April 1983 – Wallace & McQuade, NYC
Angela's stomach was starting to growl. It was 4:25pm, and she'd overestimated the efficacy of the cobb salad she'd chosen for lunch. It growled again, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping the chair squeak would cover the noise. When will this meeting be over?
Paxton kept droning about the new types of inserts available for printed ads, and she couldn't be less interested. Michael was coming home today, and Angela was off-her-rocker excited.
Her stomach growled again, and Peterson covertly passed her a Hershey bar. Embarrassed, but uplifted by the unexpected gesture, she quietly slid off the paper wrapper. There was writing scratched in marker on the foil beneath: 'Will you shut that thing up?'
Angela gave Peterson a side eye, then proceeded to chew the chocolate loudly. Paxton paused for a moment to look up in her direction, but then stumbled back to his lecture.
A few minutes later, Rosie, Angela's new secretary, quietly entered the boardroom, and slipped Angela a small envelope before ducking out. Angela opened the note.
It was a telegram.
INDIAN POSTS AND TELEGRAPHS DEPARTMENT
1983 APRIL 18
= NEW DELHI=
MRS MICHAEL A BOWER=
WALLACE AND MCQUADE NEW YORK NY=
NO JFK MEET AT WALDORF TUES 9PM NO TALKING I MEAN IT=
MICHAEL
Angela laughed out loud before she could stifle it. Her face felt hot, feeling everyone's eyes before she even looked up. She cleared her throat.
"Pardon me," she mumbled, then turned her perceivable attention to Paxton. He looked annoyed but Angela didn't care, and she couldn't stop smiling. Paxton didn't smile once the rest of the meeting, but he finished before close of business.
Angela gathered her notes and scuttled out of the boardroom before anyone else, purposefully ignoring her peripheral view of Paxton's scowl.
Michael must have sent it before he left yesterday morning. Angela's cheeks hurt from smiling. The whole way home on the train, she stared out the window, barely able to sit still.
Angela picked up Jonathan from Wendy and made sure he was buckled before backing out.
Angela smiled into the rearview mirror. "Are you excited to see Daddy tomorrow?"
"Yes!" Jonathan said, bouncing up and down in his booster seat.
Angela laughed, "My thoughts exactly."
"Why can't I see him tonight?" Jonathan frowned.
Angela offered him a sympathetic smile. "You'll be in bed, buddy. But he'll pick you up from school tomorrow."
Jonathan stuck his lip out but didn't argue.
"Come on. Let's get some Chinese food, then go see Grandma."
Jonathan didn't say anything.
Mona opened the door to her apartment, "Heyyyyy!" she cheered to the sullen little boy and his mother. She frowned at him, "What's with the face?" Mona looked up at Angela and snatched the food, "I'll take that!" She waved them in. "Come on; get in here!"
"Hi, Mother," Angela said with half of a smile. "Jonathan wanted to see his daddy tonight, but it's going to be too late."
"Ahh – well, I can't compete with that… Hmm. I'm going to put on Scooby and Scrappy. When you want to eat, just come up to the table, okay, kid?"
Jonathan didn't answer but sat on the couch.
Mona nodded Angela toward the kitchen, already chomping on a spring roll. She whispered to Angela, "Well, bummer for him, but yea for you!"
Angela couldn't suppress the mile-wide smile interrupting her expected eyeroll.
"Mm-HMMM!" Mona smiled knowingly, her mouth still full of food. She swallowed in a giant gulp, and patted Angela's cheek. "Well, have fun, dear," she scooted her daughter back out of the kitchen.
Angela's eyes widened. "I can't have dinner?"
"There's not enough for you," Mona said loudly, still pushing her arm through the living room.
"What? I bought-" Angela objected.
Mona's hushed whisper cut her off. "Oh, will you take a hint? Go get ready, girl! I've got Jonathan. We'll be fine!"
Angela huffed a little, but then rolled her eyes more naturally. Stepping up to the back of the couch behind Jonathan, Angela tipped her head to the side. "I'll see you tomorrow, buddy," she smiled sadly.
Jonathan glared at her, then looked back at the TV. Angela's eyebrows dipped up in sadness, and Mona pulled on her arm.
At the door, Mona whispered to Angela who was still looking wistfully back at her son, "He'll be fine!" she pushed her out the door. "Don't eat onions!" she said before she shut it.
April 1983 – I-95; New Rochelle, NY
Angela scootched farther back into the driver's seat as she drove down the interstate. Giving her hair a little toss, she took a breath. I can't remember the last time I was this nervous about seeing him. She'd only spent a few hours with Michael in the last ten months, and the adrenaline was making her teeth chatter.
Angela had taken her mother's advice and spent the remaining time getting ready. She'd flipped her flowing waves away from her face, and the long lengths didn't reach the impossibly deep V of the Ives St. Laurent cocktail dress she'd bought especially for tonight. The Grecian straps were wide and gathered, no bra necessary. Bound from the ribs to the hips with horizontal strips of sequence, the little black dress kicked into a pleated, twirly skirt that hit right above the knee. Her diamond solitaire necklace rested daintily at her throat, and the matching earrings fell like stars.
It was minimal. It was elegant. And she could hardly wait for her husband to muss it all up.
Angela and Michael had spent months apart many times, but they'd never been in this situation. They'd brought other people into their marriage, and they'd witnessed each other's desperation and fury. Nothing felt secure anymore, and Angela had never held on tighter.
She'd had terrifying thoughts of not being the only woman to show up to meet him tonight - or even worse, ones where she'd imagined him having careless encounters with other women, half a world away. The tears could never recompense the hurt, and every time, Angela had taken to physically shaking the images out of her head. She squeezed her eyes in grief, as she could only imagine Michael suffered similarly.
She felt like, regardless of fault, they were like those children who'd played in the bombed-out streets of London. We don't know what to do, so we just keep the game going in the rubble around us. What's the alternative? Say our home is gone? No. Despite the never-ending blitz, I much prefer the game. I can't lose him. And I'm going to do everything I can to convince him to keep playing.
Angela didn't know what she should do, but she was very aware of what she wanted to do. And that was enough for now.
Angela pulled up to the Waldorf and stepped into the balmy night. She shouldered her garment bag and purse and cinched her trench coat tightly around her. The valet took her key and drove away, leaving Angela staring at the middle doors of the grand hotel.
And there was Michael. In a tux.
Angela's face started to crumple, but she pressed her lips together, making her best effort at holding it all in. She so rarely saw him in anything nicer than wrinkled khakis, but he'd done it for her. He'd studded his look with an aged smile, one that had seen many things and chose to show up anyway.
She walked toward him timidly, but steadily, in supreme gratitude to whatever force still permitted them, and never looked away.
When she got close, Michael slowly lifted a single, open tiger lily between them. Astonished by his thoughtfulness, two fat tears bubbled out, and Angela had to sniff rather inelegantly before she accepted the delicate flower. Michael didn't flinch, but pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and dabbed carefully under her eyes and nose.
Keeping his mild smile, Michael took Angela's bag, and put his other arm around her shoulder. He walked her inside, turning his face to kiss her hair. A contented brokenness swirled around the two of them. They knew their state. But putting one foot in front of the other, they jointly breathed through the pain.
Once they were at a safe distance from the gusts by the doors, Michael stood behind Angela and took her jacket. Gracefully, his gaze took her all in – top to bottom, back to front – and his perfect Cary Grant suave couldn't contend with the blushing sweetness his ever-widening smile insisted he pay. Warmth filled Angela's cheeks as she tilted her head to the side, marveling up at him. How did I find this man? He's so complicated…I love that, and I love him.
Regaining his composure, Michael stood up straight and held out his hand. Angela looked from his eyes to his mouth, where she lingered, and then down to his hand. With an aware smile that bordered on a smirk, she took it. He's obviously planned this, so let's just go with it. She made an internal shrug. I said I wanted to play, and I was serious.
Michael led them to the elevator lobby, and they waited, silently holding hands. Angela felt his thumb gently wisp the back of her hand, and she looked down at it, smiling. The doors dinged, and Angela's heart started to beat faster. Michael smiled sweetly and let go so he could lead her by her back into the elevator.
The doors shut demurely in front of them, and Michael dumped Angela's things and spun toward her like a wild cat. The speed and power were so ferocious, she wasn't sure how she didn't get hurt. But all of a sudden, she was pressed to the side of the car with Michael up and over her mouth, both his hands firmly around her ribs. She regained her bearing enough to kiss him back, pushing up against him from underneath.
Angela's hands, left flailing in the melee, found rest at his cummerbund, and her thumbs immediately forced it and his belt roughly downward. Michael started to laugh shyly in the middle of his passionate attack on her mouth. She managed to pucker her lips, in spite of him, and made an unsuccessful attempt to shush him without laughing.
Lips to lips, he shushed her back, and worked his mouth toward her neck. Her hands slid out of his pants and drifted aimlessly into the air when he feathered softly under her right ear. Her eyes had shut, but she felt the heat of his palm cover her left breast and squeeze it hungrily. He continued to kiss her neck, and her thoughts tried to collect themselves. But It's been so long, was the only thing that melded together.
Michael sucked down her necklace and invited the diamond into the kiss. The wet sensation of his warm tongue on her throat now teased with the cool dangling of her necklace. Angela's chin involuntarily tipped up, and she felt her hair start to slide down the cool, stone paneling of the elevator. She actually felt she might have fallen if it weren't for his left hand still holding her ribs solidly in place.
He squished the breast he was holding into the long, open runway of her neckline, and freely kissed its softness. The elevator dinged, and Michael stood up instantly, pulling the strap back over her breast. He used his bent knuckle to gently but quickly wipe her lipstick back into place, and Angela palmed away everything she could from his mouth. Then the doors opened.
An older gentleman stood ready to board when he looked individually at the two of them, breathing deeply, her jacket and bag in a heap at their feet. Smirking at Michael, he hit the button and turned his head far to the left. "Don't rush, Marjorie. We'll take the next one."
The man turned back toward Michael with a knowing smile that grew wider and more amused as the doors shut in front of him.
The elevator continued its ascent to their floor. Michael, who had returned the man's same smile, didn't change his expression as he, again, faced Angela.
He stepped closer to her, and the elevator dinged again. She was slightly disappointed. We must've only gone up one more floor. But when Michael leaned down to place a soft kiss on her lips, her slowing heart rate didn't bother her at all.
They held hands as they walked down the luxurious corridor to their room, stealing a combination of shy and flirty glances along the way. Michael unlocked the door, and Angela half-expected to be jumped again. But he hung up her trench and garment bag on the freestanding, mahogany coat rack.
He left the room dark, but after her eyes had adjusted, Angela could see that the moonlight was enough. The room looked similar to the ones she'd had here before, and her fantasy started to sober. Some of the best and worst days of my life…so many emotions. Angela closed her eyes and stifled her staggering breaths.
Refocusing on the present, Angela continued to wait patiently on Michael's plans. Her lily was only a little worse for wear due to their escapade in the elevator, and she brought it to her nose while she watched her husband finish his preparations. He'd tuned the radio to a classical station, and Wagner's La mort d'Isolde wafted through the room. She smiled endearingly at him as he lit the candles in the middle of the small, circular table and poured two flutes of chilled champagne. He really went to a lot of trouble - and this after traveling for a few days.
Michael stood, and held eye contact the whole trip back to where she was standing. He handed her a glass of champagne, and they lightly clinked them together. Each taking a healthy swallow, they didn't drop their gazes once. Angela kept waiting for his moves, so she could follow suit. This sure is an interesting game... Michael gently took her hand and brought her to the table.
He put his glass down, and she complied. He moved closer to her, looking tentative but sincere. She thought he was going to kiss her, but he just kept staring, his breaths deepening. He looks really nervous. Angela almost cried at the realization. But she was startled out of her decline when Michael stepped her into a slow dance.
She was still really nervous, too. How many times had she thought back to Panama, cursing that night? It may have been the manifestation of all that was wrong with them, but it was a horror in its own right. And it was heavy. Now, watching her husband hold back in fear, she cursed herself.
Angela couldn't hold his gaze anymore. Her head fell along with her tears. It was all too much. Seeing the damage she'd done… and he'd hurt her, too. Now, they were inches away from all they'd lost, and what they'd paid for it. They'd simply ransacked their marriage.
Michael slowed the dance to a stop and brought a hand up to the side of her neck. His kisses always make it better and remembering that made her even sadder. More tears fell, and she sniffed for courage. Looking up into his eyes, she frowned. He's scared. The difference between the Michael in here and the Michael in the elevator felt strange, but oddly relatable.
She glanced down to his mouth just as he neared into a fast kiss. At that point, Angela wasn't really sure who was comforting whom. But if she were up, she was going to make it count.
Angela kissed him deeply. Gripping his lapels like reins, she held him securely to her, willfully ignoring the doubt constantly trying to resurface. She pressed her hips up against his and pulled him into her in accordance with the push of her kiss. She was not letting this man go.
With a desperate exhale, Michael dropped his hands to her zipper in the back. Angela leaned back from him just enough to undo his jacket, and then pushed it over his shoulders. He separated the straps of her dress, and the whole thing fell to the floor. She untied his bowtie, and immediately kissed his liberated neck. She wanted him to know it was okay with her. She wanted him to touch her.
Michael walked them back toward the bed and didn't let any space get between them as he leaned forward on top of her. He looked down at her for a second before kissing her lips. He seemed so hesitant to Angela.
She started to get even more nervous but decided to continue following Michael's lead. She undid the shirt buttons she could reach with him on top of her and suppressed the vivid thoughts of the woman at La Torre doing the same, so she could kiss her husband's beautiful skin without gagging.
Michael closed his eyes for several seconds and breathed methodically while Angela made little, licking kisses at his throat. He let out a sharp exhale and brought his knees up to either side of her hips. Holding himself up on his palms, Michael bent down to lightly suck on her earlobe. He played with the earring before letting go and whispering, "Angela, I need to talk to you."
A/N: The Waldorf had elevator operators, but he woulda been a buzzkill.
