“Well according to her, your little business meeting went exceptionally well,” I pursed my lips, planting my hands on my hips. “From all accounts, it bordered on earth shattering.”
Oliver shrugged.
“OK, so we had a date,” he admitted on a long, hard sigh. “When we made this arrangement, Lily, I promised to spoil you and show you a good time. I didn’t promise to become a monk.”
I guffawed outright.
“Sorry,” I managed between peals of laughter, “I just pictured you in a long brown robe with one of those little beanie hats and sandals, chanting the lyrics of ‘I’m Sexy and I Know It.’”
Oliver chuckled.
“Well I’m glad you can laugh about this. For a moment there, Lil, I thought you were really angry with me,” he heaved a relieved sigh. “Listen, please be rest assured that I am thoroughly enjoying my time with you; every moment I learn something new about you, I see you in a whole new light. I’m not just seeing you for show, Ms. Ashton… I look forward to our dates, and I enjoy every one of them.” He paused here, adding with a sigh, “At the same time, Lil, even you can’t change a tiger’s stripes, especially not when I’m the tiger. You’re cool with me keeping up a healthy social life, right?”
I thought a moment, then nodded.
“You and I are two single people that are enjoying a mutually beneficial arrangement, for the greater good of our company. And, like you Oliver, I do have to admit that I am really enjoying our time together,” I assured him, adding with arched eyebrows, “I’m just glad that I answered the phone this morning, instead of, say, your father. The same man that is under the distinct impression that you and I are enjoying a mutually exclusive relationship. The same man that has been pressuring you for months to commit to one woman and, more specifically, a lady whose name does not happen to be Kelli with an i.”
Oliver gaped.
“You’re absolutely right. I never thought of that.” I rather enjoyed the look of sheer terror that crossed Oliver’s features. “Sheesh, Dad would have skinned me alive if he had answered Kelli’s call. Even worse, he would have cut off my inheritance, my credit line, my employment at his company and in all likelihood, my neck for good measure. I’ll be sure to tell Kelli—along with my other, um, friends—to call me on my cell phone from this point forward; never at the office.”
I nodded.
“Capital idea,” I affirmed, adding as I graced him with a full-toothed smile, “And, to match your very polite gesture, I promise to have all of my other dates contact me at home as well—lest anyone here at the office get the wrong idea. Or the right idea. You know, whatever works.”
Oliver looked at me for a long moment, then met my words with a short, sharp nod.
“Whatever works,” he agreed, adding as he turned away, “Just know this, Lily Ashton. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy spending time with you… and I mean that. And if you are dating anyone else, I am thoroughly and unabashedly jealous. Almost bitterly so.”
~
Chapter Six
~
Oliver
“So Oliver, I have to tell you something. I see a real change in you.”
Lounging in a black leather chair that fronted her polished cherry wood desk, Dr. Ann Goldman regarded me, Oliver Clark, the patient currently stretched out on her silk-upholstered scarlet couch, with a bare, penetrating gaze.
How I had come to thoroughly and officially hate that bare, penetrating gaze.
“You say you see a change in me,” I repeated, regarding her with a curious gaze. “Is that a good thing?”
Dr. Goldman, a bespectacled woman in her mid-40s, thought for a moment, then nodded.
“For the most part, yes,” she conceded thoughtfully. “You show a renewed dedication to your work. Indeed, you seem to be quite enjoying your new clients and projects. Your eyes light up and your voice raises when you’re filling me in about all of your latest accomplishments. And your job performance, according to your father, has improved exponentially.”
I pursed my lips.
“Well I’m not altogether sure what exponentially means,” I admitted, adding with a shrug, “But it sounds good enough to me.”
Dr. Goldman laughed.
“It’s great, actually. Your dad feels as though he has hired a brand new employee. Someone who actually had to work his way up and apply himself to earn his rather sizable paycheck,” she praised me, adding as she ran an absent hand through her short stock of reddish brown hair, “Your father is also thrilled at the idea of you dating your personal assistant, Lily Ashton. He adores Lily, saying that, in terms of intelligence, strength and determination, she’s above and beyond any other woman you’ve ever seen.” She paused here, inclining her head in my direction as she added, “Now I have to admit it, Oliver. When you first started dating Lily, I was almost certain that it was all a ruse—that, in a half-baked effort to save your job and your inheritance, that you were ‘fake dating’ a mature, responsible woman just to please your father.”
“WHAT?!” With a loud, sharp snort of indignity I lurched upward on the couch; fixing Dr. Goldman with the puppy dog eyes that worked on every woman but her—and Lily, of course. “How dare you accuse me of such a foul deed?”
“She’s not your type, Oliver,” Dr. Goldman interrupted, just barely suppressing a sardonic smirk. “She enunciates. Moreover she can spell the word enunciates. She’s a personal assistant, not a personal trainer… or a stripper… or a spokesmodel, whatever the blazes that is. She actually knows the difference between Monet and Manet. She puts just as much thought into her life goals and future plans as she does her daily wardrobe choices, perhaps even more so, shock of all shocks. And she is fully aware of the fact that Helen of Troy is not a mini skirted techno singer from Michigan.”
I had heard enough.
“OK, your point is totally and officially made, so Lily wasn’t my type,” I rolled my eyes. “I guess I just never realized how good it felt to have a meaningful conversation with a woman; to share common interests, and laugh about things together. In the short time that we’ve dated, she has taught me so much about the arts, politics, everything. She’s just as much my friend as she is my girlfriend. I just adore her.”
I paused here, wondering if I was saying my lines convincingly enough… because by God they were convincing me.
“I can tell you really like her,” Dr. Goldman affirmed, adding in a lowered voice, “I also can tell, though, that you’re afraid to commit to her or, for that matter, to anyone.”
I shrugged.
“Look, Doc, I’m still young. And, for that matter, I’m still a man,” I reasoned, adding with a sly wink, “I still have some wild oats to sow, some personal fantasies to fulfill.”
Dr, Goldman stared firmly.
“From what you’ve told me, Oliver, it sounds like you’ve sewn enough wild oats for an entire rock band, not to mention roughly half the past presidents of the United States.” She pursed her coral pink lips to sardonic effect. “You’re not 18 anymore. I know a lot of men your age who are already married with a couple of kids. And for all of your bravado and multiple excuses, Oliver, I really can’t figure out why you can’t seem to commit to a woman. Yes, you’re a handsome young billionaire and something of a playboy, but underneath it all,
I strongly suspect that you also happen to be a really nice man who likes and respects women.”
I grinned in spite of myself.
“Yeah, well don’t let it get around,” I joked, adding more seriously, “Listen, Doc, my mom, who I worship and idolize more than anyone in the world, even my father, always encouraged me to be a gentleman. She never allowed any disrespect of women on her watch, and I always found it very easy to agree with her viewpoints. I’m very proud to say that I have never raised my hand to a lady, or coerced her into doing anything she didn’t want to do.”
Dr. Goldman nodded, meeting these words with a rare and welcome smile of encouragement.
“That
’s wonderful and, by all accounts, absolutely true,” she applauded me. “Yet while it is very true that I never have heard of you abusing, bullying, or taking advantage of women indeed, Clark Industries as a whole has an excellent record when it comes to the pay and treatment of its female employees, thanks to policies established by you and your father, but you can’t seem to commit to them either. Might that, per chance, also have something to do with your mother?”
Again I bolted up from the couch, this time objecting in all seriousness, “My mother? She was a saint!”
Dr. Goldman froze in her chair, her eyes widening as she saw a side of me she’d never seen before, and did not in any way seem to appreciate.
“Sit down and lower your voice, Oliver,” she growled, looking me straight in the eyes. “Or I just may have to amend my opinion of the way you treat women.”
Drawing a deep, sustaining breath, I plopped down onto the seat of her couch and said, “I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s just that I can’t bear to hear my mother’s good name besmirched or questioned in any way, particularly now, when she is no longer around to defend herself.”
Dr. Goldman nodded.
“From what both you and your father have told me, Irene does sound like a wonderful woman, truly one of a kind,” Dr. Goldman interrupted me, adding as she shifted her slender figure in the confines of her leather chair, “Your dad hasn’t seriously dated anyone since her death.”
I shook my head.
“How could he?” I said, voice low and sad. “She was the only woman for him. I’ve never seen a couple more in love. They spent every free moment together, and he never as much as looked at another woman. They were supposed to grow old together, but after that damned cancer diagnosis…” I paused, shutting my eyes tight as I choked back a sheen of unbidden tears. “It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t supposed to end that way… for them or for our family. It just wasn’t fair!”
I jumped then as the doctor leaned forward, fixing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.
“It’s all right to cry,” she reassured me, voice soft and gentle. “It’s also all right to admit that you just might be afraid to commit to a woman. You’re afraid that you might lose her, much like your dad lost your mom.”
Shaking my head vigorously from side to side, I again jumped from my seat, this time grabbing my jacket and rushing headfirst for the door.
“That’s a load of bull, Dr. Goldman. I will not listen to one more word of this blasted psychobabble,” I snapped, adding over my shoulder, “I tried to sit through this crap to placate my father, but I just can’t do it anymore. You just went too far.”
Dr. Goldman bit her lip.
“You know if you stop coming here, Oliver, I’ll have to report your absences to your father. And I can tell you right now that he is not going to be happy,” she told me. “Of course, I don’t want to force you to see me, and if you do come back, don’t do so in an effort to save your inheritance or put on a good show for your father; do it to save your life and your mind and, for that matter, to save your relationship to a fantastic woman.”
I snorted.
“I don’t need you to save my relationship with Lily,” I barked, swinging her office door open and saying over my shoulder, “I’m not even sure at this point what she and I are doing but we do it well and we’re not going to stop. I am not about to lose that woman.”
~
Chapter Seven
~
Lily
The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind for me, as Oliver treated me to one unbelievably grandiose, adventurous date night after another. Several times a week, and always on the weekends, he whisked me away to the opera, the ballet, the movies; and we always ended up in the front row, and often backstage to greet and rub proverbial elbows with the actors and actresses, dancers, decorators and set designers that made these grand productions possible.
One evening he took me to a production of ‘Swan Lake,’ as performed by Vladimir Scotto—an ebony-eyed, golden-haired god of a ballet dancer that I had idolized since my teen years.
I watched rapt from a front row seat as Vladimir and his beautiful co-star, a lithe redhead named Deanna Morgan, who originated from this area—floated with lovely, effortless grace across the stage; circling one another in peerless pirouettes before he raised her slender body high above his head, the music around them surging as their bodies merged with infinite poetic grace.
“Wow!” I breathed, trembling in spite of myself as their ethereal dance continued to carry them throughout the motions and movements of a classic production; one I’d seen numerous times on PBS and via DVD recordings, but never live.
The leading lady looked especially resplendent in a pearl-embedded tutu of ivory silk trimmed with a row of alabaster feathers that only served to enhance the effect.
Vladimir, I noted, was no less resplendent in a sleek white suit; one that likened him to a radiant prince from a distant wonderland. My mouth fell agape as I beheld his lithe but muscular body; and I marveled outright at the smooth, graceful leaps that sent him soaring high above the stage; drawing thunderous applause as he achieved an equally artful descent.
“Amazing,” I breathed, tearing my gaze away from the stage and aiming it in the direction of my equally awestruck date.
Yet while my own awe had been inspired by the dynamic stage performance we witnessed, Oliver’s exalted emotions seemed to be inspired by an entirely different source.
He was looking straight at me; and almost as though he never had seen me before tonight.
His ebony eyes shone aglow with a warm, though indecipherable emotion; his mouth was turned upward in a loving smile; one that seemed to betray his deepest emotions.
“Are you enjoying the show?” I asked softly, arching my eyebrows to curious effect.
Oliver nodded.
“Yes,” he whispered, adding as he graced my shoulder with a warm, affectionate pat, “And I’m enjoying you far more. It’s so odd, Lily, my parents made me sit through so many ballet performances as a young man and I usually spent the entire show checking out the ballerinas and chomping away on popcorn. Tonight, though, as I watch you watching the show and as you explain the story of Swan Lake to me, as your eyes light up and I see you smile, I now see the ballet in a whole new light.”
I shook my head.
“It’s me that should be thanking you,” I told him, raising my hand to cup his carved cheek. “This is a dream come true, Oliver. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamt of seeing Swan Lake performed live and by a ballet dancer that I nothing short of idolize.”
Oliver nodded.
“Yeah, Vladimir is a cool guy and not that I’m any expert on ballet, but he does seem to be pretty darned good at what he does,” he acknowledged, though in a casual tone that made it sound as though he was referencing a particularly great pizza maker or automobile mechanic.
“Pretty. Darned. Good,” I repeated, tone slow and disbelieving. “Oliver, this guy danced three seasons with the Bolshoi Ballet and originally performed this very same production center stage at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC.” I paused here, staring up at the graceful, beautiful Vladimir with wide, inspired eyes.
“It’s like he doesn’t walk, or even dance.” I continued, voice low and reverent, “He floats on air.”
Oliver chuckled.
“Well I’ll tell you one thing, babe,” he told me, touching my chin with an affectionate hand. “You are the one that’s going to be floating on air after the show, when you get the opportunity to go backstage and meet Mr. Twinkletoes.”
For once I didn’t care if Oliver called me babe, and I didn’t even mind that he referred to my exalted dancing idol as Mr. Twinkletoes, well, not much anyway. He had just indicated that I would get the opportunity to meet Vladimir Scotto in person and immediately after the show, which was scheduled to end in just 15 minutes.
“Are you serious?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper. “We have back stage passes?”
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Oliver nodded, whilst gracing me with a devastating smile.
Answering his beam with one of my own, I joined the crowd in thunderously applauding the culminating dance number that completed and defined Swan Lake—also applauding the man that had made yet another one of my dreams come true.
As the lights came up and other audience members moved in a line toward the door, I joined hands with Oliver and walked through the side stage door, my stride light and feather soft as I considered the prospect of meeting my idol.
Soon we passed the closely guarded threshold that accessed the back stage area of the Starlight Theater; venturing behind the theater’s scarlet hued curtain to pass into a luminous room that seemed like another world.
Marked by a carpeting of plush royal red and freshly polished antique furniture, this room also boasted classical art pieces depicting the beauty and majesty of dance.
Flying toward the wall with excited strides, I immediately began to name the paintings and their artists; describing their individual meaning and importance to an entranced Oliver.