TWENTY
Ryan
Well, my fortune turned out to be true sooner than I expected. The next day was Willow’s grandmother’s eightieth birthday, and she asked me if I wanted to go up to the Catskills with her to celebrate the occasion. After our harrowing experience with Charlotte last night, getting out of the city and going on a relaxing ride felt like a good idea. So, I agreed.
It had been a long time since I’d been in the country. While my mother persistently invited me up to our family estate in Connecticut, I consistently declined. It held no fond memories for me. Just more of the same of what it was like to grow up with my parents. They were both never there. My mother played tennis and lunched with her socialite friends at the exclusive country club, showering herself with so much champagne that our driver had to take her home and carry her into her room where she passed out. And my father, well, he was pretty much absent too—playing golf with his cronies and screwing all the club waitresses. Mimi and I hung around, bored out of our minds. And totally neglected. The year they sent the two of us off to a posh summer camp in the Berkshires was one of the best ones of our lives. A relief. An escape.
The drive up was beautiful. The mid-October air was unseasonably warm, likely in the low-seventies; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the trees, with their topaz, citrine, and ruby leaves, shimmered in the sun like magnificent jewels. I kept the top of my Fiat down and played lots Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. Thanks to her grandmother, who grew up in the era of these greats, some of whom had even stayed at Gettinger’s, the fabled grand hotel that she and her late husband owned, Willow knew all these classic songs. She sang along, her pitch perfect voice something else I found so attractive about her. She kept her hand on mine, which was on the gearshift, while I fantasized about it between my legs on another big stick. And grew hard.
I learned a lot about Willow’s family during the ride, especially when we stopped at a roadside diner for coffee. This was her maternal grandmother she was visiting; her other grandparents had passed away. Her name was Ida. Combining their savings and a few loans from friends and family, she and her late husband, Harold, built Gettinger’s Hotel from the ground up just after the second World War, and in no time, it became the place to go among wealthy New York Jews. The five-star resort was known for its elegant décor, luxury accommodations, fine Kosher cuisine, and its nightly entertainment, attracting every major star from Dean Martin to Jerry Lewis. Ida and Harold were legendary, beloved for their hospitality, generosity, and joie de vivre. They were also accomplished ballroom dancers, and while spending summers with them, Willow had developed her passion for dance. Sadly, ten years her senior, Harold passed away in his sleep when Ida was sixty, and soon after, she sold the hotel for a small fortune to a Club Med-like organization that turned the family-hotel into a swinging singles’ mecca. The once thriving hotel went downhill quickly and in 2001, it burned down, likely an insurance-motivated fire set by the bankrupt singles’ organization. It made Ida sad, but in a way she was glad it was over. She still resided in a guesthouse on the grounds.
Shortly after lunch, we reached our destination. We drove through a long tree-lined entrance, the ground thick with colorful fallen leaves. In no time, a sprawling gray-shingled residence with white wraparound terraces came into view. It finally dawned on me that Willow, like me, came from wealth.
“Bubula, you’re here!” A chic, petite woman with cropped silver hair and big owl-like black eyeglasses breezed out the front door as I parked the car in the circular driveway. I could already tell she had amazing energy and warmth and was in every way much younger than her years.
Willow jumped out of the car to give the woman a big hug. “Happy birthday, Nana!”
They broke their embrace, and Ida’s attention shifted to me. Her crinkly hazel eyes lit up, and she began to fan herself.
“Bubula, you brought me a hot young man for my birthday?”
I felt myself blush. Willow laughed. “Next time, Nana. This is my friend, Ryan.”
She studied me. “Wait, I know you! I saw you on Good Morning America a couple of weeks ago.”
Cringing with embarrassment, I let Willow’s grandmother continue.
She jutted a finger at me. “You’re Ryan Madewell, the writer! I loved your book.”
Willow’s eyes grew as round as saucers. It was her turn to be mortified. Or at least shocked. “Nana, you read Undying Love?”
Her grandmother dismissively waved her veined bony hand. I noticed the beautiful art deco diamond ring she still wore on her ring finger. It reminded me of the ring I’d given Allee.
“Of course! Such a beautiful love story!!”
“Thanks,” I said humbly.
Without further ado, she invited us inside. But not before long, Willow and I were back outside on a tour of the beautiful property while her grandmother fixed lunch.
Inhaling the clean country air, I took in my surroundings as Willow led me through the estate. It was almost out of a fairy-tale with acres and acres of land that bordered on a small lake. Willow told me that in the spring a symphony of bugs buzzing, water gurgling, birds chirping, and frogs croaking filled the air. Today, however, as we traversed the bucolic grounds, the crunch of gem-colored leaves sounded beneath our footsteps. The snap, crackle, and pop was invigorating.
“Where are we going?” I asked my beautiful guide, holding her hand. We were both wearing lightweight sweaters over jeans and boots.
“You’ll see soon.”
Close to the lake, a huge tree came into view. A majestic weeping willow all by itself that seemed to rule the grass like a queen. As we neared it, Willow broke into a jog, tugging at my hand.
Following her lead, I felt so connected to her. Almost inseparable. What was most amazing was that I didn’t feel Allee’s presence anywhere. Not hidden in the trunk of a tree, a blade of grass, or a leaf. It was just Willow and me.
When we got to the noble tree, Willow hugged it.
“This is where my father proposed to my mom,” she said, brushing her cheek against the bark. “My parents named me after this tree.”
“Wow!” I responded, at a loss for words.
“Look. Here’s their inscription.” She pointed to a carving in the middle of the thick tree trunk. It was a heart with a Cupid’s arrow etched through it. At either end was a name: Bel on the bottom and Mel on the top. Bel & Mel.
“That’s your mom’s name on the bottom?”
“Yes, it’s short for Belinda. That’s what my dad called her.”
“How did they meet?”
“Here. At the hotel. He worked as a busboy in the dining room during summers while he saved up to open his own restaurant.”
“Why isn’t he here today?” I asked.
Willow inhaled a deep breath. “It’s complicated. My grandmother wants nothing to do with my father. She feels he destroyed my mother’s life.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mom was only nineteen at the time. To my grandma’s horror, she dropped out of Vassar and eloped with him. Shortly after moving to the city, she got pregnant and I was born.”
In my head, I did some math. So, if her mother died ten years ago when Willow was fifteen, that meant her mother was only thirty-five at the time. About the same age I was. That seemed so young, yet oddly, I sometimes felt so old. I listened intently as Willow continued.
“My father’s not the kind of man she fathomed for my mother. She envisioned a rich lawyer or doctor. Not some poor busboy from the Lower Eastside.”
“But your father turned out to be successful.”
“Not successful enough for her. And then when she was fatally hit by a taxi, she blamed my father.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Don’t be. It is what it is. I’ve managed to navigate the line of love and hate.”
I had too. We had something in common.
Silently, Willow traced the heart with a fingertip. I followed suit, the deep outline of the heart almost scraping my forefinger. It must have been made with a Swiss Army knife, like the one Marcus had once given me as a birthday present as a kid. I still always carried it in my pocket.
I studied the massive tree, taking in the depth and breath of it. From a huge jutting branch hung a swing. The old-fashioned homemade kind composed of two strands of thick rope and a plank of wood. Willow caught my eyes on it.
“Yeah. It’s been here forever. It dates back to the forties. My grandpa installed it. I spent a lot of my childhood on it. Want to go for a ride?”
A few moments later, we were on the swing. Our entwined fingers gripping the ropes. Willow straddled on my lap facing me. Anchored on my cock. Pumping rhythmically with her long, supple legs. As forcefully as mine. Her face, her breath, her smile in mine. Her flaming red hair blowing in the warm wind with each pump. And with each pump, my cock growing harder. Her body arching back. Her eyes looking up to the sky. My head tilting to follow her gaze. The tree’s leafy green boughs shrouding us like curtains. My cock thickening with each pump. Each pump more powerful. To make us go higher. Higher and higher. Shooting into the sky.
I was getting a high in more ways than one. So turned on, I wanted to stop the swing, zip down my fly, and make love to her. Hold her in my arms. Let her ride me. Give the birds and bees a show.
“Look at me,” I shouted out to her on the next exhilarating pump. As my long legs straightened taking us sky-high, her radiant face met mine, her green eyes holding me fiercely, an inviting, wicked smile on her face. She was beautiful. A temptation. As the wind captured her hair, I leaned in to her and captured her lips. It wasn’t premeditated; just pure savage need. Something I couldn’t help.
Without slowing down the momentum of the swing, our lips stayed locked. I nibbled and gnawed on them, then consumed her mouth. My tongue darted inside and tangled with hers. Just like the dancer she was, her tongue whirled gracefully and purposefully with mine. Blood rushed to my cock. She tasted delicious. So sweet. So good. As I deepened the kiss, her moans mingled with the sounds of nature. The chirps. The breeze. The rustling leaves. Without losing contact with her mouth, I stopped pumping my legs and the swing slowed down. As it came to a near halt, I touched down my feet to the ground and jumped off with Willow’s legs wrapped around my hips and her hands cupping my face, still devouring my mouth. We couldn’t get enough of each other.
Briefly, she broke away, her breathing frantic. “Fuck me, Ryan. Please fuck me.”
Jesus. As much as I wanted her, she wanted me more. She was begging me. My desperate cock was throbbing. It was time to give her what she wanted. What I wanted. She lowered her feet to the ground and returned her mouth to mine as we began to feverishly disrobe each other. It was broad daylight madness, each of us fumbling to get the other undressed, a clash of wild hands and hungry kisses wherever possible. In no time, we were bared to each other, my arms wrapped around her taut dancer’s body, my cock hard against her flat belly. Together, we fell to our knees, the soft, warm grass our bed. Willow’s tender breasts brushed against my chest, calling out for my touch. As she tugged at my hair, my hands cupped them. Not too big, not too small, they filled my palms perfectly. As I massaged them, I could feel her pert nipples harden into little pebbles. More moans escaped her throat, these much louder.
“Baby,” I whispered against her swan-like neck. “Are you on birth control?”
“Yes,” she managed, planting kisses all over me.
“I don’t have a condom…” My voice trailed off.
“It’s okay.”
“I’m clean. I haven’t been with anyone since—”
She cut me off before I could say Allee’s name. “I believe you. Please fuck me, Ryan. I want you so badly.”
I felt the same way. I wanted this fiery redhead beauty, who could whip a man up a sandwich and probably dance circles around him, in the worst way. On my next heated breath, I clasped her shoulders and lowered her to the grass. She circled her legs around me as I stretched out, anchoring myself with my hands on either side of her. My face hovered over hers…hers so impassioned.
“Ryan, please let me put you inside me. I want to feel you every way I can.”
Without a word, I let her curl her slender fingers around my cock. It felt so fucking good. Squeezing the base, she inserted my hot, rigid length into her entrance, inch by thick inch.
“Jesus,” I moaned out as I pushed inside of her. “You’re so fucking hot and wet, my little butterfly.”
“Oh, Ryan, you feel amazing!” she breathed out, clenching her muscles around me, intensifying the pleasure if that was possible.
I slid halfway back down and then began to pummel her. There was no foreplay. No tender lovemaking. Just hard fucking. My cock had been bereft for too long, and this was the way I was making up for lost time. My breathing grew ragged as she clawed at my back, her hips bucking to meet each fast, furious thrust. Whimpers spilled out of her mouth as my eyes stayed trained on her enraptured face. She looked and sounded like she was about to come, and I quickly put one hand to her soaking wet pussy, rubbing her clit to coax her to climax. Her whimpers morphed into sobs. She was close to coming, and as I felt my balls contract and thigh muscles pulse, I knew I was too. I was determined to take us over the edge together. With a grunt and one final powerful deep thrust, I felt her shudder all around me and heard her cry out to God as I met her orgasm head on with my own explosive one. As she continued to judder around me, the blast of my release bathed her until there was no more to give. My heart beating fast, my body heated, I collapsed on top of her, burying my head in the crook of her neck. Her sobbing subsiding, she silently stroked my hair. Right here, right now, there was no one else in this world but Willow Rosenthal. Beautiful just fucked Willow.
We stayed in this position until our breathing and heartbeats calmed down. Then, I repositioned us so she was snuggled in my arm, her head resting on my chest as the sun beat down on us. We didn’t talk about what we had done—or about how amazing it was—but rather of sweet nothings. As we studied the billowy clouds, reflecting on what their shapes reminded us of, I picked a dandelion, left over from the summer, and blew on it. The furry little spurs scattered upon us.
Willow giggled. “Do you know when you blow on one a wish comes true?”
“Really? I didn’t know that. I didn’t make one.”
A look of disappointment washed over her face. She frowned. “Then, I’ll pick one and make a wish for the both of us.”
I watched as she reached for another one of the fuzzy flowers and then pursed her lips, blowing on it. Again, the spurs fell all over us.
“What did you wish for?” I asked.
Laughing, she flicked the tip of my nose with the stem. “I can’t tell you. If I do, it won’t come true.”
“Well, I hope it was a good one.”
She looked up as the last of the spurs floated in the air. “Yeah, it was.” A dreamy smile spread across her face as she caught one. “Hey, we better head back. My grandma is probably wondering what happened to us.” She sat up.
As much as I could have stayed here in this euphoric state forever, I helped her to her feet and we both put our clothes back on. It was time to say farewell to the weeping willow, but there was something I wanted to do before we left. Reaching into my jeans pocket, I pulled out my trusty Swiss Army knife. I switched it open as Willow watched.
“What are you doing?” she asked as I put the sharp blade to the thick trunk of the stately tree and began to carve into it.
A few short minutes later, there was another heart gracing the tree just above the one carved by her father. Except this one was bigger and on either side of the arrow were two initials. RM on the bottom and WR on the top.
Willow flung her arms around me. I passionately kissed her once again.
It was official.
I, Ryan Madewell IV, long time suffering, fucked-up widower, celibate for four years, had a girlfriend.
I was officially in love with a girl named Willow.
Bending down to pick another dandelion, this time I made a wish before blowing on it, hoping this love would last forever. Like the heart on this tree that eternally connected us. Love had no goodbyes.