Take Me To Bed. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd
discarded, and reselected. She sat in the garden room and tried to read, only to get up and pace around the pool. “This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “I’m acting like a kid on her first date.” Then she grinned. “I am a kid on her first date.”
At about four o’clock, she soaked in a tub and managed to relax for a short while. Then she put on the clothes she had selected, changed her shirt, then changed back. At six o’clock, Jessica was dressed in the outfit she had first selected, yellow shirt, soft, well-washed jeans she had had for many years, tennis shoes, and socks. Then, at the last minute, she added a fitted denim vest.
She put her hair up, then held a pair of earrings near her ears. She discarded them and picked another pair, which she also dropped back into the drawer. Something bigger, she thought. But it’s only a picnic. Maybe no earrings. She settled on a pair of medium-sized wooden hoops. She gazed into the mirror, smiled, added blush and lipstick and hurried downstairs, glad the house was empty.
As she heard Eric’s car in the driveway, Jessica stood inside the front door debating whether to open it and walk outside or wait for him to ring the bell. You’re jumpy as a cat, she said to herself, turning the knob in her right hand and pulling the door open. Eric stood with his hand poised above the doorbell.
God, he’s sexy, she thought as he stood, openly appraising her. He was dressed in tight jeans and a white tennis sweater with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, showing off well-muscled forearms. He wasn’t gorgeous and she doubted that anyone would stop in their tracks and stare at him. But there was a gleam in his eyes as he looked her over that created a small flutter deep in her belly. His eyes lingered on her breasts as they pressed against the silky fabric of her shirt, then wandered lower to her narrow waist and full hips.
“Very nice,” he said. “Although I’ve seen you in a bathing suit, I still enjoyed speculating about the way you’d fill out your jeans.” As she colored, he continued, “You’re blushing again.” He used the knuckle of his index finger to raise her face, then he dropped a light kiss on her lips. “It’s sort of virginal. I love it.” Then he took her elbow and guided her out the door.
Together they walked toward the driveway where Eric’s vintage BMW 2002 was parked. Bright red with slick black leather upholstery, it was in mint condition. “That’s some car,” Jessica commented.
“I love old BMWs. I found this one about a year ago and I had it restored. It cost more than buying a new one and it’s silly of me, but I get a kick out of it. Drivers of these old cars flick their lights at each other in recognition and I like that kind of camaraderie.”
Jessica stroked the supple leather seat beneath her, silently wondering how he could afford to ‘restore’ a classic car like this one. Did architects make that kind of money?
Eric and Jessica passed the next twenty minutes in comfortable conversation, driving along the tree-lined roadways of Westchester County. They arrived at Caramoor, passed through the big iron gates and drove to a grassy parking area. He helped her out of the car and, arm in arm, they walked along the dirt pathways toward a small picnic area. Before they arrived at the tables, however, Eric turned into a small area of lawn surrounded by a low hedge. In the middle was an old fountain, now filled with flowering plants.
“By the way,” Jessica said, her stomach reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, “you’re not carrying any basket. I thought you mentioned dinner.”
“I did.”
They approached a large plaid wool blanket spread on the lawn under a large maple tree, set with fine china plates, full settings of silverware, and crystal champagne flutes. Each place setting was accompanied by a white linen napkin and a red leather seat cushion.
But it was the man who stood beside the blanket who caught Jessica’s attention. He was immense, probably over two hundred and fifty pounds, but well muscled with a long golden ponytail and a heavy gold hoop in one ear. He looked like he might have been a football player or a prize fighter, with gigantic hands and a face that looked like it had taken a punch or two in its time. Beautifully groomed, the man wore tan slacks and a forest-green polo shirt. He was obviously waiting for the lady he would share his feast with.
“Isn’t that lovely,” she said to Eric. “What an elegant presentation.”
“Why thank you,” he said, approaching the blanket. “I’ll tell Timmy you’re impressed.”
As Jessica turned to Eric, puzzled, the man near the blanket said, “There you are, sir. I was afraid the food would get warm.”
“Not to worry, Timmy,” Eric said. “I know better than to keep one of your sumptuous meals waiting.” He turned to Jessica. “Jessica, this is Timmy Whitmore. He’s my right-hand man and my chauffeur when I want one. He’s in charge of my house and he’s the best damn cook in the county.”
Timmy inclined his head slightly. “It’s nice to meet you Ms….”
Totally nonplussed, Jessica answered automatically. “Hanley. It’s Jessica Hanley.” She turned to Eric who looked sheepish. “Didn’t you say you were a modestly well-off suburban architect who used to argue with your wife about money?”
“I did, didn’t I. I know that I owe you an explanation but can it wait until after dinner? Timmy’s meals are always works of art and he gets very huffy if his food isn’t presented just so.”
“Of course it can wait,” Jessica said. “But you’ll have to give me a moment to adjust.” Eric held her arm as she settled onto one of the leather cushions.
With a flourish Timmy pulled two plates from a hamper a few feet away and set one in front of each of them. Artfully arranged on fresh lettuce and watercress were half a dozen of the largest shrimp Jessica had ever seen, with a dollop of dill sauce and a few small toast-rounds on the side. “Good grief, Timmy,” Eric said. “These shrimp look like they should have saddles.”
“I know,” Timmy said, looking downcast and a bit irritated. “I tried to get U12s but all they had were U5s. They’re really too large to be as tender as I’d like, but the man in the fish store swore that they were superb. If they’re not….”
Eric tasted one. “Well, Timmy, your man was right. They are delicate and crisp, cooked exactly right. Not chewy at all.”
Timmy beamed, the smile giving his singularly unattractive face an appealing glow. “Thank you sir.”
Feeling like she was in the middle of a James Bond movie, Jessica speared a shrimp with a slender shrimp fork and tasted, then dipped the shrimp into the sauce and took another bite. “These are delicious,” she said and watched Timmy’s smile grow still wider. “I make cold shrimp often, but with cocktail sauce with extra horseradish, or a cold mayonnaise. I’ve never made anything like this sauce. It’s wonderful.”
“Thank you. I’ve met only a few people who appreciate shrimp with mayonnaise,” Timmy said.
While they ate in silence, she watched Timmy deftly open a bottle of Dom Perignon and fill two flutes, each half full. “This meal is delightful,” Jessica said as she lifted her glass.
“And the company is a perfect complement,” Eric whispered, holding her gaze until her hand shook. He lifted his glass and touched the rim to hers, enjoying the single clear note it produced. “To an enjoyable evening, the first of many I hope.”
“To an enjoyable evening.” She sipped the wine, knowing she was already intoxicated.
When they had finished their shrimp, Timmy whisked the plates away and replaced them with larger, prearranged dinner plates. “I made cold smoked breast of duck with a chilled pasta primavera.” Moving with surprising grace for such a large man he placed a sauceboat on the blanket. “There’s a light vinaigrette for the duck.” He placed small bread plates, each with two tiny hot rolls, beside Eric and Jessica. Jessica was amazed that the surface of each butter pat was covered with a tiny staff and notes of music. “These are beautiful, Timmy,” she said.
“I