Captain of Industry Page 17

  I can’t love her, she thought.

  “I’m a stamp you’ll have collected, a fancy piece of jewelry to show off, one more way to let the world know that you’re the successful lesbian they can’t touch.”

  Suzanne colored and Jennifer wondered if she’d hit the mark in some deep way. “That’s not what the box is about. But I’m not an idiot or a liar. Of course I’d love showing the world you’re with me. The problem is you don’t want the world to know. You want to have the sex and not be one of us. You don’t want any of the work or worry or fear.”

  “You’re on the lists of wealthy Americans, maybe one of the richest lesbians in the country. What do you have to be afraid of?”

  “Just because I can’t lose my job and have money to back up my rights, doesn’t mean I’m comfortably numb to the rest of the world. A woman in Florida died while the hospital barred her partner from the hospital room, in spite of having all the right paperwork. Do you think that just because that probably wouldn’t happen to me that I’m not angry and afraid?”

  “Well, at least you admit that money doesn’t fix everything.”

  “I’m just an inconvenient bit of muck stuck to the bottom of your bloody red shoes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Something you don’t even bother to wipe off. You just throw away the shoes so there’s no proof your life was ever complicated. You’re afraid being with me will cost you your career. That’s why you dumped me in New York.”

  “I’m not making it up! Ask any casting agent. Ask directors. Pretty face. Pretty voice. Great figure. Can act a little,” she mimicked. “I’ve been knocking on doors for ten years and the part I just got is the first one where I raise my voice for a reason other than calling for help.” She tried to take a calming breath but the words tumbled out. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to move to LA. Stop modeling, it just gets in the way. Hollywood is getting my full attention.”

  “That means you can’t have a private life?”

  “There’s no such thing as privacy for performers.” She fought back tears. “I don’t want to be a footnote and forgotten. You have no idea, no idea at all how many actors are closeted because they know what coming out will do to their careers.”

  “The world is changing, Jennifer. Gay marriage is going to happen, and soon.”

  “Marriage is not the be all and end all of being treated fairly. Money can’t buy equality. None of it will be fast enough for me. My clock is ticking. I have maybe five more years. Tops. Then I’m too old to play across from leading men twice my age. Let alone headline my own movie.”

  “You’re selling yourself short.”

  “Give me credit for knowing my industry the way you know yours, even if it’s not the all-powerful and important world of computers and games and gadgets.”

  Suzanne’s jaw flexed. “So now I’m being a chauvinist?”

  “Tell me how all the sacrifices to make this work won’t be at my expense? You give up nothing to be with me.”

  A flush of color ran up Suzanne’s neck. “And I’m a sacrifice? I think what you’re saying is that I’m not worth the sacrifice.”

  “I end up the little missus while you have a job. Maybe you can buy Warner Brothers for me, that would solve everything. Except I’d be Pia Zadora all over again, an actress everyone agrees wouldn’t have a part to her name if it weren’t for her spouse’s money. I’ll resent it and resent you and that means we’re doomed. So I will have given up my career for nothing in the end.”

  “Wow. So I can’t possibly give you anything worth having?”

  “Money. Everyone will say I stay for your money. You’ll start to wonder if it’s true. If that’s the only mutual advantage we share—your money.”

  “You could go on modeling. You can be out and still model. If you earn less I can make it up to you.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” Jennifer actually looked down, expecting to see a knife in her chest.

  Suzanne let out a sharp, flat breath. “I think you’re a coward and all you want is the pretty, bright lights, that’s what I think.”

  Maybe I am, Jennifer thought, but if she was taking the easy way out why did it hurt so damn much? “That’s what you wanted for yourself, isn’t it? The whole setup in New York was about being rich and famous. Except your pretty lights have substance, have meaning and value, while I just want to be a vapid actress.”

  “I have never implied—”

  “But it’s okay with you if I’m a vapid model instead. As long as I’m pretty. I feel like some prize in the game show of your magic life.”

  “Of course you can—”

  “I will be a royal bitch if that’s what it takes,” Jennifer announced viciously. “Watch out Hollywood! I’m not going to marry well and settle down to be someone’s trophy wife.”

  “Well. You’ve already achieved one goal.” Suzanne veered into a hotel entrance. “Can you take a cab to the airport from here?”

  “Yes.” There was nothing more to say. She’d said far too much. She got out of the car and dropped the unopened Tiffany’s box onto the seat. Closed the door.

  “I smashed it,” she repeated to herself, over and over. “I smashed it to pieces.” There was no going back, only forward. She’d made sure of that. The knives they’d just thrown could not be removed.

  I did that on purpose, but it was all Suzanne’s fault for not understanding. It had to be Suzanne’s fault. It just had to be or she was going to fall to pieces.

  The cab’s path to the airport went directly past the building that housed Suzanne’s company. She closed her eyes to the past and thought about the new part and wondered if she could wrap up the Vancouver photo shoot more quickly. She needed to make a decision, needed to make sense, needed to do something with the screaming voices that pleaded with her to go back, to apologize.

  To do the asking.

  This is just a place I’m leaving, she told herself. She was so intent on not crying that she didn’t hear her phone ringing at first.

  It wasn’t Suzanne. Not that she had any hope of it ever being Suzanne again. “Phillip, what’s the good news?”

  He summed up the contract he was putting together for the production company. “I think I’ve got all the bases covered, Jenny, and I’ll FedEx it to your hotel in Canada.”

  “Phillip? Can you do me a favor?” Her razor-edged voice sounded like a stranger’s. “Call me Jennifer. If you call me Jenny again you’re history.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely. In fact, I’ll put that in the contract so there’s no way it shows up on the set. It’s Jennifer, all the time.”

  Damn right, she thought. She would not have regrets, and she was not going to be stupid about her feelings ever again.

  ACT III

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Present Day

  Suzanne snapped back to the party with a jolt that nearly toppled her wineglass. But the echo of Annemarie’s “I told you so” was reverberating in her ears along with the memory of impotent fury that had sent her into months of all work and all bitch.

  She’d moved out of the house in Santa Cruz, went for an anonymous condo south of Market, traded her BMW for an Audi, and never drove Highway 1 south of Half Moon Bay. Jennifer couldn’t just leave for her audition in LA all those years ago, she’d had to torch the landscape on the way out of Suzanne’s life. Then she’d unleashed a wave of ruin on Selena Ryan and marched her stilettos up the Hollywood ladder, never looking back.

  And now she was walking around in places that had been free of her shadow. Not just disturbing Suzanne’s composure, but tearing her in two. She was furious at Jennifer’s presumption and yet unable to let the woman out of her sight. The places where her body had been pressed against Jennifer’s bare skin still felt like they were on fire.

  The stir that had brought her out of her reverie was a procession of two women and two men in blue suits, all with faces of concrete. Damn it all,
she had not meant to be caught off guard by the arrival of their high-ranking, last-minute guest. Sydney Van Allen was on a tight schedule and here she was mooning about La Lamont all over again. Santa Cruz had been such a mistake. They had devoured each other, and then Jennifer had spit out her bones.

  She reached Van Allen before any kind of pause could leave the impression that the Speaker of the House had just walked into a room and didn’t know what to do next. Optics, optics, optics the party planner had insisted.

  “Madam Speaker, it’s an honor to meet you. Thank you for taking the time out of your schedule to be here.” They shook hands. A wave of charisma and charm just from the handshake left Suzanne feeling that their meeting was the most important thing Van Allen had done all day. I could be her willing slave.

  Van Allen introduced her to her wife, Faith Fitzgerald. Suzanne tried not to gush about Fitzgerald’s histories of world-changing women, but managed to convey she was a fan.

  “In a gorgeous setting like this I’d rather talk about Faith’s books too,” Van Allen admitted. Her eyes seemed to miss nothing.

  “Do you have time to dine with us?”

  “I’m afraid not. They just did a fruit-basket upset on my itinerary, and we’re heading back to DC tonight.”

  “Truly, I wish we could stay.” Fitzgerald’s handshake was quick but firm. “I have great sentimental fondness for San Francisco, but it was ice cold there. You have all this warmth. And something smells delectable.”

  “We suspected that you wouldn’t have time, so the caterer will put together plates to take with you.” She nodded at the party planner who did a head count with her eyes and departed in the direction of the kitchen followed by a Secret Service agent.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind. We’ll picnic in the backseat,” Fitzgerald added.

  Van Allen’s cool, pale skin took on the slightest edge of pink.

  “That sounded rather racier than I meant it to be,” Fitzgerald muttered. “All these years and I still forget to use my inside inside voice.”

  One eyebrow lifted so subtly that Suzanne thought it might not have meant anything, but it made Fitzgerald blush while Van Allen went back to serenity personified. A pinched-faced woman with a notebook meaningfully cleared her throat and Van Allen glanced at her watch.

  Suzanne addressed the room as Van Allen touched shoulders and shook hands with nearly everyone on her way to the podium. “I don’t need to make an introduction. You all know who she is, what she stands for, and it is an amazing surprise that her schedule allowed her to join us in celebration of women’s health initiatives.” She caught Jennifer’s gaze for a moment and nearly forgot what she was going to say next. She should have seated the woman behind a tree. “From the great state of Illinois, Congresswoman and Speaker of the House Sydney Van Allen!”

  Van Allen had already reached the podium as Suzanne finished, and she shushed the applause and urged everyone to enjoy their dinners. “I don’t know what it is, but it smells delicious, and I’m not getting written up on the Curmudgeon Report as having ruined the meal.”

  Laughter settled everyone as Suzanne returned to her seat. Jennifer looked starstruck—a feeling she undoubtedly didn’t experience very often. That’s right, Suzanne thought, I know famous people who aren’t you. She didn’t need Jennifer to complete her life. She wasn’t getting on that road again.

  Her own dinner had grown slightly cool, but she made a point of resuming eating so that others would. There was no reason the delicate poached salmon and Laura’s mushroom risotto should go completely cold.

  Jennifer laughed at something Van Allen said. The low vibration of it continued to stir images of the hours she’d spent holding Jennifer close. Honestly Suzanne, what sick masochistic impulse led you to think Jennifer seated right next to you was a great idea? You’ve been waiting six months to meet some of these women and you might be eating tortilla chips with squirt cheese for all you care.

  The memory of other tastes and pleasures were throbbing under her skin. Not this abyss again—she knew where it led. It was a good thing Annemarie wasn’t here or she’d be on fire from the laser eyes.

  Two tables over she caught sight of Carina. She could have asked Carina to be her spur-of-the-moment seat filler, but she was sure Carina’s new wife wouldn’t have appreciated it. It would have stirred up old gossip. Like a few other intriguing women Suzanne had gone out with, Carina had become a friend. They took each other’s calls on the assumption that the need was genuine and not out of proportion to the fun and affection they had shared.

  In other words, they had boundaries. Trust. Qualities that simply didn’t apply to the woman she had crazily decided was okay to be seated next to her. The woman with the perfume that always burned and the charm that hid a knife.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “No one should have to worry about losing everything they’ve worked for because their child is born prematurely, or they break an ankle, or suffer a cataclysmic health event.” Sydney Van Allen’s laser gaze swept over the assembled guests so powerfully that Jennifer almost ducked.

  “Amen,” someone from the crowd called out and Van Allen didn’t miss a beat when she answered, “Amen, sisters, amen.”

  Sydney Van Allen was a gifted speaker—there was no doubt in Jennifer’s mind about that. Judging by the standards of her acting craft, she thought it was the pitch of her voice and the fiercely rigid posture blended with a sense of absolute conviction. “Even worse, what help and coverage we can receive shouldn’t blow with whatever political winds are popular or what our employers decide is moral.”

  Jennifer could sense the speech was coming to its climax and she tried to pay attention, but her body felt Suzanne’s nearness and the resulting flush was aggravating. Suzanne was proving some kind of point, maybe? That they could be near each other and keep their clothes on? Now that they were nine-plus years older they weren’t the rabid bed bunnies they had once been?

  She hardly expected Suzanne to have forgiven her for the way they’d last parted. Santa Cruz had been the do-over, the chance to get it right. It hadn’t worked out and she’d made sure the door was slammed shut. There was no place in her life for the memories of Suzanne’s hands and mouth or for that morning she had felt—so briefly—that everything she could want to be happy could be found in Suzanne’s arms. She didn’t want to remember the way Suzanne used to look at her or compare it to the way Suzanne had looked at her tonight—the same look of wariness, distrust and remembered pain Lena sometimes wore.

  All of it more or less deserved. She’d earned it all. How could she ever tell Suzanne that as badly as she’d behaved on the drive back from Napa, it paled next to the destruction she’d loosed into Lena’s life? Even if Lena had gotten past it professionally and personally in her usual overachieving, ethical fashion, it didn’t change anything. Maybe Suzanne already knew the gist of it—it had been online tabloid fodder for a couple of weeks. Jennifer Lamont hooks up with female producer, then dates male director after dismissing Sapphic fling as “one of those things.”

  Then, of course, there had been the subsequent trip to rehab for a fabricated substance abuse problem. Suzanne wasn’t crazy about stupid people, and Jennifer had been spectacularly, publicly stupid.

  She belatedly realized the speech had ended. She scrambled to her feet and applauded madly as Van Allen took her leave. The Secret Service agents didn’t exactly back out of the room, but within moments it was as if Van Allen and her entourage had never been there.

  Suzanne was leaning into the microphone at the podium. “The rest of the evening’s events will begin after we’ve all enjoyed our dessert.”

  She settled into the seat next to Jennifer with a sigh. “Wow, that was all kinds of breathtaking.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Jennifer had a sudden thought. “Where’s Annemarie? Have I just not picked her out in the crowd?” There had to be at least a hundred people there, perhaps more.

  “No, she has the
flu. This afternoon she swore she’d be here if it killed her, but the hundred and three temperature won.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’ll somehow be my fault. Everything usually is.”

  It was probably for the best, Jennifer thought. She felt awkward enough without avoiding any not-so-veiled barbs Annemarie might still want to send her way. Suzanne, who looked distracted again, didn’t need yet more drama tonight. Even if she hadn’t fallen literally into Suzanne’s arms, just running into each other so unexpectedly would have probably thrown them both for a loop. As it was, Jennifer had already provided enough upheaval to a tightly planned schedule.

  Suzanne was making a point of chatting with the woman on her other side. A mathematician, someone had said, and here with the other big speaker who was a political analyst of some kind and the daughter of a former Vice President. The woman next to Jennifer was having a lively conversation with the women on her other side in what sounded like Italian. Jennifer grasped a word here and there. Something about love. Or a donkey. Those who understood were wiping away tears of laughter.

  She and Helen Baynor shared a mutual nod of appreciation for the plum-cherry velvet of the pinot noir that had been poured with the entree. It had taken Jennifer a number of years to like the taste of wine but now reds were her favorites and this Ardani vintage was very tasty. The chair next to Baynor was empty, and Jennifer had noted the name on the place card was Helen’s partner, Chef Laura Izmani. No doubt attention to the kitchen had kept her from joining them.

  Jennifer wondered if someone like Baynor had anything like Marley’s chains to carry around. Closing in on sixty, she surely didn’t look it. Baynor’s blue-gray eyes were bright and expressive, and the wave in her salt-and-pepper hair highlighted the cheekbones that made her instantly recognizable. She continued to hold court on Broadway past the years when women were only cast as moms, shrews and crazies. Jennifer was trying not to blow what cool she had left by admitting to the star that she’d seen Auntie Mame three times during its first run.