Butterfly (22 page)

“I know that,” Seneca said. “I have some money from one of my modeling assignments.”

An expression of surprise replaced Jerome’s frown. “Modeling must be good. You just gave me a check for three thousand
for the airline tickets, and now you’re willing to put out twelve thousand on Dad’s funeral.”

“We do what we have to do, Jerome. The only thing we’ve found is Dad’s ATM card, and without his PIN it’s useless. Mom’s not talking, so we don’t know where his financial documents are, or how much he has. She has a few credit cards in her purse, but I’m not going to try and access them to find the credit limits. I have the money, so let’s not beat our gums over what doesn’t need to be discussed.”

She crossed that item off the list. “Have you called all of our relatives?” Seneca asked her brother.

“Yes. I gave them the day, time and address for the funeral home.”

“What about his coworkers at the post office?”

“I called the postmaster and gave her the information,” Jerome confirmed.

Seneca put a line through that item. “I’m thinking we should have a repast here at the house after the burial. What do you think?” Jerome exchanged a look with his wife and Seneca knew again, Jerome was thinking about money. “I’ll pay to have it catered.”

Jerome nodded. “That’s better than asking people to bring something.”

“That does it. I’m going to need you to pick out a suit for Daddy, Jerome, so I can bring it to the funeral home. I’ve already ordered flowers from his children and grandchild. I also ordered a separate one from Mom. Can you think of anything else we’re going to need?”

“How about cars?” Maya asked.

“I ordered one limo for the immediate family. Do you think that’s enough?”

Jerome counted on his fingers. “There’s five of us, plus the baby, who’ll be on Maya’s lap. Yes, one is enough.”

“We’re through. I’m going over to the funeral home to give them a check, then I’ll stop at Webber’s to order the food.”

“How many people do you anticipate coming?” Maya asked.

“Probably eighty. But, I think I’ll have them cater for one hundred. There’s the family, the people Mom works with, Dad’s coworkers, and don’t forget the people in the neighborhood. Dad had this route when he first became a letter carrier.”

“Look, Seneca, when Maya and I get back on our feet financially we’re going to give you something. I feel bad that you’re underwriting the cost of everything.”

Seneca kept all expression from her voice and face. She’d wanted to tell Jerome that Oscar Houston was
her
father
and
as his oldest child that she should assume the responsibility of paying for his funeral. She wasn’t looking Jerome to repay her only because she had the money.

“I’d feel bad if I didn’t have it,” she said instead. “You have a house, two cars and a family, while I rent and there’s only me. Now, please go and pick out a suit for Daddy so I can do what I have to do, then come back here and relax.”

She was exhausted, averaging as little as four hours of sleep, which was beginning to tell on her face. Her eyes appeared shrunken, her cheeks gaunt, and the dark circles under her eyes would require layers of concealer if she were to have a photo shoot. All she wanted was to put her father in the ground—then she would have to concern herself with what to do with her mother.

W
hen Seneca had flown from Miami to Ithaca she never would’ve imagined her stay would stretch beyond a month. It was nearing the end of August and she hadn’t returned to New York City. She’d mailed Electra a check for rent for August and the remaining four months of the year with a note that when her lease expired December thirty-first she would be vacating the apartment.

Not only did she have enough money to rent an apartment in a “good” neighborhood, but she also had enough money to purchase a co-op. She favored the Upper West Side, so that’s where she planned to concentrate her search.

Dahlia was slowly returning to the woman with whom she was familiar. She stored the flag that had draped Oscar’s casket in a box on the fireplace mantel, cleaned out his closet and donated his clothes to a homeless shelter, and had retrieved her late husband’s financial documents, which had been stored in a safe-deposit box at a local bank. He had an insurance policy
with Robyn listed as his beneficiary. Dahlia explained that the money was earmarked for Robyn’s college education.

Other financial documents revealed that Oscar had taken out a second mortgage on the house without Dahlia’s knowledge, ballooning their current mortgage payments to nearly four thousand a month; it took hours to read every piece of paper in the box, but Seneca was able to locate what Oscar had done with the money: he’d invested in a new Florida retirement community. Unfortunately, the builder had filed for bankruptcy when the housing bubble burst. His investors suffered a double loss: money and unfinished structures.

“Mom, you’re going to have to put together a budget,” Seneca told Dahlia.

“I don’t need no damned budget.”

Ignoring her mother’s acerbic tone, Seneca smiled. “Yes, you do. Do you know how much your mortgage payments are?”

“Why would I know that? Oscar paid all the bills.”

“Mom, the mortgage is more than four thousand a month. And don’t forget, you have your car and Daddy’s truck. In another couple of months you’ll have to heat the house and—”

“I don’t need you lecturing me about what is none of your business,” Dahlia snapped angrily. “You only paid for Oscar’s funeral out of guilt.”

Seneca narrowed her eyes at Dahlia. “What did I have to feel guilty about?”

“You killed him.”

The venom dripping from Dahlia was so potent it was palpable. Seneca stared at her mother, complete surprise freezing her features. Dahlia blamed her for Oscar’s heart attack, when a medical examination revealed he’d had a history of heart disease—disease he’d kept hidden from his family.

“Guilt tribute,” Dahlia continued, sneering. “You felt bad about killing your daddy, so you tried to cover up everything by throwing the money around you made posing naked.” She shook her head. “Where did I go wrong? I tried to raise you and Robyn to be ladies, but you wind up with everyone talking about you sucking some boy’s dick, while Robyn brings some no-account, wannabe pimp into our home and spreads her legs for him. The only reason I didn’t tell Oscar was because I knew it would kill him.”

But my coming home to visit my family killed my father,
Seneca thought. She knew arguing with Dahlia wasn’t going to change anything, so she decided on another approach. “Mom, I know you don’t want me and Robyn to repeat your life, because you were a teenage mother. I’m twenty-one, too old to be one, and Robyn told me that you found condoms in the house. I got on her about it. But you should be grateful that she did use protection.”

Dahlia fell silent, and Seneca prayed she’d gotten through to her mother. She could not have imagined what the older woman had gone through when she had to tell her parents she’d been sleeping with a married man who’d gotten her pregnant, that she’d slept with him because he’d given her money and gifts, making her nothing more than a prostitute.

“You want gratitude, Seneca?”

“What are you talking about, Mother?”

Dahlia’s delicate features were frozen into a sinister grin. “The only thing I’d be grateful for is if you leave
my
house and never come back.”

Seneca jumped, the chair she’d just vacated clattering noisily to the kitchen floor. “Do you know something, Mother? I’m going to grant your wish. I’m leaving.”

Turning on her heels, she stalked out of the kitchen, stomped up the staircase and into her bedroom to pack her
clothes. She’d had enough. She’d tried over and over to make peace with her mother. Over and over holding her tongue so she wouldn’t be looked upon as disrespectful.

“Grandma, why did you have to die?” she sobbed, opening and slamming dresser draws as she threw clothes haphazardly into her bag. Whenever Dahlia got into a funk, Ileana would come to pick up her grandbabies. Her excuse was she’d wanted to give her daughter-in-law a break. When Seneca told her grandmother that Dahlia was crazy, Ileana hushed her, saying she suffered from stress and depression.

“Where are you going?”

Seneca turned to find Robyn standing in the doorway. “I’m going back home.”

Robyn walked into the bedroom. “Why?”

“I have a modeling assignment,” she lied smoothly. Seneca didn’t want to bring her sister into her altercation with their mother.

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know, Robbie. I have a show in Paris in a couple of weeks and I also have to look for an apartment.”

“You’re moving?”

She nodded. “I’m going to buy a co-op.”

Robyn sat on the foot of Seneca’s bed, watching her throw things into her luggage. “Why aren’t you folding anything?”

“I’m in a hurry,” she lied again. “I have to get to the airport. If I don’t get the seven o’clock flight, then I’ll have to wait until tomorrow, and that’s going to be too late.”

What she planned was to take a taxi to the regional airport, then rent a car and drive down to New York City. Although Mitchell had given her a key to his loft, she would call to let him know she was coming back. She’d reached a decision to take the photographer up on his offer to live with him until
she found her own place. Meanwhile, she planned to move all of her possessions from the brownstone and into storage.

“You’re going to have to look after Mom, Robbie.”

Robyn nodded. “I know. I don’t know why, but I’m getting used to her craziness. Sometimes she can be so sweet, then
bam!
she turns into this freaky-ass monster that is so scary. One of my friends says Mom is bipolar.”

“Is your friend a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then tell her to keep her comments to herself and stop trying to diagnose what’s wrong with people who don’t concern her.”

“I can’t tell her that, Seneca.”

“Why not, Robyn?”

“Because she’s my friend. She’s the only good friend I have.”

Seneca wanted to tell her sister that Electra was the only good friend she’d had in the whole of the eight million who made up New York City, and she’d turned on her. “Just watch your friends, Robbie.”

She finished packing, then called for a taxi to take her to the Ithaca Tompkins Regional airport. Once in the taxi she would reserve a rental car. She would also call Jerome to let him know she was returning to New York City and that he should call Dahlia several times a week to check up on her. Even if Dahlia resented her interference, she’d welcome Jerome’s. Seneca knew Dahlia loved Oscar but had always suspected she’d loved Jerome’s father more.

“Let’s go, ladies! We have a show to put on. Butterfly, you’re up first.”

Hopping on one foot while pulling the jeweled strap of a stiletto over her heel, Seneca shouldered her way through
waiflike models, makeup, wardrobe and hairstylists to take her position at the head of the line. She still had to pinch herself to make certain she wasn’t dreaming. She was in Paris, the City of Lights. There were eight models, each wearing a collection from an up-and-coming designer. Seneca was on hand to introduce the world to Luis Navarro’s Butterfly line.

She recognized the music coming from the powerful sound system. It was Enigma. Seneca had found herself intrigued with their electronic old-world, New Age sound. The music was conducive to the setting. The show was held in a restored château several kilometers from the capital city.

Peering through the curtain, she spotted her cheering section sitting in the front row. Booth Gordon and Mitchell Leon had come over together on a private jet. Rhys Calhoun, who was already in Paris, had joined the other two men.

Luis had designed a collection that included lingerie, evening gowns, sportswear, a dress that was draped across her body and an outfit with a vivid jungle, or as Luis referred to it, tribal print. She would begin with a gold sporty jacket, slacks and a sheer white man-tailored shirt and end with an elegant wedding gown.

She checked the front of the blouse. Luis hadn’t buttoned the top three buttons. He wanted enough of a display of flesh to titillate. Seneca knew she was going to do more than titillate once she began walking. Her unbound breasts would definitely put on a show of their own. Her hair was styled for simplicity: blown-out and pulled tightly into a chignon with a large jeweled butterfly pin resting on the coil of hair at the nape of her long neck. The makeup artist had emphasized her eyes with dramatic shadows, liner and individually applied lashes. Her mouth was a soft rose pink, an almost muted contrast to her eyes.

“I want you to stomp your ass off,
Mariposa.
”

Seneca smiled at Luis. He’d finally gotten his big break, and she intended to make him proud. Leaning forward, she pressed her cheek to his while affecting an air kiss. “I will,” she promised.

“One minute.”

It was her cue to ready herself to introduce the Parisian fashion world to Butterfly. Nothing had changed, only the venue. Instead of being in Miami, Florida, she was in Paris, France. Her feet glided down the runway to gasps and a flash of bulbs. She heard comments from “the Amazon is magnificent” to “she’s the hottest thing since sliced toast.” The other comments went past her because she didn’t understand French. Halfway down the runway her stoic expression changed when she winked at Booth and Mitchell. Luis wanted her to stomp and she did not more stomp.

Butterfly was soaring higher than she had in Miami, and by the time she’d returned wearing a black lace demi-bra and matching bikini panties, black silk bows on her hips moving sensuously with every step, she felt the heat from every gaze on her tall, slender body. When she paused the requisite three seconds, she gave them an unobstructed view of the butterfly tattoo at the base of her spine.

Seneca felt light-headed and struggled to breathe when she stepped into the evening gown. “Someone, please give me some water,” she gasped. Miraculously, she grasped a bottle of water and almost poured it down her throat. The spinning stopped and she nodded to the dresser. “Finish.”

She picked up the skirt of the platinum silk, chiffon and tulle garment embroidered with thousands of tiny pearls and slipped her feet into a pair of matching silk pumps. Bending slightly, she permitted the woman who’d dressed her to slip a silver necklace with a brilliant crystal-encrusted but
terfly around her neck. Matching earrings were inserted in her pierced lobes.

Pressing her lips together, she nodded at the backstage coordinator. She was ready for her final walk. Yards of fabric trailed behind her as she floated like a graceful swan down the runway. Each time she stopped, took her hands off her waist and rolled her wrists a roar shook the large room. Smiling from under lowered lashes, she twirled, fabric billowing out from her feet, and retraced her steps. The crowd went wild when she winked at the photographers racing along the catwalk to capture her image for posterity.

Luis was there to meet her when she collapsed into his arms. “Don’t fall apart now, Butterfly. We have to take our final walk.”

Her head moved up and down like a bobble-head doll’s. “Okay.”

Seneca doubted whether she would’ve been able to support herself if Luis hadn’t put his arm around her waist when it came time for them to walk the catwalk together. She felt a resurgence of energy with the thunderous applause. Suddenly it hit her—Butterfly was high, high on fame and the newfound power she wielded over the fashion industry. She knew some of the people crowded into the great hall at the château were fashion professionals while others were photographers and journalists. But those who’d come because of sheer curiosity had witnessed something in the making. Seneca Houston, also known as Butterfly, had become fashion’s new darling and supermodel.

Seneca, her hand resting on Luis’s jacket, walked into the private cocktail party and was met with applause. Four-inch heels and the black silk slip dress floating around her feet made her look thinner than she actually was.

“They love you, Luis,” she said close to his ear.

“No,
Mariposa,
they love
you.
”

“I’m just the vessel through which they see your designs.”

Luis covered her hand with his. “You are the vessel that inspires me.”

Seneca jumped slightly when a flute of champagne was thrust at her. A wide smile parted her lips when she realized it was Booth. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the pale bubbling wine.

His blue-green eyes were sparkling. “You were absolutely magnificent. I didn’t want to believe Rhys when he told me about the Miami show. I’m willing to bet that every man watching you had a hard-on, yours truly included among them.”

Seneca blushed, then put the flute to her mouth and took a sip of the cool liquid. It was excellent. “I try, Booth.”

Leaning closer, he brushed a kiss over her soft lips. “You don’t have to try, baby.”

She didn’t know why, but Seneca felt uncomfortable. Perhaps it was what Booth said about having a hard-on, or it was because he’d kissed her. She hoped he didn’t have thoughts about crossing the line between agent and client. “Could someone please get me something to eat?”

“What do you want?” Luis asked.

She smiled. “Anything salty.”

He lifted his eyebrows questioningly. “Caviar?”

“That’ll do.”