Summer at the Tavern on the Green

She would wear the pearls Walt gave her—not the second necklace he'd given her, which was almost identical to the first one. No, she wouldn't wear the second necklace. She'd decided that was Stella's vindictive doing. Stella was Walt's secretary at the firm where Julia's husband, Bud, had been a partner. Stella, of course, was the one who had bought the gifts at Walt's request—no, at his direction—and Stella, who had always known Julia was seeing Walt behind Bud's back, duplicated the gift out of spite. Walt hadn't noticed. Walt was decidedly self-centered. Of course he had every reason to be proud of his looks and what he had to offer to a highly sexed woman.

Neither Stella nor Julia thought he would notice the duplication. But they both knew that Julia would notice and understand. Julia had passed the pearls on to her daughter, June. June was Julia's and Bud's daughter, in contrast to Julia's son, Malcom, who wasn't.

But when she put the pearls up to her neck as she sat in front of the dressing table in her four-million-dollar One Waterside Square fourteenth-floor Manhattan apartment on 59th Street, overlooking the Hudson River and near the theatre district, she realized she couldn't wear them. She'd spent an hour, Walt's invitation to meet her at the Tavern on the Green in Central Park for lunch laying on the dressing table in front her, working on her face. At forty-eight, showing as young and vital was ever harder with each passing day. She looked out the near floor-to-ceiling glass wall beside her in frustration, pulling herself away from the mirror. It was early summer and a line of small sailboats was treading up the Hudson River below her window. Oh to be young and dancing on the water like those boats again.

She turned back to the mirror. She'd have to do this. She'd accepted the invitation. She'd been waiting for it breathlessly since she'd heard of the breakup. Picking a summer's afternoon at the Tavern on the Green was just too poetic not for this to be "it."

She'd managed with the face, spending several minutes smoothing foundation on an aging spot near her right temple, but she realized now that the wrinkles in her neck would give her away—that no amount of foundation would cover those. And the pearl necklace would only emphasize the wrinkles there. With a sigh, she put the pearls back in their box and reached for the Hermes scarf that went perfectly with her tailored suit. She'd learned there. The jacket could be quickly shucked and the blouse had easily manipulated buttons. Walt could be all thumbs and impatient. She'd had a very expensive blouse ripped once. The expense wasn't all that had been embarrassing there—he'd bought her a new blouse. She'd had to go down the elevator at the Empire Hotel and across the lobby with a ripped blouse.

It was time. She had covered as much of the damage as she could. It had been easier in the eight months since Bud had died. She could play the shattered widow and look her age. She could wear black and sigh with resignation in the presence of her friends—those few of them who stuck with her now that her husband no longer was a partner in the firm.

And then, at long last, there was the message from Walt to meet her for lunch at the Tavern on the Green—their trysting spot on many a summer's afternoon over the years as they had spun out an affair behind Bud's back while he followed the Yankees around the country on away games. Walt hadn't contacted her since Bud's heart attack and death. This, despite the long promised-separation and ultimate impending divorce Julia had heard about in Walt's marriage with Genevieve, who had already retreated back to her native France.

The way was clear now for Walt and Julia to come out of the shadows and be together. That had to be what this invitation to lunch was about. That was signaled by the choice of restaurant—the Tavern on Green in Central Park on a summer's afternoon.

Julia stood up from the dressing table, giving herself one last, long, assessing look as she wound the Hermes scarf around her neck. She's done would she could. The thirties, maybe. Maybe she had placed herself, black and gray roots in her platinum hair—she hadn't had time to go to the hairdressers—thankfully being somewhat of a fashion statement now rather than a damnation, into the thirties. The twenties was out of the question, but Walt had pushed past fifty, so maybe she done enough. They'd been illicit summertime lovers for over twenty years. He couldn't expect better than she had managed on short notice.

Giving her hair a last pat and rendering a deep sigh, she turned and left the apartment for the short taxi ride to Central Park and the Tavern on the Green.

* * *

For all the time she's spent getting ready, Julia had arrived more than a half hour early. She could show so eager as to beat Walt to the restaurant, so, rather than enter the tavern, she crossed 66th Street inside the park, drawn by the sound of young men yelling. New York's spring had come late and shoved itself into early summer. The azaleas and flowering trees were still on display, and she was drawn not only by the cries of young men but also by the glorious color of the foliage. The view was entirely different here than from her nearby apartment building. Her apartment overlooked the bustling river traffic on the Hudson and the Palisades Park on the other side of the river.

She was drawn by the full-throttle of young men's voices because she was a warm-blooded woman. She was sexually attracted to men, young men in particular. She enjoyed watching them in action and considering each as her dream guy. She had linked up with both Bud and Walt when they were young, sexy, and sexual men too. The aging process had not changed her attraction to young men. The young men in this case were engaged in a impromptu baseball game on a field marked with several baseball diamonds at the southwest corner of the park, above the Victorian Gardens. With a sigh, she stood there for several minutes, enjoying watching the beautiful young men dancing around on the field—picking out an imaginary dream guy.

Ah, to be young again—with a young lover—she thought. Well, it would be enough to have a young lover, whether or not she herself could recover her youth.

Pulling herself away from her voyeur fantasies, which included one of these young men pulling her under a cascade of azaleas and having his way with her, she turned and worked her way back to the tavern. Part of her wanted Walt to declare himself today and put a ring on it after all of these years of summer trysts, but another part of her wished she could be carried away by a younger model. She'd waited all these years for Walt, though, and this very likely was "the day."

He stood up from the table as soon as he saw her enter the restaurant. She waved off the maître-d and walked to him, aware of all of the eyes turned to her as she walked. What did they see? Were they attracted to her or did they half-way recognize her without knowing why? Or did they see a forty-eight-year-old woman foolishly trying to recapture her twenties?

She guessed, though, that it only mattered what Walt saw, and she could see not only a welcoming smile on his face but, beyond that, the gaze of lust that she knew could be there. He had been a consummate lover, if impulsive, insistent, and largely self-absorbed. It had been all about him in sex, but he'd done it so well that he had satisfied her as well.

Seeing Walt standing at the table as she approached gave her a bit of a shock. If it hadn't been for that lustful gleam in his eye, she might have been taken aback. He had aged. It wasn't just her. He was more slack jawed than she remembered and had put on a few too many pounds. Of course he'd always lived the high life with food and drink. It was, certainly, the eight months of not seeing him that had brought this change to her eyes, but what was more likely was the length of time they'd been "sort of" together before that. The aging process had come on slowly over their two decades' affair. It was the eight-month's absence that brought it into focus.

Still, he was a handsome man for his age, and she was quite aware of his sexual power and equipment, so she reverted immediately to how she was coming across to him. It seemed she was passing his inspection well enough.

Even more than Walt, though, was the response to her of the young male waiter who was holding the chair for her. He—his name proved to be Matt and he was to be their server—seemed mesmerized by her. With a thought to the voyeur session she'd just had with the young men playing baseball, she felt a little chill run up her spine at his overtly worshipful attitude. There was something vaguely familiar about this young man, but she couldn't quite grasp what it was. She put it into the back of her mind. It was Walt she'd come to see, and she well knew that he demanded her full attention.

But, God, he was drop-down gorgeous. The waiter, Matt, that was.

So, she still had it. That gave her strength to face Walt and whatever reason he had to invite her to lunch at the Tavern on the Green on this beautiful early summer's day.

As they waited for their food and then while they ate it, their conversation was dominated by chit chat that was initiated and controlled by Walt. All that time, Julia was thinking "Is this when he tells me he and Genevieve have divorced?"

But it never was.

He first got out of the way a litany of gossip about the people in the firm and how well—or badly—they were doing since Bud died.

I thought they were doing just fine when Bud was alive, Julia thought. Regardless, she no longer gave a shit how the firm was doing. She'd gotten Bud's share of the firm out of it and invested in real estate.

"And how are your children?" she managed to wedge in as he was taking the first bite of his Death by Chocolate dessert and she, having declined dessert, was lifting her coffee cup to her lips. Matt, the waiter, was standing there by her side, holding the coffee pot, and hanging his mere existence on her approval of the brew. So, she smiled at him and nodded her head in approval. Let him think that approval was for the coffee, she thought.

With a sigh, he melted into the background. Beyond Walt's marital status, she had been determined to bring children up during this lunch, and this was her first opening. Bud was dead. There was no reason not to do the reveal.

"Cloé is studying fashion design in Paris," Walt said.

Here it comes. His daughter is in Paris because Genevieve walked out on him and returned to France.

"And Gabriel, after a stint in rehab, is working at the firm. Working his way up in the business."

Foregoing asking why Gabriel had been in rehab—for what—or what happened to his dream of running a surf shop on Malibu Beach, Julia quickly said, "My June is teaching computer science at Lehigh University, and Malcolm is studying architecture at Cornell. I know you—"

"God, I just can't get over how lovely—and sexy—you look," Walt interjected. "You can't imagine how much I've missed you—and how, after Bud's passing—I counted the days until summer and this . . . resuming our lunches at the Tavern on the Green."

"And?" Julia said, suddenly getting the drift. He wasn't getting it enough. Because Genevieve had left him? He hadn't found someone else since Bud died?

"And, yes, what came after those lunches. I have a room booked at the Empire Hotel—just like old times. I thought maybe that we could—"

Sure, why the hell not? Julia thought—and said.

As Matt, the waiter, delivered the bill—and then the charge sheet to sign—he was handing the bill to Walt, but his smile was for Julia. She was pleased, without knowing why, that the gorgeous young man hadn't heard Walt's blunt suggestion and her quick acquiescence. Matt then went directly to helping to pull Julia's chair back. She felt a little chill go up her spine as their arms brushed together.

Did Walt still have it? Could he still make fireworks go off? Oh, if they only were as young and gorgeous as this waiter, Matt, was.

* * *

This might have been a room they'd been in before, or maybe it was just that all of the rooms were identical. It had always seemed rather a tacky room to Julia. It was the hotel Walt always selected for their summer lunch trysts at the Tavern on the Green. But he wasn't going cheap, really. It only seemed tacky, she knew, because the whole arrangement was a bit tacky.

But it was what it was. She was highly sexed, and Walt did it for her—and always had. So had Bud, for that matter, but the illicit nature of these trysts with Walt had always made them that much more delicious.

One of the things she'd always been attracted by in Walt was his impatience and directness in sex. They no sooner got to the room, where she had intended to lead off with the bombshell she was determined to drop on him, than he had his hands all over her, bending her over the bed, with her facing down.

The wisdom of having worn easily accessible clothes was shown right off, as, covering her close from in back and bending her over, one of his hands unzipped her skirt at the side and then snaked over to between her legs, searching for and finding her folds, and immediately working her there. His other hand had pulled away her Hermes scarf to allow his lips to be buried in the hollow of her throat, while the hand moved down to unbutton her blouse and to run under her bra, cupping one of her breasts and applying thumb and forefinger to rubbing her nipple. He didn't seem to find the wrinkling at her throat off putting in the least.

It wasn't long until he was unzipped, freed, had hiked her skirt up in back, torn away her flimsy panties, and was inside her, having his way with her. She hadn't worn stockings to the tryst. She knew from past experience that stockings didn't survive his attacks. By the same token, although her panties were very elegant and expensive, she had figured they wouldn't survive the day. She had worn an older pair.

No time was given over to talking. He moved her up onto the bed, covered her, and ravished her.

It was what both of them had been craving for.

She was dozing when Walt, looking at the hotel room's nightstand clock, said, "Shit. Look at that the time. I have to get back to the office." He rolled off the bed, grabbed up his clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.

When he came out, he was in his pants and shirt, was closing up the cuff link on his left wrist, and had his suit coat under his arm. "That was great, Jules. Just like old times. The room's paid for up front. Leave whenever you want to."

He was already at the door when Julia said, "There's something I need to tell you, Walt—now that Bud is gone and it won't matter to him. My son, Malcom . . ."

The door to the hotel room clicked shut, with Walt already in the corridor.

". . . he's not just my son. He's your son. You're the father."

Alone in the room, she sighed. The next time for sure, if there was a next time. She'd be sure to tell him next time. He hadn't said anything about Genevieve and divorce either.

* * *

When the invitation to meet Walt for lunch at the Tavern on the Green later in the summer—on a sultry day—came, Julia set it aside, not answering it, not intending to go. But on the day, she found herself sitting at her dressing table and primping for him again. She picked out a flowing cotton shirt dress with cascades of happy, colorful flowers on it. It was too young for her, but it was how she wanted to feel—and it was a dress that could easily be pulled off her.

She hadn't intended to go, but her entire morning, after she'd gotten up with "I won't go" on her lips, was devoted to preparing for her luncheon tryst with Walt at the Tavern on the Green. She still had to tell him about Malcom and she'd heard that his divorce with Genieve had gone through.

He hadn't said anything to her about that when they'd met before, earlier in the summer, because the divorce wasn't finalized then. He just hadn't wanted to get her hopes up. She was sure that had been the case.

As before, she made sure she got to the Tavern on the Green after Walt and, as before she got a lot of attention from the other diners as she entered the restaurant and walked to him. Also as before the waiter, Matt, was there to pull her chair and to give her a worshipful look. His youth, vitality, and response to her once again sent a tingling through her body.

Walt didn't remark on her not answering the invitation but still having come. He was arrogant enough to know she would come. Neither she nor Walt said anything but low greetings before they had ordered. As Matt took their menus and departed, Walt said, "I guess I should come right to the point. I don't want it to change anything between the two of us."

"Not change what?" Julia said. If this was about the divorce, it was a little off of what she had expected.

Walt was pushing a flat box across the table toward her. "This is to show how much you mean to me."

She looked down at the box, a bit bewildered. "How much I mean to you?"

"Yes, I wanted you know before you heard it from anyone else. I'm getting married."

"Married?"

"Yes, Stella and I are tying the knot."

"Stella, your secretary?" she asked, her voice breathless.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean—"

She stopped him with a venomous look. She stood up from the table so quickly her waterglass was upset and everyone else in the restaurant turned to see what was happening. Walt didn't get to finish his sentence before she had pulled back, turning her chair over, and had run out of the restaurant.

Crossing the road, she moved into what called the Meadow, pulled off her heels, and ran onto the grass hill, headed for the tree line to the north. There she found a wooden bench and sank down on it. She was too numb to think about anything yet other than escape, although she was muttering, "Stella, Stella, Stella," all the time she was climbing the hill. Looking up, she saw the waiter, Matt, loping up the hill toward her.

"You left your box behind, Ms. Collins," he said, huffing and puffing as he approached. "I put your order in at the kitchen and when I came back to the table you were gone and your chair and waterglass were tipped over. All the man said was, 'She's gone. The bitch walked out on me.' And then I looked out the window and saw you jogging up the hill."

"Um, thank you . . . Matt. It's Matt isn't it?" And then it hit her that he'd called out her last name. "You know my name?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I know your work. I saw you in Mourning Becomes Electra at the American Airlines Theatre. You made a wicked Lavenia."

"You saw me in that?"

"Yes, and I took "Introduction to Theater Arts 101" where you lecture at Fordham University. I hung on every word."

Ah, yes, now she remembered where she'd seen him before. He was such a handsome young man and each time she lectured in that course at the nearby university, he'd been sitting there mesmerized by what she was saying. He had encouraged and inspired her. He made her feel special. Had Walt ever even asked her about what she did other than being Bud's wife? No, she didn't think so. It had always been about Walt. Even Bud, although he knew she was a Broadway actress and taught at Fordham, hadn't shown any interest in the separate life she led in their marriage.

"Here, you left this box behind."

She took it and opened it. Then she laughed—a dry, angry sort of laugh. It was a strand of pearls. Stella's repeated revenge.

"Here, I don't want these. You take them. Give them to your girlfriend."

"I couldn't take these," Matt declared. "They look very expensive. And I don't really have a girlfriend. You seem upset. Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to sit with you for a few minutes?"