Even at the age of fifty, Emilia had the looks of a Playboy playmate, and indeed she was, Miss May 1966 to be exact, but beneath the superficial façade of her California blond hair and Ocean Pacific blue eyes, was a woman who had the uncanny gift to remember the minutest details in her life and the lives of other.
Since childhood, she's wanted to follow in the steps of her father, who was the great Editor in Chief and owner of the New York Tribune, Francis Edmonds. But before I relate all her exploits and stories she's broken over the years, that will sure to inspire women around the world to follow dreams and desires, I felt compelled that first I should show how she became the woman she is.
Her personality was intoxicating. Her smile was genuine and could melt even the most cynical of New Yorkers. I had known her for almost five years before this, but our relationship never went past exchanging pleasantries in the elevator or passing in the halls of our workplace with a smile. Secretly, though, I had an almost school boy crush on her.
I remember the first time I saw Emilia. It was in elementary school, eighty something and a classmate brought in one his father's old Playboy magazine, the playmate of the year edition, and you guessed it, Emilia was the playmate of the year. My heart, then as it does now, stopped when I saw her.
Shortly after that episode, I began to almost methodically collect information on Miss Edmonds. When I found out that she was an editor and reporter, I made it my goal to attend the best journalistic school in the country and to learn and master the craft of writing, so that one day I could, maybe, work for this woman. That day came five years ago.
Although I have had very little contact with her, it was a pleasure to share the same air. It always amazed me how she could reach such heights in the world of publishing and business with such a wonderful personality. I cannot recall a moment when she raised her voice or had a foul word issue forth from her lips. Now, that's no to say she didn't have a mean streak, but I just never saw it. We mortals who walked amongst the lower floors were never privy to activities of the gods and goddesses of the upper levels.
I knew Emilia had an unbelievable life story, and as a writer I wanted to hear it and write it, but I could never work up the nerve to ask her to share it with me. I felt unworthy.
Then one day while on a tour for my novel I was asked by a radio host what is it that I wanted to write next? I thought for a moment and replied, "I want to tell the story of Emilia Edmonds."
"Well who is Emilia Edmonds?" He asked.
When I related what I knew about her, he became intrigued, as did everyone else listening.
In a sly way I was telling Miss Edmonds what my intentions were and it worked.
A few days after my twenty-city book tour I was summoned to the office of Miss Emilia Edmonds located on the thirtieth floor of the magazines world headquarters building. As I walked through the, oak, door with nervous apprehension, I glanced across the room at her sitting behind her large desk. She removed her glasses from her face, stood and she smiled a smile that was brighter than the brightest billboard in Times Square. She gestured to a seat in front of her desk and when I sat she sat, leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.
"You know, you could've just approached me. You didn't have to go on national radio to get my attention."
"I know." I said as I blushed. "I was, I don't know, a little bashful."
"Why? I see you everyday. I talk to you everyday. Am I that much of a bitch that I intimidate the most talented writer on my staff?" She leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk and looked me in the eyes and asked, "You want to know my story?"
"Yes, I would."
"Come to my place tonight. Bring your notebook and recorder." She rocked back and forth in her seat and said, "I must warn you. I am not bashful when it comes to revealing my past. What you will learn may change your perception of me forever."
"That sounds very ominous."
Her smile broadened as she raised her soft looking hand up to her chin. "You know?" She said, "I've been considering writing something about my past for years."
"Why haven't you done it?"
She flagged me with her left hand and sighed, "I guess I've always thought that nothing could be learned from the things I did."
She stood up and stretched. As I caught an eyeful of her smooth legs, a shiver shot through up my spine. "God." I though to myself, "this woman is just amazing looking."
Despite the age difference between us, I felt a magnetic, sexual attraction to her. I doubt she felt the same.
I stood and held out my hand.
She shook it and nodded and said, "Do you know where I live?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"The Dakota. I'll tell the doorman that you'll be coming tonight."
I turned and as I walked toward the door with an almost a hop in my step, I stopped and turned, "Oh, what time shall I be there?"
"How about six. The earlier the better."
"You call it a night pretty early?"
"No not at all. I just have so much to tell you."
Little did I know that what I thought would be a couple of hours of talking, and asking her to reminisce, would turn out to be a ten year project of listening and documenting some of her most intimate details.
That night I couldn't wait. Once the six o'clock hour hit I was right there reciting my name to the doorman. I expected to be greeted by butler and a hostess who dressed in an evening gown toting a wine glass in her left hand and a cigarette in her right. I was wrong.
Miss Edmonds greeted me herself at the door and she wore nothing to the liking of an evening dress.
She wore her hair out. It was waist length and looked like it was made of gold silk. She smiled when the door was fully opened and the sight of her half naked frame made my body tremble. Barely covering her toned body was an oversized knit sweater that hung off of her right shoulder and exposed her smooth skin in a seductive way that would make any man's heart stop. She was bare foot. My eyes discretely scanned her from head to toe. The sweater she wore stopped just at her hips and revealed everything. She exuded the sexuality of a woman who had experience and she projected the confidence of a woman whose beauty was her only asset. It was a turn on. I didn't know any fifty year olds who had as much of sexual confidence as she did.
"Come in." She said as she waved me in.
Her place was what I had expected. Immaculate like a team of housekeepers dusted every ten minutes. Like a curator was on her payroll. Of course she was a connoisseur of fine art, which showed on the walls. Renoir, Picasso, Gauguin and those were just artists I recognized. And that was just in the foyer. It was as if I walked into a mini Met. Greco Roman busts sat on ionic pillars. Silver tables with fine China on them sat just to the left of the gourmet kitchen. The windows, that framed the perfect view of Central park, were dressed in thick blue fabric that looked exported from the most exotic places in the world.
"Am I early?" I asked.
"Not at all. You're on time. Why do you ask?"
She asked as she walked past me. A few paces ahead, within view, she raised her hands and ran them through her silk looking hair. The sweater inched up and exposed everything I had imagined. My heart felt like it skipped a beat.
She turned and looked me and grinned. It was a playful seductive grin. I imagine she has used that many times on men like me.
In the background soft trumpets sang an unidentifiable song that was not loud not soft, but just right, and like her, erotic.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"No thank you."
She sat on her plush couch and crossed her legs like an Indian chief. For a woman at fifty, she was toned and flexible. My eyes caught a glimpse of everything frontal. As she settled the sweater drooped. Her left breast was exposed for a brief moment before she fixed the piece of clothing. I pretended not to look. I tried to maintain direct eye contact with her, but I couldn't help my eyes from drifting.
She patted her right hand on the cushion next to her and said, "Sit sit."
