Flesh For Fantasy. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd
said, “I know exactly what you mean. Come inside. I promise it will be just fine.” She reached for his arm, but he entered the lavish apartment without the need for her to touch him.
Jake stopped, standing restlessly in the center of the room. “This is really nice,” he said, looking anywhere but at her.
“Thanks. I’ve collected lots of treasures over the years. I enjoy having things around me that have special memories.” She crossed to a small white linen-and-lace butterfly that seemed to have settled in the corner of a framed photo of an old European village. “There’s a town in Belgium called Bruges. It looks like it hasn’t changed in four hundred years.” Jake walked over and looked over her shoulder, and she sensed his effort not to let any part of his body touch hers. “Wonderful old buildings,” she said softly, “churches that were old before our country ever thought about George Washington. I was there about six, no, seven years ago. They cater to tourists, of course, but the city is an old center for lace making and they still make some.” She ran the tip of her finger over the butterfly’s white lace wings.
“That’s real nice,” Jake said, tangling and untangling his fingers.
“And this,” she said, pointing to a smoothly carved statuette of a seal perched on a rock, “is a soapstone carving that I got in Anchorage a few years ago.” She picked up the six-inch-high stone piece and placed it in Jake’s hand. “I liked the shape, but what sold me was the way it felt in my hand the first time I held it.” She stroked the back of the seal. “Cool and so soft,” she said as Jake imitated her movement without actually touching her hand. She took the seal from him and replaced it on the mantel.
“Come on, Jake, let’s sit down. We can talk for a while. About anything you like.” Deliberately, she sat in a chair rather than on the long sofa. She watched Jake’s face relax as he sat on the end of the sofa nearest her chair, keeping his knees from touching hers. “Would you like a drink?” Maggie asked. “I have soda, wine, beer, whatever you might like.”
“Could I have a beer?” he asked, then cleared his throat.
“Sure. I have Bud, Miller, Miller light, and Sam Adams.” She grinned. “I sound like a waitress. Actually, to be honest, I did wait on tables many years ago.”
“What are you having?” Jake said.
“I thought I’d have a Sam Adams,” Maggie said.
Jake smiled tentatively. “Okay. Me too.”
Maggie walked into the kitchen of the large Madison Avenue apartment, knowing that Jake was watching her retreating ass, which was barely contained in the tight jeans she wore. Not bad for a broad on the far side of fifty, she thought as she opened two beers. She placed them on a tray, pulled two mugs out of the freezer, balanced the tray on her palm and returned to the living room. “See,” she grinned, holding the tray at shoulder level. “I used to be very good at this.” She twirled the tray, set it down on the coffee table and deftly poured two beers.
She handed Jake his drink, took a swallow of hers and resettled in her chair. She smiled as Jake took several large gulps of the cold liquid. “Gee,” he said, “this is nice.”
“Tell me about you,” Maggie said. “Your father tells me you’re at Yale.”
For the next fifteen minutes, as Jake visibly relaxed, they talked about Jake’s classes, his plans for the future, his social life at school. When they had finished their first round, Maggie went into the kitchen for two more beers. “I guess I don’t date much,” Jake admitted as Maggie reentered the living room, the two fresh bottles on the tray, along with a large bowl of popcorn. “I’m not very good-looking either.” He ran a finger over his chin and through a few deep pits on his jawline.
“You’ll never be Paul Newman,” Maggie said softly, putting the tray on the coffee table. She prided herself on never lying to anyone. “But you do have his eyes.” Jake’s eyes were sky blue, deeply set, with long sandy lashes.
“I do?” Jake said. Then ducked his chin and quickly added, “Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not,” Maggie said, keeping her voice soft. “You’ve got beautiful eyes.” She moved to sit beside him on the sofa. “Would you like some popcorn?” She picked a piece from the bowl and held it in front of her mouth. “It’s very garlicky so I won’t have any if you’re not going to.”
Jake reached out to take a piece of popcorn, but Maggie held the one in her hand out for him. “Here, take this one,” she said.
He reached for it, taking it from her while barely skimming his fingertips over hers. He popped the piece of corn into his mouth. “This is really good,” he said, reaching for a handful.
“Aren’t you going to return the favor?” Maggie asked, raising one eyebrow. “You took my popcorn…”
Slowly he took a piece of popcorn from the bowl and held it out to her. She leaned over and took it from his fingertips with her teeth, nipping his index finger lightly. She watched him pull his hand back as though burned. “Do you know,” she said, swallowing, “that I met your father through a few of his friends when he was in college?”
“You’re kidding. That was a hundred years ago.”
“I was in business even then, back in the dark ages. I fought dinosaurs with one hand while keeping track of my customers on clay tablets.”
Jake looked sheepish. “I’m sorry.”
Maggie laughed, no trace of scorn, only rich warm enjoyment. “Don’t be. I know it seems like centuries, and maybe it was. But I did meet your father kind of like this.”
“He never told me how he knew you. I guess I thought he met you after Mom died.”
“He hadn’t even met your mom when I first knew him. A few of his fraternity brothers were, let’s just say, friends of mine. They dared him to visit me, even paid his way.” Maggie sat back on the sofa and rested her head on the back. She kicked off her shoes and, at her glance, Jake did the same. She ran her long fingers through her tight black curls. “My hair was naturally this color back then,” she remembered. “He was so cute. Scared to death, like you are now.”
“I’m not scared,” Jake protested.
“It’s all right to be nervous,” Maggie said. “I was living in a small apartment in Greenwich Village and he came to my place that first evening.” She giggled. “He spilled an entire bottle of Scotch on my sofa, as I recall.”
Jake laughed. “He did?”
“He offered to pour us each a drink, but his hands shook so much that he couldn’t get the top off the bottle. He twisted one last time, the top came off in his hand and, of course, the bottle was upside down. It took weeks to get the smell out of the upholstery.”
“I can’t picture my dad as a nervous teenager.”
“No one can picture others having the same fears, the same feelings of inadequacy they have. I remember a certain rock star who, well let’s just say, couldn’t get it up.”
“Who?”
“I never reveal any of the secrets I learn,” Maggie said. “But, if these walls could talk….”
“What did he do?” Jake asked, his eyes widening. “The rock star, I mean.”
“We sat and talked. Once he was comfortable with the fact I didn’t want anything from him, that he could do what he chose, he relaxed.” Maggie giggled. “We actually played spin the bottle. Then we made love. Several times, as I remember.’
“And my dad?”
“Uh, uh. No tales about anyone like that. How would you feel if I told him about you?”
Jake flinched. “Okay. Point made.”
“Is it warm in here?” Maggie asked, pulling her sweater