Big Daddy

by Ava Sinclair

  This position is glorious. He’s cradling me in his arms. His cock is caressing that most sensitive internal spot, and I’m cresting the wave of what I know will be the strongest orgasm of my life. When it breaks, I scream with pleasure, but also with joy.

  Max wasn’t exaggerating. With short breaks for catnaps and snacks, we make love all night. The next morning, I awaken in his bed amid twisted sheets and tangled limbs. The man beside me looks peaceful in sleep, but I know that there’s still work to do, for me and for him. I know what it will require, and I know that it will put everything I hold most dear and risk to finally make the man I love completely whole.

  Chapter Twelve

  I only have names to go on. Renee and Lydia Beaumont.

  There’s little in the media beyond business reports. Max’s father moved from his native France two decades before Max was born, and holds dual citizenship. The whole Beaumont family is old money, with various holdings and residences in Europe and the U.S.

  There’s little to no society news. I do find a small obituary for Maureen Iver Beaumont. There’s a photo on the microfilm I pull up at the library, and I realize that Max has his mother’s eyes. The announcement of Renee Beaumont’s second marriage to Lydia Jean Kesler is equally small. I sense a pattern here. Both father and son eschew media flourish.

  A deed search brings me to three houses owned by Renee Beaumont, all in the city. It’s astounding to think that Max would have settled here, so close to his father. Was that by design? Did Max subconsciously hope for a chance to reconcile, or to at least find closure with him and with Lydia? Or was he just drawn to the city itself?

  My heart pounds as I jot down addresses. One apartment, one townhouse, one house. Renee is ill. Lydia didn’t say if her husband was home or in the hospital. I try to think of where an old man set in his ways would want to die, and I decide it would be in his oldest home, in his old-money neighborhood.

  I know Max would disapprove. But I have my own reasons for doing what I’m about to do. I have a GPS app on my phone. I punch in the address and drive toward the wealthiest old-money neighborhood in the city, where the only thing older than the oaks lining the narrow streets is the money that built the houses looming behind them.

  I’m looking for 421 Charles Street, and am not surprised when I pull up to the largest house, a huge white brick mansion set behind a wrought-iron gate that—to my surprise—stands open. I drive in, and see a van from a home health company parked in the driveway beside a powder blue Jaguar. The car has a personalized plate reading ‘HERCAT,’ and I’m starting to realize why Max liked his stepmother. She obviously has her own style, her own sense of humor.

  I’m nervous as I walk to the door. I prepare to plead my case for entry to a butler I imagine will be dressed like Carson in Downton Abbey, so I’m momentarily rendered speechless when I knock on the door and a few moments later find myself face to face with Lydia Beaumont. She seems as stunned to see me as I am to see her, and for a moment, we regard each other, two women bound to Max Iver in part through the decisions of a dying man.

  “You’re the girl from the gallery.” She tilts her head as she looks at me. Although she’s only twelve years older than I am, she has the air of an older person, and I wonder if that comes from being married to someone twice her age.

  “Yes,” I say. I tentatively hold out my hand. “My name is Jill Stafford.”

  She takes my hand. “I figured your name wasn’t Nobody.”

  “Same,” I say.

  She laughs. “Let me guess. Max also said I was nobody? That figures.” She steps aside. “Please, come in.”

  It’s like walking into a museum. My short heels click on the marble floor and I glance around, noting the artwork on the walks, the massive staircase with ornately carved bannisters and balustrades. Lydia directs me to an atrium I spied off the side of the mansion when I pulled up. Every few moments, a jet of mist automatically sprays across a sea of colorful orchids and lush ferns.

  “This is my favorite room,” she says, motioning to a table. “Would you like something to drink? I can fetch something.”

  I suppose my surprise shows because she laughs. “You’re probably expecting a maid. No such luck. We have a cleaning lady who comes once a week, but that’s it. I gave up trying to keep household staff when Renee ran them all off. No one will work for us now.”

  “Why are you with him?” I blurt out the question before I can stop myself.

  “My, you are a forward one, aren’t you?” she asks, but there’s admiration in her voice. “The answer is simple. I love him. He saved me, and while I know nothing of you, you have the same sweet vulnerable look I once had. Am I to assume that our Max plucked you from some sad situation?”

  It’s only fair that I answer. “Yes,” I admit. “He may have even saved my life.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s a better man than his father. There’s only a glimmer of whatever goodness was left in Renee now, and it’s seeping out along with his life. He was a terrible father to Max. I suppose he told you?”

  “He did,” I say.

  “I think…” She pauses here. “I think Renee tried to redeem himself by doting on me. But when he became ill, he began to obsess over his sins, as dying men do. And Max was at the top of his list. He wants to make it right, to reinstate Max’s wealth. It may surprise you that I’m all for this. Keep in mind that I would inherit it all if Max stays away. But Renee will provide for me, I know. And there’s plenty enough for both me and Max. Even if they don’t reunite, I fully intend to make sure Max inherits most the estate. He deserves it.”

  “You speak of Max more like a brother than a son.”

  She smiles sadly.

  “I suppose it’s because I feel like he’s my brother. We had an instant, platonic connection. Max is a good man, but I know despite what he says, he loved his father. What child doesn’t? What child doesn’t want their father to love them?”

  I nod. I understand.

  “Max changed his name,” I say.

  “Yes. He took his mother’s,” Lydia says. “And oh, how Renee raged. He was so furious that in his anger he took Maureen’s belongings, the ones in the attic, and dumped them in the rubbish bins. It was the only time I really stood up to him. I told him this was his doing, not Max’s. He railed at me to get out of his sight, and was up the whole night. In the morning when garbage trucks came, he got up and ran outside. He’d changed his mind, you see, but it was too late. And there was my older husband, standing there like a boy in the street. I saw him pick something up. A locket. Her locket, with a picture of her and Max. It had fallen, miraculously, from the truck.”

  Now the cool façade drops, and the woman across from me begins to cry. “How many times have I seen him looking at that locket in the last few months? I can’t count. He talks to her, you know. And to the image of Maureen and Max. He apologizes every night before bed.”

  God, it’s worse than I thought. I blink back tears. “What can I do?” I ask.

  She stands. “I’d like you to meet him.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I don’t think Max will come. He’s too much like his father. But it may help him die more easily if he knows his son has found love.” Lydia is looking closely at me, and I know it’s a leading question.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I hope it will.”

  “I like you,” she says, and smiles. “You’re very clever. I can see why Max has you in his life.”

  She leads me back to the stairway I saw from the foyer. We go up four landings. The house is massive and quiet. I wonder if she’ll stay after her husband passes away, but don’t feel like it’s appropriate to ask.

  We stop at a door and she holds up one elegant finger, indicating I should wait. She walks in. I hear her soft voice, then a strained and strident one. Minutes pass, and she opens the door and beckons me in as a matronly nurse exits the room.

  Renee Beaumont is lying on a massive four-poster b
ed draped in burgundy velvet. I’m reminded of deathbed movie scenes where the old king ticks away his final moments. And Max’s father does indeed look like deflated royalty. Even with his tall frame wasted by disease, his chiseled face hearkens to former handsomeness, and I can see Max here, too, in the strong square jaw and slightly aquiline nose. The blankets outline his shape. Long arms, long legs, thin now. His chest rises and falls with painful hitches. Each breath takes an effort.

  “Renee? Honey?” Lydia sits in a chair by his bedside. “You need to open your eyes.”

  “No.”

  “Renee.” Her tone grows firm. “You must. There’s someone you need to meet.”

  His eyes open, and there seems as if the life he has left, he is hoarding here. His gaze is bold, unnerving, so much like Max’s that I feel a chill.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Her name is Jill. She’s Max’s partner.”

  “Max?” He looks around. “Max?”

  My heart twists in my chest. “He’s not here,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ll ask him to come.”

  “He must.” He looks at me, and his eyes turn soft. The nearly skeletal hand at his side clenches. “He must.”

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  “You’re a good girl, then,” he says, then looks at Lydia. “He won’t come, I think. But…” He waves his hand to the dresser. “If you will, my dear.”

  He doesn’t have to explain. Lydia rises, picks up a wooden box and walks over, placing it in my hand. I know what to do. I rise from the bed. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Beaumont,” I say.

  I cry all the way home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Just hear me out,” I say, wondering now if I made the right decision. I tell Max what I did over dinner, using the same tactic I used with Becky with the same disastrous results. Even homemade lasagna and Italian cheesecake can’t soften the blow of my betrayal, which is just how Max interprets my visiting Lydia behind his back.

  “This is none of your business!” he rails.

  “It is,” I say. “Because you’re my business.” He turns away and I rise from the table and walk over. “Max. Please listen. If you don’t like what I say, I’ll leave. I’ll fulfill your prophecy and leave. I can do it. I think I can make it on my own now.”

  He turns back. “So, you don’t need me?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I’m strong enough now to make it without a daddy. I’ll always need one, but I won’t self-destruct any more. Even if you’re not with me, I’d never lose the strength you gave me. But I don’t want to leave. What I want is for you to listen.”

  He walks to the sofa and sits down. “I’m listening,” he says.

  “Look,” I tell him. “My father abandoned me, too. But you gave me the experience of having a father figure, someone to affirm me, guide me, and love me. You’ve given me a father’s love. You need to feel it too, Max, even if it’s just a sliver at the end.” I walk over to the counter where my handbag is sitting. I reach in, take out the box. I haven’t opened it. I didn’t have to. I know what’s inside.

  “Lydia said your father apologizes every day, to both of you.”

  Max is looking at the box. I can tell he wants to reject it on principle, but he is also curious. Finally, he takes it, raises the lid, and takes out the locket.

  “I remember this,” he says. His voice is tight with emotion. “Father bought it for her in London. She put a picture inside…” He opens it and smiles. “She used to open it and say, ‘Who is that, little Max? Tell me!’ and I’d say, ‘It’s Mama and me.’”

  I don’t tell him that it’s all that’s left. I do tell him that his father saved it for him, that he wanted him to have it. I tell him that he wants more. He wants to be whole again.

  “Please,” I say. “Do it.”

  “I don’t need to,” he says stubbornly.

  I crawl onto his lap and lean my head on his shoulder. “Then do it for your little girl.”

  I’m not acting. I’m not pretending. Max is more than my lover. Max is my daddy, and I know whenever I need to feel paternal love and care, if I need correction, he will give it to me. I want to do something for him. I want him to feel a father’s love, even if it’s late in coming, before it’s too late.

  I reach up, kiss his cheek. There a tear trailing through the stubble. And I know then that I’ve broken through.

  “Please?” I ask once more.

  “Okay,” he says.

  Chapter Fourteen

  This time I wait outside with Lydia, who serves me tea in the parlor. Max has made no promises about how long he will stay, or what he will say. For all I know, he may tell his father to go straight to hell. He may send Renee Beaumont to his death knowing he is not forgiven. But the longer Max stays at his father’s bedside, the more optimistic Lydia and I become.

  Finally, after two hours, he comes out. The first thing he does is hug me close, holding me wordlessly against his hard warm chest before releasing me to embrace Lydia.

  “He’s so weak,” he says.

  “But you were able to talk?” she asks.

  Max nods. “He didn’t excuse himself. I’d have walked out if he’d done that. He just apologized. Then we talked. He knew I was successful. Said he read what little there was in the paper.” He smiles. “Turns out we’re a lot alike. We both like our privacy.” He pauses. “Lydia, he wants me back in the will.”

  “I know,” she says.

  “I don’t care.” Max sighs. “I don’t need…”

  “Max. It’s yours. You deserve it, especially after what he put you through.”

  We sit at the kitchen table and talk for several hours. Max and I leave a little after eleven p.m. He’s quiet on the way home, lost in his thoughts. But his body posture is more relaxed, and that night he sleeps soundly, cradling me in the protective circle of his arms. When the phone wakes us at six a.m., we both know.

  I take his hand. “I love you,” I say.

  “I love you, too,” he replies. And then the strongest man I know answers the phone to receive the news that his father has passed away.

  Epilogue

  Eighteen months later

  We have broken tradition. Our wedding is large. Lydia stands up as my maid of honor. Becky and Megan, with whom I’ve reconnected and reconciled, serve as bridesmaids. My mother comes, too, having fared so well in AA that she avoids the bar completely. She looks pretty and healthy in the dress I purchased for her.

  She’s living in a house now; one Max was kind enough to rent for her close to the city. The clerk she was dating is long gone, but she’s learned to be happy alone. She’s taken up watercolor painting and for the first time seems happy.

  In a proper fairy tale, my father would walk through the door, begging forgiveness and the chance to walk me down the aisle. But that piece from my happy ending doesn’t materialize. He has stayed absent from my life. He is alive; I checked to satisfy my curiosity. He’s remarried and has two kids in their late teens. I hope he’s finally learned to be a father, but I’m past the need to connect with him. He can’t give me anything that compares to the kind of nurturing I get from the man who became my husband yesterday.

  Marriage is a big responsibility. It will be an adjustment, just like living in the big house on Charles Street will be an adjustment. It will be perfect for entertaining. Max has become less reclusive since his father died, and is turning acquaintances into friends. He’s even organized a fantasy football league, so on some afternoons, our living room is filled with men arguing over teams when they aren’t watching the real thing.

  But Max has another reason for keeping the house. He feels his mother loved it, and would want her grandchildren to grow up there.

  “We’ll have six or seven. Strapping boys, like me,” he’s often joked, perfectly mimicking Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. And we do want children, but Max said we won’t start right away. He wants to spend time spoiling me, his little wife. And that’s fine with me.
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  Our honeymoon is in France. I’ve never been abroad, and didn’t even have a passport until six months ago. Max says we’ll fill my passport book together and when I look at each stamp, I’ll remember all the exotic places, and what he did to me there.

  Tonight, we’re in a beautiful hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower, not that I can see it from where I lay facing in the opposite direction over Max’s lap. We’re starting married life together with a spanking, to remind me, he says, of who wears the pants.

  It’s not a punishment spanking, although I’ve agreed to continue following his rules and haven’t broken any of them. This is what he calls a good girl spanking, with heavy blows that burn until he rubs the hurt away.

  I have wedding lingerie, but haven’t gotten as far as putting it on. I’m wearing a bra and garter belt, and my panties are pulled to the top of my thighs. I can feel the heat building in my bottom, and am writhing and whimpering over his lap in that way I know he loves, that way I can’t control when he takes control.

  He dips two fingers into my pussy, telling me it belongs to him now, that I belong to him, till death do us part. Max pumps his fingers in and out, then draws the slick digits across the tender surface of my bottom.

  The bed in our hotel room is huge, a playground, Max calls it. He lays me on the edge now, and I watch as he strips down. When I saw him standing at the altar in his tuxedo, I thought he was the most handsome man in the world. I like this view of him, too, standing at the foot of the bed, one of my ankles in each large hand as he spreads my legs apart and stares with open desire at my pussy.

  “All mine,” he says, and shoves his cock in, but so slowly that I’m whimpering for him, eager to feel him fully embedded. Once he is, he begins to thrust in deep, sensual strokes that grow faster and faster. I grasp the coverlet, swept away in the sensation of being claimed by my dominant husband. When I’m close to coming, he flips me over.