Shakespeare's Valentine Pt. 07

186.

Monday, February 14: Valentine's Day in Oakhurst. The day-if my idiotic idea had played out as planned-that Cherri and I would have-what...made love, fucked?-for the first time. Instead-and this had been Cherri's welcome variation on the theme-we'd had a little less than a month to get to know one another, on stage and off, in bed and out, and-by the way-to fall in love.

Which did take some of the pressure off of Valentine's Day. The previous evening, I'd come to Cherri's apartment at 4:15 for what turned into a little pre-show oral sex. Of course we'd been a little rushed and consequently a little hysterical, inclined to crack each other up in between bouts of cooing and sighing, and licking and sucking. The fact was that we were still getting to know each other, and that process was as exciting and unexpected and funny and moving as it had always been. (Is there anything as interesting to people as other people, especially to actors, who spend their professional lives pretending to be other people?) But we'd also somehow managed to establish a baseline of comfort and affection and trust. We'd started as co-workers, become lovers, and wound up as friends in love, which was maybe a weird trajectory, but, hey, if it ain't broke....

We crashed after the show on Sunday. Tech into previews into opening is always a long week, but Valentine's Day would be a Monday, which meant it was all ours. And we spent the first ten and a half hours of it sleeping. But we were up and showered and headed out to brunch by 11.30. The Red Baron again. At least they held over their weekend brunch menu, although as Cherri noted balefully: "French toast, but no waffles."

I looked at her over the top of the menu. "For our first anniversary, you're getting a waffle iron."

"Hmm. Okay, on the one hand, I'm bubbling over with girlish excitement at the prospect of being with you long enough to have a first anniversary. On the other hand, I'm not sure you're gonna make it to our first anniversary if you're delusional enough to think I don't already have a waffle iron."

"Okay, on the one hand, somebody is in serious need of coffee. And on the other hand, of course you've got a fucking waffle iron. For our first anniversary, you're getting another one, because I don't want to deal with your shit, if the first one ever breaks down!"

She grinned at me. "Not bad."

I grinned back. "Thanks, but I still think we need to get some coffee into you."

She reached across the table and took my hand: "I'm just grumpy because I didn't get laid last night. And because I still haven't heard about what you were doing on that porn set!"

"Jesus, woman, could you keep it down?" The place wasn't exactly mobbed, but it also wasn't empty. Cherri's grin widened. She waved to a heavyset older man at a nearby table, who'd looked up at the sound of her voice.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Swenson! Coming to see me in Macbeth?"

He waved back, smiling, so maybe he hadn't heard the previous question. "Wouldn't miss it, Sweetie! I'll be there Thursday."

I asked: "Who's he?"

"English teacher at the high school. I think they're reading the play, like right now, which is one of the reasons Cynthia chose it. Now, what were you doing..."

"You're gonna be disappointed..."

"Try me."

"I was holding a boom mike."

She blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah. Guy I went to grad school with was working for this freelance production company, and their boom guy got hurt skateboarding or something, and he called and asked did I want to make...I don't know, maybe it was $300 for a couple nights' work, and I did, so I spent a couple nights in some kind of corporate rental unit in Queens holding a mike over a bed while various couples fucked on it."

"Jesus."

"Told you."

Cherri looked perplexed. "Was it interesting, or sexy at least?"

"Maybe a little, at the beginning, but...I mean this was not high end movie making. I suppose it was clean enough. They kept changing the sheets, but the place really stank."

"Ew, seriously?"

"Well, yeah. Between the bodies and their various fluids, and this one guy was wearing some...I don't know, cologne or something that just made your eyeballs bleed. It was like he took a bath in it."

"Oh, gross!"

"Yeah, and they kept spraying this disinfectant around, so the whole place smelled like a public toilet somebody had recently...disinfected."

At this point, the waitress brought our brunch: veggie omelet for Cherri and Eggs Benedict for me. When she'd gone, I said: "Bon appetit."

Cherri glared at me. I grinned. "Shall I tell you the rest later."

"Is there any 'rest?'"

"Not really." I lowered my voice. "This one 'actress' with huge fake boobs just lay on her back and said 'Fuck that pussy, fuck that pussy...' over and over again like some narcoleptic zombie..."

"So I'll do that tonight, shall I?" Cherri was grinning again, and we were both almost whispering.

"If you want to watch my dick shrivel up like a stack of dimes."

"Shrivel up like...yeah, I don't think that means what you think it means."

"Um...I'm pretty sure I heard it somewhere, but you're right, it doesn't really convey..."

"Sorry to interrupt..."

Deep voice, coming from over Cherri's left shoulder. Scared the living bejeezus out of both of us!

187.

It felt like I'd jumped a foot; figured I was lucky not to be wearing the hollandaise. Then I wondered if we weren't about to be reprimanded, ejected or arrested for public indecency. The town of Oakhurst had an artsy element, but still: small town America. So, once my pulse rate came down from fight-or-flight, I looked up into the face of the guy who'd just taken a year off my life.

My age, plus or minus. Tall and quite handsome, with sandy hair and a full beard. Wiry build-you didn't expect that deep baritone to come out of such a ropey body-and he was laughing.

"I'm so sorry to startle you, but I just had to come and pay my respects. Meg?" He called back to a woman just getting up from a table across the room. "Look who we have here!"

Now everybody in the restaurant was staring, first at this handsome stick figure, and then at his equally striking partner. Meg looked like a midwestern prom queen: long, willowy body, ash blonde hair, and cheekbones that could slice fruit. As she made her way over to our table, he just kept talking.

"You were the Macbeths, weren't you? My name is Graham Partners, and this is my wife, Meg. Meg was an actress for a while, and now she teaches at an independent school in Cincinnati. That's where we're from. We see a lot of theater, I mean, a lot! Cincy Shakes, Playhouse in the Park, Actors Theatre of Louisville, uh...we've been down to Alabama Shakes, and of course we get to New York..."

"Best Macbeth I've ever seen," said Meg, who'd just arrived, and whose voice contained at least a trace of Tennessee or Arkansas, "hands down."

I glanced at Cherri: a smile and a half-shrug, so I stood up to shake hands. "It's kind of you to say so. I'm Dai Brenner, and this is Cherri Morganthal, and...yeah, I'm glad you enjoyed the show."

188.

We sat and ate our brunch while Graham and Meg talked about how much they enjoyed the show. They left only to be replaced by Tony and Marius, a gay couple from the state capital, who were passing through on their way to do some skiing, and then by a mother (Jean?) and her two daughters, Bailey and Madison. Madison was playing...I think it was Cinderella in her high school production of Into the Woods in the spring, and Bailey...I don't remember what Bailey was up to. Everybody had seen Macbeth, and everybody had nice things to say.

After Bailey and Madison headed back to their table, with an autographed placemat apiece, I caught the attention of our server, a perpetually smiling twenty-something with freckles and a pierced nostril named Jenny, who asked: "More coffee?"

I looked at Cherri, who shook her head.

"No thanks. Just the check."

Jenny's smile widened. "Oh, it's been taken care of."

What? I looked back at Cherri, mouthed 'You?' She shook her head again.

"Wait, you mean somebody..."

"Bought you both breakfast, that's right."

"Oh...wow! That was nice of...can I ask who?"

Jenny was grinning now. "You can ask..."

"Oh, come on! I just want to say thank you..."

"Nope. And you can't thank them anyway. They've already left."

I looked around. Graham caught my eye and waved. Tony and Marius were looking at a map. Jean and her daughters were studying their phones, so who the hell...?

Oh well. I turned back to Jenny. "Well, could you bring me the check anyway, so I can figure out how much to tip you?"

"They took care of that too."

Checkmate. Before we left, Cherri and I each put a five on the table. In the absence of egregious rudeness, actors tip the wait staff, even if they've already been tipped. There but for fortune...

189.

As we walked arm in arm out into the winter sunshine, I said: "Well, that was cool!"

Cherri's reply was a demure: "Yes, dear."

I turned to her, and caught her trying to suppress a laugh. "What?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon, Cher! I mean that was pretty nice of somebody to..."

"Yes, it was."

"So?"

Cherri sighed. "Well, I'd prefer to let you think it was your effervescent talent and devastating male beauty, and maybe it was! Did you notice the way Marius was looking at you?"

"Oh please, he's half my age!"

"Half Tony's age too..."

"Yeah, well...if Meg hadn't been there, Graham might have ordered you for dessert."

"Ooh, maybe I should go back and get his number! He's tall, handsome, and I suspect he could bore for the US Olympic team on the subject of medical tubing, or whatever it was his company makes."

"It was, in fact, medical tubing." I chuckled. "So you're saying I don't have to be jealous of the gorgeous Graham?"

"Not unless I should be jealous of marvelous Marius..."

"And you're also saying that this is not the first time some anonymous theater lover has picked up a check in the cultural maelstrom which is Oakhurst?"

Cherri gave me a rueful smile: "I'm sorry, Honey! You were just so thrilled. I didn't want to burst your bubble."

I was still chuckling, although now I was feeling like a bit of an idiot. "Does it happen a lot?"

She considered: "Not a lot, no. I mean I've spent, what, eight summers here? And it's happened three or four times. Usually when I'm playing somebody pretty visible, like Imogen or Titania. The thing is the locals know that the festival brings in summer tourists, and they know that we're not making a ton of money..."

I thought about that, decided that I hadn't over reacted. It was pretty damn cool. "So who cares if it's happened before? It was still really nice of...whoever it was. Do you know...?"

"Nope. And I agree with you. It was really nice of somebody to buy us brunch, and it was nice of all those people to come up and tell us how wonderful we were. That happens too, by the way."

"I'm noticing. Well," I pulled her close and whispered, "you are pretty wonderful!"

"Hmmm, I am, aren't I?"

"Uh huh, and beautiful, and intelligent, and talented..."

Cherri purred: "Uh oh! It sounds like somebody has designs on my virtue!"

I could hear the need in my voice: "Virtue's about the farthest thing from my mind right now!"

And in hers: "My place then?"

"Actually," the tone of my voice made her pull away far enough to look at my face, "can we make a quick stop at mine first?"

190.

I held the door of my apartment open for my Lady. Once we were inside, I took her coat, and laid it on the couch. Under it, she wore jeans and a red sweater over a white turtleneck. I stood still for a moment. Every now and then, I needed to remind myself: this magnificent woman, this courageous, brilliant, radiant woman had chosen me to love, to talk to, to sleep next to. She trusted me with her heart, and her thoughts, and her body. She relied on me to make her laugh, and to make her comfortable...to make her cum, for that matter. To me it seemed less miraculous that I had chosen her, trusted her, relied on her. Of course I had. How could I not love Cherri Morganthal? It took all of my considerable powers of imagination to wrap my head around the idea that Cherri Morganthal might look at me and think: how could I not love Dai Brenner?

Cherri was smiling. She loved it when I looked at her with love and/or lust in my eyes. She said: "What?"

I stepped close to her, took her face in both my hands, and kissed her.

191.

I'd have liked that kiss to have said everything I'd been thinking about how happy I was that such a magnificent woman had chosen me, and all the rest of it, but that's really not how kisses work. I brushed my lips against hers, felt how warm and soft and moist they were, tasted her lipstick-tough taste to describe, but it does taste like something-and the hint of coffee on her breath. I heard her breathe "Oh, Dai!" as her hands slipped under my arms to pull me closer, and a soft "ooh..." as I gently nipped her lower lip. I parted my lips, and felt her tongue dart between them as her body pressed against mine. I smelled the perfume she'd dabbed behind her ear, and felt my cock begin to harden in response. Then I felt her lips curve into a smile as she pushed up against my growing bulge. I reached for her tongue with mine, and she giggled as her mouth opened wider, drawing me in. Kisses convey simple messages: I love you, or I want you, or both. And that was fine with me, except...

I closed a fist in her hair and gently pried her lips from mine. She mewed and whined as our mouths came apart: "Uh...no! Oh, Dai, please! Please, I need...can't we...?"

"Shh, Cher! Hush, Love, just for a second. Shhh...you can have anything you want, but you have to open your Valentine's Day present first."

192.

The inexpertly wrapped box and card were on the kitchen table. I had to let go of my Lady to go get them. Didn't love that, but needs must. I came back and handed her box and card. She looked stricken. "Dai! Oh, Honey, I don't have anything for..."

"Cher, don't worry about it, please!" She was still trying to apologize, and I really didn't want her to do that. "I sort of planned to give you this for an opening night present, and then you gave me that amazing picture, so... But then...I don't know, it seemed more...anyhow, would you mind...I mean...could you please just open it?"

She looked at me for a second, maybe a little surprised by the urgency in my voice. If so, she wasn't the only one. I hadn't realized, although maybe I should have, how much I had invested in what was in that box. I suppose in one way, I'd been waiting for twenty-some years to give this particular woman this particular gift.

Cherri said: "Okay..." and, because I guess she'd been raised right too, she started by opening the card.

193.

Shop for a Valentine's Day card in a small town in the only major grocery store for fifty miles on the afternoon of February 13, and you get what you deserve. In this case, I'd come away clutching a small card displaying a blurry photograph of a bunch of heart-shaped balloons. No message on the inside, which was probably all to the good, given some of the bilious crap the card manufacturers come up with. On the other hand, I wasn't so sure that what I'd written was any better.

"Dearest Cherri,

I'm bad at cards. I figured I better say that at the beginning, because I have so much to say, and I don't know how it's going to sound (or how much of it's going to fit.) And by the way, you'd laugh at me if you knew how long this was taking, which would be fine with me, because I love to hear you laugh. I think, after trying and discarding cliche after cliche, the best I can do is to thank you. So...

Thank you for falling in love with me, and for letting me fall in love with you.

Thank you for letting me hold you when you cry.

Thank you for making kissing you my second favorite thing in the world to do.

Thank you for helping me discover what amazing sex feels like!

(And that-with you-would be my first favorite thing in the world to do!)

And most of all, thank you for teaching me what love is, because the truth is that before I met you, I had no idea.

Last thing: I hope you like your gift, and the story that goes with it. It started a long time ago.

I could say so much more, but the damn card's too small, so...

I love you, Cherri Morganthal, with all my heart.

Happy Valentine's Day. Please be mine?

XOXO,

Dai"

194.

When she'd finished reading, Cherri looked up at me. She wasn't crying, but she wasn't quite not crying either.

"For the record," she said, and the smile was in her voice rather than on her lips, "you're fine with cards." Then she reached for the box.

Black cardboard with a silver top, and an elastic silver cord tied in a bow; maybe 3" x 4". In the package, it had been enclosed in bubble wrap and packing peanuts, so the whole thing looked a little...travel weary. Cherri pulled off the elastic, opened the box, and discarded a square of jeweler's cotton...

"Oh my God! Oh, Dai! Oh, Sweetheart this is...exquisite!"

Out of a small cloth bag, she pulled a silver cuff bracelet, inlaid with bands of red, blue, green, black, and dark orange. It was a marvelous thing, the silver as smooth and radiant as if it had been forged from sunlit water, and colors in the bands suffused with the warmth and richness of precious things buried for ages in far away places. It was a marvelous thing. Of course it was. Rebecca Etcitty had been working in silver ever since she was a girl. She was a prodigy at eight. She was all but supernatural at eighty.

Cherri carefully put the cuff back in its box, and walked over to place both box and card back on the table. Then she came back to stand directly in front of me.

"First of all, take your coat off."

Something in her eyes told me not to ask questions. I took my coat off and put it next to hers on the couch.

"By the way, you're welcome." Huh? Oh, in the card, right. "Now hold me." Her voice hadn't broken, but... "Tight, okay?"

She stepped into my arms, and I pulled her to me. She leaned her head against my shoulder, sighed once, took a deep breath, and then she began to cry. That was fine. By now I knew that my Lady cried easily, and this felt like one of her happy cries. Not so much sobs as long slow breaths. Her body didn't shake, her shoulders didn't heave, she just held on to me, and let me hold on to her, until she was ready to speak.

"Oh, Dai...oh, my love...oh, I love you so much! Thank you...you dear, sweet man! Thank you for that beautiful card, and...and for that lovely...that lovely bracelet...and yes, of course I'll be yours...always and forever, if you want me..."

Apparently I was crying too. When did that happen? "You know what, Cher? That's...pretty much exactly what I want. I mean...we have to figure stuff out, but I don't ever want to...be without you...so, maybe we should..."

"Tonight. Let's talk tonight. Right now," she sniffled a little, then took a deep breath, "I want to hear about my bracelet."

"Fair enough, uh, shall we sit on the couch?"

"Only if I can sit on your lap. I don't want you to stop holding me."

I smiled, and kissed the top of her head. "Works for me. I don't want to stop holding you either."

195.

I told it with the feel of Cherri's body warm against mine, with the scent of her shampoo in my nose, and softness of her hair against my cheek and chin.

"So...the story starts with a woman named Rebecca Etcitty. She's Navajo, and she and her husband had-I guess still have-this little gallery in Flagstaff. I wandered in when I was at the old Grand Canyon Shakespeare Festival, back before they went under. The festival, I mean, not the gallery. Rebecca was a silversmith-had been since she was eight or something; her uncle trained her-and she made...just this magical stuff: bracelets, earrings, pendants, rings. Silver, and all of it inlaid with these tiny shapes: squares, triangles, feather-shapes made of lapis and coral and turquoise, all kinds of things. One piece more breathtaking than the next. The designs were so elegant and simple, but the impulses were so...human; patterns embedded in the silver, like lovers' initials carved into the trunk of a tree.