A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Seventy-Six

Rated NC-17 for Content

"Are you ready?"

Rose gazed out of the window of Terry's yellow 1920 Studebaker at the boardinghouse she'd called home for the past year and a half. The place which had once been filled with warmth and gaiety now stood silent and nearly empty, shutters drawn, lawn neglected. She had asked Raphael to call not more than an hour past to make sure no one was home before they came for her things. Esperanza, Lizzy's maid, had also come along to help her pack, and to serve as a backup bodyguard in case things got ugly. It was Monday, two days after she'd left, and she was fairly certain Sebastian would be at work, but there was no telling what Angelica was up to, and Rose had no desire to see her.

"Rose?" Raphael nudged her.

She swallowed. "Let's get this over with." He got out first, assisting Esperanza before helping Rose alight from the passenger side. Terry was working and couldn't make it, but he let them borrow the car in the event Sebastian happened home early and wanted to reclaim the Benz. Behind them, Raphael's younger brother Emilio waited with a wagon drawn by a mule. It was normally used on the family farm, but today would carry Rose's furniture.

The front door was unlocked and the sound of a jazz coronet drifted from the parlor. "Shit!" Rose muttered. She turned to Raphael and Esperanza, a finger to her lips. They each nodded.

They were halfway upstairs when Angelica came out of her room, leading Li'l Max by the hand; she was talking to him and he saw them first. "Rosie!" he cried, running to greet her.

"Hello, Max." Rose was surprised at the welcome. She'd always assumed the child hated her. Maybe he just got used to her.

Angelica trailed Rose, who didn't acknowledge her, into Rose's bedroom. "Thank God. We've been so worried—" She caught sight of the others and stopped short. "Who are these people? Rose, what are these Mexicans doing in our house?"

Rose continued to ignore her and Esperanza gave her a contemptuous glance as she set about removing suitcases from the closet. Rose threw open her wardrobe and began pulling dresses from the racks. Raphael silently counted the pieces of furniture and graced Angelica with a polite nod before returning downstairs to fetch his brother.

"Rose, please. Let's talk alone?" Angelica pleaded, her eyes on Esperanza.

"I'm leaving you some money to cover my share of the heat, light, and phone bills," Rose said, keeping her back turned. "I'm sure it will be more than enough, but if you should need more, I'll give you my cousin's telephone number. He'll make sure I get the message."

Angelica watched her for a long moment, withdrawing to her own room when Raphael and Emilio arrived.

"Let's hurry, okay?" Rose cautioned. "She's going to call Sebastian."

*****

She'd driven to Laurel Manor from the pier that night, following Terry home, no questions asked. He had one of the chambermaids prepare a spare bedroom. Helene had retired early with a migraine and had taken breakfast in her own suite by the time Rose awoke late the next morning, disoriented and embarrassed, and dressed in a nightgown Terry surreptitiously borrowed from his wife. She found herself in a cavernous bed with a brass headboard. At some point that morning a servant had entered and opened the window sashes to let in some air. Her clothing, Rose noticed, was freshly laundered and hanging on the closet door.

Helene left the house on one of her usual Sunday social outings while Rose was getting dressed and she spent much of the day gradually spilling her sordid tale to a patient Terry. It was late when Helene returned, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks flushed. She passed through the sunroom on the way upstairs to take a bath and found Rose stretched out on the divan, reading one of Terry's scripts.

"My, you've made yourself right at home," Helene remarked.

"Don't worry. I'll be out of your way tomorrow."

"Will you? Seems that for someone about to get married, you're spending an awful lot of time with another man...say, wasn't the wedding this weekend?"

"It was called off, dear." Terry, in from a swim before dinner, came to Rose's rescue. "Remember, Rose sent a note a week ago."

Helene waved a hand in dismissal. "You know I can't keep track of all the goings-on around here."

She didn't come back down after her bath. They didn't mind at all.

The following evening, Rose and Terry shared a celebratory bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in her new kitchen. She'd expressed her concerns at his drinking, but he assured her he would only have one glass, and he stuck to it.

Raphael had given her an old hand-carved pine table his parents were going to throw out. He and his brothers had etched their initials into its surface, and one of the matching chairs was missing, but Rose was grateful. For the time being there was nowhere to sit in the front room. Esperanza had helped her hang canary yellow curtains at the windows and had left her a plate of homemade chicken and beef tamales, which Rose devoured after returning from Laurel Manor with her car. Terry had arrived just in time to have the last one.

"Mmm…tastes even better with wine," he said. Crumbs spilled down his shirtfront; Rose reached over with a napkin and wiped them away.

"Esperanza is a blessing. You know, I tried to pay her for her time and she wouldn't hear of it?"

"She's family. You don't have to pay her." Terry took another sip. "Besides, Lizzy's paying her."

"I know. I'll have to thank her." Rose hesitated. "I want to thank you, too, for being my rock these past two days. I don't know how I would have managed without you."

She expected a smart-aleck reply, but instead he blushed and shrugged, looking to Rose like a little kid who'd just been praised by his teacher. Touched, she leaned across the table to kiss his cheek...and he pivoted his head in time to meet her lips full-on. The kiss was tender and incredibly sensual, and even as a part of her knew she should be putting up her guard, especially now, she let him draw her closer, until their knees touched, until his hand, resting against the nape of her neck, began to lower to her mid-back—

—and she jerked away, hand to her mouth, suddenly aware of the implications of what just happened. Terry was confused, but in gentlemanly fashion, he stood and set about leaving even as they both wanted him to stay.

"I'm sorry," he said, avoiding looking at her. "I don't know what got into me."

"Don't apologize." Rose stood, too, but held back from him. "You did nothing wrong."

"I took advantage—"

"No, you didn't." She stopped him with a look. "One thing you need to know about me, Terry, is I rarely do anything I don't want to do."

Those words would come back to haunt her sooner than she ever would have imagined.

*****

Two weeks later, Rose began work on a film for Mack Sennett, one of the best-known comedy directors in the business. She would be a leading lady for the first time—even though her name would not appear in the credits when the movie was released in theaters. The lead actresses' names seldom did. Her co-star was Henry Langdon, a contemporary of Charlie Chaplin, if not nearly as famous.

Nerves on the set were not her problem; Rose found that she could easily lose herself in her role. But she was working once again on the Paramount lot, Sebastian's workplace. Her solution to the dilemma was to ask the wardrobe department if she could borrow a dark wig and a pair of glasses, and each day before traveling to and from the set, she'd stuff her dress with wadded-up newspaper to make herself appear heavier. The wig and glasses added years and even her landlord, catching sight of her leaving the house in costume one morning, didn't recognize her. Her co-stars and the crew were perplexed by her desire for anonymity—she even declined to join them in the cafeteria on the lot—until Sennett approached her about signing a contract with Paramount. When she explained that she could not and why, he only laughed.

"Rose," he said, "do you know how many of us have had to work with our exes?"

She listened politely to his suggestion that she reconsider, and again wore her disguise home. She was so accustomed to hiding that at that point it almost seemed normal.

She never saw Sebastian during that production, and wouldn't see him again for a while, though he left multiple messages for her at Laurel Manor, all of them dutifully passed along in telephone conversations with Terry. He also posted letters—long impassioned diatribes about how empty his life had become. These she tossed in the trash with barely a read, except one where he caught her attention in the first paragraph by saying he'd tired of Elvira's meddling and sent her back to Germany. He'd bought a new car and rented a small apartment near the studio. As for Angelica, she'd found a buyer for the house and had moved to her own apartment with her son. She worked as a secretary at the fledgling Columbia Pictures studio. Rose had to smile at that last bit of news. Angelica couldn't take dictation, her typing speed was about five words per minute, her phone manners decidedly needed work, and her coffee was sludge. There was no question how she'd gotten the job.

Sebastian promised he wouldn't bother her anymore, and to her relief the calls and letters stopped. Terry, on the other hand, continued to phone regularly under some pretext or another, and in mid-October she received an invitation in the mail much like the one for New Year's Eve. The Mastersons were hosting a costume party for Halloween. Rose didn't much feel like celebrating, but wanted to see Anderson, whom she missed dreadfully. It turned out he wouldn't be there. Lizzy received word that her brother was on his deathbed and played on her children's sense of duty to convince them both to accompany her to Cedar Rapids. Terry used his latest film as an excuse not to go.

"Besides," he told Rose, "I never met the man. He refused to come to our wedding, and from what I heard, he believes we worship the devil out here."

"At least Helene won't be around for the party," he added. "She's been a pain in the ass about the guest list. No one's going to notice who's there and who's not. That's the point of a costume party."

"You're still having it?"

"Of course. It's too late to cancel."

Rose was terrified of showing up at this shindig alone, but Terry was able to persuade her; he even offered her the use of Helene's costume. She would be Cleopatra.

On Halloween night, she twisted and turned before her vanity mirror, appalled at how much skin was showing, while at the same time pleased at how svelte her figure had become. The white, floor-length sheath was tight through the hips and thighs, and a daring split from her cleavage to her navel left little to the imagination. A gold ankh—an Egyptian symbol of life represented by a cross with a loop for an upper arm—hung from her neck on a chain; her arms were weighted down with gold bracelets. The outrageous outfit was completed with gold sandals and a black wig topped with a beaded headdress. Her makeup was garish, applied with broad strokes. Rose suddenly wondered what her mother would think, and couldn't suppress a grin.

In contrast to New Year's, the house was dark when she pulled up. A sole parking attendant was waiting. Samson answered the bell, his eyes widening a bit when he took her wrap. "The guests are in the parlor," he said, his voice betraying nothing.

To create atmosphere, candles had been arranged in sconces along the walls, and this was the only lighting, as far as Rose could see. She crept through the White Room, praying she wouldn't trip, and almost stumbled over a pair of feet—a couple embracing on one of Helene's pristine couches. Rose excused herself. She didn't think they heard her.

In the library, Rose was admiring the grinning jack-o'-lantern on the mantle and faux cobwebs strung from the ceiling when the edge of a sword tickled her ribs and a gruff voice greeted her, "Halt! Who goes there?"

"It's Cleopatra, and my costume is too tight. Please tell me I can sit down soon."

Terry was Zorro, dressed in black pants and bolero, a white ruffled tuxedo shirt, a black hat, and a black mask over his eyes. He looked very dashing, by candlelight at least, and Rose told him so. He, in turn, looked her over very thoroughly, nodding in appreciation. She flushed.

"Everyone's in here." He led the way. There were perhaps twenty people in the parlor, most lounging on the sofas or seated cross-legged on the Persian rugs. Rose cringed at the idea of trying to lower herself to the floor, but fortunately Raphael, seated on one of the couches, moved to make room for her. He wore no costume, but his face was painted white.

"In honor of the Day of the Dead," he explained. "Hey, isn't that Helene’s—"

Terry interrupted, "Can I get you a drink? Samson's made himself scarce."

Rose requested a beer and he left her to survey her surroundings. A blues recording played on a Victrola in the corner. A couple swayed together slowly, both so drunk they had to hold one another up. Two blonde girls watched Rose from an opposing sofa; when she glanced their way, one waved and they both dissolved in giggles.

"Lillian and Dorothy Gish," Rafe said. "I can't tell them apart. Can you?"

From the direction of the billiards room came a screech, and a woman in a Victorian gown rushed past them, barefoot, pursued by a man in a cowboy hat squirting a water gun. As they passed, Rose caught a whiff of perfume...and something pungent and strong underneath. They continued into the library, nearly toppling Terry.

He had two drinks, one for himself. "Feo, what are you doing?" Rafe demanded as Terry settled on the floor. "This is your third already."

"Oh, lighten up, Rafe, why don't you?" The woman appeared out of nowhere, dark and exotic and outfitted like a whore in a sultan's harem. She made herself at home, squeezing herself between them, and offered Rose a hand. "Alla Nazimova. And you are?"

"Rose Dawson."

"She's my cousin, Alla. Leave her alone," Terry admonished.

"Cousin, my foot." The woman studied her as if it was tea time and she was a scone lathered in preserves.

"Really, she is," offered a gentleman who, until that moment, had been sitting silently at the other end of the couch. "You think Helene would let anything that gorgeous within ten feet of her husband otherwise?"

"No. I suppose not." Alla sighed and departed, speaking over her shoulder, "Well, if you should ever be lonely, your 'cousin' can give you directions to my palace."

"You're Rose Dawson," a man in a robe and slippers said from across the room as if making a great discovery. She didn't know who he was, and he made no move to introduce himself. "Buster mentioned you. You're working on a Sennett film, right?"

A starlet sprawled at his feet took a long pull on a cigarette and handed it to him. "Are you one of the Bathing Beauties?" That comment earned a few chuckles, and now all eyes were on Rose.

She was obviously expected to have no clue what they were talking about, but Terry had warned her of the director's casting couch. "No. He keeps his hands to himself."

"So far," commented one of the Gish sisters, and they laughed again.

The room was filling with smoke and that sickly sweet aroma. Rose stood, wobbling a little. "I need to take a powder."

Raphael volunteered to show her the way. They crossed through the billiards room, where four men attempted to play in the dark. The bathroom was ensconced in an alcove just off the sunroom. Rose heard someone inside and peered around the partially open door to see the man who'd been sharing the couch with them leaned over the marble sink inhaling something in his nose. With a sense of disquiet, she backed away from the door until he left. It wasn't until later that she would recognize him as someone she'd idolized on the big screen.

There was a residue of what appeared to be sugar on the countertop, but instinct told Rose not to touch it.

She found Raphael waiting for her on a wrought-iron bench in the courtyard outside. She sat beside him, rubbing her arms for warmth, and told him what she'd seen.

"That doesn't surprise me," he said.

"What was it?"

"Joy powder."

She pondered this for a moment. "Does this...kind of behavior go on whenever Helene's away?"

"It goes on when she's here." He hesitated. "Rose, if I tell you something in confidence, do you promise not to tell—"

"Well, there you are!" Terry's cheery, booming voice was a jarring distraction in the peace of the garden. He held a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. "Everyone's asking me questions about you, sweetheart," he said to Rose.

"Tell them she went home," Rafe said.

"You're not ready to go home yet, are you, Rosie? The party's just getting started."

"Can I have a smoke before I go back?" Rose reached for her clutch, but Terry handed her his cigarette; she had it in her mouth before she realized it wasn't a cigarette at all. The acrid aroma filled her nostrils and made her gag.

"Terrence, that is not funny!" Raphael yelled, alarmed.

"I'm so sorry, Rose. I didn't know you'd never...I just assumed...oh, fuck it. Here." Terry held out his hand, but Rose inhaled again, more slowly, and let the air out in a sigh.

"Haven't tried this in a month of Sundays," she said thoughtfully. "I did work in the New York theater, you know," she added when she saw the way the two men stared at her, as if that explained everything.

The party was in full swing when they returned. Someone had put on a big band recording of Ain't We Got Fun? and the couches had been pushed aside to make room for dancing—if one could call it that, since most of the revelers were too high to maintain a beat. One couple writhed half-naked on the floor; Terry casually stepped over them. Raphael asked Rose to dance.

Later, when Rafe kissed her, she had lost track of the hour and the number of drinks she'd consumed. He was listening quietly as she babbled on about Sebastian's betrayal and held her hand when she began to cry into her glass, which was still partially filled with some bitter liquid she could not identify. They were nearly alone; most everyone, Terry included, had disappeared for parts unknown. One woman had passed out on a rug. Three or four remaining guests swapped ghost stories in a corner and ignored them as Rafe gently pulled Rose to her feet and guided her to the staircase that led to the bedrooms on the second level. She held onto him to keep from stumbling. The first room they came to was occupied, the second empty. They fell onto the bed, tearing at each other's clothing with abandon.

He stopped her at the headdress. "Leave it on. It's sexy."

Although the beads were digging into her neck, she obliged him. Any discomfort she felt faded as soon as he touched her bare skin, letting his soft hands travel over her body like a sculptor molding clay. They glided over her chest and stomach, winding up to her shoulders and back down her thighs, all the way to her feet. He massaged her calves for a moment before meandering upward again, passing over her hips.

She arched her back. "Please...please."

And then he plunged two fingers into her, thrust them deep and kept moving, rocking her with a steady rhythm. She grabbed handfuls of the coverlet, twisted as if in pain, cried aloud and finally gave in. He was playful, leaving his hand where it was as he reached for something in a bowl on the night table with his other hand. A condom.

"Is it all right?" he asked as he rolled on top of her. The sudden concern in his face and voice struck her as unusually considerate. In response, she grabbed the back of his head and kissed him.

She had thought she'd want no other man after Sebastian, but right now she needed nothing less than for Raphael to make her feel complete again, and she wasn't disappointed. It seemed he'd been just as eager for her. They had reached the height of their passion, the suffocating wig come loose by this time, before she sensed another presence in the room. In a chair by the dressing table, a shadow moved. As Raphael groaned and withdrew, spent, the shape drifted in their direction and materialized into Terry. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and his pants were unfastened, revealing a thatch of unruly hair. He still wore the mask.

Rose gasped and pulled away from Rafe, scrambling to cover herself. Terry sank to the bed and pulled the coverings from her hands.

"Don't be shy now, Rose," he said softly. "I already saw everything."

"Terry, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Sorry you didn't invite me to join you? It's okay. We can fix that."

His lips met hers before she could object; she expected to taste alcohol on his breath, but he'd chased it away somehow. His hand cupped one breast, and in spite of herself, she was aroused again. Without thinking, she slid his pants down and exposed that not only was he wearing nothing underneath them, but he was aroused as well.

She shifted and helped him remove his shirt, stopping for a moment to appraise his well-sculpted body before taking him in her mouth as Sebastian had taught her. Terry closed his eyes and ran his hands through her hair, guiding her until she was done.

"Now it's your turn," he said. She was stunned to realize that Raphael was still there; the two of them stretched her out on the bed, legs apart. While Rafe licked and sucked at her breasts, Terry found his way to her core, teasing her with his tongue until she could stand no more.

"You like it, ¿si?" Rafe asked. She could barely catch her breath and only nodded.

Terry straddled her. He was rougher than Raphael; she'd be sore come morning. For the time being, however, she wrapped her legs around him, dug her nails into his back and whooped and hollered like she was on the ride of her life. All rational thought had fled her brain and was replaced with the scent of their mingled sweat, the flow of Raphael's encouraging words in Spanish somewhere nearby, and the motion, the sweet intensity of Terry filling her.

They continued this way, first one pleasuring her, then the other, sometimes both at once, until sunlight filtered through the curtains and they fell asleep, Rose cradled between the two men. She slept deeply and didn't dream.

*****

Her first sensation upon awakening was a headache, one of the pounding, throbbing variety that usually accompanies the morning after a wild night. The sunshine didn't help. Rose moaned and lifted an arm to shield her eyes.

Beside her, Terry was motionless. He lay on his stomach, grasping the pillow. His face was so beautiful in repose, Rose leaned over and kissed his forehead. He still didn't stir.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, Rose realized that she was in the same room where she'd stayed the last time she was here. She discovered the kimono she'd worn still hanging in the closet and wrapped it around herself. On her way to the bath she stepped on something hard; it was the ankh necklace. She lay it on the bedside table and saw a note neatly penned by Raphael, held in place by a bowl filled now with mostly empty wrappers. They could find him in the kitchen.

Her face was a makeup-smeared horror. She pinned back her hair and splashed on water until all traces of Cleopatra were gone. Downstairs, the parlor had been restored to normalcy. The rugs and sofas had been moved back into place, the ashtrays and drinking glasses taken away. The partygoers had long since dragged themselves home. In the kitchen, the smell of frying eggs assaulted her nose and her stomach lurched. Raphael, wide awake and fully dressed, offered her a cup of steaming black coffee.

"This will make it better. I promise."

He resumed slicing vegetables on a cutting board--onions, red peppers, chilies, cilantro, sweeping them into a skillet on the stove. Rose sipped the coffee and watched in admiration.

"Get a plate," he said, and nodded at a cabinet overhead. "Huevos rancheros. Muy delicioso."

She obeyed because she was too embarrassed to tell him the sledgehammer beating her on the head had stolen her appetite. Reaching up, she could feel his gaze, and she kept her own eyes lowered as she set two places at the table. "You know your way around this kitchen pretty well," she said. Anything to take the focus off herself. "Where's the cook?"

"She has the morning off," Rafe said, pointing out the silverware drawer. "All the staff had to stay late and clean up last night."

He said this in a matter-of-fact tone, but Rose felt heat rush to her face. How thoughtless they'd been. "About last night—"

"It was very nice." Rafe gave her a lopsided grin. "Oh, by the way," he said, suddenly serious, "Lizzy sent a telegram. Your uncle Luther passed away two days ago. I am so sorry."

They were making funeral arrangements yesterday. She thanked him. "No word from Helene?"

"Helene and Terry have...how should I say this...a strange relationship."

That was a euphemism if she ever heard one. As they ate, every swallow for her an effort, Rose reminded him he'd been about to tell her a secret about Helene the night before in the courtyard.

"You'll never say anything to anyone about this?" Rafe asked her, his eyes darting to the door as if afraid Terry would walk in at any moment.

"Not a word."

"You know Terrence has a bit of a problem with alcohol?" She nodded. "Helene has her own demons. That powder you saw in the bathroom was hers. She doesn't even bother to hide it anymore. She'll be so angry when she finds out someone else decided to help himself."

"Are you telling me Helene is a cocaine addict?"

"For at least two years. Don't act so surprised. From what I saw last night, you were exposed to plenty of things in the theater."

She blushed, again. "Not that. Not many people could afford it. I just heard about it."

"Well, it's a little different here. You have to be careful who you associate with. That producer you went to see, Elias Crawford, he is Helene's supplier. That's why Terry was so upset when Helene sent you there."

"Oh, my God. Why isn't anyone helping her?"

"They're your family, Rose. You know none of them are in any condition to help her."

"And last night I—" Rose stopped mid-sentence, unable to give voice to the feeling of shame. "What have I done?"

"Rose, you did nothing wrong." He reached for her hand across the table, caressing the palm with his thumb. "We had fun. Don't feel guilty. Helene has had many lovers. And I happen to know that Terry cares about you very much. So do I." His dark eyes held a warning. "That's why I am telling you all of this. Enjoy yourself for now, but don't let Terry get too close. It would be like playing with fire."

She listened to his advice, absorbed it, and knew when Terry finally roused himself and came downstairs—sweeping her into his arms with a compliment and a kiss—that she was going to get burned.

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