Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I) (15 page)

             
She was also, oddly, glad that Mike was inaccessible, tied up with the clients through dinner.  She wanted to fight through her thoughts alone.   She also knew that something deeper in her was being awakened.  It was this selfish, greedy really, feeling that she was trying to deal with.  Was it that first date thrill that she sought out?  She hoped not.  That would go one of two ways:  1.) She would get over it and realize that it was a waste of effort, and a disappointment and she would hate herself for such a superficial, and wasteful, desire. Or 2.) She would want to have a first date feeling all the time.  That would be horrible as she would be denying her core belief that she was a monogamous woman.   She didn't, couldn't believe that of herself.  And, on the financial front, it would mean  she would want a new date each time, where she would lose the ten percent bonus for repeat business, and knew it would likely lead to fewer arrangements.  Surely, the pool of new men with this sort of money, who would find her intellectual makeup useful, was not infinite.  Besides, it curdled her stomach to think of herself as someone who couldn't find more interest in appreciating the depth of a man through extended discovery than in the exciting surprises of the first encounter.

             
So, she was readily confident that she wasn't all about being the superficial first ‘dater’.  And this intrigued her.   What was this desire to cross into the unknown?  What was her magic, hidden brain imagining?   Did she think she would discover another her inside?  This both thrilled and terrified her.  What if she hated, or maybe even worse, loved this other her?   And yet, she now knew, she couldn't walk away now.  She had to know if there was or wasn't another her inside.  And either answer was alright with her.   But not knowing that answer was unacceptable.

             
So she felt proud that she worked through all that and she confidently awaited Captain Jack's first contact.  And it came quickly.  When she came back from dinner that night, there was a box in her room, with a note from him.  "Wear this dress.  The car will pick you up at 6 PM tomorrow, promptly, for dinner and the symphony."  

             
She was, to say the least, intimidated by the thought that this man, a total stranger really, knew where she was staying, had assumed she would be available (maybe not that surprised on this point as that was actually her job, but still....), could get something placed in her room, and as she opened the box, knew her dress size.

             
She recognized that it was a designer dress, both from the quality of the materials and the technique of the tailoring.   She grew excited as she undressed and put it on.   No bra, as it was backless.   She knew, from both Steven, (who absolutely adored her back), and Mike, (who couldn't keep his hands off it when the opportunity arose), that men loved her back.  So she felt no compunction about going braless.  But the silver metallic bodice, off one shoulder, smashed her breasts.  She was not concerned about her being too small-chested in this, as she was sure the runway model had less going for her up there; but she worried that she might upset the proportions of the designer.  She found herself in awe of the design and wanted to do it justice.  From the right shoulder, the bodice cut to below her left arm, coming to an inch wide strap to the back.  That strap wound diagonally across her front dropping to the right hip as it swung around her.  The left midriff was bare and she was proud of how well she had kept her trim waist from her youth.

  Below the bodice was a floor length aqua skirt with a slit up the front of the right leg to just a few inches below the joint of her right hip.   Though she could wear underwear, and should, she would not be able to wear stockings.   They would either look too fuddy-duddy, or would compete for the attention of the dress.   The dress was too well designed for
her to allow that, and again she was infinitely grateful for her long and nicely shaped legs.  She was going to pull this off.  Captain Jack, or someone on his staff, had access to all the numbers that Cynthia and her team had deduced in those naked moments during her interview.   Catherine knew that designers would normally custom measure and fit the starlets for the red carpet dresses they wore, so she upped her estimate of the respect for the two women who measured her that hour.  Only both money and trust could bring something like this to her room. 

             
So she wondered about this Captain Jack.   Was he ex-military?  The quality of the selection indicated a higher sense of culture than a pure military man.   Perhaps, a retired military man from a classically trained and educated family, now a rich businessman in military sales?  But Captain is not very high in rank, unless it was a Navy man.  A retired sea captain?  She smiled imagining a patch, a peg leg and a parrot eating a cracker from a hook.   What if he was from an elite British social family? The rank earned by dint of social class.  There a Captain was not an also-ran title.  But perhaps the name was a ruse, a red herring to distract her, or mystify her and meant no title at all, just an alias.

             
But yet here was the beautiful dress, she thought, as she swirled before the floor length mirror, letting the dress gracefully flare out, realizing how careful she would have to be with her motion to keep her underwear hidden.  It fit her, and she knew as nicely as most clothes fit her, this was not by chance.   Someone knew enough of her skin color and measurements that this would look good.  She doubted a man, any manly man, thinking of her metro-sexual Mike with a smile, could select a dress this well.  No, Captain Jack had help.  And he was unafraid to use it.  That meant a confidence that he would not be betrayed or let down.  This Captain Jack was a force.  He was strong.  He would be different.  He was normally the type of man that knew well enough to stay away from the willful Catherine.  She smiled at the shock he would probably feel when he realized that she would not be air-headed arm candy.  Then she felt a bit disappointed, and hoped that he would not end things in a snit and cancel the date early, possibly reducing her market value in Cynthia's eyes.  She would be good.  She knew how to be politic and not let a man know her true feelings.  But he, unless he was a total ass, would feel the lack of connection.  

             
At least she would have a night in this dress, and the shoes that came with it, in matching metallic silver, thin weaving straps and five and a half inch heels.  And the symphony, she thought, she and Steven would need to go more often to the symphony.  It was a place where her practical workman husband had more artistic flair than Mike, or even herself.  He loved symphonic music and had actually forced her into appreciating some of the lesser known Neo-Romantic composers like Janacek and Respighi.

             
In the morning as she hurried through the lobby at 7:30, hoping to catch a cup of coffee at a Starbuck's or even a Dunkin' Donuts before she had to meet the clients, with a wistful hope to be through with them in time to come back to hotel and prepare at leisure, one of the young men behind the concierge kiosk stepped up and called her name.  "Ms Elliot, this came for you, and we were asked to make sure you received it this morning,” he said as he thrust forward a small box.  "In fact, they were quite insistent."

             
"Who was insistent?" she asked, though she felt pretty certain that she knew.  She opened the box.

             
"It was a messenger service of some type, but they arrived at 2 AM."  The young man, with a name plate of 'Dave,' said.   "They wanted to take it immediately to your room, but we, of course, declined."

             
"Good choice." She murmured looking at the gorgeous silver hand clutch.  "Though something like this might be worth the interrupted sleep."

             
He peeked into the box, nodding both in satisfaction to the answer to the mystery of what was worth a 2 AM delivery and at the beauty of the purse.  "Quite lovely.  They were quite agitated and were anxious until we assured them that we would have it in your hands before 8 AM."

             
She handed it back to him, glancing at the clock.  "You cut it close.  You might have missed me." She said with a smile.

             
"No, ma'am. You are terribly hard to miss."

             
"Please see that this gets to my room, and do give a call to the courier so they don't die of anxiety."

             
"Of course, Miss." He said with a slight bow.

             
She continued out the door, feeling a bit more regal at the whole episode.  It was, of course, from the mysterious Captain Jack and she was impressed with the force applied to either a designer to match the dress, or someone clever enough to match the design principles and techniques on such short notice.   As she had run her hands over the clutch, she felt as if the thing was still warm from the manufacture.  Few designers would make a purse to fit a single dress, but this one did.  The same curls in the silver textured purse flowed with the same proportions as the dress, but yet, being smaller they couldn't have been to exact scale.   This was not a hack working on the design, leave alone the manufacturer.  The difficulty of the task was awesome and she was not surprised that it was not delivered with the dress, but that it was delivered at all. 

             
So Captain Jack, or his team, had incredible leverage over the usually finicky and balky artist and artisan community.   She knew that to be quite a feat and wanted to know more about this man.  She realized suddenly that he, or someone on his team, was thinking about details that she had missed.  She hadn't thought about a handbag until just when this one showed up.  She knew that she would have discovered the oversight by noon, but it would have been a terrifying, and possibly impossible task to find the right purse in whatever time she would have left after the clients.  She felt another step deeper in the waters that she suspected might be over her head by the time the day was through.

             
She got her coffee, got to her meeting and, as it turned out, would have had almost no possibility of a successful purse hunt; but was fortunate enough to delight her clients into a successful three o'clock conclusion.   Her walk back to the Intercontinental was slightly unhurried.  The weather, for a Boston summer, was relatively lacking in humidity and felt more like a luscious dry warm day in Phoenix in late March or early April.  Clear skies opened to the sea gulls drifting high, then swooping down the narrow roads that wound through the financial district.   It was a pleasant city, just here.  Traffic was minimal, either because the roads wound so horribly that no good progress could be made by anyone in a hurry, or because it was a very firm law that any pedestrian had the right of way over any automobile, no matter what the light or sign indicated.  All they needed to do was step a single foot into the street and all traffic in those roads would stop for them, with nary a horn or dark look.

   She once had the occasion to see this scenario fail.  A man stepped in front of a taxi wishing to turn right at the corner and the taxi driver honked his horn.  The man stopped in front of the taxi and glared at the driver.  The driver flipped an open palm at the green light indicating his privilege.  The man pulled out a wallet and flipped his police badge.   Never had a taxi driver fallen from confidence so fast.  His
obsequiousness knew no bounds.  Finally, with four cars mounting, quietly, behind the guilty taxi, the policeman let the man off with a warning and there was no more grateful man in Catherine's memory than that man as he nodded his head gladly, but carefully, as he turned the corner.

             
So a leisurely stroll through the streets delivered her to the hotel to take a slow deep bath and apply precision makeup, and make meticulous hair preparations.  So it should not be a surprise to anyone, other than everyone who knew Catherine, that she was on time in the lobby, precisely at 6 PM.   She was not sure if this was some inward fear of this Captain Jack, who seemed to hold sway over many people, or if she wanted to be on time, at least for this first escort, so she wouldn't get an early, unshakeable reputation for untimely reliability.

             
She walked through the travertine floored lobby, which on one side opened onto a deck that overlooked the river, and on the other side opened up to the highway.  The foyer was two stories high and unlike so many big city hotel lobbies, which seemed to thrive on brocade and dark walnut paneling, was incredibly well lit.  So she could not possibly hide.  In the beautiful dress, seemingly attracting all light to her, and the clack, clack, clack of her silver heels on the stone, there were no eyes, male or female who did not turn to look at her, and once seeing her, there were no pair of eyes not willing to linger on her. 

             
The Ice Queen that possessed her was able to steel herself and walk, unhesitating, through the lobby.  She knew she risked an embarrassing wait at the door should no one be there for her.   A plaintive, "Is there a Captain Jack limo here for me?" would never do.   But head held high, she proceeded toward the spinning door. 

             
Fortunately, she did not get but half way across the lobby before a man stepped up.  In black cap and coat, white shirted with a skinny black tie, he said, not asked, "Ms Elliot, this way if you will." And he swung a hand out in front of himself and led her to a door, which was pulled open by the doorman, and to a long black limo to which he pulled the back door open, putting one hand behind him, pulled himself up to full height and asked, with a proffered hand, "Ma'am?"