Soft-mouthed Sandy Pt. 05

"This is the relequary of Saint Anselm, a Benedictine Monk, Philosopher, and Scholar of the 9th Century," she read from the tablet. "He defined faith as 'seeking understanding' and is the name sake of Saint Anselm College."

"So, it's a relequary. Does that mean there's a little bit of him in this little statue? Like his big toe or something?"

"Doesn't say which body part," Fiona said. "But I imagine it's like people keeping a lock of hair to remember you by once you've died."

"I once read that Mary Shelly kept a lock of her husband Percy's hair in a locket around her neck after his death," I said.

"Queen Victoria had Prince Albert's clothes set out each morning for years after his death," Fiona said. "Talk about devotion."

We meandered through the renaissance and the age of enlightenment every so often using the tablet and huddling close. I found myself first touching her elbow as she would read aloud from the museum articles attached to each exhibit. And then my arm went around her waist as we admired a lesser statue of Bernini.

By the time we had come to the Post-Impressionists, we were walking very close as we approached the Pieta. I could smell vanilla on her hair and tea-blossom.

Quickly, I worried that she might detect her own body wash scent on me, but was relieved when she simply went forward to scan the code square beneath the masterpiece.

"Van Gogh painted it as the result of an accident," she narrated. "He kept a copy of Delacroix's lithograph and 'one day it fell with some other sheets of paper into some oil paint and got spoiled,' or so he later wrote to his brother, Theo. He recreated it using his own color scheme."

I admired the great painting, which was roughly 30' by 24'.

Fiona leaned against me after a few moments sighing. "What do you think?"

"It ties a room together," I whispered into her ear.

We lingered another minute, appreciating the beauty.

"He died a year after painting it," I said, taking up the tablet and reading. "In 1890."

"Sad that someone who could create such beauty could be so broken inside," Fiona said, shaking her head. "Shot himself through the heart. Some say his last painting was 'Wheatfield with Crows.' My grandmother keeps a print of it in her reading room."

"You're very close to your grandmother," I said, as we walked out of the gallery and back down a marble staircase to return the tablet to the kiosk.

"She's the town weirdo back home," Fiona smiled. "Which makes her every other closeted weirdo's secret friend in a way."

"You hardly seem like a weirdo, Fiona."

"I'm not sure I like that. I would hope you found me just a little bit weird, Sean. People are attracted to at least a tiny amount of weirdness in others."

I smiled. "Oh, I find you attractive," I said as we passed out of the museum's main doors into the early evening air. "Even when you're dashing out the entryway with flecks of paint in your hair."

"And all of a sudden," she said. "Just like that? I've lived above you for almost 2 years, Sean."

"There was Nan," I said. "But then she started branching out. I didn't know how to deal with that at first."

"But now you do?"

"I'm opening myself up to possibilities," I said. "And I believe I promised you dinner?"

"I'm not particularly hungry," she said. "But there was that other bit you promised me. Are you in your reliable old truck? I took the bus here figuring you would give me a ride home."

I took out my keys and tossed them to her. "You're secretly in love with my truck, aren't you?"

She laughed. "How did you guess?"

"Yesterday," I said. "You seemed crestfallen for a moment when you thought I'd traded up."

She laughed, kicking off her heels and picking them up to carry. "They look good," she said. "But I'd hate to pop a clutch in them."

We made it to the parking structure near the Student Rec and she climbed into the driver's seat.

There was an envelope tucked under the windshield wipers. We both noticed it simultaneously.

"Did you get a ticket?"

I plucked the envelope from the wipers, noting it was not the proper size or the shade of blue used by the university Police. I peeled back the flap to find photographs.

Pictures of Nan and me leaving my apartment earlier that morning, sharing a last kiss. Then pictures of Betty and me walking in the quad.

"What are those?" Fiona asked.

The last few photos were of me eating lunch with Sandy. Almost all of the pictures were completely innocent, but a note at the back of the stack read "Naughty boy! Back off or I'm telling."

I showed Fiona the note. "Your ex is a real charmer," I said.

She scowled.

I presented her with the photographs. She leafed through them and finally threw them on the dash in anger. "He's such an ass!"

I gathered up the photos. "But a hell of a shutterbug. Great resolution, nice composition, hardly any sun-flares or awkward shadows."

"You can joke about this?"

"What's not funny? He thinks he's got evidence of something which, last I checked, isn't a crime."

"So, what are you going to do?"

I opened the glove compartment and tossed the envelopes inside, shutting it smartly. "Well, I could steal his girlfriend for starters. But only if she's up for it."

She snorted out a laugh. "You really are crazy," she said.

"Maybe just a little bit of a closet weirdo," I said. "Fire it up, Girl."

She depressed the clutch and turned the key in the ignition. Old Blue grumbled to life and she gunned the engine joyously. She shifted into reverse with a smile of satisfaction and we tore off towards our apartment complex. As we moved up the hill from the parking structure, I adjusted my passenger-side mirror in time to see two headlights come to life less than a half-a-block back. I shook my head, laughing.

"What?" Fiona said.

I opened the glove compartment and took out the envelope and pictures. "At the next stop sign, slow to a full stop, then linger. When a car pulls up behind us, kill the engine and flip on the hazard lights."

"What are you going to do?"

"Do the difficult things while they are easy and do the great things while they are small. A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step."

"What does that mean?"

"Means I'm going to throw these pictures in his face and tell him to go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut. Shouldn't take a mo. Just stay in the truck and keep the hazards on." I checked my watch.

She came to the stop sign and lingered. The lights of his old Impala slowed to a stop behind us and I climbed out as Fi flipped on the hazard lights. I held up the pictures and walked slowly back to toss them in the convertible beside him. "Tell me, Bo-peep," I said. "What aspect of stalking has ever been remotely appealing as a come-on?"

"Just looking out for her. She know you're a daffodil?"

I could smell whiskey and something else. "If I'm a daffodil, why are you so concerned with us slipping back to her place?"

"There was a time when your kind would get strung to a bumper and dragged down a gravel road, you know?"

The second smell was gun oil. I considered a moment whether was the type to keep his peice under the seat or...

"I'm guessing glove compartment," I said, reaching in quickly and opening the dash.

"Hey!"

I took the handgun out and ejected the magazine. I cleared the breech of its single round and tossed him the empty gun.

"M&P 8mm," I said, noticing another set of headlights pulling to a stop behind his Chevy as I tossed the clip in the rear floorboards and pocketed the spare bullet. "Would have figured you for a 1911 Colt man."

He brandished the handgun in my face just as the blue and red lights started flashing.

"Freeze! Drop the weapon outside of your vehicle. Both of you put your hands where I can see them."

Beau's eyes went wide as I smiled, putting my hands on the top of my head. "Possession of a firearm on campus," I said. "Tell me, is it registered?"

He tossed the gun out and put up his hands. The campus cop approached and collected the gun from the ground beside the car. "Okay, you in the car," she ordered. "Open the door slowly and step out."

Beau complied, a bit wobbly for the whiskey. The officer obviously noticed the smell.

I kept my hands up waiting to speak when spoken to.

"Whose in the truck?" The officer asked me.

"My girlfriend, officer," I said. "This guy's been following us and when I stopped to call him on it he showed me his gun."

"That's not true-," Beau began.

The officer shushed him, calling to the truck. "You in the truck, let's see some hands!"

Fiona stuck her white-gloved hands out of the open driver's side window.

"Okay, hop out slowly please, Miss."

She did as she was told, still in her bare feet.

"You on a date?" The officere asked, indicating she should answer.

"Yes, officer," Fiona said, pointing at me. "With him."

"And this guy in the Chevy, you know him?"

"We used to date," Fiona said. "Ages ago."

The officer nodded, taking out her cuffs. "Okay, buddy," she said. "You have the right to remain silent..."

I kept my hands on my head until the officer told me I could put them down. I went to lean with Fiona against the tailgate of my truck until a second patrol car arrived.

The first officer took our names and statements. They found the pictures on Beau's front seat, all of which corroborated my story. Within 20 minutes we were free to get back in my truck and drive away.

"Tell me you didn't just do that on a whim?" Fiona said, aghast.

"You obviously didn't read my story in today's paper," I said. "Campus Police patrols to increase over spring break due to a string of car break-ins. That was Officer Carla Flax you just met. We had a lovely chat in the precinct last Thursday."

"Still that was a very stupid thing to do," she said, shaking her head and smiling. "What if he'd shot you?"

"For what? I haven't even touched his girlfriend!"

"Yet," she said. "And it's 'ex-girlfriend,' for the thousandth time! You know his dad's just going to bail him out in the morning, right?"

"Well, I'm sure the police aren't going to rush to give back his gun or his car keys. I'm guessing he blows .15 at least."

"Is this where you tell me I have really shitty taste in men?"

I shrugged. "Maybe you should branch out?"

"So, you and Buck!? You met like yesterday!"

"It's Betty," I corrected. "And to be fair, I'm just as shocked by it as anybody else."

"No you're not," Fiona peered at me sideways.

I dug in my pocket for the single 8mm round. I considered it a moment and then replaced it in my pocket, pondering just how big a hornets nest I might have kicked up.

"You're right," I said. "That will most likely turn out to have been a very stupid thing to do."

"Well, you were showing off for a girl, I expect."

She pulled into the parking lot of our apartments. Music blared from the pool area. Lights were strung all around as if for an impromptu party.

"What's the occasion, do you think?" I asked.

"Oh, Mr. Vardapydian bought a second-hand jacuzzi," Fi said, shutting off the engine. "He had it delivered today. I'm guessing they're christening it tonight."

I nodded. "Place is getting gentrified."

We both seemed in no particular hurry to head upstairs. We sat with the windows cracked listening to the pops and clicks of Old Blue's engine.

"You know," she said. "I actually used to have a crush on Bucky. I mean before he knew, or I mean, before she knew. I'm still getting used to it," she smiled.

"We can talk about it if you need to," I said.

"No," Fiona said, smirking. "I want us to enjoy the rest of our date. Everything and everyone else can wait for tomorrow, agreed?"

"Nature does not hurry," I said. "Yet everything is accomplished."

She creased her eyebrows at me.

"Lao Tzu," I said. "I took a semester of Eastern Philosophy last year."

"You're weird," she said.

"And you drive like a maniac with a manual transition."

We climbed out of the truck. She was still bare-footed, carrying her red heels in her hand while the straps of her little purse dangled off her wrist. She approached me, supinely. Her left hand deposited my keys in my jacket pocket and then went around my waist. Without hesitation, she arched up on her toes to kiss me.

It was a kiss we both realized in the moment had been building within each of us separately for God-knows-how-long. Without her heels, she was only a few inches shorter than me.

We both blinked coming out of it, surprised.

"Wow," I said, touching my forehead to hers.

The night was cool. I could smell her hair and her skin, a mixture of tea-blossom and lavender and vanilla.

"You think maybe it was the excitement with Beau and the cops?" She asked.

"I'm not sure," I said, moving in to kiss her again. She pressed into me. It was dizzying and all too brief. We held each other as if we had spent a lifetime waiting for it to be like this.

"Um, Sean?"

"Yes, Fiona."

"We should probably get inside," she said. "Before the neighbors start to talk."

We stepped through the outer door of our building and climbed the stairs to her apartment door. She opened it with her key and ditched her bag on the counter. Her shoes she put by the door. The apartment was much the same way it had been earlier in the day, save that more boxes had been moved out of the master bedroom and an easel had been set up with a large drawing board and a piece of newsprint affixed to it with masking tape.

"I'll need to change," Fiona said. "I don't want to soil my new dress. There's a record on the player over there, if you feel like music."

I nodded.

"There's stuff to drink in the fridge. Wine, water, what have you."

"Okay."

She stepped through to the back bedroom. I went and switched on the record, putting the needle into the groove.

The Righteous Brothers began to croon softly and I nodded at the selection. I stuffed my hands in the front pockets of my jeans, suddenly nervous. I wasn't particularly thirsty, but I went to the fridge anyway and dug out two mineral waters.

"Sean?" She called from her room.

"Yeah?"

"Um, could you come back here for a minute?"

I replaced the waters in the fridge and sauntered back to her little room.

The far wall was stacked thick with canvases and every inch of wall space was affixed with some form of oil-painting, acrylic canvas, or framed drawing in charcoal or pastel. Despite being cluttered, everything seemed neatly arranged and squared away.

Fiona was still in her dress, but the zipper at the back was only about ¼ pulled down.

"I'm stuck," she said. "It's a pretty dress but murder to get in and out of without help."

I took position behind her and carefully pulled the dress zipper back up a few inches and then down again, this time clearing it's path all the way down so she could step out.

"Thanks," she said, rezipping the dress carefully now clad in just her bra and panties. They were the same shade of emerald as her dress. I admired her for a moment and then...

"Can you fetch me that hanger in the closet behind you?"

I turned to find a satin wrapped hanger. I reached it down and handed it to her so she could hang her dress up properly. I stepped aside, watching her leg muscles as she moved.

"Well," I said, turning to head back into the living room.

"Could you unhook me?" She asked, indicating the clasp on her brassiere. In the mirrored reflection of her closet doors, our eyes met. I unclasped the little hooks and her full breasts fell free. I brought my fingers up to lightly brush the straps from her shoulders and leaned down as though to kiss the nape of her neck.

"Help me pick a shirt," she said.

I held steady a moment, my lips an inch away from her skin, and with every ounce of willpower I could muster, I withdrew and selected a large t-shirt from a hanger in the closet.

It was pale green with Kermit The Frog emblazoned across the bust.

She turned to face me and held up her hands childishly. Her lips smiling a torturous smile daring to be kissed.

I took the shirt off it's hanger and bundled it up to pull over her russet red hair. Once her head was through I pulled so that our lips brushed as if by accident. Her hands came up into the sleeves of the t-shirt and then she pulled the hem down over her body, hiding once more what I so desperately wanted to touch. She pressed away from me, her hands firm against my chest. "Not until after I've sketched you," she said.

I understood, and turned to look at the paintings adorning her bedroom walls. "Are they all yours?"

"Studies," she said. "My favorite painters. I buy the posters at the student union and try to recreate them. Do you know any of them off hand?"

I kept my hands behind my back as I surveyed the impressive collection. My gaze fell upon an image of a woman with dark limped eyes done in shades of dark blue and crimson. "Modigliani?"

"Very good," she said. "Any others?"

"Van Gogh, Turner, Matisse. You're very gifted, Ms. Hood."

"You're not boring at all, are you, Mr. Grisham?"

"My mother used to dabble in interior decorating," I said, returning my hands to their place behind my back. "Some of it wore off."

She leaned in and whispered in my ear. "You're doing an excellent job of not letting me read your thoughts. Does that mean they're too depraved to share?"

I shook my head. "You said 'after,'" I said. "Doesn't that mean we should get started?"

She leaned in and pecked me on the neck. "Take off your jacket, please."

Although she had said "please," it felt more like I was being instructed what to do rather than asked to comply.

I took off my grey jacket and folded it over the foot of her neatly made queen-sized bed.

Her hands came up to my collar and adjusted it. My top button I already wore unbuttoned. "You look good in blue. Maybe," she unbuttoned two more buttons, one hand moving inside to touch the strands of my chest hair.

"Kick off your shoes, Sean. Relax."

Relax. Right. Boy-o, if you hold this woman once, you're a gunner.

I kicked off my shoes and my socks.

She took me by the hand into the living room and pointed me to the modern red chair. "Sit," she commanded. "And just talk to me until I tell you to pause, okay?"

"Talk? About what?"

She smiled taking a box of charcoal sticks from a table beside her easel. She positioned herself atop a four footed high stool and I caught a glimpse of her panties as she crossed her beautiful white legs.

"Whatever is on your mind," she said.

I shook my head. "Na, something else."

She laughed. "Okay," she said. "You're studying journalism. We're either of your parents journalists?"

"Neither," I said. "My mother was in real estate. Probably still is. She's not around much anymore."

"And your father?" She asked taking out a pen knife and sharpening her implements.

"Oh, I thought the truck gave it away," I smiled, putting my foot up and leaning back into the corner of the armchair. It reclined a bit and swiveled sideways. "He's a town police chief. So's my older brother, well, a deputy. You can still make out where the decals kept the paint from fading if you get it from the right angle."

"You twirl your hair when you're nervous," she smiled. "Did you know that?"

I stopped, bringing my hand down.

"No," she smiled. "Leave it. It's cute."

"This music reminds me of Ghost," I said. "When Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore are making that ceramic pot?"

"That was Unchained Melody," she said. "This is Soul & Inspiration."

Oh, God she was just watching me. I felt like I was squirming in my skin I wanted her so much.

"Hold it," she said. "Can you hold that comfortably?"

My skin felt hot from being separated from her by a distance of 8 feet. "I suppose," I said. "Take your time."