Free What Mother Never Told Me by Donna Hill Page B

trapped by the trappings, and the fear of what life would be like without them held her in place.
    When she met Nick and Parris she also met an unrecognizable part of herself—envy, an emotion that never before had a place in her life. She wanted what they had and she wanted Parris’s courage to face the unknown.
    She had neither. That realization was at the core of her current state of ambivalence. Until she found the way and the will to combat it she’d continue to dance off beat to their music.
     
    The doorbell rang at ten. Since Celeste had arrived home she’d gone through the rituals of preparing for Clinton’s arrival. When she opened the door she transformed into the only Celeste that he knew.
    “Hello, sweetheart.” He leaned down from his six-foot height and kissed her briefly on the lips, before breezing inside.
    Clinton Avery was the only son of William and Phyllis Avery, heir to a multimillion dollar fortune built on oil and shipping that dated back three generations. Clinton, like Celeste, had been groomed in the world of “better than.” His education had been mapped out before he was born. When William and Phyllis decided the time was right for a child, they’d begun the application process to all of the elite nursery schools in the city. Nothing would ever be too good for their child. It never was. Up to and including forging an alliance with his golf and country club buddy Ellis Shaw and the promise they’d made to each other on the eighteenth hole to wed their children and secure their fortunes.
    And Clinton reeked of Ivy League privilege from the cut of his naturally blond hair and his tailored Italian suits, down to the spit polish of his wingtips. Clinton, easily mistaken for a young Robert Redford or a Brad Pitt of Troy fame, was, if nothing else, good to look at. He was highly versed in the most obscure facts, which would make him an ideal candidate for Jeopardy! , but of course that wasn’t becoming of an Avery. His family’s inherent snobbishness was inextricably tied to old Connecticut money, the musty smell an aphrodisiac to the nouveau riche. However, beneath the expensive suits and two-hundred-dollar haircuts, and a zealous belief that money can buy you everything, he was really a good guy. And all the money he spent on mastering the art of tantric sex was worth his company.
    They’d been officially seeing each other for three years. In their world of rarified air, “seeing each other” meant that you’d been photographed by the press, seen at all the majorevents together and shared a secret getaway that all the right people knew about. When asked if “you’re an item,” you look at each other adoringly and say “no comment.” The goal, of course, was not to quell curiosity but to stoke it.
    Her best friend, Leslie, barely tolerated Clinton “and his ilk,” although she barely tolerated anyone. But according to her, Clinton was too full of his own nonimportance.
    “I’m bushed.” Clinton loosened his tie, dropped his briefcase in the foyer and went straight for the bar. “Bitch of a day,” he groused, moving bottles to find the cognac, his drink of choice. “Fix you one?” He held up a short tumbler in question.
    “No, thanks.”
    “Do you know that in less than a decade the white race will be the minority?” He tossed down a deep swallow and she watched his cheeks glow from the inside. His lips pursed.
    Celeste knew that the question, like most of Clinton’s questions, was rhetorical. He simply phrased his statements as questions to give one the impression of being included in the conversation.
    “Hmm,” she murmured before staking out her spot on the couch. Clinton loved making love on the couch. It was almost as if he considered it somehow decadent. She watched his sea-blue eyes darken as he approached her. “I saw on the news that the market took another dive.”
    He nodded. His jaw clenched. “A bloody mess.” He took another swallow of his drink and