Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

It happened at exactly 2:00 P.M. while Nona del Villan was in her downstairs chamber with  Celine Garmand, the bleached blonde woman that occupied the chair across from Nona every Thursday afternoon. Celine smelled of Chanel #5 and cigarettes, neither of which were Nona’s favorite aromas. Celine needed guidance in every aspect of her life, from what she should eat for breakfast that would not puff her face or bloat her thin stomach, to why her son, Charles, Jr., doesn’t call her often enough, to why it is that Charles, Sr., her husband of almost twenty years is often late getting home from work.

Even though Nona reassured Celine that she did not look bloated, that she was a good mother but Charles, Jr. had his own life, and that Charles, Sr. might have been having an affair with someone from his office, but that Celine would be an absolute fool to worry about it and risk giving up her comfy-cozy lifestyle that afforded her so many perks including the ability to be able to see a well-qualified psychic on a weekly basis, Celine persisted with her self-doubt.  Nona loved people like Celine because they put her favorite La Brea Bakery Crusty Olive and Onion Loaf on her table.

It happened when Beau was standing in the garden of his mother’s home practicing his Qi Gong routine that he was following to seek healing for the problem that he had that he never opened up about to anyone that might know anyone that might know him. The gentle, repetitive movements of Qi Gong exercises transported Beau into a place, a kingdom where he was relaxed and in charge. He could feel the rhythms of his breath as he changed his positions ever so gradually. He could feel a connection to the sunrays that were lapping at his cool skin and infusing the grass with energy to sip nutrients from the soil and reach towards the sky, each blade in unison. He was no longer the man who lived at his mom’s house under the guise that he was taking care of her. She was elderly, and spoiled, having been a starry-eyed siren of the big screen at the time when films were just beginning to talk.  She probably did need Beau with her, if for no other reason than to have someone to reminisce with, but everyone who knew Beau suspected that there was something that they didn’t know about him. There was a deep, dark and sinister secret that Beau held. It was the thing that made him run from healer to healer in the ocean of quirky healers that occupied the far West side of Los Angeles, wasting tons of the family fortune looking for small miracles, well, no, the one small miracle that would free him from the prison that his secret created.

It happened at the moment that Edgar went outside to the rose garden and turned around in a circle three times and placed his butt under the shade of the lavender rose bush and began to take a dump.  He crinkled his smushy bulldog face up even further than it naturally was and gave a good grunt to make sure he got the job thoroughly done.

It was at that precise moment that Silvana Del Villan Von Sasse woke up. She had woken up before during the years since her husband, Frederick, had passed away, but at those times, it was mostly to find a more comfortable position or take another pill to make her sleep. But today at the exact moment that the clock struck two, Silvana rose up to sitting position suddenly, and had no deep-seeded need to lie back down. So she sat in her bed, her eyes staring at the wall of her bedroom, out of practice at noticing details. Everything seemed blurry and unreal, but it was gradually pulsing towards a finer level of focus. Silvana, having been a designer in her career, had always loved details. She was also a stickler for symmetry and straight lines, A crooked picture hanging on the wall could set her off kilter and into a soliloquy about pet peeves.

Whatever had been the reasons that Silvana had gone down for her big sleep, they were not apparent to her now. Her husband had been dead for a long time, and any feelings she had of missing him were not surfacing at the moment. The reasons she had felt depressed, unsure if she wanted to go on really didn’t seem very important on this afternoon which Silvana would have realized was bright and balmy if she would have bothered to get up and crank the roll-a-shield open. After sitting for a few moments longer, the darkness began to cloak her. It was helping to hide the details that Silvana had once loved to surround herself with. She wanted to let the sunlight flow in, watch the particles dance through it in midair, an experience she had not had for nearly a decade. She wanted to take a shower. A really good,let-the-water-fall-on-your-head-and-melt-your-muscles-take-away all-the-worries-of-the-world-shower. She couldn’t decide what she should do first, and this could have been a dangerous thing, because being faced with a decision could have made Silvana just give up and throw the covers back over her head.  It could have been the end of her waking state, but instead, Silvana considered her options and decided that a little light flowing into the room would make it much easier to find her way to the shower.

It was not that she hadn’t taken a shower during her big sleep, although they might not have been as frequent as they would have been if she had been feeling more herself, but today, she was the one initiating it. Her mother did not have to come into her room and coax her to do it. Silvana adjusted the hot and the cold water as if she was used to doing it frequently. Maybe it was sort of like riding a bike. She shed her dingy nightgown and stepped into the stall. The tiny drops of water fell on her head, just as she had imagined. They began to erase the twinge of a headache that existed near her forehead. They washed  away days and days of inertness as they began to penetrate her skin cells and plump them with much needed hydration.

It was funny, Silvana thought, how much life depended on water, as she watched the water that had rolled down her body now head for the dark holes of the drain before continuing on its journey out to the sewer. Water, even in its most filthy forms, even as mud, could manage to help some organism live.

Silvana had never been one of those women who would get excited over scents of any kind, but she could appreciate the feeling of freshness the soap left on her after it was washed away. It left a residue on her skin that seemed to be burrowing inside, traveling through her neural pathways and awakening her to her very core. She hadn’t felt this alive, well, in the decade since Frederick died.

Nona Del Villan was not often taken by surprise, but when she encountered Silvana dressed in clothing instead of a robe, drinking a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, she looked as if she was seeing an apparition.

Hello, mother.
Silvana. My dear, how is your coffee?
Aren’t you going to ask me anything more than about my coffee.
No, I expect that you don’t even know yet why you are sitting here. I will give you some time to figure things out, dear.

Silvana sipped slowly, savoring the warm hazelnut flavor mixed with the strong Italian blend. It was strange, Silvana thought, how people like to make bold coffee, and then they enjoyed covering up that strength with creamy whiteness and globs of sugar that if not stirred correctly would just collect at the bottom and leave the coffee more bitter than was enjoyable.  A good, robust shot of espresso could be like a drug, she decided, though not the kind of drug that she preferred. It was enough that she was experimenting with being awake. She did not want to feel jittery and nervous about it.

As she sat and stirred and sipped, she thought of Frederick. He liked his coffee milky and sweet. She had always been more of a black coffee drinker when she was married. As a widow, she wasn’t sure yet, but she was trying this new thing, this Hazelnut creamer, and it was quite good.

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

Andrea. this is horribly good. Sorry,  I know that's an odd choice of word, but I mean it in that kind of way I feel about some novelists I pick and and devour and dash the book down, thinking “I'll never be able ever to write like that, I should give up right now”. I won't give up of course, and I don't want you to spend an iota of time 'consoling' me, ok? I'm saying all this to make sure you know how good this is. Several times I paused and thought, I don't want to read this now, on my computer screen, when I'm tired, I want to do it justice and read the published thing in my hands lying comfortably in bed.

Fabulous, all of it.

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

Me thinks you have a winner here, Andrea.  I'll admit to feeling a little confused in the beginning but by paragraph four you had me, hook,line and sinker.  I kept grinning as I read, delighted!  Oh, I hope you find time to continue even though you're going through so much right now.  Don't put this one on the back burner, not for long anyway.  God, I really missed reading you.  Remember that time we were both having a writing marathon and we always made sure to read one another even when it got long and lengthy and everyone else quit reading?  I'm game to read as many words as you've got.
Hugs & Kisses & Loves

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

I really liked this Andrea - I hope that you will be able to post more. It's so good. I want to read it all - every word, drink it in, enter fully into this world. It's like looking into the window and seeing everything right there. amazing really! more more

xo

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

It's good all right. I was a bit confused at first too, but then I really liked how the story went on, with Silvana's awakening, the slow way it was moved into, the slow unwrapping of details about her life, about why her awakening should have assumed the importance it obviously did. The details really are scrumptious. I loved the paragraph about coffee, ways people drink their coffee, particularly.

… She had always been more of a black coffee drinker when she was married. As a widow, she wasn’t sure yet, but she was trying this new thing, this Hazelnut creamer, and it was quite good.

Love that, not quite sure why yet, unless it's because an awakened widow is a sort of new person, so of course would want to try different ways of doing things to see what fitted in her new life.

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

Well, I am just amazed that you all took your time away from writing your own beautiful pieces to read mine. Thank you, truly. I am not surprised that you were confused, Ruth and Ayla, at the beginning because it is not the “beginning” but way up into the 18,000 words area of the story, about chapter 6 or so. Believe me, all of the characters have been introduced earlier on, so that doesn't trouble me. Not one bit, and I'm glad you mentioned it. There are many characters in this story, a circus event of a tale.

Also, at the beginning of this next excerpt, there is a bit of telling what happened in the character's day, and it's there as a recap. I think it's necessary, but who knows in the end.

Lady for a Day (cont'd)

At exactly 2:00, Charisse, who was glowing as she watched the steamy frames of this Mexican movie with subtitles chug through the loops and across the lens of her projector, felt a lump in her throat. For a woman who had begun her day too early when the phone rang in the middle of the night with her ex –boyfriend on the other end, begging her to return, and then moved on to an early morning flirtation with the next-door neighbor over a flat tire and daydreams of romance novel covers, to a mid-morning meeting with the man that she had fallen in love with while watching him be interviewed on TV, she had no idea why that lump in her throat had formed. It was anxiety, for sure, and possibly a premonition that something was about to go terribly wrong, but it wasn’t defined. She tried to ignore the muscles tensing in her back by immersing herself into the movie even farther, cutting Lupe Velez out of the picture entirely and casting herself as the heroine. When she did this, she the quickly realized that she could also replace Antonio Carril with his grandson, who was presently older than he was at the time of his death.


Charisse had created a fantasy world in almost an instant, and soon, she had forgotten all about that uncomfortable tightening in her throat. She stared at Antonio Carril’s face, those same penetrating eyes. She imagined the smell of him, tequila and sweat and of course, horse, since he had just ridden back from town. There was another smell, his smell, very personal and all man. Even through all of the layers of scents the day had heaped upon him, she knew that up close, there was a lingering fragrance of clean about him. Yes, he would wash up nicely, Charisse assured herself.

Antonio Carril’s grandson had left her office just a few hours before. She still did not know very much about him, except for the fact that he was a mayor of an out-of-the-way California desert town. The town was the setting of his grandfather’s last movie, and he looked like a dead ringer for his handsome movie star grandfather. When she asked him his name, he handed her a business card that read Gabriel A. Carril. She wondered if the name had been shortened from Carrillo, and if so, why? Was it because that was business as usual during the classic studio era in Hollywood? She wasn’t sure if it was a shame or not, to change a family name. She only knew that it had lasting repercussions, stripping future generations of their true identities and instead providing them with a more acceptable, generalized, maybe even sanitized form of a name. Or maybe a made-up name that just sounded good to some studio exec.

She also wondered what it was about the film that was so important to the town that Gabriel A. Carril mayored. She could tell by the way that he rationed his smiles that he was a serious man, and so his desire to have the movie restored had to have very important reasons driving it. He hadn’t seen fit to tell her that much yet, but he had promised before leaving that he would be in touch, and that soon, everything would be explained. For right now, he just wanted her to work the film into her schedule. He, of course, had no idea how easy that would be since Charisse and all of her colleagues with the exception of Azure, the tour guide, were unfortunately only working a four day week. So, Charisse’s Fridays would be dedicated to the film, “Milagro de la Tierra.”  She wasn’t even sure if she was going to be getting paid for her work, as Mr. Silverman had clearly told her not to worry about those small details at this point. However, there was so much about this project that made Charisse not care at all about compensation, the most obvious of reasons was that as long as she was working on restoring the film, she would be in contact with Gabriel Carril, the miracle man who had popped out of the television and onto the museum stairs.

In her car, on the way home that evening, she continued to replay the day from the moment that Gabriel Carril had caught her attempting to meditate in the middle of the boardroom table. There was something about him, and there she was, going back to Tesla and the theory of electromagnetism, but she really felt a pull towards him. It was so strong. She didn’t know how she managed to be in a dark room with the man without locking the door and tearing his clothes off. He made her go weak at the knees. It was an expression that she had never really understood until today when her legs felt like lasagne noodles in his presence. Only once before had she experienced noodle-legs and that was at the ice skating rink on the evening she had an unfortunate anxiety attack and forgot forever how to balance on the ice. Since, she had gone back several times, usually shortly after the winter Olympics, to try to regain her confidence, and she had managed to get on the ice and skate around once while holding onto the sides as much as she could, but she was not about to regain the talent she exhibited in the 4th grade when she was the only one in her Girl Scout troop who had an aptitude for skating a figure 8 and doing simple jumps.

The 10 freeway had been fairly clear this evening, as was the tunnel that marked the beginning of the Pacific Coast Highway.  Charisse enjoyed the PCH always, as she sniffed the salty seaweed-laden smell of the ocean. She was sure that in some other lifetime she had been a siren of the sea or the sad wife of a fisherman who never returned after a sullen storm swept his boat away in early November. She had always had pictures floating in her head of a small New England fishing village where painted wood signs marked the Main Street businesses, and the docks were filled with men in rubber boots and nets full of the daily catch and life preservers with names like “Betty Jean” printed in red were fastened to fishing boats of all shapes and ages. She had a memory of a light house, of waiting there, the waves crashing harder and harder into the rocks below, and the misty salt-air rising up from the sea like upside-down rain which met the pouring rain that was falling and concerned her so that she had decided to just wait there for the boat she wanted to return to be seen on the horizon. This was not her life. She had not even been past New York, no less to New England, but it was a life she remembered with vivid realism, and she had no idea why.

She had even asked her grandmother, the great Iolanda Del Villan, renown psychic to the rich and famous that resided West of the 405 freeway, why she had these memories. She knew by the far away look that would cloud her grandmother’s grayish brown eyes and the way her lower lip would quiver ever so slightly that she knew the reasons. Yet, her answer was always the same.  “They are your visions and eventually their meaning will unravel for you. For me, I am not sure.”
“Have we ever lived in New England?”
Nona would always turn her head, her posture so perfectly straight, giving herself this austere presence. She seemed untouchable somehow.
“Have I ever lived in New England?” Charisse would continue, softer, almost embarrassed to persist.

Charisse did not have to think about where she was going to get there. Her car probably would have made the wide right turn and continued up the curvy route into Pacific Palisades without any help from her at all, since she had grown up there, and classic cars had long memories. She did not have to count the streets she passed to know where to turn, even though one overly landscaped and gated manse could have the tendency to look just like the next. She was accustomed to pulling her car in and parking it under the shade of the Meyer lemon tree that her father had planted for her when she was four years old. She knew that it was exactly 77 steps from her parking spot over the driveway and up the walkway to the front door. She remembered each paving stone that wobbled, and the ones that were cracked by earthquakes or shriveled during  El Nino years.

She knew what it was like to walk into the tomb of a home that her family kept even though it’s usefulness at this point as a place to “live” seemed doubtful. She understood why the structure hated light, and kept cool even in the most agitatedly humid days of August when the Santa Ana winds liked to bang into town and perform their haunting song and dance.  She had decided long ago that if she was ever left this house in her mother’s will, she would sell it’s cold and foreboding miserableness and never look back.

As she stuck the key in the hole to unlock the overbearing front door, the lump in her throat suddenly returned. Something was wrong, not right at all, and she wished way down to the pit of her stomach that she had the powers that Nona Del Villan possessed, because she didn’t know what it was, and she didn’t want to walk into a disaster blindly.

The foyer was dark and painted with looming shadows, one cast across another, layers of them so deep that Charisse could hardly force herself to cross into the great room. It was dark, too, but in a much more pitiful way. Here was the room that her parents used to throw their big parties in. She could not name the big names of the people that had been in this room, and now, here it waits, sad, forgotten, wondering if anyone will ever come and drink and dance and romance inside of it again. These walls could talk, fill the pages of the Hollywood Reporter, only no one came to listen anymore. The quietness Charisse passed through felt deafening.

She began down the hall, but from somewhere, maybe the place where she was about to go out of her mind, she could feel this beat, these faraway strains of Rosemary Clooney, “Hey, mambo. Mambo Italiano.
She stopped, froze. Nothing. She listened for several seconds. Nothing.
So she stepped. “Hey mambo, don’t wanna tarantella. Hey mambo, no more a mozzarella.”
She stopped. There was laughter and clinking of glasses. There was so much more than she heard at first. It wasn’t even Rosemary Clooney, it was Dean Martin, and beyond that, it was a remix so it started and stopped and scritched and scratched in an infectious way. Maybe it was Marlon playing around. Charisse raced toward the family room. She didn’t know why it was important to her, but not even Edgar had met her at the door this evening, and there was the matter of that lump in her throat. 

At the entrance to the family room, Charisse eyed the coffee table, bottles of wine and a spread of fried cheeses and mushrooms and baskets of breads and boxes of pizza. In a bowl in front of Edgar, who appeared to be passed out, was a deep red substance, probably a chianti or marsala.

Marlon Brandon was dressed like a boy for once, although she couldn’t go as far as to say a man. He was cutting a rug with Nona Del Villan who was laughing and smiling, even singing the chorus, her web-like long hair freed from its bun and twirling wildly as Marlon dipped her and pulled her back again. Maybe Charisse had seen her grandmother smile at a wedding or a birthday party occasionally, she thought. She couldn’t give an exact instance. Marlon’s parents, Mauro Silvestri O’Quinn and Stefania Del Villan O’Quinn were enveloped by the overstuffed sofas, their legs wrapped around each other suggestively, as if their attraction was as strong as the first day they met. On the opposite sofa sat – oh, wow. This was the reason for the lump. It had to be. Her mother was awake, now, after all of these years after her dad died, and all of the years before that she blamed on her nervous breakdown. Years upon years when Charisse wanted to ask her what to wear on her first date, or what she should study in college, or what she should do because Mark wouldn’t consummate their relationship and her biological clock kept right on ticking.  Now, the woman was awake, and smiling and laughing as everyone was. Even Dean Martin seemed to be having fun singing about having an enchilada and a fish baccala, that was, until she walked in. It was Marlon who noticed her first, and he tapped his Nona on the shoulder and pointed, and then it was like the needle scratched across the record. It was startling, uncomfortable, and everything stopped.

“What are you doing here?” Silvana asked, surprised to see her daughter.

The looks on everyone’s faces, mouths gaping, unsure of what to say or do made Charisse want to cry. She reached down and hoisted her drunken bulldog into her arms, and wiped her nose, which had started to run like a two-year-old childs, and felt her cheeks burning from the inside out.

“I really don’t know,” Charisse replied, and she meant it. She wouldn’t stay to crash their celebration. Her feet wouldn’t let her. She couldn’t wait to get out of there and down the hall and lock her door and call Mark and ask if she could come back home. How could she talk to a mother who abandoned her without even really leaving? How could she mend a rift as wide as the Mediterranean Sea?

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

I know it's hard to find the time to read these exceprts, but I  am going to post it anyway, just in case anyone has time to offer a little feedback or support.

Day 11 - Evening writing


The museum lobby was filled with warm beams of sunlight entering through the highest windows and crossing each other in strong chiseled blocks that seemed carved by an art deco artist. Even though there was a definite chill in the air that morning, it couldn’t be felt inside the building.

Charisse removed her jacket and strode through the spacious room. Azure was there, at her station, waiting for enough visitors to gather for the first tour. She was involved in deep conversation with a dark-haired man. Not unusual for Azure. Men loved her for her blonde hair and stereotypical ditziness. She was like a playboy bunny with a degree in film history and criticism.
“Good morning, Azure Skye.”
“Oh, Charisse. There she is.”
Charisse had continued walking, but she stopped, cringed, and did not turn around. There was something about Azure’s ‘there she is’ that told Charisse the dark-haired gentleman was waiting for her, and really, this morning, she had no desire to have anyone waiting for her. It was so Garboesque, but she couldn’t resist.
“I want to be alone, Azure.”
She heard footsteps rushing towards her, male footsteps judging by the weight and the sound when the shoe hit the tile.
“Charisse.”
It was Mark’s voice. She was supposed to call Mark yesterday, her brain flashed to her, in between the flat tire and the romance novel and the Mexican movie and the mother returning from the depths. It really was her fault he was here. Worse than that, he put his hands on her shoulders and ever so tenderly turned her around. Then he smiled. When Mark smiled, his hazel-blue eyes turned down like a sad puppy’s. And they sparkled in such an enticing way. He got these wrinkles that ran down the sides of his chiseled cheekbones, and his slightly buck teeth broke the aura of perfection just enough to give him a quality of humanness. Humanness as opposed to looking like one of those faces off the cover of a GQ Magazine.  When Mark smiled at her, her heart always melted like a puddle of sweet dark chocolate. Nothing had changed.

“Mark,” she objected under her breath as he maneuvered her over to an alcove in the corridor.
“I’ve missed you,” he pulled her close, so close that she couldn’t breathe and she thought she might die until he put his hand on the back of her neck to support her head, and he bent her over almost halfway to kiss her the way they did in the movies. Charisse’s left foot slid up her right leg, in that famed Hollywood style. Mark pulled her upright, and wrapped her up with him inside of his jacket. It was flocked inside and tweedy outside, and smelled musty-good all over. She felt faint.
“Can you get the day off?” Mark asked. “I want to talk to you. Make things up to you.
I just want to be with you.”
Charisse couldn’t find words. She wasn’t sure what he meant, and when she looked into his eyes she became even more confused. He looked at her with the level of infatuation that they had for each other in high school. Could it be ‘be with you’ meant just that? Did he mean he was going to do it with her? She looked at him again, and he winked, and she was pretty sure even though she was really lost whenever anyone threw a pass.
“I can’t really afford to take a day off. We’re only working…”
Charisse heard a noise that sounded like a buzzer going off on a game show when the contestant gives a wrong answer. She looked over Mark’s shoulder and noticed that Irma and Azure were both there, watching every scorching detail of this tete a tete, and not agreeing with the answer she had given.
“Uhhh, let me ask.”
“Ding,” she surmised it was Irma. It could have been God. She wasn’t sure.
“I’ve already asked,” Mark admitted. “I made reservations someplace special.”
“For lunch?”
“We can start with lunch.”
The room became a merry-go-round, funky carousel music and all. She couldn’t get off. The scenery was coming by too fast. Mark held her and she felt completely protected. She wanted to go with him, but she wanted to be in control, to gain her sea legs. The spinning prevented it. It was impossible. She would have to follow his lead, completely vulnerable, and trust him to take care of her until she could regain her senses.

Lunch was food served amidst a garden of drooping tendrils of flowers and slightly overgrown greenery that kept effusing scents that made her woozy. He fed her the food, and she fed him, and she still could not make sense of any of it. He put butter on it, spread the knife suggestively over it. She watched. She knew that much. He wanted her to drink the glass of wine, but he lifted a glass of ice water to her lips first, maybe because she was smoldering and he could see that. She wasn’t sure.
“Mark, where are we?”
“Here,” he offered, “together.”
That was helpful. Soon, people in white shirts came and took away the food that he was taunting her with, that she was offering him and he was biting playfully. Soon, the candle had been extinguished and the flowers were winking at her, and Mark was telling her  something about their next stop. It was right here somewhere. Just down the path. He knew the way. He didn’t need a trail of breadcrumbs. They strolled, and she felt like she had drank all the wine, though she had barely sipped, and his hazel-blue eyes echoed in the colors of the pool and the waterfalls they passed.
There were white double doors with fancy French doorknobs, and he magically waved a card and opened them. Flowers from the garden had danced into the room and landed in baskets that trimmed each surface. There was a couch and a TV and a nice Louis XVI chairs flanking a table draped in gorgeous floral chintz.
“This is nice, Mark. Are we in Beverly Hills?”
“Bel Aire.”
She felt herself being lifted off her feet, floating, no, being carried through a set of louvered double doors with more French door handles. There was a bed with a carved white (oh Lord!) rococo headboard and as he dropped her into it and she bounced once or twice, she figured the most fluffy, heavenly bed clothing she had ever experienced.
“I bought you something,” Mark removed a gift box from the bedside table.
Charisse began pinching herself in inconspicuous places as Mark handed it to her, and then eagerly helped her untie the ribbon. It was lingerie, and it was beautiful, and an amazing purplish-blue just a few shades lighter but just as rich as the blue dress.
“Are you going to change?”
Charisse nodded, now sure of what was happening, though still walking through a state of disbelief. She wasn’t sure if today was like a painting by Salvador Dali or a song on a classic Beatles album, but she knew it was weird, in the best sense of the word.

The teddy fit perfectly. Mark knew her body. He knew her style. She emerged from the changing room to find him clad only in one of the hotel’s terry cloth robes. He led her to the bed, and he climbed in right after her. He kissed her , at first tenderly and then passionately, and then he began to feel her body, her breasts.
“I’ve always liked your breasts.”
“Thank you,” she guessed was a good answer.
He continued to explore and she let him, then she touched him and he didn’t pull away like he had done so many times before. She could feel his heart pumping and she knew he wanted her, finally, after all these years. It was real. It was time. He slid her lacy purpley-blue undies off and he was ready. This was it. She closed her eyes. She separated her legs. She imagined what it would feel like. She waited. She felt him. It felt good, kind of, but too soft, and …
“Oh, no.”
He lost his erection.
God, what have I done to deserve this? I have loved Mark for so many years, and now, now that I’m not sure that I really do love him anymore, I want to know what it would have been like. Please, dear God, please. Give me a chance. God, do I sound tragically pitiful?
“Let’s just wait a while, Reesie.”
Charisse wanted to cry because she knew that it was something about her that wouldn’t let Mark fuck her, and she wanted him so badly.
“Please, Reese. Don’t be mad.”
“It’s o.k., Mark.”
She caressed his chest until he turned to the other side.
“It’s o.k.” She knew it wasn’t
She felt herself getting sleepy, and she wondered how she might wake up. Would he be here with her or would he be gone, evacuated? Maybe she shouldn’t even close her eyes, but she had to. She was coming down off of such an emotional high, and she felt drained.

It was hard not to sleep comfortably with such luxurious bedding swaddling her, She could feel Mark, feel his chest rising and falling against her, he was holding her, gently, naturally, like he used to. It felt old-shoe comfortable. Maybe this is what marriage was like – supposed to be like – maybe at it’s best, you could feel this tenderness between two people who really loved each other. But Charisse couldn’t bear to think of the reasons why Mark could screw any other female thing with legs that spread, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it with her. No matter how many times everyone, including Mark, assured her that it was his problem, completely his trip, she always felt the need to take responsibility. At least share it.

Maybe she needed to go through a regression back to high school when Robert Barbagiovanni used to pick her up in his convertible muscle car and head out to a secluded Malibu beachside alcove where he could screw her brains out in the back seat. What had changed about her? Sex was supposed to come easy. Love was what was hard. Why did she have to do everything backwards?

When she woke, it was getting dark, and she no longer felt Mark’s breathing beside her. She knew he was gone and she despised him for it. At least if he would have stayed and they could have talked about it. She felt naked inside and out. Her eyes were crying inward, but she just felt to spent to actually go through the motions. She had cried over this so many times before.

Then she remembered that Mark had driven her, and she wasn’t even sure where to. How would she ever get home? She lifted the telephone receiver and dialed “0.”
“Front Desk.”
“Yes, front desk where?”
“Hotel Bel Aire.”
Charisse hung up the phone. Mark had laid out a load of bills for this spread. Now she knew he had really tried. How embarrassing. He must have been feeling his own devastation. Well, she wasn’t going to let his investment in her go to waste. She picked up the phone once more and dialed her mother’s phone number.
“May I speak to Marlon?”
When all else failed, she knew she could rely on her flaming cousin, her absolute best friend. He would come to her rescue, and if she made it sound devastating enough, he might even bring multiple flavors of ice cream with him. The ultimate comfort food.
“Marlon,” she sniffled. “Mark abandoned me at the Hotel Bel Aire. Can you come?”
She never had any doubt.

“What happened?” Irma’s message played on Charisse’s cell phone. Azure and I want all the details. Charisse, call us.”

“Charisse, I am so happy for you. By now, you must not be a vegan anymore.” Lord, Azure. Vegan?  “I mean virgin anymore, Well, not that you were, but a Mark virgin, I mean. Just call me.”

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

Andrea. So, so, good. Exciting. Interesting. Different. I love this world. I love that things don't pan out as they should.. oh that sex scene.. just great. It feels seamless, a world I can get lost in. Complicated, all these people, but I don't find this offputting, as I feel sure I'll get to know all of them all in good time. And just great character notes: she was like a playboy bunny with a degree in film history and criticism.

The only place I stumbed was Marlon's name. Given the setting and some of the subject matter, I read it as Marlon Brando… and had to go back to find out it wasn't. But maybe this is deliberate, maybe he's trying to have people make that link. They all have fabulous names: Nona Del Villan …

Feels like this is on a roll, Andrea. Great stuff, really.

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

Sandra, I know. There are a lot of kooky characters. I'm sure you would get to know them all if you read (and I finished) the novel.

Yes, he is named after Marlon Brando. Charisse is named after Cyd Charisse. It's a story about Hollywood misfits of sorts, and even the chapter titles are names of films.

Thank you so much for reading it.

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

I stumbled in the same place that Sandra did.  I really never quite figured out what was going on there but as you say, if we had the whole story it would be different, we're just getting excerpts. 
Loved the steam scene.  I could just feel those luxurious sheets and I really didn't even care when, well, when things went limp, I just wanted to curl up in the bed and take a nap like Charisse.  Of course, what in the world could be the problem with this guy?  Very interested to find out. 
My favorite line (well one of many) -She could tell by the way that he rationed his smiles that he was a serious man,
Crazy and kooky but so much fun!
Love you!

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

Yes, he is named after Marlon Brando. Charisse is named after Cyd Charisse. It's a story about Hollywood misfits of sorts, and even the chapter titles are names of films.

God. Of course!! Slapping forehead. This is why I want to read it in my hands, in bed, with the night before me and my brain unscrambled… :-)