Chapter Sixteen #2
Looking at my mother, most people would see an elegant, beautiful, eloquent Black woman with neatly coiffed curls.
They’d see the light makeup, deep dimples, and approachable smile, and easily match her elementary school teacher job with the quiet simplicity of a doting wife—Theodore “Teddy” Bridges’s high school sweetheart.
Nowhere in that soft smile would you see glimpses of the Bridges household disciplinarian.
Yes, she’s modest and classy in every respect.
But if there’s one thing about Carlotta Ellswood Bridges, it’s that she’s not to be tested.
Period.
So when she tells Dad and I to settle down or she’ll make us, we quickly hurry to take our seats at the dining table.
“Got you drinks, silverware, napkins…” Mom scans the kitchen, mentally crossing her Ts and dotting her Is before she plops down on her chair at Dad’s right, facing me.
The three of us link hands, and Dad leads us in grace. “God is good. God is great. Let us thank him for our food, and everything—”
Mom swats him playfully, cackling. “Now, Teddy, there won’t be no playing with the Lord’s blessings.” She’s still chuckling as she forces us to bow our heads again while she properly shows her respect and appreciation for this meal.
Then we dig in.
Five minutes pass with us shoveling gumbo-drizzled rice into our mouths before Mom, over a mouthful, points her fork at me. “Now, this good mood you’re in,” she starts, unable to leave well enough alone. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your working at Madison Manor with Ebony King—”
“Livingston, you mean,” I correct her. “Her name is still Ebony Livingston. And no.” I laugh, completely telling on myself. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her.”
“ Ahh , so you’re lying to your mother now.”
Here we go.
“Thank you so much , really, for noticing my good mood. But can’t I just generally be happy? Does it have to be about a woman?”
The look she gives me—a please, I wasn’t born yesterday look—has the three of us bursting into laughter. We all know I’m lying and deflecting. I’ve always kept my feelings for Ebony under wraps. And yet, somehow, Mom has always been able to suss them out anyway.
After a minute, when Dad is still breathless and gasping for air, we just stare at him.
“ Ooh , Lottie…” He slaps the table, leaning his large frame over to lay a quick kiss on Mom’s lips. “Lord, the kid has no idea. I was just like him.”
Okaaay…was it that funny?
“Uh, you want to let me in on whatever’s got you so tickled?” I shake his forearm, teetering on that fine line of smiling at and cringing over seeing my parents still so affectionate after all these years.
I’m always amazed by the attentiveness that they show each other. It takes effort, care. And day after day, they choose each other.
It’s aspirational, for sure. I can only hope that one day I’ll be so in love, so blessed to share my life with someone who loves me so deeply.
My thoughts drift back to that afternoon in the billiard room with Ebony, her embarrassed and tongue-tied, trying to form coherent sentences. Then tonight, a complete three-sixty, calling me a snack and telling me she fantasizes about me—that she doesn’t “give a good goddamn who sees us.”
Damn.
A small laugh escapes me.
“Uh-huh. Not about a woman, my tail,” Mom says, reading between the lines to the blaring subtext. But then her expression smooths, hardens. “Now, don’t you go getting your heart involved again, you hear?”
Her warning is loud, but half of me is still focused on Dad. Where Mom can be an eagle heart and stone-faced—nothing’s getting by her—he’s an open book. Whether he’s happy, excited, upset, or hiding, his emotions tell on him. It’s a gift and a curse. It keeps him honest. Sometimes, too much so.
“What did you mean when you said I have no idea? That I’m just like you?” I ask.
Again, Mom purses her lips, and it’s a telltale sign I’m barking up the right tree.
“Come on, Dad. What aren’t you saying?”
“Teddy…” Mom warns, and it feels sort of hypocritical. She can read our every emotion, body language, dissect my good mood, and I can’t ask Dad for clarification when he’s the one who had a slip of the tongue?
“Seriously, Mom? Let the man talk.”
She sucks her teeth, incensed, shooting daggers at poor Dad.
“He’s working with the woman, Teddy.” Her eyes darken, and I swear there are red flames in their depths. “Don’t.”
As soon as she says the word, though, Mom knows she’s made a mistake. The man respects his wife, but they never tell each other what they “can’t” do.
Dad exhales a deep sigh. “It’s not as dramatic as your mother’s making it seem,” he says, but everything about his stiff posture says otherwise. Whatever he’s about to say, Theodore Bridges is actively downplaying it.
“Oh, hell, Teddy. You really burn me up.” Mom turns her back to him and folds her arms across her chest, fuming.
“What your mother and I share—it’s not a love you let go of easily, son.
You fight for it,” he starts, then proceeds to tell me that not only was he the escort for Cornelia Livingston—formerly Sterling, and yes, of that Sterling real estate conglomerate—but their cotillion arrangement left their parents wanting more for such a perfect pair.
The wealthy debutante princess and the straitlaced but strong-willed football phenom.
They got to the point where their parents were discussing marriage.
There was just one minor hiccup: he was already in love with the Ellswood girl.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait !” My heart is beating a million miles a minute, and I’m still grasping for straws because… “Are you telling me Mom stole her man?”
Mom jolts, indignation billowing off her. “First off, we were spending time together before Cornelia beat me to the chase and asked him to be her escort. So, no ! I absolutely did not steal your father!”
I rest my elbows on the table and drop my head into my hands, still wrapping my mind around this bomb they just dropped.
“You knew y’all’s parents were talking about freaking marriage , and you did what? Go behind her back with Mom? Help me understand, because none of this is making sense.”
They share a loaded glance, Mom’s expression screaming a you did this accusation, and I’m guessing she’s hanging him out to dry, because she goes tight-lipped.
“Listen,” Dad says, “this was a long time ago. Back then, parents were always making plans and arrangements for us while leaving us in the dark.” The crease between his thick eyebrows deepens.
“I wanted to be your mother’s escort, but all the women in the family said it was too late because Cornelia had already asked, and I said yes.
So I was going to take her— as a friend .
When it was over, I was always going to choose my Lottie. ”
I nod, still processing. “And you didn’t know about the marriage?”
“No.” He shakes his head, but his gaze is faraway in time.
Suddenly, I am too, shifting so many missing pieces from my past into place.
I know why Cornelia hates my family. Why she rejected me from Zion & Zara.
Why she went out of her way to ensure I never felt remotely good enough.
Why, now, Ebony’s theory about sabotaging her business may not be just about her.
Everything makes so much more sense.
The same way Cornelia claims Ebony’s business should rightfully belong to a true Livingston, she believes the Bridges stole the life that was meant for her.
I’m the collateral damage of a betrayal that happened long before I was even born. And now, I’ve got to consider that her revenge plan is either two-fold, or may not even be about Ebony at all.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I tap out a quick message to Ebony.
Lincoln
Hey, can’t stop thinking about you. I know you told Vincent you’d think it over, but are you actually considering coming with me to Dawsonville this weekend? I’d love to spend some real time with you. Also, got some new stuff to share about your Cornelia theory. Let me know. Talk soon.