Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

69764227fc1deac48e_Full

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

December 25, 2007

On Christmas afternoon, at around two thirty, Karen pretended to believe Howard’s claim that he had left some important documents at the office. As soon as he had departed, no doubt to deliver the same diamond bracelet to Meg Atkins he had handed to her over brunch, she hailed her own cab and headed to Julliard at Lincoln Center. The day was overcast and cold, and the stars and musical notes that adorned the gigantic Christmas tree in Milstein Plaza had already been lit.

Karen walked around the Plaza pausing successively at the long white Julliard building, at Avery Fisher Hall, and at the Metropolitan Opera House. She wandered back to Julliard and stood in front, taking in every detail. “I could have been here,” she thought. “I should have been here.”

She found a place to sit. Even if it was cold and dreary, she wanted to be where music was learned and performed on this day when she felt as if she were the most alone person on earth.

* * *

November-December, 1994

He had come to her. As warm November lazed, day by day, under the autumn California sun toward mild December, Carrie marveled at the miracle of his presence in her world. At the office, she lost focus as she tried to read the dry documents that were her professional life.

At night, after hearing his last set at the club, they would talk and make love in his loft so late that she would sleep through the alarm. She would wake to the heavenly smell of eggs and bacon and the realization he would be hurt if she didn’t stay for breakfast although she was already hours late for work; and she knew Alan was waiting impatiently in front of her empty office.

She avoided what was staring her in the face: the natural rhythm of his life was far different from hers. He worked when she slept and slept when she worked. When he pulled her back into bed on weekdays for more lovemaking, she was painfully aware of putting her career in jeopardy. But she took the risk. Her need for Stan ran like fire in her veins. Her entire waking day was consumed by measuring the minutes they were apart.

Karen looked around Milstein Plaza in the gray December afternoon light and thought of how, in those early days with Stan, she had struggled to find time to practice flute. Being with him had awakened the music of her soul, and she longed to play for hours on end the way she once had.

But time squeezed her dry. She struggled to keep up her billable hours and be with Stan as much as possible. Every night, she counted the minutes until she could leave the office and slip into her usual place at the club. She knew he was waiting for her. She had to be there. She wanted to be there. She couldn’t let him down. And so, playing her own music, once again slipped down the priority list in her life. After all, he was the real musician. By her decision, she had made herself the amateur. Being close to Stan would simply have to be enough to fulfill her own creative needs. She didn’t have time for more.

They had spent their first Christmas tucked away in a cozy blue and white suite at Aynsley House, an exquisite bed and breakfast in an old Victorian gingerbread in Napa. Karen had wanted to give Stan a memorable Christmas gift that would take them out of their ordinary routines. They arrived on Christmas Eve to find two iced champagne flutes next to a huge four poster where rose petals had been scattered in a heart on the blue and white comforter. For those four days, she and Stan had dressed only when they went to the dining room for dinner. The rest of the time they made love – in the four poster, in the gigantic oval Jacuzzi tub, or in front of the fire. Stan’s craving for her seemed insatiable. On Christmas morning, he gave her a small gold trumpet on a fine gold chain.

At the time, Carrie Moon had seen nothing amiss in those four days, and she had wanted them to go on forever. But twelve years later, Karen Morgan at Milstein Plaza, eyes fixed on Julliard, knew the warning sign she had missed. A cloud had crossed Stan’s face on Christmas Eve at check-in at Ansley House when she had pulled out her American Express card to cover the bill.

* * *

A week later, on New Year’s Eve the club was full, not only with couples, but with an array of gorgeous women in gold, silver, and black sequined gowns. One group in particular that Carrie dubbed the Table of Eight waved and smiled and blew kisses to Stan all night long. And as the evening wore on, he never took his eyes off them. He seemed to be playing just for them.

Harry had reserved her usual spot close to the stage, and when Kristin wasn’t singing, she joined Carrie. As the second set began, Kristin leaned over and whispered, “Is everything ok with you two?”

“I thought so when we left home,” she whispered back. She wished Kristin hadn’t said anything, so that she could have gone on pretending Stan’s attention to the other women was just her imagination. He was an entertainer, she reassured herself; he was merely playing to his audience.

But something worse than flirtation appeared at eleven thirty. Carrie felt the cool rush of air as the back door opened, and she turned to see Lara Beaumont in body-hugging cobalt blue, one-shouldered satin. Stan’s eyes riveted on her face. She smiled and waived slightly as she looked around for a table. The only empty spot was at Carrie’s, so she slid into that seat, whispering, “I hope you don’t mind. Stan said to come by if I finished early at the Hyatt.”

Stan said to come by. The words hit Carrie’s heart like five lead bullets. He’d been talking to Lara. When? Not while she’d been at the loft; but she was at work a good part of every day.

Lara had just barely sat down when Stan summoned her to the stage to sing with him. Carrie saw Harry frown slightly at Kristin, who shrugged in return.

For the next half hour, she worked to keep a pretend smile on her face, masking her disappointment as Stan and Lara worked their way through “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend,” “Memories,” “I Can’t Get Started,” and “New York, New York.” Carrie watched the approach of midnight uneasily. Lara was all over Stan. If he gave her the first kiss of the New Year, Carrie knew her heart would break.

As the giant clock Harry had placed on stage began to chime midnight, he began “Auld Lang Syne” at the piano. Stan played along, while Kristin and Lara sang. The entire audience joined in. Carrie held her breath when the song ended. Kristin leaned over the piano to kiss Harry; and predictably, Lara reached for Stan. But he turned away, his eyes on Carrie in the audience.

She was so relieved she couldn’t stand up for a few seconds. Stan left the stage and came down to give her a kiss. “Happy New Year,” he smiled. Behind him, she could see Lara’s deeply disappointed face.

“Happy New Year,” she said and added one more kiss of her own.

The entire ebook of Ride Your Heart ‘Til It Breaks is available for purchase at Amazon. com, http://www.amazon.com/Ride-Your-Heart-Til-Breaks-ebook/dp/B00RDJQB8Q. Deborah is also the author of the award winning novel,Dance For A Dead Princess, http://www.amazon.com/Dance-For-Dead-Princess-ebook/dp/B00C4HP9I0

Read Full Post »

LOVE SONG

CHAPTER TWELVE

November 1994

Through her tears, she watched him vanish up the path toward the parking lot.  Go after him. Fight for him, her heart said. Show him you won’t desert him. Show him it’s safe to love you.

He had already left when she reached her car. She drove the few blocks to his loft at Fourth and G. By some miracle, there was an empty meter in front. She got out and hurried up the steps to ring the bell.

Answer. Please, answer, she prayed. Her breath came in short, harsh sobs as she stood waiting for a reply from upstairs.

None came.

Karen rang the bell, more insistently this time. She counted ten seconds and rang the bell again.

Then suddenly the iron security door swung open, and Stan was there. Without a word, he pulled her inside and into his arms.

* * *

December 2007

As the American Airlines jet began to taxi toward take off in the late December twilight, two days before Christmas, Judge Karen Morgan sat back in her first class seat and closed her eyes. One week since she had seen Stan at the Christmas party. Seven miserable days of coming home to the blank answering machine. No call. No message. So why did she expect one? She had told him the truth: Carrie Moon was dead. Why then did she think he would come after her and insist she wasn’t? Because she so desperately wanted him to? Because she had once fought for his love in an effort to rescue him from a life of numbness and emptiness, and now she wanted him to do the same for her? But the odds were against it. She ordered a scotch straight up and closed her eyes.

The jet sped east through the darkness, but Karen was back in the lift in Stan’s building as it creaked upward toward his loft. Her nostrils were full of the cool salty breeze, sweeping over her hot arms and face, damp with perspiration and desire. And she could smell the familiar dark, masculine scent of Stan, the mixture of sweat and sex that surrounded him after hours of performing.

Sometimes, Karen reflected, as she listened to the big jet engines labor, life brings you to a split second when you suddenly understand everything is about to change forever. In the twinkling of an eye, as you stand poised on the edge of the inevitable, you pause to burn into your memory what life is like at that moment – the moment before change engulfs you. That sliver of time before the future arrives to transform your life forever is as tiny as an atom, yet as wide and deep as a black hole in space. You stand poised for less than a breath upon the rim of this vast knowledge that all the events of your life have happened for only one purpose: to bring you to this moment of irrevocable change.

* * *

November 1994

Stan said nothing as he held her tightly against him as the elevator lumbered upward. When it stopped, he pushed aside the iron bars to allow them to exit.

He led her down the hall to his loft. As they stepped inside, he pulled her into his arms and brought his mouth down on hers in a crushing kiss.

* * *

Karen Morgan shivered at the memory of that night and downed a huge gulp of scotch. Where was Stan at that moment? It was Friday night, so he was probably playing another gig. The old stab of jealousy bit through her heart as she remembered him flirting with the blonde singers last week. Did he ever remember how they had made love over and over again that first night, each time more intensely than the last?

No, Karen answered herself. She was certain Stan didn’t remember. He had more than likely made love to so many women in the last twelve years that the details of his first night with Carrie Moon had long ago disappeared completely from his psyche.

But then, why had he called? If women were nothing more for him than interchangeable Lego pieces, why had he picked up the phone after twelve years? Curiosity, most likely. Certainly not to apologize. Stan would never apologize for what he had done to them both.

* * *

November 1994

On that first night, Carrie finally dozed just as the first tentative light filtered through the long loft windows. She tried to fight the impulse to sleep, knowing she had to be at her desk by seven a.m. to make up for not going back to the office at midnight. But the combination of exhaustion, satiety, and the joy of being surrounded by Stan and his warmth overcame her.

She woke to bright sunshine and Stan’s kiss.

“Wake up, sleepy head.” He pulled her close and made love to her yet again. But afterward, as she lay cradling Stan in her arms, she felt a rising tide of panic. What time was it? Would Alan have missed her?

Unlike last night when she had remained as close to Stan as possible after they had finished making love, she slid away from him and sat up.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

The hands of the clock on the beside table were irrevocably placed at ten a.m. Carrie caught her breath. She had never arrived that late for work in nine years and two law firms.

He watched her eyes travel to the clock. “Late for work? Then I guess you don’t have time for one of my famous breakfasts?”
She shook her head and began to get dressed.

* * *

At ten thirty, Karen walked into her office, uncomfortably aware she was wearing yesterday’s clothes, had not showered, and smelled like Stan and sex. Alan sat behind her desk, going over the documents from the overnight secretarial pool. The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened.

He looked up and surveyed her from head to toe. Karen wanted the floor to open and swallow her.

“I see you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I – ” For the first time in her association with Alan Warrick, she didn’t know what to say.

“We were concerned when you weren’t at work by eight.” Every word was a nail hammered into her professional coffin. “We called your apartment and got no answer. I decided I’d better start going over these documents to keep the deal on time.”

A flash of anger surged through Karen. “My being late this morning isn’t going to delay the IPO. We still have two weeks before the sales date.”

“And Burnett keeps changing its numbers on its assets. I hope you are paying attention to the changes.”

Her anger deepened. She wanted to take Alan by the throat and scream that she was entitled to a life away from Warrick, Thompson and that sleeping with the man she loved didn’t mean her brains had become mush. Instead, she summoned her cool, professional tone.

“I’m quite aware of the changes, Alan. That’s why these documents were in overnight secretarial. I appreciate your pinch-hitting for me, but I’m here now and ready to look these over.”

Even though Alan was one of the name partners, that tone from Karen always made him back down. It reminded him she possessed the true securities expertise. He was merely a litigator who knew enough to get him through whatever trial happened to be the case du jour in his life. Even if she showed up late in last night’s clothes, she knew the securities code inside and out. She would be hard to replace. He didn’t want her to know that, of course, but he did.
Beaten by her commanding tone, Alan yielded her chair and headed for the door. He turned back, however, before he left.

She kept her eyes on the documents, hoping he’d take the hint and go. But his gaze remained on her until she looked up.

“I gather last night wasn’t about scouting properties for Waterfront Development?”

“Last night was not about anything to do with you, Alan. Or the firm.”

He frowned. Obviously he wanted the whole story, and obviously he wasn’t entitled to a word of it. Beaten again, he sent a parting shot across her bow as he turned to leave. “Remember what’s at stake this year, Karen. Don’t screw up.”

The entire ebook of Ride Your Heart ‘Til It Breaks is available for purchase at Amazon. com, http://www.amazon.com/Ride-Your-Heart-Til-Breaks-ebook/dp/B00RDJQB8Q. Deborah is also the author of the award winning novel, Dance For A Dead Princess, http://www.amazon.com/Dance-For-Dead-Princess-ebook/dp/B00C4HP9I0

seaport-village-dusk.1170.430.s

Read Full Post »

BEGUINE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

November 1994

“Damn!” Alan Warrick stormed into her office at three o’clock on Tuesday.
Karen looked up from the piles of Burnet IPO documents unperturbed.

What’s wrong?”

“Look at this! Just look at this!” He thrust a stack of papers into her hand.

She glanced down and realized they were Harry’s books. “Where did you get these?”

“His accountant had them messengered over in response to the letter I sent last week. Son of bitch, the guy is meeting the damn lease terms. He’s showing a profit. What the hell are we going to do now?”

Still deadly calm, Karen said, “There’s nothing we can do. We’re not responsible for making these facts. Our job is just to report them to Waterfront Development.”

“Like hell it is!” Alan stormed at her. “We’re Warrick, Thompson, not some guy with his solo shingle out front. We’re the ones who get the client what he wants.”

“Within the bounds of the law,” Karen observed.

“Yes, damn it, yes. Ok.” Alan took the documents back and stared at them for a few moments. Then he thrust them at Karen again. “Look, can’t you find anything wrong with these? You’re the accountant. I’m just a trial lawyer.”

If you only knew what I did to them in the first place, she thought. But she maintained her poker face. She pretended to study Harry’s books for a few minutes. Then she said, “Sorry, Alan. Nothing wrong here. He just has a little investment income that takes him through the low months. And that’s held in the name of the club. You won’t get to first base trying to evict him using these.”

(more…)

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts

%d bloggers like this: