The Lie

By Pamela Hayes

Constance Pointer blonde, beautiful, and poor. She yearns for a better life. She meets Victor Levesque, and considers him to be the best thing that ever happened to her. To hold on to him, she tells a lie that will change the course of their lives.

Victor Levesque a handsome medical student who falls in love with Constance, and is crushed when he learns that she isn't the woman he thought she was.

Sharon Fletcher Constance's friend, a beautiful African-American transsexual, who craves romance and a family, and will take unique steps to make it happen.

Ted Taliaferro a gorgeous soap opera actor who is accustomed to getting what he wants and refuses to take no for an answer.

Sarah Pointer a bitter woman, who hates her daughter, Constance.

The Lie a sexy, witty, contemporary mix of the tried-and-true and the different.

The Lietakes readers on a roller-coaster ride from a shabby neigh-borhood in San Jose to an upper middle class one to TV studios in California.

Follow their ups and downs, joys and triumphs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2002
• ISBN: 9780595769391

Pamela Hayes

Pamela Hayes is a transsexual who would like to see more people like herself in mainstream fiction. She adores old movies, cooking gourmet food and traveling. She can be reached at [e-mail]. Drop her a line.

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All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Pamela Hayes

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse, Inc. 5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-24903-5

ISBN: 978-0-5957-6939-1 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 23

C H A P T E R 24

C H A P T E R 25

C H A P T E R 26

C H A P T E R 27

C H A P T E R 28

C H A P T E R 29

C H A P T E R 30

C H A P T E R 31

C H A P T E R 32

C H A P T E R 33

C H A P T E R 34

C H A P T E R 35

C H A P T E R 36

C H A P T E R 37

C H A P T E R 38

C H A P T E R 39

C H A P T E R 40

C H A P T E R 41

C H A P T E R 42

C H A P T E R 43

C H A P T E R 44

C H A P T E R 45

C H A P T E R 46

C H A P T E R 47

C H A P T E R 48

C H A P T E R 49

C H A P T E R 50

C H A P T E R 51

C H A P T E R 52

C H A P T E R 53

C H A P T E R 54

C H A P T E R 55

C H A P T E R 1

According to the time and temperature clock outside the bank, it was ninety-eight degrees. A cold snap compared to inside this broiler, Constance thought, barreling down the freeway in her father’s near-death Buick. The damn thing had been on the road for over a decade. All the windows were down, for all the good it did. Sweating so profusely would destroy her makeup. But she’d fix it at work, which was her destination.

Work.

Ugh.

She’d rather be heading to the beach, or a pool, where she could splash around in invigorating water.

She waited tables at the Wharf, a seafood restaurant, and she despised the job, catering to rude people, repulsive men coming on to her, the perpetual smell of flounder. The only positive was the great tips.

But the gig was short-term, just a means to earn pocket cash until that special man came along and gave her a better life. And the minute her Prince arrived, she would turn in her order pad. To attract him, she always kept her hair, nails, and makeup cover girl perfect. She wore clothes that emphasized her ample boobs and small waist.

Oh, she met men galore. Tall ones, thin ones, black ones, white ones, Hispanic ones, and they noticed her all right, but she was yet to encounter one who could make her dreams for a better life a reality.

Feeling the gas pedal tremble under her feet jerked her out of her thoughts. Rapidly, the speedometer plummeted. Panicking, and sighing, she steered the clunker to the shoulder of the road, and turned off the ignition. Although the gas needle didn’t work, she knew insufficient fuel wasn’t the problem. Earlier, at the gas station/mini-mart, she had put in five dollars worth of unleaded. Still, the damn thing died on her. She took a deep breath, and repeatedly tried to revive the car, but the engine wouldn’t budge.

Shit! she muttered, glancing at her watch. It was a quarter ’til one. She had to be to work in fifteen minutes. She vacated the car, went out in the tropical heat, lifted the hood, and crossed her fingers that some neighborly person would stop and give her a helping hand. But after roasting in the blazing heat for several minutes and watching motorists zoom by, she realized that wasn’t going to happen.

And she couldn’t understand that. She was pretty, a knockout. It seemed as though an army of guys should have stopped to assist her. Oh, well. She decided to walk to the nearest pay phone and call a cab. She slammed down the hood, got her purse off the passenger’s seat and secured the car. But from what? Who’d want to hotwire the unreliable piece of junk?

As she headed for the interchange, a shiny, red Prelude pulled onto the shoulder of the road, creating a dust storm. The car engine went silent, and its occupant emerged. Strolling in her direction, he said, Looks like you’re in trouble. His voice was soft and deep.

The glaring sun prevented her from making out the driver. She could only tell that he was tall. I am, she replied, squinting. And I don’t know anything about fixing cars. Wow, was her thought when she and the stranger came face to face. Boy had the ingredients for a Playgirl centerfold. Height, great face, and a body that wouldn’t quit. And he was her savior. But why did she have to be dripping sweat?

He smiled apologetically. Neither do I. All I know is how to drive ’em.

Well, why the hell did you stop? she snapped.

Taken aback, he chuckled. Whoa! Don’t bite my head off!

Sorry. I’m a little irritable. It’s hotter than a fireplace out here, and, my car’s acting stupid. And I’ve got to get to work.

He smiled. All’s forgiven. I can’t fix your wheels, but I can give you a lift to…

That’s very kind of you, but I’ll pass, she said, having no desire to become a crime statistic.

He shrugged. Just trying to help. He turned to go back to his car.

He didn’t look like a profile off America’s Most Wanted and she had to get to work. Wait! she yelled. I accept your generous offer.

They went to his auto, and he opened the passenger’s door, and while she fussed with her seat belt, he waited by the door. When she was all settled, he closed it.

Very gallant, she thought, loving the attention. The interior of the car was spotless, she noticed. Not a pebble, a gum wrapper, or twig in sight.

What are you going to do about your car? he asked from the steering wheel.

I’d like to burn it, she thought. When I get to work, I’ll call my brother. He’ll take care of it, she said.

So, where shall I deliver you? he asked.

I work at the Wharf. Do you know it?

Yeah. I’ve eaten there a few times.

He had never been there on her shift; she would have remembered such a great looking guy.

When they were in traffic, he said, If the AC is too cool, I can turn it down.

The air conditioning whirred full blast. Don’t you dare, she joked, relishing the cool air.

She knew zero about this guy, and usually she felt awkward in the company of strangers, but she felt at ease with him. My name’s Constance Pointer.

I’m Victor Levesque.

Levesque? That’s different, she commented.

French-Canadian. It’s pronounced La-ves. He spelled it.

So the q’s silent?

He nodded. I was born in Montreal, but my parents moved here to San Jose when I was just four. This has been home for eighteen years.

Which makes you twenty-two? she said.

He smiled. Aren’t you the little math whiz? he joshed, glancing at her smiling face. And his expression revealed he enjoyed the view.

And what red-blooded heterosexual male wouldn’t? She had lush blond hair; soft, blemish free skin; sparkling, brown eyes and naturally full lips. Some women paid big bucks for lips like hers.

Victor explained that he spoke French fluently. I grew up hearing my parents use both languages. And when I entered school, my mom made sure I studied French, and she tutored me. Do you know any?

She had picked up some words and phrases from reading. I know that fromage is cheese. Boulangerie is bakery. Did I say those correctly?

Not bad.

She smiled Merci.

As the conversation progressed, Constance learned that Victor was in college, majoring in premed.

A future medicine man, she thought, enormously impressed.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

Today, just isn’t your day, said Sharon, a fellow waitress, joining Constance in a booth.

Tell me about it, Constance responded, looking across the table at Sharon. I gave several customers the wrong order.

And dropped a vodka martini in a woman’s lap, Sharon teased. I saw you.

So did our overbearing boss. She threatened to hand me a pink-slip if I made another goof.

What’s with you today? Sharon asked and sipped her mandarin orange sparkling water, her favorite thirst quencher. Usually, you’re so efficient. If this place had Employee of the Month, you’d win hands down.

Man troubles, Constance joked, eyeing Sharon’s café au lait skin and mass of auburn hair. She just couldn’t believe that the gorgeous woman perched across from her was once a man.

Everyone in the restaurant knew, and Sharon didn’t give a damn. Some of the judgmental employees shunned her, but Constance thought she was cool.

I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Sharon said in her husky feminine voice.

I don’t. She carried on about meeting Victor.

Sharon chided her for accepting a ride from a stranger. Talk about airhead behavior, she said. Girl, you could have been raped, murdered, sold into white slavery.

Constance rolled her eyes. Sharon could be such a drama queen sometimes. Well, nothing like that happened. As you can see, I’m all in one piece.

So, tell me about this gent who made your nipples hard? Sharon joked.

Constance chuckled. Nothing Sharon said surprised her. The girl had a sassy mouth. Constance disclosed the 411 on Victor, practically drooling when talking about his emerald eyes and honey-colored flesh.

A yummy looking French-Canadian on his way to med. school. Oui, Sharon said.

Constance looked reflective. Yeah, a career in medicine will generate a sizable income…You know, the short time I was in his company, I got the impression he liked me. But…

What’s not to like? Sharon exclaimed. You’re drop dead gorgeous.

Smiling at the compliment, Constance said, I wonder why he didn’t ask me out, or at least, request my phone number?

Sipping her water, Sharon shrugged.

Constance sighed. My guess is he’s a hunk, privileged…drives a fancy sports car. He probably think he’s too good for a food-server who tools around in a beat-up Buick.

Sharon shook her head, and sang, There you go again, putting yourself down. You’re always doing that. She tapped her chest. Take it from me, there are enough people out here who’ll happily tear you to pieces. Don’t do it to yourself.

Victor didn’t seem snooty, Constance said, ignoring Sharon’s advice. So I wonder why he didn’t try to make a love connection?

Maybe he was just being a Good Samaritan. He saw a girl stranded on the highway, and gave her a helping hand. End of story.

Thanks! I really wanted to hear that, Constance said sarcastically.

But as much as she hated admitting it, Sharon was probably on the money. Surely, a hot looking stud like Victor Levesque had a ladylove.

C H A P T E R 2

Later that night, on the dimly lit parking lot, after the restaurant had closed, Constance strolled with Sharon to Sharon’s Ford escort. Sharon agreed to chauffeur her home. Constance was pooped and yearned for a warm bath and a good night’s rest. They swapped stories about whom tipped well and who didn’t, and the frequent visits this roly-poly couple made to the all-you-can-eat buffet.

A car horn blasted, interrupting their confab. Turning, they saw Victor waving out of his car window, smiling.

I assume that’s the dude who gave you the ride? Sharon asked.

Yup, Constance answered, feeling a sudden burst of peppiness. The sight of Victor had revived her. She and Sharon went to his car, and she introduced Sharon to Victor, wondering if he had unspoken questions about the stunning transsexual. But he seemed accepting.

I dropped by to see if you need a ride home, he said to Constance.

Oh, how nice, she caroled. But she’s giving me a lift. She motioned her head in Sharon’s direction.

Oh, gawd. Why did I say that? she chided herself inwardly. A ride from Victor was a way for them to become better acquainted. Smart move, Constance. How could she get him to reissue his offer?

Looking at Victor, Sharon said, Hey, I’m wiped out, and I want to go home, and get cozy. So why don’t you play her cab service?

Sounds good to me, he said.

Problem solved, Constance thought. I owe you one, Sharon.

Nice meeting you, Victor, Sharon said and stretched her head to the front bumper of the car, and rattled off his license plate number. Nighty night, she said and sauntered to her car.

Victor frowned and chuckled simultaneously. What was that all about? he asked, watching Constance strap on her seat belt.

Sharon chewed me out for accepting a ride from a stranger. I guess she wanted you to know if you tried to rape me or something that she had your license number.

Oh, a precautionary measure. Well, I’m one of the good guys. And you’re lucky to have such a caring friend.

They were on the highway. Traffic was sparse. The temperature had dipped, so the windows were down, allowing balmy night air and the sounds of frogs and crickets chirping into the vehicle. Fireflies twinkled like stars in a coal black sky. Constance stretched back on the passenger’s seat, and luxuriated in the hypnotic sounds. And then it hit her that at any second, Victor would request directions to her house. She didn’t want him seeing that wretched neighborhood. How could she avoid telling him where she lived?

Did you find out what’s wrong with your car? he inquired.

With her thoughts elsewhere, she mumbled about a broken distributor cap, and said that her brother had repaired it. Man, she wished she had ridden with Sharon. And simply exchanged phone numbers with Victor. She really didn’t want him seeing that ugly ass neighborhood.

Hungry? he asked.

Starving, she replied hastily. Grabbing a bite would give her time to dream up an excuse to keep Victor away from the vicinity of home sweet home.

✶ ✶ ✶ ✶

A short time later, they were sitting in a booth, in a twenty-four hour pancake house, enjoying scrumptious cheeseburgers. A few night owls were scattered here and there.

So, what puts a smile on that gorgeous face? Victor asked.

Smiling at the compliment, she said, I love to read. I’m crazy about Jackie Collins, Danielle Steel, Sandra Brown.

Biting off the kosher dill spear that had accompanied her burger, she considered that some people viewed her reading choices as kitsch, so suddenly, she felt embarrassed for having low brow literary tastes. Junk, she mumbled, apologetically. Though she didn’t think of the books as such. They had brought her tremendous pleasure. Her mother was a cold-hearted, verbally abusive shrew, and novels had been a wonderful escape from her nonstop nastiness.

I’m a Stephen King, Dean Koontz man myself, Victor revealed.

That amazed her. You like dime fiction? She dipped a French fry in a little puddle of ketchup she had squeezed on her plate.

He nodded. You seem surprised to hear that.

Well, since you’re in college, I thought you’d be pro Faulkner and Hemingway and would find a Jackie Collins potboiler a waste of time. She shrugged.

He made a face. Faulkner, Hemingway? Not my bag! Reading is important. And who cares what you read as long as you get the job done? And he found it amusing that she thought a college student would only be interested in reading important fiction. I know college kids who don’t read anything, not even the stuff on the syllabus. All they care about is the next keg party.

When the topic shifted to music, she said Leanne Rimes and Faith Hill were her girls. She also admired Jennifer Lopez. Victor appreciated all kinds of music, but the beats of the sixties and seventies—Lesley Gore, The Temptations, and B.J. Thomas had a special place in his heart.

It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to, Constance sang in her head, having heard the Lesley Gore hit on a golden oldies station. She wondered why a twenty-two year old would care about those musty songs. But she didn’t express her thoughts. Belittling anything Victor liked wasn’t the way to score points with him.

Crunching ice from his soda, he asked, So what do you wanna be when you grow up?

She had no career plans. Her goal was to fall in love with a successful man or one on the highway to success. But disclosing that might scare him off. She kept a journal. Uh, an author, she stammered.

He was impressed. You write?

She nodded. After all, there was the journal. And she had had passing thoughts about a writing career.

Maybe you can help me with school papers, he said. Writing isn’t my forte.

Sooo, he wanted her to help him with schoolwork, which meant he wanted to see more of her. She could live with that. Sure, she said.

As they chatted, and ate ice cream sundaes, there was an earsplitting crash of thunder. Constance jumped and chuckled nervously. Whew! Another roar came, followed by a downpour. Flashes of lightning briefly revived daytime.

The lights in the eatery flickered. Oh, shit! bellowed a male diner.

Having a window seat gave Constance and Victor a panoramic view of the torrential rain sweeping the parking lot. She was visibly jittery. Tempestuous weather always unsettled her. Victor stretched his hand across the table, and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly, making her feel safe. When Mother Nature ceased her theatrics, he took care of the check and the tip, and they went to his car.

Inching down the drenched highway, he asked, How do I get to your house?

She anticipated that question. Know the Safeway on Stevens Creeks Road?

Yeah, he said, nodding.

You can drop me off there.

If you have to grab something, I can wait.

She didn’t expect that. Well, a girlfriend works there, she said, improvising, feeling like an actress who had forgotten her dialogue.

After her shift ends, we’re going to her apartment. I’m spending the night.

Oh. Was Sharon going to drop you off at the store? he asked casually.

Uh, yeah, she fibbed.

He pulled up to the supermarket’s parcel pick up, leaving the car lights and the engine running. Constance turned to look in the store’s window, and saw a cashier, standing at her check-stand, reading what appeared to be a tabloid.

So, why don’t we go out tomorrow night? Victor suggested.

Her face lit up. I’d like that.

He proposed dinner, followed by Annie at the performing arts center.

Sounds wonderful, she said. I look forward to it. Again, he requested her address.

I told you I’m spending the night at a friend’s, she said.

I know, but I have to pick you up for our date.

Yeah, that’s right, she thought. Why don’t we met at the restaurant?

I want to do this thing right, he said, not crazy about her idea. So, I’ll pick you up at your house.

The very thought of him seeing the neighborhood made her cringe with shame. She just couldn’t allow it. What time do you want to go out? she asked, stalling, trying to think of how she could maneuver things to her liking.

He shrugged. Six thirty.

Well, I…uh will be at Sharon’s at that hour, she said, offering a song and dance about why. You can pick me up at Sharon’s.

A simpering expression appeared on his face. Why do I feel like I’m getting the run around here? he joked. You aren’t hiding a husband, a kid, and a German shepherd, are you?

Scribbling Sharon’s address on a rumpled napkin she had fished from the bottom of her purse, she laughed it off, saying he met her at a time when her calendar was full.

He accepted the paper, and for a long time, he gazed at her, making her feel self-conscious. Why are you looking at me like that? she asked.

Just admiring your beautiful eyes. They’re so bright.

Thanks, she said sheepishly.

What color are they? he inquired.

Brown, she whispered.

He shook his head in awe. And man, that hair…wow…your hair is gorgeous.

She privately agreed with that assessment. Her thick blond hair was one of her many physical assets. Everyone lauded it. Thanks again, she said, feeling adored and important because of his praise.

Mind if I feel it? he asked. I’ve always had this thing about long beautiful hair.

Go ahead, she said.

He stroked her tresses. So soft, he said. I’d love to kiss you, he spoke, sotto voce.

I’d like that.

He stretched to her and put his lips on hers. And she delighted in the sensual kiss, and the scent of his after-shave. Ooh, she had never had one like that laid on her. She felt sexy, and desired. And when it was over, she gasped, and felt woozy like she just stepped off a roller coaster.