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    Me and Mrs. Jones, a Love Story
    Me and Mrs. Jones, a Love Story
    Me and Mrs. Jones, a Love Story
    Ebook398 pages6 hours

    Me and Mrs. Jones, a Love Story

    By B.L Wilson

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    About this ebook

    Wealthy married Black woman, Vernella Burton-Jones, has been suffering verbal and sometimes physical abuse at the hands of her wife Frances for years. The clincher occurs when Vernella discovers that Frances is cheating on her and embezzling from the company Vernella’s father built up from the ground. Vernella feels helpless to stop this cycle of bullying and abuse, until she meets Clementine.

    Clementine Rogers is a young, white female driver and sometime street fighter applying for what seems to be an ideal job. However, when she witnesses her potential employer’s wife abusing her and intervenes, she wants to do more to protect Vernella, but isn’t sure her attractive new boss will appreciate her interference.

    Can Vernella take steps to prevent more abuse and keep Frances from robbing her blind? Will she accept Clementine’s help in protecting her? Can two women with completely dissimilar backgrounds allow their attraction for each other overcome many obstacles? Find out in Me and Mrs. Jones, a love story.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherB.L Wilson
    Release dateApr 2, 2019
    ISBN9780463102985
    Me and Mrs. Jones, a Love Story
    Author

    B.L Wilson

    B.L. has always been in love with books and the words in them. She never thought she could create something with the words she knew. When she read ‘To Kill A Mocking Bird,’ she realized everyday experiences could be written about in a powerful, memorable way. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with that knowledge so she kept on reading.Walter Mosley’s short stories about Easy Rawlins and his friends encouraged BL to start writing in earnest. She felt she had a story to tell...maybe several of them. She’d always kept a diary of some sort, scraps of paper, pocketsize, notepads, blank backs of agency forms, or in the margins of books. It was her habit to make these little notes to herself. She thought someday she’d make them into a book.She wrote a workplace memoir based on the people she met during her 20 years as a property manager of city-owned buildings. Writing the memoir, led her to consider writing books that were not job-related. Once again, she did...producing romance novels with African American lesbians as main characters. She wrote the novels because she couldn’t find stories that matched who she wanted to read about ...over forty, African American and female.

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      Me and Mrs. Jones, a Love Story - B.L Wilson

      PROLOGUE: Stop screaming, you’ll heal. You always do.

      Vernella Vincent Burton-Jones played with the breakfast meal on her white china dinner plate. She used the sterling silver fork to move the vegetarian sausage links away from the low-calorie maple syrup dripping off the low-calorie whole-wheat pancakes. She put the fork down, allowing it to ping against the bone china. She cleared her throat loudly for the third time.

      The annoying sound made Frances glance up from the Wall Street Journal she was studying intently. She’d stacked the New York Times, the Financial Times, Forbes, Investor’s Daily, US Business News, and other papers neatly at her left elbow. She’d turned on her tablet and the three cell phones she used to check the latest stock prices.

      What now, Vernella?

      I didn’t say anything, Frankie. You must have a guilty conscience or something, Vernella remarked, eyeing her wife’s handsome brown face. Even now, after twelve years of marriage, she still found Frankie, Frances Burton-Jones as she demanded to be called nowadays, incredibly attractive. She wanted to spend the day in bed with her.

      Frances eyed her wife like an elementary school principal looked at a disruptive, foolish student before she punished her. You didn’t have to, Vernella. I know how you think. You want something. What is it now?

      Since you won’t spend the day with me, how about giving me a ride to B & G? After I finish shopping, we can have lunch together. It’s just a couple of blocks away from the office.

      Frances rose from the table and stormed over to her wife, grabbing the front of her silk robe. She yanked Vernella up from the table, knocking over the water glass, the cream for her coffee, and the coffee cup itself. Say another word about shopping and see what happens, Bitch! While we’re on the subject, I don’t feel a damn bit guilty about sleeping with my secretary or my accountant, so no, I don’t have a guilty conscience. She released the hold she had on her wife’s robe, causing her to nearly fall on the inlaid wooden floor. She leaned down inches away from her wife’s face. They know how to treat me right, unlike your fat ass!

      She returned to her seat, picked up her paper, and continued to read as if nothing transpired. Hire the freaking chauffeur like we discussed. Let him drive you around all day and wait on your stupid ass. I gave you a list of names weeks ago. Interview them by the weeks’ end. Hire one of them or tell me why your dumb ass didn’t do what I said. Understand? She slammed the paper down and started to rise again.

      Vernella’s eyes grew larger. She held both hands up to keep her wife at bay. Okay, okay, I’m staying home today anyway. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? She knew Frances had a hair-trigger temper. The slightest things could send her into a bad mood.

      If you’re staying home today, why did you bug me about going shopping with you? Frances slammed the newspaper down, rose from the table, then began sliding her expensive leather belt out of the loops on her tailored slacks. She caught her wife’s terrified look and grinned broadly. Don’t worry. You’ll heal up, Vernella. You always do.

      CHAPTER ONE: Bored and board troubles

      Vernella lay in her king-size bed with pillows propping up her sore hip and her achy lower back. She’d given up trying to sleep. Instead, she was listening to another early morning reality show that was quickly boring her to death. The last show seemed to be about southern white people living in or near swamps. They hunted alligators for a living then sold the meat by the pound. Apparently, the state where the hunters lived had yearly limits on catching alligators. Each group of hunters was given a certain number of gator tags to fulfill. Of course, the smart hunters tried to catch the biggest, fattest alligators first to fulfill the number of tags they held.

      Vernella figured out that much within the first ten minutes of the show. What kept her watching was the southern dialect. She had folks in her family from the deep south, so she’d heard the odd turn of tongue before. But the people on this show spoke straight-up gibberish. She turned on the television’s caption mode to translate their words. One hunter interested her. He’d brought his grandson with him for the entire gator season, hoping the eighteen-year-old would make gator hunting his lifelong profession just as his forefathers before him had done. He mentioned how his son had gotten hurt over the winter and couldn’t hunt with him. He asked his grandson to join him this season.

      She sighed. She was trying to imagine a young man making gator-hunting his career. She could imagine it if that was the only world the child knew. What she couldn’t imagine was carrying a baby to term. Frances didn’t want kids and they didn’t have kids. It was as simple as that. The sound of tentative tapping brought her mind into focus. Yes?

      I brought some ginger tea and toast to settle your tummy.

      Vernella chuckled then used her formal voice to respond, Come in, Isadora.

      Isadora strode into the room with a tray that she set next to the cell phone on the lamp table. Scoot over, Honey. Let’s talk.

      Vernella grimaced as she shifted pillow positions then moved gingerly backward until she felt the headboard against her back. She sighed. Then she turned to study the slim, gray-haired woman with the alert dark eyes who was her housekeeper. But unofficially, Isadora Coleman was the closest thing Vernella had to a mother. Having lost hers when she was seven, Isadora always said it left her somewhat unfinished. If this is about divorcing Frances, I’ve heard the speech a million times, Izzy.

      Well, get ready for a million and one, Vernie. Isadora inhaled then blew out her breath. She studied the attractive brown-skinned woman lying on the bed. Vernella’s dreadlocks were shoulder-length, but she kept them in a neat ponytail. Her cinnamon skin was smooth … nearly flawless except for the tiny beauty mark under her lower lip. Her body was shapely. Some people might find her fuller figure on the verge of being overweight. She disagreed. Vernella was fit as a fiddle. She practiced a regular routine of walking, weight-lifting, swimming, and occasional horseback riding to stay in shape. She could play a winning game of golf or tennis. When pressed, she could still sink a basketball from the foul line too, although she hadn’t practiced that sport in years. You’re a good-looking—no. You’re a great-looking woman, Vernie. You’re smart. You’re well-educated. You’re wealthy. But most of all, you’re kind and very loveable. You could have anybody. Any woman would be a fool love not to love you, Honey.

      You want to know why I’m still with Frankie, right?

      Yes. Why are you still with her, Honey?

      Vernella dropped her eyes, watching her own hands play with the remote, fingering the black buttons then finally aiming it to turn the television off. She sighed when Isadora propped a finger under her chin and pushed upward to look into her eyes. I think I still love her. I keep hoping she’ll see my side of things and she’ll come around.

      Isadora squeezed Vernella’s hands then patted and soothed them. I don’t want her to kill you before that happens. That’s my biggest fear. She’ll totally lose it one of these days. In her madness, she’ll kill you.

      Vernella pulled her hands gently away. That’s highly unlikely, Izzy. I do dumb things. I say dumb things. I should just learn to keep my mouth shut when she has so much pressure at work weighing her down. She grinned. I know exactly what will make her feel better. Let’s fix her favorite meal, Izzy.

      Isadora kept her face from showing what she was thinking. Humph. That witch should be the one currying Vernella’s favor. She should be worried Vernella will divorce her and take back everything she has. But that was the nature of bullies. They struck so much fear into their victims, their victims couldn’t think straight. Vernella would never do Frances that way, not in a million years.

      She needed to find a distraction for her boss. If she could get Vernella to focus on something else. Anything that would take her mind away from the house and thoughts of her wife might do the trick. She cleared her throat. I thought we should do as Frankie suggested, Honey. She mentioned hiring a chauffeur. I asked my nephew to run a preliminary background check on the names she left sitting on the dining room table. I took the liberty of making a few calls.

      Vernella’s eyes widened in surprise. How did Isadora know that would please Frances more than a favorite meal? Who was she kidding? Frances wouldn’t be coming home at a decent hour tonight or any other night. Any dinner Frances ate tonight, she’d be sharing in a hotel room downtown with one of the little hussies she hired as her personal assistant. She also had quite a list of personal assistants that seemed to change every six months.

      How many drivers were you able to call?

      Dean ran backgrounds on the first fifteen. I contacted ten drivers out of the twenty-five on her list. Eight returned my call. Of those, four possibly five can make it over here for interviews today.

      My goodness, you’ve been busy today, Izzy.

      Drink your tea and eat that toast. Isadora slid off the bed and straightened out her gray skirt and matching cardigan. Did I mention you need to get dressed? The first interview is scheduled in forty minutes.

      Vernella groaned. Some days, I could learn to hate you a great deal, Izzy.

      Isadora walked to the door before she turned around. Ah, but this isn’t the day and I’m not the one. She chuckled when Vernella stuck her tongue out. Then she ducked the pillow thrown at her head and left the bedroom before her boss could throw another one.

      France Burton-Jones pulled over to the side of the road to look in the rearview mirror of the Mercedes roadster. She smiled, checking out her teeth. They were perfect just like the rest of her. Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, she fiddled with the knot in her tie, straightening it against her lilac shirt collar. She smoothed down her grape, gray, navy, and pink striped silk tie then readjusted her engraved tie clasp. She pulled on the sleeves of her shirt, playing with the cufflinks of her French cuffs. Damn, Frances, you look great for forty! Stay away from shit and you’ll stay that way. She searched the breast pocket of her navy suit jacket hanging on the back of the vacant passenger seat. Where are my breath mints? she muttered. I know I had them last night. That wasn’t all I had last night, she remarked with a wide grin as she stroked her chin.

      She always enjoyed her sixty-five-minute morning drive into the city. She especially loved taking the curves in Vernella’s roadster. The cool little car hugged the road the same way a new lover hugged an excellent sex partner. The one good thing she could say about her overweight, sex-starved wife. She kept the cars she owned. No, correct that. Whatever belonged to Vernella was certainly hers now too and had been for twelve long, horrible years. The cars they owned were in peak running condition, which was why hiring a chauffeur was key. The driver was expected to keep the cars clean and running smoothly either through self-maintenance or knowing which experts to take the cars to. Their last driver quit without notice or explanation. A replacement as soon as possible was necessary.

      Frances glanced at her wristwatch as she pulled into her favorite garage. Then she searched for Andy, her favorite attendant. She tossed the keys at another attendant. Tell Andy he owes me a twenty. I made the drive in less than an hour today.

      The attendant laughed. He’ll win it back tomorrow.

      He’ll wish he was that lucky. See ya tonight.

      Minutes later, she stood looking at the huge bronze bull with the big balls at the small Bowling Green Park. He always fascinated her. Today, it was early. There were no tourists walking underneath the big boy to pet his balls or look in his ass crack. She always wondered why take photos of a bull’s private parts or your head in his bronze ass? Guess it was one of those great life mysteries, she mused, carrying her gym bag over a shoulder. She’d reach her building in another three or four minutes. She pulled the ID hanging around her neck out from its hiding place in her suit jacket. She showed it to a security guard with hash marks on the sleeve of her uniform.

      Aw! Darn it, Ms. Jones. I was so hoping you’d forget that piece of plastic today.

      Why is that, Sarge? Frances asked with a wide grin then a wink. She knew what came next. They played this game on a regular basis.

      We have to escort the forgetful ones to a private room. We search them extensively to make sure they are who they say they are.

      Don’t you need a witness to the search?

      The sergeant pretended to think, supporting the hand under her chin with an arm across her chest. Hmm, that’s good point. I could video it and show it to my lieutenant.

      With a copy to the ‘forgetful’ party, right?

      If she wanted one, that could be arranged too.

      This video of the search, I’m one of those women who likes to keep doing things until she gets it right.

      Hmm, I’m one of those women who loves getting done.

      Ah, so we have something in common, huh?

      The sergeant gave the large, sturdy woman in the navy business suit an admiring glance, up then down. She appreciated how expensively Ms. Jones dressed. The suit must be a couple of thousand dollars. The accessories she wore, and a watch, added another fifteen hundred to two thousand. She inhaled. God, you smell good all the time. Your suits look spectacular on you. She winked. I bet you’re even better with them off.

      Frances grinned broadly at the compliment. One of these days, I’ll forget myself, Sarge.

      The sergeant winked at her again. Promises, promises, Ms. Jones.

      Frances chuckled then walked to the elevators, swiping her card first. She still didn’t know the guard’s name. It didn’t matter. They had established this brand of sexual banter eleven months ago when the old sergeant retired. She replaced him. She was cute as hell, probably in her late twenties to early thirties. She always seemed to be working. She was on duty in the morning until seven at night. A couple of times, the sergeant was at the front desk after midnight. Frances decided if she didn’t have a wife to go home to, she’d see if the sergeant was all talk and no action. Shit! She only went home to Vernella when Starla or Lisa wasn’t available to sleep with. She was seriously considering a divorce and alimony. She was tired of a woman who was such a fat, mousy-looking, scared bitch.

      She pressed the button for the penthouse suite of offices. She’d moved the entire investment operation to the top floor. The old man had shitty ideas about locations. It cost a couple of million more in rent, but so what, the location was marvelous.

      She threw her gym bag onto one of the visitor’s chairs in front of her expensive antique mahogany desk. Then she walked past the conference area with the padded comfortable leather seats to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling picture windows and doors. She opened one of the all-glass doors that blended in with the picture windows and walked outside to the patio area fifty stories up. She did her second favorite thing when she was up here, which was watching the Hudson River. She could see the Staten Island Ferry terminal and the park next to it. Nearby was the American Indian Museum. If she got her directions correct, the bronze bull she admired was down there. Looking north, there was the South Street Seaport Museum and Fraunces’s Tavern. She looked up to see clear fluffy clouds moving north and the spreading sunshine. She felt the presence of somebody behind her. Whoever it was cleared her throat.

      What?

      Some of the board members are going loony tune today, Frankie. They’ve been calling every twenty minutes to see if you arrived yet.

      Don’t call me Frankie during business hours. Don’t use such ignorant words to describe normal people either, Starla.

      What’s with you today?

      Just go back to your desk and do your job, Starla, okay? I’ll handle them when I have time to do so. Frances spread her arms on the railing, studying the Hudson. She heard quiet shuffling, which meant Starla left her standing on the balcony. Three minutes later, Starla called her on her cell. She sighed as she walked inside to sit down on one of the leather couches across from the coffee table.

      What now, Starla?

      Starla turned away from her desk to cup her mouth and point to the phone. She whispered, Several board members are here in the office. They want to see you right now!

      Who’s out there?

      Mr. Feingold’s representative, Mr. Brooks, Mr. Goldman, Mr. Wong, and Miss Thomas.

      Frances groaned softly. Ah, her favorite assholes. What about Dawes, Smithy, Webber, Ving, and Lehigh?

      No. They aren’t here.

      Well, at least that says something. The assholes don’t have a majority. Tell them I’m not feeling well. Reschedule the meeting for next week.

      I tried that, Ms. Burton-Jones. They want to see you now! Starla whispered as she eyed the angry faces looking directly at her from the waiting room.

      Get in here, Starla, and help me find those board notes from the last meeting. My head is killing me. Find me some aspirin.

      Starla smiled at the group as she rose from her desk. It’ll be just a minute, everybody. She snapped fingers at Lisa to come to her desk. Keep them busy. Get them something to eat and drink while I go see what she wants.

      Lisa winked at Starla. Keeping her voice low, she replied, You know exactly what she wants.

      Not now, Baby Girl. Go do what I said. I’ll handle her.

      Save some for me, Star, Lisa remarked softly. She’d heard Starla brag often enough how good her boss was in bed. She might be young, but she was also curious about such things. She hadn’t been with a woman since high school. She liked men with large appendages, but every so often, she was attracted to a woman. Butch or femme didn’t seem to matter as much as that special something the woman had. Frances Burton-Jones had it in triple doses. She just wished Frances didn’t see her as Starla’s little play cousin.

      With Lisa’s fanciful words ringing in her ears, Starla stepped into Frankie’s office. She went to the rear of the huge office past the picture windows and the bedroom to the kitchen area. She opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottled water then went into the bathroom and shook out two pills. She walked back to the couch and sat on the arm of it. She offered her boss two aspirins. Take ‘em, Frankie. Then we’ll look for those notes.

      Starla went to the desktop and did a search of the files. She studied the screen, opening the file on Board Members, then she went to the sub-folder entitled Meeting Notes.

      Frances walked over to lean over her shoulder, reading along as she read. She inhaled Starla’s perfume. Nice. Remind me to buy you more of whatever scent you have on. She nibbled Starla’s neck, grinning when she heard a contented sigh. She grabbed Starla’s breasts, hefting them, then squeezing them. Hmm, like that, Star? Cuz I like these. Hmm, I want me some puss this morning.

      Don’t start with me, Frankie! Starla could feel twitching in places that she could barely control for now, but if Frankie kept fondling her, she knew they’d both be in trouble. She pushed away from the massive antique desk with Frankie still holding on to her breasts. We have board business to take care of this morning. She managed to twist this way and turn that way, finally breaking Frankie’s hold. She stood up and caught Frankie’s attention before she slapped her face hard enough to leave a mark. I said stop it. I meant stop it! She watched the surprise settle on Frankie’s face as she rubbed her cheek.

      Hmm, you wanna play rough. Okay, we can do that after the board leaves. Frances straightened her shoulders and brushed off her suit jacket. She walked over to Starla with a gleam in her eyes. Is my tie straight, Baby?

      Starla looked up into large, twinkling brown eyes before she caressed a reddening cheek. Did I hurt Big Daddy? she asked, adjusting her lover’s tie.

      Frances winked at Starla. Oh, you’ll pay for it later. She leaned down to speak. Better eat plenty of protein today, Woman. I plan on screwing you every which way but loose at lunch after I make a meal out of you. I might even ask that sexy little cousin of yours to help me.

      Frankie, please don’t go there yet. Let me feel her out first. She’s just a kid. I don’t know if she understands what we do.

      Frances licked her lips. Great. You and I can teach her. I’ve seen her looking at me like she wants to play.

      They both heard the intercom buzz.

      Starla stepped over to answer it. Yes, Lisa?

      Lisa cupped a hand around her mouth and whispered into the office phone, You two better get out here before they knock the door down. They’re really, really pissed.

      Two minutes later, Lisa and Starla escorted the four irate board members into Frances’s private conference room then made sure the staff kitchen sent more pastries and a variety of hot drinks, sodas, and bottled water.

      Hands steepled, Frances sat on the edge of one of the comfortable black leather chairs at her conference table and listened. She learned a long time ago to let angry folks talk and talk and talk until they ran down. Interrupting them just seemed to raise their mad to an insanely high degree. As she sat looking around the table, she could guarantee who would start the shit first. She’d been through this shit before.

      She noticed how Artie Feingold’s representative, Josh Goldman, always started the show. The white boy was what some people would consider ruggedly handsome with tanned skin, dark curly hair graying at the temples, and sleepy dark eyes. He was a bit shorter than average, which meant she could see the tiny bald spot on the top of his head. It looked like it was growing larger.

      Elijah Brooks was Black like her, but unlike her, he was tall and skinny. He always looked at her with a great deal of distaste and didn’t try to hide it. She guessed he was around Goldman’s age of sixty and close to retirement. She wondered if he disliked her because she was an out there gay woman or because he was loyal to the Jones family. She’d vote for loyalty to Vernon Jones and now his daughter. All of the board members had been invited to her wedding to Vernella, so everybody knew Vernon’s baby girl was a lesbian. None of them knew why Vernon encouraged her courtship of his daughter. She had a sterling rep as a playgirl. It didn’t stop because she was married to her fat wife.

      Kenny Wong was Asian. He was Chinese but acted more Black than his heritage implied. He’d grown up around Black folks and married a Black woman. They’d produced three great kids who were in college, just graduating from college or had graduated and were now working. With a background in finance, he’d been sounding the alarm for years about her reckless spending. He especially screamed about the office move from a lower floor in a different building to this new super expensive penthouse office with private living quarters. Everyone ignored his complaints. As long as she brought a treasure trove of wealthy clients, the shareholders would receive nice quarterly checks. Unfortunately, the checks were much smaller now. The shareholders screamed to the board. The board had to blame somebody and so she was the likely candidate.

      Then there was Ava Thomas, who was also Black. She was a young-looking late fifties or early sixty-something with a stark, white afro cut in very modern hairstyle. She was single and willing to mingle, as the saying goes. She was quite wealthy, having invested her father’s millions very well. Frances always suspected she was gay at a time when women didn’t admit that sort of thing. Ava loved it when she paid special attention to her, like inviting her into the private conference area of her office alone or escorting her to and from her private bathroom. One time, she discovered Ava snooping around the private bedroom located behind her office. She remembered how her dark eyes widened and her face flushed when she came to sit down next her on the bed. She often wondered if she should have tried to mack Ava. Older or not, the woman was wealthy and very attractive.

      Something happened to make Ava Thomas choose the wrong side in this dispute. She wished she knew what it was and how to turn Ava around. Kenny Wong and Elijah Brooks, she didn’t give a shit about. They were lost causes, as was Josh Goldman. He knew way too much about her personal life. That is, her bad marriage through Artie’s bullshit conversations with Vernella.

      She sighed softly.

      For the next forty-five minutes, Frances listened to all their complaints without interruption until she’d had enough. She had her staff make copies of her response. She’d put it together days ago because she’d expected this shit to happen. She rose then grabbed the folders and slammed them down in front of each board member and ordered them to leave her office. She wasn’t discussing this shit further today. Let the assholes read her response and eat it for all she cared.

      CHAPTER TWO: The first and only interview of the day

      Back at the house, Vernella went to her walk-in closet, sorting through rows of casual clothes, formal dresses and business suits with slacks or skirts, business dresses and matching jackets. She held several selections up to her neck in front of the mirror and frowned. They just wouldn’t do. Nothing seemed right to wear. She finally decided to wear a business dress. Once she selected the right dress, it was relatively easy to find a pair of contrasting or matching heels. That way, she’d look professional. It was what she usually wore when she attended board meetings, whenever Frankie allowed her to go, which wasn’t often.

      Frankie had her reasons. She made it clear early on in their marriage, she preferred a wife that stayed home and took care of their house while she earned the money. At first, Vernella loved it. She’d been on her father’s management team for six years prior to their wedding. It was a relief not to talk business from the time she woke up and shared breakfast with her father, throughout the trip to work, and at the work lunches she shared with him. Then there were the trips back home and the dinner meals she shared with him where they talked more business. To say her father loved the business world, investments, and trading was an understatement. She liked his world all right, but it wasn’t her entire life nor did she want it to be.

      She gladly went along with Frankie’s rather masculine worldview. For ten of the twelve years they’d been married, she went along with Frankie’s program. Lately, she was bored staying home all day. She’d exhausted re-planting the flower beds surrounding the house. She was sick of puttering in the vegetable garden she’d started in the greenhouse then transferred to the backyard. She’d finished designing and landscaping the grounds, including the backyards, the front yards, the greenhouse, the gazebo, and the two guest cottages. She’d repainted their entire ten-room home four times. She changed the furniture in it three times and redesigned several of the rooms and the guest cottages they never used. How many times could she redesign her estate, huh? She was bored, so very bored. The reality shows and cable television offerings were boring and dumb too. She was ready to scream. Something needed to change in her life. She sighed as she carefully removed her robe, avoiding the tender spots on her hips and lower back. She went to her lingerie drawer and selected a bra with matching panties, a slip, a garter belt, and nude stockings that were a perfect match for her skin tone.

      Thirty-five minutes later, with a new purpose and clothes, she felt ready to conquer the world. She flipped on the monitor and studied the screen for a moment. She noted four candidates that Izzy mentioned sat quietly in the hallway. They were all men. Two of them looked to be about her age. One of the candidates seemed to be a great deal younger. He looked barely out of his teens. The last candidate was older, perhaps older than Isadora. She guessed he was retired and doing something to supplement his income or fill his time. Either reason worked for her. She flipped off the monitor and strode down the hallway. The doorbell chimed as she reached the staircase and stopped. She waited to see who was there when Isadora opened the door.

      The white woman stood talking to Isadora for a moment before she stepped inside the vestibule area where she had a clear view of the staircase. Whatever the woman said made Isadora chuckle and then offer a hand to shake.

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