Kevin's Special Delivery Pt. 05 - Friends and Lovers
Kevin
I'll confess to being a little fuzzy headed at work on Thursday, after spending my day off having terrific sex with Lois at a fancy hotel. And that was just a couple of days after I spent Sunday morning unexpectedly "
shtupping
" Mrs. Grossman Man, what a summer it had been so far!
And I had another - um - "date" lined up with Lois for next Wednesday night at her place too, though I was really wishing I didn't have to wait that long. Seemed like about 95% of the thoughts running through my head were about doing it with Lois. Had I become a sex addict? Maybe.
Anyway, I managed to get through Thursday by trying to concentrate on work during the day and hanging out with my friends at night. My folks and my sisters were still up at grandpa and grandma's cabin in Wisconsin, so I had the run of the house and got to stay up and/or out as late as I wanted, which was kinda cool. Rob got permission to sleep over on Thursday night, and we brought home a pizza and watched TV and horsed around until really late.
I missed Lois, though. Missed kissing her. Missed the feel of her naked body against mine. Missed the way she looked and smelled and tasted and... uh, you know!
Lois
Well! That was hands down the best hotel stay I had ever had.
Not only was the room fabulous, but the - ahem - "service" was stellar. As I rode down in the elevator to find myself some breakfast and coffee, I could feel a delightful thrumming still coursing through my body. This Palmer House guest was one satisfied customer!
At this hour on any normal workday my mind would be fully occupied with the business matters to be accomplished in the hours to come. But on this day, absolutely all I could think about was getting Kevin back into my bed and my arms and my... gracious me Lois, behave!
On the plus side, my next rendezvous with the randy rascal was already in the books. In the debit column was the fact that said assignation was nearly a full week away. How would I possibly endure the deprivation until Wednesday evening?
In fact, however, there was a good reason for part of the delay: I was about to welcome a weekend houseguest - one I could scarcely wait to see. Mrs. M. Margaret Sedgwick was about to grace my humble abode with her august presence.
Mrs. Sedgwick had been my closest friend since First Grade - way back when she was simply Maggie McGovern. Maggie and I were inseparable throughout grammar school and high school.
During all that time we shared everything: dolls and hair ribbons and makeup and scandalous secrets. I loved her like the sister I never had, and even forgave her for stealing my first real boyfriend from me and sleeping with him after our Senior prom.
About the only thing we didn't share was clothes, since Maggie was already nearly a full head taller than me when we met and eventually topped out at an even six feet in High School (although she would forever insist that she was "only" 5'11 because: "Girls aren't supposed to be six feet tall, Lois!").
I plateaued at a shade under 5'4, so we were rather a mismatched pair. Our parents took to calling us "Mutt and Jeff," after a comic strip that featured two similarly asymmetrical friends. Maggie HATED that, because "Mutt" was the taller of the duo.
Despite being best friends, however, we were ridiculously competitive with each other. That likely flowed from the fact that we were always the two smartest, most ambitions and highest-achieving girls in our classes (just ask us!). I won the spelling bees; Maggie won the science fairs. I could run faster; she could run farther. She was Student Council President; I got the lead roles in the school plays. Maggie was valedictorian; I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed."
Fate eventually broke up the team, alas. Maggie won a full scholarship to Smith College in Massachusetts, while I decided to stay local, and became one of the very few "coeds" at Loyola University. We wrote long letters to each other and were inseparable again when she came back for Christmas and summer vacations, but it wasn't quite the same.
Maggie stayed out East after college while I stayed put in Chicago, and we drifted a bit further apart. Maggie married a Harvard man, gained admission into the Brahmin caste, and raised three boys in Boston (summering on the Cape of course).
I, on the other hand, was determined to make my own way in the world of Chicago business. At least until I foolishly succumbed to the charms of an older, married man and played the thankless roles of "other woman" and "homewrecker," before being made a somewhat honest woman by my now ex-husband Albert.
Our different paths meant that Maggie and I interacted less frequently. Annual Christmas cards were exchanged, of course, with photos of domestic bliss enclosed in hers. Maggie would return to Chicago periodically for family events, and we'd always try to get together for dinner or at least coffee. When we did, the years immediately fell away and we reverted to the giggling teenage confidantes we had been.
These days Maggie's sons were grown and flown and - sadly - her husband had died far too young (heart attack) two years ago now. She was coming to Chicago this weekend to celebrate her mother's 80
th
birthday. In her letter, she told me that she intended to stay in a hotel, but I wouldn't hear of it. My seldom-used guest bedroom was hers for the duration of her stay. I couldn't wait to see her.
Maggie arrived late on Friday and we had a lovely reunion and chatted until she started nodding off. She spent much of Saturday morning and early afternoon visiting her parents and siblings but returned to my apartment around 5:00 bearing not one but two bottles of what looked like very nice wine.
I had promised to make dinner for us and was already in the midst of my prep work for
coq au
vin. Since the dish has wine in it, I already had a bottle open and was half a glass into it ("quality control," don't you know) when Maggie arrived. She pulled up a chair, I poured her a generous glass and topped up my own, and we got down to the serious business of catching up while I cooked.
We covered all of the family stuff first. Maggie was going to become a grandmother for the first time and was only partially pleased about that: happy to have a new little family member on the way, but not eager to assume the title that came with it. Her other sons were married and prospering, but not yet procreating.
We opened the first of Maggie's wine purchases (a lovely white) as I filled her in on the local friends-and-families gossip while continuing to chop, chat and chortle. Her taste in wine - as in everything else - was first rate and went down a treat with the pre-meal cheeses and crudites I laid out for us.
I had set the dining room table for dinner with my best china, silver and even candles - a rare occurrence for me - and I ushered Maggie in there as the main meal reached readiness. We drained our glasses of the last of the white wine before leaving the kitchen and Maggie ferried the already uncorked and breathing bottle of red (she referred to it as a "claret") with her to the table. She poured us both generous glassfuls.
I'll confess that I was already feeling the effects of the wine by that time, particularly given that I had had little to eat thus far. Fortunately, Maggie appeared to be similarly situated and the conversation flowed as freely as the fruit of the vine.
The talk turned to more personal matters. I complimented Maggie on how well she looked: tanned and toned, her perfectly coiffed dark brown hair exhibiting just a tasteful sprinkling of gray. She was dressed in what I can only describe as opulent simplicity. No doubt her very deliberately casual blouse and slacks were from the best Boston shops and cost far more than any remotely comparable items in my wardrobe.
Maggie delightedly brushed off the compliments, crediting her physical fitness to the
de riguer
social obligation to engage in regular tennis and golf matches at "the club." I had had an opportunity to experience "the club" while in town for her husband's funeral and can only say that it appeared to me to be more like a particularly posh resort than anything that could be referred to as a mere club.
Maggie found ways to compliment me as well, with all apparent sincerity. She told me that she had always been jealous of my red hair and fair skin (although, truth be told, in the midst of a Chicago winter her own skin had been easily as fair). She also praised my outfit: a stylish but casual green dress that I confess I bought expressly in anticipation of her visit.
