by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Two
Paul had been staying at his friend’s house down the mountain, in Highland. Or so he said. You can’t take much of what he says literally. Fucker lies when he’s not busy speaking vaguely. He avoided Norrah’s like it was the plague, and for good reason. How could he get any rest in such an environment? It wasn’t until the third day that she was able to sleep herself. It was that third night that she had the house to herself, though there were plenty of news-vans outside, eager to break some kind of development. And they’d get that development, all right. Boy would they, but not for a few more days. She slept like shit that night, but she did get some sleep.
That fourth day is when she called me. I had given her my number and said please call me if you need a set of ears to listen. I was a little surprised when she took me up on that offer. I guess the phantoms of the dead she witnessed weighed heavily upon her and she wanted to get it out in the open. Talking is therapeutic. We met at Starbucks and sat for an hour or so, talked about non-related issues for the better part of it. She said she wanted a return to normalcy, didn’t think that would ever happen. At the end of our meeting I offered to buy her a steak dinner at The Boathouse in the business district of Lake Arrowhead. It was a proposal of a date, I didn’t try to disguise that. I sensed she’d accept because it would mean she wouldn’t be alone, and I was doing my best to instill a sense of trust of me in her. Someone to confide in. She accepted my offer. Is it just me or when a gal accepts your proposal of a first date do you immediately wonder if you’ll see what she looks like under those clothes? The first date is the first stepping stone that leads to unveiling those glorious boobs. I think Confucius wrote that.
That evening was one I’ll never forget, and it had nothing to do with the mystery of Valentine’s Day. We agreed as we walked toward the restaurant that we wouldn’t mention what had happened, that we’d keep our conversation anywhere but on the missing twenty-three. And we did, for the most part. It was during our dinner that I realized I found someone special in Norrah Petersen. I am twenty-eight, two years her junior, and had been single for over a year, ready to find a woman to get serious with. The circumstance was pure shit that brought us together, but stuff happens for a reason. And she says I was just what she needed in her life just then, but I’m not sure if she meant I offered her a distraction from the fiasco or I filled a void in her life that is love. Love is what it was, though it took some time to develop. We had such a wonderful evening that we agreed to do it again tomorrow—though at a less expensive restaurant. We’d spend time together every day from then on. When our schedules didn’t allow for us to meet in person, we’d call the other and have hours-long conversations.
It was on the sixth day following Valentine’s Day that I asked her if she’d consider dating a cop, which was a roundabout way of asking if she’d date me. Some people have qualms with dating cops, understandably so, so it was a fair question. I asked her this over the phone, too nervous to do it in person. She replied yes, and I sensed her grin. She invited me over to her house tomorrow for a homemade dinner. I agreed to the proposal and said I’d bring a pie and bottle of Chardonnay. She asked if seven o’clock would work for me. I would be working till seven tomorrow, so I’d need a half hour to shower and change and trim my nose hairs, but I only lived ten minutes from her house, so 7:40 would be perfect if it suited her. It did and the date was set.
As you know, seven days following Valentine’s Day was when the second half of the biggest news story of Arrowhead history took place. You might not know that I was there when it happened.
It was a quarter to eight when I arrived. I gawped at Norrah when she opened the door for me, how beautifully she was made up. A dark green satin dress, hair up, a silver necklace and diamond earrings, makeup was something she didn’t just throw on, she had made herself up something splendid. A Vogue magazine cover she was. Again I wondered if I’d be taking a gander at the goods under the threads. You can’t blame me for being a guy.
She looked past me at the parked news vans, commented that she thought they’d never leave. I agreed. News was at the highest ratings they’d gotten in years, maybe ever. Local news teams were getting national syndication from their footage and interviews. The interviews were with neighbors and some cops here and there, never Norrah. She refused interviews (at first), and I’m glad she did. Fuck those salivating journalists (pardon my language). I know they have a job to do, but their interests don’t lie in my Norrah’s well-being but in their careers.
“Oh my, you look stunning,” I said and crossed the threshold.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly. Her cheeks ball up when she grins more than the average smiler. It does wonders for her allure. A good smile can make an average-looking girl look beautiful, and in Norrah’s case it makes a good-looking girl become gorgeous. And those straight white teeth and sensuous lips, they really set off her smile. I apologize for getting off track. It’s hard not to talk about what a gal I have in Norrah. I’m truly blessed. And in case you’re wondering, I have seen what lies under those threads and it’s spectacular.
“You look handsome yourself,” she said. I wore a dark suit and red tie. I thanked her.
On the dining table was a casserole dish covered in foil. There were two lit candles on the table. A kitchen light was on a dimmer and set low. In the living room a single lamp was on. The overall lighting was meager, the perfect kind for such an evening. She had made lasagna from scratch and I ate two big ass pieces of it. She eats like a bird, and claimed to be stuffed after only eating half of a modestly sized piece. She apologized for not opening my Chardonnay, but Italian food goes with red wine, so she poured Cabernet. We killed the bottle between the two of us.
I set my fork down and commented on dinner being amazing. She thanked me. The wine was giving me all kinds of confidence so I elected to get a little personal with her. “I’m really glad we met, Norrah. I mean it. Yeah it sucks why we met, but still. I’m so lucky to have met you. I haven’t been this happy in a while.”
“You’re sweet to say. I feel the same way. Don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m not using you for a distraction, but you can see how you are exactly that. But honestly, Jay, even if that… thing didn’t happen, I’d still wish to be eating dinner with you right now. You are a thoughtful, kind man. I am the fortunate one, not you.”
I smiled at her. I guess my eyes were glassy just then, partly because of the wine, but mostly because her words had made my day. I got up from the table and extended my hand, ever the cavalier. She took it and got up. I escorted her to the living room, stepped into her and put one hand on her waist, the other in her hand. We began slow dancing. She was game, but thought dancing to music would be even better, so she turned on the entertainment center and pushed a few buttons. Seconds later we were listening to classical music. I don’t know who the composer was, but it was a series of waltzes. Good music to dance to. Slow but not too slow.
It was nearing nine o’clock. At the end of a waltz we stopped dancing to embrace. I raked my fingers across her tied-back hair, cupped her cheek, gazed in her eyes, and gave her the first of many kisses. It was a timeless kiss, one lasting both seconds and an eternity. I was so very ashamed of what my body decided to do during that kiss, and she felt it pressing against her lower abdomen. She said nothing of it, thankfully. I couldn’t help it! You try hugging and kissing a girl as wonderful and beautiful as Norrah and not become erect. After the kiss she rested her head on my shoulder and we swayed slowly, rhythmically. I rubbed her lower back, smelled her hair which was so pleasingly fragrant. Damn those missing twenty-three. How selfish, I know, but it always remained in my conscious mind, that this was happening because of them.
“I hope this never ends,” I said to her.
“It won’t. Unless you pull the plug on it.”
“Never.”
The subsequent waltz was a short one. Following it was the first of a series of orchestral compositions. Not the kin
d of stuff made to dance to. We stepped to the couch and took a seat, our knees touching, and got to kissing once again. It got to the point that I thought we might end up in her bedroom. I wanted to, that’s for damned sure. My hand was getting a little exploratory, went under the skirt of her dress and crept mid-thigh. She allowed it. My heart was pounding.
The music entered a kind of quiet phase, where it was just a few violinists playing softly. The music was somewhat soft to begin with, so the room was fairly quiet when the music downstairs came on abruptly. All at once there was a Green Day song, Welcome to Paradise, playing on the basement stereo. It was loud enough that Norrah and I both flinched; she gasped. We met eyes, wide eyes. That was nothing compared to the look she gave me when we heard laughter downstairs. Fucking laughter! We sprang off the couch together and dashed to the closed hatch of the downstairs portal. She was first to arrive, gripped the metal ring and flung the hatch open in full. The loud music got louder, the laughter more pronounced. She flew down the stairs with myself just inches behind her. It was a good thing I was close to her, because when she reached the bottom step she lost consciousness; I caught her as she fell. The sight of twenty-three revelers was more than she could handle.
