Stori
LOUISE IS RUNNING around my apartment, sniffing her way through every room. She beats us to the bedroom, where we hear her barking.
“Is that your room?” Oliver says. There’s a hopeful tone to the question.
“It is. Have you trained your dog to sniff out the inner sanctums of women’s apartments?”
That glorious smile spreads across his face.
“No. She barks when she wants me to follow her.”
He takes my hand and guides me into the room. There we find Louise stretched out on my bed, which makes us laugh. I wonder how long it’ll take Oliver to see the drawing he gave me in high school.
“Let me help you out of those clothes,” he says, unbuttoning my top. “I need your healing love.”
“I’ll be happy to sooth your soul, but first you have to answer a riddle,” I say, pulling away.
He looks impatient, but a little intrigued. “What is it?
“Riddle me this. What in this bedroom has never aged a day, but came to life seventeen years ago?”
He looks around at the bed and the chest of drawers, he scans the side table and the picture of my mother. But the drawing is on the wall facing the bed. It’s behind him. He gets an inspired look.
“Our love?”
“Clever and lovely. But no.”
His expression falls.
“My hard on for you?”
“No! But technically that’s true I guess.”
“Wait. I’ll figure it out. Take off your top so I can think clearer.”
I peel it off, along with my bra.
“Hand over the pants too. I’ll be Albert fucking Einstein if you give me those.”
He holds out his hand and waves his fingers for me to deliver. I kick off my shoes and step out of the pants. They’re thrown and he catches them midair.
“Now the panties.”
I’m backing up as he comes closer.
“I feel like you’re not trying hard enough,” I say laughing.
He begins to strip and in a matter of fifteen seconds he’s standing stark-naked in front of me. His hand strokes the length of his penis. “Is this hard enough for you?”
I’m against the foot of the bed when he reaches me and takes me in his arms. His lips are so soft I could go on kissing him forever. If it wasn’t for that guided missile pressing against me.
“Scram, Louise,” he says.
The dog obeys without hesitation and runs off into the other room. I throw back the bedding and climb on top of the clean, soft sheet. Oliver peels my panties off.
“No more riddles. I want to play another game,” he says.
I stop him with an outstretched hand. “Just a minute. Look over there.”
He turns his head in the direction I’m pointing and solves the puzzle. A tender expression passes over his face. I think he’s touched to see how much his gift was cherished.
“Oh, Stori.”
He gets up and crosses the room. The drawing is eye level for me, so he bends down a bit to study his work. He’s his own naked art critic, turning the frame over to read the written words, Don’t let go.
He looks back at me and smiles.
“You’ve always been in my bedroom,” I say.
“I would have loved to known that.”
There’s a delicious look on his face as he walks my way. He crawls on the bed and sits up against the headboard, watching me as I stand at the end of the bed.
“In all those years, did you ever masturbate to me?”
I nod my head.
“Do it now.”
All good things come to an end. You hear it said your whole life, but I refuse to buy into that. Our week in France and Italy was a fantasy come to life. But what made it magical wasn’t the yacht or the casino. It wasn’t the fine food or the villa.
It was Oliver.
And he’s come back with me. Now everything’s changed. My smile, New York, the heat of the afternoon and the look of this room. Someone has sprinkled fairy dust on the universe. That, or they removed the curtain that was hiding the beauty that was there all the time.
I catch myself humming as I ride the elevator to my father’s apartment. And smiling. I have a big old smile on my face as I relive last night. I should be thinking about what my dad has to tell me that’s so important. When I called this morning, he asked that I stop by before going to Whiskey River.
His door swings open.
“Cookie! Welcome back!”
I’m enveloped in his loving embrace.
“Hi!”
“I don’t have to ask if you had a good time,” he laughs. “The lack of texts alone let me know you were having fun.”
I toss my purse on the nearby chair and take a seat by the window.
“It was . . . it was everything, Dad.”
It’s a poor but accurate description. He tilts his head in response with a pleasantly surprised look. He sees something new in my eyes.
“Tell me.”
I know I’m wearing a goofy grin on my face as I relate the story. How Oliver and I began the trip and how by the time we arrived in France we both knew something wonderful was happening. I explained what had happened to the letters we wrote each other as teenagers. The look on his face told me it wounded him. He apologized as if it was him who did the deed. He knew his mother-in-law better than anyone, and was a victim himself of her cold heart. But like he said it never would have been an issue if he wasn’t in prison and hadn’t left his wife and child without options. I hope I convinced him I forgave him his mistakes long ago.
“Stori, I’m so sorry I cheated you out of your happiness,” he says wiping a tear.
“Oh Dad! Don’t cry. It all happened as it was meant to. I believe that.”
“All I want is for you to know what real love is. Maybe now you will.”
I take his hands in mine and look deeply in his eyes. “No maybes about it. We’re in love and it’s already been said. It only took us seventeen years.”
I didn’t plan on telling him. But the secret was like a beautiful bird trying to break free. It wouldn’t be caged. The reaction was exactly as I would have imagined. The pure joy a parent can feel for their child is all over his face.
“Enough about me. How did we do this week? And what is it you wanted to tell me?” I say.
“Mrs. Abbott’s in the hospital. We got a registered letter Saturday from her son.”
My stomach flips with the news. Not just because this might affect the sale of the property, but because I genuinely care about her. He goes to the kitchen counter, retrieves the letter and hands it to me.
Ms. Ryder,
This is to inform you that my mother, Stella Abbott, has suffered a stroke, and is hospitalized. As her executor and with Power Of Attorney I will be handling her properties. For now, things will remain status quo. As far as 283 46th Street, Manhattan, New York is concerned, you can send your monthly lease payments to the address below beginning August 9th. Going forward, I’ll make sure to inform you in a timely manner if there are any decisions that would affect you.
Sincerely,
George L. Abbott
I look to my father’s face. He’s wearing the same expression I am. Concern.
“Damn,” I say softly.
“There may be a kink in our plans.”
“This could change everything.”
“You’ve worked hard to build your dream in this location. Call the guy. Let him know your intentions.”
“I don’t even know if he’s aware of the plans his mother and I put into place. It was all verbal. Crap.” My father is never going to say I told you so, but I remember when he warned me to get it in writing.
I need to make my case before any more time passes. I say my goodbyes and head for home.
Thirty minutes later I’m on the phone with George Abbott. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells as we speak. First and foremost, I want to express my concern. When I ask where to send her flowers he tells me it isn’t allowed in intensive care. He says things don’t look promising for his mother. The doctors don’t think she’ll survive much longer. Then he brings up the property. I tip toe up to the subject of our verbal agreement and my intent to honor it. At first, I’m encouraged because his mother has told him she was going to offer me first right of refusal. Then the other shoe drops. He says when the property passes to him he’ll be making his own choices, according to what’s right for him. But says he’ll keep his mother’s wishes in mind. No promises though, and nothing in writing when I suggest it would be a good idea. He laughs at me when I say that.
I thought I had set up everything so perfectly. But I missed the most obvious step. Put it in writing. Trust sometimes is trumped by the randomness of life. For the first time in my thirty-three years I want to kick somebody’s ass. Unfortunately, it’s my own.