Through Solomon, Elizabeth had been in touch with Stefani’s agent and was told it sounded possible. Not only would ‘Rags ‘n’ Beats’ feature music stars and their clothing, but its website would be directly linked to the designs which could then be purchased online.
“It’s genius,” said Effie. “Who’s gonna say no to us?”
Elizabeth agreed. “If Apple Martin is wearing designer sneakers by Jimmy Choo then the whole world will want them for their children.”
“The whole world that’s got more money than sense,” snorted Effie.
“True,” said Elizabeth. “Jack and Camille certainly won’t be wearing designer sneakers but there’s plenty of others that will.”
As if on cue the children came running in. Their eyes were wide with excitement.
“Mommy, mommy, there’s a snake in the grass,” said Jack.
“Probably more than one,” said Effie.
Camille looked at her, “Really? More than one? You mean like a family with a mommy and a daddy and everything?”
Elizabeth shot Effie a wry smile.
“C’mon kids. Let’s go and see,” said Elizabeth.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Joan hoped the Jays might score another home run so Byron would hug her again but the team lost three to one.
Oh well, she thought, at least she and Byron would share a pleasant dinner together.
She’d been right about the house being filled with a sumptuous aroma. As soon as they walked in the door Byron was enthusiastic.
“My God that smells good,” he said. “If it tastes half as delicious then you’ll have impressed me once more.”
Oh, so I’ve impressed you have I, thought Joan. The idea pleased her. She poured them both a glass of wine. Byron refused his.
“I’m sorry,” said Joan. “I assumed you’d want one. Can I get you something else? I have a full liquor cabinet.”
“I’d want one drink, and then ten thousand more,” said Byron. “I don’t drink at all.”
“So you’re…?” said Joan not wanting to say the word.
“An alcoholic? Yes I am,” said Byron. “But I’m not the pain-in–the-ass type who wants to convert everybody.”
“Can I get you a Perrier instead?” asked Joan.
Byron flashed her a devastating grin.
“Add a squeeze of lime and I’d say you know the way to my heart.”
Christ, I might squeeze in the whole lime, thought Joan. She prepared his drink then settled them in her art-filled living room while the mashed potatoes heated.
“Someone has very good taste,” said Byron looking around.
“Thank you,” said Joan. “My husband was a bit of a collector.”
“But no family photos,” observed Byron.
“I used to have a lot of them but I put them away. They’re like ghosts to me now,” said Joan. “Family live in my head so much of the time that I don’t need any more reminders.”
“How long can the dead spread sorrow,” said Byron rhetorically.
“Exactly,” replied Joan.
Byron leaned back on Joan’s couch, crossing one leg over his other knee. He seemed instinctively at home.
“You asked about my wife.”
“Not my business. I was just making conversation,” said Joan sipping her wine.
Byron shifted slightly.
“It’s a legitimate question and one of the ways we reach conclusions about people. Five marriages?…a philandering son of a bitch who can’t make up his mind. Never married? Supremely selfish, gay or both.”
Joan laughed. “So where do you fit into the spectrum?”
Byron sighed. “I am…I was…a romantic fool.”
Joan pursed her lips. “But not any more?”
“No” said Byron. “You see, I was fooled. I fell head over heels.”
“You’re talking about the woman you married?”
Byron nodded. He looked past Joan as if he was seeing a painful movie from his past being projected on the wall behind her.
“I loved her so much. I thought she loved me, that we would build a life and have children.”
“What happened?” asked Joan. “Did she die?”
“In a way. And I died along with her.”
“I don’t quite understand,” said Joan.
“We lasted five years,” said Byron. “She was young and beautiful, but she didn’t like sex.”
“Really?” said Joan.
“Or at least not sex with me, or I should say sex with men,” said Byron ruefully. “She left me for another woman.”
“My God. How come you didn’t know before you got married? Surely…?”
“She was an actress,” said Byron. “A damn good one as it turns out. She told me she was pregnant to seal the deal and get me down the altar. It was a lie. Like a fool, I fell for it. Eventually she plucked up the courage to face her parents, and me. She came out of the closet.”
“How awful for you.”
“I could understand her wanting to be with another man, a rival. I’d want to hunt him down and take him out. But another woman? How could I possibly compete? I got shut down on every level. I had nowhere to direct my anger, except at myself. And that’s when drink became my lover,” he said. “I fell into the warm arms of alcohol and I was never, never disappointed. She was always there waiting for me. But, what I didn’t realize is that she was destroying me in a different way.”
“So you hit, what they call, bottom?” said Joan.
“Bottom doesn’t even begin to describe it,” laughed Byron. “I woke up in a thirty dollar a night motel on the Lakeshore. Don’t know how I got there. Don’t know how long I’d been there. I stumbled out of there and collapsed beside the off ramp to the Gardiner expressway. A kid, maybe eighteen or so, was there panhandling from cars. He helped me up and gave me his coffee. He had a mangy old dog with him. People were so kind, rolling down their windows to give him change, I think for the dog more than him. It struck me that I had no right to feel sorry for myself. I suddenly seemed like the biggest asshole in the world. It was the best perspective I could ever have gotten. I went to A.A. and shortly thereafter an old friend of my mother’s gave me her camera. That was fifteen years ago. Life’s been pretty good to me ever since.”
Joan was astonished by Byron’s story.
“I’m not quite sure what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything,” he told her. “I don’t usually spill my guts like this. In fact, I feel quite remiss doing all this talking about myself. I want to know about you. Who are you Joan?”
Joan took a breath and described her upbringing, a middle-class one designed to cover up the shame of her sister’s mental illness. Joan had been the stable one, the sensible one of whom much was expected. She’d been a good student and easily obtained a scholarship to university. The world of academe had seemed safe. Joan had chosen a stable path, one that led to a sturdy marriage with attainable goals. Byron listened attentively, his eyes fixed firmly on hers.
The ding of the microwave interrupted Joan.
“Come on in. Dinner is ready.”
She led Byron into the dining room where she’d set a place for two.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“It’s all taken care of. Please sit,” she said.
He’d offered to help. That was a first. Her husband Charles would never have lifted a finger.
“More wine?” he asked. His hazel eyes looked inquisitive beneath their sexy eyebrows.
“Thank you” said Joan.
With everything already prepared, it was easy to ladle the gourmet stew over piping hot mashed potatoes and serve it.
“This looks absolutely heavenly,” said Byron.
“Please start,” said Joan. “Eat while it’s hot.”
Byron exclaimed over Joan’s meal with repeated “Mmmm’s.” He also admired Joan’s linen napkins.
“My mother always told me a man likes a big linen napkin,�
� said Joan.
“Did she?” said Byron, the skin around his eyes crinkling with amusement. "And why is that?"
"They're more comfortable. They don't slip off the lap like small ones do."
“Well, mother was right. As mother’s always are."
Byron began talking about something else, Joan wasn’t quite sure what, but a distracted nodding seemed to suffice as a response while she fixated on the gentle smattering of hairs that graced Byron’s forearm. She thought about what he’d told her about his past.
Byron had confided in her and entrusted her with a wounded part of himself. She decided to steer the conversation back to neutral ground.
“So how are you making out with Ulysses?” asked Joan as they ate.
“I confess it’s not easy going,” said Byron. “It might’ve been made considerably easier by punctuation.”
“Stream of consciousness,” nodded Joan. “It can be hard to follow.”
“A heaven tree of stars filled with blue and humid fruit,” quoted Byron.
“Yes, that’s a line from it,” said Joan. “Why do you bring it up?”
“I was reading somewhere that one of those big boy British writers, possibly Martin Amis, said it was the most beautiful line in the English language. What do you think?” asked Byron between bites.
“It has a lovely rhythmical cadence,” said Joan, “but I think you’d be hard pressed to beat Shakespeare for beauty.”
“I can’t get my head around the word ‘humid,’" said Byron. “It just doesn’t seem to work with fruit somehow.”
Joan laughed. “So now you’re a critic of James Joyce?”
“Maybe,” said Byron, “Or maybe I’m a critic of Martin Amis.”
“A very undependable writer,” said Joan. “When he’s on he’s completely brilliant. When he’s off he’s terrible.”
“I agree,” said Byron.
As he cleaned his plate Byron leaned back from the table and sighed. “I can honestly say that was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.”
“I’m pleased,” said Joan.
“Next time you must let me cook for you,” he said pouring more wine into her glass.
Next time? There would be a next time?
“That would be wonderful,” said Joan. “Do you have any particular specialty?”
“The specialty of the bachelor male,” said Byron. “Spaghetti. But I make a mean sauce.”
“You’re on,” said Joan.
After more discussion about books and authors, Joan was disappointed when Byron finally said he had to go. She walked him to the front door.
“Thank you so much Joan for the delightful company, even more delightful than the excellent food.”
“You’re welcome,” murmured Joan. He leaned towards her for a kiss. Joan parted her lips in expectation but Byron’s mouth simply brushed her cheek. Every cell in her body registered the texture of his kiss. It was gentle but firm.
“Goodnight,” he said, staring warmly into her eyes. “I’ll be in touch.”
Joan’s greatest fear was falling in love. She was an accomplished, mature woman who’d lost both her husband and a child. Loss was an invisible veil of sorrow she’d wear for the rest of her life. From now on she’d go quietly about her life, content with simple routines she enjoyed. She had her gardening, and her book club. She had a part-time job that interested her. She had grandchildren. The one thing she didn’t have was excitement. She told herself she didn’t want it. The adolescent, giddy, out-of-control aspect of falling for someone was unthinkable.
Even worse was the possibility that an attraction might be one-sided. Had she imagined the current that flowed between her and Byron? If he wanted more than friendship, she’d turn him down telling him she was flattered but that her interest in sex was a ship that sailed long ago. But wait, that wasn’t going to happen because he’d told her he never came on to beautiful women, that they had to make the first move. Dammit. That wasn’t fair. Was she beautiful enough to make a move? What if he rejected her? How stupid and humiliated would she feel then?
On the other hand, much as she relished the idea of exploring his lips, the idea of taking it further was embarrassing. She couldn’t tell him that kissing was all she was interested in. It would make her sound like a teenager. She was like a woman afraid of heights on the parapet of a tall building. Byron was gravity. The idea of looking down made her feel faint.
Joan watched from the window as Byron’s lean figure took the steps from her house, two at a time, and strode down the street to where his car was parked. She closed the door and leaned against it with a sigh. She was going to tidy up and load the dishwasher but first she placed the fork that Byron had used in a sealed plastic bag. His DNA would tell her everything she needed to know.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Elizabeth curled up beneath her down duvet. The mental exercise of setting up a business with Effie was good therapy. It kept her mind occupied and away from thoughts of Declan. But as soon as night arrived she had no control.
She thought back to the wolf dream. It had been disturbing and taken days to fade from hurtful vividness to a simple memory. Why, she wondered, do we dream? Effie’s theory was the subconscious had to have a nightly clear out sale. Everything had to go.
Trust Effie to create a shopping metaphor, thought Elizabeth. Effie said if you couldn’t accept a situation or emotion, the subconscious disguised it in a dream. As a wolf, she hadn’t been able to protect her mate from danger and ultimately death. The dream reflected her life. She should never have agreed to Declan appearing on Letterman. It was her fault. As soon as he flew away, he was trapped into dying.
Elizabeth tried to settle and prepare for sleep but thoughts of Declan kept distressing her. Would anyone else ever replace him in her fantasies? She doubted it. She could never even contemplate being with another man. She closed her eyes. Unable to settle, she tossed and turned. She needed something to relax. Her thoughts slowly began to drift towards…motorbikes.
The roar of a powerful engine filled Elizabeth’s ears. She was flying down a highway in the passenger seat of a Harley, her arms clasped tightly around the leather-clad waist of Declan. She was also wearing leather, but her tight-fitting pants had no crotch. Every so often Declan’s hand would reach back to fondle her. Their secret activity wasn’t visible to other motorists until they stopped at a light. A car filled with teenage boys beside them noticed Declan’s hand reach behind him for Elizabeth. Hooting and hollering, the driver began making masturbatory motions with his hand. Laughing, Declan hit the gas, popped the bike in the air so it reared like a stallion, and zoomed away.
Declan and Elizabeth whizzed along an open highway at massive speed until they heard the sound of a siren. A cop on an equally powerful bike was in hot pursuit. “Fuck,” said Declan. He pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and stopped. Both he and Elizabeth dismounted. The cop took his time making his way towards them. He removed his helmet and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. The heat of the day, suddenly oppressive, made Elizabeth feel as if she was going to melt.
“What do we have here?” said the cop taking in Elizabeth’s crotch less leather pants. He patted Declan down briefly, eager to focus on Elizabeth. He made her turn around with her back to him. He ran his hands over her ass then pulled her against him while his other hand closed over Elizabeth’s vagina.
“This yours?” asked the cop to Declan.
Declan nodded.
“I could write you a speeding ticket,” said the cop, "but…”
“But?” inquired Declan coolly.
“We can work something out. Come with me.” Elizabeth and Declan followed the cop on their bike. Within minutes they arrived at a suburban bungalow.
“Today is my old lady’s birthday,” said the cop, dismounting. He removed his helmet and looked at Elizabeth. He fingered his gun. “You’re gonna be her present.”
Inside the bungalow, an attractive older women lay naked, spread eagled and ti
ed to a bed.
“She wants to have her tits sucked by a woman,” said the cop.
“Go ahead baby, do as he says,” said Declan.
Elizabeth kneeled beside the bed, licking and sucking the woman’s nipples. The woman moaned in ecstasy. The cop handed Elizabeth his gun
“Don’t worry. It’s not loaded,” he said. “Use it on her clit like a vibrator.”
Elizabeth took the shiny black beast from him and began gently massaging the woman’s clitoris.
“Faster,” ordered the cop. He unzipped his fly and started to masturbate. His wife began to pant and cry out.
“That’s enough,” the cop instructed Elizabeth. “I have to fuck her now.”
As the cop climbed onto the bed and entered his wife, Declan and Elizabeth tiptoed away.
“Happy Birthday,” called Elizabeth.
The next moment they were wheeling into a biker clubhouse. The men, mostly young like Declan, were all fit. Testosterone filled the room like air freshener.
Elizabeth noticed a well-preserved man in his sixties reading a newspaper. His silver brush-cut set him apart from the rest of the gang. He glanced up, with a bored expression when Declan and Elizabeth roared in. Elizabeth noticed his steel-grey eyes. They flickered over her then returned to reading.
Declan left the motor of his Harley running. He stared deeply into Elizabeth’s eyes. “They want to see us fuck. In fact, we’re going to do more than fuck. We’ll dragonfly.”
“Who’s going to help?” asked Elizabeth.
Declan indicated the room. “Your choice.”
“Him,” said Elizabeth, pointing to the older man.
“Fox, you’re up,” said Declan.
The older man appeared neither pleased nor displeased. He simply folded up his paper and strode leisurely towards the Harley.
“Lie face-up the bike, head towards the handlebars, and spread your legs good and wide,” instructed Declan. “And hold onto the handlebars.”
The other men disappeared from Elizabeth’s vision although she knew they were still there, particularly Fox who was watching her intently.
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