Chapter 33

  On Wednesday night, the night before Thanksgiving, Frances watched as the prostitute gave an exclusive interview on a "special" episode of Dateline NBC.

  "What was Frances Dourne like?" Brian Williams asked.

  The prostitute flipped her hair to the side. She crossed her legs and smiled flirtatiously. "Like a turtle. A scared old turtle. She tipped well, but I felt like I was betraying myself every time we met." She flashed another brilliant smile.

  Obviously, she was not afraid of being prosecuted.

  Turned out her name was Enid Dance. Her appearance had not changed much in the three years since she serviced Frances. Same long, shiny black hair, same fake eyelashes, but her orangey tan was ten times more vivid. Meaning, ten times worse.

  "What do you think of her coming-out announcement?"

  "I don't know what to think of it, to be honest with you."

  "Did she tell you she was gay?"

  Enid chuckled. "Her actions were clear enough. When a woman pays another woman to"--bleep--"her, it’s clear she’s gay."

  "So you two did not talk much."

  "No. We were in a business relationship. That was all."

  "She would come in and say ‘Please do this, or this,’ and that was it?"

  "More or less. Or she wouldn’t know what she wanted, and I’d come up with something."

  "And then after?"

  "I would leave. Or she would."

  "Are you gay?"

  "No, but I have many gay friends."

  "What do they say about her coming out?"

  "Convenient. Too convenient."

  "Why didn't you go public three years ago? Why now?"

  Enid sighed. "I don’t know. I just don’t know. I quit soon after Mrs. Dourne terminated my services. I felt too dirty."

  Mrs. Dourne. Nice. Frances’s dislike for Enid deepened.

  "You went into the business to pay off college loans, correct?"

  "That’s right. Law school." She laughed.

  "What do you think Daniel Dourne should do?"

  Enid Dance looked right into the camera. "Daniel, keep your daughter close."

  Frances clicked the TV off. Damn. Damn!

  Frances had spent the earlier part of the week dealing with insults, outrage and death threats. Not to mention the media. Her parents stayed largely quiet, only saying: "We will not discuss family business."

  Nicholas stayed silent too, saying he had no comment.

  No one from GIC had expressed interest in following her to one of the new organizations. The board of directors was making noises about appointing Randy Germain as the next GIC president. He had been on TV a lot the past few days, espousing his views that being gay was a choice, one to avoid. He had invited her for Thanksgiving dinner. She might take him up on it. Better than being alone in the penthouse. He and his wife had enough tact to keep the conversation free of entanglements.

  Some reactions were positive. In general, gay-rights groups praised Frances. Their comments were along the lines of: "We are glad Ms. Dourne is being true to herself. We hope she follows up on her promise to repent for her behavior. We look forward to the development of her new organizations."

  Gay people on the street were not as forgiving. "She won’t be able to make up for what she did," was a frequent refrain. "Too little, too late."

  She knew that. She fucking knew that. She was sick of hearing it everywhere.

  The media were cockroaches, omnipresent. Outside her penthouse building. Outside GIC’s offices, outside the new organizations’ offices. Following her everywhere, screaming, shouting, stomping. She could not hear herself think.

  She had stopped answering her cellphone and bought a new one. All media calls or hate calls on the old cell. Someone had published her number online. Same situation with the landline phone, but she could not cancel that one. What if Daniel called? Frances let calls there go to the answering machine. So far, she had deleted all her messages.

  Frances wondered if Elena had been trying to call the old cell. If she should call Elena again.

  She should have come out sooner. She really should have. Should not have gotten a prostitute in the first place.

  No matter. It was over with and done.

  Frances would leave Elena alone. Elena could, and should, do better than her. She deserved a normal life. Frances loved Elena, if this feeling was love, anyway, so she would leave Elena alone.

  The media had gotten to her son’s father on Monday. They camped outside his apartment in Northwest Washington until he came out for an interview. He showed them pictures of Elena, himself and Isaiah.

  "She's a good woman," Kevin said. "I couldn’t ask for a better woman to be the mother of my child. She wasn't herself after our son died." And in response to another question: "Uh, well, yeah, that does look like the hourglass I gave her."

  One reporter asked: "What would your son think of his mother now?"

  Kevin narrowed his eyes. "Isaiah would be damn proud of his mom. He always was. No reason for that to change."

  Kevin did not say she was a prostitute. Not even close. He said: "These allegations are ridiculous. You should be ashamed of yourselves."

  Thank goodness for small miracles.

  That was the funny thing about the situation. There was no proof, no shred of evidence Elena was a prostitute, much less anything linking her to Frances. Other than whatever was on the recording Matt Lord was not making public. The doormen were keeping quiet. Christopher, the text-a-holic, and the rest of Frances’s family, did not mention they had met Elena.

  There was only what Felicianna said, but that did not stop the media from chasing Elena and her family. Elena’s "no comments" were damning, though. If she had not been with Frances, she would issue a blanket denial, right? And there was the fact she even had a lawyer. He had released a statement saying his client would make no comments, per his advice.

  Frances recognized Felicianna from her pictures with Elena on Matt Lord’s website. Anna. Should have told her at GIC that I was coming out. The situation was as much Frances’s fault as Felicianna’s. As Elena’s.

  Elena could not have stayed closed off to the world for long, and she emerged with her mother Tuesday morning. The video showed up on several websites, including Matt Lord’s, and on cable news channels. The day was cloudy and overcast, and Elena matched the mood perfectly. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes, and her hair flowed behind her.

  Elena and her mother were leaving a doctor’s office. Because Elena’s condo building had an attached garage, they had probably escaped the condo unscathed. Someone at the doctor’s office had likely made a quick few bucks for tipping the media off.

  Elena’s mother, jaw steely, eyes set, hooked arms with Elena.

  "Please let me and my mother get in the car," Elena said, her teeth clenched.

  "Elena Marie Elise!" the cockroaches howled, jamming their microphones in her face, a blinding chorus of flashes going off. "Is it true Frances Dourne paid you for sex?"

  "Was she good in bed?"

  "Do you think Marissa should stay with her father?"

  "Did she want kinky stuff? S&M?"

  "Do you have photos? Videos?"

  "How has your son's death changed your outlook on life?"

  "Is it true you tried to kill yourself after he drowned?"

  "Is Frances Dourne a good kisser?"

  "Do you want more children?"

  Elena gamely fought through the crowd. No comment, no comment, no comment.

  Chapter 34

  Cindi called Elena on Tuesday. "Hey, babe," Cindi said. "How you doing?"

  "Lovely. Never been better."

  "Is she the one you were talking about?"

  "Yes."

  Cindi sighed. "My advice would've been different if I'd known."

  "What would you have said?"

  Cindi laughed. "Her."

  "What's so wrong about her?"

  "Nothing," Cindi said in a rush. "Nothing. Just the…someone famous like her, with her history. It's just…"

  "I know."

  "Guess you do. Can I help in any way?"

  Elena clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. "Do you think I should try to…"

  "Try to what?"

  "Be with her?"

  "Be with--" Cindi's tone was incredulous. "Are you serious?"

  "Yes. I think she would be with me."

  "Do what you feel is right," Cindi said. "I, uh, I didn't know about your son."

  "No reason you should have."

  Cindi cleared her throat. "You need me, call anytime. If you decide to, uh, be with her, then congratulations. I hope you will be happy, and I'll be the first to invite you two over for dinner."

  "Thank you," Elena whispered. "That means a lot."

  *****

  On Wednesday, Elena got the phone call she knew was inevitable.

  "Hello, Elena," Betsy Branaugh began.

  "Betsy."

  "I've been following the news."

  "I'm sure you have."

  "I don't know if it's true, and I'm not going to ask."

  Thank you.

  "However," Betsy continued, "we should have a little discussion about your plans to return."

  Elena felt sick. Faint. "Yes. We should."

  "You know I think the world of you, Elena. You were our best party planner. You worked tirelessly. You brought in more money and clients than anyone else. You were worth two workers. No, three."

  "But it's best if I don't return. The firm has a certain image."

  Betsy sighed.

  "I understand."

  "Maybe in a few months or a year…"

  "Yes, maybe. Thank you for calling, Betsy. Goodbye." Elena disconnected the call and sank onto her bed.

  The letter from Frances was what saved Elena's sanity, kept her grounded. She read and reread the letter as she periodically checked the media horde on the sidewalk.

  So if you ever want to talk, if you ever need my help, I am here.

  If you will celebrate my coming out with me.

  How had Frances celebrated? Had she even celebrated?

  Pretend this letter never existed.

  Frances was forever on Elena's mind, try as Elena might to pretend Frances did not exist. Her smile, her laugh, her moans. Her lovemaking, her kisses.

  Being in love hurt. Really fucking hurt.

  *****

  Thanksgiving morning dawned chilly and gray for Frances. She lay in the penthouse bed until noon, save for a couple of bathroom breaks. She would go over to Randy’s about four o’clock. For now, she was alone, with memories to keep her company. Her first Thanksgiving with Marissa, the chocolate cake Daniel made for dessert. The chocolate in Marissa’s face, in her hair, on the floor. Daniel laughing and Frances horrified at the mess.

  If only she knew then what she knew now. She would smear the damn cake over her own face and laugh at herself. She was a fraud. She was not cut out to be a mother. She hoped to God that her daughter stayed right where she was.

  About twelve-thirty, Frances wandered into the room with the three hundred and fifty-two hourglasses. Time to dust them. She still wore the hourglass around her neck. Maybe she should mail it back to Elena.

  Frances finished round one of dusting. Two p.m. Maybe she would make something to take to Randy’s. Or she could dust and clean Marissa’s room. Yes, she would do that. First, she would have a hamburger for lunch. No ketchup.

  *****

  Victoria's father fell asleep about nine-thirty a.m., as the Big Bird balloon floated by in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade.

  Victoria sipped from his remaining half can of beer. She spit the liquid back out. "Gross." How did anyone like this crap? She poured the beer out in the sink. He was drinking again. He had started Sunday. He’d tried to hide it at first by going out back to the shed.

  She was fourteen. She was not stupid. Not blind.

  Forget the parade. Victoria surfed the channels, hoping to catch something about her maybe-mother or one of the prostitutes, especially Enid Dance. She was from Jupiter or something. Her skin was alien orange. She must be a fascinating lawyer. Victoria would gladly attend court to watch her. The other one, Elena, Victoria felt sorry for. She should do what Enid had done and approach the media on her own terms. They would leave her alone a little then.

  What was it like to have a child who died? Isaiah Norwood’s hair fascinated Victoria. Thick, everywhere, curly. She would have liked to run her fingers through his hair. When Victoria thought about her dad dying, her chest felt funny. Heavy. She wanted him alive and all right. She did not want him depressed and drinking. He needed help. He was wasting his life. But how could she help him? Markie's parents did not care. Markie's dad had driven her home that one night and seen her dad passed out. Said and did nothing. She did not trust the counselors at school or teachers, or whomever. They might try to take her from her dad.

  Rain pounded incessantly against the windows.

  "Daddy?" She poked him.

  Nothing but the skk-skkk of his snores.

  Skk-skkkk. She poked him again. "Daddy?"

  A mumble. Rubbing of his eyes. "What?"

  "Do you think Frances means it when she says she’s gay?"

  He straightened and blinked a few times. "Did I fall asleep?"

  "Daddy, do you think Frances means it when she says she’s gay?"

  Irritation flashed in his eyes. "Probably. Let's watch the parade, all right?"

  "What should Daniel do about Marissa?"

  He groaned. "It doesn’t matter what I think he should do. He’s not me."

  "Why did you start drinking again?"

  He staggered to his feet. He fished a beer from the refrigerator, considered the can a moment, and replaced it. He got water. "The memories she brings back."

  "Camp?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you with her only that one time? Or did you see her for other stuff?"

  He sat back down. "I don't like talking about this."

  "I know."

  He switched the TV off. "Some other stuff, yeah. English class. Math. We sat together in math."

  "So camp was like a school, too?"

  "Yes."

  "What was she like?"

  "Extremely smart. I knew she would go far. And she did. She expanded GIC right quick."

  "I worry about you. Your drinking."

  "I worry about me too," he whispered. "And about you. You're fourteen. You shouldn’t be worrying about me. This wasn't how I envisioned our lives."

  "How did you?"

  He swigged from his water. "You, me, your mother. Maybe a little brother or sister. Several. All of us together. Happy."

  She wanted to ask: How did the fire turn you into a hermit? I don't understand the connection. It's sad to love someone that much, that their death does this to your life.

  "You say being gay isn't a choice, but you said at the restaurant in Little Rock that you truly loved my mother."

  He stared at the glass in his hands. Tears shone in his eyes. "I did, though. I did love your mother. She didn't love me back. She was too scared to love anyone."

  "But she loved me, right?"

  Timothy lifted his gaze to hers. "Sexuality's a funny thing, Vic. Sometimes, it's not black and white, but instead a continuum. I'm gay, yeah. Except for that one woman. I fell for her. Hard." He drained the rest of his water.

  Victoria felt cold. Why was her father avoiding the question? "Didn't she love me?"

  His gaze roamed the room. He clenched his jaw, returned his focus to her. "Of course she did. Your mother loved you."

  He’s lying. "How did the fire start?"

  "In the kitchen. It, uh…" He refilled his water. "She was home alone."

  "Did you guys live around here?"

  "We’ll talk about this later. Maybe tomorrow."

  "I Googled my mother’s name and the word ‘fire.’ There’s nothing."

  Her father studied her sadly. "I’m sorry, Victoria. If I could, I would give you your mother back. But she's dead."

  Chapter 35

  Thanksgiving dinner turned out to be just Elena and Brenda. Natalie, Sarah and their families did not want to deal with the press. Brenda and Elena worked all day, in tandem but largely in silence. They put the turkey in the oven, made mashed potatoes, green beans, corn pudding, biscuits, peanut butter pie and chocolate cake.

  Enough to last a month.

  "I'll visit Sarah next week," Brenda said as they waited for the turkey to finish. She wore her blue sleeping gown.

  "Good idea."

  "And then Natalie for Christmas, if she doesn't come here."

  "Good idea. The peanut butter pie looks good."

  "I don't think I'm hungry, dear."

  "I'll be right back." Elena went to her office. She was about to burst from frustration. She sat at her desk, ran her fingertips over the clock and got paper and pen out. The writing would be therapeutic. If nothing else, she could use it to explain to her mother, to her sisters, what happened. That she and Frances together were not cheap. That what transpired between them was true and meaningful.

  Frances Dourne did not come to me for sex. She came to me so she would not have to be alone anymore. She is a wonderful woman, a special woman. She has done many things she regrets, and she's had to overcome quite a few obstacles to get to where she is.

  I am honored to know her, and while it is not practical for me to continue my association with her, I miss her. Very much. We were wonderful together.

  Elena stopped. Advice columnist Ann Landers had had a famous question: "Am I better off with him or without him?"

  Elena had asked herself countless times if she was better off with or without Frances. Her brain told her without.

  Every time.

  Frances had cost Elena her party planning job. Steamrolled her chances of having a private life, of going to the grocery store alone. Her mother and sisters did not understand how she could be in love with that woman. Because of Frances Dourne, Elena was one of the most infamous women in the United States.