Unfinished Business (24 page)

The woman refused to look at her, but that didn't stop Erica from staring her down like she'd stolen something. “I understand plenty, Bitchy—I mean, Bitsi,” Erica hissed. “And let me tell you this. I'm not some little shy country girl, like Mary. I don't scare easy. I don't know exactly what you're up to, or exactly what you're trying to prove, but you need to stop it or you're going to end up in jail. I, for one, would love to press charges.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're babbling about. Now, come on,” she said, turning abruptly on her stack-heeled loafer, yanking open Erica's door and
disappearing down the hallway. “They're opening this boutique early just for you, and I don't think it's right to keep them waiting.”

 

“We need to talk. No more of this intermediary to intermediary bullshit. Man to man.”

Peter Malloy blinked at him in surprise. But then, he had reason to: It was still early—not even 7 a.m.—and here was Mark Newman, standing outside his hotel room, snorting war in his face as though the debate were today, at this very hour, only without an audience and without any politics.

He was supposed to be in the air by now, on his way to Malloy's home city. But that would have to wait. Especially since Mark knew that Malloy wasn't in Harpersville but right here in Billingham, preparing for the following day's debate.

He'd get to Harpersville and its good citizens as soon as possible and apologize profusely for his delay.

Later.

Mark stared at him, taking in his opponent. Normally, he saw Pete Malloy in his suit and tie, salt-and-pepper hair carefully coiffed, camera ready. But now, the other man wore a plain white T-shirt and pair of shorts, and had the weak-eyed, tousled look of a man awakened from a deep sleep.

“Can't this wait?” Malloy croaked, scratching at his stubbly chin. “My family is here.” He nodded into the room behind him. “They're still asleep.”

“Then you need to come out into the hallway,” Mark commanded, “unless you want them to know what kind of sleazy, underhanded shit you're willing to do to win an election.”

The man hesitated, and for a moment, Mark saw himself as he must have appeared to the other man:
fully dressed in a suit and tie, wide awake and coldly alert. Perhaps even a little menacing.

“All right,” Malloy said, and Mark saw a flicker of fear in the man's pasty face. “Just let me get a robe or something.”

“Now!” Mark roared.

Malloy hopped into the hallway like a frightened bird.

Good
, Mark thought.
I want him to be scared. I want…

“I said ‘all right!'” Malloy repeated, his voice an octave higher than it had been when he first opened the door. “What on Earth is wrong with you? Why are you here? What do you want?”

Mark pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and threw it at Malloy. It bounced off the man's chest before he caught it in an awkward bobble of hands.

“Open it!” Mark demanded, lifting his cane slightly, pointing toward the crumpled paper. “Open it and tell me you didn't have anything to do with that!”

Malloy's hands shook as he pulled the paper ball open and studied it, his face pinkening with embarrassment. “I—I'm sure I don't know what you mean by b—bringing me this kind of thing,” he muttered.

“You know exactly why I brought it to you, Malloy,” Mark hissed, raising his cane in the other man's direction. “You know, because you hired the photographer who took this picture, you sick fuck.”

“M—Mark,” Malloy began. “Calm down.”

“Calm down!” Mark exploded, losing the battle to control both his voice and his temper. “You send me some shit like this and tell me to ‘calm down'?” He stepped closer to the man, backing him against the wall of the corridor, until there were only inches separating them. “Is this how you want to win? With threats and blackmail and innuendo? You want to win by spying on and frightening an innocent
woman? By appealing to the worst of the electorate's nature? Or did you just plan to humiliate me with that?” He snatched the photo from Malloy's hands. “You can't beat me any other way, so you're going to drag the most decent thing in my life into the mud? She doesn't deserve that, man. She's a good person! She hasn't done anything cheap or tawdry or—”

“I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“For God's sake, man.” Mark spat the words at his adversary, glaring at him like he meant to do him physical harm. “Don't lie.”

“I'm not,” Malloy insisted. “I don't know who did this but it wasn't me. I had nothing to do with it.” His eyes locked onto Mark's. “I swear.”

Mark hesitated. He'd known Pete Malloy for several years, at least casually, when they'd served in the state house of representatives together. He'd never much liked the man—he was a little
too
conservative, a little
too
religious, and a little too unimaginative—for Mark's tastes. He'd known him to be narrow-minded, stupid and a little shameless in pandering to his own constituency. But he'd never known him to lie straight to another man's face.

“What about the other pictures—in the pizzeria back in Washington and in the ladies' room? And the fax?”

Fear shimmered in Pete Malloy's eyes. “I—I don't know anything about anything that happened in Washington. But the fax…” He tried to smile, but he was too scared to pull it off. “I mean, it's politics, right? An attack ad. My campaign director suggested we go negative, and I can't think of anything much more negative than that woman with her crazy T-shirts and the outrageous things she says. So I agreed to the fax to try to sway some voters.”

“Where did you get the photo, if you didn't have it
taken? The one you used in the fax?”

Malloy shrugged. “I don't know where it came from. My campaign director said he'd gotten a photo. I thought maybe that was a publicity shot or something. From the newspaper services or something—I don't know.” He shook his head. “All's I know is, I didn't take it and I didn't have it taken. I don't have funds enough to be sending photographers up to D.C. to take pictures of you and your nigger girlfriend.”

Mark's hand was already in a fist and it wasn't until he saw the other man flinch in preparation for impact that he realized how close he'd come to hitting him. He checked himself, pulling the punch at the last moment and stepped out of easy range.

“I hope I beat you, Malloy,” he muttered at the other man. “Because you'd set this state back forty years if you go to the Senate.” He grimaced, hating the words he knew he'd have to say next. “But I believe you. I don't guess you had these photos taken. I believe you're willing to take the benefits, if somehow whoever's doing this can discredit me with them…but I don't believe you're following me, taking pictures.”

“Nobody needs to discredit you, Newman. You're doing a good job discrediting yourself.” Malloy sounded like he'd found courage from somewhere, though Mark couldn't imagine just where. “Fornicating, gallivanting all over the state with that Left Wing, liberal nig—black woman—like she's as good as a white woman.” Malloy scoffed. “Your lead is slipping. Keep doing what you're doing and it's gonna be all gone. The folks of this state don't cotton to all that mess. You'll see.”

Mark stared at the man. It was amazing that his attitudes still existed in this century. How many of his constituents shared them, Mark wondered, for the first time understanding Erica's fears, her anger, her
unease in Billingham. His anger drained out of him, leaving a heavy weight of sadness and a grim determination not to rest until prejudice was a thing of the past.

“It's going to be a pleasure defeating you, Pete,” he told the man in a soft voice. “An absolute pleasure.”

“Any of these will do.”

Erica glanced down at the pile of clothes on the woman's arm. They were all shades of black or purple, all covered with gaudy sequins, all short-sleeved sack-like tops with long, near-the-ankle skirts.

Ugh
, Erica thought.
Mother-of-the-bride dresses. Matronly. Ugly.

Erica had expected as much the moment they walked into the shop. It had the look of old, white womanhood: faded and perfumey, as stuck in a time warp as a blue rinse. But it wasn't the dress shop that had her on edge.

As soon as they'd left the hotel, she'd had the feeling of being watched. Watched leaving. Watched as she got into the car and followed as they drove through the early-morning streets. The feeling had never subsided; not even when Bitsi parked her dark sedan in front of this boutique and hopped out, impatient for Erica to follow. Erica slid out tentatively, all the little hairs at the back of her neck standing at attention. Someone had watched them last night. And
took pictures. Erica shuddered. The same sicko might be watching her right now.

She glanced around, taking in the small parking lot and the empty stretch of sidewalk surrounding the little dress shop. Most of the other stores were closed, but there were a few people patronizing a coffeehouse in this freshly gentrified strip of downtown, and there were plenty of cars in the streets. Everyone seemed to be going about their own business, paying one black woman in jeans, a head wrap and a T-shirt no mind at all.

She still couldn't shake the feeling, not even now as they stood safely inside the boutique.

And just where was Angelique?

If this is what you call having my back
, Erica told her friend in her mind,
I'd hate to see what would happen if you came at me from the front.

Something was definitely up with Angie. She'd been almost completely AWOL the entire trip, seeming to only drift in and out of the Dickson B and B to strip out of one summery sundress and change into another. Erica was dying to know the scoop, but at the rate things were going, they'd probably be back at Bramble Heights before the woman could make time in her busy schedule give Erica an update.

Hopefully they'd both make it back to Bramble Heights. Considering the evil glare the little blonde woman in front of her was shooting in Erica's direction—and the latest, most intrusive, white-enveloped picture—Erica was getting nervous. More than a little nervous.

“I think something like this,” Bitsi said, pulling out a huge, black muumuu of a gown with a cowl neck and silvery batwing sleeves.

Erica stared at the other woman. She was very pe
tite—probably could have shopped in the girls' section if she wanted to—and she wore a short, close-tailored red jacket, demure silk camisole and a blue skirt with hose and a pair of stack-heeled loafers. She wasn't exactly stylish, but even she didn't look like she would have worn any of the dresses she was thrusting at Erica like they were the latest thing from the pages of
Vogue
.

“No,” Erica told her firmly. “I'm only thirty-three. My great-grandmother wouldn't wear that.”

Bitsi's eyes circled her sockets as she replaced the dress. She stalked across the store to another section and pulled out a long, blue figure-skimming thing with a plunging neckline. It looked like what Miss America would wear to the prom.

“I suppose you like this.”

“You suppose wrong,” Erica replied, taking another glance out the window, hoping against hope to see some kind of police car, some evidence of the “protection” Mark had promised.

Nothing.

“This one's red.” Bitsi yanked a halter-styled nightmare from yet another rack and held it against her little body with a lame attempt at dramatic flare. “I hear that's a popular color with black people.”

Erica swallowed down the insult with a roll of her eyes. “Do you own your trailer, Bitsi?” she asked sweetly. “Or just rent it?”

The blonde woman's cheeks flamed bright red, and she opened her mouth to say something particularly rude and nasty. But she didn't get the chance.

“Hello, hello!”

A woman emerged from the back of the store. She was probably in her late sixties, but that hadn't stopped her from lining her eyes with thick black eyeliner and mascara and painting her lips a happy pink.
There was probably enough yellow dye in her hair to color a continent, but she had a sincerely pleasant smile on her face as she hurried toward them and caught Erica's hand in her own. “Welcome!” she drawled in a voice as sweet and slow as syrup. “It's so nice to have you here, Ms. Johnson. I've been watching you and our boy Mark on TV! When Bitsi called yesterday to tell me you needed a dress, I was so
honored
!”

Bitsi pasted the phoniest grin Erica had ever seen on her lips and gushed, “Where else would we come? La Belle Dame is still the best place for women's gowns in Billingham!” And when the older lady's eyes sparkled with pride, she continued. “Erica Johnson, meet Fantine Moore, one of the proprietors.”

“Hello, Ms. Moore,” Erica said, managing a smile.

“Nope, none of that,” the woman said taking Erica's arm and looping it through her own. “Call me Fantine. Everyone does. Goodness, what are you two doing over
here
? These dresses are way too large—and if I may say so, too old—for pretty young things like the two of you. Step over here. I've got a couple of
couture
dresses, as well as a few originals from some of our local designers. There's a couple of Vera Wangs and a sweet little Armani, but it's cocktail length, not quite right for tonight.” She released Erica suddenly and stepped back. Her eyes skimmed over Erica's T-shirt, processed the slogan with a quick lift of her penciled eyebrow, and then cast her eye over the rest of Erica's torso, assessing her figure. “Hmmm,” she murmured, like a doctor considering an interesting case. “With your skin tone, I think you'd carry off a jewel tone really well. And that figure just begs for something strapless.” She tapped her lipsticked mouth with a manicured finger. “Do you have any favorite designers?”

Erica hesitated. She didn't know a fashion designer from a
foie gras
. Once again, she wished Angelique
were here and called her friend a few choice names in her mind. “No favorites,” she said quickly. “But I'm particular about fabrics. Nothing synthetic. I like natural fibers.”

“Of course.” Fantine nodded as if Erica's criteria were nothing out of the ordinary.

“And I don't like to look like everyone else.”

Fantine laughed. “That goes without saying, my dear. Now, just let me show you a few things right over here. They're all one-hundred percent silk, all one of a kind.”

Silk? Erica ran through the list of acceptable fabrics in her mind. Was silk one of the fabrics created by young women enslaved in sweatshops in Indonesia? She couldn't remember.

Dresses are the last thing on my mind right now,
Erica wanted to shout.
For all I know, this bitch standing next to me wants to kill me. For all I know, that picture of me and Mark is going to be all over the news by nightfall. For all I know, I just became the Monica Lewinsky of Mark Newman's political career.

But she couldn't say any of that. Instead, Erica allowed herself to be led off the main sales floor and into a smaller room, where dresses swaddled in plastic hung on a few metal racks lining the walls.

“These are for our special customers,” Fantine said proudly. “Each of these dresses is an original made with only the highest-quality fabric. If you see one you like, Gladys—that's my partner—and I will fit it for you. That's no small thing. Fitting some of these gowns is like constructing a brand-new dress! But don't worry: We'll get it done and have it delivered to Dickson's in plenty of time for the ball.” She pulled out one of the garment bags and unzipped it, showing Erica a swath of the most exquisite shade of purple she had ever seen.

“It's beautiful,” she said, unable to stop herself from reaching out to caress the soft fabric. “But I'm sure I could never afford anything like this.”

Confusion crumpled Fantine's face as her eyes darted between Erica and Bitsi. “It's all taken care of, dear!” she exclaimed. “Didn't Bitsi tell you?”

Erica shook her head.

“The senator reactivated his personal account yesterday. His late wife used to shop here, you know,” Fantine informed her, unzipping the garment bag fully to reveal the rest of the gown. “You're supposed to pick whatever you want, and I have firm instructions not to take a dime from you!”

“No.” Erica shook her head. “I can't let him do that.”

Fantine's grin widened. “He said you'd say that.” She swung her face toward Bitsi. “I can't believe you didn't
tell
her!”

Bitsi folded her lips and glowered at the woman.

“He said to tell you—and this is him talking now, not me—that he can't have you showing up in some crazy hippy outfit and that you should consider the gown a thank-you gift.”

Crazy hippy outfit
? The words stung like a slap. Erica let the sumptuous purple fabric slip from her fingers.

“Thank-you gift?” she repeated. “For what?”

Fantine blinked. “I don't know. I assumed you would. For coming, I guess.”

Coming.
Erica's stomach twisted with the multiple meanings of the word. He was thanking his “crazy hippy” for “coming.” It would have almost been funny if it hadn't been so sad. Was the picture something of his devising? she wondered. She was a public-school teacher, after all. That X-rated photo was the kind of thing that could get her fired. Was that his
way of making sure his “crazy hippy” kept on going after “coming?”

No
, she told herself.
I don't believe he'd do that. I don't believe he'd sink that low.

But she couldn't be sure. Not with Bitsi reminding her that the man's ego and career were at the center of his life. Not with the creepy feeling of being constantly under surveillance and the ugly evidence still stuffed in her jeans pocket. Not with knowing that after everything, he still considered her a “crazy hippy.”

And to think she'd actually almost believed that a relationship with the man might work.

“I'll show you a ‘crazy hippy,'” Erica muttered to herself.

“What did you say, dear?”

“Nothing. This is lovely,” she said aloud, stepping away from the gown. “But it isn't quite what I had in mind.”

“Oh?” Fantine looked slightly hurt. “I think the color would suit you very well,” she continued, recovering quickly. “But we have plenty of others.”

“I don't think any of them will work,” Erica said, shaking her head.

Her tone must have registered on Bitsi's radar, because she pounced into the conversation with sudden energy.

“Why? What's wrong with them?”

“They're just a little too conservative.”

“But sweetie, I have plenty of racier stuff,” Fantine began, but Bitsi overrode her with a strident, “The senator is conservative. Very conservative.”

Everywhere but in the bedroom
, Erica almost snapped just to watch that smug expression slide off the media director's face.

“I know he is,” she heard herself saying, “but I'm
not.” She turned back to the elderly proprietress. “Fantine, if I found the right fabric, do you think you and your partner would have time to make me a dress?”

Fantine's eyebrows rose and her mouth stretched wide in surprise. “Gladys is the best seamstress in Billingham,” she said, and her bosom seemed to inflate a little with her pride. “She can make anything—anything at all. But…” She shook her head. “In one day? Even if we started right now, we'd only have ten or eleven hours. Not much time to build from scratch.”

Erica looked around.

“Is she here? Right now?”

“Well…yes. She's working on the final alterations for a wedding gown. It has to be finished today.”

“I have something really simple in mind, I promise. And I can do some of it myself. I'm pretty decent with the basics.”

Fantine hesitated. “I don't know,” she said slowly.

“Please? At least let me talk to her—to both of you—about what I have in mind.”

The woman patted her golden hair and chewed off a fine smear of lipstick as she considered. “Well,” she drawled at last, “I guess so. Gladys!” She yelled like she was calling a farmhand to the dinner table. “Hey Gladys! Come on back to the couture room.”

For a moment, the three of them stood in an awkward silence, waiting. Then the curtains of the couture room parted and a woman appeared.

She was dark-skinned, the color of old mahogany with her hair wrapped in a colorful turban high around her head and a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck. An apron stuck through with pins covered a beautiful caftan in an African-inspired print. Erica noticed her hands: thick with the hard work of sewing, with calluses around the pads of her fingers.

“What are you screaming about, Fantine?” Gladys demanded in the voice of an old-school black matron. “Don't you know I'm working on that damn wedding dress? And you come, a-screaming and a-hollerin'—” She stopped short, taking in Erica in a single piercing gaze. “Well, I declare. You're that girl on the TV.”

Erica felt the first genuine smile she'd smiled in a long while curve over her face. She'd never met this woman—never laid eyes on her before in her life—and yet she instantly felt she knew her. She was Mama Tia and Gram and so many of the older black women she'd known in her life, just a more Southern version. And even better, Gladys was staring her down like she knew Erica down to her bones. Knew her, and understood her, too.