Tangled Passions Pt. 02 Ch. 26-28

"No! It's none of my business," Matt declared, "I don't even want to know, not yet." He paused, staring at her. "But if it's my fault, I'm sorry."

"No," she protested, but he just put his fingers to her lips. They allowed a comfortable silence to fall between them, as she kissed his fingertips. Breaking the silence gently, Jenn whispered to his fingertips, "No, it's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. How can it be when it's not wrong – not wrong only different?"

Jenn stared at Matt through the velvet silence caressing the room. “We have become such different people,” she thought, “from what we were even a year ago.” Matt rose soundlessly and turned from the table, and Jenn felt a sadness settle over her as she watched Matt replenish his coffee. Even there, a subtle surrender hung about him, cloaking his former vitality; effectively hobbling him. Yes, they certainly had changed, she reflected, but had they undergone growth or decay? Was there actually any difference? Most changes arise out of corruption, anyway – like language or politics; even the evolution of life just capitalized on genetic mistakes. No, evolved or corrupted, it didn't matter; they had simply changed; they were just very different from whom they had once been. Matt returned with the coffee pot and emptied it into Jenn's mug. He questioned her pensive look with his eyes, but she just shrugged, and they sipped their drinks, saying nothing for the moment.

They talked on through the deepening evening and into the night, about everything and nothing. They communed, sharing touches and hugs, smiles and giggles. They dozed in one another's arms. They almost made love – no – they did make love; they almost had sex, but were still too drained from the previous night, and to preoccupied with their conversation, too distracted by each other's presence to carry it off. It didn't matter; they were sated by other means. As the dawn blossomed into day, they idled smoothly together like the twin engines of a boat at dock. Their coffee and biscuits were reflections of a shared past – pleasant times dimly remembered. But Matt had obligations. He apologized. He could stay no longer.

Jenn watched quietly as he stood and dressed. Walking to the door, Matt gave her a sad, sorry smile before letting himself out. She stared for a long time at the closed door, listening to the raging silence of the suite. Then, feeling incredibly empty and alone, she called Lisa.

XXVIII.

It was only a few days later Lisa told Jenn that Roland had called and asked to speak with her. "Me?" Jenn queried. A cold fear clamped her gut, as she began to imagine all kinds of unspeakable circumstances. With a eerie sinking feeling she whispered, "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," Lisa replied airily. "I think he is interested in taking you out somewhere." She flashed a patronizing smile at the maelstrom of confusion washing Jenn's face.

"What did you say?"

"I told him I'd get you to give him a call."

"But what... I mean, what if he does?"

"Does what?"

Jenn's stuttering confusion wasn't helped by Lisa's vague mocking. "What if he asks me out. I mean, should I go?"

Lisa allowed her voice to soften. Perhaps she understood what Jenn was feeling. "It's your decision, my dear. Remember, you're in this all by choice. Everything you do is voluntary."

"But, should I go?" Jenn wasn't sure if it was an opportunity or a test. She knew she could make a decision, she just wasn't sure what was right; what was the best choice; what would please Lisa.

"I wouldn't presume to know what you want," Lisa began, "but..." Jenn felt herself relax, lighten up as if a load had been lifted. Here then was the advice she needed, the signposts to Lisa's take. "...not that I would dream of coercion; still, I think I would be more than a little surprised, even disappointed if you passed up an opportunity to accompany your husband's 'significant other'."

Jenn felt the blood rise to her face as an involuntary response. She dropped her eyes, muttering disconcertedly, "Yeah, I guess..."

Lisa said she was curious for the details and, without even consulting Jenn, put the phone onto the speaker and rang Roland's number. "If you go, though, you go of your own volition."

"What shall I say?" Jenn asked in a flurry as the phone rang.

"You're just returning his call. That's all. Let him..."

The ring cut short, a rounded grandfatherly voice answered. "Hello?" Jenn's eyes dilated a bit as she flashed a pathetic hopeless look at Lisa, who simply nodded silently towards the waiting phone. "Hello!" While still grandfatherly, there was a deceptively sharp edge of impatience in the voice this time.

"Uh – hello, Mister – uh, Roland?" It suddenly bothered her – exacerbated her disquiet – that she didn't know his last name.

"Speaking."

"Uh, this is Jennifer – Jenn Anderson..."

"Ah, my dear Mrs. Anderson." The warmth of his manner, even along the phone lines was at once relaxing. "Thank you so much for returning my call. May I call you Jenn?"

The question was entirely rhetorical, as Jenn well knew, but, despite that, it enabled her to regain a light confidence in her voice. "Please do."

"The reason I called, my dear, is that I have a proposition, of sorts. I wondered if you would be so kind as to accord me the pleasure of your company tomorrow night?"

"Well, I'd have to check with..." she looked at Lisa just as Lisa drew a finger across her neck. "Can you hold on just a sec?"

"Absolutely, my d..."

Lisa had hit the mute button before he finished his reply. She laughed. "He always sounds like such a pompous old fool. He's not really all that bad."

"But, is tomorrow all right?" Jenn already knew it was. She was just stalling. She knew that too.

"It's all right by me," Lisa said shrugging off the responsibility for that final commitment. She had made herself clear enough. They both knew what was inevitable.

Jenn straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath to prepare herself for the figurative next step. In the brightest voice she could manage, she disengaged the mute button and spoke. "Roland, I'd be delighted."

Lisa mouthed the words "What and where," just as Roland replied, "Well that's just wonderful."

"What's the occasion," Jenn queried, then thought it politic to add, "if I might be so bold?"

"Ah, just a little boat party. A old friend has just sailed up from the States." There was something final in the way he finished his sentence, something that precluded any more questions. "Shall I pick you up at your condo at – shall we say – four, tomorrow?"

Jenn realized that, inherent in accepting the invitation, was the fact that any subsequent proposals would, in fact, be edicts. In agreeing to the proposal, she would be effectively removing the element of choice from the rest of the affair. Something quivered inside. She stared for a moment into Lisa's slyly smiling eyes, then, taking a deep breath, she replied, "That would be great. Do you..."

"Oh, I know where. Don't worry about that." The deeper meaning obvious in his voice escaped Jenn, but before she had time to puzzle over it he added, "Just an evening sheath and a wrap; heels; that's all. See you at four then. 'Right?"

"Sure. Four."

"Ta ta for now."

"G'night."

Lisa could hardly control herself before she broke the connection. "Oo-la-la," she whistled. "Boat party, eh? Sheath and wrap – nice." Jenn felt a rush of heat sweep across her face before swooping over her chest to settle and simmer between her legs. "I can hardly wait," Lisa cooed, sounding as excited as if she were going herself. She moulded her hands to Jenn's breasts, gently pinching her nipples to erection as she shuffled herself onto the couch. Her thigh pressed tight against Jenn's; heat searing between them, she leaned forward and poked her tongue into Jenn's ear. "You'll tell me all about it. Everything." Pushing herself harder against Jenn's trembling form, they slowly tumbled to the side and, their arms, legs and lips suddenly enmeshed, rolled off the couch onto the thick carpet. Their love was more tender and less demanding than usual, although just as urgent.

The following morning, just before noon, Lisa accompanied Jenn back to the Anderson's apartment. Letting Lisa into the deserted suite, Jenn's stomach lurched and squirmed. She couldn't tell whether she felt more excited or scared. Was it dread or anticipation that churned at her insides? They proceeded directly to the bedroom where Lisa pulled the chair up in front of the closet and began directing the choosing of Jenn's evening wardrobe. "Get undressed," she quietly commanded; she stayed clothed herself. There was something unnerving about disrobing in one's own bedroom, on demand, before a seemingly indifferent observer – Lisa's attention was focused on the contents of the closet.

"There was a time," Jenn thought, "when this bedroom was absolutely sacrosanct." Slowly she got naked and stood for a moment, strangely self-conscious, until Lisa turned to look at her. A thoughtful smile formed on Lisa's lips as her eyes moved appraisingly up and down Jenn's body. Although she wasn't really sure why, Jenn felt a blush spread across her face. Another sanctuary was crumbling before Jenn's inexorable slide further and further into submission.

"Let's see that one – the black," Lisa said, pointing to a hanging gown. Jenn modeled all of her gowns and Lisa evaluated each. "Too loose.” “Too short.” “Wrong neck.” “Wrong colour." It took well over an hour, trying the finalists on several times. In the end, Lisa told Jenn that the Burgundy strapless was the one. Jenn was pleased. It had been her favourite formal dress in her previous life. The tight, stretchy fabric moulded to her breasts highlighting her nipples and emphasizing her firm, flat stomach, while complimenting her rounded hips. Seeing herself in the mirror, her barely disguised nakedness glinting within the ciré sheath, Jenn was startled at the intensity of erotic allure she radiated. The outfit seemed to amplify her shapeliness, but stayed on the right side of provocative – classy, not trampy. Lisa insisted on opening the left seam up to mid-thigh, and a short while later Jenn concentrated on the alterations, trying not to think of the odd circumstances that led her to be sitting nude at her portable sewing machine, finishing the hems and tacking the top of the slit. There was much more than a simple evening gown being altered.

As for shoes and a wrap, there was little to choose from. The only real 'heels' Jenn had were a pair of black three and a half-inch stiletto sling-backs she had once gotten for a theme party, as a joke. For some reason she had been unable to get rid of them. Among the rest of her shoes there were no heels higher than an inch and a half. And her old black velvet wrap that she'd used for the past twenty-some-odd years was all there was. Roland had said, "Just an evening sheath and a wrap, heels, that's all," so there she was, all set.

About three thirty, Lisa had Jenn pour them a sherry each. Although Lisa chatted softly, sipping her drink, Jenn heard little of what was said. She stared blankly ahead, drinking ever-so-slowly, her mind a jumble of predictions – images of what might happen – possibilities and contingencies. She roused herself enough to show Lisa to the door at ten to four, then collapsed once again onto the couch, kicking her shoes off. The intercom made her jump, and, after buzzing Roland up with a stammered greeting, she emptied her glass, and scrambled to put her shoes back on. Picking up her wrap, she stood motionless at the end of the couch, staring towards the door for the moment before the soft knock came. With a deep, deliberate breath, Jenn straightened her shoulders, walked to the door and opened it.

"Ah, Jenny," said the smiling figure at the threshold.

The unexpected use of her childhood moniker, the effusive greeting, the benevolent smile, the large ribboned box beneath his arm all conspired to crumble what composure she thought she had had. Flustered once again, Jenn dropped her gaze and muttered, "Come in."

Once inside, Roland's voice took on an even softer, more affectionate tone. "Just before we go, I've brought something for you." He presented her with the package. The label on it said, "To my dear Jenny."

"I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty of calling you Jenny. It just seems to me to be a little softer and more feminine than Jenn. From what I know of you – and I must say that I feel I know you quite well already – I think it suits you."

"No, that's fine," Jenn said. And she really didn't mind, in fact, she found his use of the name warming – comforting. Although she had not let anyone call her Jenny since she had been very young, it seemed to fit – it was a special name to be used exclusively by an affectionate old uncle or someone like that – someone like Roland.

Retreating back into the living room with the box, she sensed that Roland was eager for her to open it. Jenn placed the box on the table and pulled the ribbons, opening the lid to reveal a silver fox stole. She was speechless. Roland, apparently delighted with her reaction, simply suggested that she deserved something special for their special evening. "These foxes were raised on a farm," he explained, stroking the fur, "They owed their very existence to the whims of fashion.” Carefully Jenn lifted the fur from its box. As she held it up a small package fell from its folds. She glanced at Roland who simply nodded toward it with a smile that seemed to intensify. Laying the wrap aside Jenn, opened the box to find a double string pearl choker. Still at a loss for words, Jenn gasped her surprise. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered at what cost such a gift came; what would she be expected to do in recompense; but then again, she remembered what Matt had said about Roland. Maybe they were just gifts. "Just a little token," Roland muttered, his delight audibly tinged with embarrassment. He reached out and reverently took the necklace from the box. Gesturing for Jenn to turn, he fastened it carefully at the nape of her neck.

Jenn turned back. She was amazed at the depth of pleasure that sparkled in his eyes and danced across his face; its intensity was almost overwhelming and she found that she had to lower her gaze. It crossed her mind that here was someone – someone else, besides Matt – that she could definitely come to love. “But I've only just met him,” she reminded herself, puzzling at the sentiment of the idea. Finally, finding enough voice to respond, she said quietly, "Thank you – very much."

"My pleasure, absolutely," he whispered back as he stood touching her elbow. There was a curious, sensuous hush in the air as Roland gently laid the stole over Jenn's shoulders. She wondered why they were whispering. Lifting her shoulders, she let the luxuriously soft fur caress her cheeks as Roland guided her out the door. They descended wordlessly to the waiting limo, each absorbed in their thoughts, and glided off quietly into the glare and residual afternoon heat of early fall. After a short while, Roland started up a steady stream of trivia and small talk in an obvious effort to relax Jenn on the drive through the city. At last they reached Stanley Park and the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club's Coal Harbour basin.

The Swing Low was a huge ketch – some eighty feet long. The sleek white hull looked fast even as it sat at dock, barely rocking. And, it suggested an almost savage independence, the two masts, with furled and covered sails neatly highlighting the battened booms, stood like silent enforcers, just waiting for the word. It belonged to a friend of Roland, and had just been sailed up from 'Frisco. It had no hired crew, only an active and gregarious bunch of friends of the owner – also of Roland. There were eight of them – five men and three women, all fifty or sixty something. Dressed casually and deeply tanned, they greeted Roland warmly and treated Jenn as if she were another old, old friend. Jenn felt odd in her formal, if somewhat sparse, attire. Nonetheless, while Roland stopped to converse on deck, one of the women, Martha, formally introduced herself to Jenn. Chattering enough to make Jenn dizzy, she gave a cursory tour of the topside of the boat, before taking Jenn's wrap and securing a large glass of white wine for her. Over the next half hour, five more couples boarded the boat. Jenn was relieved that they were all dressed just as formally as Roland and herself. Introductions were made as each arrived. There was apparently nothing sexual, overt or implied, in the greetings of the new arrivals. No clues were given as to the status of anyone, so Jenn just watched and wondered which, if any, of the new women were of the same status as her. Everyone was welcomed with such genuine warmth, it was impossible to tell. Milling and mingling like nothing less than a regular cocktail party, the assembly chatted and sipped while the crew subtly went about their jobs.

Suddenly, they had cast off. As they motored into the evening, past the Nine O'clock Gun, around Brocton Point, and under Lions' Gate Bridge, Roland circulated with Jenn stopping to speak with everyone. He took the opportunity to introduce Jenn again, each time. It was as if he was, somehow, very proud to have her with him. "My lovely escort is Jenny, a good friend," he'd say, often winking at her surreptitiously or patting her affectionately on the behind, often adding, “– and becoming more so, I'd like to think.” For some reason, Jenn was astounded at how very pleasant and friendly everyone was. She didn't know what she had expected but it hadn't been whom she met. Jenn felt like a little sister, being, she suspected, ten or twenty years younger than most if not all of them, and they seemed to be cheerfully indulgent towards her. But, she reminded herself, the night was yet young. As the Swing Low got even with Ambleside beach, at a few words from the skipper, the tanned sailors, in their Bermudas and polo shirts, scrambled about until, with a flourish, the sails were hoisted and the engines silenced. With the ethereal hiss and flap of sail and sea, they proceeded to slip out of Burrard Inlet, towards the edge of the gulf.

Roland managed to deftly steer Jenn out of the crowd from time to time – to be alone with her now and then. Standing at the bow, next to him, Jenn felt the late summer breeze caressing her bare shoulders, as the vessel sliced through the rounded swells, heading northwest on a broad reach. The billowing sails spoke soothingly to the gulls as the sun dropped to meet the mountains of Vancouver Island. Jenn stood silently, waiting, one hand touching the rail to counteract the slight starboard heel of the yacht, the other delicately holding – thumb and two fingers only on the stem – her glass, while the champagne within susurrated softly. Roland stared ahead, occasionally sipping from his goblet of dark burgundy, which he held firmly by the bowl, disregarding, for the moment, the etiquette of oenophilia. "Your husband, Matt," he began, in his low, sonorous voice, without looking at Jenn, "is an amazing boy." He paused to shuffle his feet, turning to face Jenn now. Not sure she really wanted to hear what he might say, she kept her eyes averted, ostensibly toward the colour of the approaching dusk. "I don't believe I have ever," Roland went on, "amongst all of my very many acquaintances, ever met anyone so abjectly servile as our Matt. His years in the business world were apparently only a charade, for his only will now, seems to be his will to submit. And he does so with a passion." Roland paused, then added, giving her a histrionic leering wink, "You, on the other hand, have more spark of adventure, more glint of rebellion in you." Jenn looked at him as he turned back to the stare ahead, pulling another draught of his wine. She sipped at her own glass, puzzled. "How long were you married – you two?" Roland asked casually.