She walked to the window and stared out at the San Francisco skyline. Most did not know that she maintained a beautiful penthouse apartment directly above her office. An elegant but hidden spiral staircase passed between them. A palatial fifty-foot veranda allowed her to entertain captains of industry beneath the twinkling stars. Anymore, the estate in the Santa Cruz mountains was too remote, too empty without . . . well, certainly without Nicholas. But too much house, really, even for two persons, unless those two persons happened to be engaged in combat. Then it was much too confining. Her joke of a marriage had proven that.
Lately Sea Cliffs was quiet as a tomb, and as inviting.
Today of all days, I do not need him to be late. She counted on his observations. Banked on his counsel. If he told her to bet the mortgage on Lame Louis in the fifth, she would do so without question.
She needed his advice on Azure World. She needed to know how best to leverage these latest developments. She needed to know what to do with Cassandra Dixon. The woman was insufferable. Anyone with half a wit could see the Midday bluff coming a mile off. A box was a box was a box, no matter how lovely, or how svelte the models framing it.
The deBrieze marketing team was already at work on a sleek advertising campaign to underscore the industry dominance of Night Tremors, the fragrance that had put Brenda on the map. “The message plays off the empty promises of Azure and is pure genius,” she told Molinard. “At the top of the ads for TV and print, just two words: ‘Once seductive . . .’ In the middle, scantily clad lovers embrace. Below them, just two words: ‘. . . always seductive.’ Next to that declaration, my capricious kitty, is the shapely bottle known far and wide: a quarter moon the color of sapphire, resting on a pedestal of silver. Some might wear Azure’s economy scents by day, but I own the night!”
She felt the chill of loneliness. How many one-sided conversations can one have with a cat?
And how long had it been since she’d painted anything? It relaxed her, and in her early teens she had shown promise. Mother had a real eye for detail and form and knew exactly how to mix the paints to capture nuance of color. The long summer afternoons in the sand dunes, their easels side by side, had been some of the best.
“Now, child, hold your brush firmly but freely and let it become an extension of your arm. That’s it, that’s my Brenda. Don’t be afraid of earth, water, or sky. And no timid sand pipers, please. Watch them go about their business and see how definite their movements. Not at all like the unruly gulls, who lord it over one another. No, the pipers are in agreement — see how they turn as one and each minds its own business? Good, good, that’s the way!”
Those days, precious and few, had flitted away like a flock of startled shorebirds. Who could regain them?
Daddy was always working, selling excellent handmade shoes to fit feet, as supple as second skin. But she had lost respect for her cobbler father about the time Mother had. With Mother it had to be high-fashion this, high-fashion that, but her father’s passion never rose above the pavement. “What are you, Colin, that you should stoop at the feet of others? Raise your sights, man, get off your knees. Drape a woman’s figure, accentuate her fragrance, design her handbag. The real money, my poor man, is found above the ankles.”
He died of pneumonia, according to the medical report.Brenda came to the conclusion it was death by discouragement. Mother thought he lacked ambition; Brenda believed he was born a generation too soon. Today, with her connections, he would be designing thousand-dollar shoes for Ferragamo on New York’s Fifth Avenue. But a young daughter’s peeves were his Old World sensibilities and embarrassing polish-stained hands, whereas Mother’s world was all sensual satin and scent. Too bad she hadn’t taken Brenda with her.
“You’re too reckless, Brenda, too brash. You could do with a bit more finishing before society is ready for you.” That was a laugh, coming from a woman who browbeat her way into fashion circles and publicly scolded anyone who disagreed. Brenda had been forced to do it her way and to invent all that nonsense about an ancestral shipping dynasty. The press ate it up.
Why did we ever stop painting the birds?
She might as well pick at old sores. “Nicky, Nicky.” Brenda spoke the name into the silent room, remembering vividly the torrid affair that had flared out as quickly as it began. Other men had desired her in the same way, with little thought to the long-term but every thought to the passionate, unattainable present. In her world, the high-powered Brenda was the Everest of conquests. But after Nicholas, other men found her more the black widow than ever. Now she devoured without the intimacy.
Another empty chill rendered her leaden inside. Ambition, achievement, a name feared throughout corporate America. A penthouse apartment atop the highest-priced real estate west of the Mississippi. All the material gain to satisfy a hundred upwardly mobile males in her trade, let alone the rare female. “Why can’t I be happy? Why did the one man who ever made me feel real vanish from my life in the time it takes to wave a magician’s wand?”
Molinard peered at her through narrow slits.
“ ‘You can’t help it. You kill the incompetent and poison the rest.’ That was Laughton’s diagnosis. Can you believe it? Our chairman of deBrieze can be brutally blunt.” In a puff of Cuban cigar smoke, he’d added, “But I’ll be horsewhipped and left for dead if you’re not the most driven person with the best instincts I’ve ever seen. To take another man’s name would ruin you.”
At times, though, she wondered if success wasn’t one of ruin’s many fathers.
I can’t seem to get it right. I need help. But I’ll boil in oil before I admit anything in public. That’s why I need him to be here on time. That’s why I keep a .38 special behind a sliding door at the head of my bed. My ex thinks I’m a fool. And though they’ve never met, jealous John Lexington hates Nick Dixon just for being in my past. If he only knew how often I still think of Nick, he would go ballistic.
She was glad she had neither kept his name nor lived long with him at Sea Cliffs. He had connections in low places. Dangerous he was, lethal he could be. So lethal he smelled of gunmetal.
Two fifteen. She had a photo shoot for Vanity Fair at three. Anxiety clawed her insides. Her fuse was lit. She did not tolerate lateness in business; why should she ever excuse it in her two o’clock?
Because he is different, she decided. He is discreet. He is the only trustworthy male, other than Laughton, the only male who matches my intelligence. Truth be told, and I’m not about to tell it, his intellect comes dangerously close to exceeding mine.
She would remind him, however, that he should not test her patience.
She went to the island counter and poured herself another drink. That Mags O’Connor is one piece of work. Of all that troubled her, Mags was most troubling of all. Anymore, one could wave a bottle of cough syrup in the woman’s general direction and she would utter the most indelicate comments . . .
Horribly, a tear formed and threatened to fall. She yanked a tissue from a box on the counter and angrily daubed at the errant moisture.
The bell sounded. “At last.”
He would know what to do about Cassie Dixon. About how to pay her off and once and for all get her out of the sacred and ancient business of perfume, where she had no business being.
Brenda waited — just to make her visitor wonder — then set down her wineglass and steadied the slight shaking in her hands.
She crossed to the door, drew in a deep breath, and opened it.
“Fr. Byron,” she said, offering a formal hand, “how good of you to come.”
Chapter 9
The cab lurched to a halt in the driveway. Cassie snapped her cell phone shut, relieved to be home and glad she had skipped a return to the office. In another call to Mark Butterfield, she had vetoed the appearance on Letterman too, and her VP had advised her to observe a press blackout for the remainder of the day.
“What do I owe you?” she asked the driver.
He turned with a wary expr
ession, as if upon hearing the damages, she might shoot out his tires. “Lady, this not a good day for you. What you think fair?”
She only half-listened.
Mark would handle further inquiries himself. Members of the media, and a jam of news cameras and vans, were already tying up traffic in front of Azure World headquarters. Better to see how the day’s events played out on the eleven o’clock news, then get a solid night’s sleep before facing whatever tomorrow would hold.
She glanced at the meter and paid the fat bill plus a twenty-dollar tip. It was a splurge she could ill afford, but if it was the last bit of pleasure she purchased, it was worth it.
“You like moon in June — big and generous!” gushed the cabbie before screeching away.
“Big and generous is better than small and petty, no matter the bank balance.” Her mother’s credo. Cassie winced.
She napped on a couch for an hour and a half and awoke rested. A quick change and she was in the garden, tying back her hair with a neon green elastic. The best therapy in the world was a little soil and a water hose. Armed with garden snips, she gathered an armload of impossibly yellow dahlias. The scarlet ones she left alone, too reminiscent were they of all the negative ink Azure generated these days.
Equally unacknowledged was the desire to be at home in their private world when Nicky phoned to say, “Eureka! I’ve found it!” And she needed reassurance that he was all right. She should never have agreed to his one-man assault on New Guinea. But God bless Ruggers, he would not agree to reveal the location unless his friend came alone.
Call, Nicky, call!
The phone remained silent. Cassie wondered how long it would be before a zealous reporter laid hold of their unlisted number.
Night fell and the automatic yard lights came on. A car slid into the driveway, the pleasant purr of its engine testimony to Nick’s obsession with mechanical maintenance. The black Miata Cassie regretted buying lurched to a stop. Out popped Beth in white tennis shorts and blue knit shirt, a swirl of blonde curls freshly created in the latest “revolutionary cut.” She clutched three bags and a box from Nutley’s on the Ave.
Annoyed, Cassie leaned out of the bushes for a better look at the results of the panic run to J. Primo’s. So that’s what eighty dollars buys, a fashionable tumble of barely controlled anarchy.And phone access to harass one’s mother on television. What a bargain.
A stunning sixteen-year-old, Beth was a sleek product of daily swims, low-cal shakes, and good breeding. Cassie peered down the garden path past the Chilean flame trees to where her daughter, bathed in the yard lights, stood grinning for no other good reason than she was young and in love.
“We’re a little late, aren’t we?”
“Hey, Mom, I’d know you anywhere. What’s green and goes slam, slam, slam, slam?”
Cassie wiped sweat from her cheek and wondered at the good fortune of having both a priest and a daughter who cracked wise. “I don’t know,” she called, “a moldy basketball?”
Beth made the unpleasant sound of a penalty buzzer. “Nice try, though.”
“What then?”
“A four-door pickle.”
Cassie obliged with a derisive hoot. “That’s it, young lady, no more Saturday morning cartoons for you!”
Beth made a face and headed for the side entrance to the Tudor brick trilevel that overlooked San Francisco Bay.
She had loved growing up there, her mother knew. Family room and huge game room on the lower level; living room, dining room, kitchen, and spare bedroom on the main floor; and her bedroom, her parents’ master bedroom, plus a study on the upper level. It was light, airy, and smelled of citrus.
Gretchen, the Great Dane, began woofing an excited bass welcome from her dog run adjacent to the driveway. Beth set her purchases on the stoop.
“Cartoons, nothin’ — that’s an Andre original. He can rinse and tell a joke at the same time.” She said it dreamily.
“But can he cut hair?” Cassie mumbled under her breath, distractedly snipping one massive mane of yellow dahlia too close to the blossom. Louder she said, “If your comedian hairdresser is as in demand as you say he is, how does he find the time to help his clients place prank phone calls to shows like Midday?”
“Gretchen, hush! What say, Mom?” Beth unsnapped Gretchen’s leash and brought her bounding out of the run.
Cassie sighed. “I said nice style, dear. Did Andre think of that all by himself?” This relationship was no match made in heaven. Beth had a teenage crush, and Cassie could have predicted her defensive response.
“He’s a genius, Mom, practically a protégé. He’s only twenty-one and owns his own salon. He says this is tomorrow’s look. We found it in a book by Ormange. Can you believe he didn’t charge anything extra?”
“Amazing.”
“Yes, and he’s invited me to Sangrio’s for the Wednesday poetry reading. Can I go?”
“If I’m invited.” Cassie made for the house, arms profuse with blooms.
“Mom!” Beth wailed. “Gretchen, will you pipe down? Mom, I’m sixteen and five months. I do not need a chaperone to brush my teeth. Give me credit for having some sense!”
Cassie groped for the side doorknob, and Beth ran to open the door. “Did you show good sense buying out the store when you know things are tight right now? Did you show good sense placing a call while I’m on the air, knowing it would upset me? Besides, you I know about. Him I don’t know from the Jolly Green Giant. Have him over for lasagna. I promise I’ll putter in the petunias. Now, what did you buy that couldn’t have waited a couple more weeks?”
Beth buried an unpleasant response in the nape of Gretch-en’s enormous neck and avoided the question. She permitted two pounds of canine tongue to make one wet swipe across her cheek before making the dog sit and mind her manners. Then she extracted a biscuit from her shorts pocket and watched it disappear down a cavernous pink maw.
“Any news of Daddy?” She followed her mother into the house, Gretchen at her side.
Cassie flinched, though she’d known the question would come. It always came when the topic was males. Nick was more lenient, and Cassie always came out the bad guy. Maybe she should bargain with God. “Make Beth fall for the math nerd in second period, bring my husband home alive, give us the mother lode of all scents, and I’ll pad the pews, robe the choir, and buy Fr. Byron a lifetime supply of raspberry tarts. Promise!”
Instead she plopped the load of flowers onto the dining room table. She saw the worry in Beth’s eyes. An unexpected wave of cold dread broke against Cassie’s spine. “I expect a call from him by this weekend,” she said with forced calm. “Don’t stop praying and he’ll be home in no time.”
Beth ruffled the dog’s ears and permitted Gretchen to place both front paws on her shoulders. “Hear that, Gretch?” she asked the powerful creature. “Daddy needs our prayers.” Obediently the Great Dane bowed her head. Beth giggled. “Good girl, good Gretchy. Mom?”
“What, honey?” Cassie said, poking her head inside the cupboard in the adjoining kitchen where the vases were kept. She extracted two suitable ones and felt suddenly sick and apprehensive.
“Do you know the Spanish word for pickle?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“It’s zanahoria. ”
“Nice to hear you’re putting fifth-period language to good use.”
“Not really.” Beth pointed to a rug in the corner of the kitchen and Gretchen obeyed. “Andre was quizzing me and that’s one he knew.”
“Amazing. Does he know ‘back off’ in Spanish?”
“Funny, Mom. You want me to invite him to lasagna so you can strike fear in his heart?”
The ruby-colored cut glass vase showed the yellow dahlias to best advantage. Cassie stepped back and leaned against the island counter to gauge the visual impact. In resignation she said, “I swear I’ll pretend to be the maid, and no matter what he says, the answer is always ‘No comprende, señor.’ How’s that?” She went to the sink and
tossed the flower trimmings into the wastebasket.
Beth folded her arms, a favorite defensive stance. “And I swear I’ll pierce my lip with a fishhook if you so much as attempt Spanish with Andre. He’s very cosmopolitan, you know.”
“I’m sure.” She caught her daughter’s glare and hastened to add, “I’ll hang out with the toaster. You won’t even know I’m here — ”
“Listening to every word, looking for ammunition you can use against him.”
“A mother’s prerogative.” Cassie smiled. “That’s my girl. Foot rub?”
It had been ages since Beth had rubbed her mother’s tired feet. Cassie kicked off her sandals and watched her beautiful daughter wash her hands at the kitchen sink, muttering only a little. She marveled at the girl’s clear skin, shining hair by Andre, and rich, allover glow, kept golden by San Francisco tanning beds. Strong cheekbones, full lips, and warm, healthy smile. Vibrant goat girl of the Alps. Heidi with an attitude.
“What?” Beth laughed, drying her hands on a towel beside the sink. “You look like you might want to snip me off at the knees and stick me in a vase.”
Her mother nodded. “You’re about two years too wise, Miss Bethany. Let’s debrief each other’s day; then I’m going to take a quick soak and get to bed.” They sat facing one another on the dining room chairs. While Beth rubbed the ache out of Cassie’s arches, Cassie gave the abridged version of the day’s events, minus any talk of attempted robbery, bogus lawsuits, or impending bankruptcy.
Beth tried to read between the lines. It was obvious she was receiving the censored version of all that happened. Several times her mother steered down one direction of thought only to abruptly change her mind and head off on a very different tack.
Perversely, it made Beth wonder what scent would make tonight’s bath. Most of the fragrances blended at her parents’ perfume plant were too much or too little of something. They’d slaved for years hoping, dreaming, putting in the long hours in search of the perfect scent. Lately they’d been really messed up, their smell experts combining and recombining oils, extracts, and blends around the clock. Her parents were hurting, irritable, jittery, and gone much of the time. Today was the first day she’d seen her mother in the garden since . . . since she couldn’t remember when. The gardener had been let go, and the weeds had been celebrating ever since.
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