Fortune Is a Woman

by Francine Saint Marie

  Water? Hey, good idea. Delilah went to fetch some.

  “Lana, take–”

  “Darling, you’re positively shit-faced.”

  “That’s it! That’s the word. Shit-faced!”

  “Don’t make a habit of this. Do you understand me?”

  “I under…fuck me, Lana. I want to be fu–”

  Delilah reappeared with a pitcher of water and a hundred paper cups. “Here’s your water, Helaine.”

  Lydia had Helaine by the dress straps.

  “Pour it for me, Del,” Helaine said, prying Lydia’s fingers loose. “Thanks…here you go, Ms. Beaumont. Drink up.” She put a cup to Lydia’s lips, but she would have none of it. “Did anybody see you like this?”

  The question was a riddle to Lydia. Helaine repeated it for Delilah’s sake.

  Delilah shrugged and gulped her water. “Probably. We were kind of hard to miss.”

  “I’ll bet you–” Lydia had her arm around her neck and was pulling her down, unzipping her and whispering provocatively in her ear. “I will, ” Helaine whispered back, “if you drink this.”

  Lydia took the cup from her and drained it. “Lana,” she said, in a drowned voice. The rest she resorted to whispering again.

  Helaine’s cheeks colored. “The couch, Del–I will–the couch is–I’m–shut that door, Del–I–shut the door!”

  Delilah staggered from the bedroom.

  Chapter 16

  Clemency

  Her eyes were mere slits that watered when she opened them, something she was only capable of doing for a few seconds at a time, first, just long enough to take in her surroundings, second, to check the time (11AM) and then at last, to determine that she was alone in a turbulent ocean of sheets and pillows. Familiar sheets and pillows. She closed her eyes again, a boat at sea.

  The room spun.

  For some reason which Lydia couldn’t readily recall, she was surprised to find herself in her own bed and she lay in it dazed, pondering the how’s and what’s of it until, the sleep finally fading, the answers began to come to her, in a rush of nausea and elation.

  She threw her legs over the side of the boat and waded to shore.

  In the adjoining bathroom she caught sight of herself in the mirror and took a quick breath, pleasantly startled by the reflection. Lipstick doesn’t go on your belly! She grinned the grin of a woman still partially inebriated.

  Her hair. Oh, her hair! Wetting it and pushing it around produced no satisfactory results. Her head, her head. Aspirin. They must have aspirin. Oh, oh, that hurt! Hey, what happened to Del? What happened to–bathrobe on the door was Helaine’s, still damp from the shower she must have taken while Lydia was zonked. The thought of a steaming Helaine made her realize that her groins were sore and that brought on a variety of other sensations, as well. Some good, some not so bad, and there it was again in the mirror, another grin.

  Good, good, all good. Helaine had shown her leniency. She splashed her face and slipped into the bathrobe, aroused.

  She could smell coffee brewing. Now why should that make her feel apprehensive?

  The trip to the kitchen was just that. A trip and a fall and one brutally protracted misstep after another, which necessarily included stumbling into Delilah, out cold on the couch. So that’s what happened to Del. She lay snoring, indifferent to an audience or the time or that she was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Her hair, too, Lydia observed. Ha, ha. Wait till she sees that.

  The penthouse was so quiet this morning. Where’s the good doctor?

  “Darling, I’m in here.”

  Lydia appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “Lana.”

  Helaine looked up from her paper, saw what was on Lydia’s mind and dropped it. Today was not going to be an ideal day for discussing the nitty-gritty of the world tour, she could see. Which was probably just as well judging from Lydia’s reaction yesterday to the simple mention of it. No point in distressing her further with the specifics. Helaine pushed her chair away from the table and patted her thigh. Maybe she really would put it off until the suitcases were in the hall.

  _____

  Six months in this halfway house and then he would be free. Piece of cake. He was practically a free man already if one considered that the only people he had to be wary of in here were house personnel, unlike prison with its dangerous cons and its equally hard-ass guards, both hostile and competitive, always pulling off some scheme and turning in a scapegoat if they got caught at it. Here he had it easy for the first time in years. Only had to check in twice a day, wear a hideous bracelet at all times, sleep in the joint every night till dawn.

  He was looking for work, he informed staff. That’s what he was doing with his days he explained. Seemed perfectly reasonable to them and it matched the treatment plan, the one that had been devised to assist him in making the difficult transition from a convicted felon to a rehabilitated ex-felon, a new and improved productive citizen of society.

  Looking for work all day, quiet and cooperative at night, poring over the want ads alone in his room, not even music playing. Nothing suspicious about that. His record demonstrated a strong work ethic, if no other ethics, and the authorities could in fact confirm that he did go on job interviews even if, as yet, he remained unemployed. Joseph Rios was a model ex-con and they were pleased with him, happy to see him applying himself on the outside.

  Industrious Rio Joe was looking for honest work. That proves he was rehabilitated?

  He was no changed man, except for looking much older than he might have had he never been incarcerated and for the fact that he would never work in finance again, most likely never wear a three-thousand-dollar suit either, unless he stole it. So there went all those degrees, his Ivy League education. Wasted. It was useless to him now, except for whatever knowledge he had acquired that he could utilize without needing a degree or a license.

  He had formulated some ideas, some murky plans that could put his talents to good use–or not so good use–but they had to be put on ice for a while. Five, six months, at the minimum. And, of course, as soon as the coast was clear, he planned on tapping those overseas accounts. Investment capital for a private venture. He sneered wickedly at the thought of it, standing only a few blocks from Lydia’s penthouse address. Very private, indeed.

  _____

  Paula Treadwell was out of prison, too, so to speak. The prison she had constructed for herself out of all that anxiety and fear. Anxiety, fear and that terrible monster, death.

  The gods had shown the Treadwells mercy and once again fortune was smiling Paula’s way. Dickie was beginning to improve and it seemed he was going to pull through after all. So much for odds and percentages, so much for Saturday sessions with Dr. Kristenson, enjoyable as they had become, and so much for early retirement, though in truth she didn’t want her old job anymore and was more likely to discuss power-sharing the presidency with her protégé at this point in her career rather than taking it back full time, this decision arrived at after having had a taste of liberty from corporate life and a break from all the stresses that came with it.

  Of course, if she was going to become a part-timer then she should seal a deal as quickly as possible. But there was still plenty of vacation time left to mull it over in and anyhow, she would have to discuss the matter with Beaumont. She needed to convince Beaumont first.

  Beaumont. She would be the hardest sell, Paula suspected.

  The woman was good at what she did and perfectly competent to do it, but her heart and mind didn’t belong to Soloman-Schmitt and Paula, having had some time to think lately, had come to accept that fact, even if it meant having to acknowledge that she had wasted years grooming someone for a job she didn’t want. Paula would have liked to ask her where exactly her heart was located these days, but that subject seemed too taxing at the moment.

  Maybe Beaumont was different than other people. Maybe the woman had two hearts.

  She’d be sure to send Dr. Kristenson some flowers next week an
d a pretty handwritten thank-you. There were no more sessions scheduled after last Saturday’s and there was room to hope that future sessions would no longer be necessary. The crisis, hers and her husband’s, seemed to have an end in sight. Some gratitude was definitely overdue.

  Paula lounged in a chair by the heated indoor pool, Dickie at her side. He read the paper between naps while she pecked unsuccessfully at the crossword puzzle. This was not a bad way to live, she had to admit. Depending on how it went with Beaumont, she’d approach the board with her proposal ASAP and see if they’d bite. She smiled contentedly at the thought of it, this strategy she had been quietly concocting for weeks. It was a good one. Fail-safe. The worse that could happen is that she would have to share the duties of the presidency for awhile. Beaumont could be pressured to go along with that. Thereafter the renegade would have to either formally commit herself to the position she had risen to or, once and for all, turn it down. If she did step aside…well, loyalties smoyalties, Paula would be free to select a second from among the other princes in line. A few short months after that maneuver, she’d pull the ripcord on her golden parachute and bail for good.

  Unfortunately, her immediate second choice was a bit young for the job just yet and so she was really counting on Lydia Beaumont to step up to the plate. She would have to hold down the fort. At least for the next few years.

  Eleven across. Seven letter substitute. Fate? Paula scoffed. Please, that’s just too easy.

  D E S T I N Y.

  _____

  Suits were what Sebastion had left behind. Venus stared at a closet full of suits and ties. If these were five-hundred-dollar ties, what on earth were the suits worth? She slammed the door shut. She wanted them out of her apartment, but she didn’t have the nerve right now to call him.

  Not necessary. Sebastion called and left a message a few hours later. Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby. He needed to come by and get his suits. And ties, if that was all right with Venus.

  I’ll think about it, Venus said to herself. Right now she was hungry and heading for Frank’s for a late lunch, early supper. It was Sunday. No one would be there, which was fine with her since she really preferred to be alone today.

  Baby, baby indeed. She could feel herself scowling and did nothing about it.

  _____

  Frank’s 2:30PM. Look what the cat dragged in. Delilah Lewiston.

  Delilah had not been able to salvage her hair today and she was looking a little green around the gills, having only risen an hour ago. She spotted Venus in the corner and waved.

  “May I?”

  “Of course you may. You all right?”

  “Hung over. Nothing to it. Martini, Harry, and a menu, please.”

  “Certainly. Are you all right?” he inquired.

  “Yup, hair of the dog, please. And a bowl of coffee.”

  “Late night?” Venus asked.

  Delilah was bleary-eyed. All night she had dreamt of a woman being murdered, all night the poor thing screaming bloody murder, refusing to die, disturbing her sleep. The petite morte she had found in the kitchen this morning explained everything. Lydia Beaumont’s multiple resurrections. “Yeah,” she laughed. “Wait till you see the other guy.”

  “Who?”

  Menu, martini and coffee. “Thanks, Harry–your interim president, that’s who. You’ll be real impressed.” She took a few swigs of her drink and then chased it with black coffee. “And that’s how that’s done, in case you ever need to know.”

  Venus hoped she wouldn’t. She also hoped that Lydia wouldn’t be joining them. Didn’t want to deal with that issue today. Dr. Kristenson apparently would be lunching with them, she realized. There she stood at the entranceway, fresh as a daisy.

  Delilah beckoned to her. “Where’s Liddy?” she asked.

  Helaine smiled patiently. “She’ll be here shortly–Venus, how lovely.”

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Kristenson. How’s your little patient?”

  “Rare form, I’m afraid to report.”

  “Hormone levels the same, though,” Delilah haplessly offered. “If not worse.”

  Venus flinched and feigned to be amused. Helaine shot Delilah a reproachful look, but Delilah didn’t see it and, because it appeared that she was intent on further qualifying that remark, Helaine felt she had no choice. She kicked her under the table.

  Delilah gasped.

  “Oh, goodness…I’m so sorry, Del.”

  I can’t do this. Venus glanced anxiously at the door. I just can’t.

  “Menu, Harry,” Helaine said sweetly, taking note of Venus’ agitation. “Two, please,” she said, lowering her voice. “Ms. Beaumont has promised to join us soon.”

  “Oh, wonderful.” His favorite. “Hair of the dog for her, too, I presume?”

  Helaine watched Delilah sip her martini and with a shaky hand pick up the coffee cup. “Uh…no. I don’t think that would be wise. Just coffee.”

  “Coffee it is.”

  Lydia Beaumont, hormones and hair. Damn, Delilah was a fright! Venus smiled as opaquely as possible and relaxed in her chair. She was curious.

  “Well, Venus,” Delilah said, dipping her napkin in the finger bowl and swabbing her forehead, “I haven’t seen you in eons. How’s that Sebastion of yours doing? Gawd, what a handsome man.”

  Delilah was batting zero. Venus laughed uncomfortably, inadvertently attracting Dr. Kristenson’s scrutiny. “I…um…threw him out,” she felt compelled to disclose. These were not the kind of matters she and the doctor usually discussed. “Um…yesterday, actually.”

  “Oh.” Delilah put the soggy napkin in her lap. “I’m sorry, kid.”

  Helaine nodded sympathetically but said nothing.

  “There’s your polecat now.” Delilah said, with a wink. Lydia had materialized at the coat check.

  “Oh, good. There she is.”

  Venus turned to see.

  Mmmmm. There she was.

  _____

  It was not his fault, Venus confessed upon returning from her late lunch. He had, she admitted in the privacy of her penthouse, tried to accommodate her wishes, cater to her contradictory whims. She had been quick to blame, had gone and “harshed his mellow” as he liked to jest, but he was a good man and it wasn’t his fault. It was nobody’s fault. It was the way things are, or the way they go, or fate, or something in that order. Sebastion Jones had tried to please her. She had made him fail to. But nobody was really to blame for the fiasco. Not herself, because she couldn’t help how she felt. Not Sebastion, because he didn’t understand how she felt. Not Lydia, though she could think of nothing to add to her defense.

  Venus debated returning Sebastion’s call but concluded she needed more time to review things. She was still embarrassed about the tie incident. Distracted, too, by lunch with the girls.

  She was in love with the wrong woman, she had realized at Frank’s, while the four of them ate. If she was as smart as people claimed, she should have fallen in love with a woman like Dr. Kristenson instead. Mature, responsible, together, grounded. Not like Lydia Beaumont who was simply a…a…what were the words she was looking for now?

  Oh, what were they? She knew her evening would be shot on a word search.

  What she was, Lydia Beaumont.

  Venus sat on the floor and did some stretches to relieve the tension that had accumulated in her legs and shoulders.

  What was Lydia Beaumont?

  Tousled. That was one word for it. Giddy, another. Sex marathons can do that. Venus folded her hands behind her head for sit-ups. The woman had been, all through lunch, sensually delirious. Too full for sit-ups, Venus plopped back on the rug and stared up at the ceiling. Lydia Beaumont had been high on sex. How cute is that? Shit, throw in cute and irresistible. Limpid, soft, supple, bending. Those were good words, too. And her smile. Damn! Her hair. Damn! Venus sighed. Perhaps the “Intimate President” had still been drunk from yesterday’s binge because she was also, somehow…what is the word?

  The word is fl
irtatious, though Venus couldn’t pinpoint this observation.

  Sit-ups. Three. And then she rolled over, leaning dreamily on her elbows with her legs crossing and uncrossing behind her in the air.

  Okay, so what she was, Lydia Beaumont. Well, she was probably still intoxicated and she was more than a little addicted to her beautiful wife. But she was, notwithstanding those defects, absolutely flawless and–Venus forgave her everything.

  Chapter 17

  Conforming To Circumstances

  Power share. Lydia eyed Helaine across the room, framed her in her glass. Helaine smiled seductively in return and then averted her gaze, giving her attention once more to whoever that was trying in vain to keep it.

  “Beaumont, I’m talking here.”

  Another cocktail party at the Treadwells. Paula had been skillfully navigating Lydia toward the study where Lydia did not wish to go. Dickie looked good. Still pale and thin. Venus–

  “Beaumont!”

  “Paula…yes, power sharing. I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She was not.

  Helaine was making her way now to the punch bowl. Lydia saw her hook her arm in Venus Angelo’s as she passed her. Venus complied self-consciously. She was not a particularly affectionate woman. Not very touchy-feely. Lydia studied the ladies with interest, holding Paula off as long as she could.

  “Give me some feedback then, and I can just infer the rest from your grunts.”

  Feedback. Lydia felt suddenly warm from her chest up. Helaine glanced her way and there it was, a different smile, a variation on a theme. She could not take her eyes from Helaine. That evening dress, the long blond hair. Maybe she was obsessed, like Delilah claimed. She was something in a black dress. Helaine Kristenson was so hot. Even cool, cool Venus seemed to be melting. Paula yacking in her ear. The melting Venus. Question: power sharing. Venus had a nice dress, too. “Mmmm…well…I don’t know, Paula.” She liked how they looked together, minus Venus’ ever growing perplexity.