Futile Resistance Ch. 06

"You'll get used to it, don't worry. Let's go get some breakfast before those Barbarians eat it all!"

Maggie had outdone herself with the meal, having prepared a spinach and cheese frittata, crisp slices of bacon, cinnamon rolls, croissants and fresh fruit salad. Always self-sufficient, Maggie had lit a fire in the cozy room and it blazed invitingly. The Christmas tree towered in the corner of the room and the furniture had been rearranged around it. After they ate, Brian, at his mother's command, played Santa, complete with the red and white hat.

French and Aidan had decided not to exchange gifts with one another; they were planning a vacation for after the New Year instead. She had insisted on getting something for each member of his family, though. Finding presents for Maggie, Iain, and Brian had been exceedingly difficult. How do you buy things for people you didn't know? She had managed to find things that were impersonal enough not to cause offense yet made it evident that she had put thought and energy into finding things each person would like.

For Brian, she had purchased hard-to-come by tickets for a Red Sox vs. Yankees three-game series for the coming season. Aidan had told her he loved baseball, and like most New Englanders with any sense, he loved the Red Sox in particular. It was impossible to get tickets to the games and she had used every contact she had in her local entertainment industry network and called in a few favors to get the tickets. She knew he would love them and harbored hopes that maybe he'd take her to one of the games.

For Iain, a poetry lover and book collector, she had found a 1914 edition of Robert Frost'sNorth of Boston in a rare-books store. The book was signed and dated by the author and was in very good condition. She had been sorely tempted to keep it for herself, but knew it was too perfect a gift not to give.

Maggie had been the most difficult to buy for. She had wide-ranging interests, Aidan had happily told her, so the choice of gifts was wide open. Like most men, he labored under the delusion that a woman with wide-ranging interests was easy to buy for. French had finally found an antique Majolica glazed Wedgwood teapot, circa 1880 for Maggie. The teapot was brightly colored and in perfect condition. French had gambled that Maggie would recognize the pot for the collector's item it was and had been pleased to note the number of antiques that furnished her house. Maggie would know exactly what she was looking at when she opened French's gift.

She had gone way over her budget on the gifts for Iain, Maggie and Brian, but she didn't regret it. They had each been genuinely delighted with their gifts. When it came time for French to open the joint gift the three of them had gotten her, she was stunned to find a necklace, earrings and ring by her favorite designer, Margaret Wynchell. Each piece was fashioned of one smooth, thick piece of sterling silver in a design that made you think they were liquid and flowing, instead of solid and substantial.

"I hope you like them, darling," Maggie said, "They were specially designed for you based upon what Aidan had told us about you."

"Specially designed? You mean you know Margaret Wynchell?" French asked excitedly.

An uncomfortable silence greeted her question. Aidan got up from his seat next to her and began messing around with the fire.

"Aidan, you didn't tell her?" Maggie asked incredulously.

"Tell me what? I absoulutely love her work! I can never resist buying it, even when I don't have the money; it's my one guilty pleasure. I know that I should tell you that it's too much and that I can't accept it, but I'm way too in love with it to do the right thing!" French gushed, rushing to get the words out, trying to soothe the tense atmosphere by reassuring them that she truly liked the gift. "I already have three complete sets, four including this one. The jewelry I had on last night was hers, too."

"I know, dear," Maggie said patiently, "I am Margaret Wynchell."

"You're Margaret Wynchell?" she asked weakly.

"One and the same. I had an inkling that you didn't know who I was when I commented that the pieces you wore last night had been some of my favorites to work on; you looked completely confused." Maggie gracefully and calmly attempted to diffuse the tension and put French at ease. "I apologize for not having time last night to explain, but when it comes right down to it, Aidan really should have told you. He knew all along whose designs you were wearing, because he told me you admired my work."

"Yes, indeed," French said, quietly fuming, feeling awkward and gauche for the first time since meeting the family, but also trying to maintain some semblance of composure. She felt like the biggest kind of idiot and it was Aidan's fault. "Aidan really should have told me. I feel so silly, going on and on about how much I love 'Margaret Wynchell' when I've spent the night in her house, eaten her homemade cinnamon rolls for breakfast and am in the midst of spending Christmas with her family. How mortifying..." She trailed off, her old insecurities boiling up inside her. She had thought she was well-prepared for Aidan's family and nowthis.

"I thought it would be a good surprise, babe. That's the only reason I didn't tell you. I thought you'd get a kick out of it," Aidan offered lamely.

"Woof-woof! You're in the doghouse, now, bro!" Brian chortled, obviously enjoying Aidan's discomfiture.

French glared first at Brian, then at Aidan. "Well. Itwas a surprise and I certainlydo feel like I've been kicked. We'll talk about this later, Aidan," she said with asperity.

Turning to Maggie, she inquired about the woman's career as a jewelry designer. Maggie was eager to talk about her art with a fellow artist, someone who admired and understood what it meant to create. Though they worked with different mediums – music for French, metal and gems for Maggie – the two women spoke the same language, if slightly different dialects, when it came to the arts. They talked for some time, while Aidan, his father and brother spoke about other topics. By the time their conversations dovetailed once again, the tension that had gripped the room at the revelation that Maggie was Margaret Wynchell had dissipated.

The rest of Christmas day with the Conal family had been peaceful. They watched Christmas-themed movies and snacked on festive homemade cookies and candies while Christmas dinner was cooking. Again, Maggie outdid herself with the meal. The herb-crusted standing beef rib-roast, creamy garlic-parmesan mashed potatoes and haricots-vert were all done to perfection, making for a simple yet elegant meal. Another of Maggie's talent areas was baking. Along with the cookies and candy they'd eaten earlier in the day, she had baked an apple pie, a pecan pie and a coconut cake for dessert – each a favorite dessert of her three 'guys'.

Eventually, it was time for Aidan and French to bid his family good-bye. French thanked Maggie and Iain profusely for their hospitality and told them she hoped to see them again. They made her feel like one of the family when they told her that they definitely expected to see her as often as they saw Aidan – if not more so. Maggie promised to meet her for lunch and shopping when she was next in Boston. She knew that in spite of having been caught flat-footed with the bombshell that Maggie was Margaret Wynchell, she had made a good impression. She was pleased with how her visit with the family had panned out. She liked them and was sure that she would enjoy getting to know them better.

As Brian, Maggie and Iain saw them to the car and made sure they were safely buckled in, another vehicle swung into the drive and pulled up alongside the house. Aidan was puzzled at first, but then realized to whom the late-model Jaguar sedan belonged.

"Oh. They're late; I figured they weren't coming by this year," he said absently. "Do you mind if we go in and have another cup of coffee or a drink? Paddy and Pam are my parents' oldest friends. It's tradition for them to come by on Christmas night."

"Not at all," French assured him, "I'd love to meet your parents' friends."

They got out of the car again and saw Maggie, Iain and Brian standing on the walkway perpendicular to the driveway, exchanging greetings with a middle-aged couple. Watching the flurry of chatter, hugs, back-slapping and exclamations, French smiled, warmed at the sight of Aidan's parents' excitement at seeing their friends. Her smile faded as the group turned toward them and she was able to make out the faces of the new arrivals.

No... This cannot be possible, she thought dazedly. In less time than she had available to fully comprehend what was happening, she would be meeting her father face to face for the first time in her life.Oh, my God! she thought, panic racing through her. Time seemed to stop as her father and his wife made their way toward where she and Aidan stood. French stood rooted to the ground, stunned, feeling detached from her body. With rapid-fire quickness and without her conscious direction, her brain catalogued the scenarios that would result if she gave in to either of the two instinctive responses that came naturally when a person was faced with a threat: fight or flight. None of the scenarios yielded positive results, of course, so she just stood there, not knowing what to do. She came to her senses just as her father noticed her standing there.

"Well, well... Aidan, what have we here?" her father –her father! – asked. French felt fury boil up inside her at his mocking tone and leering, assessing gaze. He sized her up as though she were a piece of meat.

"Good to see you, too, Patrick," Aidan said, laughing. Then with a note of pride in his voice, he said, "This is my girlfriend, Francoise Delauney – known as French to friends and family. French, these are great friends of our family, Patrick Hurst and his wife, Pamela."

French shook hands with first the wife, then Hurst himself and murmured polite hellos. Patrick Hurst kept her hand in his and examined her more closely. The others moved up the walkway towards the house and didn't notice that French and Patrick didn't follow them.

"Delauney, was it?" he asked.

"Yes, Delauney," she responded with a shade of defensiveness.

He was looking at her closely, even went so far as to lift a hand to her chin and tilt it back and forth so he could see more of her face. French knew exactly what he was seeing. Had seen it herself countless times when she'd opened the newspaper's business or society pages. When she was younger, she had held his picture next to her face, looking for signs of kinship, and compared their features. They shared the same almost-jade-green eyes, the long straight nose, the bowed upper lip and full lower one. She knew she had inherited her height and slim build from him, too, because her mother was petite and curvy.

His fingers tightened on her chin and his green eyes narrowed to slits. He pressed his lips together as though to stop himself from making an outburst. French narrowed identical eyes at him and jerked her chin away defiantly. With haughtiness she didn't know she possessed, she called out to Aidan,

"Darling, I'm afraid I don't feel up to coffee after all. Would you mind if we went home?"

Aidan walked back to where she stood and looked at her closely. Apparently he didn't like what he saw.

"Are you OK? You don't look like yourself. Maybe we should go back inside where you can rest for awhile."

"No!" she said firmly. Then more calmly, "I really think it's best that I leave, Aidan. Now. Please," she added as an afterthought. Turning to his parents, her face a cool mask of formality, she said, "Mr. and Mrs. Conal, thank you for your hospitality. Good night."

With a polite nod for them and Brian, she stiffened her spine, turned and headed for the car without waiting for a response from her hosts. She knew they would try to convince her to go inside and lie down and she didn't want to face their concern over her suddenly changed demeanor.

Aidan exchanged a glance with his family and shrugged. He was completely puzzled by French's sudden behavioral change, as were Iain, Maggie and Brian. They all wore the same expressions of bemusement, confused at French's sudden formality after they had all shared such a warm and wonderful Christmasen famille.

"Alright-y then..." Aidan said, drawing out the words, "I guess we'll be going."

He kissed his parents again and shook hands with the Hursts, apologizing for his and French's abrupt departure, quietly promising Maggie he'd call as soon as he figured out what was wrong with French. He got into the car without speaking to her. She stared straight ahead in pointed silence. Aidan could feel the negativity emanating from her in waves. How she could go from being relaxed and content to this block of ice, he didn't know. She had said she hadn't felt up to staying for coffee, but she didn't look ill, precisely. He thought there was something else lurking around under that icy shell, maybe anger... And hurt? He could think of no good reason for either emotion. He decided to wait her out and let her be the first to speak and to explain herself without his prodding.

French was lost in her own thoughts. Feelings she'd thought were long banished welled up again, choking her with their intensity. Seeing her father looking happy and healthy, with his perfect, beautiful wife had made her feel dirty and unworthy. He hadn't wanted her, had discarded her when she was born. Her mother had allowed him to buy his way out of their lives with a monthly stipend that was just barely enough for them to get by on, though he had plenty of money and could have given them much more. French knew that he hadn't thought she or her mother were worth anything more than the pittance he'd given them. Probably even less. Patrick Hurst, a disgrace of a human being, had discarded her as though she were so much rubbish and even after years of proving herself worth more,she was the one who felt dirty, gauche and worthless after meeting him face to face?

She seethed with anger that Patrick Hurst had gone on with his life as though she didn't exist and at herself for caring what he thought of her. She had allowed him to occupy a huge space in her mind and heart for most of her life. The fact that she didn't know him had mattered little to her when she was a girl. He had never been far from her thoughts; she had made choices based upon what she guessed he might do or of which she thought he would be proud. She had longed for the day when he would sweep in and take her away with him and free her from the unstable, chaotic reality of life with her mother.

She had dreamed that he would be loving and kind. She would live with him and her half-siblings in their big North Shore house. She would go to a private school and wear the ubiquitous neat, tidy school uniform. She would study music with the best teachers in Boston and finally have a decent flute instead of the beat-up old pawnshop version she had played back then. She had thought she would finally feel comfortable, feel a sense of belonging and know that she was in the right place. She had imagined that her life would be easy and virtually carefree with her rightful family, that she would be understood and accepted for who she was. She could be as conservative and responsible as she naturally was without fear of ridicule. Her mother had always delighted in making fun of her because she was organized and logical in her approach to life; she had been told more times than she could count that she was just like her father which was definitely not a compliment in her mother's eyes.

Oh, the foolish, girlish dreams, French thought, more than a little mournfully. All those dreams had never come to fruition, but she had learned how to handle herself and had made a life of which she was very proud.On occasion, though, she confessed to herself,I still wonder what it might have been like to be enfolded into my father's family.

Shaking her head in disgust, French felt anger blaze forth. Patrick Hurst had looked her up and down as though he were appraising the worth of a prized calf at auction, going so far as to actually touch her.The bastard. How dare he?! God, I would have liked to slap that leering smirk off of his face... she thought. Then, with perverse pride bordering on glee, she thought,He knew me, though. Heknew me. Old Hurst is nothing if not intelligent and observant. He knew my name, recognized his stamp on me. I wonder what he was thinking once he realized who I was? Damn it! I shouldn't care what that asshole thinks! He's the one who wanted nothing to do with me. He probably never even gave me a second thought, she thought bitterly,and I cried myself to sleep when I was a little girl, longing for my Daddy.

Aidan finally got tired of waiting her out. "Are you going to tell me what happened back there?"

"What do you mean? I'm tired. That's all."

"Come on, French! You weren't the least bit 'tired'," he stressed the word, "until you met Paddy and Pam Hurst. So what's up?"

In that instant, French decided she wouldn't tell Aidan that Hurst was her father. Instead, she snapped back at him, "Did you somehow miss the way that jerk looked at me? The way he sized me up? I know his type. He'd love to dally with someone like me! You know, sample a little taste of the dark, forbidden fruit and run his hands all over my smooth, dark skin... I'm surprised he didn't open my mouth to see if my teeth were sound!"

"You're being ridiculous, French," he said with exaggerated patience. "Paddy didn't mean anything by it. You're the first girl I've brought home; the first one any of the family has ever met. He cares about me and wants to see me happy. Of course he'd be interested in you."

"No, Aidan. He couldn't care less about me – other than what I'm like in bed!" she sneered, stung anew by the realization that Aidan truly did have a meaningful relationship with Patrick Hurst. "He looked at me as though I were a piece of meat! I kept waiting for him to ask you if you'd gotten a fair price for me, if I was a dirty, sexy girl in the sack and whether or not I do windows and floors into the bargain! I know men like him, Aidan."

"Whoa, French! I've known Paddy Hurst my whole life and there isn't a racist bone in his body. So you're dead wrong about that!" he wasn't shouting, though the intensity with which he spoke drove the words into her mind as though he had yelled them.

French scoffed and shook her head.What a cruel quirk of fate that she had fallen in love with a man who had known her father his whole life when she herself had never laid eyes on him in the flesh. Anger and bitterness sat like scum on top of the stew of emotions boiling through her.

"Aidan. Listen," she paused, trying for a calm tone. "Speaking solely as a woman, I don't expect you to know what it feels like to be objectified by a man. Speaking as aBlack woman, I definitely don't expect you to know what it is like for a man like Hurst to undress you with his eyes, fantasizing about your exotic 'otherness', while he's deciding how little money he can get away with offering you for a fuck! Don't forget who I am, who my mother is, Aidan! I grew up around men like that – I know them when I see them!"

"Touché. I can't know what that's like for you. But I think you're wrong about Paddy. 'Speaking solely as a man'," he said in a slightly mocking tone, "you're damned right that if I saw you on the street, I'd be looking at you. In case you haven't noticed, you're freaking gorgeous! And you'd better believe I'd imagine what you looked like naked; I'd imagine what you'd be like in bed. I'd be wondering what kind of guy you go for and whether or not I stood a chance with you! Because guess what? That's what guys do! It's got nothing to do with wanting to buy you or what color your skin is! I think you're overreacting and totally misreading this whole situation!"