by Moriah Jovan
Steve growled. “Wouldn’t call the police. Wouldn’t go the hospital. Wouldn’t go a shelter. Dan’s denying it, but he does have a temper. If Sally weren’t so...”
Nobody ever said it.
If Sally weren’t so stuck on Mitch.
“He’s getting madder and madder.”
“I know,” Mitch said low. “Can’t be helped. I’m gonna have to talk to him.”
“This is going to implode.”
Yes, it would. “I’m going to send her to counseling,” he said. “This is at a level I can’t touch, and I will not meet with her privately anymore.”
“You better do it soon. Prissy’s seen Greg, ah...comforting...Sally.”
Mitch bit back a groan and could muster nothing more than a lame, “I see.”
“Okay, boss. Sorry I woke you up.”
“No problem.”
Are you going to give me another calling or not?
Not.
You motherfucker.
Don’t keep coming to me like a kid who didn’t get what he wanted the first time, thinking he can wear me down. Until the stake president gives me a direct order, nothing’s going to happen.
He will.
It’s been a month and a half, Greg. I see him in two meetings a week and he hasn’t said a word. So either he doesn’t feel a need to stick his nose in my business or he thinks I made a good call.
At least now there’s no question about whether or not you can prove whatever it is you think I did.
Of course I can. But we both have all the time in the world for me to do it.
You’re such a hypocrite, Mitch. No wonder a third of the ward’s pissed at you.
If a third of the ward weren’t angry with me, I wouldn’t be a decent bishop.
I could do better.
Apparently the Lord doesn’t think so.
Fuck you.
“I hate this job,” Mitch muttered, and tried to go back to sleep.
But couldn’t.
* * * * *
Gypsies, Tramps, & Thieves
January 1, 2011
“YOU WHAT?!” It wasn’t a screech so much as a horror-movie scream. “You promised!”
I shrugged, calmly preparing for New Year’s Day brunch with Mitch. “You’ve made a lot of promises to me you didn’t keep,” I said.
“This was important to me, Cassie!” Clarissa yelled from the top of the stairs that led down to my bedroom suite, otherwise known as The Bordello. It was my safe place. She wouldn’t deign to set foot in it. “God, you’re a bitch!”
“You say that so often,” I mused as I dropped my towel and slipped into my favorite black lingerie. “I wonder what your basis for comparison is.” I sat on my bed and pulled on thick black tights, then grabbed my thigh-high black leather boots. Over that, a thick, thigh-length red sweater.
“Oh, you are not serious,” she sneered from her perch. No, she wouldn’t come down into my subterranean suite, but she’d make herself comfortable at the top of the stairs. “Fuck-me boots? Really? You’re not twenty-five anymore, Mother.”
“You,” I murmured as I swept my almost-dry hair into a loose queue at the back of my neck, “should be so lucky to look like me when you’re forty-six.”
“Oh, bullshit. At least I have tits.”
“Fake ones. And with your party habits and tanning schedule, you’ll have to have Botox before I do.” She gasped. “It’s the smoking that’ll really age you, you know, with all those little lines around your mouth, which I don’t have. It’s fortunate all your boyfriends smoke, too. I imagine kissing you is like licking an ashtray.”
“Oh, right. Fucking hundreds of men for money is more healthy and virtuous than smoking.”
I put big gold hoop earrings in my ears. “You might not like the way I’ve lived my life, Clarissa, but at least I’ve been smart about it.” Well, when I had the chance to make my own decisions. I met her eyes in the mirror. “I didn’t give it away, Clarissa. That’s the point. I vetted my clients carefully, didn’t budge on the terms of service, protected myself inside and out, and demanded what I was worth.”
“And then some. Care to spread the wealth the way you spread your legs?”
“You live in my house, don’t you?”
“Not your house. Daddy’s.”
I ignored that. “At least I remember to feed and water you now and again.”
“I have to go to Daddy for everything.”
“Including your tits. If you’re feeling that deprived, get a job.”
“On my back?”
I shrugged. “Why not? It’s the only thing you’re qualified to do at this point. When are you graduating again? Have you taken your LSATs?”
“You’re dressing for someone,” she hissed. “Setting up shop again? Who’s the lucky john or jane?”
I turned then and said, “You will not refer to this man as a john, client, customer, trick, fuck, or any other pejorative. One slightly off-color peep, and I will make sure you don’t come within three states of Knox Hilliard—or any other law school in the world. And don’t forget. I can make sure you never graduate no matter what you do or how hard you work.”
Her bluster fled and her mouth hung open, her body frozen at the distinct threat in my voice.
“His name is Mitch Hollander and you will speak of him and treat him with the utmost respect. Do I make myself clear?”
I had never spoken to her like this, never threatened her with anything. Gordon and I had fucked up our daughters’ lives irreparably and I accepted that there were consequences. Clarissa’s contempt was one of them.
But I would not allow her to transfer it to Mitch.
Unfortunately, she found her attitude again. “What are you going to do? Ruin my entire life the way you did Grandfather Rivington’s?”
“There are fates worse than working for minimum wage.” Of course, my ex-father-in-law didn’t think so, which was why I’d chosen that one.
She curled her lip at me, but the doorbell rang and she hopped up to answer it. She’d probably try to sink her claws into Mitch directly, but he could take care of himself. Perhaps between the two of us, Clarissa could be muzzled.
What a peculiar idea.
She was remarkably well behaved, however, as she stood holding the door open, shivering, saying—pleading, “Really, won’t you come in? It’s freezing.”
“Thank you, no. I’ll wait here.”
Ah, he’d confused her.
Scrambled her brains.
“Mitch,” I said, slipping out, brushing against Clarissa as I passed. “This is my number two, Clarissa Rivington. Clarissa, Mitch Hollander.”
He inclined his head. “Nice to meet you, Miss Rivington.”
Clarissa stood, still stunned. “Uh, you too,” she murmured, unable to do anything else when confronted with a man so obviously a proper gentleman.
Mitch glanced at me, then at Clarissa. Held her stare, eyebrow raised, until she blushed—blushed!—and closed the door with a respectful nod. He said nothing as he helped me into my red-and-black plaid wool jacket, a tad shorter than my sweater.
“That was...” He paused. “Tense.”
“We just had a little come-to-Jesus meeting.”
“Ah.”
“I’ve never seen her roll over and present her tummy like that. How’d you do it?”
He chuckled. “It’s my Bishop Hollander stare. You deal with twenty-odd hormonally ratcheted teenage girls of varying temperaments and backgrounds every week, you get good at the silent smackdown.”
“What about the boys?”
“Not silent.”
I chuckled. “I— Actually, I don’t think anybody’s ever done that to her.” I could hear the wonder in my own voice.
He shrugged. “Part of my job.” He turned me, stepped back, looked me up and down. His mouth twitched. “Very nice.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Nice?”
“I’m not giving you the satisfaction of telling you what I’m t
hinking right now.”
I swept his overcoat open to check for the evidence in his khakis. “Ha! You just did.” He shook his head in helpless amusement and I laughed in wicked delight.
We descended the stairs and set off, heading toward Park Avenue and our New Year’s Day brunch. He was careful to walk on the outside of the sidewalk, holding my hand, entwining his gloved fingers with mine. I leaned against him as we strolled in warm, companionable silence for a couple of blocks.
“I’m curious,” he murmured. “How did you arrange your clients’ arrivals and departures with your kids around?”
“There’s an alley entrance to the servants’ quarters,” I explained. “I made sure all the girls’ bedrooms were in front, so they never saw any of my clients or lovers. They have no idea who they are or how many. But mostly my appointments were during the day when they were at school.”
“Lunchtime rendezvous.”
“Mostly, yes. The rest after bedtime. In fact, other than Gordon, they’ve never seen me in any kind of relationship, so maybe that’s why Clarissa’s a little freaked out right now.”
“Do they know about your business?”
“Oh, yes. Clarissa stabs me with it every chance she gets. Helene can barely look at me, barely talks to me. She usually sleeps at the hospital. Olivia takes her cue from Clarissa, but isn’t as brazen about it, and Paige is too busy to think about it, much less care.”
“Then how—?”
“Rivington told them. Four years ago, just after I’d taken my red light down.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He was after me from the minute I married Gordon, so when he found out how I was making all this money, he thought I was fair game,” I said, feeling very smug. “He said he’d tell the girls if I didn’t take his business.”
“So you called his bluff and he made good on his threat.”
“And that is why he’s cleaning Slurpee machines far, far away from here.”
“I see.” Mitch’s mouth pursed in thought. “How, exactly, did you do that?”
“I danced for Herod and requested John the Baptist’s head.”
He laughed.
“I thought you’d appreciate that.”
“And your father?”
“My parents left on their own after they declared bankruptcy. They had to find a cheaper place to live.”
“Did you do that, too?”
“Oh, no. My father... He’s trying to make amends, and I leave them to their self-imposed exile. Not sure what it would accomplish if I reached out to them.”
“So you had a good childhood?”
“I did,” I said with alacrity, and it felt nice to reflect on that time. “I learned how to invest from watching and listening to my father. He did it all, you know. From home. Stocks, bonds, commodities, derivatives, insurance, annuities, real estate. There wasn’t an instrument he didn’t understand, couldn’t trade, couldn’t make money on.” Mitch nodded.
Yes, he probably would know; my father was a genius, a generous teacher and mentor. Sebastian had since informed me that his mother had spent the 1960s and 1970s following Theodore St. James’s business deals via the Wall Street Journal, reading his articles, and had passed what she’d learned on to Sebastian. Then Sebastian had done his MBA thesis on my father’s work.
Full circle.
“But,” I went on. “It was my mother who taught me how to spend it. Here we were on the Upper East Side, in the most chichi neighborhood, the most expensive home. We had a tiny patch of yard in the back, maybe fifteen square feet, and she got incredible produce out of it. Canned it. She designed and sewed our clothes—we were the envy of the neighborhood because she was so good. That was before Wal-Mart clothes, before sewing became a luxury hobby. She made frugal menus and dining out was a real treat. She did all the housework and taught us how to do everything she did. They came from poverty, they weren’t ashamed of it, and they weren’t afraid of it. But they were determined to teach us how to weather it, and they refused to allow us to become spoiled brats.”
“So your mother was your father’s true partner in the business of life.”
I nodded. “And, well... I actually did end up needing those skills for a long time. When your efforts are measurable and you’re striving for your next financial goal, it’s very rewarding. Fun, even. She made it fun. It’s different when you’re working that hard for so little, depriving yourself of things you’d like, and watching the savings all go down a hole.”
Mitch sighed.
“What about your parents?” I asked quickly to turn the conversation back around, to keep Mitch from going any farther down my path.
Mitch smiled. “They got an RV and are having a grand old time somewhere in Florida. I think. Last time they checked in, anyway.”
“I take it you’re funding their retirement in style?”
“Least I could do.”
“And your daughters?”
“Lisette,” he drawled, “is about to make me a grandfather.” I grinned. “In June. And Geneviève—” jhon-vee-EVV. Not JEN-a-veev. “—got married in August.”
“Your son. Trevor, right? He’s seventeen?”
Mitch nodded.
“You trust him alone on the weekends?” I wouldn’t have trusted Clarissa with the remote control when she was seventeen.
“It’s an unfortunate fact of Trevor’s life that I know where he is almost twenty-four-seven.”
“You have him watched?”
“Not deliberately. He works in the mill thirty hours a week, second shift. He’s in school four hours a day, in the morning. If he didn’t show up for work, I’d hear about it and pronto, but that’s never happened. I have to be at church every Sunday and so I know where he is then, too.” He paused. “But, even if that weren’t the case, I’d trust him implicitly. He’s a good kid and I’m proud of him.”
“What does he do in the mill?”
“Anything his foreman tells him to do.”
The seventeen-year-old trust-fund kid of one multimillionaire worked thirty hours a week in a steel mill, went to church and school, and wouldn’t trash his house on the weekends...
The twenty-four-year-old trust-fund kid of the other multimillionaire took six hours a semester, had never had a job, and spent her nights clubbing...
“You okay?” Mitch asked with some concern when I sniffled.
“Allergies.” He handed me his handkerchief. “Thank you. Does he date? Any kind of social life?”
Mitch drew in a deep breath. “I’m not sure. That’s one part of his life he’d keep from me, and I respect that. He has little enough of his own.”
“Does he resent that?”
“I don’t think so. He has his own money he’s made. His own car. Pays his own bills, what there are of them—I don’t know those, either. And for the record, I don’t make him work in the foundry and he doesn’t report to me. He applied like anyone else—” He barked a laugh. “He was sloppy about filling in his surname so HR keyed it as ‘Holland.’ He’d been working for a week before Payroll caught it and all he had to say was, ‘Oh, my bad.’”
“So he’s as clever as you are.”
“Not quite. Sebastian taught him how to avoid getting preferential treatment.”
“What are his days off?”
“Sunday and Monday. He gets sick time, but by the time I find out he’s called in, he’s already taken himself to the doctor.”
I cleared my throat, embarrassed. “I’m a little jealous,” I said. “My daughters are— Well, really only Clarissa... Helene’s self-motivated. The twins are, especially Paige.”
“The dancer.”
I nodded. “Olivia—the personal trainer—she needs a little help with the business part of her business, but she goes to Nigel for that. It’s Clarissa I don’t know how to— Um, I’ve never known.”
He pulled me closer. “We do the best we can. We’ll never think it’s enough.”
•
We spent the day together doing nothing in particular, warm, well fed, a little melancholy, hand in hand. We hit the museum, pseudotourists, the both of us, and wandered around looking but not seeing.
Oh, he smelled good, and I buried my nose in his coat as often as I could.
We revisited Jacques Torres and practiced far more moderation than we had the night before.
“Open your mouth and close your eyes,” he murmured, pulling me tight against his body, his arm slanting down my back, his big hand wrapping around my hip.
I did as ordered, tilting my head back as he fed me there in the middle of Jacques Torres, people milling about, brushing past us in the small space.
It was just a cherry cordial, albeit a gourmet one. I don’t really even like cherry cordials, but this cherry cordial...
I sighed as I nipped it off its stem, chewed carefully, letting the flavors burst over my tongue, feeling his strong body against mine, inhaling his scent mixed with the tang of the fruit.
He took me home that evening after we’d picked up his car from the hotel.
“May I see you Friday?” he whispered in my ear as he led me up the stairs to my door.
I closed my eyes and nodded, unable to speak.
“Thank you for a wonderful weekend, Cassandra. Happy birthday.”
It didn’t occur to me until I’d watched him drive down my street and disappear into traffic that he still hadn’t kissed me.
* * * * *
Sweet Valley High
January 7, 2011
I walked out of the elevator bank on Friday morning, buzzing with anticipation, feeling fifteen—
And hating myself for it.
Please. Get yourself together, Cass.
I’d had the week to think about it and had come to realize that it couldn’t last. Clearly, Hollander was not only not repelled by my past, he was fascinated by it.
He’d grow tired of me quickly enough once I’d seduced him.
If I didn’t tire of him first. Instructing men was tedious, especially if they had hangups or needed constant validation—and I was pretty sure Mitch would have some serious hangups.
