by Jane Preston
Within moments, Maureen’s brow darkened.
She struggled to be tactful. “Uh, I don’t know, Leslie. It’s beautiful, of course. Lovely. But, Sweetie, I’d be careful if I were you.”
CHAPTER TWO
Maureen’s luxurious late night swims at the nearby community pool were her only guilty pleasure. On long, lazy Friday evenings, several minutes before 10 p.m., when everyone else had cleared out, she would hazard sneaking in past the lifeguard, who was usually in the locker room getting ready to go home, to take a quick, invigorating dip.
All by herself.
Her community had extended the pool hours on Friday nights to give area residents a chance to enjoy a soothing swim before routinely settling down in front of their TV sets, but seldom did any of them take advantage of the opportunity. Except for Maureen. She indulged herself for those precious, solitary moments before calling it a night and retiring to her home to read a good mystery novel and nod off to sleep.
She was alone while she practiced her freestyle and back strokes to no one’s appreciation, although she had been a capable and sometime locally-celebrated, competitive swimmer as a youngster. In fact, she thought, as her lithe body glided effortlessly through the shimmering blue depths of the Olympic-sized pool under a well-lit, full-mooned night sky: I seem to be alone all the time now, with the exception of Leslie bursting in to my kitchen to deliver juicy news bulletins on the latest and greatest in her life.
In Maureen’s case, she’d completely given up on the dating scene more than a year ago, ever since her last major heart-break. She almost hadn’t recovered from that ill-fated fiasco. It still hurt when she thought about how Randy had sprung the break-up on her, ditching her for a former thespian schoolmate of hers who had turned professional model. This after Maureen thought things had been going so well, even to the point where she dared to think about the “m” word.
Well, no more of that madness. Not for a long, long time.
Thank God for Leslie, she thought with a warm tug on her heart, her legs kicking expertly to propel her through the silky, refreshing water. Without my neighbor’s unseemly, but highly entertaining adventures, I wouldn’t have a shred of excitement in my life.
Little did Maureen know, but her life was about to become more exciting than ever.
Motionless and silent as a statue, hidden behind the generous cover of the summertime shrubs and bushes, he was watching her tonight at the community pool - while she slid gracefully through the water in her body-hugging, scarlet one-piece swim suit - as he had been for the last two Friday nights.
His breathing stilled. Leslie told me she comes here regularly, he thought.
But she didn’t tell me what an absolutely fantastic figure her friend has.
Hmmm, he thought, his mind working on the delicious possibilities. It might be time to introduce myself.
***
Maureen finished her brief swim and effortlessly hoisted herself out of the water on to the side of the pool. Inexplicably and suddenly alert, she cocked her head and looked around. Usually she could hear the familiar noises of a neighborhood getting ready to call it a day: a husband rolling the trash cans out to the curb for tomorrow morning’s pick-up; a hassled parent scolding the kids to turn off the TV right now and get to bed pronto; a dog barking in a nearby back yard.
But tonight for some reason, it was strangely quiet.
Funny, she thought now, as, sopping wet, she sprinted towards a lounge chair to retrieve her over-sized Minnie Mouse towel (a present from her landlady’s recent trip to Disneyland), I could have sworn that someone’s been watching me.
She’d had this eerie feeling only once before in her life while shopping at a local store shortly before closing time. A few days later, she found out from the man she was dating that he had been spying on her that very same night from his darkened car in the store’s parking lot. He confessed he had been enjoying the sight of her through his high-powered binoculars.
That was the end of that relationship, she mused wryly, as she briskly toweled down.
The wind picked up, momentarily whipping up a batch of leaves on a nearby sidewalk. Maureen felt a chill pierce her bones. To her dismay, she again found herself anxiously glancing around. All was quiet and calm.
Silly me, she admonished herself, of course you’re alone.
Her bathing suit still clinging to her, Maureen hurried into a pair of baggy jogging pants and a well-worn sweater. After grabbing her purse, she ran to her car, which was parked on the street of the community center, now completely empty. Shadows seemed to lurk everywhere.
Next time I need to park directly under a street light, she told herself, before throwing open the car door, jumping in and sliding the key into the ignition, relieved that she would soon be in the privacy and safety of her beloved home, sweet home.
***
Spontaneous laughter rang out from the lively men and women, who, wine glasses in hand, gathered in congenial small groups around the large pool, which sparkled like an oblong-shaped blue diamond under the gloriously clear, star-lit sky.
It was a little after 9 p.m. on Saturday night and Maureen hoped her silver-grey tailored business suit was not too understated, or ho-hum, for a social event she’d been looking forward to for months. It was the bi-annual convention of The Amateur Proud Poet Society, a self-proclaimed tongue-in-cheek creative writing group which, in spite of itself, had nonetheless nurtured and produced several regionally distinguished poets, a few of whom Maureen had seen recently interviewed on a local TV station’s public affairs show.
She’d also noted that a few wealthy and prominent citizens had been drawn into the society, most likely out of sheer curiosity as well as a perverse desire to express their so-called inner creativity, giving her all the more reason to dress professionally, ready to hand out a business card or two if the opportunity spontaneously presented itself.
Poetry was not her strong suit. Maureen was, quite happily, an established novelist of better than ordinary means, but she harbored an appreciation for thoughtful prose that rhymed and carried deep, perhaps quixotic, meaning.
The air tonight was charged with a contagious feeling of excitement. The event was beautifully-catered and before Maureen had decided exactly which chatty circle to join, a maid carrying a tray and dressed in a crisp white cotton blouse, pencil black skirt and high heels, stopped by and asked if she would like red or white wine. There was no hesitation. Maureen was a Chardonnay lover. Within two minutes, she was sipping from a graceful tall glass, pleased to be part of this unusual, if sometimes accidentally, talented gathering of people.
At the very least, they were interesting folk, presenting possible character studies and unique storylines for a working novelist, always on the look-out for new material.
A few acquaintances had drifted by to briefly chat with her as Maureen stood self-consciously apart from the group at large, shyly observing these extroverted and animated people, who took childlike glee in playfully spouting improvised lines of poetry. As she sipped on the excellent white wine, which was doing the magic trick of relaxing her pent-up nervous tension – it had been a long, demanding week - the writer suddenly became aware of how very often she was an observer of life, not an active participant.
Having lost both parents in a tragic car accident when she was only 15, Maureen had been raised by her auntie, Betty, who sadly passed away from cancer seven years ago. As a result, she was socially reticent, preferring to watch people, and analyze their often inexplicable behavior, from a safe emotional distance.
“I should have been a therapist,” she heard herself mumble.
“And why not? Therapy can be a highly fulfilling profession.”
The voice was decidedly male, whispered into her ear from close behind. More than that, it was potent. It oozed sex appeal.
Startled, Maureen spun around to lock eyes with the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He was gorgeous to the core. At a loss for words, she stammere
d, feeling like a complete fool. Her heart was racing inside her chest, as she desperately hoped he couldn’t see her idiotic blushing in the light reflected off the ripples of the pool.
The stunning stranger leaned closer to her, his heady cologne lingering in the air around them. “She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die. And joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, Bidding adeiu. And aching Pleasure nigh. Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips. Ay, in the very temple of Delight. Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine.”
“Huh?” She blurted out. Boy, she was making an impression tonight.
“Keats. You know, one of the Romantics. That quote was from his ‘Ode to Melancholy.’ You see, even Keats was susceptible to down days like the rest of us. Therapy can help put things back together for good.”
“Oh. Well, yes. I suppose so. Are you a-a therapist?” She cleared her throat, trying to sound intelligent. Must be the wine, she thought. But she knew it was the man. She couldn’t imagine a more handsome specimen of the male human species. Her hands were breaking out in a subtle sheen of perspiration. Maureen held on to her nearly-empty glass even more firmly.
“Would you like more vino? I’ll be happy to fetch you another glass.” He inclined his head towards hers, his hazel-green eyes with his naturally-thick lashes just several inches away, and her heart did another enthralling callisthenic. Why is this man having such a devastating effect on me? She quizzed herself anxiously. I thought I was over men, at least for the next decade or so.
She cleared her throat again, this time with a concerted effort to gain control of herself. “No, but thank you, I’m sure I’ve had quite enough for one night. So where do you, uh, practice?”
“Where do I practice?” He repeated her question with relaxed confidence. “Well, I’ve been in business for myself for eight years now. I have an office at Third and Elm. Downtown. Are you familiar with that area?” Again, his eyes captivated her with their amazing, direct beauty and she struggled not to be unduly affected by them.
Yes, he was gorgeous, classically handsome with his finely-etched, perfect facial features; he stood tall and slender with a full head of light caramel, not-quite-blond, almost-surfer-boy colored hair, the kind that invites a woman to run her hands through it. The kind that reminded her of her favorite candy as a child. Yet he exuded an effortless elegance that no beach boy could possibly emulate.
She simply had to get a hold of herself. Maureen was certain he was aware of her discomfiture and it deeply embarrassed her. He’s probably accustomed to putting this kind of silly spell on women, she thought, feeling another jab of anxiety.
“No, not really. So, what brings you to our infamous group tonight?” Maureen gave a short laugh as she made another feeble attempt to converse in hopes of loosening up the tension she was experiencing in the Netherlands of her stomach.
“Why, my Lady, I am a poet extraordinaire. Didn’t you know that?” He grinned, flashing a set of perfect white teeth, good-naturedly mocking his own exaggerated attempt at flagrant self-importance as he gracefully staged an impromptu bow.
This time, Maureen really laughed. This man can make fun of himself. Chalk up another plus in his favor: an engaging sense of humor.
But she was suddenly aware that in all the time she’d attended these zany functions, she’d never seen him before. And he couldn’t be new in town since his therapy office was long established downtown.
“I know, I know.” He held up a classy, slender hand to gently silence her. “You’re wondering why I haven’t come to any of the meetings. Not until this one, that is.” He paused, dramatically cleared his throat and took another bow, this one more brief. “My dear Lady, I confess. I have written poetry on the side for years and, at last, I have mustered the courage to come out of hiding to join you other scribes. And, I must say, the one standing before me I particularly like.”
He theatrically caught her hand and raised it ceremoniously to his lips, brushing it lightly with a tender kiss that sent a powerful thrill through her. “Pleased to meet you, my Lady. I’m Sterling Matthews.”
The name fit like a glove. He was the epitome of elegance with his exquisitely-cut suit which accentuated his model-like frame to perfection, even awe. He exuded good breeding. She wondered where he’d been all her life.
Careful, Maureen, she warned herself. Randy had been suave and debonair, too.
But not like this.
The man standing before her was like an apparition, shimmering in the warmth of the glow from the outdoor bamboo Tiki lanterns. At that moment, something at the back of her mind nagged at her and the young woman instantly wondered if she hadn’t seen him somewhere before after all. He did look slightly familiar.
Yeah, right. Only in the men’s fashion pages, she silently scolded herself, and readily dismissed the ridiculous notion. She had other, far more important things to think about. Like how to keep talking to this fantasy man whose rapt attention made her squirm at the same time it fired her insides with acute passion.
She couldn’t believe he was interested in her. No one else seemed to matter to him. Maureen felt like pinching herself.
Only, if this is a dream, she thought, I don’t want to wake up from it.
***
The two of them were thoroughly enjoying a dreamy glass of wine together and her head, like her heart, was beginning to reel. Funny, she groggily noted, they both love Chardonnay. Another thing they had in common, besides their mutual passion for plays, especially mysteries. Maureen found Sterling’s company intoxicating. His impossibly beautiful face swam enticingly before her eyes with its frequent smiles of adoration.
The rest of the gathering’s attendants didn’t exist for her. They were just background noise.
Suddenly, the recognizable sensuous strains of one of her favorite romantic love songs began flowing from the stereo speakers, filling the sizzling late-night air around the swimming pool.
Oh, no, she inwardly groaned, her heart doing another intense flip, I think he’s going to ask me to dance. Fretting, she thought: Being in his arms will be the end of me.
At the same time, she wanted it with all her heart and soul.
As if reading her thoughts, Sterling turned to her, and moving seamlessly, took her glass, put it down quietly on the nearby table and pulled her gently to him. It felt strangely natural to her. And, somehow, familiar. They began to sway in sweet unison to the hypnotizing melody.
Everything around her seemed to be moving so fast and in slow-motion, all at the same time. Her head spinning, Maureen saw that other couples were dancing, too. Instantly relieved, she felt thankfully inconspicuous.
But she was wrong.
For the last hour, a handful of people she knew, all women, had been keeping a close eye on Maureen and her newfound love interest. They couldn’t help it. The man was so incredibly good-looking.
“Some women have all the luck,” complained one of the ladies named Patsy Singer. “I’ve been to these meetings for three years now and no one who looked like that ever swept me off my feet. What gives?” She shrugged before taking a generous swig of her glass of Merlot. A hiccup erupted from her lips, heavily made-up with hot pink lipstick, before another woman in the tight, gossipy circle responded.
“Who is he?” Intrigued by the love birds, raven-haired Lucy Troppe, a highly successful real estate agent in her early 30s and very attractive in a severe sort of way, felt a strong pang of envy. It had been much too long since she’d felt that way about a man. But, boy what a man. She kept her voice low. “Anyone here know him?”
The rest of the circle vigorously shook their heads, dumb-founded. “I didn’t think Liberty City even had men like that,” another volunteered, while digging into a dish of salted Spanish peanuts. “Maybe I need to get out more often.”
Lucy didn’t miss a beat. “Hey, we women should find out exactly who this fellow is. We don’t want our lovely Maureen getting involved with the wrong sort of guy, now do we? You ladies game?”
>
The female voices rose in unison in a loud, raspy whisper: “We’re game!” Giggling, they clicked their glasses in a conspiratorial toast.
“Besides,” Lucy said, not once taking her eyes off the duo who had stolen the floor, “He could be the decent type. If he is, he might have a brother.”
***
Dancing close like this to Maureen was pure delight. Her sweet-smelling, shoulder-length medium auburn hair shone, sometimes even golden, in the mellow lights positioned around the glittering pool. He’d always had a thing for red-heads. Especially when they had incredible legs. This woman had that. And more.
Interestingly enough, she didn’t seem to think too highly of herself. He liked that about her, too. She wasn’t sold on herself. It meant she could be talked into things.
Like being with me. Sterling grinned into her hair. He could feel the quickening of her heart. As he effortlessly guided Maureen in the slow dance, his thoughts raced on. First, I have to decide what to do about Leslie. She’s a great gal but it’s time to move on. Instantly, he was reminded of the fact that he’d tried to break things off with her yesterday. But then Candace had called.