Butterfly (66 page)

imizing his limp, using his silver-tipped cane with dignity.

Fanelli’s regular customers knew him well. Many addressed him on a first-name basis

and frequently went directly to him with their requests. He was often called upon for an

opinion—“Would you say this scarf goes with this overcoat, or should I take the maroon

one?”—or for a special order when a customer thought that going directly to the manager

of the store would speed things up.

As he walked through the store on this rainy morning, nodding and smiling to the

customers, passing gracefully through the wet raincoats and umbrellas poking this way

and that, Bob kept his eye out for anything unusual.

His vigilance was only for his own sake and because he cared about the store he had

managed for eleven years. Bob Manning didn’t give a damn about Royal Farms, the new

owner of Fanelli—ever since Reverend Danny Mackay had bought the company a few

years back, no one from Houston had come to inspect the store. Danny Mackay and his

ministry now owned so many enterprises, from high-rise office buildings to an airline to

a supermarket chain, that the famous Reverend couldn’t be bothered with one small men’s

clothing store. When Danny Mackay had taken over Royal Farms and therefore Fanelli,

nothing had changed. Existing management and staff had been kept on and the store was

left to continue to operate as before. All Bob Manning had to do was see to it that regular

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statements were sent to the Good News headquarters in Houston, where someone, he

had no doubt, made sure Fanelli was bringing in a regular profit.

This was not to say, however, that because Beverly Highland had sold the store she was

no longer interested in it. She had asked Bob Manning to report to her if Danny or any-

one from Good News Ministries ever came by to inspect. It was implied that he do this in

secret, and of course Bob willingly complied. There was nothing he would not do for

Beverly; he was ferociously loyal to her. She had rescued him when he had reached the

very rock bottom of his life. She had looked at the human wreck he had become and she

had seen a man. She had counted him as having worth; she had given him a job and a rea-

son to live. Now he worshiped her.

He paused near a glass counter displaying velvet smoking jackets and surveyed the

busy store with a sharp eye. If there was anything even slightly amiss, Bob Manning

would catch it.

He frowned. Was it his imagination or did he just see Michael, one of Fanelli’s best

models, furtively accept something from Mrs. Carpenter, one of the store’s wealthier

patrons, and slip it into the pocket of the coat he was modeling?

But there was more to it than that, Bob realized as he stared at them. The exchange

had been brief—she had brushed past Michael, pressed something into his palm, and

hurried on. But in that fleeting instant when their hands had touched, there had also been

an exchanged look. Michael and Mrs. Carpenter had glanced at each other for a moment,

and their look had been—conspiratorial.

Worse, Bob realized to his shock. The look had been one of
intimacy.

He watched Mrs. Carpenter leave the store and step into the Rolls waiting at the curb.

Then he went over to Michael and murmured, “I want to see you in my office in five

minutes.”

The young man came in wearing the polo shirt, Bermuda shorts, and knee socks that

he was modeling next. He closed the door quietly behind himself and came to stand

before Bob Manning’s desk.

“What did Mrs. Carpenter give to you?” Bob asked.

“Sir?”

“I saw Mrs. Carpenter give you something a few minutes ago. What was it?”

Michael shifted his weight and thrust his hands into his pockets. “It was, uh, nothing,

Mr. Manning.”

“It was
something,
I saw it. Now, what was it?”

Michael nervously cleared his throat. “It was, uh, her address.”

Bob’s eyebrows arched. “Her address?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did she give you her address?”

The young man looked down at his running shoes.

“Come, come,” said Bob. “Why did Mrs. Carpenter give you her address?”

“Because I’m going to her house tonight.”

Bob’s eyebrows shot higher. “What do you mean?”

“She asked me to go visit her—”

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Kathryn Harvey

“
Visit
her?”

Michael avoided Bob’s eye and nodded.

“Why?”

“Well”—he cleared his throat again—“I imagine she wants company.”

“Has she invited you to a party?”

“Well, no.”

“Has she invited anyone else?”

A pause and then: “No, just me.”

“What for?”

Michael laughed a little and finally looked at Bob. “Well, sir.
You
know.”

“No, I don’t know. Why are you going to Mrs. Carpenter’s house? Are you a friend of

hers?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I mean, I guess we’re going to be friends. For tonight, at least.”

Bob Manning stared at his model for a long moment. And then, when understanding

began to dawn, he whispered, “You mean, for
sex?”

Michael nodded again and shifted self-consciously.

“But, good God, boy,” Bob said in disbelief, “Mrs. Carpenter must be three times

your age! Don’t you find that a bit unconventional?”

“Well,” Michael said defensively, “it’s not like we’re going to get married or anything.

I mean, it’s purely physical. She doesn’t pretend she’s in love with me.”

Bob continued to stare at the young man in the sports outfit. Michael was nineteen

years old, tanned even in winter, and well built. He was an aspiring actor waiting to be

discovered. “I don’t understand,” Bob said. “You can have your pick of any girls. Mrs.

Carpenter is, well, she doesn’t strike me as being your type.”

“Oh, it’s not for me, Mr. Manning. It’s purely for her. She’s paying me to visit her.”

Bob fell back in his chair, his mouth open. “She’s
paying
you?”

Michael gave a nervous toss of the head. “Well, uh, yes-”

“Good God, boy! Do you know what that makes you?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with—”

Bob slammed his hand on the desk. “You work for Fanelli, the finest men’s store in

this city! You are a representative of this company! By extension, you represent the woman

who created this company, Miss Beverly Highland! Don’t you know that by prostituting

yourself to its customers you sully
her
name!” Bob shot to his feet and Michael suddenly

turned pale. “How dare you bring your filthy practices into this store!”

“Hey, wait a min—”

“You’re fired, boy. And I’m just sorry that’s all I can do to you!”

“But, Mr. Manning! That’s not fair! I’m not the only one who’s doing it!”

Bob fell silent, his body trembling. “What do you mean…you’re not the only one?”

“Well,” Michael coughed. “There’s a few of us. Ron Sheffield is the one who started

it.” He spoke quickly, desperate to save himself. “You know Misty Carlisle, the actress?

She asked him to come to her house one day to model some clothes privately. They ended

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291

up in bed and she gave him a hundred-dollar bill. That was about a year ago, and since

then—”

Bob sat back down in his chair, stunned. “Who are they? Give me their names.”

Michael ended up naming three coworkers in the hope of saving his own neck. It did-

n’t work. The four of them were fired on the spot and let go without severance pay.

Sex.

It was on her mind.

Again.

Still.

As Ann Hastings steered her BMW through the enormous wrought-iron gates that

guarded Beverly Highland’s new palatial estate, she tried not to think about the fiasco that

last night had been. But she couldn’t help it. Roger had shown such promise in the bar

where they met. He had talked intelligently, seemed like a warm human being, and gave

off interesting sexual signals. But then she had gone home with him and he had turned

out to be an egotistical, ill-mannered, boorish dud. He had also been thirty-six—nine

years younger than herself. With each passing year Ann got older while the guys seemed

to get younger.

It was tough being forty-five in a youth-oriented society. Tougher still to be forty-five

and fat. Not much of a threat to the competition, she decided.

Well, she wasn’t really fat. Not anymore. Ann had started the weight battle ten years

ago when she’d hit thirty-five. She’d sweated and starved and bumped and grinded the

extra thirty pounds off her frame and had managed through grudging discipline to keep

them off. Now she wore the same chic little tennis outfits that Beverly and Carmen wore

and modestly picked her way through salads at lunch and dinner. She no longer cringed

when she glimpsed herself in the mirror, and scales didn’t frighten her. Still, she felt fat

inside.
And that was a weight problem no amount of dieting could get rid of.

She envied Maggie Kern who ate what she wanted, wore beautifully tailored caftans to

disguise her plumpness, and enjoyed a good, healthy relationship of sex and affection

with Pete Forman, the stockbroker she had once worked for. But Maggie was one of those

lucky rare exceptions. For Ann Hastings and the millions of others like her on the prowl

for a little fun, a little male attention, and some good sex, the rules of the game revolved

around thinness and youth.

Ever since the night back in 1969, when Ann had finally, after two more disappoint-

ing romps on his floor, lost her virginity to that fake hippie Steve, she had discovered that

she really liked sex. But the problem was getting it.

When her job as the head of quality control for the Royal Burger chain had taken her

on frequent trips around the country, Ann had had little trouble in finding accommodat-

ing men. But when the job had gotten too big and she became more and more tied to her

office while assistants went out in the field in her place, and as she got older and the

unmarried men got younger, her prospects began to pale, so that she was now finding her-

self more frequently in situations like last night, picking up some jerk at a bar and later

worrying about herpes and other horrors.

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Kathryn Harvey

As she parked her car by the garages and went around to the back of the enormous

Italian-villa-style house Beverly had recently bought, where everyone was gathered at the

tennis court, Ann wondered not for the first time about her enigmatic employer. As far as

Ann knew, Beverly had never been with a man in her life. How could she stand it?

Not all women are alley cats, my dear, Ann chided herself as she waved to her friends

seated at an umbrella-shaded table. There are those who can do quite nicely without it.

Look at Beverly and Carmen, those two cool cucumbers in stylish tennis dresses. Ann

decided that the total of their combined sexual experience with men probably amounted

to no more than fifteen minutes.

“Yoo-hoo,” she called, putting down her tennis racket and joining the two women at

the table. “Sorry I’m late. There was a tie-up on the Ventura.” Ann was glad to see that

lunch had just been served. Her smile dropped, however, when she saw the salad without

dressing, the dry Melba rounds, the sugarless iced tea with lemon. As she sat down at a

place setting Ann briefly wondered if sex was worth starvation. Deciding that it was, she

picked up a fork and dug in.

“How did it go last night?” Carmen asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Hello, Aunt Ann!”

Ann looked up to see Carmen’s olive-skinned daughter running toward her, tennis

racket swinging. Rosa, at nineteen, was a knockout. She certainly had no trouble getting

her share of men.

“Hello, Rosa, dear. How’s the new semester going?”

Rosa poured herself a glass of lemonade from the crystal pitcher and drank it all down.

“It’s super, Aunt Ann. I have the most fantastic professor for economics!”

“Who won?” Carmen said, looking around for Joe Jr., Maggie’s seventeen-year-old-son.

“I did. Joe’s gone into the clubhouse to play video games with Arthur. Aunt Ann,

you’ll play me, won’t you?”

Ann nodded and put down her fork. This salad would not be missed.

“Go easy, Rosa,” Carmen called after them. “Your aunt isn’t a spring chicken any-

more!”

Ann and Rosa laughed as they ran down to the tennis court.

Beverly watched them go, a faint smile on her lips. Then she looked at Carmen and

said quietly, “Rosa is certainly something to be proud of.”

The two friends regarded each other for a long moment, listening to the distant drone

of lawn mowers over Beverly’s vast estate, the sounds of garden clippers trimming hedges,

and finally the rhythmic thock of the tennis ball on the court down below. They were

both thinking that, come November, it would be twenty years since Beverly found

Carmen in Dallas.

“Hi, there!” came a familiar voice.

The two turned to see Maggie coming down the garden path, her bright lemon-yel-

low caftan shimmering in the February sunshine. Maggie now tamed her frizzy red hair