Hidden Hearts (15 page)

CC sat up completely frustrated, doubting she would ever get her way, and Alicia immediately pulled her into her arms. “I promise I’ll have you tonight.”

****

The Phoenix Museum of History sat in Heritage Square, a specialty park juxtaposed with several historical houses that sat with the Arizona Science Center. Ironically, the museum was a modern concrete and glass building. It contained displays celebrating the role of Native Americans and Hispanics in the city’s development as well as pictorials and books dating back to the eighteen hundreds.

They crossed the courtyard toward a huge banner announcing the Arizona Bar Association’s Alzheimer’s Charity Benefit. The crowds were thick at the entrance, and CC immediately sized up her wardrobe choice, which seemed to be on par with many of the guests except for the trophy wives who clearly lived to shop. They were adorned in dresses that she imagined were a month’s pay for her, as well as matching shoes and fashionable bling.

They checked in and Alicia scanned the crowd. “Isn’t that your boss?” she asked, pointing to Blanca, who was standing next to Stoddard Burns.

“Yes, and that’s my boss’s boss,” she said already feeling a sense of inadequacy creep over her.

Alicia grabbed her hand. “C’mon, let’s say hello.”

“No.” She refused to budge. “I’ve never even met Mr. Burns. He doesn’t know who I am.”

“He will now,” she giggled and pulled her across the floor like a child being dragged through a grocery store.

When Blanca saw them approaching, CC sensed she was more pleased to see Alicia than her own employee. 

“Good evening, CC, Alicia.”

“Good to see you again,” Alicia said, heaping on the sugar.

Stoddard Burns leered at both of them. His suit and expensive haircut screamed money and when he stuck out his hand, it was to greet Alicia. “I’m Stoddard Burns.”

“Alicia Dennis,” she said.

“And this is CC Carlson, sir,” Blanca added. “She works for us.”

Burns tore his gaze from Alicia to glance at her but he continued to grasp Alicia’s hand.

“Alicia’s on the Morgan case,” Blanca said, the disappointment in her voice apparent. “She was the one who literally stole money out of our pocket this week.”

“Really?
Impressive.”
Burns’ smirk was light-hearted and he didn’t seem to mind that the firm had lost thousands of dollars—as long as it was at the hands of a beautiful woman.

“I just got lucky,” Alicia purred.

“Would you ladies care to peruse the tables with us? Blanca is serving as my date tonight, but we have specific instructions from Mrs. Burns regarding a spa day she wants to win.”

Alicia wagged a playful finger at him. “I’m going to have to fight you on that as well, Mr. Burns. My boss Alma Santiago wants that package.”

He laughed. “You work for Alma?
Really?”
He leaned closer. “We had a thing back in the eighties. Shh. My wife doesn’t know.”

They all laughed and turned toward the tables. Except CC. “I need to use the restroom,” she said, but no one seemed to hear her.

She strolled through the exhibit, immediately recognizing Squaw Peak, now called Piestewa Peak, the mountain she saw through her window at work. The picture was dated 1936, and thousands of orange trees surrounded its base. This was the land Jacob Rubenstein had purchased.

A sign indicated that the museum library was just down the hallway. Since there weren’t any barricades or security guards to prevent her from snooping, she hurried into the library and came upon several glass cases with memorabilia from the early twentieth century, including photos of the downtown and the desert landscape. She quickly scanned them until she came to a post-World War Two era display.

After the war thousands of midwesterners had trekked out to Phoenix for the warm weather, creating a housing boom. They’d purchased thousands of the familiar ranch houses like the ones in Viv’s neighborhood, the ones built by Jacob Rubenstein.

The headline of a newspaper article caught her attention:  “Phoenix Named one of the Most Desirable Cities in America.” The story detailed the mild weather and low prices and showed proof of happy families enjoying their new tract homes, all with smiles on their faces.

A separate sidebar contained a headshot of Jacob Rubenstein. She scanned the article about the man many proclaimed to be the creator of Central Phoenix, and his wise decision to turn ten thousand acres of orange groves into family housing. The article mentioned his recent marriage to Miss Della Noyce, a non-Jew, and some subsequent setbacks that included a vandalized job site and workers who’d walked off the job.

A non-Jew.
She winced at the choice of words and realized it was typical of the anti-Semitic attitudes of the time. She could only imagine what kind of prejudice Rubenstein faced because of his marriage, and she suddenly questioned his motives for abandoning the building industry. At the bottom of the article was another picture of him surrounded by several members of his crew, including a large, handsome black man—the same man in the wedding photos she’d seen at Della’s.

“I wondered where you went.”

She nearly jumped out of her shoes. Alicia stood in the doorway grinning.

“Brushing up on your Phoenix history?”

She shrugged sheepishly. “I just like looking at old photos. This is a picture of my client’s father.”

Alicia studied the photo and scanned the sidebar. “It sounds like this family was pretty important.”

“Yeah, that’s what Blanca keeps telling everyone. I’m working with an important client.
Like I’d ever forget.”

She massaged her neck, feeling a knot of tension settle near her shoulders. Alicia moved behind her and took over.

“Let’s take a walk,” she said, nibbling on her ear.

“What happened to Blanca and Mr. Burns?”

“He already left, and she’s power networking. But she invited me to lunch next week. Maybe she’ll offer me a job.”

She could hear the excitement in her voice and wasn’t sure how she felt about the two of them working in the same
place.

Alicia took her hand and they proceeded down a cross-corridor. Piano background music and the endless chatter of three hundred people seeped through the adjoining wall, and CC felt like a kid who was out of bounds.

“What will we say if someone asks us why we’re back here? Aren’t we supposed to be at the party?”

“You started it. You’re the one who wandered off. Now I’m just capitalizing on your idea with one of my own.” She squeezed her hand. “I made you a promise, and I’m determined to find a way to keep it.”

She was immediately wary. Alicia had that seductive look in her eye. She started to protest, but she pulled her into another room, one dedicated to transportation. Pictures of early buses and the new light rail covered the walls. But the showcase piece was a vintage trolley car with two-tone burnt red sides and yellow windows. Alicia chuckled and pushed open the creaky wooden door. “C’mon.”

“We need to go,” she said but Alicia pulled her up the three steps.

The oak casement windows were well preserved, and the black leather seats had retained their luster. Small advertising signs perched above the windows—the Coffee Pot restaurant and the Central Avenue Dairy, as well as Tom Chauncey Jewelers. She was amused by the five digit phone numbers that began with a lettered prefix.

“This is really something,” she marveled. “What a great old car.”

She imagined it in its heyday, filled with men in suits on their way to work, reading the newspaper, their hats in their laps, while the women tugged at their white gloves and reprimanded the wiggly children next to them. She guessed Jacob Rubenstein once rode the trolleys as well as Viv.

“Let’s take this thing for a spin,” Alicia teased. Her right foot perched on the driver’s seat and she gripped the metal pole for support. Her skirt was hiked up indecently and CC could see everything—most notably that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“You’re kidding.”

“Get over here,” she said, swaying back and forth on the pole. “I love the transportation industry.”

Only a few work lights illuminated the room and the car, but one shone brightly through the front window, casting an antique film over Alicia. She swung into the conductor’s chair and pulled CC onto her lap, unbuttoning her pants in one motion.

“You know, I looked up your personal ad,” she whispered. “It was incredibly easy to find. I almost answered it.”

CC was only half listening as Alicia removed her vest and explored her breasts. “How would you have replied?” she managed to ask.

Their hips found a rhythm that Alicia matched with the cadence of her voice. “Gay gal wants ex-lover back for nights of passion and maybe more. Smart, funny, likes long walks in the park, mornings in bed and film noir.”

CC moaned. She was so close.

“But…most of all…she wants…a great orgasm.”

It was so wonderful that she thought she heard applause when their bodies fell limp against the old wooden seat. Only then did she feel the chill on her nipples from the air conditioning and notice her camisole wrapped around her neck. And when had she splayed her legs so far apart? One foot pressed against the side window and the other rested on the conductor’s door handle.

Alicia laughed. “I doubt this trolley ever saw this much action.”

“Definitely not,” she agreed. “People used to have decorum and followed rules of etiquette in public.”

“Then I fail,” she snorted. She pushed her up and kissed her neck. “Let’s go before we both get disbarred.”

They quickly dressed and stole back into the main room unnoticed. Her legs were wobbly, and the tingling sensation had returned. She normally had sex in a bed and enjoyed basking in the afterglow. Peeling out of parking garages and rubbing elbows with socialites weren’t her usual post-coital activities.

Yet Alicia seemed invigorated and quickly downed a flute of champagne and reached for another from a passing waiter. She checked the silent auction bidding, rewriting her boss’s name again after she’d been out-bidded. CC blinked when she saw the amount was a thousand dollars.

“Your boss must really like a good massage,” she said.

“She does, but that’s as high as she wants me to go.”

“You’d better not be bidding on Mrs. Burns’ spa day,” Blanca said. “She’ll do anything for Elizabeth Arden.”

It was a joke, but her delivery varied only slightly from her usual robotic tone. Alicia laughed and carried the light-hearted conversation for both of them while CC excused herself to the bar, remembering how often she’d felt excluded whenever Alicia talked to someone else.

“Let me guess. You’re a white wine kind of woman,” a voice said over her shoulder.

She rolled her eyes at the pickup line before she turned around—Penn. She was momentarily speechless at the sight of the butch in a black suit and tailored striped shirt.

“Do I look that good?”

“What?” she gasped. “You’re so full of yourself.”

She whispered, “No, it’s just you have a lot of tells. If you’re ever gonna make it in a high-stakes poker game or a courtroom, you need to stop transmitting your feelings.”

“I am not,” she insisted, knowing how lame she sounded. “And I don’t like white wine.”

“Scotch?”

“Vodka tonic.”

“Well, then allow me.”

She signaled the bartender and ordered the vodka tonic and a scotch for herself.

“What are you doing here?” CC asked.

“What are
you
doing here?” Penn echoed. “I’d understand if I ran into old man Hartford, but you’re a lowly junior associate.”

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She didn’t want to explain who she was with or what she’d been doing since she got here.

“I’m representing my firm.”

“Oh, then,” she said, raising her drink, “I’ll offer a toast to Heartless and Burned and their quest to destroy one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.”

Her shoulders sagged and she glared at Penn. “Thanks. I’ll have you know that I took Seth Rubenstein to breakfast and tried to reason with him.”