Reconnections

She was running late, and she hated being late for this sort of thing. It had taken too long to get the stockings on and she hated the feel of them. It had been years since she'd worn stockings with a garter belt and she wasn't sure why she was wearing them now. It was just coffee at a Starbucks. The red suede suit with the skirt with the slits up the sides was hanging on the closet door. Too dressy? But she'd dressed in red the times before and it was Christmas. Well, almost Christmas. Thanksgiving was this week.

Why did people push the season, she wondered. Barely Thanksgiving, and it already was all about Christmas. She supposed she'd best wear those enamel Christmas tree earrings. She eyed the Louis Vuitton boots. Too flashy for a coffee shop meeting, of course, but it was too cold not to wear boots. He wouldn't notice.

Why was she doing Christmas at all this year? Nothing but pain. She should have booked on a cruise to Fiji. Nothing like Christmas down there at this time of the year.

She spent a bundle on this "just coffee at Starbucks." The lacy bikini panties and matching bra from Victoria's Secret were apparel that hadn't been in her wardrobe since before she'd married Wade. What? Six years ago now? My how time flies when you're not having fun.

Not that Wade wouldn't have been fun without the cancer that overshadowed their lives from even before the wed. She'd been termed a saint. And she'd grown accustomed to the role. It took Margie and Christine at work to propel her to Victoria's Secret after she'd seen Simon at the office Christmas party, gotten all discombobulated at seeing him—and being alone with him for a few minutes and having been asked to meet with him again—and then having it all pulled out of her by her friends.

"It's time," Margie had said.

"You can't mourn Wade forever," Christine had said, but then, realizing how bald that sounded, she'd tempered it with, "He'd want you to date again and find another man. Lord, you're not even thirty yet. I know he made you promise to do that even before you two were married."

"I suppose," Katherine had responded, her eyes still on Simon as he glided around the room, moving comfortably between groups of senior employees at the punch bowl and the Christmas tree. He was chief of the West Coast office now. He'd risen high in the company. He'd married the daughter of the company's chief supplier, and the divorce had come through just as the office was changing chief suppliers. It was like he was a cat—always landing on his feet.

And he'd remembered her name.

"It's great seeing you here, Kate," He'd said as he approached her at the punchbowl. "It's been so long. Too long."

"Yes, it's been a long time," Katherine had said. She felt herself trembling. Had he ever said why he didn't contact her again once he'd been transferred to the West Coast? And, even so, why had she let it go down so easy? Well, perhaps marrying another man dying of cancer on the rebound might not have been exactly letting it go easy.

It had been good with Simon those few winter months, hadn't it? Why did everything memorable in her life seem to revolve around the Christmas season?

She'd never felt so completed before or since as she had in bed with Simon. But that wasn't really fair to Wade. He'd been as much as his disease had allowed. But Simon. He'd brought her to—and over the brink—repeatedly, as she recalled, leaving her wrung out like a dish rag, but, in the end, purring and anticipating when they could do it again.

She shuddered that the remembrance of the feel of his hands moving up her legs, slowly unfastening the snaps to the garter belt—he'd already unhooked her lacy bra and buried his face between her breasts. The feel of his hand then, moving down her legs, one after the other, coaxing the stockings off her legs, and then his hand, strong and big, between her thighs, his meaty fingers finding and working her clitoris, entering her with his fingers, all while she moaned and he sucked on her nipples.

The weight of him as he covered her, spreading her thighs with his knees, moving his mouth to hers to take her in a brutal kiss—suddenly his need and insistence blazing hot and the sensation that it was all about him now, that other than a vessel for his need, she wasn't in the picture anymore. That nothing would stop him now. The forceful, thick penetration, her entreaties to go slow, give her time, unheeded, and the wild thrusting. At last carrying her with him, her fingernails clawing at his back, feeling herself reach the heights and burst over the boundaries as he thrust and thrust.

In the end, she was ashamed to say, what he gave her was more than enough.

He was always bouncing out the bed right after, though, remembering someplace he had to be, something else he had to be doing.

But she couldn't say it hadn't been good for her—in the long run. And certainly was more sexual excitement than she'd had at any time since.

As she smoothed out the creases in the stockings before putting the red suede skirt on, it dawned on her why she had bought these stockings and dug out the garter belt. It was because she was thinking of Simon and of the "meeting for a cup of coffee" offer he'd made at the early Christmas party and that her girlfriends in the office had nagged her to accept. Because of where that might lead.

Because he'd clearly enjoyed taking the stockings off of her all those years ago.

She probably shouldn't go. She should call him and give an excuse. God knows he'd never had a problem calling her and giving her an excuse at the eleventh hour. Something had happened to break it up without affecting her too deeply. She should take time to try to dredge up what that was.

But she already was late for the meeting. The last thing she did was check her purse to make sure that she was bringing along protection in case Simon wasn't. She was sure it would never get that far—it was just a cup of coffee and a catch-up of the last seven years—but . . .

* * * *

"I can't believe how good you look, Kate. You're still gorgeous. It's like yesterday rather than four years." Simon had a coffee mug in one hand but the other extended across the table and was cupping Katherine's elbow. His thumb was stroking the silky skin of her arm above the elbow. This was sending chills of pleasure through Katherine's body. He'd always been a charmer—and good with the foreplay up to the point of losing control and becoming "me, me, me" at penetration.

"It's been seven years, Simon." Just a month shy of seven years.

"Has it? It seems like just yesterday," he repeated. "I don't really know—"

"Neither do I," Katherine hastily interrupted. They both knew they were talking about whatever it was that had broken their affair off. Not that Katherine could remember any indication that it was headed anywhere except hotel room trysts, though—and she'd beaten her brain all during the trip over here trying to develop a scenario in which they were starting to make plans. But she just couldn't remember anything of that sort. The breakup was as much a mystery to her as he was saying it was to him. Other than, of course, his promotion and move to the West Coast.

But she was sure there was something else, as well. There must have been.

"I heard you were promoted right up out of the secretarial pool here I the head office and have a line management position," he was saying.

"Yes, though we don't have secretaries anymore—just personal assistants and 'do most of it yourself' computer power now. I'm chief of personnel in the main office now."

"Oh, really? Tell me about it."

And Katherine did. It only took a few moments, though, for her to realize that his attention had strayed. He was still holding her arm and stroking it, but he was looking over her shoulder. As she turned to look, she, at first, thought he was looking at the Christmas tree being trimmed by a Starbuck's employee in the corner of the room, but then she realized he was looking at two young, very attractive women—a blonde and a red head—at a table beside the tree. As she turned her head around, she viewed someone beyond Simon's shoulder herself who seemed familiar. A man. Distinguished looking, but a few years older than she was. For some reason "Atlanta" and "David" registered in her head, but beyond that, there was no recognition. He turned his head and smiled at her, and, embarrassed, she turned her attention back to Simon.

He still wasn't really paying full attention to her, so she wrapped up her "my office life" description and asked him about the West Coast office.

Simon answered at length, looking mainly at Katherine now, but now and again letting his attention check out the other women in the room.

"And I suppose you know that Claire and I divorced," he said, in conclusion. "She was nothing like you, unfortunately. I always regretted . . . say, you aren't still wearing those luscious stockings—and a garter belt—are you?"

Katherine blushed.

"Remember how we—?"

"Yes, I remember," Katherine said. She felt herself go all warm. She was glad she'd made the effort to wear them today. She wondered how far away his hotel room was—or if, perhaps, he'd already made other arrangements. Perhaps he had anticipated there would be more than coffee. He always was a cocky son of a gun. But he'd satisfied her, in his own way—it could have been better. But it was as good as it had been for the last seven years—well other than that once, when she was on that business trip to Atlanta and had that one-weekend stand with that man at the other conference . . . with David.

Oh, my God, she thought, suddenly remembering where she'd seen that man across the room before. The man who wasn't sitting across the room any more, though, she discovered as she looked. Guiltily she looked back into Simon's face, and although he was still talking about the good times they'd had in a husky voice, Katherine realized he was looking past her again—at a striking brunette who had just entered the coffee shop.

Now she remembered why they had broken up. It had been his move to the West Coast, of course. But it had been more than that, and although she couldn't break with him—and with the sex—at the time, she remembered now that she'd been relieved he moved a continent away.

Simon was a browser—a simultaneous browser. And he hadn't just browsed. She had found that hers wasn't the only field he'd been plowing seven years ago. He had roving eyes and hands and, to her embarrassment, she had ignored the truth too long back then.

"My hotel isn't far from here," Simon said, his eyes still roving. "We could—"

"Hold that thought, Simon. I'll be back in a few. Ladies room."

He didn't even follow her with his eyes, or he'd have seen her heading for the door to the street, not to the back of the coffee shop—and he might have noticed that she took her overcoat with her.

"Katie? Katie Wilson, is that you?"

"It's Katie Barlow now. David Danfors, isn't it? I'm surprised you remembered me."

The man had been waiting for her outside Starbucks. He was wearing an expensive camelhair overcoat that, nonetheless wasn't up to the winds coming off the lake in Chicago. He had been rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet in what had turned out to be a nippy morning. A bucket truck was out on the street, valiantly fighting the wind to put up illuminated snowflakes on the streetlight poles. Katherine grimaced, realizing now why she was bah humbug about pushing the Christmas season. Wade had died last Christmas season. She wasn't prepared to relive the pain of that.

"It's been a year. Get back out there. Wade would want you to, you know he would." The nagging of Margie and Christine came back to her. She knew they were right. They had been right too that Wade had said he wouldn't marry her at all unless she promised to get on with her life—which included men—after he died. He'd gotten the diagnosis between the engagement and the wedding. No one clung to false hope that he'd beat it. He'd offered her her freedom too, but she just couldn't desert him.

But she

had

agreed to his demand.

The weekend fling with David Danfors had been when she was on the rebound from Simon but hadn't met Wade yet. They were at the same hotel but different conferences in Atlanta. It was after she'd broken out of the secretarial pool and went to the conference to provide backup on personnel. She had gotten in the wrong conference room one day and had stayed for several minutes, mesmerized by the session presenter's command and charisma. David had been a handsome, albeit older than she was, man who had been both glib and witty. There had been an immediate connection between the two from across the room and then a chance meeting in the hotel bar.

She was still wearing the stockings and garter belt that Simon liked so much at the time, and David had taken as much time, attention, and pleasure in unhooking the stockings and rolling them off her legs as Simon had. The similarities had ended there, though. David had kissed his way up her naked legs and continued with his kissing to the quick of her, using his tongue, lips, and teeth to pleasure her as she writhed under him, exploding again and again and begging him to be inside her.

And when he was inside her, she was ready and ripe for him, and he just glided in and then out and in again, kissing her passionately and watching her reactions closely with his eyes, making sure she was having as much pleasure as he was.

They had two nights together—and it should have been a third, but an emergency back in Chicago called her home. She'd frantically scoured the hotel in search of him before having to race to catch her flight, but she hadn't found him. They hadn't exchanged addresses for contact information. They both had been too taken up in the "now" to think about the "after."

The next month she'd met Wade Barlow, and the memory of David Danfors had slowly died away.

"How could I have forgotten you? We seemed to have lost track, though," David was saying. He was hugging himself and Katherine could tell that he was cold. She had a warm coat on over the suede suit, so she was in better condition. "Or maybe it was too intense for you. If so, I'm sorry. I just fell hard. We were supposed to have another night, but you were gone and I couldn't find you."

"I was called back to Chicago. I looked for you before I left too. I didn't lose interest; I lost contact."

"I wasn't in the hotel that afternoon. I was at a jewelry store—buying something."

"Oh." Katherine couldn't think of anything else to say

"Seven years ago, the weekend after Thanksgiving," David piped up, endeavoring to lighten up the conversation.

"Yes, I remember," Katherine said, with a laugh. "I moped and pouted right up until Christmas."

"And then?"

"I met my husband."

"Ah," David said. She could hear the disappointment and resignation in his voice.

"But he died last Christmas," she said.

There was a pause before David took up the conversation again. "I'm sorry for your loss. I didn't marry again myself. I had just been divorced, if you remember. But after that weekend I couldn't marry again—anyone else."

"Oh."

"Say, would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?"

Katherine laughed—but it was a nervous laugh. "I just did that and it wasn't the best idea."

"You were breaking up with that guy in there? He didn't seem to be giving you his undivided attention. Not a good sign."

"That's true. No, we were trying to reconnect, and I think I was trying harder than he was. But we should get inside; it's freezing out here. Coffee still sounds good. There's a Starbucks right here, but I don't really want to—"

"Strangely enough, there's another Starbucks just two blocks down. We could . . . or . . . I know this sounds silly, but do you still wear stockings with a garter belt?"

Katherine laughed, moved closer to David, and put an arm through his, cuddling up to him to share some of her warmth with him. All of a sudden she was feeling very warm—and very much in the spirit.

"I am today. Do you still live in New York?"

"Yes."

"And you're here in Chicago on business?"

"Yes, my hotel is just up the street."

"How convenient. Much better than Starbucks, don't you think?" Katherine said, suddenly not a bit afraid of the impending Christmas season.