How, or why, did I let that get away?
And murmurs a purr like growl.
CHAPTER 3
The night inches forward along with the din of conversation and clinking of glasses. Martha guides Sean from one group of guests to another, always on his arm and always with a drink in her hand, in the air at shoulder height when on the move. His perception of the room is correct. It's like a stage and they're moving from skit to skit. One would never remember what's in the room, only who. In a few groupings there is a horrified glance as if the warrior monster hidden by coat and tie might be unleashed at any moment. The baby killer. Once, a few years ago Sean had been spit on by a hippie while at a corner bar and grill in San Francisco. That young man made a terrible mistake and experienced the monster. However, here Sean is ogled as if he were a real life John Wayne.
Meanwhile, Rachael chats with others, glancing toward Sean every so often, wanting to link up again. Several times she walks up to him only to have Martha lead him away. Rachael starts a conversation with a guest, gets engrossed for several moments, then glances around and doesn't see Sean. Her eyes flick from group to group, spot to spot. Her pulse quickens, quietly frantic, like a cat that has lost the mouse to the hole. Calmed, she decides he must be in the bathroom but sees the door open and a woman comes out straightening her skirt. Naw, he wouldn't. Her predatory Jezebel personality leads her to the bar. She asks the bartender, "By chance have you noticed where the guest of honor has gone? I can't seem to find him and want to chat some more."
"I bet you do, ma'am."
Rachael tilts her head to the side, and with eyebrows also raised, glares at the man. Before she can speak, he says, "Sorry, ma'am. Saw him duck into Ms. Raye's study. Alone. The door by the large fern," nodding toward the far side of the room.
"Thank you." There is no thank you in her eyes. She snaps, "I'm not going to kidnap him, you know."
The bartender mumbles, "But you'd like to."
Already easing toward the study, Rachael says over her shoulder, "I heard that, asshole." The man she's brushed against says, "What?"
The Jezebel in her hisses, "Not you, him," nodding back at the barkeep. She continues slipping through the crowd which has not thinned any, except for Sean. The party is going strong and getting louder by the drink. Martha, not the shy one, is telling more stories, some racy, all funny, and gathers a crowd at each stop on her circuits of the room.
* * *
Sean is sitting in one of two high back, comfortable rust colored leather chairs next to an unlit fireplace. The room is quiet, insulated by the paneled mahogany walls and book shelves. A large wooden desk sets with its back facing one wall. The room looks as if it should smell of cigar smoke but it doesn't, only furniture polish and air freshener. The wall with shelves has more books than most people could read in a lifetime. Two other walls are clustered with photos. All but a few of Martha; a lot of shots of her with entertainment friends and servicemen, by and large Green Berets, but the one of her and Sean hangs by itself. He's in a hospital bed in Danang and she is watching him being presented a Purple Heart. The remaining wall has draped, ceiling to floor windows overlooking Central Park, now with its lights contrasting with patches of midnightness.
Sean has a glass of Bourbon and Seven in his hand, head resting on the chair back, staring at the picture. He hears the click of the door opening, and closing. Lowers his head slightly to see Rachael standing, back against the door, hands clasped behind her, and gazing at him.
She glances at the photo, then at Sean, smiles coyly and slightly above a whisper says, "May I intrude? Do you mind?" Getting no immediate response continues with, "Are you all right? You look lost in your thoughts."
He inhales, lets the breath escape slowly, says, "That's more questions than a person has a right to ask, and certainly more than I've ever been asked all at one time. However, the answers are, in order. Yes. No. Yes. And, yes."
"I forgot my questions or at least the order in which I asked them, so I hope the 'no' isn't directed at my 'may I intrude'."
"No, it's not. Have a seat."
"Your lap. Will that do?"
Sean hems and haws, lost for one of his usual quick-witted responses laced with sarcastic humor. She has a sassy personality. Witty as well. However, her manner of dress suggests a "no muss" persona. His eyes, not steely blue now, are more his social, subdued, pale color. She slinks across the room like a lioness stalking her quarry. Now nearly on top of him she stops, poised like a cat checking its prey again, then eases forward as if ready to leap. She huskily giggles and says, "Don't panic, I was only kidding."
Control gained he says, "Too bad," and with a sly, challenging grin continues, "Come on, sit down," patting the top of his right thigh.
Her lips start to form a reply, then take on a coy grin and she does just that. Sits on his lap, wiggling enough to get herself comfortable and him uneasy. Slips one arm around his shoulders whispering, "Not to worry, I won't bite." Then nips him on the ear lobe, whispering even softer into his ear, "Changed my mind."
Her warm breath dances in his ear, her musky fragrance engulfs him; an aromatic seduction. Her blond hair has the fresh scent of evening air after a spring rain shower. She murmurs, "This wouldn't be necessary had you danced with me at our Senior Prom."
"I didn't go."
"Couldn't get a date?"
"Something like that."
"Should have asked me." Pauses, leans back, smiles, then laughs softly but audibly. "I have recalled a lot more about you. You worked on a fishing boat for that old Italian man. The rumors were that you were either working or playing sports, making Sean a dull boy or perhaps just not available. Right? That was you, wasn't it? You didn't date anyone at school, did you?"
"There you go with the multiple questions again. But, you're right. That was me. And the old man was Pete. Ponzio Vaccaro, my dear and close friend. Perhaps my only friend. Also my guardian and soon to be business partner. For the most part, he knew everything happening in town. Probably still does."
"Wow. And your nickname was, Paddy, wasn't it? From your middle name. Right?"
"Again. You with --"
"I know. Can't help it. Conceivably I'm afraid I won't get another opportunity to ask questions."
Sean shifts in the chair uneasily. She smiles coyly. "Are you snuggling , or making some sort of feeble move?"
"Damn, woman, one question at a time. Was getting comfortable, that's all."
"Go ahead. I'll be quiet for awhile... a moment... maybe."
"I doubt it. Nickname was Paddy. From Padraig, my middle name. My Dad liked Irish names. He stayed on course with my first name, hence, Sean for S- h-a-w-n. Padraig for Patrick. Paddy for Pat, and no choice with the Gallagher. If I can get knighted I'll add a Sir." He chuckles, practically inaudibly, at his own commentary.
Sean pauses, tilts his head to one side and forward, more face to face, and close. Her musky scent captures him again. With a slight grin he goes on, "I wasn't snuggling. Merely shifting position. Not sure I need you to move your butt again. The original wiggling put a strain on my involuntary reflexes." He laughs less silently this time at his own humor. She reacts with a slight wiggle. He clears his throat. "Careful." Smiles. "Now let me ask you a question." His voice a low baritone that warms his abruptness.
"Okay. Fire away, Paddy."
"It's Sean. I never liked being called by my nickname. Loved my Dad but hated the name. Besides, now it reminds me of rice paddies, binge ditches and leeches."
"Ugh. Yuk. Do you have another nickname?"
"Yeah, to some."
"And?"
"Ahhh, it's Ice Man. You know, cold hearted. All business and that sort of BS."
"Ice Man. Oh my, well perhaps I should see what I can do to cause a melt-down."
"If you wiggle any more it won't melt." He pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes he continues, "So then, do you think it would be impolite or improper if I said my thanks and goodbyes now? I love
Martha but I'm wanting to get out of here. Possibly walk or something. Never been one for indoors or being penned up."
"I don't think she'd mind and the others are typically self-centered. It's eleven forty-five and closing on midnight. Late by some standards but not by New York's or show business folks so it may raise a few eyebrows. Somehow I don't think it will even nick your armor." She pauses, waiting for a response from him. It doesn't come, however a grin does. She goes on, "Oui, it is okay to leave. May I come with you? That way perhaps Martha will think she does good work as a matchmaker and thereby not mind at all." Her last sentence dripping with her intentionally imposed French accent.
"Okay, let's go. Should we hold hands or something to make it more convincing? Per chance help to raise a few eyebrows. Make Martha's case."
Rachael kisses him on the cheek. Gets up, straightens her slacks and jacket. Grasps, or more like fondles, his hand after he stands and says with raised eyebrows and a grin, "Per chance? That was poetic." Pauses, looks down at their hands, "Hell, I don't care how the hand holding affects Martha. It feels good to me. It's taken me twenty years to get this far. I hope it's not twenty more to the next step."
"What is the next step?"
She suddenly becomes motionless. Faces him, looks him directly in the eyes, purrs, "You determine that, Marine. I'm a bit defenseless at the moment."
"Yeah, right. Like a bamboo viper."
She raises her eyebrows but says nothing. The sly grin says it all. They leave, hand in hand, to find Martha and say their goodbyes. Martha smiles, hugs Sean and gives him a kiss on the lips. Then wipes the lipstick off, says, "Have fun. Stay in touch. Call me tomorrow sometime. We need to have dinner." Then gently pushes Rachael's shoulder. "A hunk, Oui?"
"Better than . . . and dangerous." Rachael winks then mocks a cheek kiss to Martha, leads Sean to the entryway and out the suite door to a foyer by the elevator. There, while waiting for the elevator she leans up and kisses Sean on the lips. She murmurs, "If she can do it, so can I."
Sean says, "So can I." And does. Its hungriness and duration shortened by the arrival of Mister Otis' machine.
They get on. The Jezebel in Rachael glares at the operator and icily murmurs, "You could have taken more time."
CHAPTER 4
Once they get to the lobby, Rachael loops her arm through Sean's and says, "First, come with me. I'll show you one of my . . . my former stores."
They weave their way through a still moderately busy concourse. Hers is one of several upscale shops located in the Plaza Hotel along with a few tourist traps and the one usual travel accessory store. Once fronting the shop, Sean comments favorably on several of the outfits. Then points and says, "That's like you're wearing tonight, only it's tan."
"Beige."
"Yeah, right, tan. Got anything in cammies?"
"Only panties and bras, however in the fashion world we call it flesh tone or lace. But then it's not meant to merely camouflage, but to ambush."
He chuckles.
She laughs and tugs at his arm, and they saunter outside and meander along Central Park South. After strolling hand in hand a full block, she stops and says, "Sean, to paraphrase Nancy Sinatra, these shoes ain't made for walkin'. Besides, I think I should go home."
"I met her once. Beautiful."
"Who?"
"Nancy Sinatra."
"Really? Where?"
"In Vietnam. She was on tour. USO or something."
"My, my, my. Nancy Sinatra, Martha Raye . . . any others?"
"Huh? Oh, a couple actually. Tippi Hedren, Diane McBain, Joey Heatherton and a few others."
"That's more than a couple."
"Met 'em. Nothin' else. They were, are, beautiful. None can hold a candle to you however. Well, possibly Nancy Sinatra." He pauses, "She was a nice lady. Good voice, and that was a great song." Looks at Rachael, smiles, "Now then, do you want me to take you home?"
"Thank you. That's sweet. I mean the compliment." She kisses her index finger and presses it to his lips. "And the offer is tempting, but let's call it a night." She shifts her weight uneasily. "I need to sort out my thoughts and grasp my feelings, or sort out my feelings and digest my thoughts . . . or something."
Sean's anticipatory expression changes quicker than lightening. "What?" She gazes directly into his eyes, "Like they say in the rural areas, you've got me off my feed."
"Rural areas? Is that the sticks?"
"Yeah, tiger. The sticks. . . the rice paddies." She gently squeezes his arm, asks, "Will you be here tomorrow? When are you leaving? Are you in a rush? There's a lot to see in New York."
He laughs softly. "A lot of questions again."
"Oh, dear. Bad habit. Must be something I picked up in New York, or in Paris, or it's a rag business trait."
"Well, whatever. Again, and in order. Can you follow? Yes, I can be. Not sure now. Sort of, and like what?"
Rachael pauses digesting the answers, thinking over her questions and the order in which she asked them. A smile creeps across her face as each of his answers register. She playfully brushes the imaginary lint off his sleeve, lets her gravelly contralto intonation take on a pleading tone. "Stay. Pleeeease. For a day or two, the weekend and then some. I have closed on my flat but haven't even started to pack for my trip, a vacation of sorts." She pauses, watching his expression, him thinking. Sighs, and with a throaty purr, "A coeur vaillant rien d'impossible."
He frowns. "What was that last line?"
"I said, nothing is impossible for a willing heart."
Nodding his head, still thinking it over, finally says, "Well, okay. A day, maybe two. When are you leaving on your trip, and where to?"
"I leave Wednesday. Going to Paris for a short holiday and to say goodbye to business acquaintances, old friends and get some answers from one . . . never mind, probably not important to you." She sighs, "But it will be a somewhat nostalgic visit. You should think about coming with me."
"Well, that's tempting. More than tempting. Have to think on it. See what the future holds."
"It can hold what you want. Yours to make." She audibly takes in a breath, changing the topic. "Okay, now then. How about you come to my place for breakfast tomorrow and we'll plan the day?"
"You make the trip sound tantalizing, yet mysterious. However, the breakfast is a deal. What time?"
Rachael responds. "Wonderful. Eight in the morning. I live uptown," and tells him the apartment name and address. Adds, "It's just around the corner from 79th, across from Central Park."
"Got it. O-eight-hundred."
"Ah yes, Marine time. Let's see, when Mickey's big hand is--"
"Don't go there."
She nods, "You're right. I'll have 'chow' waiting. How's that? What do you like? Man sized or less? Oops, I'm doing it again . . . the questions."
"Since you said chow, and you asked, then I'd sooner have shit on the shingle. But you serve up whatever you want. I'll eat it. The chow won't matter, only the company. Then what?"
"Wow. A little touchy are we?"
"Sometimes, when things don't go the way I expect."
"Hmmm. Interesting. I'll keep that in mind. I'll fix something good and we'll decide in the morning where we'll go. Now, give me a kiss and hail a cab for me. You can either take a cab yourself or cheaper, walk a few blocks from here down to Lex. Take the subway downtown. To 51st Street. Go up and walk the last block to the Waldorf."
"How far is it to walk?"
"What do you Irish say? Just a good stretch of the legs. It's twenty city blocks to a mile. At least going uptown or downtown. So, eleven blocks. A half-mile and a few more steps for good measure."
He glances at the street, puts his index and pinky finger in his mouth, gives a loud, shrill whistle and flags a taxi. It pulls to the curb, stops. As the driver waits impatiently, Sean gives her a soft kiss on the lips and opens the cab door. Says, "Thanks. See ya in the morning." She slides into the cab with experienced ease and the grace of a cat.
Sean watches t
he cab leave. Sees her turn to the rear window and wave. He returns the gesture. She's more than interested. The question is, am I for any reason other than . . . He extinguishes the thought as the taxi turns the corner, evaporating from sight. He turns and walks toward Lexington Avenue and mutters, "Think I'll walk. Will be as good as a cold shower or liftin' a car bumper."
* * *
Saturday morning arrives with a wake-up call from the front desk. In truth he didn't need it. His built in clock worked barely ahead of the subtle ring. Sean swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits for a spell rubbing his left shoulder. His throwing arm. It still hurts, and the scar tissue is uncomfortable. Looks at his rib cage, then left shoulder and both thighs. With all the scars he looks like he got the worst of a knife fight. If the truth be told, the Navy Docs did a good job. He stands and ambles over to the window. Looks out. It is barely daylight. Craning his neck to see upward he sees clear skies, no clouds. Then looks down umpteen floors into the concrete canyon. Mutters, "The city. It's a wonder it doesn't sink." Then louder and still to no one other than himself, "Helleva fourth and it's only June. A great Friday. Began in beautiful San Diego, ended in this noisy, concrete abyss, but I met one helleva blond that's . . . that's loaded in more ways than one." Turns and while scratching, a man's rite of passage, half stumbles to the desk and phone.
He calls the old man, Pete. The phone rings more than several times. Have to hang on to allow Pete time to scramble out of his boat and onto the dock. The phone is on the same pole as the power hook-up when his boat is tied up. It rings nine times. Finally, Pete answers, slightly out of breath. After a gruff greeting, he warms to Sean's voice and after a few pleasantries Sean tells him his plan to leave here Monday, possibly Tuesday.
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 3