Kitty & Teddy, LLC Ch. 02

George efficiently showed her into the seat next to me. Her posture might have been from a dictionary illustration of demure: eyes forward; hands clasped on her clutch purse, in her lap; legs crossed at the ankle. The opening gambit would be mine.

"Good evening. I trust you are well. Is there anything we should do before driving to Trenton?"

"Thank you, but no. Also, thank you for asking me. It has been some time since I have had a purely social outing." Did her lips twitch when she said "some time"? If her start up businesses were anything like mine, social outings simply did not happen at all. I relaxed a little, showing myself that I was tighter than I had noticed. This could work.

It was time for some hostly duties. "Of course. Please get comfortable, we have a long drive ahead. I took the liberty of bringing a light nosh. Since it will be about three hours til we can dine, perhaps some cheese and fruit. There is also water, fruit juice and wine for later. I do not open alcohol when the car is moving. What would you like?"

I was half afraid that she had already eaten, but either she had not, or was polite enough to ignore it. It was one more subtle thing to like about her. I hated women that make a great deal of their diets. I asked her to open the crackers while I cut the pears. We fell to discussing my very pedestrian choices, versus the more expensive alternatives. This led to a discussion of food generally, and Villa Bartoli in particular. Almost too soon, George finished jockeying through near impassible Rutgers campus parking, and we had arrived. I assisted her from the car, and offered my arm as we strolled up to the concert hall. I may have been out of practice, but I thought the date did not suck too badly, so far.

While I would like to have spent some time discussing the program, we had arrived just before the lights went down. Sheila glanced at the program, but seemed to have little interest. Given our conversation earlier, my money was that she had researched it already.

I tried one little test, "Do you prefer Prokofiev's 2^nd or his 3^rd?"

She shushed me, but replied, "I was glad they changed it. Now quiet. Here's the Concertmaster."

Sheila:

A date. What to do before a date? I looked up the program, noting that there was a late change. I changed outfits three times. Well, changed the outerwear. Changing Julian's creations requires more time than a mere 40 minutes. I settled on the green jumper and the Audrey Hepburn top. Fussing with the pearl buttons gave me something to do. I debated a quick sandwich, since it was a late dinner, but decided to hold off. Sean might have snacks. I would in his place.

I rechecked the look. Lip gloss, check. Eye liner, check. Blush, no thank you; I have done enough of the real thing. Ear studs, check. It had been a while since I had worn the Judge's gift. He had chosen them to go with this 120 year old cameo. Thinking about Henry settled me. This was exactly the kind of thing he might have taken me to, and expected nothing but a peck on the cheek afterward. Tonight, I might not be satisfied with a chaste kiss, but Mr. Richards would have to cooperate.

I went down to the door precisely at 5:30. A big diesel Mercedes was pulling into the guest spot. I walked up to the car and a huge black man got out of the driver's seat and opened the rear door. I thanked him as he handed me into the glove leather seat. Naturally, Sean was seated beside me, but I could play coy. This was his party; he could break the ice.

He did, playing it safe, "Good evening. I trust you are well. Is there anything we should do before driving to Trenton?"

"Thank you, but no. Also, thank you for asking me. It has been some time since I have had a purely social outing." Some time, hah. Never before, but I could not tell him that.

He changed the subject, "Of course. Please get comfortable, we have a long drive ahead. I took the liberty of bringing a light nosh. Since it will be about three hours til we can dine, perhaps some cheese and fruit. There is also water, fruit juice and wine for later. I do not open alcohol when the car is moving. What would you like?"

Some people would say "light nosh" and mean 3000 calories, or a package of peanut butter crackers. He had a very sensible box of Triscuits, some Laughing Cow and a couple of pears, plus assorted bottled drinks. He handed me the box to open, while he deftly quartered and cored the pears. I asked if he preferred processed cheese over Brie or Gouda. Naturally, he was familiar and we fell into a discussion. I liked that a man, with a chauffeur driven Mercedes, would choose to eat food sold at Walmart, even though he knew the alternatives.

Our conversation drifted easily until we arrived. He, not his driver George, handed me out of car and offered his arm. We arrived just in time to get our seats before the lights went down. He offered me a program, but I only glanced at it. The orchestra was tuning.

Sean leaned over. "Do you prefer Prokofiev's 2^nd or his 3^rd?"

The program had listed the first movement of the 2^nd concerto, rather than the short 3^rd. "I was glad they changed it. Now quiet. Here's the Concertmaster." Did he just test me?

It did not matter. The orchestra plunged right into Shostakovitch's Gadfly Suite, and we were drenched in the larger than life imagery that is Russian music. I was gripping my clutch like a lifeline, as the music swept me along. An untold time later, the swirling storm sequence from Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade ended. The house lights came up as music faded out, metaphorically signaled a new day. I looked down. The death grip, which I had thought was on my purse, was on Sean's arm.

I looked over to him, as I released his arm. Before I could say anything, he hit me with my own words, "Quiet. They are just bringing in the piano. Here she is." Sure enough, the elfin little Israeli flounced out and bowed to the crowd. That was good. Prokofiev's 3^rd is all about bouncy and flouncy. After the pathos of Scheherazade, a little fun was in order. Sophia Weingarten made it dance. It was perfect.

After the applause died, we waited quietly for the aisle to clear. Quiet was good. I had laughed, and cried. This gave me a chance to put on my game face. We got up and joined the flow to the exits. In the crush, we could not be side by side, but Sean guided me with the subtlest of pressures. It was just one more stick on the fire. I had not had a partner that I moved this well with since, oh my stars, since Frannie.

I must have smiled, because he asked, "What?"

"I was just thinking of a dancer I used to pair with in practice. You probably know her, Francine Martel."

Sean:

Damn. She put me in my place again. This was getting embarrassing. Fortunately, she was right; the music was about to begin. The first selection was one I did not know, selections from the Gadfly Suite. The program said it was from a 1950s movie. That made sense. A good deal of 20^th century orchestral music was written for the screen. Star Wars, for example.

For myself, it did not matter, because the second selection was titled Spanish Dance. Cynthia was in deep. She was gripping her clutch like a life preserver. I reached out and patted her knee. Her left hand grabbed my sleeve, which was fine, but she did not let go. It was a bit awkward, but what could I do? The next piece was much older, from an opera by Glinka, Ruslan and Lyudmila, but the flow was outright ballet. Russians seem unable to leave ballet out of anything. Next was the familiar Gates of Kiev, by Mussorgsky, which is a promenade. Cynthia shifted enough that I could put my elbow on the armrest, and sit up straight.

This was good, because of the effect of the final movement of Scheherazade. While dance is there under the surface, this is a piece about great forces and frightening adventures. As the music moved into the storm passage, Cynthia had her head on my shoulder, while both hands clutched my jacket's upper sleeve like a lifeline. The lights came up as the music quieted. It was a nice touch, using house lights to symbolize dawn, simultaneous with the music doing the same.

I looked over at Cynthia, waiting for her to notice her grip on my suit. This she did, with a jerk. It was the first time I had seen her clumsy. As she opened her mouth, to say whatever, I gave back her last service, "Quiet. They are just bringing in the piano. Here she is."

Sophia Weingarten is a tiny little thing, with exaggerated mannerisms. I could see why they shifted to the 3^rd concerto. Her hands were often well above the keyboard, bouncing and prancing much like the score. It was a perfect counterpoint to the deep emotion that preceded it.

All too soon, it was over, and we sat silently waiting for a place to stand. Finally, we managed to slide into the flow toward the doors. There was no chance for me to take the lead, or even move beside her, but she was very responsive to subtle directions from my hand on her shoulder. When we finally broke into a little clear space, she looked over her shoulder with an odd expression. It seemed to combine old memory, surprise and more than a little irony.

I had to ask, "What?"

Her eyes glinted, "I was just thinking of a dancer I used to pair with in practice. You probably know her, Francine Martel."

I stopped dead. Franky Martel was my major high school crush, but we could never both find time. We.... My train of thought crashed into Cynthia's knowing grin. She had gotten me again. OK. Tit for tat. I straightened up and brushed my wrinkled jacket sleeve. This was rewarded with a widening of the eyes. Then offered her my arm, deciding call that exchange a push. George had moved the car to a much friendlier location. Soon we were off to our late dinner reservation.

Villa Bartoli is a nice place, though the City could boast a hundred better. However, a good meal is often in the company more than the food. I ordered antipasto and a carafe of house white. I had much better wine in the car, but you use what you have. My good wine would not going have impressed her in any event, since she never touched a drop.

We were in luck with the antipasto, because figs were in season. We had a duet of figs, one stuffed with pecorino romano, then wrapped with prosciutto and the other covered with fontina, then broiled. The soup course was pasta fagioli. For the main course, we both chose parmaseana, hers eggplant and mine veal, with a side of ziti and red sauce.

There was not a free table for George, so I had soup, lasagna and coffee sent to the car. After I could not stuff in another bite, I had them box up Cynthia's remaining parmasan and pasta. To finish, I ordered coffee. It was a lovely meal, and I do not remember a bite of it.

Cynthia came alive when she saw the figs. I am guessing it was a completely new experience. She loved both the sweet and salty play of figs and ham, but also the nuttiness of the grilled fontina on the sweet bed of fig. She clearly savored every bite, but her mind was still on the music. She talked of the different composers we had heard, and pieces by each she had danced. Watching her gesture with a half eaten fig, or sign the beat with her soup spoon, was mesmerizing. I normally hold up my end of most conversations, but that night I ate mechanically and watched her face.

The coffee came, and with it the manager. It was 11:15, past closing time. I handed him my credit card with a significant look at my watch. He nodded, and we were graced with 10 more minutes. I signed a 20% tip and collected our take out. As I expected, the evening was much cooler, so I draped my jacket over her shoulders, while George brought the car over.

In over two hours, I had spoken only to the restaurant staff and not said a word to her. She must have realized it, because she put her hand on the side of my face, and blushed, when I handed her into the car. Once I was in my seat, she kicked off her shoes and slid over, laid her head on my chest and curled contentedly. We sat like that all the way home.

Sheila:

Sean stopped cold when I sprang Frannie on him, but he recovered well. He straightened his wrinkled jacket sleeve somewhat pointedly, then offered his arm, which I took. He led me to where George had moved the car. Soon we were winding through date night traffic, to our dinner reservation. We made small talk about the Capital as we passed it. Then we talked about the restaurant. I had been once, in my teens and Sean knew it only by reputation. In short order, George dropped us at the door, then drove off. I wondered if he would get dinner, but said nothing as Sean dealt with the maitre d'. Villa Bartoli is a lovely old building, which looks like it has been an Italian restaurant for generations.

We were quickly seated, though the restaurant was crowded. Sean ordered wine and appetizers without looking at the menus. We settled in and received the wine, water and bread sticks, while we checked the menu. There was a little history sections, which confirmed that the business had been in the same family three generations. Nice. I decided on the soup and eggplant parmesana. We placed our orders and a silence followed. Sean seemed to be giving me room to speak.

I was spared the discomfort of breaking the ice, by the appetizer arriving. It was a duet of figs and cheese. The waiter explained the origins of the cheeses and the tradition of the parings. He left us, saying that there were two types of men in Italy: those that owned a fig tree and those that wanted one. Whatever the tradition, the bites were delicious: earthy, creamy, salty, all on a bed of subtle sweetness. The complexity reminded me of the performance we had just seen. I started talking about the Spanish Dance, from early in the performance, and went on from there. Sean gave me his full attention, nodding occasionally, but letting me run with it.

Run I did. It became very stream of consciousness. On and on I rambled. Sean never took his eyes off me except to eat. I had no such need. Half my soup and a couple of bites of the eggplant was all I wanted, and probably all Julian's foundation would allow me. Eventually a waiter came with a carryout box. Sean efficiently boxed the rest of my eggplant and my untouched side of ziti. Shortly, the manager came to the table with coffee and heavy cream. We sat, drinking our coffee, for a few more minutes, til the manager returned with Sean's credit card. He signed and we started for the door. Somehow the crowded restaurant had become deserted, and busboys were beginning to mop the floor. Where had the evening gone?

It was chilly when we stepped out. Without a word, Sean put his jacket over me. In a moment, George brought the car in front. Sean handed me in and closed the door. The whirling in my head was subsiding, and I felt well taken care of. As Sean slid in the other door, I kicked off my shoes and pulled my feet up onto the seat. Sean settled in. I lay my head on his chest and snuggled down. Then I gave a contented sigh. I felt very well taken care of.

They say contentment is not long for this world. Whatever that means, I had my share on that ride. I leaned on Sean's chest and felt warm and safe all the way home. Neither of us said a word.

Much too soon, George was pulling the car in front of my apartment building. I sighed a very different sigh, and reached for my shoes. My outfit was a copy of a late 19^th century portrait, but I will be hanged before I wear shoes in that style. As I pulled them on, Sean got out and walked around the car. Once again he handed me out. He walked me to the door, and I told him he would not be coming up by handing him his jacket. Our eyes had a long conversation, then I turned and pulled out my keys.

As he turned to go, I said his name. He turned back and I gave him a short but, for me at least, intense kiss. I said, "My number is 304, should you ever need to know." Then I took the coward's way out, and ducked through the door.

Sean:

George pulled up in front of her apartment building. It was a nice older complex, with a good reputation around town. I felt oddly better, knowing she had good security. I signaled George to let me get her door. She heaved a sigh, and reached for her shoes. While she put them on, I walked around the car. At this point I had no idea what to expect. Cynthia had been consumed at the performance, manic in the restaurant, and angelically peaceful in the car. As she stepped out into her world, I could see the control slide back into her eyes. This gave me pause. Just how much control had she given up these last few hours? Clearly a great deal. I was suddenly misty eyed.

We stopped at the building entrance. She quickly killed any possibility of a late evening, by shrugging off my blazer. I took it from her and we spent a long moment looking into each other's eyes. Eventually, she turned away and began to look for her keys. That, it appeared, would be that. I turned away, only to hear my name. Before I had turned completely back around, she gave me a short, intense kiss. Either she was an exceptional kisser, or she was very putting a lot of herself into it. Then she stared at her hands, like a child admitting something naughty. She simply said, "My number is 304, should you ever need to know." Then she disappeared into the building.

Trust is one of those things everyone talks about, and few understand. I stood there, with my mouth open and contemplated the size of the gift. Among other things, I was convinced that Cynthia was not her real name. The fact that we had had a full blown date, without her mentioning it, was telling. Other pieces started to fall into place. She was a mistress of control. Her defenses were formidable. It did not take a therapist to armor in her high necked blouse, her double hooked foundation garments, her strict, almost severe fashion choices, even her chosen profession.

Through that shone the individuality. Her fashion sense was sever, but impeccable. Chanel said that when a woman who is well dressed, people notice the dress, but when a woman is impeccably dressed, people noticed the woman. Her aesthetics were everywhere if you looked. Where simple pins would suffice, she had antique hand lacquered pins. Her outfit tonight would have gone perfectly on Jayne Seymour in Somewhere in Time, except for the shoes. I had no doubt the tiny pearl buttons, were real pearls. Tiny, intricate, layered. Defenses again. Layer apon layer of carefully built defenses, and she had told me where she lived.

I climbed back into the car. Before George could pull out, I laid my hand on his shoulder. He looked at me in the mirror, "I want you to investigate this building. I want to know everything there is to know, as if I were moving here myself. If I have to buy the building to make it secure, I will do exactly that. Are you hearing everything I am saying?" George is a decorated Marine, with years of protection duty. He had stood post at the White House. When he nodded, I was sure things would be done properly, "One more thing. Backtrack from here. Considering what she does, she may have potential skeletons sleeping nearby. I want to know who, what, when, where, and why." Once more he nodded. I nodded back, and we pulled into traffic.

Sheila:

By the time I reached my third floor apartment, my hands were shaking so badly I had trouble getting the door open. Once in, I rushed to the window. I do not know what I expected to see, but there he was, standing at the entrance. At least he had not taken that last exchange lightly. That made me feel better. For some reason, my mind went back to our session, where he calmly and carefully laid me bare. Already, I trusted those hands like they were my own. Better than my own. With that in mind, my hands went to the pearl buttons holding my blouse to my throat. Slowly, carefully, I laid myself bare, though he could not see it.