Chapter 80: Bloodlines at Ease
The first thing Stephanie registered was the hollow, gnawing emptiness in her stomach, a sensation distinct from the baby’s kicks that had become her constant companion. It was a specific, urgent need. Mango. Not just any mango, but the one they’d bought from the little Caribbean market downtown, ripe to the point of being obscenely soft, its skin blushed with red and gold.
She slipped out of bed carefully, the silk sheets whispering against her skin. Veronica was a deep, still shape beside her, one arm thrown over her eyes, her breathing even and slow. The city outside the windows was just beginning to blush with the rising sun, casting the penthouse in a muted, pre-dawn grey. Stephanie padded barefoot across the cool wooden floor, her long hair a tangled curtain down her back.
The kitchen was a landscape of sleek, dark surfaces and stainless steel. She found the mango in the fruit bowl, its fragrant, sweet smell already making her mouth water. A glass. She needed a glass for water. She reached for one in the high cabinet, her fingers brushing the cool rim.
It slipped.
The sound was explosive, a sharp, high-pitched shatter that seemed to tear the quiet morning apart. Shards of glass exploded across the polished concrete floor, glittering like malicious ice. A searing pain lanced through her foot. She looked down to see a thin, red line welling up on her instep, a piece of glass embedded in her skin.
“Merde,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. She hopped back, clutching the counter for support.
She heard the bed creak, then the swift, heavy thud of footsteps. Veronica appeared in the kitchen doorway, her hair a magnificent cloud around her head, her green eyes sharp with instant alertness. She took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance: Stephanie, pale and wide-eyed, the glittering carnage on the floor, the blood on her foot.
“Don’t move,” Veronica commanded, her voice rough with sleep but utterly certain. She crossed the room in three long strides, avoiding the glass, and without a word, bent and scooped Stephanie up into her arms as if she weighed nothing. Stephanie’s arms instinctively went around her neck, burying her face in the warm, sleep-scented skin of Veronica’s shoulder.
Veronica carried her to the living room sofa, depositing her gently onto the plush cream fabric. “Let me see,” she said, her voice dropping to that low, soothing register that always made Stephanie’s nerves unwind.
She knelt, taking Stephanie’s foot in her hands. Her touch was firm but gentle as she examined the cut. “It’s not deep. Just a surface slice. Stay put.” She returned a moment later with a first aid kit, her movements efficient and practiced. She cleaned the cut with an antiseptic wipe, the sting making Stephanie hiss. “I know, baby. Almost done.” A dab of antibiotic ointment, a small bandage placed with precision. All done in less than a minute.
“I am so sorry, Veronica. I was just… the mango…”
“Shhh.” Veronica pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It’s a glass. It can be replaced. You can’t.” She stood and went back to the kitchen. Stephanie listened to the sounds of the broom and dustpan, the soft clatter of glass being disposed of. It was methodical, calm. There was no sigh of irritation, no lecture. Just care.
Soon, the rich, salty scent of frying plantains and the sizzle of akee and saltfish filled the air. Veronica moved around the kitchen, her tall frame a familiar, comforting silhouette against the now-brightening skyline. She brought over a plate heaped with food, the mango sliced neatly on the side, and a fresh glass of water. “Eat.”
Stephanie took a bite of the sweet, fried plantain, the flavors bursting on her tongue, soothing the frantic edge of her hunger. “You did not have to do all this.”
“Yes, I did,” Veronica said simply, sitting beside her and watching her eat with a softness in her eyes that was reserved only for her.
The intercom buzzed, a harsh, intrusive sound. Veronica frowned, getting up to answer it. “Yes?”
A voice, crisp and familiar, crackled through. “Veronica, it’s your mother. And Margot is with me. We’re coming up.”
Stephanie’s eyes widened. Veronica just sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Of course they are.” She pressed the button to grant them access.
Minutes later, the elevator doors slid open and the two women swept into the living room. Reyna Barlowe was a vision in a tailored crimson dress, her gaze missing nothing. Margot Moreau de Fonteneau was a flurry of lavender silk and nervous energy, her eyes immediately landing on her daughter.
“Stephanie, chérie! What has happened? You are pale!” Margot rushed over, her French accent even more pronounced than Stephanie’s.
“It is nothing, Maman. I dropped a glass. I cut my foot a little.”
Reyna’s sharp green eyes, so like her daughter’s, flicked from the bandage on Stephanie’s foot to the empty plate, then to Veronica, who stood with her arms crossed, a silent sentinel. “Veronica took care of it, I see.” It wasn’t a question.
“She made me breakfast,” Stephanie said, a small, proud smile touching her lips.
Margot’s hand fluttered to her chest. “Oh, thank you, Veronica. My Stephanie, she is so clumsy when she is with child. The cravings, they make her desperate!”
Reyna let out a short, dry laugh. “Desperate is one word for it. Charles called me last night. Sputtering about Jamaican weddings and ‘losing his daughter to a tribe.’ The man’s a fool.”
The air in the room shifted. Stephanie felt Veronica go still beside her.
Margot straightened her shoulders, a surprising steel in her eyes. “Charles is a traditionalist, and a snob. He is in France. We are here.” She turned to Reyna. “This Jamaican wedding. Tell me about it. I have been researching since Veronica mentioned it. The colors, the music… it is vibrant. It has life.”
Reyna’s eyebrows lifted, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Is that so? Most of the white folks I’ve met want a string quartet and a five-tiered vanilla cake.”
“Pfft. Vanilla is for people with no imagination,” Margot declared, waving a dismissive hand. “I want my granddaughter to enter the world surrounded by joy, not… beige. I saw pictures of the Jonkanoo parade. The costumes! And the food! I want to taste this jerk pork.”
Veronica uncrossed her arms, a look of genuine surprise on her face. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I am serious,” Margot said. “My daughter is happy. She is loved. She is having a baby. The wedding should reflect that life. Not my husband’s stuffy old traditions.”
Reyna nodded, a look of deep respect passing between the two mothers. “Well then. We have a wedding to plan. A real one.” She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “I’m calling Sister Pam. She makes the best rum cake in Queens, and she’ll tell us which band won’t charge us an arm and a leg while still making sure everybody’s hips start moving by the second song.”
Margot clapped her hands together, her earlier anxiety completely vanished. “Oh, wonderful! And the flowers? I read about the ‘heart of Jesus’ plant. It is so dramatic!”
Stephanie leaned back against the cushions, watching as her mother and her future mother-in-law huddled over Reyna’s phone, their voices rising and falling in a passionate, overlapping duet of French and Jamaican-accented English. The morning’s fear and the sharp sting of the cut were fading, replaced by a warm, swelling feeling of rightness. Veronica sat back down beside her, lacing her fingers through Stephanie’s.
“You good?” Veronica murmured, her thumb stroking the back of Stephanie’s hand.
Stephanie watched Reyna describing the intricacies of a traditional set-up dance to a captivated Margot. She nodded, a real, unburdened smile finally breaking through. “Oui,” she whispered. “I am good.”