Elle left Powell's office thankful to be the hell-out-of-there and feeling mostly at ease about the meeting. In terms of her performance, it was a slam dunk. She’d articulated her position, said what she wanted and made clear the steps she’d take if EGT neglected to accommodate her. What's more, when she clasped the hand of the formidable general counsel, for a split second, she’d felt something; a silent indication that he may have understood. Beyond that — the man was difficult to read and her only choice now was to wait it out. There was no telling what he’d authorize and it was beyond her control, so good sense dictated that she detach from the outcome. It would be what it was and she had done what she could. Still, deep in her heart, she prayed for the ordeal to end, the quest to move forward her sole motivation.
Heading to the airport, Elle learned that Chicago's weather was a blustery mess and all flights to the windy city were plagued by lengthy delays. Her only relief was to hole up in a crowded airport tavern, its country Irish pub theme overplayed. She nabbed a just-vacated seat at the end of the long bar and placed her bag and briefcase on the floor alongside the wall. Lifting herself into a tall pub chair, she settled in, grateful for a back rest with thick padding.
The bartender, a tall drink of water with reddish-blonde hair, walked towards her and Elle spotted his burgeoning chest and arms. Both boldly suggested that his days were spent ‘getting his swole on’ in a no-frills gym. He placed a filled glass before her and asked, “Water to start?”
Elle nodded. “May I have lemon?”
He smiled and turned away. A moment later, he set a small bowl of sliced lemons next to her glass and handed her a leather-trimmed sleeve, the bar menu inside. “We have a nice selection of wine,” he said, “but I highly recommend the Irish coffee. It’ll keep you warm until your flight.”
Elle caught a glimpse of the deep dimple in his right cheek and smiled. “I’ll need a few moments, I think.”
“Of course,” he said, “take your time. I’m Corey. I’ll be back to check on you.”
As he turned around, Elle (without a thought in her head) raised in her seat to view the impact his fitness regimen might have had on his lower half. The tight round ass and muscled thighs carved into his jeans did not disappoint and she giggled appreciation. Where in the world have all these adorable men been hiding? She felt as if they’d been banished from the earth for at least the past decade and returned, only recently, to delight her senses.
Her experiences with men had been limited. Hell, she’d slept with less than ten in her entire life and had never been intimate with a white boy, or even been on a date with one. While a handful of the successful, eligible type had approached her over the years, she couldn’t help but lump them in with the pompous white boys she often encountered in the workplace. They were out before they’d ever had a chance. Perhaps now, she might be more receptive to stretching beyond her biases.
Corey returned, asking what she’d decided.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t looked,” Elle said, glancing at the clock on the opposite wall. It was shaped like a large beer mug and she squinted to see the time through the white pseudo-froth spilling down the glass. It showed just shy of 1 P.M. “I guess lunch would be good,” she said. “What do you have in the way of salads?”
“I have the perfect salad for you,” he said with confidence.
“Really?” She batted her eyes.
“It's baby Romaine lettuce with grape tomatoes, dried cranberries and leeks. And on top, a nice filet of seared salmon, the whole thing drizzled with light cranberry-lemon vinaigrette.” He paused to grin. “What do you think?”
Elle folded her hands under her chin, elbows on the bar. She considered dismissing his suggestion because he’d pegged her so perfectly. But giving credit its due, she said, “I think I’ll try it…dressing on the side.”
“White wine?” he asked, his assessment still spot-on.
“You have Landmark Overlook?”
“We do, but the price per glass is a shoddy deal. I recommend a bottle, even if you drink just two glasses, you’ll come out ahead.”
“Let's do it.”
The cute bartender left and Elle took a few sips of water, realizing how long she’d been oblivious to such male abundance. For the past couple decades, she’d loved only three men, each one brilliant and beautiful in his distinctive way. You couldn’t take that from them.
Of course, the time with Hilton had been brief and less consequential, save for the pain it cost her. But the impact of the years she’d spent alongside Olivier and Darien would last a lifetime. Both had embraced shameless vanity as high art, although that was the least of her issues. What stuck in Elle's craw was their always present ‘do it my way or the highway’ stance.
True, Olivier had softened over the years, becoming less committed to telling her what to do and who to be. And since their relationship was different now, whenever he did come incorrect, her response was less emotional and more effective. It was a far cry from the days and nights they’d spent embroiled in a tattered marriage.
Darien, on the other hand, showed no interest in that level of personal transformation. He was more inclined to hard line the status quo, no matter what. Of all his traits, it was that ‘Master of the Universe’ mind-set that drove Elle crazy. And any time you bucked up against his enormous need for control, there was a big ass bucket of hell to pay.
Funny thing was Elle didn’t regret her years with Darien. Realizing great passion, even beyond its perilous edge, was a remarkable occurrence. And passion had been the basis of their union. It was the kind of soaring exaltation that could take you everywhere and leave you nowhere.
Something else was stirring in Elle's heart, the growing awareness of her complicity in this. There would be no more eyes wide shut. Next time, she would look love square in the face and be willing to recognize all that showed up. As her mama would have put it, “quit stepping over a pile of shit pretending not to smell it, just because the room is beautiful.”