He turned toward the tall mirror and leaned against the door. Then he slid down onto the floor and opened the book.
“Let’s see…” he said, flipping through the pages.
“You’ll have to speak up until I turn off the water.”
He chuckled as he finally located the page.
The portly bartender smiled-
“Louder please, Edward,” Brooksie called.
He rolled his eyes, grateful that she couldn’t see him through the door.
The portly bartender smiled at Spencer as he approached the bar. Spencer placed a five-dollar bill on the bar and asked for a glass of lemonade as he scanned the room.
“You lookin’ for someone?” the bartender asked, setting a mug up on the counter.
“I was told I could sometimes find Francesca Bride here,” Spencer said.
“Yeah, but I think she’s indisposed at the moment,” he said, “I think she had a bit too much and she’s already in the ladies room.”
Spencer frowned as he sat down at the bar. The bartender poured the drink into his mug and then dropped in a lemon – perhaps for decoration.
“Is she a friend of yours?” he asked.
“Sort of, but I doubt she remembers me,” Spencer said.
“I doubt she remembers any man after she tramples them,” he chuckled before realizing Spencer wasn’t smiling.
“Does that piano work?” Spencer asked, waving his hand toward two men playing pool.
“Sure does. Do you play?” he asked.
Spencer stared at the cool mug of lemonade in front of him. Then he slowly nodded.
“Play me a song, pretty boy,” a woman said from beside him.
The drunken, haggard woman sidling up beside him brought on a desire to leave all of a sudden. He didn’t want to be found hanging around a bunch of drunks inside of a smoky bar. He was here to not only find Francie, but to do the Lord’s work. This wasn’t the place for a Christian man.
“I don’t know very many songs of this era,” he mumbled.
“Then buy me a drink and play me something classical,” she said; her breath too close and suddenly smelling a bit like rancid food and alcohol.
He examined the lady closer and recognized a slight hint of Broken Franciehidden behind that scowl and furrowed brow. The long, salt and pepper hair resembled nothing of the photographs Bonnie Marie showed him.
“Francesca Bride?” he asked.
“Do I know you?” she asked, taken aback, “I’m sure I wouldn’t forget a face like yours.”
“Wow, you are the woman behind the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.
“And you are a man after my own heart. I’m always fond of a young man that doesn’t recognize an ugly painting when he sees it.”
“Ugly? You’ve got to be kidding. Whoever filled your head with those lies needs to be shot. The Mona Lisa couldn’t even compare to Broken Francie,” Spencer said.
“You’re as crazy as that painter,” she said with a raspy laugh, “Poor fella.”
He shook his head and continued to smile at her. The bartender chuckled as he bumped Spencer on the shoulder.
“Go play us a song. Play Francesca a song,” he said.
Spencer looked around and realized that all the bar patrons were watching him. He turned to Francesca and took her surprisingly rugged hand in his. He was also amazed to note how short she was. He somehow imagined her to be much taller. The wrought iron gate in the painting must have been a fairly low gate.
“Only if you’ll lend me your ear and tell me about yourself,” he replied.
“Only if you buy me a drink.”
“The bartender has my money,” he said, turning to the bartender, “Sir, use my change for this fine portrait and get her whatever she wants.”
It didn’t seem right to be buying alcoholic beverages for Francesca, but he needed to find a way to get her to open up. If he immediately harped on her for drinking, he may end up being pushed away.
He rose off the barstool and headed over to the piano. He only had a few songs committed to memory and most of them were either hymns or rag tunes. But then, there was the song he had composed called Broken Francie. If he played that, he would have to refrain from singing it or she would really think he was messed up. He sat down at the bench and then tapped a few keys.
“You probably haven’t heard of this song before, but I like it because it reminds me of someone I once had a fierce crush on,” he said, surprised to see Francesca squeeze beside him on the bench.
With that, he played Broken Francie for Francesca Bride.
He turned to her as he played those last two lines. In his mind, he sang those words he wrote for her – “The world just wants to love you, yet you push them away”. Her eyes were on his and just for a moment, he caught a hint of worry in those eyes.
“Who was she?” Francesca asked.
He looked down at the piano keys in front of him.
“A beautiful lady who never wanted to be loved. She never respected herself and was never content with anything. Worst of all, she didn’t believe in love,” he replied.
“And she tossed you aside like a useless rag?” she asked.
How could Francesca not see herself in his own words? Was she that blind?
“Yeah,” he replied, “Do you like the song?”
“It was beautiful, but I don’t think it’s a good song to dance to.”
“Well, I don’t know a lot of fast songs. I guess I’m just a slow-dance kind of guy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
He looked over at her and realized that she had somehow already latched onto him, though he knew it would be temporary. For now, she would only be seeing him as a potential customer or a potential fling – but definitely not a potential relationship. One of her lifelong heartbreaking habits was to never stay with someone for very long – no matter how she felt about that person. His belief however that she would be an easy person to connect with was correct. He started to stand up before she quickly pushed him back down onto the bench.
“Play me something slow and sad.”
“I thought I just did.”
She stared at him with those demanding eyes. He thought for a moment and then decided to play his favorite love song. He wouldn’t sing it to herjust yet, but he could at least play it for the moment. He slowly trickled out the sweet hymn of “As the Deer”. She swayed beside him as he played the worship song. When he was finished, she seemed to relax beside him.
“That was really beautiful. Was it a love song?” she asked.
“Yes, a passionate love song actually,” he replied, “You owe me some stories. I want to know everything about my favorite painting.”
“All I did was stand there for two hours. Not much to say,” she replied, “Maybe you should talk to the painter.”
“It was the subject that caught my eye – not the painter,” he said, putting an arm around her.
“Let’s go get us a booth, Mr…”
“Rice,” he offered, surprised that he had not introduced himself, “Spencer Rice.”
“I think she would have been a bit old for him,” Eddie said, “Wouldn’t she be about fifteen years older than him at this point?”
“Why should that matter? What if I was fifteen years older than you?” she asked.
“But even fifteen years from now, you would still be beautiful. Francesca sounds all rugged, worn, and haggard.”
“Well, between a lifetime of alcohol and prostitution, I guess she would look a lot older than she truly was. Anyway, you may continue, my reading servant.”
“Servant?” he asked with a laugh.
“Servant… slave… what does a title really matter?”
He laughed and then continued.
While the clock swiped away two more hours, Francesca sipped martinis and regaled Spencer with many behind-the-scenes stories of New York City. He laughed at her witticisms and offered his condolences
over her losses. He was amazed at how she smoothly danced around the details of her real life job. Despite the stories he heard from her niece, she still managed to surprise him with a few of her stories.
“So why aren’t we talking about you?” she asked, slurring a few of the words.
“I’m just your average guy wandering aimlessly through New York,” he replied, “Not much to tell from here.”
“Aimlessly? I think not,” she said, “How does my #1 fan ‘aimlessly’ walk into the bar I happen to be in?”
“Well, maybe I was aimless a couple days ago,” he said with a shy smile.
She stared at him across the table. Her drunken gaze seemed to pierce him.
“My apartment is just down the way. I feel a little tipsy and could use a sturdy gentleman to escort me home,” she slurred.
“I’d be honored to escort you to your apartment before heading home myself,” he stated.
She stood up and almost fell over. Spencer quickly latched onto her arm and walked her to the door.
“I’ll bet you’ve got a sweetheart waiting for you at home right now,” she said, pointing to the left, “My apartment is this way.”
“You could say that, I suppose,” he replied.
“All the good ones are taken,” she grumbled.
“No, it’s not that kind of sweetheart.”
“So then you’re free to come up to my apartment?” she blatantly asked.
Spencer’s heart was breaking all over again. Where was that sad, shining star from that painting?
“I can walk you to your door, Francesca, but as a gentleman who thinks very highly of you, I could never take advantage of your… your altered state of being,” he replied.
She laughed, turning to the lobby door of the apartment building.
“You are a man of careful words, but let me tell you – I never have regrets,” she said.
Another portion of his heart broke off and fell to the floor. He walked her to the elevator where she punched the call button.
“Imagine for a moment that you finally met the man of your dreams and learned how wonderful of a person he really was,” he said, “Could you imagine how careful you would be around him?”
“Careful? I’d attack him the moment he stepped in my door,” she said with a drunken laugh, “No regrets, Spencer.”
Even Jesus wouldn’t be able to sweep up all the broken shards of his heart. How did someone not give up on this woman? He was already thinking of doing just that. The elevator arrived. He slid the gate opened and then followed her inside.
“Well, I finally met the woman who danced in my dreams and I want something more than a roll in the hay,” he said, forcing out a chuckle.
She nodded and then turned the lever to the #4 position. The gates to the elevator closed and the elevator progressed upward.
“Your image of me is really skewed. I’m the most disgusting excuse for a human being on the face of the earth. You need to see me for who I really am. Do you know what I see when I look at you?” she asked, turning to look up at him.
“Please don’t tell me,” he whispered.
“I see a stupid sap who doesn’t realize the difference between fiction and reality. You’re very handsome and well built – I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t change how I see you,” she said, “No offense.”
“No offense?” he repeated with a laugh.
“Do you think I was happy as I posed for that picture? Do you have any idea how much I wanted that painter to leave? He thought he loved me – did you know that?” she asked, “That man was a lot like you. I offered whatever he wanted, but he didn’t want what I offered. He thought there was a lovable person hidden inside. I’m not that woman you created in your mind. I’m not that respectable woman that demands kid gloves.”
With that, she grabbed his shirt in her fist and pulled his face down to hers.
“I can read you like a book and I think it upsets you. Don’t respect me, Spencer,” she said before smashing her mouth sloppily to his.
Her drunken kiss was nothing like those dark, full lips from the painting had suggested. Her teeth scraped against his as she forcefully kissed him hilariously. Perhaps she was trying to reenact a romantic scene from Romeo and Juliet, but in her drunken stupor, it was more reminiscent of a scene from a Shakespearean comedy.
Spencer wanted to reject her for a moment, but then he fearfully pondered the repercussions. He drew his hand behind her head and then attempted to slow down the kiss. She followed his lead and allowed him to give the kiss a slow, yet falsely passionate end.
“Francesca, you can’t stop me from respecting you because I have a problem that I didn’t tell you about,” he said as she slid the elevator gate open.
She opened her eyes wide and looked up at him.
“You’re missing… parts?” she asked.
“No!” he said, guiding her out of the elevator, “Which apartment is yours?”
She pointed to the one labeled 401.
“First door,” she replied, pushing it open without using a key.
She tugged him by the hand, drawing him into the apartment.
“Now tell me why you absolutely must respect Francesca Bride,” she said, dropping onto the large sofa with her legs sprawled immodestly.
“Have you ever felt that…” he started, “Maybe we should talk about this in the morning when you’re sober.”
“Talk um-bout wha?” she mumbled.
Her eyes were closed as she lay slain on the sofa.
“Francesca?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you fine to go to sleep?”
“Mmm.”
“You look comfortable, so I’m going to-”
“No,” she muttered, “You can respect me. Iz Okay.”
“You don’t want me to leave?”
“Take m’bed an’ I’ll sleep here,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes closed and looking slain, “Peez don’t lee.”
He watched her for a moment and then cautiously made his way into her bedroom. He knelt next to the bed and prayed for several minutes.
“And you said that you’re not a good reader!” Brooksie said, “You do a wonderful drunk person.”
“Hey, now you’re the one interrupting the story,” he said.
“Very well – continue,” she said.
Chapter 5
Spencer awoke to the feel of a blanket being tugged from his grasp. He opened his eyes to discover the haggard Francie standing beside the bed. She was tugging the sheets off from beneath him.
“Good morning, Francie,” he mumbled.
“I was up for almost an hour before I discovered you in my bed,” she said, “And I tried to remember how that happened. I remember you walking me to the apartment and then I guess I passed out on the couch.”
“I was going to leave, but you asked me to stay,” he said, sitting up.
Just then, he realized that he was only wearing a pair of boxers. He had expected to get up long before the drunken woman on the sofa. He quickly grabbed the pillow and held it before him as he stood up.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said, tossing the sheets and the blanket into a pile, “Well, except for the gigantic cross tattoo on your back. That looks painful, but very nice.”
His brother had designed a beautiful cross made of twisted thorny branches. When he was done with the drawing, it was as large as a full sheet of paper. Spencer liked it so much, he brought the drawing to a tattoo artist on a whim and asked for it to be tattooed on his back. $20.00 later, he walked away with a permanent piece of artwork.
She walked over to him as he bent down to grab his slacks. He was facing away from her at the time. She ran her hand along the tattoo.
“Did it hurt?”
“The first hour was fine, but after that it started hurting. It took three hours,” he said, tugging his pants up.
She glided her hand down his back and eased it around his belly.
“You need to lea
ve,” she said.
“Yes,” inhaling suddenly as she hugged him from behind.
He could feel her breath on his bare back as her hands wrapped around his belly.
“Thank you, Spencer,” she said, keeping a hold of him.
“For what?”
“For leaving,” she said, “And… and for not saying what’s on your mind.”
“On my mind?” he asked, placing his hands on the arms wrapped around him.
“You’re just a kid and I know what you expected when you found me at the bar. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be-”
“Don’t you dare,” he said, twisting in her grasp so that she was facing him, “Do you know what I see when I look at you? You think you’re so smart when you were insulting me last night in the elevator. You tell me I’m a stupid sap and that you can read me like a book. Well, I’ll tell you what, Francesca – I can read you like a book.”
She stepped back and offered him a fearful stare.
“I see a woman who is so wrong. Do you even know how it feels to be right anymore? You’re wrong when you put yourself down. You’re wrong when you think people can’t love you. You’re wrong when you think people look down on you. You’re wrong when you look down on others. You’re wrong when you shut me out like you’re doing right now,” he said, grabbing a hold of her hands, “You’re thinking I’m just a stupid man who doesn’t know you at all.
“But this stupid man does know you too well. I see a woman who is afraid of being loved and appreciated for who she is. She’s so sure that everyone has an ulterior motive or a hidden agenda that she can’t see the truth. She’s so sure that people CAN’T love her, so she invents hidden thoughts in other people’s minds.
“My mind. You say you know what’s on my mind, Francesca? Do you?”
She pulled her hands from his and then shook her head. Her look of fear had now morphed into anger.
“You said you were leaving,” she said, “So please leave.”
Saving Brooksie Page 11
