A Daughter's a Daughter

by Irene Vartanoff

  Thank goodness her mother had bullied her into taking the Chanel suit. It had made all the difference in her confidence level. Especially when confronting that unrepentant toad who had made billions off her hard work and the work of others, and then let them all lose their security. She was surprised she hadn’t surged up from her seat and slapped him.

  The funny thing was how well she was channeling Jackie Kennedy while wearing the Chanel suit. There had been a museum show dedicated to her a few years ago. At it, Pam had seen the letters the First Lady had written to convince powerful men to donate large amounts of money or priceless items. It was surprising how simple the letters were, appealing without subtlety to the men’s egotism. Pam had followed that exact prescription when claiming a donation to the Bright Side Foundation would cause the public to bless this man’s name. These fatuous men wanted to believe that they could be vicious and beloved at the same time. Soon each man would write his memoirs, recalling his glory days of firing huge numbers of employees, and driving up the company’s share price, and his own performance bonus. History might or might not contradict them. Meanwhile, she would get as much of their money as she could. Their donations would bring her foundation free publicity, and help launch it. She had to be careful to make sure that these men didn’t get their names too well associated with it, though, or try to claim that they were instrumental in the charity’s efficacy.

  As for finding people worthy of receiving help, it was almost too easy. They would find her, no doubt. She’d need assistance sorting them out. Employees. Oh, she had plans.

  Right now, she had to return to her other identity, that of a middle-aged woman whose mother could still act as a puppet master, and who had demanded her presence at her home this weekend.

  Chapter 23

  Jason and Linley were in a conference room at the studio, talking over the ad for their new show. Neutral territory. He’d gotten a batch of files together for a possible clip show. They’d already hashed over and rejected a dozen concepts.

  Finally, he suggested, “How about a retrospective, a ‘When Jason was hired, he came on strong,’ and then show me supposedly younger, with a stupid wig and bad hair and bad clothes, arguing with the guy auditioning me. Then switch to me now, arguing until the producer tells the cameraman to cut to a commercial.”

  “Then do the same for me,” Linley said, enthusiasm lighting her eyes. “There I am, wearing nineties hair or something to suggest youth and inexperience, and a college T-shirt. The same thing happens. We both argue with the guys conducting the employment audition. We won’t let them shut us up. Then a voiceover that we were a pair made for each other in heaven—or hell.

  “I like it,” she said. “Let’s run it by Marty tomorrow. Good night.” She gathered up her notes to toss in her bag.

  “Wait a minute. You’re going home? We finally got the idea.” He looked at her as if she was being annoying. She was.

  “Yeah, well. I’ve had a long day and I’m done. See you.”

  “Wait, Linley. Let’s go out to dinner and talk about it some more.”

  “Nope. That’s Marty’s fantasy, not mine,” she said. Her own fantasy had them in bed, but she wasn’t telling Jason. He’d hop on that idea in a minute.

  #

  The next day, they argued again, but nobody minded. They were doing a sample episode in a new set, debating the world price of oil and what Americans could do about it.

  “We shouldn’t be dependent on oil produced by nations that hate us and want us dead,” Jason said.

  He’d said that previously on the other show. Now, Linley had the go-ahead to argue with him.

  “You’re wrong about our oil suppliers,” she said, no compromise in her tone. “Canada is the single biggest source of our imported oil, Jason,” she replied. “Look at this chart.” She threw up a list of major oil suppliers to the U.S.

  “You’re missing the point, Linley. If you add Saudi Arabia and Venezuela together, they total more. Both countries have anti-democratic political systems.”

  She rolled her eyes. “We import more oil from Mexico than we do from Venezuela. Mexico likes us so much, all its citizens try to come here to live,” she said provocatively, hoping he’d fall into her trap.

  He sidestepped. “Nice try, but you won’t drag me into an immigration debate. We’re talking about oil.” He waved his hand to dismiss the topic.

  “Ignore the truth, Jason, but you’re being a bigot. Saudi Arabia is our firm ally.”

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “You’ve drunk the Kool-Aid. We’re on track to need more and more oil. We can’t continue in that direction, especially with anti-American regimes.”

  “You’re dead wrong,” she said, showing exasperation. “They’re not anti-American.”

  And they were off, threading every comment with a put-down of the other’s stance. Doing exactly the opposite of acting courteous and collegial, in fact.

  Marty came up to them afterwards.

  “Good, good. This is exactly what I want. Let’s get in some experts for each of your positions. We want more ammunition on each side.”

  “Then we fight to a standstill?” Jason asked.

  “Maybe,” Marty allowed. “Do you two ever agree on anything?”

  Jason blinked. He answered at random. “Occasionally. Right, Linley?”

  She’d bet his mind was where it shouldn’t be, remembering that night last year.

  “We both agree we like pizza,” she said brightly. She wanted to appear alert and happy and cooperative in front of Marty. Although she was sure he saw right through her compliant act. Her basic acerbity always peeped through when she was around Jason. Come to think of it, that mean streak of hers was what Marty was rewarding with this show. It also was useful in fending off the comments of her fellow panelists, now that Marty had broken the news about their new pairing.

  “I knew you had something going with Jason,” Ernie said, stopping by her cubicle a few minutes later.

  “Oh, right,” she scoffed, relieved that now he took it to be professional, not personal. “How’d you guess?”

  “You two never agree on anything. But you’re always looking at each other.”

  Uh-oh. Ernie was more aware than she had thought. Time to brazen it out.

  “You need to know what the enemy is doing,” she replied, adding a conniving smile. Would Ernie buy it?

  “Yeah, guess so,” he agreed. Seeing he couldn’t get a rise out of her, he gave up and walked on.

  Did Jason look at her all the time? She kept track of him, for sure. She’d tried to be surreptitious, but obviously had not succeeded. Ernie said Jason looked at her. Maybe Jason was more interested in her than he wanted to admit.

  Then Jason strolled by. Her cubicle was an outer one, basically next to a hallway. She looked up, and he looked in at her at the same moment.

  “We made a good start today,” he said, stopping near her as she sat contemplating a financial chart.

  She leaned back to look at him as she asked, “Do you think we can last?” It was a double-edged question, referencing everything that had gone between them previously, and everything they both lusted for now but were attempting to hold off taking from each other.

  Jason acknowledged the implied question, but spoke as cautiously as she had. Cubicle walls were an illusion. They knew others were listening.

  “If there’s a basic philosophical divide, we’ll naturally hold opposing views. On whatever issue comes up,” he added.

  What was his view of a non-romance? A backward-growing relationship that seemed to be getting closer and closer as each day passed? There was something tremendously intimate about the two of them being on this show, alone. Even with six other people physically in the studio helping produce it and the wide world watching on air.

  “Lunch?” he asked.

  It probably wasn’t wise, but now people would assume they were planning their show. “Okay.”

  Jason flashed his million-watt smile a
nd she found she was smiling back. Then he recalled himself. “Meet you at noon.” He continued on his way.

  Whew. That was too good. What if someone had walked by and seen them grinning at each other like lovesick fools? Lovesick? She ought to email him to cancel lunch. She even started to compose it. She closed the document without saving. She’d go to lunch with Jason if she wanted to, the rest of the world be damned.

  Chapter 24

  Pam arrived at the beach house feeling good about herself, better than in a long time. Although she was confused about what, if anything, she felt about Bruce.

  His phone call had made her so angry. His claim that her mother had dementia. How could it be true?

  They had seemed to be building something, but then she had drawn back emotionally. He’d never put much of himself out there to begin with. She wondered if he even realized their lovemaking didn’t have much spark because they were both keeping emotion far out of it. She would ignore her doubts unless he wanted to talk about their relationship, though. It was not her first priority at the moment. Enjoying physical closeness again was her objective for now.

  Did her mother have any more power outfits hiding in her closet? Why didn’t Pam remember her mother wearing the Chanel suit? Wasn’t she paying any attention years ago? Or had Dorothy only worn it at a time when Pam wasn’t around? She remembered the lessons on strategy over family dinners long ago. Dorothy would tell Malcolm her latest plan, and he would critique it carefully and render his opinion based on his many years of working in a competitive male environment. Although Malcolm never took part in any of Dorothy’s protests and actions, his advice was invaluable. His experience, added to Dorothy’s shrewd understanding of people and her brassy courage, made a strong combination.

  “Hi, Mom,” she called as she went inside. The front door had been unlocked as usual. Her mother was sitting in what was her favorite room these days, the sunroom. She didn’t appear to be doing anything. She was cocooned in the padded wicker chair.

  What a great change from the Dorothy of old. Before, she would have been surrounded by press releases, papers of all sorts, and magazines and newsletters. Her Rolodex and a pad and pen would have been at hand on the nearby table. Plus the phone, which she would be using constantly to call her troops or hector some unsuspecting public official. She had been so successful at it over the years that one phone call from her often would effect an immediate policy change. The person Dorothy pressured knew she would follow through with the maximum adverse publicity. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  That was all over now, and yet her mother didn’t seem to miss it. She seldom referred to her career as an activist. She’d had a retirement party two years ago when she’d turned eighty-five, and that was that. She’d handed the reins to others and hadn’t been involved in any public affairs since.

  Was Bruce correct? Was her mother now experiencing memory deficits? There had been no evidence of it during her recent visits. Except for asking about jerk chicken at that restaurant. Her mother always made perfect sense on the phone.

  “How are you?” she asked. “Bruce told me he found you a little confused in town the other day when you went in for your hair appointment. What happened?”

  Her mother looked at her blankly. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t left the house all week.”

  “But Bruce said—”

  “You misunderstood.” Her mother’s brisk tone made it clear she was not going to waste any more time on the topic. “Now tell me why you’re back so soon.”

  “You’re the one who wanted me to come, remember?” How strange. Her mother had insisted Pam come visit this weekend. This was disorienting. For now, she would ask about something else.

  “Do you have any other designer clothes I could borrow?”

  “Oh, of course. Come along.” Dorothy rose in her usual commanding manner and bustled to her bedroom and the walk-in closet Pam was beginning to think was an Aladdin’s treasure cave.

  “The Chanel suit you lent me was amazing, Mom. It gave me confidence. I got a five hundred thousand dollar donation and a commitment for five hundred thousand more from Frank Cox. I even had an interview with Charles Saunders, the man who fired everybody where I used to work.”

  “Did you get a donation from him, too?”

  “A tiny one. Only twenty thousand dollars. I have high hopes he’ll kick in more at a later date.”

  “That’s not good enough, Pamela,” her mother said. “You have to close the deal at the first meeting. You may never get more than one chance with each person or company.”

  Couldn’t her mother just celebrate her success with her? Be happy with whatever Pam had managed to achieve? Instead of being critical because she hadn’t done a lot more?

  “I did the best I could. He started off mad at me because of Linley.”

  “Why?”

  “Apparently she raked him over the coals on her television program.”

  “Good for her,” her mother said.

  “In this case, I tend to agree with you. He’s a bad man.”

  “Still, a bad man’s money spends like anyone else’s.”

  “I’m hoping so. I personally think he’ll come around. I’m going to send him a follow-up letter.”

  Dorothy shook her head. “That won’t do it.”

  Pam’s face fell.

  Dorothy patted her on the shoulder. “We’ll let it be for now.” She zipped open another garment bag and carefully pulled out a black dress.

  Pam was inclined to dwell on her mother’s criticism. Her shoulders had hunched defensively even before Dorothy patted her. The sight of the dress completely chased those feelings away.

  “Ohhh.” The classic little black dress. It was sophisticated, draped, and meant for a woman with a perfect figure. Which Pam did not have.

  “Dior,” Dorothy said.

  Pam turned from admiring the dress to stare at her mother. “Where did you get these? I don’t remember you wearing them.”

  “Your father knew someone in the garment trade. I was able to get couture at a steep discount.”

  Of course. Her mother would never have paid full price. That was admitting she was a tourist, not a real New Yorker.

  “This isn’t as forgiving a cut as the suit. I don’t know if it will fit.”

  “Nonsense. If I could wear it, you can.”

  Pam took off her casual suburban pants and top. She’d removed her jacket when she came inside. She looked for a back zipper on the Dior. There was none.

  “Here. There’s a side zipper,” Dorothy said, “under the arm, where it isn’t noticeable.”

  With her mother’s help, she wiggled into the dress. It was snug, but it fit correctly around the key curves. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a sophisticated woman. She could imagine how a string of good pearls or some diamond stud earrings would complete the look. And a pair of Sarah’s delicately made shoes. Which she should be buying for herself from now on.

  “I admit it. I’m sold.” This dress would be effective ammunition in her battle to wrest money out of corporate fat cats.

  “Might as well have the pearls to go with it,” her mother said, and opened a drawer. She pulled out a jeweler’s box and offered it to Pam.

  “Go on. Open it.”

  Pam tentatively reached out. Inside the box was a double string of cream colored pearls. Real. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said.

  “You need them to complete the Dior.” Dorothy said, impatient at Pam’s hesitation. “Go on. Take them.”

  “I’ll return them,” Pam said.

  “Don’t bother. I have no more use for them.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  After that, she tried on everything in her mother’s closet. Dorothy was specific about which garments Pam should wear in the city, which were strictly for the outlying suburbs. Dorothy never mentioned the boroughs. To her New York was Manhattan.

  After their hour of playing
with clothes, her mother was tired. Pam took a look in the refrigerator, and found the pickings tonight were slim. Of course. Tomorrow was the day the local deli restocked. She didn’t feel like making a meal of leftovers, or going to a restaurant when she’d driven so far today.

  “How about we order some Chinese takeout? I’m not in the mood to cook.”

  “That sounds delightful.”

  Dorothy opened a drawer, and Pam found a stack of menus inside, but none for a Chinese restaurant.

  “Oh, dear. I guess we could order Italian instead,” Pam said.

  “No, I’d like Chinese,” Dorothy said. “Go next door and borrow a menu.”

  “I wouldn’t want to bother Bruce,” she replied. She wasn’t ready to confront him.

  “Nonsense.” Dorothy gave Pam an exasperated look, telegraphing her impatience with Pam’s too-sensitive feelings. Dorothy might not know what had passed between Pam and Bruce, but Pam’s reluctance made Dorothy all the more determined to insist Pam do as she’d told her. Dorothy had always been that way. She had no truck with playing to the overly sensitive feelings of her youngest child.

  “Go on, ask him. Invite him to dinner, too. If you’re going to be mulish, I’d enjoy some additional company, Pamela.”

  Pam winced at the way Dorothy pronounced her full name. So much for a more peaceful relationship.

  Her feet dragged as she obeyed, but she eventually covered the distance to Bruce’s deck. Bruce looked pleased on finding her knocking on his door.

  “Pam. Are you here for the weekend?”

  “Yes. We want to order in Chinese food. Do you have a menu?” She tried to keep her words curt, even though something inside had immediately softened on seeing him.