Chapter 15

Sharon met with Sylvia in her office. She sat on the large, overstuffed white couch as Sylvia was finishing a phone call.

Sharon listened as Sylvia finished speaking. Sylvia hung up the phone and joined Sharon on the couch. Her eyes had large bags underneath them. She looked tired. Sharon watched her as she sat next to her. She put a folder on the table and spoke.

"Sharon, how have things been?"

Sharon was confused by the question. Sylvia never asks her how things have been; she simply tells her how things are.

"Things are good, Sylvia. We're on schedule to go to print on the next issue. We should be ready by tomorrow."

Sylvia smiled weakly. "Good. Very good. Did you hire the extra staff you needed?" Sharon opened her mouth but nodded her head instead of speaking.

"Good," said Sylvia. "I saw the layout this morning. It really looks good, Sharon." "Ah, well, thank you, Sylvia. I'm glad you approve. No changes?" she asked.

"No changes."

Sylvia looked at Sharon, then cleared her throat and said, "What do you think of me, Sharon?" Sharon's eyes widened. She sat up and said, "Excuse me?" "What do you think about me?" Sylvia asked again.

"In what way?" Sharon asked.

"It's a simple question, Sharon. What do you think about me? You can be honest. I won't get mad or lash out. Just tell me. I want to know."

"Well," Sharon started, "I have to ask first, why do you care what I think? You've never really asked for my opinion before."

Sylvia sighed. "Yes, that's true, but I'm asking now. Do you believe people can change?"

Sharon paused. "Well, Sylvia. I like to think people can change. To be perfectly honest, I don't think you're a nice person. I mean, you had me fire someone because they spoke Spanish. You rarely allow me to make any real changes or impact to the magazine. You've turned down the majority of my ideas or suggestions. And now you want to know what I think about you?"

Sylvia frowned. "You know, when I was a little girl, I got everything I wanted. All I had to do was go to my daddy. When my mother said no, I'd go to my daddy. I was his little girl. When I got a little older, he passed away. His funeral was a sight. So many people. I thought my daddy was the most well-known man in the county. What I didn't realize until I was a little older is that he was loved by everyone he came in contact with. He loved to help people. Make them better. He was very different from my mother. She was mean and cruel. She hated everything. She used alcohol and drugs to numb her from everything…including me. She never was happy."

Sylvia wiped a tear from her eye and continued. "When my mother passed, we were barely talking. She was a drunk and drug addict. She was an embarrassment. I was ashamed. She embarrassed me at my high school graduation and wedding. I swore then that I was done with her. But somewhere along the way, I picked up the meanness. I'm more like her than I care to admit."

Sharon didn't speak. She handed Sylvia a box of Kleenex on the table. Sylvia took the tissue and wiped her tears. "My father was a kind, gentle soul. He believed in all people. We lived in the South. Jim Crow times. My mother hated anyone who didn't look like her. Who didn't look like us? She hated the Blacks, the Mexicans, the Jews, anyone. She used her money for hate. My father tried to change her heart, but he couldn't. When he died, a part of me died, too. I started to hate, too. It was easy. I exchanged pain for hate. My mother chose alcohol and drugs to numb her pain. When she died, it was a scandal." Sylvia chuckled. "But you know the story. I sold her out for a story. For magazine sales. I leaked the pictures to Chatter, knowing the editor at the time would run the story. It was so perfect. I would play the victim and sell more magazines. My plan was perfect. I put on the performance of a lifetime. I fired everyone and then rebranded. I wanted to humiliate her, even in death. Why should I cover up her bullshit?"

Tears poured from her eyes. She wiped them, but it didn't stop the flow. Her voice cracked, but she continued to speak.

"After my mother passed, I went to the reading of the will and found out my father had another will. He had another family. He had an affair that produced a set of twins."

Sharon gasped. "Sylvia, why are you telling me all this?"

Sylvia looked at her. "Because I need to tell someone," she answered.

"Anyway, my father had two other children. He left them money in a separate will and wanted to give them his name. I was never told. My mother was most likely furious. From what I could gather, she did everything she could to stop the children from collecting their inheritance, along with my father's name. I could understand the embarrassment she'd face, but she went to great lengths to destroy these children."

"Why?" Sharon asked.

"Because they were Black. My father had an affair with a Black woman. She gave him twins. A boy and a girl. My mother used all her power and money to destroy them. They would never see a dime of that money. We didn't need it. But she didn't want them to have it. She hated them and my father."

"What did she do?" asked Sharon.

"From what I found out, and what the attorneys told me, she used her money to stop their lives. I don't know what happened to them. I do know part of the money was held in trust for years, no movement. I had a hell of a time gaining access. It took years. The money was to be donated to a homeless shelter. All of it. It had accrued interest over the years, and it was well over $500,000. I stopped the payment to the shelter. I don't know why, but I did. Part of me was hoping someone would come forward and protest, but no one did."

Sharon looked at Sylvia. "You stopped the money from being donated? Sylvia, why?" Sylvia sobbed. "I don't know. I just did."

She wiped her tears and looked at Sharon. "I'm dying, Sharon. I have pancreatic cancer. It's in the final stages. Over the past few weeks, I've been reflecting on my life, my friends, and my choices. I fired my maid because she spoke another language. Not because she wasn't good. She was a good maid, but I fired her anyway. I knew she was trying to build a better life for her family, but I didn't care. I fired her because I could."

"So, the twins. You don't know who they were?" Sharon asked.

"My mother saw to that," she said.

"But they know who I am. My father's attorney told me the will for his other children revealed who he was. They knew when they turned 18. My father was rich, and my mother richer. My mother comes from old money. My father was new money; it carried weight, but money and the Worthington name...well, that meant something."

Sharon said, "Okay, so give the money back to the shelter. Simple."

Sylvia shook her head. "I can't. I shouldn't even have access to the money. It's complicated. Believe me when I tell you that I cannot just give it back. At least not right now."

"Okay Sylvia, so what is it you want from me? Why tell me all this?" Sharon asked.

"I want you to help me find the children. Well, they aren't children anymore. I have a brother and sister somewhere. I'd like to know who they are. I can give you all the information I have, but I'd like you to handle it. I trust you, Sharon. I know you think I don't, but I do. I've come to realize that I don't have anyone in my life."

Sharon had a look of surprise on her face. "You want me to find the twins? Sylvia, I'm not a private investigator."

Sylvia laughed weakly. "I know, Sharon, but I want you to hire one and find them if you can. I want you to…represent me…"

"You have attorneys who can do this kind of thing for you, don't you?" Sharon asked. Sylvia nodded. "Yes, I do. I'm asking you for your help, Sharon. I know it's a lot. I do." "Can I think about it?"

Sylvia nodded. "Of course. I know it���s a lot. Know that I told you this in confidence. I really just needed a friend."

Sharon stood up and walked toward the door. "We aren't friends, Sylvia, but I do understand discretion."

She opened the door and walked out of the office.

Michael made his way to the second floor and knocked on the apartment door. He waited; no answer.

He heard a voice from downstairs. "If you're looking for Tallulah, she's not home."

Michael walked down the steps to the first floor. "Are you Mrs. Herrera?"

"Sí. You must be Michael. Tallulah left me the key for you. Come in, come in."

Michael followed her inside. The smell of homemade tortillas and chili verde filled the room. "Something smells good."

"Oh, I was just making tortillas for my grandchildren. I always make too much." She smiled. "Are you hungry?"

Before Michael could answer, she walked into the kitchen. She was still talking.

"Tallulah is such a nice girl. She told me about you staying with her.���

Michael slowly walked toward the kitchen. On the stove were two large silver pots. The oven door was open, and Michael could see a plate full of homemade tortillas. The smell was welcoming. His stomach growled.

She was busy fixing him a plate of tortillas, beans, rice and chili verde.

"Come, sit." She set the plate down on the table. He did as he was told and sat at the table. She handed him a paper towel and fork. "Eat, eat before it gets cold."

Michael took the fork and napkin. "Thank you."

"Eat, eat. When you're done, I'll give you the key. You need to eat. Too skinny." She smiled and sat down. He began to eat. She watched him happily.

"This is great, Mrs. Herrera," he said with a mouth full of food.

She smiled and nodded. "I always make too much. You young people don't eat the way you should. My grandchildren are the same way. No time to eat. You need to sit, eat, enjoy your food. Savor the flavor. Every flavor is a labor of love to be shared with others." She smiled, then continued. "I'll make tamales tonight. You and Tallulah will have them for dinner. She loves my tamales, so I make them for her. Do you like tamales?"

Michael shook his head yes, then continued eating and listening.

"Good. I'll bring it upstairs. You must eat."

He finally took a breath. "This is really good." He leaned back into the chair.

"More?" she asked.

He raised his hand in a stop gesture. "No, I'm stuffed." He happily rubbed his stomach.

Mrs. Herrera looked pleased and reached into her apron pocket. "Here's the key." He took it from her and said, "Thank you for the food." "My pleasure. No one should go hungry."

He stood up and smiled. "You're a good cook."

"Oh, it's what I do." She walked him to the door. "Now, if you ever get hungry, you come downstairs and see me, okay?"

He nodded and walked out the door, then thanked her again and went up the steps. Mrs. Herrera watched him make his way up the steps. When she heard the door open and shut, she went back inside and closed her door.

Once inside, Michael texted Tallulah to let her know he was at her apartment. He set his bags down and went directly to the sofa, where he slowly sat down and sighed. For the last several weeks, he'd been trying to negotiate with the printer on costs, but he wasn't getting anywhere.

Several of his advertisers were finding other avenues to attract customers, such as social media and technology-driven marketing platforms. He was finding it difficult to compete.

He lay his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He had no idea what his next move would be, and he never saw himself sleeping on Tallulah's sofa. As he lay there, his thoughts were about Zoe. How could he tell her he was sleeping on Tallulah's sofa?

She'll probably make up some excuse about being busy, he thought.

He went into his text message contacts and found Zoe's number. He sighed and put away the phone. He was looking forward to seeing her. He wanted to text her, but he didn't know how to explain his situation. He was embarrassed. He thought about canceling the date altogether. He picked up the phone again and scrolled to her name, then started texting:

Hey Zoe its Mich –

Suddenly, the door opened, and Tallulah walked in. She was carrying a bag of groceries. She set the bag down on the table, closed the door, and walked over to him and sat down.

"You look like shit," she said.

"I feel like shit."

"Well, you can stay as long as you need. My place is small, but you're welcome." Michael half-smiled.

"You hungry?" she asked. "I'm not the greatest cook, but I've got some chicken." "No, I met Mrs. Herrera. She's bringing tamales later," he replied.

"Yes, good ol' Mrs. H. She's saved my ass on more than one occasion. She loves to cook and feeds me often. She makes the best homemade tortillas."

"I found out. She wouldn't give me the key until I ate." "That's Mrs. H. She's sweet. I think she's lonely."

Michael looked around. "You know, I've never been here before."

"Really? Well, let me give you the tour. No need to get up. Living room and your bedroom, through there is my room, that door to the left is the bathroom – only a shower, no tub – and to the right is the kitchen. Tour over."

"I like it. But this is temporary," he said. "I'll be looking for a cheaper place and be out before you know it. So, how was your first article for the magazine?"

Tallulah smiled. "Oh, it was thrilling. I wrote all about makeup, specifically concealer and base. It was like nothing I've ever written before."

He could detect the sarcasm in her voice. "It's a job, T," he said.

"I know. Next up is diets. I've been researching the topic. I never knew there were so many diets out there. The article is due in a few weeks."

"Are you going to try any of them?" he asked.

"With Mrs. H livin' downstairs? Are you crazy?" she said.

He grabbed his bag and handed her a folder.

"What's this?" she asked.

"It's from Crazy Dave," he said. "I called him. Ask him to find out some info on your friend Lily." She took the folder from his hands and scanned through the pages. He watched her read and waited for her to reply. After several moments, she put down the folder and looked at him.

"So, this is what he found?" she said.

"Yes, it would seem Lily had a very promising career. Lived at home with her mother and twin brother Clyde, who was killed in an auto accident." "She has two last names. Duke and Blass," she said.

"Yes. Crazy thought it was strange, so he's doing some more checking."

"Do you think he can find out about the record label? All I know is that the studio burned to the ground years ago," she said.

"I'm sure he can. Right now, he's just helping us out. No fees. But if he has to start chasing people, then we pay."

She turned her attention back to the pages in the folder. She pulled out a page and held it up. "So, Lily recorded a record, lived like a hermit, and then just disappeared? Only to turn up homeless? It doesn't make sense," she said.

"I agree. Crazy Dave also mentioned they were some sealed court documents he was trying to get his hands on, but that would take some time if he can get them at all."

She frowned. "Do you think we're doing the right thing? Snooping into her life? Now a PI is involved. I know there's a story here; I just want Lily to tell it to me. I don't want to find out bits and pieces. Marc said I was digging in her business and I should talk to her before writing anything."

Michael smiled. "Well, you're a reporter, and a good one. Of course, the story would be better if she told it. A good reporter goes to the source. She's the source. The story will come, T. Besides, Marc has a point, but I'm biased. I like to get stories about people who are willing to tell them; less speculation."

"Well I'm going to talk to her," Tallulah said.

"So, how 'bout a game of chess to get the strategy juices flowing?" he said.

"Really. You sure you want to play?" she said.

"I'm sure," he said.

Mrs. Herrera hummed as she piled a plate full of tamales. She was so happy to be cooking for someone other than herself. She placed two big bowls of beans and rice into a basket and covered the tamales with aluminum foil. She put on her apron and carefully put the tamales in the basket, along with the beans and rice. She then picked up the basket and walked toward the door. As she opened it, her phone rang. She thought about answering it but thought it may be Connie asking her to cover for her again.

The answering machine will pick it up, she thought and walked out the door, closing it behind her.

She continued to hum as she walked up the stairs to the second floor. She knocked on the door and smiled when Michael appeared. He smiled and motioned for her to come in.

"Hola, Michael," she said as she walked in. "I hope you're hungry!" "If it's anything like earlier today, you have no worries," he replied.

She set the basket on the small kitchen table. Tallulah came out of the bedroom. "Hi, Mrs. H. Something smells delicious."

"It's just a little beans and rice, and of course tamales. I know how you love them." Tallulah walked over to her and gave her a hug. "You know I love your tamales."

"You're why I make them. Well, I'll let you eat your dinner. I'll get the dishes later." She turned to leave.

"You aren't eating with us?" Michael asked, looking surprised.

"Of course she's eating with us," Tallulah remarked as she walked into the kitchen cabinet and took out 3 plates.

Mrs. Herrera smiled at the two of them. She was all too happy to have someone to eat with.

"Yes, I'll stay."

"Good," said Michael.

Tallulah took the plate and bowls out of the basket and dished up the food. Once she had the plates full of food, she handed one each to Michael and Mrs. Herrera.

"Okay, let's eat!" she said.

They sat on the tiny sofa in the small living room and talked, ate, and laughed. Mrs. Herrera told them stories of her childhood in Mexico and how she came to the states. She told them about her five grandchildren and how she loved to cook for them.

"When they were smaller, I would see them often, but now that they're grown, they're too busy and never seem to have time to visit an old lady. I was so happy when Tallulah moved in, it gave me someone to cook for."

Michael took another bite of his tamale and said, "These are so good, you should sell them." "Oh my god, that's what I said," announced Tallulah.

"I love to cook. I was a cook and maid for many years. I'm retired now. I clean every once in a while. I cleaned a big house the other day. It was so big. Too big for one person. Sometimes I get very bored or lonely, so when they call me to help out, I sometimes do."

"Well, you can cook for me anytime," Michael said, finishing the last of the tamales.

Mrs. Herrera smiled. She liked being around them. They made her feel at home and welcome. For the first time in months, Mrs. Herrera didn't eat alone.

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