53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  I rest my forehead against his chest and smile.

  “Are we okay?” he asks, playing with a stray tendril.

  “As long as you don’t start pooping pellets.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He grins.

  We have breakfast on the deck, under a cloudless sky, to the sound of loons and gently swaying trees.

  “It’s even more beautiful in the day.”

  “You like it here,” he observes over the rim of his cup.

  “I’ve always wanted a place by the water,” I say.

  He gives me a look that catches my heart like a flick from barbed wire.

  I slip into the yellow dress that Judy helped me pick out. With its flowy skirt, halter neck and nipped-in waist, it’s pin-up perfect for a sunny day. The white bird print adds a touch of whimsy that makes me smile.

  Troy stops in the middle of his conference call when I walk into the living room. His eyes follow me into the kitchen as I tidy up.

  “Fine,” he speaks into the phone, “but I want to see the reports. Have them couriered to my office.”

  I look out the window, washing the dishes, listening to his voice, without listening to the words. If a parallel universe existed, this could be our life.

  “You were wearing a yellow dress the first time I saw you.”

  I spin around and find him leaning against the wooden beam by the counter.

  “And you were wearing a grungy sweatshirt.”

  “You smelled like roses.” He pulls me away from the sink. “No. Wait. Don’t say it. I was reeking of sweat.” He laughs.

  His arms wrap around me and we shuffle around the kitchen to a silent waltz.

  “Shayda.” He strokes my hair. “Are you ever going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  He stops moving and traces the scar on my lip.

  “It was a long time ago,” I whisper.

  “I know.” The tenderness in his expression stuns me. “I knew something was up when you fought me off that first time. But I didn’t know what until after Zain’s accident. You wouldn’t take any of my calls. I had no news. I was going out of my mind. I looked you up, and there it was.”

  “You looked me up?” I frown. “But it happened before Zain was born.”

  “A man died, Shayda. That kind of stuff doesn’t just go away. And the sick, twisted fuck is lucky he’s dead. I couldn’t think straight for days. I’m so sorry for what he did to you.”

  He did worse to Hafez. But you won’t find that in any archived news article.

  In a strange way, Pasha Moradi was responsible for bringing us together. He is the reason Bob offered me the job, how I came to meet Troy, why I’m standing here today, in the circle of his arms. Had it not been for a monster, I would never have known this glorious love. And yet, had it not been for the same monster, Hafez would be whole and our relationship might have taken a different turn.

  “It’s funny.” I start half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Life is funny.”

  “Shhh.” He rocks me gently.

  When I’m done, he wipes my cheeks. “I’ve changed my mind,” he declares.

  “About what?”

  “About being possessed by a goat. I’d much rather poop pellets for the rest of my life than see you cry.”

  “I’d rather we skip both.” I break into a smile.

  “Agreed. You know what else?” He grabs my hand. “We need to get out of here and make the most of this beautiful day.”

  We follow the rustic tiles past the gazebo, to the long, narrow strip of sand that hugs the lake. The shoreline is tucked away between tall pines on either side. Lounge chairs rest in shady spots.

  “What’s that?” I point to a circle of grey pebbles with a white ‘X’ painted on it.

  “Beats me.” He stands in the middle, inspecting it.

  “The water is so clear,” I say, pulling him towards it.

  We take off our shoes and wade into the lake. It sparkles with a million diamonds, cool, calm and serene.

  Holding hands with him, walking in the sun, the swishing of the waves—the making of a perfect moment.

  “So what are we doing today?” I ask.

  “I thought we’d go into town, do a little sight-seeing, maybe some lunch.”

  “Mmmm.” I stand on tip toe and taste his lips.

  “Mmmm.” He holds the back of my head, deepening it.

  He lowers me to the ground without breaking the kiss, or maybe I pull him down with me. It doesn’t matter. The pebbles on the beach, the water in the lake, the sun in the sky, fade away.

  “Yessss,” he hisses between hot, breathy kisses as I rub against the outline of his desire.

  I unzip his jeans and free him, gasping at the hard, sinewy weight of him. My need for him turns fierce and urgent. I give in to the whirl of raging emotions and kiss him with reckless abandon. He pushes my panties aside. I barely notice him pulling out the tampon before he embeds himself deep inside me.

  “Ahhh.” I drag his mouth back to mine, clutching his shoulders, digging little crescent marks into his skin with my nails.

  He pulls the hair back from my forehead, holding my face motionless as he starts a relentless rhythm that rocks my whole body.

  “Tell me.” His eyes pierce mine with a ferocious need.

  I moan, squeezing my eyes shut, but he presses his thumb and forefinger into my cheeks, squeezing until my lips purse open.

  “Tell me,” he rasps, harder and faster, driving to a harsh staccato drive.

  The intensity builds up to a fevered pitch. White hot bolts of lightning shoot through me. I wrap my legs around him as my toes curl in ecstasy. “I’m yours, Troy. Yours.”

  “Mine!” He lifts my ankles over his shoulders and slams into me, his body shuddering with a jarring release.

  “Mine, Beetroot. All mine.” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth as he spirals down from the heights of passion.

  After wards, he flips me over so I’m lying on top of him, and brushes the sand off my back. Then he wraps both arms around me like he’s never going to let go.

  34. Crushed Roses

  August 6th, 2000 (2)

  “Turn,” says Troy, holding the shower head over me and letting the water trickle down my back.

  Gritty sand gathers around my feet. “I think I have half the beach in my hair.” I laugh.

  “It’s the price you pay for your sexy curls, Medusa.” He hands me the shower and lathers up my hair.

  “Heyyy!” I laugh as his soapy hands move lower, cupping my breasts. “There’s no sand there.”

  “I’m not taking any chances,” he replies. “The only thing I want chafing your nipples is this...” His teeth graze a soft peak before he soothes it with his tongue, sucking on it until I moan. The steamy stall feels hotter as he moves to my other breast, catching a droplet of water before it slips from the rosy tip.

  “Your breasts are so incredibly yummy. They make me forget how sore you must be.” He steps back and smiles as I turn crimson at the thought of his hard, urgent possession by the lake.

  “My turn.” I take over and start soaping him.

  The hard, warm muscles of his pecs glisten under the shower. My hands slide across the tightness of his abdomen, and lower, to long, powerful thighs.

  “You better stop, unless you want to keep waddling like a duck.”

  “I’m not waddling like a duck!”

  “You’re right. It’s more of a penguin shuffle.”

  “Troy!”

  “But it’s the sexiest penguin shuffle ever. You have no idea how much it turns me on, knowing I’m the cause of it.” He lets me feel just how true that is. “But I think you need some time to recover, Beetroot.” He turns around, giving me his back.

  I gasp.

  “What?” he asks.

  I trace the long red lines my nails have left down his back.

  “Ah. Well, I didn’t get away scot-free either.” He laughs.

  We step out of the sho
wer and into fluffy, white towels. I dry myself, watching him wipe a circle off the steamed-up mirror. He shaves the old-fashioned way, with a brush and shaving cream, applying lather in swirling motions until his face is covered.

  “That is so hot,” I say, watching his very male ritual.

  His razor halts mid-stroke as our eyes meet in the mirror. He completes the stroke, elongating his neck, making me want to press little kisses along the exposed flesh.

  “Come here.” He turns around and anchors me between his legs.

  The fresh, male scent of him is amplified by steamy heat, sending a hot zing to the pit of my stomach.

  “Will it always be like this?” I ask.

  “Always.” He hands me the razor.

  “I don’t think I can do it.”

  He takes my hand and guides me. “Keep your hand steady, keep the razor angled. Like this.”

  We do the first few strokes together. Then he lets go, giving me his cheek, his chin, his neck, all the while watching me with eyes that make me want to lick him all over. His hands stay on my hips and he sits very still, his breath fanning my face in an incredibly erotic way.

  “Again,” he says. “This time, feel with your hand first.” He takes my palm and rubs it against his skin. “Feel how the hair grows, then shave in that direction.”

  I close my eyes and memorize the planes of his face, the space between his nose and lips, the line under his jaw, the feel of rough stubble, the patches of smooth skin.

  “I get it,” I say.

  I get this face. I get the man behind this face. I get the love rushing to my fingertips.

  “Shayda.” His breath is soft and warm. Always the way he says it, like wind in my hair. He leans his forehead on my chest.

  I kiss the top of his head. Then I reach behind him and draw on the foggy mirror.

  “Come on.” I pick up the brush and start lathering his face. “We need to finish what we started.”

  This time, my strokes are smooth and steady. I hand him a towel and turn him around. “What do you think?”

  At first he doesn’t notice it. He splashes cold water on his face and looks in the mirror again. That’s when he sees the writing in the lower left corner.

  BB♥SC

  His fingers touch the pane, leaving two smudges underneath.

  “I knew that.” He smiles. “But it’s nice to have it in writing.” He turns to me with a gaze that makes my heart hammer against my ribs. “Beetroot Butterfly, you just made Scary Cherry the happiest man in the world.”

  “Wow,” I remark as we drive down Queen Street, past charming inns, boutiques and elegant architecture. It’s like a glimpse into a well-preserved 19th century village.

  “It isn’t called the prettiest town in Ontario for nothing.” He covers my hand with his. “You haven’t been here before?”

  I shake my head as he backs into a parking spot.

  “In that case, we’ll have to take a trip back in time.”

  I turn down the visor and adjust my wig in the mirror. “Where are we going?” I ask, slipping on the classic aviators I picked up at Ken and Judy’s.

  “Somewhere where that outfit is going to feel a little out of place,” he replies.

  I look down at myself. Frye harness boots in vintage leather, black jeans and a heather grey t-shirt with ‘The Beatles, Liverpool 1962’ printed under a photo of the group. “I thought you said you like it.”

  “I said I love it! You look like a sexy rocker chick.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing. It’s perfect.” He smiles with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Come on.” He tucks my arm under his and leads me down the strip.

  Baskets full of colorful flowers hang from old-fashioned lamp posts, lining beautifully maintained heritage buildings. We walk past eclectic shops, outdoor cafes and charming window displays.

  “Oh, look.” I peer into a store, admiring a claw-footed bathtub with brushed nickel legs.

  “That’s just begging for you, me and bubble bath.”

  “You have a totally one track mind.”

  “I think that’s already been well-established,” he grins.

  At the intersection of Queen and King Streets, he pulls me into an elegant red brick building with an ornate victorian façade. The sign reads ‘Prince of Wales Hotel ESTABLISHED 1864’.

  I take off my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust to the interior. The lobby oozes old world charm with rustic paneled walls, inlaid wood floors and paintings in gold frames. A lady at the front desk looks up and smiles.

  “Afternoon tea for two,” says Troy.

  “You have reservations?”

  “No, we—”

  “Mr. Heathgate?” A man’s quietly controlled voice interrupts.

  Troy turns around. “John. How nice to see you.”

  “If I may, this way please.” The silver haired man takes over from the front desk staff and escorts us across the hallway.

  “This is our Victorian Drawing Room.” He smiles at me, completely overlooking how my attire clashes with the posh décor and decadent chandeliers. “If you give me a minute, I’ll have a table ready for you.”

  Troy lets his hand rest on the small of my back while we wait, oblivious to the stares of every woman in the room. Even in his casual clothes, he exudes an easy confidence that allows him to command any environment. Including this elegant space, filled with a colorful collection of tea pots, old parlor antiques, and portraits of British nobility.

  “Follow me.” John returns and whisks us to a little sun room overlooking the street. “Enjoy.” He bows and leaves us with a menu.

  “Did he just click his heels?” I smile.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s very efficient.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Not for afternoon tea, but yes. I’ve hosted a number of corporate events here. My staff appreciates these getaways and it’s a convenient spot for both my New York and Toronto offices.”

  “And now you’ll have to find a suitable spot in Mexico and Hong Kong.”

  He puts the menu down. “Have you been stalking me?” His thumb rubs the back of my hand.

  “Maybe. A teeny tiny bit.”

  “This day just keeps getting better.” He sits back and smiles.

  A smartly dressed waiter takes our order. We select tea from a long list of the finest loose leaves, and find ourselves sipping on a perfect brew.

  “Pinky up, Beetroot.”

  I laugh, sticking my little finger out. Never in a thousand years would I have pictured Troy Heathgate sitting in an ornately carved chair, holding out a flowery little tea-cup.

  Bite-sized cakes and pastries arrive, little sandwiches piled high on silver-tiered servers and piping hot scones fresh from the oven.

  “Lemon Curd Tart with Almond Crust, Milk Chocolate Crème Brûlée with Mandarin Orange, Chocolate Dipped Shortbread.” The waiter points them out. “And the sandwiches: Egg Salad and Dill on Marble Rye, Salmon Salad on Fennel, Cucumber and Goat Cheese Pinwheels. And of course, clotted cream, churned butter and strawberry preserves.” He smiles. “Can I get you anything else?”

  Troy looks at me, but my eyes are fixed on the table. My pinky droops in disbelief.

  “No.” He laughs. “I think we’re all set.”

  “Oh. My. God,” I whisper after the waiter leaves, filling my plate with all the little goodies. “This one and this one. Maybe this too? Yes, and this. Definitely this.”

  “I’m glad we’re sitting by the window. I want the whole world to see.” Troy grins as he watches me eat.

  “That you’re having tea with a pastry-devouring gremlin?” I laugh.

  “That I’m with the most beautiful woman in the world. A woman who, when she allows herself, savors life with all of her senses.”

  I blot the corners of my mouth with my napkin and clear my throat.

  “I would like some more tea, please,” I request in the most upper crust accent I can muster.
/>   “With pleasure, me lady.” He plays along until our laughter provokes arched brows from the other patrons.

  “There’s something wrong with your Beatles t-shirt,” he remarks.

  “And here I thought you were staring at my breasts.”

  “George Harrison, John Lennon, Paul McCartney.” He points them out. “But the guy on drums looks nothing like Ringo Starr.”

  “It’s not. That’s Pete Best. Ringo replaced him later in 1962.”

  “The year we were born.”

  “Hence the t-shirt.”

  “So it’s not just some cool t-shirt you randomly picked from the vintage store?”

  “I’m learning to collect things that mean something.” Like today. These moments, carefully plucked and tucked away in my book of life, like pressed roses.

  We finish our tea in the sparkling atmosphere of another world, another time.

  “So what would you like to do?” asks Troy, steering me through the door. “Shopping, sight-seeing—”

  “Mr. Heathgate!” John catches up as we’re about to leave. “I trust you enjoyed your tea. I have arranged a complimentary horse and buggy ride for you and your companion. If that’s something you’d like.”

  “That’s very generous,” replies Troy. “Companion?” He turns to me. “Horse and buggy ride?” He holds out his arm.

  “I would love to.” I smile, linking my arm with his.

  “This way please.” John leads us past the tulip garden and introduces us to a formally dressed coachman in a cravat, vested coat and black pants. “Tom will be your guide today.”

  Tom tips his hat and assists me into the carriage. Troy says something to John, who beams and stands by while Troy gets in next to me. The seat is upholstered in plush red velvet. Brass lamps adorn the sides of the carriage and a leather canopy shades us from the sun.

  “All set?” asks Tom, as he maneuvers our carriage out of the hotel.

  The magnificent Scottish Clydesdale clip-clops past John as we wave goodbye.

  Tom regales us with interesting tidbits about the town as we saunter along. The gazebo adorning Queen’s Royal Park was featured in a murder scene in Stephen King’s ‘The Dead Zone’. Ghosts and haunted houses abound. The headless soldier. A house that makes cameras go crazy. Sobbing Sophia who lost her dashing British hero in battle, and wanders the halls of Brockamour Manor, her sobs reverberating through the town at night.