Before Him Comes Me (31 page)

The sound of one of the
stewardesses making the deplaning announcement brings me out of my thoughts.
Since I am in first class, I get to exit first.  The advantages to having
money, it’s not the worst in the world let me tell you. I grew up modestly is
the best word to describe it.  We never went without but I did attend a private
Catholic school.  I didn’t get a car on my 16
^th
birthday, but I
didn’t need one.  I didn’t have the best clothes my mom liked shopping at
Target and Kohl’s plus I wore a uniform so my fashion sense was limited. I
glide through the airport because all I had was my carry on. Everything else is
already here waiting to be unpacked tomorrow. When I step out of JFK the air
hits me first. It’s crisp and there is rain in the air. I can smell it. I take
a deep breath inhaling New York.  I want it to seep into my lungs and penetrate
my skin, as apprehensive as I was for returning. Standing here right now, my
feet on this ground I know it was the right choice for me. A young man walks up
to me “do you need a cab miss?” I see his NYC taxi ID card hanging around his
neck.  I nod “yes please” he steps to grab my bag as I step to put it in the
trunk our hands brush.  He shakes his head “I got it for you there are still
gentlemen in this town go on get in” I blink a couple times taken aback by his
words, and notice a hint of a southern accent. He’s new to the city, hasn’t
been jaded by the masses yet.   “Oh sure thank you” I slide into the back seat,
watching as he slides into the driver’s seat.  He turns smiling “so where to?”
I return his smile and it feels good to smile “the Trump Tower please” he nods
“you got it miss”

With my bag in hand I walk
through the brass and glass revolving door. Smiling like a loon, I almost want
to make one more go round, but I don’t. I step right up the marble reception
desk. A beautiful blonde, who could pass as one of Trump’s Ms. America
contestants greets me with a dazzling smile “good evening can I have the name
for your reservation?” I pull out my wallet and hand her my American express
black card “Franky Jones” she takes the card, and begins clicking away on her
computer.  I glance around the opulent lobby.  Everything shines, from the
marble floors to the crystal chandeliers. The collection of plush chairs
perfect for sitting and people watching.  It’s warm and rich.  It’s New York. 
She says “miss we have you in the park suite for just the night. Check out is
11am. Is there anything else I can do for you?” I shake my head “no thank you
but can I still order food?” she smiles “yes you can we have dining service 24
hours” I nod “thank you very much” I turn to leave she calls out “ enjoy your
stay and have a good evening” I smile and make my way to the elevator.  As I
ride up the events of the last few weeks seem to have caught up with me.  All I
want is something to eat, a hot shower and sleep, restful sleep. 

When I step into my suite
the first thing I see is a bouquet of flowers, a cut crystal vase bursting with
white roses and daisies sitting on the coffee table. I set my suitcase by the
couch and sit down on the lush gray couch then pretty much stick my face in the
flowers and inhale. Roses have such a sweet warm smell. I know does warm have a
smell? I don’t know but they smell warm.  I grab the cream colored card it’s
small but heavy.  This florist’s uses quality paper. I have a thing for paper.
It’s the artist in me.  I tuck my finger under the flap popping it open and tug
out the card as I read it my heart swells and so does my smile.

Franky

Welcome
to New York beautiful!

Looking
forward to meeting you finally in person The last few weeks have been hell
. E
ven worse
since I’ve heard your voice.  OUR dinner date can't be soon enough, and I think
we should change the meeting to TODAY

Frank

I can't help the smile on
my face, reading it again. That sneaky man I wonder how he knew where I was
staying? I notice the handwriting.  It looks masculine and neat.  It could be
his? I am going to believe it is.  That he took the time out to do that for me.
A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts I open the door to a white
coated young man with a tray I notice the bucket of champagne and something
covered.  Does this place have mind reading skills and sent me food? He smiles
“Ms. Jones may I?” I open the door wider for him to enter he sets the tray on
the on the small counter near a kitchenette, just a sink and coffee maker.  I
am sure there is a refrigerator too. This is the Trump Tower.  He proceeds to
open the champagne as I stand there confused. The pop makes me jump.  He turns
to me still smiling “compliments of Mr. Ryan” he fills the flute leaving it on
the tray. I shake my head with a wide smile on my lips “thank you” he nods and
exits the room. I take the glass and bring it to my lips feeling the bubbles
popping. I take a sip the taste of berries invades my mouth. I stick my finger
in the hole atop the silver cover. I gasp when I see a collection of
Ghirardelli chocolates.  The man is sweet pun intended. There is another card.
I pick that one up and enfold it shaking my head

Franky

I
had to smuggle those chocolates in because Jean George is famous for his
deserts, but it was worth it.  I wanted you to have something from home when
you got here.  Enjoy!

See
you soon (not soon enough)

Frank

I set the cards down on
the table. Another sip of champagne but I need food before I ingest any more
alcohol.  I seek out the room service menu I am starving. I place my order of a
cheeseburger and fries, and two yes two crème brules. They say it will be twenty
minutes, which is plenty of time to take a hot shower. 

Instead of drying off I
just wrap myself up in the plush terry cloth robe relishing in the softness, a
cross between washed cotton and silk. I throw my hair up in a towel turban and
make a mental note to order one of these robes or hell I will just pack this
one up and they will bill me for it. 

I sink into the couch
propping my feet on the coffee table. Enjoying my champagne, I have a nice view
of Central Park.  It is amazing, and reinforces why I came back.  This city
does something to me. It breathes life into me, it’s like that click you search
out with a person, but I have found it with the city, I have always had it.  I
got an email from the movers confirming the time for tomorrow, and  one from
the property manager of the apartment instructing me of “noise hours” that are
acceptable. I chuckled reading that email. Noise hours?  Really? I can only
make noise during certain times of the day? This is definitely not California.
I have always lived in a house, but not anymore.   I live in a luxury building
with rules and restrictions. But I will deal with all of that because this is
New York.  I could have gone to Brooklyn and spent the night with my cousin
Jenny but getting in at almost 10, and then a drive out to Dyker Heights wasn’t
an option. Oh how I have missed her.  I can't wait to spend some real time with
her.  She is the sister I never had.  3 years older than me, put us together we
look like twins.  Dark brown curly hair, her eyes are hazel/green where mine
are a deep brown. The same well fed bodies.  She taught me when I was younger
to embrace my healthy curves, and big butt. But it was not just on the outside
but the inside too.  Wish I could always remember what she told me, that I was
amazing, beautiful and a force to be reckoned with. I seem to have forgotten
that along the way. The Trump was the best and closest choice. I drain my glass
reaching for a refill and realize the bottle is empty too.  I set it on the
tray with the empty plate and dessert dishes. Yeah that was the best $25 dollar
cheeseburger and fries.  I am shocked that I ate everything. In the last few
weeks I have been hungry, starving even.  But when the food comes I lose my
appetite.  Eating seems normal, and food is a big part of my life.  I am
Italian.  Food and eating is our thing.  We eat when we’re happy or when we’re
sad.  I can remember coming home from school when I was in the 5
^th
grade after having a “fight” with a little blonde girl who made fun of my “big
lips” and “curly hair”  The first thing my mother did after I told her what
happened was put down a plate of pasta and sauce with a glass of milk.  Food
made everything better.   The act of eating is normal.  Although without my
mother nothing seems normal anymore. I have found myself many times the last
few weeks throughout the day and night wanting to pick up the phone and call
her. Tell her about the job, tell her the friendship I seem to be building with
Frank. I wish I could dissect it with her. I want to call her now tell her I
made it safely, but I will never talk to her again. See her face, or have her
kiss my forehead and tell me that everything is going to be ok. She was always
right, if she said it would work out in the end.  It did. I kind of hate that
about her, but it’s who she was. It had been me and her against the world she
was my mother, my rock. As I got older she became my best friend. We fought
like girlfriends, and we made up like girlfriends.  The thought of never
arguing with her about my life choices twists my heart into a knot. Who is
going to help me with my wedding dress when I get married? Who is going to tell
me all the things happening to my body when I am pregnant is normal?  Who is
going to tell me what to do when I don’t know? I lie on the couch and curl
myself into the fetal position as the first tears fall, and I let them.  I let
them. I allow myself to feel the pain of losing her. I close my eyes and I am
with her sitting on the edge of her bed. I have the crushed up Percodan in a
spoon with yogurt; it was easier for her to swallow it.  The look of fear, of
deep sadness in her eyes crushed me because I knew what she was thinking.  That
here I was taking care of her, when it was always the other way around. She was
the caretaker and now the tables were turned.  It embarrassed her, it angered
her. She held my hand tightly as she took her pill. I stayed with her.  Not
talking just being close.  I will never be close to her again.  It feels like
someone has cut open my chest and taken my heart out, the pain is dreadful.
Crippling and all consuming, but I feel it. I feel it in every bone, every
muscle. The sobs shake through my body. The tears flow from my eyes like a
broken water pipe.  Not a little kitchen sink mishap, but a full on water main
break in the city center, with no repair in sight. I lick my lips tasting the
tears. I savor them for I know they are my balm, they will heal me.  I will
never get over losing my mom. But I will survive this moment.  My heart is
broken, but like she said to me once I can hear her voice clearly “your heart
may be broken but it’s still beating” I cover my heart with my hand and feel it
thump in my chest.  I grab my phone to call Jenny but I am in no state to talk
to her. So I text instead

-I am here and ready for
bed I will see you at my new place 8 o’clock in the morning?

She responds right back

-of course baby girl, you
ok? 

-I am fine just crawling
into bed.

-See you in the morning. 
Glad you are home I miss you.

-I miss you too.

Britt began writing poetry, really sad poetry when she was
in high school over some boy that broke her heart. Writing has always been a
creative outlet for her

About ten years ago she started writing erotica and posting
it on a site dedicated to that. From there she got some positive feedback and
shared a story with some female co-workers who loved one titled “The Interview”
She was encouraged to develop the characters and expand on the plot. So that
Christmas with her bonus she bought a laptop and began writing in six months
she had over 500 pages that she is now trying to mold it into a trilogy and a
novella.

Through that writing she also has about 10 other story
ideas, characters who had their own voices and demanded to be heard so if this
one doesn’t take off she has others to bring to the light. She describes her
writing as Racy Romance, with a bit of dirty sex.

Being creative is in her blood.  If she is not writing, you
can find her in the kitchen cooking a new recipe or baking something sweet and
delicious.  Her most asked for concoction is “Salted Caramel Chocolate Chip
Cookies” And don’t let her near a glue gun or a jar of decoupage she will
transform anything into something fabulous just look at her house. It’s
amazing.

She is the mother of an amazing 22 year old woman and two
spoiled Chihuahua’s.  She lives in Northern California about an hour from San
Francisco.  She works full time and finds herself sending emails home with
ideas that strike throughout the day.

Her goal for writing or publishing is for one person to
enjoy it, for one person to be taken away from their day and escape into a
different world.  Because that is what she gets out of reading, an avid reader
she reads about a book a week.  Some of her got to authors are; Whitney Gracia
Willams, Michelle A Valentine, Lauren Blakely, Belle Aurora and so many others.

So if one person gets it and falls in love with her
characters then this whole process, all the frustrations and tears will be
worth it to her.