The Secret Keeping
Page 34
“Tell me you want to jump my bones,” Lydia said hopefully.
“Do you ladies need a bed?” Robert inquired. “Because I’m sure we can locate one.”
“I love you and your bones, darling. You know that.”
“But I am betrothed to another,” Robert muttered over their heads.
“And?”
“And you already know I want to jump your bones.”
“Over them or onto them?” he inserted.
“Well, what do you want me to do, Lana? I’ll do it.”
“You can’t,” Helaine answered.
“I’ll be back,” Robert said, giving up.
“Tell me anyway, Helaine.”
“All right then. I want you to make all this disappear. The hiding, the lying, the cameras, the video takes, the prying in our private life. All of it,” she said, setting her glass down and folding her arms. “I want it over with.”
Lydia gazed into her wineglass. “And I can do this by going away?”
Helaine reached into Lydia’s hip pocket and pulled out Anna’s card. “If you choose,” she said, ripping it to shreds.
Lydia watched the pieces of paper as they fell to the floor like snowflakes. Winter was certainly the right time for going away, taking a breather as Helaine said. But there were so many commitments. There were meetings with Paula, meetings with regulators, meetings with attorneys. And depositions soon, ordered by the plaintiff. Excruciating who, what, where, why and when’s. Swear to this, swear to that, nothing but nails in her coffin, putting an end to a fine romance, the best sex she ever had. “I actually have a choice?” she asked.
Helaine chuckled. “Lydia…has anyone ever told you you’re dense?”
Lydia perked up a bit. “Yes,” she admitted. “All the time. How did you know?”
“Oh, I didn’t. Just a lucky guess.”
_____
“You’re out of your mind. For how long, Beaumont?”
“A few months?”
“I’ll just say it’s a bit premature but not unexpected, the end. They’ll be chewing my ass for an explanation though.”
“Thank you, Paula.”
“For what?”
“Your brevity.”
_____
“Liddy, do what you have to. That’s my learned opinion.”
“Solar flare?”
“Hey, it happens to the best of us.”
_____
“Queenie…I…does your mother know about this?”
“Yes.”
_____
On the day she was to be deposed for pretrial testimony, Lydia Beaumont sat parked in a white stretch limousine, watching the courthouse steps through her tinted windows, observing the reporters who had coagulated there. Upstairs, she knew, the plaintiff and defendant and an array of restless attorneys were waiting in vain for her arrival. In her place she had had the courtesy to send two very large checks. They were in two separate envelopes tucked in the breast pocket of Stanley Kandinsky, who smiled opaquely whenever questioned as to why his client was so late.
Everything was being done by the clock. Lydia timed the transaction with a digital watch propped up against a bottle of cognac on the bar. It was a little too early for a drink, but she was nevertheless tempted, with hands that had turned to ice, a stomach full and queasy with excitement.
The outcome was uncertain. If all went according to plan, a blond would emerge from the courthouse, fight her way through the throngs of reporters, enter the limo and be whisked away to a secure and undisclosed location. If not, Lydia could expect to see hawk-faced Stan returning the check she had made payable to Helaine, together with the letter explaining that she was offering to pay half of her lover’s worth to settle with the plaintiff–gross, just as Sharon had been demanding.
“Myself and what is mine, to you and yours is now converted,” she had quoted on the bottom line. Whatever Helaine decided, the plaintiff could keep Lydia’s half million. She was getting out today. It was over.
Later Willard Hathaway would recall that he nearly wet himself with joy when he received his envelope and that he thought he might have to call an ambulance for Sharon Chambers when Helaine Kristenson asked for and then promptly signed the settlement agreement. In his ecstasy he had accepted Robert Keagan’s hastily negotiated ten-year gag, as well. That would be Sharon’s albatross, he figured. She was so blown over she agreed to the stipulation without even knowing.
This all necessarily took longer than originally expected and by the time Lydia spied a blond head of hair at the top of the courthouse steps, she had nearly given up hope on the woman. “Help her please,” she ordered the driver, when she saw Helaine being mobbed by the press. The driver went to her rescue and in five minutes Helaine was safe inside the limousine, shivering because she had left the building without her jacket. “Plan A,” Lydia told him as she wrapped a blanket around her. He left the curb before the reporters understood what had happened.
_____
“Darling, come here.”
“No.”
“No?”
“That’s not what I paid for, Ms. Hard-to-get.”
Helaine chuckled and pulled her into the blanket with her. “Consider it a perk then. Where are you taking me?”
Lydia placed a pillow behind her head. “To a hotel, naturally.”
“Ah, I see–be careful with those buttons, darling. These are the only clothes I have for now.”
“For now you won’t be needing any–I just want to hold you anyway.”
“You’re undressing me just to hold me? Where exactly is this hotel?”
Lydia smiled serenely and kissed her. “Five hours away.”
“Five–you’ll never make it for that long, Ms. Beaumont! I’ll see to it.”
“You want to bet?”
“Well, I don’t know. Do we actually have any money left?”
“Some,” Lydia whispered, lifting Helaine’s skirt up. “Be good for me, Lana.”
Helaine stretched herself out under the blanket and sighed happily. “All right, I’ll bet you a new suit of clothes then.”
“You’re on,” Lydia said, undoing her own blouse.
“I’m on,” Helaine murmured, tucking the blanket around them.
“How do you like that?” Lydia teased.
“Lydia Beau…oh…you’re cheating…”
_____
Paula Treadwell, president and chief financial officer for Soloman-Schmitt, had finally come to that point in the press conference where she usually lost her patience and went home. The press corps could tell that by the way she held her briefcase. It was back to yes and no and I dunno again or I didn’t understand the question. This was, they suspected, probably her last official statement to them as she had steered her troubled company out of imminent danger and no longer felt obligated to provide day-to-day assessments to anyone.
“Okay,” she said impatiently, “last question and I’m out of here. Go ahead, you. You, I said. Last question.”
“Can you give us a statement concerning your former chief financial strategist, Lydia Beaumont?”
“Concerning what about her?” she growled, grabbing her coat and leaving the platform.
“Concerning her whereabouts and, uh, the private settlement with, uh–”
“Once and for all, that matter has nothing to do with Soloman-Schmitt.”
The reporters had been foiled by a gag decree and had pestered Treadwell for the details for two weeks straight.
“Well, uh, we thought since there is a link between Beaumont and Soloman-Schmitt that perhaps you could lend us some insight there.”
“My insight? Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? They’ve eloped.”
“That’s it?” he persisted. He’d already guessed that much.
“Isn’t that enough?” she said in retort.
“We were hoping you could elaborate on that.”
“Elaborate? Okay. They lived happily ever after, the end.”
Francine Saint Marie, The Secret Keeping