Sure you do, he thought. “This is important. You’re home, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” she shot back. “Where do you think you’re calling?”
“Your cell phone. Sorry, Carrie, but this can’t wait.”
“Oh, all right,” she said and hung up on him.
He had a bird’s eye view of his house. In a moment the front door flew open. Phillip and Jack ran down the front steps, jumped into their cars, and lit out down the driveway like a couple of burglars who had just set off an alarm.
They had.
Wes waited his ten minutes, started the engine and drove up his own driveway.
Now the fun would begin.
Wes entered the quiet house, peered into the library, where Carrie had obviously been holding her meeting. There were empty glasses on the coffee table, an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Carrie would leave the cleanup detail to the housekeeper.
He found her in the solarium, dressed for business, reading a magazine, acting as if she were killing time. She was good at this game.
“That was fast,” she snapped, sitting up and laying the magazine on the coffee table. She stretched and feigned a yawn. “Let’s get this over with.” She checked her watch. “I have an appointment in town.”
“Maybe you should cancel it. We have some important business to discuss.”
“Since when do you discuss business with me anymore?” She rolled her eyes, her lashes so long and thick with mascara they touched her arched brows. “I have a sneaking suspicion why you’re here.”
Wes sat next to her, his elbows on his knees. He stared straight ahead, averting her gaze.
“Well?” she said, sounding annoyed.
“How about a sherry?” He patted her knee and eased up from the foot of the chaise, went to the glass cart that served as a portable bar, and poured their drinks. He and Carrie enjoyed an occasional cocktail before dinner in this plant-filled room, with its heady scent of pink blooming star jasmine. If only all was well between them now and he didn’t have to confess to this monstrous lie! She sat, coiling her legs beneath her, like a rattler getting ready to strike. Putting him on the defense had always worked for her before. Not this time.
“Jon came to see me today.”
She reared up. “I should have known that little shit couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I should never have trusted the little faggot.”
“You should have expected it, particularly knowing how loyal he is to me, and his appreciation for Della.” He handed her a glass and sat in the white wicker chair across from her. He lifted the snifter to his nose, drew in the rich, sweet scent of his Bristol Cream, closed his eyes and swallowed. He felt the smooth liquid slide down his throat, rest in his empty stomach. “But it’s not Jon I want to talk about, nor Henshaw or Jack Davis.”
She jerked, unfolding her legs. “You know?”
“Jon told me. It was then I decided to come home and tell you the truth about Della.”
She let out a nervous little laugh. “Surprise, surprise! You mean there’s something about the little bitch I don’t already know?”
“She’s far from that, my dear.” Fortified by his second and larger swallow of sherry, he forged ahead, as ready as he’d ever be for the onslaught of Carrie’s wrath. The enormity of his mistake, not telling her when he first learned of Della’s existence dawned on him full force, leaving him filled with fear and regret. He swallowed over the golf ball-sized lump in his throat and sputtered, “Della is my daughter.”
Silence!
“I said, Della is my daughter.”
“I heard what you said.” Her hand flew up, sending a sheet of amber liquid onto the terrazzo floor. “What the hell are you talking about? Your daughter? By whom?” She bolted from her seat, lunged at him, pulled him up and beat his chest with her fists. Tears streamed down her cheeks, carrying black mascara with them to her chin. “I hate you!”
He grabbed her, pulled her to him and held her with such force she couldn’t move. After a few moments, her sobs subsided, but her shaking continued. He held onto her, his heart pumping like a gusher ready to heave. He moved her a foot away from him, stared down at her. She looked like a child who’d just been told one of her parents had died.
The damage was irreparable. She would never forgive him. He saw it in her eyes.
Yanking herself free from his grip, her voice dropped into a lower register. She sounded like a stranger. “I need another drink, a helluva lot stronger than sherry.” She scurried to the bar and poured a scotch, neat, then turned to Wes, an eyebrow arched. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, my dearest loving, husband.” She wiped the streaks from her face with a napkin she took from the bar. In a snide tone, without a trace of the vulnerability she had a moment ago, she said, “And it better be damn good.”
Wes drew in a breath, gazed into her eyes. He spoke quietly, forcefully. He told her about Lillian and why he had used a prostitute when he was out in L.A. for weeks, all by himself, lonely. Lillian had broken the news of her pregnancy after one of their many trysts.
“The thought of you with some sleazy prostitute sickens me!” She remained standing, the scotch wobbling in her glass. “And you having a child with her is even more sickening.”
“I was lonely, and needed someone to talk to.”
Carrie broke into a nervous laugh. “I’ll bet you did a lot of talking, all right. Is that how you thought of me? You picked me up in a bar.”
He ignored her last statement and went on, “Lillian disappeared. I didn’t hear from her until she wanted money to help her with our child. Della was in her teens then. I gave her money and tracked Della. I thought one day, I’d help her in my own way. I have.”
“She may not be yours.”
“She’s mine,” Wes said with finality. “Lillian may have been a prostitute, but she wasn’t a liar.” He tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away.
“Don’t,” she snapped, shaking his hand from her arm. “You can count on me filing for divorce. And you can count on me getting half of everything.”
Carrie walked over to a hanging plant, a lush Charlie with glossy green leaves and tiny white blossoms, and ran her fingers over the soft finish of a delicate leaf. She looked beautiful standing there, but she seethed with anger.
“I may even take over your business.” She groaned. “The thought of you lying to me all these years is despicable! You have no idea what you’ve put me through with that woman.” She let go of the plant, turned to him. “At first, I thought you were having an affair with her. You let me live with that for a while, even made me feel guilty for being jealous. Christ! Then, you encouraged me to mentor her, help her improve herself. The more she developed and grew, the more jealous I became. You just sat by and watched me fall apart, put on thirty pounds, lose my self-respect.” Now, she was shouting. “And you didn’t do a goddamned thing about it! Now, because of you, I’m in the middle of a firestorm in your company, trying to get the bitch out before she takes over and ruins everything for Steven and me.” She walked over to where he stood with the drink in his hand. “Now, you decide to fess up.” She slapped the drink from his hand. It shattered on the floor, shards of glass flying everywhere. “You’re fucked up.”
He tired of her pummeling him, grabbed her arm. “That’s enough. I’ve had to live with this, too.”
“Then, explain why you didn’t tell me! If you’d been honest, we could have worked it out. I might have gotten involved. You know I always wanted a girl.”
“I know you wouldn’t have reacted like that. You see, I was afraid if you did divorce me, you’d get half my company. I couldn’t deal with that at the time.”
“But you can now?”
“I don’t care anymore.”
“I’ll bet. You’re a phony! That’s all you ever cared about. You’re either lying again, or plotting something. Too bad you don’t have a pre-nup. Would’ve saved you some hassle.”
She paced the large room, her heel
s clicking on the terrazzo. “I suppose everyone in the company knows but me? Della must be having a good laugh behind my back.”
“She doesn’t know. Nobody does.” Carrie would never understand he’d confided in Iris. Carrie was closing in on him, making it more difficult.
“When Della came to work for me, she’d already created a new life for herself, which didn’t include Lillian or a father who–”
“I heard all about her heroic daddy, who died in the line of duty. Oh God, what a lying slut! And to think I actually felt sorry for her, thought she came from some decent stock. She didn’t come from decent stock.”
The dig grated him, but she was right. “I paid to have her aborted.” The words tumbled out.
Her eyes popped open, her face turned crimson. “What does that mean?”
“I paid Lillian ten thousand dollars to have an abortion. Instead, she took the money and went to Vegas, blew it all, then had the baby so she could collect welfare.”
Her eyes skewered his. “You mean to tell me that you paid to have your own child aborted?” Her voice trembled with anger.
“That’s the main reason I didn’t tell you. I knew how you felt about that. I knew you’d hate me for what I did.” He lowered his eyes. “Della will, too.”
She turned on her heel and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her. He heard her muffled, “You bastard!” through the double-paned glass door.
19
Lillian called Wes to tell him she had to see him. At first, she was going to talk to Della directly, but after thinking things through, she decided Wes was just as much a part of this fiasco as she was. They were Della’s parents. Together, they got the girl into this mess; together, they’d get her out.
She insisted this wasn’t the kind of business to handle over the phone, and to Lillian’s surprise, Wes agreed to a meeting. He even volunteered to take care of the plane and room reservations for her.
“Della’s in New York,” he said. By his tone, he obviously wasn’t aware of anything going on between his son and daughter.
Lillian hated herself from the moment she discovered Della was involved with her half-brother. Telling Della her father had paid to have her aborted and keeping him a secret from her were the biggest mistakes she’d ever made. Back when she should have told Della, she was interested only in herself. Della was a welfare check, and always underfoot. She cringed at her own self-centeredness. The nice part of getting older was getting wiser; the bad part was the time spent regretting the shit you were unable to undo. She wanted Della to forgive Wes when she found out he was her father. He’d done so much for her.
Della, Wes, Carrie, and Steven were all trapped with her in this horrible lie. Everyone would be hurt in some way. Wes had sworn her to secrecy, and she’d kept her promise. But it baffled her why Wes hadn’t told Della he was her father, now that she was grown and they were working together. All she could do was help Della through the storm ahead–a storm Lillian and Wes had created.
She looked forward to the balmy L.A. weather. Not quite inebriated but not quite sober, either, she boarded her flight to Los Angeles. She gussied up in a snappy suit from Wards, new shoes from the Payless Shoe Source, and she had her hair cut and bleached. She felt like a queen.
In her purse, she carried a flask of bourbon to keep herself calm during the flight. No frazzled nerves for her. She was disappointed in herself for resorting to the hard stuff after being off it for so long, but carrying a jug of Chablis and hoisting the damn thing into the overhead compartment wasn’t a ladylike way to travel.
Lillian leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, glad that Della was in New York. She wondered if Steven had gone with her. It wasn’t beyond the girl to run off and get married without telling anyone. Where she got these crazy ideas baffled Lillian. Lord knows, she never ran off and married any of those idiot men from her past. But Della was crazy like that–had wanted to prove she could get a man and keep him. Two marriages. Two disasters. This one would be her undoing.
Lillian had taken three days to get herself in gear and call Wes. The look in Della’s and Steven’s eyes the day they visited still haunted her. She’d never known that kind of love. Now, she had to destroy Della’s chance at happiness.
The man next to her had his nose in a newspaper and paid no mind when she reached into her bag, opened the flask, bent over and took a nip. Ah, a soothing remedy to life’s woes. She leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes again and wondered how Wes looked these days. He never was what she’d call a tiger, but he was a powerful man and loaded. A man that many women would chew their shoelaces for. Lordy, that man had money. It made her quiver all over.
Wondering what being married to a man like Wes would be like made her chuckle. There was no place for a woman like her in his life; Eliza Doolittle, she wasn’t. She might just have made him the laughingstock of the new money set in the Hills.
The plane landed, taxied to a stop. She grabbed her small carry-on bag from the overhead compartment and hustled herself through the clogged terminal. Out front in the smog-filtered sunshine she flagged a cab, tossed her bag in the back seat and sank into the cracked leather.
On the busy thoroughfare, she watched the city she loved pass her by. Ah, the smog, the warm air, the people; there wasn’t a thing about this big obnoxious town she didn’t love. What she wouldn’t give to return to her old stomping grounds!
The taxi pulled in under the portico of the new Beverly Hills Hotel. She looked out at the refurbished building. Still pink and green, still elegant. Her heart leapt. She paid the driver, wrestled with the tip, couldn’t figure fifteen percent in her head, so she slipped him five bucks, hoping it was close. He’d let her know if it wasn’t. Today, she fit right in with this snobby group.
In the lush lobby, she glanced around. Many years had passed since she’d stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and back then she stayed by the hour. Astonishingly, Della was conceived here. Strange that Wes booked her into a room in this particular hotel. At the front desk, she registered and the bellhop hustled her off to her room. He frowned at her one-dollar tip. What the hell did he want? She had no luggage to speak of. All he did was show her how to open the goddamned curtains, where the toilet was, the wet bar, the fax machine, and handed her the key. In the old days, she never tipped anyone. She slipped in and out the back entrance, hoping no one would see her or arrest her.
With one hand on her hip and the other under her chin, she glanced around the room. The bedspread on the king-sized bed looked like satin. The furnishings were expensive and not bolted down.
She freshened up, which meant checking her eyelids to see if her mascara had smeared, and pinching her cheeks to bring up a little color. Then she returned to the room and took another sip of her bourbon. Fortified, she picked up the instructions on how to use the phone. What happened to dialing the operator and having her call the number? Now, you had to punch in a half-dozen zeros and ones, then the number you wanted. She shook her head in disgust.
Surprisingly, Wes’s secretary put her right through. “Lillian, you made it! I’d have met you at the airport, but I’m swamped,” the old fart said in a shaky voice. Was it from palsy or nerves?
“When can we meet, Wes? How soon?” She tried to keep desperation out of her voice.
“The Polo Lounge at four o’clock?”
Her Timex said two. “I’ll be wearing a navy blue suit with a white blouse.” The only thing she had to wear. “The hair’s blonde now.” This reminded her of the old days, giving her description to a john, if she was to meet him in a bar. She’d always gone directly to Wes’s room.
Lillian would never forget their first night when he opened the door and his eyes bugged out with surprise. He probably expected some floozy-looking broad. Back then, she looked good. Educated she wasn’t, but she sure as hell knew how to dress for a buck. In her twenties and early thirties, she commanded top dollar. She was known as the “little doll.” Her flaming red hair was n
atural and thick as a mane, her skin was alabaster and smooth as a baby’s behind. Wes had been so thrilled with her, he booked her services weeks in advance, always wanted her on tap. When he couldn’t make it to L.A., he sent her a cashier’s check. Like a no-show fee. He was the only one who ever did that, and it was his own doing. God knows, she never expected to be treated with any kind of respect, like getting a cancellation fee. The other girls freaked when she proudly flashed those checks around.
“Lillian.” He laughed, a warm, hearty laugh that sent a chill down her spine, “I don’t think the years could erase you from my mind. We’ll recognize each other without the flower in the lapel bit.”
After she hung up the phone, she stared out the window into the courtyard at the bungalows below where all the highrollers stayed.
With a deep sigh of resignation, she picked up the flask from the table, held it to her lips, stopped, crinkled her nose. For the first time she could remember, bourbon smelled foul. She rose, went to the bathroom and poured the poison down the drain. From the mirror, she watched a smile of satisfaction appear on her face. “Well, kid, you’re goin’ this mile on your own steam.” She’d meet Wes straight, sober, and honest.
The Polo Lounge had been kept up; still elegant, dark and richly appointed with linen and crystal. On the way to be seated, Lillian’s resolve not to drink was challenged by the bartender drawing a draft beer. The aroma of malt nearly bowled her over. Hot damn, could she use a tall cold one right now! The waiter seated her and asked her if she’d like a drink. Hesitantly she answered, “A club soda, please.” Lillian, you old crow! She slapped the table, wanting to hoot with laughter. She had never ordered a club soda in her life. “Oh, and with a twist,” she said, as if forgetting the most important ingredient.
Her insides trembled, her hands shook. This wasn’t working. The waiter departed; she called out, “Young man, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a Vodka. A double. Up!” A beer just wouldn’t do it.
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