Here is the third chapter of Tom and Cat's love story. This stands alone but readers may wish to read the first two chapters to get the most out of it. As previously, this is inspired by, encouraged by and written for the enjoyment of the wonderful CatMoore. Readers familiar with her work will appreciate why the story takes the development that it does and I hope that they will think that it is handled sensitively within the overall love story. Thank you for all the kind comments thus far and I hope that you will enjoy the following.
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You had inherited the Florida house from my grandfather in your early 20s and it's always been a refuge for you, something of yours that you didn't owe in any way to Dad. Maybe that was why Dad never liked Florida or the house. We'd gone there a lot as a family when Sara and I were younger but, increasingly, Dad either bailed out completely or only stayed for a bit before zipping off up to New York for business. The house, an old 1950s villa, was on Anna Maria Island, a piece of 'Old Florida' at the mouth of Tampa Bay. A bit tacky and touristy it might be, but it guaranteed good weather, great sports, beautiful seas and, in the villa at least, peace and quiet, a retreat from the world and the rest of life.
Sara hadn't been for a couple of years but I had continued to join you in either the summer or your January visit and you used to go out a couple of other times a year, either with Dad or on your own. I was immensely excited by the possibility of being there together with you and I could tell that you were too. It was hard for us to contain that excitement from Dad on the Saturday before we left. Dad was at home, attempting to make up for the fact that he wasn't coming but, in truth, we'd much rather he wasn't there. It was sad to reflect on that. We both still had a strong residue of affection for him but, truth be told, he was now more of an obstacle than anything else.
Time moved slowly that day, crawling towards the late afternoon when we were due to leave for Heathrow. I seemed to look at my watch, my phone, or the kitchen clock constantly - I just wanted to be gone, to be alone with you. I had packed early, hoping that would speed the time but it didn't. Eventually the time ticked on to 4pm and the taxi we'd booked arrived. I gave Dad a handshake before heading out to the car.
"I'm sorry not to be coming with you, Tom," he said, decent enough to at least look convincing. "Have a great time and," he looked a little awkward, "look after your Mum for me. I've not, well, not been able to give her enough of my time recently what with work and everything, so make sure you spoil her a bit. You always know what to do." He said and thrust a wad of dollars into my hand. I was almost tempted to push them back at him but, I reflected, he was trying to do his best and I was hardly in a position to take the moral high ground, now, was I?
"Thanks Dad," I said after a moment. "I'll make sure Mum is taken care of." I tried really hard not to put any innuendo into that phrase. I got into the taxi and watched from the backseat as you and Dad had a somewhat frosty goodbye. As excited as I knew you were at the opportunity you and I had to be alone, I could also see that you were still hurting at yet another example of Dad putting his work before you and his responsibilities as a husband. He gave you a peck on the cheek and you gave him a thin smile before turning on your heels and striding purposefully to the cab. You took the front seat and didn't look back as we drove away, I could see your jaw fixed as you stated pointedly ahead.
I could tell that there was something on your mind beyond just Dad, something that I couldn't quite put my finger on, a nervousness? An anxiety perhaps? I wasn't sure. I could tell that you were trying to put it behind you or bury it, whatever it was, as we sat opposite each other on the train. You always liked to travel backwards on trains as it reduced travel sickness whereas I preferred to see where I was going. This meant that I had the chance to sit and admire you for the relatively short train journey into St Pancras. You were wearing a jumper dress of man-made fibres with black and white horizontal stripes. It was high-necked but clung tightly to your firm breasts and pert bottom. I marvelled again at how great you looked. One will often say rather patronisingly about an older woman that she 'looks good for her age' - you simply looked great. Your look was topped off by black tights and black suede ankle boots with a block heel. Your blonde hair was free and hanging loosely on your shoulders. We chatted aimlessly as we travelled, looking for all the world like simply an attractive mother with her grown up son, the image we wished to portray at this stage in case there was anyone we knew on the train. It gave me great joy just to watch you, the animation in your face enlivening your already enchanting features but I could tell, still, that something was bothering you.
When we reached London and the anonymity that the metropolis affords, we could be closer and gradually we morphed from the pose of mother and son into that of lovers. Standing close, holding hands, the touches of lovers. In some ways we had no choice - late Saturday afternoon on the tube in summer can be a busy place, especially on the Piccadilly Line towards Heathrow as the space in the underground cars is filled in part with the huge luggage of holidaymakers.
For some of the way, we found ourselves squashed up against each other near the doors. Holding onto one of the overhead bars, I pulled you close to me with my other hand, wrapped around your slim waist. You scooted as close to me as you could, your breasts pressed against my chest, your head resting on my shoulder. We just stood there, not saying a word, in our own little bubble as the world moved and chatted away around us. It was bliss, just us and sod everyone else, we were just wrapped up in each other. I could smell your fruit shampoo, your delicate perfume and the slight scent that was uniquely you. Every so often, I'd kiss the top of your blonde head and hear you give a little sigh of happiness in response.
Eventually some seats next to each other became available and we sat down, hands clasped together and resting on the smooth nylon that covered your toned thighs. Before too long, however, we were at Heathrow and making our way to the Radisson Hotel there. Our flight was at 7am and we had decided to stay in a hotel the night before rather than brave a horrifically early night. You had booked a deluxe room for you and Dad. While I had taken a cheaper one for myself. I'd cancelled the room last night, just in time to avoid a penalty fee, which meant that we would be sharing the room meant for you and your husband.
Strolling up to the reception desk, I grasped your hand and smiled at the rather bored looking receptionist. "Reservation for Mr and Mrs Moore," I said confidently. The woman tapped away on her keyboard and then looked up.
"Yes sir, Room 212, a Deluxe double. Second floor, turn left when you leave the lift. If you'd like to leave your bags with the porters they will ensure they are delivered to the room sir." She said in a voice that betrayed that she had said the same little speech dozens of times already today. I decided to see if I could get a rise out of her.
"Thank you very much," I said with a winning but shy smile. "We decided to splash out on the Deluxe as it's our honeymoon. Married yesterday and off to Florida tomorrow, we're so excited by it aren't we dear?" I said turning to you with a broad smile. You looked flushed and muttered that yes, we were really looking forward to it. The woman looked at us more closely and gave the slightest arch of her eyebrow as she looked at you, which only made you blush some more and look away.
