The Chosen

^{CHAPTER TWELVE}

Vera slowly closed her bedroom door, noticing the unopened bottle of Grand Marnier on the antique nightstand. Below it lay a one white rose, a snifter, and a little note:

Dear Ms. Abbot,

I hope that your first day at The Inn proved a rewarding one, and one of countless such days. I’m indebted to you for the expertise that you have so enthusiastically brought to this endeavor, and I’m delighted as well as proud to have you as one of my staff.

Sincerely,

Feldspar

What a lovely gesture, and how fitting. The day had been long and hard, and Vera knew that they would all be like that; a nightcap right now was what she needed. She uncorked the bottle and poured herself a drink, twirling the pretty liquor around in the wide glass to let it aerate. But why the rose? she wondered. It had been plucked of its thorns. She took it to the veranda doors with her drink. Certainly Feldspar was not making a romantic gesture—the rose was just an appreciative token. Still, she contemplated this, and herself. It seemed almost bizarre to her. Despite Feldspar’s clipped, businesslike demeanor and squat looks, she felt remotely attracted to him. Is he married? she wondered. Is he involved? Somehow, she didn’t think so; she couldn’t picture it. And why am I thinking about this anyway? What did she foresee? A potential relationship with him? An affair? Ridiculous, she scoffed. Besides, she knew full well that the biggest mistake a manager can make was getting involved with people she works with. Still, the notion tickled her.

Maybe I’m just horny, she flightily considered. The day and all its work was over now. This fact cleared her head, and left her to ruminate her own life outside of work. What did Paul think of her leaving? What was he doing now? This she could only wonder about for a moment until the awful imagery returned, and the wretched scene she’d walked right into. Even the thought of his name gave her a quick shock. I hope I never see that cheating, lying, demented son of a bitch ever again, came the bitter words.

But it made her feel naive, embarrassed. How long had she been fooled by him? How many times had she come home from work to make love to him without a clue as to what he’d been up to earlier in the day? Drugs, bondage, kinky sex. The whole thing made her positively sick.

She let the sweet liquor buff the edge off her thoughts. At least it was all behind her now, and thank God she’d always used condoms with him. Who knew what kind of diseases people like that had? Probably all of them, she thought.

The French doors offered only a view of deep winter dark now, but it was warm in the bedroom, and cozy. Then another thought—an unbidden and crude thought-popped into her mind. I wonder how long it’ll be before

I get laid again? It would require some adjusting to; she’d been sexually active with Paul for the last two years, but now, like a gavel striking its pad, the outlet was closed. Well, Vera, she joked, if things get too high and dry, you can always take Kyle up on his swimming offer. She wondered if he pulled the same come-on with other women. What a hound. Sure, Kyle, I’ll go swimming with you, but only if you wear a chain-mail jock strap with a lock on it.

She poured another drink and ran a warm bath. Even the bathroom shocked her in its opulence: a lot of gorgeous, swirled marble, bright brass fixtures, mirrored walls. The sunken bath, encircled completely by stark black curtains, was as big as a hot tub. It even had jets. Live it up, girl, she thought. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.

She undressed and eased into the froth of bubbles. The warm, fragrant water cloaked her; she nearly drifted off to sleep. There was too much to think about; her mind felt desperate to decide, so instead she thought about nothing. That felt much better.

Yet inklings kept betraying her. Sexual inklings. She sipped the sweet liquor and began to wonder more about herself. Am I attractive? Sometimes she thought she was, sometimes not. The fact that Kyle had made a pass at her was no proof of desirability. Guys like Kyle made passes at watermelons if they could put holes in them. Attraction was not something she gave much thought to—she’d always believed that physicality was a veneer, and that veneers had no valid use in relationships. But my relationship with Paul is over. So, as a single, unattached, successful, and possibly attractive woman, where did that leave her?

Alone in a bathtub, well past midnight, a million miles away from everything, she answered herself. But that was good, for now at least. Prevaricating prick that he was, Paul wouldn’t be forgotten overnight. She’d spent two years with him, a block of her life. It wasn’t something you could blink your eyes at and erase. Being so far away, however, would make it easier to deal with and, eventually, get over. She couldn’t imagine how unpleasant it would be to still live in the city. She knew so many of his friends, and she’d be running into him all the time, at the Undercroft, downtown, at restaurants, etc. A grim consideration. Here, though, she’d never have to worry about that. She could devote her full energy to making The Carriage House work.

So why, suddenly, did she feel so concerned about her sexual desirability?

That’s it, she thought.

She climbed quickly out of the tub, padded naked across the floor, and eyed herself in the full-mirror wall. She’d read that top-rate models were often convinced they were ugly. It was paranoia. Am I paranoid? she wondered, looking at herself. Am I attractive or am I a bow-wow?

The mirror replicated her image in bright, dripping crystal clarity. The bath water had layered her short black hair to wet points; her flesh shined in the glass. Hmmm, she contemplated. She stood 5’ 5”, and weighed 110 pounds the last time she stepped on a scale. Her trimness did not reduce her frame to boyishness; Vera’s contours clearly came together femininely. Long legs, well-defined hips, delicate shoulders. Her lean waist offered a slightly inverted navel, which tickled insanely when nibbled, and though she’d not had a suntan in years—her profession’s hours eluded the sun—her skin shined fresh, robust, and unblemished. Some of the more ribald girls at The Emerald, during girl-talk sessions, ranted endlessly over treatments of the pubic hair. They plucked, clipped, trimmed, waxed, electrolysized, etc., to no end. Vera saw little need for this—it seemed vainly silly. She’d discussed it once with Paul—the prevaricating prick—and he’d urged her to leave it be, with a sound observation. “It must be there for a reason,” he’d stated, “though I can’t imagine what reason. Mother Nature must know what she’s doing, you think?” It made sense, at any rate. Therefore, Vera left the dark, black plot alone, save for the occasional scissor-snip when things got too unruly.

Next, her eyes focused on the mirror’s cast of her breasts…gandering your rib-melons, she recalled again, and laughed, but then concluded, not much to gander. She supposed women were as concerned over the size of their breasts and men were over the size of their penises, and that this was an irrelevant concern. Vera wore a 34B, not exactly Chesty Morgan, but the breasts themselves were sufficiently erect and firm. “They feel like tomatoes!” one short-term lover from college had once informed her during a sexual frolic, which—she recalled now—included whipped cream, strawberries, and Hershey’s chocolate sauce. “I’m not a dessert cart, you know,” she’d pointed out. “We’ll see about that,” he’d replied, shaking vigorously the big blue can of Reddi Wip. I wonder what happened to him? she thought now. Probably weighs three hundred pounds. God, those were the days…

Indeed they were, and they were gone now, transcribed into a new reality. Vera could come to terms with that. What she couldn’t come to terms with was the great big question mark of the future. Suddenly she felt very irritated, and she didn’t know why.

She dried off with a huge black terry towel, then encloaked herself in it. She took her drink back out to the bedroom. The odd sexual anxieties continued to nip at her; she felt antsy. What is wrong with you? she thought. Eventually she finished her GM, turned out the light, and lay back in bed.

She crawled nude under the covers but kicked them off moments later, feeling smothered. She tried to blank her mind, to sleep. Each time her eyes closed, however, they snapped back open. An image seemed afloat beyond the room’s grainy darkness, and beyond her mind. Somewhere down the hall, a clock ticked almost inaudibly. She lay on her belly, hugging a pillow.

Go to sleep!

But the image continued to reform: two hands splayed, descending to touch her. The more fervently she tried to dissipate the vision, the sharper it grew in her mind. After many minutes of resisting it, she gave in to the truth. The fantasy hands belonged to Kyle. All right, she admitted. So I’m attracted to Kyle. It’s a primitive, purely physical, and silly attraction. So what?

Yeah, so what? Her skin felt flushed, sweat broke on her back like hot beads, and her sex moistened. The only way to get rid of the image was to acknowledge it. At least then she could get some sleep. She squeezed her eyes shut…

The hands formed arms. The arms extended to a body. It was a trim, young, muscular body. She concentrated on the image, let it focus in her mind, and suddenly she felt so anxious she was nearly whining. She put a face on the image: Kyle’s face.

She felt ashamed thinking of this, she felt immature and slutty. Nevertheless, her thoughts bid the hands…

Touch me.

She remained atop the sheets, on her belly. Her legs lay out behind her in a wide V.

Touch me right now…

She let herself feel the fantasy. The hands opened around her ankles, then began to slide up her legs in excruciating slowness. They felt soft, intent, firmly clasped. Vera’s feet flexed, her body went rigid. The hands proceeded in their slow journey up the smooth terrain of her legs, over the tightened calves, the insides of her knees, then widened, still slowly rising…

Vera was biting into her pillow. Her nipples hardened to pebbles against the mattress, and her moisture welled. The next impulse could not be resisted. Her own hand squeezed between her belly and the sheets, working its way down. She gently stroked the apex of her sex as the hands of the fantasy rose ever steadily, tenderly squeezing her thighs, then rising still to caress the tensed orbs of her buttocks.

Soon she was gushing. The rapt ministration of her finger, along with the fantasy’s sensation, had her panting on the verge of climax in minutes. But she didn’t want to come that way—the fantasy must be more complete, more sustaining.

And as if on the command of her desire, the hands, now slick with her sweat, slid down her hips, joined at her prickling sex, and then lifted her buttocks up until she was on her knees.

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GRAND OPENING

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