“Dallas Historical Society.” He escorts me, one fat hand on the small of my back, inside the richly upholstered lobby. Beet red and gold foiled flecked wallpaper line the lodge; beet red like Glenn’s corpulent cheeks. “I’m on the board with the groom’s parents,” he says. “Imagine my surprise when I contacted Ma Maison and found out you were in town. It almost seems like kismet, Evie.”
“Evelyn,” I say.
“Evie, Evelyn, Whatever. At five K for the evening at least I didn’t call you late for dinner. No wonder McAlister walks around looking like the cat who ate the canary. No puns intended, darling. I’m sure the favor is reciprocal.”
I throw up a little in my mouth as we make our way down the hall to the ballroom. The building’s air conditioned and yet his palm pressed into the small of my back is slick and sweaty, just like his face. Tiny waves of nausea slop around inside me. I remind myself I don’t have to let this guy kiss me, let alone sleep with me.
“What’s my old pal, Dylan McAlister up to lately?” He squeezes my shoulder and slides his hand down my arm, his thick gold pinkie ring scraping my skin. He twines fat fingers between mine and I remind myself that for the five thousand dollars he’s paying Ma Maison for tonight’s date, he’s allowed to hold my hand.
“Don’t know, Glenn. You tell me.” He hired me to be his wedding date. He’s probably expecting more, but he’s not entitled to more, and I will guarantee you he’s not getting it. How bad can this be? How long can a wedding last? How long can I be nauseated and not throw up?
He stops at a small round table in the hallway and peers at the folded cards until he spots the one with his name on it. “Glenn Reynolds & Guest, Table 15. Oh, honey, they must have forgotten to put your name on it.”
Just when I think it can’t get worse it does.
“Amy?”
Aw crap, I remember the last women to call me “Amy.” I turn and see Becky Littlefield, blood red fingernails matching her lips and her cocktail dress. Gold earrings, gold watch, gold bracelets. She matches perfectly with this country club’s décor.
“Hi Becky!” I say cheerfully, well aware Glenn is still clutching my hand.
“Where’s Dylan?” she asks, blinking deer-caught-in-the-headlight eyes.
“Funny, I was just asking Evie the same question,” Glenn says. He slides the table marker into his pants pocket and extends his hand. “Glenn Reynolds. Nice to meet you.”
Becky yanks her hand back, her face turning in on itself like she just stepped into something foul the cat hacked up. “Glenn Reynolds from Dallas North High School?”
He grins. “I think we did go to D North together, darling. But from the looks of tonight, we’ve come a long way since then.”
The reception’s in the ballroom and Historical Society connections or no, I’m thanking God we’re seated at a table on the outskirts because Becky’s on the opposite side of the room. Glenn doesn’t drink when he plays poker but he’s been pounding back the single malt scotch from the cocktail part of the evening to the speeches, which is where we are now.
“Have a little something to drink, sweetheart,” he says, slurring into my ear, running his hand up and down my arm. “You’re so uptight. You never seemed that uptight at the games. Did Church Boy McAlister do anything special to warm you up? I guarantee you I can do better than that loser.” He wiggles his tongue in my ear and I lean away from him and glance at my watch.
Another hour drags by and I’ve successfully made it through the dancing and the bouquet and garter toss without heaving up the salmon salad or even going to the bathroom. I just know Becky will follow me in there and demand some kind of explanation.
“Sweetheart,” Glenn says in a sing-song voice. “I didn’t pay Maze-on five thousand for just any old wedding date, you know. I want the Dylan McAlister special. I want you to pull my zipper down, take my cock in your mouth. Make me a happy man, Evelyn. Daddy Glenn is such a good tipper.”
Ugh. I push back from the table, “Excuse me,” I say, smoothing my skirt and grabbing my clutch. “I’ll be right back.” I get all the way to the edge of the ballroom before Becky’s up out of her chair, her round eyes focusing on me, looking like the suburban version of the girl in that spy movie who was dipped in gold. Jesus, how am I going to get through the rest of this evening?
I pick up my pace and exit the ballroom just in time to run right into someone else I don’t want to be seeing tonight, or ever for that matter.
Patrick McAlister glares at me and I can practically see the steam puffing out of his nostrils. “You.” He’s not dressed for a wedding. He’s wearing a polo shirt, khakis, and runners. He’s got a bit of sunburn on his face or he’s just wound up.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my heart clattering off my ribs before it drops like a stone to my stomach. I don’t really need to ask because I already know.
“You and I need to have a little talk.” He takes me by the arm and hustles me down the hallway.
We stand outside the club’s front doors. “Of course, Becky Littlefield called me. She of all people knows what’s at stake,” he says.
“You can think whatever you want, Patrick. I hate to be a bitch about this, but you and Becky aren’t my concern. Dylan is.”
“Wow, because you getting pawed in public by creepy Glenn Reynolds just screams how much you like my brother.”
“He was not pawing me.”
He holds out his phone and pulls up the photos. There’s Glenn with his arm draped over my shoulders. There’s Glenn, rubbing his hand up and down my arm. There’s me watching the bride and groom’s first dance while Glenn downs another Scotch and stares pointedly at my boobs, his snake tongue slipping between his thin lips.
“You think the prodigal son can return with his prostitute girlfriend and all will be wonderful?”
“Not a prostitute,” I say. “Escort.”
“Huge difference, Evelyn. You think the church is going to be down with that? We’re such good Christians that we welcome the poor, the tired, the unwashed among us? I. Don’t. Think. So.”
“I don’t care what Lighthouse thinks. I care about Dylan.”
“Then you need to rethink what you’re doing. Dylan’s finally back home. He’s here to see Mom. That’s the story that will play out when people find out about Mom’s cancer surgery. The last thing in the world any of us needs right now is the story about Dylan’s girlfriend ho-ing around with some other guy, especially ho-ing around professionally for money.”
“You’re an asshole.” I blink back tears.
“I’m entitled to be an asshole, Evelyn.” He pulls out his phone. “This is my world. It’s my life, not yours. These aren’t your people. Not your flock. This isn’t your safe haven. You need to let Dylan get his life back together. Because the only thing that you are in his life right now is a big. Fucking. Liability. I’ll be CFO of Lighthouse in a few years. I’ll be shepherding its image. I can’t allow Dylan to fuck things up like the Dixie thing almost fucked it up.”
“You slept with Dixie.”
“She threw herself at me. It was a thing. It wasn’t supposed to get out. Dylan had to pull a hissy fit, leave her, and abandon the whole fucking church. The gossip nearly burned the roof off this parish. I’ll be inheriting the Lighthouse legacy, the empire. Not Dylan. That’s in writing, signed, notarized, and resting in multiple safe deposit boxes at Dad’s lawyer’s offices.”
A man pulls up in Patrick’s cherry red truck, slips the engine in idle, and walks to the passenger side, pretending he’s not paying attention.
“Dylan doesn’t want what you want,” I say, my voice hushed.
“Dylan wants money or he wouldn’t continue to play the game. Do you have any idea how much money is in Lighthouse Cathedral? Do you have any idea how much –” He stops and smacks his head with the heel of his hand. “What am I even asking? Of course you do. I will not have this church brought down by some two-bit whore who spreads her legs for a living. Jesus might hav
e forgiven the sinners but I’m not as nice as Jesus, Evelyn. Compassion isn’t just a spoke, let alone a wheel in my wheelhouse right now. Your suitcase is in the truck. Get in.”
He walks to the driver’s side as the guy opens the passenger door for me.
“I can’t just leave Glenn here without telling him…”
“Glenn Reynolds from high school? Loser.” Patrick pulls out his wallet and tosses it to the guy. “Cut him a check for whatever he paid for her.” He points to the passenger seat. “Get in, Evelyn. Or you’ll fuck up the next five years of Dylan’s life. Can you live with that? It hasn’t been all that easy for me.”
13. Walls, Watchtowers, & Moats
WALLS, WATCHTOWERS, & MOATS
And just like that I’m back in Chicago. I’m depressed. I’m a mess. And this time I’m one hundred percent sure all these feelings belong to me. Victoria picks me up and drags me to Amelia’s place for pizza and a movie.
“The cops I talked to said you should keep all the letters for safe keeping,” Amelia says sprawled on the couch aiming the remote at the flatscreen TV on the wall. “Lock your doors and windows. Keep the blinds closed at night. You can contact them if anything concerns you. They said cyber stalking is pretty common these days and usually nothing comes of it.”
“It’s not just cyber stalking,” Victoria says. “He mailed letters to her physical address.”
“I told the cops that but they said these days it usually starts online,” Amelia says. “And oh, check the shadows around your entrance. Be aware of your surroundings.”
“Terrific,” I say, lying on a love seat. I blow my nose, tossing the used tissue into a wastebasket. “Maybe it’s Madame Germaine. She’s a horrible person.”
“Madam’s a shitty person,” Amelia says “Setting you up with that asshole when she knew you were with another guy was unforgivable. But I doubt she’s your ‘Fan.’”
Victoria passes me a beer. “A cold, shitty, horrible person. I don’t think she’s your fan, either.”
“Maybe Madame didn’t know that Glenn and Dylan had history?” I ask. “Maybe it was just an innocent mistake on her part.”
“Please,” Victoria says. “She vetted him. She knew he was a high stakes gambler. She’d have to be a dumbass not to know they played in the same circles. Wedding date my ass.”
“I’m sorry, Evie,” Amelia says tipping back a beer.
“Madame pulled something horrible on me, too,” Victoria says.
“What?” I ask.
“I’d been at Ma Maison for about five months, and met this guy I really liked. I was thinking about quitting.”
“I remember that,” Amelia says flipping through movie channels.
“What happened?” I asked.
“A ‘little bird’ told Scott’s wife he was seeing someone. Out of nowhere he takes a job in Denver, up and moved the next week. I called. Texted. He ghosted me. Broke my heart into a million pieces.”
“That sucks,” I say Just a few weeks ago I hated this girl and now I like her. Life can turn on a dime.
“Sucks hard,” Victoria says, grabbing a tissue from the box and blowing her nose. “Different movie please. I cannot watch Titanic tonight.”
“If I see Jack die one more time I’ll put a fork in someone’s eye,” I say.
“Fine,” Amelia grumbles.
“Did you ever get a hold of Scott?” I ask.
“Two months later,” Victoria says. “He talked cryptically like he was being secretly recorded. He said someone using the Agency’s email had contacted his wife and sent photos of dates that we’d been on.”
“Ugh. Did you ever figure out who?” I ask.
“No proof,” Victoria says. “Who do you think did it?”
“Madame Marchand?”
“That sounds like a reach,” Amelia says. “Probably a friend of Scott’s wife. How about a romantic comedy?”
I frown. “How about I punch you.”
“So bossy.” She keeps clicking.
Victoria shakes her head. “I should have known better. I was raised better. ‘Don’t give the milk away for free,’ my grandmother said a million times. ‘Never date a married man.’ I figured that last one didn’t count because we’re not actually dating at Ma Maison.”
“We’re not actually dating,” Amelia says. “We’re just doing a job. Keeping a roof over our heads. We don’t plan on more than a paycheck and a decent tip if we’re lucky.”
“I certainly never planned on falling in like,” I say.
“Victoria, is that when you started putting up walls?” Amelia asks.
“Walls, watchtowers, and moats.”
“What happened to the guy who took you to Paris?” I ask.
“He’s good,” she says and tosses her drink down. “He’s so good he knocked up his wife whom he was planning on leaving. That’s on hold for the next five years or forever.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Guys suck,” Amelia says. “How about Terminator 2?”
“The Arnold Schwarzenegger movie?” Victoria asks.
“Yup,” Amelia says.
“The one where Linda Hamilton gets insanely buff and kicks ass?” I ask.
“Yup,” Amelia says.
“Perfect,” Victoria says.
Summer turns to Indian summer, a hint of autumn chill creeps into the night air. I need to exercise, calm my anxiety, blow off steam. I wheel my bike outside. My mailbox is stuffed with fliers, and my stomach flip-flops. I stick the key in the box, pull out a million paper coupons and find another envelope, my name neatly typed.
‘Uh-oh,’ Queasy says. ‘Better open it.’
Hi Evelyn,
I waited a bit to drop you a line because I don’t want to overwhelm you. It seems the world is split between those who want ‘too much’ attention and those who don’t. You seem like the latter.
You’re such a nice girl, kind to everyone you come in contact with, and it goes without saying that you’re beautiful. I’ve been hesitant to bring this up before now, but I checked out that photo again. You know the one I like – the picture your friend took of her Bachelorette party at Navy Pier? You were third from the left wearing the “Team Jennifer Bride” T-shirt.” My good God, Evelyn, you put models to shame. You don’t need makeup. You don’t need fancy clothes. Your beauty, your goodness, shine through, like a lamp lit in the darkness.
And then there’s a photo of you with one arm around your mother. Your mom looks so lost and fragile. But the way you’re staring at her, your good intent shines through. You take care of her. You’re there for her. Not many people share your commitment or your devotion to family, let alone others less fortunate than you. That photo moved my heart and I look at it every time I need a boost to get me through a stressful day.
You and I are cut from the same cloth, Evelyn. We are both kind, caring people. People that go out of our way to help others, sometimes even putting the needs of others before our own. Please understand, it’s not my intention to freak you out, or scare you. Rest assured, I’m not some aggressive stalker. Don’t worry that every person you see at a coffee shop or in the grocery store wearing a ball cap pulled low over their head is me.
That person is not me.
I stay in the background. I promise I won’t show up on your doorstep. I’m not delusional. I don’t presume that you even want me in your life. In fact, feel free to throw this letter away. I am certain you have a fair share of admirers, suitors, whatever.
Thanks for letting me share, Evelyn.
My best,
Your Fan
“Creepsters.” I shove the letter in my bike pouch and check my surroundings. It’s broad daylight but I still eye the bushes next to the stairs that lead to my walk up; the hedge that lines the squat building next door. I hop on my bike and make my way to the trail adjacent to Lake Shore Drive.
I pedal for miles like a madwoman, blowing past sailboats in the harbor. The author of these letters has to be some socia
lly awkward guy. A harmless weirdo. I’m going to shove this letter in the drawer with the others and ignore this bullshit. Maybe I’ll buy a can of pepper spray. Make that two: one for my purse, one for my nightstand. Yeah, that’s going on my to-do list.
I slow down as I pass sailboats dotting the harbor, sleek condos, the constellation of wealth gathered like members of a private club hovering around a mahogany bar at Lake Michigan’s edge. It’s the same route I took a few months ago, but wow, has my vantage point changed.
I’ve been to these private clubs, sat at the bars. I’ve visited the sleek condos and been touched by wealth in ways both good and bad. Rosemary McAlister welcomed me into her home and treated me like family. Patrick oozed entitlement and threatened me. Glenn’s desperate need for one upmanship made my skin crawl. Scratch the surface of the elegance and you might unearth some dirty bits, find some filthy secrets.
Time passes. A week, then two. No more letters from my fan. Also no word from Dylan. No emails. No texts. No handwritten letters. I Google him, but juicy new gossip doesn’t float around the Internet when a big player falls off the grid. It’s like he’s vanished without a trace. Maybe he was just a dream.
September marches in and I’m back to teaching Kindergarten during the day, taking Ma Maison dates at night and on weekends. Mom calls from the Institute. She’s non-manic excited because she’s taking a pottery class and is going to be part of a fall arts and crafts festival. Her doctor floats the possibility of her becoming an outpatient in the next couple of months. I think this translates into ‘I’ll be paying medical expenses and footing the bill for an apartment somewhere within easy ride share distance from the Institute.’
PLAYER (21st Century Courtesan) Page 16
