Juliana’s has to keep people out. Because they’re afraid. On South Beach, the doors are wide open. Everyone can walk in and succeed—or fall flat on her face.”
“No,” Helen protested. “Christina belongs. She goes to all the clubs. She knows the South Beach nightlife. She’s seen at all the hot places: Mynt. Pearl. Kiss. Rain. Crobar. She goes to dinner at The Forge. She’s been to B.E.D. with four women and one man.”
“I don’t care about her sex life,” Margery said.
“No. B.E.D. is the name of the club. It costs about a thousand dollars to get a good bed, at least that’s what Christina said, but you sit on these big beds, see, and—”
“The guys get to say, ‘I went to B.E.D. with four women last night.’ Real sophisticated.” Margery sniffed. Helen was grateful she didn’t snort.
“I guess that sounds silly. But Christina was at Bash the night Leonardo DiCaprio danced topless.”
“That’s what she says. Maybe she just read about it in
“Eat your strawberry. You’ll feel better,” Margery commanded. “I’ve gotta go.”
And she was gone, leaving Helen with one perfect strawberry. Helen ate it in tiny bites, making it last as long as possible. On any other night, it would have cheered her up. But not tonight. Tonight she had to live with Desiree’s death. Tonight, she also had to live with her past.
As the evening sun sank lower, so did Helen’s spirits. In another hour, she would have to get out the cell phone she only used once a month and call her family. Helen dreaded her mother’s tears. Not even the call afterward to her beloved sister, Kathy, would make things better.
It was almost seven o’clock. Time for the call home. Helen locked the doors, closed the blinds, and opened the door to the closet with the water heater. She pulled out the suitcase and rummaged through the old-lady underwear until she found the cell phone and a piece of pink cellophane from a gift basket.
Helen didn’t have a phone in Lauderdale. She didn’t want to be traced. She’d bought this one in Kansas City and mailed her sister Kathy a thousand dollars to pay the monthly phone bills. Helen hoped that would cover them for a long time. If anyone found out about the phone, it was registered to a false name and purchased in Kansas. She hoped that would be enough to confuse any pursuers.
Helen braced herself, and dialed her mother’s number in St. Louis. “I will not get angry,” she told herself. “I will not shout. Mom belongs to a different generation. She doesn’t understand.”
“Hello, Mom,” she said. Her mother burst into tears. Actually, it was more like a whining wail. It always set Helen’s teeth on edge.
The phone call went exactly as Helen expected. Her mother cried and begged Helen to come home and be a good wife to her bad husband. “Think of your immortal soul,” her mother sobbed. “The Pope says divorce is wrong.”
“So let the Pope live with him,” Helen said, then regretted her outburst. She had hurt her mother’s feelings again.
“We could get a lawyer and work out the other problem, Helen honey, if you’d just get back with your husband.”
The other problem. Helen could not talk about that. She brought out the piece of pink cellophane. It was her escape. She crinkled the cellophane and said, “What’s that, Mom? I can’t hear you. I have to go now. You’re breaking up. I’ll call again on your birthday. Bye, Mom.”
Helen hung up the phone. The short conversation left her emotionally drained, as tired as if she’d been digging ditches. At least the call to her sister would be easier. Kathy was the only person from her old life who knew where Helen was and how to reach her in an emergency.
Kathy lived in the near-perfect St. Louis suburb of Webster Groves. She and Tom had a new baby, Allison, and ten-year-old Tommy Junior. They also had a big old house that needed paint and new plumbing. Tom’s salary was frozen at 1999 levels, and Kathy worked part-time as a checker at Target. But she rarely talked about their money problems.
“Helen, you sound tired,” Kathy said, when she answered the phone.
“I’ve been talking to Mom,” Helen said.
“Was it awful?”
“No worse than usual.”
“Seriously, Sis, how are you doing?” Kathy asked.
“I’m fine. I like my new life. I like the weather here. I wasted too much time sitting inside in the St. Louis winters. I hate winter. I feel like I got half my life back.”
Helen realized, once she said it, that it was true. If she could just find another job and figure out what to do about Christina, her new life would be good. She didn’t miss her old life or her old job. Only her old paycheck.
“You know if you’re ever in trouble, you can call me,” Kathy said. “I’ll send you money or come get you. I’ll hire a lawyer. I’ll post bail if you’re arrested. Whatever you want.”
“I know,” Helen said. She also knew she’d never call her sister for help. Kathy had enough problems with her active family.
They spent the rest of the time talking about Tom and the kids. Good things. Everyday things. And if Helen were truly honest, things she never wanted.
“That’s the baby crying. I’ve got to run. Good night, Sis. I love you,” Kathy said.
“I love you, too,” Helen said, feeling better, and lonelier, too. She switched off the phone and buried it in the suitcase.
Chapter 13
Helen made her first executive decision at 10:02 Wednesday morning. She was in charge at Juliana’s. She had the power to keep out any woman in the world. The more she refused, the more she built the store’s reputation.
The doorbell chimed. Tara said, “I’m not sure we should let this woman in.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Helen said.
“She’s wearing cheap shoes,” Tara said. She sounded as if they were contagious. Helen looked. The woman was dressed in real Gucci, but her shoes were third-rate Prada knockoffs.
“Let her in,” Helen ruled. It felt good to say that.
“But Christina never lets in anyone with cheap shoes.”
“Christina isn’t here,” Helen said. “I’m manager this week.” She buzzed in the woman, to Tara’s silent disapproval. Helen felt triumphant when Ms. Cheap Shoes bought an expensive dress.
There was no question about admitting the next woman. She was a professional beauty with artfully tossed long hair. She had dark hypnotic eyes in a pale heart-shaped face. Her white silk shirt looked casual in the way only thousand-dollar shirts can. Her jeans fit like a second skin. Her white calfskin boots made her legs look even longer and slimmer.
“She’s gorgeous,” Helen said.
“Her name is Sharmayne. She used to be a model,” Tara said. “She is Christina’s only failure.”
Before Tara could explain, Sharmayne strode in with that look-at-me model’s walk and demanded, “Where’s Christina?”
“She’s on vacation,” Helen said.
“Then you’ll have to do,” she said, imperiously.
Sharmayne pointed to the shirts, skirts, tops, and dresses she wanted to try on. Tara and Helen staggered
