Secrets of the Tea Room

There's no real sex in the first chapter, but just you wait!

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. All characters represented in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely co-incidental.

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I smacked the alarm clock off the night stand sending it crashing to the floor. I hated that damned thing! Crawled out of bed and pulling down my nightshirt and stumbled into the kitchen. The coffee was just finishing brewing and the familiar smell helped my disposition only a little. I'm not a morning person and the small sign I had hanging up above the coffee maker ... "Instant Human ... Just Add Coffee" attested to that fact.

After pouring a cup, I crossed over to the dining room table. In theory it was a dining room table ... that's what it was supposed to be ... but, in reality, it was my work table. Stacks of interviews ... files of newspaper clippings ... an old blue Mason jar filled with an assortment of pens and pencils ... several legal pads in various stages of use ... and my computer. I settled down and pulled my day planner to me. This was how I started every working day. When I thought about it, it's the way I started out just about every day since becoming single again. That thought made me frown, I never thought I'd grow up to be the kind of woman with two failed marriages. Before I was conscious of where my mind was wandering, I conjured up pictures first from one marriage and then the other, in a frantic ricocheting pattern.

For the hundredth time, I tried to put the puzzle pieces together, thinking if I ever got that puzzle finished, I would find the answer to my loneliness.

I shook my head to clear it, and looked down at the planner. Today was one I had been looking forward to since receiving word that Mr. Jackson Austin Emerly would, indeed, see me.

I had been trying to get an interview with him for weeks. I was doing an article on entrepreneurs and his name surfaced toward the end of my research. He was a quiet man in his 50's who had amassed a sizeable fortune and rumors bounced all over Savannah about him. If anything could pique the interest of Savannah society, it was a millionaire moving into one of the county's largest estates, then not giving a party. The more he ignored their circles, the more they clamored to meet him. With each invitation to luncheon declined, another to play golf at the country club would appear. As this one was turned down, an invitation to a dinner party was received. When this one was graciously, but firmly declined, another quickly took its place.

Whispers intimated that his money had been made through less than legitimate means. Speculation was rampant ... corporate raider? Arms dealer? Drug lord? And so it went.

Word had been secured from one of his decorators giving a little more insight into this elusive could-be pillar of society. It was widely reported that he was a strikingly handsome man. He was tall, carried himself like a noble, was genteel, and had a soft-spoken manner that masked the steel will to back his decisions. Not much more had surfaced about him. Even his servants seemed bound to silence and no gossip ventured forth from those sources.

My interview wasn't scheduled until later in the day, so I took my time with my coffee. With each successive cup I began to start feeling the effects of the caffeine ... no wonder some old Southerners called it "push water" ... the invigorating affects had converted me and made me a believer.

It would take over an hour to drive from my apartment, across town, and into the countryside for my 1:00 appointment. So, coffee cup in hand, I wound my way through stacks of books on the living room floor into my bath to get ready. Between the coffee and a brisk shower, I'd soon be company fit for inclusion into the human race again.

I turned on the hot water, discarded my nightshirt and panties then stuck my hand in the spray, adding a turn or two of the cold water tap until it reached a temperature a little on the hot side the way I liked it. I went through my ablutions by rote, not having to think. First the soap, then the loofah, then my hair.

When I stepped out of the shower I faced myself in a full length mirror attached to the back of the bathroom door. I stopped and studied myself again. It wasn't that I was unattractive, but I certainly was nothing special. My hair ... not quite blonde, not quite brown, hung in damp waves to my shoulders. I was neither slender or voluptuous, but somewhere in between. An ironic thought crossed my mind ... at least not having children had let my breasts remain firm even if I had not been overly endowed, my waist was still small, and my hips had not been marred by the stretch marks a child would have left behind. I guess I did have a few things to be grateful for after all. So there I was ... medium height, medium weight, medium coloring, medium everything. I certainly was no supermodel, but I always thought there were genetic mutants anyway. I had never been exactly kicked me out of bed, but I wasn't the sort of woman men strained their necks to follow down the street. Even my walk was ordinary and purposeful, not like the long graceful strides and swaying hips that more sensual women mastered effortlessly.

With a sigh and a fresh towel, I turned my mind to planning an outline of questions for the elusive Mr. Emerly.

Finally with make-up on, hair dried, I made a choice of dark brown tailored, a contrasting knit shell of a soft oatmeal color, and a smart blazer of hunter green completed the outfit. I slipped my feet into practical loafers, gathered my tape recorder, legal pad, a few other necessities and put them all in my brief case. Had I forgotten anything? After a quick glance around the table, I figured I would be able to make do during this interview and headed out the door.

As I exited my building, the autumn air was a blessing. It had been the typical, hot, sweaty, humid summer in Georgia. But now, with the breeze holding the promise of a beautiful afternoon, I turned with a smile and headed toward the parking garage.

Within 45 minutes I had left most of the noisome disorder of the city and was venturing father into the country and sanity. Finally, after driving past pastures full of cows, sometimes a herd of goats, and once in a while a meadow filled with horses, I turned into the lane that would lead me to the Emerly estate. The winding road was lined on both sides with massive oak trees which had grown tall and in their maturity formed a tunnel-like approach to the house. As I cleared the shaded oak tunnel the house revealed itself. Just like 90% of all the older homes in the South, it was white, but that is where the resemblance ended. It was a two-story, rambling house of probably 8,000 square feet. In true traditional Colonial Revival style, it had a veranda wrapping around the front, east, and west sides. Mr. Emerly's decorator had made certain that each side veranda was elegantly furnished and graciously appointed with hanging ferns as well as potted gardenias which would fill the house in the spring and summer with their exotic perfume. As I parked in front of the house, I noticed the front was as typical as others in the area, furnished with rocking chairs and little side tables to pass away sultry summer nights. The east side was set up with a table and two chairs suitable for dining or sharing morning coffee ... thinking of coffee, did I smell a freshly brewing pot drifting out the windows? On the west side, a group of chaise lounges and a wicker settee surrounded a low cocktail table. It appeared to me that Mr. Emerly had certainly lavished a lot of money on these trappings for entertainment when he had no acquaintances in Savannah.

I mounted the three steps to the veranda, crossed and looked for the doorbell. I was puzzled at first and raised my hand to knock, when my eye caught the shine of a brass colored bell on the lower half of the door. My Lord! It had been 20 years since I had seen one of these old door ringers at my grandmother's house! I smiled and turned the little key which resembled the one you used to use on a pair of skates. The trill of the bell brought a young woman in her mid-twenties to the door.

"You must be Miss Prentiss", she smiled as she extended a well manicured hand, "Welcome to Tanglewood. I am Vonne Fleming, Mr. Emerly's assistant. Mr. Emerly is expecting you" as she started to walk down the long central hall of the home. I was shocked at the sight of her. She wasn't a plainly dressed secretary ... she looked like I. Magnin and smelled like Neiman Marcus, and it occurred to me that perhaps I was following the wrong career path.

The hall was furnished with antique paintings and a central mahogany table complete with a fresh bouquet of flowers reaching at least my height. The polished hardwood floors would have announced our arrival all by themselves if it had not been for the plush oriental runner, and I paused to admire one of the pastoral scenes in this foyer-gallery.

"Miss Prentiss", a soft, southern drawl said, "you appreciate art." I turned and finally my curiosity about Mr. Emerly was satisfied. He looked nothing like I had pictured.

I had been told that he was tall and slim. But nothing had prepared me to find such a handsome man ... clean shaven, immaculately groomed ... subtle elegance down to the Cartier watch he wore.

Although his appearance had been exactly described by his decorator, she had left out how the mischief in his blue eyes danced when he had taken someone by surprise. He was dressed casually, albeit expensively and stylish. He had a long-sleeved natural colored cotton shirt ... Egyptian cotton, if I wasn't mistaken ... with the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbow and collar unbuttoned. His pants were cotton as well in a darker beige and belted with what appeared to be a slim snakeskin belt. A discreet glance toward the floor revealed that his shoes matched the snakeskin belt.

"Mr. Emerly, it is a pleasure to meet you. And, yes, I do admire art ... I'm afraid I have no training, but do appreciate the talent. Has your family always collected art?"

Those startlingly blue eyes danced again as he laughed, "Why, Miss Prentiss, what a subtle way to ask if I come from old money! Far from it, I've earned every red cent I have ever had at my disposal ... I'm afraid I'm one of those rascals, one of the nouveau riche. But, let's go into the study and sit. Would you care for coffee?", without waiting for an answer, "Vonne, would you bring the coffee please." Vonne nodded and smiled as she left the study, leaving the door open behind her.

The study had a fireplace on one wall with two wing backed chairs covered in a rich tapestry material facing each other and separated slightly by a small table between them. Centered in the other half of the room was a desk adorned with a Tiffany desk lamp, Monte Blanc pen and a few sheets of stationery stacked neatly in the center. The wall behind the desk as well as the two remaining walls were covered with rich mahogany bookcases, divided by spacious windows. His impressive library had personal touches of objects d'art scattered among the leather bound volumes gathered there. It was a wonderful room, the colors and wood created a cozy, calming atmosphere where one could get lost in a book as easily as within a day dream. My thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Emerly, "Miss Prentiss, please have a seat" he motioned to one of the wing backed chairs. "I hope you'll be comfortable in here, I'm afraid the room was designed specifically for male tastes."

"On the contrary, I love it." I replied as Vonne entered with a silver tray carrying a silver coffee carafe, two cups and accessories. "Thank you, Vonne." Mr. Emerly said, "And, please, remind me at of that conference call at 3:00, I don't want to miss it."

"Certainly sir," she said as she glided across the study floor and slid the heavy pocket doors closed behind her.

I studied him as he held the saucer and poured coffee. This was definitely a person who was confident in entertaining, his manners were flawless and came easily to him. Although in his 50's, a vibrant man sat across from me. There was no evidence of diminishing vitality except for possibly the neatly cut gunmetal hair. His face showed no wrinkles, only laugh lines around his eyes. His hands and forearms were firm, tan and strong looking.

As he handed me my cup, it was evident that somewhere and at some point in time, he had mingled with persons of higher tastes and breeding despite his pseudo-confession of being nouveau riche.

He raised his eyes a few moments earlier than I thought he would, just in time to catch me in my appraisal of him.

One side of his mouth curled in response to my blush and he said, "Miss Prentiss, what is it I can do for you?"

I needed a few moments to regroup my thoughts so I took the first sip of coffee. I hesitated, inhaling deeply to center myself. The coffee was strong and definitely imported. I told him that I was a free-lance writer and had been contracted by Business World to do a human interest article on several entrepreneurs. I ran down the list of men I had already interviewed ... and it was impressive, if I do say so myself ... Malcolm Forbes, Hugh Hefner, Ted Turner, and Sam Walton.

"Mr. Emerly, your name surfaced after I thought I had completed my article. I was intrigued when I found that despite my best research efforts, very little could be found on any of your enterprises. Your wealth was amassed somehow and you just told me in the hallway that it wasn't an inheritance. Being a journalist, I'm naturally curious ... but now I am especially curious. You're aware, I'm sure, of the rumors flying all over Savannah about you ... some of them are implying that you built your wealth through less than legal means. I thought you might enjoy the opportunity to set the record straight."

Okay ... I had said my little speech, it was even better than I had rehearsed it all morning as well as during the drive over here. Now I leveled my gaze at him and once again brought the coffee to my lips. I would give him the few seconds it took to mull over my offer and I'd see what he had to say.

"Miss Prentiss, you certainly come right to the point, I admire that. I will have to think it over a bit ... after all, if you've heard the rumors about me in Savannah, then you are also aware that I highly value my privacy. To open my life up to your readers is perhaps something more than I'm willing to do right now ... but I will think about it.

No matter which of the answers I give to your request. I want to assure you that every dollar I made was earned with honor, although possibly not viewed as legally by closed minded people. I never lied, cheated, stole or swindled. My wealth is founded in an educational process which I was extremely fortunate to be included."

I suddenly realized that although I was drinking my coffee, Mr. Emerly had not touched a drop. I assumed it was the coffee making me more than a bit warm, and I felt just the tiniest bit detached. It was a relief when Mr. Emerly stood and offered to show me his gardens.

We walked for a little while, admiring the late seasonal blooming plants and the variety of perennials that lined the walk ways. Mr. Emerly slowed his pace to keep time with mine, and then clasping his hands behind him, he stopped and turned to me, "Miss Prentiss, you don't have a Southern accent, how did you possibly end up in Savannah?"

Before I knew it we were walking again and I was gushing out my life's story without the slightest hesitation. He nodded all through my chattering about growing up in Wisconsin and going to college but I assured him that after spending last Christmas with my family I had become a converted, devoted Southerner. We sat for a while on a little wrought iron bench as I relayed my 3 years in the Peace Corps working in Africa.

Before I knew it , I was droning on about my first marriage and the subsequent bitterness, "I was sitting on a lounge chair taking in the warm Florida sun ... minding my own business, reading a book. Suddenly I realized I was in a shadow and looked up to see tall man standing between myself and the sun. I raised my hand to shade my eyes and as they adjusted my gaze traveled up to reveal he was over 6' tall. He was wearing only a bathing suit and an unbuttoned cotton shirt which revealed broad shoulders and chest generously covered with hair. I was impressed with his strong, athletic arms. Neither of us said a word for a few minutes ... Lord, he was handsome! Dark hair and a pair of dark eyes that threatened to swallow me alive." Despite myself, thinking of Peter this way again I couldn't suppress a slight quiver ... one that I'm sure was not lost on Mr. Emerly.

"I had a sudden thought that if I could ever see those dark eyes soften when they looked at me I would be held captive for the rest of my life. To tell the truth, Mr. Emerly, I really wasn't that far off the mark!

Anyway, a velvet baritone spoke, "Excuse me, but I noticed that you've got the beginnings of a nasty sunburn."

I looked down at my arms and thighs and realized he was right. I didn't know why I was so flustered, but I certainly was ... all I could muster was a whispered, 'Thank you' as I closed my book and gathered up my things and stuffed them in the beach bag. As I started to make my way up the boardwalk toward the hotel, he fell into step with me. He introduced himself as Peter McGinty ... he said he was an attorney. He never quit talking. He was only two years older than me, but already had a promising career developing in Atlanta. Before I knew it, he had steered me to a cabana by the pool where he found us seats in the shade and ordered us two Mai Tai's. I couldn't tear myself away from those dark eyes.

We had dinner that evening and within a few days I had fallen deeply, madly, innocently and gullibly in love with Peter. So in a whirlwind we were married. We settled in Atlanta so Peter could continue with his career and there were many encouraging prospects for me as well in the area.

Neither of us had any interest in children at that particular time in our lives, we were both ambitious and eager to carve ourselves a place in this world. Peter threw himself into his work and I was lucky enough to land a job with Ted Turner's blossoming business ... that's how I got my interview with Ted. At any rate, a couple of years had flown by and I realized that Peter and I spent less and less time with each other, our intimate relationship was non-existent, and most days the closest we came was a quick peck on the cheek for which ever of us was the last out the door.

That realization troubled me and I decided to get our marriage back on the right track. I thought I would surprise Peter with a picnic lunch at his office. I went to an exclusive Bed & Breakfast in the area famous for their picnic baskets, ordered cold chicken, baby spinach salad, strawberries dipped in chocolate, and the finest bottle of champagne they had in stock.

I was as giddy as a school girl that afternoon as I rode the elevator up to Peter's office ... I couldn't wait to see his smile at my surprise and watch those dark eyes turn soft again ... maybe we'd even get around to locking the door to his office ... anyway, I had made very sure I looked my best and had used his favorite perfume. I only hoped he wasn't in the middle of an important project which could bring our romantic interlude to an abrupt halt. I arrived around 12:00 knowing his secretary would be at lunch and that Peter didn't usually have lunch until 1:00 or 2:00. I sauntered through the reception area, and on reaching his office, I opened the door and said 'Surprise, Darli ....' Before me was a small conference table in the corner of Peter's office. His pants were down around his ankles and his secretary was lying across the table with her feet resting on his shoulders. From the appearance of his erection and her expression, I had interrupted in mid-coitus. I just dropped the basket, turned and ran. As the elevator doors closed I could hear Peter calling me, but I didn't want to see him ... not then ... not ever.