Chapter 7
As the cab took her back to Azure World, Cassie closed her eyes and forced herself to think rationally.
The leech episode was sabotage. Brenda Gelasse would stop at nothing. If she could not own Azure, she would sink Azure.
Cassie grimaced. Would Nick get absorbed as well? He had his limits, and if Cassie proved incapable of preventing a Gelasse victory, might Nick become a casualty of war?
Where are you, Nicky? Call me, darling. Tell me we’ve won the battle and thus the war. I love you. I . . . I don’t want any of it without you . . .
He liked — needed — his women strong. That’s where Beth came by her strong will. Daddy rewarded independent thinking. Lavished praise on her earning a brown belt in the martial arts. Rewarded her “cleverness” with a gold credit card. Should Cassie let Azure slip through her fingers while Nick was in New Guinea, his disappointment would be more than she could bear.
And yet he would be justified. She should not have entered such a competitive field if she couldn’t hold her own. But who knew that behind the beguiling fragrances and shapely bottled seductions lay a cynical and cutthroat subculture that shot its wounded and played to win whatever the cost? It all looked so elegant and glamorous on the surface. Like church.
You’ll see. It’ll be different once we break through the clouds. It’s our turn to soar. Hear that, God? Our turn!
She’d done Beth no favors raising her amid the suspicions and the high-octane race to succeed. Still, true success meant that Beth could attend the best schools, marry the pick of any litter, and raise her children without the struggle Cassie remembered all too well. Alf and Elise had labored dawn to dusk at common jobs, and for what? Ketchup and mustard sandwiches. Fried baloney and onions. Tuna everything. And attached to every one of those memories, a strong aroma that Cassie had spent all her adult life trying to cover over.
No, no one was going to ruin her beautiful, promising, headstrong daughter’s future. No one, that is, who valued her own life.
She frowned and tried to quell the churning in her stomach.
The cab lurched to a halt to keep from hitting a bicycle messenger. The horn blared. The driver leaned out the window and screamed, “You are the discharge of a diseased camel!”
He and the cyclist exchanged hand gestures. Life resumed.
A persistent thought scraped at the back of Cassie’s mind. Collusion. How else could Barbara Silverman have known that Cassie was not aware of the leech incident until the dramatic announcement on Midday? The timing was too perfect. Had Barbara and Brenda somehow orchestrated the whole thing?
Cassie punched up a number on her cell phone’s speed dial. While she waited impatiently, San Franciscans drifted past the cab windows, oblivious to her turmoil. She desperately needed six terrifying minutes on the trapeze to restore her self-confidence.
Even more desperately, she needed Nicky to make contact. She removed an earring and placed the phone to her ear.
“Butterfield.” Mark’s bark instantly reassured her. His tone was steel tempered with acute irritation. Whoever had leaked the leech nonsense to the media without first verifying all the facts would feel the full wrath of Azure’s VP for marketing and media relations.
“Tell me that you’ve squelched all rumors of carnivorous bloodsucking worms in the perfume, that there is no woman in the hospital, that Brenda Gelasse has gone deep-sea fishing with the Mafia.”
Mark’s laugh was short and bitter. “I think I saw that movie. No, actually, it only gets worse. The woman at Mercy General will, thank God, recover from the leech trauma. Amazing what a hundred-thousand-dollar settlement will do for pain and suffering. Unfortunately, the same woman and five other plaintiffs just filed a class action lawsuit in the Ninth District Court, alleging loss of the sense of smell from prolonged use of Azure’s Swirl parfum.”
Cassie slumped against the cab window. Trust Mark to give her the unadorned truth. Partway into an intersection, the light changed to red. The cabbie cursed, stomped the accelerator, and was berated by six pedestrians in the crosswalk and a dozen passengers on a turning transit bus before jolting to a stop behind a woman and a ferret on a moped. “The traffic, she’s heavy,” the driver said to no one in particular. “Heavy and stupid like cow.”
“Loss of smell?” whispered Cassie. “Loss of smell?” Her shoulders sagged. They didn’t have tens of thousands of dollars to spend on payroll, let alone frivolous lawsuits. Suddenly, instead of being the color of proud roses, the Donna Karan dress she wore reminded her of garish stoplight red.
Mark sighed wearily. “Yes, Cass. Some of the damages are unspecified, but essentially they demand compensation for medical costs as well as past and future emotional distress, and of course the aforementioned pain and suffering.”
“But . . . but how? How could Swirl cause the loss of anything?” She felt weak, almost sick, but spoke with sufficient anger to cause the cabbie to glance anxiously in his rearview mirror.
“Well, that’s the kicker. The suit alleges that the perfume they purchased contains zinc gluconate.”
“Zinc gluconate? Are they out of their minds? Zinc gluconate is an astringent. Why would anyone put it in perfume?” Her sharp words earned another apprehensive look from the front seat.
“Good question. The suit cites clinical studies dating all the way back to ’37 that show zinc gluconate is toxic to the olfactory epithelium.” They both knew that the epithelium membrane, essential for the sense of smell, was located about seven centimeters up and into the human nose. Only a few centimeters wide, the olfactory epithelium contained more than a hundred million receptor cells. Despite the fact that most smells hovered about ten inches off the ground, the human nose overcame its height disadvantage by being equipped to distinguish between as many as ten thousand odor-causing chemicals. It was the king of human anatomy as far as she was concerned. She had built a life playing to it, enticing it, teasing it with a panoply of scents.
“Of course it’s toxic!” She sat forward now, elbows punching dents in the vinyl of the driver’s seat, phone gripped in a stranglehold. The cabbie leaned away from her and nervously fingered the radio handset.
“Mark, they can’t do this!” She fought for calm. “Any boy with a chemistry set knows we’d never put zinc gluconate in our fragrances. It’s pungent and produces mild discomfort. Why in heaven put something caustic in our products? That’s insane!”
“Which is exactly what makes their case. If it’s true what they claim, and if they can prove prolonged exposure to this substance from the use of Swirl, with no attempt by Azure to justify its use or list it as an ingredient, we’re in dire straits. Potentially hundreds more could pile on, bogus claims or not.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hope!” She wanted to lash out at someone, and though she adored him and his loyal service, her VP was handiest. “You listen to me. We both know that even if someone has been exposed to zinc gluconate, it could have come from a thousand different sources. Household cleaners, cold medication. Didn’t I read about a case against the maker of a nasal spray that caused some kind of smelling loss?”
“Allegedly — ”
She moaned. “How I hate that word. I hear ‘sledge’ in it, as in sledgehammer, as in sledgehammer attack, which I’m feeling under right now.” Another thought, as yet unformed, niggled at the back of her mind. She suppressed it. All she wanted was to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and not have to think.
Mark’s tone soothed. “Take a deep breath and let’s talk damage control. The suit yanks the heartstrings with all that the so-called victims stand to lose. I quote: ‘The plaintiffs can no longer enjoy the smell of fresh air, or newly cut grass, or a bouquet of flowers, or the taste of a meal,’ et cetera. Now, you must be seen to be sympathetic, but not cowed. I wouldn’t go see the woman at Mercy, and flowers obviously are out of the question, but do pay her your respects and warmest regards, and we’ll tip the press. Why not get that Episcopalian priest frie
nd of yours, Father Wills, to pay her a visit?
“Then you get on the media as forcefully as you did just now on Midday and say that you are pulling out all the stops to get to the bottom of these incidents. That’s what Tylenol did with the poisoning incident, and they’re stronger than ever. Tell them you will not sleep until the perpetrators are brought to justice. No stone will be left unturned. Et cetera, et cetera. Puts you on the side of the little guy. We’re already tracing the leech bottle back to the day, time, and batch, what chemists formulated the batch, which employees manned that bottling and packaging shift. Same with the bottles said to contain zinc. We can easily stall the legal proceedings until Nick returns with the prize and the whole world forgets all about these shenanigans.”
He paused after placing so insignificant a label on the day’s disturbing events. The edge was gone from his voice. “That’s all it is, Cass. Really. Jealous competitors reduced to petty pranks. We’ll outlast them. We will.”
He could not entirely hide the doubt in his voice, but Cassie appreciated the effort. The fact that he had not used the name Brenda Gelasse only accentuated the omission. “And these pranks, Mark. How do we afford them?”
His mellow reply, despite all her instincts to the contrary, did provide comfort. “Azure’s credit, though battered and bruised, still carries a modicum of weight. Enough of our creditors, while spooked to be sure, are nonetheless staying the course to see what Nick’s got. It all rests on the treasure in that box of gold and pink. The one you used to dazzle the entire country on network television.”
She swallowed hard and settled back in the seat once more. She had gambled on an empty box. The cabbie flashed her a reassuring if crooked smile. He slowed the taxi and stayed well clear of the next intersection.
“The entire country?” she said. “I thought Midday was regional.”
“It is. But you know that all the smart reporters and news chiefs in every newsroom across America are going to put this all together, and by nightfall your appearance on KSF will go national. We couldn’t buy this kind of exposure for Cassandra. Despite the negative press, there’s a huge payoff in this.”
Cassie hesitated. “How, Mark? How was it possible for the leech, the lawsuit, and Barb Silverman’s news flash to come together so fast, so perfectly synchronized?”
Another sigh. Mark was less convinced than she that the planets were aligned against Azure. “The zinc deal took me by surprise, I admit, but not Silverman’s breaking news. Her fans are always looking to pick up a few bucks by feeding her sensational bits. She advertises a bounty for that stuff. Do I think the timing was coincidence? No, but that’s ratings wars for you. I honestly think the buzz created by you and that box — not to mention the gorgeous models — will far exceed anything generated by any scurrilous scuttlebutt. You let me worry about the loonies. You just concentrate on filling that box with the very breath of beauty.”
Tears stung the corners of Cassie’s eyes. The question that had been hiding, that she did not want revealing itself, rushed to her lips. “Did Maggie really say those things to the New York Times? Oh, Mark, how could she?”
She was making him earn his salary this day. To his credit, Mark came right back with, “Yes, the quote is in the Times, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar it’s either out of context or a muddled summation of a much longer conversation.”
“Even under the influence of spirits supplied by an enterprising reporter?”
“Old Mags has had her share of indiscreet interviews, I’ll grant you,” Mark said. “But I think she is past this level of criticism. Trust her friendship and her enormous love for you and your family. Do you want me to call her?”
Cassie thought about it. “No, thank you, Mark. This is one call I need to make. And do you think you can keep spitting on fires awhile longer? I think I’ll have that chat with the Reverend Wills before coming in. That should give him something for the next General Synod.”
Mark laughed nervously. She knew her tepid attempts at spirituality smacked to him of occasionally buying fire insurance and every time allowing the policy to lapse. Or worse: opportunism. His center of peace was found at the altar of jazz. Toot a little horn and feel the absolution come down. Cassie hated the cynicism these thoughts always stirred.
“Hang on, Mark.” She told the cabbie of her change in plans. “Drop me at St. John’s,” she said. The cabbie didn’t have to ask the address. It was the beautiful marbled Episcopal cathedral that was a city landmark.
“Before I go,” she said to Mark, “do you have any good news for me?”
They both knew this was code for, “Heard anything from Nick?” Both knew too he would have begun the conversation with that news had it been good.
“Nothing new there,” he said lightly, “but I do have two pieces of information that ought to cheer you. One, Beth will be eighteen in another two years, and I predict you’ll be a grandma in five. By the way, I wouldn’t deny her phone privileges if I were you. The phone-in was nothing more than a schoolgirl dare. And two, Letterman’s producer called and wants you on the show tomorrow. You’re booked first class nonstop to New York on Continental.”
“We’ll discuss that.” Cassie rubbed a stiffness that had settled into her neck. “Tell me, do you do everything around there?”
“No, but I do work with some awfully good people.”
“Me too,” said Cassie with feeling, “me too.”
Cassie skirted the main structure at St. John’s. The great dome and the sanctuary beneath always put her in mind of the courtyard where she imagined Jesus was judged and beaten. But the stone, the space, the urge to cower beneath the great ceiling and the vacant gaze of scowling apostles in sculpture always made her feel an excess of humiliation. While Christ had not come to condemn, she was certain the architect of St. John’s had.
It was in the modest stone rectory around back of the cathedral that she experienced acceptance. Perhaps it was because this was Fr. Byron Wills’ turf, where his apartment and office were found. Though she did not know how many priests ministered at St. John’s, she knew that Fr. Byron, as he insisted on being called, was priest enough. One of the small number of African American priests in the mainline Episcopal Church, he seemed to know just a little more about being on the edges of faith.
“Welcome, Cass,” he greeted her with genuine warmth. “How many choir directors does it take to change a lightbulb?” That was how he began most of their infrequent meetings. With a joke.
He pulled a straight-backed wooden chair away from a small writing desk and motioned for her to sit. “I don’t know, Father,” she said, playing along. “How many choir directors does it take?”
Compact in tailored blue vest made in church brocade of ancient crosses and other Christian symbology, the short, goateed priest grinned his brightest, most inviting “come to the table of the Lord” grin and said, “Nobody knows. Nobody ever watches the choir director!”
Cassie laughed and thought how good it was to see this man. Why had she stayed away this long?
She leaned forward on the chair, gave a slight cough, and meant to come to the point of her visit, but he held up a restraining hand that his gospel choir knew only too well. “Do you know what you just did?” He beheld her with penetrating eyes the color of burnished copper. “You folded your mother’s hands, wrinkled your father’s nose, and cleared your own throat.”
She smiled, not surprised the strain of the day showed. “So they left their mark, did they? Has it been that long since I was last here?” The previous fall, Fr. Byron, her childhood priest, had laid her elderly mother and father to rest just two months apart, and here it was autumn again. Her parents had their only child late in life and had insisted on regular church attendance. And though Alf Seton eked out a living wage as a bridge maintenance worker, Cassie knew their modest lifestyle had been more a result of generous tithing to the church, a habit she had not adopted.
“Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be b
ent out of shape,” he said, gracing her with a wink. “If priests lived by the dependability of their parishioners to get to church, they would all take to drink.”
Three years of sobriety gave Fr. Byron more than a single pulpit. As treasurer of the four-hundred-member Recovered Alcoholic Clergy Association for Episcopal bishops, priests, and deacons, he knew more than a little about temptation, relapse, and the little celebrations of victory that came one precious day at a time.
“How are you, Father?” she began again. “What keeps you going?”
“Well, Holy Eucharist at seven thirty every morning, for one,” he said, the words brisk and lively. “Rush hour people are not at their best, let me tell you. But they want to start their day right.” His voice softened. “Just this morning, a gentleman knelt at the rail, the back of his neck still slathered in shave cream. A mother with rowdy triplets drags them in here every Wednesday on their way to school. I’m not supposed to, but I give them sweets with the wafers. I don’t want them to think the grace of God is tasteless, now do I?”
Another wink. Another grin. Cassie felt a longing for his reassurance. She shrugged dispiritedly. You could be real with Fr. Byron.
“Tart?” he said, offering her a small box of pastries with what looked to be raspberry centers. “Jewish parishioner, caught between works and grace. Brings me fresh baked tarts on Thursdays.” Cassie declined. “She believes homo mensura, man is the measure of all things. I ask her why she comes to Holy Eucharist, why a Christian church? She has never expressed faith or come forward to participate. She has no answer for me, but the strange longing inside that awakens her at five a.m. every
Thursday and compels her to come. She says it’s almost as bad as a husband poking her in the ribs and demanding breakfast. I tell her that is the Spirit prompting her, and she says maybe he should learn some manners. She starts catechism next Thursday right after Communion. ‘No promises, I’m telling you,’ she says, ‘but we’ll see what this Spirit has to say.’ ” He eyed Cassie closely. “If you think about it, pray for Lydia.”
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