Ann: The Married Years Ch. 12

"What? Why would you say that?"

"Because half of them are women, and you don't seem to get us at all. If you did, you'd know that what my store is going to offer will sell." Glancing at his left hand, she noticed the wedding band on his finger. "In fact, I'm willing to bet your wife would love something soft and frilly that would make her feel special. And if you were a smart man, you'd want her buying from my store."

She stood, reaching into her purse. Pulling out a business card, she handed it to him.

"What's this?"

"My business card, for the business I'm going to get someone to finance. I have a plan, Mr. Danielson. It's going to be successful. And I'm going to prove it to you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What's tomorrow?"

"Our next, and final meeting. You have an appointment with me tomorrow at noon at the address on the card. I'll be expecting you. Please don't be late."

She turned to walk out as he read the card again. "I don't understand. What is Henrietta's House?"

"It's called marketing, Mr. Danielson. Something you failed to address in any of your questions, other than to assume I don't have that covered as well. I'll explain more about it tomorrow. Have a good evening."

She made the long walk seven blocks from the bank in the center of town, down the historic streets toward where she lived. All around, everywhere she looked, she saw her heritage. This is who she was. This was where she came from. And the same could be said for Charles Danielson IV. His admission that banking was in his blood, and that he was proud of it, stood out to Mary Ann. She had that same pride in her family, and the business they had forged for themselves. In a way, she wanted to see that continue, and she knew what she needed to do to make it happen... if she had the courage.

Walking up the steps to her house, she stopped to look at the bustling activity across the street. The outlets were indeed booming. She could see buses parked in the lot, lined up in rows. Groups had actually chartered them... it was part of the advertising campaign they'd promoted. Billboards as far away as a hundred miles told of the outlet center, most of them stating boldly at the bottom that buses were welcome. She could practically see the dollars rolling in.

"Don't tell me this idea won't work," she said with a burst of determination.

Once inside, she went to the bookshelf built into the wall of the living room. There, she kept many of the books and binders she'd discovered left behind while cleaning up the house. Several of them pertained directly to the original business; the one she was looking for being a large ring-binder covered with grey linen cloth.

Opening it, she sat down in her favorite chair, leafing through the pages. It took her twenty minutes of research, but she was thrilled to find the information she was looking for. Flagging the pages, she put it back on the shelf, wanting to know just where to find it the next day.

She pulled out a second book, taking to a table by the front door. Placing it in the center, she had a jolt of reality come over her.

"Am I really willing to do this?" she wondered.

Unnerved, she scampered to the kitchen, to a filing cabinet that had been left behind. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out an old manila folder, the name 'Bonnie' hand written on the tab. Opening it, she shuffled through the contents, nodding as she confirmed her suspicions were correct. She grabbed a second folder from a different drawer, taking them to the living room. Dropping them on the coffee table, she plunked down on the coach, knowing she still had a lot work ahead of her to be ready for her meeting. But from the second she opened that file, she knew she could make Mr. Danielson see things her way.

He just had to be persuaded to part with his money.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mary Ann spent that next morning in a state of anticipation. She knew she only had one more chance to change Mr. Danielson's mind, and he was the best chance to get the loans and lines of credit she needed to start her business. In fact, he was probably her only chance. She didn't have ties to any of the other banks in town. If her own banker didn't believe in the vision she had, in spite of a rich history he apparently he knew nothing about, there was little hope anyone else in town would partner with her.

Her nerves were a bit frayed, and she'd gotten little sleep. She'd stayed up late going over the details she'd found in the books and the file folders, pouring over the information. The more she dug, the more she found. She felt like an archeologist unearthing ancient documents, and the revelations held within were startling. Certainly she could use what she'd discovered to her advantage, but she needed to make sure she could seal the deal. And in her mind, there was only one way to do that.

Her stomach was in butterflies as she lay in her bed, hoping to fall asleep. It was hard, because her mind was all over the place. Staring at the walls, she seemed to hear every creak; every noise. The old house was speaking to her, reminding her of what it once was, and the secrets it held. It was also telling her of what it could be in the future; the rich history it could share with the world, if only she could find a way to convince a man to believe in it.

The smell of the strong pot of coffee she'd made the next morning brought her life. The three cups she'd drank had her wired a couple of hours later. She became a bundle of energy, whipping around the home, cleaning and tidying up for her company. She did a quick once over to make sure she had everything she needed, all in the proper place for her to use in her presentation. Then she retired upstairs to get herself ready.

"I think I need a long hot bath instead of a shower this morning," she said to herself as she climbed the narrow staircase, past the pictures she'd proudly hung on the stairwell wall of her grandmother Bonnie and great-grandmother Henrietta. Each of them were dressed in nightgowns, lying on one of the beds still upstairs; their wide smiles showing how proud they were of their profession. She stopped to look at them, something she did often. But this time they took on new meaning. She knew she wasn't only doing this for herself and her future. She was doing it for them, and their legacy. She wanted them to be remembered for who she knew them to be; strong, independent women who took the world by storm and made a success of their lives.

"I'm doing this for you, ladies."

A few hours later she was in the kitchen having a glass of wine, when she heard the knock on the door. Glancing at the clock she smiled. He was five minutes early.

"At least he's punctual," she said as she downed the rest of the contents in one large gulp.

Setting the glass on the counter, she walked toward the door, hearing him knock a second time. She could see his shadow through the sheer white curtain covering the window of the front door. He looked huge standing there on the front porch.

Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. "You can do this Mary Ann. You can do this!"

Opening the door, she greeted him. "Good morning, Mr. Danielson. Welcome to Henrietta's House."

"What the... why are you dressed like that?"

She was wearing a see-through red negligee that showed off the lacy black bra and thong set underneath. The pair of black four-inch spiked heels was one of her favorites from the store where she currently worked. She wore them to complete the look she was going for. Her idea was to show him the benefits of the products she wanted to sell in her own place, and what better way than to model them.

She'd done her makeup in a way that made her look sultry; her hair pulled up high to show off her neckline, adorned with a black velvet choker.

"You said you didn't see the need for what I'm going to sell. I'm just trying to get you to understand things from a different point of view," she replied calmly, despite the way her stomach was churning inside. "Please, come in."

"Uh... okay."

He reluctantly entered the house, his eyes diverting to the floor to keep from looking directly at her. But with him towering over her, he couldn't help but see how she looked. She shut the door and saw how he was standing, which made her smile. Touching him on the arm, she got his attention, making him look her in the eye.

"It's okay to look at me, Charles. May I call you Charles?"

"Uh, yes. Of course."

"Thank you, Charles. Please, call me Mary Ann."

"Mary Ann," he nodded, a hint of a smile appearing.

"See, that's better. If we're going to be together, we should use first names," she said as she walked to the kitchen, knowing he was looking at her shapely ass through the negligee. With her wearing the tiny thong, it was totally in view.

"Together?"

Calling back to him, she said, "Yes. We're going to be business partners, Charles. I invited you here so I can show firsthand you why you want to be my partner in this venture. The whole point is for you to look at a woman with desire, like I can feel you looking at my ass right now."

He coughed; his fear over leering at her catching in his throat.

She laughed, never bothering to look over her shoulder because she knew she was right. "It's okay. I want you to look. By nature, men are visual creatures, and women know that. Please, make yourself feel at home. Would you like something to drink? I was just having a glass of wine."

"Wine? It's only noon."

Returning with two full glasses, she met him again where he'd been standing in the entryway. Holding one out for him, she took a sip from hers. "There was a time in this country when successful businessmen would have cocktails at lunch time. You're certainly successful. I don't think a little wine is going to hurt you."

He wasn't sure why he took the glass, but he found himself drinking it with her. He was more surprised that he found himself saying, "Mmm... this is actually good."

"I'm glad you think so," she grinned. Turning slightly in place, she opened the book on the table to her left, handing him a pen. "If you wouldn't mind, please sign into the registry. Right there on the next line," she pointed.

"You have a registry... for your house?"

"It's more like this house has a registry. It's a tradition I hope to continue. Sign and print please, just like those before you."

He dated it first, not noticing the length of time between entries. Printing his name first, he then scribbled his signature. Yet even as he was doing it he couldn't fathom the reason. "If you don't mind, why am I doing this?"

"Well like I said, I'm trying to keep certain traditions going. Its part of the presentation I'll be making to the local historical society. I've put in the paperwork to have the house registered as a county historical landmark. I have a meeting with them and the chamber of commerce next week. It's a pretty big deal, since it's going to be central to the marketing campaign I have mapped out. But I've been assured by a couple of people that the meeting is a formality. It's pretty much a lock that it'll be included."

She took the pen when he'd finished, using it to print her name in a space at the end of the line. He was puzzled as to why, but her comment was more on his mind. In looking around, he was having trouble connecting the dots.

"I don't mean to sound rude Mary Ann, but I don't get it. Why would the historical society care about your home? It's just a tract house from the early 1900s, isn't it? I just walked up the street... all the houses are pretty much the same."

"You really have no idea where you're standing, do you?" she grinned.

"Apparently I don't. Enlighten me."

"I'd be happy to. This house... Henrietta's house... was a brothel. It was a very successful one, for almost 60 years."

"Wait... so this was the local whore house?"

"Brothel, Charles. And my great-grandmother Henrietta and my grandma Bonnie were not whores, any more than you're a simple bank teller. They were both incredible businesswomen, way ahead of their time. And this house represents a lot. Come here... let me really enlighten you."

She took him into the living room, or what was once referred to as the parlor, sitting next to him on the couch. Opening the file folder, she began telling him the tale of Henrietta, and how she turned a personal tragedy into an incredible success story. She explained the circumstances of her great-grandfather's death, and how Henrietta had to make bold choices.

Filling in the blanks, she described how the house went from one woman using her wits and her body to make ends meet, to creating an enterprise that at one time supported up to a dozen girls. Using the things she found in the files, she was able to substantiate everything she was telling him.

"When my mother was born, Henrietta took a step back. She was still the madam, but she turned over the day to day stuff to my Grandma Bonnie. Bonnie took things to the next level. She started a profit sharing plan. See... look at this ledger. Look at the entries. Look at how she worked to ensure her employees were taken care of. She did that ten years before the textile company across the street did."

"This is incredible."

"If you think that's something, look at this."

She opened the other folder; the one with Bonnie's name on it. Inside were pay stubs, covering some thirty years.

"What are these?" he asked, looking one over carefully.

"What do you think it is?"

"She... they had a payroll?"

"Drawn off your bank," Mary Ann grinned. "A couple of years after she started the profit sharing, she actually started offering healthcare. Because of that, she had to do some things to make the business more legitimate. So, she hired an accountant, and they approached the bank. I won't pretend to know what kind of things they had to do to make everything right in the eyes of the government, but as you can see... the employees paid taxes and everything."

"Well I'll be damned."

"That's not all. The bank issued a full line of credit to the company that was set up, so they could cover expenses and payroll when they needed it. Take a good look at who signed off on it."

She pointed to a line on a contract issued on the banks stationary. There, at the bottom, it was signed Charles Danielson II.

"Grand-dad?"

"Oh yes. Your grandfather... and that's not all," she teased.

Rising, she walked seductively over to the bookshelf across the room, knowing he was watching. She made sure her hips swayed, accentuating her steps to provide the bounce in her ass she was looking for. She returned with the large grayish ring-binder, setting it down on the table in front of him.

She sat back down nearly on his lap, her hip grazing his arm as she settled in next to him. Her left hand went around his waist, holding him as she opened the binder to one of the marked pages.

"This page is for Charles Danielson, who I believe is your great-grandfather."

"Yeah?"

Flipping the pages, she showed him a second, then a third page, further back in the book. "This one is for Charles Danielson II, and this one is for Charles the third. Your grand-dad, and dad."

"What does this... is this what I think it is?"

"That would depend. If you think its proof that all the men named Charles in your family were clients of the brothel, then you'd be correct."

"Noooooooo," he whispered in shock.

"Oh yes," she smirked. "And if you compare how the entries are done with men on other pages, it would appear that at some point, some of them weren't charged anything. From what I can tell by the notations, it seems there was some kind of... well, let's be civil about it and say there was a certain quid pro quo involved."

He moved back and forth between the pages, looking at them, shaking his head the whole time. "This is so hard to believe."

"I know this must be a lot for you to swallow... but I grew up with stories of how things were back then. Men in power looked at the world much differently. Just like drinking during lunch. Sometimes, they came here. It doesn't mean they didn't love their wives. To them it was simply a transaction. And for the girls working here, it was the same. It was sex. And really, who doesn't win when it comes to willing participants having sex? Grandma Bonnie used to say they sold happiness here, and I believed her."

"Mary Ann, I'm at a loss for words."

Her hand went to his thigh, slowly rubbing it back and forth. He flinched at first, but relaxed when he caught her caring smile. "I know, Charles. But there's nothing to be ashamed of. I cherish the memories of Bonnie and Henrietta. In fact, I'm proud to say that they were the favorites among the men in your family."

"What does that mean?"

Patting his thigh, she got up again, retrieving the registry from the table near the door. Swinging by the bookcase to grab a couple more she'd tagged, she met him back and the couch, this time making her contact with his body more obvious.

"There are dozens and dozens of these books like this one, all organized by month and year. One of the house rules was that guests visiting had to sign in. I know that seems a bit unusual given the nature of the business, but Henrietta was a stickler for who she let in the house."

"I don't understand."

"You have to remember in the early years, she lived here too. And she was very selective. She didn't have sex with just anyone. They had to be clean, they had to be decent, and they had to be respectful of the rules. When she went from doing this just herself to actually bringing on other girls and becoming the madam of the house, she upped the protocol. The men had to prove who they were, and sign in every time they showed up."

"That's so hard to believe. I mean, I thought the whole idea of seeing a prostitute was it being anonymous."

"She never looked at herself as a prostitute, Charles. She was a business woman, and it was a transaction. So, she wanted a record of them. Some of that was for security. I remember Grandma Bonnie telling me about a man that roughed up one of the girls one afternoon. The police had him in custody within an hour... and with him signing the book, he was convicted."

"Even though she was doing something illegal?"

"The assault took precedent. Plus, a lot of the local policemen came here too. They took it personally that one of the girls got hurt. But that's one of the reasons why the girls printed their name next to the men they met with, so they could keep track. And they called them meetings. Look... here's what I wanted to show you." She opened the book that had been near the door, turning to a page she'd flagged. "Here's the last entry for Charles Danielson III."

"My dad," he sighed.

"He was particularly fond of a girl that worked here named Heidi; most of the times when he came here, which appeared to be on average about once a month, he met with her. But when I checked the transaction ledger to see when he first came here," she said, pulling out a different book and opening it to the proper place, "he met with Grandma Bonnie!"

"You're kidding. My dad slept with your Grandmother?"

"I think it would be more accurate to say he fucked her," she giggled. He blanched at her bluntness, until her hand returned to his thigh. Pointing at the book, she said, "And look here Charles... there's a little red star next to the date."

"What the heck does that mean?"

"It means your dad lost his virginity in this very house, with my Grandma," she laughed.

"You've GOT to be kidding me."

"Nope. There's a legend in the front of each book telling what the notations mean. The little black star meant it was his first time here. The red one meant it was his first time, period. It's not all that surprising though. My guess is he was probably about 16 or 17 at the time, and according to this book," she said pulling out another one, "his father was very fond of Grandma Bonnie. He met with her almost exclusively. He must have wanted her to take his cherry to give him some confidence."