Chapter Thirty-seven: The Adventure Begins

The few days until our train trip to New York were exciting and anxious ones for me. I bought an orange, slinky dress from the consignment shop to wear to the play. The slippery, silk material was fashioned into a halter in the front, dipped low in the back, and was slit up to mid thigh on my right side. I found a pair of very tall, copper sandals to wear with it; when I tried the outfit on, I felt like a glamorous showgirl, albeit a very tall and unsteady one. I felt absolutely sexy, something I had seldom felt in my entire life. Of course, I would have to cover my showgirl outfit with a plain, black, wool coat, but my evening atop the hospital roof had shown me the power of what was hidden underneath a plain, black, wool coat.

I screwed up my courage and braved the lingerie department of a ladies' store. This was a new experience for me, and my discomfort attracted the aid of a matronly assistant. We quickly eliminated the merry widows and bustiers – I'm sure Blue Eyes would have delighted in them, but I could never have strapped myself into them, and, even if I could have, I'd have been too embarrassed to have let him have a glimpse. I confided to the saleslady we were going away for two nights; she suggested more traditional night gowns. The first was a modest, black lace gown. It was sleeveless with a deep V in the front and a deeper V in the back. The sheer, patterned lace reached the floor with slits above the knee on both sides. A cord cinched it just underneath my breasts. The full sway of fabric succeeded in concealing just enough to keep me comfortable. My assistant termed it "sexily sophisticated." I decided it was just the thing for Friday night. However, I wanted something a bit more adventurous to reward Blue Eyes on Saturday night after the marathon play. Arabelle, the saleslady, produced the perfect outfit: a sheer, tan, tiger-striped, shortie. The neck was cut straight across in both the front and back, attached at the shoulders with just a tiny bow. It then dropped straight down, clinging to my breasts, and then the front and back swung free, even with the curve of my breast. The top stopped just short of my belly button. A black thong served as the bottom. I wasn't sure I could pull it off, but when I let Arabelle have a peep, her face lit up with a genuine (or well-faked) smile. I confided my nickname was Tiger, and she squealed with delight. "Honey," she said, "you will get a proposal in this." That almost made me reconsider. I ran my hand over my almost pre-baby flat stomach, and I wanted to show it off. Blue Eyes had rarely seen me dressed in a pretty or sexy way; I wanted to show him I could be pretty and sexy. I thought of Stacy and how perfect she always looked, how flawless her makeup always was and how appropriate her clothes always were, and I wanted him to see I could be, occasionally, in her league. Or close to her league. Arabelle made a nice commission on me that day.

As I was leaving the store, I stopped at the cosmetics counter and eyed the lotions. A pert, young clerk with the nametag "Tiffani" bounded over to offer her aid. I asked about lotions, moving towards the massage oils, but Tiffani wasn't bright enough to take the hint. Holding the bag with my sex-inducing-nighties inside, I asked for advice about the oils. Tiffani, whose voice could compete successfully with nails on a chalkboard for both irritation and volume, recommended an organic juniper oil and a lotion scented with patchouli. She also talked me into a lavender bubble bath (yeah, I can see Blue Eyes soaking in that). My purchases at the cosmetics counter far outdistanced the lingerie expenditures.

Troy, the jack-of-all-trades, had arranged fabulous meals for us at the best restaurants in the city. I remembered Cindy telling me he had a crush on me; if he did, I owed him a special meal of his own. He really came through for me. His shy, beautiful smile in his dark face when I thanked him made me blush. I was certainly not accustomed to such devotion. Maybe I could write one of his papers for him – a paper for David's class. Wouldn't it be interesting to see what grade David would give me in secret!

Jim drove us to the train station. I was a maniac, trying to make sure I had remembered everything. I packed apart from Blue Eyes. He had, initially, been offended I wouldn't let him throw his jeans in with my clothes, but, then, he began to suspect I had sex toys and kinky porn secreted in my luggage. I did not disabuse him of his fantasies. Jim seemed to have a healthy skepticism about our weekend; he seemed to suspect we wouldn't both survive the trip.

"If you have any trouble," he lectured on the drive, "you can reach me on my cell."

"So, you're good for bail?" Blue Eyes asked.

Jim scowled at B.E. "I was addressing Audra."

"We should be fine, Jim, but thanks," I said.

"I'll pick you up Sunday evening," Jim confirmed.

"Tiger, we are going to a strip joint after the play, right? You owe me a lap dance."

I stared at B.E. "Why in heaven's name do I owe you a lap dance?" I could hear Jim snicker.

B.E. answered, "Because, my beauty, you've never given me one."

I turned to the back seat and grabbed his ear lobe. "Blue Eyes," I drawled as I twisted his ear, "this is definitely not the way to get a lap dance from anyone."

Jim was laughing wholeheartedly by then. "She has you, bro."

"Ow, ow, ow," B.E. groaned. "Okay, I give."

I let go of his ear, but I continued staring at him. "Don't be stupid and ruin what I might have planned, Blue Eyes."

"Is this weekend for you or for me?" he asked.

"I'm trying to make it for both of us," I answered.

He crossed his arms and sunk down in his seat. "I don't trust you," he sulked.

I sighed. "Blue Eyes, I know the play is going to be a test for you, although I suspect you're going to like it, but I am willing to make a special effort to ensure the rest of your trip is a pure joy."

"Hookers?"

"Is there a gun in this glove compartment?"

Jim scolded, "House!"

"Hey, I had to give it a shot."

"I'll give you a shot," I said.

Blue Eyes laughed. "I just bet you would."

I stared at him. "Try me, puddin'."

"Should I turn around?" Jim asked with concern.

Blue Eyes answered, "Not for a second, Wilson. I'm going to New York with this woman. And no one else."

Jim dropped us at the station and hurried away before Blue Eyes and I, in our anxiety, resorted to fisticuffs. We settled ourselves on the train, neither speaking, eyeing each other warily. Once we had reached New York and a porter was hauling our luggage into the Sofitel Hotel behind us, and Blue Eyes could see and smell the luxury, we both began to relax. As the handsome young porter lead us to our suite, I leaned over to B.E. and whispered, "The tips are yours."

"Tightwad," he whispered back.

I eyed him up and down, then I gave the porter the once-over. "I can replace you."

We walked through the elegant emerald and cream sitting room and into the richly appointed bedroom, complete with a king sized bed and a bathroom with a shower and a Jacuzzi tub. B.E. handed the young man a wad of bills and thanked him profusely.

"What are we doing first?" he asked as he sat, bouncing, on the foot of the bed. He was grinning like a kid at a carnival.

"I'm going to take a bubble bath. Tonight's itinerary has us scheduled for drinks at the Blue Bar at the Algonquin Hotel, then dinner at Tom Colicchio's Craftsteak, and, last but certainly not least, a special surprise for you."

"Let me guess," he drawled. "You've rented me double-jointed Siamese twins to play with, haven't you?" He grinned his goofiest grin.

"By the hour. And I was trying so hard to keep it from you. Well, now you know what I had planned, I guess I'd might as well cancel. It's no fun once the surprise is over."

He reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me onto his lap. "You are so thoughtful, and so selfless," he murmured as he nibbled on my neck. "Most women would be too threatened to give a man what he really wants."

"Not me. I'm happy to give you syphilis and gonorrhea and Chlamydia and herpes and seven different kinds of genital warts. My pleasure. As long as you'll never have the opportunity to touch me again, you'd might as well enjoy yourself."

He let me slide down his left leg onto the floor; I landed with a thump. "You think you're so damned smart," he said. He tried to sound angry, but he couldn't quite pull it off. "Go get your bubble bath."

I struggled to my feet without any assistance at all from him. I kicked off my shoes and unbuttoned my jeans. He limped into the sitting room, television controls in his hand as he searched for alcohol. I followed him, removing my socks as I went.

"I checked out that tub; I think there's room for two," I called as I stopped in the bathroom to turn on the water. I poured in a healthy helping of Tiffani's expensive lavender gunk.

"Hmmmm," he mumbled.

I tracked him down, sprawled out on the dainty sitting room settee, watching a basketball game, a glass of scotch in his hand. I dropped my jeans at the door and strolled in front of the TV in my sweater and panties, pausing to bend over and examine the magazines arranged on the coffee table.

"Harrumph!" he barked at me.

I jumped straight up and squealed like a girl.

He laughed. "If you wanted me to play in the tub with you, why didn't you just say so?"

I smacked him with a magazine. "There's not a romantic bone in your body, is there?"

He smiled evilly and tried to get a grip on my hand. "Come over here, little girl, and find out."

We both sampled Tiffani's lavender bubble bath, and we both agreed Mr. Bubble was much cheaper and just as effective for our needs.

I was particularly excited about going to the Blue Bar. When The New Yorker was in its infancy, Harold Ross had made it his unofficial office, and he had spent many hours there with other literary greats such as Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley. I wore a black, pencil skirt with my white, fluffy sweater. I tried to wear sheer, black thigh hi's, but the first time I bent down, the narrow tops rolled right down my not-so-thin thighs. I had no choice but to abandon them for the traditional pantyhose.

Blue Eyes, to my delight, had on a charcoal suit with a black shirt and a camelhair coat thrown over his arm. When he saw me admiring him, he stopped. "What? Do I need a tie? I have one, but I don't have to wear one tonight, do I?" He was sincerely asking my opinion, his face screwed up in the hope he didn't have to strangle himself for one evening. In New York, away from the worries of the hospital, he looked young and, in that moment, boyishly cute. I impulsively threw my arms around his neck and damn near choked the life from him.

"Hey, I can wear the fucking tie. Just let go of me, okay?" he croaked.

I laughed. "No. No tie. You're fine just the way you are," I said as I released him.

"Then why the hell did you maul me?" he asked, rubbing his neck and looking at me suspiciously.

I shrugged as I slipped into my coat. "I had an urge."

The Blue Bar at the Algonquin was small with dark wood and glass; it was everything I would have pictured an old bar to be. B.E. insisted I order an "old-fashioned" drink – no "mojitos" – so I ordered vodka martinis with extra olives.

"I wish I could have been a fly on the wall when Dorothy Parker was here – she was so witty," I said.

"Let me see if I can remember a bit of her wisdom," B.E. said, pondering. "If I'm correct, she sounded a lot like you: 'By the time you swear you're his / Shivering and sighing/ And he swears his passion is / Infinite, undying / Lady, make a note of this/ One of you is lying.'"

"I remember one: 'Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song/ A medley of extemporanea; / And love is a thing that can never go wrong; / And I am Marie of Roumania,'" I laughed. "But this one is my favorite, and, I'll wager, yours:

The ladies men admire, I've heard,

Would shudder at a wicked word.

Their candle gives a single light;

They'd rather stay at home at night.

They do not keep awake till three,

Nor read erotic poetry.

They never sanction the impure,

Nor recognize an overture.

They shrink from powders and from paints . . .

So far I've had no complaints."

B.E. laughed, but he couldn't let me have the last Dorothy Parker word. He quoted, "'You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.'"

When it was time to head to the restaurant, Craftsteak, we walked a bit before hailing a cab, looking in the windows of the stores in this magical city. I was, admittedly, a bit lightheaded from my early twentieth century martinis, but as I perused the windows, one of them stopped me. Blue Eyes kept walking, his left arm trying to guide me along with him, but I was stationary, gaping at the merchandise. He finally came back to determine what had caught my eye. I shook my head and hurried on, grabbing his hand while letting lose with a whistle that had two cabbies pulling over to vie for us. He tried to peer behind me in his best curious effort, but I pulled him into the cab and seduced him by whispering exotic cuts of meat.