“You must be the catch of the day?”
“This is Steven, Lillian.” Della held her breath to see if Lillian would ask his last name. She didn’t. Thank the Lord for her discretion, a virtue she learned from her trade.
“Hello, Steven. Give those groceries to Della and let me have a hug. Ain’t seen a man as pretty as you for God knows how long.” She tweaked his slightly crooked nose, touched the small scar on his face. “These will keep you humble.”
They hugged. Steven glanced over Lillian’s shoulder at Della and smiled as if he had bagged her, which he had.
“Now, it’s your turn,” Lillian said to Della. They hugged and stepped inside.
The house had changed since her last visit. The windows were open, the warm sun streamed in. There were flowers on the coffee table and on her cart next to her recliner, and through the kitchen door, Della saw more flowers on the kitchen table. The air was sweet with their scent–not a hint of cigarette smoke in the air or on Lillian.
This whole scene was remarkable, a rare moment she must discuss with her mother when they were alone.
“You quit smoking?” Della said.
“Just for company.”
Another first. Della shrugged, took the takeout to the kitchen, listened to her mother and Steven making small talk, feeling her nerves jangle. “I’m famished,” Della shouted. “Can I serve?”
Lillian made a beeline for the fridge, pulled out cold beer and a bottle of white wine. “Thought these might go good with deli.”
“Any iced tea, Ma? Steven can’t drink and fly.”
“You fly your own plane?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s impressive.” She winked at Della, held up a beer. “It’ll wear off by the time you eat and visit. Right?” she said to Steven, who had taken a seat at the table.
“Sure, Lillian. I’ll join you in a beer.”
He hardly ever drank, let alone when he was flying. He must be trying to please her ma.
Lillian popped the beer caps and joined Steven at the table while Della spread out the assorted lunch meats, breads, and condiments. They ate and chatted for more than two hours. Not once did Lillian nose in where she didn’t belong. She let Della lead and she followed. Della began to relax. It was true, Lillian wanted her to find a man and settle down. Lillian was doing everything in her power to make that possible
Lillian liked Steven.
“Steven is going to work for the D.A.’s office.”
“No money in that,” Lillian said. “You one of those do-gooders? Wanna put all those bad boys away? Some of those sweet street girls?” Lillian chuckled. “I think we need more like you.” She focused on Della. “Haven’t seen you on CNN lately. No more promotions?”
“Nope. Just humping along, doing the same old thing every day.”
“So, what are you two planning for yourselves?”
“We’re taking it one day at a time,” Della said.
“Sounds good. That’s the way I like it, too. I’m proud of my girl.” Lillian rubbed Della’s back. “I always knew she was something special, but I never thought she’d climb this high.”
“You have every right to be,” he said. “She’s got it, and she knows how to take care of business better than anyone I’ve ever met, except my father.”
Della froze. He had opened the door for the question she hadn’t wanted answered. Please, let this pass without incident.
Lillian took Della’s hand. “I don’t know where she got all this talent. Certainly wasn’t from me. Coulda’ been her father, though.”
Della’s skin prickled, her eyes blurred. This lying had to stop. But how? When? It had a life of its own.
“He was a policeman, you know,” Lillian went on. “Died in the line of duty.”
“So Della told me,” Steven said just as Della was going to tell Lillian he knew the truth.
“How old was she when this happened?” He was playing along with Lillian.
At the same moment that Della said twelve, Lillian said ten.
Silence.
“Never mind, Ma. Steven knows the truth about my past. This was one relationship I entered truthfully.”
“I see,” Lillian said. She rose, wrapped her Kimono more tightly around her. “I guess you know about me, too, then?”
Steven nodded.
“You okay with it?”
“I’m okay with it.”
Lillian relaxed, pulled a cigarette from her pocket and lit it. “Enough of this phony bullshit. Mind if I smoke?”
Steven shook his head.
“You look a little younger than my girl.”
“Five years,” Steven blurted.
He was going to tell the truth now. He’d probably tell her who he was. Lillian would hate that she’d gotten herself tangled up with the boss’s son.
“Age is no big deal,” Lillian said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “My favorite john was a younger man.”
“Lillian, I don’t think we need to hear about your work.”
“Hush, honey. You opened this friggin’ door.”
The rest of the afternoon passed as slowly as a turtle meandering across the sands of time. Della thought it would never end, and not because she didn’t want to be with her mother, but because she wondered how long it would take for Lillian to find out Steven was a Gates.
Della rose to pick up the leftovers and put them in the refrigerator.
“Just leave it, honey. I’ll take care of it. If you kids are going to get back before dark, you’d better think about leaving.”
Relieved, Della said, “You approve of Steven?” Della looped her arm through his.
“For a day-to-dayer, yes.” She paused, winked at him. “I hope you’ll keep our little secret?”
Della couldn’t believe, now that he knew her past, that Lillian would encourage him to continue the subterfuge.
He glanced down at Della. “I want her to tell the world who she is, be proud of her background. She’s proven you can have the odds stacked against you and still make it. That’s something to be proud of, don’t you think?”
“We’ll see, boy.”
All Della wanted to do was scramble and hit the road.
At the door, when Steven extended a hand, Lillian hesitated, as if she were leery of him. “Don’t you go encouraging her to do anything foolish and ruin her career.”
“I won’t.”
Lillian looked up at him. “You have a last name, boy?”
Steven looked over at Della, raised an eyebrow, shrugged. “Yes, it’s Gates. I’m Wes Gates’s son.”
18
Wes sat at his desk, staring into the anemic black liquid that not long ago fueled his days. Chest pains outweighed his stubbornness, and he’d caved into decaf and a bottle of nitroglycerine. He pushed the cup away in disgust. How good was life going to be without a few vices laced with a kick? He glanced around his designer office, where every piece of furniture, painting, and dust collector had been hand-picked by him. Each piece held its own special meaning, was an integral part of his life. He had a dollar bill in a plastic block he’d earned from returns on his first investment, a paperweight he’d heisted from the desk of the first business he’d acquired. The paintings were ego-gratifying. He liked owning things others wanted.
Who would sit in this seat when he was gone? Since he’d sold another large block of shares, he no longer held the majority of stock in the company. He still held the largest single block of shares, but certainly not enough to call all the shots. The lack of control devastated him, but he had done what he had to do to save his family.
Until the next quarterly meeting, this information wouldn’t be generally known. In the meantime, if anything happened to him, Joe or Mike could jump in. Mike was the fair-haired boy, well-liked by everyone. Joe was a little hot. The tone of the organization might change. Naturally, Della was Wes's choice, but her lack of experience wouldn’t sit well with the stockholders. He wished he had the time to continue groom
ing her as his successor. It was Doc Halgren, his longtime friend and personal physician, who told him, “When a patient feels deep within himself he has a life-threatening illness, it's usually true.” And Wes knew his heart was threatening him. He’d put off seeing Halgren for fear of what he’d find. When the pain got bad enough, he’d go. They’d probably do angioplasty or a bypass. Right now, the pills were all he could take. In a way, Wes was ready if anything did happen. However, like William Saroyan, Wes always thought an exception would be made in his case. He chuckled.
He’d accomplished everything he wanted for himself. A potato farmer’s son, he changed his destiny by sheer will. Early on, he vowed not to put a spud on anyone's table, no matter what he had to do. Come to think of it, he didn’t own a company that had a potato in it. Maybe a few potato-heads, though. That brought another laugh.
His reward for his determination was wealth, a beautiful wife, an intelligent, successful son and, though still a secret, a daughter who was more like him than was his son. Wes’s success had never impressed his dad. No matter how hard Wes tried, his dad remained happy with his bottle, living in the stench of rotten potatoes. The booze finally got him.
Whether here in this prestigious office or at home in his mansion, he didn't give a damn what anyone thought of him. One day, when Della came to terms with her past, she might find peace. If he had called her on it the day he hired her, she’d be a much different person today. She’d be free.
Wes had answered every knock on opportunity's door, seized the moment, and now at almost seventy-five-years of age, an average life span, he ignored the niggling feelings that his time was up.
The intercom buzzed, jarring him back. In an urgent tone, Iris said, Jon Clarin's in my outer office, hotter than a jalapeño.”
Relieved by the diversion, Wes said, “What's his problem?”
“He didn’t say, but the guy looks and acts a wreck.”
“After holding Carrie's hand all weekend over Steven's job plans and his moving out of the house, I’m ready for anything.”
A moment later, Jon entered Wes's office. His usual bon vivant attitude was gone, as if he’d lost his business, or Gary, his lover. Wes's heart immediately went out to him. He hadn’t seen Jon like this since the day he first met him, when he was on the verge of bankruptcy. He stood as Jon approached his desk. Wes took his hand and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Jon, you look like death warmed over.”
Jon sat in the chair next to the desk, folded his hands on his lap and looked down at them, slowly squeezing the color from each finger.
Wes said with a slight grin, not to make light of the situation but to reassure the man, “Maybe you need a drink?”
“If Jon touches a drink,” he retorted with a grin, “he drinks the whole bottle.”
“What’s going on?” Wes said casually, hoping for nothing serious. “Business looks good. Your quarterly report was up twenty-five percent over the previous quarter. Della have anything to do with that?”
Jon flinched. A pained expression flashed across his saddened face. “That's why I’m here.”
“Because of Della?” Now what? he wondered. Did he have a minor conspiracy on his hands? First, Jack acting strangely, Della getting threatening phone calls, now Jon coming here, looking depleted with more complaints.
“It’s about Della, but nothing she’s done.”
“I’m all ears.” He leaned back in his seat and took in a strengthening breath, letting it out slow and easy.
“I’m not a happy camper right now.” He unclenched his fingers, stood as if regaining his strength, walked to the window and looked down.
“Jon, get to the point.”
“I don’t know who else is involved in this little scheme, but I’m not going to let them hurt you. Not after all you've done for me.”
“Go on,” Wes urged.
“I know you own my company, and I also know without me, there’d be no company. So, all the threats are meaningless.”
“You're not making any sense. Start from the beginning.”
Jon turned from the window and faced Wes. “Carrie paid me an unwelcome visit. She told me in no uncertain terms that I should request a new VP over my company. She tried to lay a guilt trip on me, said I owed her something because she influenced you to buy my company back when it was in trouble. She also threw my being Steven's godfather in my face. Said that I owed it to him.” The words spewed out in a torrent of loathing. “She's afraid Della Garland is going to ace everyone out of what's rightfully theirs if she stays with the company. She thinks Della has you bamboozled and is taking over.”
He bolted from his seat with such force that he knocked the phone off the edge of his desk. “That's the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! Carrie said all that?”
“There's more. I’m not the only one she's been to see. I think Phillip Henshaw and Jack Davis are in on it with her.”
He felt his blood turn to ice. His heart pounded furiously; he reached for a nitro, slipped it under his tongue. He stretched out in his chair, sat silently, waiting for the pain to subside and the headache from the nitro to begin.
Jon rushed to Wes's side, handed him a glass of water from the desk. “I'm sorry, Wes. I didn't know.” Jon put the phone back on the desk and tidied up.
“It's okay, Jon. Thank you for your loyalty. I know how difficult this must have been for you. I know you care for Steven and my wife. She's put you in a terrible position.”
“I have the greatest respect for you. I just couldn't sit back and watch this undermining go on. I feel Carrie will cause a lot of trouble for Della. I love that lady. She’s helped me so much since you assigned her to me.”
“Don't worry, Jon. She’s staying right where she is. I’ll take care of this. Carrie’s had a hard time lately. I appreciate your coming to me, and don’t worry about any backlash–just keep up the good work. How about having lunch next week?” As much as he liked Jon, all Wes wanted at this moment was to be alone, to allow his stress level to subside and his medication to do its job.
“Till next week.” Jon backed to the door, appearing as defeated as when he’d entered.
“Iris will call you and set up a date,” Wes said as Jon closed the door behind him. Wes sat for ten minutes until he had regained his strength, then buzzed Iris. “Come in for a minute.”
“Bad?” Iris said, taking a seat in front of Wes’s desk.
“It seems Carrie is marshaling herself an army to overthrow Della. I can’t believe she would stoop to these tactics. I hope she didn't have anything to do with the threatening call to Della.” He lowered his face into his palms and shook his head. “This is all my fault.”
“You should have told Carrie about Della,” Iris said in a motherly tone. “I can’t believe you really thought you could pull this off without someone getting hurt.”
“I know, I know.”
“Carrie’s obsessed with the woman. I think Carrie would have had more understanding if she knew Della was your daughter.”
“I don't think so. This was a no-win for me. It's my Achilles's heel.”
Iris sat on the corner of Wes's desk, placed a hand on his sagging shoulder. “Maybe now's the time to get everything out in the open.”
Wes looked up. “I don't know if I can.”
“No matter what Carrie’s reaction, it couldn’t have more serious repercussions than what's going on right now. God knows who she's gotten to, Wes. We could have a regular uprising around this place.”
Wes stood. “If there's any uprising around here, it'll be from me.”
Iris smiled.
“I've always wanted to tell Carrie. If I hadn't been so afraid of her taking half my business if she divorced me, I might have told her years ago. Carrie will hate me.”
“You can tell her you paid for an abortion, but the woman fudged and kept the baby to collect welfare. I’ll bet she'll stop all this nonsense the minute you tell her. She's always wanted a daughter. Now, she’ll have one.
Maybe she'll even take a different view of Della and want her to succeed, even run the company one day, that is what you'd like, isn't it?”
He nodded, his heart heavy. He got up, grabbed his briefcase and left for the day.
As usual this time of day the traffic on Sunset Boulevard crawled along bumper to bumper, boom boxes blaring, convertible tops down with long hair blowing in the breeze. Bright sunlight reflecting off the dash did nothing to lift Wes’s sagging spirits. On his stereo, Mozart blared. His mind darted, like a writer's, organizing and reorganizing words for the best effect to make his point, ease Carrie's pain, restore some semblance of order to his crumbling life. His lies drove Carrie to her betrayal. He must tell her the truth and win back her trust. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t comprehend Carrie’s frustration. That's how little he knew about or understood his wife. After all these years of marriage, it was almost breathtaking.
He believed Steven would forgive him. He’d understand and accept his new sister into the family and business, no more pressure to fulfill Carrie's dream of his running the company. He’d be happy having Della for a sister. She’d take the load from his shoulders, and free him to pursue his career without guilt. Della was insurance to keep the business in the family.
His home loomed ahead. Carrie had parked her car in the circular drive. Behind hers, he saw Phillip's black Lincoln and behind his a late model red Corvette. His heart fluttered again. He didn’t want to just barge in on her. She’d be outraged before he had a chance to tell her anything.
He passed the house, drove around the block, then pulled into the tall-shrubbed driveway across the street from his place. He had neatly concealed his from view. On his cell phone, he called Carrie. “I’m on my way home,” he said when she answered. “I have something important to discuss.”
She cleared her throat. “How long will you be?”
“I'm on my way now. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes.”
“Damn you, Wes. The least you could do is give me some warning. After all, I do have a life and my own plans.”
Della Page 22