Weapons of Mass Seduction

by Lori Bryant-Woolridge

  Pia was awakened by the smell of bacon wafting under her nose. Bacon could mean only one thing. Her mother was up cooking her yet another breakfast she wouldn’t eat. Filling her stomach had seemed so important when she was pregnant—first to ward off the morning sickness and then to fuel and sustain the growing life inside her. But her baby was gone and so was her appetite—not only for food but for life as she’d known it.

  Pia was as confused by her reaction to Pom’s death as everyone else around her. When she’d first learned that he had died, the pain swept over her like a tsunami, destroying her life and then quickly receding, leaving an eerie calm behind. Inside she was hurt and heartbroken, but just like when her father had died, or after the horrific tragedy of September 11, or even when Valen had told her he loved her, there was an impermeable numbness about her. It was as if her heart was layered in bubble wrap, protecting her from any feeling—good, bad or otherwise.

  She sat up in the bed, letting the sunshine hit her face, and for the first time in weeks, a small smile decorated her face as she woke. Election day in New York would be a pleasant sunny November day. Bad weather could be crossed off the list of potential reasons voters might stay at home.

  Pia had been secretly looking forward to this day and was happy it had finally arrived. Today gave her something else to concentrate on besides her grief. She would stay in and watch the news and follow the election returns. All the main pollsters—New York Times/CBS News, New York Post/Fox 5 News, and the Marist Poll—predicted a virtual deadlock between Valen and his rival, Democrat Betsy Franklin. Only one, the Quinnipiac Poll, had Franklin leading by as much as eight points. Valen had picked up a late-minute endorsement by the top elected officials of color in the New York State Legislature, and Pia was hoping that this would help kick him to the top.

  Despite what she’d told Dee, Pia had not fully accepted Valen’s walking out on her, and she hadn’t moved on. She missed their romantic friendship, with its camaraderie, compassion, and sexual tension. And though she knew a future for them was not possible, in many ways Pia was happy she still felt so strongly for him. It proved that despite her crumpled heart and years of shutting down and closing off her emotional and sexual sides, she was feeling again.

  But feeling what?

  That question left a niggling sensation under her skin, causing Pia to get up and stretch. She tried to pinpoint just what was bothering her as she glided through a modified yoga sun salutation. She had completed the series of poses and was sitting down to rest on the settee when a huge aha moment descended on her and the answer to her question emerged from within.

  Feeling everything.

  She hadn’t known at his conception, when learning of his death, or while standing on the beach releasing his spirit to the sea. The reason had remained unclear until this exact minute. And the fact that this moment of revelation included thoughts of Valen made it all the more poignant. Suddenly everything was making so much sense.

  Her lost baby’s mission had been to open her heart and teach her how to feel again. Since losing her father so many years ago, she’d been running on neutral, with a smooth, even emotional range—never high, never low—moving through life without any true emotional commitment. Not feeling had become her normal state of existence.

  Even the mysterious cool charisma that defined her sensual self was a mask she hid behind. When it came to her personal life, she’d become an observer, because to participate meant to put her feelings on the line and risk being vulnerable. After years of feeling hurt and abandoned by men, beginning with her grandfather and continuing with her dad and Rodney Timble, Pia’d closed down her emotional side and tried to find personal passion through sex while allowing lust to replace love.

  And when that didn’t work, she’d shut down her sexual self and constructed a false serenity around her. At home, Pia had let the Zen-like atmosphere she’d created, with the soothing new age music, calming candlelight, and affirmation cards, become a cocoon insulating her from the highs and lows of her life. In addition to her yoga practice, she had been posing all of her adult life.

  Pom had changed that. Her pregnancy and his death had forced Pia to tap into the emotional reserves she’d been storing up since shutting down production on her sentiments. The pain of losing her child was too powerful to self-medicate away with champagne and mood music. But with the grief and anguish came the realization that she could be whole, though only if she had the courage to chose to be.

  Another bolt of enlightenment hit her. This was why she didn’t know how to translate her strong feelings for Valen into the actions and words necessary to keep him. He had told her he loved her and she had ignored him in the most polite way she could think of. But why? Yes, she’d avoided a physical relationship with him because of her pregnancy, but Pia now saw that being his buddy was also a way for her to remain emotionally unavailable. Instead of giving herself to him in totality, she’d held back, keeping the depth of her feelings in reserve.

  Remembering the pain on Valen’s face when he’d repeated his declaration caused the storm clouds to gather over her heart and threaten a deluge. She blinked back the early sprinkles as she picked up her BlackBerry from the nightstand and typed in Valen’s e-mail address. She left the subject line blank and typed the words she hadn’t uttered to a man since Rodney broke her heart, and even then she wasn’t sure if she fully understood the concept.

  I love you too. Pia stared at the words and took inventory of her bodily reactions. A warm sensation crept through her body, culminating in a small smile that ignited her tears. It was true.

  Are you going to send it? her heart inquired.

  No, it’s too late, her head quickly responded.

  Why?

  Because you lied to him and hurt him and put his candidacy at risk. He doesn’t trust you.

  Her heart had no reply, and Pia tossed the device on the bed as the tears rained down, and she sat alternating between sobs and laughter, purging her years of pent-up hurt and grief and allowing them to be softened—not replaced—by the resurgence of love in her life and the sorrow of its loss.

  Pom and Valen were lost to her, but in the rubble that was currently her existence she would rise and she would feel and she would love and she would live.

  “I owe that to you, Pom. Thank you,” she sobbed into the morning.

  Maizelle had just put the biscuits in the oven when she heard a hodgepodge of noises coming from the bedroom, and she rushed in, spatula in hand, to find her daughter in some sort of controlled hysteria. She was concerned but pleased that finally Pia was releasing her grief.

  Sure that Pia was still grieving the baby, Maizelle dropped the spatula, got in the bed with her daughter, and gathered her into her arms. She held and soothed her, just as she’d done throughout the years. Pia continued to cry and before long her sobs became whimpers and the whimpers became sniffles.

  “Why don’t you go shower and I’ll finish your breakfast,” her mother suggested.

  Pia gave her mother one last squeeze, disengaged her body, and headed off to the bathroom. Mai was about to get up when she rolled over onto Pia’s BlackBerry. She picked it up to put it on the nightstand and couldn’t help noticing the message.

  I love you too.

  Maizelle became even more interested when she noticed the message was addressed to Valen Bellamy. Her maternal side kicked in, suggesting to Mai that here was her chance to help make Pia’s pain more bearable. Hearing the shower, she decided to call Dee and get her to weigh in on what Pia was sure to find a momumental act of meddling.

  “Do it,” Dee said without hesitation. “It’s not like you wrote it. You’re just making sure it gets delivered.”

  “She said ‘too’ so that means Valen said it first,” Maizelle rationalized.

  “All the more reason.”

  Mai agreed, then looked toward the bathroom, closed her eyes, and hit Send. She dropped the device back on the bed where she’d found it and padded back into
the kitchen, smiling all the way. If Valen loved Pia and Pia loved him back, it seemed crazy for them to be apart, especially now. In Mai’s eyes, if Pia was willing and ready to love, Valen was the perfect candidate.

  Pia emerged from her shower feeling both mentally and physically refreshed. She quickly got dressed and made her bed, refusing to spend another day holed up in her bedroom grieving. She picked up her BlackBerry to place it on its charger and noticed with great dismay that her message had been sent.

  I know I didn’t send it, she told herself. She wouldn’t. Oh, God, she did.

  “Why, Mother?” Pia asked, marching into the kitchen.

  “Because you finally figured out what all of us knew for months. And we decided it was in both your best interests to send it,” Mai told her, not the least bit apologetic.

  “We? We who?”

  “Dee and I talked while you were in the shower. It was apparent to both of us that you and Valen were at some sort of impasse and needed a little push.”

  “First the workshop and now this? She really crossed the line this time.”

  “Don’t blame Darlene. I was the one who made the final decision. What workshop?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Pia said, unwilling to even try to explain that concept to her mother. “Dee knows better, and for that matter, so do you.”

  “I know you, Pia Clarice Jamison. And all your life you have needed a push toward things you were interested in but afraid of. Remember in high school when I wanted you to apply for the Links Debutante program? You absolutely refused, and what happened?”

  “I won the scholarship,” she muttered.

  “And you had a great time. And you didn’t want to do that summer abroad thing your senior year at college, but I pushed you into going, and what happened?”

  “I met Larry Holland…”

  “Who?”

  “Who worked for WJLA-TV and hired me as a production assistant when I graduated.”

  “So maybe this push will be just as fruitful,” Maizelle suggested. “Pia, Darlene and I both love you. We’re only trying to help.”

  “It’s a lot more complicated than you understand, Mother.”

  “Pia, I don’t know exactly what went on between you two, but maybe if you’d told him how you really felt, it wouldn’t have gotten so complicated. And now the ball is in his court. If you two are meant to be, you’ll know soon enough.”

  By the eleven o’clock news, it was clear. Despite a valiant effort and inspired campaigning, Valen Bellamy had failed to win the election for U.S. senator from New York. The entire state was stunned, as the winning margin for Senator-Elect Betsy Franklin had left most pollsters way off the mark. What had been billed as a virtual deadlock had proven to be a 23 percent margin of victory for Franklin. Whatever the reasons for the miscalculations, Valen was not to be the champion tonight.

  Forty minutes later Pia sat with her mother, once again in tears, heartbroken for the man she now realized she loved as he delivered his concession speech.

  “I am disappointed,” Valen stated after congratulating his opponent and thanking and commending his hardworking campaign staff and volunteers. “But tonight marks only the end of this particular campaign. I will not retire from politics because I will not abandon the great citizens of New York State, neither will I abandon the causes we have fought so hard to bring to the forefront.” Valen delivered his concession speech with the same graciousness and dignity with which he’d run his campaign, and Pia was mightily proud.

  The ball is in his court. Her mother’s words ran through Pia’s head. She was certain things were probably much too hectic and disappointing for him today for Valen to even look at e-mail, let alone tackle such an unexpected and thought-provoking message. Still, Pia wondered what response her mother’s boldness would bring.

  It occurred to Pia that despite a lot of praying and campaigning on both their parts—she for a baby, he for office—neither of them had achieved their professed dreams. She wondered why. Why did the feel-good gurus of the world build you up to believe that everything was possible, that dreams did work out as long as you believed, and as soon as you started believing—BAM!—the jesters of the universe found a way to let you know that the joke was on you.

  At 2:17 A.M., Valen sat in his dimly lit study, quietly getting drunk. He’d run a gentleman’s campaign, one he was proud of, and yet the voters had turned him away. The second-guessers and armchair quarterbacks were already chiding him for being too soft in this crazy world of million-dollar, mudslinging neo-politics, upset that instead of confronting the negative ads and cookie-throwing audiences he’d taken the high road and pressed forward with ideas instead of insults. In the weeks ahead, further analysis would determine if the white flight Ed had feared had actually played a part in his defeat, but Valen had remained true to himself, and with that he was satisfied.

  He poured himself another drink. The hardest part of losing was coming home to an empty apartment. He’d left the Hilton Hotel, where hundreds of volunteers were gathered together to commiserate; had sent his staff and son home to be with their families; and here he was, alone in his study, entertaining his regrets. His intoxicated mind wandered back to the last time he’d felt this down and how he’d immediately retreated to the place where he’d felt comforted and understood. He’d sought refuge in Pia’s arms, and somehow she’d managed to make everything right. He’d fallen in love with her that night. And then it had all come crashing down at his feet.

  Damn, he wished he could step back in time before the lies, the secrets, and the good-byes. He took another swig of scotch and tried to erase the hurt, anger, and disappointment that had crested this evening with his political defeat. With every sip, his head became cloudier while the truth became clearer—it wasn’t drink he needed. It was Pia.

  Valen saw the message light blinking on his Treo. He sat watching it, hoping that between the alcohol and the light he could hypnotize away this horrid feeling. He had no intention of checking it. He was not ready to sift through the many condolences and next-step messages waiting for him. Valen drained his glass, shut the damn thing off, and took his exhausted, defeated butt to bed.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Happy birthday, dear Florence, happy birthday to you,” the waiters finished the traditional song with a flourish and Flo blew out the candles.

  “Sorry about the dancin’,” Dan apologized when they departed. “I had no idea they’d be all booked up. But we can just finish up here and go on home.”

  Florence simply continued to sip her coffee and eye her birthday slice. She’d requested just one thing for her birthday: to go dancing. But after one swing and a miss, Dan had given up, and instead of out shaking her groove thing, here she was, sitting in front of a slice of carrot cake. She hated carrot cake. Apparently he’d forgotten that about her too. Flo tried to push aside thoughts of the time and effort she’d put into planning his red hot birthday surprise, but the resentment welling up inside her wouldn’t allow it. She hadn’t expected the same level of treatment, but certainly something different from what they’d done to celebrate her birthday every year since the boys had left home—dinner, gifts, home to bed.

  “Time for birthday presents,” he said on cue as he pulled a red foil gift bag from under the table. “Happy birthday, Floey.”

  Florence looked for a card and, finding none, pulled the first item from the bag—the complete DVD set of season one of her favorite show, On Call. She was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps she was being too hard on her husband. It was a thoughtful gift. “Thank you, honey.”

  “Now you can catch up on last season,” Dan said, pleased with himself for getting it right. “There’s more.”

  She reached back into the bag and pulled out a large size bottle of Jean Natè, and this time her expression wasn’t so delighted.

  “What? You like Jean Natè.”

  “No, I simply wore it because you like it. But I changed my scent months ago.”


  “Really?” His pleasure deflated.

  “Yes, really. I don’t wear this anymore. I wear Chanel Nineteen. And I’ve never liked carrot cake.”

  “It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

  “No, you don’t, and I’m not sure you ever did. Why don’t we go?” Flo suggested, decisively ending the celebration.

  Dan paid the check and escorted his wife out of the Strip Steak House. With the cool November air kissing her cheeks, she stood in the parking lot, waiting for Dan to unlock the door. The clouds drifted in the sky, revealing a bright yellow full moon. It was absolutely beautiful. She loved when the moon was full. It made her feel as if she really did live on a planet that was floating in space.

  “Oh my God, Dan, look. Isn’t it amazin’?”

  “It’s the moon, Flo. Ya miss it tonight, it will be back tomorrow. Now let’s get in the car and get home.”

  Flo stood looking into the sky and realized that living in the moment alone wasn’t nearly as gratifying or delicious as sharing any moment with someone as interested in life as you were, who loved you and you loved in return. And right now, bathed in the light of her birthday moon, Florence could not say definitively if Dan Jeb Chase was that someone.

  It was eleven-thirty when Florence left Dan snoring in the bed and hauled the large wicker basket from upstairs down to the basement. She was in a reflective mood, not surprising, considering her earlier thoughts. She normally did the laundry during daylight hours, but spending the last minutes of her birthday alone, washing clothes, was Flo’s attempt to abate her frustration.

  Walking across the laundry room, Flo placed the basket on the folding table with an exasperated sigh. She robotically sorted the clothes, poured the detergent into the water, and began placing Dan’s whites into the suds. Instead of immediately closing the top and moving on to the next task as she would usually do, Florence stood mesmerized by the agitation cycle rotating back and forth, pulling the dry clothes under water, drowning them in a sea of foam.