The Cavalier's Mistress : A Dark Romance

I nodded to Marge, the waitress, as I slid into my usual booth in my usual lunchtime diner.

“The usual?” She asked as she stood poised with her pen above the pad.

I nodded. “You know me, Marge. The fewer decisions I have to make, the better I like it.”

Marge nodded. “BLT, low-fat mayo, fruit salad on the side, ice tea,” she recited as she wrote. “Whatcha’ readin’ today?” she asked as I pulled my latest paperback romance out of my purse. If it were anyone else, I’d hesitate. I’d learned early in my career that people looked askance at holders of master’s degrees in Medieval and Renaissance Studies who read torrid historical romances, but Marge shared my love of bodice-rippers.

“The Cavalier’s Mistress,” I responded. I showed her the cover, which depicted a voluptuous young woman with flowing black hair in a peasant blouse and peasant skirt leaning back in the arms of a dark-haired man with rippling chest muscles visible through the open front of his peasant shirt. Historical accuracy was never a consideration in the cover art of this genre, but that poetic license was what appealed to me. I had enough of historical accuracy in my professional life. I craved adventure, excitement, and even danger in my fantasy world.

She sighed. “It looks so romantic. Too bad there aren’t men like that around anymore. Least, I can’t seem to meet any.”

I laughed, “Me, either,” I replied ungrammatically, but honestly. Although, being neither voluptuous nor particularly young, with lank mousy hair, I was unlikely to attract any men like that if I were to meet them. But a girl can dream, can’t she?

I opened the book and once again lost myself in the fictional passion and enchantment of an imagined seventeenth-century until Marge arrived with my lunch. As I ate, I pondered the assignment I’d been given that morning. I’d looked blank when my boss, the museum curator, asked me to create an exhibit to celebrate the four-hundredth anniversary of Felipe Sotelo Osorio becoming governor of New Mexico under Spain.

“Felipe who?” I’d asked.

She’d laughed. “That’s the reason for the exhibit! No one has heard of him today, but he was quite the celebrity back then. Apparently, he was the bad boy of the governors. He was even accused of heresy before the Inquisition in Mexico City.”

“Really?!” Now I was intrigued. I liked the sound of ‘the bad boy of the governors.’ Maybe my fantasy life and my professional life were about to intersect. “What happened? Was he burned at the stake?” I had tried not to sound too hopeful.

She’d smiled as she shook her head. “No, the accusations were made in 1628 and he was governor until 1630. I would like the focus to be on the charges of heresy, though, as that’s what makes him different from the other Spanish governors.” She’d handed me a sheaf of papers. “These are copies of the original accusations, along with a translation.”

“Good. My Spanish is not bad, but that antique handwriting … I couldn’t even read it if it were in English. I’m sure I’ll find something in here to inspire me.”

“What’s important is that you make him come alive for today’s visitors. You only have to fill the one case — armor, weapons, that kind of thing — and provide explanatory text, of course.”

That was going to be the real challenge, making a short-term governor from four hundred years ago ‘come alive’ for a modern audience. I’d spend the afternoon reading through the transcripts of the accusations and, with any luck, inspiration would strike.

***

My eyes were heavy, my brain felt fuzzy, and my head ached when I got to the museum the next day. I’d had a hard time getting to sleep, ideas about how to make Sotelo “come alive” running through my mind. And then I’d awakened just a few hours later, sweating and terrified and tangled in the sheets. My heart was racing and I was breathing rapidly and shallowly as strains of vaguely familiar guitar music faded away. I knew that I’d been dreaming, but I couldn’t recall anything other than that the dream had frightened and excited me, all at the same time. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, so I got up and tried to read another of my romances, but it hadn’t help. This time, I found the charming rogue who attempted to seduce the virginal heroine more genuinely dangerous than titillating.

After I dropped off my purse at my desk, I headed for my boss’s office. The door was open, so I knocked and walked in.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

I groaned. “Not sure there’s anything good about it.”

She looked at me more closely. “You don’t look good, at that. Are you feeling all right? Do you want to take the day off?”

I shook my head, gently. “No, just a bad night. I stayed late reading all of the documentation and had a hard time winding down when I got home.” Which was true, as far as it went.

“Have a seat and tell me what you’ve learned.”

It felt good to sit in the upholstered chair. Even though I’d been promoted to associate curator, I still had the same old mesh office chair at the same old desk. “Well, as you said, he was the ‘bad boy’ of the governors, at least by the standards of the times. He was accused of being anti-Catholic, and reportedly said that he’d rather ‘deal with the devil in Hell’ than with priests and monks. A couple of his men accused him of ordering the men under his command to stop worshiping God and start worshiping him.”

“How so?” She looked skeptical.

I shook my head. “I’m not Catholic, but as I understand it, there’s a part of the mass where everyone is supposed to kneel…”

“The Sanctus.” She was Catholic.

“Yeah, that sounds right. So, anyway, Sotelo came into mass late one day, which I gather was not unusual, and had a hissy fit because the soldiers didn’t stand at his entrance. It’s one of the reasons he was charged with heresy.”

“Ah, that would do it. Anything else?”

“He is supposed to have claimed to be braver than St. George — him I know — and St. Dionisio, whoever he was. Oh, and he gave permission for what they called ‘an Indian witch from San Juan’ to cure a case of bewitchment using her own magic spells.”

“I see,” she nodded slowly. “That would also have been considered heresy.”

“And, one more thing. He was accused of immorality for living with a young woman without benefit of clergy, as they say.” I grinned and shrugged. “But none of the accusations resulted in charges. I don’t know why not. He certainly seemed to be guilty according to the testimony of the witnesses.” I stood. “I’m antsy to get started on the exhibit. I think I’ve got a handle on it.”

“Great! I told them in storage you’d be down this morning to select artifacts for the exhibit. They said they’d pull some items for you.”

“Thanks,” I said as I turned to leave. “That’ll help.”

“And remember,” she said as I left the office. “We want you to bring him to life for the visitors.”

***

Museum storage always reminds me of the warehouse in “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” only nothing like nearly as big. Row after row of shelving stacked with gray archival boxes and bins and oversized envelopes. Today, the big worktable in the middle of the room held a morion, a cuirass, and a long sword, all made from steel. The curator’s assistant appeared suddenly from one of the aisles.

“I thought I heard someone come in,” he said. “This stuff is all the right period for your display. I haven’t had a chance to get any clothing, but I know we have stuff.”

I nodded. “Yeah, thanks for pulling it, but … it’s not right.” How did I know that with such certainty? I shivered inwardly. There had been no physical descriptions of Sotelo in the documentation that I had read.

“No? Okay. What would be right?” He looked surprised at my unusual decisiveness.

I hesitated. “I’m not sure … he was a governor of New Mexico … I mean, he would have owned all of this, but … he wouldn’t have worn it everyday. It was heavy and hot and uncomfortable.” I paused as a vivid image flashed across my mind. “What I need is a bright red cape, with fur trim. Mid-thigh length. And hose — you know, like tights, also red, but not so bright, and thigh-high black leather boots. Spanish breeches, red and gold, doublet to match with wide slashed sleeves, a small ruff at the neck. Nothing too high. They were scratchy, you know.” I paused. “And a Cavalier hat, black, with a long ostrich plume.”

“Not even the sword?”

I shook my head with uncharacteristic confidence. “The sword was only if he was going into battle or meeting dignitaries, to remind them that he was a soldier as well as governor. For everyday wear, a rapier, jeweled handle, in a black leather sheath.”

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem. We have several of those. It’ll make a good display. Lots of color. You wanna’ come back in half an hour?”

“Yeah, I could do with a cup of coffee. See ya’ in thirty,” I said. Thank goodness he wasn’t the type to ask a lot of questions. Questions I wouldn’t be able to answer, even to myself. Such as where that detailed image had come from and how I had known he carried a rapier.

***

The clothing was laid out on the table when I returned, feeling marginally more alert thanks to a double macchiato. The assistant was waiting for me this time. He gave me a questioning look when I got to the table, silently asking if it was right this time.

“It’s absolutely perfect!” I said in amazement. It looked exactly like my vision. A vision I couldn’t account for, but was learning to accept, if reluctantly.

“Strange thing,” he said. “The pieces were all stored where they belonged, with similar items, but each of these was labeled ‘of an unknown Spaniard’.”

I looked at him quizzically. It was my turn to ask the silent question.

“You know,” he explained. “’Boots of an unknown Spaniard,’ that sort of thing. Even stranger, they are all the same size. I mean, they look like they’d fit the same person.”

So now I not only instinctively knew what he would have worn, I instinctively knew what was in the collections of the museum. I laughed nervously and tried to break the tension with a joke. “Even the rapier?”

He didn’t laugh in return. “The scabbard is on a belt and, yeah, the belt is pretty much the right size for the waist of the breeches. They’re in damned good shape for fabric four hundred years old. How did you know we had these?”

I shrugged. “Just a lucky guess.” Or a dream. But a dream from where? He nodded, but still looked skeptical.

We carefully packed the items, separated by layers of acid-free tissue paper, in a large archival box and put it on a wheeled cart that I rolled to the staff elevator. I pushed the call button and turned to thank him again while I waited for the elevator to descend, but he had disappeared into the catacombs.

I rolled the cart into the elevator and pushed the button for the second floor where the Spanish Colonial exhibits were housed. I wheeled the cart out and down the aisles between exhibits to where a portable screen hid the empty display case. Well, it was empty except for the mannequin I had requested.

Handling the clothing with the care needed with four-hundred-year-old fabric, even fabric as unusually well-preserved as this was, I carefully dressed the mannequin. I was not surprised to find that the items all fit perfectly. Apparently, I had instinctively known what size mannequin would be needed. I puffed out the breeches and the sleeves with crumpled tissue paper and buckled the belt around the waist with the rapier on the left side, as in my ‘vision.’ I draped the cape over the right shoulder and folded it back over the left so that the rapier could be seen in all its jeweled glory, and finally, I tilted the Cavalier hat at just the right rakish angle on the head.

I stood back and considered my handiwork. Everything fit together perfectly, color, style, and size, almost as if the items had been waiting all these centuries to be reunited. Of course, to be complete, he really needed thick, curly black hair. And a mustache … no, wait, a full Van Dyke, framing straight white teeth.

I shook my head to clear my brain. Where did I get that? There were no known portraits. Just my imagination, I guess, or the cover of a bodice-ripper. Or a dream something whispered, but I shoved the thought away.

As I pushed the cart back toward the elevator, I thought heard guitar chords reverberating in the distance. I shook my head. My imagination was working overtime. Must be my lack of sleep. I reached the elevator and descended, then returned to my office to spend the rest of the day and early evening working on the text for the signage.

***

My sleep was disturbed again by dreams — or should I say nightmares? -- that lingered on the fringes of consciousness as glimpses of red and gold, flashes of violent emotion, and faint strains of music. So, I wasn’t in the best of moods when my boss called me into her office as I passed by her door the next morning.

“Just let me put down my purse,” I said, and kept walking. I stowed my purse in the top drawer and headed back to her office. I went in and sat in the chair facing her desk without being invited. It was that kind of mood.

She leaned across the desk and handed me the piece of paper. “Is this the text that you wrote for the exhibit?”

I skimmed it and nodded. “Yes, I emailed it to you last night before I went home.” I didn’t add that I had stayed late yet again. She could see that from the time stamp.

She nodded and reached out for the paper. I handed it to her. “I wanted to be sure. What were you thinking?” She looked down at the paper, “I’ll skip the factual information. It’s correct. But this?” She read, “Felipe Sotelo Osorio was an innocent victim of lies, rumors, and hearsay propagated by malicious soldiers seeking revenge for the legitimate punishments he imposed on them for theft, drunkenness, and whoremongering.’” She shook her head. “Where did you get this? You didn’t say anything like this yesterday. In fact, you said pretty much the opposite.” She leaned back in her chair and waited for me to respond.

“I told you that the Holy Office didn’t charge him with anything,” I responded defensively. “And that the charges were mostly hearsay. Even the ones that weren’t were distorted to make him look bad. They were just a bunch of gandules who hated him because he was a strong leader who didn’t put up with their bad behavior. And they were jealous that he was so popular with the women.” I paused and closed my eyes a moment. My head was throbbing. I rubbed my temples. She was right to ask me where I got this. I couldn’t remember. Had I read it or had I dreamed it? When I opened my eyes, my boss was looking at me sympathetically.

“Bad night again?”

I nodded.

“Why don’t you go home and try to get some rest? I think the lack of sleep may be responsible for this,” she held up the paper. “You can rewrite it tomorrow, when you’re in a better condition. The exhibit doesn’t open for another two weeks, so there’s time. Heaven knows you’ve got enough personal leave saved up.”

I nodded, then stood. “You’re probably right.”

I retrieved my purse and headed home. She was right that I needed to catch up on sleep. She was wrong that lack of sleep was responsible for what I had written.

***

When I woke from my nap, such as it was, it was dark. I didn’t feel rested or refreshed. The dreams had continued, even more intensely. Images flashed through my waking mind of white teeth framed by a black beard and mustache, dark eyes peering deeply into mine, and of stepping to the lively beat of a canario, surrounded by swirling red and gold. I remembered the professor in the class on Renaissance music describing it as a “fiery wooing dance,” with its passionate and vibrant rhythm. I also remembered tripping over my own feet, as usual, trying to execute the steps along with the rest of the class.

I felt a compulsion to drive to the museum and check on the exhibit immediately. I had no idea why. I had visited it before I left, and it was as perfect as I remembered. The museum had excellent security. There was no reason to think that anything had happened to the display since I had seen it last, but I found myself in the car, heading toward the museum. The urge to see the exhibit again grew stronger the closer I got.

As I arrived at the building, I could see flickering lights, like flames, in the windows. I parked and pulled out my phone to call 911, but then I realized that the flames were small and distinct and restricted to the second floor. They seemed to beckon to me. I dropped the phone back into my purse and headed for the employees’ entrance. I fumbled with trembling hands for my keycard. My hands were shaking so much that I it took me three tries to insert it into the lock. The urge to visit the exhibit had become an imperative.

I went up the staff elevator to the second floor. As the doors opened, I saw that the lights were the flames of dozens of thick candles on tall candlesticks encircling the center of the floor. They flickered in time to the eerie melody of the canario played on unseen instruments, punctuated by the sharp clack of invisible castañuelas. Everything outside of the reach of the candlelight was in deep shadow that was uniform and boundless. The exhibits had disappeared, as well as the walls and ceiling of the museum.

I moved slowly forward, in a daze, my feet moving of their own accord in time to the music. And then I saw him coming toward me through the candlelight, resplendent in his red and gold, white teeth gleaming through his black mustache and beard. Passion surged through me, the same thrilling passion that had filled my dreams. I knew him as the man in my dreams. I had made him come alive and he had done the same for me. Made me come alive in a way that no man had before.

He stopped and removed his hat with a flourish, revealing a head of thick, curly black hair, then executed a perfect bow, one leg in front of the other, his cape draped over his extended arm. “Bienvenidos, señorita,” he said in his sonorous voice, and stood up, holding out his arms toward me. “¿Bailamos?”

And I walked forward into his embrace.

Detour to Murder : A Couriers Series Short Story

If you follow my other social media, you've seen this announcement at least once. I'll try to add a little value here. My short story, “Detour to Murder” was published in the January 2026 issue of the online magazine, Killer Nashville.  It's particularly gratifying as none of my entries into last year's SouthWest Writers short story contest was a winner. This was not one of my submissions, but that's a minor detail. I feel vindicated!

This was the intended ending for French Toast a la Santa Fe (due out October 13), but those characters simply would not cooperate. The more I got to know them, the less they fit their original roles. The husband would not cheat, the wife was far too outgoing, and the floozy informed me that she never messes around with married men. Too much trouble. So, I went in a completely different direction for the book. But, this twisty mystery was too good to waste, so I wrote it up as a short story with entirely different characters, other than Prudence. It's set a year or so in the future, after Prudence has finished her Couriers training and is an experienced Courier. 

I find it easier to write villains when I donn't have to spend 60,000 words with them and can just focus on the villainous aspects of their character. And, I think you'll agree that the murderer in this story is not the villain or vice versa

https://www.killernashville.com/short-stories/detour-to-murder

New Beginnings : A Love Story for a New Year

Jane pulled into the garage, turned off the engine, and sat, staring straight ahead. She dreaded going into the house. Dick would be home, as he always was since he’d retired a year ago. She wasn’t afraid of him. Dick was never violent, never nasty. It was just that he’d be in there, sitting in front of the t.v., watching some old detective series from the 1990s, waiting for her to get home and fix dinner. He’d come to the table when she called him, he’d eat whatever she put in front of him, he’d tell her that “It was good,” and then he’d go sit in front of the television until it was time to go to bed. Where had all of their passion gone? What had happened to the romance? Or even just the fun? They were both still young; she certainly was. Far too young to just give up on life. He still did the yardwork and took care of small repairs around the house and could be counted on to get the cars serviced regularly, but she could pay someone to do all of that. What she needed was some of that old spark, but it had slowly extinguished itself. She knew that she couldn’t face twenty more years of this. She’d felt the dread growing on her for months, but she hadn’t said anything. What was there to say? “You’re starting to bore me?” 

She smiled to herself as she thought about John, the new supervisor she’d met in an administrator’s meeting a month before. John was anything but boring. Not only was he fit enough to wear those slim suits that were in style, he sported cowboy boots and a Paul McCartney hair cut. Dick wore nothing but t-shirts and baggy shorts these days. Whenever John looked into her eyes and smiled, which he did frequently when they were together, she felt a small shiver of excitement run up her spine. There was a time that Dick would look at her in the same way, but these days, he looked mostly at the television. 

She remembered how John had leaned over at a meeting and whispered a sarcastic comment about the speaker in her ear. She’d had to hold her breath not to laugh out loud. Dick’s conversation, such as it was, revolved primarily around the plots of the t.v. shows he was streaming and what they were going to have for dinner the next day. He told the same jokes over and over. She found herself tuning him out more and more lately. 

She and John had started going to lunch together a couple of times a week after he’d made her laugh in the meeting. He always insisted on paying, saying that it had been his idea. It was almost like a date. She and Dick hadn’t been on a date night in, well, something like six months. She couldn’t remember why they’d stopped. It wasn’t a conscious decision, they’d just let it slip away from them. Dick had said something about not having a schedule or a structure making it difficult to plan … What did the reason matter? They’d stopped.

She was pretty sure that John had started making up excuses to stop by her office. He was always “on his way” to or from some other part of the floor and just “stopped by to say “Hi.”” She knew that she looked for any reason to pass by his, even if it meant going the long way around the floor. She let her mind wander to what might happen if they both were working late, alone … 

She shook her head and sighed. No point in sitting here any longer. It wouldn’t change anything. No matter how long she sat here, Dick would still be inside waiting for dinner. She opened the car door, picked up her purse from the passenger seat, and entered the house. She stopped, confused. It was dark. And quiet. No light or sound from the television in the living room. Had something happened to Dick? She felt a cold hand grip her stomach. He might be boring and getting a bit flabby, but he was still her husband. She took a few steps forward in the dark, then heard footsteps in the hall. The lights suddenly came on, and there was Dick. She stared in disbelief. He was wearing a tuxedo — where did that come from? He didn’t own one — with a crisp white shirt. The suit fit perfectly and camouflaged his incipient paunch. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, he was freshly shaved, and his hair was cut and brushed back in a way that she had told him made him look like Pierce Brosnan. He held a martini glass in each hand.

“Forgive me for not meeting you at the door, Madam. I was otherwise occupied,”  he said in a lightly teasing tone, as he handed her one of the glasses. He looked into her eyes and smiled beguilingly, the way he used to.

“Oh, that’s, um, that’s ok,” she said in confusion. She sipped the pale green cocktail and beamed at him. “A gimlet! My favorite! You remembered.” 

“Of course.” He offered her his crooked arm and walked her down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Now, if Madam would like to freshen up and slip into something more … comfortable … dinner will be served in the dining room in fifteen minutes.” 

She smiled tentatively at him. He bowed to her, and walked back to the dining room. She set her purse down on her dressing table and slipped her shoes off. What was going on? Dick had never done anything like this before. She once again felt that cold hand of fear grip her. Was he planning to leave her? Was this his way of softening the blow? Had he heard about John? 

“Stop being silly,” she muttered to herself. “There’s nothing for him to hear. Nothing has happened … yet.” Still, other employees had seen them leaving for lunch together and it was unlikely that no one had noticed how often they were in each other’s office. Or had Dick met someone else? He was alone from the time she left for the office until she got home at night. He must do something other than watch television and mow the lawn when it needed it. Some younger woman in a coffee shop or at the grocery store? He would do the shopping if she left him a list. Is that why he was so willing to do it? 

She hung her jacket on its hanger in the closet and clipped the slacks to the hanger’s crossbar. Her blouse and socks went into the hamper. She went into the bathroom and, smiling at the phrase, “freshened up.” Coming out, she looked through her closet for something to wear. He’d said, “Something more comfortable.” But he was wearing a tux, so surely he didn’t mean her nightgown. What did she have? There, at the back, the dress she’d worn for their twentieth anniversary party five years ago. Dick’s eyes had widened when  he’d seen her in the floor-length royal blue velvet with the plunging v-neck that showed off her still-attractive cleavage, while the elbow-length sleeves hid the developing “bat wings” of her upper arms. With its high, Empire waist, it was surprisingly comfortable for such an elegant gown. As she slipped it over her head, she hoped that it would remind Dick of their years together and give him second thoughts about turning her in for a younger model. 

She debated wearing pantihose, but decided that knee-highs were more “comfortable.” Dick was wearing his dress shoes, so she pulled out her navy blue pumps. She took a moment to brush her hair back into place and freshen her lipstick, then fastened the sapphire pendant that Dick had given her for that anniversary around her neck and hung the matching earrings from her lobes. She wasn’t going down without a fight. 

Taking a deep breath, she strode down the hall to the dining room and whatever awaited her there. If this were one of Dick’s detective shows, it would be murder. She was smiling to herself at the absurdity when she entered the dining room. Again, she stopped in disbelief. The table was set with their best white linen tablecloth, the one they only used for holidays and birthdays. A floral arrangement with candles stood in the center of the table. Two places were set with their best china, their silver (plate, but still, it was shiny), and their crystal wine glasses. A bottle of champagne rested in the ice bucket on a small side table. Dick stood with his hands on the back of one of the chairs, smiling as he looked her up and down. The dress seemed to be having the effect that she had hoped it would. 

“If Madam would care to sit here?” he said, while pulling the chair out. She nodded, speechless, then stepped over to the chair. He slid it in just until it touched the backs of her legs and she was able to sit down gracefully. He must have been practicing, she thought, He never could get that right before. And then wondered With whom?

Dick poured filled their champagne flutes, then sat across from her and raised his glass. “To new beginnings,” he said. She raised her glass in return and gave him a wan smile. New beginnings? It IS another woman! She sipped at the champagne. Well, she wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t make it easy for him. 

She set her glass down and picked up her soup spoon. At the first taste of the pale green soup, her eyes once again widened. “Where did you find sorrel soup?”

“I’d like to be able to tell you that I made it myself, but it’s from that new French bistro that opened in the mall. I often go there for lunch.” 

She swallowed. Is that where he met her? “I didn’t know that you went out for lunch.” 

“Occasionally,” he said, looking down at his soup plate.  And now he won’t meet my eyes, Jane thought. They finished their soup in silence. 

“That was lovely, dear,” she forced herself to say. No, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him, no matter how much she wanted to demand an explanation. She would be bright and cheerful and charming.

Dick rose and picked up his soup plate, then hers. “I’m glad you liked it. Do you remember when we first had sorrel soup, on our honeymoon?” She nodded, holding back the tears. “I’ll be right back with the main course.” He left for the kitchen. 

She remembered their honeymoon — and their wedding — and their courtship. And all the years since then. No, she would not give up all of that without a fight. No new woman, however young and attractive, knew Dick the way that she knew him. No new woman had weathered the storms with him that they had weathered together. She just had to show him what he would be giving up. She sat up straight and pasted a smile on her face as she heard his step in the hall. 

Dick slid a plate in front of her, then set one at his place. He picked up a bottle of wine from the sideboard and filled both of their wine glasses, then sat down, putting the bottle on the table between them. She stared down at the filet mignon, glazed carrots, and fondant potatoes. 

“Did you get this at that bistro, too?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

Dick shook his head and laughed slightly. “No, these I made myself. You know I was always good with a steak and I learned how to make the carrots and potatoes on one of those cooking shows.” 

She looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that you’ve been watching cooking shows.” What else don’t I know?

He grinned wryly. “I did, but I don’t think you were listening … tell me what you think of this wine.” She sipped at the garnet fluid and nodded, grateful that he’d changed the subject. He was right. She hadn’t been listening.

She praised the wine. “It’s smooth and has just enough tannin for steak.” Neither she nor Dick were exactly wine connoisseurs, but she did enjoy a red zinfandel. 

“The man at the wine store assured me that this was a particularly fine zinfandel.” 

She stopped herself from asking when he had started frequenting a wine store. He might already have told her. No doubt his young woman from the bistro had introduced him to it. 

He sliced into his steak and held the piece up for her to see, turning it slightly to show both sides. “It’s a perfect medium rare, if I do say so myself.”

Jane cut into her steak and smiled brightly at him. “Yes, a perfect medium rare, as your steaks always are.”   

She chewed a piece and swallowed, feeling as if she were choking. She managed to get down a bite of carrot and potato. “The vegetables are wonderful. I’ve never had better glazed carrots and the fondant potatoes … well, Gordon Ramsay himself would be envious.” 

“Thank you, my dear.” He smiled at her as he continued to eat his dinner, apparently oblivious to her struggles. Jane forced herself to follow his lead, making occasional comments on the sweetness of the carrots and the creaminess of the potato, and how well the wine complemented the meat. 

Suddenly, she could tolerate it no longer. She dropped her knife and fork onto her plate, placed her hands on the table, and cried, “What is this all about? What brought this on?” She felt tears starting up in her eyes. “Stop this torture and tell me!” 

Dick stopped eating and stared at her in surprise, holding his knife and fork in the air. He looked down at his plate, took a deep breath and looked back up at her. “I saw you,” he said in a flat voice. 

“Saw me?” Jane shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“The two of you,” he replied. “I was in town getting the car serviced, so I went to your office to invite you to lunch at the French bistro and I saw the two of you leaving the building together. You and that young man.” 

“I … we … “ Jane gasped. She didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t insult him by lying. “It was only lunch.” 

Dick set down his utensils and shook his head. “You looked so … happy. You were smiling up at him and laughing. And the way that he was looking at you …” He shook his head again, then looked directly at her. “I followed you. You went to that gastropub. I’m sure you know the one I mean.”

She nodded. “I didn’t see you.”

“I took care that you didn’t, and that place is so dark, I almost lost track of the two of you.” He laughed shortly.  “I had sensed that you were drawing away, and now I knew why.”

Jane shook her head. “No … He’s just … just a friend. A colleague.” Her excuse rang hollow in her ears.  

Dick looked at her wryly. “He may be that now, but believe me, he wants to be more. I was relieved when you headed back to your office afterward.”

He sat back. “I was angry, at first. And hurt, of course. But it gave me a lot to think about.” He looked directly at her again, “And, after I got over the anger and the hurt, I realized that I had been taking my beautiful, interesting, accomplished wife for granted. And that if I didn’t change things soon, I could lose her to a man who clearly does value her.” He reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Can you forgive me?” 

“Can I forgive you?” Jane laughed breathlessly. “I thought you were going to tell me that you’d met another woman.”

Dick sat back, astounded. “Another woman? What would I want with another woman?” He leaned forward and took her hands again. “You’re the only woman I could ever want.”

“I thought you’d found someone younger and … “ she looked down at the table, “And less critical, more attentive. Someone who laughed at your jokes.” She looked back up at him questioningly. 

“I haven’t been easy to live with lately,” Dick said, smiling. “And I have been telling the same old jokes. Even I don’t find them funny anymore.” He patted her hands. “We’ll say no more about it. I meant it when I said, “New beginnings.” Now, one more surprise.” He collected the plates and silverware and walked out of the dining room. Jane followed him with her eyes. He really was still a fine figure of a man and with the grey in his hair … it wouldn’t be a stretch to call him a “Silver Fox.” 

He returned shortly with two of their crystal dessert dishes piled high with rich, creamy chocolate mousse and a bottle of port under his arm. He set all three on the table, then pulled his chair around to her right. He set the mousse at each place and poured the port into the dessert wine glasses, then sat at an angle to her side. Holding the glass in his right hand, he placed his elbow on the table. Jane smiled in remembrance and, holding her glass in her right hand, wrapped her forearm around his. They bent their heads toward each other as they sipped from their glasses. They kissed softly.

Dick murmured, “I’ve always loved you in that dress, but I like you even more out of it.”  

“Well, then …” she murmured in return. 

“Well, then,” Dick replied. “But first, …”

“The mousse,” they said in unison and picked up their spoons. 

Boxing Day : A Christmas Tale

 If you’ve read O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi, you’ll recognize the characters. If you haven’t, you might want to before you read this. It’s available full-text online from many sources. When I was much younger, I often wondered why Jim didn’t make the practical suggestion given here. When I got older, I understood exactly why. I think you’ll agree with me.

The weak, gray light of a winter dawn slid down the narrow passage between the tenement houses as Jim Young opened his eyes. He took a deep breath. Was that bacon? How had Della managed to afford bacon two days in a row? First for Christmas morning and now for the day after? She was a marvel, that young wife of his!

He threw back the covers and, shivering in the cold, washed quickly in the icy water from the pitcher on the washstand. He pulled on his clothes and, bending down to peer in the mirror, slicked his hair back. He smiled wryly at the jeweled combs lying on the top of the dresser next to the brush that Della no longer needed for her once long beautiful hair. He shook his head as he tucked the platinum fob chain into the empty watch pocket of his vest and went into the kitchen.

“Oh, Jim, you’re up, my darling,” Della spun around and danced over, throwing her arms around his neck. He returned the hug and added a kiss.

“Something smells good, my sweet,” he smiled down at her, his hands on her waist. “Bacon twice in one week?”

“Oh, I know how you love it, and I still had that eighty-seven cents left from selling my hair,” she paused and brushed a hand sadly across her cropped head, then smiled bravely. “What else could I do but buy my beloved his favorite breakfast! Now, sit down while I serve you.”

Jim sat and Della poured coffee for him, then placed a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast in front of him.

“Eggs, too? And butter on the toast?” Jim exclaimed. “Such riches!”

Della smiled again as she sat across from him, her plate of food before her. What if her pile of eggs was smaller and she had only one slice of bacon and no butter to her bread? Her Jim was happy and that was better than butter.

Jim took a forkful of eggs and bacon, followed by a bite of toast and a swig of coffee.

“The very best eggs and bacon I’ve ever eaten. What’s your secret, my angel?”

“Why, they’re made with love, dearest!” Della beamed at him.

Jim finished his food, then sat back, sipping his coffee and watching as Della tidied the kitchen.

“You know, I think I like your hair better like this,” he mused.

Della forced a smiled. “It is ever so much easier to manage,” she said, putting on a brave face. “And it does bring out the curl.” She shook her head so that the curls bounced.

“You look like a adorable, mischievous house sprite,” Jim said as he set his empty cup on the table. He pushed back and stood up. “Well, I guess I’d better be off to work. This isn’t England where people get Boxing Day as a holiday as well as Christmas.”

Della followed him into the main room and helped him on with his old coat and wrapped his threadbare scarf around his neck. He held his shabby hat awkwardly in his hands.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you, honey,” he said.

“Yes, my love?”

“Well … it’s about those combs I got you for your hair…”

Della’s eyes narrowed and a creased appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes, what about the combs?” She asked suspiciously.

“Well … I wondered if maybe … well, if maybe I could return them to the jeweler and get the money back and get my watch out of hock.” Jim spoke in a rush, as Della’s eyes grew wide with astonishment.

“You want to do WHAT?” she demanded.

“Well, it’s not like you can use them right now, but I could use the watch with the chain that you got me, and isn’t that what you want, my dearest darling?” Jim hurried through his justification, backing slowly toward the door, as Della began breathing harshly through her nose.

“I know you’re hair grows awfully fast,” he continued, feeling for the doorknob behind his back, “but it will still be months before you can it will be long enough for you to use them — you might even decide to keep it short, it’s so becoming — and by that time I’ll have saved up the money and I could buy the combs …”

Della cut him off. “You want them back?” she snarled as she turned to the dresser and snatched up the combs, then advanced toward him, waving her fist holding the combs under his nose. “”The only decent things you’ve ever given me and you want them BACK? My mother was right! I should never have married you!”

Jim heard this last as he slipped out the door and closed it behind him. He had only taken a few steps down the hall when the door flew open and Della appeared, her arm raised above her head.

“You want them?” she shrieked. “They’re yours!” She flung her arm forward and the combs flew out of her hand and landed on the floor in front of him. She stepped back into the apartment and slammed the door.

Jim stood staring at the door for a moment, then slowly bent down and picked up the combs. He looked at them in his hand and was relieved to see that they were undamaged. He sighed gratefully as he slipped them into his pocket and headed down the hall to the stairwell.