There was a knock, then a second. Owen heard a key in the door.
“Housekeeping.” When the maid entered the bedroom she froze. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize….” The cottage’s resident, Owen Davies, was kneeling on the floor in front of a plastic bin of greeting cards, sobbing, his whole body shaking.
Owen usually went for a pint of ale at the Red Dragon on the bi-monthly cleaning days, but today he’d been distracted.
“I can come back….”
“No…. Give me a minute. It’s all right.”
She backed out of the bedroom. “I’ll start in the kitchen.”
When he emerged from the bedroom she shut off the Dyson. “How long has it been?”
“Almost two years.”
“It’s time then.”
“Grieving doesn’t have a time limit.”
“I’m not talking about grieving. My husband died nine months ago; I’ll grieve The Pastor’s death until my own. I’m talking about her clothes in the closet, her toiletries in the bathroom, the chests filled with sweaters and lingerie, dozens of shoes and boots. If you bring a woman home and she sees Karen’s stuff, she will run, not walk, to the nearest exit. Save the photos. Pitch the lipsticks and moisturizers.”
“You’re right.” The Pastor’s widow wore a pale blue housekeeping uniform. Her hair was tucked under a bandana, her posture ramrod straight, her shoes practical, and her face expressionless. She was perspiring. “Would you like a glass of lemonade, Mrs. Wing?”
“That would be lovely. Would you like me to put away the Valentines?”
Owen was notorious at the Village as the husband who each year sent his wife a Valentine a day, from January 14th to February 14th.
“Karen kept every one for decades. She couldn’t bear to throw them away.”
“Romantic,” Lillian said flatly. “I’ll put them back in the closet.” She disappeared into the bedroom.
When Owen learned The Pastor’s wife had been hired, he spoke to the head of housekeeping. “We usually don’t,” she said, “but there’s no rule against it. Actually, she approached me. Apparently her husband misrepresented their finances to her, had taken loans on his life insurance policy and pension, and had a lot of credit card debt. She’s cash strapped.”
“She told you all this?”
“She didn’t have to. We do a credit check on applicants. Plus, I know a desperate woman when I see one. And proud.” She shook her head. “You should have seen her references.”
“I wouldn’t have to. I know about the volunteer work she does. She’s a saint.”
“How could I not hire her? But it’s awkward having her clean the apartments of people she knows. She’ll work the common areas and special events. No shortage of visitations and funeral lunches around here.”
He hesitated. “If you want to have her do my cottage, I don’t have a problem with it. We’ve never moved in the same circles.” He left without explaining.
At sixty-eight, Owen Davies was one of the youngest residents. Twenty-three months ago, his wife, three years his senior, suffered a series of heart attacks. Karen was briefly moved to skilled nursing before she died of heart failure.
Over lemonade, Owen asked, “How is the job working out?”
“I’ve found it therapeutic, restoring order to places, even if they are not my own. I have a half dozen residents I clean, all strangers, plus the common areas, special events, and one day a week I work in skilled nursing.”
“That sounds like a lot of hours.”
“It was my request.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “If you have a few more minutes. I made banana bread.” He bought over the small loaf, two knives, butter, and plates. “I have a proposition, a chance for you to make some additional income if you’re willing.”
When she sampled the bread, she grinned. “This is wonderful.” He watched her eat. Her morning labors had created an appetite. She picked up another slice. “Tell me about this opportunity.”
Owen set his half-eaten slice on the plate, then took a napkin and wiped his fingers. “So much for small talk.”
“Small talk is something you do with friends,” she said firmly. “I don’t know you.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugged. “I don’t know Lillian Wing, The Pastor’s Wife.”
Lillian put down her lemonade glass abruptly, spilling some of its contents. “I hate that.”
“You hate what?”
“Being called The Pastor’s Wife, as if I don’t have a name, or as if my identity is defined in terms of him.”
“You must hate it even more, now that he’s dead.”
“You have no idea….” She struggled to contain her anger. “Tell me about this job.”
“Campus rumors suggest your financial situation has deteriorated since your husband’s death. He’d misrepresented his retirement assets.”
She stiffened. “Rumors.”
“Timber Ridge Village is like small town America, tough to keep secrets. Excuse me for a moment.” Owen left and returned with a series of clear plastic folders and an accordion file. He set them on the table.
“What’s this?”
“I’ll explain, but first…. Are you Lily Pageant?”
Lillian’s anger dissipated. “No.”
“But you used to be….”
“A lifetime ago.” Lillian looked at the stack of files. “How long have you known?”
“Since your first day. Karen and I attended a mixer for new residents. You and The Pastor were talking with the Managing Director. I studied your profile: eyes, cheekbones, height, and figure. My wife caught me staring and demanded that I stop. Later, after I showed her pinups from my collection, she agreed it was you. She cautioned me not to tell anyone.’”
“And…?”
“I have told no one.”
“Thank you.”
He motioned to the items spread out before them. “I’m a collector.”
“I heard you were a banker?”
“Retired. Now I sell memorabilia online. It passes the time.” She waited. “There are fifteen items that I would like you to sign. I’ll pay $20 cash for each of the dozen eight-by-ten glossy; $50 for each autographed vintage magazine.”
“You’re offering me $390 for five minutes of work.” Her eyes were locked on his.
“Yes.”
“And nobody will know about this?”
“Not unless you tell them.”
“Not likely.” Lillian stared at the Sharpie. “Why would men pay for these? I haven’t posed for thirty years, unless you count the pictures with the confirmation classes I taught.”
“Lily Pageant is a legend. When she disappeared, the value of covers and collectibles climbed.”
“I stopped modeling when we married. I assumed nobody would remember me. That was the way The Pastor wanted it.” Lillian picked up the Sharpie. “Where do you want me to sign? What should I say?”
Owen spread the pictures out on the table, pushing aside the banana bread. “There’s a Post-it note on each photo that says who it should be made out to and if it’s a special occasion. Otherwise keep it simple. ‘To my friend’ or ‘To my fan Fred, Love, Lily.’”
“Love?”
“Someone paying this kind of money wants to believe there’s a personal connection.”
Lillian picked up the first 8×10. “How do you know these men?”
“I casually mentioned on my website that I might be able to secure personalized copies of Lily Pageant’s work. I asked if anyone was interested.”
“And these fifteen poor men responded.”
“Hundreds responded. I don’t have the inventory to meet the demand.”
“You hope to get more…?” Owen nodded.
Lillian signed a two-page spread from Black Silk Stockings. In the photo, Lily was leading a dark-haired businessman into the bedroom using his tie as a leash. She wore only seamed nylons and lace panties. “With everything that’s free online, why buy this stuff?”
Lillian signed a mint-condition Highball Magazine cover featuring her in a black bustier, thigh highs, and stiletto heels. She held a cocktail glass and stared wistfully at the camera.
“These men want to recapture the wickedness of their youth.”
“It’s not to pleasure themselves while looking at my bare breasts?”
“Well, there is that, too.” Owen flashed a guilty expression. “You were the epitome of desire. Boys and men wished their classmates, girlfriends, and the women at work looked like you.”
She shook her head.
“I sold my first signed glossy when I was twelve. Chili Williams, the Polka Dot Girl. I found it at a garage sale and sold it to a friend’s older brother. My second sale was a Janet Pilgrim Playboy centerfold. After that I was hooked.”
“So you’re not a banker anymore.”
“Technically, I never was. I owned five banks. It’s not the same thing. I’ve always been a collector. I graduated from pinups to signed first editions, primitive art, acoustic guitars, Tiffany stained glass. Since I sold the banks, though, I’ve focused on adult memorabilia.”
“This kind of stuff?”
“Yes. 1940s through 1980s — glamour, pin-up, pulp, men’s magazines; no hardcore, no snuff films, underage, or animals.”
“Well, God bless you for that.”
“I mean….” Owen stopped. “Oh, that’s a joke. Good one.” She smiled. “And if I find more….”
“I’d sign them.”
“Would The Pastor have approved?”
“Definitely not. All more reason to….”
A month later Owen touched base again. “I’ve found some more items, if you’re interested.”
“I am. Stop by my place after I finish work. I’ll make sandwiches.”
“That would be lovely. What time?”
“Come at five. It will give me a chance to shower.”
“What can I bring?”
“A bottle of wine…. I haven’t tasted alcohol in three decades, so make it good.”
“No problem. You’ve seen my bar. Anything else?”
“Actually, I’d kill for a good gin and tonic….”
“Done.”
Lillian lived in West Ridge 206, a studio apartment in independent living. Owen set down his backpack and his portable bar kit. He knocked. She opened the door wearing sandals and a yellow sundress hemmed below her knees. He’d only seen her legs in photos. She wore slacks in The Village. Even on the hottest summer days.
After he retired, Reverend Hezekiah Wing continued to wear dress pants, black shirts, and a clerical collar. He led bible studies on Tuesday nights and Thursday afternoons. Occasionally he preached at the Sunday chapel service, where he was partial to both hellfire and brimstone. She accompanied him, somber, in slacks, a conservative blouse, flats, and in the winter, a simple cardigan. After The Pastor’s death she led the women’s bible study and volunteered at the church’s food pantry and the thrift shop.
“I kept things simple.” She set out tuna salad, sliced ham, salad fixings, fresh sliced bakery bread, plates and wine glasses.
Owen decanted the wine. “Didier Dagueneau, a 2018 sauvignon blanc from France.”
She closed her eyes and inhaled the wine’s aroma. She took the first tentative taste, then a bolder drink. Her face flushed. “Oh, how I’ve missed this.”
Lillian’s studio apartment was Spartan. Owen had never seen the two-bedroom unit she shared with her husband, but he’d heard it was filled with religious memorabilia, lace, and classic Bibles on display. Seven weeks after his death, Lilian moved to the smaller apartment, cutting her rent by a third. Family photos, a coffee table, an oak desk, the kitchen table and two chairs, the bed from the master bedroom, and all the small appliances moved with her. She sold or donated everything else except for some things she’d moved to a storage shed.
As she cleared plates from the table, he dug into his backpack and set twenty glossies on the table, along with a fresh black Sharpie. Beside them he placed four vintage magazines she’d appeared in. Each item had a note attached. She sat down beside him and wordlessly made her way through the items.
Finally, Owen reached into the backpack and pulled out a worn copy of Playboy. He opened it to her centerfold and passed it to her. “And I found a garter belt. It looks remarkably like the one you wore in the centerfold shoot. I’m not saying it is the one, mind you. I’m just saying it could be its twin. That’s worth $150 signed.” He placed it in front of her.
She looked over to him. “That’s not the garter belt I wore.”
“I did not say it was,” he said carefully. “My only claim is that it matches the original.” Lillian smirked. “Is it a match?”
“It is.”
“Well, there you go,” Owen said, as if he’d scored a point in a great debate.
That amused her. “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, about the allure of these things.” She motioned to the magazines.
“And what did you decide?”
“I believe it’s about the immediacy of photography.”
“What do you mean?”
“A photo captures the present.” She tapped the centerfold. “In this image, I’m still young and alive. Your client is in the room with me. There is no sense of impending death, theirs or mine, only the intimacy of the moment. They imagine setting down the camera in their hands, then removing my stockings, and the thrill at my surrender.”
“Exactly. The last thing on their mind is the rate of inflation, gas prices, their high cholesterol, or the colonoscopy scheduled for next week.”
Lillian picked up the garter belt. “How do I sign this?”
“Could you slip it on for a moment.”
“Really?” He nodded. Lillian slipped off her right sandal and slid the garter up her leg. “It’s a little tight.”
“I guessed at the size.” Owen pulled out a print from the centerfold shoot, not the actual centerfold. “I thought you might write the note on this.”
“And say what…?”
“‘Kevin, it’s been some time since I wore this. I hope your memories of it are as fond as mine.’”
“And why would my memory be fond?”
“It’s the easiest $200 you’ve ever made.”
“You said $150.”
“That was before you wore it.”
“Well, there is that….” Lillian removed the garter and signed the glossy. “This has all been a bit much.” As Owen put the items away, she reached for her wine glass. It was empty. “I need that gin and tonic now.”
He set the leather bar kit on the table, slid the latches and unfolded it as she got ice from the freezer. He brought out two stemmed glasses with large, bulbous bowls.
“What are those?”
“Copa glasses. Some people call them gin balloons. They allow the gin to breathe and leave room for ice and garnishes. The stem prevents your hand from warming the drink.”
“Fancy.” She laughed. “When I used to drink….”
“You drank to get drunk, not for the pleasure of it.”
“That sounds right. The Pastor drank a single malt scotch every Sunday night. I was never tempted. When I stopped drinking, I stopped.” She motioned for him to continue. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Let’s start with the Henrick’s Gin. Distilled in small batches in Girvan, Scotland.”
“I remember Bombay Sapphire.”
“This is different.” He pulled out a dark apothecary style bottle of Hendrick’s. “It’s smooth and slightly sweet. It’s been infused with cucumber oils and Bulgarian rose.” He added ice to the glasses and opened a bottle of Fever Tree tonic water. Next came a generous pour of Henrick’s. He removed fresh cucumber slices from a baggie and added one to each glass.
“Cucumber?”
“Trust me on this one.”
“Because of the cucumber oils?”
“Yes.”
Lillian took the glass from him and sipped. “Heavenly.” They clinked glasses and began drinking in earnest. “Tell me again how you became a collector.”
“In college, I specialized in Bettie Page, before she got religion.” Owen paused. “Do you think the same thing happened to her?” Her back stiffened. “You don’t know what happened to me.”
Her vehemence startled him. “You could tell me.”
“Why would I? Every man I’ve ever known has disappointed me.”
Owen swirled the drink in his hand. “Even The Pastor…?”
“Especially him.” She drained the glass. “What else do you have?”
He reached into the bar kit for the clear hand-numbered bottle. “Leopold Brothers Small Batch Gin. It’s made in a 40-gallon copper still. They grate the orange zest by hand and distill the ingredients separately to hit the right temperature.” He pulled out two fresh glasses, filled each with ice and a shot of the gin, then reached for a small bottle.
“What’s that?”
“Blackberry liqueur.”
“You’re kidding?”
He poured in half an ounce in each glass, then added a fresh lime wedge. “Leopold’s Rocky Mountain gin and tonic.”
Her skepticism gave way to pleasure at the first sip. She set the glass down. “Time for you to put some skin in the game. Tell me about your wife.”
“She’s dead.”
“She’s not. You’ve chosen to keep her alive. I’ve seen your bedroom, everything in its place, the closet of clothes, the makeup, the bathroom cabinets…. You’re ready for her to step in the door. And what would you say to her if she did?”
“Pack up your shit, bitch, and get out.”
“I beg your pardon…?”
“That’s what I’d tell her.” Owen kept his face expressionless.
Lillian had seen him crying over those cards. “Tell me about the Valentines.”
“For over a decade, from January 14th to February 14th, I sent my wife a Valentine with a love note.”
She heard as much from the Village grapevine. “Obviously she saved them all as a testimony to your love.”
“We each had a failed marriage. We met in the Kellogg Executive MBA program at Northwestern. My family had acquired a dozen banks in the Midwest and I was being groomed to take over the leadership. She took a leave of absence from the security firm she worked for. They were poised for major expansion and wanted her to lead the charge.”
“You were under pressure.”
“We found release in the other. Neither of us asked anything emotionally. Sex was punishing. As study partners, we were incredibly competitive, but it became us versus the rest of the world. We graduated at the top of our class.”
“There was no romance?”
“We married, but it was all business. Love came later.”
“What happened then?”
“A decade into the marriage we were driving home from Thanksgiving dinner with her parents. A command performance. Both in a foul mood. She got a call on her cell. ‘David,’ she told me. Part of her firm’s legal team. Never married. A decade younger than my wife. I drove as she talked. ‘No, problem,’ she assured him, ‘my husband and I are just returning home.’”
“Letting David know she couldn’t talk.”
“That’s what I figured. The conversation concerned a recent lawsuit and ended quickly, but her voice changed when she spoke to him.”
“There was something there….”
“When she hung up I asked, ‘Are you fucking him?’ She said, ‘Is that a problem?’ She knew I’d been seeing someone from my gym. I wondered how many more there were. We’d never written rules for our marriage, only agreed in principle that it should appear to others as a marriage.”
“But now you were jealous.”
“More territorial. Then she said something odd. ‘David writes me love notes. You’ve never even given me a Valentine.’”
“So that’s how it began?”
“On January 14th when she got my first Valentine I told her, ‘It’s Valentine’s month.’ What I didn’t tell her was that I’d ended my own affair. To keep her, I needed to treat the marriage like a proper one. She seemed to do the same. Then when her terminal diagnosis came, and she was sobbing, convinced I would soon leave her for a healthy woman, I took her hand and said, ‘In sickness and in health…’.”
“Touching.”
“During her illness I thought she stopped the affairs.”
“But she just became better at hiding them….”
“Apparently she kept them brief and intense, scheduled around treatments and her good days. And they became mean-spirited and ugly, teasing her liaisons – both men and women – about my Valentines. What I discovered in her box were Valentines from her lovers, passionate and profane, with naked photos and flash drives of threesomes, leering comments about how stupid I was.”
“She’d obviously encouraged the narrative. You didn’t realize any of this before her death?”
“I suspected it when I saw strangers at the funeral. David made a brief appearance. He seemed broken up. But I didn’t really know until I discovered the obscene Valentines.”
Lillian processed this as she finished her coffee. She set the mug down. “You’re waiting for her to return so you can confront her and throw her out?”
“I suppose I am.”
She slapped her hands on the table. “Consider it done.”
Owen looked fatigued but resigned. “Now do I have enough skin in the game?”
“Ample.”
“Time to talk about The Pastor?”
“Almost. Tomorrow I’ll come by after my shift. We’ll start on the closets. The clothes can go to the domestic shelter where I volunteer. The Village shredder can take care of all the Valentines. Then I have a favor to ask. Maybe you could pick up sandwiches so we can work through supper….”
“Is this a date?”
“Hardly,” she laughed. “Not enough alcohol under the bridge for that.” Lillian walked him to the door. “You know, I’m not the woman in those glossies.”
“Good. Because if I told the boys at the clubhouse I had drinks with Lily Pageant, they wouldn’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“They heard she was dead.”
“I heard that, too. Maybe that’s what we’ll find out tomorrow.”
When Lillian arrived at his cottage the next day, her first words were, “I’m sorry I’m late.” Parked at the curb was The Pastor’s ancient F150 Ford pickup. “I had some shopping to do.” She was dressed in blue shorts, sandals, and a tank top. “I realized after work that I didn’t own normal summer clothes.”
“You decided to stop dressing like a nun.”
“I have stopped feeling like a nun, or dressing for my husband.”
“The one who’s dead…?”
“Exactly.” In the living room she saw the empty bin that had once contained the Valentines. “You started without me?”
“I got permission to use the Village shredder so we could focus on the closet. There was an open time slot.” Owen motioned to the kitchen table. “Why don’t we eat first? Classic Italian sandwich or a chicken salad?”
“The chicken salad.”
“Iced tea? Or craft beer?”
“The tea. Unsweetened. With lemon, if you have it.”
They struggled to make casual conversation about the weather, news around the Village. Finally Lillian folded the empty sandwich wrapper and asked, “Are you familiar with the passage from Ezekiel about the valley of the dry bones?”
“Not really. I know of it.”
She leaned back in the kitchen chair. She carefully chose her words. “I was the second of seven children. My father died when I was two. Five of my siblings were fathered by four different men, each more dreadful than the last. I fled home when I was thirteen. One of the ways I survived was posing for photography ‘clubs.’ After I began getting more lucrative modeling gigs, I stopped doing the clubs. Men from them continued to call.”
“It must have been difficult to handle all that attention.”
“Actually, I thrived on the attention, the parties I was invited to, the gifts, the promises…. But I was also in denial and drowning in alcohol.”
“How did The Pastor fit in?”
“Hezekiah was invited to a photoshoot at the club hosted by a member of his parish. I was the model, a favor for the host who had treated me well when others had not.”
Owen refilled their tea glasses and refrained from commenting.
“Fred introduced him after the session as ‘The Pastor.’ It was his first time at a photo club. He was awkward, bumbling. His camera was horrible. At first I thought women intimidated him. I suspected he was a virgin. I told the host afterward that I was not impressed. ‘You should hear him in the pulpit.’ He told me where the church was and when services were and warned me that if anyone in the parish ever found out about the photo club, both he and The Pastor would be shunned.”
“So, where do the dry bones come in?”
“A month later, I woke up on a Sunday morning in a hotel room next to a snoring drunk I did not know. There was money atop my handbag on the nightstand. Photos in his wallet confirmed he was married with a family. I found my way home, showered, and wondered how much lower I could get. I looked at the clock. I still had time. I dressed somberly and made my way to The Pastor’s church.”
“And…?”
Lily finished her iced tea and set the glass aside. “When he spoke, he commanded the room. The Pastor awed both men and women parishioners. He wasn’t afraid of women….”
“He was afraid of sex.”
“He knew nothing about sexuality. His parents conceived him by immaculate conception and denied that sex had any part in their marriage.”
“Did he inherit his hellfire and brimstone from them?”
“They set the bedrock, but he learned about demons firsthand. He was the foremost of sinners, information he shared with only me.”
“You were his counselor and cohort?”
“I was his harlot and his virgin bride.”
“Tough to be both.”
“I’m a talented woman.”
“Tell me about the dry bones.”
“Before I walked into Our Savior Christian Church, I’d become dead to the world, lifeless. I was modeling and making more money than I ever imagined; I could have any man I wanted. But I was also trying to wash it all away with alcohol and empty sex with faceless men.”
“But The Pastor didn’t know all this.”
“He only knew I was Lily Pageant, and that I modeled sometimes. He hadn’t seen the magazines….” She shook her head. “I don’t think it would have mattered.”
Lillian popped up from the table. “We can’t forget our mission. Come on, let’s take a look at those closets and dressers.”
When they arrived in the bedroom, she saw he’d bought boxes and bins and garment bags. “Why don’t you start on the shoes?” she suggested. “I’ll strip the bathroom and see what can be saved.”
Later they tackled the double wide closet together. “We should make three piles: Goodwill, the women’s shelter, and the Finicky Shopper’s Retail Shop. Some of these dresses will get top dollar and you can donate the proceeds to the food bank.” Owen liked the idea.
Finally, as they worked, he urged, “Tell me now the story ends.”
“Over a bucket of fried chicken in the parsonage after church he enjoined me to confess my sins until I was stripped spiritually down to my bones. He listened incredulously but without judgment. And when I finished, sobbing, he told me Jesus forgave me, just as Jesus had pardoned the harlot. He baptized me a month later. Stripped of my old life, I changed my name, moved into a parishioner’s studio apartment above a garage, and was hired as the part-time custodian at the church. After an appropriately long and chaste courtship, now sober, restored to life, and known in the congregation as Sister Lillian, I married The Pastor and moved into the parsonage.”
“And how did that work out?”
“He taught me the New Testament. I taught him the Kama Sutra. It was hard slogging. On our first anniversary I bought him a decent camera and began posing for him. That’s when our sex life took off. He was always uncomfortable with the thought of all those photos, those magazines, those 8mm clips.”
“And that worked?”
“I came into my own. Became the church secretary, but pointedly not his secretary. I taught sex education to the fourth and fifth graders, and confirmation to the teens. When he did couples counseling people accepted that I would always be a part of it. The Pastor channeled Moses in the pulpit. Marriage counseling left him mute.”
“I can only imagine….”
“Eventually he became restless, and then distant. He was frequently gone for hours at a time without explanation. He no longer kept the camera in the parsonage, choosing instead to keep it in his office. I suspected he was photographing others, which I confirmed only after his death. At the funeral, I knew. As I watched women approach his casket, I knew the ones who’d posed for him, though I was never able to prove it….”
They surveyed their work. “Let’s put the boxes and the dress bags for the retail shop into your van. We’ll load the rest into the pickup. I’ll take them to the shelter tonight.”
“They’re open this late?”
“A woman’s shelter never closes.”
“I can come along and do the heavy-lifting.”
“There will be help there. Besides, you won’t be welcomed.” After they loaded them the pickup, she said, “Tomorrow is my day off. Pick me up and we’ll drop off the things in your van. Then it will be my turn to ask a favor.”
“And where will we be going?”
“A storage shed my husband has been renting for the last five years that I recently found out about.”
Lillian showed up at his door fifteen minutes before Owen was supposed to pick her up. “I got restless.”
Assuming they’d be cleaning out a storage shed, they’d both worn jeans and scruffy shoes. He had on a chambray shirt rolled up at the sleeves. She wore a men’s oxford she’d found at the DAV store. “Thank you for going with me. I wasn’t sure I could do this alone.”
They dropped bins of clothes at the resale shop. Lillian had called ahead. One look inside the first garment bag and the owner said, “These are first rate. This may take some time, but they’ll sell for a good price.”
“Give me a call when you’ve had a chance to sort through them,” he told her.
In the parking lot Lillian asked, “Do you trust her?”
“I don’t give a shit. I want them gone. It’s like a weight lifted. Maybe you’ll feel that, too, when we’re done.” She gave him the address and they drove to the climate controlled storage facility.
Since The Pastor’s credit cards had been cancelled, the automatic annual renewal of the rental generated a phone call to her. She learned that for the last five years her husband had rented the same unit. “It’s expensive.”
“One of our bigger units,” she’d been told.
“I can’t afford the yearly fee. And I have no idea what my late husband might have there,” a lie that was not entirely untrue. She’d found the key in her husband’s possessions once she knew what to look for.
Lillian unlocked the door. Owen swung it open and found the switch. The musty space came to light. Along one wall was a row of battered metal file cabinets with bankers boxes stacked on top. On top of a small cabinet were two camera bags, a folded tripod, and a light meter. On the opposing wall hung a backdrop cloth. There was a loveseat and straight-backed chair ringed by three light poles and filtered spots.
Owen stated the obvious. “A miniature studio.” On the loveseat was a torn lace teddy.
“Poor woman.”
Owen propped the door open to circulate the air. He’d brought a small fan. “When do you need to have it emptied?”
“Three days.”
“I’ll make some calls.”
“We need to see what we have….” She motioned to the file cabinets. “I’ll start on the left. You do the right.” Lillian walked reluctantly to the far cabinet and opened the top drawer.
“Mine’s locked.”
“Try this.” She tossed him the shed key, which had a smaller one on the ring. As Owen worked the lock, she moved from file to file, shut the first drawer and did the same for the second. “You haven’t asked me to sign anything lately. Why is that?”
“All sold out,” he said, as he removed a file of manila envelopes. “Don’t have any inventory.”
“That won’t be a problem….” Lillian looked over to Owen. “My husband must have spent a fortune buying up every magazine and print with me in it. Dozens of copies of some. This cabinet is full of them.” She moved to the next, and then the next. “They’re all me.” She noted the expression on Owen’s face. “What have you found?”
“These should go straight to the shredder.”
“Show me.”
They moved to the dust covered loveseat and sat. He pulled glossy prints from the folders and fanned them out on the floor. She gasped. “I know these women: Sunday school teachers, altar guild, council members, a cashier at Kwik Star, neighbors. Spanning decades.”
Owen opened another file. “These are grittier. He paid these women.”
Two cabinets contained every sermon The Pastor had ever written.
In the third drawer of the locked file, Owen found three books that looked like diaries bound by a ribbon. As soon as Lillian saw them, she rushed over to grab them. “He told me he burned these. Told me my past life was best forgotten.”
The bottom two drawers had riding crops, whips, restraints, a series of lubricants now dried up, masks, chockers, dog collars, and sex toys. She picked up a Magic Wand rechargeable vibrator and flipped the switch. Nothing. She placed it in her tote. “We could box these if you’d have a place to store them.”
“I’ve got an empty closet now.”
“Would you like the cameras, lights, and backdrop?”
He considered the offer. “I would.”
“What now?”
“I was thinking Italian for lunch….”
Paul Lewellan lives, writes, and gardens on the banks of the Mississippi River along with his wife Pamela, who is also his best friend and accountant, after retiring from education after fifty years of teaching. They are raising a kitten named Caitlin Cat. www.paullewellan.com.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 