to invite you to the memorial service at Morehouse in October,” she said, “but I didn't get any answer at your house and I didn't have another number.”
Of course, I was in rehab in October, but there was no reason to tell her that, just like there was no reason to believe she ever called me.
“That was thoughtful of you. Did you get the flowers I sent?”
I had sent a small bouquet, all I could afford at that point, to express my condolences. She offered me a sad, apologetic smile.
“There were so many flowers, but I know Son would have appreciated it.”
Jade came in with coffee service for two on a silver tray, smiled at me apologetically as if to say, You ain't got to drink it, but she told me to bring it , and left without a word. Beth poured us both a cup.
“Do you still take it black?”
I nodded. We each took a sip, then she set down her cup, walked over to the mantel, and turned slowly back to me. Beth is so theatrical, even in a small setting like her living room, every scene is played for maximum drama.
“Shall we put our cards on the table, Gina?”
“And what cards would those be?”
“I know where you were in October.”
I put down my cup. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”
“Is there any particular reason why you didn't mention it?”
Her tone was hovering somewhere between reproach and reprimand, and it pissed me off.
“I didn't mention it because it wasn't any of your business. You called me because you need my help. That's the only reason I'm here.”
“I thought you were here because you're about to lose your mother's house.”
Now that surprised me. Beth knew as much about the history of the house as the weasel did. When I considered her a friend as well as an employer, we talked a lot about growing up, and all my girlhood stories begin and end right in that house. How did she know I had almost lost it? Beth had an impressive network of professional and political contacts in Washington, especially since she had gradually intensified her flirtation with the Republican Party, to Son's chagrin, but I never expected this level of inside information.
“Have you been spying on me?”
Her smile was a study in insincerity. “Is it spying to be concerned about an old friend?”
“It isn't necessary,” I said. “I'm not hiding anything. I had a cocaine problem and I made some really stupid choices. I've been to rehab and I'm in the process of rebuilding my life.”
I sounded like a bad movie on the Lifetime channel, but I plowed on. “I'm doing this contract for the money and for Son. Anything else you'd like to know?”
“That about covers it,” she said, gliding back to the couch with a much more genuine-looking smile.
I had the feeling I had just passed one of her tests. She wanted to see if I would lie. She could have saved herself the trouble. Lying is as toxic as cocaine. When I gave up one, I gave up the other one, too.
“Good,” I said, “because now I have a question for you.”
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
“When are you going to tell me what I'm really doing here so I can get going on it or tell you to find somebody else to do your dirty work?”
The eyebrows stayed elevated. “Why do you assume it's dirty work?”
That question didn't require an answer, so I didn't dignify it with one. Her face relaxed a little, but she was still watching me.
“When Son died,” she said, “we were in the last stages of negotiations with a sponsor who was prepared to underwrite the kind of national tour we've always talked about. It was our dream, but when he was taken the way he was, I couldn't even think about touring, or anything else. …”
Her voice trailed off, and even I couldn't deny the pain on her face. She took a deep breath. “Then a few months ago, our sponsor reached out to me and said they were still very interested. When I suggested a national legacy tour, dedicated to Son's memory, they couldn't have been more enthusiastic.”
“Who's the
Of course, I was in rehab in October, but there was no reason to tell her that, just like there was no reason to believe she ever called me.
“That was thoughtful of you. Did you get the flowers I sent?”
I had sent a small bouquet, all I could afford at that point, to express my condolences. She offered me a sad, apologetic smile.
“There were so many flowers, but I know Son would have appreciated it.”
Jade came in with coffee service for two on a silver tray, smiled at me apologetically as if to say, You ain't got to drink it, but she told me to bring it , and left without a word. Beth poured us both a cup.
“Do you still take it black?”
I nodded. We each took a sip, then she set down her cup, walked over to the mantel, and turned slowly back to me. Beth is so theatrical, even in a small setting like her living room, every scene is played for maximum drama.
“Shall we put our cards on the table, Gina?”
“And what cards would those be?”
“I know where you were in October.”
I put down my cup. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”
“Is there any particular reason why you didn't mention it?”
Her tone was hovering somewhere between reproach and reprimand, and it pissed me off.
“I didn't mention it because it wasn't any of your business. You called me because you need my help. That's the only reason I'm here.”
“I thought you were here because you're about to lose your mother's house.”
Now that surprised me. Beth knew as much about the history of the house as the weasel did. When I considered her a friend as well as an employer, we talked a lot about growing up, and all my girlhood stories begin and end right in that house. How did she know I had almost lost it? Beth had an impressive network of professional and political contacts in Washington, especially since she had gradually intensified her flirtation with the Republican Party, to Son's chagrin, but I never expected this level of inside information.
“Have you been spying on me?”
Her smile was a study in insincerity. “Is it spying to be concerned about an old friend?”
“It isn't necessary,” I said. “I'm not hiding anything. I had a cocaine problem and I made some really stupid choices. I've been to rehab and I'm in the process of rebuilding my life.”
I sounded like a bad movie on the Lifetime channel, but I plowed on. “I'm doing this contract for the money and for Son. Anything else you'd like to know?”
“That about covers it,” she said, gliding back to the couch with a much more genuine-looking smile.
I had the feeling I had just passed one of her tests. She wanted to see if I would lie. She could have saved herself the trouble. Lying is as toxic as cocaine. When I gave up one, I gave up the other one, too.
“Good,” I said, “because now I have a question for you.”
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
“When are you going to tell me what I'm really doing here so I can get going on it or tell you to find somebody else to do your dirty work?”
The eyebrows stayed elevated. “Why do you assume it's dirty work?”
That question didn't require an answer, so I didn't dignify it with one. Her face relaxed a little, but she was still watching me.
“When Son died,” she said, “we were in the last stages of negotiations with a sponsor who was prepared to underwrite the kind of national tour we've always talked about. It was our dream, but when he was taken the way he was, I couldn't even think about touring, or anything else. …”
Her voice trailed off, and even I couldn't deny the pain on her face. She took a deep breath. “Then a few months ago, our sponsor reached out to me and said they were still very interested. When I suggested a national legacy tour, dedicated to Son's memory, they couldn't have been more enthusiastic.”
“Who's the
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