all the time and I don't think about them much anymore. I forgot that you probably aren't used to seeing your face plastered all over gossip blogs."
"Yeah," I said. "I was just...they're saying horrible things, and..."
"I know," he said. "I wish I could protect you, but I can't. If I make a fuss and get them taken down, everyone will think I have something to hide, and then they'll start digging. It's best to just ignore it."
"It's going to happen again, isn't it?" I said. "Any time we're in public."
"Yes," he said. "I'm afraid it is."
I fell silent... I didn't want the pictures, but my other choice...to break up with him...was even less appealing.
I felt between a rock and a hard place. I had never been good at thinking on my feet, and presented with an impossible decision, I felt myself shutting down.
"We don't have to be seen together in public," Sam said. "If you aren't comfortable with it, I'll do everything I can to protect you."
"I just need to think about it," I said. "For a little while."
"Of course," he said. "Are we still on for dinner tonight?"
I drew in a deep breath... I had told him I would go; I wouldn't back down now. I would be brave.
"Yeah," I said.
"Great," he replied. From the warmth in his voice, I could tell he was smiling. "I'll come pick you up at 7."
We hung up and I rubbed both hands over my face. God. What was I going to do?
I spent the day reading. Getting absorbed in a book was the best way to keep myself from worrying about things I couldn't control.
And before long, all of my concerns fell away.
Time flew and before I knew it, my phone alarm was going off, and it was time for me to start getting ready for dinner.
Despite my reservations, I ended up wearing a dress I used for work. It was black, knee-length and conservative enough that I couldn't imagine Sam's mother objecting. But just to be safe, I pulled on a cardigan.
I would be polite, demure and totally irreproachable. I would speak only when spoken to, smile a lot and compliment her decorating.
What could go wrong?
Well, everything.
When my door buzzer rang a little before 7, I threw on my coat and dashed down the stairs.
Sam was waiting for me in the vestibule. He gave me a kiss and said,
"You look great. My mother loves it when people dress up for dinner."
"You should've told me that!" I said. "What if I'd worn jeans?"
He grinned...
"You know, it didn't occur to me. I don't think I've ever seen you in jeans."
I thought about it...
"That's not true. I wore jeans when we went to Joss'."
"I stand corrected," he said.
We walked out to the waiting car, bickering cheerfully about who had worn jeans and when. It was snowing lightly, fat flakes drifting down from the dark sky, and I turned my face up towards them.
No matter how long I lived in New York, I would never get tired of seeing the snow fall.
Sam, holding the car door open, smiled at me and said,
"Oh yeah, you probably didn't see much snow, growing up in California."
"None at all," I said. "I was eighteen the first time I saw snow."
I shook my head and got into the car before he got sick of waiting for me, but I still remembered my first snowfall...
I had left the windowless building where I was working at the time, some crummy temp job for an insurance agency, and stood in the middle of the sidewalk staring up at the falling snow, until a passerby cursed at me and told me to get out of the damn way.
Most people in the city hated the snow, the way it turned into gray slush and made traffic a snarled mess, and I always nodded and agreed that, yes, it probably wouldn't melt until July, but secretly, I couldn't get enough.
I would be happy if it snowed every day from October until April.
Sam's mother lived on the Upper East Side. It was a long way from my apartment in the hinterlands of Brooklyn.
We sat together in the roomy back seat of the car, one of his arms wrapped around my shoulders, and talked about nothing in particular...the kind of rambling conversation that happened so often when you are first growing close to someone.
Things like...childhood pets, favorite movies and secret aspirations.
Sam told me about a man who showed up for a meeting with a boa constrictor in his briefcase, and I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks.
Then I told him about a woman at my first job who kept a dead cat in her freezer for three years because she couldn't figure out where to bury it.
Finally, we sobered, speeding along FDR Drive, the East River a black expanse to our right. Sam said,
"I should've warned you about the pictures."
I shrugged, uncomfortable...
"It just took me by surprise."
"It's surprisingly easy for me to forget that this is all new to you," he said. "In the past..." He exhaled. "Well. When I was younger, I mainly dated women who sought the exposure that came with dating me. My girlfriends since then have all...well... Let's just say that they're friends of the family."
"You mean they're rich," I said. "They know the rules."
"Right," he said. "So I forget. Forgive me. I don't want this to be a trial for you. I don't want you to have any reason to decide that dating me is too much trouble to be worth it."
That was exactly what I had been thinking about, but I leaned against him and said,
"It's worth it."
Was I lying to him?
Maybe. But it was worth it, except when it wasn't. If only he weren't who he was... If only we could be anonymous nobodies together in Brooklyn.
Ugh! I didn't want to think about that anymore.
Sam's mother lived in a huge building on Central Park East. We got out of the car and I stared up at the marble edifice, too intimidated to speak or move.
I'd had a job for a while, cleaning apartments on the Upper East Side. So I knew what was waiting for me, and that made it even more intimidating.
The doorman held open the door for us as we approached.
"Good evening, Mr. Evans," he said.
"Hello, Walter," Sam said. "I hope you're keeping warm."
"Best kind of weather there is," the doorman said. "Your mother asked me to tell you that the gravy boiled over."
Sam laughed...
"Thanks for the warning."
We walked into the lobby, Sam's hand at the small of my back.
"That's a code," he said. "It means she broke out the good Scotch."
"Sure," I said. I was too busy gawking at the opulent lobby to say anything worthwhile.
Rosy-cheeked cherubs frolicked on the ceiling and the marble floors echoed with our footsteps.
When we got into the elevator and Sam pushed the button for the top floor. I asked,
"Did you grow up here?"
He shook his head.
"My mother downsized after my father died."
Downsized?
To a penthouse overlooking Central Park?
I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. I didn't think I would ever get used to this.
The elevator opened into a small foyer with a console table and a solid wooden door.
Sam pushed a doorbell and the door swung open almost instantly to reveal a woman I assumed was his mother.
She had been waiting for us...
She was small and trim, her gray hair cut in a fashionable bob. She was wearing a low-cut dress and heels and jewelry that probably cost a small fortune.
She looked like someone who had seen everything the world had to offer and decided that not much of it was worthy of her attention.
"Sam, darling," she said, holding out her arms, and he bent to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She turned to me, and said,
"And you must be Mercedes."
Was I supposed to hug her? That seemed too familiar.
"Pleased to meet you," I said, and held out my hand.
She looked at it like it was a dead fish and then limply clasped the tips of my fingers.
"I'm so glad you were able to join Sam this evening."
So... I had screwed up already.
I shot Sam a pleading look, but he was looking at his mother.
"Are we late? Traffic on FDR was horrible."
She scoffed...
"Late? My child? Never. Dinner's growing cold, but don't fret about me, your poor, beleaguered, widowed mother..."
He laughed.
"Was the knitting circle especially tiring today?"
The two bantered as she led the way into the apartment. I hung back and gaped at my surroundings... pale wood floors strewn with rich carpets, antique furniture that probably came straight from Paris, oil paintings that from what Sam had told me about his mother's interest in art, were probably originals by famous artists.
And the huge windows on every wall that opened onto the city skyline and the park.
Agreeing to dinner had been a huge mistake.
I didn't even know what his mother's name was.
Sam's mother led us to the dining room...a large space that contained a long table surrounded by chairs, and not much else in the way of furniture.
One wall was lined with windows and the other walls were covered with artwork.
Three places had been set at one end of the table and she herded us in that direction.
"Sit down and have something to drink," she ordered. "I'll see about dinner. It will be just a moment."
With that, she sailed off through a doorway.
I immediately grabbed Sam's arm...
"What's your mother's name?"
He looked startled.
"Mary. Mary-Ann. Why?"
"I can't keep thinking of her as Sam's mother," I said.
He smiled...
"Well, I wouldn't recommend referring to her as Mary," he said. "Call her Mrs. Evans, she'll like that."
Mrs. Evans. Right. Because it wasn't as if we were both functioning adults. I swallowed my anxiety and smiled at him as he pulled out my chair for me.
At least there was plenty of wine...
Sam poured me a generous glass and took the seat opposite me.
"You look ashen," he said.
I glanced down at my left arm.
"I still look brown," I said.
"So literal! It's a figure of speech," he said. "You're too worried. She's going to love you."
I didn't think she was, necessarily, but I kept it to myself. He didn't need to be burdened with my doubts. They were burdensome enough for me.
Mrs. Evans came back into the room, followed by a woman who was carrying a huge platter. It was the maid, I realized. Or cook, or personal assistant...whatever her exact title was, she was obviously hired help.
And here I was, essentially hired help myself, seated at the table, waiting to be waited on.
I didn't belong here.
The maid set the platter on a sideboard and shot me a look that I couldn't read.
You don't belong here?
Stay away from these crazy white people?
I feel your pain, sister?
"I hope you like fish, Mercedes," Mrs. Evans said. "Sam wouldn't give me any information as to your dietary preferences, so I was forced to guess."
"Fish is great," I said. Wait...had Sam told her anything about me? That I was African American?
And then it occurred to me...the only black people this woman had ever spoken to were probably maids.
"Great," she said, like the word tasted strange in her mouth. "Well. We should have an enjoyable dinner, then."
She stood expectantly beside the chair at the head of the table and Sam stood up to pull out the chair for her.
It was like being in a parallel universe. Who took formal dining so seriously, when it was just your son and his low-class girlfriend?
She sat and Sam sat. Then the maid set plates in front of us... Mrs. Evans first and me last.
I wondered if it was a hidden message...
I unfolded my napkin and spread it across my lap. The plate was carefully arranged with three small hors d'oeuvres that I couldn't even identify.
The first course, then. How many courses would there be? Eight? Ten?
"Sam, tell me how business is going," his mother said. "You're too important to give your poor mother updates."
He laughed, picking up one of the hors d'oeuvres and popping it in his mouth. It was meant to be eaten with the fingers, then. Good to know.
He chewed and swallowed, and then said,
"It's going well, mother. You know that. You read the quarterly reports."
"Yes, but that's not the same as hearing it from the source," she said. She picked up her wine glass and took a sip. "Your father would be very disappointed to know that you aren't keeping me in the loop."
Sam rolled his eyes...
"Fortunately, he's dead and doesn't know."
I raised my eyebrows, a little shocked despite myself. I had always been taught to show utmost respect for the dead, but what did I know?
My dinners only required one fork.
Mrs. Evans frowned at Sam, giving him a stern look over the rim of her glasses.
"You're a very naughty boy. I hope he rises from the grave and haunts you, just for that."
Weren't either of them sad that the man had died?
Didn't they miss him?
They were talking about it so lightly, like his death was a joke, or like he hadn't really died at all, just stepped out for a few minutes.
Sam just grinned and ate another hors d'oeuvre.
I had just put one in my own mouth, figuring it was safe for me to eat, when Mrs. Evans turned her laser focus on me...
"So, Mercedes. Is your father still alive?"
I chewed automatically, because there was food in my mouth. What kind of question was that?
Who just asked someone if their father hadn't died yet?
"Yes, he's alive," I said.
"And what does he do?" she asked.
Frankly, I didn't know. He had never been able to hold a job for more than three months, and I had no idea if he was currently working, or even if he still lived in California.
"We don't speak much," I said.
"Hmm," she said. "Family strife. A poor indication." She looked at Sam. "Were you aware of this?"
"Don't hassle her, mother," he said. "I told you to be nice to her."
Mrs. Evans sniffed...
"I am being nice. I'm simply trying to get to know the girl." She turned to me again. "Where did you go to school?"
"I grew up in California, so I graduated from high school out there," I said.
She raised one eyebrow...
"No, dear. I meant your college education. Dartmouth, perhaps? You seem like a Dartmouth girl."
I looked at Sam, incredulous. Hadn't he told her anything?
Why hadn't he prepared me for this lion's den I'd walked into?
"I, um. I didn't finish college," I said stiffly. "I spent a few semesters at CUNY."
"I see," Mrs. Evans said. She frowned at Sam. "We'll have to remedy that. She can't be of much use to your political career without the appropriate pedigree."
His what?
Sam hadn't said anything to me about wanting to go into politics. And why was I going to be involved?
We had been dating for a month...it wasn't like we were engaged.
Sam buried his face in one hand...
"Mother. I am not going to have a political career."
"I think she could be an asset, with a little polish," she said. "Voters like the minority wife. Just look at our new mayor."
I sat there, hands in my lap, too stunned to speak. I had been envisioning Sam's mother as a kindly older woman, someone who puttered around with gardening and charity boards. Not this.
"We aren't discussing this," Sam said. "Mercedes, ignore her, she's being abominable." He was smiling, though, like it was all some big joke.
Well, I wasn't laughing.
"Oh, very well," Mrs. Evans said. "I'll leave you be for now. But this isn't over!"
With that, she motioned to the maid, who came forward to remove our plates and replaced them with the next course...
It was the longest meal of my life... I'm sure the food was great, however, I ate mechanically, placing each bite into my mouth without tasting anything.
My heart pounded, dulling all conversation into a dim roar. And Sam kept making attempts to draw me into whatever they were talking about, but his mother kept neatly excluding me, saying a sentence or two in response to his efforts, then returning to whatever she had been talking about.
For instance, topics like Evans Industries or her latest investments or her tennis lessons...subjects I knew nothing about and couldn't contribute to.
It was obvious that my input wasn't necessary or desired. So I kept quiet and ate.
At this point, I just didn't know why Sam had asked me to join him.
When Mrs. Evans left the room to see about dessert, he leaned across the table and took my hand.
"Are you okay? You're being so quiet."
"She hates me," I said, and then immediately regretted it. Sam didn't need to hear me whining about how miserable I was.
He looked startled...
"Why would you say that? Because of the politics thing? Don't pay any attention, she's always like that."
It wasn't the politics thing though...it was all of it.
The way she looked at me, and the way she had taken my measure in a single glance and dismissed me as someone unworthy of her notice.
But I couldn't say that to Sam. I didn't understand their relationship or their strange verbal parrying, but they obviously had great affection for each other. And I didn't think he would respond well if he thought I was criticizing his mother.
So I just said,
"I'm sure it's nothing."
And before he could push the issue, his mother returned with desert...
During desert, I wondered how long it would take for Sam's mother to convince him to break up with me. I could imagine the conversation all too clearly...
She's too poor... too unsophisticated... too ignorant about the way our world operates.
I knew I would never make a good society wife. I couldn't even figure out which fork to use at dinner. It would be better to make a clean break, to end things before someone...namely me got too attached.
Mrs. Evans would frame it as a kindness... Sam would be doing me a favor. She would talk him around to it, slowly and persuasively, and eventually he would come to see the light.
I would be happier with someone of my own social class. And didn't Sam care about my happiness?
I would just have to end it first and preserve my dignity.
But I didn't want to. That was the problem.
I poked at my dessert and watched him describing some investment he had made, hands moving in abstract gestures and his face animated. I wasn't ready to lose him just yet...
Stay safe!