Brazen Virtue (3 page)

“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.”

Grace struggled to take it all seriously. “You only talk straight sex.”

For the first time in months, Kathleen felt pleasantly relaxed. “That’s right. And I’m good at it. I’m very popular.”

“Congratulations.”

“Anyway, the men call, they leave their phone number and the number of a major credit card. The office makes sure the card’s good, then contacts one of us. If I agree to take the call, I phone the man back on the telephone Fantasy had installed here, but that’s billed directly to the office address.”

“Of course. And then?”

“Then we talk.”

“Then you talk,” Grace murmured. “That’s why you have the extra phone in your office.”

“You always notice the little things.” Kathleen realized, with no small satisfaction, that she was well on her way to getting drunk. It felt good to have a buzz in her head, the weight off her shoulders, and her sister across the table.

“Kath, what’s to keep these guys from finding out your name and address? One of them might decide he doesn’t just want to talk anymore.”

She shook her head as she carefully wiped the slight ring from the glass off the table. “Fantasy’s employees’ files are strictly confidential. The callers are never, under any circumstances, given our number. Most of us use false names too. I’m Desiree.”

“Desiree,” Grace repeated with some respect.

“I’m five-two, blond, and have a body that won’t quit.”

“No shit?” Though she held her liquor better, Grace had eaten nothing that day but a Milky Way on the way to the airport. The idea of Kathleen having an alter ego not only seemed plausible but logical. “Congratulations again. But, Kath, say one of the people at Fantasy decided he wanted closer employer/employee relations?”

“You’re writing a book again,” Kathleen said dismissively.

“Maybe, but—”

“Grace, it’s perfectly safe. This is a simple business arrangement. All I do is talk, the men get their money’s worth, I’m paid well, and Fantasy gets its cut. Everyone’s happy.”

“Sounds logical.” Grace swirled her wine and tried to push away any doubts. “And trendy. The new wave of sex as we rush toward the nineties. You can’t get AIDS from a phone call.”

“Medically sound. Why are you laughing?”

“Just getting a picture.” Grace wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “ ‘ Afraid of commitment, tired of the singles scene? Call Fantasy, Incorporated, talk to Desiree, Delilah, or DeeDee. Orgasms guaranteed or your money back. Major credit cards accepted.’ Christ, I should be writing ad copy.”

“I have never considered it a joke.”

“You never considered enough in life a joke,” Grace said, not unkindly. “Listen, the next time you’re working, can I sit in?”

“No.”

Grace shrugged off the refusal. “Well, let’s talk about it later. When do we eat?”

When she slipped into bed that night in Kathleen’s guest room, full of pasta and wine, Grace felt an ease about her sister she hadn’t felt since they’d been children. She didn’t know the last time she and Kathleen had sat up late,
drinking and talking, like friends. It was hard to admit that they never had.

Kathleen was finally doing something unusual, and standing up for herself while she was about it. As long as it didn’t bring her sister any trouble, Grace was thrilled. Kathleen was taking charge of her life. And she was going to be just fine.

H
E LISTENED FOR THREE
hours that night, waiting for her. Desiree never came. There were other women, of course, with exotic names and sexy voices, but they weren’t Desiree. Curled up in bed, he tried to get himself off by imagining her voice, but it wasn’t enough. So he lay, frustrated and sweaty, wondering when he would work up the nerve to go to her.

Soon, he thought. She’d be so happy to see him. She’d take him to her, undress him just the way she described. And let him touch her. Wherever he wanted. It had to be soon.

In the shadowy moonlight he rose and went back to his computer. He wanted to see it again before he went to sleep. The terminal came on with a quiet hum. His fingers, thin but competent, tapped out a series of numbers. In seconds the address came up on the screen. Desiree’s address.

Soon.

G
RACE HEARD THE LOW
, droning buzz and blamed it on the wine. She didn’t groan or grumble about the hangover. She’d been taught that every sin, venial or mortal, required penance. It was one of the few aspects of her early Catholic training she carried with her into adulthood.

The sun was up and strong enough to filter through the gauzy curtains at the windows. In defense, she buried her face in the pillow. She managed to block out the light, but not the buzzing. She was awake, and hating it.

Thinking of aspirin and coffee, she pushed herself up in bed. It was then she realized the buzzing wasn’t inside her head, but outside the house. She rummaged through one of her bags and came up with a ratty terry-cloth robe. In her closet at home was a silk one, a gift from a former lover. Grace had fond memories of the lover, but preferred the terry-cloth robe. Still groggy, she stumbled to the window and pushed the curtain aside.