An Abundant Woman

by Elizabeth Neff Walker

  After a hot cup of tea at a quaint cafe, he herded me back along North Main Street. Jack told me stories about the palatial homes and about his childhood. He even told me about a yacht club that had recently burned down and the community debate over whether to rebuild it. He was obviously trying to distract me (or himself) and exhaust us into the bargain. When we arrived back at the house, I told him I was going to take a nap and he said he'd be in the game room working on the puzzle.

  Unfortunately, my nap lasted for two hours. I only woke when Jack tapped on my bedroom door, saying, “Are you okay, Mandy? I've made a reservation for dinner for us in an hour. Shall I change it?"

  My clock insisted that it was after six. How could I have slept that long? “I'm fine,” I called as I climbed off the bed and stumbled toward the door.

  Sleeping in the daytime is not something I do very often and it disorients me. I opened the door to find Jack standing solidly in the hall, waiting for a fuller answer from me. In an hour I would be hungry, no doubt, but I'd expected to stay in and fix a meal together.

  I rubbed my face to help wake me up. “That's fine, if you're sure you want to go out. I could throw something together from what's in the freezer."

  My hair was tousled, my eyes misty and my face soft from sleep. I know what I look like in that state—I've seen myself in the mirror. It's not something to make a man wish to devour me, and yet that is the impression I got when Jack stared at me. I briefly glanced down to make sure I hadn't taken any of my clothes off, but the teal sweatsuit, though disheveled, was entirely in place.

  “How should I dress?” I asked. “I didn't bring much."

  “Something casually elegant."

  “How fortunate! I have several casually elegant outfits with me."

  He looked embarrassed, and I wondered if “casually elegant” was a code he and his wife Karen had used. “What you'd wear to work, I guess. I haven't been to the Olympia in years, but I couldn't get a reservation at the Golden Mast because of some reception. It doesn't really matter what you wear."

  “Okay. I'll be ready in a few minutes."

  When I returned downstairs I found him in a pair of gray slacks, a solid blue button-down shirt with a patterned sweater over it, and loafers. He looked exceptionally attractive, and casually elegant, as it were. My own red dress, with a gold, red and blue scarf and dangling silver earrings, was obviously adequate for the evening. Jack nodded appreciatively, but said only that we should be leaving.

  The Olympia turned out to be a resort and conference center, the only one anywhere in the vicinity, and the diners did not come in blue jeans. The dining room was comfortable and stylish, with white tablecloths and a rose-and-baby's-breath bouquet at the center of our table. Before the menus came, I said, “Maybe we should establish right at the start that I'm paying."

  “Nonsense,” he said irritably. “This is my treat."

  “Your treat was bringing me along for the weekend, Jack. Please let me take care of dinner."

  He was torn. I don't suppose Jack had had many occasions to let a woman pick up the tab. A long marriage, a position near the top of the hierarchy at the University hospital, how could he have? To help him decide, I put on my haughty British expression.

  He smiled and relented. “Okay, you pay. But I warn you I'm going to order an expensive bottle of wine and the best steak they have."

  “I get to order the wine because I'm paying,” I informed him, adding graciously, “But I'll let you advise me, since I'm not all that familiar with American wines."

  We had automatically slipped back into the teasing vein which lay dangerously close to the attraction artery. Both of us knew it, but it seemed so natural, and so enjoyable, that we allowed it to play itself out. I felt like an unmarried woman on a date with an especially desirable man. For the time being I could flirt with him as though it were perfectly permissible. Jack, after all, knew what the situation was.

  Surprisingly, I remember little of the food, except that we spent a long time over our meal, relishing the conversation. As I finished the last bite of dessert, Jack leaned toward me with a challenging light in his eyes and said, “There's dancing here Saturday nights. Why don't we try it, Mandy?"

  Nothing would have pleased me more, but the prospect was alarming. Dancing was one of my favorite activities, yet it had been ages since Nigel and I had gone dancing. At department parties I tried to make up for this lack, but not all the men were ready for my energetic style and I usually had to curb my zeal. Considering Jack's decorous presentation to the world, I wasn't at all sure he would appreciate my enthusiasm, either. I didn't want to be an embarrassment to him.

  But that was the lesser of the two problems. The second one, of course, was the physical proximity which would generate even more heat than we were experiencing between us, which was quite enough to be fighting off already. Was agreeing to stay and dance like provoking him sexually? Would he expect me to make love with him? Actually, that wasn't nearly as distressing a question as whether I would be able to resist the temptation myself.

  His question still hung in the air, though I had let quite a time pass without answering. “Maybe one or two dances,” I said, hesitant. “My feet will probably give out after that long walk this afternoon."

  The check came then, and naturally was placed in front of Jack. Though his gaze followed my hand with nervous energy, he allowed me to move it toward me and place a credit card in the folder. Very good, Jack, I told him silently, smiling. He returned the smile with a glint of wry amusement in his eyes and laid a hand over mine to squeeze it briefly. Probably my instant, intense reaction should have warned me that the dancing wasn't such a terrific idea.

  Our waiter assured us, as he brought the credit card receipt, that the Olympia had the Midwest's most exciting new dance lounge. “It's very romantic,” he said.

  Jack nodded, as if that were exactly what we wanted. I trailed along on the way to the lounge, worrying that I was getting myself into a hole from which I would not be able to free myself. My marriage had lasted almost twenty-three years. People remarked on how rare that was, often congratulating you as though you'd pulled off some magic trick. And maybe we had. Though I had come to America planning to take a hard look at my marriage, that didn't mean I should be ready to jump into bed with the first man who turned me on. Granting Jack any more status than that was beyond my sensibilities at the moment.

  There were only a few people in the contemporary-looking room, but most of them were dancing. My guess was that the room would fill as diners left the restaurants and chose between the piano bar and the dancing lounge for their evening's entertainment. Soft jazz was complemented by blue and pink spots shining on the dance floor. Jack asked me where I wished to sit, and I told him, a little stiffly, that it didn't matter. He chose a place between the dance floor and the bar and ordered us Grand Marnier, my favorite liqueur.

  When our drinks arrived, we toasted one another, our eyes never leaving each other's face. Almost immediately, Jack stood up and held his hand out to me. The music was soft and slow, and I came to him a little nervously.

  No wonder. He pulled me against his body, gently but firmly, and proceeded to lead me through a remarkable series of steps where I floated, and swung, and was generally held close enough that I could feel what he intended to do next. For all that I love dancing, I'd never found a partner with such incredible grace and skill. When the music sighed to a close, I lifted my head from his shoulder and said, “You didn't mention that you were an expert."

  “I've had a lot of experience. And a few lessons, early on. Karen was appalled at how little I understood about movement to music."

  The next piece was fast-paced, with a strong almost sexy beat. I grinned at Jack. “This is my forte. Just tell me if I mortify you. I'm accustomed to cutting back my flamboyance."

  My experience is that many men of our generation simply cannot loosen up enough to truly enjoy fast, sensual dancing. I expected Jack to be one of t
hose awkward, dutifully trying souls who look like they'd rather be driving race cars. His proficiency at slow dancing would not be any sign that he could become fluid to the quick strains that pounded the air around us. But he was.

  Watching him was a pleasure. He was in perfect synchrony with the music. His whole body moved with rich, sexy energy. Jack danced the way I expected he might make love, with generous abandonment.

  He seemed delighted by my own performance, which I could tell was even more sensual than I usually allowed it to be. His eyes and smile encouraged me. His body called to mine.

  Neither of us was aware of anyone else in the room.

  Sometimes his hand caught mine in a frankly possessive way that made me catch my breath. Sometimes he touched my cheek, or drew a finger down my nose—all playful but astonishingly intimate actions. My throat tightened each time, and desire flowed through me.

  Hadn't I said just one or two dances? The music faded and I stood mesmerized in front of him. It would probably have been a good thing to leave then, before further contact could destabilize my rationality. But I said nothing, knowing that more than anything I wished to be pressed tightly against his body again.

  Which was exactly what happened when the next song began. He tried nothing fancy this time around. We circled the dance floor slowly, no doubt looking cool and self-possessed, but in actuality clinging to each other for dear life. His heart beat under my ear with a speeded up rhythm. His body felt firm, almost taut against mine. My own flesh felt soft and yielding, lush with possibility and with the hunger I had denied for so long.

  Jack bent his head and kissed my forehead. When I looked up, he stared into my eyes and then lowered his lips to mine. His kiss was deliberately sweet, light as a dream, but my body nonetheless trembled from a swirling flash of desire. Jack felt it and drew me closer to him, sighing into my hair. We swayed to the music more or less in place for some time, making no further attempts to kiss or touch, but I at least was growing more and more aroused by simply being in his arms.

  Through another slow song we moved languidly around the floor. Jack said nothing, but his eyes continued to speak to me of need, and of an almost playful wish that this could indeed lead somewhere. But there was a reserve, too. He was holding back to see what would happen. Had I indicated yet that I was willing? Was I? This was a whole new kettle of fish, as my mother would have said. And why bring her into this, like a moralizing character erupting on stage? This was something I would have to decide for myself.

  When the music changed abruptly to a fast rhythm, Jack stepped back from me and said, “Perhaps it's time to go home."

  “Yes."

  He left a large tip on the table and took hold of my hand. “We could stay if you really wanted to."

  “No."

  His smile hardly lightened the intensity of those midnight blue eyes. As we walked to the car he spoke of living in Oconomowoc when he was young. But he was really talking to me about his body.

  “When I was a boy here, I thought the most exciting thing you could do was sail a boat on Lac la Belle, or ski in the mountains or compete in a tennis tournament. It was delicious to feel your muscles respond, to experience your body adapting to a sport's demands. You could feel it when your body did something really exquisite."

  “I've never regarded sports in quite that way,” I admitted. “My body hasn't always been a particular source of satisfaction to me."

  Jack stopped where he was, about to unlock the passenger door for me, and encircled my waist with his arms. Gently he drew me against him, holding me there tightly for several minutes. I could feel his hardness and once again my breathing faltered. That was when I knew I had decided, irrevocably, to make love with him.

  “You'll freeze if I keep you standing here,” he said at last, reaching around to unlock the car door. As though I were something precious, he helped me into the car and closed the door. Once seated in the driver's seat, he turned to me and traced the line of my lips with his thumb. I thought he would kiss me then, but instead he started the car.

  The rain had completely stopped but there was no moon and the trees still dripped moisture as we drove through town. Lac la Belle and Fowler Lake looked dark and mysterious, and the lights glowing from houses across the water were friendly beacons. Neither of us spoke until we reached the house.

  “I thought we could have a nightcap in the living room,” Jack said as he opened the front door. He'd left a light on in the room, an imitation Tiffany (or perhaps the real thing, for all I knew), which gave a charming glow to the wood-trimmed room. “I'll start a fire. Why don't you get us some Grand Marnier?"

  “Sure.” I walked directly into the kitchen where I'd previously found a liquor cupboard and lifted down the liqueur. There were miniature brandy snifters into which I poured a very little of the Grand Marnier.

  Jack turned to smile at me when I returned but continued to work on the fire. I watched his deft movements, the fine shape of his surgeon's hands. Squatted down before the hearth, his buttocks looked tight, his back straight, his arms powerful. As the flames began to leap, he drew the sweater over his head, saying, “It will get a little too warm for this."

  The room was actually cool where I sat on the sofa, but from earlier experience I knew the fireplace gave off a considerable amount of heat. Wanting to tuck my feet up under me, I kicked off my pumps. Jack noticed and nodded. “Great. Get comfortable. I'll join you in a moment."

  Anticipation was making my throat dry, and I took a tiny sip of the Grand Marnier. Firelight flickered on his strong face, giving him an almost austere look. I was a little frightened, if truth were told, because it had been so long, and I felt curiously naive, even after years of explaining sexuality to dozens of patients who knew so much less than I. No one had touched me—except myself—for many years.

  Shortly Jack joined me on the sofa, much closer than he had earlier in the day, and raised his glass in salute, “To us."

  “To us.”

  After one sip he removed the glass from my nervous fingers and set it on the coffee table alongside his. He gazed steadily into my eyes, running his fingers through my short springy hair. Then he slowly unknotted the colorful scarf at my neck and drew it off, leaving me feeling oddly exposed. His lips descended to mine, but this time it was not with a gentle pressure. The hunger that had been rising in him spoke through his mouth. Seduction, not playfulness, was his intent.

  He tasted my lips with his tongue, and allowed me only a moment to do the same before his tongue slipped in, persuasively searching for pleasure spots. My mouth had turned into a sensuous receptor, yielding to his gentle urgings. A shiver of expectation raced through me.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  “I think so."

  “Will you be warm enough if I take off your clothes?"

  There was plain speaking. Suddenly I felt shy of my body, not yet ready for him to see it. “In a little while."

  “Mmm.”

  His hands had moved to my back, where they massaged my flesh through the cotton dress. Yes, I thought, I want you to get to know the feel of me before you see me. Know me by touch, let the shape of my body be a part of your arousal, so that you come to accept me. His hands were gradually moving down to span my hips while his tongue continued to tantalize the surfaces of my mouth. I was already almost giddy with desire. It had been so very, very long.

  Perhaps he himself needed to cool down a bit. For some time he simply held me against him then, murmuring pleasure against my hair. I took the opportunity to run my hands along his head and shoulders and back. He felt so substantial, so real. The night before, when I had watched him sleeping in the car, and felt the tide of desire, I had not thought this moment possible.

  “What are you thinking about?” he whispered.

  “How very unlikely this is."

  His abdominal muscles contracted with a laugh. “But it's what you want, isn't it?"

  “Most decidedly."

 
Jack kissed me then, his lips gentle on mine. “Me, too.” His hands moved to cup my breasts, which made my body tremble again. “I'm glad that feels good,” he said. “I want to give you pleasure."

  Almost more pleasure than I could bear, when his thumbs rubbed against my sensitive nipples. My sigh was practically a moan. Jack began to unbutton my dress. With my eyes shut I could feel his progress down to my waist. And then his hands were inside the dress, but my breasts were still protected by a lacy bra. My hands slid down to grasp his buttocks. Sensations rioted through my body; Jack groaned.

  One of his hands slipped inside my bra, the other traced the path of my left leg up to its joining with my trunk. The pair of pantyhose were a more impressive barrier than the bra, but the response his fingers created was hardly less than it would have been on flesh. My whole body writhed with reaction to his touch.

  “Maybe it's time to get some of these clothes off,” he said.

  My body was so warm by this point that I wasn't alarmed about the chill of the room. But was I ready for him to see me? His expression was part agony/part whimsy, his brows lifted questioningly. Most bodies don't look like model bodies, I know very well from my medical practice. But it would be just my luck if Jack had been married to a gorgeous creature all these years. When I hesitated he turned up the heat by lowering his mouth to my freed breast.

  “The pantyhose and underpants can go,” I agreed unsteadily.

  He laughed. “I feel like a teenager,” he teased, but with surprising efficiency removed the items. “You wouldn't be shocked if I took off my clothes, would you?"

  Because he deserved it, I gave him my haughty British look. “We expect you to remove your clothes,” I declared with regal aplomb. “We are not in the habit of removing our clothes until others have done so."

  He planted a kiss on my nose and tweaked my chin. Then he disrobed, with no shyness at all, of course, and looking directly at me the whole time. He had a good physique, a little more sturdy than he looked in clothes. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, but his arms and legs were surprisingly muscular.