Oliver
NO DREAM COULD compete with what actually happened over the last twenty-four hours. Besides, you wake from dreams. This woman’s real in the purest sense of the word. There was no feigning shyness or inexperience on her part. That would have been pretense, because after all we’re in our thirties, not sixteen. We’ve both had years of sexual experiences. Yet, everything about her responses told me it was some kind of first time. I felt that way too. I’m hopelessly hooked, and she wasn’t even fishing.
Even though I’m lying next to her in the sun and she’s wearing a tiny yellow bikini, I keep getting carried away. Eyes open, she’s a visual banquet. Eyes closed, I’m replaying our night. How it was to be inside her when she was coming, remembering the sounds and the scent of us.
“Oliver! Where are you?” Fig says.
I hear Zarah’s laughter and snap out of my thoughts. Stori’s looking at me with a crooked smile. She knows damn well what I’ve been thinking.
“Sorry. What are we talking about?”
“Dio mio! What did you do to the boy?” Luca says laughing. He runs a hand over his oiled bicep and flexes in self-admiration.
“She ruined me,” I answer and reach for her sun warmed hand.
Luca turns to his wife and pulls her chaise closer with a one arm show of strength. He raises the armrest separating them.
“This one ruined me too. It was the boobs,” Luca says, pitching his thumb in Caroline’s direction.
Caroline shoots him a side eye and pulls down the brim of her floppy hat. “Yeah, you like ‘the boobs’, don’t you?” Her air quotes and tone punctuating her annoyance.
“What? Are we still talking about this? It was a nun with enormous breasts! How often do you see that?”
Zarah cries out with a loud one syllable laugh. “Ha!”
“All the more reason not to look like you we’re going to drool,” Caroline says.
That must be a hell of a story. He tries to roll over on top of her. She stops him with an elbow to the ribs.
“Get off me you pig!” she spits.
But I sense she doesn’t mean it because she’s holding in a smile. Luca just laughs and leans back. “I’m married to St. Caroline.” He picks up his empty glass and winks at the stew serving us. “Bella, another please.”
“No problem. Would anyone else like a refill?”
“I’ll take a beer,” I say.
It’s not hard to enjoy being waited on for a week. But it’s more the impact of the setting that knocks me out. The yacht has three decks, not counting the storage for the speedboat and water crafts housed underneath. The guest suites and master are mid ship, with the main living and dining areas on top. They open to the vast sun deck we’re on now, with all-white seating and umbrellas, an outside bar and cinema, huge jacuzzi, and alfresco dining area. One hundred and thirty two feet of perfection. Interiors are in dark polished woods and Italian marble, onyx floor inlays and burl wall panels. The living and dining areas are decorated with designs inspired by the ships name. Dramatic flying dragon logos accent pillows and coasters and back lit glass sculptures.
Stori’s quarters and mine are different, but equally impressive. Although I’ve barely spent fifteen minutes in my own room. Both have king sized beds, large marble bathrooms and unbelievably soft linens and bedding. I know nothing about washcloths and pillowcases, but these don’t feel like mine at home. Making love on those sheets and drying off her body with the thick towel was the litmus test.
Stori’s voice breaks the memory. “Is that Cannes?”
I look up and into the distance to see the approaching speck of land.
“That’s it!” Fig says. “Look, Zarah.”
He rises from the chaise and reaches out for her hand. She jumps up and into his arms, legs latching around his waist.
“Oh my God, honey! We’re in Cannes!”
Stori and I join them at the rail. Caroline and Luca follow, and as she leans against the rail her husband has a proposal.
“We still have time for a little amore, mio amore.” Luca comes up behind his wife and pretends he’s fucking her like a windup toy on speed. Her hat slips to the side with his efforts.
But instead of the anger I expected she smiles. “You’re an idiota.”
“Come on. We need to defend the Dragoni name. Oliver’s not going to out-sex the Italians.”
Then he looks to Fig and points a finger. “I’m counting on you to do your part.”
“Already on it, brother.”
Caroline takes Luca’s hand and leads him off. He looks back at us and bites his knuckle in excitement.
“We’ll be going into town in an hour or so. It’s everyone for themselves today. Dinner back here,” Fig says.
“If you need a guide we’ve got one,” Zarah adds.
I look at Stori and we make a silent agreement. “No, I think we’re just going to explore on our own.”
“What time should we be back from town?” Says Stori.
“Seven. Your ride will be waiting at the dock. Dinner’s at nine. We head for St. Tropez tonight.
An hour later I heard the anchor drop, and now we’re motoring across the blue Mediterranean in a speedboat. The six of us reminiscent of an ad in a yachting magazine. Hair blowing, young and carefree sun worshippers enjoying another day in paradise. I’ve never been that guy before. Seeing Stori in her shorts and sleeveless red and white stripped top, long hair whipping behind her, seals the scene.
The colorful boats and houses announce the resort town. Stori brings along her guide book so we don’t get lost. Curving along the coast is the Promenade de la Croisette, lined with beaches, upscale boutiques, and luxury hotels. We disembark and scatter. Zarah and Fig to the Forville Market for flowers and fresh produce, Luca and Caroline to the narrow cobblestone shopping streets, and Stori and I to unknown discoveries.
“I’ve been reading about these soccas,” she says as we pass the first trendy cafe.
“What’s that?”
“Stone fired pancake dusted with salt and pepper. I’m hungry.”
I laugh because we just ate a huge breakfast two hours before. My woman has big appetites, and there’s no complaint from me. “Let’s try it.”
That was just the beginning of our food tour of Cannes. She wasn’t interested in Gucci or Prada stores. She was happy walking the Promenade scanning the food choices. And I was too, because just being with her is adventure enough. Over the next five hours we had socca, caramel crème bralee macrons, and violet ice crème.
We took a walk on the beach and rode on one of the double decker colorful carousels that are everywhere in Cannes. I took a picture of her riding a purple and yellow stallion whose legs were frozen high in the air. I’ll send that one to Grace.
As the sun set, we returned to the dock where our ride awaited. The others were already back onboard, but Stori and I wanted to squeeze every minute of the day together. By the time we got back to the yacht there was no time for a nap. We decided two separate rooms was overkill, so I brought my things to hers while she dressed.
“You look great,” I say. Although that’s a poor description. She looks better than that.
She comes to me for a kiss. “You too.”
She wears a long black flowing skirt that rests low on her hips, with a cropped white top. The six inches of torso that’s exposed is tempting me to rethink tonight’s plans. I take her in my arms.
“Let’s not start. I don’t have the will to refuse you,” she says laughing.
“Okay. But we’ll make it an early night.”
Upstairs the formal dining room is cast in warm low lighting. The soft jazz is right for the night. I hadn’t realized while we showered and dressed, we’d arrived in legendary St. Tropez. The sight is striking. The Flying Dragoni is moored in the harbor, amidst other luxury yachts and small colorful fishing boats. It’s a vibrant spectacle in the night’s lights with pastel-colored Mediterranean houses and crowded cafes with outdoor terraces. No wonder so many of the Impressionists were drawn here. I’ve always loved Matisse’s paintings of this spot when it was so untouched by the march of time.
We’re not the last to arrive for dinner which surprises even us. Caroline and Luca must be notching up their score.
“Did you have a good day?” Fig says taking his seat at the table.
“It was fantastic. We ate our way through the city,” Stori says.
I put my arms around Stori’s waist and pat her stomach. “You wouldn’t know it but there’s a three hundred pound football player living in there. And he’s always hungry.”
As we take our seats the Stews pour the wine. Not that I know anything about the subject, but it tastes better than any I’ve sampled beforeAs I’m about to comment, our fellow shipmates make their entrance. Caroline is dressed in a long scarlet Grecian looking dress, and Luca is in a well-tailored black suit.
Bond. James Bond.
“My brother always looks better than I do. Don’t you think?” Fig says graciously.
Luca preens for us, which makes Caroline roll her eyes. That doesn’t escape Zarah’s notice.
“What about Caroline? You look beautiful.”
Now there are two peacocks, both satisfied for recognition of their feathers.
“Thank you, Zarah. It’s good to know one person in our family shows appreciation.”
As the Stew fills their goblets, Luca takes Caroline’s hand and kisses it. “I do appreciate you, cara mia. I told you two times I liked your dress.”
She just waves his comment off. Christ. What a high-maintenance couple. But Fig seems used to the circus because he just ignores their words and raises a glass.
“Here’s to destiny. She brought my Zarah to me.”
We join him in the toast, and it doesn’t escape me that Caroline’s shoulders just sank a bit. As if she perceived that to be a sincerer compliment, and she wished it on herself. Her mood is interrupted by the parade of crew bringing out our meal.
“My God, something smells wonderful. What is that?” Stori says.
“As your first course, the chef has prepared a crab, avocado and baby herb salad, with a wasabi and lemon vinaigrette,” Cari says.
“Yummy,” says Zarah.
Over the next two hours we have a feast fit for royalty. While Stori’s enjoying the experience, Caroline sort of moves her food around the plate. I don’t think she’s eaten a tenth of what’s been served, and Luca is only interested in the protein. The muscle building portion of the menu. I got full by the time the Pear Crisps and Mango Sorbet came around. Every course was served with a corresponding wine which has put the whole group in a happy fog.
“Are you going to be coming to New York, Luca?” I ask.
“That’s the dream. If the Boss deems us worthy,” Caroline says.
Luca leans back in his chair and gets an expression that tells me there’s more to the story than a simple yes or no answer. “Maybe in a month or two. My father hasn’t made the final decision yet.”
“It would be good to have us all together again,” Stori says.
There’s a few seconds of silence before Fig changes the subject.
“Isn’t there something you want to announce, Zarah?”
Her hands go in the air as if she’s praying to the gods.
“Yes! Tomorrow night we’re going to Le Cave Du Roy Nightclub for dancing and a few cocktails. THEN, we’re coming back here for Talent Night. We’ll be loosened by the booze by then.”
“Explain, please?” Caroline asks.
“Each couple will choose what they want to perform, a song, a dance, lip sync, whatever. But you must use a song from the list I’m sending to your phones. It’s all music from our school days. There’ll be wardrobe choices from the nineties early 2000’s and props if you choose to dress the part. The crew will show you where to look.”
No one looks in the least bit excited, except for Zarah.
“Wait. This is something we do together?” Stori asks.
“Yes! With our partner. Everyone is required to perform. It’s going to be awesome!! There’ll be a prize, so don’t refuse.”
“Are you going to vote for yourself?” Caroline says sarcastically.
“We’ll have no advantage. The entire crew’s going to vote.”
“I’m in! We will cruzh the competition!” Luca slurs.
Stori leans in. “I can’t sing or dance.”
“Let’s just lip sync something. Maybe our song will be on the list. Remember what it was?”
She looks at me with a sure expression, certain that we both remember.
“Whitney Houston’s “I Believe In You And Me,”” she says smiling.
That’s my girl.