by Liz Bradbury
“There’s Lambertville and Adamstown, Jessie or I go every Sunday morning. I really have to go tomorrow because we sold a ton of stuff at Metrolina. We need merch. Do you want to go to the markets sometime?”
I said, “Kathryn shopped Mansfield when she was in England in September. She goes to Brimfield too.”
“Really?” said Farrel with interest, “would you like to come with me to Adamstown tomorrow? I have to warn you, I leave very, very early.”
I was floored when Kathryn said yes. Farrel told her what I already knew, that flea markets are the before dawn part of the antique business and that since it took about an hour to drive there, she’d be leaving at 5:30 AM. Kathryn was unfazed. She wanted to go. So Farrel said she’d pick Kathryn up in front of my building and that they should be back in plenty of time for Carl’s memorial service at eleven.
Farrel looked at me, “Are you going to go?”
“No, I can’t, I have an appointment.” I was astounded that Kathryn was going to do this. On the other hand, I figured Farrel would take the two hour drive time to grill Kathryn to be sure she was good enough for me. I wanted Farrel to like Kathryn and to approve, but I also wanted to know her opinion on our chances for something long term.
It’s often tough to face your new girlfriend’s best pals for the first time with your girlfriend, but to face them all on one’s own could be more than sticky. I wondered why Kathryn was so eager to throw herself to the potential lions this soon. Then I remembered what she’d done when faced with Sara. Maybe she’d figured out that these were the people in my life that I would expect her to endure and was diving in head first to see if she could handle them. This woman was very brave.
“Oh, I forgot,” said Farrel getting up and opening the refrigerator again. She came back to the table with an armload of Devil Dog cakes. “We’re eating angel food cake because it was one of Carl’s favorites. He loved Devil Dogs, too. He used to give Devil Dogs out to all the people sitting around him at the Symphony during intermission. He said he was cultivating it as his trademark eccentric behavior, that and eating angel food cake. So...” she unwrapped a Devil Dog and took a bite, “here’s to Carl!”
Chapter 33
We’d left soon after, with our bag full of restaurant leftovers and additional food from Jessie’s kitchen. As we walked toward my building I said to Kathryn with amusement, “Let me just see if I completely understand this, you’re going to leave my bed in the dark of night, to go off with another woman... who happens to be my best friend?”
She laughed, “Maggie, I have some serious shopping to do. Christmas is less than two weeks away. I can get everything I need at the antique markets. I’m a speed shopper. You wouldn’t want me to have to do something truly terrible like... go to the mall!”
“No,” I agreed gravely, “that would be terrible. Um, are you aware that Farrel... and Jessie too... tend to be a little parental when it comes to me?”
“You mean Farrel might ask me to explain my intentions toward you? Oh yes, I know that very well. I also fully understood that Jessie took me out of the room so you could tell Farrel what’s going on between us. What did you tell her?”
“What’s going on between us.” Kathryn turned to me with raised eyebrows. “The short version,” I assured her.
“I told Jessie I was worried about you because a man had hit you at the homeless shelter today. Was it all right that I told her that?” asked Kathryn.
“Uh huh.”
“Jessie said to tell you to show me the top floor of your building and that you should... show off for me. That’s really what she said, that you should, show off for me. What did she mean?”
“That I can take care of myself.”
We’d entered the foyer. I turned off the burglar alarm by pressing in a code. Then stopped Kathryn saying, “I have something for you.” I wrote some numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to her, “This is the combination that opens the front door and the door to the loft. And this is an easy to remember alarm code. It will be, 2929... your birthday twice. OK?”
I showed her how to open the combination lock and then how to enter the code to turn on and off the alarm. “We leave the alarm on at night and weekends, it covers the doors and foyer. We’ll turn it off here, but there’s a keypad on the third floor to turn it back on. I’ll show you when we get up there.”
“Is this my sorority pin?” she asked holding up the paper.
“Part one of it,” I kissed her lightly. We made our way to the third floor and she practiced rearming the alarm.
“Jessie said you have to show me the upstairs,” Kathryn insisted as soon as we got inside.
“OK, OK. I have to get some things. Don’t take your jacket off, it’s not very warm up there.” I went into the dressing room and grabbed a pair of shorts. Then I took her hand, “Come with me.”
We climbed up the big spiral staircase and I opened the door into the top floor. I threw a big electrical switch that turned on all the lights at once. The space seems much bigger than the third floor because there were no solid walls and the ceiling was about twice as high. Every exterior wall was windows. There were some studded interior walls without sheet rock on them, dividing the space into four areas that were roughly the same size. Electrical wires and plumbing ran through the skeletal stud walls.
One corner was obviously my art studio. I’d laid out sheets of block-printed paper to dry on most of the tables. There were several storage units and a huge old card catalog cabinet, each drawer labeled with the art supplies it contained.
Next to the studio was a big framed open rectangle with windows on two sides, waiting for usage decisions to be made. Across from that area were storage closets and the access to the elevator and main stairs. In the corner at the top of the spiral stairs stood a ton, well literally far more than a ton, of fitness equipment. Treadmill, stair master, weight machine, a speed punching bag and a floor-mounted heavy bag, a high chinning bar, rowing machine, and a variety of other stuff like that.
In front of a wide floor to ceiling mirror, there was even a frame that allowed barbell freeweight lifting without the danger of being crushed accidentally. Jessie, a former top administrator in a rehab hospital, had made me put that in. She’d started out as a physical therapist and had told me she’d seen the results of too many accidents to have to be worrying about me getting my neck broken under a barbell.
Kathryn walked into the center of the space and looked around silently. She noticed a small sheet rock finished room set between the workout space and the art studio. She just pointed to it.
“Bathroom,” I explained.
“Then she noticed a door that went out to a roof area. She walked over to it, unlocked it and pulled it open. A freezing wind blew in. She closed it hurriedly.
“There’s a deck out there,” I said.
Once again, Kathryn was speechless. Finally she said, “What will that be?” pointing to the framed northwest corner.
“Don’t know... yet.”
Kathryn turned back to the fitness equipment. “Show off,” she demanded.
“I have to change clothes.”
“May I look around the studio?” called Kathryn.
I nodded. When I came out of the bathroom in shorts and sports bra, Kathryn was in the studio looking in the art supply drawer marked brushes. I came to her side. She reached into the drawer and took out a new two-inch round watercolor brush. She looked me up and down, then touched the soft brush lightly to the hollow of my throat and drew it slowly down between my breasts with a look that made me feel weak.
I shook off the weakness and led her, still holding the brush, to a stool in front of the big mirror. She sat and gave me her full attention.
I did several standard stretching moves then sat down at the weight machine, set the weights fairly light, and warmed up fast with leg presses, arm curls, and other lifts. It was a thrill to have Kathryn watching my every move.
“Now for the impressive pa
rt,” I said catching her eye. She hadn’t been looking at my face. I pressed 250 pounds ten times with my legs. I got up and went over to the free weight frame. I lifted a 150 lbs barbell over my head several times. Fueled by Kathryn’s evident admiration, I decided to risk some particularly difficult moves. I sat down on a gym mat, my legs straight in front of me, my body in a perfect L shape. I slowly lay my torso flat over my legs touching my nose to my knee, then I sat up straight again and grasping my heel, I lifted one leg straight up along side my head. I resumed the L position, put my palms on the floor and flexed, lifting my body and legs off the floor still in the L. I slowly leaned my head toward the mat, drawing my legs back through my arms, finally muscling up into a handstand.
“Oh my God,” gasped Kathryn. She clapped her hands. I was really glad she’d been impressed because it had been damn hard for this nearly thirty-six year-old body to manage. I tipped myself backward and landed on my feet smoothly. I leaned over again and did another handstand, then lifted one hand off the floor and balanced for several seconds. I put my hand back on the floor and did a light handspring back into a standing position.
I looked Kathryn in the eye. She was speechless.
At the chinning bar, I put some chalk on my hands, stepped on the foothold, then reached over and hung from the bar. I chinned myself up, kicked out and piked my legs straight up. I swung three times, piking on the back swing and then spun all the way around the bar three times in full extension. In my youth I could have done a flip dismount, but these days I’m not quite so willing to press my luck. How cool would breaking my leg be? Instead I flew forward off the bar in a split, touching my toes then stuck a standing dismount.
She was staring at me in disbelief with her mouth open. After a long moment she said, “Show me how you kicked Shel Druckenmacher.”
I did three Bruce Lee style high kicks in a row and then a double one, jumping four feet off the floor and landing the force of it on the heavy bag. I bounced off into one of those rolling dives ending up on my feet at the end. Then I ran up the wall near her and back flipped, swinging another few kicks into the heavy bag. It was just like a Jackie Chan movie. For the finale, I walked slowly toward her, picking up a towel that was draped over the stair machine, wiping the sweat from my face and chest.
When I got close to her I whispered menacingly, “Stand up and don’t move.” I reached around her and pulled the stool out of the way. I pushed her firmly against the wall mirror. With my hands at her waist, I lifted her straight up against the mirror fully extending my arms. I made it look like I wasn’t even straining.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. I lowered her very slowly into my kiss. When I drew away, she pulled me back to her and kissed me again passionately. At last, she pushed me gently away holding me at arms length. She slowly began to touch me. I was playing it to the hilt, tensing my muscles to rock hardness. She felt my biceps and shoulders. She dropped her hands and felt the hard muscles in my thighs sliding up slowly. When her fingers felt the top of my hipbones, one side was tender, but I didn’t let it show.
She made a fist and lightly punched me in the middle of my stomach. No yield at all.
“Harder,” I whispered, she did it a little more aggressively. I was like stone. She extended her fingers and traced the muscles of my bare stomach that were pumped into a pretty good-looking washboard.
“OK, I get it now. By the way, this is quite a turn on... how could I have imagined this? I mean, I knew you were in good shape but... I work in a land of paunchy couch potatoes... well, not all of them, but some of them. Who would have known you were... I mean nobody... I’ve never seen any...” She was babbling, not something I imagined she did often. I kissed her to shut her up.
“Let’s go downstairs,” I suggested, taking her by the hand, “and bring the paint brush.”
As she followed me down the spiral stairs she said, “So, I must presume that if we wrestle, you will always win?”
“Kathryn, if we wrestle physically, I will always win... unless I want you to, and I’m sure I will sometimes. But there are all sorts of ways to wrestle. You have the edge by far when it comes to mental gymnastics.”
*******
I took a shower. Kathryn had forgotten her garment bag and went down to get it out of the van. She got to practice the alarm system again, which was now no problem for her.
I was quick in the shower. I stepped out and was toweling off when I realized Kathryn was in the bathroom watching me. She’d taken off her clothes and was wearing a terry cloth robe. She was leaning against the sink counter facing me. She’d let the neckline of the robe fall open, creating a deep vee that showed the swell of her breasts.
“I couldn’t wait to see you again,” she said with that rumble of distant thunder in her voice.
I pulled on my own robe, replying, “You’ve seen plenty of me. I want to see you. I haven’t seen your body in this kind of light.”
“It can’t compete with yours.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. There’s something I have to know.” I loosened her sash and pulled the robe open. She was marvelous in every way.
“What did you want to know?”
“If your hair color is natural. And, I see it is.”
Chapter 34
We decided to sit on the couch in the bedroom and have a glass of wine. We talked about everything. Our families, our lives, our work. How we felt about pets, where we chose to live, whether either of us wanted kids. We covered politics, religion, marriage, and a dozen other subjects. No conflicts, no attitudes that were diametrically opposed. Everything seemed to click, and it was so much fun listening to her.
“Does everyone call you Kathryn?”
“Kiernan calls me Kath. People who don’t know me sometimes call me Kathy. What’s Maggie short for?”
I told her the story of my abbreviated name, which amused her.
“There’s something else I think you should know about me,” she said, “I occasionally have insomnia.”
“How does that affect you?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Yeah, I know what it means, but what do you do when you can’t sleep? Do you toss around in the bed? Do you get up and roam the halls? Do you putter around the kitchen? Does it go on for night after night? Do you know the cause of it?”
She smirked at me and then answered in rapid fire... “I don’t toss and turn. I get up and read. It doesn’t go on for too many days. I don’t know what causes it. It’s not usually tied to an obvious source of stress. I guess that’s what annoys me most.”
“OK, OK, I just wanted to know... come here.” She moved closer to me along the couch. I took her in my arms and held her tightly, kissing her hair, “When you have it, is there anything I can do to help it go away?”
“I’m not sure about that either. No one has ever asked me that before,” she said in a softer tone, relaxing in my arms and kissing my neck softly. “Did I thank you for giving me that wonderful massage last night? It was... please don’t take this the wrong way... but it was almost as nice as making love. I only woke up once. That’s rare for me.”
I let go of her and got up. I took a soft pillow from the bed and sat back down with the pillow in my lap. “Lie down on your back and put your head on the pillow.”
“Is this just a comfortable place for me to lie, or do you have something special in mind?” she said easing onto her back.
“If I stroke your face with this paint brush, will it relax you or will it tickle you and make you tense?”
“Do it.”
I gently brushed the curves and contours of her face and throat for a long time. I could feel her head become heavier as her neck muscles eased. I concentrated on the beautiful lines of her face, the firm jaw, the elegant hairline, expressive eyes, her nose, her lips, and those cheekbones.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked lazily.
“About painting you. I’m thinking about how I would use the color and shadow to capture you
r mood and expression.”
“Tell me what you’d be doing,” she said quietly.
So as I moved the brush over the contours of her face, I described what each brush stroke would achieve. She enjoyed the narrative as much as the sensation; I’d have to remember that.
The firelight cast a golden glow over her features. As her expression changed from relaxation to anticipation, I used the paintbrush to trace along her clavicle and down her sternum. I opened her robe and used the brush on her breasts. She exhaled sharply as I discarded the brush and caressed her with my hand. When I reached down her body and slipped my fingers into the soft hair between her thighs, she responded at once. I stroked her slowly, taking my time. I whispered, “Come to me,” in her ear. She began to make pleasure noises. Then she moaned softly, but just as she was close to letting go, the phone rang.
I cursed quietly.
Her eyes blinked open, she groaned with exasperation, “Buzzers and bells may be the death of us both.”
It was after 11:00 PM. The answering machine clicked on but I could hear Max Bouchet’s voice say it was an emergency. I got up and picked up the phone. Kathryn sat up, staring at me with concern.
“Yes, what is it Max? Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann? Is she dead? What hospital? Are the police there? Well, why not? Where are you?... Uh huh... Is the security guard that found her still with you? Uh huh... OK, I’ll be there soon.”
Bouchet had told me that Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann was found injured on one of the Irwin Campus sidewalks about forty-five minutes ago, by a security guard. When the guard knelt down by her, she mumbled to him that she’d been shot. He’d immediately called the paramedics and campus security headquarters. They’d called Bouchet. Bouchet was at the hospital now.
Bouchet said Rowlina was not seriously hurt but there was a bullet hole through her coat. An exit wound seemed to show that the bullet had just passed through the folds of material, not even grazing her. The doctors had determined that she’d fainted and hit her head on the sidewalk. There’d been minor bleeding from a small cut, but no serious damage other than a possible concussion.
