by Hunter, Lara
Forcing a faint smile for the tall, tanned blonde that sold sweets and light meals at the cart (without managing to eat a single one of them, or so it would seem from the appearance of her annoyingly slender form) I opened my mouth will the full intention of asking if her name was likely to appear anywhere in the pages of my boyfriend’s long discarded (or so I dearly hoped) little black book.
No worries though, I was good. Instead I just requested a hot dog with everything on it, as well as the current time of day.
Staring down at the surface of her crystal blue sports watch, the latter day Baywatch babe squinted with confusion as she studied its face.
Well either the sun is in her eyes, I mused in silence. Or she just never did learn to tell time. Looking like that, she probably doesn’t need a whole lot of practical skills.
“1 p.m.,” she said finally, dragging her gaze from the surface of her watch to gather the ingredients of my steamy wet hot dog.
I gaped.
“Are you sure?” I gasped out, shaking my head from side to side as I processed this information.
“Yep,” she replied, looking slightly annoyed as she layered my hot dog with copious supplements of ketchup, relish and chives.
Moving at this point in a bewildered haze, I offered the attendant my five dollar bill and took my hot dog in a shaky grasp.
“Keep the change,” I told her as I turned away.
“Thanks!” she beamed, brightening considerably. “Did you want any iced tea to wash down that dog—or maybe you want to chase it with a Popsicle or ice cream bar?”
I shook my head.
“Thanks all the same,” I said over my shoulder, adding with an uneasy shrug, “At this point, though, all I really want is answers.”
Gobbling down my hot dog as I ran fast down the sands, I arrived soon at the edge of my beach blanket; bending to collect my water and lotion and toss them into my beach bag. Finally I folded my beach blanket under one arm and grabbed my bag with my free hand; racing up the length of the bronze sanded beach as my mind swirled with a furious pool of nagging unanswered quandaries.
Where was Oliver? And how did I manage to sleep half the day away?
Soon I found myself at the door of the Beausoleil Resort; a three-foot tall structure of ivory sandstone graced with statuesque arches and stained glass windows.
Ignoring this spectacle of architectural beauty that kisses the shores of Miami, I hurried inward to a lobby lined with polished cherry wood furniture and rich royal blue carpeting; its sandstone walls lined with various examples of multi-colored art deco paintings and portraits.
Marching up to a corner reception desk with purposeful steps, I encountered yet another thin, statuesque blonde standing behind the counter.
Those thin, statuesque blondes seem to be in short supply around here. I wonder if this in some way accounts for Oliver’s disappearance today, I thought to myself, adding aloud, “Ma’am, have you seen Mr. Oliver Clark lately?”
Immediately the clerk nodded, reaching as she did beneath the front desk to retrieve a piece of scarlet-tinted stationery that she thrust into my grasp.
“He checked out three hours ago,” she informed me, adding as she gestured toward the note, “But he left that note behind for you.”
My gaze remained peeled on her sculpted, tanned face as I considered these truly unbelievable words. Finally I asked, “What do you mean, he checked out? Does he need me to meet him at the airport? Maybe you should call me a cab…”
“He’s already gone,” the clerk insisted, voicing her words more slowly this time. “He got a phone call down here at the desk, then promptly went up to his—to your—room. He came back down about a half hour later with his packed bags in his hands and asked for us to call him a cab to the airport. All of your possessions are still in the room, and your room is paid up through the end of the week. In addition, Mr. Clark has left your ballet tickets at the desk—along with an envelope of cash that you can use to buy food, toiletries, souvenirs, and anything else you need for the duration of your stay.”
I shook my head.
“All I’ll be needing from you is my own cab to the airport,” I insisted, planting my hands on my hips. “Which you need to call now.”
Affirming my words with a sharp, brisk nod, I unfolded my mysterious message and read the words with disbelieving eyes.
“My dearest Lily,” the note read. “That phone call turned out to be a bit more serious than we originally thought, and I’ve been called back home. I’ll explain later; for now, though, please don’t concern yourself with my worries. Enjoy the rest of your time in Miami. I’ll talk to you soon. Much love, Oliver.”
“How soon?” The words sprang unbidden to my mind as I crinkled the note in my hands. “And what was so blasted important that he had to leave me behind?”
“Ma’am?” My troubled meditation was disrupted by the sound of an official feminine voice; one that emanated from behind the front counter. “Would you still like me to call you a cab?”
Shaking my head, I turned away from the counter in a smooth flourish as I told her, “No, thank you.”
“Do you want the money and the theater tickets?” Again her voice came to penetrate the haze that held my psyche captive.
“Keep and enjoy,” I said over my shoulder, making a quick escape into a nearby elevator.
It was going up. And I was going down.
~
Chapter Three
~
Lily
The moment I arrived in my hotel suite I plopped down exhausted on the surface of a soft blue velvet chair; grabbing a nearby remote control and flicking the on switch—forcing my gaze to focus on the sharp, high definition image that appeared on the wide screen television set posted on the opposite side of the room.
Flicking the individual buttons on the surface of the remote, my eyes widened as they focused on a quickly changing kaleidoscope of images; bits from music videos, infomercials, comedy and action movies, cartoons and finally on the picture perfect image of a couple in love, kissing passionately and losing themselves in one another’s gaze and embrace.
Swearing softly I switched off the TV and picked up the phone instead; placing a room service order for a large pizza with everything on it.
As I awaited the imminent arrival of my much needed comfort food, I tried to force my wayward thoughts to various, nondescript targets; a hotel brochure, a pay per view channel guide, the admittedly stunning view of Miami Beach, as afforded through a large, clear window.
Come on, I urged myself, shifting uneasily in the depths of my luxury chair. This is still a vacation, and I still can have a good time on my own.
Jumping resolutely up from my chair, I switched on a nearby radio; grinning in spite of myself as the jubilant tones of a salsa dance tune permeated my atmosphere; impelling me to perform a free-spirited, impromptu jig across the surface of my hotel room floor.
I was single for ages before I met Oliver, I reminded myself; and I never was one to mope around and wallow in my singlehood—quite the contrary, I tended to embrace my hard earned independence, enjoying at last the sublime opportunity to earn my own money, own my own home and pay my own bills.
And I still thrived and survived as an independent woman. Having left Oliver’s employ during a brief separation last year, I had scored a new position at Clark Industries; acting as the executive assistant to marketing mogul Trisha Vance; herself a tough, smart, no nonsense woman who supplied me—not only a steady stream of brilliant, intellectually stimulating work projects—but with a constant source of empowered, invigorating feminist inspiration.
Even when Oliver and I came back together following our separation, I chose to remain in Trisha’s employ. I didn’t feel quite comfortable with the idea of working for my steady boyfriend; thus casting an aura of distinct inequality over our relationship. I did, on the other hand, feel completely comfortable with Oliver’s new executive assistant, whose name just happened to be Lesl
ie.
Hey, I was more than secure enough in my womanhood to totally accept Leslie’s place in my lover’s life; especially given the fact that Leslie—or Les, as he liked to be called—was bald and had a rather thick covering of facial hair.
Yet at the end of every day I often found myself at Oliver’s house or he found himself at mine. Our lives, our bodies, our beings became one; rendering the last five-month period in my life a fanciful dirge of romance, sensuality, and binding friendship.
So where have things gone wrong? I pondered, shaking my head from side to side to clear it of its confused haze. Where is Oliver? And why did he leave me?
My troubled meditation was disrupted by the sound of a loud knock on my doorway; followed by a loud cry of “Room service!”
“I sure do need service of some sort,” I mumbled, trudging to the door to accept and pay for my preordered comfort food.
Only it didn’t seem all that comforting moments later, as I chomped away listlessly at a piece of piping hot pizza brimming over with a variety of succulent toppings; everything from sausage to pepperoni, extra cheese to extra chives.
Just the way Oliver and I like it, I mused, finally eating my way through my second slice before shutting the lid on the pizza box. And I can’t eat all of this myself.
Opening the door of a bedside mini fridge and depositing the pizza on the topmost shelf, I slammed the portal shut and collapsed on my bed; a bed that still brimmed with the scent and feel of Oliver.
For just a moment I allowed myself the luxury of experiencing my lover’s lingering presence in the sleek sheets of our vacation bed. I rolled free and wild in the sheets; inhaling both his lingering cologne and the sensation of his essence. My soothed psyche bathed in the memory of the evening before; the night that had witnessed our passionate explosion, the erotic culmination of the incredible bond that had developed between us.
…or so I thought. My eyes flew wide open, and I jerked upward in my sheets as some stray rays of incoming sunshine blinded my gaze; seeming to symbolize the wakeup call—or, more specifically, the wake up memo—that I had just received.
My thoughts flew briefly to another note I’d once received from my lover; one that he had left on my pillow the morning after our first encounter. Hardly a love note, this short, crisply worded missive had broken my heart; also breaking the newly formed bond we’d culled the evening before.
How, I’d wondered at the time, could Oliver greet our first morning after with coldness and regret for the night before and with the brief written message that indicated the rather lame reason that he couldn’t remain at my side?
Well that question turned out to be easily—if all too painfully—answered. Oliver, it turned out, was running from the feelings that he harbored for me—feelings that had become all too real for a man who’d spent his life as a certified playboy.
I was more than ready to give up on the man, and did for a while; until he practically begged me to take him back; explaining to me that the premature death of his mother—indeed, the much beloved Irene had died after a brief but valiant battle with cancer—had joined a difficult collegiate heartbreak in rendering him incapable of maintaining his role in a serious monogamous relationship.
And then along came Lily, I mused, descending into a restless state of frustrating partial slumber; one accented by dreams and visions of our blossoming relationship.
I saw enchanting images of days enjoyed on bronze sanded beaches throughout the course of sun-drenched days and nights spent ensconced in panoramic theaters where the show on stage was rivalled only by the intensity of feeling that I bore for the man at my side.
I pictured luminous works of art captured on paper. Oliver and I, it turned out, were both closet artistes; so while I wrote endless love stories with heroes that looked suspiciously like him, he produced endless drawings and watercolor portraits with subjects that looked suspiciously like me. His rendering of a beauteous lily in bloom, in fact, turned out to be the key to rejuvenating and reigniting our relationship.
In dreams I basked briefly in the colorful spectacle of this striking—and very personal—piece of art; a small but finely detailed water color, titled ‘A Lily in Bloom’, that depicted a lavender water lily in all its fragrant, dew-glistened glory.
Yet even as I smiled and murmured contented at the memory of this painting, which now claimed a prominent place on my living room wall at home, my beam dissolved as my dreamscape transitioned; suddenly showing me far less pleasing canvases—surfaces that took the form of neatly written notes that explained my lover’s absence.
Finally in my dreams I heard the ringing of a cellular phone; one that produced Oliver’s ringtones, set to the tune of the pop music classic ‘Smooth Operator’ by Sade, the last remaining nod, or so I hoped, to his carefree bachelor days. Then I heard some words spoken in that deep, sonorous voice I so readily identified with my sexy lover; words that formed the troubling phrase, “I can’t talk to you.”
Suddenly I bolted upright in bed; my eyes flying open as my mind was attacked by an unwelcome, unbidden memory.
About two weeks ago, Oliver and I had been lounging comfortably in his luxury three-story townhouse—a place he’d once considered the ultimate bachelor pad—when the loud, insistent ringing of his cell phone served to shatter a quiet, quite peaceable afternoon.
“Smooooth operat-ah!” I sang along loudly and merrily with his signature ringtones; my kooky smile dissolving abruptly as Oliver scowled outright at his own cell phone.
Hitting the talk button on his phone, Oliver put the receiver to his ear and barked, “I can’t talk to you.”
Oliver avoided my gaze as he hit the end button on his phone—ironic, since my time of confusion and concern was only beginning.
“Who, pray tell, did you just talk to, telling them that you couldn’t talk to them?” I asked, feigning an indifferent tone as I pinned my lover with a curious stare.
Oliver shook his head.
“Don’t worry about it babe,” he snorted, making a weak attempt at a casual shrug with shoulders that trembled ever so slightly. “Just one of those annoying telemarketers, that’s all.”
“Just one of those annoying telemarketers, my ass!” I exclaimed now, jumping up from my bed as I reached for my own cell phone; one conveniently located on my bedside table.
As a part of my travel planning I had programmed my cell phone with the number of the Miami airport; it was a number I dialed now with fast, frantic fingers.
“Hi,” I greeted the anonymous clerk on the other side of the line. “Do you have any red eyes departing tonight for the Bennington airport?”
~
Chapter Four
~
Lily
Several hours later I found myself in a taxi cab, veering farther and farther away from the tropical paradise where I had enjoyed my dream vacation.
Only I hadn’t truly enjoyed this trip and my dream was about to turn into a nightmare.
Pulling up to the curb in front of my modest brownstone home, I forced a fake smile as I paid my cabbie and retrieved my suitcases from his trunk; a trail of moonlight leading my way as I made my way up my sidewalk in the direction of my front door.
As I turned my key in the doorknob I formulated a plan; one that I hoped would bring about some sort of peaceful resolution to this insane, downright inexplicable situation.
As tempted as I was to go directly to Oliver’s house and confront him outright, I didn’t exactly want to end up in jail for assault; something that might just happen if I caught him with his mystery girl, the one he couldn’t talk to when he was with me, but who he might be a heck of a lot more than talking to at this very moment.
Of course I shouldn’t just assume the worst of the man I loved; for while he did have a history and reputation of a carefree, promiscuous playboy, Oliver had shown so much progress in the last five months—spending all of his free time with me and repeatedly showing and declaring his unbending and very
tender devotion to our relationship.
Maybe one of his ex-girlfriends turned his head, I pondered. Who has ever heard of the five month itch, though? I don’t know—I think at this point I need a good night’s sleep. Then tomorrow morning I can approach this situation with a clearer head. I can go to Olli’s house first thing and get this situation resolved. I will let him know, in no uncertain terms, that the way he just took off on me, without any excuse or explanation, is wrong—and that, whatever the problem is, we need to address it and work it out together, just as we have for the past few years. That’s why we make a good team. If, however, I do find him with another woman, I hereby reserve the right to slap ‘em both silly.