(See first part for disclaimer, notes, spoilers, etc.)
Chapter 3: "A Juxtaposition of Life"
Snow in Manhattan rarely has a chance.
The white flakes fell lazily from the bleak sky and down to the grimy sidewalk. Their lifespan was cut short by the immense heat radiating up from the subway. Those that landed in the street had a better chance at survival. City sanitation workers salted the streets earlier in the day so that the flow of traffic was not disrupted. As the thousands of New York City taxi's sped up and down the streets, the heat and exhaust emanating from them turned the heaven sent powder into gray slush.
The naked trees in Central Park sang when a strong breeze caused the icicles on the branches to clink together. Their spider arms hung forlornly without the leaves cloaking them.
On the eighteenth floor of an apartment building overlooking Central Park South, Gregory Richards stood at the window. He watched disinterestedly as the snow funneled up in a twister outside as it met the wind coming up from below. The snow did nothing for him but cause traffic delays. The view that he paid an enormous sum for died during the winter months until mid-April, when the park bloomed green again.
He turned around and sank into the leather armchair, resting his feet on the ottoman. Tapping the cigar into the ashtray, he brought it to his mouth and inhaled deeply before a snakelike trail escaped his mouth. The smoke hung in the air before it faded into oblivion.
A sharp knock at the door caused Gregory to stab the cigar out before he rose out of the chair. Pulling open the wooden door, he frowned when he came face to face with the red head on the other side. "Christina," he sighed.
Christina Whitmore glared at Gregory and attempted to push her way past him, in a rush of long hair and sickeningly sweet perfume. He blocked the doorway with his body and she put her hands on her hips. "You haven't returned any of the messages I've left for you," she whined.
Gregory's eyebrows scrunched together as he bit his frustration down and folded his arms across his chest. "I thought it was clear from our last conversation where things stood. Clearly, there's been some confusion."
She leaned in closer to Gregory, allowing him an ample view of her cleavage. "Precisely…and I'm not the confused one."
"Oh?" he smirked. "From where I'm standing, you're the only one who could be." He watched as her spine stiffened and she narrowed her eyes. "What part of 'we're though' do you not understand?"
"I thought we had something," she oozed seductively as she leaned against the door. She reached out to touch Gregory's cheek, but he moved away from her. "What is the matter with you?" she cried. "Things were going so well!"
Laughter bubbled up out of Gregory's mouth before he could stop himself. He stared at the ground while his shoulders shook in unbridled amusement. " 'Well'? You call a few sexual encounters-" he trailed off as his laughter overtook him again.
Christina's green eyes flashed in anger as she smacked Gregory in the chest. "Bastard," she hissed. She raised her hand to smack his face but he anticipated her action, catching her hand before she swung it down. She flinched and cried out as he tightened his grip around her fingers.
"Temper, temper," Gregory said as he clucked his tongue. He forcefully released her hand and she pulled it back to her person. "I'll make it easy for you. The sex was lousy and you're irritating. Hence, we're through." He backed into his apartment and closed the door in her face, silencing her protest. As he locked the door, he heard her slam her hand against it.
Walking back to the sitting room, he picked up his cigar and then the telephone. "Hello George?" he said after a moment. "This is Gregory Richards in 1805. The redhead that you just let up to my apartment, Christina Whitmore? I imagine she'll be storming through the lobby in a matter of moments. Add her to the list of those that are barred from the building...Thank you." He hung up the phone and continued to puff on the cigar he began before the brief unpleasantness landed on his doorstep.
The amount of snow that fell from the sky increased in the time he'd been away from the window. The world of gray skies and buildings slowly turned white as the snow fell heavier and stuck to the ground, including the heated sidewalks. "Damn," he sighed.
Three thousand miles west, the cold snow of New York was the farthest thing on Olivia Deschanel's mind. For her, snow equaled the happiness of her childhood in England. Her father pulling her behind him on a wooden sled and making snow angels on the ground. The way he'd turn and smile over his shoulder, the cold turning his nose and cheeks a rosy red.
But there was no snow in Sunset Beach…and none of the happiness that came with it.
Olivia sipped her pina colada through the straw and stared out at the ocean. The waves crashed repeatedly onto the beach, lulling her thoughts along. Moreover, her primary thought was of her unhappiness.
She frowned as she thought of the mess her life became and she glanced down at her feet. Sighing, she swung them over the stone railing and sat on it, swinging her legs absentmindedly. She plucked the straw out of the glass and dropped it on the ground before swallowing the frozen beverage straight out of the glass. She wiped a lump of shaved ice off her lip and sucked it off her finger.
Placing the empty glass on the railing next to her, she hung her head for a moment and then looked up. The puffy white clouds and warm blue sky seemed to emphasize the lack of happiness in her life and the travesty it had become.
Olivia reached down and played with the rings on her left hand. As she did, her finger grazed the diamond-encrusted wedding band that AJ placed on her fifteen months ago.
"If there be any present," the archbishop asked, "who know why these two souls should not be joined in holy matrimony, please speak now or forever hold your peace."
"Me," she whispered. Sighing heavily at how too late her statement was, Olivia looked back out at the ocean. Even the quiet beach looked to be less boring than the life she was living. Folding her legs beneath her body, she leaned her chin into her hands and sighed again.
"Toots, I got to tell you," a voice behind her called out, "that the point of running around the house in a teeny, tiny string bikini is that you entice your husband to stick around." Olivia turned around as Bette Douglas strode across the patio and climbed up on the railing next to her. "Yet it seems like every time I'm here, he's gone." Bette picked up the empty glass and turned it upside down. Frowning she said, "And I see you started the party without me."
Olivia smiled guiltily. "Therese can bring out more. I had her make a pitcher. How are you darling?" she asked as she leaned over and hugged her friend close.
"Same old, same old. You?"
"The same," Olivia sighed. She shifted right to face Bette. "What happened to what's-his-name?"
Bette snorted, causing Olivia to smile. "He expected me to cook and clean for him. I told him that sleeping with him was punishment enough. I clearly had my hands full in the bedroom, never mind what was going on the kitchen." She watched Olivia shake her head disbelievingly.
"You are too much. Too much," Olivia repeated softly. She looked back up at Bette and conceded, "That's why I love you though." She latched onto Bette's hand and squeezed it.
"Love to love you too." Bette smiled as her eyes moved over her friend appraisingly. The way her smile seemed a bit forced and her blue eyes hinted at some sadness she wasn't willing to speak of. "So, everything's 'the same' with you?"
Olivia scoffed. "Eternally." She met Bette's questioning eyes and explained, "It's like I'm living the same day over and over again. It never changes." She turned away and looked back at the untamed spirit of the ocean. "There's-, There's no variety."
"Variety?" Bette asked in a low tone and one eyebrow raised in question. "Are we referring to the…sexual aspect of your marriage?"
"Yes. No. Ugh…All of it! It's all-…I hate my life." Olivia looked back at Bette and repeated, "I hate my life."
Bette sighed and patted Olivia's hand. "All marriages have problems. You know how bad mine was." She watched Olivia out of the corner of her eye and continued, "It certainly would make things easier if AJ was here half the time."
"Sometimes," Olivia said after a moment, "I like that he's not here." She continued to stare out at the ocean and felt Bette grip her hand tighter. "If he's not here, I don't have to pretend."
"Pretend what, Livy?"
She tore her blue eyes away from the ocean and looked at Bette. "Pretend that I love him."