“Maybe we should list your room number,” she suggested.
Gabrielle took a good look at the woman sitting across from her. She had a protective, grandmotherly presence about her. Maybe she should tell her the truth. Maybe Beatrice could help. Maybe Gabrielle had no other choice.
“I’m living in the bathroom on the third floor,” she answered softly.
“We can’t have that,” Bea declared. For the next few minutes Gabrielle watched Beatrice complete the rest of the application without asking her a single question. “There you go,” she said, smiling and very pleased with herself. “You have an address, phone number, and reference—mine. Now, gather your belongings. You’re coming home with me.”
“But you don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do. You’re from Indiana, you’re a Pisces, and you’re alone. What more do I need to know?”
Nothing. But I can’t keep this secret forever. If I move in with you, you’re hound to find out. But what other option do I have? she asked herself as she reached for her bag.
“And this, my dear, is your room,” Bea announced at the final stop of their tour.
Gabrielle stepped into the room and glanced around. It was sparsely furnished, with a twin bed covered in a yellow flowered spread and an old bureau taking up the majority of space. A table and stuffed chair sat in the corner. It was simple and small, but who cared? This morning she’d been living in a bathroom. This afternoon she had a home.
“I love it. Thank you. There’s just one thing. I won’t be able to pay you for a while, not until I start my job.”
“Honey, don’t you worry about that. This house is bought and paid for. When you can afford it, we’ll talk. Now, you get settled in. I’m going downstairs to finish writing some letters. If you get hungry, help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen. Stephanie Bancroft, the girl that stays in the room next door, should be home soon. She’s rather quirky, but she’s okay.”
It didn’t take Gabrielle long to unpack. Besides her clothes, she’d brought few personal items. On top of the table she placed a picture of herself and Helene, taken on a merry-go-round when Gabrielle was four. Gabrielle placed a Raggedy Ann doll in the chair and threw her mom’s favorite shawl across the back. She put the box containing the pieces to her favorite jigsaw puzzle—the New York skyline—in the bottom drawer of her dresser. The last thing she unwrapped was a cheap dime-store snow globe. She shook the globe and watched the plastic snow fall around the feet of the Wizard of Oz characters. She’d debated over bringing it. The memories it evoked were strong and painful. It reminded her of Tommy, and no matter how desperately she wanted to forget, he’d always be a part of her.
The rumbling in her stomach reminded Gabrielle that she hadn’t eaten since this morning’s muffin. She headed down to the kitchen for a late lunch. She hit pay dirt in the first cabinet she tried, pulling from it a small can of tuna. She opened the tin and spooned its contents into a bowl. Gabrielle looked into the refrigerator and located some mayonnaise and relish. Before she had a chance to mix the ingredients, the front door opened and a large cat darted into the kitchen, hopped up onto the counter, and began eating Gabrielle’s lunch.
“I swear, that cat can smell an Amoré tuna dinner a block away,” Stephanie informed her. “Who are you?”
“Gabrielle. I’m the new boarder,” she explained weakly. Gabrielle felt like vomiting. She’d been making tuna salad out of cat food.
“Thanks for feeding Barclay. Usually I get stuck doing it,” Stephanie said, curiously examining the condiments lined up on the counter. It looked as if the girl was making lunch. Nah, it couldn’t be, Stephanie thought, dismissing the notion from her mind. She couldn’t help staring at Gabrielle through skeptical eyes. The woman had a body like a centerfold and a face that could stop rush-hour traffic. And in all probability her eyes were truly blue. “By the way, his bowl is out by the back door.”
“Ah, my cat … back home … ate tuna … the way we did,” Gabrielle explained weakly.
Why aren’t you here to help me? Gabrielle screamed in her head at her mother. You promised you’d always be here to take care of me. I almost ate cat food. There was no cat on the label, only words. How was I supposed to know? Why did you leave me?
“So, where did Beatrice find you?” Stephanie asked. “Hello. Gaby? Anybody home?”
“What?” She hadn’t heard a word.
“I asked you where you met Beatrice.”
“I—we—I’m sorry,” she cried as she ran out of the room.
“Oh, great,” Stephanie said to the cat. “Beautiful and flaky.”
6
“Damn it, it’s been six years. Just when do you think you’ll be ready?”
Felicia grimaced. Now was not the time to get into this touchy subject. In just one hour she was due in Peter Montell’s office. If the presentation went well this morning, at least two of her professional problems would be solved. The last thing Felicia needed on her mind was Trace and her untried reproductive system.
“How many times do we have to go over this? We decided to wait until I got the business up and running before we started a family.”
“No. We didn’t decide anything. It was you who decided that your little PR business was more important than having our baby.”
“That’s not fair, Trace. W and A is not more important than having a baby with you, but it is important to me.” Felicia was trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt. Just as Trace could not understand her reluctance to start a family, neither could she understand his hurry. She was only twenty-eight. What was the rush?
“If Wilcot and Associates is not more important,” Trace challenged, emphasizing his displeasure at the use of her maiden name, “then why did you move your office out of the apartment?”
Felicia was trying hard to maintain her cool, but her husband was making it very difficult. Trace knew perfectly well that he was the reason she’d moved her office. As long as their home was also her place of business, he saw her work as a hobby, something to occupy her time after the housework was done, his dinner cooked, and his shirts retrieved from the laundry. While she worked at home, Trace had refused to take her seriously. “I needed more room,” she said, reluctant to reopen that delicate topic.
“So for a few more square feet you’ve put so much pressure on yourself to bring in business just to pay your bills, it could be years before you make any money. Your Madison Avenue address is eating up all your profits. Here you may have been more cramped, but your overhead was nil. I paid all your bills and gave you an allowance.”
Trace had a point. With her overhead so much higher, Felicia had placed herself in the uncomfortable position of merely trying to survive, let alone grow. “I’ve told you how much I appreciate your monetary support, but this is something I want to do on my own.”
“I can’t believe how selfish and spoiled you can be. It’s all about what Felicia wants. What about what I want?”
“Trace Gordon, don’t you dare talk to me about being selfish. This whole argument is taking place because you’re not getting what you want, when you want it. You’re looking for a nice little wife whose only function in life is to cater to you and your whims.” Felicia grabbed her briefcase and headed toward the door. “I’m not that woman, Trace. Not anymore.”
“What’s so wrong with wanting a wife who puts her husband first?”
“What’s so wrong with wanting a husband who doesn’t live in the Stone Age? I don’t have time for this, I have a meeting.”
What the hell is happening to us? Felicia thought, slamming the door behind her. She and Trace couldn’t go for one week without having a major argument, to say nothing of the minor spats that peppered the days in between. Felicia felt as if she were suffocating under his constant demands and chauvinistic attitudes. She hadn’t vocalized it, but wanting to get her business solidly off the ground was the least of her reasons for not getting pregnant. Bringing a child into the instability of their marr
iage was not only unfair, it was crazy. Until she was sure she and Trace could get back on track, there would be no baby.
“Ms. Wilcot, please come in,” Peter Montell said, ushering her into his plush office.
“Thank you, Mr. Montell.”
“Call me Peter. I understand that yours is one of the best minority firms in the business.”
Inwardly Felicia cringed at his words. She did not want to be known as a good black firm, just a good firm. Period. She was tired of the large companies thinking that a business like Wilcot & Associates was capable of working only on minority-related accounts. She wanted to work on the major-market pushes. But she had to get her foot in the door somehow, so she smiled and let the comment slide.
“Can I get you anything before we begin? Coffee? Tea?”
“A glass of water would be nice.” Suddenly the inside of her mouth had turned to dust. Felicia had heard through the grapevine that hers was the last presentation. While creating the campaign, she had thought it was unique as well as effective, but now, standing in this office, her confidence waned.
“Thank you,” Felicia said, accepting the drink. “I know what a busy man you are, so if you’re ready to begin …”
“The floor is yours.”
Felicia took a sip of her water and began her presentation. “Peter, your goal is to expand Montell’s share of the black market. Your idea of beginning this expansion with the introduction of your new wine cooler is a good one, but you’re caught in a rather delicate situation. You could run into problems if it’s not handled correctly. My firm is prepared not only to help you successfully launch your product but to enhance your company image as well.”
“To what kind of problems are you referring?”
“The kind that several years ago caused G. Heileman Brewing Company to pull Power Master, a malt liquor aimed at the black community, off the market. They spent a lot of time and money defending their honor. In fact, as you may recall, the company eventually went bankrupt.”
“Go on.”
“What Heileman saw is the same thing you do—a large, profitable consumer base. What they didn’t seem to understand is that it’s socially irresponsible to target low-income populations who already suffer disproportionately higher rates of alcohol-related problems.” Felicia paused to take another sip of water and to assess Peter’s interest in what she was saying. She knew she was taking a big chance, but—like him or not—Lexis Richards’s argument made a lot of sense. This was the only way she could work on this account and live with herself.
“What Wilcot and Associates is proposing is an integrated advertising and public-relations campaign targeted at the middle-class African-American community. We will position your product as the champagne of wine coolers. When people hear the name Montell, not only will they associate it with good times on the finer side of living, they’ll know they’re supporting a company that cares about them.”
“And how will we do this?”
“By sponsoring The American Spirit Celebration, an exhibition tour of the National Black Rodeo.”
“A rodeo? With black cowboys?”
“Most people don’t know that in the Old West one out of three cowboys was black. Ever heard of Bill Pickett?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“He was the first black rodeo star and the originator of steer wrestling,” Felicia revealed.
“Interesting. Let’s hear the rest of your idea.”
“We’ll target five cities—Los Angeles, New York, Washington, D.C., Atlanta, and Chicago—all cities with a considerable population of well-to-do African-Americans.”
Felicia observed Peter’s thoughtful nod and continued her pitch.
“One month before the tour Montell would sponsor an art exhibit showcasing black participation in the settlement of the American West. The evening before the rodeo we’d hold a fundraiser at the gallery, inviting the city’s elite—both black and white. All proceeds would be matched by the company and go toward the Montell Spirits Pioneer Scholarship Fund, a fund we set up to award outstanding young minority students studying math and science.”
“A very ambitious plan, Ms. Wilcot, but I don’t see how we could pull off something of this magnitude and still meet our target date.”
Felicia hesitated a moment and quickly reviewed her options. No matter how she sliced it, she had only one. “Peter, I must be candid. The tour is already in place. I have been working with the National Black Rodeo for over six months, but without the benefit of a major sponsor like Montell, we aren’t able to move ahead. And while I’ve spent untold hours working on a separate and unique presentation for your product launch, in the end, no other idea seemed as ingenious or potentially successful.”
Peter Montell sat at his desk, his face devoid of expression. Felicia couldn’t tell if she had made any kind of impression at all—good or bad. He took a deep breath, exhaled loudly through his nose, then removed his glasses and began to clean them. “It’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
Felicia’s heart dropped. She’d failed.
“But I like it. It’s innovative, it combines the worlds of art, sport, and education, and it shows the community we care. Give me a day or two to run the idea past some of my vice presidents,” Peter said, enthusiastically shaking her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
Felicia felt like screaming as she hung up the phone. She wanted to do back flips and sing a song. Instead she settled for a quick victory lap around her desk. Less than an hour after she’d returned to her office, Peter Montell had called with the good news: The account was hers, and the budget was just the way she liked it—big. To top that off, Keep the Faith Records had also decided to retain her services. With these new accounts she would be able to afford Stephanie full-time, thus allowing Felicia to concentrate on bringing in new clients.
“Felicia, your husband called while you were on the phone. He wants you to call him back.”
Felicia debated returning Trace’s call. She decided against it, preferring to savor her good news alone. Trace seemed to become increasingly difficult with every new account she picked up. The fact that she was reluctant to share even good news with her husband struck Felicia as a sad commentary on the state of their relationship.
“Okay. And Steph, we got the Montell account.”
“I figured as much when I heard you running around. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. This means we have a lot of work to do. I’d like to talk to you about coming on full-time.”
“Let me think about it,” Stephanie said, getting back to her desk to deal with the messenger walking through the door. Working a few hours a day was one thing, but being Felicia’s full-time flunky was an entirely different matter. Stephanie had people to see and places to go, and unless Felicia was going to help her with that, she saw no point in subjecting herself to this drudgery on a nine-to-five basis.
7
Stephanie swore as she crushed this latest rejection letter in her hand. Out of six simultaneous submissions, she’d received in return six letters saying “Thanks, but no thanks” to her story on city bartenders. It was time to face the fact: Without any writing income, she was going to have to work full-time with Felicia.
“Now what?” she murmured, hearing a knock on her door. Can’t my life fall apart without an audience? “It’s open.”
“Hi. Have you seen Bea?” Gabrielle asked.
“No, but I haven’t been looking,” Stephanie barked.
“Are you okay?”
“Read this,” Stephanie said, thrusting the crumpled sheet in Gabrielle’s face. “If this were the third kiss-off letter you’d received this week, would you be okay?”
Gabrielle glanced at the letter. By all appearances, she looked sincerely interested as she perused the brief communication. Inside she was shaking.
“What’s wrong with these stupid editors?” Stephanie raged. “Don’t they know insightful prose when they see it? Obviously not, judging from these
fill-in-the-blank form letters they send out. They don’t even have the imagination to reject me with style. Whose ass do I have to kiss to get something published?”
“No wonder you’re upset,” Gabrielle said, mentally thanking Stephanie for supplying her with the necessary clues to continue this conversation. “You really love to write, don’t you?”
“Have you ever wanted something so bad that it consumed your entire life? No matter how hard you tried to forget about it and let it go, it just kept coming back—strong as ever.”
Every time I look at a book or a magazine, a street sign, or the label on a can of food. Each time I think, This is it. This will be the day when all these letters come together and make sense. But they never do. “I always dreamed about being a model.”
“I’ve wanted to be a famous writer since the first time I picked up a pen. I published my first story when I was eight years old. I wrote about my dog, Brewski, and the Sunday News published it. The first time I saw my words in print, I was hooked. I knew right then I wanted to be a writer.
“Your parents must have been very proud.”
“Oh, yeah. They were real proud, all right,” Stephanie remembered bitterly. “My dad never got around to reading my story. Said he would, but then a fight came on, and that was that. And my stepmother was so proud, she used my story to wrap the garbage.”
Gabrielle could see that Stephanie’s memories were painful. “You want to go to the movies with Beatrice and me?” she asked.
“Can’t. Jack will be here soon. I’m cooking dinner for him. Which reminds me, we’re almost out of soy sauce and it’s your turn to do the household shopping tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on, Stephanie, trade with me. I’ll do the laundry again,” Gabrielle pleaded.
“Forget it. I’m not schlepping around the grocery store while you sit back with a book waiting for the spin cycle to finish. Why is it such a big deal?”
“I just hate grocery-shopping,” Gabrielle said, not willing to reveal the difficulty shopping presented her. Buying for herself was easy because she’d learned to recognize the labels and logos of her favorite foods, and her list rarely varied. Gabrielle was a loyal brand shopper. Since she couldn’t read the labels, generic store brands were out as far as she was concerned, even though years buying name brands had cost her hundreds of dollars.
Read Between the Lies Page 4