Authors: Holly Caster
CHAPTER 14
Michael waited on the corner of Amsterdam and Eightieth, trying not to search for her face in the crowd. He attempted a cool New Yorker stance, but when he saw her halfway up the block just seconds before she saw him, he wanted to run to her. When she saw him, and her plain street face lit up with a smile she couldn’t suppress, his nonchalance vanished. She walked a little quicker, too, and they met in the middle of the block.
Puffing, they stopped just short of embracing in the street. She said, “Hi!”
“Hello, Joanna.”
What was it about his voice that affected her so? They stood for a moment, smiling at each other. She said, “Want to walk? Looks like rain though.”
“I brought my umbrella.”
“I didn’t.”
“I’ll share.”
They walked without talking, happy simply to be
together, and entered Central Park. They felt some rain
drops. He said, “Anyplace in particular?” as he opened
the umbrella.
“East?”
They walked, slightly awkwardly. Although the umbrella
necessitated closeness, she didn’t want to appear “together” in an area so near to where friends and neighbors might see them. And being so close to each other but not close enough was a form of torture.
He said, “How was your week? The Excelsior seems months ago.”
“Yes,” she said, happy to make conversation. “My big project is done. I met all my deadlines. That’s a first. I’ll be able to catch up on emails and get through some of the journals stacked on my desk. My next assignment is a diabetes drug, so I have to read up, learn everything I can.”
The park was pleasantly crowded, despite the rain, which was getting heavier. Her shoulder was getting wet so she moved closer to him and linked her arm through his elbow. They watched kids run around, smelled vendors’ foods, and heard snatches of conversations, music from boom boxes, and street performers.
He said, “I imagine you’d get a sense of fulfillment knowing you’re educating people. Your work could help save lives.”
“Not really, but you are putting a positive spin on me helping pharmaceutical companies make money.” She paused. “This last project did save one life, mine. Or rather my sanity.” Inside, under the dome of his umbrella, it was almost private. Intimate.
They strolled without looking at each other. He said, “I’m sorry meeting me made your life harder. That’s pretty much the opposite of what I’d want, you know.”
“I know.”
His hand, warm and soft, covered hers, his fingers lightly stroking her. They came to more secluded pathways in the park. She held onto him tighter. The rain, and the need for the umbrella, somehow legitimizing their closeness. On an empty path, he drew her off to the side of a large rock and lowered the umbrella over them. They were instantly in each other’s arms. She nuzzled his neck, loving his smell and the feel of his skin. He kissed her head, inching his way towards her lips, longing to put an end to their separation. They were about to kiss when a large group of laughing and chatting teenagers walked past them and they broke apart. When alone again, Joanna buried her face
again in Michael’s neck. She stayed in the safety and privacy
of his arms and he rocked her slowly. “It’ll be okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, his lips grazing her hair, until her tense body relaxed.
They walked. After awhile he said, “Hey, did I ever tell you, in the years and years we’ve known each other, that I wanted to be an artist, during my enforced years in med school and before writing took over my life?”
The rain had stopped and as much as he didn’t want to, he closed the umbrella and they walked a little farther apart.
“You’re a regular Renaissance man.”
“Unfortunately I was as skilled an artist as I was a pre-med student.”
“At least you gave your dreams a try.”
“I like that. Thank you. My ex-wife used to say I was
unfocused and fickle. She liked the
eff eff
sound of it I think.”
More comfortable quiet followed. “I’m getting hungry,” she said. “I forgot to have breakfast.”
“Well, there’s hot dogs from a cart, if you’re feeling adventurous, or we can dine like sophisticated New Yorkers at the Met.”
“I’m feeling very sophisticated right now.”
“The Met it is. Feel like seeing some art first? I’m a member, and…”
“Ooh, a member are you?”
“Mock me and I won’t let you use my ten percent discount at the gift shop.”
They walked across the park, pointing out an especially interesting tree, or cute dog, to Fifth Avenue and headed north to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After having their bags indifferently searched for explosives by tired security guards, they walked to the admissions booth. Holding his membership card up for all to see, Michael puffed his chest out with pride: “I’m a member,” he said to the pretty girl behind the counter. Joanna couldn’t help but laugh. “Where to?”
“You pick.”
They headed south and up a few flights in the huge museum and found the room full of Toulouse-Lautrec’s work. It was dark and moody in there. Joanna walked over to one, “This is one of my favorites. Although I think I love his posters even more. Jane Avril or La Goulue. Don’t look so shocked. My favorite class ever was art history. The other students were falling asleep as soon as the lights were turned off for the slides, but I was enthralled.”
His eyes took her in. “You are perfect for me.”
Her eyes filled with tears but she stopped herself, saying, “Of course, I was probably the only kid in the class who hadn’t stayed up partying the night before.”
Later, after he showed her his favorite works in the Impressionism wing, she showed him two Walter Sickert paintings in the modern collection. Sickert was suspected by some of being Jack the Ripper. Joanna hadn’t believed
the evidence she’d read, but had to admit his work
was eerie. Seeing those paintings led to discussions about
Sherlock Holmes, serial killers, and their mutual appreciation of London.
She said, “My art appreciation meter is full, and my stomach is empty.”
“The Petrie is this way, if you’d like. It’s nicer than the cafeteria. Or we can walk somewhere?”
“I like eating in the museum. Like I’m taking in culture along with the food.”
As they walked there, Joanna wondered what she’d say if they ran into anyone she knew. As Cynthia correctly pointed out, she was a terrible liar.
There was only a short wait. They were seated at a small table and he ordered grilled chicken salad, she the tuna nicoise. He raised his water glass to her and said, “You know, if things were only entirely different, this would’ve qualified as a nice, regular date. A walk through the park, some culture at a museum, an early dinner. We’ve already covered about seventy-four topics. We skipped right over the light, getting-to-know-you type questions.”
“It’s never too late. How’s
What sign are you
?”
“Ouch, that’s an oldie. It’s obvious you’ve been out of circulation a long time.”
“What about
Do you come here often
?”
“That’s a little better, so I’ll deign to answer. Yes, sometimes I bring my notebook and write in a quiet gallery. Get myself out of my apartment. I haven’t been to this café for over a year, though, I’d say.”
“Were you on a date?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Anyone promising?”
“Are you asking about my love life?”
She nodded. “Is your past filled with hundreds of
women?”
“Hundreds?”
“In Cape May there was Madeleine, and Claire was certainly interested. Oh, and the waitress’ mother.”
“Were you keeping notes? I haven’t lived in a vacuum.
I meet women on my own. Or used to. And couples do
enjoy matching up their single friends. Like Concentration with humans.”
She put her hand on top of his on the table. “Maybe I’m hoping you’re a serial dater with piles of used women littered
around you. I’m trying to find a fault. You occasionally
seem too good to be true.”
“Wow, I’ve never heard that before. Quite the opposite. If I compiled a list of my faults, as told to me by women I’ve dated, including Madeleine and Claire and Sophie’s mom, I’d have a very long list indeed.”
“How’d you like them?”
“You know how I feel about Madeleine.”
“Yes, like a sister, I know.”
“Claire’s a nice person, but I’m not interested. Many of the women I dated I didn’t like much, but I tried. Some broke up with me. My ego got hurt. Hey, I’m human.”
“I guess you weren’t the lid for their pot, or whatever that tasteless phrase is. Have there been lots of pots?”
“You really want to know?”
“I’m partly jealous and partly mad at them for damaging
your ego. Mostly I’m interested in the sixty years of your life before I met you.”
“I was born in a log cabin in Illinois.”
“Maybe skip to after your divorce.”
“Okay, I’ve dated maybe fifteen women since then, although just a few in the past two years. Didn’t make it to a second date with a bunch of them. Dated some awhile. Not long. Went to bed with a few of them.”
“A few as in three?”
He didn’t answer. He took a sip of water and said, “Enough to have learned what really matters to me.” After another sip, he said, quietly, “Am I allowed to ask about your love life?”
“I guess it’s only fair.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Twenty years.”
“Happily?”
“Mostly. Sort of. I was settled. Happy not to be alone? I thought I was…content?” The words caught in her throat, and she reached for her glass, downing the rest of the water.
“Has this”—he waved his hand between the two of them—“ever happened before?”
“Never. Never even tempted.”
“I thought so. I’m glad.”
After paying the bill and exiting, they returned to Central Park, heading west. She asked him, “Did you want to be a painter?”
“I wanted to paint, and write, and be an architect, and possibly a doctor, too. And of course an astronaut. I was interested in everything when I was younger. It distilled down to ‘writer’ because I could write about artists and builders and doctors.
“Maybe you should’ve been an actor.”
“Or that criminal who pretended to be all those things. You know, Leo DiCaprio. Writing won. It’s what I enjoy the most, and I seem to be good at it. Although it is solitary.”
“Brian says…do you mind me talking about him?”
He said, “I can stifle my jealousy.”
“No, never mind.”
“What about you? What made you want to change your life and run a bed and breakfast?”
They talked and talked, as if they’d known each other for years. A block from the park exit a man in a tuxedo stood playing the violin. The case was open in front of him for donations. As they listened and stood side by side, Michael linked his pinkie with Joanna’s. The simple touch of the pad of his finger upon hers stirred her whole body. She pulled away from him to find a dollar to throw in the violin case. They exited at Seventy-Seventh Street and stood awhile, not wanting to say goodbye.
He said, “Oh, I’ve got some good news. I called my son. We talked. It went really well. I chatted with his soon-to-be husband, too. My future son-in-law.”
“That’s wonderful! Were you apprehensive about talking
with him?”
“I think things will be less difficult. I should say
I’ll
be less difficult. I understand more now, about having absolutely no control over who you fall in love with.”
Those words filled Joanna with warmth and happiness, followed immediately by an ache so powerful she physically
reacted, turning away from him and clutching her
abdomen.
“Joanna, you all right?”
She knew words wouldn’t come out so she didn’t try. She just nodded.
“Want to walk me to my apartment?”
Again she couldn’t answer. She shook her head.
“Well then, Ms. Matthews, thank you for the date.” He held out his hand. She took it and they stood there for another moment. Hands still holding, eyes still locked, he whispered, “Will I see you again?”
She nodded. And this time he turned and walked away first, knowing he couldn’t endure watching her leave him again, and headed south towards his apartment.
CHAPTER 15
Joanna watched Michael walk away, and didn’t notice the annoyed faces of the people having to walk around her. When she could move, she meant to walk straight home, but couldn’t. She sat in a deli with an untouched glass of iced tea for half an hour, then paid and left. She truly meant to turn right, north, home, but she couldn’t. She turned left instead, and headed south towards Michael’s apartment. She forced herself to amble for a block, hoping will power or
guilt would kick in and stop her, but then practically sprinted and in few minutes, she was standing in front of his building.
It was a doormanless apartment building. She stood in the outside lobby for many long seconds, until she lifted a finger and rang his bell, hoping that he wouldn’t be home, praying that he would. He asked who it was and she squeaked out, “Joanna.” He said, “Second floor. G.” She walked up because there was no way she could stand still to wait for the elevator. His apartment was at the end of the hall, and he was there holding his door open for her. The hairs on her arms were spiking. Neither spoke.
She was inside, Michael shut the door, they were alone. She walked down the short hall, feeling his eyes on her. The air was heavy. The tension needed breaking and she turned to him to say something chatty, but the look of adoration and desire in his eyes silenced her. No one had ever looked at her like that. Overwhelmed by her own desires, she stalled for time, putting her purse and jacket on a chair. Her back was to him. Neither of them moved. Then suddenly he was behind her, his hands heavy on her shoulders, his lips on her hair. She turned into his arms and they embraced, fitting together like intricately cut puzzle pieces. Then they
kissed, and kissed, heads tilted in opposite directions then
switching and noses clashing, pelvises pressing into
each other.
She turned away from him and walked over to a shelf,
examining the spines of some books. He realized how nervous she was when she said, “I think you have even more books than we do,” and her voice quavered. “And you’re so neat.
”
“Only recently,” he said, his hands caressing her shoulders again, needing the contact, and wanting to calm her. “My life is either finally coming together or about to permanently fall apart. Either way, I’ve needed to keep busy.”
“I’ve been cleaning a lot lately, too. It’s like a therapy.” Needing a moment, she said, “Can I have some water?”
He stepped into the tiny kitchen, and she tinkled the keys of a scratched upright piano. “Do you play?”
“Chopsticks, badly. It was my grandfather’s. He always
wanted me to learn, but I was too busy reading.”
He was
talking too fast and too much.
“It’s in my ‘stave off dementia
by learning something new’ plan.
I started Italian lessons when I was fifty. Not that I learned enough to actually speak Italian. Perhaps because I quit within the year.”
“There’s so much about you I don’t know,” and she sipped the water.
He finally said what he had to say: “Maybe all you need to know about me is that I love you.”
He took the glass from her and put it on the table. His hands cupped her face, his pinkies tickling her neck and sending shivers down her spine. Then he kissed her, softly, just grazing her lips, sympathetic about her skittishness.
Her arms encircled his waist. They stood, holding each
other, her head against his chest.
She tilted her head up to him, asking to be kissed, desperate to be kissed. They kissed again, for a long time, lightly, then deeply, parting only to gasp for air. His lips
were on her neck, her fingers kneaded his shoulders. Together they stumbled over to the couch and fell on it, laughing.
They sat, cuddling, quiet in their own thoughts, each fully aware of the magnitude of what might happen next. He turned to her, and kissed her, and it was different, slow and sacred. He left her lips and kissed her cheek, then neck, his fingers moving aside her collar to kiss her clavicles. He unbuttoned the top of her blouse, pushing the material off
one shoulder to kiss what he uncovered. His hand slid down to her breast and caressed it through her shirt, his thumb rubbing against the hardened nipple. Deep moans came out of her, sounds that she hardly recognized as coming from herself. She reclined into the couch, pulling him with her, her hands roaming from his head to his waist, pulling his shirt up so she could feel his bare back with her bare hands.
Suddenly her whole body tensed.
“You okay?” he said, holding her. She nodded, not meeting his eyes. “We going too fast?” She shook her head. “Tell me. Is it Brian?” She nodded. “I want this, Joanna,
you
…but only when it’s right. I want you thinking about me, not him.” Her eyes were still downcast. He lifted her chin. “I may look remarkably youthful, but I’m not a teenager any more. I can wait.”
He sat up, bringing her gently with him, and redressed her—slowly pulling her blouse up over her shoulder, rebuttoning the button, perhaps letting his gentle fingers linger longer than necessary. Then he turned her back to him and massaged her shoulders. It took awhile but he felt her begin to relax. He ran his fingertips up and down her bare arms and then returned to the massage. She leaned back into him and he wrapped his arms around her, kissed her cheek, and whispered “Joanna” in her ear. There was a sudden flush of warmth between her legs, so intense it hurt. Her libido, which had been at “practically nonexistent” for a decade was making up for lost time.
She moved away from him, whispering, but he couldn’t understand. “Hmm?” he said.
“I
can’t
wait.”
“Oh?” he said, a simultaneously sexy and goofy smile appearing on his face. “Well, it’s my duty to be an obliging host, isn’t it?” He stood up, and pointed. “Right through that door is my bedroom and bed, with fresh sheets put on this morning.” He reached for her hand, and she gave it to him. When she stood up he put his arm around her waist, to lead her to the bedroom, and her entire body trembled. “If this were ten years ago, I’d carry you.”
She said, “As long as I can still walk, I don’t mind.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m nervous.”
“I’d say don’t be, but I am, too.” As they walked into the dimly lit bedroom (the window faced the brick wall of a taller building) he flipped on a light.
“Oh,” she said, “please don’t.”
He switched off the light.
She said, “I promise I’ll try to be less shy next time.”
As he drew her close, he said, “Shy’s nice. And you said
next time
. I’ll hold you to that.”
The warm breeze whooshed the curtain and Michael reached over to lower the blind before joining her on the bed. They kissed, and helped each other remove various pieces of outer clothing, and touched, awkwardly, shyly, but quickly learning.
Perhaps it should’ve felt odd being in someone else’s bed. Not the bed she’d been sharing with Brian for the past twenty years. But it didn’t. Everything about Michael, and his surroundings, made her feel safe, and comfortable, and at this very moment, more alive than she’d ever been. Their heads were both on his pillow, and they looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments. Then they held each other, every inch of them touching from foreheads to feet. They kissed, his tongue tasted her lips, entering her mouth just the right amount, softly, as she met it with hers. Hands slid up and down as far as their reach would allow. After a few minutes she backed away just enough to reach down to fondle him. It made them both gasp, then smile because they both gasped. He pulled off his boxers so fast it made her smile again. He pushed down the material of her white lace bra and ran his fingertips lightly over her nipples. She froze, paralyzed with pleasure. Then his hand rode her body, stopping between her legs, over her underwear. Her breathing became labored as his finger rubbed her through the cotton, and she lowered the pink garment. His finger returned to the same spot, taunting her.
She gasped, then whispered, “Now. Please.”
He sat up and fished around in his nightstand drawer and grabbed a condom from underneath a notebook. He rolled it on as she watched, lying there about to burst with anticipation. When he was on top of her, she reached down and guided him inside.
Had she ever had sex before? If so, it certainly wasn’t like this, with her entire body vibrating. Her four limbs hugged him closer, her feet tickled by the hair on his legs. Her pelvis rocked up to meet him, hands cupping his rear end. He looked down into her eyes and smiled, and kissed her. “You’re lovely,” he said, and it was the most wonderful thing she’d ever had said to her. His thrusting slowed, then sped up until, eventually, he climaxed and collapsed on top of her. “Oh, Joanna!” She cradled him, his weight somehow familiar, protective. His heart pounded against her ribs, almost another part of him inside her. She stroked his hair, her fingers weaving into the curls on his neck.
When he could move, he gently rolled off her and onto his side, his leg over hers. While his breathing slowed, he fondled her breasts and delicately pinched her nipples. He kissed his way down to one of them, covering the hard nub with his mouth, licking and sucking on it until she was squirming, her breathing shorter and shorter. Sensing she couldn’t stand it another second, he put his hand between her legs. His fingers slid into and around her, making her back arch, her body straining for release. The room began to spin and she closed her eyes. It wasn’t long before she surprised then delighted him by producing an unexpectedly deep and guttural scream. Her fingers dug into his shoulder, her head tilting and heart pounding. He watched her face, her eyes closed in ecstasy. It lasted a long time, her hips bucking uncontrollably. It filled him with pride, to do this for her. As she came down from her high, she began to cry softly, and he held her. He didn’t question her, just held her tighter, and she turned on her side into his arms. When
her body finally, fully relaxed, he drew the sheet over the two of them, and they drifted off to sleep, with their arms and legs entwined.
Michael woke up first and ran his fingertips lightly over her skin under the sheet, his hand exploring everywhere until stopping at her thighs, inching its way higher. He said, “What? What’s that?”
“Hmm?” she said.
“Shush, I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your cunny. She says she wants more.” His fingers stroked her, entered her, toyed with her, until many minutes later she screamed again, her arm around his neck in a chokehold.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Someone in the apartment next door pounded on the wall above the bed. “Shut the fuck up!”
At first they were startled, then Joanna began to laugh, and Michael joined in. Tears rolled out of her eyes, as she and Michael held each other. He managed to say, “My neighbors haven’t heard anything like that from this apartment, believe me!”
She wiped some tears away, “Am I ruining or making your reputation?”
“Time will tell,” he said. They lay there together, perfectly content. He said, “Do you, uh, can you, if I had had some staying power, would you have finished with me, uh, in there?”
“No, I’ve never had one that way.”
“Well, that would be a fun biology project for us, don’t you think?”
She nodded, “Although how I get there doesn’t really matter.”
He rubbed his shoulder. “I think you carved your name into my shoulder with your nails. I’m branded: Property of Joanna Matthews.”
“I’m sorry,” she laughed and kissed the crescent-moon wounds. “Think of it as a badge of honor for a job well done.” She pulled his face to her and kissed him. “Very very well done.”
“Other than this service I offer, free of charge, I might add,” he said, giving her breast a loving squeeze, “can I do anything for you? Get you anything?”
“I don’t think a trip to Paris would top the last hour. And from me that’s high praise.”
“Speaking of praise, may I say you have incredible breasts?” he said, cupping one.
“You should’ve seen them at their peak, no pun intended.”
“Well, they’re beautiful now. As for peak, I’ve found it necessary to invest in those little blue pills now and then.”
“I guess we’re not twenty anymore.”
“We’re not forty anymore, and I don’t mind at all right now.” He kissed her delicately.
She grinned and nodded, her fingers touching his chin. She said, “These past two weeks at work I could feel your stubble on my face. Sort of a phantom prickling.”
He rubbed his chin against hers. “I’ll never shave again.”
They cuddled quietly a long time, listening to the sounds coming in from the city. Then she sighed, “I suppose at some point I’ll have to get up. And face my life.”
He paused before saying, “You know I want you to leave him.”
“I know.”
He waited but she didn’t continue. He said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t want to talk about it now.”
“But I do. I need to know what’s going on. Where I stand.
How you feel.”
She paused. “How could I do that to him? Hurt him like that? How could I leave him? He’s been my friend for thirty years.”
“You said
friend
. Not husband or lover.”