The Secret Keeping (35 page)

John looked doubtful. “Can we do that?”

“What?”

“Blond bombs that look like bookworms? Where would I find them?”

“Oh, John…be creative.”

_____

It wasn’t difficult for her to keep her mouth shut these days. Anytime she contemplated speaking, a small sob would well up in it. Even her smile had changed, softened considerably by her sadness, though it would never be quite as sublime as that woman’s, the one she presently watched on her TV, whose name she now knew was Lydia Beaumont, who looked pretty tightlipped herself, having failed to utter a single response to the crowd of reporters assailing her. She did seem frightened. Sharon was glad to see her unnerved and hoped it put a serious crimp in her future plans. Lydia Beaumont wide-eyed. She didn’t need to hear the woman speak to know what she was thinking.

Silence had its advantages, Sharon was learning. She had dropped out of view for awhile, spending most of the past few weeks performing community service in LA, having successfully copped a lesser plea of

“contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” Only twelve months–for being quiet. She spent most of her free time in hiding, designing her makeover, declining all interviews, stating “no comment” to pushy reporters.

She was planning to reinvent herself. No more flings, no more flash. She wasn’t up to it anyway. The wardrobe was the best place to start, she had decided. That should be muted, toned down. Gray. Warm grays.

Charcoal, as opposed to black. In natural fibers, no more synthetics, just the real thing. Classic cuts, even for the hair. Sensible sweaters accented with a single string of pearls. Not a Doris Day motif, of course, too over the top, but respectable, like cashmere and wool are with a full-length tailored skirt.

She examined the mirror. Or should it be mid-calf? Or just a bit above the knees? But those nice, long legs. It was a shame to hide them. They were her trademark. Could she part with her mini’s? She’d have to give it more thought.

_____

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know, Helaine. I’ll call Stan and see if he’s heard from her. I need an update anyway. It’s been a week.”

_____

She had given them the slip, thus the dailies were forced to speculate and embellish as much as possible in her absence, which they found necessary to do all week.

All week they churned out raw data and vital statistics on Lydia Beaumont and when it seemed there was nothing new to add, they juxtaposed them with Dr. Kristenson’s, spicing things up with the mountain of juicy tidbits they had collected over the years on Sharon Chambers.

The contest: Plaintiff Chambers asserts that Lydia Beaumont is the other woman; Defendant Kristenson asserts she is not. Oh, how the public loves a triangle! It’s the shortest distance between two points.

_____

“And how is Rapunzel doing in her tower? Comfy?”

“Paula! Good, come in. I’m halfway through these numbers.”

“Good, SEC next month. Been wearing my lucky girdle all week. How’s every little thing?” she asked, trying to ignore the clumsy attentions of a buxom blond performing a crude impersonation of a maid.

Lydia rolled her eyes and stared at the rug. Rip-away maids, rip-away room service, rip-away masseuses…all blond. Duh! And not one of them could make a decent martini. She choked on the one just delivered and waited for Paula’s reaction.

“Ugh! What the hell is this?” Paula exclaimed.

Lydia laughed. Serves you right, she said in her head. “Paula, I need a safe outside line.”

“We’re working on it. I don’t know what’s taking so long. Use e-mail for now. Ye-god, don’t drink that!”

“I need to talk to…someone. E-mail’s not quite adequate, cell phone, ditto.”

“Well, if you must talk to someone, talk to her,” Paula teased. “And be sure to tell her this isn’t drinkable while you’re at it.”

Lydia smiled patiently. “How’s damage control progressing? When can I go outside? I’d like to go running.”

“We’re contacting all our assets. The Herald, Weekly Times, so on. Got the red lines drawn in the sand, got a secure zone around the building. Ta-dah! So it’ll probably take another week or so for the dust to settle. In the meantime use that gym thing there. What’s wrong with that?”

Or so? Lydia folded her arms. “I need to…I need these bimbos out of here, first of all. I can’t concentrate. And it’s been a week since I’ve–talked to my friends. The phone…I need a private outside line.”

Those complaints didn’t surprise VP Treadwell. “Sorry about the bimbos. We thought you might get lonesome, that’s all.”

Lydia shook her head. “No, not for–oh, never mind. And the phone?”

“The phone? Beaumont. Do you mind if I speak frankly here?”

“Please. That’s what I rely on you for.”

“Good. Then it won’t surprise you that I’d prefer you stay away from Dr. Kristenson. Soloman-Schmitt needs you more now.”

Soloman-Schmitt.

“Aw, sweetie, aren’t you gonna drink that?” the maid interrupted.

Lydia squirmed. “I really don’t think I can.”

“Suit yourself. How ’bout a little wine, honey?”

Paula hid behind her hand.

“Wine’s fine. Let’s try that,” Lydia mumbled. This was divine retribution, she was thinking, for her prank on Helaine at the guest house.

“And you?” the woman asked Paula.

“Oh, yes, and then please go when you’re through. We need some privacy.”

(Why hadn’t I thought to say that?)

“Suit yourself,” the woman replied.

They sat in silence as the maid fumbled hopelessly with the bottle.

“Leave it,” Paula finally ordered. It was amusing, but only for a little while.

They waited till they heard the door close behind her and Lydia took the wine bottle and uncorked it.

“I really am sorry about that,” Paula offered. “I just thought perhaps–”

“I know what you thought. It became painfully obvious.”

“Well, what the fuck do I know about it? Shoot me in the head.”

“It’s just that I can’t concentrate,” Lydia said. “I don’t expect you to understand and I don’t want to discuss it, but I do need a private phone. Just to talk.”

“Look, I don’t want anything to jinx our operation here, Lydia. We’ve got a lot on our mind.”

“You have my word that I will stay put until you tell me the coast is clear. But…I…she will be very anxious about–”

“She should have been very anxious before this, what with that tarantula on the loose!”

Lydia swirled the wine and sighed. Okay. But too late now. “Nevertheless, I’m lonesome and not for Soloman-Schmitt.”

“I’m going to lose you, aren’t I?”

“You might. But not before we finish.”

Paula nodded and sipped her wine. “What about Vice President Beaumont? Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”

“Can’t. Don’t want to.”

“What do you want to do? Lie in bed all day?”

Lydia took a deep breath. “That, too.”

“Well, what else then?”

“I want to sit on some of those boards. As many as possible.”

Paula perked up. “Really? I can arrange that.”

“We’d be in opposite corners, Vice President Treadwell. Better consider that first.”

“Not necessarily. Besides, it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? The other way I’ll be completely deaf and blind until I find your replacement.”

“IF. I’ve seen what’s coming through the ranks, Paula. Good luck.”

“Isn’t there anyone out there? Another Lydia Beaumont?”

“Some, but you’ve got to grab them quickly and then watch them like a hawk.”

“Crap, Lydia. I know you’re busy right now, but get me a shopping list.”

“Okay. Get me a private line.”

_____

The summer gods were packing it in for now, leaving things in the capable hands of their icy associates.

The days shortened and the nights grew long again.

_____

Seven-point-three on the Richter scale and some pretty serious aftershocks. That’s what it feels like when an institution like Soloman-Schmitt catches cold and sneezes. It did have the beneficial effect of throwing The Chambers-Kristenson-Beaumont affair into the inside pages for awhile, although the press had a new excuse to assemble in front of Lydia’s building, so she still couldn’t show up for work there.

As a protective measure, Paula Treadwell had the entire contents of Lydia’s office shipped under supervision to her VIP’s ivory tower. She delayed as long as possible in furnishing her with a private line until the relentless e-mail requests for the same threatened to distract her from her own business, which these days consisted of a lot of hand-holding and arm-twisting and endlessly sincere public announcements about the promising health of her company. If she didn’t watch out she could find herself president of it one day.

_____

“Okay, Beaumont, you’ve got your private line.”

“Prove it.”

“How can I do that?”

“Tell me something you wouldn’t want anyone else to hear.”

“You know you got to start trusting people again. It’s not–”

“Spare me, Paula. Go on.”

“I cheated on my husband the other night. With the cable man.”

“Oh my gosh…thanks.”

“I’m under so much pressure and the guy was so sweet. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Okay, it’s all right. Thank you, Paula. Thanks.”

“You think I should tell Dickie?”

“Paula…no. I don’t think you should share this with Dickie.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I…I think you should reflect on it in silence and hang up so I can use my phone. Are you coming by this week?”

“Yes, but I don’t know when yet. You’re such a prude, you know. I’m still blown away that you’re Jane Doe.”

“Uh, me too. A prude? Why?”

“Because other than that thing way back in the Paleolithic era, you know with your Mr. Rios, I didn’t know you thought about sex.”

“Paula…I need to use the phone.”

“Right. I’ll see you at the end of the week then.”

Paleolithic Joe. Delilah had e-mailed Lydia the latest articles and it didn’t look good for him. Arraignment on ten counts of securities fraud, him and his gang of fourteen. That was just the beginning, she knew, the tip of only one iceberg in a great big ocean filled with them.

“You want me to hang that up for you, honey?”

Lydia clutched the phone possessively and shook her head. She had forgotten to mention to Paula that blonds were still littering her landscape. Outside the window, she swore she saw snowflakes fluttering by. She had missed the end of a spectacular Indian summer, a particularly long one this year. “What time is it?” she asked.

“Two thirty.”

“Thank you.” She waited for the maid to leave the room and dialed Helaine at her office.

“She’s with a patient right now. Can I take your name and number?”

“Oh…um…tell her, please, that Jane called.” She gave the secretary the number. “It’s a private number.”

“I understand, Ms. Beaumont. I’ll let her know as soon as she’s out of session.”

Lydia coughed, exposed so easily. “Thank you. You have a nice day.” She hung up and dialed Delilah at the bank, bypassing her secretary.

“Globe International, Del Lewiston. How may I help you?”

“Del, it’s me.”

“Hey! Commandant Treadwell let you off the leash?”

“Nah, but I finally got a private line. How’s things over your way?”

“I feel the earth move under my feet–not too bad really. Everybody sugaring me. Haven’t got time for any Soloman-Schmitt type mavericks in my house. You hear Arthur-Doolittle’s going belly-up? Just a matter of time.”

“A long time coming. How’s it look at the penthouse? I wanna go home.”

“Paula’s good, but not that good, I’m afraid. Still some stragglers.”

“Christ. I need my life back, Del.”

“Whowee though, you sure sound exciting these days. All this time I thought you were just this mild mannered financier.

Mmm, mmm, mmm, Lydia Beaumont, what they say about you. And I’ll bet you haven’t got laid in weeks because of it, have you?”

“Ain’t I something?”

“Sit tight. Things will quiet down soon, now that they’ve got this stuff to gnaw at. Treadwell taking good care of you?”

“Yeah. Bar no expense, if you get what I’m driving at. It’s embarrassing.”

“Hah! She’s a piece of work that one. Send my regards. This your number I’m seeing here?”

Lydia listened as she read it off. “That’s mine. Call me. I hate e-mail.” After that she loitered near the phone for another half hour before going back to work. Another hour flew by and the maid knocked at the door of the makeshift office.

“Telephone. Wouldn’t tell me her name, though.”

(Of course not.) “Thanks. This is confidential, please.”

The woman made herself scarce.

“Good afternoon?”

“Darling…who’s that?”

“Helaine! Um…the maid. I mean room service. I miss you.”

“Maid? Where are you? I’ve been sick to death worrying that you flew the coop on me.”

“Soloman-Schmitt’s holding me ransom.”

“How much are they asking? I’ll pay anything.”

“I need to see you, Lana.”

“I need you. When?”

“Tonight?”

“Where are you?”

Lydia gave her the address.

“Will they stop me at the desk? What do I say?”

“Just wear your hair down and duck your head. I don’t think anybody will stop you.”

“Okay…? And what else should I wear?”

“Lana…surprise me.”

_____

Stanley Kandinsky representing Defendant Beaumont? Oh, shit! He had never prevailed in a single case where that man was involved. The stars were simply aligned against Attorney Willard Hathaway.

_____

Racketeers, reconnoiters, raconteurs. Rrrrrrr. VP Treadwell fumed as she rode up the elevator, exiting five minutes later with her own little storm cloud in tow as she stomped gloomily down the hallway. It was a bad day. She rapped impatiently on Lydia’s door with a set of white knuckles and waited a few seconds. No answer. She turned the handle. It was unlocked. She let herself in without announcement.

Once inside, she immediately discovered a trail of women’s clothes leading from the couch to the bedroom and the excited cries emanating from that direction told her all she needed to know for the moment. She cursed inaudibly and fell into a chair to await the finale, reminding herself to speak to John again about putting an end to the dumb blond parade at the Beaumont pleasure palace.