Pleasure My Lustful Heart: A Romance Novella

by Geena Maxon

“How could you do that? There’s no merger deal.”

  “I know, I know. I had to say something. I figured just maybe there was a long shot chance I could convince your father to merge if I could tell him I had guaranteed business from the Clemson stores. If I couldn’t put together the merger, then I’d have to tell Higginson that it fell through. I figured what I did was smarter than just giving up. At least this way we have a chance.”

  “’We?’ Who is ‘we’?”

  “Your company and mine,” he said. “Kit, we both know that if we don’t do something, we’ll both go out of business — no matter what your father says.”

  “When were you going to let me in on all this?”

  “I called your cell phone on my way to the airport this morning. You didn’t pick up. Go through your call messages, and you’ll hear the one I left for you. I wouldn’t do this without telling you.”

  I thought: should I be angry because he involved Porteous Limited in a lie, or grateful that he was doing his best to save the company? “I’m confused, Gregg. My life is so mixed up right now, that I have to know — “

  “Then let me tell you.” He took both my hands in his. “I love you, Kit Porteous. I hope that’s what you wanted to hear.”

  “Are you just saying that because I made you a ham sandwich?” Damn, I did it again, another smart-ass remark from the smart-ass queen of the garment business. Oh, well, “And would you be pleased to hear a nice sound from me?” I stood on my tip-toes and stroked his face.

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  “I love you back.”

  “You’re right. It does have a nice sound.”

  “You picked just the right time to tell me,” I said. “I can use the support.”

  “First, you had me long before you ever made me a ham sandwich. And second, you have my love and my help, always. You are the most important thing in my life.”

  I couldn’t resist. “My, that really is nice.”

  Gregg had a strange and wonderful way of kissing. Even in the most passionate embrace, he never pressed or pushed. He brushed his full lips on mine, delicate as a butterfly. When our tongues met, it was only for an instant, in passing. It was thrilling. Gregg was a thrilling lover.

  “Should I stay with you here?” he said. “I know it’s been a rough day. Do you want to be by yourself, or would you rather have company?”

  “Stay,” I told him. “I need someone to talk to tonight. Is that wrong of me, having you here while Pa is lying in a hospital bed?”

  “I don’t think it’s wrong to be with someone who loves you. Isn’t that what love is for?”

  So Gregg stayed the night. It was the wrong time to make love, but it was comforting to know he was sleeping next to me.

  The next morning at seven, Gregg woke me with a little bite on my neck. He was dressed and ready to leave. “I have to get back to my place and change clothes. Should I meet you at the hospital before I go to work?”

  “Not a good idea,” I said. “Let me do this by myself.”

  “Lunch?”

  “I don’t think there’ll be time. I’ll have to get a new job started in sewing, plus I have to deal with what’s going on in Pa’s office. It scares me.”

  “You can do it,” he said, and started toward the door.

  “Hey, wait a minute. What are you going to do about what’s-his-name — Higginson?”

  “I’ll keep stalling,” he said, and left before I could ask anything else.

  Mercy General was bustling with traffic, automobiles in the parking lot, and people in the lobby. Two older women with white-blue hair stood behind the information desk in their pink volunteer jackets, smiling at me, evidently in the hope that I’d ask them for directions. I knew where the ICU was, but I smiled back at them as I passed, anyway, as a sort of silent apology.

  Pa’s bed was cranked up, and he was awake when I entered. He raised one hand weakly in greeting. “Can’t talk,” he managed to say. It was as though his tongue was getting in the way, tangling up the words he was able to get out. His stroke had starved the speech center in his brain of blood and damaged it. The left side of his face still drooped, looking even worse than last night.

  For a dynamic man like Pa, recuperating was going to be a challenge. He’d have to be patient through the healing process, and patience wasn’t his strongest quality.

  I came to the side of his bed and took his hand. “How are you this morning, Pa? How do you feel, better?”

  Pa responded by shrugging his shoulders, his silent way to say “not great.”

  “Did you have breakfast?” I said.

  He pointed to his neck. “Can’t swallow,” he managed to say.

  “How do you eat? Aren’t you hungry?”

  He shook his head, then looked up at the plastic fluid bags with their tubes. Evidently they were giving him nourishment intravenously.

  I wanted to ask him why he’d never told anyone about his atrial fibrillation condition, but I didn’t think he was ready for that just yet. Knowing him, I was sure he’d rather hear that the company would be properly managed till he could get back to take charge. I told him I’d fill in for him, and not to worry. Was there anything I should know?

  Pa looked up into my eyes. He appeared to be searching for something. Finally he looked away and said, “Can’t think straight.”

  “Don’t worry about the business, Pa. I’ll take care of it.” I bent down to kiss his cheek, and started to leave.

  He mumbled my name, and I turned back to him. With great difficulty, he waved his hand desperately in front of his face, and said, “Monsell — no, no.”

  His contempt for the merger idea, and his concern for me in Gregg’s arms, continued to fill his thoughts, stroke or no.

  “Not to worry,” I said. “I’ll be back after work.”

  I got the sewing workers started on the new job, then went to my father’s office to see what needed to be done. I sat down in the big swivel chair behind his desk, the first time I’d sat in that chair since I was a little girl, and Pa used to bring me to work occasionally. I used to sit there, imagining that I was the big boss, like Pa. I didn’t feel like the big boss today.

  I asked Henrietta for the last two days’ mail, and was puzzled to find three past due statements, and one strongly-written letter demanding payment for a charge that had been billed to us 150 days before. We hadn’t been paying our bills, which puzzled me, because Pa took pride that we always paid within thirty days — forty-five at the most. Had we run out of money?

  When I asked Henrietta, she said Pa had told her it was just a cash flow problem, that our customers were slow, and that forced us to be slow. She didn’t know all the details, and said that these matters were handled only by Pa and our accountant, together.

  I phoned the accountant, Jerry Botello, a funny, roly-poly man of fifty or so, who Pa had used for the last 20 years. “I heard about your father,” he said. “How is he?”

  I told him what I knew, then asked about the company’s money situation. “Pa told Henrietta it was a cash flow problem. Is that what’s happening here?”

  “Cash flow? Well, I suppose, that’s part of it,” he said reluctantly. “Kit, I don’t know how much of this your father would want me to share.”

  It began to sound more serious with every word Botello said. “Look, Pa is counting on me to keep the company going till he can come back. Right now, he can barely talk, and could be out of commission for a long time. I have an obligation here, and I have Pa’s power of attorney that says I can do what I think is right. So tell me what’s going on.”

  There was an extended silence on the phone. Then Botello said, “All right. In the end it won’t make much difference.”

  Now it was sounding truly ominous. “What does that mean? Does it mean the company is in trouble?”

  “Yes, trouble. There are only a few more jobs booked. Your father keeps telling me he expects others, but it’s not happening. In the meantime, there’s a s
tack of unpaid bills, and even if all your customers paid everything they owe you by tomorrow, you still couldn’t pay off your creditors.”

  “Are you telling me we’re bankrupt?”

  “Not yet. To be bankrupt you have to declare bankruptcy, but that’s probably your next move.”

  “How much money do we have?”

  “You have about enough to meet your payroll for the next six weeks or so, and that’s only if your father and your Uncle Aaron take nothing themselves, and if you can hold off your creditors. If you want to be good guys, you’ll lay everybody off sooner rather than later, so you’ll still have money left to give them a few bucks in severance.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Jerry Botello. “You better get your attorney involved. Call me when you need me. “

  It was hard to comprehend. A successful company for over three decades was about to fail. My father knew it, yet he hadn’t told anyone. He thought he could still save it. His opposition to a merger didn’t mean a thing. In a matter of weeks, there would be nothing to merge.

  Whatever possibilities a merger might hold for us were gone. Gregg’s company had little money, and we would shortly have none. Period.

  What about Uncle Aaron? He was an owner of Porteous Limited. Did he know the party was over?

  I went to the cutting room and took him to a quiet corner, where I told him what the accountant had told me. “Did you know all this ?” I said.

  “All? No. But I’m not surprised. It’s no secret business is lousy, and not likely to get better,” Uncle Aaron said. “You’d think my brother would tell me what’s going on in our company. But that’s Sidney for you. It’s always about Sidney. What he wants. What he decides. What he does.”

  “What will you do now?” I said.

  “I’ll go do my job. Until somebody tells me to stop.” He gave my shoulder a kindly squeeze, then went to his worktable to lay out patterns.

  Walking back to Pa’s office, I knew I had to tell Gregg. He was still longing to pull off a miracle and land the customer who would save us all. Would he need to console me, or was I going to console him? I called him and asked him to come to my apartment at six. I’d cook him a good spaghetti dinner, I promised. I decided I’d save the bad news for then.

  After a horrendous day in Pa’s office trying to untangle the details of the money situation, I gave up at four and went to check on him in Mercy General. His eyes were closed when I came in to the ICU. He opened them halfway as I approached his bed, then let them slowly droop closed again. Had he seen me? I couldn’t be sure. I pulled a chair to his bedside and sat there waiting for him to open his eyes. For half an hour he lay there motionless. Finally I went to the nurses’ station and asked how he was.

  “He’s stable. His vital signs are good,” his nurse told me. “But he’s tired. He sleeps a lot. Don’t worry. He’s being monitored every minute.”

  I thanked her and asked her to tell Pa I’d be back in the morning. In a way I was happy he was asleep. I didn’t have to decide whether to talk about money or not. Now I’d find out how Gregg would take the news. And what would become of the two of us.

  CHAPTER 12

  I stopped at a liquor store and bought a good bottle of Chianti to go with dinner, and opened it as soon as I got home. Someone once told me wine should breathe for an hour or two before it’s drunk. Then I started cooking my spaghetti dinner, the only food I knew how to prepare that might earn me compliments. Diced onion softened in extra virgin olive oil, canned tomatoes from Italy, a bit of tomato paste, and a teaspoon of dried basil. Plus some prosciutto I had in the freezer, sliced into ribbons, to add a special tang to the sauce.

  I knew my electric stove took forever to boil a big pot of water, so I got that started, too, as the sauce simmered slowly. Everything was cooking, and filling the apartment with enticing smells, when I heard Gregg buzz. I buzzed open the door.

  Only it wasn’t Gregg. It was Lucien, wild-eyed and totally disheveled, his jeans filthy, and his shirt torn, looking as though he had just rolled out of the gutter. Before I could speak, he brushed past me and into the living room, pushing the door to close it behind him as he went. I could smell him as he passed — sweat and alcohol.

  I knew this was going to be trouble, so I caught the door before it closed completely and left it open a crack, just in case I needed to get out in a hurry, or call for help. “My darling Kit, I come bearing a gift, something that will jolt your senses and evoke rapturous memories,” he said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a plastic bag and a package of cigarette papers. “Look,” he said proudly. “Weed, the good stuff.”

  “You’re stoned, Lucien. Get out of here.”

  He flopped down on the couch and tossed the bag and the papers onto the coffee table. “Have a joint with me. Just like we used to do, remember? We’d smoke, and then we’d fly around the room and land in my bed.”

  “You have to leave, right now,” I said

  “Leave? Okay, we’ll have some of this good weed and we’ll leave together.” He babbled on about running off together, and being free, and the joys of sex. Suddenly he jumped up from the couch and took hold my arm, “I’m here. I showed up this time. We’ll drive to Mexico, like we planned. Or anyplace you want.“

  I tried to pull away from him, but he held tight. “Let me go. I’m not driving anyplace with you. Don’t you understand? I’m with somebody else now. And he’s on his way here.” I slapped his face as hard as I could with my free hand, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He never flinched.

  “Have you missed me, Kit? I’ve missed you.” He pulled me toward the bedroom. “Do you know I haven’t had sex with anyone since — since we used to do it? That’s a long time. I’ll bet you’ve done it plenty of times since then. You always loved it. I think you’d like to do it now, with me.” He was in a frenzy, jumping from one fantasy to another.

  I raised my hand to hit him again, but he grabbed it before I could strike. Now he was holding both my wrists, turning me to push me backward into the bedroom. “You could always get me hard in a minute. Less, even. You can do it now, because we’re back together. You’ll see.”

  In an instant I was on the bed with Lucien on top of me, pressing me down. His body odor was repulsive.

  Then I felt the weight of Lucien’s body lifted from me, and I heard Gregg say, “You son-of-a-bitch.” Gregg had entered through the door I left ajar, and he had his arm around Lucien’s throat. “I told you not to come back,” Gregg said.

  Lucien raised his arm, and turning quickly, slammed Gregg with his elbow on the side of his head. Gregg was stunned by the blow, and dropped to one knee. But he stood quickly and caught Lucien squarely on the chin with his fist. Lucien fell face down across the bedroom rug, and lay still.

  Gregg took me in his arms. “Are you all right?”

  “I think I am,” I said. “You?”

  “I have a hard head.” He nodded toward Lucien, who began to stir on the floor. “This guy isn’t just annoying any more. He’d dangerous. If you don’t do something, he’ll keep coming back. I’m going to call the police and get him locked up.”

  Gregg was right to be worried, but I didn’t want to get Lucien involved with the law. He had become a human wreck, an unpredictable wild man. But still, he was someone I’d once shared my passions and my life with. I couldn’t bring myself to ruin what was left of him. “No police,” I said. “I can’t do that to him. I know a better way.”

  I told Gregg about Lucien’s mother Norma, who was looking for her son. I said if we could hook the two of them up on the phone, maybe she could talk him into returning to Birmingham, and leaving me alone.

  Lucien sat up, dazed, on the floor. Gregg lifted him and put him on the edge of the bed. I looked for Norma’s number, then punched it into the phone on my nightstand. I told her what had happened, and told her to persuade her son to come home. I couldn’t hear what she said to Lucien, but he began to look sham
e-faced and contrite as he sat there listening. He himself said little, but made a few sounds of what sounded like agreement to whatever she was telling him to do.

  The call lasted a good fifteen minutes, and when it was over, Lucien stood, and without looking at me or at Gregg, walked through the living room to the open door into the hallway. He murmured to himself, not words, but rough sounds, as though he was clearing his throat. I closed the door behind him, wondering if I’d done the right thing. What was he capable of now? Was I turning a dangerous man loose, or showing compassion for a poor lost soul? And most important, would he ever contact me again?

  “Do you think he can make it back to Birmingham?” I said to Gregg.

  He didn’t share my concern for Lucien. “If he got here, he can get back.”

  “Oh my God, my spaghetti sauce.” I said. “I was so busy getting attacked, I forgot about it.”

  “Very funny.” Gregg followed me into the kitchen. The skillet of sauce was still simmering. It was quite thick now, but not burned. “Looks good to me,” he said

  I tried to be calm, but inside I was still churning from the episode with Lucien. “I have an idea. Let’s drink the wine first, then I’ll cook the spaghetti. I feel the need of some alcohol in my bloodstream.” I poured two glasses fuller than they’re supposed to be, and we took them into the living room to drink .

  Gregg saw the bag of marijuana and the papers Lucien had left on the coffee table. “You want a joint with your wine?” Gregg said, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Not since college,” I said. “Wine is better. And more civilized.” I took a big swallow of the chianti. “This is a day full of unexpected goings-on,” I told him. “You might as well hear about the rest of my day now, while you have a big glass of chianti to drink. Ready? The bottom line is, there’s no money.”

  “No money where?” he said.

  “Porteous Limited has run out of cash. My father always said we had plenty of money in the bank. But when business slowed down, he used it up to keep the company going. In six weeks we’ll spend the last of the payroll money. So if we want to merge so we can show a big bank balance — well, we can’t. ” I raised my glass in a mock toast. “Drink up.”