Butterfly by Rochelle Alers Page B

before the birth of his first grandchild.
    James Scott Houston was a gorgeous baby. He’d inherited his mother’s fair coloring, hair and eye color, but his features were undeniably his father’s. There was no doubt he would be called exotic, which had become the politically accepted designation for mixed-race children.
    “The house looks nice,” Seneca said to her sister-in-law.
    Maya crossed her arms under her breasts. “We decided to complete the exterior first, before concentrating on the interior. We just finished the nursery last week.”
    Jerome took the platter with a roast turkey from his stepfather. “I told Maya I wanted to remodel the kitchen first only because we spend so much time here.”
    Seneca stared at her brother, who looked like a very young Miles Davis. Several of his former girlfriends had nicknamed him “Dark Chocolate.” With his delicate features and sable-brown coloring, she could see why women had flocked tohim in droves, but it was Maya with her flashing green eyes and open, friendly smile who’d enthralled him as the others hadn’t been able to.
    “Some people take up to five years to fix up their homes,” Seneca told her brother.
    Jerome frowned, the expression reminiscent of their mother’s. “I don’t want to take that long. I would’ve preferred having a post-baptism dinner here at the house instead of in a restaurant.”
    “I told you I would pick up the tab, son,” Oscar said.
    “You shouldn’t have to, Dad. As a married man I should be able to take care of my family.”
    Oscar rested a hand on Jerome’s shoulder. “Dahlia and I were where you are when we first got married, but we had a lot less in those days. You’ll make it, son, but you have to be patient.”
    Listening to the exchange between her father and brother made Seneca aware that Jerome was more like their mother than she’d realized. When, she mused, had Jerome become a complainer, or had he always been one? She’d come to D.C. to become godmother to her brother’s son, not become embroiled in a heated family discussion. As teachers, Jerome and Maya didn’t earn six-figure salaries, but they fared better than many young couples in their mid-twenties. They owned their own home.
    Seneca knew that living on her own had matured her. Although she shared the apartment with Electra, they rarely got to see each other. They had classes on different days, and when Electra wasn’t rehearsing with a theater company, she was waiting tables at restaurants that catered to those in the entertainment field, hoping to get discovered—even if for a minor role in an off-Broadway production.
    She kept her bedroom neat and clean and shared cleaningduties: one week on and one week off cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, dusting and vacuuming the living room. She did her own laundry, shopped for groceries and prepared her own meals. There were no boyfriends, thereby eliminating angst in the romance department, and the times she sat in Starbucks drinking lattes or espressos with a man didn’t necessarily translate into a date.
    When Phillip had disclosed Booth’s plan to link them romantically as a couple, Seneca felt the ruse could work well. After all, she was attracted to the delicious-looking ballplayer, and as long as he didn’t pressure her into sleeping with him, then everything would be perfect.
    James Scott was asleep before he finished the bottle. Seneca removed the nipple from his mouth with a soft popping sound, then took the cloth diaper Maya handed her and placed it over her shoulder. Lifting the sleeping infant to her shoulder, she waited until he expelled a loud burp. He squirmed, whining softly, before settling back to sleep. She handed him off to his mother.
    “I don’t mind splitting the bill, Dad,” she volunteered.
    Jerome shook off his father’s hand and glared at Seneca. “Did I ask you for a handout?”
    With wide eyes, Seneca stared at her brother. “No, you didn’t. All I did was offer to