Knox County Ch. 06

"What's that?" Sean said.

"Directions to your house. She says you're probably not sure where you live."

He nodded, as if such things were natural. Then he took a sip of his beer and looked at her, smiling, a thin line of foam on his upper lip. She felt herself smiling.

"What do you call that concoction?" she said, looking at his beer.

"Black and tan."

"Is it good?"

He shook his head. "Too cold here. Doesn't taste like back home. The beer, it's different than I remember."

"Where are you from?"

"Belfast. Grew up there. Moved to Boston when I was nineteen, then to New York City. Brooklyn."

"How long have you lived here? In Armitage?"

He shrugged. "Dunno, really. 'Bout ten years, I'd guess."

She said nothing, sipping her beer and smiling at him. After a few minutes, it seemed clear he wasn't going to say anything without further prompting. Still, he seemed incapable of not answering, so she took the opportunity offered to learn more.

"So you have any girlfriends?"

"No." He looked down in his beer, his cheeks flushing.

"What about Cynthia Holloway?"

"Oh, she's my housekeeper. She cleans up and makes sure I eat and sleep when I'm supposed to."

"She take care of any other needs?"

He looked puzzled, then he smiled. "I suppose so, now that I think about it. She does most of the yard work. I help her sometimes, but she does that, too."

Aimee bit back the laugh. "That's not quite what I meant." He tilted his head. "I mean, does she take care of any of your . . . um . . . more personal needs." Blank stare. "For crying out loud, Sean, have you slept with her? Had sex with her?"

He looked stunned. "No, never . . . she . . . I . . . she's the housekeeper, for crying out loud."

Aimee laughed. "So it never crossed your mind?"

His look told her it hadn't.

"Okay, okay, so you're single. Sorry to be so nosey."

He reached over and placed his hand next to hers. She felt his fingertip on hers, a soft touch before pulling away, then another touch. She lifted her hand and placed it over his, squeezing. "You're not very good at this, are you. At meeting strange women."

"You're not strange," he said. "You're . . . . Well, as me Da used to say, you're a rather comely lass. A veritable vision to behold, you are."

She felt the blush come to her cheeks. "Have I said something wrong?"

"No, Sean, it's just that I think you're a lot better at this than you realize."

A half hour later, they were in Aimee's car. He was staring out the windows at the passing landscape. She glanced over now and again and saw that he was focused on the passing landscape.

"What do you see?"

He continued staring, and she wasn't sure he'd heard her. After a moment, his voice low, he said, "Death. Brown grasses, bare, gnarled, intertwined limbs, craggy bark. All of it going to sleep for the winter, hoping it will be re-born in the spring."

"You do this for a living, don't you? Art, that is. You're an artist."

"I suppose I am."

"That's sort of what I do, too." He turned to her, the surprise evident. "Well, not really. I teach it. To children."

"Really?"

"Yes. That's what my degree is in." She glanced at him, then back to the road. "What's your full name? Maybe I've heard of you."

"Sean Michael Patrick McMahon."

Her eyes went wide. "As in Reflections On A Loss?"

"You've heard of me?"

"Holy shit." She couldn't believe it. Of course she'd heard of him. He was huge, his paintings studied intently in college. She couldn't believe the thin little Irishman next to her, forty or so years old, was the same artist who'd been so influential for at least the past fifteen years. She had no idea why, but she'd always assumed artists, especially the very influential ones, were older, sixties or seventies at least.

She said nothing more, and he turned back to the landscape. She passed the driveway twice before finally finding it and turning in.

As she pulled up, Cynthia was getting in her car. They got out, and Cynthia spoke. "I've made some dinner, something light. There's plenty for the two of you, and the table's set." She smiled.

Aimee was embarrassed. She'd planned this, appeared most anxious that Aimee and Sean spend the evening together. "You . . . you live here. There's no need for you to go. I'm just dropping him off."

Cynthia smiled broadly and shook her head. "Oh no, I've got places to be. You two go in and have something to eat. I'll be home late. And Sean? You behave yourself, okay?"

"Of course, Cynthia," he said. Aimee saw from his look that he was puzzled by her remark. My God, she thought, he's not got a clue, the most socially inept person she'd ever met. He was like a little boy in a man's body. Not mean, not selfish, but completely trusting. He and Tim were polar opposites.

"You hungry?" she asked when they entered.

"Not yet."

"Then would you mind if I saw where you worked?"

He grinned broadly and held out his hand. She took it and followed him. He was almost pulling her down the hallway. "Here it is," he said, opening a door and pulling her in behind him.

It was large, well lit, and had plenty of natural light from oversized windows. Paintings in all stages of completion were scattered throughout the room, both on easels and leaning against the walls. There were at least thirty of them, and she sucked in her breath at the sheer volume of his work.

"Pretty nice, huh?"

She nodded, letting go of his hand and walking to an enormous painting in the corner. It was Cynthia and another woman. Cynthia was curled in a chair, a mask of anguish on her face. The other woman, younger, slightly darker skin, a faint oriental bent to the eyes, was mostly in shadow, but her concern was evident. It was powerful. She understood the pain, felt the concern. The detail was amazing, too. It was as if she could reach into the painting and stroke their hair, unbutton the blouses. But the background, the shading, all lent more than mere photographic realism. There was an extra drama not present in photos, a dark cloud conveyed by the entire composition and execution.

"How did you do this?"

"Dunno, really. I just see it and try to do it. The feeling, right? The emotion of the moment. And I try to convey it."

"How do you know the emotion?"

"I ask them, of course."

She turned. He was looking at the painting as well, a sadness on his face. "So they what? They sit there and you talk to them?"

He shook his head. "They talk to me. I just try to keep them talking is all. Try to learn why they're happy or sad or whatever. As they tell it, they feel it, too."

"What was she telling you?"

"I'm not sure I should . . . ."

"Please, Sean, I have to know." He looked at her and stared deeply into her eyes. He seemed unsure, then she heard a small sigh. He turned back to the painting.

"A couple of months ago, I was painting Elizabeth for the first time. I'd just met her. That one's Elizabeth, by the way." He pointed at the Asian girl. "And we were chatting and I was doing some studies, just sketching her face, features. You know, trying to get her sad, happy, surprised, the whole gamut. It really helps to become familiar with the most minute detail of a person--what kind of eyebrows do they have, is there a peculiar slant to their head, tilt to the jawline."

He took her hand in his and walked to the loungers in the middle of the room. He nodded her into one, and he sat in the other. He turned and faced her. "So we've been at it maybe an hour or two when Cynthia shows up. She was going away for the weekend, but she's back. And she looked really upset. That's when I saw the picture taking shape. So I pulled these two chairs together and had them sit in them, got them the way I wanted. Then I asked Cynthia to tell us what was wrong. To be as specific as possible. So she did, and I painted them, Cynthia telling the story and Elizabeth's response."

Aimee didn't want to push it, but she had to know. "So what was wrong with her?"

"I'm not sure I should-- "

"Did someone die?" He shook his head. "She break up with a boyfriend." He froze. "A husband? Did her husband leave her?"

His eyes were wide, and she smiled inwardly. He couldn't lie to her, and she suddenly felt a twinge of guilt for playing him like this. She overcame that, though, and picked up his hand, pressing it to her lips. "Please, Sean. I know her. And her husband. I know they've separated. I'm just surprised she's upset over it."

He said nothing for a minute. She saw his mind working, his eyes shooting back and forth to the painting and her eyes and her hand around his.

When he finally spoke, he was locked back on the painting, his voice soft and sad. "She cheated on him. That's why they'd separated. She felt bad about it all, about lying to her husband and violating her vows and losing him. She'd just begun coping with her guilt when that night came around. But she ran into him someplace. A pub or a restaurant, I don't remember which. And he was with another woman." Aimee's hand stiffened at this, and he looked at her.

"Please, go on."

He looked at her hand then back to the painting. "Well, she figured he'd moved on already, which hurt her a little. So she approached them, like she was going to confront him. She was hurt, but she knew she had no right to be. Still, she approached them and she and the lady had words."

He was silent, and she tried to get him to finish. "Like what? What happened?"

He looked at her, biting his lip. "She found out the guy she'd been cheating with was married. She didn't know that. Her affair ruined more than just her marriage, it ruined that woman's marriage, too. She felt horrible. I think she still does. She won't talk about it anymore."

He said nothing, looking back to the painting.

Aimee now understood Cynthia had an additional reason to get her with Sean. She looked from the painting to Sean's sad face and decided she didn't care about Cynthia's motivations. His next words jolted her.

"You're the other woman, aren't you? The one whose marriage she wrecked. That's why you left when you saw her." He apparently wasn't as naive as she'd assumed.

"Yes." She took his hand in hers and held it. His dark eyes stared into hers, right through to her soul, she felt. It was unnerving and comforting at the same time, like he could really understand.

"Come on," she said, tugging his arm to break the spell. "Let's not let that dinner she made us go to waste."

* * *

Cynthia's car was in the driveway when David pulled in. He wasn't surprised. After all, she still had the keys. Still, they hadn't yet met here. They'd kept it to public places, places either would feel free to leave.

When he walked in the front door, he smelled the comforting aromas of garlic, basil, tomatoes, and onions.

"Cyn," he called.

"In here," she called back from the kitchen.

He hung up his jacket, kicked his shoes into the closet, and walked into the kitchen. She was breaking some pasta into a large pot of boiling water. He watched her. She moved naturally, easily, and it was as if she'd never left.

"Fifteen minutes," she told him, putting the lid back on the pot and turning to face him, smiling uncomfortably. "Why don't you go change into something more comfortable and come back down. I'll have dinner on the table soon."

He said nothing, only stared. Her uncomfortable look turned to uncertainty. "I'm sorry. If you want me to leave I'll-- "

"No," he said, smiling, "just surprised is all. But you look so . . . I'm just glad you're here." He started unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it from his slacks, and said, "I'll be back."

He saw her relax, then turn and hum something as she put the garlic bread in the oven.

When he reappeared in jeans and a t-shirt, she was tossing the salad. "Let me help you," he said, walking up behind her and reaching around her. He felt her stiffen as he brushed her back, then relax as his hands took the tongs from hers and lifted the bowl over her head.

They ate comfortably, exchanging small talk and catching up on the day's events. When they were done, they lingered over their wine.

"I want this again," he said.

She smiled. "I do, too. I just want to make sure it lasts forever this time, though."

"I know. You keep saying that. But-- "

"But nothing. David, I hurt you. Terribly. I know that. But I don't want you throwing it back in my face five years from now. I'll always feel guilty, you know that. And I know things will never go back to the way they were. Not totally. I'm willing to live with that if you are. We need to make sure that you're not just considering this, that you don't just want this, because you're lonely and afraid to move on. If that's the case, then yes, I'll be devastated, but I'll understand."

"But it is what I want."

She raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.

He was exasperated. "What more do you want? Do you want to talk about it? About the affair?"

"Do you?" she said.

He did. He saw that she realized this, she knew he couldn't get the images from his mind. She was inviting this, seemed to be asking for it. He tried to settle down, get his breathing under control.

"I see the two of you together, all right?"

She placed her hand on his forearm.

"I just, it's . . . . What did you do?"

"I fucked him, David."

"I know, but how? What ways? What did he do that I didn't, have that I didn't?"

"He was there and you weren't. You were buried in your work, and I felt like an afterthought. So he fucked me. I'd blow him sometimes, but usually it was just bend over the hood and bang away. It was never tender. We never made love, just fucked."

"What else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, did he spank you? Anal sex? Anything like that?"

She shook her head. "Just straight ahead bend over and here I come."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"When it was happening? Yes. Afterwards? No. I always felt bad, always guilty. But then I'd get home, and you'd still be gone, and I'd try to wait up or try to get you going the next morning. After four or five days, the guilt would go away and I'd get to the point of looking forward to it again. Then it would all play out, same as before."

"Did it get easier?"

She shook her head. "It got harder. Got to the point I'd have to brace myself with a few drinks first. No, the longer it went on, the worse it got."

"Then why didn't you stop?"

Tears were welling in her eyes. "Because, David, every time I'd look at you, you'd talk to me until you fell asleep, then you'd be in such a rush to get to work. I quit feeling pretty, quit feeling wanted. And every time he pulled me over, the look in his eyes, the energy when he saw me and knew what was coming. I felt wanted again."

He put his hand over hers. "I want you again," he said.

She had the sniffles, tried to smile. "I know you do, but-- "

"No," he said. "I mean right now, right here. I want you, and I don't want to wait."

He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips, kissing her palm.

"David this isn't . . . I'm not sure we're ready for this yet."

He ignored her, pushing back his chair and walking around the table to her. She sat there, watching him approach, her arm swinging around with her palm still glued to his mouth. He pulled her from the chair, and she followed. He stepped backward, guiding them to the adjacent living room. Then he fell back on the sofa, pulling her down to him, and his arms went around her waist and held her tightly.

His lips found hers, and he could taste the salty tears. She was mumbling that they shouldn't do this, but he ignored the mumbles, running his tongue along her lips. Her mumbles ceased and her lips pressed harder against his, her tongue seeking out his. They kissed long and deep. Comfortable kisses, passionate kisses, urgent kisses, each responding to the other as years of intimacy had taught them the other's signals and needs.

His hand reached down and squeezed her ass, pulling her tighter to him. She responded by sliding a hand up under his shirt, running it over his belly and ribs, feeling him. Her kisses became more urgent, and he felt her hips swaying over his hardness. He felt her hands tugging at his nipples, and he groaned lightly through their kiss.

Her lips left his and traveled to his neck. "It's been so long," he said, feeling her heat, her hot breath in his ear just before her teeth sucked in his earlobe. "I'm not going to last very long."

Her hot breath blew into his ear again. "Then I want you to fuck me the first time," she said, "and make love to me the next."

He pushed her up roughly, grabbing the hem of her blouse and jerking it over her head. Her pelvis started grinding hard into his. He could see the sparkle in her eyes, the tears gone now, and she reached back and unclasped her bra. He leaned in, the cup lowering beneath his chin, and her upturned breast filling his mouth as he sucked her in.

"Yes," she hissed. He felt her hands go to his shirt and pull it up. His face broke contact as she pulled his arms up and the shirt over his head. Then she grabbed the back of his head and pulled him back to her, mashing her breasts into his face. The bra had slipped from one shoulder and was dangling by the other, and this gave him an idea.

He pulled it off, sucking over her breasts and nipping at her nipples. With his hands he sought hers and, finding them, held them together.

"What're you doing, baby?" she said. It wasn't fear or confusion he was hearing, though, but excitement.

"Did he ever do this?" David asked, looping the bra around her wrists and securing her hands in a tight knot.

"Oh my God," she said, throwing her arms over his neck. Her pelvis was running the length of his cock now, pushing through the fabric of their jeans and grinding into him. "No, never. I've never been tied up before by anyone. What're you going to do to me?"

She was inflamed. He could hear the excitement, and he decided to take it to the next level. "Whatever the fuck I wanna do." He grabbed her ribs and swung her off of him, sat her on the couch, and undid her pants.

"You're mine now, and I'm going to take whatever I want."

She nodded, holding her tied hands high above her and lifting her hips as he pulled off her pants and panties.

"And what I want to do right now," he said, grabbing underneath and squeezing her asscheeks, pulling her forward to the edge of the couch, "is eat your pussy until you beg me to stop." He dove in, sucking her lips into his mouth and driving his tongue deep within her. She wasn't yet fully aroused, but he could feel her juices start to seep out and onto his face, heat beginning to build and radiate. He heard her quickened panting, and he broke contact. "Then, when you beg me to stop, I'm going to do it some more."

She leaned her head back, keeping her arms outstretched above her, and arched her hips up. "Yes, David. Whatever you want. Anything."

Her feet were on the floor, her legs spread lifting her hips from the couch and into him, pushing into his face and his tongue. One of his hands squeezed her ass as it clenched and unclenched with her grinding, and the other went up to her breasts and pulled at her nipples, squeezing her breasts. This wasn't rough, but it was gentle, either. Rather, it was urgency, the needs of both of them that had built up over the previous months.

"Oh yes, baby, please keep going," she said, her breath quickening. He felt her hands come down and encircle his head, pulling his face in closer and smearing his cheeks with her wetness.

After a moment, just as he felt her getting close, he backed away and slipped under the loop of her arms. He grabbed her wrist and raised it back over her head. "I'm in charge."

She whimpered in response, nodding and keeping her hands above her head. Her breasts were stretched taut, and he leaned in and sucked on them, lashing them with his tongue and sucking in the skin. He looked back and saw small, faint marks appear. Holy fuck, he thought, I haven't given anyone a hickey since high school.