His eyes halted on the Maltese cross. He bowed his head and crossed himself.
"Two years ago today, Brandon. We found you...your hand." He cleared his throat as he fought the saline escaping from both eyes. "Susan's okay now. Man, it was bad on her. She wanted to join you. We had to do an intervention. She spent a couple weeks in the hospital. Your mom and I, we took turns staying with her when she got back home.
"Anyhow, I just wanted to bring you the sandwich. I haven't eaten at Vinnie's anymore since..." He exhaled.
"And I wanted to let you know not to worry about Susan. She's gonna make it all right. And, um, I'm gonna keep lookin' out for her. What I'm tryin' to say is, I love Susan. Well, of course you already knew that. But I mean...I'm in love with her. It's not the September Eleventh widow syndrome thing either. I didn't move in on her a couple weeks after..."
An ambulance wailed by. Johnny sat back on his heels. He picked a thick blade of grass and entwined it in his fingers, pulling it so tight the tips turned red. "Did ya know eight guys left their wives and kids for the widows? Jesus. Shunned one family in favor of another. The psychologists they sent around tried to explain the phenomenon. They warned us there would be affairs. I swear I haven't touched her. And I've kept the wolves away. Johnson and Caruthers. Friggin' bastards. Can you believe it?" Johnny yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "She's a beautiful woman and all, but they should've had more respect for you...and Susan, than that." He stood up and unwrapped the sandwich, straightening it on top of the headstone. The white paper flapped under it.
"Anyhow, I just wanted to have a talk with you first. I wanted to let you know my intentions. I've got no idea how Susan feels toward me. But I'll tell you one thing, buddy. I plan on standing in Times Square, watching the ball drop and kissing my fiancée to ring in the New Year." Johnny opened the milk container and placed it next to the sandwich. He crossed himself and walked down the path.
A nun called out, "You can't leave trash here. Remove it."
Johnny smiled and closed the gate behind him.
* * * *
"Here you go, a package from your dead cousin." The bespectacled letter carrier leered at Susan as he talked to her breasts.
Her stomach knotted. This better not be a trick. The wind whooshed in as Susan reached outside the glass storm door and snatched the battered brown box. "I've never believed she's dead, Oliver, and here's proof." Please let Melody be alive and happy.
"Well, you see, the thing is, the postmark and return address are smudged, so this one's probably been around quite awhile, at the dead letter office."
She glared at him. "Are those letters for me, too?"
He handed his former schoolmate her junk mail. "So, what are your plans for Christmas? You know, it really is time you started dating again."
She couldn't believe he would suggest such a thing. She would never date again. No way.
He launched into his baritone version of "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"
Susan let go of the storm door. It slammed in Oliver's pock-marked face. After dropping the letters onto the foyer bench, Susan attempted to peel the clear tape off of the box as she carried the package down the hallway and into the kitchen.
Her pulse raced as she rifled through her junk drawer, settling on a pen to pry the tape loose. She inhaled deeply while plopping down in a chair at the table. Staring at the box, Susan remembered...
In July, she mailed her cousin Melody a birthday card. It came back at the end of August. Someone had scribbled on the envelope Deceased: Return To Sender. She called Melody's home in Nevada, right away.
Melody's husband Zander answered, "Yellow."
"Zander, it's Susan Cervini. I just got Melody's birthday card returned to me. Someone wrote on the envelope that Melody was deceased!"
"Yep."
"What? She's not dead!"
"Ah jeeze, I'm sorry, hon. I thought the police contacted you. They said they would. I gave them your address. Jeeze, it was terrible, they made me take a lie detector test, two of 'em. Always suspect the poor grieving husband. I should sue 'em. Um...uh...I didn't have a memorial service 'cause there's no body yet. I can't even collect on her insurance policy. I tried calling you, but I just got your answering machine, for about four days in a row."
"When?" Susan demanded.
"Let's see now...Melody disappeared on the fourth of July, so it must have been on the eighth that I started calling you. She went out to pick up some Chinese food and never came back. Vanished without a trace."
"What do you mean by Melody 'vanished without a trace'?"
"I called the police and reported her missing. They found nothing. I went down to the daycare center and they said she hadn't come in to work. Her car was in the parking lot at the strip mall where the Chinese restaurant is. I'm a young widower, Susan—hey, I have another call. Good to hear from ya." Zander had hung up on her.
After quite a bit of work with the pen, the box popped open. Susan scooped and brushed a layer of peanut shaped foam packing material out, dropping it into the chrome trashcan. She gingerly removed an asymmetric object. Peeling back the bubble wrap encircling it, she smiled, marveling at the charming penguins made from black seashells and delicate white eggs, perched on a granite rock. Susan gently ran her finger along the diminutive work of art. Strolling into the living room, she walked over to the curio cabinet and added the exquisite piece to the center of her collection.
Her cousin Melody had always spoiled Susan with her beloved feathered creatures, penguins. She still had the stuffed penguin pillow that Melody had sewn for her in seventh grade home economics class. She slept with it every night.
Tucking her hair behind her ears, Susan walked back into the kitchen and removed the remaining bubble wrap from the box. Nestled in the bottom was a compact disc. Susan peeled the shrink wrap off the CD, huffing as she picked at the stubborn tape sealing the top edge. Returning to the living room, she pulled her lite jazz CD out of the stereo system and inserted the one from Melody. She glanced over the track listing. It was the latest release from Mister Wright.
God, this brings back memories, Susan thought. Melody had posters of him all over the bedroom they shared as teenagers. He was so cute...well, if you like the tall, muscular type with better hair than most women and a killer grin. She wondered what ever happened to good old Mister Wright? But more importantly, what had happened to Melody?
Susan had prayed every night, that wherever Melody was and whomever she was with, that she was at peace and happy. And now, this package was proof, Melody was alive and reaching out to her.
Unsettled but comforted, Susan commenced tidying her kitchen. Her yellow Labrador retriever, Bob, whimpered. Wiping her fresh teardrops away, she let the seventy-pound puppy out through the sliding glass door in the kitchen that led to the fenced back yard. The fence that she and Brandon had built. It was a four foot tall, Mount Vernon style picket fence. Susan had loved watching him drape a chain between the posts and mark it with a pencil. Then he cut off the top of the boards, making a scalloped pattern. He could do anything.
Broom in hand, sweeping the crumbs and golden-white fur from the black and white checkerboard vinyl floor, Susan found herself swaying to the infectious melodies. She'd always loved listening to someone who could really play guitar—someone who could make love with it. Mister Wright's voice was so sexy. Her whole mood was lifted. So Melody never did get over her teenaged infatuation with good old Mister Wright. His new songs are excellent, right on par with the finest of today's pop.
She let Bob in, then sat at her desk in the kitchen and checked her e-mail. There were only two posts. The first one was an offer for mortgage refinancing. It made her think about the local charity for fallen police officers and firefighters. Those benevolent folks had insisted on paying off Susan's mortgage and car loan. They also gave her carte blanche for tuition, if she wanted to go back to college for her Master's degree. They were so generous, offering anything money could buy. For a while, they telephoned or stopped by every week asking, "Just tell us what we can do for you, Mrs. Cervini. What do you need?"
The worst was the day before Thanksgiving last year, when two uniformed police officers showed up with a turkey and all the trimmings. As if she had anyone to cook it for, let alone eat with.
With a knot in her stomach, Susan deleted the spam.
The second post was an advertisement for penile enlargement. Well, the virtual meanies just had to rub it in today. As if she'd ever see another one of those. She deleted the e-mail and emptied her e-garbage. The last song on the CD ended.
Susan clicked on the search box and typed in Mister Wright. Surfing through some fan webpages, she was surprised to learn that he was still writing and recording. Wow, he actually wrote all of his own songs. She was impressed. And the gorgeous photos, the guy didn't have a bad side. She ogled one picture in particular: he was screaming into a microphone, red guitar in the air, moisture on his tanned, shirtless skin. Oh, look at those arms. Perfectly developed. His chest was covered in dark hair, just the right amount. And those leather pants.
Holding her face in her hands, feeling the heat, she shook her head and scrolled down the page. His wife was the most gorgeously glamorous woman she'd ever seen. A living, breathing, thinking Malibu Barbie doll. The kids all took after her. She focused on the lovely doctor, Mrs. Wright. Susan lamented she wasn't even half as pretty. She laughed at herself for feeling jealous pangs at the wife of a fallen superstar she didn't even know.
She surfed through a few more sites, hoping to find a concert schedule. No such luck, so she subscribed to his fan e-mailing list at Gobbledygroups.com. Maybe she'd find Melody at a concert. It was certainly worth trying.
The doorbell rang. Her eyes grew large as she jumped up and yanked the belt tight on her pink and powder blue chenille robe. She finger combed her hair as she passed by the foyer mirror. She peeked through the peephole. Johnny Newman. Good old Johnny. Susan opened the front door and the storm door.
"Hi Johnny. Excuse my appearance, I was reading my e-mail and the morning got away from me."
The tall and buff auburn haired hunk handed her a bouquet of white lilies. "Not a problem. How'd it go at the soup kitchen yesterday?"
Susan smiled. "These are for me?"
He nodded.
"Thank you. What's the occasion?" As soon as she'd asked the question, she realized it was two years ago today that they'd found Brandon's remains in the smoldering rubble of Tower One. "Oh—that's right." She swallowed hard and pushed the bouquet to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent.
He hugged her. She noticed the smoke. A familiar sensory memory of her late husband.
As Johnny wiped orange pollen off her nose with his finger, he stared into her eyes, trying to make a connection.
Susan looked down and said, "Last Thanksgiving was much easier. It was good being around the other volunteers. But I never want to see another yam ever again."
"What happened?"
"I was carrying one of those big aluminum trays and I tripped. I looked like one of the bag ladies myself, with marshmallow matted hair for the rest of the day."
He touched her shoulder. "Sorry."
"It's okay. It's kind of funny now. How was work?"
"Thanksgiving is always an interesting watch. A couple fire calls for food on the stove. And you get there and everyone is drunk. Grandma and all." Johnny leaned down to scratch Bob. "So, who's this guy you're sending dirty messages to?"
"What?" Susan tugged her robe closed at the neck.
"Why so much Internet lately?"
Embarrassed but enthusiastic about her new found addiction, Susan confessed, "Well, I was hooked on the auction sites, but my credit card statement snapped me out of that nonsense. Then I found Gobbledy Groups and I love chatting with people from all over the world. I'm on a romance readers e-mailing loop, but I just joined a music fan group."
Johnny hung his brown leather bomber jacket on a wall hook built into the mirror over the foyer bench. "What's the topic?"
"Oh, it's a fan website for Mister Wright."
"I thought he OD'ed."
"No! He's not a druggie. He's a good family man. His wife's a doctor. He takes the kids on tour with him. They've got three children."
Johnny did an Elvis smile, out of one side of his mouth. "What happened to the classy Susan who only listened to jazz?"
"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, "I don't make it just for myself, but I can brew a fresh pot for us."
"No, thanks, I've had too much. I want to try to get the framing done today." He turned on the basement light.
"Okay, thanks, Johnny. You really don't have to do this—"
He placed a finger on her lips. "Shh...stop it. Brandon was my best buddy. I'm finishing what he started..."
Susan wiped a tear from her eye and smiled, looking away. "Let me take a shower, then I'll come down and give you a hand."
* * * *
In the basement, Johnny measured and cut the studs for the final wall. He laid them out on the concrete floor, spacing the two-by-fours eighteen inches on center. His mind wandered to how attractive Susan looked this morning, standing in front of him in that robe with her long black hair all tousled. He'd never known anyone else with crayon blue eyes like Susan's. He'd fallen hard for her the first time their eyes met, at the awards ceremony where Brandon received his medal. Brandon was the one who pulled her out of the apartment fire. Johnny couldn't compete with her hero. The Lieutenant had Johnny up on the roof, ventilating. Damn it. It should have been him rescuing the goddess from the fire.
She had occupied his mind for much of the last six years. The one woman he couldn't have. In Johnny's fantasies, he'd steal Susan away from his best friend—the man with whom fate had erroneously paired her. But now all of that had changed.
Johnny put his finger on his lips, the one he shushed her with. He softly stroked his mouth. Water clunked through the pipes. Johnny Newman envisioned the chenille robe falling to the floor and Susan stepping into the hot spray. Oh, to be her pump bottle of foaming body wash...
* * * *
Susan inhaled fresh sawdust as she trotted down the unfinished pine stairs. Bob stumbled along in front. Johnny was lifting the last section of framing off the floor. He'd pre-assembled the studs in between the top and bottom boards. That way he didn't have to toenail them in. Susan helped heave the framing upright. Johnny employed a sledgehammer to gently persuade the tight fitting wall section into place. He adjusted it level, plumb and square.
Johnny put on ear protectors. "Cover your ears, sweetheart."
She did as he said and ran to the other side of the basement with Bob at her heels. Johnny used a concrete hammer and little loads of gunpowder to fasten it to the floor. Four loud pops and the wall wasn't going anywhere.
Susan and her puppy trotted back over to him. She took the ear protectors off of Johnny. He smiled.
She shook his hand. "You did it!"
"Tomorrow I'll start on the wiring."
"Do you want to bring Jenna over tonight, I'll cook a nice meal for us?"
Johnny shook his head. "Jenna's outta the picture."
Susan grinned. "The perpetual bachelor. Let me guess. She gave you the old ultimatum, 'Marry me or we're through.' and you said, 'It's been fun.'"
"Somethin' like that."
"Why don't you ever settle down, Johnny?"
He wanted so badly to blurt it out, but it was too soon. Or was it? He couldn't blow this one. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, the invite still stands. I'll make Mediterranean garlic shrimp. Bring someone else if you'd like. Eight thirty-ish."
"I'll be here, alone, and I'll bring dessert."
"It's a date."
Johnny couldn't believe she'd said that. She had to mean it, didn't she?
Susan said, "Bob! No! No eating sawdust! Spit it out, now." She leaned down and swept the yellow pine fluff out of his mouth. "You go get in your playpen, right now. Get in your playpen." She chased him up the stairs.
Johnny said, "Sorry, it's my fault." He wondered if she really had said the word date. He had to be reading into things. He shop-vacuumed up the sawdust before joining Susan and Bob upstairs. His pulse raced.
Susan followed him to the door. "Thanks, Johnny."
He grabbed his coat and kissed her cheek, something he'd never done before. "Bye." Johnny hurried to his fire engine red pick-up truck.
Susan locked the door and trotted to the kitchen, where she sprawled on the floor, petting Bob. He nuzzled her face, sniffing. For the first time, she felt uncomfortable around Johnny. There was something different in that kiss. Could he be flirting with her? No way. FDNY's most eligible bachelor wouldn't be wasting his talents on her. He dated models and lawyers.
Susan sucked a breath in all the way down to her stomach. Nobody would ever be interested in her again. Not romantically. She remembered the mailman and a couple jerk firemen hitting on her. They figured she was a horny widow. Well, they were right, but she wasn't yearning for just a release. She'd been in love. True love. She couldn't ever just have sex. Susan needed a man to make love to her. To be one with her.
Bob commenced blinking. It was past his naptime. Patting his head, she stood up. Susan brushed the fur from her sweat pants and tee shirt, then ambled over to the counter and dropped a tea bag into her mug from the morning and a scoop of sugar. She poured hot water from the carafe into it and carried the beverage to the desk. She plopped down in the chair and opened her e-mail box. Drat, no new messages.
Susan dashed upstairs and gathered her dirty clothes up and sorted them. She heard the sound of Bob drinking and then a crash. Sprinting down the stairs, she screamed, "No! Bad dog! You get in your playpen. Get in your playpen right now."
Bob hung his head and skulked into his playpen, where he lay down on the crumpled up towel, cowering. Susan fastened the lock on the enclosure. She picked up her shattered tea cup, remembering the sultry summer day she and Brandon bought the ceramic dinnerware set at the craft fair. It was a mix and match thing and Brandon was able to find a whole set of each color: bubble gum pink, cerulean blue, clover green, sunflower yellow, winter white and terracotta. After tossing the jagged white pieces of their love in the trash can, Susan wiped up the sticky splatters.
* * * *
Johnny located a spot in the shopping district of Manhattan right on the street and parallel parked his pick-up truck. It took the entire afternoon to find a gray silk button up shirt, masculine cologne, fresh red roses, an acceptable bottle of wine, caviar, a white chocolate raspberry swirl cheesecake and the CD titled "Mister Wright's Greatest Hits". Johnny felt fortunate to have found the old compact disc. It was worth the twenty minutes he wasted digging through the bargain table. Cursing the traffic back-up before the bridge, Johnny looked forward to this special evening with the woman he yearned for. How would it go? How far should he take it? What if Susan didn't feel the same way he did?
Johnny didn't have time to drive home to Long Island, so he veered over to his firehouse and quickly showered and shaved. He dug his good gray trousers out of his locker, shook them out and got dressed.
* * * *
Susan roosted at her computer, mesmerized. She'd just read the first three chapters of Immaculate Deception, a paranormal romantic suspense novel online. She couldn't wait until next week when the book would be in the stores and she could buy it to find out what happens next. She took a short break, just long enough to run to the bathroom and to let Bob out to do his business and then back in. Susan then clicked on her e-mail icon. There were new messages in the folder she'd made up for the Mister Wright's Delights group. She opened the first one. They might be able to help her find Melody.
FROM: Rose M. Smith
TO: Mrwrightsdelights@gobbledygroups.com
SUBJECT: HI
HI FROM rOSE IN bARBADOS. WISHING ALL MY aMERISAKNN FRIENDS A NICE TIME.
LOVE FROM rOSE.
Didn't Rose from Barbados realize that typing in all caps is considered yelling? And didn't she have a spelling and grammar check in her e-mail program? Susan deleted the message.
FROM: Tanya P.
TO: MRWRIGHTSDELIGHTS@GOBBLEDYGROUPS.COM
SUBJECT: Re: Roomies
Hi Girls,
Just wanted to comment on my last post, maybe no one got it? I'm looking for one or two roommates for the concert. I'm staying at the old Arborwood Hotel and it'll be next to nothing if we split it three ways. They have rollaway beds; so we can each have our own space. It'll be just like a slumber party. We'll have so much fun %^). We can also split a rental car. Let me know, okay?
Hugs,
Tanya
A concert! Great news. Susan saved this one. She would contact Tanya if no one else mentioned any information on the list about the date, place and time.
FROM: Rose M. Smith
TO: Mrwrightsdelights@gobbledygroups.com
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Roomies
HI tANYA1 I WOULD LOVE TO BEYOUR ROOMIE FOR THE CONCERT/ I KNOW YOU ARE A VERY SWEET GIRL YOU ARE SO KIND TO ME ON THE LIST CALL ME TONIGHT. OR IF YOU AREN'T RICH, I WILL GLADLY CALL YOU. GIVE ME YOUR NUMER. WE WILL HAVE A BALL. I'BB BRING CHEESE IN A CAN AND DEVELED HAM. AND I'LL PACK MY FOOT BATH. YOU CAN RELAX IN A LUXURIOUS MASSAGE AND WE'LL CLIP EACH OATHERS TOENAILS. DO YOU HAVE BUBBLEBATH AND CRACKAERS/ ALSO CAN YOU BUY MY GRANMA A TICKT TO THE SHOW/ SHE IS A FUN GIRL, 91 YEARS OLD. THEN WE WILL HAVE THREE. GRANMA THINKS mR wRIGHT IS SEXY, SHE WANTS TO BLOWHIM WITH HER TEETHOUT.
BYE FROM YOUR FRIEND IN bARBAEDOS
LOVE rOSE
Oh, my goodness, poor Tanya! But there's a concert somewhere. Great! Maybe Melody is going. Susan hit delete.
FROM: Steffie
TO: Mrwrightsdelights@gobbledygroups.com
SUBJECT: New Member
Hello,
My name is Steffie. I am 56 years old and live in Pasadena, California with my cockapoo, Pierre. I have been a fan of Mister Wright's for 24 years and I am a complete authority on his music, life and odd truths. Feel free to consult me with any questions.
Wrightfully Yours,
Steffie
Yeah, right, Steffie. Susan hit delete again. She sipped her tea.
FROM: Rose M. Smith
TO: Mrwrightsdelights@gobbledygroups.com
SUBJECT: RE: New Member
HELLO sTEFFIE. WELCOME TO mR wRIGHTS DELITES. YOU'LL LOVE IT HERE. IS YOUR COCAPOOH, A BOY OR A GIRL/ CAN IT TALK/ HOW MANY WORDSK WILL YOU SEND ME OSME FEATHERS PLEASE/ I WILL PAY YOU.
LOVE YOUR FRIEND,
rOSE in bARBEDOS.
Giggling, Susan dug the last post out of her e-trash can, just to make sure she didn't misread. Yep, Steffie does have a Cockapoo, not a Cockatoo. She returned to her Mister Wright's Delights folder and deleted Rose's message. The next one opened. She wanted someone to post about the concert. Maybe Melody was on this loop.
The doorbell rang. Susan closed her e-mail program and dashed to the foyer. Bob beat her there. Squinting through the peephole, she blinked at Johnny. He was grinning and bearing gifts. Susan drew in a deep breath. She'd forgotten she had invited him for dinner.
She exhaled and opened the door. "Come on in, Johnny."
Susan picked a piece of white fur from her sleeve and tried to avoid his eyes. "I'll just say it. I forgot all about inviting you to dinner. I am so sorry. I was reading my e-mail and the day got away from me."
He smelled exceptionally good. Why did he have to be so damned hot? That guy oozed pheromones. Of all the guys to befriend poor widowed her, why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it have been somebody who looked like Oliver but had Johnny's sweet personality?
"That's okay. I brought some wine, caviar, and cheesecake. We can just order out for Chinese or somethin' if we get real hungry. Here." Johnny handed her the flowers.
Susan savored their scent. "I love roses. But you gave me lilies this morning. You really didn't need to bring anything." She stepped aside and he crossed her threshold as she contemplated the flowers. The lilies were appropriate to remember Brandon's death, but roses? Red roses? She thought they meant true love.
Susan carried the bouquet to the kitchen and laid them on the center island, where she'd placed the tall vase of lilies. She carefully interspersed the roses. They complemented each other perfectly. He'd given her flowers from a florist, not a street vendor. And he brought food. She momentarily felt as if he were romancing her. She heard him fumbling around in the living room.
Johnny met Susan in the hall, as she was carrying the vase. He offered her the CD case as the first song began. They stepped into her living room.
"Oh, thanks, Johnny. But you shouldn't have. Are you a fan, too?"
"He's okay. I saw him in concert at Madison Square Garden. A long, long time ago."
"My cousin used to have a giant crush on him. He worked out of one of the studios in midtown and she'd hang around outside, doing the teeny bopper thing, hoping to catch a glimpse."
"Melody, right?"
"Yes." Susan smiled. Johnny must've been paying attention when he'd come over to see Brandon. He wasn't just politely making small talk with her. He'd listened to whatever she'd babbled about. Wow.
Susan set the flowers and the CD case down on the green-glass topped coffee table. She blushed as she repositioned an erotic statue of a nude couple, "The Kiss," to make room. Surely Johnny had seen this a hundred times, but for some reason, tonight she was embarrassed. Flashing in her mind was an image of Johnny and herself in the same pose. His arms pulling her tight against his massive chest and washboard abs; her fingers tangled in his silky auburn hair; his large hand squeezing her rear end; her privates rubbing against his long muscular thigh...
Between the heady scent from the flowers and his excellent cologne with a hint of on-the-job-smoke, Susan felt nearly intoxicated, in a good way. Brandon had never worn cologne.
Utilizing the corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife, Johnny popped the cork on the wine and glanced around.
Susan said, "Oh, I'll go and get some glasses. I've got some crackers too."
While she was in the kitchen, Johnny studied the track listing on the CD case, trying to remember some of the songs. He smiled. Number eleven was a killer slow dance—as he recalled.
Susan trotted back in, bearing a cerulean blue platter of sliced hot pepper cheese, green stuffed olives, rolled up Danish ham, and some tortilla chips. "Sorry, I guess Bob and I must've finished up the crackers."
"Not a problem." He cleared his throat.
Susan set the platter on the coffee table. "I'll be right back with the glasses and some napkins."
"Got any matches?"
Susan stared at him, puzzled. She didn't remember Johnny smoking. Yuk. And she didn't want him doing it in her house. "No, I don't think I have any, sorry." She walked back to the kitchen.
Johnny discovered the long fireplace matches on the mantel. He lighted the pine scented candles inside the two decorative brass lanterns, flanking the ornately framed print of a one room school house, circa the 1800's. He pictured himself tying his stallion to the hitching post and walking inside, startling Susan, the school marm. Ruffled white blouse, buttoned to her neck. Long, full buckskin skirt. A tease of white lace peeking from under the hem at her ankles. Barefooted. Yeah. And her raven hair swirled up into a tight bun. Little curly strands escaped at her ears. The students had all gone home earlier. He'd remove his white cowboy hat and toss it on her desk. The glint of his sheriff's badge would catch her eye. He'd tell her to drop the eraser, put her hands on the chalk board and spread 'em. He'd come to investigate what was under her petticoats.
Susan returned with two etched pieces of stemware. Breathing deeply, Johnny turned the lights out. She looked even hotter in the flesh, in her low cut jeans and gray sweatshirt. Teasing him with a little flash of skin whenever she raised her arms. Hot flesh, just begging to be caressed.
"Oh, you found some matches? I thought you wanted to smoke."
"Smoke? When have you ever seen me smoking?"
"No, I meant, um..."
"Come on and sit on the floor. This is a nice place you have, Susan. I like your decorating style. The greens and yellows you chose really work well together." Johnny filled their glasses. He held his up for a toast. "To the basement." He grinned.
Susan clunked her glass against his and smiled back. The wine tasted very fruity. He'd picked good stuff. They gobbled the caviar and most of the snacks she'd rustled up.
Johnny asked, "Ready for dessert?" He revealed a slab of raspberry-swirl cheesecake. Using the clear plastic fork from the bakery, he speared a chunk and offered it to Susan.
She grabbed the utensil, but he didn't let go. Raising her eyebrows and grinning, Susan let him feed her. He sure was acting goofy today—tonight. If she let her imagination have its way, she'd say he was trying to seduce her. No. She had to get that silly thought out of her mind .
Susan said, "Hey, listen. This is the only cover song Mister Wright recorded, 'More Than A Woman'. He wrote all his other ones. I learned that online. It's amazing how talented he is. It's like he has a deep understanding of the delicate man/woman relationship. His wife is certainly a lucky girl. And she in turn, must be extraordinary, to have taught him so much about loving a woman."
Johnny refilled their glasses. He'd been counting songs. This was number ten. He liked the Bee Gees version of their song better, but he didn't dare let on. He nervously stood up, trying to figure out just how to ask her to dance.
Susan popped up. "I forgot the napkins, be right back."
"Um...okay." As far as he was concerned, they were done eating...food anyhow. He didn't need any napkin.
Susan walked into the kitchen. She told herself to be careful. Don't fall for Johnny. Don't let your heart break again. She couldn't go back in there without fear of doing something stupid like blurting out, "I love you." She sat at her computer and decided to just take a quick peek at her e-mail. To get her mind off of him. Maybe there was some clue about Melody on the fan list.
FROM: Cookies Crumble
TO: Mrwrightsdelights@gobbledygroups.com
SUBJECT: Re: PLEASE READ
Halt the slanderful posts! I have NEVER talked about any fan behind their backs. And that was not me drunk and perched on his mailbox. I don't have a neon pink baby doll nightgown with fur trim. That's a fuzzy picture and you can't prove nothing. And Mister Wright NEVER made me pay to replace it. So there.
Cookie, Mister Wright's Delights List Owner
Susan laughed so hard her side hurt. She deleted the message.
FROM: Nancy Ingalls
TO: Mrwrightsdelights@gobbledygroups.com
SUBJECT: RE: RE: PLEASE READ
Dear Cookie You Monster,
I just wanted to let you know that it is not "slanderful" LOL if it is the truth. I remember quite well that you had a neon pink baby doll nightgown with fur trim when we roomed together for the Chicago gig last year. Remember, I hurled when you bent over and I was blinded by your big white hairy @$$ squeezed into the stinky fur thong. Fess up and stop the lying.
Nancy
God Bless America
Susan had to get a paper towel to wipe her tears of hilarity, so she could reread it. Then she deleted it.
FROM: Freddie Peters
TO: Mrwrightsdelights@gobbledygroups.com
SUBJECT: Neon Pink Baby Doll Nightgown
I just want everyone here to apologize to our group Mom, Cookie. The nightgown in question belongs to ME. Nancy, YOU were the drunken floozy last year, driving the porcelain bus all night long. You didn't even realize there was a MAN in your bed. Next time, I'll hit the tanning salon before I bend over for you, sweetie.
Freddie
A Man's Man
BTW, I have a close friend that works at Paradise Peddlers and he pinkie swore to me that Mister Wright bought a nighty, just like mine. And you all wondered why none of Mrs. Wright's children looked like him...
Susan deleted it. That was the last post. Nothing led her to her cousin.
* * * *
Meanwhile, Johnny impatiently waited in the living room. He stared at the purple graphic equalizer lights waltzing on her stereo. Confident he was an excellent dancer. Salsa was his forte. Vertical expression of the horizontal ecstasy he'd been practicing to pleasure her with. Every woman he'd ever been with was all a means to an end. To a beginning with Susan. He'd learned the subtle nuances necessary to plunge women into exquisite chasms of nirvana. He was ready for her now. Worthy of her.
Listening to the chorus, he nodded in agreement. Yes, she was definitely more than a woman to him. Susan was the Goddess of Fire. And he was the only firefighter man enough to charge into her inferno.
Song eleven commenced. A beautiful, haunting melody with smoldering lyrics. Johnny paced the hardwood floor. Where was she? The song ended. The next one began. He finally walked to the kitchen.
Johnny couldn't believe she was sitting at her computer. "What're you doing?" The anger was evident in his tone.
She had been trying to keep her mind out of his pants. "Checking my e-mail. You should read some of this stuff, it's so unbelievable, this girl, Cookie—"
"I thought you liked Mister Wright's music?" He crossed his arms.
"Yeah, it's okay." Her voice quivered and her stomach churned, realizing he was mad at her.
"Okay?"
"My cousin, Melody, is the one that was crazy about him."
"But what was all that in there about?" he asked, his voice carrying an edge of indignation.
"Hunh? All what?" Her mind reviewed their indoor picnic.
"Never mind." Johnny stomped into the foyer and grabbed his coat.
Susan asked, "I'll see you next weekend, then? How long do you think the wiring will take?"
He grunted, "Don't know," then walked out the front door, struggling into his coat.
She waved, but he didn't look back. Susan felt sick to her stomach. She'd blown it with Johnny. And he was the best friend she had.
Susan stomped into the kitchen and yanked the computer cord out of the wall. Damn it. Stupid computer. It's Melody's fault. No, I can't blame her. It's my fault. Please God, don't let me lose Johnny. He's the best friend, only friend I've got. Why do I have these new feelings for him? Improper, impure and so compelling?