Come Sail Away With Me

Chastity, in a long, elegant evening dress of deep green satin, whirled around the dance floor with one man after another, thoroughly enjoying the swishing sound the dress made, the way it contrasted with her flaming hair. She was the official hostess of this dinner party. Since her mother had died four years earlier, when Chastity was only fifteen, Chastity had had to assume the role of hostess at any and all the O'Doyle family's social events. These events were necessary to secure her father's influence with the men who made all the decisions about everything. She and her father were not wealthy, but he pulled in a sum in the low six figures; she had never wanted for anything. Her hourglass figure and flaming red hair caused many to regard her as a great beauty, but it meant nothing to her. All that panting, flapping around and messy exchange of fluids held no interest for her. The hoards of men, who had always flitted around her like bees to a blossom, were a minor irritation. Her father had always kept tight reign on her; bent on keeping her sexual condition the same as her name.

She had not exactly remained true to her name, but her involvements with the opposite sex had been few and unsatisfying: boys her own age were frightfully immature and silly, awed by her mere presence, while the men in her own sphere, (in September she would be entering graduate school) her father claimed, were too old for her. She had the social graces to keep things rolling, to assist her father in maintaining his position among men of true wealth and power, but she saw little value in hurried thrustings and fevered thrashings. She had learned to take charge herself of whatever urges manifested themselves. Her status as an academic had relegated her to a lofty position no boys her age could breach. In addition, the older men she routinely entertained for her father, saw her and treated her, as a child. She sought after and dreamed of, none of it. Her dream was to become the youngest female CEO of a fortune 500 company.

She had long ago given up hope of having any semblance of a normal life. She hated whirling around with a bunch of old coots and smiling her inane 'flight attendant' smile at everyone. Well, it wouldn't be long. Three more months and she would be at Yale business school. She was dancing with George Marshall, an important business associate of her father and wealthy forty-five year old, keeping him at bay, listening to his chatter, and interjecting an encouraging phrase now and then, when she noticed a pair of dark eyes fixed on her from across the room. It was as if they bored through her, saw the soft and tender places deep within. She shook her head to dispel the eerie feeling, and went on about her business.

Later that evening, riding home with her father in the limo, she inquired, "Chas, (She was a modern, liberated woman who addressed her father by his given name, which was actually Chastain, but she found that cumbersome.) Who was that man at the party?"

"Which one, hon?"

"I don't know, I never saw him before. He was tall, well dressed in a very nice pearl gray silk suit. But, it was his eyes I noticed, black, it looked like they were. It was the oddest thing."

"Oh, I know who you mean. That was Lance Tollidair. He is the CEO of IntraCon. Enormously wealthy. One of those miracle boys. Billionaire before he was twenty-five. He has kind of a reputation as a ladies man, but he's only, er, I'm not sure, early thirties, I think. Took a small machine tool business he inherited from his dad, worth maybe two, three million, made some changes, obtained some acquisitions, bought up some failing companies, somehow turned it all into, I don't know, some say maybe 10 billion."

"That figures."

"What does that mean?"

"I could feel his arrogance from across the room."

"I hear tell he's a great guy, nice person in general, very charitable. Don't think he's in the market for marriage, though."

"What are you trying to say? Neither am I, 'in the market'. I have places to go and worlds to conquer. Maybe some day when I've amassed my own fortune, I'll ask him out," Chastity laughed aloud. Several days went by. Chastity's life went along on its day-to-day shuffle. On Wednesday, there was a knock at her door. She answered to find a messenger, hand delivering a message, the first such message she had ever received. It read like an invitation: Mr. Lance Tollidair requests the pleasure of the company of Ms. Chastity O'Doyle at dinner on Friday June 16th at 7 pm - RSVP.

Chastity was stunned. The messenger waited. If she responded in the affirmative, would it be a date? She supposed it would. Her first date in a long time. She blushed strongly, her crimson cheeks augmenting the startling color of her long tresses. "Just a moment please," she said to the messenger. From her desk, she penned a quick reply on her own custom linen stationary. 'Ms. Chastity O'Doyle regrets she cannot accept the invitation of Mr.' . . . she had to look at the message to find it, 'Lance Tollidair,' stuffing the letter in a matching envelope and scratching his name on the outside. She returned to the foyer and handed over the letter, tipping the messenger with a five for his trouble. "That should dismiss, Mr. Big Shot arrogant billionaire," she thought to herself.

On Thursday, she answered the door to find a delivery boy with three dozen American Beauty Roses and a note from Mr. Tollidair: "I am sorry if I have in some way offended you. Won't you please have dinner with me? Call me." His phone number was scrawled below. There it was again, 'Call me', as if she had nothing better to do with her time. She knew what he had planned for her, didn't they all!

Chastity put the roses in a cut crystal vase and tossed the note in the trash. She buried her face in the flowers, absorbing their calming aroma. "Well, flowers are always nice, no matter who sends them," she said to herself.

On Monday, FedEx delivered a five-pound box of Belgian chocolates, apparently directly from Belgium. There was no note attached.

On Wednesday, she received notice that a star had been named after her in the official registry.

On Friday, she received a telegram notifying her that a donation of $10,000 had been made in her name to the SPCA. This time there was a note that said simply: "Please call me, 987-3210."

She had to admit, if nothing else, he was determined. Or was it stubborn? This time she crumbled up the note and shoved it in her pocket.

Late that night, as Chastity was preparing for bed, the balled up note fell from her pocket. She smoothed it out and set it on her nightstand. The next day at noon, as she was on her way to the country club for a round of doubles tennis with friends, she pulled out her keys to start her Jetta and the note fell into her lap. "Hmm, funny," she thought, but then realized she must have swept the note up from the nightstand with her keys. "It is starting to look as if fate is telling me to call him," she thought. "What harm could it do? Looks like it's me that's being stubborn. What the heck. I have to eat anyway." She reminded herself to call him after tennis, but of course, she forgot. She spent a delightful afternoon at the club and drove home feeling quite satisfied from the friendship and physical exercise. Her phone rang, while she was driving home about 3:45pm. She answered immediately instead of letting it go to voice mail, and without checking caller ID. For some reason a number flashed in her head, 987-3210. "Hello?" She said.

"Finally, I get to speak to you. Please don't hang up." The voice was a deep warm masculine baritone. She paused, way too long.

"Hello," he said, "Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," Chastity finally answered. "What do you want?"

"What I have wanted since I first laid eyes on you, to ask you out, take you to dinner. However, if there is something else you would like to do, somewhere else, you'd like to go, that's okay, too. I can eat anytime."

"When?" she finally replied, sighing deeply, as if surrendering to a force greater than herself.

"YOU WILL! Sorry for shouting. How about tonight? Around eight?"

"Well, okay, yes, yes I will"

"Great, I will pick you up at eight."

"I live at. . ."

"Oh, I know where you live. I know everything about you."

Chastity found herself blushing, even through the phone. "What shall I wear?"

This time it was his turn to pause a long time. "Wear whatever you like. Whatever you would wear if you wanted to impress a man. You can wear nothing if you wish. No one would dare question you anyway."

"Well, thank you, I think, er, Mr., er,"

"Lance, it's Lance, Chastity." Thinking he had better hang up while he was ahead, he said, "okay, great, see you at eight then. Bye."

"Uh, okay, er, bye."

"Geez," she thought to herself, "you really came across as a dodo that time, girl. Oh well, no matter, it's only dinner, just this one time, that's all." When she was almost home, a strange picture flashed through her brain. She was sitting at a table in a fancy restaurant; naked except for a striped man's tie, across from her sat an impeccably dressed Lance Tolladair. She shook off the image and began her list. "I should probably wear my basic black dress, heels, but not too high, evening purse. Hmm, maybe the single strand pearls. Geez, do I have time to do my hair?" she asked herself, looking at the dash clock. It was 4:45. "Just barely, if I hurry." She paused only a moment to ask herself, "if I care nothing about men, nothing about this arrogant. . . about this, this, Lance person, this date, (she had to admit it was a date), why was she so worried about her damned hair?"

*** *** ***

At exactly 7:58 pm, Lance Tollidair pulls up in front of Chastity's Old Victorian home . He walks the ten paces or so, briskly, and raps smartly on her door. She, of course, is not ready. She is of that class of women who believe it is productive to keep a man waiting. Chastain and Lance speak for a few minutes before Chastity appears. She comes down the stairs like a princess, expecting to be bowed to, looking absolutely stunning in a tight midnight blue satin dress, cut low at the breast and flaring out below the knee. The startling blue is a perfect contrast to her flaming red tresses. The cut of the dress shows off her ample charms to their best advantage.

She is two steps down the winding staircase when his head begins to turn. His jaw does not drop as she had expected. Instead, his deep black eyes fix on her body and follow it down step by step. Chastity, disconcerted by his gaze, nearly stumbles. She knows now, instinctively, no matter what clothes she wears, his dark eyes will see through any subterfuge, catch her naked and exposed.

He presents his hand graciously to her as her foot touches the bottom step. His eyes move to catch her eye. He smiles deeply. "Shall we go?" he asks lightly. "You look ravishing."

"Th, th, thank you," Chastity mumbles.

As they walk to his car, she is surprised she cannot tell what make or model it is. The color is a translucent pearl, the chassis low-slung, the styling bold. He opens her door for her and she slides in to soft gray leather surrounded by wood she thinks must be black teak. The sports car smells strongly of maleness, leather and wood and spice, and something that plays on the edge of her consciousness, but remains unnamed. Chastity decides she likes the smell very much.

Lance speaks little as he manipulates the little car through its paces. In minutes, they are on the expressway, his car eating the road, conquering and subduing it. Lance guides it expertly, with little apparent effort. The space in the tiny car is limited, placing them in close proximity, his fingers sometimes touching her hand or wrist as he manipulates the gears. While she still cannot identify it, she determines that the strong, pleasing male scent emanates from the man himself.

Chastity finally thinks of something to say. "What kind of a car is this? I've never seen anything like it."

Lance laughs. "It's called a Bristol Blenheim. I saw one once, then when I got, well, made my money, I decided to pamper myself and get one. The steering wheel is usually on the other side. I had to pay extra to have it changed for driving in America. Do you like it?"

"I like it very much, but it must have been horribly expensive."

Lance merely shrugs.

"You know hundreds of hungry people could have eaten for what you paid for this."

Lance looks over at her as if she were a snake. He pauses a moment to collect his thoughts. "You know, you shouldn't be so quick to judge. You don't know me at all. And if someone had paid me as much attention as I have paid you, I probably would be nicer to them."

"But I. . ."

Lance interrupts her, holding up one finger. "I bought five hundred meals for homeless persons last week. How many did you buy? It is easy enough for you to sit there and criticize. I know, I don't deserve the enormous wealth I've accrued. I've been very lucky. Nevertheless, I have also worked damn hard to get where I am, an estimated 10,000 hours. So forgive me if I spend a bit on myself. Oh, and by the way, you're welcome."

For a long while Chastity sits and sulks. The atmosphere in the small car is heavy with tension. "Some date this is turning out to be," she thinks. After a few more minutes, she begins to see things in a different light. Here she is, dated by one of the most eligible men in the world; rich, handsome, famous. Why must she always be so confrontational? Why can't she relax and enjoy herself? His square jaw is set tight, muscles bulging. The intensity his face holds is much greater than necessary to guide the graceful car. She realizes she has angered him.

She takes the opportunity to really look at him, to 'check him out' as it were. He is impeccably dressed. His silk suit is nearly the same shade as his car, a pearly gray. His shirt, open at the throat to allow a few wisps of his blonde chest hair to show, is a deeper steel gray. Even in the dimly lit interior of the lush car, she can see that his clothes fit his body. "Probably hand tailored," she thinks. From what she can judge, he takes good care of himself. Beneath the polished exterior, his hard body moves sensuously. Why is she so set against him? "Look, I. . ."

"Why don't. . .?"

The tension broken, they laugh lightly.

"Ladies first," he says, gesturing with open hand.

"I'm sorry," she says. "You are right. That was very unfair. You have been nothing but nice to me. Can we start over? Please?"

"Okay, forgiven and forgotten. One more thing. Say the word and I will donate a million dollars to any charity you choose. I could easily give you a million for yourself. I have thousands of them."

Chastity blushes a bright red. Under the red blotches, the freckles across the bridge of her nose darken to a deep brown.

"Well, we are here," he says lightly, pulling over to the curb. He saunters to her side of the car, but she is already climbing out.

"As you will," he says, shrugging. He turns, handing the keys to a waiting valet. "Be careful with my baby."

"I will, sir, she's beautiful. What kind of car is she sir, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all, I get that all the time. It's a Bristol Blenheim. Same name as a famous British World War Two bomber, same company, too. Much more well known in the UK than here."

"Thank you, sir."

What is your name, son?"

"Uh, it's George, sir."

"Well George, you're very welcome. Have a good evening and take care of her."

"Oh, I will, sir. You don't have to worry with me, sir."

He takes her arm in the way an old-fashioned gentleman would. They walk down the carpet under the traditional awning. A uniformed doorman admits them. Inside, the atmosphere is dark, ebony and red damask with gleaming brass, crystal and gold.

Lance stands casually waiting. In a moment, a gray haired gentleman in a short evening tux glides up. "Good evening Mr. Tolladair, will anyone be joining you this evening?"

"No, only Ms.O'Doyle and myself. " "Very good, sir. It is a pleasure meeting you miss. The back table then, sir?"

"That would be fine Armand. Thank you."

"Oh, and Armand (he pronounces it Armahn, Chastity notices)."

"Yes sir?"

"George, the Valet?"

"Yes sir? Is there a problem, sir?"

"Oh, no Armand, just the opposite, rarely have I met such a fine young man. He was most respectful and helpful."

"Well sir, I will make sure that Mr. Litel hears of your approval."

"That would be great, Armand. I appreciate good service and professional behavior."

"Right this way, sir." Armand guides them through the busy, but surprisingly quiet restaurant to a small table set off from the crowd. Its two chairs set side by side, rather than across from one another, face a large field stone fireplace in which a fire gently crackles. Armand draws out Chastity's chair for her.

"Thank you, Armand," she says, making no attempt to sound French.

"Is this all right?" Lance asks, once Armand has gone. Gesturing to the set up of the chairs, he continues, "I'm always afraid to seem too intimate with women I do not know. If you would be more comfortable, I will sit with my back to the fire."

"Don't be silly," she says, "I am not in the least afraid."

Lance laughs heartily. "Well said. It appears that our relationship, and so far I hope it's going to be a long one, is going to be very, uh, interesting, let's say."

Chastity smiles, "I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she quips.

"Only to the beautiful redheads," he replies.

"Oh ho," she says coyly, "aren't you the charmer?"

"Wine or an aperitif' before dinner?" He asks.

"I know nothing about wine," she says.

"What's to know?" Lance replies. "It's wet, you drink it. You like it or you don't. Personally, I believe, like the French, that a glass of wine greatly improves a great meal."

"In that case, I defer to your superior knowledge. Would you mind ordering for us?"

"Not at all. Such was my intent all along," Lance raises his hand, as if in school, elbow bent. In about thirty seconds, the sommelier appears. "Anton, have you a smooth Liebfraumilch for the young lady and myself?"

"How about the Weber, sir, 1959? It's a bit drier to the taste and well suited for an aperitif'."

"That will be fine, Anton. Thank you."

"Lance?"

"Yes, Chastity?"

"Well, first of all, call me Chas, ok?"

"Done. Chas."

"I, Oh, hell. I'm sorry I acted so poorly. You are right. You did absolutely nothing that I should be angry with you for. In fact, I think it was pretty nice what you did for the car boy."

"If you are with me for any time at all, and I hope you will be, you will soon discover that I am a person who believes in the power of the positive. Let me give you an example. You were being, well, let's just say a bit negative toward me in the car. I could have sucked in those negative feelings and transferred them to the valet, George. I could have said, "Boy take care of this car. It's worth more than you are," swept on past him and basically, ignored him.

"Here's what would have happened. George would have said, 'Humpf! What a pompous rich ass,' not knowing I was taking your anger out on him. The next time I came, he would remember, ignore me, maybe even park my car in a place where it might get scratched." "But instead of letting you ruin several persons' evening, I put myself in control. I decided to be nice, positive toward George. I asked his name, put in a good word for him. What did it cost me? A minute of my time? The next time I see George, he will say, 'Good evening Mr. Tollidair. Nice to see you this evening.'

Moreover, he will mean it. And, he will take very good care of my car. See how it works. Positive breeds positive. I'm sorry. I guess it sounds like I am lecturing you. I'm really not. It's just that this is something I am passionate about. I see people choosing to ruin their lives, make themselves miserable when they could choose happiness."