Marisol stepped back. “If that’s the case, then please come in.”
Bethany’s jaw dropped when she stared up at the hanging fixture in the town house’s entry. “Oh, my word. This place is beautiful. I should’ve hired you to decorate my house.”
“Your house is very nice,” Marisol told Bethany.
“My house looks like a museum. Your house looks like a home.”
Deanna handed Marisol the shopping bag, took off her jacket and hung it on the wall hook. “Marisol decorated my house a couple of years ago. You can always have her do yours, Bethany.”
“I’m seriously thinking about it.”
“Remember, we don’t discuss business during our luncheons,” Marisol reminded Bethany. “Now, come upstairs. Instead of eating in the dining room, I thought the solarium would be more relaxing. It’s on the third floor,” she said to Bethany. “And unlike Deanna, I don’t have an elevator.”
“And I can count on one hand how many times I’ve taken it,” Deanna said, following her hostess up the curving staircase with elaborately carved newel posts. “The only time it comes in handy is when we have guests and entertain upstairs.”
“Damon wanted to buy a house inside the Beltway, but at that time I wanted to get as far away from D.C. without moving out of Virginia. Even though Falls Church is only a little over two square miles and six miles from D.C., it still feels like a different world.”
“I’ll give you a tour after we finish eating,” Marisol promised Bethany. “One more flight and we’re there.” She glanced over her shoulder at Bethany. “The only time we dress up is when we eat out. Otherwise it’s jeans, sweats and running shoes.”
Bethany glanced down at her pumps. “I’ll remember that the next time. And the next time we’ll meet at my house.”
“Cook or catered?” Deanna asked.
“Girl, please,” Bethany drawled again. “I learned to cook as soon as I was old enough to reach the stove. Paula Deen has nothing on me when it comes to Southern cooking.”
Deanna smiled. “Collards, corn bread, potato salad and biscuits?”
“Country ham, peach cobbler, fried chicken, smothered pork chops, chicken-fried steak with white gravy—”
“Enough!” Deanna shouted. “You’re making me more hungry than I already am.”
“That does it,” Marisol announced. “The next time we meet it’ll be at Bethany’s.”
Deanna walked into the room that always reminded her of a hothouse. It was filled with potted palms, trees and exotic flowers. Marisol had set a table in a corner from which wafted the most delicious smells. She’d made it a practice not to eat breakfast before she and Marisol got together for lunch.
“Sweet Hannah,” Bethany gasped. “Why do I feel as if I’m in Hawaii with all of these orchids?”
“Try Puerto Rico,” Marisol corrected. “They’re the same variety that grows outside my cousin’s house. And because I couldn’t bring plants into the country I had to order them from an exporter. I had a hard time getting them to grow until I installed a special heating and cooling system where I could regulate the humidity. Now they’re taking over the room. I have to keep cutting them back and giving away the cuttings. Would you like a few?”
Bethany shook her head. “I’m good at growing vegetables, but not flowers.”
Marisol pointed to a door on the right. “There’s a bathroom over there if you want to wash up. As soon as I put the ice cream in the freezer we can eat. Deanna, will you please pour the cocktails?”
As promised, Marisol had fried thinly sliced green bananas, passing the plate around before she did a bowl filled with mojito—a garlic dipping sauce to top off the tostones. She’d also prepared shrimp in a garlic sauce for her guests, a savory white rice and roast chicken with a garlic rub and a green citrus salad.
“There are toothbrushes and mouthwash in the bathroom you’ll probably want to use before you leave, because with the garlic I know your breaths will be kicking.”
Bethany sat, spreading a napkin over the chocolate-brown suede skirt she’d paired with a brown turtleneck and a hot-pink suede bolero jacket and brown suede and leather boots. She was overdressed, but it was only the second time she’d met for the girlfriends’ luncheon. “Where’s your handsome husband, Mari?”
Marisol passed Bethany the plate of shrimp. “I know you’re not talking about someone’s handsome husband. Damon Paxton is as fine as they come.”
“Here, here,” intoned Deanna. “Damon is as smooth as creamy peanut butter—the type you eat out the jar with a spoon, because anything extra would spoil the taste.”
Covering her face with her napkin, Bethany blushed and laughed. “Y’all just ought to stop.”
“Es verdad,” Marisol said in agreement. “Bryce is handsome in a preppy sort of way and Spencer is cute, because his freckles make him look boyish, but Damon es todo el hombre. That’s why those other women were so angry when he married you.”
“One thing I don’t plan to do that his first wife did, and that is cheat on him.”
Deanna chewed and swallowed a forkful of salad with a delicious dressing. “So, they both were cheaters.”
Bethany kept her eyes downcast on her plate. “I know two wrongs don’t make it right, but Jean was the first to cheat on Damon. I don’t know if it was before or after she moved out of their bedroom.”
Marisol picked up the crystal goblet with the chilled pale green liquid. She took a swallow. “I really don’t like that cheating business. My dad was a married man who cheated on his wife with my mother and I was the result of that liaison. I’m not being judgmental, Bethany,” she said when seeing her pained expression, “it’s just that I pray it won’t happen with me and Bryce.”
“Have you ever suspected him of cheating on you?” Bethany asked.
A beat passed before Marisol said, “I don’t think about that. Maybe I’m in denial, but if he is, then I don’t want to know.”
“I’m with you,” Deanna said in agreement. “If Spencer is cheating I don’t want to know about it, but if it’s true then I’ll cut his balls off.”
Bethany choked. She covered her mouth, coughing until she recovered. “No. You didn’t say you’d cut his balls off.”
“Yes, I did, Beth-Ann.”
“Have you ever cheated on Spencer?” Bethany asked.
There came another pause as the three women stared at one another. “Once,” Deanna confessed. “¿Bromea, no está usted? You’re joking, aren’t you?” Marisol quickly translated.
Deanna shook her head. “I wish I was. Spencer and I were married about a year and we had a horrible fight where we both said things that should’ve never been said. I was still working at a hotel as an assistant banquet manager, so rather than go home that night I checked into another hotel across town where I’d once interned. I was in the bar drowning my sorrows with Long Island iced teas when a man sat down next to me and we began talking. One thing led to another and I ended up in his suite and in his bed. Somehow I made it back to my room and fell asleep. When I woke the next day I couldn’t remember his face or whether the sex was good or bad.”
With wide eyes, Marisol whispered, “What did Spencer say when you went home?”
“He asked me if I’d had fun staying out all night and I told him I did and thanked him for letting me see another side of his personality. Spencer isn’t as benign as he looks. South Side Red can be formidable when crossed.” It’d only been a month ago when he’d confronted Damon Paxton about flirting with her.
Marisol blinked. “Is that what people call him?”
“You mean South Side as in Chicago?” Bethany asked.
Deanna nodded. “Spencer spent the first ten years of his life there. When some gang members attempted to recruit him, his parents decided it was time to leave. You can take the thug out the ghetto, but it’s hard to get the ghetto out the thug.”
Marisol shook her head. “He really had me fooled. He’s always so polite.”
&
nbsp; “I’m not saying he isn’t polite,” Deanna said in defense of her husband. “But just don’t back him into a corner.”
“I guess you guys made up, because you’re still married,” Bethany said.
“It took about a week. We sort of tiptoed around each other, being overly polite. I’d go to bed before him, so when he got in I’d pretend to be asleep. Then I decided either I was going to try to save my marriage by offering the olive branch or end it. One morning I asked Spencer if he wanted a divorce, because I was more than willing to give him one, but he told me there wasn’t going to be a divorce as long as there was breath in his body. That night we had the best makeup sex I’ve ever had. I wish it was like that now, because we have to find time to make love to each other.”
Bethany took a swallow of her drink. “Sex is good with Damon, but for a man in his fifties he’s no longer an Energizer Bunny.”
Deanna set down her fork. “At least you’re getting some. I’m seriously thinking about buying a vibrator to take care my needs.”
Bethany waved her hand. “That’s for single women.”
“Wrong, Beth-Ann,” Deanna countered. “It’s for married women who aren’t getting enough. I’m thirty-three and sexually primed. If I were a brief or law book I’d probably see more action with Spencer than I do now. He’s gone when I get up and he doesn’t come home until I’m asleep. Most times he sleeps in one of the guest bedrooms because I don’t want him coming home and waking me up in the middle of the night.”
“Why does he come home so late?” Bethany asked innocently.
Marisol gave Bethany an incredulous stare. “Are you aware that Spencer Tyson is a hotshot D.C. attorney who puts in at least seventy to eighty hours a week representing some of the most well-heeled clients in the district?”
“And could it be that not only is he working but also may be out there tomcattin’ on his wife? Did I say something wrong?” Bethany asked when Deanna and Marisol glared at her.
“How can you be so clueless?” Marisol whispered. “You just said that Spencer is cheating on Deanna.”
“I didn’t say he was. I said maybe he was.”
“Don’t go there unless you have proof,” Marisol continued, her voice lowering as her temper spiraled.
“What if I had proof?” Bethany countered. “Would you want to know, Deanna?”
“Do you have proof that Spencer is cheating on me?” Deanna asked.
Bethany’s eyes darkened until they were mysterious purple pools. “No. I just don’t want some other woman to do to you what I did to Jean despite her messed-up relationship with Damon.” She picked up her goblet, taking a long swallow. “This margarita is fabulous, Dee. What’s in it besides tequila?”
“I always add Patron for an extra punch.”
“Right about now it’s punching back.”
Marisol dabbed the corners of her mouth. “Don’t worry, Beth. I will not let you leave my home under the influence. You can always hang out here until you feel better.”
Bethany appeared suddenly alert. “Thanks for the offer, but I know when to stop.” And she did. The few times she’d overindulged she’d said things she hadn’t meant to say. There was no way she was going to admit to Marisol or Deanna that the network hadn’t hired her to write copy, because she’d decided not to go backward. Writing copy was akin to been-there, done-that. She wasn’t an intern, but a professional journalist. Bethany also didn’t want the word to get out that she’d gone back to work because she and Damon needed an extra paycheck. After all, laws had changed with regard to lobbyists, and their influence on Capitol Hill had been curtailed dramatically.
What she did was accept Nate’s offer to write the column. Her chance of gathering information directly from Tiffany Jones had been thwarted when Tiffany and her grandson hadn’t accompanied them to see the cherry blossoms and the botanic gardens. Now it was necessary for her to pump her new friends for information she could use for the column.
“You didn’t answer my question, Marisol.”
“About what?”
“About Bryce? Where is he?”
“He’s in New Jersey.”
“He does a lot of traveling, doesn’t he?”
Marisol’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing, Bethany?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Marisol snapped angrily. “You are interviewing me.”
“No, I’m not. If I’d wanted to interview you I’d have asked you beforehand. And I usually use a tape recorder as a backup. I suppose once a reporter always a reporter. I always ask a lot of questions until I get to know someone.” Bethany threw her hands up. “No more questions.”
The three women exchanged glances until Deanna broke the uncomfortable silence. “Marisol, you’re going to have to teach me how you make your rice.”
Bethany knew only quick thinking had helped her dodge a bullet. It was apparent she’d underestimated her two new friends. They were as bright as they were talented. She’d asked too many questions too soon. It wouldn’t happen again.
Chapter Eighteen
Deanna smiled at the valet as he opened the driver’s-side door. “Thank you. I shouldn’t be longer than an hour.”
She’d gotten a telephone call earlier that morning to meet a prospective client. The man said he’d been referred to her by a couple who’d used her services for their daughter’s wedding—one of less than a half dozen she’d coordinated since establishing Tyson Planners and Events, Inc. The fall and winter months were the busiest for private parties and the spring for fundraisers. Even if she’d had a staff of assistants, Deanna still wouldn’t have been able to coordinate every event because of conflicts in scheduling. There were very few days and nights in D.C. when there wasn’t something going on in a pub, hotel, ballroom or private home. It was a very socially oriented city.
She walked through the automatic revolving door and into the lobby of the hotel where she’d interned during summers while pursuing a degree in hotel and hospitality management.
Making her way over to the hospitality desk, she gave the young woman on duty her name and asked her to ring Mr. Richard Douglas’s room. The woman pointed to a well-dressed, middle-aged man sitting in the lobby designed to resemble an oasis with a flowing fountain surrounded by exotic plants, ferns, palms and flowers.
“Mr. Douglas is sitting over there.”
“Thank you.”
Deanna closed the distance between her and the man with salt-and-pepper hair. He rose at her approach. “Mr. Douglas?” Raven-black eyes in a deeply tanned face stared at her. There was something in his bearing that communicated he wasn’t an American. He was a man of color, and she wondered from where.
Firm lips parted as he flashed a toothpaste-ad smile. He inclined his head. “Mrs. Tyson.”
“Yes.” She offered her hand and he took it, holding her fingers a bit longer than necessary.
Richard Douglas cupped her elbow. “Would you mind if we conduct our business in my suite?”
Deanna’s professional facade did not falter. The man had a slight accent, but she wasn’t able to identify it. “Yes, I would mind. We can either talk here in the lobby or in the bar.”
Richard took a step, bringing him mere inches from the event planner. “You didn’t mind coming to my suite seven years ago.”
This time Deanna’s expression changed, becoming one of shock and horror. He was the one. Richard Douglas was the man she’d slept with what now seemed a lifetime ago. She stood straighter. What were the odds of her reuniting with him after she’d revealed their liaison only two days before to Marisol and Bethany? It was as if talking about it had conjured him up.
“What took you so long to contact me?” Her voice was shaded in neutral tones. “It’s been a long time since that horrific night.”
His black eyes flickered. “Horrific for who? It certainly wasn’t for me. You were the best piece of ass I’ve ever had.” Deanna turned to w
alk away, but his hand caught her upper arm, tightening when she tried pulling away. “Please, Mrs. Tyson. Don’t make a scene. Let’s go over to the tables near the windows so we can talk like civil adults.”
Deanna knew when she’d been trapped, but she didn’t intend to stay that way. If the man intended to blackmail her, then he was in for a very rude awakening. If necessary, she would tell Spencer about the night she’d stayed over in the hotel rather than live with the fear of being publicly outed.
Richard waved to a waitress carrying a tray with drinks from the bar. “I’ll have bourbon neat and please bring the young lady a Long Island iced tea. See, I remember your drink of choice,” he said mockingly when Deanna glared at him.
Crossing one leg over the other, Deanna leaned back against the softness of the armchair. She’d debated whether to wear a skirt, but had changed into a pantsuit, saving herself the humiliation of having the lecher staring at her legs. “Big whoop,” she sneered. “You’ll have to drink it because I’m driving.”
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, Richard looped one trouser-covered leg over the opposite knee, staring at the faint pin-stripe in the dark blue wool fabric. “If you’re unable to drive, then I’ll drive you back home and have my driver follow us.”
“You’re mad if you think I’m going to let you anywhere near my home.”
He ran a hand over his straight cropped hair. “Are you concerned that your neighbors will see a strange man driving your car?”
It was becoming more and more difficult for Deanna not to lose her temper. She never would’ve met with Richard Douglas if he hadn’t been referred to her by a very reliable client who’d used her services for what had become that rare wedding where several former cabinet members, a former vice president and heads of state were attendees. What she couldn’t fathom was Richard Douglas’s connection to them.
“I’m not as concerned about my neighbors as about the man who believes he can blackmail me into sleeping with him.”
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