THE SECRET TRILOGY by Francine Saint Marie
High-profile psychiatrist, Dr. Helaine Kristenson—a.k.a. the “Love Doc”—is not just talented and beautiful, she’s the leading authority in the field of psychosexual relations and the bestselling author of the self-help bible, “Keeping Mr. Right.” Professionally, the esteemed doctor deals with secrets of the heart everyday. Privately, she even has a few of her own to keep her busy…
Straight-laced chief investment strategist, Lydia Beaumont, is not just talented and beautiful, she’s a consummate professional and headed to the top of the corporate ladder at financial giant, Soloman-Schmitt. Professionally, she has no secrets to speak of. Privately, she’s just unearthed one that’s going to rock her world a bit…
Bedazzling neophyte, Venus Angelo, is not just talented and beautiful, she’s a self-made millionaire ten times over again and on the fast track with her high-powered career in corporate finance. Professionally, she’s a dedicated and driven perfectionist. Privately, she’s full-blown enigmatic and somewhat reckless. And she’s got way too many skeletons in the closet…
Savvy and seasoned investment banker, Delilah Lewiston, is not just talented and beautiful, she runs one of the largest and most solid banks in the world. Professionally, she “speaks softly and carries a big stick” and doesn’t trade or take stock in any secrets. Privately, however, she’s safeguarding a couple of gems…
Controversial super-model, Sharon Chambers, is not just talented and beautiful, she’s the highest paid poser on the planet. Not to mention the most spoiled and temperamental. Professionally, her life of debauchery and conquest is an open book, about which, she really doesn’t give a damn. Privately, though, even she’s keeping some secrets. But that isn’t going to last…
Sex, love, money, lawyers, reporters, action, adventure, intrigue and blackmail—what’s your secret worth?
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Francine Saint Marie’s debut novel The Secret Keeping (book one of this trilogy) was a LAMBDA Notable Book, a Goldie Award finalist, a semi-finalist for the Independent Publishers Award, and an IPPY Award Bronze medalist. The Secret Trilogy was nominated for the 2009 Ferro/Grumley literary prize in fiction.
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THE SECRET TRILOGY
“Three novels. Two women. One epic love story.”
Copyright Francine Saint Marie
©The Author 2000-2011 All Rights Reserved
~ SMASHWORDS 2011 EDITION ~
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1441414037
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1438240570
CONTAINS ALL THREE NOVELS:
Book #1 The Secret Keeping (all 3 parts)
Book #2 Fortune Is a Woman (all 52 chapters)
Book #3 The Stolen Kiss (all 37 chapters)
- Complete and Unabridged -
Published by FIFTH COLUMN PRESS
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Sample reviews of each book
in “THE SECRET TRILOGY”
From ‘FastForward’ 5 0f 5 Stars for Book One THE SECRET KEEPING: “I finally got this book to see for myself what all the hubbub was about. I'm so glad that I decided to take the plunge! Helaine Kristenson and Lydia Beaumont, and their entourage of secondary characters, are unlike any other protagonists I've ever read in lesbian fiction or pretty much anywhere else. The plot and the dialogue are the most clever and original I've ever read in lesbian fiction or pretty much anywhere else too. Somebody said ‘outside the box’, and that's the least that can be said about this flawless piece of writing. Someone else pointed out the quirk of referring to the characters by their full names, I found it totally charming, it creates and defines a unique style and somehow turns the characters into larger than life personalities. I was advised to be patient with the developments in the first part of the book and that's the only thing I don't agree with. It read like smooth character and plot development to me. Not to demean anyone else who writes lesbian fiction, I'm a frequent buyer and do enjoy the novelettes, but please, can somebody write like this a bit more often? Methinks the reason I distrusted so many rave reviews is because it's very infrequent to find quality writing in the genre. Mindless entertainment abounds but literary quality? Not so much. May Sarah Waters and a couple chosen others pardon me, but it's not every day that one reads this kind of class.”
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From ‘K. Rose’ 5 of 5 stars for Book Two FORTUNE IS A WOMAN: “One of the most enjoyable books I have ever read, and this is no doubt due to the fact that its style is every bit as engaging as its substance. The language is exceptionally fluent overall, the prose vivid, tight and polished, and the dialogue so eloquent and sharp-witted it begs to be read over and over again. The author possesses, in addition to her golden tongue, unfettered imagination, and keen intellect, a special gift for developing larger-than-life characters, and allowing the reader access to their very depths. It is easy to get lost inside these women. Francine Saint Marie's second novel is a rich, absorbing, and powerfully evocative tale of love, sex and (more than two) modern women. This book will sweep you off your feet, take you on a wild and unexpected ride, and leave you dangling precariously off a giant precipice. Fortunately, though, you won't have to wait several months like I did to be rescued, as the third book in the trilogy, THE STOLEN KISS, has finally been released. Francine Saint Marie's books are the crème de la crème of this genre, and FORTUNE IS A WOMAN is a bold and ingenious work of art, a masterpiece of lesbian fiction that will stir your sensibilities and warm your blood. It is a book to be devoured, and savored, at once…”
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From ‘Elena’ 5 of 5 stars for Book Three THE STOLEN KISS: “I'm in total awe, fellow readers, totally humbled. I'm not going to talk about the content, least I spoil this for anyone, I'm more inclined to talk about the form. And before getting into that, please allow me to strongly recommend to anyone who feels the inclination to explore the lives of these wondrous characters to start at the beginning of the trilogy, with ‘The Secret Keeping’. Book 1 can stand alone, but I think books 2 & 3 need the background to really ‘get it’, to feel infused with the intensity of feelings, to understand that what isn't said is just as powerful as what is said, to be able sit momentarily stunned between the end on one chapter and the beginning of the next, thinking ‘what now’. ‘The Stolen Kiss’ is as much a well paced thriller as it is a complicated love story, it's as much a detailed, larger than life depiction of human motives and interactions as it is an amazingly simple and recognizable description of following one's heart. The book reads exceedingly well as a continuum, but at the same time it can be savored as a fantastic collection of stories, a multifaceted, multidimensional Rubik Cube. Each chapter, and each character, describes one and the same story from different points of view, and that allows the reader, this reader anyway, to ‘feel something’ for all protagonists, to feel a certain degree of empathy for all of this author's creatures, while gaining a very rich perspective on the complexities of the story and indeed the complexities of human nature. The biggest creature in the whole trilogy, yet, is the literary tour de force that the writer pulls out of her hat. The narrative, the dialog, the ‘gaps’ that are created by the different points of view (pay attention to chapter titles!) only to be closed later by a different point of view, are all consistent with the previous installments and all contribute to create a world were the reader's mind is free to speculate and to ponder, just as one would do in real life, and just the same end up surprised that life has an agenda of its own, not necessarily in tune with all the speculation and the pondering. I'm left with a very strong feeling that these characters dictated where the story went, I never along the trilogy felt that the writer was "manipulating" the characters (much less the myself) in any given direction, on the contrary, at times I felt torn at their decisions and didn't fully understand their motives. I always felt that they were the ones speaking through the writer, instead of the writer speaking through them, and this is particularly true of "The Stolen Kiss". The characters' drivers --love and hate and vengeance and power and interests, are what moves this epic story along, and it's a funny feeling, like the writer was never there, or just acted as a messenger. Personally, I think that requires extraordinary talent. I already said it for the two previous books in the trilogy, but it bears repeating: There is nothing ordinary about "The Stolen Kiss", it's totally original --after every few pages it begs the question "how did that happen and what oh earth can I expect next?" I think this whole trilogy, and very specially this last installment, requires a lot of trust in the author, that's she'll close the loops, that she'll make it all coalesce not only for the readers' sake but mostly for the characters' sake. And she does. Does she ever. Bravo, Francine, bravissimo!”
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From ‘Lorena Winicki’ 5 of 5 stars for the paperback bundled edition of all three novels titled THE SECRET TRILOGY: “One of the best books I’ve ever read - What I liked most about the Trilogy was the realness of the characters and their emotions. I found myself constantly gasping from surprise and even crying. Definitely one of the greatest love stories I've read, if not the best.”
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The Secret Trilogy
Three novels. Two women.
One epic love story.
by Francine Saint Marie
(Dedicated to Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette)
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Book One of THE SECRET TRILOGY:
Secret
Keeping
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“Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.”
William Shakespeare
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THE SECRET KEEPING
Part One:
The Waiter
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“It’s sexual.”
“Sensual, did she say?”
“No, I think she said sexual.”
Spring was negligent this year and the irrational exuberance in Frank’s Place was undoubtedly a product of its delay.
“I said sexual.”
“We thought you said sensual, too.”
Friday’s happy hour had turned positively muggy.
“Sexual. Sensual. What’s the difference, anyway?”
The popular corporate watering hole was swollen to capacity, hot with the heat of a synthetic spring and the dark suits usually found in there seemed finally to bloom, adorned at last in their blossoms of polyester, powdery pastels and paisleys, and polka dots as bright and gay as poppies.
Off in the corner with the rubber tree plants, Lydia Beaumont sat, dressed entirely in black. Still wearing her overcoat, she gripped her half-empty glass and skeptically viewed the display.
“I just had a dream about you,” a seersuckered youth suggested in her ear.
“Oooh,” she replied, dismissing him with a flick of the wrist, “nice line!”
She was waiting on spring for her second wind and nothing this year could force its entry. Winter, the identical twin to the dreary fall that had just preceded it, continued to grip the city and Lydia couldn’t help feeling suspended in a permanent autumn. The balmy air of Frank’s tonight, with its harsh perfumes and heavy colognes, only made it feel worse.
True spring. She had fruitlessly searched all week for signs of it, but even the cherry trees seemed to have given up hope.
“Liddy!”
Tonight Lydia’s coat felt heavy and made of hair and she was certain she was being choked by the button of her shirt collar.
“You’re looking like a tourist, Liddy.”
Lydia turned in her chair, smiled obliquely. “Hey, Del,” she asked, “what’s the difference between misapprehension and mere apprehension?”
“Ms. Apprehension…life’s not a spectator sport,” Delilah chirped, walking away.
“Hey, what’s a four-letter word for love?” someone from their table shouted.
“Laid!” another blurted and the group erupted with predictable guffaws.
It had been another rough week. Lydia was sick of the work crowd and she only felt a little guilty about it. She checked the time and faked a laugh. Her sentiments had somehow slipped beyond volatile this evening. She checked them, too, as she always did.
A four-letter word for love? WORK. She had loved her work. But now the weight of it bore down harder and harder with every passing year and Lydia could no longer recall the reasons why she had pursued her profession. The ever increasingly younger throng she presided over were not like her when she was their age. They were difficult to manage and she hated to see them on her time off. All these revved up self-starters, fancying themselves galloping mavericks in the market place, all of them developing pronounced limps at the slightest hint of regulation. How she longed this year for a bona fide blast of warm spring air.
She glanced around, taking stock of who was there, who to avoid if she could help it. Friday the place was crawling with them. She was pleased to discover the blond reading contentedly at her window seat. Came in often. Obviously from a more civilized tribe, Lydia thought, as she studied the woman’s cut of clothes to discern which one.
From…?
Unknown. Mostly rookies tonight, Lydia lamented, looking elsewhere. Lots of rookies from work infesting the place. Everywhere she went these days, every year more of them, each new onslaught more trying than the last. Busy, busy, busy. Shaking things up, knocking things down, fixing things, things that weren’t broken. Her rookies, stacking risk upon risk like little toy blocks, scorning her advice as though they weren’t obliged to take it, swaggering into happy hour like they owned the place.
Civilization. She sat back in her chair and drank deeply to the concept.
Lydia Beaumont was only thirty-six and still climbing, but she felt obsolete of late, frequently lonely in the new and improved world of international finance. The changes, too, did not impress her. Things were different, that’s for sure, but they had gotten worse not better. A whole universe was being driven now on nothing but bald speculation and baby-faced chutzpah.
A breath of fresh air would be so nice. She’d love a breath of fresh air.
Love, loved, loving. She had, on an impulse just yesterday, looked it all up in an old college dictionary: to hold dear, to cherish, a lover’s passion, devotion, tenderness, caress, to fondle amorously, like, desire, to thrive in. That one had appealed to her sensibilities the most, the reference to thriving, as in, “the rose loves sunlight.” A very nice idea. She drank to that, too, framing the woman at the window seat in the wineglass, her blond head of hair an elegant flower stuck in Frank’s bawdy bouquet. Thriving there alone, amidst the dandelions.
Love, loved, loving. All kinds of love in the world. That blond loves her solitude. She loves her book. Perhaps just as a rose does, she loves sunlight, too, sitting in a window on Fridays in the waning afternoon light. Loves. Who knows what else she loves? Is she somebody’s long stemmed rose placed in a vase on a sunny windowsill? If so, she’s a white rose, all that blond, the creamy skin. What does mom say a white rose represents? Uh-oh. Love and her mother and the mysteries of roses! Lydia laughed at herself and surveyed the working horde.
A barely-thirty crowd again. She was more and more convinced that it may indeed be a world only for the very young. There seemed to be nowhere she could go to get away from them. They dominated her landscape these days, light and shiny and strangely bold beyond their experience, disregarding reality and all its real consequences, always skipping out, just at the right moment, before their wings melted off. She could trust them at least for that much.
Honor and chastity–a white rose represents the faithfulness of its giver, or so her mother claimed. Lydia sipped at the blond in her glass. Perhaps a yellow rose, then. What does yellow mean? She’d have to ask her mother. Why not just plain red? Oh, no. She could guess at the significance of that color. No, not red, for godsakes!
_____
Roses and sunlight. Scant little of either in Lydia’s life these days. Seven PM already. She felt stiff in her chair, her neck and her shoulders hunched, sore from months of being cold. She eyed the window seat enviously, the blond still relaxing there with her mysterious book, posed like it was another day at the beach, casual, with just a splash of reservation, enough to ward off intruders.
Stop. Look both ways. Red. Don’t go.
It was smart to be cautious, always wise to exercise care, especially when it concerned other people’s money. Only punks weren’t alarmed to lose people’s money. Punks wouldn’t mind misleading investors. Punks were unscathed by plummeting debt ratings, by markets fluctuating hundreds of points an hour, by shortfalls rippling across the globe and eventually hitting land with the destructive force of tidal waves. Superstorm economics, no big deal. They were so high above it all. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to read a book, Lydia Beaumont wondered, surrounded by a bunch of savages, to really soar above it all?
But it’s the real world, Lydia reminded herself, a newly unsettled one, and savages and their mentors floated above it all. Uncorrected, never uncertain, they rose higher and higher, dirigibles on hydrogen and all those creative numbers. She knew them well. She knew they were addicted to the heights and hooking nearly everyone else they came in contact with; that they were dealers, dealing out highs with their quarterly projections of unsubstantiated growth and their wildly inflated earnings reports. She was always aware of them up there, brash new rulers of an endlessly expanding universe, to which they alone held the secret. Or so they implied in their glossy corporate brochures. They kept her on her toes.
A tangle of wanna-be dancers was putting on the ritz and making a spectacle of themselves. She laughed out loud and then scoffed under her breath. There was no stopping them, no holds barred, she had learned, thinking suddenly of accountants. Good auditors, too, who once knew better worth–they autographed everything that fell from the sky, even if they couldn’t read it.
The blond at the window seat was also watching the dance extravaganza, the corners of her mouth turning up as she saw the enthusiasts darting and jerking to a bossanova they knew nothing about. It was a pretty half smile, the mouth poised as if there was something right on the tip of her tongue.
What would she have to say about all this? What do those lips talk about? Art? The book she read? What kind of a voice comes out of a mouth like that one? Something soft, Lydia bet. Soothing and gentle and tender and…sexy? Or was the right word sensual? Lydia caught the blond’s glance and was startled to find herself staring at the woman. She shifted her attention outside.
On the other side of the glass was the street patio which had long been exorcised of its spirited revelers by the icy winds. It was nothing but a drab sidewalk in winter. They had all been dispossessed of it, forced to haunt the interior of Frank’s Place where they restlessly waited for better weather and the good things that usually accompany heat.
And tonight, Sinatra had the audacity to sing of it…of a summer wind…freshly blowing in…from across a bay…
It was more fun outside, Lydia mused, worrying her collar. Outside she could stand or pace, swing her arms, rise and look around her, and eventually, when the mood struck, as it often did, she could wander off unnoticed, leaving if she wanted to and conveniently forgetting to say goodbye. In here, she couldn’t move and if she got up to go, it’d be a big deal. Her eyes came to rest on the table at the window. Its occupant briefly looked up again from her reading and casually scanned the crowd before returning to it.
Beside her a cork popped. A new bottle. Red. That’s an acquired look, Lydia concluded. Doesn’t want to seem interested. I do that, too. More wine? Not interested? Maybe just a splash.
And yet she’s always there, always deeply invested in a book, always with a glass of something barely touched, always alone and waiting, apparently for no one. She had become a familiar landmark at the window. At least to Lydia.
“Hey, what’s a three letter word for–”
Lydia huffed and cut the speaker off.
Calm was finally descending on the room, but then Sinatra threatened to spoil it all with an urgent song about Peru.
Now that she was thinking about it, there was only one night when Lydia hadn’t seen the woman alone there. A couple had joined her one evening.
Couples…Frank was way up in the air now, inviting everyone to join him. Fly, fly, fly, she heard him suddenly singing. Well, why-the-hell not? Let’s do it, let’s fly, let’s fly away–so then, perhaps the blond had a home nearby?
Lydia absently yanked at the thing annoying her throat and it was only when she felt her collar come loose, saw a button pinging free across the tabletop and ricocheting like a tiddlywink off a sea of abandoned glasses that she came out of her trance. She had been thinking of homesickness.
“You’re scaring me, Liddy! What in the hell are you thinking?”
“You tell me, Del. I’m thinking I need to go to bed.”
“Yeah! But there’s not a decent one left,” Delilah said, on another trip to the bar. “Joe’s here,” she added over her shoulder. “Be a big girl.”
“Please,” Lydia replied, holding up her hand,” or I’ll leave.”
Fly or float your boat to Peru, was Frank’s best suggestion yet. Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea for a quick get-away. Llamas are grand. So are one-man bands…and flutes that toot for you. Peru’s the place, he’s saying. Or any place warm and sunny, she thought, draining her wineglass. Yes, yes, yes, then. Let’s…fly…fly…fly…fly away.
Her glass was empty. She attempted to land it on the cluttered tabletop.
God, how she loved that man. Sinatra that is. Seemed like he had a song for every season, emptying a heart full of it, floating to Peru for the winter, moving the rubber tree plants, having a very good year, anywhere, anytime. She shook her head and smiled, drunk for a change, and from the table there came a warning tinkle, glasses clinking as she carelessly deposited her own beside them.
And then, for the sake of falling, he had changed his tune again. Frank was telling everyone to take it nice and easy now. It’s going to be so easy, he was bragging, to fall in love.
Yeah. Now wouldn’t that be something?
“It’s not healthy, you know.” (Delilah was back.)
Lydia watched the glass tip over on its side…the problem now of course is…her work…it was insane perhaps…she should probably hold her horses…but she felt like jumping instead. Could it be, she half wondered, watching the glass head steadily for the edge of the table, but making no effort to save it, that she was hoping for something soft to land on? It rolled back slightly and she feared she might have to push it.
An elbow nudged her ribs. “It’s not, you know,” repeated its owner.
The goblet hesitated then smashed onto the floor.
Absurd, Lydia murmured, grabbing gently at the offending appendage. “What?”
“It’s not healthy, I told you.”
“Del…what isn’t?”
“Oh, geesh, Liddy,” Delilah said, taking in the catastrophe. “That’s very, very unfortunate. And it saddens me. You shhhall have another.”
“I shhhall,” Lydia mimicked. She raised her arm and beckoned the waiter.
Table sixteen. The waiter nodded and made his way over. They were an attractive and lively group, regulars who like to sing and dance and never broke anything. Not usually, anyway. He could feel the crunch of glass beneath his shoe, the woman’s fingers as she slipped a ten dollar bill in his pocket and whispered, “I’m sorry.” He signaled the busboy with a circular motion of his hand. “A glass of merlot,” he then said, turning to Lydia with a smile. “Will that be all?” he asked, now addressing the table.
“We’re hungry!” the group yelled. “Merlot? Merlot! I want some, too.” “Can you bring us menus?” “I need a drink.” “I have no idea what time it is.” “Me, too.” “Bring everyone some merlot.” “I don’t want merlot, I want a drink.” “Do you know what time it is?” “I think you’d better bring us a bottle then.” “It’s early, I think.” “I’m hungry. Can’t we order something now, or do we need menus?” “He’s bringing us menus.” “What are you having?” “C’mon, it’s early.”
_____
Food. She wasn’t really hungry. She watched the blond toying with her dessert.
“It’s curious don’t you think, Liddy?” asked Delilah, her mouth and hands full, gesturing with a chicken bone in the direction of the window seat.
“She’s a spy,” interrupted someone from their party, “Is this spicy?” he asked, pointing at Delilah’s platter. She ignored him. “C’mon, is this hot?” he demanded. She used a free elbow to push him away.
“She’s not a spy, Liddy. She’s a–”
“How’s everything?” interrupted the waiter, suddenly appearing behind Lydia.
“She’s a spy,” repeated their persistent friend as he lunged past Delilah’s jab.
“It’s hot!” she threatened, as he made off with her platter. Those on the other end of the table cheered the chicken’s arrival.
“Everything’s fine,” Lydia said, turning toward the waiter.
“Excellent,” he answered and bending closer he whispered, “She’s not a spy,” and was gone.
Delilah glanced curiously at Lydia. “What?” she demanded.
“What what?” answered Lydia, dipping her finger into the wine.
“What did he say?”
Lydia rubbed the rim of her glass until it began humming. It tingled to the touch. Half past seven. She should just go home. “He said I’m the only civilized person at my table and that I should feel quite proud.”
Delilah draped her arm on the back of her chair, crossed her legs, and dabbed at her mouth with a dirty napkin. “Bullshit,” she replied, grinning.
_____
“You’re doing that thing again,” asserted Delilah.
“What?”
“That, Liddy.”
Nearby, another one of her friends had noticed it, too. “What…so…yeah…and…” she imitated, sighing dramatically.
Lydia squirmed at the successful impersonation. “It must be time for me to go,” she said, checking the clock once more. Eight PM. “I’m speaking in monosyllables.”
“Nah, it’s early,” said the other two in unison. They clustered their chairs around hers to began their weekly critique, starting first with the most-eligibles lined up haplessly at the bar.
On the opposite side of the room a woman sat reading in one of the window seats, her long blond hair done up in a loose knot pierced by a single hairpin to keep it from falling in her eyes. She had a fine shaped face, smart indications across the brow line, bright animated eyes that bore nearly all her expression. The nose and mouth, rendered in sure but delicate strokes, were countered by pronounced cheekbones and a firmly set jaw which dignified her looks and made her seem at once both pretty and handsome. So too, the frailty implied by a pale complexion was juxtaposed with wide disciplined shoulders and a strong, almost unbending quality about the neck. The slender rest of her lounged luxuriously in a chair, her creamy skin complimented by a rich, dark blue dress that began its long-sleeved tour scooped low at the collarbones and continued its travels closely tailored to the torso and hips. In the woman’s lap and along the length of her outstretched legs, the fabric collected into sensuous little ripples and its excesses surrounded her in flattering folds. They slipped over her hips and dripped down her sides, cascading to the floor in a waterfall of velvet.
_____
Nine PM. She really should go home now, throw some weights around, the dumbbells.
“Liddy? Aren’t you going to say anything?” Delilah asked.
“No.”
“Don’t you think you’d feel better if you did?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t it at least be better to be on speaking terms?”
“No.”
“But you see him everyday at work. Isn’t it awkward for you?
“No.”
_____
Ten PM. There was no moon at all. A light drizzle was soaking the city which only served to underscore Lydia’s ennui. No umbrella, she walked briskly from Frank’s to her apartment, stopping this evening at every crosswalk, finding herself waiting at them much longer than she actually needed to.
She had spent a considerable amount of time in this city, living in it with her friends, those that she had met at university like Delilah and the others she had later met at work. In finance, they were all the same, none of them the type to sit in Frank’s with only a book for a companion. She sought to remember the last book she had read. She couldn’t. No books. No newspapers.
An aching sensation was beginning to creep in under her coat and clothes. An old feeling, she knew it had nothing to do with the cold, although the cold certainly didn’t help. She shivered at the next intersection and set her briefcase down, pulling her gabardine tight to her chest and conferring with an amber light. Yellow means worthy, she suddenly remembered. Yellow roses. Worthy. Didn’t it? Or did it mean yield? She grabbed the briefcase and ran to the other side.
The only thing Lydia did read were the financials. Nothing to brag on there. The briefcase felt exceptionally heavy tonight. Her back hurt. She wished for a warm spring rain to make the city misty, to cloud it up. This one was as cold as snow.
Why hadn’t she gone on vacation this year?
All night deli coming up on her right. She had a sudden craving for sweets, she realized. All-night deli coming up on her right. Sweets or a cigarette? When was the last time she had a cigarette? She lingered undecided at the entrance. Or sweets for that matter? Her mouth had the aftertaste of wine in it, sour and woody. Bed was calling. No sugar tonight. She walked on.
_____
Home. Inside her apartment it was warmer than usual. Downright balmy, like it had gotten at Frank’s. She turned the heat off and scanned the bookshelf for something to read and, finding nothing of interest, sighed with disgust.
Why hadn’t she gone on vacation this year?
The bookcase. Exactly like her father’s with his tight rows of leather bound editions, none of which she had ever seen him read. She dragged her fingers over them. Dusty bindings. Like his, her books never came off the shelf either.
Financial papers on the coffee table. She cleared them with an impatient sweep of her hand and they landed in disarray on an otherwise spotless carpet. That accomplished nothing, she admitted. She stood over the debacle feeling foolish and wrestled down the overwhelming temptation to reorganize it.
Is there a problem, she asked herself. Yes, but nothing she could put her finger on. She contemplated the possibility of a mid-life crisis and did the easy math. Life expectancy, seventy-two. What a frightening sum. You do act like a tourist, she confessed. In any event, you certainly feel like one tonight. Or a spy, spying on whoever I am, on the name on the door.
She glared at her belongings accusingly.
The stainless carpet, the curtained windows, the trophy books, all seemed in tacit agreement. They didn’t know her anymore either, or why she would be investigating them.
“She’s not a spy,” the waiter had said.
Lydia saw herself in the mirror and stopped short. Leaving for work in the dark, coming home in the dark, it was taking a toll on her, she suddenly thought, eyeing the impostor. She was shocked by the woman’s disheveled appearance, the missing button on her shirt collar, the rain-soaked coat, the hair wet and dangling in her eyes. She went up to the mirror and inspected her eyes. More than just exhausted, there were shadows beneath them, almost as blue as her irises. Her blue eyes. They had an unusual gleam in them. She was concerned about it. Not cool, she muttered, sitting down in the middle of the room as quiet as a sphinx.
“Excellent,” she remembered the waiter saying. “Will that be all?”
_____
Why did I bring this in here? Lydia wondered, accidentally kicking her briefcase as she crossed her legs under the table. Another Friday at Frank’s Place and her friends were late.
The blond sat at the window seat, engrossed as ever in her reading. Now and again she seemed to stretch a little, a slight smile appearing and then disappearing from her lips. Lydia immediately thought of a cat reclining on a sunny sofa, about to lick itself.
“May I get you something while you’re waiting?”
She jumped in her skin.
The waiter smiled.
She blushed. “I’m sorry?”
“A glass of wine until your friends get here?” he asked.
She nodded and avoided looking at him. He had a funny expression.
“Red?” he suggested.
“What?”
“Red?” he repeated.
“Red?” (Red?) “Red! Yes, please, that will be fine.”
Four-thirty already. The girls were supposed to be there at four. With growing annoyance Lydia saw herself stuck alone in a bar and looking available, something which she did not relish.
Regulars were steadily arriving for happy hour. As they checked their coats at the door they scanned the barroom hungrily. She visibly registered discomfort whenever one strutted by and said hello. They all reminded her of Joe.
Only ten more minutes, she promised herself. This is unbearable. She glanced over at the window seat. A book sure would come in handy right now. She raised her arm to signal the waiter and the blond looked over, smiled an acknowledgment and went back to her reading.
“May I see a menu?”
“Certainly,” the waiter said. He returned with one a few minutes later.
Whenever she felt irritated she thought of Joe. An unrewarding habit she had just discovered. These past few days she found herself thinking of him a lot.
Joseph Rios. Everyone called him Rio Joe, but she doubted he knew that, not that it would bother him, not someone who spent as much time as Joe did making himself larger than life. He had cultivated that persona.
Rio Joe. The stuff of literature. “Good evening,” came a come-on voice from her left. Oh, please, she screamed in her head. She put her face in the menu, pretended to read it. The technique proved surprisingly effective. Talking head gone.
Tall, dark and handsome Joe. Her junior by four years. She had met him at work and instinctively disliked him, detecting something a little too slick and rather illicit in his style. In a way she couldn’t then explain, he’d given her the creeps. His interpretation that she was hard to get is what motivated him to pursue her so ardently. And it was nice to be ardently pursued. In the end…well…getting is the fun part for a Rio Joe. The romance left her with the same sick sensation she had after eating too much chocolate.
Love, sex, heartburn, nausea. This was as far as she could venture in her mind whenever she reviewed the matter. But she could see far enough. She knew that he had broken her heart because it stopped in pain whenever she saw him or heard his name mentioned. She knew he was not one of her greatest accomplishments, which is why she refused to discuss the mess with anyone.
Dear Joe. She had ended it months ago but still ran into him at work, still in Frank’s Place on Fridays. Only recently had she stopped trembling at the sight of him. Only recently had she stopped wanting to lie down every time he was near. Only recently had she discovered she wasn’t thinking of him every moment of the day.
Lydia took a deep breath. Only recently, but thank god!
Another suit strolled by. She put her nose in the menu again–lunch? Wrong menu. Lydia blamed herself for not discovering it sooner. Everything’s been out of whack this week, seven days like this, all gone awry in precisely this manner. She hailed the waiter one more time and attempted to disguise her frustration.
“Madam? Ready to order?”
“Yes, but I think you brought me the wrong menu,” she said, handing it back to him.
“Oh,” he said, taking it from her, “the right menu at the wrong time.” He pulled another one out from under his arm and laid it on the table. “Or,” he added with a wink, “the wrong menu at the right time.”
She felt a tinge in her cheeks again and turned away without speaking. The clock over the bar read five. Swell, she thought. So where are my friends when I need them? Sinatra sang something about being irresponsible, being undependable. The blond at the window seat, reading. Reliable. That waiter was so strange. It’s difficult to be alone, Lydia realized. She was sick of waiting. You can forget yourself, what you normally do or what you’re supposed to be thinking. Isn’t that old waiter kind of crazy? Sinatra sang on, singing about irresponsible madness. Lydia waited.
_____
“I told you she’d still be here! Liddy, you’re not mad, are you?”
“No, Del. I just love sitting by myself on a Friday afternoon, drinking by myself on a Friday afternoon, eating by myself on a–”
“Oh, good. You ordered already?” Delilah slid Lydia’s bread plate away from her and laughed at her friend’s dour expression. “Oh, come on, Liddy” she said, pushing it back again. “I hate it when you pout. We were hoping you might mingle a little. We’re not really all that late and you do look marvelous, dear. Arsenic obviously becomes you.”
_____
Half past five. The furniture around her scuffed loudly with a life of its own and Lydia was once more absorbed into the dull but comfortable roar of her table. She watched her friends coming and going, the girls falling one by one like flower petals into their chairs, each one exhaling on arrival about a week’s worth of office air as they landed, the guys circling like hawks. Happy hour. Another respite. Exquisite nails tapped on the tabletop to the music. The ladies cooed about that one’s sweater, this one’s skirt, a new piece of jewelry, who they had recently run into. The guys heckled. It wasn’t hard to be distracted–even the blond looked over–at the loud chatter, sordid details of cubicle life, the funny stories and tales of intrigue. Gossip, gossip, gossip.
By six, even the waiter was once again himself, once more the prerequisite aloof that one might reasonably expect a waiter to be.
Fine. Everything would return to normal, Lydia hoped, as she glanced about the room and back to her own busy table. Normal, whatever that is. She turned in her seat to observe a few of her friends who had snatched up partners from the row of men at the bar. They were, as Del fondly called it, “doing their war dance.” World War Two. They were all faking it of course. Nobody knew these old steps except from imitating classic movies, but it looked right in the vintage atmosphere of Frank’s Place and it belonged there with the old songs and posters and dim light. Warriors dancing.
Things felt right, at last, for the first time in a week. Lydia smiled back at the blond who then looked away. More right than wrong, she added, feeling like a pretty close facsimile of herself again. I am Lydia Beaumont, she said in her head, studying the profile of the reader, whoever she was. I am Lydia Beaumont. Whoever she was, too.
Maybe who you are depends largely on who you’re with?
_____
But back in her apartment she discovered, much to her dismay, that the air was still rarefied, as it had been since last Friday. She instantly fell into the strange mood again, the funk that was ruining her, and despaired to think that her evening at Frank’s had been only a temporary success.
Standing at the foot of her bed, left unmade for the second time this week, she inspected the solitary impression that remained in the middle of it. It certainly showed how accustomed she was to sleeping alone. And it looked odd. Maybe this was normal, the new normal of her life, regarding normal things as strange. She wasn’t too comfortable with that. I’m not sleeping in this bed tonight, she told herself, and went to sit on the sofa in the dark instead, avoiding the bedroom mirror as she passed it.
All week Lydia had been distracted by Lydia. At Frank’s she had tried to overcome herself by concentrating on the events going on at the table, the free-for-all she usually ignored. She was glad to be able to focus on something other than the hum in her head, on her aching back, but now sitting alone in her apartment like a house guest on the sofa, trying to reflect, she could scarcely remember a thing about the long evening. All she could recollect was her friends showing up late, the silly waiter with his menus, the blond in love with her solitude. In love. In love. In love. Or was it a self-imposed exile?
Reflect. It had to be at least six months ago. Maybe longer. But not a year. No, not quite that long, she doubted. Not more than nine? Could it possibly have been more than nine months ago that I first noticed that woman sitting in there? Could be. Ah, I know why. Because before that, I was out on the patio. Right? I wouldn’t even have seen her from out there. Right. For all I know she could’ve been coming in for years without my knowing, if she only sat inside. All that time on the patio and before then? Ah, well, before then there was that thing with Joe.
She went into the bedroom to look at herself in the mirror. She could be coming down with something, going off into space like this, and her eyes looked funny. She’d see how she felt tomorrow and take it from there she promised.
On the way back to the sofa she bumped into the papers she had piled on the floor in one of her new private compromises. She swore under her breath. I don’t have what it takes to be alone anymore. That’s the thing.
The thing. That thing with Joe. She stretched herself out.
Is this Joe’s fault?
It felt good to get the weight off her shoulders.
Not having what it takes?
Off her back.
Being alone?
She let her eyes adjust to the darkness.
The longer it takes the farther you go–she had seen these words scrawled across the ladies’ room wall in Frank’s Place.
No. Not his fault, really.
She didn’t know who was supposed to have said it.
The farther you go. She sat up uneasy.
He had never offered her anything.
There was a hopelessness at the thought of him. She felt it lodged deep in her womb. That was the ache, a killing consumption.
Ugh. She didn’t know when her loneliness had stopped being Joe’s fault. She pictured an empty glass falling over the edge of a table and forced herself to remember the last time he was in her apartment, showing up late for her birthday, and he had been with someone else, too. That was no secret, but it was her goddamned birthday she had shouted as he slammed the door behind him. She saw her glass of wine whizzing through the air at him, could hear it smashing against the wall. There was still a slight stain where it had trickled like blood to the floor.
Her blood, she learned too late. He had been after her blood, running her through every time he could. At parties. Behind her back. He even did her wrong in bed. On purpose. Many, many times leaving her there, for no reason, to be cruel, that’s all.
The bright light of the kitchen made her eyes water.
It was overblown. A couple of months in bed. She had overrated him.
Lydia rose from the couch. And you never even sent me flowers, you rat. Not one goddamned blessed rose.
She turned on the living room light, feeling suddenly redeemed, and searched the room for her briefcase, then remembering where she had left it and headed into the kitchen.
All week she had been popping in and out of bookstores, spending entire lunch hours peering at racks of paperbacks and on Friday afternoon, unable to determine any subject of interest, she had purchased a Sinatra CD from a street vendor on the way to Frank’s Place. She took it out of the briefcase and put it in the player.
The clock on the wall showed midnight, but Lydia was wide awake, opening and closing the cupboards and refrigerator door. There was nothing to eat.
She had brought work home for the weekend with the idea of barricading herself in, but at this rate by Monday morning she knew she would starve to death. There wasn’t even half and half for coffee.
“The right menu at the wrong time,” she suddenly recalled.
“Or,” the refrigerator door slammed shut one last time, an assortment of items clinking inside, “the wrong menu at the right time.”
“Excellent,” she said in a voice like the waiter’s.
The music played.
_____
Lydia worked feverishly all Saturday morning, as if she had an important appointment to keep and might not make it. She did without coffee or breakfast and by noon she was absolutely famished.
Lunch time and not a crumb of food. She grabbed her coat and hurriedly left the apartment.
She entered Frank’s Place alone at about half past noon. The waiter saw her before she noticed him. She hesitated at the door. He was waiting on the blond seated with her book at the sunny window.
Alone.
Lydia had never been to Frank’s for lunch and it struck her as quite different from the raucous environment she was used to on Friday nights, a little more subdued than she had expected.
“Madam,” said the waiter, “how nice to see you.”
Lydia smiled cautiously. “Thank you,” she replied, indicating by pointing that she desired a table at the back of the room.
He held her chair for her, placing the now familiar lunch menu on her plate.
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” he assured her.
She smiled the same at him, careful to remain composed. He had made her feel awkward the night before, almost like a child. She had not fully forgiven him for it. When he subsequently returned with a glass of merlot that she hadn’t ordered she gave him an anxious look, which he utterly ignored. After that, through the rest of her meal, he acted virtually oblivious to her presence in the dining room for which she was exceptionally grateful.
That was more or less how he treated the patron at the window seat, Lydia observed, as well as the dozen or so other discreet diners seated in distant places throughout the room.
She liked how the place felt this afternoon, even though it was different than how she knew it. There was the low murmur of contented couples, the muted strands of the music in the background. The same old songs, she recognized, but only softer, seeming instrumentally more civilized this afternoon. Same songs, same lyrics. Maybe a bit more daring.
Warm tones, charming light, peaceful time of the day.
There were others alone at their tables. Like her, they seemed satisfied. They talked, ate, read. But one didn’t feel alone in this atmosphere. Not exactly. Except if one didn’t want to be alone.
_____
“Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“No, not yet. I was hoping something would jump out at me.”
Lydia’s searches had led her to the conclusion that there were basically three topics of fiction: love, war…or love and war. But nothing worth dying for is worth living for, she had determined early in life, so she came up empty-handed.
The nonfiction section held limited allure for her as well. Its shelves were dominated chiefly with how-to instruction manuals that explored the gamut of human interests from abdomens to the zodiac, self-help books that covered a myriad of ailments and complaints whether real or imagined. Self improvement, a big industry. These nearly always occupied an area of their own which was usually located in the front of the store right next to the checkout.
Bookstores overall had changed considerably from the last time Lydia had visited one. Now, with their wall-to-wall carpeting, their quiet reading areas, the out-of-the way-benches and comfy chairs littered with patrons absorbed in their seemingly sacred texts, the places more closely resembled libraries than anything else. Of course, unlike a library, you couldn’t take your favorite book out. In the end you had to buy it.
Lydia spent the next week in much the same way as the last and failed to find anything to curl up with. She bought another CD.
_____
Oh, yes, she hated her job. She hated her job. She hated her job. There were too many Joes writing Dear Johns and too many like herself and her girlfriends reading them. Reading. The same letter, a chain letter, a pyramid scheme of lovers, loading the dice, moving from table to table, playing it like the numbers, exchanging commodities, leaving a collection of precious metals on the bedside. Junk bonds.
That’s the marketplace, gambling over the limit, like Blackjack. Or Rio Joe.
These are dark thoughts again, Lydia reminded herself, still at her desk on Friday at four o’clock. One more time, the phone. Vice President Treadwell. Lydia groaned into her sleeve. It looked like she would be there a while.
“Hi, Paula. No, not bothering me at all. Oh, cocktails? You know I forgot all about it. I’ll put it on my calendar. Nah, I don’t want a secretary, I like to be alone in here. A while, maybe another hour or so. Okay, thanks, Paula.”
_____
Six(ish). Lydia arrived at Frank’s around six. The blond saw her first and smiled. The song on the juke was extra special loud, competing with her thoughts. She stood in the doorway, smiled back and then caught sight of Joe menacing the place with criminal looks and winking at her. She pretended not to see him and searched the room for her friends.
“Lydia!”
Her friends finally saw her and they hooted and howled out unseemly hellos. The seating arrangements had changed. She wondered how it had happened that they were now sitting closer to the center, in the blond’s half of the room. Lydia glanced suspiciously toward the waiter, but he seemed to be unaware of her. She doubted the woman would be able to enjoy her book tonight and she grimaced as she made her way through the crowd to the noisiest table on the planet.
“Boo! Hiss!” came a rowdy greeting from her friends.
“Very nice.”
“I am shocked, Liddy. Shocked I tell you. I think you did this to get even with us for last Friday. We’ve got a bottle…here…oh…ask the waiter for a glass…waiter! Waiter!”
Frank’s was energized in a way that promised spring was near. Maybe that’s why they were moving closer to the windows, anticipating summer on the patio again. For days now warm winds had been blowing in from across the sea. They lingered there, down by the waterfront, where Lydia could be found from time to time lost in her lunch hour searches for a good book. The heat came from down there. She was sure of it. Deep beneath the water it lurked, perhaps all winter, simply waiting for an opportunity. It was finally near.
“I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Del.”
The waiter appeared with a glass and she thanked him.
“Liddy, sit down and drink.”
She sat.
“Won’t be long now,” the waiter said cheerily.
“What won’t?” she asked.
“Spring!” he declared, leaving the table with a broad grin.
From there he went directly to the window seat. Lydia observed the two of them lowering their heads together. Not about the menu, their conversation lasted only a few minutes before she saw him leaving again, the blond casting a furtive glance after him. What a busy man, Lydia thought. What’s going on? Nothing, he seemed to be saying. She turned back toward the blond. Look up. Look up. Yes, smile. Yes! Green eyes. Smile back at her, fool. Show her you have all your teeth, as daddy would say. Daddy? What in the world am I doing? Is she naturally blond? Yes, naturally blond. Accessories? None. No jewelry at all, save a thin gold watch on the left wrist. Nothing on her fingers, either. No ring. It was warm in the center of the room, cooler by the wall, Lydia suddenly noticed. About my age. Beautiful hands. Writers hands? Lydia studied them wrapped around the book. Can’t tell. Or was she a musician? Artist? She squinted but couldn’t make out the title. Green eyes, nice. A navy blue tailored pantsuit. Heels. No, definitely not an artist. Probably not a musician, either. Who in the world is this woman? What in the world is she doing here?
There was the waiter again, returning with a drink that had been sent by the guy at the bar pantomiming a toast to the blond. No time for a drink. She had a harried look tonight. Lydia analyzed her face as she paid her bill, collected her things. One last smile?
Yes. And then the blond with no ring was leaving, passing near Lydia’s table, the right hip swaying upward, the left shoulder dipping gently down. She moved rather than walked. Or flowed–god, the woman flowed just like water! Thirty fluid steps to the coat check. Lydia trailed her with her eyes until she was gone and then searched for the waiter.
He was mixing drinks.
I’m out of my mind. Would it be improper to ask the waiter for that woman’s name? Was there an emergency or something; why was she leaving? She should ask him for that woman’s name. Lydia weighed it carefully, contemplating the vacant table with butterflies, trying to understand why the room seemed so empty. Was she planning to meet someone tonight, perhaps? Oh, ask the waiter for her name. But how would I explain it? I don’t think I could! What am I thinking?
All this time Delilah had been gabbing away at her. It was when she stopped that Lydia suddenly remembered her friend again. She saw her posed with her legs crossed, her hands clutched around her knees, wearing an insightful smile that Lydia wished to avoid. She smiled weakly back at her.
The music drifted over their heads and they sat eyeing each other, jostled in their chairs by people on missions to the dance floor or the bar. At their own table, their friends, oblivious, continued to shout and dare and cheer themselves on.
“You’re being a Neanderthal, Liddy. I really mean it.”
“I am?” A nervous laugh. “I don’t know what you mean, Del.”
“No?” Delilah leaned forward and Lydia felt compelled to do the same.
“Did you know, Dame Beaumont, that here on earth where most of us reside most of the time, that we are all perfectly safe from the destructive power of solar flares?”
“Del, I don–”
“That’s because I’m not done. But that if you were actually to be near one, my dear friend, act-u-al-ly near one, Lydia…Neanderthal…Beaumont…you’d be dead in a matter of hours. Huh? I’ll bet you didn’t know that. I want you to think about it while we both get drunk here. I want you to roll it over in your mind,” she said, raising her glass, “and I want you to respond in complete sentences.”
Solar flares…Lydia sipped at her wine thoughtfully. The window seat was filled once more, this time with a loud and frolicking foursome. Neanderthal Beaumont, that’s kind of funny. How should she respond? Probably best to say nothing, since something clever was out of the question. I’m out of my mind. Is that a complete sentence? She glanced at Delilah as she filled her glass again. Up at the bar she saw Joe trying to make her feel naked. It was easy to ignore him tonight for some reason. Peering back at her from behind the counter Marlene Dietrich looked as cool as a cucumber in a big, black and white poster that boldly declared THE DEVIL IS A WOMAN. The devil a woman? Nah, Lydia doubted it. Pure nonsense. What could they possibly mean by that? She glanced at Delilah sipping her wine, waiting patiently. She’d know the answer. Lydia still had nothing to say. She gazed into Marlene’s steely eyes. There was another poster beside that one portraying the actress as BLOND VENUS. Blond Venus. So what’s so weird about that? Isn’t Venus blond?
_____
The women had met and become friends while finishing their MBAs. Delilah was the senior of the two. Now, over forty and solidly single, she managed her personal affairs much as she handled matters at the bank she ran. Lydia, on the other hand, had never been committed to such a lifestyle. It had simply developed in that direction with the financial markets her primary focus in life.
It was in that capacity that she had met an underling named Joseph Rios, who quickly knocked her out of sorts, as Delilah liked to put it. Before then, no fraternizing. That had always been Lydia’s policy in the past. She had made a fatal exception. Prior to that unhappy event, the two women had seemed like philosophical twins, stoics, taking comfort in each other’s company whenever things got hairy, discussing and dismissing professional or personal difficulties as they occurred. A problem was a mere conundrum or a ridiculous quandary, never a quagmire like Rio Joe had become, faithless Rio Joe. The relationship had made Lydia different, changing her for the worse and even now it was impossible to be of any assistance to her because she refused Delilah’s confidence. She could only guess that Joseph Rios had devastated her friend as months had passed since she had broken it off and she was still not fully recovered yet. And recovery seemed nowhere in sight.