* * *
Shortly after Della left his office, Wes phoned his broker. “Brian, I want another block of twenty thousand shares sold to your new client.”
“You’ll lose your controlling interest with another sale,” Brian warned.
“I don’t care. This is what Carrie wants. She’ll be thrilled when she learns I’m getting out.”
Brian Golden had been Wes’s stockbroker since the company went public. He did whatever Wes wanted him to do. They ended their conversation with the usual how’s-the-wife-and-kids routine.
The time was coming when Wes must sit down and tell Della who he was. His fear of her rejection outweighed his need to unravel the mystery that shrouded their lives. He had known all along how she hated her father for wanting her aborted. If he could make her understand what he was going through at the time, maybe she’d forgive him. Their relationship was solid. She loved and respected him, as he did her.
He took a photo album from the bottom drawer of his desk. Inside were pictures of Steven and Della, growing up on separate turfs. Lillian sent Wes snapshots whenever she put the squeeze on him for more money.
When Della entered high school and Wes had a detective keep tabs on her, he collected hundreds of pictures. The top picture, the last one taken, was of Della at her high school graduation. In her cap and gown, she looked fresh and eager to start her life. He chided himself for not having had the courage to attend. He often wondered how her life might have been different, had he taken her in when she was young. She would have had an education early on, probably worked her summers for him, learned the business. Right now, he might have stepped down, giving her the keys to his empire. She might have changed Steven’s life, too. Silly, thinking, what if! He put the pictures back in his desk. Life isn’t a series of what ifs, he thought. Life is what it is.
Another stabbing pain tore through his chest. He pulled the bottle of nitroglycerin from his shirt pocket and slipped one under his tongue. He leaned back, closed his eyes and waited for the pain to subside and the headache to begin.
His ticker was running down. He had so much to do to make sure his legacy was safe.
Once he had everything in order, he’d tell everyone involved who Della was, why he had kept her identity a secret. He half-expected Carrie to leave him. Steven would stand by him. He nourished a flicker of hope that Carrie would accept Della, once she learned this was a family thing.
Knowing Carrie as he did, she’d be angry and hurt. Whatever the outcome, the time was drawing near. He wanted her to know before something happened to him and there wasn’t time left to explain.
* * *
Alone, waiting for Jon Clarin to finish a fitting, Carrie thumbed through the new designs on the rack. She detested throwing her weight around–she chuckled at the pun, since she’d lost forty pounds, but she had to do what it took to survive that woman taking over the company.
Carrie was pleased Steven wasn’t returning to New York, but disappointed he wasn’t going to take the torch from his father. She’d had a glimmer of hope when he agreed to go in and keep an eye on Della. Instead, he opted to return to law here in L.A. and waste his talent on a harebrained idea about saving the world from pollution. Christ, he should have at least agreed to set up his practice inside the company and keep an eye on things.
Jon Clarin was no fool. He knew how to play the game. She needed him on her team against Della. Now that Steven quit as her inside source, she’d gather her troops and get the job done herself. Thank God for Phillip. He was always there for her when she needed him.
Jon Clarin, one of Wes’s favorite company presidents, carried a lot of weight in the scheme of things. She needed his support, and she had the ammunition to get it.
She thumbed through the current dresses and sportswear Jon would soon release to the public. Now at a size 4, she pulled the best from the rack for herself. The man was talented and loyal, fun to be around. Wes had even set aside his homophobia to not only pay for, but stand up for Jon at his gay wedding two years after acquiring the company. She had been flabbergasted, but impressed by his generosity. If there weren’t two men at the altar in tuxes, you’d have thought you were at a straight wedding right down to the reception, which had cost Wes a fortune. Carrie was sure it was her influence that had brought Wes around to a more liberal way of thinking.
The likes of Moschino, Karan, and Armani had nearly buried Jon’s business ten years ago. He designed Carrie a dress for her favorite charity fundraiser and she’d been so impressed, she pleaded with Wes to buy the company. What other woman did she know who had her own designer? But he must remember his place.
She checked her watch, took in a deep, irritated breath. While waiting, she took on the last rack, heaping the clothes over her arm. Served him right for keeping her waiting. Rumor had it he hid some of his most exciting creations from her just because she swept through the place on a whim, took his best, and then introduced his designs before he was ready. If this rumor was true, he’d hear from her on that score, too.
“Carrie, Carrie, Carrie,” Jon chirped, dashing into the room, a measuring tape around his neck, his reading glasses perched on his nose. “Jon is so sorry to have kept you waiting, but you know these actors.”
“No, I don't, Jon. Thank God for that, too. They bore me no end.”
“Without them, my dear, Jon would have no business.”
Since Bob Dole ran for president and the whole country had picked up on his speaking in third person, Jon began imitating him. As time passed, it came naturally to him. Jon was an affable man, respected by all and easily swayed; one of the reasons Carrie targeted him. Being average height and weight, with straight, dirty blond spiked hair, he showed off good looks with a lucky bone structure. Except for his flightiness, you’d never suspect he was gay.
“Now, what’s so important, my dear?”
He took some of the garments from her arm and led her to his cluttered office. She cleared material swatches and patterns from her favorite chair and took a seat. He perched himself on his stool at his drafting board and folded his arms, like a child awaiting a scolding.
“I'm here to ask you a very special favor, Jon. I need an answer today. I'll speak bluntly. I want you to complain to Wes about Della Garland. I want you to ask him if your company can report to Joe Lasky or Mike Martinez.”
“Absurd!” Jon waved an arm. “I love that dear girl. She's the best thing that's happened to our company. I was absolutely thrilled when Wes assigned me to her. Don’t ask Jon to do this.”
Stunned, she fell silent. The air grew heavy. Jon's face turned red, hers felt crimson. She thought this would be easier–that Jon’s loyalty to her would shine through. “Maybe you’d be more pleased if your line of clothing showed up on the K-Mart racks.”
Mortified, his skin now bone white, he gritted his teeth until his jaw muscles rippled.
Miffed, she rose and headed for the door. “Would you mind having one of your staff take these dresses to my car?”
His silence spoke volumes.
“You have no right to ask Jon to do this,” he blurted before she could turn the door handle.
“Watch me.”
He heaved a sigh. “You win. I’ll do as you say.”
At least, the man knew who held the deck.
“Jon would not be a happy designer,” he continued, “reporting to Joe or Mike. They’re homophobic. My work would suffer. Why are you asking this of Jon?”
Her patience had run out. “First of all, you can knock off that third person crap and talk like everyone else. Secondly, I want Della Garland out.” She returned to her seat, Jon now back under her control. “Jon mustn’t forget,” she reminded him sarcastically, “who influenced Wes to buy Jon Clarin Designs, which was nearly busted at the time. And lest we forget, you’re godfather to our son. Need I say more?”
“What does Steven have to do with this?”
“If I don't get Della out, she'll take over, and Steven will be out
.”
“Wes would never do a thing like that to his boy. Steven has no interest in Gates International.” Jon moved closer to Carrie and laid a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugged off, and said, “You have Jon by the cajones. If you insist, I'll do what you ask, but I don't like it one little bit.”
She stood. “Now, you talk like a man with a business sense. And, my dear Jon, I know you love Wes, but you mustn’t mention that this was my idea. If word of this visit leaks, you’ll regret it.”
In her car, speeding along on the 405, her steel radials droning, she thought of Wes, the number of pills he popped every day, his pallor, his lack of energy. His health was deteriorating, and she feared his demise. If Wes would sell his shares, as she had asked over and over again, she’d have nothing to worry about. But if he kept the controlling interest and something incapacitated him, she might have to oversee Gates International until a new president could be found. She had no choice but to get Della out of there before something serious happened to Wes.
* * *
Steven pulled the wheel, and his plane rose skyward. From the corner of his eye, he observed Della white-knuckling the armrests. For a woman who had taken on the world so fearlessly, to sit in a small plane and look as though she were going to the gas chamber amused him.
“Don't worry, baby,” he shouted over the reverberating engine, “you're in good hands.”
“I’m not worried about your hands. It's you and Lillian I’m worried about.”
He laughed, leveled the Cessna. He took her small hand in his. “Not to worry. We’ll do just fine.”
“I can't believe we're doing this.”
He couldn’t believe she had capitulated, almost as if she were eager to open her past and let him in. He was flattered and grateful. He loved her, like he had never loved anyone before. He grinned. “You think Lillian will accept me?”
“Maybe. She’s anxious to meet you. A first for her.”
“Who does she think I am?”
“A lawyer I’ve had business dealings with.”
“She doesn’t know I’m a Gates and younger than you?”
“No. And you’re not going to tell her, either.”
“Really? I’m going to lie now?”
“Just don’t volunteer anything. Lillian isn’t a snoopy lady. Let me handle it, okay?”
“Of course, you know taking me home to meet Mom means this is serious business between us?”
“It's serious business for today. I keep telling myself that, every waking moment, with you or away from you.”
“Atta girl. Today is all there is.”
The engine hummed. Steven watched Della relax her grip, melt into the leather seat and close her eyes. She looked as innocent and lovely as a young girl. He thought about her mother, wondered what she was like. He’d never met a woman who existed in an unconventional world. He wondered what his own reaction might be when they met face to face. Stories were one thing, the real deal was another matter.
A layer of smog separated them from a perfect view of sprawling L.A. They’d fly along the coast to Frisco, low enough to see the coastline.
“This is a major step in facing your past.” He wanted her attention. “You might be surprised how easy it is, and how good you'll feel after it's over. Maybe it'll be a breakthrough for you.”
She stirred as if napping, rolled her head to face him, smiled warmly and said, “If Lillian hadn't encouraged me to meet a man, I'd never have asked her to meet you. I think she's worried I'll end up alone like her. I’m doing this to make her feel better about my future.”
“You said you feel a need to prove yourself to her. Do you know why?”
“No. If I did, life would be a helluva lot easier.”
“A lot of kids feel as you do. Especially if they’ve been rejected all their lives.”
“I was rejected, all right. When I was little, she didn't want her johns or anyone else to know she had a daughter. She'd pass me off as her sister’s kid. Said it wasn't good for business, having a kid and all.”
“Is that why you refer to her as Lillian all the time?”
Della nodded. “That’s how she wanted it. Lying about my past became natural; helped my career, too. Your dad took the bait. He’d never have hired me if he knew my past. People like me don’t usually get an office in the Ivory Tower. You wouldn’t understand. You’re the old silver spoon story.”
“We have more in common than you think. I have a mother who planned my every waking moment. She fought me on what I wanted to do for a living. She’ll never forgive me for following my own dream, not hers. I’m the heir to a throne. Of course, she did the same thing to her family, but that was different. It’s okay for a daughter to bail out, but not for a son.”
Della pulled herself upright. “It’s easier with money.”
“That’s another argument for another time. I'm anxious to meet Lillian. Is there any resemblance?”
“A little. We're both small, smart-mouthed, and have similar characteristics I don't like. My greatest fear is turning out like her. Lots of women worry they'll turn out to be like their mothers. It's scary shit, especially when you’ve got one you don't want to be like.”
“I'm nothing like my father. We're like night and day. I have his drive, but in a totally different direction.”
“I hate being poor. If I have any control, I won’t be. And no man will ever do me in again, even if I have to spend the rest of my life alone. That’s why I like this one day at a time business.”
“You want kids, you need a man.”
She grinned and tucked her legs up under herself, appearing more relaxed. “There are too many ways these days to have a kid without being married.” She pulled a face. “Would you like to donate?”
He hated her flip attitude, particularly because of the way he felt about her. “Yes, maybe I would. You love me, I know it. I feel it. You know this thing about turning out like your mother is pure bull. You've lived different lives, had different experiences. You're educated, you work your butt off.” He laughed. “Excuse the pun.”
She clasped her hands. “I’m really sorry about the night in the spa. I feel like such a fool. I can’t believe I acted so childishly.”
“Forgiven. Chalk it up as a bad night. Turned out great, though.”
She stretched, as if she were uncomfortable with their conversation. He reached over and ran the backs of his fingers lightly across her smooth cheek.
“I like the way we’re going about this,” she said. “I’d like to see how many things we enjoy doing together, how well I do when we’re apart. It’d be great to go on a business trip and not worry what you’re doing. Then, I think we might have something.”
“We do. You’re going to do fine, I promise. As soon as I get my job settled, we get settled, we’re having a coming-out party. I don’t like secrecy, especially when it has a negative effect on other people. I won't be working for the company. It won't be a problem. I’ll handle my mother.” He paused. “I have to take baby steps with her, too.”
“What if she doesn’t come around?”
“We just get on with it until she does. She’ll come around eventually.”
“This all seems so strange. Going to meet Lillian, moving in together, doing a day-to-day thing.” With a broad, loving smile, she said, “I’ve heard you should live your entire life like that. We spend too much time worrying about yesterday and tomorrow.”
“Hey, look, the ocean.” An endless white strip seemed to drag the sheet of deep blue to the awaiting shore. “I missed the Pacific Ocean more than anything else. I grew up spending lazy summer days on the beach, drinking beer, showing off for the girls, surfing, usually crashing. Life is different now, but I’d share my love of the ocean with you. Maybe even break a few waves and show off for you.
“All relationships,” he went on, “are tenuous. There are no guarantees when it comes to love. Now, if we were to have kids, that's a different story. I'm a believer that wh
en you bring kids into the world, you give them a mommy and daddy and raise them properly. That's a commitment for life.”
He took the plane off autopilot and nosed down toward the shoreline. “Look, wouldn’t you like to be under an umbrella down there, sipping a drink, lying in my arms?”
“It’s beautiful. You’re right, I wish we were doing that instead of meeting Lillian.”
Steven pulled up, leveled off. “We’re almost there.” He veered inland toward the city. Neither spoke until he had safely set the plane down at Half Moon Bay Airport. He rented a car and they headed into town, stopping at a deli to pick up enough food for lunch and leftovers for Lillian.
* * *
Countdown to disaster ran through Della’s mind. She’d developed a true-blue case of the jitters. If ever she wanted to turn around and run like hell, it was now. Steven, however, was as calm as the glassy water on the bay they’d just flown over. He whistled to the tune on the radio, wore a shark-eating grin, and occasionally glanced over, giving her a reassuring look.
“Maybe you should put some rouge on your cheeks.”
“I’m that pale, huh?”
“Yup! As white as a body on a slab at the morgue.”
“You nailed it.”
He patted her knee. “It’ll be good. You wait.”
Her knees felt like jelly as they strolled up the sidewalk to Lillian’s front door. Her stomach fluttered, almost to the point of upset. Wouldn’t that be cute, barfing on Lillian’s porch? The curtain was pulled aside. A moment later, the front door opened. Lillian stepped out to greet them. She wore her kimono, the prettiest thing she owned. Della was a young girl the last time she saw Lillian wear it, when she had a few friends in for dinner and drinks. She had dyed her hair a soft blonde and she wore light makeup. Before greeting Della, Lillian put her arms out to Steven.
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