“So how do you make it?” Thyme continued.
Sydney looked at her hatefully. Thyme had blown Sydney’s cover. She smiled to herself. It made the evening worth it.
“More sauce, Cy?” Sydney asked, jumping up to wait hand and food on Cy and change the subject at the same time.
“No, this is fine.”
“Come, come. I know how much you love my special sauce.”
How sickening, Thyme thought.
Dessert was worse. Thyme knew Sydney made the dessert because it was too sweet and the only bad part of the meal. Sydney piled so much whipped cream and so many strawberries on Cy’s shortcake that it would take a mouth as wide as the Detroit River to swallow it.
By the time they headed home, Thyme had had enough. “I don’t care if she is your sister,” Thyme shouted in the car, “she’s one of the most miserable bitches I’ve ever met. Imagine the nerve of that whore treating my husband as if you were her man!”
“She was just being—”
“Who do you take me for? And that wimpy-ass black maid. My Lord, where did she find her? She acts like she’s still on a plantation. Don’t ask me to go back over there again!”
“Give her a break, will you? You know her divorce was just finalized. It’s only natural that she would—”
“Bullshit! Which divorce is this? The third? The fourth? I don’t blame them, I’d leave her frigid ass, too.”
“And where did that come from?”
“Excuse me. My Lord . . . are you that stupid? The only time that bitch heats up is when she’s around you. Now you figure that shit out.”
__________
Cézanne once said: “The landscape thinks itself in me. . . . I am its consciousness.” He would often ponder for hours at a time before putting down a single stroke. If he were alive today, he would be touched by the beauty of mid-July, and within it he would capture the natural beauty of a young woman named Tomiko.
The critics loved her. At five foot ten and a shapely size six, the cameras loved her too. She looked absolutely bewitching in close-ups. Her deep olive skin tone showed that she was a woman of all cultures—a plus on the contemporary modeling scene. Her high forehead represented royalty. Her slightly long nose and chin with small, full lips inspired comparisons to the timeless beauty of
Mona Lisa.
After signing with Clara Clarke, a hot young agent in West Bloomfield, Tomiko’s schedule was jam-packed with several high-paying modeling stints in New York, California, and, in the fall, London and Paris. These jobs would take Tomiko away from home for one and two weeks at a time. She didn’t like traveling that often, but who could turn down twenty-five thousand dollars per shoot? Regardless, Tomiko was tired.
Without the help or interference of R.C., Clara had secured for Tomiko the position as Champion’s national model, in addition to being the spokesperson for her husband’s dealerships.
It was the middle of July, and the projections for which new auto would win
Motor Trend
’s Car of the Year were a main topic of conversation in Detroit. The two top choices were Champion’s luxury Atlantic sport coupe and Mishimoto’s Verve. Marketing was at a fever pitch, and models like Tomiko, who made cars look good, were in high demand.
“Ms. Richardson,” the makeup artist snapped, “if you don’t keep still, I’ll never get your face on right.”
“What do you expect? I’ve been sitting in this chair for over an hour.” Swiveling around, she looked into the mirror facing her. Her jaw tightened in anger. “Dammit, Betty, look what you’ve done! My eyelashes are crooked, my foundation is too dark, and my lips look as if you’ve doubled them. I could do a better job myself.”
“Then why don’t you!” Betty threw her palette on the counter. “You women expect us to perform miracles.”
There was a hard knock on the door and the director’s assistant, Emery, marched in. “Tomiko should have been on the set five minutes ago. What’s the problem now?”
Before Tomiko could speak, Betty cut her off. “I quit. She claims I fucked her face up. You deal with her.”
“She just wants to make me look as bad as she does.” Tomiko covered her face with cold cream, cleaned it, and began redoing her makeup. Betty continued trying to get the assistant to see her side of it.
Tomiko said, “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to shoot.”
Betty angrily gathered her things and started to follow the assistant out of the dressing room. “One more thing,” Tomiko said over her shoulder. They both stopped. “I’ll be doing my own makeup from now on. I’ll have my agent contact you.” She pointed at Betty. “And I want her salary added to mine.”
True to her word, Tomiko was on the set in five minutes. The admiring stares she received from the men on the crew confirmed that she’d done a good job on her face. But Tomiko didn’t feel so glamorous now. It was six o’clock in the morning and the hot lights beaming down from overhead felt like violent sun rays. The crew was antsy and so was Tomiko. Everyone had been at the studio since four.
The commercial they were filming today was at R.C.’s used-car dealership. It held over two thousand cars and trucks from both the Mishimoto and Champion car lines. The lot was one of the largest in the state. This commercial would spin off into a radio ad.
All of R.C.’s marketing ideas had worked, and his dealerships were thriving. And although Tomiko was glad for R.C., she couldn’t help but feel a touch of resentment. R.C. was able to consume himself with his car dealerships, his horses, but not with her.
She hated getting up this early, especially for only five thousand dollars. (Even her husband paid a fee.) Once she’d started making money, she wanted more and more. She’d had it with these cheap local jobs.
Suddenly Tomiko noticed R.C. watching her from the trailer. Even from that distance, he looked annoyed and tense. She tried to catch his eye, to no avail. He rarely showed up at shoots, so she felt a bit off kilter. When the assistant director called “Action!” she was all business.
Suddenly everyone on the set was moving. The extras hired to move around the parking lot strolled into place. Tomiko was supposed to be a saleswoman trying to convince a buyer to purchase a car. Just as she was about to deliver her lines, she caught another glimpse of R.C. out of the corner of her eye and, for some reason, she felt nervous.
Tomiko missed her cue and the director called “Cut!” This occurred a number of times. Each time the director called “Action!” Tomiko would flub her lines.
Over and over, they repeated the silly scene. Tomiko couldn’t believe her own stupidity. The more they shot, the worse she got. Then, at last, they made an almost perfect scene. The director assured her that the next one would do it. By then it was 8:30 A.M. Tomiko was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, let alone smile and focus her practiced gaze in the camera.
R.C. came up to her before the next take. “Tomiko, what’s going on? Each take you screw up is costing me a fortune. Please. Try to do it right this time. I can’t afford to blow this right now.” He wiped his sweat-streaked brow, then gave her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead.
Tomiko felt chilled to the bone.
“On one, on two, on three,” the director said, then paused a second and screamed, “Action!”
Tomiko plunged into the scene, and when the director called “Cut!” Tomiko knew it was her best take of the day.
Finally! A wrap.
Tomiko looked around for R.C., but he’d left without a trace.
When she returned home, it was only ten-thirty in the morning. No one was home. Bonnie had gone grocery shopping, Tomiko assumed, and Herman, the chauffeur who lived over the garage, appeared to be gone as well. Where was R.C.?
Certain that R.C. would at least be home by dinnertime, Tomiko changed into her exercise clothes and worked out for two hours. Afterwards, she took a hot bath and made a cup of lemon tea. By then it was nearly two. Bonnie still hadn’t made it back and the house was as quiet as a woman the first day and a half after she’s married. Tomiko fell asleep.
The doorbell awakened her. The room was flooded in darkness. She had no idea what time it was. She stretched out and waited for Bonnie to get the door. When the ringing continued, she lifted herself up from the sofa and saw by the clock on the nightstand that it was midnight.
Where was R.C.? Had he made it home?
“Bonnie? R.C.?” Tomiko called out after exiting her room. Now the person was knocking on the door. She was starting to get pissed that Bonnie wasn’t attending to her duties. “Hold on,” she said, turning on the lights.
Opening the door, she saw one of their next-door neighbors, his hat in his hand. “Sorry to bother you this late at night,” the man said, “but my wife insisted I bring this letter over tonight. It was delivered to our home by mistake last week.”
When she read the return address on the envelope she was confused—the sender’s name, Johnson, was unknown to her.
“Sorry for the delay,” the man said, turning to leave, “but we’ve been out of town.”
“No problem. Thank you.”
Closing the door, she stopped, listening to the sound she heard coming from down the hall. But by the soft shuffling footsteps, she knew it wasn’t R.C.
Normally wide awake until one in the morning, Bonnie looked tired and haggard. “Evening, Tomiko. Did someone ring the doorbell?”
“Yes. I took care of it.” Tomiko tucked the envelope in her pocket. She had a terrible feeling about it. It terrified her. She immediately decided to put it from her mind.
“What’s wrong with folks these days coming to your home all times of the night?” Bonnie turned off the lights. “And before you ask, Mr. R.C. ain’t home. And don’t ask me where he is because I don’t know.”
Tomiko thought about how nervous he’d been at the shoot and wondered if there was a connection. “I’ll see you in the morning, Bonnie. Good night.”
Once inside her room, Tomiko fell face forward on the bed.
Where are you, R.C.? I need you to hold me.
She thought about their upcoming trip to the ranch and hoped that spending time there would help bring him closer to home, closer to her. As tender as her falling tears, she hugged herself, and closed her eyes.
Right before she fell asleep, the phone rang.
“Hello, may I speak with R.C., please?” It was a friendly male voice.
“He’s not here. May I take a message for him?”
“Yes. This is Oxford, an old friend of R.C.’s. Is this Bonnie?”
Tomiko laughed, happy that her accent was fading. “No, this is Tomiko, R.C.’s wife.”
“Wife? What wonderful news. When am I going to meet you? When are you two going to visit me in Seattle?”
“I’ll have to talk to R.C. about that.”
After Tomiko hung up the phone, she fell into a heavy sleep.
Later that night, Tomiko was awakened by a whisper.
“This is the last time, I promise. I’ll never do it again. God, please help me win. Please. Goddammit! Please. Just this
one
last time!” R.C. hollered out in his sleep.
Tomiko turned over onto her side and shook her husband. “R.C.?” He huddled on the edge of the bed, clutching the sheets tightly. His body trembled. As she tried to massage his face, she felt wet tears on his cheeks.
“I don’t have it. I swear.” He was crouched in a fetal position now, his eyes and teeth clenched together tightly. “You can’t take—!” He was shouting, then began tossing and turning.
“R.C., wake up,” she said, shaking him gently.
Tomiko sat there, waiting a few moments until he became still. Then she put her chin into his muscled arm; the smell of sweat and Catalyst cologne filled her nose.
R.C. continued to dream. “I’m sorry, Oxford. I didn’t mean it.”
She started to shake him again, but instead pulled the covers over him and lay her head on his shoulder, knowing that if he awakened, he would feel her loving arms around him, holding him safe.
Oxford? Who exactly was Oxford?
__________
“As you know,” John Sandler began, “we’ve been very pleased with your performance. You’ve done an excellent job in Mexico.” Sandler paused. “We’d like to show our appreciation by promoting you.”
Cy stood with confidence. His wine-colored Armani suit fit him well. Gold cuff links sparkled against platinum shirt cuffs.
“We haven’t figured out exactly when or where the position will be, but we’re looking at two possible areas that will further showcase your expertise as a top-level manager.”
They were in Sandler’s office. He had called a meeting this morning with Cy and a man to whom Cy had not yet been introduced. The gentleman was expensively dressed and sitting in the background. He only nodded in Cy’s direction when Sandler made his announcement. Cy had expected his promotion to be announced in this meeting, but he was a bit disconcerted by the presence of the stranger.
“Congratulations, Cyrus,” John Sandler said, shaking his hand. “No one deserved this promotion more than you.”
Cy was smiling as he shook Sandler’s hand. Before Cy could say anything, Sandler continued: “However, there is a condition.”
Suddenly Cy caught sight of an imposing file on Sandler’s desk with Cy’s name on it.
“There’s another matter we feel that we need to discuss with you, Cy,” said Sandler. He signaled toward the unknown gentleman. “This is Brian Manning, one of our attorneys.” His voice was resonant. “He has a few questions to ask you.”
Cy took a seat on the sofa. He felt the anger rising in his gut.
Brian accepted the brown and gold file handed to him by Sandler. “We’re very concerned about a lawsuit that was recently filed. As you no doubt are aware, Mr. Tyler, your wife has filed a discrimination suit against the company. Several of our high-level executives have been subpoenaed.”
Cy felt himself turning as red as the rains of hell.
So that’s what this is about. Why didn’t she listen to me? I knew this would happen.
“At this point, there are several plants on strike. The company is losing millions because of the labor disputes. We feel that a lawsuit by one of our plant managers will reflect poorly upon everyone concerned and give us negative press. With the upcoming contract negotiations, we can’t afford that.”