Fiona wanted to go to a new piano restaurant a friend of hers told Fiona about, called "B Sharp". It was on Jackson Road, in the newly redeveloped area of the city. We arrived at seven -- there were still lots of empty, small bistro style tables. At the back of the restaurant a female vocalist sang excellent contemporary and fusion jazz, accompanied by two men on a grand piano and a bass. An empty small dance floor allowed a handful of couples to dance to the live music. Fiona ordered a shrimp creole and I ordered a rack of lamb. We tasted each other's dishes, and agreed the creole was the winner.
Fiona asked me about all the details I was managing for Don's funeral and will disposition. We also talked a lot about Jocelyn. When no one was looking, I touched Fiona, and I replaced the fireplace skip instruction with the phrase "blue dog" -- she would blink twice when she heard me say "blue dog" -- what are the chances that will come up in casual conversation?
Just in time, as we next started talking about our future condo. We discussed what we wanted in a home -- location, nearby amenities, level of comfort, top floor versus other floors, balcony, view, fireplace, waterfront, bedrooms, bathrooms, flooring, parking, ad infinitum. Did we want a condo at all? What about a house? Do we want to continue living downtown? We didn't make any breakthroughs, but it was helpful to just put those questions on the table.
After coffee, Fiona asked me to dance. We were the only ones to take the dance floor, but like the first penguins in the water, other couples soon joined us. I was impressed by the number of younger people -- people Fiona and Jet's age -- that ate at the restaurant and danced alongside us. Somehow I expected this place to be haunted by people more Don's age, but apparently not.
Fiona wrapped her arms around me and we slow danced for eight or ten songs. We returned to our table for another drink, and listened to the music, talking less frequently. The jazz trio struck up Ray Charles' Georgia on my Mind, and I asked Fiona to dance with me. We danced about five songs, and then Fiona said she was ready to go. I left a tip for the jazz trio and paid the bill at our table.
"That was not what I was expecting when you said you wanted to go dancing," I admitted as we drove home in the dark.
"Did you enjoy that?" she asked.
"I loved it -- it's exactly what I needed," I complimented her on her choice of venue.
"I thought you might," she smiled.
When we arrived home just after eleven, Jocelyn was already asleep. Fiona and I got ready for bed -- she in her nightshirt -- me in my pyjamas. As she crawled into bed, I took hold of the shoulder of her nightshirt and tugged on it. "Take this off," I said gently. When she was naked, I told her to lie on her tummy. She crossed her arms over her forehead, and lay face down. I sat gently on her buttocks, and gave Fiona a thirty minute neck and back deep-tissue massage -- a skill I picked up proficiently from my former life.
When I was done, Fiona was in a Zen-like state of relaxation. I gently kissed the small of Fiona's back, softly said good night, and pulled the bed covers over her naked body. I turned out the lights, slipped under the sheets beside her, and put my arm over her back.
In the darkness, Fiona lifted her shoulders over me, and rested her upper body on my chest before she brought her lips to mine. We kissed tenderly for a long time. "Good night Big Boy" Fiona whispered as she pulled away and slid off my chest. We drifted off to sleep in each other's arms.
As I expected, very few people showed up to Don's ten o'clock funeral. A few people I didn't recognize came into the viewing room, but then realized they were at the wrong funeral, and left. Fiona, Jocelyn, and I paid our respects.
As we sat there in silence, my thoughts turned to Cyrano to Bergerac, and how he asked Roxanne let her veil of grief secretly hold a double meaning for both him and Christian. Here I was secretly observing the passing of two men -- Don and Jet. I deliberately avoided the use of the word 'mourn', because I don't think I could mourn the passing of the old Jet. I didn't know him well, and what little I did know of him disgusted me. The sad truth is, Don was no better. He used a rare gift to bed girls without their awareness, let alone their consent.
I sat there wondering if two negatives could ever produce a positive, or does the mathematics of life operate on a different plane? Could I ever become a man of character, a good person? Or did the sins of my two pasts obviate any hope of me becoming a person worthy of love? Was I just a pathetic fool when it came to Fiona? How could such a good a person -- so rich with life -- ever love someone borne out of hateful men like Don and the old Jet?
Fiona's only crime was a momentary lapse in judgement that led to the tragic death of a young boy. It seemed ironic that the consequences of Fiona's minor transgression were so horrific and final. I never spoke to her about that accident, but I know it haunted her every day. I know that boy's death was a major factor in Fiona's inability to leave Jet or me. It probably didn't matter I told Fiona the video evidence was destroyed -- for all she knew, I was lying, and I held back revenge copies. Even if she believed me, Fiona's soul was eternally damned until she admitted her sin, an act that would surely ruin her life, and worse now, threaten her sister's safety if Jet was no longer in Fiona's post-confessional life.
Fiona was right. Her life was completely fucked up. Sitting there in attendance at my own funeral, thinking about Cyrano, something crept into my mind. It was not a complete thought -- it was more like an echo of a whisper of a thought -- impossible to grasp in a complete form. No one could ever bring Tray Boullion back, and no one could ever relieve Fiona of the burden on her soul. But could I, like Cyrano, be in a position to make amends for Tray's death and remove the dread from Fiona's heart in a single stroke? And in that same stroke, could I wash a small measure of redemption over Dan Malloy's self-inflicted sins?
I needed a lot more thought and careful planning. But for the first time in twelve long years, it occurred to me that maybe -- just maybe -- Dan could make a positive difference with his life, even if it was after he died.
At eleven o'clock, we followed the hearse in my car to the graveyard, where a small hole awaited the internment of Don's urn of ashes. The grave head stone had not yet been updated, and listed only Jackilyn Elizabeth Malloy (Age 34) and Robert James Malloy (Age 10).
When Fiona read the tombstone, she observed how sad it was that his whole family was gone. I explained Jackie and Bobbie (yes, they really were called that) died in a car accident twelve years ago. We left the cemetery at noon.
Fiona, Jocelyn, and I went for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. We talked about the weather, about fashion, current events -- everything except what has been going on to us in recent weeks. Finally Jocelyn asked about Monday's meeting with the security company.
"The first thing you should know," I explained, "is Don Malloy -- the man we just buried -- used to be a partner in the firm."
"What!?" cried Fiona. She felt her skin crawl.
"Don't get creeped out," I said. "That's how I knew about the security firm in the first place -- Don told me what a great place it is -- best in the country, according to him."
"That's so weird," Jocelyn said. "I mean, what are the chances -- a kudzillion to one that I would need a security firm to protect me, and you buried the partner of the best firm around."
"I have been obsessing a little about it myself," I admitted.
The light turned on. "That's why you know so much about security -- and how you knew about this firm in the first place," Fiona nodded.
"Like I said," following Fiona's thread, "we talked a lot about finances, life, and everything."
"So, when did Don leave the firm?" Jocelyn asked.
"I don't know all the details," I lied, "but legally I think he left a year or two after his wife and child died." I paused in sober reflection. "But I think in reality, Don's life ended that day. The way he told it, he just stopped caring, and Jason had no choice but to take over the business."
"How sad," Fiona sad again.
"So," I returned the topic to the original question, "on Monday -- we are going to meet with Jason Braggs. He is the president of M.B. Security Services." I paused. "From what I understand, we are all going to be quite surprised by what is in store for us."
"What do you mean 'all of us'", Fiona followed up.
"I am not sure," I lied again. "It's just that Jason told me all three of us had to go together on Monday, and we all had to have an open mind."
"Maybe he wants a three-way with us," Jocelyn smirked. Fiona rolled her eyes dismissively. "Hey!" Jocelyn defended, "I'm the one with a bullet named after me -- I'm just trying to make it not so heavy and serious all the time."
"All I am saying," I continued, ignoring Jocelyn's failed attempt at humor, "is that, based on my conversation with Jason, we should expect the unexpected."
"Oh, Jocelyn," I just remembered to ask, "Did you send that list you have been working on and your separation agreement to the address I gave you yesterday?" She said yes, she saved them to a USB memory stick and sent it by FedEx high priority shipment -- under my name as I asked -- it should arrive today.
"Why couldn't we just send it by email," Jocelyn asked.
"Jason told me not to -- I am assuming emails can be traced or intercepted."
We sat in silence after that. Jocelyn observed it had been a long and difficult week for all of us. We were in a funk. We all could use an escape from that condo.
"How about we go somewhere for the weekend," Fiona suggested. That sounded like a perfect idea. It had to be within driving distance -- no flights -- for security reasons. The girls wanted to go to a spa resort (what a surprise). Fiona said she always wanted to go to the Broadleaf Lake Inn -- it was a luxury spa and with a 5 star hotel and great restaurants nearby. Jocelyn said that sounded good. It was a three hour drive -- we could get there by eight tonight easily -- we all agreed that was our first choice.
It was the off-season -- a last minute trip might be possible. I pulled out my cell phone and called directory assistance right there in the Cheesecake Factory -- and I was connected to the Broadleaf reception. All the regular rooms and cabins were sold out -- only the more expensive family suites were left. I asked if they had a honeymoon or executive suite -- no, but they had something called a presidential suite -- two large bedrooms, each with a Jacuzzi, and a common sitting room between the bedrooms. I said I'd take it for the weekend. I reserved the room with my credit card number. Oh, I added before I hung up -- I wanted two bottles of chilled champagne and four glasses waiting for us in our room -- not the cheap bubbly crap -- but real French champagne, like Moet & Chandon or Dom Perignon.
We finished our lunch in much brighter spirits. As we drove home the girls started chirping excitedly about what outfits to pack. We were all primed to blow off some steam this weekend.
We pulled into the semi-circular driveway of the Broadleaf Lake Inn and Spa Resort at seven-fourty-five. On the drive up the girls exchanged perspectives on movies they had seen over the past few years. Fiona talked about places she would like to go other than Paris -- Rome, Hawaii, Fiji. I told her if she did the legwork -- researched all the possibilities -- I would entertain any possibilities. That got the girls talking about exotic travel destinations.
A bellhop took our bags, and the valet parking attendant took my keys and gave me a chit. We checked in, and the bellhop led us to our suite. As promised, two bottles of Moet & Chandon in ice buckets awaited us in the common sitting room, as well as a complimentary fruit basket and Belgian chocolates.
We toured the large bedrooms -- they seemed identical with king sized beds, a massive ensuite bathroom, each with a Jacuzzi and separate shower. A wall mounted flat screen TV faced the king sized bed. A pull-out sofa along the wall allowed another couple to sleep in the room. In the corner a work station permitted you to set up a laptop with lots of plugs for adapters. A floor-to-ceiling window the width of the room offered a spectacular view of the lake from the twelfth floor. There were two oversized sofa chairs facing the window with a side between them. Outside I could see a balcony that spanned the three connected rooms.
The common room had a full kitchen with a fridge, stove, microwave, dishwasher, pots, pans, dishes, cutlery, etc. There was a small round table with four chars for a dining room table, as well as three sofas in U configuration, a proper desk, and several chairs and side tables. This room had its own separate bathroom and shower.
Fiona and I claimed the second bedroom we inspected, and offered the first one to Jocelyn. The bellhop distributed our luggage accordingly, which included the case of wine and spirits I brought from the condo that went into the common room. I tipped the bellhop and sent him on his way.
The girls fluttered around the three connected rooms with childlike curiosity as I opened the first bottle of champagne with a pop of the cork. I poured out three glasses, and handed one each to Fiona and Jocelyn.
"To the once percent," Fiona repeated my toast from Paris. We all clinked our champagne glassed and drank.
"Holy fuck that's good champagne," Jocelyn pronounced.
"Generally," I chided in a mock, high-brow professor's voice "'holy fuck' and 'good champagne' are not found in the same sentence."
"Blow me!" Jocelyn chafed before she downed her first glass already, and then held her empty flute in an outstretched arm. I obliged by refilling her glass.
I watched Fiona tip her flute up and drain her remaining champagne. Then she kissed me with open lips and swished her unswallowed champagne into my mouth. Fiona stepped back two steps with a knowing smile, and with her devilish eyes locked on mine, Fiona silently mouthed the title line from the Black Eyed Peas song "Tonight's gonna be a good night" as she swayed her hips in rhythm to her secret tune.
At nine-thirty, we were at the West of Lenin restaurant, a small bistro that specializes in Russian cuisine. Fiona wore a modest silk teal V-neck top with a wide black belt around the mid-waist. She wore slim black leather pants that complimented her shapely legs and knee-high front lace leather boots with two inch heels. Jocelyn wore a blue tank top layered under a black short sleeve cotton shirt unbuttoned to her bust and tight blue jeans that hugged her lovely shape. She wore silver and black open toe heels.
We started with a caviar and vodka appetizer followed by borscht soup. I had the beef Stroganov with an anise sauce -- Fiona had a cured pork Goulash -- and Jocelyn had Arctic char Priozhki. We all tasted each other's meals, and declared everything delicious.
We had Black Russians and coffee after dinner. Over our drinks, we discussed what to do next. When our young, dark, handsome waiter, Andrei, who had been flirting with the twin blondes all night, offered to refill our coffees, Jocelyn asked Andrei where I should take these two ladies for a good night of dancing. The only place fit for Jocelyn and Fiona, Andrei assured, was Left Hand Spankies. He said we would really enjoy it -- Andrei looked at me when he explained the steep cover charge kept out the riff raff. I had to hand it to him -- Andrei sized us up pretty well.
Jocelyn asked Andrei if she and Fiona were suitably dressed for Spankies -- he asked them to stand up. Everyone could tell Andrei was having fun, but the girls indulged him and each girl stood and gave him a twirl and a smile. "You don't find a lot of girls with jeans there, and if I were you," Andrei continued, "I would lose the casual look and wear something high end -- but avoid club trash -- you will look out of place -- Spankies is a top notch gig. "You," he gestured to Fiona, "will fit in with real good with that expensive silk top and leather pants and boots." Jocelyn walked over to Andrei and kissed him on the cheek and whispered something in his ear. He nodded.
I was wearing a black shirt and tie, a black silk jacket, black linen pants, and black leather shoes. "You," Andrei said to me, "don't change a thing," and then he returned to the kitchen. The dinner bill came to $210 -- I rounded it up to $300 with tip on my credit card.
It goes without saying we went back to the hotel. Both girls changed. Fiona wore a burnt burgundy brushed silk long sleeve top with large black leather lapels and black leather sleeves. The lapels offered the allure of deep cleavage without being immodest. She sported the same black leather flare skirt with the fine gold thread in the hem that she wore the night she and Jocelyn ganged up on me as identical twins. She put on black open toe heels with rubies on the top. When I looked closer, I realized there was also identical fine golden thread in the edge of her top's black leather lapel and sleeves -- I assumed she must have bought the top at the same time she bought the skirt. She looked stunningly well put together.
Jocelyn wore a sleeveless blue chiffon dress with a layered hem and black closed toe heels. Both girls looked ready to walk the red carpet.
We took a cab to Left Hand Spankies. We stepped inside the front door fifteen minutes before midnight, and one of three hostesses standing there greeted us in a modern stainless steel and glass entryway. Two well-dressed musclemen guarded the interior door into the club. Stephanie, our greeter, asked if we had a reservation. I had never heard of a club that takes reservations -- no -- we didn't have a reservation. Stephanie apologized, and said there was no standing room available tonight. Fiona and Jocelyn were crestfallen, but I figured we could just find another club. Just as we turned to leave, Stephanie said to me "Sir, wait -- what is your name?"
"Terrance," I replied.
Stephanie picked up a clipboard and read from it. "Jethro Terrance?" she confirmed.
"Yes."
"The West of Lenin restaurant called, and said you would be arriving in a party of three. Come this way." I suddenly realized I did not tip that waiter, Andrei, nearly enough. We followed Stephanie through the doors, held open by walking refrigerators in tuxedos. We made it about fifteen feet, into the inner reception area. "Melanie will look after you," Stephanie explained, as she turned to retreat through the still open doors to her greeting area.
"Wait," I called to Stephanie, and pulled out my wallet. She stopped and faced me. I asked "Do you know the name of the person who made our reservation for us?"
"I believe it was Andrei," she replied -- I wanted to hear her say his name.
"Do you know Andrei personally?" I asked her.
"Yes -- he is a regular here," she confirmed. I bet he is.
I pulled out a hundred dollar bill. "The next time you see Andrei, please give this to him, and thank him for making our reservation -- we were not aware we needed one." Stephanie accepted it and smiled. "Of course I will," she assured me. "And here is something for your troubles," I offered Stephanie another hundred dollar bill.
"Thank you kindly, Mr. Terrance. I will personally guarantee Andrei gets your gratuity." She smiled and returned to the outer greeting area, and the doors closed. Fiona leaned to me and whispered "He probably gets a kickback anyway."
There were three girls were in the inner reception room, along with two more refrigerators in tuxedoes. The coat check -- a fourth girl behind a counter -- took our coats and gave me a yellow plastic chit. We went through an airport style metal detector, after I put my keys, watch, and all our cell phones in a little tray.
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