From Chapter Two

The Merchant of Venus

Introduction

Excerpts:

Prologue

From Chapter Two

From Chapter Two (cont.)

From Chapter Three

An Interview with the Author

The Merchant of Venus
An Excerpt from Chapter Two

By Ellen Hart

Cordelia sat before the lit dressing table in her fifth-floor loft, carefully applying a new glitter shadow pencil she'd recently bought at Dayton's. Selecting a small fluff brush from the makeup tools in the top drawer, she began to experiment with the color -- Midnight Magnolia. Sort of lavender meets pink trailer-park trash, one of Bon Femme's older, more sedate shades.

She'd arrived home a few minutes ago, in a mood to celebrate her good news, though if she popped a bottle of bubbly and invited a bunch of friends over to share the moment, she doubted any of them would show.

Since morning, a good eight inches of snow had fallen on the city. The radio said three more would fall by midnight. It was the kind of night to stay home in front of a roaring fire and drink cocoa, not take your life in your hands by braving the wind, the frozen roads, and the idiot drivers who roared around town skidding through stoplights in their SUVs, behaving as if it were mid-July. Even though the winter weather had nixed her plans, at least she could dress for the non-occasion. Once her eyes were glittered to her complete satisfaction, she intended to party down.

For months, Cordelia had been kept in suspense about her contract at the Allen Grimby Repertory Theatre. Would she be asked to continue as the artistic director, or would she be out on the streets come January first?

Minnesotans might be an idiosyncratic breed, one foot planted firmly in Lake Woebegon and the other in cyberspace, but they loved the arts. Cordelia couldn't imagine that any other regional theatre would allow her the creative latitude the Grimby had. Not only had she been keeping her fingers crossed, but her eyes and ears open, hoping to ferret out the board's final decision before the official announcement at the end of the year. Earlier tonight, she'd received word -- via the highly reliable janitor's grapevine -- that she was going to be offered another three-year contract. She felt instantly triumphant. She'd been deeply worried that her critics would starve this winter. Now they'd have so much crow to eat, they wouldn't need to leave their caves until spring.

Also, the news couldn't have come at a better time.

Over the years, Cordelia had risen to the status of theatrical diva in Minnesota. She loved being one of the local glitterati, being a mover and shaker in this nationally respected theatre scene. She might be a transplanted New Englander -- she'd lived in Minnesota since her parents moved from Boston to St. Paul before her junior year of high school -- but this was home now. If she'd been forced to look elsewhere for a similar position, she most likely would have had to relocate. That would mean leaving her friends -- and most importantly, her best friend, Jane -- behind. Jane was still recovering from a serious head injury, as well as the loss of a lover. She needed Cordelia right now, needed her steady hand and sage advice.

Cordelia was nothing if not sage.

Back in the seventies, when Cordelia had been attending the University of Minnesota, she'd written a column for the school newspaper -- "Ask Auntie Cordelia." In it, she'd brought to bear the full weight of her nineteen years of wisdom on the problems of student life. Jane, of course, thought Cordelia merely liked telling people what to do. Cordelia forgave Jane that unflattering characterization, as any good friend would, but as her penance, she made sure that Jane read every column from beginning to end. If she recalled correctly, she dealt with such fascinating topics as:

Should I try a bong, or just use the traditional roach clip?

Why don't my parents understand how much I need my space?

If I own a Paul Anka record, is it best to keep it under my bed where no one can see it, or should I destroy the evidence?

What should I say to my mother now that she's discovered I've tie-dyed all my underwear -- the expensive stuff she bought for me at Dayton's?

All question of great pith and moment. But Cordelia felt she was at the peak of her form when it came to matters of the heart. She'd always known she was a free spirit living in a world of dreary Calvinists. She felt that perspective gave her a definite edge in the advice biz. Even today, she still possessed an uncanny ability to bring forth order out of romantic chaos. She might not have the best track record with her own love life, but that didn't mean she couldn't give advice -- help the needy. That's why she couldn't leave Jane, not until her love life was back on track. At the rate Jane had been going, it might take years.

With one last fluff of her makeup brush, Cordelia got up and sashayed into the kitchen. She knew she had a bottle of champagne somewhere, she just had to find it. She simply had to celebrate, even if the forces of nature forced her to do it alone. She might even make a ham sandwich to go with the... ah, yes. A bottle of Asti Spumonti. Perfect. Just as she popped the cork, she heard the doorbell ring.

"Uno momento," she called, rushing back through the living room. Tipping the scales at well over two hundred pounds, Cordelia wasn't much for aerobic exercise, though the size of her loft kept her on her toes.

It didn't matter who'd come to call. Neighbor or delivery boy, she intended to drag the poor sap inside and insist on sharing a drink. Quickly lighting two candles, she switched on the track lighting, softly illuminating the entire loft, then picked up Lucifer and Blanche Du Bois, two of her cats. Fortified by mounds of fur, she flung back the door.

Her smile faded instantly.

"You don't look very happy to see me."

"What are you doing here?"

"Not much of a welcome. Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Why should I?"

"Try simple manners."

Cordelia glared.

"How about... we haven't spoken in eight years."

"There's a reason for that," said Cordelia, eyeing her sister, Octavia, wondering just what fresh hell had brought her to Minnesota. Octavia looked good, as usual. Healthy. Exceedingly blond and glamorous. She might impress an audience, but she didn't impress Cordelia. Octavia had always been able to break people's hearts with that innocent, tragic look of hers. Sad that such talent belonged to a woman of overpowering shallowness. Glancing down, Cordelia spied a suitcase. "Let me guess. You've become a Fuller Brush man. You're selling hairbrushes now, door-to-door."