Undying Love

by Nelle L'Amour

  Holding onto her bony haunches, I glided in and out of her. Slowly and steadily. She held onto my biceps and arched her back. Whimpers escaped her lips. I hoped she wasn’t crying.

  “Are you okay, baby?” I asked, worried again that I was hurting her.

  “Yeah, you feel so good,” she said breathily.

  “Tell me if it’s too much for you. Or if I hurt you.”

  “You could never hurt me, Madewell.”

  My cock continued to swell inside her warm cavity, bathed by her own hot juices.

  A rapturous feeling overcame me as my throbbing cock cried out for release. My lips consumed hers, our tongues probing and exploring as if they never had.

  Her cries of ecstasy told me she was close to climaxing.

  “Come with me,” she pleaded. Closing her eyes, she arched her back and dropped open her mouth as she breathed my first name—for the first time—upon reaching orgasm. I watched her come in all her glory as she convulsed around my exploding rod. “Oh, Ryan,” she moaned again. The way she said my name drawing out the first syllable with a deep sexy lilt, made me burst inside her, coating her walls with my release. “Don’t leave me, baby,” I cried out, my voice caught between rapture and despair.

  She wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning her head in until our foreheads touched. She nuzzled my lips. “Shh,” she said softly. “I’m still here.”

  Our reservation at Le Jules Verne was for six o’clock. Because Allee fatigued easily, I deliberately made it early. Even at this unpopular dining hour, the posh restaurant was booked. When I told them my name, a window table for two opened up. The Madewell name came with its benefits.

  The all-window, sky-high restaurant overlooked all of Paris. From our table, we could see The Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, and numerous other sparkling monuments. The view was truly spectacular.

  In contrast, the view of Allee was less than spectacular. Her brief after-sex afterglow had faded, and now her skin was pale again, almost ashen. Maybe our lovemaking session in the tub had worn her out. Or set her back. A pang of guilt stabbed me.

  I ordered the exorbitant, prix fixe multi-course dinner for each of us along with an expensive bottle of Pouilly-Fuisée wine. Attentive white-gloved waiters brought the elaborate meal to our table, one dish at time. They also made sure our wine glasses were constantly filled. Allee hardly ate or drank a thing.

  By the third course, a palate-cleansing sorbet, Allee looked faint. “Baby, you don’t feel well, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “We don’t have to stay here. Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

  Her pained eyes met mine. “No… a hospital.”

  Reality stabbed at my heart. This was it.

  She tried to push herself away from the table but didn’t have the strength. I leaped to my feet and scooped her into my arms. Panic gripped me.

  “Someone, call for an ambulance,” I yelled at the of top of my lungs.

  “No, Madewell, please. No ambulance.”

  I had Marcus take us to the American Hospital of Paris. Familiar with Paris, having once driven for the Ambassador to France, he wove swiftly through the maze of Paris traffic and got us there in no time; he knew what was happening and remained stoically silent. In the back seat, I cuddled Allee. Her breathing was labored, and she was trembling.

  “I’m scared, Madewell,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay, baby. I’m here.” I smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead. Truthfully, I was scared shitless too.

  Located in Neuilly-sur-Seine, a wealthy suburb not far from the Eiffel Tower, The American Hospital was a venerable private institution with a hundred year history. I had been there once myself as child after breaking an arm while playing soccer in the Jardin des Tuileries. Needless to say, my father was not pleased with having a sports-injured son to deal with while on vacation.

  Being a Madewell once again had its perks. My parents were major contributors to the hospital, and my mother sat on the American Hospital of Paris Foundation Board. Holding Allee in my arms, I told the nurses at the front desk my name—Madewell, as in the son of Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Madewell III—and that I wanted the very best room they had for my wife. Please. No expense spared. With one look at Allee, lying limp in my arms like a wilted flower, they knew it was very serious. They moved quickly to get her checked in.

  Twenty minutes later, Allee was in a hospital bed in a large private suite on the hospital’s top floor. A team of doctors had contacted Dr. Goulding, who immediately faxed them her charts and made them aware of her end-of-life situation. My poor baby looked so tiny and frail hooked up to so many tubes, wires, and machines. They had her on her morphine drip to keep her pain to a minimum and some kind of sedative to keep her calm. She was also getting white cells and platelets to prevent infection. I sat in an armchair close to her side.

  “Hi,” she said weakly. “Sorry to ruin dinner. I’ll pay you back for it.”

  I smiled. Lying near death, she still had that wicked sense of humor and that self-deprecating need to take care of herself.

  “Shh,” I said, taking the hand that didn’t have an intravenous tube attached to it into mine. “Save your strength.”

  “No, Madewell. I want you to be strong for me.”

  I gazed at her. Even so close to death, she was so, so, beautiful. Her weight loss had hollowed her cheeks, making her extraordinary high cheekbones even more visible and breathtaking. They brought attention to her other beautiful features—those espresso bean eyes that still had a glimmer of life, her perky upturned nose, and her sensuous full lips. Her skin, now ashen, reminded me of a Picasso portrait.

  “Is there anything else you want, baby?”

  “Yeah. I want you.”

  Fighting back tears, I said nothing.

  “Come into bed with me, Madewell.”

  Was she kidding? She wanted me to get into that narrow bed with her hooked up to all those tubes and gizmos?

  “I’m skinny.” She flashed a faint smile. “There’s room for you. You won’t hurt me… you never have.”

  Hesitantly, I rose from the chair and made my way to the bed.

  “No, Madewell.” Her voice was weak, just a little above a whisper. “Take off your clothes. I want to feel your raw body next to mine.”

  Wordlessly, as she watched, her eyes never leaving me, I peeled off my suit, my shirt and tie, my boxers, and lastly my loafers. I wasn’t wearing socks.

  All 6’2” of me stood before her, naked to the bone. Her eyes roved up and down my chiseled body. They lingered on the heavy package between my legs before returning to my face.

  Her lips curled into that sexy, dimpled smile. “Hey, did I ever tell you that you’re beautiful?”

  I thought about it for a minute. Honestly, I couldn’t recall her ever telling me that. She once said I had a body worth painting, but that was about it. “No,” I said.

  “Well, I’m telling it to you now. You’re beautiful, Ryan Madewell IV.”

  The ache of the flesh between my thighs paled to the ache in my heart. The effect she had on me was close to being unbearable. My Camille, my fallen angel. I damned her and so adored her at the same time. Be strong for her, Madewell. Don’t cry.

  “Now, Golden Boy, get your rich tight ass in bed with me.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I carefully slipped under the fluffy duvet, anchoring my naked body next to hers. To my surprise, my flesh brushed against hers. Beneath the covers, she was stark naked. Had my feisty beauty refused her hospital gown or shed it? Neither possibility shocked me. That was my Allee.

  With a struggle, she rolled onto her side. “Face me, Madewell.” I did as she asked, so that we were face to face, heart to heart, organ to organ. I studied her beautiful face, memorizing every detail as my body warmed hers. Our breaths mingled and her faint heartbeat beat against mine. With one hand, she slid my organ inside her. It felt warm and beautiful, as if we were one. Wrapping our arms around each other, we
were positioned just like that hidden Picasso painting she had shown me the first time we’d met. She knew it too and, one more time, broke into that dimpled smile I would always remember.

  Though her lids were heavy, her eyes burned into mine. “Madewell, there’s one last thing I want to tell you.” Her voice was barely audible.

  “What’s that?”

  “That was a damn good article you wrote on that Picasso painting.”

  “Thanks,” I said humbly. “I love you, Allee Adair Madewell.”

  I waited for her to say “I love you” back. It never came. She was fast asleep.

  In the morning, she was gone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  If death was a living thing, I was it. It was hard to believe my Allee was gone.

  Before leaving the hospital, an administrator asked me about Allee’s funeral arrangements. The query sent shockwaves through my numbed body. Allee and I had never discussed them. It wasn’t what young married couples with everything to live for did. Despite her imminent death, I think we both secretly believed that a miracle would happen. That she would live, and we’d get our happily ever after.

  Stunned into deep thought, I searched my mind and my soul for what I thought Allee would want. The thought of transporting her body back to New York sickened me. Then it just hit me. I knew what would make Allee happy. I asked the kind hospital staff to handle the arrangements.

  A weary Marcus was waiting for me outside. I don’t think he ever left the grounds or slept. The solemn expression on my face told him the words he didn’t want to hear.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. M.” A fat tear rolled down the stoic man’s face. Before opening the passenger door, he did something he hadn’t done since I was kid. He hugged me. I so needed that, and was grateful that Marcus was part of my life.

  The ride back to the Ritz was uneventful. I could have been anywhere in the world, because everything was a blur to me. Marcus respected my grief with utter silence.

  I staggered into the Ritz exhausted, carrying a small bag of Allee’s possessions. I had told the hospital to keep her clothing, including the black dress I’d bought her, and give it all away to a women’s shelter. Allee would have liked that. All that was in the bag were her treasured locket, my antique engagement ring, her gold wedding band, and a letter that the nurses had found folded up in her purse.

  Unshaven and unkempt, I stumbled into the Hemingway Bar. It was seven o’clock in the morning; no one else was there but me. I slumped into an armchair, the first one I came upon. I didn’t know if I needed a drink or an espresso. I ordered both from the only waiter working the early morning shift. After I drained the drink, a whiskey straight up, I emptied the contents of the bag onto the table facing me. I ran my fingers over the jewelry and had the burning desire to see that photo of Allee as a toddler that was encased in the locket. I flicked it open. To my surprise, a tiny photo of Allee and me embracing on our wedding day had been placed over the other photo. Memories of that unforgettable day whirled in my head and then others came back to me with the force of a rockslide. Each one hurt more than the one before. Our time together had been so short, yet it felt like a lifetime. I held her wedding ring and band in the palm of my hand and glared at them in a trance. The word “toujours” flickered in my eyes. “Toujours”… some bullshit French word for “always.”

  “Ryan.”

  A familiar voice catapulted me back into the moment. I looked up, and my heart skipped a beat. It was my father. What the hell was he doing here? Only three people in the world knew about Allee’s condition and our trip to Paris other than Marcus—Duffy, a lapsed Catholic, who was heartbroken over the news and promised to go to Church to pray for her, and my sister Mimi and her partner Beth, who were equally stunned and saddened.

  I stood up and faced him squarely. “How did you find me?”

  “Your sister told your mother what was going on. The minute I heard about Allee’s condition, I hopped on the corporate jet.”

  Fatigue sent a chill through me. Or was it grief? Or my father’s presence?

  “Ryan, I want to see her.” There was compassion in his voice and steely eyes.

  “Allee’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I should go back. Would you like to fly back with me, son?”

  I shook my head. “I have things to take care of here.”

  “Then I’ll say goodbye.”

  I don’t know what made me do it, but I repeated what my beautiful Allee had told me the other night on the Bâton Mouche. “Father, with love, there are no goodbyes.”

  He did something a Madewell was never allowed to. He cried.

  And in his arms, I cried too.

  Alone again, I sat down to read Allee’s letter, careful not to let tears spill onto the ink. She must have written it while I was away from her; the words were sprawled on The Ritz’s elegant ivory stationary. Her penmanship was just like her—quirky, curvaceous, and beautiful.

  Madewell~

  By the time you read this letter, I will be gone. I have no clue where I’m going or why this is happening to me. I only know I will miss you.

  Your name, Ryan, comes from the French word “roi” which means “king.” My name Allee is almost identical to the French word “allée” which means “gone.” LOL. When I am gone, Madewell, I want you to rule with your heart and live your life. You have so much potential, so much to live for—with or without me.

  Please don’t mope around mourning me. Why mourn what you can’t have? One day you will fall in love again. I know you don’t think you can, but I’m counting on it. So, do it for me. I’m sure whomever you meet will be someone I’d like.

  There’s one other thing I want you to do. Make up with your father. He is the only father you will ever have. We’ve all erred in our lives, but we all deserve the chance to be forgiven. I hope you will forgive me for leaving you too soon. It’s not your fault, my Superman, I could not be saved.

  Go on living, my sweet superhero. Although our time together was so short, it was the best time I ever had. You gave me everything—love, laughter, Paris, and all of you. Just because I’ve stopped living my life, don’t stop living yours.

  One last thing… Write, Madewell, write. Write for me. I’ll be reading every word from wherever I am. Always remember…

  I love you more~

  Allee

  I folded up the letter and let my tears fall.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In the morning, I steeled myself to pick up Allee’s ashes from the Père Lachaise crematorium. The bitter irony that we’d both ended up here despite not wanting to visit this Paris landmark was not lost on me. It sent a shiver down my spine as I collected her remains. They were sealed in a small, elegant urn that reminded me of her once curvaceous body. I had thought about leaving them here, but this was not their final destination. They belonged somewhere else.

  Marcus drove me back to the Ritz to pick up my laptop. Then by foot, I headed over to the Jardin des Tuileries where Allee and I had sat watching children play.

  The magnificent gardens, though across the Seine, faced the Musée D’Orsay. Clutching the urn, I came upon a beautiful patch of French lilies that reminded me of flowers in one of the Monet paintings we had admired at the D’Orsay. While the day had started out sunny—the kind that defined springtime in Paris—storm clouds now threatened. Taking a deep breath, I removed the lid and scattered the ashes among the flowers. A clap of thunder… and the sky began to weep with me. I was reminded of that night I had kissed Allee in the pouring rain on the steps of the Met. I squatted down and pressed my lips to her wet ashes, sealing them with my tears to the earth. Wherever she was going, my Allee would always have this final kiss… and her dream of becoming a curator at the Musée D’Orsay in sight.

  The pouring rain reduced to a fine drizzle. And soon, the sun again began to shine. Collecting myself, I walked slowly along the Seine over to the Café de Flore on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It was one of the few
places Allee and I missed going to.

  The place was bustling, filled with all types—from attractive fashion models, whose stares I ignored, to old men wearing berets. I took a seat at one of the bistro tables. Dozens of great American writers had probably sat in this very chair… including Fitzgerald, Stein, Joyce, and my favorite of all, Hemingway, who wrote much of his first novel here.

  After ordering a cappuccino, I pulled out my laptop. I closed my eyes.

  She was sexy and sassy. And had the voice of a goddess.

  She loved Degas, Seurat, Picasso, and me...

  Not necessarily in that order.

  She also loved superheroes. She believed they could save the world.

  I asked her once if she loved me more than she loved Superman.

  She zipped down my fly and blew me so hard I was flying.

  “You, Ryan Madewell, are my Superman.”

  Except I couldn’t save her.

  What do you write…?

  I didn’t need an outline. Just my heart.

  A tear spilled onto my keyboard as I typed the first word…

  EPILOGUE

  Three Months Later…

  I fidgeted with my hands as I sat in the sleek waiting room of Dr. Ethan Moore’s world-renowned fertility clinic. Ethnically diverse, young couples, all longing and desperate for a child, surrounded me. Most were reading a magazine or watching the “Story of My Baby” video that played on the flat screen monitor on the wall above the reception window. I was too anxious to do either. Butterflies swarmed my stomach.

  As it did often, my mind flashed back to that unforgettable day in Paris when Allee revealed that she had harvested her eggs before undergoing chemotherapy in college. I wished I’d known that earlier. I would have attempted the experiment I was doing now while she was still alive. How I wished I could have told the love of my life that we might have a child of our own. Whether she was with me. Or without me. On second thought, perhaps it was for the best. Maybe the sadness of knowing she would never have the chance to see or love this child would have been unbearable. Or even worse, knowing that the experiment had failed. I sucked in a deep breath. I was about to find out.