Acadian Waltz (6 page)

My shoulders
sagged under the weight of my mother’s expectations. I looked down at the
ground, taking in the way the cobblestones lay perfectly side by side with each
other. There were no gaps and no breaks between them. Why can’t people be more
like cobblestones? I gazed back up into John’s face and marveled at his deep
gray eyes.

“Sorry. My
mother called me before you came over tonight, and she kinda got to me.”

“Oh, I see. Did
you finally tell her about me?”

“I mentioned
you.” I turned away from him, hoping to hide my embarrassment.

“Let me guess.”
He came up next to me and placed his arm about my shoulders.

“‘He’s a doctor,
a great catch, and you need to work harder to snag him,’ or some such thing.”

I laughed,
feeling slightly relieved by his comment. “How did you know?”

“I’ve heard it
all before. My mother is a lot like yours. I remember when I was in
undergraduate school, Nancy brought home a medical student she had been dating
to meet my parents.” He rolled his eyes playfully. “My mother acted as if the
pope had come to call. Nancy broke up with the guy soon after that. To this day
my mother still brings up the doctor my sister let get away.”

“Your mother and
mine sound like they have a lot in common.”

“No, just a
different generation. For our mothers, what a person does for a living defines
the kind of person they are. You and I look at people differently. I know for
the most part society is still hung up on labels—doctor, lawyer, Indian chief,
and so forth. But the truly enlightened among us realize that what makes a
person is not their profession, but what they believe in; or, more to the
point, who they believe in.”

“Are you talking
about God?”

“God to some, or
religion, or a belief in a person or ideal. That belief is what defines them,
because that is what makes them who they are.” John stopped walking and turned
to me. “I’m a physician, but I believe in the Catholic Church, and that all the
world is not one big medical research problem to be solved. There is a time and
place for all events. I also believe that jazz music, and a good bottle of
scotch, are the second and third best things in life.” He paused and rested his
forehead against mine. “So, Nora Kehoe, what do you believe in?”

My mind went
blank. I had always had an opinion about world affairs, causes, and other
people’s problems, but could not for the life of me think of a single,
overwhelming person or cause that dominated all others. The epiphany made me
wonder where I had been all those years. I had spent so much of my life chasing
other people’s dreams and passions that maybe I had forgotten to foster my own.

“I can’t break
it down as easily as you,” I finally confessed and took a step forward. 

John enveloped
me in his long arms. His face was inches from mine and I could feel the heat of
his body through his casual shirt and slacks.

“Try,” he
whispered to me.

Suddenly, the
nearness of him made me uncomfortable. “John, please.” I spied the people
milling about the square. “People are staring at us,” I pointed out as I
struggled in his arms.

He held me even
closer. “I like it when you put up a fight.”

Before I
realized what was happening, he kissed me—not just kissed me, but pressed his
lips against mine with a passion I had never felt from him before. Sure, I’d
had butterflies in the pit of my stomach when we had kissed prior to this
moment, but this time, for the first time, he kissed me and it was as if he
really wanted me.

He stepped back
from me, the desire shining in his gray eyes. “Let’s get you home.”

Perplexed by the
intensity of his kiss, all I could do was nod my head in agreement. He took my
hand and led me away from Jackson Square, heading toward the parking lot where
his dark blue BMW was waiting.

*     *     *

Once we had
returned to my yellow cottage near Lake Pontchartrain, John followed me up the
walkway to my front door. In the past, he had respectfully kissed me good night
and not tried to venture into my home. But tonight as I placed the key in the
lock, I could feel his teeth gently nibbling my earlobe.

“Hurry up and
get that damned door open,” he whispered to me as I struggled with the key. “I
want to show you what I believe to be the number one best thing in life.”

“I’m trying,” I
complained. “But you keep distracting me.”

He raised his
arm from about my shoulders and held his hands away from my body, then he
flashed me a devious little grin. The thick oak door finally gave way and John
pushed me inside.

I barely had
time to reach for the light before his cool, slender hands were all over me,
caressing the curves of my breasts and kneading his palms into my rear end.

“Dr. Blessing, I
thought you were such a gentleman,” I commented after I came up for air from
one of his kisses.

John took the
keys from my hand and threw them on the table by my front door. Then he reached
for my blazer and expertly peeled the jacket from my body.

“Oh, I can be,”
he said as he began to unbutton my blouse. “I have been a real gentleman up
until tonight.” He kissed me, and then started unbuttoning his shirt. “But I
thought it was time I try a new approach.” He pulled his shirt open to expose
his chest. “What do you think?”

I let my hand
wander over his smooth chest and slowly pushed the shirt over his shoulders, watching
as the fabric fell effortlessly to my hardwood floor.

He picked me up
like I was a rag doll and threw me rather unceremoniously over his bony
shoulder. Then he slapped my bottom with his hand. He laughed as he carried me
across my living room. “I presume your bedroom is this way,” he declared as he
walked down the short hallway that led to my bedroom. After he kicked open my
bedroom door, he plopped me down on my king-sized, four-poster bed.

He stood back
from the bed. “Take off your clothes.”

Happy that he
finally seemed interested in getting intimate, I grinned and sat up. He
intently watched as I removed my blouse, bra and slacks. After tossing my
underwear to the floor, John approached the bed.

He pushed me
back on my beige comforter as he began kissing my neck. His tongue teased my
right nipple and my body arched with anticipation. His hands caressed my
breasts and hips, and when his fingers slid in between my legs, I moaned in his
ear. Suddenly, he stopped touching me.

“What is it?” I
asked, looking up into his face.

“Condoms,” he
replied as he sat up and pulled out his wallet. “Better safe then sorry.”

“Yes, you’re
right,” I agreed, trying to get back in the mood. 

He put two
condoms on the circular nightstand beside my bed and then left his wallet next
to them. He quickly shed his trousers and boxers and flung them to the floor.
John wrapped me in his arms and hungrily kissed my mouth. His lips went along
my cheek to my delicate earlobe.

“Put your hands
on me,” he whispered in my ear.

Flustered, I
reached up and put my hands on his chest.

“No, not there.”
He took my right hand and guided it to his erection. “Now, stroke me,” he
directed.

I soon learned
that the entire sexual experience to John was something akin to following
instructions for operating a DVD player. At specific intervals I was told to
“touch me here” or “kiss me there” or “move against me like this.” By the time
we had come to the end of our very brief encounter, I was so emotionally
frazzled that I had forgotten to fake an orgasm. 

“I really like
being with you, Nora,” he murmured to me after. “We make a great team.”

Unsure of what
to say, I simply mumbled, “I really like you, too, John.”     

He snuggled next
to me. “I also like scrambled eggs for breakfast.” Then he chuckled.

I playfully
slapped his arm. “Good. You can make extra for me.”

John kissed my
cheek. “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you Nora?”

I didn’t offer a
reply. I figured that was one of those tidbits of information he would
eventually discover about me. At least, I hoped he would get to know the real
Nora Kehoe. I had been keeping much of my true nature from John, and I began to
question if he would even like the outspoken woman I had sequestered away.

I nestled in his
arms, and my apprehension quickly dissolved. We were just beginning, I
reasoned, and there would be time enough for getting to know each other. I
listened to the steady sound of his heartbeat and was reassured that everything
was as it should be between us.    

But when I
closed my eyes, my mind was seized with a whirlwind of activity. Images of my
mother’s tantrum about grandchildren, John’s directions during sex, and my
uncle’s warning about passion all flashed before me. Then, I saw Jean Marc
Gaspard looming over me with his thick arms folded across his bare chest. He
was staring at me with his black eyes gleaming, and a smug grin on his handsome
face. My eyes flew open and I became gripped with dismay. Why on earth was I
dreaming of him?

Chapter 5

The smell of
coffee from the kitchen stirred me from a very restful sleep. The clock next to
my bed read five-fifteen in the morning. I yawned lazily, and as an idea hit
me, I leapt from the bed. I ran to my closet and pulled out a short robe I had
been saving for just such an occasion; the kind where you want to look like you
just woke up and fell out of a Victoria’s Secret advertisement. I put on the
pink satin robe, checked myself in the mirror, gave my long, blond hair a quick
run through with my fingers, and then ran to the bathroom and shot back some
mouthwash to complete the illusion. When I stepped into my small green and
white kitchen I felt confident, sexy, and sure I would be able to lure John
back into bed for another try.

“You’re up,” he
said when he saw me enter the brightly lit kitchen.

I had to squint
for a moment, having forgotten to stick to the shadows so as not to reveal too
much of my morning after self. After my eyes had adjusted, I was relieved to
see John Blessing standing by my cooktop next to the built-in oven, tending to
scrambled eggs and wearing only his trousers. His eyes had dark circles beneath
them, and his constant five o’clock shadow had turned into a thick stubble.

He came up to
me, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me on the lips. It was a long, deep
kiss that was mixed with the comforting sense of familiarity, as well as a hint
of sexiness.

“You look good
in that.” He playfully tugged at the belt on my robe.

I stood back
from him and nodded to the cooktop. “Early breakfast?”

“My beeper went
off.” He kissed my forehead and returned to his eggs. “One of the residents
under me had some questions about a patient. I couldn’t get back to sleep after
that.”

I came up behind
him and placed my arms about his waist while he stirred the eggs in the pan.
“Everything all right?”

“Sure.” He
turned off the flame on the gas cooktop and picked up the frying pan. “Just
routine stuff. First year residents are always nervous about making decisions.
They feel they have to get back up opinions for everything.”

“Were you like
that?”

He shook his
head. “I always knew what my limits were when I was a first year. But I tried
to solve the problem before I asked for help; didn’t want to appear weak. These
first years are pitiful.” He divided the scrambled eggs between two plates
waiting on the counter. “I was hoping to bring you this in bed, but now that
you’re up, you can make the toast.”

I headed to the
refrigerator to get the bread. “Are you going back to the hospital this
morning?”

“Afraid so.” He
carried the plates to my small pine breakfast table next to the kitchen window
that overlooked my back garden. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Life of a
resident,” he affirmed.

I placed the
bread in the toaster and stepped over to the table. As I came up next to him,
he placed his arms about my waist and glanced up at me from his chair. It was
then I got a good look at his body. I noticed how pale and slender his arms and
shoulders appeared. The grueling years of his residency obviously left little
time for exercise or outdoor activities.

“If this is
going to be a bother, we will have to sleep at my place. I get called in at odd
hours a lot.”

I fingered his
shiny stainless steel watch. “No bother.”

“Good. I’ll
bring some things over tonight. It’ll make it easier for me.” He reached up and
ran his hand along his thick stubble. “My razor for one, a toothbrush, a big
box of condoms.” He paused and grinned. “That is, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind.
But I have one question.”

John turned back
to his eggs and picked up his fork, intent on eating and listening to me at the
same time.

“What changed
last night?” I asked.

“What do you
mean?”

“When I said I
thought you were a gentleman, I meant it. It just seemed like you suddenly got
turned-on or something.”

John laughed and
put his fork down on his plate. He reached out and grasped my hands.

“Nora, we have
gone out on how many dates, five or six? It was time.”

“Time?”

“Yes, time to go
to bed; time to go to the next level of this relationship. That is, unless you
think I was wrong. Was last night a mistake?”

I shook my head.
“No, not a mistake.”

He let go of my
hands and went back to his eggs.

I heard the
bread pop-up from the toaster. “I was just a little swept off my feet, I
guess.”

“I aim to
please,” John stated, and then shoved a large forkful of eggs into his mouth.

I refrained from
telling John how I really felt about the previous night. The whole experience
had left me more puzzled than pleased. I went to the toaster and reached for
the warm bread. As I began buttering the toast, I wondered why men always
patted themselves on the back after sex, as if they had just climbed Mt.
Everest, thinking that they had satisfied a woman when they had actually done
nothing of the kind. Maybe if I had voiced my displeasure, John would have made
more of an effort to appease me. But like most men, I figured critiquing his
technique would only lead to his hasty departure through my front door. I
thought it odd how they could be deemed the stronger sex, when ours was the one
who had to put up with all of their imperfections.