Her bemusement is palpable as she furrows her brow and purses her lips. Setting her hands on my bicep she flexes her fingers. “I will be late?” she shakes her head, her hair swaying back and forth like a pendulum. “Late for what? Where am I going?” panic drips from her voice.
“You are going upstairs––”
Wide-eyed she queries on an outward breath, “Upstairs?”
I nod. “I booked you in for one of those tension relief massage things, and to have your hair done.”
I am unsure as to who is more stunned, Samantha or me, from her offended expression. I cringe as I reiterate the sentence in my mind and chide myself for not wording it sensitively.
“Oh, beautiful, I didn’t mean it like that. Last night, I was watching you sleep and I was thinking about how much you sacrificed in your life,” I glance down at an invisible spot on the floor. “I know we spoke about the gifts and so on at dinner, but…” I lift my head and lose myself in her eyes. “I wanted to do something nice. It’s our last night in New York; I thought we could go out. I thought you would enjoy being pampered for once.” The warmth of my words promptly thaws her icy, offended visage.
Her mouth curls into a smile of gratitude…I think.
As our bodies press flush against one another, Samantha reaches up onto her tiptoes. “Thank you,” she mutters simply against my lips, and then melds them together. Feeling her begin to draw away, I quickly suck on her bottom lip and lure her back to me. She giggles a lighthearted giggle, and it’s like an angel singing to my ears. It is such a beautiful sound. “I love you,” she whispers, caressing my cheek with the daintiness of her hand.
“I love you too, Samantha.”
I feel empty and alone as I stroll down the sidewalk. With Samantha missing from my side, my hand is left vacant as I expect her fingers to lace with mine. I feel lost, disowned, it’s a feeling that I believed was alleviated. But if anything, it drives me, filling me with a strong determination that I will never surrender to that pain again. I would sacrifice anything feasibly possible, if it meant that Samantha would walk through her life with her hand in mine.
I step out of the store, exhaling an invigorated breath and grinning like the Cheshire cat as I possessively pat the item in my inner breast pocket of my leather jacket.
Gray clouds start rolling and shadows are cast over the city. Yet the world has never seemed so bright, so clear and so flawless. It’s like I have literally stepped into Oz; the Yellow Brick Road leading Samantha and I to our future.
I just hope and pray that we encounter no more hindrances along the way.
“Wentworth?” a husky voice reels me back to reality. I peruse the gloomy block to find the source of the voice. “Hayden Wentworth?”
With a furrowed brow, I observe the source. The man steps onto the sidewalk, and approaches me. “Oh my life,” I mutter, “Daryl Brody?”
Daryl Brody was an acquaintance of mine back in our Harvard Law days. With his inky, black hair that flicks out over his ears and neck, and clean shaven, squared jawline he hasn’t changed at all––even after six years. He’s about two inches shorter than I and slender, but then again, he was the same in Harvard. He dons a smart black suit, with a white pinstriped shirt and red tie, his half-rimmed, designer glasses emphasizes his cheekbones and his blended cerulean and green eyes.
Hooking an arm around my neck in a man hug, he pats me twice on the back. I mirror his acknowledgement.
“Hey, man. How have you been?” he releases me, and crosses his arms across his chest. “I heard about your dad. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks Daryl. It’s been hard, trying to grieve and maintaining the firm.”
“Yeah, I bet.” His sympathetic eyes are even more expressive through the strength of his lenses as he sets his mouth into a firm-line. “So what are you doing in, New York? Can’t be work, so I will say…” he looks up at the overhead sign of the store I just existed, his eyes bright, a delighted, knowing grin on his pale face, “Pleasure?”
What do I say to that? I chuckle, and tighten my eyes.
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Come on, Wentworth,”––he nudges my shoulder––“I recognize that look. You don’t stroll out of Tiffany’s & Co grinning like a cat that got the cream, if you’re not here for pleasure.”
God, he can read me like a book, okay, maybe something’s
do
change in six years.
“So…who is she?”
“Her name’s Samantha. She’s beautiful, she’s caring. She always puts others before herself, she’s perfect,” I beam.
“She sounds amazing. So what does she do?”
And there is it. I lick my lips, and fill my lungs to beyond bursting point. “She’s my receptionist at the firm.”
Eyes-wide, brow raised, he rocks to and fro on his heels. Flashing a devilish smirk he murmurs, “Wow, Hayden, sounds like everything has looked up for you. So is she the one?”
“Excuse me,” a female bystander interjects, rounding us as we remain obstructing the sidewalk. We step back to the building.
Nodding frivolously I mutter, “Yeah…yeah she is.”
He bumps my shoulder again in his blithe approach. “I’m happy for you, man.”
“Thanks, what about you? Are you still with um…?” Damn, six years can obviously remove things from your memory, too.
“Rochelle? Yeah, we have been married now for nearly four years, and we have a three year old daughter, another one on the way.” He retrieves his wallet from his inner pocket, and hands me a family photo. They look so happy, with Daryl behind his caramel skinned wife, his arms draped over her shoulders and their beautiful daughter at the front. She’s a spitting image of her mother, with a mass of dark, tight curls and buoyant expression.
“They’re beautiful.” I hand back the print, and imagine showing a family photo like Daryl’s to an old acquaintance, in years to come.
He slips the wallet back into his jacket, and continues to tell me that Rochelle is adamant on wanting to leave New York. I waver around at the bustling sidewalk, the congestion of mass vehicles and towering buildings curious as to why anyone would wish to leave the city that never sleeps, before absconding from the bitter breeze and nestling my hands into the warmth of my pockets.
Looking deflated, Brody shakes his head and sighs heavily. “We don’t want to raise two kids here. It’s hard enough with one, but…” he pinches his nose as if he is about to sink under water, and drags his hand down its length. He looks exhausted. I guess kids will do that to you.
“There are a lot of places in San Francisco. Nice suburbs with a front and back lawn. It’s always an option. It’s nice to have more than one area to examine first, before settling. And I’m around to give a helping hand.”
“Thanks, Hay. I will keep that in mind.” He digs back into his pocket and recovers a business card. “Here’s my number, don’t be a stranger, okay.”
I briefly inspect the ‘Jacobs and Heart law-firm’ business card before placing it in my back jeans pocket.
I acquiesce and Daryl enfolds me in another masculine embrace. He pats my back, and begins to turn on his heel.
“And, Hay,”––he points at the overhead sign, and then down to my pocket, his mouth curled into a shrewd smirk. “Good luck.”
Strolling from the bathroom with a white towel bound around my hips, and rubbing the other over my hair, I stare fixated at my reflection in the full-length mirror, on the bottom wall of the bedroom. As I study my body in silence, I notice an infinitesimal difference in my definition––nothing that anyone other than I would notice––perhaps the lack of appetite the last few weeks, has affected my body more than I had realized.
But now, with Samantha and me getting back to being us, and Victor’s firm kick up the ass, alongside his influential wise words, I have a clearer understanding of what I have been experiencing. I feel more myself, anything is possible. This has been the rainbow after the storm, for us, the bird’s song after the hurricane, and the sunrays of a fresh dawn after a grim, darkened night.
It may only be two nights, but that’s two refreshing, hopeful nights without my demons festering on me and affecting the only thing in this world that I care about.
I set out one of Samantha’s newly acquired outfits and shoes on the bed, and write,
‘Wear me’,
upon the unlined parchment, before getting ready myself.
Inhaling deeply, I check my reflection one last time.
You are more self-conscious than a bloody woman, Hayden Wentworth,
my subconscious mocks, with sturdy arms folded across his chest, tapping his foot with palpable impatience.
I fist my hands back through my drying hair; my locks obediently fall into place. Aligning my silver-gray tie and fastening the two buttons of my black, Boss suit jacket, I sink my hands into the pockets of my pants.
Drawing in a profound breath, I focus on the ground. Please, let tonight be perfect, let it be natural, let it be unforgettable.
Turning on my heel, I recover the pen I place on the nightstand, and another unlined piece of parchment, and leave Samantha a note:
Beautiful, I hope you enjoyed your spa session, and are refreshed for our last night in the city. I am unashamed to admit that today I have felt lost without you beside me, albeit it only for a few hours. I have still felt the cold of your absence, and the shortfall of your voice has presented alarm bells ringing in my head. The impatience that stirs inside me, to have your hand in mine, is overpowering.
Hurry to me, Samantha. Don’t leave me waiting.
I’m in the lobby. I love you, my Queen. Xxx
I prop my left elbow onto the white and golden marble desk, and begin rhythmically tapping my fingertips on the cold surface. I feel my legs trembling, my pants quivering as though there is a light breeze colliding with the material.
The woman on the opposite side smiles at me amiably. “Sir, your car and driver are both waiting outside.”
“Thank you.” I raise the cuff of my suit jacket, and check my Rolex. “Come on, Sam,” my impatience travels on a whisper, still clearly loud enough for the immaculately dressed, coffee skinned woman to detect my combination of anticipation and restlessness.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, but it’s a women’s prerogative…building suspense.” Her full, burgundy colored lips, uplift to a reassuring smile.
The vibration in my leg seems to have been calibrated to a higher setting, as the tremor intensifies with nervous expectation every passing second. Every noise that is rendered as someone enters the lobby has me on the edge of my seat…well, if I was sat that is.
Finally, I close my eyes and draw in deep, steady breaths, allowing my anxiety to be alleviated by the force of positive contemplation, and much needed oxygen.
“Sir,” my shaky attempt of meditation is broken.
I open my eyes to be met with a broad, friendly smile from the woman behind the desk. She points with her brow in the direction behind me.
My instant reaction is to quickly turn and gaze at her, let my sense of sight indulge the craving that they have been starved of. But I sigh inwardly, compose myself, and turn slowly.
With her right hand propped on the balustrade, a black and silver clutch purse tucked under her left arm, she descends the expansive staircase, graceful, dignified, and balanced.
I shake my head, my mouth dry, while my eyes moisten as I stare utterly entranced at the form of perfection.
The black, fitted, knee-length dress accentuates the curve of her waist. The lace material of the long-sleeves also shelters her chest, and cuts into a boat neckline, which defines the impeccable structure of her collarbone. Her ivory satin peep-toe heels are veiled by a layer of black lace. With her hair piled high into an Audrey Hepburn styled bun, her bangs invisibly clipped to the side and a string of diamantes framing the up-do, she looks like she has walked off the set of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Consumed by her magnificence, I stroll absentminded to the bottom of the staircase.
“You are absolutely, breathtaking.”
She holds her hand out for me to aid her down the last step. Seizing it, I raise it to my lips, and place a chaste kiss on the back of her knuckles.
“Thank you, kind, sir,” she feigns a noble, English woman’s accent.
I am beguiled by her presence, locked in a time-loop to which I can only yearn to have last for a lifetime.
“You look dashing, yourself. But then again, when do you ever look anything less?”
“It is the woman on my arm that makes it so,” I reply and motion a spiral with my index finger, in a silent urge to have her turn around. She obliges with finesse. The back of the dress plunges to the small of her back, but the black lace screens her exposed, pale flesh. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Even Aphrodite would be envious of such paralyzing beauty.
I open my mouth as she finishes her rotation yet my words refuse to flow. However, she reads my intentions, and as she gazes back at me she bites her lower lip, and steps into me. She cradles the side of my face, and murmurs earnestly, “I know, and thank you.”
I smile back, embarrassed that I have no words to express. Tipping my head forward, I place a kiss on her glossy lips. As she pulls her mouth away, I lick the sweet raspberry residue from my mouth, and she brushes her thumb pad over my jawline.
“Shall we go then?”
I offer her the crook of my arm, and she immediately entwines with me. I feel the warmth and the suppleness of her flesh, the exactitude of her knuckles under my hand as I caress her joints as she bonds her arm with mine. It’s amazing how something so chaste can fill a void that you never anticipated existing…until it is restored.
Immediate pleasurable shocks are freed from my body, sparking my nerve endings and rising to the surface as Samantha gently squeezes my thigh in the privacy of the backseat of the limo. I crane my head to face her.
Her contagious grin shines through as bright as the Sirius star amongst a billion others.
“So, where are we going?”
“Will you ever stop asking questions, beautiful?” I cover her hand with my own, locking our fingers together and resume resting on the pinnacle of my thigh. “It’s a surprise. If I told you,” I shift against the leather seat, and gently trail my fingertips down her face, to end their journey at her jawline. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise. Would it?”