Mikalo's Grace (4 page)

Sighing, I willed myself to relax, allowing
exhaustion to take me. Eager now, despite the wet beneath me and
the sheen of sweat covering me, to dive deep into sleep and then
into dreams.

Dreams of my Mikalo.

Chapter Seven

This day was never going to end.

The papers on my desk endless, the wealthiest
of these wealthy families waiting for me to work my magic. Hundreds
of millions at stake while my mind tugged again and again toward
Mikalo, the weekend looming with no idea whether I'd see him or if
he'd want to see me or if he was even thinking about me or if I was
being delusional and stupid and surprisingly, shockingly needy.

I pushed the pile away and put the pen down,
turning my chair to the window, the vast, impressive pile of
buildings known as Manhattan waiting below.

He hadn't called. I'd checked voicemail
twice. Okay, three times. And I considered calling him, but ... I
don't know. Was it too much too soon?

I shifted in my chair, the ache from last
night lingering as I knew it would.

And yet there was something about him, this
Mikalo. Something behind the eyes, hiding behind the smile.
Something that said that perhaps he had to push through his own
dark clouds. That perhaps sometimes he, like that waiter, needed
the gift of a stranger's smile to feed his soul.

The part of me that wanted to fuck him 'till
we both begged for mercy and collapsed from exhaustion battled that
part that wanted to hug him and hold him and dry his quiet, private
tears.

If I let myself, and if this moved further, I
could love him. I think.

I don't know.

Besides, there were too many variables. The
job, for one. Mikalo. What he wanted. But if my suspicions were
correct, he wanted me.

It was almost too much to hope for.

I despised myself for wanting it so much.

And somewhere in my mind, twisting his way
between the thoughts of my Mikalo and his apparent perfection and
his hoped for need for me, waited Benjamin. My first husband.

His death haunted me. So young, so quick.
Shocking, still.

Sighing, I closed my eyes, the pain of his
passing, although years had now passed, still too painful to
contemplate.

Open my heart again? I asked myself. It's too
wounded, too raw. The pain is still too great for me to think of
giving it to anyone again.

But when?

The question came, surprising me.

And if not with someone as wonderful as
Mikalo, then with who?

I pushed the thought away. Ignored the
questions, unsure of my answers, preferring to swivel back to face
my desk, and, pen in hand, dive in and lose myself in my work.

As always.

"You know the drill. You don't return my
calls, I ambush you."

She stood in the door. Blonde. Impeccable as
always. All the moxie and daring and patient impatience of Brooklyn
wrapped in the drop-dead glamour of a Park Avenue wardrobe. And
address.

Deni. My best friend.

"Lunch. Wine. Now," she then said, snapping
her fingers.

And I stood, grabbing my purse and gathering
my coat.

You didn't argue with Deni.

Chapter Eight

"You're mythologizing him," she said, wine
glass in hand.

"I know, I know," I answered between bites of
pasta. "I can't help it."

"Well, then, here," she said, putting the
glass down and leaning forward, "Let me help.

"He was not good to you. He left for days on
end, didn't call, drank like a fish and fought like a bear --"

"Okay, okay --"

"And sex? You were lucky if you got five
minutes twice a month --"

"Alright!"

"No, it's not alright," she said through
gritted teeth. "Remember, Ronan. Remember the reality and not this
dead husband fantasy you have. And don't you dare let this myth
interrupt what could be something wonderful with this Greek of
yours."

"It's complicated."

"No, it's not."

She leaned forward, moving close, her voice
low.

"A man who loves you won't be disgusted when
you grow wet with desire."

I cringed, the shame I felt at how moist I
became when I got excited kicked awake by this forgotten memory. Of
Benjamin's exasperation and thinly veiled revulsion when he'd dip
below only to find his fingers glistening with my excitement.

And how the mood would be wrecked, his
movements from that point forward driven more by what he felt he
should do instead of what his heart wanted to do, the experience
shortened by his disgust.

Even today, I felt embarrassed and ashamed,
these two emotions still keeping me from enjoying the intimate
company of someone or of letting go and enjoying it during the rare
times I did.

"That was, is, Benjamin, darling," Deni was
saying, wine glass once again in hand. "Let him die and move on.
Please."

"But there's nothing to move on to," I said.
"Mikalo and I had coffee, he said all the right things, we had
dinner, and, I don't know, I'm beginning to think this is all in my
head."

"So, pick up the phone and call him."

"No way."

She stuck out her hand, but there was no way
I was handing her my phone. I'd fallen for that before and
regretted it.

No way.

"Ronan," she said, waiting.

"No, I'm not screwing this up."

She retreated, taking the fork and stabbing
her pasta instead.

"Go for him before someone else does."

"And what if he's not mine to have?"

"Then that's that."

I grew silent, the thought breaking my heart.
I took a healthy gulp of wine, drowning my disappointment with
chardonnay.

"You know," she was saying between bites, "I
know a lot of guys I could --"

"No, you don't and no, you can't."

"How long are you and this career of yours
going to keep fucking, Ronan? I mean, you've hit the top, right?
You want to become Managing Partner or something?"

"Oh hell no," I said, laughing. "I have no
life as it is."

"And yet here's a life sitting in front of
you, looking handsome, flirting, obviously interested in you, and
you won't even call him."

She signaled to the waiter for a refill.

The handsome man quickly came over, smoothly
filling Deni's glass and then mine, and left with a nod, Deni
gifting him with a smile and a wink.

"Pick up the phone, dear," she then said as
she watched the taut backside of the young man walk away, "before
your Greek sails into the sunset.

"And I'm begging you," she continued, turning
to me. "Please, for the love of god, get a manicure. Your nails are
positively frightening."

Chapter Nine

He sat on my living room floor, his biceps
bulging in a crisp white t-shirt, strong thighs wrapped in blue
denim, and his large stocking feet crossed, his leather bomber
jacket tossed aside earlier, his heavy boots left near a small
bench near the door.

Earlier my door bell had rang and there he
stood, balancing two coffees in one hand, a bag of bagels from
Murray's in the other.

"There is everything," he explained as he
handed me the bag. "I did not know, so I got every kind. It is
Saturday. Let's enjoy."

The day before, after lunch, I had sat
watching the lights of the city come on below me as the sun set, my
phone in hand. And, after a very deep breath, I had dialed, the
familiar deep voice answering, my heart racing.

"Oh, but tonight, my Grace, I am busy."

Of course he was. Damn it.

"But tomorrow, if you like, I would like to
see you."

Yes!

"Is that good?"

"That would be wonderful," I had answered,
suddenly feeling foolish for having corner him into meeting me.

"I was going to come," he was saying, "but
talking with you before is better, I think."

"So, whenever you like," I suddenly said.
"I'll be around."

I could have kicked myself.

"Ah, then we will have a day."

Oh, nice.

Next call. Deni.

"I called him."

"Good."

"We're spending the day together
tomorrow."

"I'll call my girl and get you an ASAP
Brazilian."

"Deni! I don't think --"

"Shut up. The girl's a genius and we don't
want to scare your sensitive Greek first time out, do we?"

I had paused.

"Okay, call her."

And now here he and I sat, our coffees now
lukewarm and set aside for steaming mugs of homebrewed, the bagels
slathered with cream cheese, half-eaten and lying nearby.

And a photo album open and balanced on his
knees as we revisited my past, years of embarrassments and braces
and glasses and chunky thighs now lying open, cradled in his large
hands.

And me, smooth as a baby below thanks to the
magical talents of Lucinda.

"And this, here, this is you?" he asked, his
finger pointing.

I glanced at the picture, a particularly
horrid one of me at thirteen or fourteen standing in a frilly
peasant blouse with my tummy protruding over a very large, wide
light blue denim prairie skirt. Face scarred red by acne, of
course. Big round glasses. Thick bangs. And yellow wool knee
socks.

"Yep," I answered, resisting the temptation
to crawl under the couch and curl into a fetal position. And then
polish off the half-dozen or so bagels left in the bag.

"Ah, so your hair has always been beautiful,"
he said, turning the page to discover various holiday photos.

"Christmas!" he said with a smile. "I love
Christmas."

This guy really was too perfect.

"You have a very nice home," he continued,
looking up at me. "And there is more upstairs?"

"Oh, a family room, a few bedrooms,
bathrooms," I responded, being careful not to sound too boastful
over the townhouse I had called home for nearly a decade. In a city
of apartments, to have a townhouse, especially on the Upper West
Side and especially at my relatively young age, was a big deal.

Still, I worked hard, spent wisely, and most
certainly deserved it. And I felt proud. Besides, it's not like
this four story home was over-the-top or anything. It was homey and
comfortable with a luxury that whispered, not shouted.

"Bedrooms upstairs," he said, turning yet
another page, this one sprinkled with beach scenes and barbecues
and me, sunburned and chubby in an unfortunately colored two-piece
with a flotation device stuck around my waist.

"Tell me about Greece," I asked.

"Greece is Greece," he said. "It is rocky
cliffs and very white sand and blue, blue water that tastes clean
and salty and fresh when you swim in it. It is ouzo and fish and a
very bright sun blinding your eyes when you eat lunch outside.

"Greece is home," he continued. "It is my
heart, it is my soul, it is my love. Me without Greece is not
me."

"And if you're offered this job? I mean, if
you're offered and accept this job, here in New York, what then?" I
asked, the familiar taste of disappointment catching in my throat
as I swallowed, suddenly aware I might need to quickly recalibrate
whatever feelings, whatever fantasies, I was having for this young
stranger.

"I will decide then," he said, closing the
photo album and respectfully laying it aside. "If I come to New
York, it won't be because of a job. It will be love. A love of the
city, of the restaurants. The people. A love of the air and the
light. The way the sun sets and rises. The trees in the park and
the smiles on the people.

"It is not choosing a job, it's choosing a
life. And a life must be chosen carefully, no?"

I smiled. He was right.

"I must have a happy heart or ..."

He stopped, pushing the thought away.

"And if there is no happy heart for me here,"
he said, continuing, "then why choose? A job is not a lover. Not a
wife. Yes?"

"Yes, you're right," I said, standing to
refill my cup.

"Do you have a happy heart?" he then asked,
watching me.

I paused, unsure what to say.

"Ah," he said as he reached out and, in one
swift movement, placed his hand between my legs, "then what would
make your heart happy?"

Chapter Ten

I'm going to die, I thought as my body
contracted yet again, my legs shaking as I fought to breathe.

Whatever that boy's mouth was doing down
there, it was doing it well. Almost too well. Way too well.

He was going to kill me.

Earlier he had grabbed my crotch. I froze as
his fingers gently massaged me, the thin fabric separating his palm
from my flesh quickly growing damp.

"It is hot," he whispered as he continued to
rub me.

Unable to speak, I nodded. And then
swallowed.

"And it is wet," he then said.

"I'm sorry --" I began.

"It is perfect," he interrupted, his other
hand stroking himself through his denim.

He then took the coffee cup from my hand, set
it aside and pulled me close, his arms wrapped around me as he
buried his face in my waist and groaned. Standing, he easily lifted
me, turned, and laid me on the couch, his hand now under my shirt
as I ran my fingers through his glossy, thick hair.

"It is good, yes?" he asked, his words choked
with passion.

"Yes," I managed to say, my heart beating in
my throat.

His lips were on my skin, then. Oh so lightly
grazing my stomach, his tongue gently lapping its way north,
tasting me, his fingers now expertly unhooking my bra.

And then, my shirt now under my chin, he was
suckling me, another groan rising as he drew my nipple in deep, his
teeth ever so sweetly biting the sensitive skin, my gasp filling
the room.