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3 Young and Old

   1 Erica

       She asked the Editor, “Mr. Crawford, would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No thanks, Erica, something you can do for me though.” He showed her a picture of a kitten, “Once a week, as a public service, the newspaper runs a short column about adopting a cat from the animal shelter. They have not been very effective, too bland. See what you can do, bring it to me when you’re finished.” Her first writing assignment thrilled her. Within an hour handed Mr. Crawford the story. He read:

‘So nice to curl up on a warm lap, feel fingers stroking my fur, makes me purr. Dangle a ribbon, do not let me catch it. I will not give it back. If you have a little girl, we will cuddle, play, and meow together. Or perhaps give an older lady companionship and the love she needs, or encourage a grumpy man to smile again. I am so lonesome. Won’t you share your life with me? Samantha.'

Mr. Crawford scribbled a note on the page, stood up, “Erica, come with me.” followed him to the office bulletin board, pinned the page up, and left. She read:

“Written by our new cub reporter Erica, willing to serve coffee, but no longer able to, will be busy writing.”

Erica had a kitten when a little girl, wrote sentences about her cherished pet in a pink diary. Later began to write about her experiences in life. In her senior year of high school, she wrote an analysis of herself, “What Is My Problem?”

“My problem is I don’t know if I like boys. It is not that I haven’t been exposed to them, out with most of the boys in my class once or twice.  Now, when a boy asks me to a movie, I decline."

At a theatre, an arm is usually put around me; this is OK. Afterwards, a bite to eat, engaged in conversation, sporadic and dull, sports, cars, and more sports. I would ask him about his aspirations. The answer “I dunno.” Driven home, maneuvering to put his wet lips on mine. I have done that. I do not know what girls see in it. I prefer attending parties. Someone, sometimes, will have something of interest to talk about.”

“Once, I went out with my friend’s brother, a senior in college. His sister forced him, very pleasant to me, wonderful to talk to, well, listen to. I asked him questions all night. Drove me home, asked, “Any more questions?” Hoping he would kiss me, passionately. He did not. Tempted to kiss him, passionately, didn’t want to panic him, so that was that.”

“Now I know I don’t have a problem. Yes, I do not like boys, but I do like men.”

Mr. Crawford, owner of the Northern Sentinel newspaper, 41, nineteen years older than Erica. He did not have to write an analysis on the girl with downcast eyes, looking up at one with big sepia pools framed by inquisitive eyebrows. He knew he liked her.

Erica, recently graduated with honors from college, a degree in Journalism, major in creative writing, started as a cub reporter at the paper, having worked there during summers. Her initial duties, run errands for the staff, deliver their coffee; now excited to be an employee of a well-read newspaper.

Mr. Crawford gave Erica writings assignments, asked her, “Erica, it’s unusual for a new girl to pop in, ask the boss if he wants coffee, how come?”

“When hired, my supervisor took me around, introduced me to everyone. You shook my hand, welcomed me in such a way that I did not think of you as my boss. I thought of you as a new friend.” His affection for her upped a notch.

“Now that we are friends why don’t you call me Bob like the rest of the staff?”

She hesitated, head skewed, eyes looked up at him, “If I were to call you Bob you would be just one of the bunches. Actually, I think of you as a special friend that deserves to be called Mr. Crawford,” feelings for her zoomed.

Mr. Crawford single considered a ‘catch’ in town. Not exactly handsome, but had an engaging smile, a sparkle in his eyes, charming and rich. A distinguishing feature, a thick black mane. Women called him the Lion, not so much for the hair, but his prowess in gathering a rather large pride of lionesses, not the least bit aware.

 Hope for all, ladies trolled for him, yet no one snagged him until Erica unintentionally dropped her hook in the water with irresistible bait, intelligence and winsome appeal.

Mr. Crawford did not realize his hook wiggled in the water also.

Erica had a revelation, ‘Mr. Crawford talks to me as if I were a woman, not a recent grad.’ Curiosity stirred in her, what is it like when a woman is kissed by a real man?

She worried. If Mr. Crawford did not pucker up soon it was going to be too late, after all, she was 22. It baffled the girl. She worked with him at the newspaper for several weeks, he had not shown interest. Not once. Not even lunch. Her pod mate said, “Erica, he can’t take his eyes off you.”

So, what is the problem? She figured it had to be their 19-year age difference. He talked to her like an equal, but probably thought of her as a kid. He did not want to be accused of ‘robbing the cradle.’ She took inventory, looked like a college coed, dressed like one and still lived with her parents. Changes had to be made.

Erica, not one to leave anything to chance, closed the age gap, at least visually. She transformed her appearance with stunning corporate attire, a trip to the town hairdresser, presto, a movie star, took over a week for cohorts to lower their eye lids. The first day, Mr. Crawford commented, “Erica, you look fabulous. Then, of course, you always do,” Nice, but no invitation.

Her most traumatic change; moved into an apartment above a ladies clothing store. Mother and father held each other, watched her wave goodbye, lots of fears, the daughter moving seven blocks away. Missing her parents, adopted two kittens from the pound: named the female ‘Mom’, the male ‘Pop.’ Her father confided to the crew at the office: “You raise a child for twenty-two years and she names a cat after you.”

Her ‘room with a view’ was conducive to creative writing. Sitting at her computer, kitten on lap, mind in a trance, eyes on the blue bay spread out over the roof tops. It prompted words to bubble to the surface, cling to each other and form a thoughtful sentence. For weeks they curled out of her printer.

"Erica, Mr. Crawford would like to see you in his office." Excited, trips to his domain usually meant an assignment, this one nothing like the previous.

The Editor said, "I have an assignment for you. Each year the Northern Sentinel sponsors a charitable fashion show. All the summer residents from Hollywood and Palm Beach on The Bluff will attend, along with every who is who in town. Generous donations are made to the event. Ladies will wear creations from leading designers, Dior, Channel, Givenchy, St. Laurent. Those who choose to will introduce them on a runway."

"It sounds elegant Mr. Crawford. What do you want me to do?"

"Not being married, every year I ask a woman to represent me. This year I want you to be the one. A designer of your choice will come into town and create a gown to your liking, which you may keep. I will make a handsome donation in your behalf."

"Mr. Crawford that is so exciting, I'd love to. But won't it be a problem? You have asked The Countess Victoria Van De Carr the last two years?"

"Don't worry, I'll talk to her. We need a young, fresh face this year."

The Countess had her sources, heard the Lion was marking a fresh territory in the town and rounding up another lioness, a young cub reporter at that. Wasn’t his pride large enough? Well, that would not do, she would make sure he caught her scent. The Lion would not escape when they met.

A scarlet satin gown hung in her closet, a sensual sensation. It revealed a teasing portion of shoulders and bosom, the skirt fell just below the knees. A clever dressmaker, with a snip and a tuck here and there, lowered the hem until the Paris design touched the floor. The top now completely exhibited her shapely shoulders and two majestic mountains, it barely covered the summits. To add some adventure, a slit cut up to a thigh for another approach, a drop-dead cliffhanger that gave the climber no chance of survival.

 

“My dear Countess, how are you?” (Usually it was, ‘Victoria, my cuddly lioness.)

 She wrapped her arms around him, nuzzled his chest and purred, “In heat.” She circled him in shorts and halter, twisting and turning, giving him a look at all her tempting enticements. It made his black tipped tail twitch.

“Victoria, what beautiful creation do you have for me? Besides yourself, that is”

“Bob, it’s absolutely drooling. You must see it on me. I will slip it on. You turn around, and don’t peek.” He heard satin sliding and slipping against flesh. “Bob, you can have one quick look” He turned, her back to him. The gown plunged down to her lower, lower waist, exposing a spine that would send a Chiropractor to a Cardiologist. The front plunged into a steep valley.

Out of habit he said, “Is there anything you want me to snap?”

“Thank you; there is nothing to snap under this dress.” She paused and peeked at him, “Nor anything to unsnap.”

How do you contain a boa constrictor lounging on a chaise? It is not easy. Mr. Crawford liked the countess, admired her, found her breathtaking, but was concerned about how she will accept the news he must convey. She may swallow him whole.

Cautious, he stepped back, "Victoria, I'm sorry, you will not represent the paper this year." The snake uncoiled, hissed and spit venom.

The annual charity ball arrived, the summer event of the year. Everyone who mattered attended. The countess would ‘wow’ them all in her breathless scarlet gown. She would show that little reporter who had the audacity, switching her tail, to her lion.

The Countess Victoria Van De Carr introduced on the runway, appeared in her scarlet gown. There were Oh’s and ahs. Ms. Erica introduced, there were gasps, an abundance of golden shoulders. The little reporter created in her apartment a duplicate of the scarlet gown. So much for a Countess.

Monday, “Erica,” he stuck his head into her pod, “Would you be available for lunch with me today?”

Took her breath away, his first move, she said “Yes Mr. Crawford. Do you want me to bring any documents?”

“No documents. I thought we would go to the Waterside Inn, take our time and watch the ducks paddle around.” He smiled. Her jaw dropped. Mr. Crawford always had a business lunch, every day, at the Point Club.

The Waterside Inn for the rich and glamorous, its namesake was on the Thames in Berkshire; specialty of the house ‘fat duck.’ Glad she wore a chic outfit.

Heads turned; a sparkle of light entered the dim restaurant. Mr. Crawford experienced the kick of walking into a room, a ‘rare jewel’ on his arm. They enjoyed the fat duck and discovered, easy to be with each other; talked and laughed. “Erica, I'm having such an enjoyable time, can’t remember when I’ve had more fun. There is a dance at the club this Saturday. Would you accompany me?”

“Mr. Crawford, I’d love to.” Finally!

"Erica, I find myself in an awkward position and need to ask a favor of you. Recently elected to the Club Board of Directors, realized I am the only one without a boat. I bought a sailing vessel from a member and friend, a retired Navy Captain, who purchased a new one."

She interrupted, "Mr. Crawford that is wonderful, what make and length?"

"I don't know. I have only seen it from a club window, has a pole sticking way up. Fairly long, the front end is close to the dock and the back extends out the rear of one of our largest wells."

"Mr. Crawford, the pole is a mast. The front is the bow and the back the stern."

"That is why I need to ask you a favor. You were a junior sailing champion and have been racing sail boats all your life. Me, on the Board, wanting to support the club, I volunteered to be a stake boat during regattas. The captain offered to show me the ropes but called Brussels for an emergency NATO meeting. Could you help me out, make a day of it, then the evening? I'll pick you up at 9 am."

"Mr. Crawford, make it 8 am."

The two stood on the dock looking down at the length of the ship, "Mr. Crawford, this is not a boat, she's a yacht, over seventy feet long, it takes a crew to put her under sail." They boarded the sleek craft, looked around.

He, "It has an engine, you could motor out."

"Mr. Crawford, everyone is looking at you, the owner of the largest and most successful newspaper in the north and skipper of the longest sailing vessel in the club, a potential Commodore. You will be at the helm of your yacht, sail her out and in."

"How am I going to do that?"

"Your halyards, sheets, winches are all motorized along with furled sails. I will be your crew and you will call out commands to me."

He shouted, "Cast offspring lines, cast off stern lines, cast off bow lines." Jib partially hoisted, fluffing, she pushed the bow out into the fairway. Wind caught the sail, glided them out to the lake. Nose into the wind, main sail hoisted, helm hard to starboard they tacked all the way to the marker. Lowered an anchor and experienced a most enjoyable afternoon.

Dining and dancing, no doubt about it, they belonged to each other in their yachting whites, no one noticed an age difference. They stepped on each other's toes twice, laughed, smooth sailing well into the night, brandy hummers sealed their first date.

They climbed the outside stairs to her apartment, hand in hand. She asked, “Would you like to see the view?” Lights off, covered his eyes with her hands, “Don’t peek.” Guided him onto the balcony in the dark, removed her hands, like a child said, “See.” A display of lights splashed on the shops and dwellings in the foreground. Christmas lights decorating the black water, no, anchor lights, a lighthouse painting the bay, back and forth, with a yellow brush.

“Wow.” He put his arm around her, drew her tight. She rested her head on his shoulder, said, “Isn’t it nice.”

He said, “Yes though not as nice as you.” She tensed. Here it comes, a kiss - nothing.

Her head at the ideal angle, in his arms, no one around, lighting perfect, the scene made in Hollywood, nothing. He could easily, at least, give her a quick peck on the cheek. What could the problem be, sure he was attracted to her.

Immature? Did he love another? He was not married. Engrossed in thinking, why doesn’t he kiss me? It had to be the age difference. She blurted out. “Mr. Crawford. Why?”

Astonished, put a hand over her mouth. He looked at her, said “Why what Erica?”

Did not know what to say, “Oh, nothing.”

“Erica, there is something you want to know.”

“Mr. Crawford, I’m too embarrassed to say.”

“Erica, didn’t you say you considered me a special friend?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t be too special if you won’t tell me.”

She didn’t want to fib; besides, she couldn’t think of a good one. Put her head down, looked up at him with those dark eyes, “Mr. Crawford, why don't you kiss me?” There, out.

He smiled, “Because, I don’t think I kiss very well.” There, out.

Again, she put a hand over mouth. This time tried to suppress a laugh. “Here I thought it was me.”

Mr. Crawford also laughed. “Erica, I assure you, it’s not you. I think about it every day.”

Her face lit up, “You do?”

“Yes, I wish Marilyn Monroe was still around, she could teach me.”

The girl, “Mr. Crawford I can’t visualize you in her arms,”

“Me neither.”

The girl, now a tank full of Crawford, you could practice with me before going to someone like Marilyn.”

He took her in his arms, kissed her, tenderly. “Mr. Crawford, you just created electricity, no need to go to Marilyn, or anyone else, would you do it again?” He did. She now knew what it was like to be kissed by a real man, surely addictive.

“Thank you, Erica. I am leaving now while I’m ahead. Could I ask you for a favor?”

“Certainly.”

 “I’ve told my younger sister all about you. She and her husband are all fidgety to meet you. My father left his estate to us. We live there. She would like you to join us for dinner Saturday.”

“Mr. Crawford, I’d love to meet them.”

The relieved happy girl with hips swishing wildly from side to side, escorted him to the door, stopped, reached up, kissed him on the cheek, “Until next weekend.”

The estate is a mansion, sister and husband an inviting couple, expecting their first child. Mr. Crawford is going to be an uncle, excited about it, having a baby in the house. With 27 rooms, bawling would not be a problem.

After a gourmet dinner, non-stop conversation, Mr. Crawford showed his girl the home, left the gardens until last. The two in a gazebo, moonlight filtering through lattice, a fitting setting. He knelt down, grasped her hands in his and said, "I love you and want to rename the yacht, Erica."

Confused, "Mr. Crawford, was that an assignment or a proposal?"

"A proposal, I'm sorry, I forgot to give you this." placed in her hand a square velvet box.

The girl discovered Mr. Crawford was a man who bought big yachts and diamonds. She nodded her head, yes. The ‘real man’ slipped the ring on and kissed her twice.

He said, “Erica, I’m old fashioned. I would like to have your father’s blessing; be sure he doesn’t have an objection to our age difference.”

“Mr. Crawford, he won’t object. My father is nineteen years older than my mother.”

He said, “Erica, now that we are engaged, do you think you could call me Bob?”

She said, “I’ll try Mr. Crawford.”

2 Winning Winona

       1 The Newsroom

         No one whispered in the newsroom; everyone hollered. Not a problem hearing what twenty-some staff were complaining about, everything.

Winona, a young woman, 26, was bound to be a copy editor at a New York newspaper. She began to read the morning paper in the 6^th grade before her father. While in the 8^th grade, she started to read the English dictionary. Completed it in the eleventh.

She had an unusual name, Winona, traced back to a Sioux tribe, princess and daughter of Chief Wapasha III. The girl was known to run like a deer. Her Indian name is ‘Four Hooves.’ Generations later, her father was a judge, and her mother was a high school teacher.

An employee of the paper, Winona, marked up reporter pages with her red pen. She knew all the right words to arouse emotions. Corrections made; she approved the editing with her print stamp of ‘four hooves’. Her tracks were everywhere.

Industrious, she worked day and night, except on Friday, left the office early, and caught a flight out of Manhattan to Cape Cod. There, she had a small cottage and art studio on a bay – escaped the office chaos. An artist, she drew and painted the Cape’s wildlife, particularly the white-tailed deer. Indian blood still flowed through her veins.

 A man she never met was bonkers about her. He too boarded the one-hour shuttle to Cape Cod. He has been at it for a month, never said a word to her, yet is wild about the girl.

The jet, with two seats on either side of the aisle, is usually full. The object of this man’s affection boarded early, selected the window seat over a wing, and had an escape door which she liked.

He never sat next to her, had no idea what to say, and occupied the aisle seat behind her. That way could see a bit of his sweetheart in the separated space between the seats. The side of her head, with long, honey wheat hair, is scrumptious.

 Winona always carried a book and slipped it into the pouch in front of her. If a man sat next to her, she would remove the book and place it on her lap. The intruder introduced himself, rambling on. She opened the book and began reading it. The admirer behind her noticed that she never turned the pages. If a woman passenger sat next to her, the book remained in the pouch – it seemed she did not like men.

His admiration for her soared when a man pestered her. Winona told him, "Get off my cloud."

On a flight, a woman called her by name, Winona. Little did he know the name was of a Sioux Indian princess,

For two months, he struggled over what he would say if he sat beside her. It had better be good, or that book would appear and be thought to be reading it, the end of their romance. He spent hours making a list, which must be right, crossed out the insipid remarks, not too long, and had to go with it.

Leaving nothing to chance, he became familiar with the flight drill. Two snappy stewardesses delivered passengers' drink orders with peanuts. The airline knew when the small pack of highly salted nuts disappeared, another cocktail was ordered. The policy, of course, peanuts came with the drink. The company did not make tons of money on the tickets, but on the sale of small bottles of booze bought for zip, plus a tad (good advertising), sold for a ransom. After all, they had you 25,000 feet in the air, where else would you go? Two gulps, more peanuts, another drink, please.

His love, the first one to board the jet, followed her. She sat in a window seat and snapped her belt; every other seat on the plane was still vacant. He stood in the aisle and said his first words to her (not on his list, forgot his practiced line.) “Is this seat taken?”

She looked around, “Apparently not,” her first words to him.

He sat in the aisle seat; premature joy evaporated. She removed the book from the pouch and placed it on her lap. It panicked him. He could not remember anything on his list, nothing, not even the opening line. He felt moisture under his arms. List in his pocket, could he sneak a look at it? No. Maybe he could go to the bathroom and look it over. No, then he would have to say, ‘Excuse me, I’m going to the rest room, would you save my seat?’ No way to start a love affair.

Knocked out of the saddle, ready to ride again, in desperation he said, “What’s taking you so long to read that book?” regretted, as soon as he said it. 

She smiled, said, “What took you so long to sit beside me?” His spirits soared. They laughed, ordered cocktails in miniature bottles and munched their peanuts.

He said, “I’ll try to be mesmerizing, so you don’t have to open that book.” She smiled again. He asked, “I overheard a woman call you Winona. It is distinctive. Is it a family name or maybe a derivative?”

She explained her ancestors from way back were once Sioux Indians. They had a daughter with the tribe’s name of Winona. She was known to spend much of her time living and running with white-tail deer and the tribe called her “Four Hooves.”

The male deer hunting Indians were not too enamored with her. They often saw her accompanying deer on their paths, warning them of the hunters in their blinds, bow and arrows ready.

There was not much they could do about it; she was a princess.

“That’s a beautiful story and name. I think you are still a princess. My name is not as romantic.” Explained his parent’s favorite movie was Casablanca. When born my mother wanted to call me Humphrey. My father said, “no way,” so they named me Rick. Had I been a girl you would be calling me Ingrid, or Elsa.

Rick asked, “How does a beautiful girl with an exotic name like Winona spend her time in the big city?”

“I’m a copy editor for a New York Newspaper during the week and live with three longtime friends. On weekends, I am a wildlife illustrator and retreat to my little house on the Cape. Hopefully, someday, my weekend job will become my full-time occupation.” She hesitated and said, “You’re not the Rick of ‘Ricks’ along the shore?”

He said, “Yes, on weekends. However, on weekdays, I am a statistician for an insurance company. Friday and Saturday nights, I spell Sam on the piano and help my partner out. In the near future, I’ll devote my full time to the restaurant business.”

She said, “My favorite song is ‘As Time Goes By.’ Can you play it?”

“Yes, you can hear for yourself. Could I pick you up at eight? You can sit beside me at the piano. I will be playing it with all my soul, just for you. Then, I will procure a romantic table with candlelight and a French wine to mellow us out. Live lobster was flown in today, or we could dine on fresh fish, or maybe char-broiled filets, or all three. After we sip rare liquor and close the gin joint up, I will drive you home. If you invited me in to see your illustrations, I would go for it.”

She took a business card out of her purse and wrote her home address on the back, said, “I’d love to.”

He said, “Winona, someday, a man will come along, and you will marry him. He will persuade you to give up your job at the newspaper and concentrate on your wildlife art. He will be around to encourage and love you.”

“Who do you suppose that might be?” she asked.

“I think it should be someone who could play your favorite tunes on the piano.”

She replied, “I should hope so.”

Silence, the man did not know what to say. In his wildest dreams, he did not imagine their conversation would go this far. He was not sure, but he thought he had just proposed to her, positive that it was not on his list. Now what? He had talked himself into a corner. He thought of something and wrote a quote on a napkin.

“A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.” - Ingrid Bergman.

He handed it to her. She read it, smiled, and turned her head, leaning towards him. He moved forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. They both felt a surge of arousal. She placed the book back into the pouch. Put her head against the pillow, closed her eyes, and rested her hand on the armrest. He covered it with his hand and closed his eyes. The nearness was provocative; they tried to calm down.

Winona, snuggled close to Rick, seemed asleep. Suddenly she opened her eyes and said, “Before I forget, when you pick me up and drive me to your restaurant, be sure to bring a bathrobe. After dining, when you bring me home to see my cozy home and paintings, I will want to be comfortable and change out of my gown into a bathrobe. You will want to be comfortable, also, bring your bathrobe. I’ll show you the house, and we can lounge around in our bathrobes.”

He said, “One question, will I wear the bathrobe over my clothes or none at all?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, who wears their clothes under a robe? I won’t. Let’s be comfortable.”

“OK, however, I will wear my socks, forget the slippers.”

The plane landed. They retrieved their overhead carry-on bags. Parting, Winona kissed him on the cheek, “See you at eight, I’ll be waiting on my front porch, do not forget your bathrobe.”

Rick did not have a bathrobe. He bought one on the way home, large enough to cover everything.

Not only did he have a new bathrobe, but he also borrowed his neighbor’s antique car, a Cord Cabriolet, which also had a rumble seat.

Sure enough, Winona was sitting on her front porch when he drove up. She thought the car was so snazzy.

The house was smaller than he thought it would be. The first thing she asked was, “Did you remember to bring your bathrobe?”

They arrived at Ricks in the roadster. The evening being cool, she wore a shawl. Removing it in the restaurant, she definitely had a Becall figure, sleek and slim.

 Rick had a table smack in the middle of the restaurant where everyone could see she was no eyesore. On the piano, Sam introduced her. He played “It’s Got To Be You.” Winona swiveled her hips to the table.

Seated, she asked if the joint had a specialty cocktail. It did, a ‘Skip and Go Naked,’

“Oh,” she said, “I’ll have one.” Her toes were tapping, listening to Sam’s fingers dancing over the ivories. She told Rick; I have a fairly good voice. Would Sam accompany her on the piano for a couple of songs?

The answer being “Not at all,” escorted her over to the piano. She carried her drink, said it would be a prop, took a sip, placed it on the top of the black piano, and leaned her hip against the side.

Sam played, and Winona belted out two songs, “Am I Blue” and “How Little We Know” in her deep, sultry voice.

Before the evening was over, she agreed to ‘packing in the reservations’ by singing two songs at eight sharp, that was it. Of course, Winona and Rick would dine together.

The restaurant cleared out before midnight. The next morning, Sunday, the whapping of tennis balls could be heard up and down the coast.

 

The Cord Cabriolet brought them home. First thing, there was a half bath by the door. Winona suggested Rick change into his bathrobe in there. She would change in hers. They would be comfortable.

Exiting, she commented on how cute he looked. It was not the look he was hoping for. He was not sure you could get to first base by being cute.

As for her bathrobe, he noticed it had few buttons.

The tour of the house was short, noticeably short. It consisted of only three rooms: a living room, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The bedroom was converted into an art studio. It spilled out a tad into the living room, which was mostly filled by a king-size bed. It was the first piece of furniture, and the only piece one saw entering the room. There were two chairs. The bed acted as a couch, which you slept in, and everything else, yes, I am not kidding.

The bed/couch/dining table faced a large plate glass window overlooking a gorgeous bay of moored boats, sails tacking among them, occasionally a collision.

The home was not a place for a party. If so, it took place on the bed. The dress code was pajamas. Ideal for two in their bathrobes, carrying on a conversation and watching the bay activity.

This night the two had hummers, humming along. No question, the situation was ideal for romance. They kissed, deep and long. The top button of their bathrobes is undone.

Her golden hair spread out over a satin pillow; his fingers entwined the curls. It was then that he discovered something. It shocked him, and it will shock you too. Winona had only one ear.

1 Five Star Hotels

  1 European Excellence

Early evening, a black airport limo arrived at the Hotel De Paris in Monte Carlo. A man, in a uniform, removed a girl’s luggage from the trunk, all of it. A bell boy stacked it onto a cart, barely. The girl exited the auto, perplexed, and, in vain, rummaged through her purse for an appropriate gratuity.  It launched the courtship of Colette.

A young gentleman stood on a second-floor balcony overlooking the canopy hotel entrance. He witnessed the woman’s dilemma and called out, “Mademoiselle.” Pedestrians looked up to his balcony. He reached into his pocket, removed a money clip, and threw it out the window. It sailed over the canopy and landed at the girl’s feet. The driver picked it up and handed it to her. She looked bewildered.

He called to her, “You are going to need it until you close the door to your room. I am in room 211. Return the clip at your convenience.”

She called back, “Merci, I will.” Tipped the driver and disappeared under the canopy.

A second later, her head reappeared, looked up at her benefactor, and asked, “Do you know how much money you have in the clip?”

“No, I don’t.”

A look of delight spread across her face, and she vanished.

 The man first concluded she is young and nimble, the second, dynamic. The third, though he could not see her clearly, was radiant.

He recently earned a degree in International Finance and joined the family’s prestigious banking enterprise in Tahiti, surrounded by picture-perfect palms.

His grandfather issued his first assignment. “Take six months, visit major cities in Europe, observe how they conduct commerce, and while there, scout out business opportunities.”

Claude Deveaux mounted the campaign in a locale he yearned to visit, Monte Carlo in the principality of Monaco. Friends told him that if he wanted to see activity, he should reserve a room at the Hotel de Paris, on the second floor, directly over the main entrance.

This ideal suite afforded a view overlooking the street below. Guests arrived in their ostentatious automobiles, an ordinary vehicle, out of place.

The panorama presented a parade of dignitaries, diplomats, dukes, damsels, and dogs. Luggage being unloaded and loaded, limos and Bentleys whisked away, whooshed back.

Claude observed a Raja arrive in an open Rolls Royce, a platform on the rear bumper for a servant holding a parasol over the potentate. He did not suppose the veiled young woman would be the man’s niece.

The physical specimen quickly showered and shaved for the second time, dressed in one of his suits tailored in Hong Kong, navy blue. A white handkerchief, with three points in a breast pocket, accentuated his style.

 Hair perfectly combed, he checked in the mirror, messed it up a bit, remembering a girl telling him, “The problem with you Claude Deveaux is you are too handsome. At least you could dishevel your hair.”

He sat down by the phone in anticipation, waiting so much for being handsome. He envisioned the girl, but could not recall her features. Her hair is a honey color or light brown. The energy she displayed amazed him, a girl who would be exciting to keep up with.

 Why didn’t the phone ring? Silence, he checked his watch. When would she call?

It seemed incredibly long before it rang, only one hour, “Monsieur Deveaux, sorry to take so long. I had to settle in, freshen up. I’m in the lobby.”

“I’ll be right down.”

The elevator door opened. A drama in the crowd, a klieg light seemed to shine upon her, magnetism oozed. A girl who once stood aside for - or bowed to in the days of old.

She shook his hand, “Monsieur Deveaux, my name is Colette Colville. I replaced the bills in the same denominations at the front desk.” She handed him the money clip.

“Nice meeting you, Mademoiselle Colville. May I ask a favor?”

Yes, certainly, if possible."

“Join me for a glass of Champagne to celebrate the launch of my new quest.”

“What is your new quest?”

“The courtship of Colette, you are available, are you not?”

She blushed a little, smiled, “Quite possibly.”

He took her arm, escorted her into the lounge, and asked, “May I call you Colette?”

“Under the circumstances, it would be appropriate, shall I call you Claude?” He smiled.

Champagne poured, he made a toast, “Here’s to the courtship.” Glasses clinked and were refilled several times.

“Claude, will there be more to this courtship than making me tipsy?”

“Mai oui, I made a reservation for us in Le Grill. Our table will be available in a few minutes.”

“So, we are having dinner together.” She did not wait for an answer, “By the way, why are you courting me? I’m not a ravishing beauty.”

“No, you are not.”

She looked at him, “I have a forgettable, athletic figure.”

“Yes, you do.”

“The color of my hair is not golden.”

“No, it is not.”

She became miffed, “Claude Deveaux do you have to readily agree with me? Just why do you want to be with me?”

“You are terrific, just terrific.”

She looked surprised, “Is that good?”

“Colette, it is indeed. Terrific trumps all else. If a person is terrific, nothing else matters.”

“I do not see it in a mirror.”

“You cannot, and no application of cosmetics will create it. When you are terrific, you never lose it. As you become older, you remain terrific.”

“Well, then, I like being terrific.”

He said, “Our table should be ready,” and escorted her towards the dining room. They passed the ladies’ room. She excused herself.

Not long, “I checked, but didn’t see terrific.”

He put his arm around the girl, “Colette, trust me.”

They ordered, she asked, “Claude, I’m wondering, are you related to the Deveaux family in Tahiti?”

He, “Yes, you know the name?”

She, “I’m from Tahiti also. My family owns the Colville Hotel and Resorts.”

He said, “My family has Sunday brunch there often. I have been out of the country learning global banking, but have been to all three of your five-star locations, the Hotel in Papeete, the resorts in Moorea and Bora Bora. They are magnificent.”

She said, “Thank you, doesn’t your family own the Deveaux Bank?”

He said, “Yes, Colette, what are you doing so far from home?”

She, “Marketing our locations through five-star hotels in Europe, Hotel de Paris is my first stop. Are you on vacation here?”

He, “No, it’s part of a business trip to get a feel of the major cities in Europe. I will be on the continent for six months. I have always wanted to see Monaco. It may not be big, but it is certainly bustling. What is your marketing plan?”

She, “A brochure will be printed illustrating the exterior and a room scene of a few of the best hotels in Europe. The back pages will include our three locations. We will incur printing costs and put a copy in each of our rooms. The hotels will reciprocate and place a brochure in their rooms. I am going to make the rounds, talk to the managers. What do you think?”

“A great idea, it will be good publicity for all. You should be able to sell it.”

They had lemon sorbet swimming in vodka for dessert. “Will you continue courting me tomorrow? I’m going for a morning run, then to the famous hotel seawater pool?”

“I’ll skip the run. I could not keep up with you. People would think I am chasing you. I’ll join you for a swim, say eleven.” His business plans changed in an instant. He would attend to something urgent first thing in the morning.

She said, “Thank you for the wonderful evening. I think you are terrific, too.” A peck on the cheek, she disappeared into an elevator.

He went to the front desk, sent a telegram to his grandfather, “Arrived this afternoon. Identified an opportunity, our bank slogan will be: Deveaux Bank – Switzerland of the South Seas.

Swim cover-up removed, she perched at the edge of the pool in a one-piece white bathing suit. Arms extended over her head, palms together, fingers pointed towards the sky, she stretched up on her toes. The girl, not as scrawny as imagined, her figure, slight and sleek.

Muscles gracefully flowed into another, no bulges, all gentle curves, long and lean, slender as a fencer. She arched her body, launched into the pool, only a whispery splash. Wide shoulders tapering to slim hips smoothly sliced through blue water. Arms did not flail about; they reached straight out, cupped the water with palms and fingers together, stroked, surging forward. A perfect flutter kick continued to propel her.

She swam in her lane, back and forth, a racing flip at the walls, a sensual tan body in white slipping through blue, leaving a bubbling wake, attracting the eyes of men who vowed to improve their swimming and lose weight.

An image a man usually does not forget, is a woman drying off with a towel, “Colette, with all your running and swimming, you must be starved. Let us cover up, have lunch on the terrace.”

She devoured her lobster salad and two glasses of iced tea. He said, “Colette, we have an ‘anniversary’ coming up.”

“Whose?”

“Ours, it is the first day of our courtship. This evening at seven, we will celebrate, all right?”

“Yes, though aren’t anniversaries annual events?”

“Not for us. We shall meet at the same time, repeat last evening, have Champagne in the lounge, dine in Le Café.”

“Sounds lovely, I must do some shopping this afternoon. What will you do?"

“Explore,” which was not entirely factual, he worked all morning with a graphic designer and would continue after lunch.

They met in the lobby at seven. He escorted her into the lounge. Champagne served; he toasted their first ‘anniversary.’ Glasses clinked.

“Colette, I have something for you,” handed her a black velvet box.

Inside a gold bracelet with a disk, in the shape of the Hotel de Paris, engraved with the numeral 1 and ‘Hotel de Paris’. She beamed with delight. He fastened it on her wrist

“I shall treasure this forever.”

The two decided on gazpacho followed by veal de l’orange, again finished with the lemon sorbet and vodka. “Colette, yesterday you mentioned you were here to identify a few five-star European hotels and include them in your brochure. The select few establishments would place copies in rooms as publicity. I think it is an excellent concept and would like to insert a plan in which Deveaux Bank could be a partner, a joint venture.”

He handed her a red leather-bound book, small enough for a woman to slip into her purse, and take home, place on her coffee table. It had five stars embossed in gold on the cover, nothing else, imbuing elegance.

She opened it. The first spread, a picture of the Hotel de Paris on one page, a photo of a suite on the opposite page, all in full color, pasted on the paper. Lines were drawn below each; a mock-up, followed by a number of blank pages.

“Colette, turn to the back of the book.” There she saw three spreads depicting the Colville Hotel and its two resorts, all inviting. “Now see the last spread.” There, a photo of the Papeete Deveaux Bank in its famous setting of swaying palm trees, a listing of its branches on the same islands as the Colville resorts, Moorea, and Bora Bora. No other advertising.

He asked her to look at the back cover, embossed in small gold type, ‘Compliments of Deveaux Bank – Switzerland of the South Seas.’

“Claude, what a wonderful idea, I can see women taking this home, placing it in a space of prominence. It says, ‘I’ve been there.’ What is your plan?”

“First, let me assure you, the Deveaux Bank will absorb all costs of this project, including production, printing, shipping, and sales expenses.” He asked, “When do you plan to call on this hotel?”

“I haven’t made an appointment as yet.”

“Good, give yourself a week, there is work to do. I would like you to identify a total of 26 hotels. Our graphic designer will paste up a complete book from stock photos. It is essential that every potential hotel be included in the mock-up.”

“Why is that?”

“Negative selling, when you approach a hotel, you will not ask if they wish inclusion in the publication. You will suggest removal if they are not interested.”

“No one will do that. The ultra plush appeal of the book could only enhance their reputation.”

“Correct, especially when there is no cost to them. All they have to do is arrange for their maids to replenish those books taken each day.”

She asked, “Claude, why is your bank interested in this project?”

“For the same motive as yours, access to a captive audience. Five-star hotel patrons are also a potential customer of ours. Most guests will thumb through the book during their stay. Many will take it home and see us repeatedly. A percentage will make reservations with you, perhaps visit our bank. We have an advantage over you. They can call us on a toll-free number and discuss the benefits of making a deposit with us.”

“Which are?”

“Deposit funds in a numbered account like those in Switzerland, not everyone likes snow, and some of their money can be invested in foreign currency trading for faster growth.”

“Claude, what is your rationale for 26 hotels?”

“The book should cover most of the major cities in Europe; include the best of the best, where the cash-rich, register. We can spend one week at each hotel, tour the city and acquaint ourselves with all its charms and attractions.”

“Under the circumstances, wouldn’t it be better for you to make the presentations?” She asked.

“Not at all, I understand theory, but you are a natural born salesperson, your father knows it. That is why you are here. I forgot to ask; do you go for it?”

“I go for it.” She smiled and asked, “26 weeks is six months, isn’t that a long time?”

“Not when we include our honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon! Claude Deveaux behave yourself! We have known each other for one day.”

“I realize I may be rushing things a bit.”

“A bit, isn’t there supposed to be a wedding first, not to mention an engagement before that?”

“Yes, of course, but I thought we could change things around, have the wedding last. I should have given these to you earlier.” He handed her a square velvet box. She opened it, two rings in it.

“Is this an engagement ring and a wedding band?”

“Yes.”

“Claude, you have had your head buried in finance too long. The rings are beautiful. First, you have known the girl for longer than two days. Second, you propose on your knee. If the girl says “yes”, you slip the engagement ring on her finger. After a period of time, you have a wedding, place the band on at the altar. Voila! Then a honeymoon.”

“Yes, I know. Colette, this has all gotten out of hand. I should never have mentioned a honeymoon. I intended to perform in a slow measured way.  Tomorrow I will propose to give you the engagement ring. In another day or so, I will suggest our traveling arrangements. Having separate rooms, being exceedingly boring, we would register as Mr. and Mrs. Deveaux, give you the wedding band to wear, and assume our trip is a quasi-honeymoon.”

“Now that’s perfectly clear. What is a quasi-honeymoon?”

“We will not book the honeymoon suite; you won’t bring a bridal negligee. There will be two double beds. Colette, let me assure you, I love you, want to marry you as soon as we arrive home in Tahiti. You will be presently engaged; have these six months to think it over. What do you say?”

She thought for a moment, “Mais pourquoi pas?”

He thought, ‘She is terrific.’

Work to do, they identified an additional 25 hotels. Their criteria: hotels should be located in a well-known, inviting city; have one hundred or more rooms, and they should be legendary. The Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo, a perfect example, built in 1864, is extraordinary, like no other in the world, on the list of everyone whose high self-esteem demanded the absolute best in world travel.

The day came. Colette walked into the manager's office of the Hotel de Paris with her book. She danced out, twirled, jumped, and whispered, “He loved it.”

Claude said, “And I love you.”

The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Deveaux’ checked into the Majestic Barriere in Cannes, France. The renowned hotel epitomized the heart of the Cannes Film Festival, located on La Croisette, the world-famous promenade.

This glamorous French Riviera Art Deco Palace enjoyed the prestige of being home to one of the priciest suites in the world, an 8,000 square foot pad including two sitting rooms, two dining rooms, four bedrooms, countless luxuries and a private butler.

Their accommodations, a thousand square feet, sumptuously decorated, faced the sea, and had two beds

The girl, nervous about making her presentation, need not have been. She exited on the manager's arm. He revealed the entire hotel and grounds to the young couple. The staff wondered if they were Hollywood moguls.

Cannes, occupied by the Oxybian tribe in the 2nd century BC, now had a beachfront inundated with topless girls, “Ooh La La!” No one complained about the progress. The town lived up to its motto, ‘Life is a festival,’ its main industry, people-watching.

One hotel in Cannes could not begin to appease the affluent travel market. It would need one more, The Carlton of Cannes. French windows opened up to the sea, sunlight warmed the two in their beds; a savory breakfast was served each morning. A run and swim aroused appetites again. Lunch consisted of a famous French veal scaloppini that satisfied the pangs, then off to explore.

The Carlton: a historic treasure, built in 1911, welcomed British and Russian aristocracy. Its manager would not think of being excluded from the Five-Star red leather-bound book. The comely salesperson, invited to visit again, soon.

The two drove into the enemy’s camp in Switzerland. The country did not intimidate the grandson. Two hotels targeted, the prestigious Beau Rivage, an icon in the Swiss Alps, and the Palace, aptly named.

Colette concerned, followed her partner’s advice; accentuate the negative approach. “Monsieur, perhaps you may want to be removed from our book.”

“Not at all, thank you for including us.”

The two motored over mountain passes into Bavaria and Munich. An oddly named hotel awaited them, the Mandrian Oriental, a calm refuge of Neo-Renaissance charm and elegance. Asian objects d’art, thousands of years old, rendered the hotel a private museum.

The manager, enthralled to have his hotel and pool illustrated in the ‘Five Star Book.” Colette is on a roll; nothing could stop her success in Frankfort, Cologne, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Brussels, deliciously dangerous, reaching Paris.

Four hotels in the romantic city did not even tickle the market. It had been difficult to choose. Their first stay, at the Hotel de Crillon, built in 1758 (how about that), overlooking the Place de la Concorde and nearby the Jardin des Tuileries, along the Seine, a living symbol of French Culture and Art de Vivre.

The second stay, at The Plaza Athenee, not just a hotel, a way of life, quiet, beautiful, distinguished. Since its inauguration in 1911, the Plaza has radiated an incomparable, elegant Parisian charm that seduces an international clientele. The Flower Power, an exotic non-alcoholic cocktail, served at the Bar du Plaza, to the likes of Josephine Baker and Rudolph Valentino, lounging about, a Belle Époque hotel, equal parts classical French style and contemporary hipster hangout

The girl in the white bathing suit, cruising back and forth in the blue Versailles pool, caught the eye of guests in the Hotel George V. The eight-story house, classified as a palace, elegantly decorated in the Haussmann style, was furnished with pieces reminiscent of the Louis XVI style.

The first thing the pair did when they walked into the Hotel Ritz, Paris, established in 1898 by Cesar Ritz, was head for the Hemingway bar, rich in period atmosphere, which the writer so loved. They had sunk into the same cushions, ordered single malt whiskies, emulating the man with the distinctive white beard, who exuberantly invited all nearby into the small bar at the end of World War I.

Breakfast, pots of coffee and warm scones, half a dozen newspapers from around the world started the day. Then they would reconnoiter, prodding into politics and people, the keyhole into discovering the methods of trading in foreign currencies.

The young girl, who never bowled in her life, averaged 300 in knocking the pins out from under hotel managers. She and her partner flew to London. They had four games to play in the city.

Claude Monet and James Whistler booked at the Savoy Hotel on the Strand. From their rooms, they painted views of the River Thames, and that is just for starters.

One of London’s most prestigious, opulent hotels opened in 1889. It remains a bastion of English exclusivity. This gorgeous hotel oozes old-style Hollywood glamour and Art Deco features. It is so swishy it even has its own street, Savoy Street.

The Coleridge Hotel’s first seed was sown in 1812. By 1838, a row of five consecutive houses created one large hotel. Foreign royalty, including the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia and King William III of the Netherlands, made it their home away from home.

The five-story Connaught, built in 1897, welcomed the couple. They reserved one of the 92 rooms. It had two beds. The fashionable address imparted an aura of a country residence with its original oil paintings, antiques, and mahogany staircase. Timber paneling and open fireplaces are featured throughout the lobby and lounge areas.

The hotel was renamed the Connaught in 1917, during the Great War, after Queen Victoria’s third son, Prince Arthur, the first Duke of Connaught.

The hotel, not to be outdone, served an al fresco dining experience in a garden setting with a retractable roof accommodating all weather conditions. The manager, delighted with the girl who presented it, demanded the hotel remain included in the ‘little red book’.

Afternoon tea at the Ritz in the spectacular Palm Court, captivating, with a choice of several varieties of teas, finely cut British finger sandwiches, freshly baked scones, jam, clotted cream, an assortment of delicate pastries, and traditional tarts, reminded one of lazier days in the past when time did not fly.

A London landmark at 150 Piccadilly, the Ritz has been home to the intelligentsia, the glitterati, and thousands of discerning guests since 1906. To be one is to enjoy the ultimate in style, service, and sophistication.

They talked, thought, and behaved as English citizens when they left, by train, for Edinburgh, Scotland. A week's stay at the Caledonia, they were off to Dublin and the Shelbourne, then to Lisbon, Madrid, and their final destination, Rome.

The Hotel Hassler Villa Medici, perched above the Spanish Steps, centered in the historic Trinita dei Monti quarter, easy to find, exceedingly difficult to leave, was the couple’s last stop. The 95 stately rooms are a compilation of classic good taste, with elaborate moldings, gilded furniture, French silks, 16th-century antiques, Limoges’s porcelain, playful frescoes, and marble, marble, marble.

Of all the 26 hotels the couple stayed in, the Hassler Roma was the most unusual; their bedroom was enhanced by one sumptuous bed.

In the Eternal City, Claude added the 26th gold disk to the girl’s bracelet, the courtship of Colette completed.

In Tahiti, the bride and her gown are breathtaking; the wedding reception at the fashionable European Colville in Tahiti is the social event of the year. Dancing and celebrating concluded late. The girl changed into street clothes, closed a suitcase, and neatly packed a flimsy negligee on top.

As Mr. and Mrs. Deveaux departed the hotel, someone asked, “Where will you two spend your honeymoon?”

END