Hidden Hearts

by Ann Roberts

  “Honey, you are so paranoid,” she sighed. “She’s just pissed at you because of the report. Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. I’m only allowed so many mistakes. You know how it goes.”

  “Do you want me to help you? I could write it.”

  “No, you can’t.” She glanced at the report sitting on her desk, next to the handwriting request that she still hadn’t filed and started to cry. “I’m sorry I got angry.”

  Alicia took her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  Ding!

  She glanced at CC’s phone and noticed the alert. “Phoenix-Connect? Not exactly the best service for meeting quality women.” Then she teased, “Have you had any dates?”

  CC grabbed the phone and shoved it in her desk. “That’s none of your business.” She picked up the handwriting analysis to change the subject. “I’m totally bummed about this case. Our client wants to take away this beautiful house where an old lady has lived for almost her entire life. Once this handwriting analysis comes back it’s all over.”

  Alicia tapped her chin thoughtfully. She plucked the paper from her hand and pulled an interoffice envelope from the stack CC kept on her credenza. She placed it inside and dropped it into CC’s outgoing mail tray.

  “But you didn’t write anything on it,” she said.

  Alicia frowned. “Oh, my, that’s right. Silly me.” She picked it up and grabbed a pen. “Now, where was this going again… tax department, right?” she scribbled before dropping it into the mail tray. “You junior attorneys are just so overworked. And if I remember correctly from my internship days, the tax department is the worst. They get so much mail that by the time they figure out who to send this back to, I expect a week will have passed.”

  CC stared in disbelief and nearly pulled it from the outbox until Alicia said, “Let it go, CC. Just say thank you.”

  CC looked into her beautiful eyes, remembering why she’d fallen in love. Sometimes she’d so appreciated her bent morality. “Thank you. I don’t know if that’ll change anything, but at least it buys me a little time to figure something out.”

  Alicia smiled. “I’m hoping it bought me a little time too.”

  ****

  In the spirit of quid pro quo, CC asked Alicia to attend the Arizona Bar Foundation’s annual charity ball with her that Saturday. She’d purchased her expensive tickets, which all junior associates were expected to buy regardless of its effect on their monthly budget, but she’d decided not to attend. When Alicia learned she had tickets, she prodded her to go.

  “It’ll be fun,” she said.

  She disagreed, desiring to spend her Saturday night at home with her new sketchbook. Meeting Viv had inspired her, and she wanted to reacquaint herself with her love of art, regardless of how untalented she was. So, after slaving away in the cavernous offices of Hartford and Burns with the other junior attorneys bent on making a good impression, she’d stopped at the art store and spent the afternoon at home dabbling—with abysmal results.

  When she looked at the clock, she gasped. Alicia would arrive in ninety minutes and she hadn’t thought about what she should wear. She rifled through her closet, realizing she didn’t own anything that would work for a semiformal affair. She pictured Alicia in an expensive silk dress with three-inch pumps and knew she couldn’t compare. Her clothes were for work or relaxation with only a few date outfits in between, and she didn’t think any of them was stylish enough.

  She flopped onto her futon and buried her head in her hands. She was a failure swimming in debt. The student loans from law school were killing her, and when she thought of the fifteen-year payment plan she’d agreed to, she felt like throwing up.

  “Don’t think of it that way, dear,” her mother had advised. “It’s an investment in your future.”

  She pulled herself up, determined to parse together an outfit from the clothes she owned. She found a pair of silk black harem pants from an old Halloween costume and a deep plum camisole that went great with her hair and eyes. In the back of the closet behind the coats, she came across a black velvet vest that Alicia had left behind, and although it was a size too large, it still looked acceptable. She threw on some pumps just as the doorbell rang. What she’d created struck her as slutty, but if Alicia didn’t like it, then she could go alone.

  Alicia was indeed dressed to kill in a washed-out black jersey dress with a very short skirt that seemed to wrap around her torso. The hem barely covered her thighs and CC knew every man in the place would stare at her long legs, imagining what lay an inch above the fabric. She herself certainly was.

  “I like your outfit,” Alicia said, waltzing into her tiny apartment. She caressed the vest and asked playfully, “Where have I seen this before?”

  She wandered into the bedroom as if she still lived there. She dropped onto the futon, her arms stretched behind her seductively. “I do miss this room,” she said.

  “We could skip the ball,” CC offered.

  She laughed and patted the mattress. “Come here. I need to see how those pants work.”

  She reluctantly sat next to her, feeling like a mouse about to be eaten by a python. But Alicia remained in a supine position, staring at her. The jasmine perfume announced its presence and smothered her overpowering female scent that lingered underneath the dress.

  “You keep staring at my legs,” she observed. “Is my skirt too short or too long? I actually debated taking it up another half inch. What do you think?”

  “Then it would be a belt.”

  Alicia sat up threw back her head, laughing, exposing her creamy neck and the silver chain that rested against her bronze skin. “God, I miss your wit.”

  It was too tempting. She pressed her lips into the gorgeous flesh and Alicia responded by undoing her pants.

  “Let’s stay here,” CC whispered.

  “We can’t.”

  “We can,” she insisted, placing Alicia’s hand on her breast.

  All she wanted was her. She’d forgive everything that happened if Alicia would succumb to her charms and let her win. They fondled and kissed for another minute, their passion a seemingly powerful persuader—until she tried to push Alicia down.

  “No, no. We can’t, babe,” she protested. “Not right now. I have to make a bid at the auction. I really need to go.”

  CC sat up completely frustrated, doubting she would ever get her way, and Alicia immediately pulled her into her arms. “I promise I’ll have you tonight.”

  ****

  The Phoenix Museum of History sat in Heritage Square, a specialty park juxtaposed with several historical houses that sat with the Arizona Science Center. Ironically, the museum was a modern concrete and glass building. It contained displays celebrating the role of Native Americans and Hispanics in the city’s development as well as pictorials and books dating back to the eighteen hundreds.

  They crossed the courtyard toward a huge banner announcing the Arizona Bar Association’s Alzheimer’s Charity Benefit. The crowds were thick at the entrance, and CC immediately sized up her wardrobe choice, which seemed to be on par with many of the guests except for the trophy wives who clearly lived to shop. They were adorned in dresses that she imagined were a month’s pay for her, as well as matching shoes and fashionable bling.

  They checked in and Alicia scanned the crowd. “Isn’t that your boss?” she asked, pointing to Blanca, who was standing next to Stoddard Burns.

  “Yes, and that’s my boss’s boss,” she said already feeling a sense of inadequacy creep over her.

  Alicia grabbed her hand. “C’mon, let’s say hello.”

  “No.” She refused to budge. “I’ve never even met Mr. Burns. He doesn’t know who I am.”

  “He will now,” she giggled and pulled her across the floor like a child being dragged through a grocery store.

  When Blanca saw them approaching, CC sensed she was more pleased to see Alicia than her own employee.

  “Good evening, CC, Alicia.”

  “Good
to see you again,” Alicia said, heaping on the sugar.

  Stoddard Burns leered at both of them. His suit and expensive haircut screamed money and when he stuck out his hand, it was to greet Alicia. “I’m Stoddard Burns.”

  “Alicia Dennis,” she said.

  “And this is CC Carlson, sir,” Blanca added. “She works for us.”

  Burns tore his gaze from Alicia to glance at her but he continued to grasp Alicia’s hand.

  “Alicia’s on the Morgan case,” Blanca said, the disappointment in her voice apparent. “She was the one who literally stole money out of our pocket this week.”

  “Really?Impressive.” Burns’ smirk was light-hearted and he didn’t seem to mind that the firm had lost thousands of dollars—as long as it was at the hands of a beautiful woman.

  “I just got lucky,” Alicia purred.

  “Would you ladies care to peruse the tables with us? Blanca is serving as my date tonight, but we have specific instructions from Mrs. Burns regarding a spa day she wants to win.”

  Alicia wagged a playful finger at him. “I’m going to have to fight you on that as well, Mr. Burns. My boss Alma Santiago wants that package.”

  He laughed. “You work for Alma? Really?” He leaned closer. “We had a thing back in the eighties. Shh. My wife doesn’t know.”

  They all laughed and turned toward the tables. Except CC. “I need to use the restroom,” she said, but no one seemed to hear her.

  She strolled through the exhibit, immediately recognizing Squaw Peak, now called Piestewa Peak, the mountain she saw through her window at work. The picture was dated 1936, and thousands of orange trees surrounded its base. This was the land Jacob Rubenstein had purchased.

  A sign indicated that the museum library was just down the hallway. Since there weren’t any barricades or security guards to prevent her from snooping, she hurried into the library and came upon several glass cases with memorabilia from the early twentieth century, including photos of the downtown and the desert landscape. She quickly scanned them until she came to a post-World War Two era display.

  After the war thousands of midwesterners had trekked out to Phoenix for the warm weather, creating a housing boom. They’d purchased thousands of the familiar ranch houses like the ones in Viv’s neighborhood, the ones built by Jacob Rubenstein.

  The headline of a newspaper article caught her attention: “Phoenix Named one of the Most Desirable Cities in America.” The story detailed the mild weather and low prices and showed proof of happy families enjoying their new tract homes, all with smiles on their faces.

  A separate sidebar contained a headshot of Jacob Rubenstein. She scanned the article about the man many proclaimed to be the creator of Central Phoenix, and his wise decision to turn ten thousand acres of orange groves into family housing. The article mentioned his recent marriage to Miss Della Noyce, a non-Jew, and some subsequent setbacks that included a vandalized job site and workers who’d walked off the job.

  A non-Jew. She winced at the choice of words and realized it was typical of the anti-Semitic attitudes of the time. She could only imagine what kind of prejudice Rubenstein faced because of his marriage, and she suddenly questioned his motives for abandoning the building industry. At the bottom of the article was another picture of him surrounded by several members of his crew, including a large, handsome black man—the same man in the wedding photos she’d seen at Della’s.

  “I wondered where you went.”

  She nearly jumped out of her shoes. Alicia stood in the doorway grinning.

  “Brushing up on your Phoenix history?”

  She shrugged sheepishly. “I just like looking at old photos. This is a picture of my client’s father.”

  Alicia studied the photo and scanned the sidebar. “It sounds like this family was pretty important.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Blanca keeps telling everyone. I’m working with an important client. Like I’d ever forget.”

  She massaged her neck, feeling a knot of tension settle near her shoulders. Alicia moved behind her and took over.

  “Let’s take a walk,” she said, nibbling on her ear.

  “What happened to Blanca and Mr. Burns?”

  “He already left, and she’s power networking. But she invited me to lunch next week. Maybe she’ll offer me a job.”

  She could hear the excitement in her voice and wasn’t sure how she felt about the two of them working in the same place.

  Alicia took her hand and they proceeded down a cross-corridor. Piano background music and the endless chatter of three hundred people seeped through the adjoining wall, and CC felt like a kid who was out of bounds.

  “What will we say if someone asks us why we’re back here? Aren’t we supposed to be at the party?”

  “You started it. You’re the one who wandered off. Now I’m just capitalizing on your idea with one of my own.” She squeezed her hand. “I made you a promise, and I’m determined to find a way to keep it.”

  She was immediately wary. Alicia had that seductive look in her eye. She started to protest, but she pulled her into another room, one dedicated to transportation. Pictures of early buses and the new light rail covered the walls. But the showcase piece was a vintage trolley car with two-tone burnt red sides and yellow windows. Alicia chuckled and pushed open the creaky wooden door. “C’mon.”

  “We need to go,” she said but Alicia pulled her up the three steps.

  The oak casement windows were well preserved, and the black leather seats had retained their luster. Small advertising signs perched above the windows—the Coffee Pot restaurant and the Central Avenue Dairy, as well as Tom Chauncey Jewelers. She was amused by the five digit phone numbers that began with a lettered prefix.

  “This is really something,” she marveled. “What a great old car.”

  She imagined it in its heyday, filled with men in suits on their way to work, reading the newspaper, their hats in their laps, while the women tugged at their white gloves and reprimanded the wiggly children next to them. She guessed Jacob Rubenstein once rode the trolleys as well as Viv.

  “Let’s take this thing for a spin,” Alicia teased. Her right foot perched on the driver’s seat and she gripped the metal pole for support. Her skirt was hiked up indecently and CC could see everything—most notably that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Get over here,” she said, swaying back and forth on the pole. “I love the transportation industry.”

  Only a few work lights illuminated the room and the car, but one shone brightly through the front window, casting an antique film over Alicia. She swung into the conductor’s chair and pulled CC onto her lap, unbuttoning her pants in one motion.

  “You know, I looked up your personal ad,” she whispered. “It was incredibly easy to find. I almost answered it.”

  CC was only half listening as Alicia removed her vest and explored her breasts. “How would you have replied?” she managed to ask.

  Their hips found a rhythm that Alicia matched with the cadence of her voice. “Gay gal wants ex-lover back for nights of passion and maybe more. Smart, funny, likes long walks in the park, mornings in bed and film noir.”

  CC moaned. She was so close.

  “But…most of all…she wants…a great orgasm.”

  It was so wonderful that she thought she heard applause when their bodies fell limp against the old wooden seat. Only then did she feel the chill on her nipples from the air conditioning and notice her camisole wrapped around her neck. And when had she splayed her legs so far apart? One foot pressed against the side window and the other rested on the conductor’s door handle.

  Alicia laughed. “I doubt this trolley ever saw this much action.”

  “Definitely not,” she agreed. “People used to have decorum and followed rules of etiquette in public.”

  “Then I fail,” she snorted. She pushed her up and kissed her neck. “Let’s go before we both get disbarred.”

 
They quickly dressed and stole back into the main room unnoticed. Her legs were wobbly, and the tingling sensation had returned. She normally had sex in a bed and enjoyed basking in the afterglow. Peeling out of parking garages and rubbing elbows with socialites weren’t her usual post-coital activities.

  Yet Alicia seemed invigorated and quickly downed a flute of champagne and reached for another from a passing waiter. She checked the silent auction bidding, rewriting her boss’s name again after she’d been out-bidded. CC blinked when she saw the amount was a thousand dollars.

  “Your boss must really like a good massage,” she said.

  “She does, but that’s as high as she wants me to go.”

  “You’d better not be bidding on Mrs. Burns’ spa day,” Blanca said. “She’ll do anything for Elizabeth Arden.”

  It was a joke, but her delivery varied only slightly from her usual robotic tone. Alicia laughed and carried the light-hearted conversation for both of them while CC excused herself to the bar, remembering how often she’d felt excluded whenever Alicia talked to someone else.

  “Let me guess. You’re a white wine kind of woman,” a voice said over her shoulder.

  She rolled her eyes at the pickup line before she turned around—Penn. She was momentarily speechless at the sight of the butch in a black suit and tailored striped shirt.

  “Do I look that good?”

  “What?” she gasped. “You’re so full of yourself.”

  She whispered, “No, it’s just you have a lot of tells. If you’re ever gonna make it in a high-stakes poker game or a courtroom, you need to stop transmitting your feelings.”

  “I am not,” she insisted, knowing how lame she sounded. “And I don’t like white wine.”

  “Scotch?”

  “Vodka tonic.”

  “Well, then allow me.”

  She signaled the bartender and ordered the vodka tonic and a scotch for herself.

  “What are you doing here?” CC asked.

  “What are you doing here?” Penn echoed. “I’d understand if I ran into old man Hartford, but you’re a lowly junior associate.”

  She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She didn’t want to explain who she was with or what she’d been doing since she got here.