The Blue Journal (28 page)

CHAPTER 33

South Beach is Florida's answer to the Cote d'Azur, albeit a decidedly American answer. It proclaims its sensuality without finesse or tradition. It is straight-ahead, unrelenting and without apology. As sexual parades go, South Beach is both alluring and honest.

The main strip, Ocean Drive, runs north and south, bordered on one side by a wide stretch of sand that leads to the sea. During the day, a dazzling assortment of beautiful women populate the beach, showing off their firm, tanned bodies in skimpy bikinis that become more expensive the less fabric involved in the design. Eager men of differing vintages and description variously ogle, pursue, or pair off with these young lovelies.

As night falls, the action moves across the street, where the west side of the avenue is fronted by restaurants and bars that proclaim their trendy, often foreign-sounding names in gaudy neon that glows to life as darkness replaces sunlight. Provocatively dressed women and stylishly attired men pack the walkways and saloons and bistros, working hard at having fun as they move in rhythm to the Latino beat of the music thundering from every open door and window.

Mitchell Avery absolutely loved the place. He did not care that he was among the older denizens, he saw his age as an asset, just as he had described to Randi Conway. He reveled in the openness of the sexuality, the free, uncaring attitude of the singular voices, the sensual poses, the utter frankness of everything that surrounded him. And the best part was that he could afford whatever it cost to participate in this nonstop party.

This is me
, he told himself.

If every man has a place that defines him, this place was surely Mitchell Avery.

South Beach was where he met Maria, during a business trip to Florida more than a year ago. She was standing at an outdoor bar, having a
mojito
and swaying to the sound of the insistent beat that poured through the speakers positioned all around them. Mitchell stepped up beside her, ordered a martini and said hello. Maria smiled.

She was wearing a black, thigh-high skirt, Jimmy Choo stilettos, and a chocolate brown, open-neck satin blouse that provided a generous view of her shapely breasts. It was difficult to be heard over the loud music, so when Avery offered to buy her a fresh cocktail he pointed to her nearly empty glass, and she nodded. Over the next half hour they managed enough conversation to agree they should have dinner together. Mitchell chose another busy spot on the strip where he pressed several bills into the hand of the maître d', and was promptly shown to a table. Later they make their way to a crowded rooftop lounge where they had another round of cocktails, and eventually wended their way back to Avery's hotel.

Since that first meeting Avery had seen her several times. He had seen her even after his wife had learned that his trips to Florida had nothing to do with business. He saw her even though the mention of this young woman's name could send Joan Avery into paroxysms of rage. He saw her because Mitchell needed to see her, regardless of the risks, despite his promises that the affair was over.

Now, after taking special care to pretend he was on his way to Nashville, he was seeing her again, without realizing that Joan knew he was in South Beach.

Avery booked a suite overlooking the sea in one of the best hotels on the strip, but at the moment he was not spending his time enjoying the accommodations or the view. Instead, he was devoting his attention to Maria.

She was wearing a beige skirt and cream-colored blouse that contrasted nicely with her tanned, olive skin. She stood on the balcony looking out at the ocean and, when she turned to him, she smiled, her teeth gleaming white, her eyes as black as her long, wavy hair. Avery was seated on the couch in the living room, watching her, admiring her shape. Her hips were rounded, her waist impossibly small, and the pronounced curves of her ass and full breasts provided an irresistible carnal symmetry.

And she was there for him.

Avery delighted in their relationship, the pure sexuality of their encounters, the complete lack of pretense. She was willing to fulfill his fantasies. He could ask her anything and she would oblige. He would match her generosity with his own, expressing his gratitude with dollars and gifts.

Was there ever a more honest basis for a relationship?

She turned away from viewing the sea and came into the room, moving slowly, performing an undulating dance to the music that poured from the hotel stereo. Then she began to strip for him.

He loved watching her undress, and she took her time doing it. She began by slipping off her skirt, then carefully unbuttoned her blouse. She rocked her hips to the rhythm of the music, clad only in her thong panties, which she wriggled out of and kicked aside so she stood before him, still in her stiletto heels, tanned and naked.

He admired her firm young breasts, her long slim legs, her flawless tawny complexion. He imagined her lying nude somewhere beneath the Florida sun, beads of perspiration covering her unlined skin, picturing the moisture along the line of her smoothly waxed vaginal lips as they were exposed to the light of day.

She moved closer, so that he could reach out and touch her. He drew her to him, and she reached down and undid his belt, then pulled his pants to the floor. Mitchell was still seated on the couch, so she kneeled beside him, her buttocks round and smooth, poised for his touch, his caress, even the gentle slap of his hand. He pulled her across his lap, leaned forward and began licking her from behind, the taste salty, the aroma a mix of perfume and her own musky scent.

She moaned as his tongue searched deeper between her legs, then she yanked on his shorts, pushing them to the floor. He was already firm, so she rose up again and took him in her mouth, running up and down on him, her tongue wet and hot. He reached for her breasts, squeezed her ass, then began to play with her pussy, wonderfully moist to his touch.

He lost himself in her suppleness, in the sublime feeling that he was as alive as he ever felt. He gently pushed her head away, took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom. He threw back the covers and sheets, laid her on her back, then got on his knees and entered her. They began moving together in a transcendent rhythm that bathed them in perspiration and pleasure. She came in three convulsive spasms, then pushed him away, turned around and had him enter from behind. He slid inside and reached around, holding the weight of her breasts in his hands as he thrust himself into her, the pace quickening until she cried out again and he spent himself in the sweet effort.

They rolled onto their sides and lay still for what seemed a long time. Then she rose, kissed him on the cheek and climbed out of bed. He watched her, marveling at her perfect naked ass, long sinewy legs and firm torso. She never looked back, disappearing into the bathroom to spend the time it would take for a beautiful young woman to put herself together again. Avery stood, pulled on a robe, went into the living room and made himself a drink. He stepped out onto the terrace, sat in one of the chairs and stared into the night.

These were the moments, shortly after the sex was finished, when he understood what should always be apparent to him—all they had between them was sex. It was great sex, no doubt, but these were also the moments when he was at his most lucid, when the truth of who he was and what he had done swept over him, undistorted by the deceit of lust.

What the hell am I doing here?
he asked himself. Then he had a gulp of whisky.

He felt the familiar emptiness that followed this betrayal of Joan. He felt pangs of concern for Kyle that had become increasingly frequent since his encounter with Elizabeth Knoebel and his son's ensuing visit to that rooftop just a few days ago. He felt worried over how the entire Elizabeth Knoebel thing would play out.

Then he wondered at his own selfishness, allowing himself to be drawn back here again as if some primal urge drove him.

“
What the fuck
,” he said out loud.

He had been through all of this before, of course. Once his physical needs were satisfied, once he was spent, he was left to ask himself the same irritating question.

Was it worth it?

The time, the expense, the effort, the obvious risk to his marriage and family—in these moments of clarity his egotism actually seemed ludicrous to him. Ludicrous, that is, until a bit of time passed and his libido recharged.

He thought,
I am such an asshole
, knowing he would get no argument from his wife if she were asked.

He had the sudden, irrational wish that he could simply snap his fingers and be transported back home, seated in his den with a scotch on the rocks, watching television.

And then, of all things, he began thinking about the office.

Avery had long been a success in business, wealthy by any reasonable standard, and he provided his family a superb lifestyle. Yet it was not lost on him that he was getting older, that the young bucks and bright young women who were joining the company had energy and ideas and a familiarity with the modern world of technology he would never match. They came to him for advice because his experience was still respected, but it would not be long before he would become an anachronism.

And then what
?

The irony was that Mitchell enjoyed being around younger people. He learned from them and felt invigorated by them. But they also frightened him. Some days he was fine with that dynamic, while other times he felt as if he were walking a tightrope. He was nothing if not a realist, he knew there were fewer years in front of him than behind, both in business and in life. He looked at beautiful young women and handsome young men and felt adrift among them, fearful of being found out, terrified of losing his balance.

So here he was, with Maria, having once again indulged his selfish impulses.
What the hell for?

To prove he could still cut it? To prove he could be with this sexy girl and keep her happy?

What bullshit! We both know why she's here
, he told himself. If all she wanted was a good fuck, she could get one from any of those muscle-bound morons on the beach across the street.

He slugged down the rest of his drink, went to the bar, and poured himself another.

After Maria had put herself together and looked sensational all over again, he felt a stirring he would rely on later to complete their night. For now it was time for him to put aside his doubts and regrets and join the South Beach carnival.

Mitchell made a reservation at a popular Italian restaurant, his favorite along the strip, which was packed as usual. He took good care of the maître d', and they were promptly seated at a table in the middle of the action. The tables were so close they were practically touching people on all sides, but that was part of the fun. They were surrounded by a din of earnest chatter, and Mitchell watched as three young men and three young women at the round table to his left engaged in a lively debate that left them oblivious to his curious stare. Their table was cluttered with espresso cups and wine glasses. Their voices were unhurried but energetic. He turned back to Maria.

“Another drink?” he asked.

“I'll wait for the wine,” she said.

To his right were two couples, one of the men holding court on some issue that seemed to bore the women. One of the women turned to Mitchell, regarding him with an unsmiling gaze that was neither inviting nor damning. She returned her attention to the dull monologue, and Mitchell reached out for Maria's hand. She moved forward, awkwardly leaning across the table to place a kiss on his lips. Mitchell was usually uncomfortable with that sort of public display, but he said nothing. She made it seem all right. This was South Beach.

“It's amazing how crowded it is, even on a weekday night.”

She nodded. “It's always crowded here.”

“You mean you come here without me?” His smile meant to tell her that he was teasing, but his eyes did not. “I thought this was our special place.”

“I pass by once in a while,” she replied.

The waiter brought the wine list and Mitchell ordered a Barolo. His drink was finished, so he asked the waiter to bring the wine straight away. “You like Barolo?” he asked Maria.

She shrugged. “Sure.” Then, with no hint of embarrassment, she asked, “That's red wine, right?”

Mitchell laughed. How could a question that would seem foolish from someone else seem so beguiling? “Very red,” he said. “You'll like it. Trust me.” He reached for her hand again, this time taking it to his lips. “I didn't realize how much I missed you.”

“You should miss me,” she said, her dark eyes zeroing in on him. “You should miss me all the time.”

Of course I do
, thought Mitchell. And then, inexplicably, he recalled the softball team his company sponsored when he was just starting in business, just after he and Joan had married, when he first went to work in New York. He found himself thinking about how much fun he had playing second base on those worn-out fields in Central Park. Warm summer evenings spent fielding ground balls, running around the bases, drinking beers and laughing. He tried to recall if it had been as much fun then as he imagined at this moment. It made him think of Joan again, and he found it difficult to dismiss the images.

As if reading his mind, Maria leaned forward and whispered, “I have a special treat for you tonight.”

“A special treat?”

“When we get back to the hotel I will perform two dances,” she said.

Mitchell responded with a puzzled look.

Moving even closer to him, she said, “We'll put on the music in our room, and the first dance I will strip for you. But you cannot touch me, you must only sit there and look. That will be my dance.”

He smiled, waiting.

“The second song will be your dance. I will dance again for you, but this time you can do anything you want. Anything.”