“Ryan, I’m getting a lot of pressure from your publisher for your next book. What’s going on?”
Every muscle inside me tensed. Since writing Undying Love, I’d suffered from major writer’s block. I’d been dealing with it with Dr. Goodman, who told me it was likely attached to my inability to let go of Allee. “Emotionally stuck,” he called it. Playing with my greens, I faltered for words. Okay, one word…
“Nothing.” I hung my head in shame.
“Ryan, look at me.” Her voice was soft but firm.
Slowly, I lifted my head and met her gaze.
“Listen, Ryan, I know what you went through, but you’ve got to get out of this funk. You’re a brilliant writer; you’re wasting your talent. Maybe the trip to LA will do you good or you need another change of scenery…”
A change of scenery. As she rambled on, offering remedies for my problem, those four words reverberated in my head. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. A writers’ retreat wasn’t the answer. But another type of retreat was.
Right after lunch, I hurried to a nearby antiques store on Broome Street. The one where I’d purchased my bed. My heartbeat quickened with each rapid step. Stopping in front of it to take a steeling breath, I swung the front door open. A bell chimed as I stepped foot inside, the scent of expensive furniture polish and potpourri wafting up my nose. Upon hearing the ding-ding-ding, the proprietor, a stocky aristocratic-looking fellow, made his way through the clutter of antiques, heading toward me. Though it had been almost five years, instant recognition flickered in his eyes.
“Ah, Mr. Madewell, good to see you again,” he beamed, extending his hand. “How have you been?”
“Not bad.” He didn’t need to know all the grief I’d been through nor the turmoil that was making my stomach churn as I shook his hand.
“I saw you a few weeks ago on Good Morning America. Congratulations on the movie.”
I thanked him politely, eager to change the subject.
“So, what brings you here today?”
I inhaled another fortifying breath and then spit out the words before I changed my mind. “I’d like to sell the bed I bought from you. Perhaps, I can put it on consignment or exchange it for something else.”
The dealer adjusted his half-moon glasses. “Actually, you’re in luck. A client of mine, who runs a small decorative arts museum upstate, has been looking for a bed much like the one you have. With its provenance, I’m sure he’d be willing to pay a hefty sum for it.”
My pulse in overdrive, I digested the dealer’s words. A museum?
“Sir, actually, I don’t want the money. I’d rather donate the bed on one condition.” A commemorative plaque. I told him how I wanted it worded.
Gift of Ryan Madewell IV
In Loving Memory of Allee Adair Madewell
July 14, 1988–June 10, 2013
After one phone call to the curator, we had a deal. And my Allee was going to at last have a tombstone of sorts. RIP, my beautiful angel. The bed was scheduled to be picked up tonight by the dealer’s movers. An unexpected peacefulness washed over me. Maybe it was just the proverbial calm before the storm and I’d made a terrible mistake I’d regret. Second thoughts flooded my head, but there was no going back. As my father always said, “A deal is a deal.”
The elated dealer broke into my thoughts. “You’re going to need something to sleep on. We just got a new shipment from Europe. Take a look around and let me know if there’s anything you like.”
Aimlessly, I meandered through the store. Nothing struck my fancy until I came upon a regal queen-size bed that had a tufted pale pink satin headboard. The upholstered fabric and color reminded me of the toe shoes that dangled from Willow’s childhood bed.
“What’s the story with this bed?” I asked the dealer, who was standing beside me.
“Rumor has it that it belonged to a famous ballerina who danced for the Ballet Russe. She supposedly wrote her memoir in it and then died peacefully in her sleep at the age of one hundred, surrounded by her loved ones.”
Holy shit! “I’ll take it.”
Adding that it came with a brand new high-end mattress, the dealer beamed. “Let me show you something else that belonged to this ballerina.”
Intrigued, I followed him to a jewelry case near the front of the store. Unlocking it, he slipped out a necklace from which hung a small pink-enameled pair of ballet shoes encrusted with diamonds. He set it atop a black velvet pad on the glass counter. Beneath the halogen lights above, the diamonds glistened.
“It is rumored to be a gift from her lover. It may have been designed by Fabergé, but unfortunately there are no markings.”
I studied the dainty jeweled shoes. They reminded me a lot of the pink satin toe shoes dangling from Willow’s bed. The dealer continued.
“Because you are an excellent customer, I can offer you the necklace at a very special price. It’s an investment piece and would certainly make a wonderful treat.”
Treat. The word reverberated in my ear. Trick or Treat. Everywhere I’d walked those words popped up somewhere. Even Balthazar was decked out with pumpkin decorations. Tomorrow was Halloween. Holy crap! Willow’s birthday. In the nick of time, I’d just found the most perfect present.
“I’ll take it.” The words tumbled out of my mouth.
Five minutes and several thousand dollars later, I was out the door, on my way to Bed Bath & Beyond.
It was all meant to be.
Bursting with energy and carrying a bouquet of wild flowers that I’d spontaneously picked up at a local florist, I arrived home a little before three. My sister and Beth were already there, looking tanned and rested from their long weekend in Antigua. They were seated on my dining area chairs, which were now lined up like a row of theater seats. Some of the other furniture has been moved to the side, making way for a large empty space.
“Where are Willow and Vi?” I asked after chatting with them a bit about their trip. Luckily for them, Antigua was one of the few Caribbean islands spared from the wrath of recent hurricanes, and they had a fantastic time.
“Getting ready for the show,” said my sister after sharing some photos on her cell phone.
My eyebrows lifted to my forehead. “The show?”
Mimi and Beth shrugged in unison. “Take a seat,” instructed Beth.
I did as I was told and sat next to my sister with the flowers on my lap. A few short minutes later, Willow breezed down the stairs and joined us, sitting next to me. She was holding my remote.
“What’s going on?”
A sly smile crossed her kissable lips. “You’ll see in a few seconds.”
My curiosity was piqued as she pressed the remote. On my next breath, a burst of classical piano music filled the room. I recognized the piece—it was some Tchaikovsky waltz that I’d once dance to with this creepy girl in Cotillion. The memory vanished as adorable Violet pranced down the stairs onto the makeshift dance floor. Wearing a pink leotard and tights, a lavender tulle tutu, and pale pink dance slippers on her feet, she looked like a little ballerina. Make that a beautiful little ballerina with her long hair gathered into a bun and a bit of shimmering makeup on her face.
For the next five minutes, the four of us sat silently, mesmerized by my precious niece’s performance as she twirled, jumped, and leaped to the music. I was captivated by both her agility and grace. With her slender arms fluttering like wings, she looked like a delicate little bird. A bright smile lit her face as she continued to dance across the concrete floor. I now realized what Willow had bought on her shopping expedition and what she’d been secretly doing with Violet each evening. Giving my wannabe ballerina niece dance lessons. Watching her effortlessly and passionately perform, there was no doubt in my mind that she was born to dance. As she continued to glide across the floor, I dared to take Willow’s hand. Without taking her eyes off her protégé, she gave mine a little squeeze.
When the piece ended, Willow hit the remote again, turning off the sound system, and a
s Violet gracefully curtsied, the four of us leapt to our feet, giving her a standing ovation, applauding madly and shouting bravo. Wearing a proud, ear-to-ear grin, Violet skipped up to us.
“Did you like it?”
I was the first to chime in. “Kiddo, you were incredible.” I glanced down at the flowers in my lap. “These are for you.”
I handed her the bouquet. Though they were intended for Willow, the sparkle in my niece’s eyes as she inhaled the fragrant flowers made my heart swell with joy.
“Thank you, Uncle Ryan. They’re so pretty!”
“Sweetheart, that was amazing,” said my sister, rarely one to give effusive compliments.
“Totally,” echoed Beth.
“Willow taught me how to dance. She’s the bestest teacher in the whole wide world.”
Willow blushed; God, she was adorable when she did that, her pale face turning the color of Violet’s ballet shoes. After swallowing a breath of air, she told us Violet was a natural.
Violet cocked her head. “What’s a natural?”
“That means you’re very good at something that’s very hard. Ballet comes easily to you.”
“Cool!” Her attention shifted to my sister. “Mommy, can I take ballet lessons when we get home?”
My sister hesitated, but then agreed to them.
Willow smiled. “I have a friend in Boston, who’s a great dance instructor. I’ll email you her contact info and will personally call her to recommend taking on Violet as a student. She has so much potential.”
“Does that mean I could be as good as you and Angelina Ballerina?”
Willow winked at her. “Better.”
A half hour later, my sister, Beth, and Violet, now proudly holding a quilted pink bag with all her new ballet gear, were on their way back to Boston. There were hugs all around, my niece unable to let go of Willow. The powerful connection between them filled me with a happiness I’d never known before. Willow promised to visit and told Violet to send her videos. Once they were gone, my loft felt so quiet and empty. For the first time, I realized how much a child could fill your life.
After putting back all the furniture, Willow and I ordered in pizza and shared a bottle of wine. I told her about my meeting with my agent and mentioned that I had a surprise for her. Us. As much as she nudged me to tell her what it was, I kept mum.
At close to seven o’clock, my intercom sounded. The movers.
A few minutes later, the elevator door creaked open.
“It’s upstairs,” I said.
“What’s going on?” asked Willow as the four burly men wound up the stairs to my bedroom.
Deciding I really wanted this to be a surprise, I searched the living room for something I could use as a blindfold. My eyes darting left and right, they landed on my plaid cashmere scarf that I’d left on the couch. I made a quick dash for it, and when I returned to Willow, I told her to turn around. I began to wrap the scarf around her eyes.
“What are you doing, Ry-Man?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m blindfolding you.”
“Huh!?” She squirmed.
“Don’t move. You’re making it hard.” Really hard. I could feel an erection in the making, already straining against my jeans.
Upstairs, I could hear the movers dismantling my four-poster bed. A few minutes later, two of them carefully marched down the stairs, holding the bed on its side while the other two carried the mattress and bedding. I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a part of me that wanted to stop them. My stomach clenched as I blew out a steeling breath. Once downstairs, they headed toward the elevator. One of them pushed the button and the door re-opened. To my shock, Allee was standing inside the carriage. She flashed an approving smile at me and I gasped.
“Ry, is everything okay?” asked Willow.
“Yeah.” My voice wavered as I watched the men cart the mattress, the bedding, and the bed into the elevator. Then to my surprise, Allee gave me a thumbs-up and then blew me a kiss. I caught it with my heavy heart and blew a kiss back. The door cranked shut, and to be honest, my heart sunk to my stomach as the elevator descended. My Allee was gone.
“Can I take this scarf off now?” asked Willow, bringing me back to the moment.
“No, not yet.” Grasping the fringed ends, I pulled it a little tighter.
Willow was getting impatient and annoyed. “C’mon, Ryan, tell me what’s going on.”
“You’ll see soon.” I meant that figuratively and literally.
Ten minutes later the elevator returned, and this time the four men were carrying my new bed and the mattress along with two large plastic bags filled with the bedding and accessories I’d purchased at Bed Bath & Beyond and had delivered to the antiques dealer. Brand new pillows, sheets, a comforter, and a duvet cover. And some candles. My pulse thudding, I watched as they brought everything upstairs. Butterflies flitted in my stomach. I hope I’d made the right decision.
“This is absurd,” protested Willow. Lifting her arms behind her, she attempted to untie the scarf. I caught her wrists in time and stopped her.
“You’re being a really bad girl. One more bad move and I’m going to have to spank you.”
She giggled. But truthfully, the thought of giving her tight little ass a little spanking that would make it turn ballerina pink turned me on. My dick grew harder and began to throb. I hoped the movers would assemble my new bed quickly with all the trimmings.
In no time, they were back downstairs and told me everything was done. Digging my hand into my jeans pocket, I pulled out my money clip and handed them each a twenty-dollar bill as a tip. They were beyond thrilled by my generosity and happily bid me goodnight. Before leaving, one of the movers gave me a thumbs-up, hinting at the night ahead. My pulse quickened and I could feel it in my dick.
“Okay, baby, hold my hand,” I anxiously told Willow, taking hers in mine once they were gone. Carefully, I led her up the winding stairs to my bedroom and when we got to the top, I took off the scarf.
“Oh my God!” she gasped, soaking in my, or should I say, our new bed. Having instructed the movers to make it up and place scented candles throughout the room, the antique bed with its shimmering pink upholstered headboard, thick white duvet, and fluffy pillows looked absolutely delicious.
“Oh my God!” Willow gasped again, her voice breathier, more in awe.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh my God! It’s so beautiful. Honestly, the most beautiful bed I’ve ever seen.”
Moving my hand to her lower back, I ushered her toward it. She ran her fingers over the plush Egyptian cotton duvet and then over the pink satin headboard.
“I found it today right after my lunch. It called out your name.” This was my way of letting Willow know it was a bed for her. A bed for us. That I was ready to move on.
“I love it!”
“It belonged to some legendary Russian ballerina.”
“Really? What was her name?”
“No clue.” I hadn’t asked, and now that I thought about it, maybe this clever antiques dealer had made up a story to make a sale. It didn’t matter. Willow’s eyes fixated on the bed and then zoomed in on the small whimsical pillow that was anchored in the middle against the pile of fluffy goose down pillows. She read the embroidered words aloud:
“Make love, not war.”
While I’d almost bought one that said, “Dance until you drop,” something told me that might upset her. Don’t ask why, but I followed my gut instinct. So I bought this one instead, which was fitting in these politically trying times. It replaced the ‘I’d-rather-be-in-Paris’ pillow I’d given to Allee, which I’d torn up in a fit of rage right after her death.
I nuzzled the back of Willow’s long neck. “So, what do you say…”
“Say what?” she whispered back.
“We make love.”
TWENTY-THREE
Ryan
Despite how aroused I was, I wanted to take things slowly. Make every second cou
nt. As tempting as it was, I didn’t want to jump straight into bed. I wanted to choreograph each move. Make this a production I would never forget.
Kissing her everywhere I could, I removed Willow’s clothing piece by piece, her helping hands and soft moans telling me she was as eager as I was to claim each other. Between heated breaths, she clawed at my T-shirt and worked at the button of my jeans. Tossing her top to the floor, I massaged her perfect breasts before unhooking her lace bra and slipping it off. Her ballerina-pink nipples erect, I sucked and nibbled them, intermittently swirling my tongue around the delicate puckered buds as I slid down her leggings. Kicking off her ballet flats, she stepped out of the stretchy pants. My beautiful ballerina girl was bared to me, her flaming red hair cascading over shoulders like a theater curtain. Not taking my eyes off her, I disrobed like a madman, unable to control my pace. That’s how great my need for her was. My cock was already giving her a standing ovation and was so fucking ready to take her. To dance with her pussy. Lead her to an orgasm. On my next feverish breath, I lifted her into my arms and carried her to the waiting bed.
I set her down, her head on a pillow, and I couldn’t stop staring at her, marveling at her inhumanly beautiful body. Her chest heaved up and down, her full lips quivered, and her waist-long hair fanned out across the bedding. Her porcelain skin shimmered in the glow of the candlelight as did the contours and defined muscles of her taut dancer’s limbs. If I were a painter, I’d paint her. This thing of beauty. This work of art.
“What are you doing, Ryan?” she whispered, her dreamy eyes looking up at me.
“Just looking at you.” It had been so long since I had a woman in bed. If only I could paint her with words. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“I want to make it perfect for you,” she breathed out.
My beautiful ballerina. The pleaser. The perfectionist.
“Bend your knees, my butterfly. Then spread your legs.”
Silently, she did as I asked. I climbed onto the bed, sitting back on my knees between her V’d legs. My eyes lingering on her glistening pink pussy, I ran my hands over her long, lean sculpted limbs, relishing their silky smoothness, feeling every sinewy muscle. Then, I put one hand between them and stroked her soft, delicate folds. I hissed. She was soaked, so slick with wet heat.
Endless Love Page 11
