Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I) (17 page)

             
"Yes," she answered, knowing the work was the centerpiece of the night's performance.  "I’d be surprised that anyone who had more than two piano lessons, didn't want to play either that or Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue."

             
He smiled with a shrug, "Or a Scott Joplin rag."

  Then did he play the piano?  She wondered.  Now she had a picture of the mysterious sea captain playing melancholy tunes with a scotch and soda perched on the piano, or
even a wild playing of sea ditties in a South Sea's bar amongst drunken sailors and cleverly clad dark eyed beauties.   Though she knew him to be wealthy, she realized wealth was not a characteristic or desire of the man.  It was merely another way to be free of constraints.   Money made time his, made doors open, made people stand by to open those doors.

She realized how much money possessed the poor, how they would stand in lines hours on end to save some money on a sale, in a dumpster, at a garage sale.  And the nearly wealthy were as obsessed with it as well.  How to save it, to grow it, how not to lose it, how not to share it through tax loopholes, prenuptial agreements, or leveraged deals with people they knew to be at odds with the freedom of money.  

             
So it was with old money folks, where she found the occasional money freedom, often to their own detriment.    Ignorance of money is a terrifying thing in a world obsessed with it.   Your money will disappear into the hands of those who crave its power.   But here seemed to be a man who understood money, neither ignorant of its power, nor in its thrall.  A most interesting man. 

             
At the Symphony Hall, a quick hand opened the door, the magnificence of the building, just a building, spoke of the music that was to befall them.  Then once inside the hall, something wonderful happened to her.  She hesitated as halls and staircases offered choices she could not make.  Gently, ever so gently, but firmly, Captain Jack pressed a hand against her side, her bare side, the triangle of her gorgeous gown where the silver and aqua left space.  He guided her towards the stairs leading up to the loge seating.  The hand, rough and soft, firm and gentle, let her know he knew what she was thinking, let her know that he was thinking of her.   She turned her head to look up at him, but he was looking ahead and had moved past her need for direction.   She felt a swoon of both importance and insignificance simultaneously.   Normally she would have felt a scandal at a strange man touching her there.  While it was neither an erotic or taboo area in most women, it was, to her, an intimate area, one to be touched only by those whom she allowed.   But as they sat in the loge box, the door once again held by a person paid to free the wealthy from mundane tasks such as waiting and opening doors, she pondered the touch and realized she wanted that touch again.   And she did not want him to look at her when he did so.  She wanted him to know her so well that he did not have to see her.  She wanted him to care so much that she would not make a misstep.   She wanted to feel a bit of his power as he wielded it.   This was not her.  This was the her she had hidden from herself.   Who has control freak Catherine hidden from her?

             
The music was lovely and she found herself lost, her hands playing the chords despite herself begging her not to seem so child-like.   But the music, the music.   It begged her, exhorted her, told her to pay attention, to drift and flow.  It was music!  How could she not? 

             
But in the spaces between the rapturous melodies and driving rhythms, she thought of the man sitting in the dark, his hands, his damned hands, his wonderful large hands kept to himself.   Would he touch her again?  Should she plead ignorance of the way out?  No, he would know, as he seemed to know everything and he would be cross.  He would not want to control a weakling, he would only want to control the near impossible, the raging sea, the anger of men, the beauty of women.  

             
At last, at long last, not because she detested the music, far from it, she adored the music, but because she wanted to know what was next.  What touch, what unknown piece of her, what strange feeling was next to be uncovered?  The symphonies could wait; they had time to go back into the hundred year old bottles from whence they came, to be uncorked again, the vintage no less for the opening and the pouring.  She had new wine to open, and she could not wait.

             
The control freak, Catherine, was to have none of it.  She briskly stepped out and immediately began to step right, the direction from which they had entered.  Then there was that hand again.  "No," he said calmly, "The car will be through this door."  She quivered, ever so slightly, (did he notice?), as he guided her left.  This time she knew she wanted his hands on her.  Did he know this?  How could he not?  He knew everything!  Or maybe he was an illusion she had conjured up. 

             
By the time they had reached the hotel, accompanied by a narration of Irish famines and immigrations, of potatoes and lobsters, she had steeled herself and managed to offer properly timed head nods and gracious smiles.  He took her hand and said, "It was pure pleasure, my dear.  Another time, perhaps?"

             
It was not a blow off as it might seem, but a one-time offer, and one she took joy in a quick nod and, "Of course.  I would be delighted. Thank you for a lovely evening."

             
And it was over.  She was out of the car, escorted to the elevator by the chauffer, through doors opened by bellmen.  There the chauffer offered to continue to her room, and but did not leave her side until she had found her room key before entering the elevator.  "No, I'll be fine."  She replied.  With a bow as the doors closed, he acquiesced. 

             
She wanted to call Mike to process the evening.  There was no one else.  Her girlfriends would be scandalized, and here was a place she could never go with Steven.  He couldn't understand, he wouldn't be allowed to know.   She was doing the escorting for the money, for their house, for them, but now she felt somehow cheap.   This was something new in her. Something that he did not bring out.  It felt wrong to feel this desire for someone, something she would not feel for her husband.

             
Mike would understand, but she had to understand first.  Who was it she had just become, even for two touches?   Her dynamic with Steven was about her wielding power over him.   Just like a mother had to be mother of her children, not the child to the children, she had only one relationship possible with Steven.  She was in control, and he trusted her.   She could not be weak and uncertain for him.  But a person inside her wanted to be sometimes weak and uncertain.   She never told her husband, her lovely, loving and loved Steven about the raunchy stories or sexy tales that women shared with each other.  It was not his world, their world.  It was a woman's world.  She felt no regret in not telling him, and his life was not diminished in the least for not knowing about what he couldn't put in the proper perspective.  There were things she shared with Mike that would remain alone and apart from Steven.   He did not need details of work, of women's thoughts.  So this would have to be the same.  Yes, it was with a man, but nothing between them could ever be what belonged to Steven.  She would not allow that. 

             
So with a solid resolve, she made a quick phone call to Mike, found his answering machine and left a message.  She was back in the hotel safe.  The evening went well and she had some interesting things to discuss, but she was quite exhausted and would catch him tomorrow.   She then undressed, putting the dress in its box, and the shoes in theirs, never to see them again, as in the next morning they were whisked away by quiet, well trained staff after she left for work.   She lay in bed and soon faded away to dreams of large hands, soft ragtime music under palm trees, and pirate ships anchored in the cove.

Chapter 11:   Captain Jack-2

              It was New York, and the client was from New York, which meant a difficult start and then a warming trend, leading to friendship.   Catherine found it interesting that New Yorkers had a reputation for coldness and aloofness, while the folks from the South had the opposite reputation, warmth and friendliness.  

             
She understood where it came from, this reputation, and to a certain extent it was deserved but only at the most superficial level.   And while people were people and capacities for kindness were pretty universal, it seemed to Catherine that there was some law of conservation of kindness.   In the South, and in California, the kindness is spent freely in the first gracious moments of meeting and stays at that level until a deep and eternal relationship can be confirmed.  Having spent time in several small southern towns, Catherine knew full well that often, deep and eternal relationships were bought by a birthright or death.   If you were not born into the town, you were not in the inner circle until your dying day.   And only if you demonstrated no flaw in your behavior and flaws were undefined.  As a result, there was a feeling that you would never quite make it, but you would have to try.

             
In the Northeast, she found herself brushed aside, looking in through a window the residents controlled.  And there she would stand, nose pressed to the window, no smell, but a vision.  They could visit that odor of kindness, but she could only watch.   But once they had a commitment, the least commitment, they were ready to let you inside, to stand in aroma of their friendship.   For some, the commitment meant that you need to return to the deli and become a repeat customer, be recognizable, and share your name.  In other cases, as she found on the NYC subway, it meant risking embarrassment.   As she got on the subway one time, unsure which direction she was now headed, her eyes jumping from map to legend above the door, she realized that two or three of the riders were anxiously, attentively looking at her, and had noticed her uncertainty.   Bravely she asked, "Does this train go towards 57th street?"   They smiled and assured her it did.  She said her thanks and sat down.   At the next stop she observed the scenario playing out again, this time with a small family of tourists.  But until asked, the knowledgeable riders would not share. 

             
Once the ice was broken, you could slowly deepen your relationship with the Northeast.  Each day brought another opportunity to be a better friend, or even a lesser friend, but you remained a friend.   There was no expectation of perfection or terms for endearment.   It was a much safer and tolerant sort of world.

             
And here she had earned her respect and friendship from the clients.  They had demanded the impossible from her and Mike, and in return they were told gently that effort would be made, but impossible would not happen.  Once the honesty was laid out, the true negotiations began, and bagels and coffee (without asking) were brought to meetings, proving people were paying attention to them, not some abstraction, then openness followed.  Though Mike was the first to bring bagels, Catherine realized the clients could have easily had been the ones to do so.  It wasn't a sacrifice laid at the feet of some idol, but a consideration of the feelings and tastes of the other person. 

             
By Wednesday, Mike had Catherine's color choices (approved by the client, now known as Sofia) on his palette board and told her to enjoy the city for a couple of days while he worked through the Union and city code restrictions on the remodel.  She would rejoin the team on Friday morning.  She volunteered to bring the bagels. 

             
She returned about noon to the Millennium hotel to change into some walking clothes, so she could go to Central Park, a place she loved because it was so large and in such contrast to the development all around it.  She had readily agreed with Captain Jack's opinion on how parks told the story of the soul of a city.  New York had a good soul, if this park was to be believed.  She loved both the fixed displays of statues, like the poets lining what she called the writer's walk.  She loved the informal display of the bronze cougar overlooking the jogging path.  She loved the variety the park offered, she loved the fact that people used it, and she loved those instances, and they were barely more than that, where she felt all alone, because in that city, that bustling city, until you could get alone, you nearly forgot what it was like to be by yourself.  And she knew there were people who would shrink at the feeling of being alone.  But she had grown up with the liberty of being by oneself never being far away.  And she knew that luxury.  It would seem there in Central Park to be a bit more special as if the gods had moved the planets and stars, roads and people to be alone for that few seconds, to make her special.

             
But in the hotel room she found three boxes.  In the first was some lingerie from La Perla.  The boy shorts were a lacey diaphanous chocolate brown with a center tie closure.  She pulled them on and they felt like light caresses on her skin.  She put on the chocolate lacey brown bra, with front closure.   She stared at herself in the mirror.  Never had lingerie made her feel this sexy.  She never found a budget for something this wonderful, but she smiled to herself, maybe she could.  Then she shook her head, as she let reality back into her reverie.  The second box contained a dress that came with a note.  "Enjoy the dress and shoes tonight.  The rest is yours."  She slipped the dress on.  It slid down her hips and stopped a few inches below the curve of her buttocks.  The skirt was soft pleats all around and led up to a belted waist, which, in turn, led to a front buttoning blouse top.  She buttoned it up towards the shirt collar, stopping just above the lace cups of the bra, leaving a ‘vee’ of skin, after shrugging her upper arms into the three quarter length sleeve.