Chapter 6 Jessiah
My mother and I were alone in the elevator, which gave her a chance to cast her eye over me. “You look good.” She fiddled with my bow tie. “This is much better than the usual boy-next-door image you go for.”
“I think I’d get some funny looks in my bars and restaurants if I started turning up to business meetings in a tux,” I replied, not without sarcasm. I always felt like I was in costume when I wore this type of getup. “Is there anyone here we’re trying to make a particular impression on?”
Trish shook her head. “No. I mean, I’ve been wanting to talk to Bill Jefferson for weeks about a building plot on Wall Street, but I believe only his daughter is attending this evening—and I’m certainly not about to let you loose on her.”
“How come?” I raised my eyebrows. “Are you afraid I might seduce her while they’re singing your praises up onstage?”
Her expression hardened. “Is there any danger of that?” Apparently, she hadn’t forgotten previous incidents of a similar nature.
“Of course not,” I reassured her. Society girls weren’t my type. A few years ago it might have amused me to cause a bit of a stir by letting loose with one or two of them, but those days were over.
“Good.” My mother nodded. “And otherwise? Is there anyone among all your short-term girlfriends I should meet?”
I had to laugh at the absurd turn this conversation was taking. “Are you serious, Trish? You really want to know who I’m going to bed with?”
“No. Not unless there’s anyone among them who leaves a lasting impression. Then I want to know.”
“What, so you can screen them?” I snorted. “Forget it.” I would never let her anywhere near a woman who meant something to me.
“Okay,” she said offhandedly. “Go and find yourself an irresponsible party girl, then, just like your brother. What could possibly go wrong?” She snorted. “If I’d been more firm when it came to Valerie, Adam might still be alive. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not really into irresponsible party girls,” I said, emphasizing the words exactly as she had.
My mother raised an eyebrow. “Oh no? Who was that little brunette at the opening night of that restaurant in the Village, then? The one you went home with, if the online gossip is to be believed? She looked quite the part.”
I sighed. “Really, Trish, I’m flattered that you google me, but there’s no need to worry.
Samara is a whiskey sommelier, not a party girl.
And we’re just friends.” The fact that we sometimes also had sex was beside the point.
I didn’t want to get into anything serious with anyone in New York City—Sam knew that and didn’t have a problem with it.
And besides, she was only in town every few weeks anyway.
“If you say so,” my mother said. But I didn’t try any harder to convince her that I wasn’t about to make the same mistake as Adam. Her fear was too deeply ingrained, and it would take more than a few protestations to rid her of it. I also had no interest in trying.
The elevator pinged melodically, the doors slid open, and I offered my mother my arm as we stepped out.
Most of the other guests were already assembled in the Rainbow Room when we arrived, standing around in small groups near the entrance and being served champagne.
Naturally, word got around fast that the guest of honor had arrived, and the mayor extricated himself from his conversation to come over and greet us.
“Trish, a pleasure to have you with us. And Jessiah, how good of you to accompany your mother.” He beamed at her. “You really are lucky, my darling. My son would never attend an event like this.”
Smart guy, I thought, while my mother greeted the mayor, then I extended my hand. “Thank you for the invitation, sir. How is Mitchell, by the way?” Last time we’d met, he told me his son went to Yale.
“Oh, he’s having a great time, if the credit card bills are anything to go by. How his studies are going, I couldn’t tell you.”
I laughed. This was why I liked Mayor Roscott—he wasn’t as stuck-up as most of the others here. “I can imagine. And Chester? Is his leg any better?”
“Thank you for your concern—he’s chasing cats again as if nothing happened.” Roscott was nonplussed. “I’m amazed you remember. When was it we last saw each other, November?”
“It was December.” I nodded politely. “At the children’s charity benefit gala.”
The mayor turned back to my mother. “Trish, you have to tell me how you did it. Perhaps there’s hope for my son’s behavior yet.”
My mother gave a smirk. I could have taken her reaction for pride if I didn’t know full well she was thinking of just how much I’d rebelled against my upbringing as a child.
No doubt there were those here who remembered my earlier escapades.
But as usual in high society, no one spoke about it openly, especially not since I was Trish Coldwell’s son and had obviously repented.
“Well now, I suppose Jessiah came around of his own accord,” she chimed. “I’m sorry, Walter, I can’t help you.”
Our host was waved over by another guest, and he excused himself with a few warm words.
I took two glasses from a server and gave one to my mother.
“How do you remember all those details?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes narrowing. “I couldn’t care less what his son is up to, or whether his dog is in good form. He could tell me the name of his wayward spawn every time we meet, and I still wouldn’t remember it five minutes later.”
Yes, and that’s precisely why everyone here thinks you’re a flesh-eating robot.
I didn’t like all the posturing either, but these days I saw it as a job—sucking up to people whose superficiality, hypocrisy, and obsession with other people’s appearances was nothing short of disgusting.
Wealth wasn’t the problem—being rich didn’t make you a bad person.
But the compulsive need to pigeonhole everyone, force them into their carefully measured little box of strictly defined characteristics—that did.
That was what had killed Adam. People like the Westons put so much pressure on their children with unrealistic expectations that they felt the need to let off steam with partying, drugs, and alcohol.
And my brother had been so in love with Valerie that he’d done everything she’d done.
“You know I have Dad’s memory,” I reminded my mother.
My father had known the names of all his regular customers in every one of his twelve restaurants, and I’d inherited the gift.
Once I met someone, I never forgot them or the stories they told, and my brain filed these things away to be regurgitated when appropriate.
At less-formal occasions it was simply a good party trick, but at functions like this, it was part of my tool kit.
While my mother struck up a conversation with one of her business partners—someone who didn’t seem to care whether Trish remembered the names of her children or not—I scanned the room, catching a few eyes.
Some of the girls were clearly hungry for a spectacle, no doubt wondering whether I was going to conduct myself in the same vein as before.
The older guests seemed to be wondering the same thing, but looked rather on their guard about it.
I couldn’t see the Westons anywhere, not the father or his wife and son; they’d obviously decided to avoid the whole thing.
I did spot some close friends of theirs, though; other than a polite nod at myself and my mother, they didn’t grace us with a second glance.
The Coldwells were not universally beloved among the families of the New York elite—some of them thought their money was better than ours because they’d been part of the upper class for generations and were against any kind of progress.
They thought building projects like my mother’s were a blight on the skyline, that modernizing was as undesirable as it was unnecessary.
But there weren’t many who held us in as much contempt as the Westons.
Most of them knew it was better to have Trish Coldwell on their side.
That had always been the way of things. I was probably the only person in the world who had ever openly rebelled against her.
My mother finished her conversation and came back over just as the event got started and we were ushered to our places.
The tables were beautifully set, and naturally our seats had to be in the middle of the room—centrally located and visible to everyone.
I undid the button on my tux and took a seat, examining the name card that had been placed upon my napkin.
Jessiah C. Coldwell. My stomach rumbled softly, but there was no hoping for a full plate any time soon.
I knew how these things went. Just then, right on cue, the mayor stepped up to the podium to begin his address.
The speeches in Trish’s honor were long-winded, as usual, and given by people who loved to hear themselves speak—beginning with Mayor Roscott and ending with the head of the New York City Planning Commission.
Each of them praised my mother in the highest terms, speaking of the new landmark she had gifted the city, while Trish sat there smiling politely, looking like a boss who didn’t know what to do with her face when her employees sang “Happy Birthday.” I knew how much she hated this kind of attention, but she put up with it because there was nothing she loved more than success.
The fact that she was here—surrounded by the very people who had mocked her twenty-five years ago for announcing her intention to one day build the world’s biggest apartment block—brought her so much satisfaction that she would have sat through anything.
At last she stood to accept her award and say a few words herself, and I cast my eyes around the room.
My gaze fell upon a young woman standing at the bar at the back of the room.
She wasn’t staff—her dark, fitted evening dress and high heels gave that away—and unlike most of the other women here, she wore her long, dark brown hair loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves.
She was pretty—very pretty, even—her elegant face was slightly angular, which gave her beauty a particular kind of radiance.
But there was another reason I couldn’t look away, despite the fact that I really should have been paying attention to my mother’s speech.
She hadn’t looked my way once, but there was something in her gaze that held mine fast: anger.
And pain. A combination so familiar that it hit me like a bolt of lightning.
My heart began to race, and I felt the urge to get up and go to her. But of course I didn’t.
“None of this would have been possible without the support of my family,” Trish was saying, and I tore my eyes away from the girl at last. “My sons, Jessiah and Elijah, have often had to make do without me in the past—as did Adam, who is sadly no longer with us, and whom I miss every day. Nobody expects their son to die at twenty-two, simply because he fell in love with the wrong woman. Take care of your loved ones, I beg you—there is much to regret when they’re gone. ”
They were uncharacteristically emotional words for Trish, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if she would lose her composure—but she didn’t, of course.
She took a deep breath and continued on in more neutral tones, thanking the sponsors for her award and wishing everyone a pleasant evening before she left the stage.
She was immediately surrounded by well-wishers, but when she looked over at me, I saw remorse in her eyes.
Not for Adam’s death—or not in the way you’d think.
No, it was for me—that I wasn’t the replacement for Adam that she wanted me to be.
Because even though I was here tonight, wearing a tux and wrapping all of society around my little finger like I was born to it, we both knew I had no real interest in these people and was here purely out of obligation.
Behind the facade, I was still the same teenager who’d never wanted to conform; the son who stubbornly refused to call her mom; the guy who wore tatty jeans, had too many girls, listened to loud music, and hung out with the wrong people.
I sometimes asked myself if she’d have preferred if I had died instead of Adam.
But I would never ask that question. I thought I already knew the answer.
My mother broke eye contact first, turning her attention back to the people around her.
Some of them shook my hand as well, but most were waiting for an opportunity to congratulate Trish before dinner, so I stood up and retreated a little, brushing aside the pain I felt at the thought of my brother.
Suddenly, I remembered the stranger at the bar.
I turned to look; she was still there, but at that moment she set her still-full glass down on the bar, tossed some change in the tip jar, picked up her bag, and made swiftly toward the door.
I went after her without thinking. She was already in the foyer before I caught up with her.
“Hey,” I called softly. “Wait up.”
I don’t know what I was thinking, stopping her.
She was clearly a society girl, not my type at all.
But I couldn’t get over the look I’d seen in her eyes, so full of fury and determination—but sadness too.
It had moved me in a way so unexpected, so deeply and intensely that I’d had no choice but to go after her.
I had to know who she was. I had to know why she felt exactly the same way I did.
She stopped at last, and I smiled as she turned to me. But then I saw tears pooling in her blue eyes. Tears she quickly tried to hide.
“Are you okay?” I asked with concern.
She held my gaze, and for just a second or two, there was a flicker of something I’d been hoping to see in her eyes…
before her expression changed, and I saw that look again, the one that had drawn me to her so irresistibly.
Only this time her anger was directed at me. And an uneasy feeling crept over me.
Like following her might have been a big mistake.