The Other Sister Read online

  “I have a meeting with the distributors,” she said, sidestepping her mother’s comment. “Then I’m going to have dinner . . . with Jackson.” She watched her mother nod her head. Her tummy tightened. “See you later this evening. Do you need me to bring anything?”

  “No, but you might want to check with your aunts. I think they’re sitting out back on the porch.”

  Zoie wiped her mouth with a napkin, tossed it in the garbage, then gave her mother’s shoulder a slight squeeze. “Thanks.” She turned to leave.

  “Zoie . . .”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Have you heard anything from Kimberly?”

  The flickering light of hope in her mother’s eyes was a stab of guilt to her heart. “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry,” she added gently.

  Rose looked away, nodded.

  Zoie wanted to offer some reassurance, some words of comfort but it was still something she struggled with. “I’ll see you later, okay.” She headed out.

  She shouldn’t feel guilty about anything. All that she’d done was dig for the truth, what she’d been trained to do as a journalist. How was she to know that what she discovered would upend her entire family and Kimberly Maitland’s as well? Kimberly, when presented with the choice, made a conscious decision to dismiss what she knew to be true. That wasn’t Zoie’s fault. It wasn’t her fault that Kimberly didn’t want to have anything to do with them. It wasn’t. Then why did she feel so guilty?

  She turned the key in the ignition of her Honda Accord and pulled out of the short driveway onto the main road. What she needed to concentrate on now was negotiating a solid deal with the distributors, and keeping her grandmother’s business thriving. At least for the next few hours she could keep her mind off ‘the talk’ with Jackson. It was a conversation that she’d been avoiding for weeks, and couldn’t any longer. They were going to meet for an early dinner in town at their favorite spot, and by the time dessert was served, they would either be together for the long haul or it would be over for good.

  One of Kimberly’s favorite places in Manhattan was the main branch of the library on Forty-second Street. The majestic pink Tennessee marble lions—known as Patience and Fortitude—that guarded the vaulted entrance were iconic symbols of New York. At the time of its opening in 1911, it was the largest marble building ever built in the United States. Every room, every nook, was sprinkled in elegance, from the soaring arches, sweeping marble staircases, and dazzling chandeliers, to the unrivaled massive collections that scholars and researchers traveled from across the globe to study.

  Her favorite spot was the third floor—the Rose Main Reading Room—that was nearly the length of a football field. The enormous space was stocked with manuscripts, archival ephemera and rare books. She could spend hours tucked away in one of the many comfy alcoves devouring one of the classics.

  Most often, she came to the library for research and of course to find that treasure of a book. Then there were the times she came simply to immerse herself in something larger than herself, unwind and become inspired. Today was one of those days. The library was her oasis where she came to replenish her soul, and if there was ever a time she needed replenishing, it was now.

  She slipped out of her lightweight trench coat, draped it over her arm and began the slow perusal of the shelves in hopes of finding something to take her mind away from herself. After more than a half hour of picking up and putting down, she finally settled on nothing at all and instead, found a cozy corner to tuck herself into, and closed her eyes.

  For a time, the soft whisper of turning pages fluttered like wings of a butterfly. She smiled at the comforting sound and if she listened really closely, she could hear the pens pressing against paper, carving out new ideas for posterity.

  The sounds lulled her, not to sleep, but rather into a place of clarity. The history that was hers she needed to write. She must decide how the rest of her life was going to play out. For the past year, her life had been the purview of the media, formed by her PR team that crafted her image, her speech writer that outlined what she should say and when, and her donors who supported the well-crafted image. In order to take control of her life, she was going to have to tell the truth to her husband. Yet the very idea was more frightening than the truth itself.

  Since she’d been confronted with the darkness of her family’s past, literally and figuratively, she saw the world and the people in it through new eyes. There were the shaded comments from Rowan’s associates and even their friends about ‘thugs’ and foreigners, and how they were sick of walking the streets of New York City and not hearing English. The comments were filled with veiled bigotry and until recently she thought nothing of them, until she realized that now she was one of ‘them’ an ‘other,’ the very person that her friends and associates disparaged. That is what gave her pause. Her husband, the man that vowed to love her, expressed the same sentiments as their friends. Would he still be able to love her when he knew the truth—that she was not the pristine, white southern belle he’d married, but was the product of a black mother, and had black blood running through her veins? And if not, what would become of them and their family? Would it matter that she’d been lied to all her life as well?

  Her lids fluttered open and she gazed around at the depth and breadth of history, and knew that going forward whatever story was told about her, it would be the one she wanted to tell. Rowan loved her. She had to believe that above all else, and their love would see them through—for their sakes and for the sakes of their daughters.

  When she walked outside from the sanctuary of the library, and into the late afternoon, it was still a couple of hours before she was expected at home. She decided to stop at Whole Foods and pick up everything she needed to prepare Rowan’s favorite meal of braised New York strip steak, mushroom risotto, and grilled asparagus. She selected all the main ingredients and the fresh seasonings, along with two bottles of wine. She’d put the girls to bed early so that she and Rowan could talk undisturbed.

  Zoie left her meeting with Lee Harding, the owner of Homestead Distributions. It was a relatively small operation, and at the time that her grandmother partnered with them, the partnership worked well. But although her grandmother’s fruit and vegetable business began as a local endeavor, it had begun to spread to the surrounding parishes, and Harding was no longer sure if he could adequately provide the service that the growing business needed. Even Zoie had to hire three college students to help with the picking and packing.

  Harding agreed to continue to work with Zoie as he wanted the business, and because of the boom in business he planned to bring in an additional driver. But she knew that if the business continued to prosper, she would soon have to look for another trucking service. One more thing to worry about. At least for now, business would continue as usual.

  She sat behind the wheel of her car staring at nothing in particular. When she’d returned to Louisiana for her grandmother’s funeral, she would have never thought in a million years that not only would she wind up staying, but that she’d be running a business. There were days when she desperately missed the rush, the exhilaration of living and working in New York City. Her job as an investigative journalist for the Recorder was her passion. She lived for the next big story, to dig beneath the surface and unearth the truth no matter how ugly. That searing need had led her to Kimberly and all the fallout as a result. The irony was not lost on her.

  She turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear and headed off to her meeting with Jackson. She was still torn, and Jackson was going to have to do a lot more than look like dessert, touch her in that way that made her lose her mind, and smooth talk her with his voice of silk. He was going to have to bring his A-plus game and then some, and she was going to need to resist falling under his spell, and listen to reason and not her heart. However, making reservations at her favorite restaurant did earn him some points.

  She pulled to a stop at a red light. Things between her and Jackson had always
fluctuated between raging passion and searing tempers—mostly hers, she had to admit. Jackson was the one that wanted tradition, stability. He brought balance to her life, even as she sought constant challenges, wanted to pull open every door, and look under every rock, no matter the consequences. Jackson may have gone along with that part of her that could not be contained, but he never liked it. Combined with, at least for him, the fracture between her and her mother that led to arguments too numerous to count. Jackson could never get behind or support her ongoing battle with her mother. It was antithetical to everything he believed about family. He was the eldest of three, and although his married sister and world-traveling brother didn’t live in Louisiana, family holiday gatherings were must-attend, major events for the Fullers; birthdays and anniversaries were celebrated with cards and flowers and FedEx’d gifts. Jackson, religiously, drove down to Baton Rouge where his parents lived at least three or four times a month for dinner, and would return filled with anecdotes about his mother’s ‘mother wit’ on everything from adding just the right seasoning to her famous crawfish, to how many times she peeked out her window and saw her neighbor Stella’s secret lover sneaking away before her husband got home from the overnight shift. All the while, his dad would pretend not to care by muffling his chuckles behind the sports page of the Baton Rouge Centennial.

  “Be the bigger person, Z. That’s your mother,” he’d said as they’d sat together on his couch watching their favorite show, Criminal Minds. “The only one you’ll ever have.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “You are lucky. You have a family. You know how many people wished they had what you do?”

  “You don’t get it! Your family actually loves you. Your mother doesn’t try to suffocate you, wring the life out of you. And your dad is your biggest supporter. I haven’t seen or heard from mine since I was a kid. That’s my life, Jax. I have all the reasons in the world to feel the way I do.”

  “At some point, you gotta let all that go. ’Cause one of these days your stubborn stance is going to backfire, Z, but hopefully you’ll see that chasing after someone else’s truth won’t stop you from crashing right into yours.”

  That was the last major conversation they’d had before she’d packed up and moved to New York, still fuming through the entire flight to JFK airport that he should say those things to her. In those ensuing years between her leaving Louisiana and coming back home she’d done what she’d set out to do, and much as Jackson had predicted, her tenacity for the truth led her right back to where she’d started. Jackson had been right about so many things. She’d spent years being ‘the martyr’ and never realizing or wanting to actually know the real truth that lived beneath the surface of her family. She’d wasted so much time gnawing on the bitter rinds of her perceived injustices and shutting out her family—time that she could never gain back. But now she was home and although the fence was still broken in many places, the family was mending the pieces. She wasn’t the same woman who’d left years earlier, but had she changed enough to accept what Jackson was offering?

  She cruised down the narrow street, hoping to locate a parking spot within walking distance of the restaurant. Finally, after her third spin around the block she found one a door down from the restaurant. She chuckled at the irony of the situation that mirrored her life—what she was looking for was always right there waiting.

  The sun had just begun to set. Rooftops and church spires cut into the waves of orange, gold and white that lay like a blanket above them. She’d always loved this time of day. Back in New York to get this view you’d often have to look out from the window of a skyscraper.

  Zoie shut off the engine, grabbed her purse and got out. Chez Oskar was a true Louisiana-style restaurant from crayfish to po’ boys to spicy gumbo, and they made the best Hurricanes this side of the Mississippi. Her tummy smiled the instant she crossed the threshold.

  “Welcome to Chez Oskar,” the hostess greeted. “Bar or table?”

  “I’m actually meeting someone.”

  “Did they make a reservation?”

  “Yes. It should be Jackson Fuller.”

  “And you would be right,” a voice deep as the ocean said from behind her.

  Zoie felt the heat start at the base of her spine and inch its way up her neck to explode in her head. She slowly turned with as much nonchalance as she could summon. “Hey,” she managed over the thundering of her heart.

  Jackson tenderly clasped her shoulder, leaned down and placed a light kiss on her cheek, but it may as well have been a lighted match. Her cheek was on fire.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  His Hershey chocolate-brown eyes held her momentarily mesmerized. She blinked away the trance.

  “Your waitress will seat you,” the hostess said, took two menus from the rack and handed them to a young Nia Long look-alike.

  “Right this way,” ‘Nia’ said.

  They were shown to a table, passing a horseshoe-shaped bar that dominated the space with its mirrored backdrop and rows of top shelf spirits, and lined from end to end with thirsty customers. The restaurant, though known for its down-home cuisine, could rival the five-star restaurants in décor. The soft lighting, nooked-in ‘kiss me corner’ seating for privacy, bright-white linen-topped tables and crystal and flatware that glistened beneath the lighting, offered an ambiance of luxury. What also set Chez Oskar apart was that it offered live entertainment and somehow Jackson had secured them a table with an excellent view of the small stage. Jackson, always the gentleman, helped her into her seat.

  “I’m Toni and I’ll be your server tonight,” the Nia look-alike said. She placed the menus in front of them. “Can I start you with something to drink?”

  “Apple martini,” Zoie said.

  “Bourbon, neat.”

  “Be right back.” She whirled away.

  “So . . . how are you?” Jackson began. He linked his long fingers together on top of the table.

  Zoie drew in a breath and slowly exhaled. She placed her purse on the seat beside her. “Having a successful business is not a walk in the park. It’s growing faster than I can keep up. I already have three helpers and I may need to hire more. My distributor is barely keeping up as well. That’s what my meeting was about earlier.”

  “How can I help?”

  Zoie stopped mid-thought and looked at Jackson. “This isn’t your problem, Jax. ‘Preciate the offer, though.”

  “Z. I promised your grandmother that I would do whatever I could.”

  “That was then. Things are different now. I’m here,” she flung at him like an old shoe.

  Jackson pursed his lips. “I see.”

  She licked her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. What I meant was that Nana Claudia left the business to me to run.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks and took dinner orders. They both ordered their favorite, Louisiana-style gumbo with just enough heat to flush the cheeks.

  Jackson gave a slight shrug of his right shoulder. “Fine, Zoie. But my offer is always open.”

  “Nana’s business is my responsibility. I’ll work it out. I owe it to my grandmother. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.” Jackson reached for his drink and took a short sip before setting the glass down. “No, it’s not.”

  She wrapped her hands around her glass, but let it sit on the table.

  Jackson cleared his throat. “I know finding out about Lena and the baby was not anything that you wanted to hear. But other than being a father to my child, there is no relationship between me and Lena. It’s mutual. It was over between us before she told me.”

  Zoie pushed out a breath, glanced away, then slid her gaze toward Jackson. “I get that you had a life while I was gone, and I’m not faulting anyone in this Lifetime television scenario. But I have to be honest, Jackson,” she said, her voice softening, “I don’t think I can do the whole baby mama thing. I don’t feel good about it. And to be perfectly honest, when you
r child arrives, there is no telling how you will feel or how Lena will feel about being a single mother. Babies have a way of changing people.” She stared into her glass. “I think we should . . .”

  “Should what, Z?”

  “I think we should take a break until after . . . and see how we feel then.” She swallowed over the hard knot in her throat. This was the second time she found herself walking away from Jackson. Their relationship was fraught with breakups and passionate makeups. Her years away from him only served as a finger in the dam of her feelings for him. When she’d returned, and saw him again after so many years, she realized how much she still loved him, wanted him, needed him. She’d let down her guard and he’d stepped right in. And now this . . .

  “Z.” He stretched his hand across the table. His finger stroked her knuckle. “I don’t want to lose you. Not again. We can make it work. Together.” He unwrapped her fingers from the glass and held her hand. “We can do this. I love you, Z, and I know you love me.”

  How many times had they shared those exact words with each other over the years? Jackson Fuller was her Achilles heel, her weakness. He’d always been able to find a way over and around all the guardrails she’d constructed around her, weakening her resistance. She could never put her finger on exactly what was in his magic formula. Was it the corny way he’d introduced himself to her that very first time, on the campus of Tulane; asking her if she believed in love at first sight or should he pass by again. It was so ridiculously corny that she broke out laughing.

  “I have a million of them,” he’d said, grinning at her with a smile that seemed to settle the rush that constantly propelled her. “Jackson Fuller.”