Reign (17 page)

~ * ~

"John's wrong. I
didn't
come across him," Donna said to Sid. "He came into the suite. Sid, he
knew
I was there. If he didn't want me to see him, he could have just walked away down the hall."

Sid rolled over onto his back, rested a hand on
Donna's
bare thigh, and looked up at the bedroom ceiling. "It doesn't sound like Dennis. He never propositioned you before, did he?"

"Never. He's always been a gentleman around me. And he knows about us . . ." She trailed off, turning toward him and throwing an arm over his chest.

"
Mmm
-hmm. He's known for years about our . . .” He kissed her cheek. “. . . relationship. I can't believe he'd try to make a move on you."

"I can't either, but he did. I didn't imagine it."

"I know. You're a very rock-solid lady." He chuckled. "That's why I keep returning to your open arms."

Sid Harper and Donna Franklin had been making love to each other for ten years. It was a relationship of convenience in which expediency of passion was the key. They had had few relationships with other people during the time they had been together, and had never spoken of the four-letter word, love.

"I just don't know," Sid mused, "what's gotten into Dennis lately. He's not his old self, that's for sure."

"There was something else," Donna said, and he felt her stiffen beside him. "I just remembered. He didn't blink. I don't think I saw him blink one time, even when I shone my flashlight right in his face . . .”

The next morning, Ann Deems came to the Venetian Theatre to begin her new job. Donna Franklin gave her a tour of the building, and then showed her to a small office on the second floor just down the hall from Donna and Steinberg's two-office suite. There, she began to fill out the first of the forms that would become such a large part of her life. Dennis had not been there to greet her, nor had she expected that he would, and she was relieved not to have to see him again so soon after their last meeting.

Halfway through lunch, which Ann ate at her desk, Donna appeared at the door. "You have a visitor," she said. "Your daughter?"

Donna stepped back, allowed Terri to enter the tiny room, and left them alone. "Sit down," Ann said. "Here, let me move these papers."

"You look like you've settled in," said Terri, who remained standing. Ann noticed that she had her portfolio with her. "Are you feeling particularly fulfilled yet?"

"Terri dear, when you are all grown up and married, I hope you have a daughter exactly like mine."

"Thank you, mother. Now. Who do I have to . . . bribe to meet
Marvella
Johnson?"

Ann thought for a moment. She had made whatever loose arrangements she had with Dennis, and had no idea if he had even mentioned the situation to
Marvella
Johnson. Then she looked at the phone on her desk, at the initials next to the push buttons, in particular the one marked DKH, and made up her mind. "Hold on," she said, picked up the receiver, and pushed the button. Sid answered, but in less than a minute she was talking to Dennis, who sounded happy to hear her voice, and told her to bring Terri to the costume shop, where he would introduce them to
Marvella
.

Terri followed Ann silently down the hall and up the stairs. The place was such a labyrinth that Ann felt secretly proud that she remembered her way there. When they entered, Dennis was standing next to
Marvella
, his beaming face in harsh contrast to her wrinkled and frowning countenance. After the introductions, during which
Marvella
did not speak one intelligible word, Dennis walked Ann back to her office, leaving Terri and the costumer alone.

"I don't think they hit it off," said Ann, as she sat behind her desk.

Dennis chuckled as he leaned against the door frame. "
Marvella
doesn't hit it off with anyone. The costume shop is her domain, and she sees everyone else as interlopers — at least until they've worked with her for a while and she realizes they don't have smeared chocolate on their fingers or sabotage on their minds. Don't worry, they'll get along. And if Terri's good, she'll get the job."

"I hope so. I'd like to see her happy again."

"Again? How long has it been?"

"Oh, since she was six."

They laughed, and Ann realized she felt comfortable with Dennis.
Maybe
, she thought,
this could work out after all
. They seemed to be friends now, and there was no reason they could not remain so, no reason they had to become anything more.

~ * ~

Marvella
Johnson's frown was a forced one. It took a great deal of effort to make her facial muscles press the sides of her mouth down so far, but, she thought, it was worth it. If she could get them crying, or at least get that lower lip trembling, then she knew they were busted, and would go away thanking sweet Jesus that they
weren't
going to work with the tyrannous
Marvella
Johnson.

But this girl — this Terri — was one tough cookie. She gave
Marvella
back
stare
for stare, and slapped her designs on the work table as though daring her prospective boss to criticize them.
Marvella
liked that. It meant the girl wasn't prepared to put up with bullshit.
Marvella
hadn't put up with bullshit for years. "This all you brought?" she asked Terri, her steely black fingers flipping through the contents of the portfolio like a harrow through weeds.

"You want more, I can get more. But I don't have it here." She sounded,
Marvella
thought, just pissed off. There wasn't the trace of a sob.

"No, I guess
this's
enough to show me what you can do. The designs are fine, but what about the construction? You good with a machine?"

"I've built everything you see there." The girl took a colored envelope from her purse. "Here are the photos." She tossed the envelope so that it spun twice before it hit the table.

Marvella
snorted, picked it up, and looked through the pictures inside. They were damn good, she thought, with the disappointment she always felt when she found someone she knew was good enough to work for her. It had to be done. She needed someone even now, for the bulk of the work was creeping up on her. Alone, she would be in no condition to costume the show due to open in the spring. Nope, no way around it. She could hire some of the people she'd worked with before, and when the time came, probably would. But she needed someone now, someone who would work like hell and take no shit except from her, and was damn good at what she did.
Who knows
, she thought,
maybe I might even learn to like the little bitch
.

Marvella
tossed the pictures on the table and looked up at the girl. "You start next Monday. Work out the salary with Miss Franklin."

~ * ~

Sweet Jesus!
Terri thought, and felt the smile burst across her face before she could contain it. She thought about pushing it back, then decided what the hell,
Marvella
Johnson had already seen it. The only thing more uncool than losing your cool was doing it and then pretending you hadn't. "Thanks, Ms. Johnson."

"Don't load any of that 'Miz' crap on me. That's what my mama used to call the ladies she did floors for.
Marvella'll
be fine. We're on an equal footing here, except for what I say goes." She nodded her head several times as she looked at Terri appraisingly. "Yeah, you're gonna be fine. But get
outta
here now, I got work to do."

"Sure. And thanks."
Marvella
waved a hand in reply and turned back to her work. Terri couldn't call her
Marvella
. Not yet.

She felt jubilant as she walked down the hall to the elevator she had passed on the way up. For a moment she thought of finding her mother and telling her that she had gotten the job, but decided not to. She would drop it at the dinner table tonight, subtly, as though it was no big thing, just something that she deserved. Although Terri was surprised
Marvella
had chosen her, she didn't want Ann to know that. No, she would let Ann think that the real surprise would have come if
Marvella
had not offered her the job. That would piss her off royally.

The elevator doors opened, and Terri got on and pushed 1. The three story ride was slow, and Terri started to think about Dennis Hamilton. He was good looking, there was no doubt of that, and the way that he carried himself was a real turn-on — like someone born to be rich and famous. And too, when he had looked at her in the costume room, was she imagining it or had he examined her with more than ordinary interest? His smile had been very warm, and she was sure she had caught him, just for a moment, looking at her legs.

She giggled as the elevator doors opened, then stepped out into the large, elegant lobby, too busy with her thoughts to see the vast and priceless oriental rug over which she walked, the marble arches that spread over her, the Emperor looking down on her from the mezzanine balcony above.

~ * ~

I shall have this one. Perhaps the mother later, but first the young one. I'll have her flesh, and with it I shall do whatever I want.

Whatever the Emperor wants.

That evening
Marvella
worked late in the costume shop. She wouldn't have normally, but Robin had sent a script down from New York by Federal Express. It was
the
script, the one that looked like the best possibility for production by the New American Musical Theatre Project, and
Marvella
decided immediately that she would have to see what pieces already existed for the 1930's American city milieu in which the show was set.

She had gone to the costume shop after dinner, climbed up the rickety stairway to the fifth-floor loft, and begun to go through the racks of
unironed
(and in many cases
uncleaned
) clothes that she had not yet explored. When she found a costume she thought might be serviceable, she threw it over the edge of the loft and let it float down to the floor of the shop below. By nine o'clock, when she paused to look over the edge, she discovered that she had quite a pile below, and decided to take a break.

Marvella
always took her own coffee grinder and drip coffee maker wherever she went. To offer her coffee from a machine was tantamount to giving pork to a rabbi. It simply wasn't done, and no one did it twice. Now
Marvella
ground six scoops of Blue Mountain beans, one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, poured fresh water in the reservoir, turned the switch to on, and sat back for a minute while the coffee brewed and the air filled with its deliciously bitter-smelling steam.

The ragged bubbling had nearly stopped when the door to the costume room opened. "Looks like I'm just in time," said Sid, ushering Whitney, who was clad in pajamas and clutched a stuffed zebra, ahead of him.

"You want a cup?"
Marvella
asked.

"No thanks."

"Then what brings you here? And what brings the child?"

"I couldn't sleep, Grandma," Whitney said, going to her grandmother and attempting to put her little arms around her. "I missed you too much.”

“What's wrong with Sid?" asked
Marvella
, trying to sound stern.

"He's not as soft to hug."

"I
guess
I'll take that as a compliment. Okay, you can stay here for a while. I'll be through soon. Thanks, Sid."

"My pleasure. I can watch your TV as easy as mine.
G'night
." He gave Whitney a peck on the cheek and left.

"So what are you gonna do now?"
Marvella
asked her granddaughter.

"Just watch you. I'll watch you work, and then I can see what you do, and then when I'm old enough I can be your helper, like that new lady you hired." The girl walked over to the pile of clothes and started rummaging through them. "When can I meet her, Grandma?"

"Oh soon,"
Marvella
sighed, sipping her black coffee with pleasure. "Real soon now."

~ * ~

Soon, Grandma said. Everything was always soon, and Whitney was tired of "soon." Grandma would be done in the costume shop "soon," Whitney was going to go back to her mother "soon," Grandma would teach Whitney to sew "soon" as she had some time. Whitney gave a big, deep sigh, just the way she had seen the little girl on
The Cosby Show
do it, but Grandma didn't say anything, didn't ask her, like Bill Cosby always asked his little girl, what was wrong.

Maybe this new lady would be nice
, Whitney thought.
Maybe she'd want to do things now and not "soon."
Grandma had said she was nice, and Whitney was anxious to meet her. So was soon tomorrow or next week or the week after, or . . .

No. Oh no. Soon was right now.

Whitney looked at her Grandma and saw that her back was to the lady, so she couldn't see her. But Whitney could, and knew that it had to be this Terri who Grandma had told her about at dinner. She had bright red hair, cut just below her ears, and glasses, but really pretty glasses that didn't make her look like an owl like some glasses did to people like Miss Franklin. She looked just like Grandma had said, only she wasn't crabby-looking at all. She was smiling at Whitney, a big, wide smile that showed all her teeth, and Whitney was surprised at how white her teeth were, almost like they were glowing.