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, ‘
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.”