Coming Attractions (11 page)

“I’ll never know.”

They listened to the quiet. Helen ran her fingers through Cory’s hair. She treasured their quiet moments. There weren’t enough of them.

Cory suddenly broke the silence. “Have you ever smelled the rich farm soil in Texas?”

Where did that come from? “I’ve never been, and I don’t particularly care for the smell of dirt.”

Cory pushed up on one hand. “This isn’t just dirt. It’s so rich and fertile it invades your senses. You know that land will produce. I could be a farmer.”

Helen laughed. “You? Your job is to slay dragons for me and the Queen, note the order, please.”

“I could change my profession.”

“Change is good. It’s a learning experience.”

Cory smiled triumphantly. “I’m glad you agree. Now think about moving in with me.”

“You little sneak!” Helen collapsed onto the bed.

Cory laughed. “You’re so easy.”

“As you are,” Helen pointed out. “Like your episode in the Jacuzzi.” She mocked Cory. “Oh! Mmm! Ah!”

“I faked it.” She snuggled into Helen’s arms and gave a soft sigh. “I’ve never done that on request,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “You have an interesting power over me.”

“Not power. You trusted me and you were fantastic.” Helen kissed her mouth. “Thank you.”

As they nestled, Helen closed her eyes. She muttered, “A farmer. Right.”

Chapter Twelve

Many of Stacey’s friends agreed to a private get-together. Helen was nervous about how they would receive her idea, but the good news was Cory was in town. If the night turned into a shamble, she’d be there to lick Helen’s wounds.

“Your guests will arrive soon.” Among mosaic mounds of living room pillows that surrounded her, Stacey raised her wineglass toward Helen. “I admire your courage, Blondie.”

“Courage?” Helen sipped and leaned against the bar.

“Spunk. Guts. Balls.” Stacey shrugged. “Whatever you call it, you have to convince the cream of the entertainment world to show their true colors. Not an easy task.”

“That doesn’t bother me.” She waved her off and studied her drink. “Reporter and celebrities. That’s a potentially volatile mixture.” Helen laughed. “They’ll probably take one look at me and head out the door.” She motioned a U-turn with her hand.

“I doubt it, Blondie. Otherwise they wouldn’t come.” Stacey pushed herself to her feet and returned to the bar for refills. “They trust me. The only bitchy one will be Blair and, if I funnel her enough Scotch, she won’t care if Rush Limbaugh’s here.” She handed Helen the full glass and made a toast. “Success.”

Helen nearly choked on the wine when the doorbell rang. She checked the position of her belt and tried to smooth her skirt, but static wreaked havoc and the skirt became more like Saran Wrap. She struggled, powerless against the clinging mess.

“Quite a predicament you’re into there. Wet towel, then a gin and tonic,” the guest said and caught the cloth when Stacey flung it from behind the bar. “Let me help.”

Helen’s eyes caught the pitch-black hair of the newly crowned Queen of Broadway, Marty Jamison. Helen had known she would be there, but she hadn’t expected to look so damned silly when they first met.

Marty was talented, for sure, but she was also hot, and had a smattering of freckles right above her breasts. It had always been Helen’s fantasy to connect the dots, one way or another. With that thought, Helen felt two light strokes on her legs and a quick wipe around the inside perimeter of her skirt. Oh, heart be still. The skirt relaxed.

“There you go.” Marty raised herself to Helen’s height and flung the towel onto the bar. She smiled broadly and her blue eyes danced appraisingly over Helen.

Stacey handed Marty her drink. “I think you have to marry her now.”

“You’re Helen Townsend,” she said cheerfully. “I’m an avid reader of your column. I’m Marty Jamison.” They shook hands.

“I admire your work, too,” Helen said, having recovered her composure. “And thanks for rescuing me.”

“My pleasure.” Marty nudged Helen playfully. “You have the most fascinating mouth.” Her eyes lowered to Helen’s lips. “A cute little pout if you aren’t smiling. Very kissable.”

Helen blushed.

To the background music of Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall, the guests arrived in small groups. Helen mingled and, much to her surprise, felt comfortable in the presence of many of the entertainment elite and their image-makers.

“Good God. That bitch is here,” film director Jay Patton ranted to his lover. They dashed to the back of the room and wedged themselves between two ficus trees. Helen looked toward the bar as Blair Whitman ordered Scotch and rocks.

Helen knew the story. Blair was a temperamental hard-ass. Directors hated her, costars wanted to lock her into her trailer, and special effects crews thought seriously about blowing her to bits. Bam! Splat! Cut! Print it! And the cast could call it a wrap.

Blair had power and abused it to the hilt, but box office dollars had piled to mountainous proportions for her last three films and made nearly everyone connected to her work wealthy. She had Hollywood by their sensitive parts and she knew it. People sucked up to Blair Whitman.

“Well.” Blair sidled up to Helen. “Meet the press.” She took a long drink from her glass and her eyes narrowed. “Are we the next anecdote for your column, Ms. Townsend?”

“I failed Gossip one-oh-one,” Helen said and scanned the room to see if Cory had arrived. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“People like you make me nervous.” Blair walked a slow half circle around Helen as though sniffing her prey and readying to devour her.

“I’m not holding you hostage. You’re free to leave,” she said calmly, knowing that Blair was capable of going off the deep end when feeling threatened.

Marty walked over. “Cut it out, Blair.”

The others watched in silence. Helen’s eyes followed the arc that Blair walked. “Why are you afraid of me?” she asked.

Blair stopped abruptly, her brown hair jerked about her shoulders. “I don’t want a Michael Jackson done to me,” she said with a chill to her voice.

The heavy smell of Scotch caused Helen to take a step back, and she raised her hand slightly to keep Stacey from coming closer.

“Then act like an adult,” Helen said as the front door swung open and Cory walked in. Among snickers and cheers, Helen left Blair standing red-faced, apparently stunned with the remark. “Hey, baby.” She kissed Cory and glanced at the woman that had arrived with her.

“Hello,” the much too attractive Japanese woman said to Helen.

“Who’s your friend?” Helen asked.

“Kim Lee. She’s a cellist from the Philharmonic. Kim”—she slipped her arm around Helen’s waist—“this is Helen.”

“Hello.” Kim smiled. “It isn’t any wonder why Cory cut off Reinhardt’s balls tonight.” Without explanation of her comment, Kim joined Marty at the bar.

“Care to dance with me, Ms. Townsend?” Cory asked.

“I would.” Helen led her to a less crowded area of the room and pulled her close. She moved her hands gently against the back of Cory’s corduroy jacket. “So tell me about the castration.”

“Reinhardt, the conductor, called me a pompous nobody. He kept stopping us, saying I was sloppy and not paying attention to his direction. After the sixth time, the entire orchestra was angry enough that I told him I had a date waiting and he could find himself a lesser-known nobody for Friday’s concert, if he liked.”

Helen was astounded. “You didn’t say that.” Cory nodded. “What did he say?”

“I would never play for an audience again.” Cory emphasized the end of the sentence with a quick nod to her head.

“Does he have that much power?”

“No. He’s the pompous nobody. I left the building and I’ll have an apology from him on my answering machine before morning.”

Helen ran her hands through Cory’s hair. “You did that for me?”

“Especially for you.” She touched her fingertips to Helen’s lips.

Helen felt a tapping on her shoulder. “I gotta steal your woman, Chambermaid.” Stacey wedged herself between them.

Cory relinquished her hold on Helen and joined Kim in front of Warhol’s
Marilyn Monroe
. Stacey began a pep talk, but Helen wasn’t listening. She watched them, their heads together. Cory pulled something out of her pocket and flashed it. Kim’s eyes widened when she looked closer at the object and then she hugged Cory. Cory seemed to enjoy their embrace and hugged Kim with as much enthusiasm.

Helen didn’t like it or the feeling of jealousy that it provoked. Jealousy, a wasted emotion, as useful as rice in a drought.

“Are you ready?” Stacey asked. “Hey! Yoo-hoo!”

Helen snapped to attention. “What? I’m sorry, Stacey. What were you saying?”

“I said it’s time you made your pitch to my pals.”

Helen watched Cory place the object back into her pocket and Kim hugged her again. “I’m ready,” she said.

“Let me get their attention. Good luck, Blondie.” Stacey turned down the music, hopped up onto the bar, and was the voice of command. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, although I’m not sure who is what in this crowd.” Laughter sprang from different directions, and pillows flew at her from all corners of the room. She motioned for Helen to join her. “You’ve met Helen and now she wants your undivided attention.”

“I’m not standing on the bar,” Helen said.

“You gotta in this crowd.” Stacey grabbed her hands when several people hoisted Helen onto the bar. “Some of these heads are so big you can’t see over them. Eye contact. Gotta have it.”

“I’ll sit on it, then.”

Helen dangled her legs over the side of the bar and Stacey hopped down behind her. Helen surveyed the room for a moment and was impressed with the amount of talent before her. She could admit to herself that she was a bit starstruck, though she was able to hide most of her blind adoration.

There it was in front of her, the cream of the entertainment industry, flopped onto sofas and chairs, comfortable on the floor among the pillows. All eyes were on Helen. Actors, actresses, directors, producers, musicians, dancers. The list of big names in front of her was as impressive as the list of international cities that hung on Cory’s walls. Even more impressive than the Queen.

“I feel insignificant in front of you,” she said. “All of this talent. I want autographs later.”

“What’s up, Helen?” Mark Corrigan asked.

Helen hadn’t prepared a speech. She wanted to feel her way in, would find her opening, and Mark became her target. His talk show had been rated number one for the past two years and Helen taped the show occasionally.

“Mark, I caught your show on lesbian and gay writers. What type of reaction did the show provoke?”

“Surprise. Most people didn’t realize that big publishing houses don’t like to touch these writers because of gay characters. In spite of the author’s orientation, the audience was supportive.”

“‘Supportive in spite of their orientation,’” Helen said and gave her own spectators time to ponder the words. “I’m not a part of your world, but there is one thing that binds us and that’s our sexuality.” She paused. “You’re the elite of this country. No matter what the papers report about you, no matter what you do or don’t do, this country buys your product. The respect you command is second to none and I want you to lend out that respect.”

“What are you saying, Helen?” Marty asked from the back of the crowd.

“This group has the resources to possibly make a significant difference in the attitudes of the straight world. You can lend a new dignity to the way the public perceives our population.”

Blair laughed sarcastically. “And how do you propose we do that? Come out?” She walked closer. “Do you think we’re crazy?” She slapped her empty glass onto the bar next to Helen. “Scotch,” she demanded and eyeballed Helen without seeing Stacey pour ginger ale into the glass.

“Come out, yes. Crazy, no. Well, maybe crazy,” she said with a smile. “I think talent borders on madness. We need more names out there. Every so often, there’s a kiss-my-ass flurry of pride. Ellen, Melissa—”

“Mark Corrigan!” Nick yelled.

Mark grinned and dug his hands into the pockets of his Levi’s. “I don’t want my head bashed in.”

Helen countered. “You’re like wolves; you travel in packs. There’s a great deal of protection there.”

“Lost work,” said costume designer Jenny Colgate.

“Jenny, you won an Oscar last year for
Devil’s Rain.
Producers will continue to buy that talent.”

“I agree with Jenny,” Nick answered.

“Nick, look at your gorgeous face,” Helen teased him. “You’ve been the number one box office draw for the last five years. Look at these people.” She waved her arm over the room. “They produce and direct you. I doubt they’ll stop because you come out. You have the power. The Moral Majority may sound off for a while, but it all comes flying back to the almighty dollar.”

“You’re right,” one of the producers said, “but the family matter is a different thing. Not all of us are out to them.”

“That’s a priority I can understand. If you aren’t out to them, I wouldn’t expect you to consider my request.”

Blair took a swig of her fresh drink, choked on the unexpected blast of sugar, and glared at Stacey. She looked back at Helen. “Can you understand this? We can’t change the world. They aren’t ready for us.”

Helen looked at her and winked playfully, much to Blair’s disdain. “Perhaps more people are than we’re aware of.”

“There’ve been marches,” Cory chimed in.

“Been there,” Jay said.

“Done that. Got the T-shirt.” Jenny flopped onto the sofa beside him.

Helen answered the group. “This won’t be a picket sign, march-around-the-Capitol thing. I’m talking about a class act, using your combined talents.”

“What exactly do you propose?” Marty asked.

Helen leaned back onto her palms and took a deep breath. “This will sound like nearly every Andy Hardy film ever made, but I think you should combine your talents in a night of knock-’em-dead entertainment. The difference from Andy Hardy is at the end, when you come out as a group.” Murmurs filled the room. “From the master of ceremonies to every act, the show will be empowered by gays and lesbians.”