Twelve Nights

by Remy, Carole

  If the young women had been glanced at before in the airport, now the looks became stares. A little girl stopped in front of them and cried, “Look, Mommy! Big twins!” Angela laughed and patted the child on the head. Aggie turned her head and hurried past.

  “I don’t like this attention,” she whispered fiercely to her sister.

  “We deserve it, Boo,” Angela lifted her chin. “Stand up straight and smile.”

  In the department store, two clerks rushed to help them when they entered women’s clothing.

  “Are you going to tell me to pick whatever I like?” Aggie taunted.

  “Maybe,” Angela laughed, seemingly immune to sarcasm. “Show me what you would choose.”

  “I don’t see why we need identical outfits.”

  “For fun!” Angela explained. “I want to see if we can still fool Dad.”

  “You’re not planning to do something mean to Mary, are you?”

  “No,” Angela insisted. “Just pick.”

  They walked out of the store thirty minutes later with armloads of bags. Two pairs of size eight dark gray wool pants, two long light gray sweaters with knitted flowers across the shoulders and black pumps with a compromise one and a half inch heel. Angela insisted on buying everything the same, right down to the underwear, again a compromise, blacker and lacier than Aggie’s initial choice.

  As she drove out of the remnants of Atlanta traffic and headed west on I-85, Aggie wondered again what her sister was up to. She knew Angela must have a plan, but she couldn’t imagine what it would be. Still the outfit was nice. She’d take Andrew to a movie and dazzle him when she got home.

  “Dad!” Angela screamed out the window as the car pulled into the driveway.

  Their father was picking up magnolia buds from the front lawn. He stood up and dropped the kitchen tongs that protected his fingers from the sticky cones.

  “Blossom!” he called out his old nickname for the slightly older twin. He hurried to the passenger side of the car and pulled open the door. Angela jumped into his arms and they danced around the front yard in an ecstatic hug.

  “I’m here too, Dad,” Aggie reminded them.

  Still holding Angela’s hand, Gordon Trout turned to his other daughter.

  “Peach Fuzz!” He opened his arms. Aggie stepped stiffly into the embrace, then melted as her father’s free hand rubbed up and down her back.

  “I can’t believe you’re both here,” he crowed. “Let’s go inside. I’ll get you a drink.”

  At sixty-three, their father was still in excellent physical condition, his back straight and his hair a thick silver thatch. Aggie looked at him proudly as he turned to lead them up the stairs to the front porch. Then he stumbled and she glanced at her sister, who shook her head. He righted himself and held onto the railing as he climbed the rest of the stairs.

  “Damn things,” he muttered, glaring at the stairs and smiling at his daughters at the same time. “Always trip me up.”

  Inside, the house was immaculate and untidy at the same time, spotless wherever their father hadn’t managed to drop something since Mary had cleaned.

  “What can I get you girls?”

  “I’ll make a pot of coffee, Dad,” Aggie offered.

  Angela nodded. “I just want coffee.”

  “I’ll call Mary, then. I know she’ll want to come right over and see you. She’s cooking a turkey.”

  “Thanksgiving at home,” Angela smiled. “What a treat.”

  Aggie glared at her sister behind her father’s back. This sweetness and light bit was not Angela. The older twin smiled back as their father left the room. Even her eyes were laughing, Aggie noted suspiciously. Angela took a sip of coffee, her finger crooked in the air in a C.

  “I’m going to run over and pick Mary up,” their father announced as he walked back into the room. “You girls make yourselves at home.”

  “We will,” Angela smiled. “Take your time.”

  After the door closed behind their father, Angela put down her coffee mug and stood up from the sofa.

  “Time to get to work,” she announced as she dragged her sister up by the elbow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s change while he’s out and we’ll try the twin thing when they get back.”

  “I won’t let you be nasty to Mary.”

  “I like Mary,” Angela insisted. “I just want to see if we still have the old touch.”

  Angela hugged her sister.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Aggie shrugged her shoulders and dislodged her arms.

  “Okay,” she sighed. “I just wish I knew what you were really up to.”

  The two sisters walked arm in arm down the hall toward their old bedroom, bags in hand. Angela went straight to the ensuite bathroom and scrubbed the makeup off her face. Aggie opened the bags and pulled out the new clothes. Within a minute, she was changed.

  “This is a nice outfit,” she commented as she turned in front of the mirror. The gray pants hugged her hips then fell in a straight line to the floor. The sweater clung to her breasts then draped softly. The crochet flowers on the shoulders emphasized her straight posture, the reward of twelve years of ballet.

  “You look good,” Angela commented as she emerged from the bathroom. She quickly stripped and put on her matching clothing. Then she walked over to the mirror and stood beside Aggie.

  “Who are you?” she teased her younger twin. It was an old joke.

  “I don’t know,” Aggie responded as per formula. “Who are you?”

  The young women turned and surveyed their bodies. Aggie reached up her arm and Angela mimicked her movement. Aggie smiled and reached down to put her right hand on her left knee. Her sister followed. Smiling, Aggie contorted herself every which way and giggled as her sister struggled to follow.

  “Enough!” Angela finally cried.

  “Don’t you think we need a little makeup?” Aggie asked.

  Her sister stared dumbfounded.

  “I’m doing you,” Aggie explained, still giggling.

  “Maybe just a little,” Angela sounded reluctantly Aggie-ish. She pulled a lipstick out of her purse and made up first her own and then her sister’s lips.

  “Mascara?” Angela asked.

  Aggie nodded and Angela retrieved a wand from her overnight bag. She swept the dark brown fluid expertly over her own eyelashes, then handed the applicator to her sister. Aggie held the wand awkwardly but left only one smudge under her left eye. Angela wiped the spot then took her sister’s chin in her hand.

  “This is weird,” she commented.

  “I know,” Aggie agreed. The doppelganger effect unnerved her. Angela had even altered her voice, losing a slight New York twang. They sounded as identical as they looked. “I don’t think anybody will be able to tell us apart.”

  “Good,” Angela grinned. Both twins heard a car pull into the driveway. “You go out first and be yourself for a few minutes. Say I’m busy. Then come back here and I’ll go out as you.”

  “Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Aggie asked.

  “Just go.” Angela pushed her twin out the bedroom door.

  Aggie greeted her father at the front door.

  “Blossom?” he asked.

  “No, it’s Aggie. I changed.” A butterfly woke up in her stomach.

  “Here’s Mary,” her father gestured.

  “Hi, Aggie. You look great.”

  The butterfly stretched its wings.

  “Thanks, Mary.” Aggie reached out and drew her father’s girlfriend into a hug. “You do too.”

  “What can I get you to drink?” her father asked them both.

  “I still have some coffee,” Aggie jumped in ahead of Mary, who caught her eye and nodded.

  “Let’s all have coffee,” Mary agreed.

  Aggie’s father shrugged and walked into the kitchen.

  “Is he drinking a lot?” Aggie asked Mary.

  “Not too much.” Mary was covering and
they both knew it.

  Suddenly the homecoming and the charade and drinking were too much for Aggie. The butterfly was frantically searching for a way to escape. Its wings battered Aggie’s stomach and she thought she might retch.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” she told Mary over her shoulder as she walked out of the room.

  “I don’t like any of this,” Aggie stated as she closed the bedroom door. “I feel weird. Dad’s drinking again.”

  “I’ll go back,” Angela offered. “You come out in five minutes or so.”

  Aggie heard muffled voices from the living room as she sat huddled on the edge of her childhood bed. A hidden memory surfaced; she used to listen here as her parents fought. Drunken arguments had been the background music of her childhood. But now the voices weren’t raised. Aggie straightened her shoulders and stood. Time to rejoin the family and end the charade.

  “Blossom,” her father greeted her. “Come sit.”

  The warmth of his tone brought a sheen of moisture to Aggie’s eyes. Was his voice that affectionate when he knew he spoke to her?

  “No,” she began, unable to continue the imposture. Angela’s voice interrupted her.

  “Angela has a headache, Dad,” she explained.

  Aggie walked to sit next to her father. She smelled brandy in his coffee. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the sofa.

  “I’m Aggie, Dad,” she blurted before Angela could interrupt.

  “Dad,” her sister complained. “I don’t know what Angela’s trying to pull, but I’m Aggie.”

  “Girls,” Mary admonished. “This isn’t very funny.”

  “I agree,” Aggie stated. “I’m Aggie and I’m going to go change clothes.”

  “I’m Aggie,” her twin insisted. “Dad, Mary, can’t you tell?”

  “All right. That’s enough.” Their father’s voice had the rough boozy edge he usually hid carefully. “Let me look behind your ear.”

  “What?” Mary asked and their father explained.

  “Angela fell off the top of the swing set when she was three. She has a scar from the stitches behind her right ear.”

  Aggie swept back her hair and showed her unblemished skin to her father. “See, I’m Aggie. Angela, the charade’s over. Give it up.”

  Her sister swept back her hair and showed her equally unmarked skin.

  “No scar,” she whispered.

  Aggie burst into tears and ran from the room.

  A few minutes later, her sister walked into the bedroom and took the still sobbing Aggie in her arms.

  “It’s okay, Aggie,” she crooned. “I told them. I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Aggie asked.

  “Just for fun,” Angela answered. “Stop crying, Boo. You’re making me feel bad.”

  “This isn’t fun,” Aggie insisted. “I want my own identity.”

  “Look,” Angela held out her hand. “I made us nametags.”

  Aggie took the cards. The names read ‘Boo’ and ‘Boo’.

  “Not funny.” She handed the cards back to her sister, who turned them over. The flip sides read ‘Aggie’ and ‘the idiot’. Aggie flopped back onto the bed.

  “I have an idea,” Angela offered. “My apology, sort of.”

  Aggie turned her head and looked at her twin.

  “I won two free tickets to Vancouver,” Angela explained. “Why don’t we go for a little holiday together?”

  “How did you get the tickets?”

  “A radio contest. They’re for December 13. That’s a Saturday. Do you think you can come?”

  Aggie thought about the deception Angela had pretty much forced upon her. She thought about the library, and Andrew. Then she thought of her father and the brandy in his coffee. Angela was family. More, she was her twin. It was time to get reacquainted. She sat up and hugged Angela.

  “Sure,” she agreed. “Let’s go to Vancouver. How long can we stay?”

  “The ticket is open ended,” Angela explained. “We can stay as long as we like.”

  “What about your job?”

  “I’m taking some holidays. Can you get some time too?”

  “Andrew and I are planning to go to England next summer.” Aggie looked at her twin. Her sister’s eyes had a desperate longing in them that she couldn’t resist. “I’ll take a few days.”

  Chapter 6

  Jimmy Buko was a man of high emotion. He liked to say that he lived life at two speeds: flat out and faster. He made money with passionate intensity. He spent generously but without undue self-indulgence. Since he was fourteen, his need for sex had outstripped all available supply. With rigid self-control, he avoided inflicting himself and his insatiable needs on ‘good’ women and limited himself to one high class call girl a week. Tonight was the night.

  “I want a new girl,” he growled into the phone.

  “Bambi was looking forward to tonight.”

  “No. Send somebody new. Tall with red hair.”

  “I do have a new girl, Amber.”

  “Does anybody have a real name?”

  “You can call your girl any name you choose, Mr. Buko.”

  “Send Amber, but tell her that I want her to introduce herself by her real name. Otherwise she’s out the door.”

  “Of course, Mr. Buko. She’ll come to room 1036 of the Hyatt at ten pm.”

  Jimmy hung up without saying goodbye. The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and signatures. At the end of the day, his secretary reported that the companies’ holdings were now worth $527,468,124 and change, up $1,417,892 from the previous close. A good day.

  Jimmy went upstairs to his personal suite and changed into a jogging suit. He decided to walk along the seawall and up Burrard to the hotel. He’d stop in a small Hungarian restaurant along the way for goulash. Jimmy cherished his anonymity. The day he couldn’t walk into a restaurant without fuss was the day he’d move from Vancouver.

  A private elevator delivered Jimmy to the apartment lobby. Twenty feet high, the expanse was lit by a massive crystal chandelier. The lobby sat several feet above the street that separated it from the ocean and offered a sweeping view of English Bay. Jimmy stepped out the door and inhaled the crisp fall air. For once, it wasn’t raining. To the right a massive rock fountain gurgled in a raked sand garden. Jimmy reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of change into the pool at the bottom of the rock. At night, street people came and gathered the change, for some their only source of income.

  Jimmy strode across the narrow street as cars halted to give him passage. Good for Vancouver. Though it was the Canadian way, nobody stopped like that in Toronto anymore. The seawall encircled Stanley Park, a large endowment of heavily treed land on a peninsula in the center of the city. Jimmy had chosen for his apartment and office the two top floors of the waterfront building closest to the park. To the tall white angular building Jimmy had added five huge rounded bays on his personal top floor. They housed living, dining bed and bath rooms and a circular pool with surrounding track. Jimmy enjoyed the phallic symbolism of his bulbous topped building.

  The water of English Bay was calm and gray, almost sullen. The sky was cloudy and the brown leaves sodden underfoot. Jimmy inhaled the salt aroma of decaying plant and fish life as nature shut down the bay for the winter. Barnacle encrusted rocks crowded the beach in front of the apartment, though a few hundred yards away the expanse became a sandy public playpen each summer. Jimmy preferred his rocks.

  By the time he arrived at the Hyatt it was 9:30. Jimmy felt invigorated by his walk and pleasantly full of goulash. An effort of will kept his cock at half-mast, though he needed the sex tonight even more than usual. He supposed it was the newspaper ad. Richard and Danny had narrowed the list to twenty and the interviews would start in eight days. Twelve straight days of sex. He would choose a strong woman.

  Promptly at ten o’clock he heard a knock on the door of the suite.

  “Hello,” the young woman smiled as he opened the door. She looked
to Jimmy like she was about twenty-five years old. She extended her hand. “My name is Monica Standish.”

  Her handshake was as firm as her high breasts.

  “Come in, Monica,” Jimmy held onto her hand as she stepped through the door. His eyes liked the inventory. Red hair that smelled faintly of flowers. A simple black dress, only sexy because of the body underneath. And the body – long slim legs, no waist to speak of, those high breasts, squarely erect shoulders. Her face was pretty but not striking, rounded chin, soft lips in a small mouth, bright green eyes – probably contacts, a simple nose. Jimmy liked her.

  “So are you Amber?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “That’s the name I usually use. You said you wanted my real name.”

  “I’m Jimmy Buko.”

  “I know,” she smiled. “What would you like to do tonight, Jimmy?”

  Monica turned into Jimmy’s arms and draped one hand on his shoulder. The other found the growing protuberance in his crotch. Jimmy sniffed.

  “I like the smell of your hair.”

  “It’s the dye.”

  “The dye?”

  “You said you wanted a redhead.”

  “What color is your hair normally?”

  “Light brown.”

  “You don’t have to dye it next time.”

  “Thanks. Actually, I kind of like the red.”

  “So do I.”

  Jimmy buried his fingers in the shoulder length softness. When he lifted his hands, curls fell like silk off his fingers. Meanwhile her hand was working wonders with his cock.

  “Unzip me,” he ordered.

  Monica reached both hands down. Somehow she managed to continue fondling even as she worked the zipper down and separated the folds of the jockey shorts. Jimmy sighed as his cock sprang free of the restraints.

  “Do you want a quickie for an appetizer?” Monica asked. The girl had done her homework.

  Jimmy led her to the bed. She pulled a strip of condoms from her bra and dangled them seductively. Jimmy motioned for her to continue and she unwrapped one rubber and rolled it slowly down his upright organ. Then she stripped off her underpants but left on garter belt and stockings. She hiked her dress up above her waist and lay back spreadeagled. Her high heels made small round dents in the coverlet. Jimmy leaned above her and inserted himself with one hand. She was dripping ready. Her muscles tightened around him and he groaned and began to pump.