Journey on a Yellow Brick Road

She hardly needed convincing. "You...certainly...are," she said, barely getting the words out through heavy breathing. She clamped her legs against his big body and closed her eyes, losing herself in this most blissful, if not most sacred of acts between a man and woman. Blissful, that is, with the right lover, and at this very moment, in her spartan bedroom on this fine April afternoon, Scott Brewster, without a doubt, was the right lover. This was only the second time they had become intimate, and yet Scott seemed to sense just what she wanted and how she wanted it--remarkable considering that over a decade had passed since that first time. Like that first time, that magical night, he waited for her to climax before he did, and then hugged her in the sort of tender, protective embrace that she craved even more than the sex. "This feels so right and so wonderful," she said. "If only..." She looked away and shook her head.

Scott, his arms still around her, picked his head up. "If only what? Tell me."

She sighed and turned back to face him. "If only I had had this kind of nurturing in my childhood, maybe my life would have turned out different. And that's all I'm going to say about that."

He planted kisses on her chest and tummy. "Maybe so. Anyway, I think you're sexy and adorable. And that's all I'm going to say about that."

After lingering in bed a few minutes more, they got dressed just as they heard the front door open. "Mrs. Rowland must be home," Lynda said. "Perfect timing."

"She doesn't like you bringing guys up here, I gather."

"I'm not sure. I mean, it's not in the lease that I can't have male company. Anyway, believe it or not, you're the only guy that's seen this place since I moved here. It's been a while for me, remember."

Scott, paintings in tow, followed her downstairs where Mrs. Rowland, wearing a colorful print dress, greeted them with a warm smile. "Well, it's about time that you had some company, Lynda," she said. "Who's this young man?"

Scott introduced himself. Then he said, "It's been a while since I've been called a YOUNG man. But thanks."

Mrs. Rowland chuckled. "Scott, next to me, you're a young man." She noticed him holding the paintings. "Lynda's quite talented, isn't she?"

Shifting his eyes on Lynda, he said, "Yes, she is, and hopefully they'll be some galleries in Maryland that will think so too."

Lynda walked him out and then, standing by his car, she gave him a long kiss goodbye. Then she said, "Please let's not let another decade go by before we meet up again."

Scott looked into those beautiful, pleading blue eyes. "Not a chance. By then, I'll be an OLD man."

*****

Four out of the five galleries and gift shops that Scott showed the photos to were impressed. He called Lynda with the good news. "Really, you mean it?!" she cried.

"No, just kidding. Yes, I mean it. They want your work as soon as I can get it to them. Of course, we'll have to decide what goes where. I took a dozen pics of your paintings, so that shouldn't be a problem."

Days later, FedEx delivered a package to his door. He opened it to find another one of Lynda's paintings. She had employed her usual swirls of color in painting a yellow brick road, leading to a huge rainbow that stretched over the mythical city of Oz, rendered under her brush as something akin to the way futurists of the Great Depression era envisioned the "city of tomorrow." The note along with it read:

Hi Scott -- Surprise! Here's another original for your collection. You told me to paint this on my roadmap, so I did. Obviously, it reflects my upbeat mood and much needed optimism. Well, cautious optimism. Hope you like it. Looking forward to seeing you. And I hope it's not just to pick up my paintings. If you know what I mean!

Love,

Lynda

Scott's eyes moistened. Yes, he liked the painting very much, but loved the gesture even more. Over a decade ago, he had thought he might fall in love with this girl if given more time. Now, all these years later, those thoughts came back to him. He texted her, telling her how much he enjoyed the painting, adding: "And yes, I do know what you mean! But let's go further. You can come back with me on Saturday. We'll take the paintings around and do other fun stuff."

It was an offer she couldn't refuse. On Saturday morning, Scott picked her up and loaded the paintings in back. Then, after having breakfast at a local diner, he drove back to Maryland and made stops at the four places of business that were interested in a consignment deal, price to be set by the gallery.

They had fun with Margie, one of the business owners, after she asked if Scott was Lynda's agent. "Kind of," Scott said.

Then Lynda stepped in. "He's been my agent for years. Years ago, he was my probation agent. Now he's my art agent."

The blondish, long-haired, fifty-something Margie stood there looking all confused, not sure whether to laugh or frown. "It's a long story," Scott said. "Don't worry, it was nothing serious. I mean, Lynda's no ax-wielding serial killer, nothing like that."

When he and Lynda began to laugh, Margie joined in. Scott then handed over the paintings and gave his and Lynda's contact information.

Later, they had lunch, took a stroll along the brick promenade of a renovated slice of waterfront in Harford County and then grabbed a seat at an outdoor café where they spent a leisurely hour sipping wine, chatting and people watching. By late afternoon, Scott suggested dinner at that Middle Eastern restaurant in Ellicott City. "For old times' sake," he said.

"Would love to," she said.

On his phone, he googled in the place to make sure it was still there. Minutes later, they were on their way to Ellicott City, a long drive from Harford County but Scott thought it was worth it.

"I'm not sure I could still fit into that sundress I wore last time," she said. "That red, white and blue thing you liked so much."

Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, "Oh, I bet you could. Anyway, I like that pink and white striped dress you're wearing now. Your legs still look great."

He glanced over when she pulled up the hem, exposing most of her thighs. "Hey, keep your eyes on the road, agent Brewster."

"You're such a tease."

"No, more like an accomplished manipulator. I manipulated you into thinking I have talent."

He drew a wry expression. "Oh, stop. Me and those gallery owners. You do have talent and you know it. What you need, as I told you long ago, is confidence."

"I know, success begets success, as you also told me back then."

"That's true. But was it me who told you that?"

"Yes, sir. We were in Ellicott City in that restaurant. I never forgot it. Now all I need is to live it."

When they got to Ellicott City, Scott once again got a parking space on Main Street, just a few doors down from the restaurant. Déj� vu all over again? No, not really. It had been over ten years. He was now a middle-ager, while Lynda was approaching that stage of life. Lots of water had passed over that proverbial bridge since then. The restaurant, however, looked the way he remembered it, the décor and even the menu. Success begot success.

During the meal, their conversation turned away from personal matters to other things--the Biden presidency, the pandemic that appeared to be on the wane, escalating violent crime in county shopping malls and other things about which they had no control.

"Delicious," Lynda said after a few bites of her Kabab meal. "No wonder this place is still popular." This time, they got dessert, a fruit and honey crepe.

"That was one great meal," Scott said when he stepped outside. He patted his belly. "I'll never drop weight eating like that."

Lynda cuddled next to him on the sidewalk. "I just hope you're not too full to make love to me."

He knew she was being facetious. Still, he played it straight. "Honey, that's just not possible. You're too damn cute."

When they returned to his place in Owings Mills, she was touched that he had removed two paintings from a wall in the living room to make space for the two she had gifted him. When they went upstairs, she saw the other painting, the one showing the yellow brick road leading to Oz, hanging on the wall over his bed. "I couldn't think of a better place to put it," he said. "It's the last thing I look at before turning off the lights. Well, except on this night." He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

She tucked her hands under her dress, then slid her panties off. "You never fucked me with my dress on," she said, her tone soft and seductive. "But I bet you want to." She bit her lower lip, then ran a finger over her slit. "No need for much foreplay, 'cause I'm soaking wet."

He threw off his shirt, then stepped out of his chinos and underwear. "Damn right I want to."

The chair in his bedroom would be a suitable venue, he thought. She thought so too, and straddled his lap, with her dress bunched up around her waist and his hands caressing her smooth, lovely thighs. Then came minutes of furious bouncing and voices expressing pure pleasure in the dimly lit confines of this room, doing what they were doing years ago, when it was considered illicit because then, technically, she was still on his caseload. But tonight, there were no such inhibitions. This time, he climaxed before she did but held out long enough for her to bring up the rear, so to speak.

The fun didn't stop there. They cuddled in bed, then did it again, then cuddled some more, then went downstairs to watch a movie on Hulu (Hustlers), then returned to his bedroom and talked half the night away about anything and everything.

When Scott dropped her off in York on Sunday afternoon, he said, "I'm optimistic about your paintings, but it might take some time. Don't get discouraged if they don't sell right away."

"Hey, I'm just thrilled that they showed enough interest to take them on consignment.," she said. "Thanks for another fabulous weekend."

*****

His optimism was justified. The following week, two of the galleries called to request more of Lynda's work. Four paintings sold, bringing in a total of $300 ($75 apiece) minus ten percent for the galleries. "You're richer by two-hundred and seventy dollars," Scott excitedly told her on the phone. "Can you believe it?!"

"No, but I'll take your word for it. Oh, Scott, I don't know what to say."

"Just say you'll resupply those galleries with more. From what I saw, there's plenty more at your studio. And if they sold that fast, maybe they'll up the price."

As her "agent," she insisted on Scott taking a percentage of the sale--and he insisted he wasn't going to.

"Scott, come on. You're the one who hauled assed up here at your own expense--″

"Listen to me. I'm doing this as a labor of love. It's entirely selfish. You just don't know the gratification I get from seeing you succeed. Treat me to dinner or something. But that money belongs to you. And if you should become famous and super rich, we'll go look for sports cars. Nothing fancy. A Mazda Miata will do. Okay?"

"Okay. As long as I can drive it, too."

"You got it."

By the time the following weekend rolled around, Margie's gallery called Scott with more good news. "Bring us more," she said. "That's the first time that one of our consignment works sold less than a week after we received it. We'll be raising the price."

For any budding artist, this was heady stuff. For Lynda, who thought of herself as a born loser, this was super heady stuff. On the way back to Maryland, after Scott picked her up and loaded more paintings in his car, she said, "Scott, I don't want to get too enthused because it could all come crashing down. Story of my life."

Scott understood why she felt that way. "Just relax and enjoy this success you're having," he advised. "And don't think about anything crashing down. You're on a roll, baby."

When they got to the gallery that sold two of her paintings, the gallery owner, a slender man in his forties, said, "You're a very talented lady. I've had quite a few people come in here and rave about your work."

After dropping off two more paintings there, they drove over to Margie's store. "I'll be raising the price to a buck-twenty-five," she told them. Then she wrote Lynda a check for what she had sold.

Later, Lynda treated Scott to dinner. Then, when they drove back to his place, he surprised her when he uncorked a bottle of champagne. Standing in the kitchen, he said, "Look, I know what you said about not getting too enthused, but I think that what's happened so far is cause for celebration." He poured two flutes of the bubbly, handed her one of them and then raised his glass. "To continued success."

She clinked her glass against his and took a sip. Then she said, "I hope this isn't the only way we're going to celebrate. Can we take our glasses upstairs?"

Scott laughed, recalling the time she said that about the tomato juice. "Let's do it."

Minutes later, with her flute resting on the night table and her body shorn of clothing and her erogenous zones on fire, Lynda stood next to Scott's bed and glanced up at her painting on the wall. "Maybe that yellow brick road really is finally on my roadmap. I know that Oz is a place we can only dream about. A place far away and unreachable. But, as I've heard for years, it's the journey that counts." She reached for his hand. "And I hope you'll continue to take that journey with me."

He squeezed his naked self close to her. "You know I will. And you might also know something else. But in case you don't..." He took a deep breath and paused. It wasn't easy to say something that he now felt, something that had quietly tiptoed its way into his heart like some sneaky thing that avoided being seen until it got there. He had tried to ignore it. But now he no longer could. "I love you, Lynda Paula Duvall."

"Ohmygod, you do?! You really do?!" She looked like a little girl, full of bounce and brio.

He nuzzled his nose against hers. "Yes, I really do."

Through tears, crying and laughing at the same time, she managed to say, "I love you, too. Oh, my, as corny as this sounds," she added, glancing up at her painting, "I think that rainbow I've been waiting for has finally arrived."