Coming Attractions Part 1

Coming Attractions.

Bobbi Marolt.

Synopsis.

It's been three years since Helen Townsend has made love to a woman, three years that she's buried herself in work as a successful columnist for one of New York's top newspapers. At last, she admits she's tired of loneliness, of being closeted, and her column reflects her restlessness. Enter Princess Charming in the shapely form of gifted concert pianist Cory Chamberlain, and Helen embraces love once again. But when notables from Hollywood to Broadway give Helen their approval to perform in a star-studded, all lesbian and gay show, will Helen and Cory find happiness when one yearns to break out of the closet and breathe free, while the other fears that will destroy her career?.

Acknowledgments.

Lynn, who horsewhipped me into getting this work completed.

Melissa, who I know is grinning (knock it off) after my protestations of a rewrite.

Pam Sloss and Terri Baker for requesting a new release.

Sheri, for another perfect cover.

Thanks, y'all.

To the performing arts and artists that move me.

From the Author's Messy Desk:.

In 1997, Coming Attractions was first published. Through the years, and for many reasons, I'd look at the book and wish I had another crack at editing. A few (less than ten) words and phrases were inserted that I'd never have any characters say. I also found issues with grammar, punctuation, repet.i.tion, exclamation points, and various whatnot that made me cringe, and all were my fault. If I only had another chance...

My wish upon a star was granted. Radclyffe forwarded an e-mail from a reader who wanted to see the story reprinted by Bold Strokes. Did I want to do an author's edition? Rad asked. h.e.l.l, yeah!

Be careful of your wishes.

From the first to the final page, the newer edition became a nightmare for me. There was rarely a sentence that my editor, Cindy Cresap, would have been happy with. To the aforementioned problems, add poorly placed modifiers, a sudden and brief POV change, dangling modifiers...the list goes on. I firmly believe if she read the original publication, she'd exhibit the proverbial run and scream into the night. She might have even slapped me, just because. I don't know.

I ignored the work and tried to pretend that my contract with BSB didn't exist. That was sure to catch up with me, and when it did, I had about five weeks to complete the project. Eventually, I was forced to buy another month from Cindy, because I hadn't edited another word beyond Chapter Two (you may now take a breath). Granted the month, I worked the words into a more acceptable state (I didn't edit the brief POV change) and sent a new draft-a week late.

Jump to edits. Not so bad after her critical eyes. Naturally, she snagged me on the different point of view that I'd left. Rewriting and relocating 4,000 words was tough, but I got through it. I must admit that the story reads better.

What readers will now find is a refined edition and one that I feel much better about presenting. There is a completely new chapter (taken from the original 90,000 words) that adds dimension to Helen. A second love scene has been extended, and many scenes have been improved upon. The story, of course, remains the same.

Personal notes:.

My working t.i.tle of Coming Attractions was Etude (italics intended). It's the t.i.tle I still prefer.

The original ma.n.u.script was 90,000 words. The original published ma.n.u.script was 47,000 words. The Bold Strokes Books Author's Edition is approximately 53,000 words.

The story still makes me tearful after all these years.

I must have a thing for the House of Tudor, as I've mentioned them in two novels.

The two Chopin pieces-"Polonaise No. 3 in A, Op. 40 No.1, Military," and "Etude Op. 10, No.3 in E Tristesse"-are my favorites, preferably played by Vladimir Ashkenazy.

Chapter Five is my pet. I thoroughly enjoyed writing Helen's obsessive nature.

Thanks for reading.

Chapter One.

Newspaper columnist Helen Townsend leaned back into her leather chair, held the phone away from her ear, and studied the buildings outside her office window. Steel and concrete were more interesting than the chastising she received from another irate reader. Today, her column defended abortion rights.

Helen half listened to the woman's song and dance, which included G.o.d, murder, and souls d.a.m.ned forever. Seemingly, the speech was Helen's private Muzak, cleverly disguised as the phone company. Enough was enough.

While the woman squawked, Helen cradled the handset on her lap. She rolled her shoulders and then straightened the clutter of notes, pencils, and stray floppy disks on her desk. Her computer clock read five twenty, and she turned off the monitor. For the night, she was officially off the company payroll, and it was time to go home. She looked at the phone receiver briefly, put it closer to her face, and then politely blew her caller out of the water.

"I understand your position," she said and kicked off her high heels. "If you're so dead set against abortion, then don't have one. It's my opinion that others deserve a choice." She reached under her desk and pulled on her sneakers.

A loud crash on the other end of the line signaled the conversation had ended. Helen shook her head and replaced the receiver. She would have appreciated one positive response. Where were her advocates? Amid the entirely negative reactions, a simple, "Hey, Helen, good column," would have been sufficient. She struggled with putting her jacket on and then flipped her hair from under the collar. "h.e.l.l, then I wouldn't have anything to b.i.t.c.h about."

Hers was just another day at the office and Helen liked her profession. No, she loved having the good, the bad, and the ugly of New York at her fingertips and then writing about them. She would never please everyone, but the job was fun and Sam, her editor, trusted her judgment.

Outside the building, the weather was unseasonable and she closed her eyes to a sudden burst of chilled air. She shivered and turned her collar up. That wind was much too cold for the beginning of October. With winter not far behind, she knew time neared for steady workouts.

"Women don't sweat, they glisten." She laughed to herself.

"Helen Townsend?" a woman called from behind her.

Helen cringed, expecting another save-the-world-before-we-all-go-to-h.e.l.l-mother-of-five-who-will-not-tolerate-abortions-or-any-person-connected-with-them. She spun around and shot a defensive look toward the woman.

"Yes, I'm Helen, but if you want to blast me about today's column, feel free to call my office tomorrow. Right now, all I'm interested in is a hot bath and a cheeseburger."

The woman stepped back, studied Helen's face, and gave a slight laugh. "Judging from your defensiveness, I a.s.sume you've had quite a column today." She glanced over Helen's shoulder. "I wanted to say that I took particular interest in your black sheep column a few weeks ago."

When she looked back at Helen, the intruder's eyes quickly drew Helen into them. Embarra.s.sed, Helen stammered, "I have to apologize. I've been d.a.m.ned to h.e.l.l so much today that-"

"Apology accepted."

She was close in age to Helen, but stood a good four inches shorter than Helen's five feet six inches. Straight, dark brown hair cascaded past her shoulders, and Helen wondered where it ended. A wisp of bangs hung over her forehead; her eyebrows lay erratic, and Helen was enticed to reach over to smooth them, but she didn't. She actually liked the look. The woman smiled easily with her naturally pink mouth.

Thick, dark lashes and brilliant emeralds of near-perfect clarity gripped Helen. It was a deliberate possession and she wanted to run but felt an impulse, a distinct need, to pull the woman tightly to her and seal her mouth around her soft lips. Fl.u.s.tered with immediate want, she was certain her blush gave her away.

"Be careful," the woman said with obvious amus.e.m.e.nt. "Between your look and your black sheep column, you're revealing a great deal about yourself. Good-bye, Ms. Townsend, and I hope you have an enjoyable evening." She turned and walked away.

A weakening rush overcame Helen when she noticed the woman's hair fell nearly to the middle of her back. Come back! Stop! Wait! Her mind raced. Careful. Black sheep. Revealing. She needed to have the statement deciphered. Helen quickly wove her way through pedestrians and the smell of street vendors' hot dogs, until she reached the woman.

"What did you mean by that?" Helen reached out, carefully grabbed the woman's arm, and kept pace with her.

Composed, the woman turned her head toward Helen and smiled. "I meant, have a nice evening, and I hope you'll get that cheeseburger."

"No, what do you mean about revealing myself?" Helen spoke directly to the captivating eyes. She wanted to dive into them and swim around to search for the intended answer.

"I mean your look could have easily been mistaken for a pa.s.s."

Helen was too fl.u.s.tered to see the pedestrian who b.u.mped into her and shoved her helplessly into the steadying hands of the woman. Blaring horns, the stench of exhaust, the intrusive b.u.mp of pedestrians-all of New York disappeared. Face-to-face, only they remained, and their lips were inches apart. A strong gust of wind blew the woman's hair, enough that it grazed Helen's cheek. The light scent of lily of the valley tantalized Helen. Perfume or shampoo, it didn't matter. Wondrous eyes consumed Helen. Torrents of heat tore through her and her heartbeat quickened into cannon fire. Those feelings, which at one time fascinated her, now frightened her. She stepped back and delivered a pathetic clearing of her throat.

"It wasn't anything like that," she said. "You have lovely eyes, and I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended. I'm flattered, and especially coming from a woman of your standing." The woman's lips parted and she took in a quick breath of air. Helen expected her to say more but instead heard an unsatisfying conclusion. "Good night, Ms. Townsend." She turned away and proceeded up Fifth Avenue.

Helen was still standing? How could that be possible when she hadn't even breathed in two minutes?

"Wait!" She sounded desperate, but she couldn't let the woman go. "Do you have a name?"

"Yes," she answered over her shoulder and continued her walk.

"Yes?" Helen repeated and scowled. "That's a lovely name, smart-a.s.s." As her facial muscles relaxed, she corrected herself, and the woman fully disappeared into the crowd. "She's a lovely smart-a.s.s."

Helen turned around and headed south. She had no time for games and tried to write off the encounter as just another New York minute, but she couldn't disregard the immediacy of her desire. Don't go there. Chasing turns to caring turns to loving turns to leaving. Comfort and satisfaction came from her work, and she was now used to the single life. That was all she needed.

She searched her home computer files for the black sheep column and finished a take-out burger while she waited for the soft hum of the printer to stop.

Helen pulled the page from the tray and went into her bedroom. She stripped herself of confining office clothes and slipped into a fine black satin robe. Too cold. She tore it off and threw it to the chair. She then grabbed the vanilla terry cloth robe, pulled the cuddly garment around her, and stretched belly first onto the bed. She grabbed the paper from the nightstand and scanned the printed page, which she mumbled aloud.

"...children who stray from the supposed normalcy of family life...moved away...never married...brother is attorney...black sheep receive questions from intolerant families...no clear answers...fear of being ostracized. What if a father asks his thirty-six-year-old daughter why she hasn't married? How can she tell him of her preference for women when his att.i.tude is that all h.o.m.os.e.xuals should be shot?"

Helen put the page down and propped herself on one elbow. "I think Ms. Green Eyes is a d.y.k.e."

She looked back at the paper on the bed. Written two months ago, that column was her expression of restlessness, her way of giving voice to her own anger for allowing herself to remain in the closet. It hadn't been her coming out column, though. She wasn't ready then. Now she was ready and expected to do it with both barrels smoking. What she really wanted to say in the black sheep column, and what she fervently wanted to say now, was, "News flash: I'm a d.y.k.e. Print that baby on the front page and don't get the name wrong. It's Helen, and why not capitalize that L?" She sighed. "Yeah, right. An active lesbian, no, but I still deserve my rights."

Although her desire was based entirely on women, men weren't absent in her life. There was, for instance, Tom Winsloe, whom she affectionately called Tucson, after his hometown. He was a rugged, handsome man and to see him you wouldn't know he was, in his own words, "just another f.a.g." Holding membership within New York's finest press corps, they attended social functions together. An occasional photograph of the two of them hand in hand kept the nosy at bay.

Helen had met Chelsea through Tucson. "She's the perfect woman for you," he said. "She's intelligent, artistic, and the funniest woman this side of the Mississippi."

"Absolutely not," she said to his suggestion for a blind date, and leaned back against the rail of the ferry that transported them from Ellis Island.

"You have to trust me, Helen."

"Trust you? Your last perfect woman wouldn't keep her hands off of me." She pointed to the imposing Statue of Liberty behind him. "I'd have felt safer with someone green."

"PMS. Loss of hormone control," he said.

Helen was ready to toss him overboard. "I beg your pardon. That Amazon had a tattoo of a serpent on her thigh." She shook her head vigorously at the memory of wrestling away from the arms of the snake woman. "Keep your perfect date away from me."

When he had shown her a photo of a woman with soft, curly blond hair, Helen found her adorable. She happily gave in to an introduction, and Tucson found redemption. Neither Helen nor Chelsea had experienced such a loving and full relationship before they'd met. After three years together, they were ready for the long haul when the love of Helen's life heard a medical diagnosis that held no promises of happily ever after.

Helen remembered Chelsea's final months.

"Pancreatic cancer," Dr. Teresa Santos said. "Chelsea, I want you to see an oncologist at Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center."

A shock wave ripped through Helen. She gripped Chelsea's hand and their eyes met. Chelsea was strong, but she remained quiet. Helen saw tremors on her lip, tears she tried to hold back, and the urgency in her eyes that pleaded for help.

Helen's throat choked her words. "Cancer is curable," she said. "We'll fight it and you'll beat it." Chelsea would not die. Helen wouldn't allow it. She turned to the doctor. "There's therapy, right? Radiation? Chemo?"

Helen saw no mercy in Dr. Santos's eyes. What was wrong with her? The physician's job was to ensure the life of the woman Helen loved. Find a pill, d.a.m.n it. Create a miracle. Bombard Chelsea with enough radiation to make Marie Curie stand up from her grave and applaud. Dear G.o.d, don't take Chelsea's life.

Dr. Santos laced her fingers together; the tips of her index fingers rested on her lips, thumbs supported her chin. This is the church and this is the steeple. An unheard prayer to the G.o.ds of medicine? She sat back and rested her hands on the arms of her chair. She looked at Helen and then at Chelsea.

"Chelsea, I won't mislead you."

Abruptly, Helen leaned forward. "Mislead her how?"

Chelsea pulled her back in the seat. "Let her finish," she said quietly.

"Dr. h.e.l.lman-the oncologist-can provide therapy, but the disease isn't one we've treated with much success."

"What the h.e.l.l is that supposed to mean?" Helen shouted, ready to whisk Chelsea out of the office. It wasn't Dr. Santos's job to impose a death sentence.

Chelsea remained firm. "Let her finish. I have to hear the bottom line."

Dr. Santos gave Chelsea a year. Reality proved her over-optimistic.

Shove a stick of b.u.t.ter in a microwave oven for a minute. Watch while an unseen aggressor transforms the solid to liquid. Witness how quickly the molecules of fat speed up, scatter, and soon lie unrecognizable. You jam your finger on the stop b.u.t.ton, but it doesn't work. You yank the handle, but the door won't give. You pound the gla.s.s, slam the top, rip the plug from the wall, but you've lost control and the process continues relentlessly.

Helen could only watch while the disease devoured Chelsea. A beautiful, vital woman melted into sunken features, the ravages of a starved body. Food, fluid, chemicals-none was an ally. There were no allies. Useless radiation treatments weakened her. Vomiting from chemicals had increased pain, drained life, and she struggled to remain alive.