Fortune Is a Woman

by Francine Saint Marie

  Chapter 12

  Praise and Blame

  Paula had not actually given notice to the board. She had merely given them a heads-up, leaving Lydia in charge of the kingdom for a while. Several of the directors held informal discussions concerning the future governance of Soloman-Schmitt and they were impressed with the senior vice president’s record of achievement and her management style which differed so dramatically from CEO Treadwell’s sandpaper diplomacy. Not that the board had any genuine grievance with Treadwell. After all, as abrasive as they might find the woman, her techniques had definitely produced positive gains. And they couldn’t forget–and she never let them–that she had rescued the corporation from the Securities and Exchange Commission, as well as ultimate bankruptcy. Tally that in with a five-year average annual growth rate of four percent and it was all good. Their only concern was for a smooth transition in the event that Paula stepped down, which seemed more and more likely as the days turned into weeks and Beaumont still stood at the helm.

  Some members and prominent shareholders claimed, unofficially, that a smooth transition had already taken place, but the board was taking a wait-and-see approach before stamping their approval. Nothing could become official until Paula Treadwell tendered her resignation. That remained a big IF.

  In the meantime Paula acted as a cheerleader on the sidelines and praised her protégé both publicly and privately. It was a great comfort to be able to rely on her for a change. Especially under the present circumstances.

  “Paula. What can I do for you?”

  “Kristenson, I need to chat.”

  “Speak freely.”

  “I mean professionally. Death, dying stuff, you know?”

  Very admirable, but it was not the doctor’s specialty. “I can recom–”

  “Nonsense. I don’t trust anyone else.”

  “I see.” Dr. Kristenson took the compliment without comment. “You want to come in?” she asked, leafing through her appointment book. “I should tell you, though, my calendar is full till next month.”

  “That’s too long. Make time for me now. I’ll pay you double.”

  “No charge, Paula. I’ll check with my secretary for cancellations and get back to you.”

  “Don’t give her my name, please. And thank you, but I don’t need your charity.”

  “I’ll leave payment to your discretion then. But you can trust my secretary won’t reveal your–”

  “I trust no one. I mean as a rule that is.”

  “Okay…I’ll make the arrangements myself then. How’s that?”

  “Dr. Kristenson, I thank you.” (click)

  _____

  “Yes, Jen?”

  “Lydia. Line one.”

  “Thanks, Jen. Well! Good afternoon, Ms. Beaumont.”

  “Helaine…I’m sorry if…do you have ti–?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  (The line crackled.)

  “Lydia?”

  “I–you were expecting me?”

  “Everyday, darling.”

  “Everyd–for how long?

  Helaine counted in her head. “Nineteen days.”

  “Nineteen days, Lana?”

  “Lydia.”

  “Nineteen days?”

  Helaine fidgeted with her pencil. “Two o’clock then?”

  “Lana, I thought–I really don’t know what I thought.”

  “My fault. Can you be here at two?”

  “Two o’clock. Definitely. I’ll see you at two.” (click)

  Nineteen days trying somehow to make it up to Lydia. Every subtle overture an act of futility. Nineteen days and nights Helaine had watched in dismay the woman tripping around the house anxious and shy, acting as if she was walking on glass, floundering at night like an amateur, stomping off to work in the morning, her libido in a pretzel.

  Talk about sensitive. Dr. Kristenson had forgotten about this part of Lydia’s nature.

  Two o’clock appointment for hypersensitive Lydia Beaumont. Helaine laughed out loud. Last attempt, my love. After this, I’m sending you for professional help.

  That didn’t prove to be necessary.

  _____

  Nineteen days in the doghouse. Every subtle overture an act of futility. Stomping off to work every morning for nineteen days in a row with her libido in a pretzel until she couldn’t be subtle anymore.

  Two o’clock appointment with Dr. Kristenson. Helaine was herself again. It took Lydia less than nineteen minutes to “pop her thing” as Venus liked to refer to it.

  Venus and her bad self and the street slang she had resorted to using to get a laugh or a rise out of her prim and proper ex-boss.

  She was in Japan, knocking them dead, and Lydia had received only two short communications from her. Progress reports. They were coolly addressed to “The Interim President” sent via Paula’s e-mail. Lydia might not even have had those if she wasn’t temporarily set up in Paula’s offices.

  Interim President Beaumont was up to her elbows in Paula Treadwell’s duties. It’s only when you fill someone else’s shoes that you can appreciate their burden. Lydia also appreciated the pep talks. And, of course, not having to hear about Venus Angelo.

  “How we have to live as opposed to how we ought to live, Beaumont. That is the real question.”

  Right.

  “Goodness is not a profession.”

  But what is it? Lydia was indulging Paula these day.

  “Goodness is imaginary. It’s a state of mind. And more important than that, a vice when surrounded by those without virtue.”

  Treadwell and Machiavelli.

  “Vice and virtue, Beaumont. That’s the perfect martini. I have it for breakfast myself.”

  Lydia laughed.

  “Straight up.”

  She needed her former assistant but was inexplicably angry at or about her. She couldn’t decide which. Maybe both at different intervals. The source of this disturbance, she believed, was their last encounter, but she couldn’t deny that she was at the same time extremely put off by the cold and distant shoulder she was getting now. As interim president she might have called the woman herself and given her a piece of her mind over it since she had her cell number and a secure line and the compunction to do it, but she was certain that the instant she heard Venus’ voice in her ear again that she would lose her resolve and thereby subject herself to yet more withering remarks such as the last one Venus had issued. In fact, she was still stinging from that crack, in part because what Venus implied felt true.

  Or if not exactly true, not exactly false.

  The situation that had erupted with Helaine over dinner with Dad had only deepened Lydia’s resentment. She couldn’t confront this when she was home, but high on her perch at Soloman-Schmitt she thought about these things extensively. Somehow it was all related. Vice and virtue and Venus. Her security and well-being. That of Soloman-Schmitt’s.

  Helaine Kristenson and Venus Angelo. They had, independent of each other and yet simultaneously, reduced her to nothing for nineteen days. Nothing but a seething woman. A furious woman. A woman scorned. What a release after that to have finally experienced orgasm again.

  Lydia sat at the end of the day in Paula Treadwell’s corporate compound, safe and secure there, at least for the time being. She was thinking, thinking, thinking. She thought about love. She thought about sex. She thought, with horror, about living without sex for nineteen days and how it had felt like an eternity. She thought it was frightening that Helaine and Venus were both somehow linked to this privation. She had been angry with both of them over it, but now she knew she was, in fact, only mad at Venus. Why that should be the case she couldn’t say, but she worried about it nevertheless, what that kind of low-grade, chronic fury might mean, and what it could be doing to her in the long haul.

  “Assistant VP Overseas, Ms. Beaumont.” This announcement stirred her from her thoughts.

  Paula’s assistants came with the job and she didn’t know them well or trust them. “Put her
on line two. And close that door, please,” she said, waiting for it to be done before speaking.

  “Beaumont here.”

  “Greetings from Tokyo. Angelo here.”

  “Yes. How are things in Tokyo?”

  “Hopping. I’m supposed to return next week.”

  “Good, we’re expecting you. Is there anything wrong? Why are you calling?” Venus sounded normal. Playful even. Lydia braced herself.

  “Well…I was wondering what you would think if I extended my stay?”

  “Business or pleasure, Venus?”

  “Pleasure. Who’s we?”

  Pleasure. Lydia suppressed her annoyance. “We what?”

  “You said ‘we’re expecting you.’ Do you mean Soloman-Schmitt? Or you?”

  Lydia took a deep breath. Should she even ask?

  “Ms. Beaumont?”

  “Is this a client or…something other? This pleasure thing?”

  “No.”

  No. Just no. So she would have to ask if she wanted more information. Just tell her yes or no and be done with it. “Why have you called me, Venus?”

  “Because you’re the president. Remember?”

  Lydia put her hand through her hair, rested her forehead on the back of it. “Venus…?”

  “Lydia.”

  She needed her here. That need was not a vice. It was for the security and well-being of the state.

  “Ms. Beaumont?”

  “What is this about, Angelo?”

  “I…I shouldn’t say.”

  Rank and vile. Venus Angelo was a scoundrel. “I order you,” Lydia said through her teeth. “Tell me.”

  “Okay. It’s…um…about a woman.”

  She felt that in her chest.

  “Be my first time…as you probably know.”

  (I know only that I am the interim president of a Fortune 500 company. I am the interim president of a Fortune 500 company. This is beneath me. I am not going to react.)

  “Tell me you don’t want me to do it, Lydia. Tell me to come home.”

  “I’m…Ms. Angelo, I’m hanging–”

  “Tell me not to.”

  The interim president had a sudden urge to scream. And her womb ached. “Venus,” she said, her voice hushed, “I have no right to rule on this.”

  “I’m giving you the right, Lydia. So hit the ball.”

  Now she was angry again. At four women. That would include herself and the one in waiting for Venus. “Then stay if you must. I’m going to hang–”

  “Is that what you want me to do?”

  Want. She could feel hands guiding her hips again. “Venus.”

  “Say, honey, I don’t want you to.”

  A belt was too tight and a button undone. “You’ve never–?”

  “Nope.”

  Lydia switched the receiver to her other ear. This one was red and burning.

  “Lydia?”

  “I don’t…you can’t give me the right to…I’m not reacting to this.”

  “Yes or no?”

  Yes or no? Just tell her yes or no. Or better yet hang up the telephone, because it’s a checkmate. Venus has cornered the king of the shi–

  “Say no, Lydia.”

  “Venus, goddamnit, don’t do this to me. I’m the intimate–I mean interim–goddamned president of this goddamned corporation!”

  (Silence.)

  “And I’m married and I passionately, passionately love my wife and I can’t do this. Do you understand me? I just can’t.”

  (Silence.)

  “Angelo? Answer me.”

  “Yes, Ms. Beaumont. I understand you. I’ll need an extra week then.”

  Lydia cradled the receiver.

  “For sheer pleasure.”

  Sheer pleasure.

  “Yes or no?”

  Lydia trembled with rage. She was king of this shitheap. Venus was merely a prince, the prince of the darkness that was filling her mind now that her head was completely drained of blood. “No–you sonofabitch,” she whispered, before slamming the phone in her ear.

  _____

  It had been her goal to retire at forty. She had felt secure enough at the time. But now forty had passed and Helaine knew she was at Soloman-Schmitt against her will, that the hefty settlement she had paid to Sharon Chambers had set her back enough to thwart those plans. To complicate matters there had been a change in Paula’s fortunes and now because of it and because of her loyalty to Paula, Lydia was destined to become the president of a corporation she had, with some assistance from Helaine, come to absolutely despise. She was, Helaine knew, completely competent to succeed Paula, but she was no longer morally or philosophically qualified.

  So the conflict, turmoil and guilt that Paula was confessing to Dr. Kristenson on the couch this Saturday morning, though different than her own, was striking sensitive cords and if Paula wasn’t so distrustful the doctor would have insisted that she see someone else, someone with no connection to the corporation. But she was sure that Paula would refuse to go elsewhere and the woman wanted and definitely needed professional counseling. Reluctantly then, Dr. Kristenson added to her long list of exclusive clientele, the esteemed president of Soloman-Schmitt.

  Today was her second session.

  Paula Treadwell was expressing beliefs that are common to people who are depressed. Prominent amongst these themes was the belief that she was being punished by an unseen force. That there were numerous reasons for it including her various infidelities, her moral turpitude and her blind and sometimes blinding ambition. In addition to those matters it was clear that she was afraid, a sensation that, being somewhat foreign to her, had the effect of making her even more afraid. Dickie was, she was certain, not going to make it and though she described as vaguely as possible the concerns she had about the future without him, they were not vague at all to Dr. Kristenson. The Treadwells had been married for twenty-five years. The woman was afraid to be alone. A very human concern.

  So Paula Treadwell was a human being, just as Lydia had always asserted. And she was blaming herself for something that human beings just naturally do. They die. In her case, her husband’s prognosis was not a guarantee that he was dying, but he did have only a seventeen percent chance of surviving his cancer, which meant that he was likely to die. As we all are.

  If there was a seventeen percent chance that a company’s stock would rise fifty dollars a share by the end of next week, Dr. Kristenson had asked, how many shares would you buy today?

  Paula smiled as she left. “Thank you, Dr. Kristenson. I’ll see you next week.”

  Chapter 13

  Liberality

  “When lilacs last in the door yard bloomed,” Marilyn Beaumont spouted, “you were but a girl.”

  “Yah! I was in my early thirties, mom. Hardly a girl.”

  There were no lilacs on the bush now. Summer had burned them away. Autumn had bruised every leaf.

  “Well, a girl to me. Helaine really doesn’t know about this?”

  “No, still a surprise.”

  “Oh, look at these,” Marilyn said, distracted by a row of crumpled peony bushes, their once full blooms crushed and rotted into the ground, too heavy for the spindly plants to bear. Around them stood the remnants of supports she had erected decades ago. “Your father was right,” she said wistfully, “we should have made wire cages for them.”

  A second compliment for Dad today. Lydia pretended not to notice.

  “And you remember the poppies, dear? Do have your workers be careful near those beds. They’ve got to be over a hundred years old.”

  Lydia smiled. Yes, she remembered the poppies. She remembered all of it, like it was yesterday. She held her mother’s arm as they made their way to the other side of the house.

  “Of course, they won’t look like much this time of year. I used to let them make heads and then cut them down in July. And see your irises right here? Cut them later. Now,” she paused, taking in the browns and yellows of the spent plants, the crowding weeds, “there’s
a gardener in town I trust very much, because, no offense dear, but you’ll need a caretaker. I’m much too old to play in the dirt anymore. My back and all.” She put her hand on it, remembering now how it had become so tender. “This man does the Langley place at the bottom of the hill and some of those newer homes on the other side of the lake. Monstrosities really, but their gardens are just lovely. I’ll bet he can get these beds in order by spring of next year. Prune those plums and cherries so they’ll set fruit again.” She squinted out toward the water’s edge. “Yes, he can. I’m sure of it.”

  Marilyn was herself abloom, her daughter realized, happy to be once more in the forgotten gardens of the lake house, happy visualizing the place brought back to life again, with the prospect of Lydia and Helaine living in it, care-taking Eden.

  A vision of beauty. But that was a long way off. First, the wraparound porch was rotting into the ground, the roof leaked in three different places, the foundation facing lakeside was unstable at its corner, and the house, which had once itself been as bright and pink as a posy, desperately needed a paint job. Lydia had retained a contractor already and the workers were due next week. Marilyn, knowing this, had rendezvoused with her daughter this weekend in hopes of intervening on behalf of the plant kingdom she loved so much.

  “I always apologize to a plant if I harm it,” she said. “With humans I just go speechless.”

  Lydia laughed. So that’s where she got it from.

  “Better not to mess with people, I learned,” Marilyn added. “They’re more fragile than roses.”

  True? Lydia glanced at her. “Mother,” she said softly, “I’ll take good care of your gardens. They’ll be a treasure for Helaine. She loves flowers.” She did a three-sixty and took it all in. The whole yard had become a hay field, a lush meadow. “Even the wild ones,” she teased.

  They strolled around the lake after that, the brisk air cooling them as they walked. Afterwards they ate a packed lunch on the decrepit porch and cautiously nipped from a twelve-year-old bottle of white zinfandel Marilyn had found unopened in the pantry.

  Twelve years old.