Pleasure Seekers

by Rochelle Alers

  Six weeks was a long time, long enough for her to gather enough strength to leave him before he walked out on her. She refused to mirror her mother’s life, where she’d give a man her love, her body and bear his children while he didn’t think enough of her to give her or his children his name.

  The session ended as it had begun—in silence. Alana told Dr. Novak she would call her if she needed her again.

  Faye stood in Alana’s kitchen tearing lettuce leaves. She walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. “What do you want me to put in the salad?”

  Alana glanced over her shoulder. “Olives, chickpeas, Bermuda onion, thinly sliced cucumber and grape tomatoes. Check that avocado on the countertop. I felt it yesterday and it still wasn’t soft.” She placed two lean strip steaks in a baking pan. “Do you think we’re going to need something else besides the steak and salad?”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “How about a loaded baked potato?”

  “With butter, sour cream, bacon, cheese and chives!” they said in unison.

  “Bring them out, bring them out, girlfriend,” Faye crooned.

  She’d suggested a girls’ night in either at her apartment or Alana’s, and Alana had offered hers because she wanted to clean out her refrigerator before she went upstate for the weekend to visit her mother.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to hang out with you this weekend? It’s been a while since I’ve seen your mother.”

  “I thought you were seeing Bart on the weekends.”

  “Not this weekend. He’s leaving for Hong Kong in the morning.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t take you with him.”

  “He’s going on business.”

  Alana pierced two baking potatoes with a fork before putting them into the microwave. “Does he ever talk to you about his business?”

  Faye shook her head. “No.”

  “What do you talk about? No, let me rephrase that. What do you do when you’re together?”

  Reaching into a drawer under a counter, Faye took out a sharp knife. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “No, Lana. He’s made it very clear that we will not sleep together.”

  “Would you if he changed his mind?”

  “No. You keep forgetting that I’m in this for the money.”

  “So am I,” Alana concurred, “but there’re times when I’m as horny as a mink in heat that I want to slap the hell out of Enid Richards for her smug-ass rule about not sleeping with a client.”

  “She can afford to be smug because her boy toy is probably screwing her brains out every night.”

  “No!” Alana gasped. “You really think she’s sleeping with what’s-his-name…” She snapped her fingers. “Marcus…”

  “Hampton,” Faye supplied. “Yes.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Faye told Alana about running into Enid and Marcus at the art gallery. “Bart and I were coming in when they were leaving. Judging from their body language, they’re definitely a couple.”

  “Ain’t that nothin’,” Alana drawled. “Big Mama’s got it goin’ on if she can hold on to something that fine. How old do you think she is, Faye?”

  “It’s hard to tell. She could be anywhere between forty and fifty.”

  “Do you think she’s been overhauled?”

  “I dunno, Lana. But you have to give her credit because you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. There’s no doubt Enid Richards will be stunning at fifty, sixty and into her seventies.”

  The topic segued from Enid to Alana’s clients, Faye laughing hysterically when Alana related how they invariably saw her breasts as a pillow.

  It was Alana’s turn to laugh when Faye told her about the snobby women who paid Madame Fontaine a small fortune to make them look the same as they did when they entered the overpriced, upscale day spa.

  They talked, cooked, ate, cleaned up the kitchen, then took a taxi to Faye’s apartment where she packed a bag for the weekend. They made it to Grand Central Station in time to make the train scheduled to stop in New Paltz. Their girlfriends’ night wouldn’t be a night but a weekend.

  CHAPTER 47

  Alana unlocked the front door to the house where she’d grown up. The blaring sound of a radio and the familiar smell of chocolate indicated she’d come home. “I’m willing to bet that Mom’s baking cookies.”

  “What I don’t need is your mother’s cookies after that sinfully loaded baked potato,” Faye said as she stepped into a parlor that harkened back to another era, with flower-sprigged upholstered overstuffed love seats and armchairs, crocheted doilies, rag rugs and fringe-trimmed lampshades.

  “You know if you don’t eat one she’s going to spend the entire weekend sulking.”

  “Okay, Lana. I’ll eat one. Just one,” she hissed.

  Alana rolled her eyes at Faye as she brushed past her and headed for the kitchen. “I don’t know why you’re dieting. I’ve never seen you this thin. Is it because Bart likes his woman with no ass?”

  “Wrong. I’m not Bart’s woman, and even if I lose fifty pounds I’d still be bootylicious.” Faye smacked her hip for effect.

  Alana sucked her teeth loudly. “Pul-leese, Faye. This is your girl you’re talking to. The man shells out big bucks for you to go to Madame Fontaine and you say you’re not his woman. You’re deluding yourself, girlfriend.”

  Faye caught her friend’s arm, stopping her. “Please, Lana. Promise me we won’t talk about Bartholomew Houghton, Enid Richards and her boy toy, or anything that remotely resembles P.S., Inc. for the rest of the weekend.”

  Talking about her relationship with Bart made it seem real, normal, when it was just the opposite. She would earn half a million dollars to provide him with companionship, something he could get from any woman. She’d tried rationalizing that as a P.S., Inc. social companion she was nothing more than eye candy, an inanimate object who’d made herself available to a wealthy man for his own prevarications.

  Alana exhaled audibly. “Okay.” She continued along the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. “Mom, we’re here!” she called out, hoping not to startle Melanie Gardner.

  Melanie, who sang along with an old Whitney Houston hit at the top of her lungs, went completely still when she saw her daughter and her friend standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She placed a cookie sheet on a trivet, took off her oven mitts and extended her arms.

  “Good gracious! What a wonderful surprise. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, Alana? And isn’t it nice that you brought Faye with you.”

  A wave of momentary panic raced through Alana as she walked into the kitchen and hugged her mother. It was apparent Melanie hadn’t taken her medication. “I told you yesterday that I was coming.”

  Melanie smiled. “I must have forgotten.”

  Alana’s initial fear was offset by the fact that the older woman had at least bathed herself. Or, she wondered, had Sophia come by and assisted her?

  She stared down at a woman who’d dedicated her young life to a man who didn’t deserve her trust and loyalty. Alana didn’t hate her father, because it was too hard to erase the twenty-one years, twenty-one very happy years Carlos Moore had been in her life. But she would never forgive him for what he did to her mother. Her brothers were more understanding, but she refused to see him, talk to him, and in no way did she want to meet her ten-year-old half sister.

  Alana turned off the radio. “Did you take your pills today?”

  A slight frown creased Melanie’s forehead. She’d recently celebrated her sixty-third birthday but looked years older. The grooves bracketing her generous mouth appeared deeper, and there were lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Her chestnut-brown skin, stretched over sharp cheekbones, had the fragility of rice paper. Thick curly hair, hair that Alana had inherited, was braided in two salt-and-pepper plaits that reached midway down her frail back.

  “I don’t r
emember.”

  Faye watched the tender reunion between Alana and Melanie, and for the first time she felt a pang of guilt. She was the one who’d been bemoaning and crying about her brother, when Alana had to worry about a parent plagued with mental-health issues.

  When, she thought, had she become so narcissistic? Even if she wasn’t able to have her brother’s conviction overturned, he only had another three years before he had to face a parole board. Meanwhile, Melanie Gardner’s mental state held her in a prison from which there would be no parole or vindication.

  Walking over to Melanie, she kissed her cheek. “I’m going to wash my hands and take those cookies off the sheet and let them cool on a rack.”

  Melanie smiled. “Thank you. No one wants to eat mushy cookies.”

  Alana steered her mother over to a stool at the cooking island. “Sit down, Mom, and relax. Faye and I will finish baking the cookies and cleaning up the kitchen.”

  “I don’t feel like sitting,” Melanie said, protesting. “I’m going upstairs to lie down.”

  “You feel all right, Mom?”

  She managed a tired smile. “I’m good, Alana. I’m just a little tired. I was going upstairs anyway after I finished the last batch.”

  Alana kissed her forehead. “Go, Mom. I’ll look in on you later.”

  As soon as Melanie left the kitchen, she picked up the telephone and dialed her brother’s number. “Sophia, this is Alana. May I please speak to Taylor? Yes, I know it’s late, but I have to talk to him.”

  Her sister-in-law could be such a bitch at times. Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she waited for Taylor to come to the phone as she watched Faye gently lift the oatmeal chocolate-chip raisin cookies off the sheet and place them on a wire rack to cool.

  Faye had lost some weight, but the results were fabulous—not that she’d been overweight to begin with. Her hips were slimmer, belly flatter, her clear complexion radiating good health. And despite her protests, Alana knew Faye’s relationship with Bartholomew Houghton was comfortable and stress free.

  It was not that she hadn’t enjoyed her own clients, especially Derrick Warren. The record producer was the consummate gentleman. Soft spoken with impeccable manners, he always gave her his undivided attention and never tried coming on to her as some of the other men attempted to do despite the rule that clients and social companions were not to sleep together. He would’ve been the perfect man if he hadn’t paid her to be with him.

  After all, Alana mused, I’m not like the other women who used the most ingenious stunts in an attempt to garner his attention. One had even gone so far as to sit down in a skirt that barely covered her snatch and spread her legs to offer a view of what was left of her pubic hair cut into a heart-shaped design. The ho was definitely shameless!

  “Don’t you know what time it is, Alana?” Taylor Gardner’s deep voice boomed through the earpiece.

  “I’m well aware of the hour, Taylor. I’m calling about our mother.”

  “What about her?” His tone had softened considerably.

  “Do you check to see whether she’s taking her medication every day?”

  “Dammit, Alana, you woke me up to talk about pills?”

  Her temper flared. “Just answer my question!”

  “I’m not going to tell you shit! If you’re that concerned about Mom, then you should give up your view of Central Park and move back to the boonies.” It took several seconds, after listening to the incessant sound of the dial tone, for Alana to realize that her brother had hung up on her. “My brother just hung up on me. He’s never done that before.”

  She replaced the receiver on its cradle, trying to come up with a good reason why her eldest brother was so hostile. She expected hostility from Sophia, but not Taylor. “One of these days I’m going to forget my home training and give my sister-in-law the beatdown of her life,” she mumbled under her breath.

  There were a few occasions when she’d overheard Sophia complaining about Melanie, claiming her mother-in-law either should be confined to a mental hospital or a skilled nursing facility. Whatever Taylor had said to his wife angered her because Sophia had stormed out of the house and spent the next hour on the porch.

  “I’m going to hire a nurse to come in every day to check on my mother.”

  “Isn’t she eligible for a home-health aide?” Faye asked.

  “I won’t know until I check with her caseworker. Even if her Medicare doesn’t cover the costs, I’ll pay it.”

  “Have you thought about having your mother live with you, Lana?”

  “Yes, but I know it wouldn’t work. Mom would never leave New Paltz. She loves this house because it’s her only tie to her past when she was truly happy with her so-called husband and children. Daddy wouldn’t marry her, so I suppose giving her the house free and clear absolved him of some of his guilt.”

  Alana paused, watching as Faye dropped cookie dough onto a baking sheet. She called Melanie at least three times a week, but whenever she came to New Paltz to see her mother she found it more and more difficult to come to grips with her mental impairment. The fact remained that Melanie Gardner was not getting better; in fact, she was thinner now than she’d been two months before.

  She knew she had to reach a decision about her mother’s medical care before the end of the summer.

  CHAPTER 48

  Faye began the first day of her three-week vacation with a brisk walk along First Avenue. She’d walked farther than planned, but on the return thirty-block trip she stopped at a Starbucks for a cup of coffee with a double shot of espresso. The caffeine gave her an extra boost of energy, and she looked forward to the next three weeks with the anticipation of a child going on vacation.

  She’d enjoyed her weekend in New Paltz, and the difference in Melanie’s behavior was startling after she’d taken her medication. She was alert, spry and exhibited a wicked sense of humor that kept everyone in stitches. Sophia appeared unusually attentive to her husband’s mother, but Faye suspected the display was more for Alana’s approval than genuine affection. It was apparent the sisters-in-law weren’t fond of each other.

  The chiming of the telephone greeted Faye as she opened the door to her apartment. She picked up the cordless instrument from a table in the spacious entryway.

  “Hello.”

  “Thank goodness I got you!” said a breathless female voice.

  “Gina?” Faye wondered why her assistant was calling her at home when she knew she was on vacation.

  “Faye, listen, and don’t say anything until I’m finished.”

  “Where are you?” she asked, ignoring Gina.

  “I’m in the conference room.”

  “Why?”

  “Please, Faye. I could lose my job for calling you.”

  “Okay.”

  “John and Stuart are in your office going over your accounts. I heard someone say that they want to give one or two of your clients to Jessica and Zachary. Apparently the executives at Andino are in seventh heaven over the marketing campaign those two assholes put together for the LXR-V. I’m sure you’ve seen the new GM commercial with the Then. Now. Always. pitch comparing the old to the new.”

  “Yes, I have.” The commercial had a catchy theme contrasting sock hop to hip-hop, AM to XM radio.

  “They stole your hip-hop idea and passed it off as their own, Faye. Now they’re strutting around here like their shit don’t stink.”

  “And because of their success with Andino, they wait for me to go on vacation then help themselves to my accounts.”

  “They’re clueless, Faye,” Gina whispered angrily. “Do they really think they can do what you do?”

  Faye’s brain was in tumult, strange and disquieting thoughts racing out of control. As an African-American she was hired to tap into the psyche of the African-American consumer, and her success had become Bentley, Pope & Oliviera’s success. However, it was apparent she’d outlived her usefulness at the advertising firm.

  What if, she mused, she
hadn’t planned to leave at the end of the year? What if she hadn’t had another source of income? Sitting on a chair beside the table, she closed her eyes, hoping to bring her inner turmoil under control.

  “It’s all right, Gina,” she lied with deceptive calmness. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you shittin’ me, Faye?”

  When she opened her eyes they were filled with tears. “No, I’m not. I really don’t care.”

  “But you can’t say that.”

  “Yes, I can.” There was only the sound of breathing coming through the earpiece. “Gina?”

  “Yes, Faye.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Depressing a button, she ended the call.

  Faye hated lying to Gina because she did care, cared more than anyone could imagine. She’d sacrificed taking vacation for years and curtailed her social life to advance her career. But where had it gotten her? Absolutely nowhere because a pack of jackals had invaded her office to steal what she’d worked so hard to develop.

  She stirred uneasily in the chair, trying to pinpoint when her working relationship with John Reynolds had begun to deteriorate, mentally recapping the meetings they’d shared. He’d disagreed with several of her creative ideas yet they’d always managed to compromise. She’d found John open, perceptive and respectful; that’s why she’d found his comment about projecting a gangsta image so repugnant.

  As much as Faye didn’t want to place blame on any one person, she couldn’t stop thinking about Jessica Adelson. Somehow Jessica had convinced John she should become the account executive for the African-American market.

  The scheming wench may have won this round, but there was no way she would permit her to win the fight.

  Faye dialed the number, praying Mrs. Urquhart would answer her call before she lost her nerve and hung up. Bart had given her a business card with his executive assistant’s name and extension at DHG, and also his cell-phone number in the event of an emergency. Bart may not deem her losing her accounts an emergency, but she did.

  “Mrs. Urquhart.”

  Sitting up straighter, Faye tightened her grip on the receiver. The woman’s voice was strong, no-nonsense. “Mrs. Urquhart, this is Faye Ogden. May I please speak to Mr. Houghton?”