Tiger Lily: Part One

by Amélie S. Duncan

  My mind wondered back to Jonas Crane. I had seen some photos of him online. He was handsome, to say the least. However, as my father used to say, “Appearance isn’t everything,” then again anyone I showed interest in he had something negative to say about, as if no one was good enough for me.

  Luckily, my mother and I weren’t as close-minded. We believed in things more important than solely discourse, like love, and understanding, kindness, and strength. That’s what I ultimately wanted, along with the fantasy of Prince Charming sweeping me away and caring for me. A husband to settle down with and raise a family. Definitely not modern, but my dream all the same.

  I finished my shopping with a stop at a corner shop for a two-for-one pack of sheer black nylons. Even though Arch paid well, I still held on to some of my college budget frugality. After all, I still had dreams to fund.

  I caught a glimpse of my hair in the checkout line and thought a visit to the salon might help. I pulled out my phone for an emergency call to Dee Angelo’s on 40th Street. Dee liked me well enough to give me his personal cellphone number. Dee’s salon was popular; not just because of the miracles he worked with hair, but also because he gives his clients so many compliments they leave feeling wonderful about themselves.

  Dee was the first person I had met in New York, aside from my ex-fiancé Declan and his friends, and we had developed a friendship over the years. Though we didn’t spend time with each other much outside of the salon, we did manage rare coffee breaks to catch up.

  Consequently, I had become Dee’s “little girl in the big bad city.” He took sympathy upon me as I blundered around. I routinely poured out my struggles and woes in life after college with him.

  Dee always said I was his top customer and to call him if I ever needed an emergency appointment. Therefore, for the first time ever, I decided to try to invoke my rights by placing a call to his personal cellphone. He answered on the second ring.

  “Dee Angelo’s.”

  “Dee, this is Lily. I need an emergency ‘hair esteem’ appointment today. Can you fit me in?”

  “For you, anything! But only if you can come now, sweetheart. I have a good fifty minutes between clients, if I skip my break. I’ll get Rachael to boot my next client. She’s always late anyway, re-schedules at the last minute, and never tips.”

  I laughed and sped up my pace. Dee always called it like he saw it, and didn’t care who heard him. “Thank you so much. I’m about six blocks, no, five blocks away. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Alright hon, see you soon.” He hung up.

  I ran off toward his salon, weaving myself between the people at the crosswalks, and made it to the mauve and black awning in less than five minutes. I pushed through the glass door and walked inside. The seats were full, as I expected on a Friday, but Rachael, the desk receptionist, waved me up to the counter. “Dee said to head on back.”

  I gave her a small wave. “Thank you.” I walked past the desk and into the salon area. The décor was modern in style, with built-in beauty stations of mahogany finishing, black leather, and leaded glass. My gaze fell on Dee standing by his station.

  Standing next to Dee, he was about four or five inches taller, bringing his height to around six feet. His slender frame was often covered in the latest trends‌—‌today skinny denim jeans and a v-neck print shirt‌—‌though he often said he wasn’t the one that followed the trends, he set them. His light green contacts and shoulder-length relaxed hair definitely stood out. And with his flawless honey brown skin, he was as exceptional as he defined himself to everyone.

  “Hello-hello, pretty lady,” Dee said and motioned for me to take the seat in his chair.

  I sat down and grinned. “You and Gregor are so complimentary today. You’ll both be to blame for my out of control ego.”

  “If only we could,” Dee said. He shook his head. “I’d think you were fishing for compliments, but I know you better than that.”

  Dee was right in a way, but I wouldn’t take either of their compliments to heart. I wasn’t bad looking. I had a heart-shaped face and what most would call a “button nose,” which I inherited from my mother as well as my long, black sleek hair and large deep-set silvery eyes. My lips, however, a little too wide and full, were from my father.

  I sat down in the leather seat. “Thanks for taking me on short notice.”

  “Well, let me get this long ass hair of yours tamed,” Dee said, removing my hair tie as he tut-tutted. “Why won’t you let me cut this?”

  I made eye contact with him in the mirror and glared. Dee had been cutting my hair bit by bit every time I visited, creeping it up to below my bra strap. He joked about Mia Farrow’s cut in Rosemary’s Baby a lot and I feared one day I would zone out and find all my hair on the floor. “Trim, Dee. I mean it. A trim.”

  “You could pull off a Mia Farrow,” Dee said on cue. “But keep on hiding behind your hair. Men will still find you.”

  I pursed my lips. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You frump around town, but men still see you. They still want you,” Dee said.

  I snorted. “A man that only wants me for a short skirt is a man not worth knowing.”

  Dee rolled his eyes back at me.

  “Men are visual, darling. Vis-u-al. Since days of old,” he said, “the girl with the best draped skin fur got the men to risk their lives to feed her. Give them something to attract and they will listen to your feminism.” He chuckled at himself.

  I focused on my hands and didn’t say anything. Teasing me about my clothing was Dee’s way, and he didn’t mean any harm. I had pretty much convinced him that it was to attract someone interested in my mind. But in truth, my body covering had started from my relationship with Declan, as to avoid being accused of trying to “pick-up” someone else, though he vocalized often his doubts in my ability to do as much. Declan occasionally added a bit of physical aggression for emphasis. However, that was the past, and I didn’t want to explain it now, so I drew from my old arguments. “If all he wants is a visual, then all he wants is sex.”

  Dee lifted his shoulders, “So? What’s wrong with sex?”

  I blushed and avoided the question. Nothing, when you’re getting it. “I came here for a boost, Dee.”

  He beamed. “When I’m through with you,” he continued, “even you won’t be able to doubt how gorgeous you are.” He wasn’t joking. He took my thick, straight hair and added large body wave curls. He threaded my eyebrows, and even did my make-up. Lifting the mirror when he finished, his face lit up and my heart squeezed.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  I could only stare. It was my mother’s face staring back at me.

  What would she say if she could see me now?

  My mind pulled up a flash of pictures drawn by her first grade class. They all featured her as a wing-clad angel, hovering over Marymount Elementary. No time for that now.

  I threaded my fingers together and stared at my skirt. “Thank you so much, Dee.”

  He bent down and gave me a hug. I, in turn, ended up holding on to him longer than was polite, but I didn’t care. I missed hugs and kisses. My parents used to kiss and hug me all day. Declan used this desire of mine for physical touch to his advantage most of our relationship. Often threatening to leave me at every turn if I didn’t conform to whatever he wanted of me. But that didn’t change a thing. I ended up alone anyway, missing the physical contact and connection. Truthfully, I’m starved for touch.

  “There, there, Lily girl. You’re good. I was only teasing you,” Dee said as he eased himself out of my arms. He winked at me. “You are beautiful. Now go out there and bring him to his knees.”

  My cheeks warmed. “No dirty talk.”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t go there, you did.”

  My cheeks heated up all the more. “Yeah. Thanks again, Dee.”

  I walked out of the salon and did one of my favorite things to do in the city, walk through the Time Square subway station. I need
ed the PATH train back to Jersey City anyway, but there was always something thrilling about going down to the underground subway to me. The sweltering heat and congestion, impromptu performances, and beautiful little children and families. There was always a new story to see there.

  When I stepped off the escalator at the entrance, the vibe was already abuzz with open guitar cases and the contorting limbs of artists scattered in my path. New York City. Nothing like it.

  This eclectic mix of people was one of the first things I admired about the city when my best friend Mary and I visited during spring break of our sophomore year. That was also when I met Declan. I stared off as that first encounter replayed in my mind.

  “Hey…‌give me your phone number, I wanna take you out anywhere you wanna go.”

  “I live in Boston, I’m on college break…‌I doubt you’ll call or remember. You’re drunk. My name’s Lily, by the way….”

  Declan hadn’t even asked for my name. Was he drunk? Drinking wasn’t his issue, at least not back then. He was true to his word, though. But oh! From that night on, Declan pursued me. He sent flowers, cards, and called every day because he “missed me,” He kept saying he wanted to fly me up for a dream date that would include front row seats for La Boehme at the Lincoln Center, followed by a romantic dinner at the five star River Café. His strength and determination captivated me.

  Declan, I sighed. I had been intrigued, seduced by his attention. He was my first love and lover. The one that stood up for me to my parents’ and brought me out from under them in Quincy. My parents meant well, but I was their only child. They had me later in life and were at times overprotective, keeping me close in their circle at home. Sure I made friends, but not without getting their stamp of approval. Declan didn’t follow their rules and didn’t come up for a meeting before I flew down for our date. It was the first time ever in my life I went against my parents’ wishes and returned to New York City to see him.

  Declan had assured me, no expectations when I agreed and came down for our date. My lack of experience with dating, and all that goes along with it, didn’t seem to bother him. He even offered me his spare room in his Chelsea apartment when I came to visit.

  During our show and dinner, he was respectful, though he left no doubts that he wanted me sexually. What surprised me was that he acted on impulse, something I had never experienced before. Sure, I dated through high school and even college, and I had gone as far as oral sex, but not intercourse. None of my partners had ever pushed beyond my boundaries. All respected and understood my desire to hold onto my virginity until marriage, something instilled in me in my upbringing. Something my mother did with my father and encouraged for me to do as well. And then there was Declan. He had no boundaries, just touched and caressed me. Admittedly, it thrilled me. So when we got back to his place that night and were making out, my conscience struggled as we grew closer to intercourse.

  “I don’t know you well enough. I don’t do casual sex,” I said to him.

  “I don’t think of you as casual sex,” he said, stroking my thigh.

  “I would only have sex if I am in a committed relationship. One that led to marriage.”

  “I want that, too. I know we just met, but, I want you to be my girlfriend. We can work it out. I swear. I would like a relationship with you. I can see a future with you.”

  That promise of a future was all it took, and I gave myself completely. My stomach lurched as bile rose in my throat. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. Now it seemed so false. Still, during those three years of our relationship, Declan was my champion; taking me into his world. Hell, he even drove to Boston back then to get me. He made me feel wanted, desired. Something even my parents couldn’t challenge.

  My mind returned to the subway, and as I walked on, the sound of someone playing a violin crossed my ears.

  The performance of the day struck my senses and awakened me from my stupor and place along the white tiled wall. Someone was playing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. My father held a great fondness for the piece and would often play it, though as a principal musician for the Boston Symphony, the viola was his passion.

  I peered through the crowded underground in pursuit of the source. Would my father have considered this performance overdone? He could be quite critical, but he placed the same critique upon himself. He was always striving and pushing me to work harder to try to achieve it.

  “Allegro vivacissimo,” the music is almost over. I had reached the golden winged train mural, taking in the beautiful art and music right in the midst of the roar and rushing people at the Time Square terminal coven. I joined the small crowd gathered around the young Asian male in a printed T-shirt, so entranced in the music he played before us.

  When he finished the piece, he immediately started to play “The Devil went Down to Georgia.” The music brought up more sentiments within me now, of my mother and her love for the Framingham’s Joe Val Bluegrass Festival. How she begged my snobbish father to play it for her, but he instead bought her a fiddle and taught her to play the song.

  Boy, did he regret it. She played the hell out of that song.

  My parents were opposites, but my father adored her. I had thought Declan adored me too, but he didn’t. While my parents had often questioned whether he was good enough for me, in the end, it was Declan who decided I wasn’t good enough for him. I fell head first into depression after their deaths and gained weight which was the deal breaker. He cushioned the blow by taking me to an upscale restaurant.

  “Yes. It’s not that I don’t love you. I do. And you tried to be less spoiled, and I appreciate that, but you were thin when I met you. Aren’t you embarrassed by how fat you are…?”

  My stomach churned as I took a few dollars out of my handbag and dropped them into the musician’s case. I next made my way downstairs to the 1, 2, 3 subway platform, where I needed to be to take the train down to Christopher Street and transfer to the PATH. My heart contracted as I queued and stepped onto the train, grasping tightly to the metal pole in the packed and cramped space by the sliding doors. No time for that now, I needed to prepare to go to the Waldorf Astoria and accidentally on purpose meet Jonas Crane.

  Chapter 3

  My makeup and hair survived with minimal damage after I got back to my place in Jersey City. However, I spent too much time in the city and found I had enough time to clean up and change into the black lingerie and lace flare skater dress I envisioned for the night.

  Gregor approved the use of Arch’s car service, so at least I didn’t have to worry about getting there. Balancing on my four-inch stilettos, I settled down inside of the Lincoln Town Car moments before the driver sped off towards the Holland Tunnel back to Manhattan. I rubbed my hands together to warm myself against the chill as the winter’s night had settled in and darkness had fallen over Jersey City. My apartment was only a short ride to the tunnel through the old brownstones, refurbished factories, and new high-rises. The traffic was mild along the two-lane roadway without much of a delay.

  Before I knew it, we were across the Hudson River and heading uptown to 49th and Park. My eyes fogged over as we rode through the bustling streets. The sounds of the horns and music blaring were muted, as they had become so familiar to me now. In my own way, I had grown into a Manhattanite just as much as my roommate. Still, when we arrived at the entrance of the massive stone and bronze illustrious landmark, The Astoria, my mouth dropped open. It was quite the sight.

  My heart pounded in my ears as the doorman opened my door. I forced my rigid body through the entrance of the building. During my almost two years in New York, I had never been to this celebrated magnum opus of Art Deco, but here I stood in the infamous Park Avenue lobby. I tried not to gawk as I strolled past the intricate Greco-Roman mosaic sphere in the marble flooring. The ornate moldings, grand crystal chandeliers, and Doric-styled columns interwoven with heavy draperies and potted palms. This place was legendary for its opulence. Idyllically, I entered its universe o
f wealth.

  While I hadn’t gone hungry growing up, we were middle class, at best. After my parents died, I was swiftly relegated to living lower class. My choice of clothing, courtesy of my roommate, afforded me comfort in the affluent environment, and I managed to not stare in awe at the murals, and walk confidently inside the softly lit lounge of Sir Harry’s.

  The sleek mahogany bar with porcelain snack bowls dotted along the top took up a prominent portion of the room, and thereby was the first thing I noticed upon entry. Searching for a place to stand or sit, I zeroed in on one of the empty Japanned leather bar stools, and briskly made my way to secure the seat before someone else. With luck, I captured the vacant seat and swiveled around. Eyeing the eclectic mix of patrons, I stared over the high-fashioned starlets, middle-aged tailored gentlemen, and nouveau-riche designer clad tourists and wondered where I fit in.

  Not sure, but I patted my back on arriving with ten minutes to spare before Jonas Crane was due to arrive. Jonas! It finally dawned on me I didn’t have a plan for approaching him. Knitting my brows, I tilted my head down and tried to focus on making an impromptu plan. What would be a good opener? Hello, yes. Jonas? Can I call you Jonas? I’m Lily Salomé from Arch Limited, and I’m your publishing house stalker, nice to meet you.

  Fidgeting and inward gazing didn’t mix. At least not when holding my satin handbag with sweaty palms. Unfortunately, this realization came too late and my bag took flight, sliding across the floor.

  Shit. I had barely made it inside the bar and hadn’t even ordered my first drink or eaten a pistachio nut without embarrassing myself. Straightening my shoulders and ignoring the burning of my cheeks, I lifted my chin and eased over in the direction of my bag, doing my best to pretend I was bored and didn’t care, or that I had maybe even purposely tossed it around. Spotting the bag, my insides winced at the polished leather shoes it had bounced against. I hastened my steps, but paused as a pair of large tanned hands with a golden ring on the left ring finger picked it up.