by Jane Preston
Sterling Matthews may never work again.
The idea gave her almost supernatural strength, like she was queen of all she surveyed as her car slowly rounded the corners of quiet, rarified streets with haloed mansions spread out on manicured lawns that stretched, in their heavenly perfection, all the way down to the foaming beaches.
The feeling of elation lasted all the way through the evening.
As Lucy was climbing into her lofty bed that night, seemingly miles up from the floor, the way a real princess sleeps, she thought, I’ll ruin him. But, first, the cat wants to play with the mouse.
Visions of his impossibly handsome face danced in front of her eyes before blissful sleep tip-toed into her Cinderella-pink room to claim her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Beautiful and blonde, short-haired Amber was still resisting all the romantic overtures from Jared and it was totally frustrating Maureen. Here it is, towards of the end of the book when the heroine is supposed to at last succumb to the devastating charms of the hero. Why can’t I get her to finally warm up to him? She asked herself, briefly visiting the idea of cutting off her own, longer hair. Once, when she couldn’t get the words of a novel to flow, Maureen had impulsively marched into the bathroom where she’d taken a pair of scissors to her thick tresses.
Miraculously, or because she had succeeded in getting her mind completely off the story, the heretofore unfixable kinks in the plot had afterwards worked out beautifully. The book went on to become one of her best sellers.
Her hair was another story, prompting people on the street to suspect she’d been lost at sea for years. Her expert hairdresser had been able to give her locks some emergency surgery. But it was weeks before she looked human again.
More hot green tea was definitely in order. Exhaling deeply, Maureen grabbed her ubiquitous cup and headed for the cheerful colors in her kitchen. As she stood by the microwave impatiently waiting for its short series of beeps, the writer had an idea.
Perhaps I need to ask Amber why she refuses to be friendly with Jared.
Maureen felt instinctively that while she, as the author, had breathed life into her characters, they often developed a will of their own; in fact, they were quite adept at revealing to her, the writer, how they needed to show up on the pages of her novels. That is, if she really listened. And in order for her to be true to the story, she needed to allow that process to unfold and be fully present to it.
Warming to her subject, Maureen continued her musings as the microwave rumbled on noisily. There are reasons Amber really doesn’t trust this new man, Jared Holt. Maybe those reasons are valid and my heroine needs to listen to them.
Or maybe they’re only indicative of phantom fears she can, and should, work through. Perhaps with the aid of a therapist.
Another new thought.
Finally, the microwave beeped.
Boy, this story is really taking a new turn, she thought, as she stirred the depths of her tea cup.
And I’m not sure I like it.
Shaking her head, the novelist dutifully trudged back into her home office, steaming cup in hand, to give Amber and Jared another go.
***
He was excited about Maureen coming here to his home on the beach tonight. Sterling had ordered from the nearby floral shop large, buoyant arrangements of big-faced sunflowers, mixed with deep, soulful ruby roses, fragile sprigs of baby’s breath, and playful daisies. He didn’t want the usual bouquets. Not for Maureen.
For some reason, he was desperate to impress her. She’d told him that she hadn’t dated for more than a year. With her looks, especially those killer legs, she must have had more than her fair share of admirers. But she was reluctant to mix and mingle again, having had her heart broken by a man she’d had a long-time childhood crush on.
Well, the buck stops here, he smiled to himself, as he silently went down the checklist of the grocery supplies in the refrigerator and pantry. Actually, he was far more than a passable cook. His well-meaning mother had insisted that he go beyond rudimentary cooking. At one point, he’d considered becoming a chef.
But his dad had screwed him up. Never satisfied with anything Sterling did or said, Milton Matthews had always succeeded in making his gifted and intelligent son feel like a loser. Sterling grew up marked by a deep-seated inferiority complex with a chip on his shoulder the size of Maine. He knew he had to do something extraordinary, like acing a blue-chip Ivy League university, something his dad couldn’t do, in order to have any real chance at feeling good about himself.
There was that, and then there were the women, another category in which he exceeded all expectations. Women fell hard for him, right on the spot, with him barely batting an eye. They wanted to be with him. And, for a short amount of time, he wanted to be with them, too.
However, he quickly tired of even the most ravishing of women, discovering, to his dismay, that he didn’t even like most of them, particularly their vanity. How many cumulative hours had he spent in living rooms waiting for his dates to make their grand entrance for the evening? And then, when he’d been with them later that night, he’d wondered what all the fuss had been about.
But, Maureen Beckley was different. She had great looks and depth, yet, strangely enough, she seemed to be in real need of a healthy dose of self-confidence.
As he thought about her doe-like eyes and shy smiles, he realized he didn’t want to blow things with her.
“I’m going to keep this one. With no thanks to you, my dear Dad.”
Someday, he’d pay him back. He just hadn’t figured out how.
But, for now, he had pure loveliness on his mind and he wanted to do everything in his power to ensure her spark never left his life.
***
As she slowly drove into the long, circular, hedge-lined, cobblestone driveway of Sterling Matthews’ home, Maureen took a deep breath. She needed to still her thumping heart. The house seemed to have manifested straight from her imagination. A replica of an old English mansion, it was complete with large stained-glass windows and even two crenellated towers. While it was substantially smaller than a full-blown castle, its architecture was reminiscent of the romance of those historically-venerated buildings.
She felt like Cinderella.
And she was about to be wined and dined by her Prince.
Again, the feeling that she was living a dream hit her like a 100-foot wave in the middle of a storm-tossed ocean. It was as though she were caught in an indomitable squall, about to drown in love’s embrace, and relishing every moment of it.
She had nearly succumbed to the jitters when, following her feeble excuse of a knock on the monolithic front door, Sterling magically appeared on the threshold, back-lit by a roaring blaze in a floor-to-ceiling fireplace.
“Mi’Lady, welcome to my humble abode,” he said as he performed his customary, winsome bow, keeping his unbelievably stunning eyes on her. Maureen, uncomfortable with this exponential degree of ardent attention, forced herself to choke back her nervousness and tentatively step into his stately foyer.
Again, it was a scene straight from a fairytale.
Boasting impossibly high ceilings, enhanced by antique moldings, and world-class art, this preface to the rest of the house was nothing short of breath-taking. Like its owner, the house was bigger than life, as if springing to present-day time from the pages of classic children’s story books and faraway lands.
“Y-you live…here?” Maureen couldn’t help her awkwardness; the feelings of being ushered into this enchanting other-world were simply daunting. The very ambiance fairly besieged her with emotions she couldn’t express, much less understand.
Even as she stood stunned by the majestic interiors, Maureen could hear the faint and pleasantly familiar sounds of the nearby ocean as though it was practically at the front doorstep. Of course, Sterling’s splendid house sat right on the beach. She couldn’t imagine that this first-class man would settle for anything less.
She tried unsuccessfully t
o shake the impression that she was being initiated into a very exclusive club. But what an initiation.
As Sterling led her through the hushed silence of the small-scale castle-home, she experienced what it was like to be royalty. Even the regal fashion in which her host held his perfectly straight carriage as he acted as tour guide underlined his innate elegance.
Suddenly, Maureen knew that she was in way over her head. It was unseemly that she was even here.
“To answer your question, Mi’Lady, yes, I do live here. How do you like it?”
Maureen felt conflicted. While she undoubtedly had a true appreciation for the impressively plush surroundings, she was slightly surprised to find that, when it came down to it, she was far more content with the modest charm of her own home.
It was cozy. And she desperately needed to feel cozy right now.
She decided to be truthful while also tactful. “Sterling, it’s magnificent. Positively magnificent. I must say, though, I-I’m overwhelmed.”
He grinned with satisfaction. “Mi casa es su casa.”
Dinner was in the grand dining hall with its candles ensconced in brass holders spaced at measured intervals along the walls. In addition, heavy red candles were glowing on the table, which was a carved piece of aged wood stretching the length of half the room. No overhead lights were in use.
She could barely hear, much less see, her gracious host.
Perhaps that’s the way he likes it, she thought, briefly imagining what it would be like to live here in this over-sized house and share the evening meals with him. Would they even be able to have a conversation?
At that moment, she had a flash of insight into Sterling Matthews: he really doesn’t want me to see him. Or to know him. He prefers being elusive, mysterious.
The perfectly-cooked, juicy roast beef with grilled rosemary new potatoes arrived with almost no fuss and no noise; the two unidentified servants appeared to glide in and out of the dining room with awe-inspiring ease, as if connected to unseen wires appropriate for actors flying over the stage in theater productions.
Everything looked staged, now that she thought about it.
“Sterling, this is incredibly delicious,” Maureen said, her anxiety level starting to register. “I love it. But I got the impression that you were going to cook the meal tonight.”
“I did,” he said, as he fastidiously chewed on a slice of meat. “Actually, I didn’t make all of it. But what you’re eating right now, the entrée, that’s my creation.”
She was impressed and said so. Wow, this divine man is also a whiz in the kitchen. Was there anything he couldn’t do? For some reason, her hands started to sport a thin patina of sweat. Just like the first night I met him, she reminded herself.
Then Sterling shrugged his shoulders. “But I needed a little help from the staff while fixing the watercress and avocado salad with strawberry-walnut dressing. As well as the oven-baked bread.”
Who cares, Maureen thought. Bread and salad she could do with her eyes closed. But she’d never been able to cook a perfect roast. Not like this anyway.
The rest of the dinner seemed to pass very slowly. Maureen was hyper-aware of every ahem she made while nervously clearing her throat, the entire time attempting to make her esteemed host feel relaxed as she herself sat at the edge of her red velvet seat. She’d always tried to take care of other people that way. Glancing in Sterling’s direction, she thought to herself that he would need a great deal of taking care of.
Conversation improved slightly when, their respective wine glasses in hand, the two had retired to the parlor after the exquisite, five-star meal. Here, there was a hot fire in progress in the red-bricked fireplace and, taking in the deep reds and gold of the décor, Maureen felt that she could finally relax. This was a far more casual, warmer room and she thought she’d spend nearly all her time here if she were a resident of this house.
Finally calm, she found herself enjoying Sterling’s company and laughing at his witty jokes. He had an excellent head on his shoulders and she always learned something new in his presence.
But her guard was still in place and bound to stay that way for the rest of the night.
***
An hour later, as he quickly kissed her good-bye, he knew the evening had been a disaster.
Thanking him again, Maureen had glanced at him with an unfamiliar expression (was it bewilderment or repulsion, or a combination of the two?), then immediately put her gray, manual-shift economy car into gear and quickly drove out of the driveway.
The seduction of Maureen Beckley was not going well.
Not well at all.
He could tell by the way she had been unusually quiet at dinner. He knew it when her back stayed ram-rod stiff as he slid his arm around her while they sat on the raspberry-colored parlor sofa in front of the boisterous fire, typically the place for some of his most memorable seductions.
Literally, all the women he’d brought into that room had willingly succumbed to his considerable, well-practiced charms, often with amazing speed and zeal.
But not Maureen. She’d simply looked scared, like she couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Standing in the driveway now, he shook his head at the disagreeable memory. The young woman didn’t know it – her car was well on its way out of Sterling’s posh neighborhood – but her gracious host walked back to his front door, and, stepping inside, slammed it with all his might.
One of the priceless paintings fell off the wall in the foyer.
It doesn’t matter, he thought, acidly. Let the servants pick it up. That’s what they’re paid for. And he stormed into the wing of his stately home which housed his luxurious bedroom quarters.
Maureen Beckley was becoming quite a problem for him.
***
It was 2:33 a.m. when he awakened with a start. His sleep had been especially restless. Tossing and turning, he couldn’t get the disturbing thoughts out of his mind. They came back to him, again and again, no matter how much he tried to dispel them.
He had to destroy her. Just like the others.
She was taking up far too much of his time.
And energy. Just like the others had.
He grinned when he thought of their beautiful bodies, all washed up on the shore, their lovely faces swollen beyond recognition, having absorbed the fresh, salty water for days.
Sometimes, even weeks.
Now, Maureen Beckley was about to meet the same fate.
He couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
54-year-old Milton Matthews studied his image in the full-length mirror in the basement gym of his fashionable home in the Chelsea suburbs. He liked what he saw. Just more than five decades into his life and he could still bench press a 200-pound weight, jog 15 miles and ride his stationary bike for a full three hours. Sometimes all in the same day.
It took a lot to get him winded, he thought, as he satisfactorily noted his barrel chest, six-pack stomach, and muscular arms. He had insisted on staying in tip-top physical shape from an early age, making no excuses, rising at 5 a.m., no matter how tired he was, ready to take on another day.
He’d had to. As the middle-aged man pulled on a sweatshirt and sweat pants, preparing for his early morning jog through the sleeping neighborhood, where he and his wife had lived for the past 10 years, he was reminded once again that his life had been hard scrabble. No easy breaks for him.
Matthews knew early on that he'd have to make his own breaks if he was going to get ahead. And get ahead he did, putting in painfully-long hours and working his way up from the bottom, starting as a mail boy at Watson Shipping, to the point where he was promoted 17 years ago to Vice President of the company.
Nimbly sprinting up the basement stairs to the stylish first floor of his renovated Cape Cod home, which had been listed on the Parade of Homes for the past five years, he had carved out a life filled with impressive accomplishments.
As he crossed the plushy-carpeted living room, decorated in
mint green and oceanic blue, and reached the front door, he was careful to lock it and pull it shut quietly so as not to wake his very attractive wife, fast asleep in their king-sized bed upstairs. She always insisted on getting her beauty rest.
Now it was time to run.
Picking up speed, his athletic legs pumping with agility, he passed one of his favorite houses, a beautiful corner property owned by the president of a thriving furniture store. Milton Matthews found himself thinking that his son, Sterling, never really knew what it was like to be a self-made man. Blessed with stunning looks and a quick mind, he’d had nearly everything given to him.
