Chapter 11

MacKenzie

The Orpheum is like a playground for the visual arts. The styles vary: watercolors of flowers, bright moderns with geometrics, attempts at the classics and mixed media creations line the walls. I’m finding that every time I go into work, I get inspired. It seems to pull me out of the low places and gives me a reason to love what I do and look forward to the future. Even if the customers can be impossible to deal with. I’ve learned that South Florida’s art collectors think of themselves as unusually bright creatures who have individual flair and an eye for spotting talent that can’t be matched anywhere in the world. To hear Mrs. Anne Carruthers tell it, “Paris comes to us for the definition of art.”

Mrs. Anne Carruthers aside, there is never a lack of opinion in the community—on anything. This includes whether I am a suitable custodian of the fund-raising efforts for the gallery.

To tell the truth, I think I might have skated in beneath the radar on my mother’s coattails. Everyone knows her and that her functions are A-class and invitation only. I believe some of the board members at The Orpheum are confusing having hired me as having hired her. Sort of a two-for-one mother/daughter duo. I’m striving to find ways to separate myself from Mom’s sense of style and to develop my own in a way that will someday make me as memorable as she is today. I’m acknowledging this may not be possible until Mom has entered her pearly, Louis XVI gates in red-soled heels and Vuitton luggage trailing behind. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but seriously … they should get a look at her before she gets her makeup on and is having an argument with the postman about aligning her good mail up front and the junk at the back so she doesn’t need to sort it. “You already know what’s junk,” she reasons with him, and I find in a weird way, she’s leaving me with a legacy to fill. I hope the patrons of The Orpheum have a clear understanding of what they’re letting themselves in for.

Unfortunately, I’m realizing it’s not up to them to make me feel more comfortable—the inverse. I need to learn to cater to their whims and whimsy, meaning when Peter, the eccentric, who is also an albino wants his art framed in white, I should smile and congratulate him on his superb taste. He isn’t the worst, though.

Tatters North is nicknamed from the multiple sailboats he’s run aground or tied up with the sails fully furled; all of which happens while he is roaring drunk. He’s wealthy enough to get away with his irresponsibility, and over the years, he’s lost sight of where the lines are drawn. He’s known to have an eye for other men’s wives, and as a regular at Orpheum, I seem to have entered his radar.

I can see him crossing the street and headed in our direction. Pushing the door open causes the bell to ring, and once again I wonder about the wisdom of announcing visitors to a gallery that’s supposed to be an oasis of silence and sensory enrichment. He’s waving at me and headed in my direction, and I’m hoping desperately that Margaret finds some reason to come to the front.

I nod. “Hello, Mr. North, glad you could visit with us today.”

“You’re here today, Doll Baby, as if I didn’t know that and plan accordingly. When are you going to go out with me? How about tonight?”

Shaking my head, I try to look regretful and say, “Oh, sorry, but I have plans.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I think you’ve been avoiding me, Doll Baby. Not a good idea if you want my contact list for sponsors.”

I feel like he’s blackmailing me for sex, and I don’t want anything to do with him. Giving him a polite smile, I move to the back of the gallery and lurk behind a short wall display. Now I understand why they wanted me to have a husband. Their entire clientele is filled with lechers! I realize then that I’m standing in the easiest place in the gallery to get trapped and quickly move forward, but not quickly enough. North is suddenly at my side, his hand on my arm and squeezing it in a pumping motion. “What about lunch? You aren’t busy right now. I know a place …”

I wish I’d thought ahead for these kinds of encounters, but frankly, this is a new world for me, and I wouldn’t have prepared well for it, anyway. I’m too much of a novice. It is time to learn. Reaching for his hand, I take it in my right, and shake it. “You know, Mr. North, I really do appreciate the generous invitations, but it’s policy here that employees aren’t to socialize with clients on a personal level.”

“Why not? Seems to me that’s exactly what you should be doing. That will sell a whole lot more shit than being cold and distant. Some people might even begin to think you consider yourself above the rest of us.”

I hurry to respond. “Oh, no, it’s not that way at all. We just have to maintain a professional distance.” That’s when I realize he’s caught me in his trap. By accusing me of arrogance, I can’t stay as distant as I like. Right about then, Margaret comes in and saves the day. He’s obviously not interested in her on an intimate level, so it’s back to his grouchy, irritable self. As he berates her for not having his favorite artist on display, I slide into the back room and lock myself in the ladies’ room until I hear the bell tinkle again.

The rest of the day is going very peacefully, but I’m bothered by the advances of these undesirable men and how I’m supposed to deal with it. We’re closing in five minutes, and I have an inspiration.

“Have a nice evening, Margaret,” I call to her as she’s locking the front door. Sliding out the back, I get into the car and head for Aunt Olivia’s Star Island estate. I know subliminally I’m hoping Michael is about, but I enjoyed meeting his aunt and want to visit her again. After all, you never know. She might be interested in acquiring some art!

Pulling up the long drive, I ease out of the car, and ring the bell. Mort answers the door and seems surprised to see me standing here, not that I can blame him.

“I wonder if I might drop in and visit with Aunt Olivia for a bit?” I request, aware that I’m using the familiar term and not her surname. That’s when I realize I don’t even know it. How odd.

“If you’ll step inside and wait here, Miss,” Mort says soberly, assuming his butler’s personality. I can tell he’s capable of many personalities, and this one seems to be his favorite when he’s attempting to be authoritative. I haven’t been around many British people in my life, but those I have always seem to take on a superior attitude, and I’ve let them have it by default. I’m feeling differently toward Mort, though. There’s something about him that makes me feel like he’s warning me off.

“Thank you, Mort,” I say, not having any problem addressing him by his first name at all. “You’re looking particularly healthy today. I think the sun is doing you some good,” I tell him and am rewarded with a beaming smile.

“Nice of you to say so, Miss,” he responds and then turns on his heel to go off to another part of the house. He returns a minute later, and with a sweep of his arm says, “Ms. Perkins will see you now in the living room, Miss.”

Well, that solves the mystery about her last name and also clues me in that Aunt Olivia apparently doesn’t have a great deal going on in her life that she’s able to see an uninvited visitor at the drop of a hat. I’m looking forward to some spirited conversation, and as it happens, she doesn’t disappoint me. I find her in a chair with a footstool, almost as regal as a queen. She has a flair for the dramatic.

“Hello, again,” I say. “I know you weren’t expecting me, and I hope you can forgive my impulse, but I’ve had a bad day and thought you might have some advice to help?”

I can tell by her smile and a crinkle at her eyes that she’s pleased by my confidence and flattery. “Well, sure, no problem. Come on in.” Her speech is so casual. I wonder whether she made her money herself or married it. She’s obviously not been raised with it. Maybe that’s why I find her so endearing.

“Come on in and find a seat. I can use some company. I’m bored out of my mind. These long, hot afternoons make me just want to get good and drunk and go to sleep. Only problem is, I’m afraid I might not wake up, you know?”

“Oh, well … I’m sorry to hear that. Then maybe it’s a good thing I came over?” I’m trying to figure her out—she’s just charming. She’s dressed in a colorful caftan and has a turban with an oversized glass ruby set in the folds over her forehead. She’s wearing considerable makeup, almost as though she’s about to give a performance on stage. This intrigues me. I find a seat on the sofa nearby, and Mort suddenly appears with a tray of iced lemonade. Although he’s trying not to appear interested, I can see his eyes darting in my direction when he thinks I’m not looking. I take a glass. “I have to say, Mort. You make the best lemonade I think I’ve ever tasted, and I can tell you I’ve tasted quite a few.” I saw him take a deep breath with pride and knew I was on the right track. I waited until he left the room before I began talking.

“I’m not sure Michael mentioned it, but I’m working at The Emporium, the art gallery and museum?”

“Don’t know it,” she dismissed my introduction. “What about it, and what do you do there?”

I’m beginning to wonder whether this has been a mistake. I really don’t know this woman and have no clue why I’m thinking she can help me. Oh, what the hell, of course I know why I’m here, but I’m not about to let on. I’ll try again.

“Doesn’t really matter that you don’t know it, but let me say we sell some local and some eclectic art, and it draws customers who tend to be a little eclectic themselves if you know what I mean?”

She’s looking at me blankly, and that’s when I realize she’d be a typical customer herself. Shit! Have I gotten myself into a mess now?

“Anyway, there are these male customers who come in and for some reason think they can take liberties with me. One of them today began following me around the gallery and then cornered me, rubbing my arm in a suggestive sexual way.”

“And …?” she asks as though this is perfectly acceptable, if not desirable behavior.

“And I want them to stop it, of course!” Am I missing something here?

“Why?”

I look at her, stupefied. I’m beginning to learn more and more about Aunt Olivia.

“Look … you’re a beautiful young girl, and the man just flirted with you. Wait ’til you get my age and see how many flirts you get. None. God, what I wouldn’t give for a good flirt right now.”

I think I’m blushing. I haven’t taken into consideration that she might not have the same perspective I did about men. Has Antonio ruined me for life? It’s entirely possible. A quick vision of the altar and his absence flit through my head.

I think she sees that I’m not quite relieved yet, and she pulls at a hair that is hanging from her chin. “Damned hairs,” she mutters and pulls at the hem of her caftan as she stretches out her feet. She has the strangest feet; completely bare with long, talon-like nails that are painted fire engine red. I have a momentary image of a man climbing into bed next to those, and it makes me smile inside. “Okay, I can tell you’re just too innocent to take this flirting with a grain of salt. Here’s what you do, sweetie. You gotta turn the tables.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When this guy came in and started following you, what did you do?”

I think a moment and say, “I was looking for somewhere to hide. He’s been in before and makes me nervous. I know his reputation and don’t really like him. I’m not allowed to not like people there, though—it’s bad for business.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” she said, looking almost disgusted with me. “You gotta turn the tables,” she repeats, and I must still look blank because she explains. “Go after him. Sell him. Let your sex appeal sell the product. Use what you got to get what you want—get it?”

Nodding, “I guess so. But what if he thinks I’m flirting just to sell him.”

“Well, that’s good! That’s exactly what you want. Look, sweetie, men are all shy and insecure inside. They come up with a line that gets them out of the limelight and puts it on you. That way you’re on the defense, you see? They poke at you and then stand back to see what you do with it. Their hands are clean, and they don’t feel awkward because they made you feel that way. Now do you get it?” I can tell she is becoming exasperated.

I nod. “I do, I actually think I do.”

“There you go. You’re smarter than you look.” It sounds like a back-handed compliment, and I give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s picking at her skirt, and I wonder how hot that thing must feel, even in this air conditioning.

“Okay, so now what’s up between you and Michael?” Aunt Olivia makes no pretense in asking.

“Michael?”

“Oh, don’t go Miss Innocent on me. I can see someone leaving in the morning just as easily as night.”

This time, I know I’m blushing. “Not very well, I’m afraid. I brought my girlfriend over to meet him, and I think maybe I shouldn’t have done that. He hasn’t called me since.”

“Why did you bring her? That was a stupid thing to do. Liable to lose him to her.”

I laugh aloud. “Oh, no, you’d have to know Abby. She’s … well different from me. Any man who might be interested in me probably wouldn’t find her his type, and visa versa. That’s why I asked Michael if he might know someone for Abby. She’s not much to get out and socialize, so I thought I’d give her a little boost.”

“Play matchmaker, huh?”

I giggle. “I guess you could say that.”

“Hells bells, kiddo. You got enough on your hands to lasso Michael. Why would you worry about someone else?”

I scoot forward on the sofa cushion and ask in a low voice. “Do you really think I’m his type? I mean, yes, there was a little, well, involvement the other night, but since then he seems to be pulling back from me.”

“Remember what I just told you about the man in the gallery? How he’s coming after you so you won’t make him feel inferior?”

I nod.

“Michael is a babe in the woods, not yet broke in. Oh, he had some girl who did him wrong, yeah, but so what? His confidence has been shaken, and now he’s afraid to come on too strong or get too close.”

“Oh.”

“Sweetie, if you’re interested, don’t just put a worm on a hook and wait on the bank for the fish to bite. Put a goddamned anaconda on that hook and don’t make any bones about what you want. Go after him!”

This is entirely the opposite of what I was brought up to do. I’ve been taught to be subtle and the coquette—not to let on to any man that I’m interested but wait to be invited. “You sure about this, Aunt Olivia?”

“Been married six times, haven’t I?” she answers.

“You have?” Okay, I’ll give her the benefit of experience, but maybe relationship maintenance isn’t her strong suit. “Oh, well, I’ve never been married at all. Almost, once, though.”

“What happened?”

“You know, I’m not really sure. He stood me up at the altar, and that’s the last time I’ve heard from him, not that I want to.”

“There you go. You didn’t take charge of the relationship. If you had, you’d know why he wasn’t there.” She fluffs her caftan to make a point and then tastes her lemonade. “Mort!” she hollers. “Get me the Vodka. How’s a girl supposed to quench her thirst with this piss water?”

Mort enters the room, a bottle in his hand, and adds some to her glass. She taps his hand to be more generous, and I see him roll his eyes. “Mort, grab a glass of that there piss water and join us.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” His refusal is lukewarm at best.

“The hell you can’t. I can see you’re thirsty. Don’t tell me you’re not into the liquor cabinet at night. I’ve seen you.”

Mort looks offended but leaves and returns with another glass of lemonade and a vodka bottle. He pours liberally and takes another seat, putting his feet up on a tufted, velvet ottoman. I notice the tension has left the room, and we’re suddenly like old friends trading bar stories.

“Reminds me of husband number three … or was it four? Doesn’t matter.” She is in her element, and I settle back to listen. “He was a priest.” My eyes open wide. “Well, not when I married him, of course, but before that. You know those Catholics like to run Bingo parlors and of course, I’m always up for a good gamble. Well, Teddy … that’s his name … Teddy is in charge that night, and they’re supposed to have a special Bingo deal. It’s coming up on some holiday, and they’re all going to be fasting soon, so they want to do it up right until the bell if you get my drift. So, they have refreshments. Teddy gets this big ol’ bowl and fills it with punch, and then he added his own little punch if you follow.” Mort and I both nod and listen. “Well, he never did have much holdin’ him back, and I think he added a whole fifth. Now, the first couple o’ people take a taste and wrinkle their noses, but they come back anyway. I knew what was going on and got myself a big paper cup so I didn’t have to keep traipse’n up there. Well, wasn’t long before there was a line at the punch bowl, and then everything went to Hell crazy. You had people hollerin’ Bingo when they didn’t have a number covered, and some o’ them couldn’t see straight enough to know when they won. I just made the rounds and traded cards—cleaned up that night, as I recall,” she was saying, a distant and amused look on her face.

“Well, by the time the night was over, there wasn’t a soul fit to drive. A couple o’ cops from the local precinct were there and had to be taken away in their buddies’ squad cars. The church finally got their Sunday school bus outta the garage and loaded everybody up—ran ’em all home like a taxi service. Was the funniest thing I’d ever seen, and o’ course, I fell head over heels for ol’ Teddy. Now, his reputation was sort o’ tarnished over this, and the church suggested maybe he was better cut out for bartendin’ than preachin’, and he agreed. I hung out with him for a while and got him to ask me to marry him. Let me tell ya … ain’t nothin’ like breakin’ in a forty-year-old virgin to make your ego bust through the roof! Jesus! Well, at least that’s what he kept hollerin’ all night long. Plumb wore me out. Had to divorce him ’cause o’ that. He just couldn’t keep his hands off me … or any other woman either. Too bad, too. Teddy got to practicin’ and got to be a damned good lover!”

Mort is howling with laughter, and I’m sitting there, too shocked to even smile. I’m not sure how to react. Michael, on the other hand, who had just come into the room, did.

“Aunt Olivia,” he says, “you shouldn’t overwhelm Mac. I don’t think she’s used to your … shall we call it enthusiasm?”

“Oh, shit, she don't care, do you, sweetie?”

She’s looking at me for support, and all I can do is shrug. I want to laugh out loud, but this was so unlike any tea party I’ve ever been to that I’m not sure how to act.

“Mac, I’ve got something to show you down at the cottage. Why don’t you come along with me?” Michael says, and I realize he thinks I’ve come to see him and is trying to save me from what he believes is unsavory Aunt Olivia. Nevertheless, I nod politely and set my glass down, standing up. “I guess I’ll take my leave,” I say politely and bowing a bit. I’m not sure why I’m doing it, but I think it has something to do with mocking Mort. He’s such an easy target.

“Thank you, Aunt Olivia. Your advice is priceless, and I think you’re wonderful. You should be on stage somewhere.”

Mort begins choking on his drink, and I rush to pat him on the back. He’s holding up his hand that he’s okay, and Michael frowns, grabbing my hand and pulling me out the patio door to head down toward the cottage.

The grounds are lush and a deep green. There doesn’t seem to be any shortage of watering or grounds-grooming here. Massive palms gracefully lean toward the west, and I can smell the salt of the seawater in the air. I can feel a pleasant breeze. I wish I could just sit down on the ground and rest for a while; maybe absorb some of what Aunt Olivia has just suggested I do.

“I’m sorry you had to witness all that,” he says.

“What? Why? Oh, no, I thought they were both hysterical. I like them—both of them, but your Aunt Olivia, I have to say she takes the cake.”

“You might say that,” he mutters as we arrive at the guest house and go inside. Everything is spotless, as it was before. I find it hard to believe that Michael, a single man, is so neat and tidy. I even comment on it.

“Everything here is so neat. Hard to believe you’re a guy living alone.” As soon as the words are out, I’m embarrassed. Maybe he has other women, and they come by and tidy up for him. I have no way of knowing that, but he’s been cool toward me.

“What’s wrong?” He sees the look on my face.

I switch gears quickly. “Nothing, now. I came to get some advice from Aunt Olivia.”

“Really? I can’t imagine what that might be.”

“Oh, just some of the customers are coming on to me, and it’s bothering me.”

His head snaps around to look at me. “Did anyone hurt you?”

“Hurt …? Oh, no, nothing like that. Just this one weird guy came in today and was rubbing my arm and asking me to go out with him.”

“What’s his name?” Michael demands to know.

“His …? Oh, don’t be silly. It’s nothing like that. Just some eccentric customers that I wasn’t sure how to handle myself. Aunt Olivia gave me some tips, though, and I have to say I’ll give them a try.”

“What kind of tips?” He is getting us more of that lemonade and gesturing for me to sit down. I’m wondering if the lemonade is spiked, and I giggle.

“Nothing to repeat. Just girl talk.”

“Oh.” He sits down next to me on the sofa and hands me a glass. He’s very close to me, almost leaning over me. I am surprised when he leans forward and kisses me, long and deep. I love it.

“Wow!” I exclaim when he pulls away.

“What?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a good kisser?” I’m trying to remember Aunt Olivia’s advice. I know there is a moment in the making, and I don’t want to let the opportunity pass by.

“Doesn’t matter. You have very kissable lips.”

I can feel he is trying to take control, and this is where I normally back off. So, I go on the offense. I grab his shirt collar with my hand and pull him toward me, kissing him back, slowly and deeply. As I kiss him, I begin to lie back, and within a few seconds, he’s lying on top of me. He rolls off and to his feet, and just like before, scoops me up and takes me into his bedroom. I don’t resist but pull at him. He seems a little surprised but isn’t asking any questions.

His hands slide beneath my blouse and unfasten my bra. He fumbles with the buttons of my blouse, but in a few moments, has pulled it off as a single unit and is kissing my breasts and sucking on my nipples. It sends lightning bolts of desire downward, and I begin wriggling beneath his attention. “That feels so good,” I murmur softly. His answer is to pull off the rest of my clothes, as well as his own, and he lies next to me on the bed, studying my body.

“You’re like a porcelain doll,” he comments as his hand smooths my skin, and he nibbles at tender places. As I watch, his member becomes erect, and knowing that it’s intended for me and that space inside me is making me gush with wanting him. Michael leaves the bed momentarily to close the drapes and the door, hitting a switch that floods the room with soft Jamaican music. He returns to my body and begins caressing my tummy, his fingers reaching lower with each stroke.

I can’t help myself, but my legs open, and I want to strain toward his fingertips, coaxing them to hurry and touch that moist, electric spot where my legs meet. He knows this and is taking his time, building the suspense until it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing his hand and feeding his fingers into me. I hear him chuckle softly, and then my dream is realized as he parts the tender flesh there, and his finger slides inside. I’m moaning and straining against him, wanting to pull him more and more deeply inside.

His weight shifts, and now he’s hovering over me, his eyes searching mine for approval. I reach my arms upward, pulling him down and into me, and we both sigh with relief as the joining brings us together.

The music is the score our bodies follow, and as I keep my eyes closed, I almost feel as though I’m doing a sinewy dance on the bed, and Michael is answering each of my moves. With the deep rhythm of the drums, he is keeping time, driving his hips downward so as to plumb me to my back. I feel completely out of my own body, caught up in the music and the growing erotic chills that are about to explode.

Michael is moving faster now, taking control of my body as I surrender to his movements. As he pounds into me, I answer by arching upward, each of us encouraging our bodies to reach the peak at the same time.

Then it happens. The convulsive throes of pleasure overtake us, and we become the elemental creatures intended a million years earlier. There is no music, no muted sun through the drapes, and time has fled. It is only me, and Michael.

I’m lost, and as he rolls off me, I want to reach out and keep him close to me. Even though he puts his arm beneath my head, cradling me on his shoulder, I still want to be closer, to roll inside him and let him take me with him wherever he goes. Aunt Olivia’s advice has fled from my head. I only want to belong to Michael and feel a desperation to be that woman. I’ll do anything to have him.