“How did you know about that?” Bette marveled. “Nevermind,” she answered her own question.

“Alice!” they both said simultaneously and with great amusement.

Hunkered down in my bathroom bunker, I clasped my hand over my mouth in mock humiliation, and then, after a brief silence, heard them return to all seriousness.

“Bette, with your permission, I’d like to say a few words,” Helena stated.

“Of course,” Bette consented.

“First of all, I accept your apology. Secondly, concerning your continued animosity towards me, I completely understand. You can’t help but think I deliberately set out to pillage and conquer when I started seeing Tina. Nothing could be further from the truth. I know you have trouble believing it, but I never meant to harm you.”

Helena advanced slowly with her story, choosing every word carefully, aware of the awkward nature of their conversation. I could hear Bette’s gorgeous behind rustling uncomfortably on the leather sofa.

Considerately, Helena inquired, “Are you alright, Bette?”

“Yes. Go on,” she replied softly.

‘Thank God for cocktails,’ I though to myself.

“As I’m more than sure you are aware,” Helena continued, “Tina is a wonderful person. We easily related to one another on many levels. I was actually a bit astounded as our relationship progressed beyond a plane I never intended. I have many regrets about it. And I’ve suffered a self-condemnation the likes of which you could never come close to saddling me with.” She paused again before proceeding, “Bette, don’t answer me yet, because I’m not finished with what I want to say. But I do want to ask you to forgive me.”

I couldn’t see it. But I know Helena must have taken Bette’s hand to gently affirm what she was about to say next. I’d had experience with the consoling nature of her hand-holding. Based on her behavior in the past several months, it wasn’t difficult to surmise that Bette had become a broken woman. She was experiencing the vulnerability that the pain of a broken relationship and a life seemingly out of control often induces, much like Helena. I’m sure of this, otherwise I’m confident the decibel level of the discourse I was eavesdropping on would have been much higher.

“Bette, I don’t want to see you struggling to make a new life for yourself.”

A sniffle. I swear to God, I heard a sniffle. Helena Peabody had Bette Porter almost crying.

“Bette, I adore you. Alice adores you. My mother adores you. Everyone adores you. You are a strong, beautiful, fascinating woman.” Helena sought to graciously charm her from her sullen inclination. “Bette, you should have been there when Mother described to me your experience with the Stendhal syndrome that night in her Penthouse at the Los Alemendros.”

“She told you about my fainting?”

“Yes, Bette. You totally beguiled her with your enchanting sensitivity. Be proud that you possess such passion.”

“I…I…I don’t know what to say,” Bette stammered, attempting to compose herself.

It was so unlike Bette to be at a loss for words. And it was plain Helena had removed herself from the couch. Apparently, she was retrieving those shot glasses from Kit’s desk.

“Here,” she offered. “Bette, now, I’m asking you. Will you please forgive me for whatever injury I’ve unwittingly inflicted upon you?” Helena resettled herself on the sofa.

Oh, how I wanted to see their eyes!

“I want to, Helena. I really, really want to.”

“To us, then.”

I heard glasses chink. I imagined their heads tilted back, the rims of the glasses on their lips. The sofa leather crinkled again. I was sure they’d reached to embrace. I wanted to sigh in relief.

At that moment, I heard Kit’s office door opening. Oh, shit!

“Excuse me.” That was definitely Kit making her entrance. “What’s this?