by F. E. Arliss
The only problem was that happiness can't be bought with good food, good clothes, or good times. Happiness was ephemeral and involved loving support. It had taken Zhara a good long time to figure out that listening, while very nice indeed, was not the same as being fully supportive of someone. Carlton had learned to listen quite skillfully to some of the world’s biggest dirtbags as though they were the second coming.
Zhara winced, thinking how baldy terrible that all sounded about a husband she’d actually loved. Ok, so he’d been completely self-centered. He’d also been wonderful, until he wasn’t. Or, at least until she understood all the facets of the man. Even then, he’d been wonderful eighty percent of the time. The other twenty percent had been pure hell.
Whatever! As Anne Lamott had said, “If people wanted to be portrayed better in other people’s books, they should have behaved better towards the writer.” Well, wasn’t that the truth!
After a long and truly horrible experience with the excruciatingly awful Sister Marianne, a nun of German extract and an expert of Canon Law at the local diocese, Gertrude was declared forgiven for having done absolutely nothing wrong in the first place. That experience of shaming and degradation at the hands of “the church” re-introduced Gertrude to a whole slew of bad memories, horrifying familial realizations and months of gut-wrenching emotional processing.
Gertrude was sure, or at least hoped - truly- that Sister Marianne would burn in eternal hell for the superciliously degrading way she treated her petitioners. She’d been pronounced to have had an error in reasoning by marrying her first two husbands, both of whom she’d been legally married to and legally divorced from. Nor was she sleeping with both of them at the same time, so - in the regular, everyday life of a normal person (just not the Catholic church) she had been an absolute paragon of virtue.
That normal behavior had not been enough for THE CHURCH. But, all that wringing of her soul and torture later, not to mention of course, several large payments of cash to the tune of thousands of dollars, Gertrude was pronounced free from stain, and her prior marriages annulled.
Carlton and she were then married PROPERLY in the Catholic church.
Zhara supposed that the undercutting of her own morals for the proper placement of Carlton’s soul, was what began to seriously corrode her feelings about him.
Later, she would have to take responsibility for even agreeing to go through with the ordeal. At the time, she felt that it wasn’t her place to stand in the way of another’s path to salvation - whatever that may be.
In time, she would come to see that this was where she went completely wrong. Another’s salvation had absolutely nothing to do with her. That was up to them, not her. If their god was too worried by dogma to forgive them whatever their transgressions, then that was a poor god indeed.
When she’d said those exact words to her oldest friend, also a devout Catholic like Carlton, Gertrude had lost that friend as well. She’d been wrong to think that her feelings of hurt, betrayal and manipulation would be of more consequence than the ridiculous dogmas of a religious institution.
Never underestimate the rigorous nature of the embedded shaming of “being good” in the eyes of society. Saying bad things about “the church” or wishing that Sister Marianne roasted in hell, were simply far too dispicable to keep a friendship over. Understanding of another’s pain was simply not on “the church’s” game plan and her friend was far too entrenched in the dogma and socially embedded idea of “being good” to understand or be supportive.
At first, Gertrude had been devastated, then surprised, and then resigned to the fact that even the most intelligent of women could be so rigidly entrenched in a belief that they gave up one of the most precious things in life - a friend.
The loss of her friend, the affair involving the nineteen year old African beauty, the ongoing nature of it, and the use of the funds that would have assured her future security, but were instead used for hanky panky in his hotel abroad, all built up into a simmering rage.
She’d been working very hard getting a new home ready for them at Carlton’s next diplomatic posting. He’d reinstated his life insurance and they’d been rubbing along quite well together for the last few months.
The new house was almost ready and they were headed out to a social gathering to celebrate when she’d stubbed her toe on the top of the stair bannister. The exploding expletive, “F--k!”, had erupted from her throat unchecked.
Carlton had whirled on her and in the condescendingly superior way he had when his good Catholic righteousness was aroused, had said, “Must you say that? It seriously offends me. Why must you be so offensive?”
A blinding wall of rolling, red pain washed through Gertrude. Falling to the floor she clutched her ankle, the high-heeled red pump clattering to the floor. She’d been packing and schlepping boxes for weeks, working like a rented mule to get this home in order and was over-tired, emotionally exhausted, and physically run down. The timing for an episode of what she had labeled as his, “sanctimonious prick” behavior, was the last straw.
In her mind the wrongness of the whole situation suddenly solidified. No, no! She wasn’t offensive. Saying a bad word after a long physically and emotionally exhausting week, wasn’t offensive at all. It was understandable. It was human, an after-effect of stress and weariness. What was offensive was Carlton himself. There he was acting holier than thou, when in fact, his was the far greater offense.
He’d carried on with a girl a third his age for months and months and months. He’d lied repeatedly. He’s shamed her in front of the diplomatic community. He’s spent thousands of dollars on a prostitute - oh, of course, he swore she wasn’t a hooker, she was a “valuable contact into a foreign threat” - that was supposed to have gone to secure their old age.
He’d denied Gertrude the trips away from their stateside home during ragingly horrible winters with long, deep snowfalls where she’d shoveled snow till her heart pounded and sweat ran in rivers down her back. Those trips would have gone a long way to relieving the depression she suffered from months of long, bone-wearying cold.
To top it all off, Gertrude had heart surgery for a blocked artery - that should have been a metaphysical clue, after all, she was far too young for heart failure, but, alas, there it was - and Carlton, explaining the importance of his mission, got on the plane and left her to go to the hospital alone. It would only have delayed his departure by three days.
But, three days was far too long to be away from his titillating teenage beauty, she later supposed. Heart surgery on one’s own is not a whole lot of fun. It does, however, have the effect of causing one to look at those that are supposed to love them. That was probably when Gertrude got truly suspicious. Her aunt had taken her and dropped her off and then picked her up the next day. At least some family had been helpful.
Carlton had denied Gertrude respite by conjuring all sorts of lies that were supposedly for her safety. Then, he’d expected her to compromise her principles so that he could look good in the face of a god that didn’t hold him accountable. On top of all this, the last time he’d sent her flowers, he’d timed it so that friends would be arriving to see them delivered. Good old Carlton, always wanting to look praise-worthy in the eyes of others. So, no, Gertrude was not the offensive one here at all. He was.
Gertrude had straightened slowly into a sitting position, picked up the high-heeled Jimmy Choo pump that may have broken her ankle, looked Carlton in the face and gasping back tears, said, “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I must be offensive.”
Then, balancing all her weight on her rear seat-bones, thank you years of horseback riding, used her uninjured foot to kick him forcefully in the shin just below his knee-cap. He fell in a spectacular flailing of arms, cartwheeling backwards down the long, ornate, black wrought-iron-edged stairs.
When he finally hit the bottom of the long, elegant entrance stairs, the resounding thud and odd angle of his neck confirmed for her that he was, indeed, dead.
Gertrude, feeling oddly relieved, limped slowly and carefully down the stairs, smoothed her dress, ruffled her hair, and called an ambulance.
The paramedics, brusquely solicitous informed her she had a broken ankle and her husband was dead of a broken neck.
Sitting in the Emergency Room with a temporary cast on her right ankle, Gertrude Sue Terrance explained to the police officers that she’d started to fall and that her husband, valiant as ever, had tried to save her, falling instead, to his own death. She had escaped lightly with only a broken ankle. Carlton had been, even in death, as gallant as ever.
It had been easy to cry absolute buckets. It was very, very shocking. She was shocked. By herself and by the ease with which a pretty woman could simply sob piteously and have any man within earshot completely believe everything she told them. Well, it was true, mostly. She simply left out the kick and added Carlton’s valiant attempt to save her. Carlton had never been interested in saving her unless it made him look good. That had not been the case during the fall to his death.
The funeral was a long extravagant event complete with eloquent eulogies about Carlton’s excellent manners, long and distinguished career, enduring love for his beautiful wife, and many tears and condolences. By the time it was over, Gertrude was well and truly exhausted. She needed a rest. Everyone could understand that. Poor, poor, poor Gertrude. Crushed by the loss of her one true love.
In reality, Gertrude was pretty sure the one true love of her life had been a rangy, Mexican appaloosa mare named Lluvia. With her oddly speckled coat, one blue and one brown eye, Lluvia was not an accepted beauty. In Mexico her unusual markings, a rare type of palomino appaloosa called an Isabella palomino, was as revered as her incredible skill. Being a three time Mexican Women’s National Charro Champion who could open and close a gate in under ten seconds with her rider simply sitting aboard her dumbfounded, earned her the respect she deserved.
Stateside, her unusual, asymmetrical looks were often termed as “ugly” and no one ever saw the beauty in her until she was in motion. Then she was truly spectacular. Even those with less insight into her attributes couldn’t deny that. But all her skill, talent and knowledge could never earn her the respect she deserved. It was all about superficial value in the States.
Lluvia had been all that Gertrude could have hoped for in a partner. Brave, strong, enduring, dignified, and downright evil if crossed. They’d suited each other to a tee. In Mexico as they rode out through the national parks surrounding Mexico City, wild dogs often attacked. Gertrude had learned quickly to just keep her balance in the saddle as Lluvia whirled, parried and often double-barrel kicked her attackers - often to their deaths. Lluvia didn’t like men either. Nothing pissed her off so much as a stranger approaching them. This event always ended the same - with her two hind hooves viciously slicing the air between the oncoming stranger and her rider.
People marveled at Gertrude’s bravery in riding the woods alone. No matter how clearly she tried to explain that Lluvia was more than up to the task of protecting her, none of them ever understood. Most, simply looked at her like she’d lost her mind and insisted the mare should probably be put down. Idiots!
Strangely, Lluvia never kicked the small female dog with a gaggle of pups that usually chomped onto one of her rear legs and wouldn’t let go. She simply walked on, dragging the female mutt through the muddy lanes until the little dog got far enough from her litter that she’d give up and hightail it back to them.
When Lluvia had to be put down due to arthritis complications in her twenty-fourth year. It had been far, far worse for Gertrude than this funeral nonsense.
Chapter Three
Metamorphosis
Gertrude retreated from society to an apartment overlooking the North Sea in The Netherlands. It was the one place where no one would ask questions or expect her to join in things.
For a small country, everything she needed was available there. Art, ballet, opera, culture, wonderful food, and excellent museums were all just a short tram ride away.
Plus, it was the one place where even though she could fully engage in the things she liked out in public, she could be completely and utterly isolated. People kept themselves to themselves in The Netherlands. They were always very insular and unless they’d always known you or knew you professionally, they were not going to go out of their way to meet you.
The Dutch, with their reputation for tolerance, were a completely misunderstood culture. She and Carlton had a blissful four years in The Hague after they’d first married. It was then that she’d understood that the Dutch were not at all the tolerant society they were labeled.
They were instead a very self-centered people. That tolerance act was actually indifference, translated. They didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone else was doing as long as it didn’t lop over onto their own lives. If you wanted to take drugs, have kinky sex, or engage in any other strange behaviors, knock yourself out. Just don’t do it where they had to watch, participate, or acknowledge it. That was just how the world worked there.
It was also a place where money was king. The Dutch had a long history of being keen entrepreneurs and the making of money was a sharpened skill. On a long walk on a gray, ragged beach along the North Sea, Gertrude first got the idea of becoming Lady Zhara Hope Six.
Gertrude needed a new life. Why not get the one she’d always wanted - on her own terms now, thanks to Carlton’s extravagant “make-up” gift of a three-million dollar life insurance policy.
Once she’d settled in the apartment in The Netherlands she’d immediately sought out the shrewdest Dutch investment advisor she could find. Giving him a million dollars from her inheritance she’d simply ordered him to double it in as fast a fashion as possible. She hadn’t asked him how, or ordered him in what, to invest. She didn’t want to know. The Dutch had connections. He was to use them to make her money work for her.
It hadn’t take long. Six months was all it took for the very shrewd Gijs van Schloten to double her million dollars. He’d called her to his office and given her the news over a glass of champagne along with a bill for a hundred thousand dollars. A ten percent “finder's fee” if you will. Gertrude hadn’t blinked an eye.
She’d simply slapped a two-hundred thousand dollar check down on his desk and said, “Do it again, with the two million.”
He’d grinned, rubbed his hands together and said, “This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”
“I sure hope so! Just keep doing what you’re doing and let’s not look back, shall we?” Gertrude had said, a smile ghosting over her face - the first one for some time and the first he’d seen.
Gijs van Schloten had looked a little eager, then a little taken aback, blinking rapidly.
Gertrude added, “My dead husband was a CIA operative. If you screw me I will pull strings you didn’t even know existed. Got it?”
“Got it,” the financial advisor repeated, nodding his head frantically and smiling stiffly.
“Good,” she added, clinked her champagne glass to his, slugged it down in one go and left. Champagne and it’s attendant carbonation always gave her gas, no need to ruin the entire scenario with the earthly vagaries of the body.
Gertrude had no idea if any of Carlton’s old pals would even take her calls. But, hopefully, she’d never have to find out. With the financial advisor at least, she didn’t have to make the effort. He proved to be a stellar money guru and in the following years, made her into a billionaire as opposed to a mere millionaire.
It took Gertrude six more months to nail down exactly what she wanted her life to look like. She wasn’t going to say “ideal” life, or “perfect” life, or even her “imagined” life. It was her life. Period. She was going to get it. Live it. Besides, if she’d learned one lesson in life truly well, it was that life was NEVER what you expected it to be. It always managed to throw you for a loop.
Dolly Parton had said, “Figure out who you really are, then do it on purpose.” Gertrude was going to do
just that. She’d never been a big Dolly fan, but the woman did seem to know a thing or two. Gertrude was also probably going to do it in a red pair of shoes, another Dolly truism. It seemed almost destined - as she had started this life in a red pair of Jimmy Choo’s that broke her ankle and allowed her to tip the sanctimonious Carlton down the stairs.
She never admitted “the kick” to anyone. Ever. Never.
Not even when she died - many, many years later.
Almost anything was for sale somewhere if you knew where to look. The Dutch had a number of unused, unclaimed royal titles on their historic registers. The titles had become vacant due to their unpopularity by the socialistically leaning public in the early part of the twentieth century and had been left unclaimed, or often, had died out by lack of hereditary descent.
That left it for Gertrude to do a whole lot of research, all of it publically available, if one was willing to do the legwork. Over the course of a few months, she searched out a number of unclaimed titles that would have suited her. When she saw the one for the Six heiress, she knew she had to have it. The ancestral name was actually Sixtus, but had been shortened to Six, and she liked that better anyway.
