Copyright @ calibeachgirl
All rights reserved, 2012
Thanks to my copy editor estragon and my friend, Elliot...
Early summer, 1954
San Francisco...
Its propellers finally spinning to a stop, the plane rolled toward the terminal and halted. After the stairway had been brought out, the door opened and the passengers began to disembark. The quiet couple in First Class, both clad in black, were among the last to leave, he with a slight smile, she with the sunglasses she never seemed to remove.
The stewardess crushed herself against the bulkhead, giving their large... could it really be a dog? it looked more like a wolf... it had to be a German Shepherd, a wide berth so it could follow them. Who had they known, to have the dog travel with them? She was glad they were gone for every time she passed them, a strange coldness seeped into her psyche and made her wish she were off the plane, even if it meant opening the cabin door and jumping to her death.
As she looked back at the graceful Lockheed Constellation, she thought, 'It's so much safer than that British Comet that had just crashed. I wonder if we could survive a plane crash.' She shuddered; it wasn't something she wanted to test.
"San... Fran... cisco," he said, as if that answered everything. "Let us find a cab and find a home, shall we?" Everything he said, question or no, was always a declaration of fact. She had come to accept that, this time. It was futile to leave; he always found her, no matter how far she had gone, no matter how much time had passed.
As the cab drove through the city, Lorelei watched women walk by, long overcoats against the chill of the bay, white gloves symbolizing the status of San Francisco, queen of California.
..........
"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Dracolya. Welcome to San Francisco." The real estate broker, Anthony Brown, 'Tony' to his friends, was unctuous, hoping for a big commission. "I have selected several homes for your inspection, following your directives in your letter. I have my car, right outside."
"We need a place to stay for the night, first. Perhaps..."
"You could stay with me. I have a guest room that should be satisfactory," Anthony volunteered, wondering how he was going to explain this to his wife.
"That is very gracious," Lorelei said, giving him a slight smile. "We appreciate your generosity."
"I know you'll like this neighborhood," said the broker, as he drove them toward Seacliff. "There's a great view of the Golden Gate and it's very private, hardly any traffic through there."
It was a long drive to the first house of three that they looked at that day. Lorelei wistfully gazed at the California Spanish manse overlooking the ocean and walking from one room the next, she watched the seabirds fly by through the large picture windows. It was so different from New York... from New Orleans... from the English countryside. At the thought of New Orleans, she grew morose for a moment, thinking back at the lost woman who would have been virtually her daughter.
Ambrose said nothing, letting her make the choice.
They went to see the two others but her heart returned to the first house, wondering if Ambrose knew that all along, guiding her choice, making it her own.
That evening, they signed the papers; Ambrose opened his valise and counted out the $87,000 to purchase the home. When the three arrived at the broker's house, he immediately told his wife of his good fortune, for the home had been on the market for over a year. Anthony informed Andrea their guests would stay the week, at least until the escrow closed. She was so surprised; she could only stand there with her mouth open until Ambrose thanked her for the hospitality. As he kissed her warm hand, her demeanor suddenly changed and she courteously welcomed them into her home.
**********
"You don't seem very hungry, Mr. Dracolya," she opined that evening at dinner.
"Man does not live by bread, alone, Mrs. Brown. Sometimes, there are other things to hunger for." Ambrose examined the woman, his deep, piercing eyes reaching into her soul and making her heart race. She put her napkin to her face, wiping her lips, leaving blood-red lipstick on the Irish linen.
'Uh, uh... yes, I see what you mean," Andrea stammered, wondering what had happened, looking down at the table rather than meet his gaze face to face. A faint sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead, causing her to flush. "Excuse me," she said, getting up from the table. "I seem to have become... I must... I must..." She fled the room, to the amazement of her husband, who apologized for his wife's behavior.
"I don't know what happened," he said. "I'm sure she'll be feeling better in the morning."
"Yes..." Ambrose replied, "I believe she shall."
"Would you care for a brandy?" Anthony asked.
"Yes, I would," Ambrose responded.
Anthony looked around for Lorelei. "I thought your wife..." he started to say.
"She turned in... change of time, you know."
"Yes, I understand. That's too bad. She's very pretty. You are a lucky man."
"Thank you."
An hour later, Ambrose left the man sleeping on the sofa and went upstairs to his host's bedroom. The room was quiet and Andrea lay on the bed, not sleeping but waiting.
"I knew you'd come," she said, almost sobbing, and reached out her arms to him.
"I know," he said, gathering her into his arms. Her chemise slipped, baring her neck to him. "Your husband doesn't love you," Ambrose announced.
"My husband doesn't love me," she repeated, her voice barely audible.
"You are the victim... for a marriage to break up there has to be something dramatically wrong in the first place. No one can put the blame on you."
His hand, almost icy, came up to cover hers, trapping them there in the coolness of his touch. Ambrose pushed her head back and brought his lips to her neck, her long, inviting neck. He put his hand to her garment and shred it apart with one hand, the other holding her tightly to him. Her breasts exposed and beckoning... he moved his lips down and circled her taut nipples, his mouth feeling her rapid heartbeat accelerating even more.
"You want me," he said, continuing to lick her, brushing his cool tongue against her hot, flushed skin.
"I want you," she replied, shuddering under his ministrations. "Oh, God, I want you."
"God has nothing to do with us, tonight."
She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her hands spreading fingers through his snow-white hair and then cradled his head, once again, to her breasts.
After a while, he raised himself, gazing into her face. It was the warmth she sought, the attention that he gave her, the tenderness that melted her resolve and like someone coming home to her lover for the very first time, she put her arms around his neck and held him tightly, returning his kiss, clinging to him with an overpowering need, a hunger that was as much physical as emotional.
"Not here," he announced. He lifted her into his arms and, his lips still clinging closely, carried her out to the veranda and there, laying her down on the Spanish tiles, he began to remove the remnants of her chemise.
Her eyes still closed, she turned to him the way a flower seeks the sun, fitting her body to his, urging him on and he slipped inside her moist warmth, his body suddenly cold and then his lips closed upon her breast's nipple and he bit, drawing the first blood of many lettings that night.
**********
Andrea, awakening slowly, trailing the clinging cobwebs of deep sleep, gradually became aware of a physical satisfaction she hadn't known in a long time. Her fingers found her right nipple, still sore, with small bite marks now fading with the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window.
She was alone in the big bed and as she got up, she found reddish-clay stains on her back and legs. She thought of Ambrose. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to nestle against him and feel his arms tighten around her. She was lost, her husband a fading distant memory in her heart. She rolled over to see him standing there and went to the dressing table.
"Black?" Anthony asked his wife. "You're wearing black?"
"Yes," she said, looking at him as if he were a servant to be dismissed. She left her dressing table and went downstairs, meeting Lorelei, and the two women walked outside and down the street to the Italian grocery at the corner.
"Women..." Anthony said, coming downstairs himself, a while later. He didn't remember the night before except that he had made a huge commission on the sale. His wife seemed different, somehow... distant, listening to unheard music... and the black clothes. It was one thing, he thought, to wear black at a dinner party and for a second, his mind slipped back to their last New Year's Eve party when she had worn the same black dress... but, at eight o'clock in the morning?
Lorelei said nothing to Andrea as they walked to the grocery. Ambrose had called her, after, inviting her to suckle on the woman's blood, at the woman's breast. She remembered when it was just her, but could blame no one for her momentary pang of jealousy. After all, she reasoned, she ran from him, it was her choice, just as it was now her choice to stay.
The two women bought orange and lemon gelatos... rather, the man had given them orange and lemon gelatos, for no money had changed hands, just a look and a simple 'thank you' from Lorelei had been payment enough.
She thought about the previous night. Though she couldn't regret what had happened, in the light of day, she knew that allowing herself to become Ambrose's lover once again had been madness. She was leaving herself open to constant heartbreak, the reason she had left him time and time again.
Despite whatever he had said, he had left the decision to her. He'd also been unselfish enough to alleviate any physical needs she might have. Money, once they were together once more, had never been an issue. Still, there was only herself to blame, if even at the time, she doubted the wisdom of it. How does one measure wisdom against love? Against a centuries-old love?
