by L. B. Dunbar
“Definitely.” I tried to smile.
“Ready to go, Sara?” Dad asked my mum.
“Almost,” she said softly, with a smile at me, as she rubbed her hand over my stubbly cheek before following her husband out the double glass doors.
Take 10
Under the Moonlight
I cursed myself as I exited the State Theater an hour later. By not going with my parents, I didn’t have much else to do. By missing Britton, I didn’t know how to find her to have something to do. Another young director caught up to me on the street corner, waiting for the light.
“Are you going to Christopher Beckman’s home tonight?”
I glanced at the other director, uncertain at first that he was speaking to me, and searching for a name tag to recall his name.
“Uhm…I don’t think so. Should I know him?”
“He’s a sponsor of the festival and he invited several of the directors to his home on the lake for a party this evening.”
I felt my brain searching. Why did that name sound familiar? I couldn’t place it.
“I don’t think I was invited.”
We crossed the street together.
“Oh, it’s an open invitation. He throws the party as a thank you for all the directors and movie supporters who came in from out of town. There are only so many times you can eat in the local restaurants or the bar.” The man laughed.
“Brett Cummings,” he extended his hand.
“Gavin Scott.”
“I know who you are. You’re dating Zoe Steinmann, daughter to the movie mogul finance man, Zeke Steinmann.”
I internally groaned. I didn’t want to be known for Zoe. I wanted to be known for myself.
“Uh, yeah.” I started to pick up the pace as if I had somewhere to be. “Look, I’m meeting someone. It was nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you again this week.”
“Sure, sure.” Brett slowed his pace. “Well, if you change your mind, the party is on Leelanau Peninsula. I heard you can’t miss the house. It’s huge.”
The Peninsula was on the west side of the Grand Traverse Bay, where the Lake Michigan waters cut into a corner of the state. Elk Rapids was on the east side of the bay along with a dozen other small towns, and Traverse City was the cornerstone at the bend in the shoreline. The Peninsula stretched north on the west side. Gaining popularity for its Michigan vineyards and seasonal wines, Leelanau was a pretty space of Michigan to travel, visit, shop, and sample wine. I had another image of a sunny day on a random stop riding up the highway around Leelanau.
Scene: The Roadside
She was seventeen; I was nineteen.
We were too young to legally drink alcohol, so visiting the vineyards for wine tasting was out of the question. However, that didn’t stop me from obtaining a bottle of the local favorite and deciding to take Britton on a picnic. We drove up the coast of Leelanau Peninsula with no particular plans other than to be together.
I had packed a lunch of sandwiches and fruit with cookies that I knew Britton loved. When we found a stretch of abandoned land on the side of the road, we parked in a grassy area and walked closer to the water. The space looked like an unofficial road stop as a semi-circular gravel drive cut into the land and a picnic table was bolted to a piece of cement. We didn’t need the table, and I walked us off to the grassy area on the side.
I spread a blanket and we sat to eat. Being with Britton was easy going. She wasn’t fussy about her clothes or her hair like some girls, although she looked beautiful in anything to me. She listened to what I had to say about films, and I listened to her about her dreams of college. Britton wanted to be a teacher and she adored children. I hadn’t ever seen her around little kids, but I knew her demeanor would be perfect. She said it was all she ever knew she wanted to do. I liked her confidence and her determination. She hadn’t had an easy upbringing and visiting her uncle’s home was a slice of heaven for her. We laughed often and were comfortable with silence as well.
I poured the wine and we lay down in the warm sun. We continued to drink and soak up the heat, but it was the sexual tension that was growing hotter. I could hardly be around her without touching her in some way. Playing with her hair, holding her hand, stroking her skin. As I lay on my back, and she lay on her stomach next to me, I felt my excitement building. I rolled toward her and we kissed. Her lips were the sweetest I had ever tasted, and I had tasted other lips. I slid my hand up her tan legs to the edge of her white mini-skirt that I had been admiring throughout our car ride. Britton moved her legs slightly apart, which pushed the skirt up higher and gave me easier access.
Although we pressed up against each other, and ground into each other, I hadn’t touched her like that yet this summer. My fingers slid up under the hem, and gently raked on the inside of her thigh. I felt her tilt her hips slightly upward and she made a sound in the back of her throat. This gave me the encouragement I needed and I moved my hand further up her legs. I gently stroked the outside of her underwear to find it damp. My own excitement was solid stiffness, and when Britton made that sound again, I slid my finger under her panties to touch her wetness.
It was my turn to moan into her mouth now as our kissing deepened. I rubbed a finger through her slickness. Her hips flexed upward again and I slid a finger inside her easily. Britton groaned and pulled back from our kissing. She stared into my eyes.
“Gavin,” she said breathlessly. I prayed she wouldn’t tell me to stop.
I continued to touch her and stroke her, and she moved her hips gently with the rhythm of my fingers. If it weren’t for the broad daylight, and the fact we were on a patch of grass on the side of the road, I would have striped her of that skirt and her panties. I wanted at her and my own excitement was building to burst.
“Gavin,” she groaned and tilted her head back. I could feel her clenching around my finger and I slid another inside her. I leaned forward to kiss her again and began to work her faster, matching the rhythm of my kissing to the intensity of my fingers. An image of me thrusting between her legs was forming in my head, and I felt my erection pulse further. I was going to explode without touching her other than with my fingers.
“Gavin,” she whispered, and I felt her still. She tensed for a moment and then relaxed under my hand. I was so solid. I needed her.
Her bright eyes were dazed as she looked up at me.
“Let me take care of you now,” she said as she pushed me gently onto my back. She was still shifting her legs back and forth to continue the friction. She parted them to straddle one of mine when a car drove up and parked at the roadside stop.
Britton froze for a moment and swiftly sat up. She tried to pull her skirt down, but it would only go so far. I sat up abruptly and looked over my shoulder as a big burly man stepped from a beat-up car to stretch.
I turned back to Britton and ran a hand down my face in an attempt to cool down.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be.”
“You’re driving me crazy, Gavin.” She smiled at me and slid strands of loose hair behind her ear.
“Me? I’m the one that’s had a hard-on since Monday. And it’s Thursday.” The laughter caught in my throat. I actually wasn’t kidding.
Britton giggled and stood to pick up our picnic. The moment was over.
* * *
As I walked to the shuttle stop, I replayed that embarrassing moment and remembered that I had to take care of myself later that night. It was easy, though, as I thought of her moans, her movements, and her wetness.
I was vaguely remembering an old white mansion set off on a hill that we drove past and Britton admired. I wondered briefly if the house was still there as I recalled Brett’s words – a house you couldn’t miss. It had to be the same house.
I waited for the shuttle to my hotel and the images of Britton throughout the day flipped through my mind like still snapshots. When I was a kid I would take a book and draw a character, or an image, at the bottom of the page.
When I flipped the pages with my thumb, gently spreading the pages, the image would move as the pages slipped rapidly. This same idea was shifting the still images of Britton in my mind where I flashed over the man in the bookstore. Shaking hands. I stopped and tried to rewind. I flipped again the photographs in my head.
Christopher Beckman was the man in the bookstore. The same man who was hosting a party for the directors. The same man who happened to know Britton this morning. I shifted gears and ran back up the street, hoping to find Brett Cummings.
Luck was on my side for meeting number three after all, I thought. Brett was still in the same location talking to another director when I approached to say I’d changed my mind. I wanted to attend the party and was hoping I could catch a ride with my new acquaintance. If this house was where I thought, and the man was whom I thought, I just might find Britton again.
Take 11
Under the Moonlight
Of course, other thoughts rushed through my mind as Brett drove us north up the peninsula. What if Britton was married to this man? What if she lived in this house? What if her son was this man’s son? This meant she had a husband, money, and a child I’d already seen her with. I was on a goose chase. For what?
I didn’t have any answers. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, or looking for, or hoping for. I only knew I had to see her again. I reassured myself that I only wanted to talk to her. I wanted to know more about her life over the past seven years. I wanted to know that things had worked out for her as she had planned, like they were working out for me.
When Brett Cummings pulled into the drive, I instantly knew the house, but I had missed the roadside stop as we drove in the growing darkness. My mind had been too weighed down with questions, imaginations, and reassurances. The driveway was full of cars, many of which were rentals, and I stood a moment to admire the home.
All the lights were on, flooding the outside with welcome. It would have been the perfect place to film a movie. It was a striking colonial style home with a large layout and numerous windows. I imagined it was well balanced inside and I wasn’t disappointed. A staircase met the front hall with a living room to the left and a dining room to the right. An expansive modernized kitchen was beyond the dining area connecting to a large family room. Even larger was the elaborate garden on the other side of the double French doors of the family room, and this area held the largest concentration of party-goers. A large stone patio was surrounded by a low, stone wall. A terraced garden was beyond filled with flowers and shrubbery. The view of the lake wasn’t possible on this side of the house, but the view of the garden in the fading light was spectacular. The structure blocked any wind from the bay. It was when I walked to the side of the home, and saw a giant gazebo, that I completed the picturesque location of the house.
The fading sunlight reflected off the lake water in beautiful colors of light pink, fading purple, and soft yellow. There was nothing to hinder the scene from the white circular setting of the gazebo, and I took a moment to breath it all in. Across the bay was a hazy line of green, and I knew my hometown sat on the opposite coast.
I grabbed a glass of wine as I returned to the patio and casually scanned the crowd, searching for Britton. I was beginning to imagine her present and I tapped a blonde haired woman once, thinking it was her from behind. I apologized for the misunderstanding and immediately was involved in a detailed conversation that I realized was quickly turning into a come-on. I wasn’t able to return the woman’s advances because of Britton. I meant Zoe. I was faithful to Zoe.
The craziness of the moment hit me again. What was I doing? I was searching for someone I hadn’t seen in seven years. Someone I had lost contact with and had moved on from. We both had moved on. Our relationship wasn’t built on staying in contact; it was built on summer. I finished the rest of my wine, realizing I was stuck at this home, as my ride had been a practical stranger.
I made my way back into the kitchen and saw the host looking for something in the refrigerator. I took a better look at this gentleman and realized he was older, maybe early forties. He was dressed stylish enough, but there was something about his hair. It was too styled. Too perfect. His tan was also too dark, and he had a sweater tied casually around his shoulders. I suddenly had a thought that the man might be a cheesy-mindless-ass-kisser or…
“Gavin Scott?” The man looked at me as I continued to assess him.
“Christopher Beckman?” I hesitated.
“That’s me.”
“I just wanted to say thank you for hosting this party. You have an amazing home. It would be perfect for filming a movie.”
The man’s face lit up immediately and he smiled broadly.
“You think?”
I noticed his teeth were too white. The man was too pretty.
“I’d love to show you around. Follow me.”
He turned to walk toward the dining room and something struck me. It was the way he said follow me that put me on edge. I wasn’t opposed to men being gay, but I had been hit on enough to know that I didn’t appreciate it either. I always assumed it was a California thing: the assumption that any other man might be gay as well.
“Uhm. Actually I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“This morning in the bookstore, you were talking with a girl. Do you know her?”
Christopher looked at me skeptically.
“What girl?”
“Britton. Britton McKay. Don’t you know her?”
“Britton? Britton?” He was definitely thinking. “Does she work there?”
“I don’t know. You called her by name. I was hoping you knew, but it seems you aren’t really certain.”
“Sorry.”
“Long blonde hair, blue eyes. Nice body,” I tried again.
“Uhmm…I don’t know,” the other man replied.
If I ever felt like screaming in frustration, it was now.
“Never mind.”
Christopher snapped his fingers. “Persuasion.”
“Pardon me?”
“She was reading Persuasion by Jane Austen. Blonde hair. Yes, we were having a discussion about second chances and she went to find the book for me.”
“So she works there?”
“I can’t say as I know. She was so friendly when I approached her that I assumed she did, but I don’t know. She could have just been a Good Samaritan and helped me find the book. I don’t recall a name tag.”
“How did you know her name then?” I was growing defensive.
“She told me,” he replied, looking at me as if to say Well, duh? Idiot.
I was definitely frustrated now, and I had no further questions. It was clear Britton was not at the party and would not be attending. I ran a hand through my thick hair and held the back of my neck for a moment. I am an idiot, I thought.
“So, tour of the place?” Christopher questioned.
“Sure. Why not,” I gave in.
It was well after midnight when I got a ride back to my hotel from another director staying at the Baycove Resort. As I crossed the lobby, the desk clerk recognized me and said she had a message for me. It was strange to receive a message when all calls could be sent to the room. The scribbled note said: Call Zoe. Urgent. I immediately felt guilty. I hadn’t thought of Zoe all day except for when I realized that I was an idiot, chasing after an old summer love who obviously couldn’t be found. If I hadn’t talked to her, I would have thought I imagined her. Didn’t that happen in the movies?
I took the stairs to my room despite my tiredness, and hit the contact for Zoe on my phone. I knew it wasn’t urgent, but I couldn’t ignore the call altogether. I hadn’t returned her call from yesterday and hadn’t contacted her today. I wasn’t sure I could handle Zoe right now, although it would be a good reminder that I was in a relationship. A relationship with a beautiful, rich, social woman.
“Gavie, honey, where have you been?” Her voice was slurred.
A relationship wit
h a drunken woman.
“I’ve had a busy day. I saw the most amazing films and was on a discussion panel, and…”
“Wait, just a sec,” she whispered, then said, “Gavie, speak up. It’s so loud in here.”
I realized that Zoe wasn’t talking to me at first and then I noticed the loud bass of music in the background for only a brief moment.
“Where are you?”
“21.”
“Why is it quiet?”
“I’m in the hallway.”
“Doing what?” I was immediately suspicious. I knew this club. If she was in the hall, someone either entered to allow music through the door or exited it to the main club.
“Who are you with?” I demanded.
“Oh, just friends.” I heard a rustling through the phone.
I knew Zoe had a large selection of “friends”, and I was familiar with most of them. I didn’t recognize them all, and something seemed off in her voice and the background silence. The hallway leading to the restrooms still blared with the heart-thumping sounds of the dance floor, but other hallways, I was sure, lead to private places. Exclusive, restricted places. Shit.
“Who specifically?” I felt the anger creep into my voice.
“No one you know. Look, honey. I need to go. People are waiting for me. I’m glad you had a good day. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
Kissing noises echoed into the phone and she hung up without a good-bye. I sank onto the bed. I wanted to trust her, but I knew I couldn’t. She loved to party and that often led to the potential of harsher drugs and stranger men. The first time she cheated, it was with someone I didn’t know; a stranger in a bar who had something too good for her to pass on. The second time she cheated, it was with someone who I thought was my friend, but had been friends with Zoe longer. It was more of an affair, but we worked through it. However, I wasn’t ready to commit to marriage with Zoe after that, although she swore that would make her faithful. We had moved in together instead, but I still kept my small loft apartment in LA for late night meetings. Malibu was, well, what the movies portray it as: glitz and glamour. And growing old to me.
