Watercolor Hearts

by Sutton Shields

  “Hence the turkey, yeah,” he said with a chuckle. “If you can bury reality in a dusty corner for a time and accompany me tonight, I have the other half of your surprise ready and waiting.”

  I didn’t have to think. “When do we leave?”

  “Now…oh, and pack an overnight bag,” said Blake, winking.

  “I’ll get to packing,” I replied with a little sway of the hips. “Oh, and Blake? I, uh, really love this turkey.”

  “I kinda figured you would,” he said, smirking.

  “He’s going to be my bedmate,” I added, sitting Turkster—not the most original name, I grant you—on my bed.

  “Hey now,” said Blake. “If I knew he’d be competition, I would’ve left him on the shelf.”

  “Yeah, I dunno. You may have trouble. He’s very cuddly, very comforting. Guess you’ll just have to remind me of what I’d be missing…”

  “Now that…” he said, climbing out of the chair, walking up to me, and pulling me against him, “…I can definitely do.”

  He ran his fingers down my spine teasingly before slowly moving them elsewhere…

  With a small moan, I sighed, “What turkey…”

  “And I’ve only just started.”

  *****

  Part two of Blake’s surprise waited on West 72nd street in the form of a charming apartment. Through the double mahogany front doors were two hallways, one leading visitors straight ahead, while the other veered to the right. Straight down the main hall and to the left was a vast living room with towering windows, tall ceilings, and beautiful built-in bookcases. Delivering all the delight of yesteryear and the promise of a spectacular view was an inviting window seat running the length of the room. The white stone fireplace flickered with the remains of a fire set earlier in the evening. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of modern and vintage, all in various shades of gray, cream, pale green, and a spattering of blue. Though clearly worth quite a few millions, the apartment had a homey feel, almost transporting you to a time when its walls housed actors and actresses from the golden era of Hollywood.

  “Don’t tell me you own this place, too,” I said, gazing at the selection of art history and antique books adorning one of the bookcases, many of which I’d never had the chance to devour. My palms practically itched to get a hold of them.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Blake coyly. “We only have tonight here, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t care if we only have an hour. It’s beautiful.” I peeked outside the living room and down the hall. “What’s down there?”

  “Half-bath, dining room, and kitchen, moderately sized. Then down this hall,” said Blake, heading back towards the hallway just to the side of the front doors, “would be the bedrooms and private baths.”

  “Guess you want to take me to the bedroom, huh?”

  “Always.”

  Holding his arm out for me, I took the hint and joined him, looping my arm through his. As we passed the guest bedrooms, I noticed that each one was about the size of my current apartment, only these were immaculately decorated. At the end of the hall was another set of double doors, presumably to the master bedroom.

  “And here’s where we’ll be sleeping.” Blake opened the doors to the bedroom.

  “Sleeping?” I think not.

  The first and only thing I noticed was the absolutely humongous silver bed set up on a platform, with its layers of delicate gray bedding and mounds of dark gray pillows.

  “There’s a walk-in closet behind those doors, and the big marble bathroom is just across the room,” said Blake, while I stayed fixated on the bed. There was something about this bed that made me want to do very, very naughty things…now. “Where’d your mind wander off to?”

  “On the bed. In the bed. Totally stuck on the bed. Wanting to be in the bed…aw, hell, on the bed will suffice.”

  Blake dropped my bag on the floor and moved behind me, pressing his body right up against mine. “The bed was custom made.”

  “I can tell.”

  “However, I haven’t actually broken it in.”

  “Travesty. Think maybe we should, oh, I don’t know, test it out? Make sure it’s sturdy and all,” I said. Those magnificently large hands of his started their travels over my body. I loved that he never took the same path twice. “I wouldn’t want you to have customized something that doesn’t hold up to the rigors of restless leg syndrome.”

  “That would be money down the drain,” he said, his mouth wandering around my neck.

  “And we wouldn’t want that…ooh…because then you’d have to sue and that’d just tie up the justice system.”

  His moans deepened. Flipping me around to face him, he said huskily, “You want to keep sparring?”

  “Only with my body, my friend, only with my body.”

  In two seconds, I was in his arms and taken to the bed, where we spent the remainder of the night.

  The bed passed inspection.

  *****

  Thanksgiving. The next morning, I woke up to Blake whispering in my ear, only his words weren’t exactly ‘sweet nothings’.

  “Maggie. Come on, sleepy head. It’s Thanksgiving…and there’s another part of my surprise still waiting.”

  Opening one eye, I saw Blake’s rugged face right in front of me. “I thought the custom bed was the other part of your surprise.”

  “The bed turned out to be an unexpected detour.”

  “Unexpected? You mean you didn’t see us getting busy on this bad boy?”

  Laughing, he said, “There isn’t a place I don’t see me loving you.”

  Oh my. “Good answer,” I breathed. “Really good answer.”

  Blake kissed me and stood up. “I’m about to whip up some pancakes and bacon, but there’s something I’ve got to show you first. It’s in the living room.”

  Hearing the word ‘loving’, followed by ‘pancakes’ and ‘bacon’, pour out of Blake’s mouth was like a sonnet specifically designed for my heart and stomach. I shoved the sheets back, ready to hop up, before realizing…

  “I’m naked.”

  “I can see that.” The grin currently curling his lips needed no translation: in a few short minutes, my stomach could kiss the pancakes goodbye.

  “Yes, yes, you can,” I said, slowly reaching down for the covers.

  Shifting his gaze from my nakedness to my hand grabbing the sheets, Blake said, “Ah, yeah, good idea…otherwise the whole purpose for bringing you here will have been for nothing…well, not nothing. But I’d hate for you to miss, uh, what’s waiting.”

  Yanking the sheet up, I whispered, “I’ll just meet you in the living room…clothed.”

  “And I’ll wait there, thinking of you getting clothed.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” I said, holding the sheet to my chest and sitting up.

  Once Blake left, I rummaged around my bag for a pair of yoga pants, an off-the-shoulder cozy blue sweater, and a pair of black ballerina flats. I spent a few girly minutes in the bathroom brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and adding a little blush and lip gloss. Looking somewhat presentable, I wandered into the living room. Blake was standing by the windows, a cup of coffee in his hand. He had the windows open a bit, chilling the room. But the sound of music and merriment journeying from the streets to our ears quickly made you forget about the chill in the air.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” I said.

  Blake turned around, smiling widely. Setting his coffee on an adjacent table, he held his arms out towards the windows and said, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  I walked to Blake, wondering what on earth he had to show me when a giant balloon passed right in front of the window.

  “Oh my gosh!” I squealed, cuddling up against Blake and looking out the window, for right below us was the iconic Thanksgiving Day Parade with its magical floats, spirit-soaring music, and the best balloons in the world.

  “This was the main part of my surprise, bringing the parade to you,” he said, giving me a squeeze.r />
  Shaking my head in utter amazement, I sighed, “You have got to be the most thoughtful man… I had really convinced myself men like you were a myth.”

  Blake kissed me on the top of my head. “It just takes a certain soul to bring it out in us.”

  We watched the parade pass for a bit before Blake headed into the kitchen to make breakfast. Once everything was done, Blake brought a large tray into the living room with our plates, juice, and syrup. I had curled up on the window seat to watch the parade more comfortably.

  Setting the tray down on a nearby table, Blake handed me a plate, the pancakes already swimming in syrup, just the way I liked them. “Did I miss much?” he asked, sitting opposite me with his plate.

  “Not really. A few cool floats, some singers I’d never heard of, but enjoyed, and some awesome balloons. But you didn’t miss Santa. That’s the important thing,” I said, my mouth full of bacon.

  “Ah, good. Quite like when the old bloke closes the show. The second he does, the Christmas season officially begins,” said Blake.

  “Absolutely true,” I agreed. “Blake?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Haven’t you missed having Christmas all these years?” I asked carefully. “I mean, I missed a lot of Christmases over the years. I didn’t realize how much I missed Christmas until Grady took me in. Since he passed, I’ve missed it even more. You’ve been without the holidays even longer.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t really think about it. I’m a grown man in my thirties, after all.” Blake set his fork down and gazed out the window. “Although, I have to admit, this is the first Thanksgiving I’ve had since I was a kid. I usually spend the day working. Hell, I’d even watch the parade while doing work.” He paused to stare into my eyes. “This, right here, is what it’s supposed to be like.”

  I leaned over and kissed him. “Of course, we still need a big, belt-busting dinner.”

  “I have that all worked out. Our chef friend has a traditional Thanksgiving dinner waiting for us.”

  “I know Ivy’s been staying at her apartment in the hub’s building, but who will be with her today? And what about Greg, Ty, and Pike?” I asked. “I know Ivy and Greg don’t have any family to speak of. I’m still not sure about Pike and Ty.”

  Blake smiled knowingly. “Ty’s picking up the dinner and bringing it to Ivy’s apartment above the hub. Greg, naturally, will be there, as will Pike. I thought we could all spend Thanksgiving together, as a family.”

  “Sounds absolutely perfect, better than perfect.”

  At that moment, Blake’s cell phone rang. It was the phone he used for Traverz Enterprises and anything related to his life as a Traverz, business or personal. For a brief moment, I thought it might be Blair, asking him to stop by for Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Yes, yes, that sounds fine. We accept and will be there promptly at four,” said Blake curtly. “See you then. Looking forward to it as well.”

  His body was suddenly rigid; that relaxed, happy-go-lucky man from earlier was gone, and I wanted to kill whoever was on the other end of that damn phone.

  “Blake?” I inquired.

  “Change of plans.”

  “Who was it?”

  “My mother. We have just been invited to Thanksgiving dinner, an invitation we do not pass up, particularly since this is the first Thanksgiving dinner she has had since I was a child.”

  So, I wanted to kill his mother. Definitely not a good lead-in emotion to meeting the parents, er, parent. “Oh. Well…that sounds…lovely.”

  “Lovely?”

  “I thought ‘divine’ might be pushing it.” That brought a smile back to his face at least.

  “I’ll call the gang. Ivy will want to talk to you.”

  “Why? Has she met your mother?” I asked.

  “No one has met my mother. Blair has, but only due to a rare social gathering my mom reluctantly attended. No, you will be the first to truly meet her, at home, over dinner. I think this might be my doing. I’ve sung your praises to her. Suppose she couldn’t wait to meet you any longer and wanted your first meeting to be significant.”

  Well, I didn’t want to hurl or anything. I was going to meet Blake’s reclusive mother on Thanksgiving. Talk about pressure.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll love you,” said Blake, kissing my forehead, almost as if the abrupt wave of stress radiated off of me and on to him. “I’m going to call everyone.”

  “Won’t they mind?”

  “Not when they hear the reason. I’ll hand the phone over when Ivy demands to speak to you, which she will.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “Oh, hey, look, there’s Santa. Guess it’s officially Christmas,” said Blake, pointing his phone at the street below.

  Yep, there he was in all his jiggling, jolly, red-suited glory, floating by us.

  Um, Santa, can I go with you?

  *****

  The last time I stepped foot in the Traverz manor, I was here to screw over the owners and pillage from their statue room. I could only imagine the impression that factoid would make on the noble Lydia Traverz. Unlike last time, I dressed to impress in an elegant way, thanks to Ivy. I learned a great deal from Ivy when she packed my bag for the trip to Lake George. The fact that she packed a little of everything didn’t escape me, so I packed my overnight bag with the same detail. As Ivy liked to remind me, “In this world, you never know when you’re about to meet the First Lady.”

  Thus, when Ivy insisted on badgering me over the phone, just as Blake predicted, she was quick to inquire after my wardrobe choices. Fortunately, she was pleased with the articles I packed, and even more so when I gave her the credit for my growing appreciation of fashion. At the very least, it seemed to suppress the souvenir t-shirt and polka dot pajama bottoms from her memory.

  Once the gray wool pants and winter white cashmere sweater had passed Ivy’s muster, she lectured me on what not to do while in the presence of Mrs. Traverz. Most, if not all, was common sense. I should have been offended by her thinking I’d actually do things like check my teeth for food in the knife blade or put my elbows on the table, but I was too nervous to fuss.

  Now, here I was, standing hand-in-hand with Blake in the expansive front foyer of Traverz Estate, handing an elderly butler my coat. The backs of my knees felt clammy. That was new.

  “Your mother is waiting in the sitting room. Right this way, Sir Blake, Miss,” said the butler.

  “Thanks, Crawley,” said Blake, patting the old fella on the back.

  Rounding the cream and gold doors of the expansive sitting room with its many freshly cut flowers and Victorian charm, I was met with a contemplative smile. Lydia Traverz was an intimidating figure to be sure. From her beige bouclé suit to her phenomenal pearl choker and shoulder-length, perfectly styled dark blond hair, Blake’s mother defined sophistication. It astounded me that Blake’s father could have ever cheated on this woman, for even in her latter years, Lydia Traverz was still a beauty. In fact, aging gracefully wouldn’t be hard to accept if every woman looked like Lydia.

  “Miss Canteberry, welcome.” Her voice was as smooth as silk; only a faint trace of her southern accent remained.

  “Charlotte, please,” I said, shaking her extended hand. Lydia Traverz may be a petite, graceful woman, but her handshake could rival that of a Wall Street tycoon.

  “Well then, you must call me Lydia,” she said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

  “Your choker is spectacular,” I said, unable to keep my mind from appraising the fine piece.

  “Absolutely genius way to hide the neck wrinkles,” she whispered in my ear, and I couldn’t help but giggle. “Please, come sit down. Can I get you a drink? Iced tea?”

  “Iced tea would be perfect,” I said, sitting on a rose colored silk couch that must be worth an absolute fortune.

  As Mrs. Traverz poured the iced tea, Blake sat next to me and piped up, teasingly. “I’m great, Mum, thanks for asking. How are you? What? Nah, it wasn’t at all a pr
oblem changing our Thanksgiving plans at the last minute. Sure, I’ll take an iced tea, of the Long Island variety.”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd, Blake. Everyone knows Thanksgiving is a time for family, last minute or not.” Lydia handed us our iced teas and sat down on an elegant chair across from us. “Besides, Bette has been aching to do a Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Bette?” asked Blake. “What happened to Margo? Or was it Kim?”

  “Kim was before Margo, and both had to be let go. It’s absolutely impossible to find competent help these days. I blame technology—it takes away all sense of humanity. Honestly, who doesn’t know to put doilies out for high tea?”

  “Quite possibly everyone who lives in modern times, Mum,” quipped Blake, drawing both a happily agitated face and a purely contented smile from his mother.

  Every adoring bit of me melted when Blake called his mother ‘Mum.’

  “It’s wonderful to have you home, son,” said Lydia warmly.

  “Good to be here. Even better to see a holiday celebrated in this old place again,” said Blake.

  Lydia’s smile faded a little. “Yes, it has been far too long, inexcusably long.”

  From her forlorn tone and her pleading eyes boring into Blake, I knew I was bearing witness to a mother apologizing to her son for many lost years.

  “Here and now is what matters most, Mum,” said Blake, accepting his mother’s apology.

  “Absolutely true,” said Lydia, clearing her throat. The love she had for her son was undeniable. Perhaps she just got lost along the road of wounded hearts and bruised memories, a road where it was nearly impossible to find an off ramp. “Well now, Charlotte, Blake tells me you are an expert in the arts and antiques field.”

  “I do love everything pertaining to art--paintings, sculptures, modern or period, jewelry, and, of course, anything antique.” I had hoped my answer was adequate. It just felt too weird to call myself an ‘expert’ in front of this worldly, First Lady-caliber woman.