by Stone, Jean
She held up her hand. “Not so fast. Not until you agree you’ll do it.”
“Double my rate?”
Alissa nodded.
“Plus first-class expenses?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Gordon. But I suspect money isn’t your bottom line.”
He smiled again. “First-class expenses?”
“Yes. Yes. All right.”
“Okay. You’ve got a deal. But only because you’re a friend of Meg’s.”
So that was it. It was Meg. The buttoned-up attorney had this hunk of a guy by his emotional balls. “Then let’s get started,” Alissa said. “I’ve got a family waiting for me in Atlanta, and I can’t spend the rest of my life in New York.”
Later that night, back home in Atlanta, Alissa sat, her feet tucked beneath her, on the leather sofa in her library, wondering if she would need any more charity balls if Jay was in her life again. Still, it would be nice to have both. Then the issue of getting rid of Robert would take care of itself. She could get on with her life, and Robert would fade into the sunset. There would be no humiliation of people discovering he was gay, for she would be the one to make the break, she would be the one to be reunited with her one true love, and who could argue with that?
She heard the door slam. She heard footsteps in the foyer. Robert’s footsteps. Alissa felt nauseous.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re home.” He stood at the French doors leading into the library. His face was pale, sheepish.
“The last time I checked, I still lived here.”
He hesitated in the doorway, as though he was unsure if he would be welcome to join her. “How was the spa?”
She swung her legs onto the floor and sat up. “Robert, we have to talk.”
“I know.”
He stayed where he was. Alissa sighed. “Then for chrissakes, come in and talk. I’m not going to shout at you from across the room.”
“You want to do this now?”
“As opposed to when? Next month? Next year?”
He walked slowly into the library. Robert wasn’t a tall man, he wasn’t a big man. But he was compact and muscular, and his dark hair and even darker eyes gave him a rugged, outdoorsman look, a look that sharply contrasted with the white lab coat he wore. He really is quite handsome, Alissa reminded herself. He doesn’t even look gay. He set his briefcase on the desk, then sat in the chair behind it, as though trying to act professional, trying to don his doctor mask to conceal his feelings.
“This is difficult,” he said.
His statement required no comment.
“Do you want a divorce?” he asked.
“No,” she answered. Not yet, she wanted to add. Not until I can be sure I can get out of this the way I want: without tongues wagging about poor Alissa.
“Good,” he said. “Because I wouldn’t want to have to go public on this.”
She stared at him. So. He was going on the defensive. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean, I’m sorry if this hurts you, Alissa. But I’ve been suffering with it for years. To be perfectly honest, there’s nothing I’d love more than to come out of the closet.” His tone of defense had now changed to one of sadness. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to finally be free.”
Alissa tried to repel the compassion that stirred within her. “Free of me?”
“No. Free to be myself.”
She fluffed her hair, then touched an index finger to the corner of her mouth. “You’d have to give up medicine. A lot of people wouldn’t go to a doctor who’s an admitted homosexual.”
“I have AIDS patients, Alissa. They’d still come.”
“I thought you were working on a cure. Or would you conveniently prolong that to keep yourself in business?”
“Alissa, that’s uncalled for. You know me better than that.”
“I’ve suddenly discovered I don’t know you at all.”
The room was silent. Alissa wished she had the guts to get up and walk out, to leave this all behind. But leaving Robert would mean leaving her entire life and everything in it. And she couldn’t bring herself to do that yet. Not unless, or until, she found Jay.
“We have the girls to think about,” he said.
“Don’t you think I haven’t considered that?” She realized then that she really hadn’t. Would they be irreversibly marred by the disclosure that their father was gay? Michele would. She’d rant and rave and flee into exile in New York or L.A. or somewhere far from Atlanta. But Natalie? Probably not. Knowing her younger daughter, Alissa figured she’d probably feel it was something that would give her some sort of elevated status among her peers. She could go on Donahue. Sally Jesse. She could make a name for herself. She’d love it.
“I love them, Alissa. I love you.”
She reached into her pocket and took out a cigarette. She lit it and blew out a frustrated stream of smoke. Robert winced.
“Explain to me, please, why I find that so hard to believe.”
He didn’t answer.
“And while you’re at it, explain to me why you would rather have your prick shoved up some man’s filthy asshole than inside the woman you supposedly love.”
He remained silent.
Alissa studied the red glow on the tip of her cigarette. She’d never wasted time pondering the lovemaking habits of homosexuals—it had simply never mattered: it had been something that never infringed on her world. But it wasn’t as though she didn’t know any gay men. Artists. Hairdressers. But not doctors. And not husbands. “What do you want, Robert?”
“I want us to be a family. I want us to stay together.”
“So you can go on having your little dalliances on the side?”
“And so can you.”
“Touché. But, my dear, we aren’t exactly talking apples and apples. Although I suppose we could create a new relationship. One where we could compare lovers. You know, the size of their dicks, things like that.”
In the silence that followed Alissa could hear her heartbeat.
“I guess I deserve that,” Robert finally said.
“You deserve more than that. You deserve to have your balls cut off.”
Alissa sat and smoked, wishing she could fast-forward to a year from now. Two years. Then she would know how she’d handled this, how everything had turned out. Would she be somewhere safe and warm with Jay? Would she still be someone to whose parties everyone wanted to go? Would she still be here, stuck in a gutless marriage?
“I don’t need you, you know. I get plenty of money from my trust fund to support myself nicely. Add that to the enormous alimony you’d have to pay me, and I’d be better off than I am now.”
Robert leaned back in his chair. “Just think. You could spend every month you’re not planning a party at a health spa.” His attempt at sarcasm was diluted by a crack in his voice, an underlying hint of fear.
“I could do that. Couldn’t I?” Alissa said coolly, but her insides churned. The thought of having nothing to do, no home that was grounded by a traditional wife-husband-children structure, was something she couldn’t imagine. The girls wouldn’t need her around much longer as it was. Without Robert, what would she do? Where would she go? What would she do after she got up in the morning? What would be the point?
All the more reason to find Jay.
“Can we give this some time?” Robert asked.
“Why? So you’ll change?”
“I can’t change, Alissa. I told you. I’ve been wanting you to know about this for years. I’ve tried to change. I can’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a full life together. I do love you, you know. But maybe it’s not the kind of love you want.”
“I don’t have a clue what love is anymore.”
“What are you going to do?”
She ground out her cigarette. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Did you and Daddy have a fight?” Michele barged into the dressing room where Alissa sat quietly, staring into
the mirrored wall.
Alissa adjusted the sash of her silk robe. Sooner or later, she thought, one of the girls was bound to ask. “Who wants to know?” she asked.
Michele plopped onto the long counter. “Mother, don’t patronize me.”
“Such a big word coming from a blond.”
“Mother …”
“Sorry, darling, I’m just not ready to talk about it, that’s all.”
“You always told me it’s best to talk about things. Get them out in the open.”
“That only works for daughters.”
“Well, Daddy sure is acting weird. All the time you were gone, he came home early every night. He just sat in the library, not doing anything. When David brought me home after our dates, Daddy was still sitting there.”
Alissa saw the opportunity to change the subject. “You’re still seeing David? Isn’t this some kind of a record?”
Michele slid off the counter and picked up a sable brush. She swirled it around an open jar of loose bronzer and dusted her face. “He asked me to marry him,” she said.
Alissa laughed. “You’re eighteen years old. Your life is just beginning. Why the hell would you want to get married?”
Before Michele could answer, the telephone rang. It was Alissa’s private line, the one reserved for her close friends and lovers. But her close friends were few and far between, and God knew there were no lovers pining after her right now. Alissa took her time as she reached across the vanity and picked up the receiver.
“Alissa? It’s Zoe.”
Alissa caught her breath. She smiled widely. “Zoe! Darling, how are you?”
“I’m late for aquatics so I can’t talk. But get yourself to a TV and turn it on.”
“Why? Oh, hold on a second.” She put the receiver to her chest and looked at Michele. “Private call,” she said, “Disappear, okay?”
“Does it have anything to do with you and Daddy?”
Alissa gave her a nasty look. “Out,” she said, and pointed to the doorway.
Michele gave a disgusted grunt and sashayed from the room.
“Sorry, Zoe,” Alissa said into the phone. “One of my daughters was here. Now, what’s this about TV?”
“Turn on the Global News Network. Hurry. Jay’s on.”
Alissa’s pulse raced. “Jay?”
“Hurry, Alissa.”
Alissa threw down the receiver and ran into the bedroom. With trembling hands she tried to work the remote. Her mind spun. She couldn’t remember the channel number for Global News. “Damn!” she screamed. “Damn!” She flipped through the channels. Too many channels. Too many goddamn channels. And then he was there. The remote flipped past him. She flipped it back. And held her breath.
His face was there. It was older. It was tanned. He was standing in front of a cluster of makeshift tents, saying something about emergency food supplies. Alissa paid no attention to his words, only his voice—his deep, strong voice, deeper than she remembered, still ingrained with traces of prep-school breeding, but resonant with that damn liberal root of concern.
She slowly let out her breath and studied the man on the screen. He seemed softer somehow. Not his body, really. Not his face. But something about Jay was different, as though the quick, eager edge of youth had been leveled off, smoothed over, polished.
She wished she knew how she felt. Maybe if the camera moved in closer, maybe if she could see his eyes …
“This is Jay Stockwell for Global News.”
Suddenly the anchor appeared. And Jay was gone.
Alissa stared at the television. It had been him. It had really been him. How long had it been since she’d rapidly changed channels, hoping to catch a glimpse, hoping to hear his voice? He was here. And now he was gone. Again.
She sat on the bed, realizing, through her numbness, that she hadn’t seen him long enough to know if she still cared. But the picture was frozen in her mind, his voice engraved in her thoughts. “This is Jay Stockwell for Global News.”
She stared at the screen, at the moving lips of the anchor. She had seen Jay. Jay Stockwell for Global News.
In the distance a small voice dangled from the phone. “Alissa?” it called. “Alissa, are you there?”
8
Zoe packed her suitcases with bittersweet satisfaction. True, all the clothes she had brought with her to the Golden Key Spa six weeks and twenty-two pounds ago were now too big; but equally true was the fact that she had no money to waste buying new ones.
She zipped the last suitcase closed and glanced at her watch. She still had half an hour before the driver would take her to the airport. Then the long flight home to L.A., home to who-knows-what lay ahead.
She sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands. She knew she was prepared for the screen test. At the end of each exhausting day she’d studied the script, over and over, until she knew it cold, until she had become Jan Wexler, the spitfire single mother fighting to keep the gangs from infiltrating her urban neighborhood. She had studied hard, but whether or not she was any good, Zoe simply didn’t know. Any more than she knew if she’d be forced into selling Cedar Bluff.
One thing she did know, she was going to find Eric.
Zoe stretched on her back, enjoying the fact that her hip bones protruded once again, not caring if she wrinkled the cotton jumpsuit she’d bought that morning in the Golden Key boutique. Alissa had “rattled her cage,” as Scott would say, when she’d challenged each of them to find the man of her past. It was something Zoe had longed to do for years, but never had, because of William.
“You are the most beautiful, most talented woman in the world,” Eric had told her that night after the last performance of their high-school class play. They had done West Side Story. Zoe had played Maria; Eric, Tony. It had still been cold, that Minnesota night in the middle of May, but somehow he had managed to pluck her daisies from someone’s unsuspecting garden. “I want to be with you forever,” he’d said.
That was the night they’d decided to go to Hollywood.
Eric had saved a little money working in his father’s store, and they’d pooled their graduation money. Together there had been enough to get them there by bus and pay a deposit and the first two months’ rent on a seedy apartment in a seedy building. To them it had been a palace, for they’d been together, in love, and were following their dreams.
What had gone wrong?
Zoe sat up on the bed. She knew what she had to do. Reaching for the phone, her heart began to pound. She asked for an outside line, then directory assistance for Minnesota.
“Operator. What city, please?”
Zoe paused, afraid the operator would recognize her voice, afraid she would be found out.
“What city, please?”
Zoe took a deep breath. “In Hibbing, please. The number for Roland Matthews.” There was a chance his parents were still in the same town. There was a chance, Zoe supposed, they were still living.
A digitized voice clicked on and spewed out a phone number. Zoe was so stunned she didn’t write it down. Eric’s parents were still in Hibbing. Eric’s parents were still alive.
She hung up the phone and stared at it.
Was she out of her mind? What was she planning to do? Call his parents and say “Hi. You probably don’t remember me, but I ran away with your son over twenty years ago.…” How absurd. To begin with, of course they would know who she was. She was Zoe. And everyone in the world over twenty-five knew who Zoe was.
Did that mean she’d have to remain in hiding forever?
She pushed a suitcase aside and got off the bed. She went into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. There was another phone there, on the end table. Beside it was a small pad and a pen. She picked up the receiver, asked for an outside line, then information in Minnesota. This time she wrote down the number.
Quickly Zoe pressed her finger on the button and requested another outside line. Then she dialed the number direct.
“Hello?”
It was a voice she didn’t recognize. An old voice. A woman’s. Zoe’s heart sped in her chest.
“Hello,” she said in a thin, tinny voice that sounded as though it belonged to someone else. “I’m trying to reach Eric Matthews. Is he still at this address?”
There was a pause, then the old voice asked, “Who’s calling?”
Zoe’s hand began to tremble. “I … I used to work with him,” she stammered.
“He doesn’t live here, but I can give him a message. Who’s calling?”
Zoe stared at the notepad, edged in gold, embossed with the Golden Key logo. She hung up.
She ripped off the sheet with the phone number and wadded it into an angry ball. What the hell did she think she was doing? Didn’t she have enough problems? She pushed herself off the sofa, walked to the wastebasket, and dropped the ball of paper into it. Fool, she thought. Damn fool.
But as she stared at the rumpled paper in the bottom of the basket, Zoe knew in her heart that she wouldn’t give up. They were supposed to have been together. Forever. Sooner or later she would find Eric. Sooner or later she would confront him.
The phone rang. Zoe jumped. Her heart raced again. Could it be him? She stared at the phone. It rang again. Maybe his mother had recognized her voice. Maybe the call had been traced. She shook her head. Don’t be a jerk.
It rang again. She crossed the room and picked it up.
“Ms. Hartmann?” a voice asked. “Your driver is here.”
Zoe hung up again and smoothed her jumpsuit. Time to get back to reality, girl. Time to get back to your life.
She saw Marisol right away, even through the crowded concourse. Zoe raced toward her, arms open. Marisol’s jaw dropped in surprise.
“My God, I hardly recognized you,” her friend cried as she swooped her into her motherly arms. “You look fabulous. You look like a star again.”
Zoe laughed. “I decided to pack the wig and the sunglasses. Now get me out of here before someone recognizes me.”
They walked arm in arm down the concourse.
“Scott’s mad as hell that I wouldn’t let him skip school to come meet you,” Marisol said.
“How is my baby?”