Brazen Virtue, Page 2

  Always rules, Kath, Grace thought as she rode in silence beside her sister. School, church, life. No wonder she was always confused when the rules changed. Now they’d changed on her again.

  Did you quit marriage, Kathy, the way you used to quit the game when the rules didn’t suit you? Did you come back to where we started so you could wipe out the time in between and restart, on your own terms? That was Kathleen’s style, Grace thought, and hoped for her sister’s sake it worked.

  The only thing that surprised her was the street on which Kathleen had chosen to live. An efficiency apartment with up-to-date appliances and twenty-four-hour maintenance would have been more Kathleen’s style than this tired, slightly run-down neighborhood of big trees and old houses.

  Kathleen’s was one of the smallest homes on the block, and though Grace was sure her sister had done nothing to the little patch of grass other than trim it, some bulbs were beginning to push their way through along the walk that had been carefully swept.

  As she stood beside the car, Grace let her gaze roam up and down the street. There were bikes and aging station wagons and little fresh paint. Used, worn, lived in, the neighborhood was either on the edge of a renaissance or ready to slide slowly into old age. She liked it, liked the feel of it.

  It was precisely what she would have chosen if she had decided to move back. And if she’d had to choose a house … it would be the one next door, Grace decided on the spot. It was in definite need of help. One of the windows was boarded up and some shingles were missing from the roof, but someone had planted azaleas. The dirt was still fresh and patted into mounds at their base, and they were small, only a foot or so high. But the little buds were almost ready to burst open. Looking at them, she hoped she’d be able to stay long enough to see them flower.

  “Oh, Kath, what a wonderful spot.”

  “It’s a long way from Palm Springs.” She said it without bitterness as she started to unload her sister’s things.

  “No, honey, I mean it. It’s a real home.” She did mean it. With her writer’s eye and imagination she could already see it.

  “I wanted to be able to give Kevin something when—when he comes.”

  “He’ll love it.” She spoke with the confidence she carried like a flag. “This is definitely a skateboard sidewalk. And the trees.” There was one across the street that looked as though it had been struck by lightning and never recovered, but Grace passed over it without breaking rhythm. “Kath, looking at this makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing in upper Manhattan.”

  “Getting rich and famous.” Again it was said without bitterness as she passed bags to Grace.

  For the second time Grace’s gaze drifted to the house next door. “I wouldn’t mind having a couple of azaleas as well.” She linked arms with Kathleen. “Well, show me the rest.”

  The interior wasn’t as much of a surprise. Kathleen preferred things neat and orderly. The furniture was sturdy, dust-free, and tasteful. Just like Kathleen, Grace thought with a twinge of regret. Still, she liked the hodgepodge of small rooms that seemed to tumble into each other.

  Kathleen had turned one into an office. The desk still shone with newness. She’d taken nothing with her, Grace thought. Not even her son. Though she found it odd that Kathleen should indulge in a phone on the desk and another a few feet away beside a chair, she didn’t comment. Knowing Kathleen, the reason would make perfect sense.

  “Spaghetti sauce.” The scent led Grace unerringly into the kitchen. If anyone had asked her to name her favorite pastimes, eating would have topped the list.

  The kitchen was as spotless as the rest of the house. If Grace made bets, she’d wager there wasn’t a crumb to be found in the toaster. Leftovers woud be neatly sealed and labeled in the refrigerator and glasses would be arranged according to size in the cupboards. That was Kathleen’s way, and Kathleen hadn’t changed a whit in thirty years.

  Grace hoped she’d remembered to wipe her feet as she crossed the aging linoleum. Lifting the lid off a slow cooker, she breathed in, long and deep. “I’d say you haven’t lost your touch.”

  “It came back to me.” Even after years of cooks and servants. “Hungry?” Then, for the first time, her smile seemed genuine and relaxed. “Why do I ask?”

  “Wait, I’ve got something.”

  As her sister dashed back into the hall, Kathleen turned to the window. Why was she suddenly aware of how empty the house had been now that Grace was in it? What magic did her sister have that filled a room, a house, an arena? And what in God’s name was she going to do when she was alone again?

  “Valpolicella,” Grace announced as she came back into the room. “As you can see, I was counting on Italian.” When Kathleen turned from the window, the tears were just starting. “Oh, honey.” With the bottle still in her hand, Grace rushed forward.

  “Gracie, I miss him so much. Sometimes I think I could die.”

  “I know you do. Oh, baby, I know. I’m so sorry.” She stroked the hair Kathleen brushed firmly back. “Let me help, Kathleen. Tell me what I can do.”

  “There’s nothing.” The effort cost more than she would have admitted, but she stopped the tears. “I’d better make the salad.”

  “Hold on.” With one hand on her sister’s arm, Grace led her to the small kitchen table. “Sit. I mean it, Kathleen.”

  Though she was older by a year, Kathleen bowed before authority. That was something else that had become a habit. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Grace.”

  “I guess that’s too bad then. Corkscrew?”

  “Top drawer left of the sink.”

  “Glasses?”

  “Second shelf, cabinet next to the refrigerator.”

  Grace opened the bottle. Though the sky was darkening, she didn’t bother with the kitchen light. After setting a glass in front of Kathleen, she filled it to just below the rim. “Drink. It’s damn good stuff.” She found an empty Kraft mayonnaise jar, just where her mother would have kept them, and removed the lid for an ashtray. She knew how much Kathleen disapproved of smoking and had been determined to be on her best behavior. Like most of Grace’s vows to herself, this one was easily broken. She lit a cigarette, poured her own wine, and then took a seat. “Talk to me, Kathy. I’ll only badger you until you do.”

  She would, too. Kathleen had known that before she’d agreed to let her come. Perhaps that was why she had agreed. “I didn’t want the separation. And you don’t have to say I’m stupid to want to hang on to a man who doesn’t want me, because I already know.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid.” Grace blew out smoke a bit guiltily because she had thought just that, more than once. “You love Jonathan and Kevin. They were yours and you want to keep them.”

  “I guess that sums it up.” She took a second, longer sip of wine. Grace was right again. It was good stuff. It was hard to admit, hateful to admit, but she needed to talk to someone. She wanted that someone to be Grace because, no matter what their differences, Grace would be unquestioningly on her side. “It came to a point where I had to agree to separate.” She still couldn’t form the word divorce. “Jonathan … abused me.”

  “What do you mean?” Her low, slightly husky voice had barbs in it. “Did he hit you?” She was half out of her chair, ready to hop the next flight to the coast.

  “There are other kinds of abuse,” Kathleen said wearily. “He humiliated me. There were other women, plenty of them. Oh, he was very discreet. I doubt if even his broker knew, but he made sure I did. Just to rub my nose in it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Grace sat down again. She knew Kathleen would have preferred a sock on the jaw to infidelity. When she thought it over, Grace had to admit she and her sister agreed—on that, at least.

  “You never liked him.”

  “No, and I’m not sorry.” Grace flicked an ash into the lid of the empty mayonnaise jar.

  “I guess there’s no point in it now. In any case, when I agreed to separate, Jonathan made it clear it was go
ing to be on his terms. He would file, the terms would be no-fault. Just like a fender bender. Eight years of my life over, and no one to blame.”

  “Kath, you know you didn’t have to accept his terms. If he’d been unfaithful, you had a recourse.”

  “How could I prove it?” This time there was bitterness, hot and sharp. She’d waited a long time to set it free. “You have to understand what kind of world it is out there, Grace. Jonathan Breezewood the third is a man above reproach. He’s a lawyer, for God’s sake, a partner in the family firm that could represent the devil against God Almighty and come away with a settlement. Even if anyone had known or suspected, they wouldn’t have helped me. They were friends with Jonathan’s wife. Mrs. Jonathan Breezewood III. That’s been my identity for eight years.” And next to Kevin, that was the most difficult to lose. “Not one of them would give a hang about Kathleen McCabe. It was my mistake. I devoted myself to being Mrs. Breezewood. I had to be the perfect wife, the perfect hostess, the perfect mother and homemaker. And I became boring. When I bored him enough, he wanted to be rid of me.”

  “Goddamn it, Kathleen, must you always be your own worst critic?” Grace stabbed out her cigarette and reached for her wine. “He’s at fault, for Chrissake, not you. You gave him exactly what he said he wanted. You gave up your career, your family, your home, and centered your life on him. Now you’re going to give up again, and toss Kevin into the bargain.”

  “I’m not giving Kevin up.”

  “You told me—”

  “I didn’t argue with Jonathan, I couldn’t. I was afraid of what he’d do.”

  Very carefully, Grace set down her wine again. “Afraid of what he’d do to you, or to Kevin?”

  “Not to Kevin,” she said quickly. “Whatever Jonathan is or has done, he’d never do anything to harm Kevin. He really adores him. And despite the fact that he was a bad husband, he’s a wonderful father.”

  “All right.” But Grace would reserve judgment on that. “You were afraid of what he’d do to you then. Physically?”

  “Jonathan rarely loses his temper. He keeps it under tight control because it’s very violent. Once, when Kevin was just a baby, I gave him a pet, a kitten.” Kathleen picked her way carefully through the story, knowing Grace always could take crumbs and make a whole cake. “They were playing and the kitten scratched Kevin. Jonathan was so outraged when he saw the marks on Kevin’s face that he threw the kitten off the balcony. From the third floor.”

  “I always said he was a prince,” Grace mumbled and took another sip.

  “Then there was the assistant gardener. The man had dug up one of the rosebushes by mistake. It was just a misunderstanding, he didn’t speak very much English. Jonathan fired him on the spot, and they argued. Before it was over, Jonathan had beaten the man so badly he had to be hospitalized.”

  “Good God.”

  “Jonathan paid the bill, of course.”

  “Of course,” Grace agreed, but sarcasm was wasted.

  “He paid him off to keep it out of the papers. It was just a rosebush. I don’t know what he would do if I tried to transplant Kevin.”

  “Kath, honey, you’re his mother. You have rights. I’m sure there are some excellent lawyers in Washington. We’ll go see some, find out what can be done.”

  “I’ve already hired one.” Because her mouth was dry, Kathleen sipped again. The wine made the words come easier. “And I’ve hired a detective. It isn’t going to be easy, and I’ve already been told it could take a great deal of time and money, but it’s a chance.”

  “I’m proud of you.” Grace linked hands with her sister. The sun had almost set and the room was in shadows. Grace’s eyes, as gray as the light, heated. “Honey, Jonathan Breezewood the third is in for a surprise when he runs into the McCabes. I’ve got some connections out on the coast.”

  “No, Grace, I have to keep this quiet. Nobody is to know, not even Mom and Dad. I just can’t take the chance.”

  She considered the Breezewoods a moment. Old families, old, wealthy families, had long tentacles. “All right, that’s probably best. I can still help. Lawyers and detectives cost money. I’ve got more than I need.”

  For the second time, Kathleen’s eyes filled. This time she managed to clear them again. She knew Grace had money and didn’t want to resent the fact that she’d earned it. But she did. Oh God, she did. “I have to do this myself.”

  “This isn’t the time for pride. You can’t fight a battle like this on a teacher’s salary. Just because you were an idiot and let Jonathan sweep you out without a penny isn’t any reason to refuse money from me.”

  “I didn’t want anything from Jonathan. I came out of the marriage with exactly what I went into it with. Three thousand dollars.”

  “We won’t get into women’s rights and the fact that you earned something after eight years of marriage.” Grace was an activist if and when it suited her. “The point is I’m your sister, and I want to help.”

  “Not with money. Maybe it is pride, but I have to do this myself. I’m moonlighting.”

  “What—selling Tupperware? Tutoring kids on the Battle of New Orleans? Hooking?”

  With the first good laugh she’d had in weeks, Kathleen poured more wine for both of them. “That’s right.”

  “You’re selling Tupperware?” Grace considered it a moment. “Do they still have those little cereal bowls with the lids?”

  “I have no idea. I’m not selling Tupperware.” She took a long drink. “I’m hooking.”

  As Kathleen got up to turn on the overhead light, Grace picked up her own glass. It was a rare thing for Kathleen to make a joke, so she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. She decided against it. “I thought you said you weren’t interested in sex.”

  “Not for myself, at least not at the moment. I make a dollar a minute for a seven-minute call, ten dollars for the call if it’s a repeater. Most of mine are. I average twenty calls a night, three days a week, plus twenty-five to thirty on weekends. That comes out to roughly nine hundred dollars a week.”

  “Jesus.” Her first thought was that her sister had a hell of a lot more energy than she’d suspected. Her second was that the whole thing was a huge joke to get her to mind her own business.

  In the harsh fluorescent light, Grace stared at her sister. There was nothing in Kathleen’s eyes to indicate she was joking. But Grace recognized that self-satisfied look. It was the same one she’d worn when she’d been twelve and Kathleen had sold five more boxes of Girl Scout cookies than Grace had.

  “Jesus,” she said again and lit another cigarette.

  “No lecture on morality, Gracie?”

  “No.” Grace lifted her wine and swallowed hard. She wasn’t quite sure where she stood on the subject morally, not yet. “It’s going to sink in in a minute. You’re serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Of course. Kathleen was always serious. Twenty a night, she thought again, then shook that image away. “No lecture on morality, but you’re about to get one on common sense. Good God, Kathleen, do you know what kind of creeps and maniacs there are out there? Even I know, and I haven’t had a date that wasn’t business oriented in almost six months. And it’s not only a matter of getting pregnant, it’s a matter of catching something you won’t be able to bounce on your knee in nine months. It’s stupid, Kathleen, stupid and dangerous. And you’re going to stop right now or I’ll—”

  “Tell Mom?” Kathleen suggested.

  “This isn’t a joke.” Grace shifted uncomfortably because that had been precisely what had been on the tip of her tongue. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of Kevin. If Jonathan gets wind of this you haven’t a prayer of getting him back.”

  “I am thinking of Kevin. He’s all I do think about now. Drink your wine, Grace, and listen. You always were prone to spin out a story without having all the facts.”

  “It’s fact enough that my sister is moonlighting as a call girl, if an amazingly resilient one.”

 
“That’s exactly it. A call girl. I’m selling my voice, Grace, not my body.”

  “A couple of glasses of wine and my brain fogs right up. Why don’t you spell it out for me, Kathleen?”

  “I work for Fantasy, Incorporated. It’s a small storefront operation that specializes in phone services.”

  “Phone services?” she repeated as she blew out smoke. “Phone services?” This time both eyebrows rose. “Are you talking about phone sex?”

  “Talking about sex is the closest I’ve come in a year.”

  “A year?” Grace had to swallow that first. “I’d offer my sympathies, but at the moment I’m too fascinated. You mean you’re doing what they advertise in the back of men’s magazines?”

  “Since when did you start reading men’s magazines?”

  “Research. And you’re saying you make almost a thousand a week talking to men over the phone?”

  “I’ve always had a good voice.”

  “Yeah.” Grace sat back to take it in. In all of her life she couldn’t remember Kathleen doing one single unconventional thing. She’d even waited until marriage to sleep with Jonathan. Grace knew because she’d asked. Both of them. Then it struck her not only how out of character it was but how funny. “Sister Mary Francis said you had the best speaking voice in the eighth grade. I wonder what the poor old dear would say if she knew her best student was a phone whore.”

  “I’m not particularly fond of that term, Grace.”

  “Oh come on, it has a nice ring.” She chuckled into her wine. “Sorry. Well, tell me how it works.”

  She should have known Grace would see the lighter side of it. With Grace you rarely got recriminations. The muscles in Kathleen’s shoulders unknotted as she drank again. “The men call Fantasy’s office, if they’re repeaters they might ask for a specific woman. If they’re new, they’re asked to list their preferences so they can be set up with someone suitable.”

  “What sort of preferences?”

  Kathleen knew Grace had a tendency to interview. Three glasses of wine kept her from being annoyed. “Some men like to do most of the talking, about what they’d do to the woman, what they’re doing to themselves. Others like the woman to talk, just sort of walk them through, you know. They want her to describe herself, what she’s wearing, the room. Some of them want to talk about S and M or bondage. I don’t take those calls.”