Jeanne Stein - Legacy

She stops pacing, turns to face me, and her face is once again wreathed in as joyful a smile as I’ve ever seen. “Wait until you see the pictures. It’s unbelievably beautiful. There’s a château on the property and a staff that’s worked for the family for decades. They’re waiting to meet us. We can go anytime. It’s ours, Anna. All of it.”

I was born a cynic, and becoming a vampire didn’t temper my natural inclination to distrust anything that looks too good to be true. If anything, it’s worse. So it’s hard not to say, “Are you all crazy? People don’t inherit property in France out of the blue. It’s got to be some kind of scam.”

But I can’t say it out loud. I don’t want to be the one responsible for eradicating the pure joy I see on the faces of the people I love most. It would be like stomping on a kitten.

My dad, who knows me too well, stands up and puts an arm around my shoulders.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “It’s too good to be true. I did my homework. I have business contacts in France, you know. I had them check out the lawyer. He’s legitimate. Got a prospectus for the winery. It’s well-known. Exports product to the United States. The château has been renovated and well maintained. It’s fully furnished and staffed. I’m telling you, Anna, there’s nothing bogus about this. Sometimes people really do get lucky.”

He opens his other arm to Trish and Mom. They join us in a kind of awkward group hug. “I think this calls for a celebration,” he says. “Let’s get dressed up and go to Mister A’s. Champagne on me.” He plants a kiss on Trish’s forehead. “Ginger ale for you, ma petite chère .”

That does it. Now my father is speaking French? I’m sick. With shock. With apprehension. My father may be right. This might be legitimate. I sincerely hope it is. The realist in me screams there’s a better chance it’s not.

I LEAVE MY FAMILY, PROMISING TO JOIN THEM downtown in an hour. I know as I speak the words that I’ll not be staying for the celebratory dinner. Once again, too many ways to give away the fact that I’m no longer human. I can fake it when I eat with them at home by taking small helpings and spreading the food around my plate. I’ve been known to sneak into the kitchen and dump a napkin full down the garbage disposal.

Can’t do that in a restaurant. Especially one famous for large quantities of food, to say nothing of platter-size steaks. It’ll be impossible to pretend. I’ve used the late lunch excuse too many times already to have it sound credible, especially since my mother specifically asked me for dinner tonight. No, better to come up with another reason for leaving before dinner.

Damn it, David. If you were home the way you should be, I could ask you to call me and say there’s a fugitive who needs apprehending. Give me an excuse.

Makes me realize how completely I’ve cut myself off from the few friends I had before the change. I can think of no one else to call and ask the favor. No one to rescue me.

Shit.

When I get back to the cottage, I shower and fluff dry my hair, then stand naked in front of my closet to decide what to wear. My wardrobe is limited. Jeans. Black, navy, tan. A few pairs of linen slacks with matching blazers (court attire). A few skirts, assorted blouses. One simple silk sheath, black, V-neck, narrow waist accented by a wide belt.

I choose the dress and slip it over my head. It’s body hugging and soft against my skin. I have no way of knowing how I look in the dress, I bought it after becoming, but I know how it makes me feel. Slinky. Sexy. The skirt is midthigh length. I pair it with a pair of three-inch strappy Jimmy Choos. I bought them because the lady at the shoe store said I had pretty feet and trim ankles and they show them off. The skirt is short and the heels high.

All this for an evening with my folks?

Of course not.

I can’t fool myself any more than I can change what I’m feeling. My blood is on fire. This prolonged anticipation is almost unbearable. The incongruity of what I’m thinking does nothing to mollify the mounting passion.

I make no attempt to understand or explain it. In fact, I can let myself enjoy it. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this kind of anticipation.

My hands skim the contours of my body, the silk cool and liquid and sensuous beneath my fingers.

This dress is for what happens after the evening with my folks.

This is for my evening with Sandra.

And since after tonight it will be over, why not enjoy it?

MISTER A’S OCCUPIES THE TOP FLOOR OF A building on Fifth Avenue. From Thanksgiving to New Year’s, the entire building is decorated from top to bottom with Christmas lights. It’s a gaudy over-the-top holiday display that’s become a San Diego tradition. For the first time in years, it makes me smile. When my brother and I were growing up, we had a family tradition of our own: drive through Balboa Park to see Santa and his reindeer, then come to dinner here to see the lights.

I haven’t had dinner at Mister A’s in years. As far as I know, neither have my parents. That Dad should choose this restaurant to celebrate shows what Trish’s existence has given back to the family.

There are three businessmen waiting with me for the elevator to the restaurant. If I wondered how I looked in the dress, any doubts are dispelled by the lingering, hungry looks I get from them. They’d like to see me on the menu, I think, served on a bed of—it wouldn’t matter as long as it was a bed.

My father does a comic double take when I walk in. He stands when I approach the table and holds out a chair. “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says.

“I’ve never seen you in a dress, Aunt Anna,” Trish says. “I didn’t know you owned one. Especially one like—”

“Okay,” I hold up a hand. “Enough. So you don’t often see me in a dress. Isn’t this supposed to be a special night?”

“Anna is right,” Mom says. “And I, for one, think you look beautiful. You should dress up more often. When we get to France, we’ll go on a shopping spree. For you and for Trish.”

“I’d love a dress like that,” Trish says eagerly, eyeing my cleavage.

“Oh, no,” Mom says, laughing. “You’re much too young. I’m sure Anna and I can find something more appropriate for a teenager. Imagine, Anna, what shopping in Paris will be like.”

It hits me then that they expect me to go to France with them. I stare at my mother. Maybe I’m misinterpreting her intention.

No.

It was in her voice, and it’s right there in the way she’s looking at me—with an expression that says no one in her right mind would pass up an opportunity to live in a château in France. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.

Worse, my dad and Trish are both looking at me the same way.

My shoulders tense.

I can’t let them think for one moment that my going with them to France is a possibility. And yet—

Do I want to fight this fight tonight?

No. I won’t ruin this evening any more than I have to. I put on a bright smile. “You all look pretty spiffy yourselves.”

My mother is wearing a cream-colored silk pantsuit with a blouse of warm rose. Dad is wearing Hugo Boss, charcoal coat and slacks, white shirt, burgundy tie. Trish is lovely in dark slacks and a hand-knitted rainbow-hued angora sweater.

I’m not the only one who went all out for the evening.

Mom and Dad grin at the compliment; Trish touches the collar of her sweater as if self-conscious. “You don’t think this sweater makes me look, you know, weird?”

I laugh. Typical teenager. “Why would you think it makes you look weird?”