53 Letters For My Lover (29 page)

I take off my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust to the interior. The lobby oozes old world charm with rustic paneled walls, inlaid wood floors and paintings in gold frames. A lady at the front desk looks up and smiles.

“Afternoon tea for two,” says Troy.

“You have reservations?”

“No, we—”

“Mr. Heathgate?” A man’s quietly controlled voice interrupts.

Troy turns around. “John. How nice to see you.”

“If I may, this way please.” The silver haired man takes over from the front desk staff and escorts us across the hallway.

“This is our Victorian Drawing Room.” He smiles at me, completely overlooking how my attire clashes with the posh décor and decadent chandeliers. “If you give me a minute, I’ll have a table ready for you.”

Troy lets his hand rest on the small of my back while we wait, oblivious to the stares of every woman in the room. Even in his casual clothes, he exudes an easy confidence that allows him to command any environment. Including this elegant space, filled with a colorful collection of tea pots, old parlor antiques, and portraits of British nobility.

“Follow me.” John returns and whisks us to a little sun room overlooking the street. “Enjoy.” He bows and leaves us with a menu.

“Did he just click his heels?” I smile.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s very efficient.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Not for afternoon tea, but yes. I’ve hosted a number of corporate events here. My staff appreciates these getaways and it’s a convenient spot for both my New York and Toronto offices.”

“And now you’ll have to find a suitable spot in Mexico and Hong Kong.”

He puts the menu down. “Have you been stalking me?” His thumb rubs the back of my hand.

“Maybe. A teeny tiny bit.”

“This day just keeps getting better.” He sits back and smiles.

A smartly dressed waiter takes our order. We select tea from a long list of the finest loose leaves, and find ourselves sipping on a perfect brew.

“Pinky up, Beetroot.”

I laugh, sticking my little finger out. Never in a thousand years would I have pictured Troy Heathgate sitting in an ornately carved chair, holding out a flowery little tea-cup.

Bite-sized cakes and pastries arrive, little sandwiches piled high on silver-tiered servers and piping hot scones fresh from the oven.

“Lemon Curd Tart with Almond Crust, Milk Chocolate Crème Brûlée with Mandarin Orange, Chocolate Dipped Shortbread.” The waiter points them out. “And the sandwiches: Egg Salad and Dill on Marble Rye, Salmon Salad on Fennel, Cucumber and Goat Cheese Pinwheels. And of course, clotted cream, churned butter and strawberry preserves.” He smiles. “Can I get you anything else?”

Troy looks at me, but my eyes are fixed on the table. My pinky droops in disbelief.

“No.” He laughs. “I think we’re all set.”

“Oh. My. God,” I whisper after the waiter leaves, filling my plate with all the little goodies. “This one and this one. Maybe this too? Yes, and this. Definitely this.”

“I’m glad we’re sitting by the window. I want the whole world to see.” Troy grins as he watches me eat.

“That you’re having tea with a pastry-devouring gremlin?” I laugh.

“That I’m with the most beautiful woman in the world. A woman who, when she allows herself, savors life with all of her senses.”

I blot the corners of my mouth with my napkin and clear my throat.

“I would like some more tea, please,” I request in the most upper crust accent I can muster.

“With pleasure, me lady.” He plays along until our laughter provokes arched brows from the other patrons.

“There’s something wrong with your Beatles t-shirt,” he remarks.

“And here I thought you were staring at my breasts.”

“George Harrison, John Lennon, Paul McCartney.” He points them out. “But the guy on drums looks nothing like Ringo Starr.”

“It’s not. That’s Pete Best. Ringo replaced him later in 1962.”

“The year we were born.”

“Hence the t-shirt.”

“So it’s not just some cool t-shirt you randomly picked from the vintage store?”

“I’m learning to collect things that mean something.” Like today. These moments, carefully plucked and tucked away in my book of life, like pressed roses.

We finish our tea in the sparkling atmosphere of another world, another time.

“So what would you like to do?” asks Troy, steering me through the door. “Shopping, sight-seeing—”

“Mr. Heathgate!” John catches up as we’re about to leave. “I trust you enjoyed your tea. I have arranged a complimentary horse and buggy ride for you and your companion. If that’s something you’d like.”

“That’s very generous,” replies Troy. “Companion?” He turns to me. “Horse and buggy ride?” He holds out his arm.

“I would love to.” I smile, linking my arm with his.

“This way please.” John leads us past the tulip garden and introduces us to a formally dressed coachman in a cravat, vested coat and black pants. “Tom will be your guide today.”

Tom tips his hat and assists me into the carriage. Troy says something to John, who beams and stands by while Troy gets in next to me. The seat is upholstered in plush red velvet. Brass lamps adorn the sides of the carriage and a leather canopy shades us from the sun.

“All set?” asks Tom, as he maneuvers our carriage out of the hotel.

The magnificent Scottish Clydesdale clip-clops past John as we wave goodbye.

Tom regales us with
interesting tidbits about the town as we saunter along. The gazebo adorning Queen’s Royal Park was featured in a murder scene in Stephen King’s ‘The Dead Zone’. Ghosts and haunted houses abound. The headless soldier. A house that makes cameras go crazy. Sobbing Sophia who lost her dashing British hero in battle, and wanders the halls of Brockamour Manor, her sobs reverberating through the town at night.

I lay my head on Troy’s shoulder as we listen to the tales, our carriage winding along the water front and through the picturesque streets of Old Town.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking my hair. “He’s not scaring you with these ghost stories, is he?”

“Nothing scares me when I’m with you,” I reply.

It’s almost sunset when we make our way back. A golden glow surrounds us, rosy and warm, like the feeling in my heart.

We dismount outside the Prince of Wales Hotel. Troy tips the coachman while I pet the beautiful horse. He puts his nose in my palm and sniffs.

“Can I give him a treat?” I ask.

“Sorry, miss,” replies Tom. “Treats make him nippy, but if you keep your arms by your side and let him get close, he gets very affectionate.”

I stand still and let him nuzzle my neck with his nose, laughing as his breath tickles my face. Then he gives my wig a big lick, leaving a trail of wet goo. He stares at me, looking a little confused.

“It’s not real hair,” I say. “Bet it doesn’t taste too good, huh?” I stroke his neck.

“Hey.” Troy hugs me from behind. “This is making me very jealous.”

“You, Mr. Heathgate, have to learn to share,” I reply.

Then I cringe as the words sink in. Isn’t that what he’s been doing all along? Sharing me.

The street lights are
on by the time we get to the car.

“Want to swing by Sweeney’s before we head back?” asks Troy.

“Sweeney’s?”

“David’s pub. I told him we might check it out tonight.”

“Sure.” I buckle up. “I’d love to see it.”

We follow the signs to Niagara Falls and take the Victoria Avenue exit. Sweeney’s is located in a low-key plaza with a drug store on one side and a dry cleaners on the other.

“Here.” Troy grabs my jacket from the back seat. “It’s getting chilly.”

“Could we make a quick stop at the drug store first?” I ask, slipping my arms into the black leather sleeves. The cropped moto jacket with its zippers and spiked shoulders is like nothing I’ve owned before.

“What do you need from the drug store?” he asks when I get out of the car.

“A vinegar douche,” I reply. “Kidding.” I laugh at the look on his face. “Some lipstick. I didn’t bring any.”

I stop at the make-up section while Troy discovers torturous looking girly gadgets.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Eyelash curler.”

“And this?”

“A comedone extractor.”

He turns it back and forth a few times before giving up. “You see anything you like?”

“Still looking.” I open another tester.

“I like this one.” He hands me a bold, crimson lipstick.

“Red?” I make a face. “I never wear red.”

“You should. With those lips, you’d positively sizzle.”

“Since when are you an expert on make-up?”

“I don’t have to be an expert. I just know your face.” He closes his eyes and visualizes it. “Yes. Red lips look super hot on you. Too bad they don’t have a nice shade of Scary Cherry or Beet Butt.”

“Crushed Roses.” I read on the bottom. I apply the color and blot my lips.

The ruby red pout instantly transforms me into va-va-voom territory. I stare at my face in the mirror.

“I knew it would look good,” says Troy, “but fuck! We’re so getting it.” He snatches a silver tube off the shelf.

“It’s not too much?” I ask, running my tongue over lips.

“Oh, it most definitely is.” His eyes fall on my wet, scarlet lips. “But that’s the point.” He hands the lipstick over to the cashier. “It makes me want to...”

With blunt intimacy, he proceeds to tell me exactly what he wants to do to me. I try wriggling away, acutely aware of everyone around us, but he holds on with one arm around my waist.

“Cash or charge?”

“Charge.” He gives the cashier his card and goes back to whispering hot, dirty things while the line-up behind us grows longer.

“You’re terrible.” I say when we get outside.

“And you’re not walking like a penguin anymore. I say we skip Sweeney’s.” He stops by the car and yanks me to him. “I don’t think I can wait any longer. All I can think about are these insanely hot lips.” His thumb traces the shape of my mouth. He pulls down the lower lip and slides it inside, rubbing the rough pad over my tongue.

“Troy! You made it.”

We jump apart, thankful for the dark parking lot. Obviously David didn’t see much of what was going on.

He ushers us into the dimly lit pub and holds out his hands. “Ta-da!”

“Wow.” Troy looks around, taking it in. “It hasn’t changed a bit, you lazy bastard.”

“Eh?” David walks around proudly. “My old man would have been pleased.”

The interior is all wood, exposed brick and dark patterned carpeting. Comfy, mismatched furniture is arranged in little seating areas— a large four seater couch in the back, two over-sized Victorian chairs around a slender coffee table, a few booths against the wall and three televisions mounted in random spots on the wall. Apart from the L-shaped bar with stools for patrons and a make-shift stage with various musical instruments, Sweeney’s could easily be a rec room in someone’s basement.

We slide into a small booth and David squeezes in with us. “Sorry, long weekends are busy.”

“The locals always loved this place,” says Troy. “You still make those wings?”

“Are you kidding? That’s Pop’s legacy. They’d kill me if I stopped serving them.”

“Well, I am definitely going to have the wings then.”

“Awesome. And what can I get for you...er...I know it’s not rhubarb...or radish...”

“Beetroot,” I laugh. “Pop’s legacy for me too.”

“Two orders of chicken wings, coming right up.”

We watch David disappear into the kitchen.

“We used to spend a lot of weekends here, goofing around, pretending we were helping,” says Troy. “His dad was a super nice guy.”

“David has the same barbed wire tattoo around his wrists,” I remark.

“We got them done together. He was going through a rough patch. Slashed his wrists one time. I found him in the bath tub.” Troy’s eyes follow David as he comes back to the dining room, balancing orders, laughing, chatting. “He got the barbed wire tattooed on his wrists to remind him never to cut through it.”

“And you?” I ask.

“I was drunk.” He laughs. “I went with him and woke up the next morning with tattoos around my biceps.”

“You don’t like them?”

“I don't regret them. I thought getting a tattoo was like an initiation into a tough-guy society. All macho and manly. But there are other, immensely more
pleasurable
activities."

“So no more tattoos?”

“Nope. Not unless I feel the drastic need to express myself.”

“I like it.” I run my fingers over the ink. “This and your cross. They remind me of love and sacrifice and redemption.”

He watches my mouth as I say the words and I get the distinct impression that he’s miles away, playing with a trail of red lip prints.

“Troy? Are you listening?”

“What?” He refocuses.

A waitress arrives with our food, wet-naps and a complimentary basket of kettle chips. “David said to bring over the special hot sauce.” Her eyes linger on Troy.

“Thanks,” he replies.

“Let me know if you need anything else, love.” She winks before walking away, her hips sashaying seductively.

It’s like I’m not even here. I roll my eyes before digging into the wings.

They’re smothered in a tangy, buffalo-style sauce; crispy on the outside and so moist on the inside that the bone slips right out.

“You like?” Troy is already half way through his bucket.

“Delicious. I can’t believe I’m so hungry after that tea.”

“Good. Eat up.”

“What’s that look for?” I ask.

“Just thinking.”

“Of?”

“Well, if you must know...” He wipes his hands, one finger at a time, slowly and precisely. “I’m thinking of you and me and kinky stuff.” He gives me a look that turns my panties wet.

“Can I get you folks some more?” David stops by our table.

“No thanks. That was fantastic,” replies Troy. “Listen, it was good seeing you man.”

“What? You’re not leaving, are you? Karaoke starts in two minutes. You have to do your thing you know.”

“I don’t think so.” Troy laughs. “It’s been way too long.”

“Nonsense. It’s like riding a bike. Come on. It’ll be fun.”