Capital Wives

by Rochelle Alers

  Marisol had met more quirky people than she could count on both hands and feet since she’d become a D.C.-based interior designer. Most of her clients had more money than they knew what do with it, so they called her regularly to ask whether they should buy a new rug, change a chandelier or give away all the furniture in their home to a charitable organization just to fill it up again. She found it wasn’t so much their permanent residences that prompted them to start over but their vacation properties.

  Sylvia Wardlaw had come from old, old money. Upon the advice of her financial planner, Mrs. Wardlaw had sold her home in McLean, Virginia, and had purchased a suite of rooms on the top floor of the Beaumont Hotel overlooking DuPont Circle.

  The attractive and mentally sharp octogenarian had buried three husbands and was seriously contemplating marrying a fourth, but discovered he wasn’t as wealthy as he had purported. She’d told Marisol in confidence that she’d had him investigated because at thirty years her junior she suspected he was after her money. Marisol had shaken her head, while calling him an unscrupulous scoundrel, which had endeared her to the woman.

  Sylvia nodded. “You know I trust you to always give me good advice.”

  She wanted to tell the woman her reputation was based on good advice and honesty. It didn’t matter if her clients were wealthy, Marisol wanted them to be pleased with her services.

  “Covering the settee with cream-colored silk instead of brocade will not detract from the fluid design typical of Chippendale.” The double-chair-back settee was an authentic reproduction of the high-quality colonial of American Chippendale furniture, circa 1880.

  “You know I don’t want my furniture removed from the premises,” Sylvia reminded Marisol.

  “The work can be done here. After I get in touch with the upholsterer I’ll call to let you know the dates and times he’s available. It shouldn’t take him more than two days to complete the job. Is there anything else you’d like me to help you with?” Marisol asked her best client.

  Sylvia pursed her vermilion-colored lips as she appeared to be deep in thought. “I don’t believe so, but if I think of something I’ll have Alyssa call you.” She smiled, and a network of minute lines fanned out around her cool gray eyes. “I want to thank you for recommending her as my personal assistant. I don’t know how I’ve gotten along all these years without someone like her.”

  Marisol smiled. “I’m glad I could find someone to make life easier for you.” Alyssa had been the personal assistant for a woman who’d fired her when she suspected her husband had more than a passing interest in her employee.

  Alyssa had asked Marisol if she knew of someone who needed a live-in gofer, and she had asked Sylvia, who had to have control of every phase of her day-to-day existence, if she wanted to hire a personal assistant/social secretary. It wasn’t easy for Sylvia to relinquish control of answering the telephone, reading her mail, accepting and declining invitations to various fundraisers and social events, but Alyssa had miraculously gained the woman’s confidence and in turn protected her from those who sought to take advantage of her employer’s generosity.

  “She’s my guardian angel.”

  Marisol closed the large leather-bound catalogue filled with swatches of fabric, praying Sylvia was right about Alyssa. Marisol had insisted Alyssa submit to a background check before she recommended her to her client, because she hadn’t wanted to be responsible for someone whose main focus was to work for wealthy people because of an ulterior motive. When she saw Alyssa’s boyfriend she had warned her that he was never for any reason to come to Mrs. Wardlaw’s apartment. One glance at the chronically unemployed young man spoke volumes. He wanted money, but didn’t want to work for it.

  She picked up her handbag and stood up. “Please don’t bother to get up, Mrs. Wardlaw. Alyssa will show me out.” Marisol met the young woman as she walked out of the living room. Conservatively dressed in a white blouse and a pair of black slacks, Alyssa Jenkins nodded. Her braided extensions were pulled into a ponytail.

  “I had to call Mrs. Wardlaw’s doctor this morning,” she said sotto voce.

  Marisol came to a stop in the expansive entryway. “Is she all right?”

  “She’d complained that she was feeling dizzy. The doctor said her blood pressure was slightly elevated. I guess it came from the popcorn we had last night when we were watching a movie.”

  “You have to watch her sodium intake,” Marisol whispered.

  “I know that now.”

  “I’ll probably call tomorrow to let you know when someone is going to come to replace the seat on the settee in the living room.”

  Alyssa smiled, her dark eyes sparkling in an equally dark face. “Okay.” She opened the door for Marisol, waited until she walked into the elevator, then closed and locked the door.

  Marisol flagged down a taxi, giving him her Georgetown address. She hadn’t taken her car because she hadn’t wanted to waste time trying to find a place to park. DuPont Circle wasn’t that far from Georgetown, so getting around by taxi was faster and easier.

  She barely had time to settle back in the rear seat when the driver maneuvered up in front of the three-story town house she owned with her political-consultant husband. She and Bryce used the first floor for their professional offices and the second and third as their personal residence. Marisol paid the driver, requested a receipt and exited the cab.

  She had barely put the key in the lock when the door swung open and she came face-to-face with someone she hadn’t expected to see. “Mami, what are you doing here?”

  The smile on Pilar Rivera’s face vanished quickly, replaced by a scowl. “Is that any way to greet your mother?”

  Leaning forward, Marisol pressed her cheek to her mother’s. “I didn’t expect to find you here. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” She dropped the catalogue and her handbag on a chair in the entryway and closed the door.

  Pilar stared at her daughter, seeing things only a mother would see when Marisol took off her black cashmere swing coat and hung it on a coatrack. She was dressed entirely in black: sweater, pencil skirt, stockings and suede pumps. It was as if the thirty-two-year-old interior designer with her profusion of shiny black curls framing her round face like a cameo was in mourning. Even without makeup Marisol was stunning. Her olive coloring, large dark brown eyes and delicate features conjured up one word: exotic.

  “If I’d told you I was coming then it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”

  Marisol smiled. “You’re right, Mami.” She hugged and kissed her mother. “How long are you staying?”

  “Not too long. I had some time coming to me, so I decided to take the train down to see you.”

  “Did your decision to take the train down have anything to do with you talking with my husband?”

  Pilar shook her head, salt-and-pepper curls moving with the motion. “Not really, m’ija. When I called the house this morning Bryce answered. I told him that I had a taken a few days off from my job and he invited me to come and spend a few days with you.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling me, m’ija?”

  Marisol ran her fingers through her hair, pushing a profusion of curls off her forehead. “Nothing.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Closing her eyes, Marisol exhaled an audible sigh. “Nothing, Mami. I’m just a little tired.”

  “You’re as skinny as a stick. And wearing black makes you look flaca.”

  “I’ve never been gorda,” Marisol countered, mixing her English with Spanish. What did her mother expect? She was five-three and her weight fluctuated between one hundred eight and twelve.

  “You’re still too skinny.”

  “Sí, sí, sí, Mami,” she intoned.

  “Don’t yes me, Marisol Pilar Rivera-McDonald,” Pilar shot back. “Bryce said he was going to take us out for dinner, but I’ve just decided I’d rather stay home. Go upstairs and relax while I fix
you a good Puerto Rican home-cooked meal. I already checked out your refrigerator, so you don’t have the excuse that you have nothing in the house.”

  Marisol closed her eyes and gently massaged her forehead “How do you just come to my house and take over?”

  “Easy. It’s because I’m your mother and I’m worried about you. I know you’re still having those headaches because you’re rubbing your forehead. You work too hard, don’t eat enough and the result is you’re a bag of bones. Remember, m’ija. No man wants a bag of bones in his bed.”

  “Bryce has never complained about my weight.”

  “That’s because he loves you.”

  Movement caught Marisol’s eye over her mother’s shoulder. The topic of their discussion had come out of his office. Her gaze softened when her eyes met a pair that were a shocking baby-blue. Bryce McDonald was the epitome of preppie, from his conservative haircut to his button-down shirt, cuffed slacks and wingtips. During the summer months he spent hours on the water aboard his parents’ yacht. The hot sun turned him into a golden statue with his sun-streaked light brown hair and slim, toned body.

  Marisol lifted her chin for her husband’s kiss. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  Bryce smiled, revealing a set of straight white teeth. “Pretty good. I hope you don’t mind that I invited your mother to hang out with us for the weekend.”

  Marisol placed a hand on Bryce’s back. “Of course not.”

  “I’m going to call the Equinox and see if I can get a reservation for three.”

  “Make it for tomorrow,” Pilar said. “I’m going to cook tonight.”

  Bryce stared at his mother-in-law. “Are you sure?”

  Pilar smiled. It had been six years since she’d become mother of the bride and Pilar was still shocked that her little girl had managed to marry one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors. “Very sure. Go and relax with your wife and I’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”

  Reaching for Marisol’s hand, Bryce led her into his office while Pilar walked up the staircase to the second floor. As soon as he closed the door, she rounded on him. “Why didn’t you call me to let me know my mother was coming down?”

  Cradling her face, he touched his mouth to hers. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  Marisol’s fingers went around his wrists. “It was more like a shock than a surprise. You know I didn’t schedule anything for this weekend because I wanted to be alone with you.” What she hadn’t told Bryce was that she was ovulating and if they were lucky, then they could look forward to becoming parents before the end of the year.

  Bending slightly, Bryce picked her up and carried her over to the leather sofa. He sat, bringing her down to his lap. “We’ll have many more weekends to spend together after she leaves.”

  Resting her head on his shoulder, Marisol inhaled the lingering scent of her husband’s aftershave on his lean jaw. Although he worked from home, Bryce got up every morning to shave and shower as if he were going into a traditional office, because he never knew when he would have to leave at a moment’s notice to meet with a client and/or candidate who needed his political expertise. Some men in Washington sold influence, while Bryce McDonald sold advice and strategy. His family was as entrenched in politics as some families were in banking and finance. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather had earned a reputation and amassed their wealth as power brokers.

  Marisol’s dilemma wasn’t that she didn’t love her husband, but his reluctance to go to a fertility specialist to determine if her inability to get pregnant was the result of a low sperm count. She’d tried to assure Bryce that she wasn’t attacking his virility, but if they had to resort to other measures then she wanted him to consider other options.

  His comeback was if they couldn’t have a child through the normal intercourse route, then maybe they were destined not to become parents. He followed his tirade with the statement of adoption not even being a remote possibility. It was the first time since she’d become Mrs. Bryce McDonald that Marisol had thought about seeing a divorce attorney. A two-week stay in Jamaica redesigning a client’s vacation retreat had saved her marriage. When she returned she realized she’d married Bryce because she loved him, and if they never became parents, then she would still love him.

  “The next time you invite her, please call to give me prior warning,” she crooned, placing light kisses along his jaw. “I always need to gear up before dealing with my mother.”

  Bryce’s hand was busy searching under Marisol’s sweater. He gave her breast a gentle squeeze. “Your mother is a pussycat compared to mine.”

  “My mom is pushy.”

  He laughed softly. “That’s because you’re all she has. My mother has three other children to annoy.”

  Marisol knew Bryce was right. Pilar Rivera was only seventeen when she’d found herself pregnant with a married man’s child. Her parents sent her to Puerto Rico to have the baby, and when she returned Pilar moved in with her grandmother before she finally got her own apartment in an East Harlem public housing development. Pilar went to beauty school, graduated and worked in a local hair salon for years. She had finally saved enough money to open her own salon, but six months later a fire in an adjacent restaurant destroyed her shop and half the stores and apartments on the block.

  Pilar had returned to school, this time to become a medical technician, where she’d learned to take blood pressure readings and draw blood. She applied for a position at a local medical clinic and twenty years later she was now their office manager.

  Marisol knew it hadn’t been easy for Pilar, and she struggled not to repeat her mother’s life as an unwed mother living in public housing. Unlike her mother, she didn’t have her first serious relationship until after she’d graduated college. It was when she met Bryce McDonald at a Washington Redskins football game that she knew she had met her soul mate. Their six-month I-95 courtship ended when Bryce asked her to relocate from New York to D.C.—as his wife.

  What Marisol had planned as a small gathering quickly became an extravaganza when Bryce’s parents invited politicians, elected officials and several heads of state. Her family was definitely outnumbered, and she sought to even the odds when she invited many of her Puerto Rican relatives—some of whom had never left the island—to her nuptials. The highlight of the reception was when the Latin band began playing salsa, mambo, meringue and samba. Her relatives had put on a dancing exhibition that was still talked about when Marisol and Bryce returned from their two-week Mediterranean honeymoon.

  “What are you doing?” Marisol whispered when Bryce shifted her off his lap and pressed her down to the sofa.

  “I’m going to make love to my wife.”

  She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back. “No! My mother will hear us.”

  Bryce left Marisol staring at him as he stood up, locked the door and turned on a radio, increasing the volume until the thumping baseline beat reverberated off the walls. She was still staring with wide eyes when he began to undress. This was a side of her husband she had never seen before, but she wasn’t going to complain if their lovemaking resulted in her becoming pregnant.

  Smiling, she beckoned him closer. “Venga aquí, Papi.” Speaking Spanish to Bryce, although he didn’t understand the language, turned him on.

  Marisol took off her sweater, dropping it to the floor. Her shoes, skirt and stockings followed. Bryce was naked and fully aroused when she unhooked her bra and added it to the pile of clothing. Going to her knees, she slid her hands down her waist to her hips, pushing the narrow elastic waistband off her hips and down her thighs. By the time the panties joined the discarded clothing Bryce was between her legs, pushing inside her.

  There was no foreplay, no whispered words of affection as Bryce made love to her like a man possessed. His heavy breathing, grunts and groans aroused Marisol until she felt as if she was coming out of her skin. Raising her legs, she looped them around Bryce’s waist, allowing for deeper penetration. Her whole body sh
uddered as passion made her its captive and pleasure, pure and explosive, ripped through the area between her thighs. She was on fire! Bryce was on fire as an inferno engulfed them both in flames that would only be quenched when they climaxed simultaneously.

  “Harder, harder,” she gasped when she felt the beginnings of an orgasm. “Harder, dammit!”

  Grasping her buttocks, Bryce gripped the firm flesh as he went to his knees and thrust over and over into her moist warmth. Every time he made love to Marisol it was like the first time. He’d slept with a lot of women, yet collectively they couldn’t compare to the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with. He felt the tightening in his scrotum that indicated he was about to ejaculate. His fingers dug into her flesh as he pulled back one last time and then plunged into her vagina, holding her fast as he felt the rush of semen that stopped his heart for several seconds as he experienced le petit mort.

  Completely spent, Bryce collapsed on Marisol’s writhing body, smiling as her gasps of fulfillment echoed in his ear. Yes, making love to her was just like the first time—exciting and fulfilling. And he would always remember the first time he saw her sitting in the stadium screaming at the top of her lungs because the Redskins were beating her favored New York Giants. Her hair was longer, a mass of raven curls falling around a doll-like face with expressive dark eyes. Physically, she was the complete opposite of the girls he’d dated, but there was something about the petite exotic beauty that had made him want to know her better. They’d programmed each other’s numbers into their cell phones and he waited a week before calling her.

  What had begun as a telephone courtship segued to driving to New York City to take her out. Although she’d shared an apartment with another woman, she wouldn’t permit him to sleep over, nor would she sleep with him at his hotel.