French Silk (34 page)

"I'm fine except for a headache, which your lecturing is only making worse."

"Eating a well-rounded meal would help your headache."

"I ate like a pig last night."

"And then came in and threw it up."

She shot him an angry glance as she removed a dress from the closet and tossed it onto the bed.

"Ariel, eat something," he pleaded. "You need the nourishment. You've got a hectic day planned."

"Stop nagging me."

"You need to eat."

"I ate!"

She flung her hand toward the room-service tray. He inspected it. The salad lunch was intact except for the coffee. "Coffee isn't a meal."

"I'd like to change now," she said impatiently. "As you said, this afternoon's schedule is hectic."

"Cancel it."

She gaped at him as though he'd sprouted horns. "What?"

"Call off the schedule and spend the remainder of the day in bed."

"Are you crazy? I can't do that."

"You mean you won't."

"All right, I won't. I want that auditorium filled to capacity tonight. I want people outside clamoring to get in so they can pray with us."

Josh swore under his breath. "Ariel, this is insane. We've been on the road for ten days. Interviews during the day, followed by prayer meetings that last for hours. Traveling all night to the next city so it can start again the following day. You're running yourself ragged."

"This trip is getting results."

"It's physically exhausting us."

"If you can't stand the heat—"

"This has nothing to do with that mess in New Orleans, does it? You're not staging these silly prayer meeting to spur the police into action. You're conducting them for your self-image. This isn't a holy mission we're on. This is an ego trip. Your ego trip, Ariel."

"So what if it is?" she shouted. "Aren't you reaping the benefits too? I don't see you complaining whenever the TV cameras focus on you playing the piano. Would your piddling talent get that kind of media exposure if it weren't for me and my ingenuity? Huh? Answer me."

"I've got more than 'piddling talent'."

She snorted unflatteringly. "Is that so? That wasn't Jackson's opinion. I felt sorry for you whenever he'd start in on his no-talent son. Now I'm beginning to believe he was right."

"What do you mean?"

She turned away. "We'll be late."

"What do you mean?"
he shouted.

Her face turned ugly with malice. "Only that your daddy was embarrassed to have you on the stage with us. I couldn't count the times he told me that the only reason he kept you up there was because you're his only son. What else could he do, fire you and hire someone with more flash and charisma like he wanted to do? He always told me that you were virtually worthless to him. You didn't have a head for business, you weren't a riveting speaker, and you had no leadership qualities. He was glad you'd taught yourself how to play a few songs on the piano so you wouldn't have to sack groceries at the Piggly Wiggly for a living."

Before he realized what he was doing, his hands were closing around her skinny throat. "You lying bitch. You're a goddamn liar." He shook her hard while pressing his thumbs against her larynx.

Ariel reached up and clawed at his hands, but his long, strong fingers didn't relax. "Daddy knew I had talent and it scared him. He thought that if I pursued my dreams, I might become greater, more famous, than he was."

"Let—me—go," she choked.

Suddenly Josh's vision cleared and he saw his stepmother's eyes bulging from their darkly ringed sockets. He released her so abruptly that she reeled against the dresser before catching her balance. Coughing and gasping, she stared at him contemptuously. "You're insane."

Josh's breathing was almost as labored as hers. The latent violence that had unexpectedly erupted frightened him. "He did this to us," he said in a slow, rasping voice. "He's still doing it to us. It's like the bastard isn't even dead."

Again he reached for Ariel and turned her around. With his hand splayed over the back of her head, he pushed her face to within inches of the mirror. "Look! Look at yourself. You look like a ghoul. He's doing this to you, and you're letting him. He's the reason you're starving yourself to death. Now tell me who's crazy."

Disgusted with himself as much as with her, he left her staring at her skeletal image in the mirror.

* * *

After lunch, the crew set up on Rosesharon's screened back porch. As a prop, they were using an antique hand-crank ice cream freezer that someone had come across in the Monteiths' detached garage. The blue paint on the wooden tub was chipped and pealing. The rusty metal strips holding the vertical slats together had stained the exposed wood. The freezer was no longer usable, but everyone agreed that it made a terrific prop.

The model, Liz, was seated on a milking stool, wearing a long white batiste nightgown that had a row of tiny buttons extending from the scooped neckline to the deep flounce at midcalf. The first several buttons were undone, and the skirt was bunched in her lap, well above her thighs, which were parted to accommodate the ice cream freezer. The impression Claire wanted to convey was that Liz was laboring over the freezer while Kurt reclined in the white macramé hammock in the background.

"It's sexist," Yasmine said.

"Not if it looks like she's enjoying it," Claire argued.

"It looks like doo-doo," Leon whined petulantly, as he adjusted the focus rings of his camera. "It's not hot enough."

"It's the only damn thing that isn't." Rue coughed and lit a cigarette. "Jesus, how do human beings survive down here? Have they ever even seen autumn leaves?"

"Maybe Liz needs some perspiration," the makeup lady ventured shyly.

"And I can spritz her hair with water," the stylist offered. "Make it look sweaty."

"Let's try it."

"For God's sake, hurry. I'm positively melting," Leon said.

"It would help if you took off that godawful shirt," Yasmine told him snidely. He was wearing a long-sleeved flamingo-pink silk shirt.

"But this is one of my best colors."

"The color gives 'putrid' a bad name."

"You bitch. You wouldn't know fashion if it—"

"Please, you two," Claire said wearily. "Let's try to get this shot done."

"I'm going to have these impressions on my buns for life," Kurt complained as he shifted uncomfortably in the hammock.

It had been decided several minutes earlier that he should appear as an indistinct form in the hammock, with only one strong, tanned leg dangling over the side. He was naked, save for his lap, which was covered with a towel that would be removed when they began taking pictures.

"Bear with us, Kurt."

"Did you mean that as a pun?" Rue asked.

Liz's hair had been lightly misted and was now clinging to her neck and chest in damp, spiraling tendrils. "I like that much better," Claire told the hair stylist. "Thanks."

The makeup artist was misting Liz's face and upper body to simulate a healthy sheen of perspiration. "Hmm," Liz sighed. "That feels good."

"Yes, yes, this is much improved," Leon cried. "This is looking great. Oh, yes. I'm
feeling
it now."

"Give us a glimpse of cleavage, Liz," Yasmine said. The model leaned forward as though applying herself to the hand crank of the ice cream freezer. "Oooh! Perfect!" Leon squealed.

"Wait," Claire ordered. "We've got nipples." The cool misting of water had caused the model's nipples to peak beneath the fabric of the gown.

"So what?" Theatrically Leon lowered his camera, annoyed by the interruption.

"I don't want them projecting," Claire said. "Give them time to relax."

"You show nipples all the time."

"Under the bras, they're relaxed."

"We've had projecting nipples before," Yasmine said. "She's right. You have," Leon said. "I should know. I took the goddamn pictures."

"Under opaque fabrics, jutting nipples are fine," Claire explained calmly. "But this looks vulgar. I can detect outline and color, and I don't like it. I don't want it to look like we photographed a wet T-shirt contest."

"You've got a naked man there!" Leon protested in a shrill voice that threatened to shatter the Monteith family crystal.

"But he's only an illusion. He's suggestive without being lewd." Claire kept her voice carefully controlled. "This argument is over."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Leon muttered. "When did you turn into Miss Goody Two-Shoes?"

"Since Jackson Wilde," Yasmine said drolly.

Claire whipped around, confronting her friend with astonishment and anger. "What a ridiculous thing to say, Yasmine! Wilde was never the barometer by which I gauged what was tasteful and what wasn't. He certainly wasn't my conscience. You know that."

"All I know is, you haven't been the same since he was found dead. Relax. He can't point the finger at you any longer."

Her friend's insensitive remarks infuriated Claire, especially since Cassidy was within hearing. She had broken her strict rule and let him watch from the periphery of the sets, thinking that maybe if she revealed to him this aspect of her life, he would stop probing other areas of it. His presence seemed not to faze anyone except her. He kept her nervous and on edge, although she performed her duties as competently as ever.

She sensed his ears pricking up at Yasmine's remark, but when she glanced at him, his expression remained impassive and didn't hint at what he might be thinking.

Cantankerously she said, "Just take the pictures, Leon, and wrap this one."

They finished within a half-hour and the subdued group began to scatter. Claire said in an undertone to Yasmine, "I'd like to see you in our room as soon as possible."

Five minutes later, Yasmine opened the bedroom door and strode in. "I know you're pissed."

Claire had passed the intervening minutes sitting against the carved rosewood headboard of one of the twin beds. Behind her back she had stacked pillows stuffed into snowy linen pillowcases that smelled cleanly of Tide and starch. She lowered her clipboard to her lap and removed her eyeglasses.

"Under the circumstances, Yasmine, I thought your remarks about Jackson Wilde's death were uncalled for and in bad taste."

One of Yasmine's perfect eyebrows arched. "Who gives a shit about him or what I said about him?"

"Assistant District Attorney Cassidy gives a shit." Claire tossed her clipboard aside and swung her legs to the edge of the bed. "I wish you hadn't sounded so flippant about Wilde's murder, or so relieved that he's no longer around to hound us."

"You can't possibly think that a remark, spoken as a joke, could influence Cassidy's opinion on your guilt or innocence?"

Claire declined to answer. Finally she looked up at Yasmine and said gravely, "That's not really why I'm angry with you."

Claire then told her about the conversation she'd had with her business attorney the night before she'd left for Mississippi. The instant his name was mentioned, Yasmine's eyes flashed angrily.

"That weasely bastard. I told him not to tell you."

"Then it's true? You asked him to persuade me to let our stock go public so you could sell your shares?"

"It was worth a shot. I've got to unload my stock. That's the only way I can do it."

"The only way?" Claire cried. "You could have come to me."

"Hat in hand, admitting that I'm broke?"

"Dammit, Yasmine, I've known for months that you're broke."

"Oh, great." The former model dropped to the edge of the other twin bed, looking rebellious and hostile.

Claire softened her tone. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. You're overextended, that's all. It happens to everybody at one time or another. I'll gladly loan you some money until things turn around."

"You're the last person I'd ask for money."

"Why?"

"Because you already carry this business. No, don't start throwing up objections. You do, Claire. You brought it from inception to where it is. You do the lion's share of the work. You're the brains behind it."

"And you're the beauty. My small company would have stayed small if not for your endorsement."

Yasmine shrugged as though her contributions amounted to nothing. "This time a year ago, I was rolling in dough. I guess I thought it would never run out. I mismanaged my money, turned it over to 'financial advisers' who probably screwed me out of half of it."

"You threw it away on lost causes like that thousand-dollar offering to Jackson Wilde."

Yasmine raised her hands in surrender. "Guilty. Anyway, I'm down to double zeros. That's why I hoped I could put my shares of French Silk on the auction block."

Claire shook her head. "I'll never go public. If you insist on selling your shares, I'll buy them."

"And obligate me to you."

"I don't look at it that way. It's self-preservation. You know how possessive I am when it comes to my business."