Andy, Marilyn and Me

Note: All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

"Yes, Mrs. Worthington, I understand. Yes, I couldn't agree more. Of course, Mrs. Worthington, I'll be sure to do that."

Will this blue-haired old windbag ever shut up? Susan Morgan asked herself in frustration as she listened to the wife of the board chairman of the Birch Grove Mansion and Museum rattle on. But as the development director of Birch Grove, Susan knew she had no choice but to listen and agree with the old woman's pontificating.

The younger woman wasn't inclined to suffer fools gladly, and she was particularly incensed when someone assumed they were smarter than her simply because of their family wealth. I've had more than my fill of rich bitches who thought their money made them authorities on other people's business, Susan snarled to herself.

A glance at her watch only added to her frustration: she was late leaving for an important meeting. But just as Susan was about to interrupt, the old woman abruptly halted her monologue. "Goodness, look at the time. If I don't hang up now, I'll be late for my hair appointment."

"I understand, Mrs. Worthington. Sorry to have kept you so long," Susan replied without a hint of sarcasm.

After her caller had finally rung off, Susan quickly dashed off an IM to her husband: "Dinner with a prospect. Don't wait up." When it was sent, she hastily tidied her desk, checked her make-up in a hand mirror, and then strode out the door of her small office. The space was originally a butler's pantry in the Birch Grove mansion, but at least it has my name on the door, she thought.

As she started down the hallway, Evita, her Latina secretary, called after her, "Are you leaving, Senora Morgan?"

Without slowing her stride, Susan looked back over her shoulder irritably. "I'm off to call on a prospective donor. I won't be back today."

As Evita watched, she could see the rhythmic swivel of her boss's expensive suit skirt and hear her high heels tapping on the mansion's marble floors. As soon as the woman was out the exit, Evita darted down the hallway toward the office of the Executive Director, stopping at his secretary's desk. "Is he gone?" she asked Christina.

"Si," Christina replied, "he left about ten minutes ago. He said he had an important meeting to attend."

Evita smirked, "Just like clockwork: this week, last week, the week before that... They both have meetings to go to at the same time? They think we don't know what's really going on?" She looked toward the exit and spat out, "Puta!"

The two young women snickered and went back to their work.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Professor Daniel Morgan looked out over the array of faces in his Intro to Econ class. Although he knew only a few would have any lasting interest in economics, he hoped he could at least spark a little intellectual curiosity in the subject. To pique that interest would call for an unconventional approach.

He clicked the icon on his tablet computer, and behind him a projected image of a graph filled the wall. "Today," he intoned, "we're going to talk about the concepts of Supply, Demand and Price." Some comedian in the lecture hall gave a low groan, provoking general laughter.

Daniel was unfazed. "I know, I know, boring. But those abstract concepts have real world impact. Let me give you an example." He reached down and picked up a piece of artwork, holding it so they could all see. "Anybody recognize this?" he asked.

"Marilyn Monroe, by Andy Warhol," a female voice spoke up.

"Sorry, Miss, I'm afraid you're in the wrong class -- Art Appreciation is in the other building," Daniel quipped.

When the laughter died down, Daniel smiled. "Seriously, our art lover is exactly right. So why am I showing you an Andy Warhol in an Econ class? The answer is that this very work, or at least one that looks almost exactly like it, sold in 2022 for slightly over $195 million dollars. That makes it the current record holder for a sale by an American artist."

There were a couple of whistles from the students. "I assume," Daniel went on, "that no one in this classroom was the buyer." That brought a few chuckles.

"No billionaires here? Well, I was hoping. Anyway, the fact is that at that price there was only one buyer for Andy's Marilyn. Yet any one of us could go over to the University bookstore right now and buy a reproduction of Marilyn for maybe $20. And why are there so many buyers at the bookstore and so few at the auction? It's the price. At $195 million, there was only a single buyer, but at $20 bucks, demand skyrockets.

"Before you start to disagree, I know there are many factors affecting market demand for any commodity, product or service. We'll get into those in upcoming classes. But the fact remains that price is one of -- if not the most important -- factor in determining demand."

When the session ended, Daniel was pleased that a number of students came up to ask questions or argue a different point of view. At least I got them thinking about the subject, he mused with satisfaction.

When he returned to his office, he stowed the Monroe print away behind a file cabinet and then fished his cellphone out of his pocket. He'd felt it vibrate during his lecture, but made it a rule never to interrupt class to check. Now he saw that Susan was going to be out again this evening.

It bothered him that this seemed to be happening so often, but at least it gave him an opportunity to stop by and check on his dad. When Ezra had been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease several years ago, the older man insisted he could manage perfectly well in his own home. But Daniel had seen his father's symptoms worsening, and his concern prompted him to visit more frequently.

When he reached his dad on the phone, the older man launched into a rambling discourse on symptoms real and imagined, doctors who didn't know what they were doing and the problems of the world in general. When Daniel finally managed to ask if it would be convenient for him to drop by, his father insisted he come and stay for dinner. Daniel tried to protest, but his father interrupted. "Here," he said, "talk to Paloma," and handed the phone away.

Paloma was Ezra Morgan's live-in nurse and caretaker. When his dad's condition had visibly worsened, Daniel had insisted his father have full-time care if he wanted to remain at home. The old man had sullenly agreed, and promptly proceeded to run off every caregiver the agency sent with his complaints, insults and hostile behavior. Just when Daniel had decided he would have no choice but to put his father in a nursing home, Paloma arrived.

The young woman had two significant advantages over her predecessors. First, she was unexpectedly pretty, something that Ezra definitely appreciated. Second, Paloma was completely unfazed by Ezra's bluster. When he snapped at her, she snapped right back. When he balked at following a doctor's orders, she pestered him until he gave in and complied. And when he was grouchy and curt, she ignored him until he quit trying to fluster her.

One day when Daniel had come by to see how things were going with the new care-giver, his father had surprised him by declaring that he approved of Paloma. "She doesn't take any shit off me," he'd declared, and Daniel dared to hope they'd finally found a solution.

Those hopes took a serious blow about ten months later, when Paloma called Daniel to notify him she was going to quit. "It's my son, Marco," she told him. "My mother has been taking care of him, but now my abuela is sick and Mama has to go live with her. Plus Marco is ready to start school, and there's just no way I can take care of him and Senor Morgan at the same time."

If Daniel was upset at the news, Ezra simply refused to accept it. To Daniel's amazement, the old man came up with a solution. "Come and live here in my house," he'd told her. "This place is plenty big enough. Besides, you'll save on rent and your commute. I'll even kick in the groceries."

"But what about Marco? You don't want a six-year-old running through your house."

"I've had a six-year-old boy here before, you know. Besides, Marco will give me someone to talk to when I got tired of you nagging at me."

She had gone to Daniel's office to talk to him about the proposal. Once he'd gotten over his surprise, he began to see the advantages. In addition to the continuity of care from someone his dad liked, Daniel thought that living in a family environment might be good for his father.

"It's up to you, Paloma," Daniel had told her. "I think it could be a good arrangement for Dad, and I know I'd feel better if he's being cared for by someone he likes. But you have to decide if it would be good for you and Marco."

"I believe it could work, Senor Daniel, but it would work better if you could try to come by more often, you know, for your dad's sake. And Marco would love it too."

Then, to his astonishment, she'd blushed bright red before turning and scurrying out the door. Her reaction confused him, but he was delighted when he heard she'd accepted his father's offer.

Now, after eighteen months of the new arrangement, Daniel was not at all surprised to hear his dad deferring to Paloma's wishes, nor was he unhappy when she too urged him to stay for dinner. Given that the alternative was eating take-out alone at his campus home, Daniel didn't put up much resistance. In addition to her skills as a nurse, Paloma had turned out to be an excellent cook. It'll be nice having a home-cooked meal for a change, he thought, his mood brightening.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Susan hated the long drive through the countryside, but she knew it was necessary. Neither she nor Grant could afford to be recognized when they were "developing prospects" together.

It wasn't just the length of the drive that bothered her, it was passing all the small, run-down houses along the way. I used to live in a dump exactly like that one, she thought, and the memories came back to her again.

Her father had abandoned the family when she and her sister were in grammar school. Her mother and the two daughters were forced to move into a rented shack her mother could barely afford on a maid's wages. The girls' classmates at school were little better off, but that didn't stop them from picking on the two sisters mercilessly.

But Susan had been intelligent. She'd made good grades all the way through high school, high enough to win her a full scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania. Education, she'd been taught, was the path out of poverty, the way to attain the same sort of lifestyle the other co-eds at UPenn all seemed to enjoy. And although those girls hadn't been unkind, there was no overlooking the socio-economic differences. While her classmates were dancing on the weekends at fraternity and sorority parties, Susan was in her dorm studying for Monday's tests. While they were spending their summers in Europe, she was working at a job on campus.

Susan caught a break during her junior year, however, when she attracted the attention of a handsome economics teaching assistant. Daniel Morgan was well on his way to a doctorate, but he was no nerd. He had a good sense of humor and loved socializing. When he met her, he found Susan's combination of brains and beauty irresistible. There were rules against relationships between TAs and undergrads, but with him in Econ and her in Fine Arts, the rules were easily overlooked.

Susan had already dated a bit and explored a few sexual encounters. But she was determined to better herself, and knew a reputation as a campus slut was not a path to success. Now, faced with the prospect of a relationship with a man with a future, she did everything she could to seize it. He never had a chance.

"A man with a future" -- hah! she thought angrily. She'd expected Daniel to join one of the big investment banks or management consulting firms that regularly recruited on campus. When he told her his dreams lay in academia, she'd been quietly disappointed. But maybe he'd wind up heading a major institution, she consoled herself. Some quick research online reassured her that several university presidents had backgrounds in Economics.

But now, seven years after they'd married, she found herself living in a nowhere university town with a husband contentedly teaching in a nowhere university. This isn't the future I wanted, she cursed.

In this "blighted" environment, she landed a fundraising job for a local museum in a converted mansion formerly owned by one of Pennsylvania's oil barons. Once again, she found herself beholden to a clutch of wealthy matrons and their simpering offspring, listening to their gossip, jumping to their imperious demands.

But it won't be this way for long, she swore to herself as she steered her car behind the small rural motel where she and Grant met. I've found a new path to climb.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Before Daniel could get out of the car at his father's house, the front door flew open and a small ball of boyish energy came flying toward him. "Senor Daniel, Senor Daniel, will you play futbol with me?" Marco yelled.

"Marco," Paloma yelled, stepping out onto the porch, "leave Senor Daniel alone! He's been teaching all day and he's tired."

Before the little boy's face could fall, Daniel waved his mother off. "It's fine, Paloma. Come on, Marco, show me your skills." With that the two of them began to play, dribbling, passing and shooting the grass-stained soccer ball. As they tore around the yard, Daniel noticed that Paloma had gone inside and brought his father out to watch them. The old man was delighted with the action, cheering them on excitedly even though he'd never been to a soccer game in his life.

They finally stopped when Paloma called them in for dinner. Marco protested, but Daniel was just as happy to quit. I'm not in shape to keep up with that boy, especially playing soccer.

Expecting traditional Latin American food, Daniel was pleasantly surprised when Paloma served a Mediterranean-style meal: chicken kabob over basmati rice with a Greek salad and pita bread on the side. Ezra grumbled about wanting a hamburger, but Daniel noticed he cleaned his plate.

They ate the meal like a family, talking about the day, their plans for the week, and other incidentals that lifted Daniel's spirits even more. He realized that he hadn't thought of Susan since he'd arrived.

As they were clearing the plates, Paloma leaned over and whispered, "In case you were wondering, I try to follow a Mediterranean diet with Senor Morgan when he'll let me. I want to protect his heart as much as possible."

"Thank you, Paloma. Whatever you're doing seems to be working -- I haven't seen Dad this energized in a long time."

After the dishes were in the dishwasher, they all moved into the den. After a little more conversation, Daniel noticed that Marco was growing quiet. I guess even seven-year-olds can tire out after playing so hard, he thought with amusement.

Paloma noticed too, and led Marco to his room. By the time she had supervised her son's preparations for bed, he was already half asleep. But once he was down, his eyes flashed open again. "Mama, can Senor Daniel come say goodnight?"

"We don't want to impose on him," she said sternly, before relenting, "but I'll ask."

The boy's request pleased Daniel, and he readily followed Paloma back to Marco's bedside. To his surprise, the boy reached up and hugged him, then lay back down, rolled over and closed his eyes.

"Good night, Marco," Daniel said fondly, tucking the blanket around the boy's shoulder. "Buenas noches."

When the two got back to the den, Daniel saw that his father had also nodded off. He helped Paloma get him back to his bedroom and helped him into the bed. It startled Daniel to realize how little his father weighed.

After the two of them returned to the den, Daniel thanked Paloma for the meal and told her he would head home. "Won't you stay a little longer?" she asked, reaching for his arm before stopping herself. "I... can you tell me a little about the painting in the living room?"

"Sure," he said, and followed her into the other room. There on the wall in a special frame was Andy Warhol's Sage Blue Marilyn Monroe. Shatterproof glass protected the frame, which was firmly bolted to the wall. Underneath the four corners of the frame were special pads sensitive to any change in pressure between the wall and the artwork. On the opposite wall, two small units emitted infrared beams, searching for anything coming too close to the work.

"I'm sure my Dad has warned you about all the security," Daniel said, and Paloma nodded.

"That's why I won't allow Marco in here," she explained. "One time he bounced his soccer ball against the wall, and in no time a security unit was here to investigate." She shook her head. "We won't make that mistake again.

"But what I don't know is how your father came to have such a special painting."

"It's a good story. My grandfather was a printer in Germany before World War II. He escaped just before things got bad and came to America with only his name. Actually, he lost part of that as well: some immigration clerk on Ellis Island changed 'Morgenstern' to 'Morgan.'

"Anyway, my grandfather found work as a printer in New York City, and brought his son, my dad, into the business to learn the trade. My father became interested in silkscreen printing, which was just becoming popular for artwork in the early 1960s. To make a long story short, he wound up working as an apprentice for the company that printed many of the silkscreens Andy Warhol created. Apparently, Warhol noticed my dad working late one night and took a liking to him. On impulse, he gave him that artist's proof on the wall and even signed a dedication on the back."

"That's quite a gift to someone Warhol hardly knew."

"I agree, but you have to remember that back then Warhol was selling his silkscreens for only a few hundred dollars. He probably felt an artist's proof just wasn't that valuable. Anyway, it wasn't until later that Warhol's works began to skyrocket in value."

"But isn't it dangerous to keep it here?"

"Not that many people know my dad has a Warhol, and it's never been appraised. But when that auction got so much publicity recently, we couldn't ignore the risk. That's when my dad got all the security measures put in. I won't say they're foolproof, but as you and Marco learned, even touching the wall will bring a fast response from the security team."

She looked at the painting again. "I can understand why your father wants to keep it here. He must be very proud of it."

"He is," Daniel nodded, "and I'm very proud of him." Paloma smiled and nodded.

A little later, Daniel got into his car to return to the old Victorian-style home the university provided on campus. As he drove away, he looked back at the light coming through the windows in his father's house. "I wish it was just as bright at my house," he sighed. Susan was gone often these days, and even when she was there, the atmosphere felt chilly. He shook his head and drove away.

* * * * * * * * * * *

As Susan left the motel, she still felt the delicious sensations of post-coital bliss between her thighs. Nothing like a good fuck to help a girl relax, she thought contentedly. And Grant Nicholson was a good fuck, in no small part because he was well and truly smitten with her. His ardor practically oozed out of his pores, and when they were in bed he was desperately eager to bring her to orgasm after orgasm.

But as she left their shabby love nest, her thoughts drifted toward her husband. It's not that Daniel is a bad husband, and he certainly isn't a bad lover. But he just doesn't have the drive and ambition I need. Grant loves mingling with all those millionaires on the board, and he's good at it. Daniel is satisfied going to university parties and mixing with the other faculty. Every time I have to attend one of those things, I just want to scream!