by Marie Sexton
“New York?” I asked in surprise as I looked at it. “Your house in the Hamptons?”
“Not this time, love.” He didn’t seem inclined to say more than that, and the lady at the counter was asking for our tickets and our IDs.
She checked Cole’s first. “Have a nice trip, Mr. Davenport,” she said as she handed it back to him.
I turned to look at him in surprise. He had his head down, and I knew by now that it was to keep me from seeing the blush on his cheeks. “‘Davenport’?”
“What about it?”
“Why did she call you that?”
“Because it’s my name!”
“I thought—”
“Good lord,” he snapped at me, “don’t make a fuss.” I realized then that the woman at the counter was watching us, listening to our conversation with a suspicious look on her face, and I decided to drop it. For the moment at least.
I finished checking my own bag and followed him through the security line, which was relatively short, to my surprise. I kept waiting for some type of explanation, but he was making a point of not looking at me.
“Cole,” I finally said in exasperation after we had made it to our gate and were sitting in the waiting area, “you’re really not going to tell me why she called you Mr. Davenport?”
He flipped his hair out of his eyes and gave me that look that meant I was being an idiot, and an annoying idiot to boot. “I did tell you. She called me that because that’s the name on my license.”
“I thought your last name was Fenton.”
He turned away from me again, letting his hair block his expression. “It is.”
“Are you intentionally being cryptic?”
“Are you intentionally being obtuse?”
“Fine,” I said, although I was fighting to keep from laughing.
“Don’t tell me.”
We sat in silence for a minute. Maybe two. Finally he sighed dramatically, and I turned to find him watching me warily. “My full name is Cole Nicholas Fenton Davenport the Third.”
I burst out laughing before I could help myself, but cut it short when I saw the obvious embarrassment on his face. “Umm…. Wow.”
“It’s terribly ostentatious, isn’t it?”
“It really is.”
“You can see why I don’t choose to introduce myself as such. It makes me feel pretentious.”
“It makes you sound pretentious.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “You’re not helping, love.”
They called for first class boarding, and I ignored it out of habit, but Cole stood up. I looked up at him in surprise. “Are you coming?” he asked.
“Are we flying first class?”
“Good lord, of course we are,” he said, and I had to hurry to gather my things and catch up with up him.
“I’ve never flown first class,” I admitted as we found our seats.
“I’ve never flown coach.”
He got a blanket down before he even sat down. He wrapped it around himself and curled into the window seat with his head against the wall, looking out at the tarmac. I suspected it was driving him crazy that he couldn’t take his shoes off. “Is everything okay?” I asked him.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “I warned you that I would be temperamental on this trip.”
“I don’t mind,” I told him. “I’m just not sure if I should try to cheer you up or leave you alone.”
“I’m not sure either, love. But I’m glad you’re here.”
The simple confession touched me. It was so unlike him to say anything genuine. I wished that we weren’t on an airplane with a line of people filing past us. I wished I could wrap my arms around him and make him smile. I settled for reaching over and putting my hand on his leg. He put his hand on top of it, allowing his fingers to tangle with mine. “I’m glad too,” I said.
The flight from Phoenix to New York took nearly six hours. He hardly spoke for the first half. I read a magazine and left him alone. We were three hours in when he asked suddenly, “What was your mother’s name?”
I turned to him in surprise, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was still looking out the window, and his bangs hid his expression from me.
“Why do you ask?”
He was silent for a bit, and I was starting to think he wasn’t going to answer. But finally he sighed and turned to look at me with wary eyes. “I’ve been reading the cards.” For half a second, I thought he was talking about some kind of fortune telling thing. But then I remembered the recipe box. I hadn’t thought about it since the day I gave it to him.
“Yes?” I prodded gently.
He looked so unsure of himself. It was unusual for him. He looked down at his lap, letting his hair hide his eyes from me again. “I feel like I know her,” he said softy. “I know it sounds silly, but I do. I know what she looked like, from the picture at your house. And I learned a great deal about her from the cards.”
“Like what?”
“I know that she loved garlic. I know that her favorite dessert was pumpkin bars, and she liked key lime pie, but she hated anything with coconut. I know that she took the green peppers out of every recipe—”
“Because I didn’t like them,” I said in surprise, but he kept talking as if I hadn’t spoken. “—and that she put sour cream and onion flavored potato chips on top of her tuna casserole. I know that she mixed cottage cheese into her goulash, and used half hamburger and half spicy Italian sausage for her meatballs, and that she never made pie crust from scratch. I know that she made beef stroganoff more than any other recipe—”
“It was good, too.”
“—and that she was allergic to shellfish. I know she didn’t like chicken enchiladas or green chili, but she loved cilantro, and I know that her favorite soup in the world was ham and beans.”
“You got all of that from a box of index cards?”
He turned away from me to hide his blush. “I could tell which ones she used by how worn the cards were. The ones that are clean were never used. The ones she used often are almost illegible. And she made notes.” It amazed me to learn that not only had he kept the recipe box, he had looked at it. And more than that, he had studied it. He had used it to piece together a picture of my mother that even I had never quite seen before. His voice, when he continued, was little more than a whisper. “I feel like I know her better than I know my own mother. The one thing I don’t know,” he had to pause for a moment then, “is her name.”
I reached over and took his hand, and although he didn’t look at me, he gripped my fingers tight. “It was Carol. Carol Elizabeth Kechter.”
“Carol,” he said quietly, almost like a prayer. And then he turned to me with a smile. “Thank you.”
WE GOT to New York and found a cab, and Cole named a hotel.
“We’re not staying at the Waldorf?” I asked him jokingly.
He didn’t even look at me. “We can, if you like.”
“Cole?” I waited for him to meet my gaze. “I was kidding.
Anywhere is fine.”
“The one I chose is on Broadway. It will make our trip to theater infinitely easier.”
“Broadway?” I asked, knowing that I sounded like an excited kid, but unable to contain myself. “Are we going to a show?”
“Did I not just say that, love?” he asked, but he smiled at me when he said it, if only a little. “Why else would I bring you to this godforsaken city?”
All I could do was laugh with joy. I reached across the cab and put my hand on the back of his neck and pulled him toward me. He didn’t push me away like he often did, but he didn’t exactly cooperate either. He stared resolutely straight ahead, and I ended up kissing his temple. “Thank you,” I told him.
“You’re welcome,” he said quietly, and I could tell my excitement cheered him up a little.
We got to the hotel and checked in. Over the years, I had stayed in hundreds of motel rooms, but none like this one. It was huge, with a giant window looking down at th
e lights of Broadway. The bed was deep and soft and wonderfully inviting after a long day of traveling.
“I can’t believe you brought me all the way to New York just to see a show,” I said to him, and he smiled.
“I hoped you would be pleased. I would have liked to take you to Paris, but it’s not very convenient for a weekend trip. I wanted it to be something that you would enjoy even if I was being terribly moody. ”
I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to upset him, but I finally asked, “Are you going to tell me why we’re here?”
He turned away from me, looking out the window. “Because,” he said, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear him, “tomorrow’s my birthday.”
And suddenly it all made sense—his comments about being terrible company but still wanting to have me with him. He had all the money in the world, but nobody to spend his own birthday with.
Nobody but me. I crossed over to him. He still had his back to me, and I wrapped my arms around him from behind. “Happy birthday,” I whispered in his ear.
He didn’t answer me with words, but for the first time ever, he truly relaxed in my arms. He seemed to sink into himself, and he leaned back against me with a sigh. It felt so natural and so perfect. It felt right. I put my face into his silky hair, breathing in that scent I loved so much.
“Would you rather go out to eat for your birthday, or should I order room service?”
“I don’t care, love. First, I’m going to shower.” He turned his head so he could look up at me. “Do you want to join me?”
We had never showered together before. It was one of those casual intimacies he seemed to avoid, and his sudden invitation surprised me. I was tempted for a moment, but there was something else I wanted to do more. “You go ahead,” I told him.
I called the concierge as soon as I heard the water turn on. She laughed but said she would take care of it. Then I called room service.
All that was left after that was to wait. I thought again of him in the shower, wondering if we would have enough time. I gave in, deciding to risk it, but just as I walked into the bathroom, the water turned off.
His shower must have been scorching hot, because the bathroom was thick with steam. It smelled like soap and strawberries, and I found it incredibly arousing. “You’re late,” he said jokingly as he stepped out of the tub. His skin was beaded with water. His light brown hair looked almost black, wet and stuck to his head.
“I changed my mind.”
He reached for a towel, and I stepped in front of them, blocking his access. I knew it was cruel. He was soaking wet and starting to get goose bumps. But I really didn’t want him to dry off yet. “Is there a reason you’re making me stand here freezing, love?” he asked.
“Yes.” I took his hand and pulled him toward me, and he came. I leaned close to him and gently kissed his neck, just below his ear, and he shivered. The water droplets on his skin tasted sweet on my tongue, and I wondered if it was my imagination that they tasted like strawberries. I followed their trail, kissing and licking down his neck to his collarbone, then along his collarbone to tiny pool of water in the hollow of his throat. I let my tongue caress him there, and he sighed and leaned back against the countertop behind him.
I moved lower, chasing water drops down his chest. I got on my knees and followed them over his stomach to his groin. Once there, I took the slender tip of his cock in my mouth, gripping his ass tight with both hands. I swirled my tongue around his head.
“Oh God,” he moaned. He grabbed the back of my head. His fingers knotted in my hair, and he pushed me further down his shaft. He held me there for a moment before starting to move. I let him lead, let him use his hand in my hair to guide me up and down. He moaned again, sort of a soft sigh. I loved the sounds he made as he got off.
My own erection was wedged painfully into my jeans, and I reached to unbutton them. In one quick movement, he pulled out of my mouth. He pulled hard on my hair so that I got to my feet, and he kissed me insistently. He let go of my hair, and he started to unbutton my pants. I put one arm around his waist, pulling his still-wet body close.
My other hand wrapped around his erection. He was breathing hard and moaning. His slender fingers slid into my pants and—
We both froze. “Good grief, what dreadful timing,” he said breathlessly, and I laughed at what an incredible understatement it was.
“Who could that be?”
“That,” I said as I disengaged myself from him and started to button my pants back up over my erection, “is probably our dinner.” I answered the door with my clothes half-wet and sticking to my body and an embarrassing bulge in my pants, but the room service guy was either oblivious or used to it. He had the item I had requested from the concierge, and I gave him a generous tip. He was gone by the time Cole came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist.
“What did you order?” he asked.
“Hamburgers.”
He smiled. “And the wine?”
I took it out of the bucket and handed it to him. His cheeks turned crimson, but he smiled. It was a bottle of Arbor Mist Blackberry Merlot, and given that I had to pay extra for somebody to run out and buy it, it was probably the most expensive five-dollar bottle of wine ever.
“It’s a red,” he said mockingly. “Why on earth is it on ice?”
“They probably figured anyone who drinks this stuff doesn’t know enough about wine to know the difference.”
“Probably.” He stepped up to me and put one arm around my waist. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said as I kissed him. “After we eat, I’ll finish giving you your real present.”
We ate dinner and drank his cheap wine, and then finished what we had started after his shower. And like always, when it was over, he moved to the other side of the bed, not touching me, and turned out the light.
I was just drifting off to sleep when I felt the featherlight touch of his fingertips on my wrist. It was something he had never done before, and it made me smile. I opened my eyes. It was dark in the room, and he was nothing more than still shadow across from me. His fingers came to a stop, lightly resting on the back of my hand. I turned it over, thinking I would hold his hand, but when I moved, he pulled quickly away.
Was it possible that he hadn’t meant for me to know? Had he assumed I was asleep? It made my heart ache that he was so determined to keep these walls between us when neither of us wanted them. How many nights had I lay sleeping while he secretly reached out to me in the dark?
I slid my hand slowly across to him and gripped his slender fingers. I tried to pull him toward me. He resisted, pulling against me.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the contact had been accidental. Or maybe he just wasn’t ready to allow anything more. I pulled again, to no avail.
I tried to swallow disappointment. I should have known better than to try. It wasn’t his idea, so of course he was resistant. I was about to let go of his hand when suddenly, to my surprise, the resistance stopped. I hesitated, unsure if I should try again or not. Finally, I pulled one more time, just barely. And with a quiet sigh he slid across that expanse of clean white sheets and into my arms.
His face was against my neck, one arm around my waist. Our legs tangled together. I tried to ignore the lightness in my chest, the quiet racing of my pulse. I told myself there was no lump in my throat. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t either. I wrapped my arms around him, buried my face in his soft hair, and held him tight.
BY THE time I woke the next morning, he had moved away from me again. I kissed the back of his head as I got out of bed and headed for the shower. Although it was early based on Arizona time, in New York it was much later than I usually woke, and I decided to let myself slack on the jogging today.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I found him awake. He was standing at the window wearing only his briefs, looking down at the busy street below.
“Doesn’t your mother live in Manhattan?” I asked as I pulled
on my own briefs.
“Yes,” he said quietly, not looking at me.
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. I walked over to stand next to him and saw the wary way he looked at me out of the corner of his eyes. “Are we going to see her while we’re here?”
He didn’t answer me—just continued staring resolutely out the window. The curtains were open, but the sheers were closed. He found the opening in the center of them and tangled his slender fingers into the fabric. He leaned his forehead against the smooth glass of the window, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes, and pulled the sheer fabric around him, so that it was between us.
“Are you going to call her?”
He didn’t look at me. The soft sunlight through window and the thin fabric made glowing patterns on his caramel skin.
“Cole?” I prodded gently.
He sighed in exasperation, although I was pretty sure it was feigned. “I already did, darling.”
“And?”
“I’m afraid she’s terribly busy. She doesn’t have time to meet with us.”
She was busy? Too busy to see her only son on his birthday?
“Has she remarried?”
“No.”
“And she doesn’t work?”
“Of course not.”
“So,” I said, knowing that I should probably shut up, but unable to make myself do it, “what exactly is it that has her so busy?”
It took him a second to answer me, but he said quietly, “I’m sure I don’t know, darling.”
“She doesn’t even have time for lunch?”
“Apparently not.”
The quiet resignation in his voice was painful to hear, and I regretted having pushed him so far. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
He let go of the curtain, letting it fall back to the window. “Please don’t feel sorry for me.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “It’s all terribly cliché, isn’t it? ‘Poor little rich boy’.” He pulled away from the window a little, although he still didn’t turn toward me. I could see him only in profile, and his hair still blocked his eyes from my sight. His voice was quieter, different than normal in some way I couldn’t quite pinpoint. “Everything about me is a cliché.”
