CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

Brock lifted his glass in a belated toast. No words. The glasses clinked. The Greeks used to say we could see the wine, smell it, taste it and even touch it, but to toast was to hear it. Finally, he spoke.

  “What’s gonna be in your next issue, Ms. Magazine?” he asked.

  “Besides nearly naked men?”

  “Just waiting for you to ask me to pose for you. But yeah, I’m talking who you gonna nail next?”

  “Afghanistan. A brilliant female doctor named Dhurra Sulayman. She’s been chastised and abused. Even tortured. And she’s given us an exclusive.”

  Brock contemplated his wine, twirling it for its rich legs trickling down the inside of the glass. “I’m guessing that took some guts. I’m proud of you.”

  “Not me. The doctor! She’s the one with the courage. I’m just the medium for her to get her message out.”

  “I heard about that runway model. Ugly.”

  “Ugly, but I guess she shouldn’t have been hanging around a laundromat in the wee hours with a fucking emerald on her finger that rivaled the Hope Diamond.” I immediately wished I hadn’t said that.

  Brock nodded with a gentle smile that told me he was proud of me, no matter what. We sat in our old familiar comfortable silence, the only voice—that of the waves crashing below us.

  “Have you broken in this new deck of yours?” He tilted his brow and studied me as if analyzing my batting stats in some pre-game coaching conference.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Have you made wild and mad and passionate love in the arms of a capable man, right here with this full moon and the ocean waves crashing behind you, in rhythm with your own movements?”

  A muscle quivered somewhere down my spine and through to my inner thighs. Flesh quivered, too, of that I was certain. I thought about my bedroom and getting that sexy man smell layered between my new sheets and my skin. I was open to alternative suggestions.

  “Let’s see. Carly was here to introduce me to my new posh possessions, Sterling came by for dinner, and I’ve interviewed a housekeeper. None of them are my type for breaking in a deck.”

  “Too bad.”

  The beach was deserted. The moonlight—intoxicating. I knew Brock would spend the night with me afterward, like he always did after we made love, or had sex, or whatever it was we did so well.

  Without words, I went inside and retrieved my old plaid stadium blanket. Within minutes, per our usual M.O., we were naked in a tangled heap of flesh on top of the scratchy wool.

  He had no idea how long it had been for me, I thought, but for the last time we were together. In the bungalow. When I wanted him to spend eternity with me but was too stupid to ask him to stay even for another day.

  We thrust forward and rolled back like a ride on Space Mountain with all the dangerous curves, twists and hard bumps, with more to follow, and then we silenced our bodies, perfectly still. He pulled up from me and instinctively nibbled and tantalized me into ecstasy. Sensing I’d brought him to his own urgent needs, I pulled back. And then I pushed. I gave him all of what was me, and he responded. The ocean waves were no match compared to the undulations of our synchronized bodies.

  Brock reached for something from his jeans pocket next to chest. He raised it to my nose.

  “Take a whiff, Laurs. You’ll like it.”

  I recognized it instantly. “What the fuck?”

  Jumping up from our tussled blanket, I covered myself with what was left of my crumbled clothes.

  “What’s the matter with you, woman?” Brock looked shocked more than angry, as if I were the problem.

  “Get out!”

  “It’s just a little amyl nitrate. What the hell’s the big deal?”

  “Get out, Brock. Now,” I shrieked, tossing his clothes at him.

  “You crazy bitch. Laurs. What’s the matter with you?”

  I didn’t wait for him. I grabbed what I could to further shield my body and stormed into my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

  He’d get my picture, baseball legend that he was. Only my rules were two strikes and you’re out.

  A vial of amyl nitrate? I’d never seen it before, but I knew what it was and I absolutely knew how Brock got it. It was a classic. It was Sterling Fall’s trademark post-coital indulgence.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Session for Sanity

  COAL SMILED, REVEALING perfect white teeth and dimples, “Thank you for escorting Ms. Visconti in to see me and holding her accountable for getting here,” he teased.

  He took Carly’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as he watched her from behind John Lennon-type wire-rimmed glasses, only much darker than Lennon’s preferred rose tint. It proved to be a simple but effective way of signaling it was time for her to go. I’d noticed that technique before.

  As Carly walked out onto the grounds she turned back, “Dr. Coal. You’re helping so many people. I’m grateful to have you in my life.”

  Coal flipped on a tape recorder. He saw the instant hesitation register across my face. “I keep the recordings under lock and key. They are confidential. Everything that occurs between us is confidential. But when I talk to you I want to listen. I don’t want to be taking down cryptic notes. I find it’s far more effective this way. Okay?”

  “Sure.” I guess so.

  “This is just an introductory session, Lauren. Nothing heavy, I promise.”

  He pointed to the pillows on the floor, and seeing again there were no seating options outside of the simple Scandinavian desk, I propped myself up in a corner of pillows, mortified with my too short skirt, my too high Manolo Blahnik heels, and the captivating if not commanding charisma of my newly appointed therapist.

  He asked me core questions about my background, reviewed the notes on the oral interview I’d provided, and scoured my completed questionnaire. My novella. If he knew what he was doing, there was no out for me. The conversation would quickly turn to the subject of love and death.

  “For starters,” he said, “maybe you need to realize how lucky you are. I know it might sound trite, but you’ve heard the old saying, ‘it’s better to have loved and lost’.”

  I found it very trite but I said nothing. And he was good. There we were on the subject of death. Opening line.

  “It seems to me as if you’ve had a life rich in wonderful relationships. Loving relationships. Do you know how many people I see going through life with no love at all? Not the love of a good parent, a sibling, a companion? Not even a good friend.”

  “So you’re saying I’m spoiled rotten and should count my blessings.”

  He chuckled, “Well, that’s being a bit hard on you, Lauren, but it does bring up a second point. You’re more than just a bit hard on yourself, aren’t you?”

  I noted that I was no longer Ms. Visconti, but surely that’s not what broke the ice that sealed my soul. I really don’t have an explanation. In less than thirty minutes this man penetrated my very being and began dissecting the vessels of my pain. Somehow he made me feel stronger, without all the psychiatric ‘you-talk, I listen’ bullshit. He engaged in conversation with me. And I talked. I still wore the veil of the newest poor little rich girl, but I wasn’t hiding behind it. I talked about my family. I even fumbled through my handbag and produced photographs of all of them. I talked about my engagement. And the plane crash. With each story, an ounce of weight lifted from my heart.

  Until I got to Payton. Payton was fresh death. Unacceptable death.

  Dr. Coal ended our session. I’d only been at The Centre for an hour.

  “We have a gathering, third Saturday of every month. Food, a little wine if you like, and a nice talk. If it fits for you, join us. Meanwhile, let’s get together again sometime next week. You can sign up for an hour on our website calendar. And you’ll always know I’ll give you a full hour.”

  Only then did I realize he didn’t wear any jewelry, including a watch. I hadn’t even seen a wall clock, as during our session I myself had to sneak glances down at my Rolex se
veral times.

  Lauren Visconti would have found this too much. Too soon. Too much vulnerability. Instead, I found hope. I was hurting, and I’d finally found a road to kill the pain. Or at least, ease it.

  Two young boys gathered outside his office. They peered in, since there was no door, but immediately backed away when they saw me with the doctor.

  He reached his hand over to mine in one swift motion. He gently squeezed my fingers and pulled his glasses down from his face with his other hand. His eyes confirmed it was time for me to go. It was the end of my session.

  “Hey, Lauren,” he called after me. “Next time, wear sweats and sneakers!” he teased.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  For Better or Worse

  MY WEDDING DRESS. AGAIN. Cut low in the back. Braided silk pulled tight across my waist. The gown cascades to the floor in layers of scalloped edging.

  I can’t make out who is walking me down the aisle. My father’s dead. It can’t be him.

  The music is too loud.

  My wedding dress is made of paper.

  Please! Please! Who is walking me down the aisle? His face is blurred. His body—abstract.

  The tang of smoke fills my lungs. The funneled wind fuels the flames of fire. My escort drops my arm and falls away from me, engulfed in a bonfire of human flesh.

  Why am I the only one not burning?

  The phone rang and I reached for it, grateful for the interruption from the nightmare even though receiving a call at three in the morning is most always unwelcome news.

  “You’re in danger. If you keep at it you’re the only one to blame.”

  The line went dead. I checked the caller I.D. and it read Pay Phone. It also showed a number. I called it back only to have it ring and ring. The area code smacked with familiarity. Chicago.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Prime Rib and Cacti

  GABRIELLA CRISCIONE HELD her legendary dinner parties four times a year, always avoiding any major holiday. She wanted no competition. Nothing to detract from her imprint as the fairest real estate agent of all. And four times a year even some well-known celebrities found themselves rifling through their mail and making last minute pleas or bribes if they didn’t make the guest list. She knew if such a thing existed she would own the Oscar for dinner parties.

  For those that might arrive without a chauffeur the valets lined up in front of Gabri’s digs, hustling keys and cars in a stream of headlights.

  I never flourished in a flowing gown the way a woman should. Or better put, I languished without a man at my side. Don’t ask me why. Ego. Loneliness. Abandoned by an always elusive love. Or a dead one. I took a deep breath and told myself I wasn’t just a sketch of a figure in an artist’s pad of forgotten drawings. I was real. Full color. Three dimensional.

  Reaching to accept the hand of the valet as I stepped from my car, a second hand appeared.

  “What a nice surprise, Dr. Coal,” I responded to his touch. Uncomfortable in my choice of dress in front of him—a clingy red off-the-shoulder number, with the CFM shoes to match. Thank god I had left the boa at home.

  Coal didn’t stray from his casual whites, although again I noticed his sunglasses. It reminded me of something. Someone. His sandals were replaced with white loafers. No socks.

  “Don’t you think you should call me Harlan tonight? It would be less awkward for both of us.”

  Harlan. For the night. “I didn’t realize you were a friend of Gabri’s,” I said.

  “I’m not. Not really. She helped your friend Carly close escrow on her home with us at The Centre. To tell you the truth, I think our hostess du jour is doing a little background investigation as far as I’m concerned.”

  He must have seen the probing question in my eyes.

  “No problem,” he added. “I understand she’s just concerned, and I think I’ll pass her test just fine.

  “You look beautiful tonight, Lauren.”

  The flattery caught me off guard. I must have blushed to a shade more crimson than my dress but he didn’t seem to notice. He took my arm, escorting me through Gabriella’s massive double door entry.

  I didn’t care much for Gabri’s taste in decorating. She seemed to be stuck in some Gothic romance novel, starting with the moat that surrounded her home, and then there was the full suit of armor that greeted guests in the darkened gray entrance. Not exactly a warm welcome. Cold slate floors and dark walnut walls completed the sense of austerity. Dark low ceilings with cavernous hallways added to the gloom. The severe ambience never seemed to fit with the feisty Italian woman that was worth a laugh a minute. Instead, I saw haunted halls.

  “You’ve come together!” Gabri squealed upon seeing us.

  I shot a glance at Dr. Coal—Harlan, who quickly informed our hostess that we’d only met outside.

  “Call it intuition, but I must have known something, darling,” Gabri said to me with a wink, “as I’ve seated Dr. Coal between you and me at the dining table.”

  In all, thirty-two of us gathered around Gabri’s dinner table. It could have seated more, and had on many occasions. The aroma of prime rib, divine polenta bathed in garlic, and the faint but deliciously sweet scent of sinful desserts greeted us as we took our appointed chairs.

  I tried not to look at Sterling and Brock, sitting next to one another. Had Gabri known this would be like a knife to my back? Of course not. That was my choice. I dismissed the idea.

  A full slab of prime rib arrived by servants. Gabri eagerly stood to receive the carving knife.

  “My father was a surgeon,” she laughed. “Only I carve the meat at my table.” She finessed the beef in such a way the rest of us sat in full appreciation of her skills.

  “Dr. Coal, tell us about yourself,” Gabri engaged everyone’s attention from the head of the table as the meat was portioned out to the guests by the staff. Indeed Harlan Coal would be put under the microscope for the evening.

  “I’m afraid I’m a little boring, Ms. Criscione, considering this magnanimous audience. What about you? How is it you came to be one of the top real estate agents in the country?”

  Gabri didn’t miss a beat to talk about herself. “That’s easy. I’m old and I’m fat, so my looks aren’t threatening to the Hollywood wives, even though I have a pair of the only real boobs in California.”

  “Not exactly true,” flat-chested Sterling piped in.

  Gabri continued to probe Coal but received little back. He skillfully turned the conversation around every time she asked a question of him. I delighted in his ability to frustrate the hell out of our nosey hostess. I guessed it to be in the nature of his work that made him the superior inquisitor.

  He turned the attention toward me. “Tell us about your magazine. What’s new?”

  “The current month’s issue is out. All produced here in Los Angeles and from our new headquarters. But for most, it will seem old news,” I said. “My photographer, Sukie Fields, offered to take one more traveling gig. A big one. She went on-location to Afghanistan. Plenty of women’s issues there. We arranged for an interview with a woman of blighted power.”

  “Pretty easy thing to do,” Brock said, as if he hadn’t heard about the story before.

  I ignored the comment. “A doctor. She put herself in great danger by even seeing us, and we all knew it. We have photos. We have storylines. We have names.

  “The response has been huge. I think she’ll be coming here to L.A. soon for a lecture tour at some of the major universities.”

  Suddenly embarrassment flushed and marred my face. I was sitting across the table from the famous documentary movie producer, Jack Helms. Doubt began turning my color to gray as my words turned to mush. Here I was, a lowly publisher, pitching my magazine in front of one of the most respected producers in Hollywood. “But surely some of you have more fascinating stories to share.” I deferred my gaze over to Helms.

  Helms jumped at the chance to seize and dominate the conversation. I might have regretted letting go t
he spotlight if I’d only known how far he would run with it.

  He sat next to Carly. It appeared to me that pure instinct told him getting lucky with Carly would not be in the cards. He turned his shoulder away from her and more toward the other females at the table, me included.

  “My new film project is up and running. Anyone care to hear?”

  Applause. Applause. Hollywood style. From our chairs we all blew kisses to his cheeks. I had no doubt he imagined those kisses landing on other more prominent body parts.

  He waiting with great pause for the quiet of anticipation, then whispered in a husky voice, “Missing Children”.

  “Not exactly a new subject, Jacko,” another guest jeered.

  “This will rock and shock,” the producer barked back. “Documented death. A blind eye to the worst secrets you can imagine. Even those of us without children—we fear it but we never face it unless it faces us and takes up residence in our souls. Hell, each and every one of us sitting here even helps cause it. I’m telling you, there’s a rhythm to it I will set to music.”

  “You can be a prick, Helms,” Gabri said.

  “Yes. A fucking cactus in the middle of the desert,” Helms replied to our hostess, “but I’m one of those rare giants, you know. The saguaro, with looming arms full of those pricks.”

  Cactus. Saguaro. Tucson. Payton.

  Nausea engulfed me. Gabri’s succulent prime rib suddenly looked like human flesh and body parts.

  “Excuse me, I said, and departed the table.

  When finally I emerged from the powder room Harlan Coal was sitting on the slate floor in front of me. He looked up with an engaging smile. He held up two glasses of warmed brandy and swung his head to one side, indicating a spot next to him.

  I kicked off my pumps, hiked up my red gown, and sat on the cold surface of the floor next to him.

  “Tragedy is a fact of life, my dear Lauren,” he whispered.

  “I’d rather pay more taxes.”

  He smiled again, then put his arm loosely around me. We sat propped up against Gabri’s cold wall.

  “But Helms is right about something,” I added.