Undo by Joe Hutsko (first ebook reader .txt) 📕

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Matthew was enjoying himself immensely. In the distance the city came into sight. Seeing the tall buildings, the two magnificent bridges, the bay, he experienced a sense of newfound being. He thought of Greta, and how, in all the time they had lived here and she had had her horse, Matthew had never been the least bit interested in her hobby. Yet when Laurence spoke of it, he was intrigued. The Valley felt well behind him now. Before him lay a completely different world, and his insides stirred with the same excited nervousness a schoolboy feels on a class trip. “I don’t come to the city often,” he said, “so I’m at your mercy.”

“Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. How about Union Square for lunch? It’s near the shop where I have to pick up something.”

“Sounds fine,” Matthew said.

They pulled off the highway and wound their way through the busy city streets to Union Square. He pulled up in front of the Campton Hotel, and the attendant took the car.

“Can we shop first?” Laurence said. “I’ll just run in and tell them we’ll have lunch around two o’clock.”

With an appraising eye, the formally dressed door attendant held the door for her. After she vanished into the lobby he stole a cursory glance at Matthew, the man so lucky to be with such an exquisite woman. The other man’s envy brought a smile to Matthew’s face. A minute later she was back.

“All set,” she said, then frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he said, overshooting his innocence. “I’m just happy. I feel like I’m playing hooky,” he said honestly.

“Come one,” she said, tugging playfully on his arm. She led them into oncoming traffic and, with city-smart agility, navigated them to the other side of the street. They strolled past the Hyatt and turned onto Post Street. The sun shone brightly on Union Square, and a cable car bell rang out on Powell Street. He fell back a step behind her when they crossed the street to admire the way her wavy hair bounced on her shoulders with each determined step. His eyes trailed to her waist, so perfect and slender, then lower, to the lovely curves of her bottom. She stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into her.

“This is it,” she said, standing before an old shop. “It’s like a toy store for me,” she added, pressing through the doors. For an instant he had the pleasure of seeing the flat of her hand pressed against the glass. Even after they were inside, this image lingered bright in his mind’s eye like sunspots on the eyelids.

“Come on,” she said, tugging his arm again. She led him to an open stairway that rose to the second floor. He saw various equestrian products as they climbed the stairs. Saddles hung over the rail encircling the upper level, and rows of boots lined the wall, with riding crops, helmets, and assorted garments displayed throughout. He trailed after her as she strode to the rear wall and stopped before a case of leather riding gloves. She spun, hands at rest behind her on either side of the display case. “Do you know about Swaine Adeney?” she said, playfully affecting a British accent. “It was founded in London in 1750. They are the exclusive suppliers of fine equestrian products to the royal family.”

“May I help you?” asked a young, dark-haired woman wrapped tightly in a tweed outfit.

Laurence turned serious. “I’d like a pair of these gloves.” She tapped her finger on the glass in front of a simple brown pair.

Matthew swallowed. Gloves. The thought of Laurence hiding her beautiful hands inside a pair of gloves prickled his skin with a sensation that was very close to terror. He thought of Greta. Her gloves, so many gloves. Leather, wool, and cotton. Suede, cashmere, and silk. Oh, he thought with dread, those especially, which she had worn to bed every night since the accident…

“Do you like them, Matthew?” Laurence said, flexing ten delicately gloved fingers before him.

“Yes,” he said, forcing a smile. “Very much.”

“These are our finest pigskin gloves,” the sales clerk informed them.

“I’ll take them.”

“Very good,” said the woman, accepting the gloves from Laurence. She closed the cabinet and locked it, and they followed her back down to the lower level. Before Laurence could withdraw her charge card from her wallet, Matthew reached for his own.

“Wait, Lauri. I want to buy those for you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Please. A small token of my appreciation,” he said. “Please?”

The clerk accepted his credit card.

“I’ll treasure them,” Laurence said with a pleasant smile. “Thank you.”

They strolled back to the hotel, where they were immediately seated in a booth in the rear of the Campton Place. There were few other diners; it was late in the afternoon, and most of the see-and-be-seen crowd was already gone.

“How about Champagne?” Laurence asked. “A toast your success.”

The wine steward uncorked a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and they toasted, and while they enjoyed an excellent lunch, she spoke again about horses and polo.

“I would love to go to France. I’ve never been there. I would give anything to see the championship tournament that’s held every summer in Deauville.”

Hearing her talk about it, he thought that it might be exciting to go there. With her? Was that why it would be exciting? What had happened in the last couple of hours? What was it she had said or done to break down the restraint he had exercised for the past couple of months, which he now fully acknowledged?

With this thought, and all their talk about horses, he thought again of his wife, and the realization that this pleasant afternoon with Laurence would soon be over.

Back outside, the attendant brought him his car.

“Where exactly do you live?” Asking this question, it occurred to him that he had learned more about her this afternoon than in all their of previous times together.

“In Pacific Heights. Well, lower Pacific Heights. I can’t afford real Pac Heights yet.”

“Is that where you would like to live eventually?”

“Not really. I don’t think I’m really a city person at heart.” She directed him up Pine Street to Fillmore, then to a narrow street called Wilmot. Hidden in the middle of the busy Fillmore shopping district, it looked more like an alley than a proper street. He found its concealment unusually exciting.

“There, the second house.”

He braked before one of three houses tucked into he middle of the block, sandwiched between business establishments.

“Well,” he said. “I had a wonderful time.”

“Me too,” she said, folding over the top of the bag in her lap.

He paused, unsure what to do next. The air in the car felt charged with possibility, promise. He acknowledged his attraction to her. She stirred in him feelings he had not felt in years, which now suddenly gushed free inside him after today’s victory. When she had entered the boardroom, he had felt a potent sense of longing. How long had it been since he had been satisfied, really satisfied? Again his thoughts turned to Greta. He gave his senses a shake. He resolved that after all he had accomplished, which Lauri had helped him attain, he wanted to experience with her their own, intimate celebration. He wanted to take her hand, hold it, and kiss her, to feel her fingers respond in his own hand as their lips met.

From behind he heard the sound of cars passing on Fillmore Street, and ahead of them, a group of young boys were playing basketball in a fenced school-yard. With a sidelong glance he studied her delicate, childlike hands, the impossible softness of her skin. She was so much younger than he. She had been silent all this time, and finally she spoke.

“Do you have any children?”

This startled him a little. Was she too unsure of what to do next? Stalling, as it were? “No,” he said, “no children.” He and Greta had planned to start a family after the successful launch of Orange Fresh. But after the accident, which happened on the very day that they planned to begin their journey into parenthood, the act by which a child is conceived never again occurred between them.

So that was how long it had been since they had made love, he thought. How long it had been since he had been with anyone that way.

Again Laurence broke the silence. “Why don’t you come inside for a moment and see my place?”

He accepted without hesitation, and a moment later they were inside. “I’ve made do with my limited decorating skills,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’d love your opinion.” She excused herself to the kitchen for a moment while Matthew wandered from room to room.

Her apartment was a recently restored Victorian with black and white tile at the entrance and hardwood floors throughout. Dhurrie rugs in light colors covered the floors in the living and dining rooms, and her furniture was a tasteful mixture of contemporary and antique. The bedroom was tantalizing. Her bed was an unusual steel frame design with a dreamy, sheer canopy draped lightly over the top. Its message was at once powerful and delicate. So were his feelings for her. He finished his tour and circled back to the living room, where he found her standing and holding two glasses filled with dessert wine. “Just a little sip, before you drive back,” she said, handing him a glass.

He inhaled the bright sweet aroma, his eyes lingering on her hand encircling her own glass. She raised it to his, and he met her sharp, gray eyes.

“Here’s to you.” Her voice was quiet.

He touched his glass to hers. They each took a sip and, with his head still lowered, he let his eyes stray once more to her hand.

“You like my hands, don’t you?” she asked simply, revealing her mindfulness of his regard all along, confirming it.

“Yes,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed.

“Go on, then,” she said.

He knew what she meant. He slowly reached out and traced lightly along her index finger to her wrist, her thumb, to her glass, which he took. He had to have her hands.

He settled their glasses on the table in front of the sofa and folded both of his hands around hers. Never before had he held hands so supple. But these hands belonged to a whole visage of uniform loveliness. There was the difference, he understood at once. He had loved Greta’s hands, yes, the power they had had over him, his pleasure, yet that was all. Just her hands. That was why, he now understood, that they had had such an unusual sex life. But Laurence was different. When he looked up from her hands, his heart quickened at his appreciation for all of her. That was it, and he let himself go.

He pulled her hard against him, as if it were the first time he had felt a woman’s body against his own. In fact, it was. It was the first time he was really feeling a woman with all of his mind. The sensation was overwhelming, this feeling of taking in her whole image. His mouth came down firmly on hers. He felt a moan come from her throat as their tongues mingled with the wine’s sweet aftertaste. He tasted her, felt the material of her dress, smelled her hair, understood that in her shoes were feet that were no doubt as lovely to look