Magdalene (25 page)

“Cassandra,” he whispered.

“Mitchell,” I whispered back and nuzzled his
ear, caught his earlobe lightly between my teeth. “You aren’t
wearing your wedding ring.”

“No.”

“Why?”

We stood like that for a while, me making
love to him, upright, fully outfitted for winter, on an Upper East
Side sidewalk on a cold Saturday morning. I felt his body tense
more and more, his infamous control struggling with his lust.

I knew he was vulnerable to me. How
vulnerable, I wasn’t sure, but he had to have a breaking point and
dammit, I
would
find it.

Just then he drew away from me and nudged me
in the direction of Central Park.

“You get everything with your daughter
patched up?” he asked after a moment, his voice hoarse. He wasn’t
going to answer my question, but he didn’t really have to, so I let
it go.

“No. Nigel texted me. Congratulated me for
kicking her out. Finally.”

“It was that serious?”

“He thinks that I am martyring myself in a
misguided quest for my children’s approval.”

“I see.” Which meant
I agree
. God
help me if Mitch and Nigel ever got together to compare
opinions.

“Do you encounter a lot of that?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s...difficult to
watch, not being able to do anything about it. Best I can do is
send ’em to counseling if it’s serious enough.”

“How about your kids?”

He pursed his lips and he took a deep
breath. “I believe,” he said slowly as he released that breath,
“that the Lord gave me low-maintenance kids to kind of make up for
the other stuff I’ve had to deal with. I mean, we’ve had our
tussles, but my daughters were pretty young when Mina began to
deteriorate and so somehow they just...understood that I needed
their help and they grew up fast because of it.”

Hmmm. By comparison, my family came up
looking merely self-indulgent and spoiled rotten.

“But as it happens,” he said slowly, “I got
a little too complacent with Trevor.”

“Oh? The perfect son?”

“I guess that depends on how you define it.
Caught him in bed with a girl two weeks ago.”

So many wisecracks, so little time.
“And?”

“It was inevitable,” he mumbled. “I’ve—
Neglected him. He’s spent more quality time with Sebastian the last
four, five years, than he has with me.”

That explained a lot.

“And you feel guilty.”

“Of course. What kind of a man lets another
man raise his kid?”

“And you chose Sebastian because...?”

“Sebastian,” he said thoughtfully, “is a
born father. And he had time to teach Trevor the things that would
put him ahead in the game of life. You know, the things he taught
me way back when, only now it’s twenty years later. He’s refined it
and can back it up with a long string of successes. I didn’t have
time to turn around twice in the same spot; I sure didn’t have time
to do that.

“But...he also taught him that the Church
doesn’t mean anything. He taught Trevor to respect me and my
beliefs, but that it didn’t obligate him and he had to make his own
decisions. Told him before he could do that, he had to have some
life experience.”

That sounded perfectly reasonable to me and
exactly the sort of thing King Midas would say. “You had to know
he’d train him that way.”

Mitch inclined his head. “I did. I was
arrogant enough to think I could counter it.”

“Didn’t you tell me he goes to church?”

“And hates every minute of it.”

“Do you make him?”

“No. I kept waiting for the day he’d say,
‘No more,’ but he never did. He only goes to support me and as far
as anybody at church knows, he’s a perfect son. It’s a complete
act. I don’t really know how I feel about that. But after the, ah,
incident
, I forbid him from fulfilling the church duties
young men his age do. He wouldn’t mind, but when he’s asked, he has
to refuse, and that’s out of character. He gets hounded about why.
It makes him uncomfortable, but he won’t admit anything that would
reflect badly on me.”

“Duties? Like what?”

“The big one is blessing the sacrament. Same
as what a priest does for communion, only our sixteen-, seventeen-,
eighteen-year-old boys do it. With any other kid, if he came to me
and confessed, I’d give him a stern lecture, try to determine if he
just slipped up or if he doesn’t care, have followup interviews if
he’s interested in getting back on the straight and narrow. But
with Trevor it’s a moot point. He got caught. He’s not repenting of
anything. And I already know that as soon as he leaves home, he’ll
leave the Church.”

Clearly, the man was miserable, and I
touched his arm. “Mitch, I don’t get this. The kid’s smart,
responsible, and respects you enough to do whatever he can so as
not to embarrass you. And you’re grieving his lost virginity?”
Mitch looked at me funny. “If that’s your only issue with him,” I
said low, “I think you should congratulate yourself on a job well
done. I wish I had done as well with my children as you’ve done
with yours.”

He remained silent, but I could tell he was
thinking about that.

“How much did Mina have to do with him?”

“Not much,” Mitch murmured. “She tried to
keep up with him, but he wore her out. Little boys— They can wear
out a border collie. He was eleven the first time Sebastian offered
to take him for the summer, and I needed to get him away from Mina
so she’d stay in her wheelchair and rest.”

“He doesn’t remember her?”

“He remembers the invalid Mina. Not the
awesome mom Mina that my daughters knew.”

“And he’s had no women in his life?”

“Not enough to make an impact.” I couldn’t
imagine that. Usually it was the father who was absent in
situations like that. “How much has Gordon been involved with your
girls?”

“He couldn’t be more involved if he lived
with us, which I wouldn’t allow even if he wanted to. The good-cop,
bad-cop dynamic, you know. That was my Achilles’ heel. Designer
clothes, vacations, gadgets, clubbing— Way more attractive than
anything I had to offer.”

“Discipline.”

“Of any kind.”

“I understood Gordon to have no money, and
never has had. How does he shower them with gifts?”

I shrugged.

“Ah.”

“But that’s about to stop,” I said in a
whoosh. “I cut him off yesterday, and Nigel won’t let him spend
money that way. Prepare to hear the screams of anguish all the way
to Bethlehem.”

Mitch said nothing and I glanced at him,
though his expression gave nothing away. “Speaking of Tracey,” he
said abruptly. Finally. “He called me.”

I stopped, my heart pounding in my
chest.

“He wants to have dinner, you and me, him
and Gordon.”

Oh, good Lord. An ex-prostitute, her
ex-husband, and her ex-husband’s husband having dinner with a
Mormon bishop.

“I think it’s a good idea,” he continued, as
if he didn’t notice I was practically choking on my own spit. There
went my grand plan to keep Mitch and Nigel as far apart as
possible. “I like Tracey. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and
he cares about you.”

Well, of course. Nigel was my best friend
and he was emotionally agile enough to be able to take care of
Gordon’s needs
and
my needs in the most efficient and
mutually beneficial way possible.

We got to Fifth Avenue. Hailed a cab.

“Nigel set me up in business,” I admitted as
he handed me in and slid in beside me. “I couldn’t have done it
without his contacts and advice. You know, who to accept as
clients. Who not. How much to charge. He bought my black book from
someone who wanted out.”

“Thirty Rock, please,” he said to the
cabbie, then looked at me. “What did you have to promise him to get
him to do that?”

“Gordon. Believe me, I got the better part
of
that
bargain.”

Mitch burst out laughing and I couldn’t help
but laugh myself. Seen through his eyes, it seemed no more
outrageous than any other business deal any of us had ever
done.

“Nigel,” I said hesitantly, unwilling to
tell him but unwilling to keep it to myself, “taught me how to
please a man.”

Mitch started and looked at me sharply.
“He’s bisexual?”

“He’ll tell you no, but he’s never been
completely immune to women. He certainly has a better-than-average
understanding of female anatomy and it occurred to me that there’s
no one better to teach a woman how to please a man than a gay man.
It took awhile, though. Gordon and I...” My throat seemed gummed up
for some reason.

“Why,” Mitch asked slowly, “would a
friend
help you do this?”

“Oh, he didn’t want to,” I hastened to
assure him. “He knew if he didn’t help me, I’d find somebody else
and it wouldn’t turn out well, because I didn’t know anything about
anything. He had the right contacts and the sexual experience to
teach me what I didn’t know, which was, well, everything.”

“How did Gordon take this?”

I tightened my mouth. I didn’t want to
discuss it any further, but I would. Because it was Mitch and Mitch
just...understood. Everything. “Gordon doesn’t know Nigel and I
were lovers. It didn’t matter. We were divorced and he was in
prison.”

“But I thought you said—”

“Nigel wanted Gordon. He would have done
anything to help me if it meant uncoupling me from Gordon, and I
didn’t want anything more, so we had a common goal. He helped me
get out of my situation, protected me from my father-in-law until I
could protect myself, paid off most of the debt Gordon had saddled
me with. It took years. Everything he did to help me, start to
finish, was so he could get what he wanted. If that meant fucking
me for six months to teach me how to be a fabulous whore, that’s
what that meant.”

Mitch didn’t flinch at my nasty tone or
vulgarities. He simply pulled me close, rubbing my arm until I
relaxed against him.

“Hmm.”

“What’s that mean?” I muttered.

“Nothing, I guess,” he said slowly. “Just— I
have a different impression of Tracey now than I did before.” I
waited. “Well, Tracey’s brilliant. What does he see in Gordon?
Especially after what he did to you?”

I could feel my face stretching with a slow
smile, because, yet again, Mitch had said the unexpected and in no
way did he let his personal morality get in the way of common
sense. “I...don’t know,” I admitted. “He’s been in love with Gordon
since...well, since they met, which was soon after we got married.
Nigel was Gordon’s boss.”

“And Gordon?”

“Ha! I didn’t know it was possible for
Gordon to love anyone but himself, but whatever he’s doing—which I
don’t know—it makes Nigel happy, so...”

“And Nigel loves you.”

I shrugged. “In a BFF sort of way.”

“Ah, BFFs. Got it.”

I sneered. “My entire family is a gaggle of
teenage girls, and sometimes the maturity level isn’t even that
high.”

Mitch began to laugh. “I’ve had two of my
own and deal with a bunch of them every Sunday. No need to
explain.”

* * * * *

Smooth
Operator

We got to Rockefeller Center to see a bus
with children and teens pouring out of it, heading with much
shouting toward the curiously empty rink. A phalanx of parents
followed more sedately. Mitch watched with the interest of someone
who was just checking that it was happening as planned.

“This is your congregation?”

“No,” he muttered absently. “Friend of
mine’s. He was a brand new priest when I was a brand new bishop. I
forget how we met, but we leaned on each other pretty heavily while
we were learning the ropes. He had the advantage of seminary
training and I had the advantage of high-level management. He got
transferred here—Brooklyn—oh, five, six years ago, but we keep in
touch.”

“Brooklyn?” We exited the cab, held hands as
we walked toward the ticket booth of the rink. “That’s not the
richest diocese in the world. No priest would be able to afford
this.”

Mitch shook his head. “Nope. He sure can’t.”
I stumbled, but he caught me. “Careful.”

By the time we got down to the rink, there
were a dozen children and a few adults already booted up and on the
ice, but some of the ones who weren’t yet saw us.

Their eyes lit up.

“Bishop!”

“Bishop!”

“Bishop!”

Men, women, children. Didn’t matter. They
all wanted a piece of him and he was more than willing to give
it.

“Bishop! Cassie!”

We both turned at the yell from across the
rink. “Luis!” Mitch yelled back, then waved. I began to smile. It
was the bouncer from Cubax, his wife and family in tow.

“Bishop Hollander!”

A broad smile broke out on Mitch’s face at
that last shout. “Father Farraday!” He let go of my hand to clasp
the priest in a bear hug once he’d joined us.

They talked God shoptalk for a moment until
a natural break in the conversation led Mitch to say, “Rory, this
is my friend, Cassandra St. James.”

The priest looked at me, then he glanced at
Mitch.

He knew.

And even though I had never met the man
before, I knew exactly
how
he knew.

But the man had the good grace to smile
widely and shake my hand, to appear to accept me at face value. The
hesitation was minute, but I’d caught it and if I had, Mitch most
certainly would have.

I knew how it would go down: The man of God
of one faith would call his good friend, the man of God of another
faith, give him some vague advice about the woman who’d conned him
and what she
really
wanted from him. I doubted Father
Farraday would know I’d taken down my shingle years ago and that I
whored for Blackwood Securities now, all under the eagle eye of the
Securities and Exchange Commission.

Unfortunately, Father Farraday wasn’t as
clever about concealing his thoughts as Mitch, who gave nothing
away and treated me as his beloved, a hand on my back, introducing
me to what seemed hundreds of people.