Rachel’s Legacy

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

On Friday, I walked into the Hotel Sofitel Montreal. I’d never been in here before but I walk past it almost every day. It was just a few blocks from McGill. It was a beautiful building, but I knew I’d never be able to afford a room there. She had said in her e-mail that she’d made a reservation at the Renoir Restaurant there, for 7:00 P.M. I was still dressed in a business suit like the ones I always wore to teach.

Inside the hotel was the most elegant lobby I had ever been in. Chandeliers hung everywhere, but they weren’t as ostentatious as they might have been. They were rather modern, without the ornate drops and glitter that most chandeliers had. They had a cylindrical glass tube, about eighteen inches in diameter and maybe three feet long that housed ten or twelve smaller globe-shaped bulbs. The effect was stunning. If there was no glare, you’d think those lights were floating in space.

The furniture was exquisite, but understated, in a muted gray and red. All of the staff was perfectly dressed in sharply pressed uniforms, in white or soft gray with red trimming.

At the restaurant, the maître d’ was also very impressive. He was tall and very straight-backed. He could have been a Beefeater in London.

“I’m meeting Ms. Rachel Fox,” I announced.

“Certainly, Madam. Right this way.”

I almost choked. Madam? Did I look that old?

He led me through the dining room to a smaller, private alcove at the back of the restaurant. He held a chair out for me, and when I was comfortably seated, he handed me a menu.

“May we get you something to drink?” he asked.

“Scotch,” I answered. “Neat.”

“I’ll have another, too,” the woman who sat across the table from me said, “But make them Glenfiddich.”

“Certainly. Bon appetite,” he stated. Then he walked away.

I stared across the table at a woman I knew was probably four or five years older than me, but she definitely didn’t look forty-five.

I hope I look that good in five years, was my first thought.

She sat there with her drink in her hand, staring back at me. She had the same dark hair, though worn a little shorter than my shoulder length, and she had the same facial shape that I did. Her eyes were strangely like Mother’s.

“So, you’re Alison.” She smiled at me.

“And you’re Rachel.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, now that we know who we are, what else do we talk about?” she asked, with a warm smile.

A waiter brought our drinks.

I chuckled. “I’m sorry,” I said, “But you look so much like Mother that it’s distracting.”

She grimaced. Her eyes looked down into her drink. “Unfortunately, I don’t remember her,” she said, frowning gently. “I was only seven when she left and I guess the divorce was not friendly. Everyone was forbidden to talk about her.”

“Then I’m sorry you never got to know her.”

“I am, too. I should have looked her up after my father died, but I got involved in running the businesses and put it off. I really regret that.”

“Yes, I think she always wondered.”

I stared into her eyes. I think I saw them start to water over.

She sat back and took a deep breath. Then she asked, “Do you have any other siblings? Is your father still alive?”

“No, to both. My father died of a stroke ten years ago, so it was just Mom and me.”

“And you’re a lawyer.”

I nodded. “I’ve passed the bar, but I started teaching before I went into practice. I also have a Masters in International Affairs.” Why let this woman, who based her life around making money, think she had something up on me?

“I’ve had international affairs,” she drawled. “But I can’t say I’m a master at it.”

That broke the ice. We both laughed. Maybe we could get along. At least that.

“So, what looks good?” she asked as she opened her menu. I opened mine, too, and looked at the prices. The cheapest entrée was forty-five dollars. That was my food budget for the rest of the month.

“Have whatever you want,” she declared. “I chose this restaurant, so I’ll pay for it.”

“You don’t have to,” I objected.

“Sure, I do,” she stated. “I don’t know what you make, but a teacher can’t possibly make enough to eat like this.”

“Not all the time. It is kind of pricey,” I admitted, “but I can do this every once in a while. I’m not broke.”

Rachel looked perplexed. “I didn’t mean to imply you were. Humor me. Let me pay,” she said.

I sighed and nodded. “But the next time, let me pay.”

“I can’t promise that,” she averred. “I have very expensive tastes.”

“Then you’ve missed the joys of life,” I said, tongue in cheek. “There’s nothing better than the Quarter Pounders and French fries at McDonald’s.” I hoped she knew I was kidding.

“Actually,” she said, “I much prefer those Whoppers and onion rings from Burger King.”

“You’ve been to Burger King?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Many times when I was in high school, but that was years ago.”

I chuckled. “It hasn’t changed.” I said.

We giggled like two schoolgirls. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. At least she had a sense of humor,

“What looks interesting to you? For an appetizer, I’m looking at the salade d’artichauts et crevettes Nordique. I love shrimp and artichokes. And then the braised lamb with goat cheese polenta, and rapini. I haven’t had turnip-leaf rapini since I was in Tuscany last year.” Then she looked at the expression on my face.

“I’m sorry, Alison, I’m not trying to brag or show off, but I do travel a lot. I own a villa in Tuscany, so I’m there quite a lot. Well, not a lot a lot, but I try to get there once every few years,”

“That’s all right.” I smiled at her. “I haven’t traveled as extensively as you, but I do have certain food favorites that I try to find occasionally.”

Rachel nodded. “You’ll have to tell me about that part of your life, sometime.” Then she sat back and took a mouthful of the scotch. “What do you want to have,” she said, glancing back at the menu. “It all looks good.”

“I think just the Dover sole, Grenobloise style with Meunière butter and barigoule artichoke,” I answered.

“And for the entrée?” she asked.

“None. Just the sole. It should be enough.”

She looked at me as if I were crazy.

“Just the sole? That’s not enough for dinner.”

“I don’t eat a lot,” I told her.

She leaned forward and whispered, in a conspiratorial voice, “Order an entrée. You can always take it home and eat it tomorrow. No sense in being too frugal when someone else is paying.”

I guess I didn’t look convinced.

“Come on. If you don’t order, I’ll feel like I chose the wrong restaurant. Did I?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “I don’t really eat that much.”

“Please?”

I felt like I was the older sister. I shook my head. “All right.” I looked back at the menu. “I’ll have the crab cakes with the goat cheese. I love goat cheese.”

“Are you a vegetarian?” she asked.

“Far from it.” I laughed. “But I do love seafood.”

“The crab comes with Chioggia beet salad. Have you had it before?”

“No, I have to say I haven’t,” I admitted.

“You’ll love it.” Then she signaled to the waiter and ordered for both of us.

“Tell me about Alison Burke,” she said as the waiter walked away with our orders.

“There’s not much to tell,” I started. “I live here and I teach. That’s about all.”

“No romantic interests?”

“Not right now,” I admitted. “There was someone for about seven years, but it ended in January.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. And you never married?”

I shook my head and asked, “What about Rachel Fox, aside from all the legends that run rampant about you?”

Rachel broke out laughing. “Good God. Legends?”

“Well, you must know that everyone knows who you are, and talks about you. How do you handle it?”

“I try to ignore gossip. It’s never true. People make up what they want to hear. There are a few people who know me well, but they’re not the kind to talk.

“In fact, I very seldom read the newspapers. If I want to know about something, I’ll ask. If I want an opinion, I’ll look to someone I know and respect. If there’s something I should know about, someone will clip it for me.”

“That sounds fair,” I said. “Why did you never marry?”

“Several reasons.” She took a breath “I don’t need anyone to support me and I already have someone to take care of my house. I don’t want to be tied down to one person or one place. It’s so limiting. I’m a bit of a drifter, relationship-wise. There’s just so much to see and do. I don’t want to miss any of it. I want it all.”

“From what I’ve heard,” I chuckled, “you have it all. It’s good you have the money to do that.”

She agreed. “It does make dating a bit tricky, though. I always wonder if the person I’m dating really loves me, or just my money.”

“That must make nights a bit lonely.”

“Never. There’s always someone and there are times I really enjoy being alone and that’s not as seldom as you’d think.” She put her glass down and looked at me. “Actually, I’ve hedged my bets.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, supporting her chin on her fists. “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I hate this “s****l preference” thing. If a person is interesting and sexy, it makes no difference to me if it’s a he or she.”

I smiled at her. “Well, it does make a difference to me.” I let the thought hang as I saw the feelings wash across her face. I knew she thought I was homophobic. I shook my head. “I don’t date men.”

She threw her arms in the air. “Oh, Alison. We’re going to have so much fun together.”

The waiter set our appetizers in front of us.

“I was prepared to hate you,” I stated to her as we started to eat. “We could have used your money when Mother was dying.”

She put her fork down and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Alison. I didn’t know who she was or where she was. I tried asking several times, but my father had forbidden her name to be mentioned in the house, so no one would talk about her. I grew up thinking she left because she didn’t love me, that she didn’t love any of us. It wasn’t until my housekeeper, Edith, read the obituary in the paper that she finally told me about her.”

“Then you missed a lot.”

“Yes, I did. But I think that was your fault.”

“My fault? What do you mean?”

She sat back and thought about it before she continued. “Actually, from what Edith explained to me, it was all my father’s fault.”

I waited for her to continue.

“My father always put business before everything. In the process, he ignored her, so when Mother met a man who filled her needs and really loved her, she had an affair. When my father found out she was pregnant, he knew it wasn’t his.” She took a deep breath before she continued.

“My father was a very vindictive man. That’s one of the things I’ve had to guard against all my life, so I don’t become like him. Anyway, he kicked her out and divorced her. He sued for custody of me and forbade her any visitation rights.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “How could that be? The courts usually favor the mother in custody battles.”

Rachel nodded. “But when you have as much money as my father had and can hire the best lawyers around, you usually get what you want. I imagine Mother had to use a very inexpensive defense lawyer. And with her belly protruding a bit, she couldn’t contest that she’d been unfaithful. Edith told me Mother wrote to her to check up on me, many years after you were born.”

I didn’t know what to say. I bit down on my lower lip.

“I can’t tell you how much I regret that happening. My father told me all sorts of horrible things about her. I’d love you to tell me how you saw her. The vision I have of her in my mind is not very flattering. I don’t want memories like that.”

I could see tears start to cloud her eyes. My heart began to melt. God. I hope this woman wasn’t acting.

“What did she look like?” Rachel asked.

I smiled at her. “We look very much like her, you more than me.”

Rachel frowned. “Really?”

“You’ve never seen a picture of her?” I couldn’t believe that she had never seen one of her baby pictures with Mother in it.

Rachel shook her head. “My father said he had burned them all because it hurt him too much to look at them.”

“I have one with me.” I reached down into my purse and withdrew my wallet. I opened it and took out the picture I always carried of Mom and Dad. It was taken on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I handed it to her.

Rachel held it gently in her two hands. She almost looked like someone praying to her deity. After a few moments, tears started to run down her face.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she handed the picture back to me. She dabbed her napkin under her eyes gently so she wouldn’t ruin her makeup.

“Would you like it? I have others,” I offered.

Her eyes lit up in wonder. “May I?” she asked. When I nodded, she picked the picture up off the table where I had placed it.

“This was your father? He was very handsome. Mother looks so calm and loving. I can’t believe what my father described to me. This is nothing like he had me imagining. Her eyes were so bright.”

She picked up her glass of scotch and downed every drop. Then she motioned to the waiter for another and she slid the picture into her bag.

“Was her dying gentle?” she asked, softly.

I nodded. “She was in a lot of pain but she never complained. The last month, she couldn’t get comfortable, no matter what we did for her, even with all the drugs. But, she smiled through everything. She even made jokes about it from time to time. I could see the pain in her eyes. Sometimes there were tears. It was heartbreaking. There were times when she was so out of it, I thought she was going then, but she’d pull through time after time. She was incredibly brave. Each morning, when she woke, she’d say, “Another day. Thank God.” I hope if I ever have to go through something like that, I have the courage to handle it like she did.”

Rachel looked impressed. She nodded. “Were you with her when she passed?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said softly. “She said her rosary while I sat beside her, then she smiled at me, mouthed, ‘I love you,’ and slipped away.”

“Oh, Alison.” Rachel reached across the table and clutched my hands.

I gave her a small, sad smile.

We talked for two hours while we ate and downed a few more drinks…well, actually, I had one more; she had four. I discussed Mom with her and she asked question after question. It was an agreeable meeting. I was glad I’d reserved judgment and agreed to meet her. She seemed nicer than I thought she’d be. She wasn’t self-centered, although she was confident about what she wanted or didn’t want.

“How long will you be in Montreal?” I asked as she walked me to the front door of the hotel. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t drunk.

“I have no idea, but definitely until I leave,” she joked. “I came in my own plane, so I don’t have to worry about airline schedules. I never know when I’ll want to stay longer or leave earlier.”

“Do you pilot the plane yourself?”

“No,” she explained. “I have a license but I’m lazy, so I also have a pilot.”

“It must be convenient,” I said. I gave a little laugh. “If you’re going to stay a while, come to my place tomorrow night and let me cook dinner for you,” I offered as I clutched the Styrofoam doggie box. “Do you like Mediterranean food?”

“I love Mediterranean food, so, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

Then I had a thought. “You said you were in Tuscany a lot, then maybe I should cook something else.”

“No, no,” she assured me. “If you want to cook from somewhere I haven’t been, I think we’ll be here all weekend trying to think of a place.”

“All right.” I had to smile. “It won’t be very fancy. But it’ll be good food.”

“That sounds great.” She smiled. “What time?”

“Seven?” I reached into my purse and handed her my card with my address on it. “It’s only about three blocks away from here. I walk it every day. But, taxi drivers know how to get there, too.” I grinned at her.

She hugged me and stepped back. “Do you still hate me?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No, I hate the circumstances that kept you away.”