Thea KLAPWALD

“What will survive of us is love.”
From An Arundel Tomb
by Philip Larkin

Mariela’s Moment
by Thea Klapwald

CHAPTER 1

I grumbled when we arrived at the country house, reluctant to play wingman for Simon and his crush on Louise. A perfectly good weekend had awaited me in London with my artist Samuel, who wanted me to sit for him, which would have likely led to me lying down for him. Something I was always up for.
Simon turned a deaf ear to my complaining, insisting I was essential to the weekend. He needed me to pave the way with the host, a man for whom it was said had more money than sense and a keen eye for art.
Neither of us knew him. He was from out-of-town – foreign, gasp! – but was making a splash with the social set. Hosting a weekend at his newly acquired country house was merely the next step towards acceptability in London.
Of course, none of this applied to me or mattered to me for that matter. As an American the rules didn’t apply.
Simon parked the car in the curved drive, far from the half-dozen other cars.
“Don’t want any of these silly sods denting this beauty,” he said. He shook his mop of paper-bag brown hair out of his eyes and pretended to buff a smudge off the already gleaming chrome fender. Simon cared about many things to a ridiculous degree, his racing-stripe-green MG being one of them.
I shook myself like a dog, ridding my navy cigarette pants, and the white and navy polka dot wrap-around short sleeve shirt I wore with it, of the dust accumulated from the drive. Open windows were de rigeur but they were hell on hair and clothes. My navy leather Ferragamo ballet flats weren’t pristine, but they weren’t thickly coated with grey roadside residue either.
Throat parched I worried an allergy attack might come on. Eyes watering at the edges, they were likely lined with red, not an attractive look. I never bothered to cover my hair with a scarf, too worried about Isadora Duncan syndrome.
The turquoise swing coat I’d brought was too heavy for the unseasonably warm Fall weather, so I threw it across my arm.
Unlike most country houses owned by the Brits, the place was not a shambles, attesting to the owner’s new money. Salmon-colored climbing roses grew around the front door and across the portico lending an air of springtime even if it was an overcast October.
I lifted an eyebrow. He must be ridiculously wealthy. These places sucked up money like a Hoover sucked up dirt. Maybe the weekend wouldn’t be a wash after all. Maybe he was exotic – like a Maltese prince whose budget for the house equaled the GDP of his country!
“What did you say his name was?” I called to Simon.
“Something European. Hans or Helmut, I’m sure.”
“So, you don’t know?” I crossed my arms. Typical Simon to think it wasn’t important to know the name of our host.
Simon scowled. “Louise knows his name. I know Louise. What’s the problem, Mariela?”
I huffed at him, tossing my dirty blonde locks over my shoulder, while he pulled our bags from the trunk. Rather than handing me mine, he gripped them both and walked to the front door.
My eyebrows went up even higher. Simon stood a tad shorter than my 5’8” height and weighed in at least 20 pounds lighter than me. Ever since I’d called him scrawny, he’d joined a boxing club and had begun to inch his way towards wiry. Here was the gentlemanly evidence.
I joined him on the freshly scrubbed steps and Simon let the knocker fall against the door. It swung open immediately. A man with ginger tousled curls and green eyes faced us, counting. His bulk hovered in the doorway.
“48…49…50…51…Hello!”
He stuck out a freckled but manicured hand to each of us but kept counting.
“…52…53…Matthew…54…55…”
It took us a moment to realize he was referring to himself with the name Matthew.
“Mariela,” I said and boldly kissed him on his cheek.
Matthew stuttered. “55…55…” Then blushed a shade of crimson that made his face look like he was in anaphylactic shock.
“Simon,” said Simon pushing past Matthew into the foyer. “Are we terribly late? Where is everyone? Has Louise Masters arrived, yet? Who else is here?” His staccato questions had Matthew looking like he was ready for the emergency room. “Nice digs,” continued Simon, twirling around to get the full view of the spacious anteroom.
It had nice beaten by a mile. The floor was marble tile, the stairs were stone.
Matthew recovered his power of speech. “Well, everyone is hiding. Sardines, you see?”
“Right,” said Simon. “Which way did Louise go?” Not waiting for an answer, Simon took off. Much to my chagrin I was alone with Matthew whose color was coming back to a more natural shade.
“Shouldn’t you be counting?” I said, trying to be helpful.
“Yes, but off you pop. Otherwise, I’ll find you right away,” he said with a bright smile, the kind of smile that hoped for another kiss. “I might have to start over. I’ve completely forgotten what number I left off.”
I skedaddled before Matthew’s face turned another alarming color, charged up the stairs, and made a hard right at the landing. Several doors lined either side of the landing which went off into the distance. I ignored the entire length as too obvious, made another right at the end, took several steps up, to what must be another wing. Narrower and shorter than the previous hallway, I opened the third door, a bedroom, the furniture covered in white sheets, except for a large wooden wardrobe.
“Perfect,” I thought.
It was an old piece, of dark mahogany, but the doors were oiled and opened easily without a squeak or a hitch. A selection of coats lined the rail: mink and fox furs, quilted and full-length waxed Barbour coats, boiled wool and sheepskin driving coats, as well as a Persian lamb fur coat, which I would swear was Schiaparelli. Parting the apparel, I stepped into the wardrobe, wondering if I might encounter a land as enchanting as Narnia, closed the door behind me, and tried to settle in amongst the coats.
At the back wall, no snow-covered land in sight, I immediately started sneezing and couldn’t stop.
“Shh.” said someone who wasn’t me.
I jumped and nearly bolted out of the wardrobe but the someone grabbed my arm. “Don’t or we could lose the game.”
Someone was tall, bent over due to the cramped quarters, and hovering over me. A scent of clean laundry wafted from him, and I involuntarily sniffed, which caused another spate of sneezes, my hair falling into my face.
“Here,” he said, handing me a handkerchief. His hand was broad, the fingers extending the white cloth shapely and thin like a pianist or painter.
“Thanks,” I said. I shook my head. “You scared the hell out me.”
“I thought you were it.” His voice was mellow, his accent upper crust but not the clipped tones of the aristocracy. I couldn’t detect from which part of England he hailed. It was dark in the cupboard, and I couldn’t get a good look at him. But small ribbons of light from cracks in the top of the wardrobe glinted off the planes of his cheekbones. His nose was aquiline, but he didn’t peer down it.
“Who? Matthew?”
He nodded. His eyes gleamed, a golden almost unnatural hue, which made me wonder if I had reached Narnia and its inhabitants after all.
I wasn’t about to let those molten eyes or disarming good looks get the better of me.
“Do I look like Matthew?”
“No, but I had my eyes closed, so he wouldn’t see any light reflected in them. I thought Matthew might pretend to play the game to capture me. He is a first-rate sneak.” How bizarrely specific.
“The blushing beet-red Matthew? A sneak? Wow!”
He laughed, a rumble, deep in his chest, and I wanted to put my hands on him, to feel it emanate from within, like putting your ear to a railroad track to hear the train coming.
His artistic fingers still clutched my arm with their heat, they wrapped around my entire upper arm, and then some, the skin warming to his touch, like a hot compress.
He nodded, his hair falling onto his forehead. It looked like hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be curly or straight, brown, or blonde. I wanted to push it off his forehead for him, feel its texture. This guy was getting to me. His heat, his physicality, his confidence, and masculinity. I’d never felt this before in such a short amount of time. This connection was like a crackling line of electricity.
Sure, I’d been attracted to men before, and there was Samuel, my artist in London, who had seduced me, but I had expected that of him, posing as his model.
Then there was Royce, but I’d known him most of my life. My relationship with Royce had been like breathing. I couldn’t have imagined not doing it.
“And you are?” He said, nodding again, at me, this time.
“I’m Mariela.”
“Henri.”
The door opened again, and he yanked me towards him, out of view of the opening door. Crushed up against his chest, I made an involuntary noise.
Henri covered my mouth with his hand, whispered “Shh…” his breath warm in my ear. My toes curled, and my pulse quickened. I could hear my heart beating and thought he must hear it, too.
Someone climbed into the cupboard, pushed aside coats, and quietly closed the door.
I should be upset! Henri had covered my mouth. To shut me up. In fact, he still had his hand over my mouth. I should be livid, fighting and scratching him to let go. Instead, I wanted to bite and lick his hand, the smoothness, softness, with a bit of roughness and lines, and I could even feel a scar across his palm. His scent was delicious, still of fresh laundry, and soap, but with a hint of citrus and something woodsy, as if he’d rubbed his hands on rosemary or fir needles. Whose hands smelled this good? It was ridiculous.
I wanted to bite his hand to show him I couldn’t be silenced. I pursed my lips, nibbled my teeth against his palm, but it was more like a puppy biting than an angry emancipated woman.
Surprised, his eyes wide while looking down at me, he slowly removed his hand from my mouth. He seemed even larger than when I first met him, minutes ago. He had to be over 6 foot.
“Woof?” I looked back up at him, my neck starting to crick.
The light in his eyes shone on me, made me dizzy with their intent, their message, something I recognized but couldn’t interpret, yet.
He chuckled, put his hand to his mouth and placed his lips against his palm, a silent kiss where I’d been nibbling. My panties grew moist. Who was this guy?
“I heard Matthew coming, so I took off from my original hiding place and legged it for here,” said the newcomer, shorter and stouter than my captor.
I’d forgotten we weren’t alone.
“That was a close one. I’ve never lost at Sardines, yet.”
Competitive much? The British took their childish games so seriously.
“And who are you? I don’t believe we’ve met.” His head swiveled on his thick neck, dull blue eyes squinting at me, a gleam of interest, as he tried to make out what I looked like in the dusk.
“Best not to talk, Colin. Don’t want to give away our position,” whispered Henri.
I shrunk back into Henri, and his arms surrounded me, hidden from Colin by the coats like fish in a kelp forest. What was I doing using Henri as cover? Men hit on me at the art gallery daily. I knew how to dodge and weave before my bum was pinched, or an arm tried to encircle my shoulders or waist. When I didn’t manage to avoid the contact – such as when my breasts were brushed against or fondled – I always made sure to return the favor by trapping vulnerable toes in leather-clad Oxfords under the spikes of my high heels.
I didn’t need protection.
The door opened again, and Henri whispered, “Close your eyes.” I obeyed, but why? He pulled me to him, as if to make me invisible, and I felt the world melt away, his magic working. His taut muscled chest rippled under his shirt, against my back, like an ocean with a riptide pulling me out.
Colin shoved his rugby-playing torso into us, and Henri and I were heaved against the side of the cupboard, like a small fishing vessel under a wayward wave.
A babble of French entered the wardrobe, as a long-haired girl and a raven-haired guy shoved their way inside.
“Oi,” said Colin. “Sharp elbows. Watch it mate.”
A snort escaped Henri.
“Ca va, Gabby?” he asked.
“Non, c’est obviousment!” hissed the girl I gathered was Gabby, followed by a string of slang curses that even my fluent French couldn’t follow.
“Having fun, Luc?” asked Henri.
“Mais, oui! Anytime Gabby is having fun, I am having fun,” answered the curly-haired guy, presumably Luc.
Henri and Luc broke into laughter, and I couldn’t hear Gabby’s retort, but I assumed it consisted of even courser language than before.
Old friends of Henri’s? Must be. The way they ganged up on Gabby, and teased her, but still seemed to be concerned. Maybe they were family. Although, it seemed like maybe Luc was together with Gabby. Which was cool with me. Very cool.
Henri’s rumble of laughter resonated through my body, and I yearned for him to keep laughing. It was a visceral laugh, one that connected to my core, and made me press my thighs tightly together hoping the wetness I felt hadn’t seeped through my pants. To lean into Henri’s solidness, lean on his stability, take off the weight, I didn’t even know I felt.
I was losing feeling in one leg, pinned against Colin’s monster glutes. I shifted, trying to remove my pelvis from them, but I was stuck. As rock-hard as Colin’s buttock muscles were, I didn’t want to touch them any more than I had to. He peered over his shoulder at me, as if he could sense my dilemma, and his leer said it all.
I strained and pivoted, abruptly pulling free of Colin’s rear, so that I faced Henri. Now only one of my butt cheeks danced with Colin’s fanny.
I craned my head up at Henri.
“Vous ete Francaise?”
“Ah, oui. Americiane?”
“Oui,” I said. His chin could have rested on my head. I wondered what that would feel like, and what other ways could we fit together? I shook my head to dislodge the thought.
“Votre Anglaise, pas de accent. C’est rare,” I said.
“Et toi, tu parles comme un Parisienne,” said Henri.
“Rude,” said Colin. “English, please. Not all of us speak frog.”
Henri shrugged and his arms tightened around me. His shoulders were wide, though not as wide as the brutish Colin.
Before anyone could comment on Colin’s rudeness, the door opened again.
“Oi, make way. Shove over, then, would you.” Simon pushed in, the quiet, lanky Louise in tow.
“Hi Louise,” I called out across the wardrobe. “What have you done with your hair? Is that a bob? So chic! I love it.”
“Mariela? Is that you, darling? Oh, thank you! I was so sick of it. I had to lop it all off.”
Everyone started talking at once, but Henri called out, “Shhh. No more talking. We don’t want Matthew to find us.”
Simon and Louise prodded their way into the wardrobe, settling amongst the coats between Colin and Gabby. The once spacious wardrobe suddenly became tight, claustrophobic, but in Henri’s arms I seemed to have plenty of room.
“Right, Mariela, have you found our host, yet? I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the silly bugger,” said Simon.
“Oui, I mean, yes, I am here! It is me,” said Henri.
“You’re the host,” I said.
“Bien sur,” he murmured, into my hair.
‘You didn’t say,” I said into his firm, warm chest.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Usually, the host introduces himself.”
“I’m not usually sneezed on as an introduction.” His grin warmed me like a heat lamp at a beauty salon.
Simon stuck his arm out and extended it over Colin’s head towards Henri.
“Good to meet you, Henry,” said Simon, immediately anglicizing the name. “Simon McCabe at your service. Thought you were foreign, but you sound like you could be my cousin from Mayfair. Unlike that knob, though, you seem to know what fun is.”
“Oi, watch it, matey,” complained Colin, as Simon’s arm inched past his nose and cheek. Simon must have stood on tiptoe and stretched his entire wingspan to cross Colin’s girth.
“Yes, pleasure is mine,” said Henri who untangled one of his arms from around me to meet Simon’s hand in an awkward shake. “I always prefer fun to no fun.”
“Finally, a man after my own heart. That’s my kind of talking. There is no substitute for fun,” chanted Simon.
Something warmed in my chest. Simon was my best friend. Why did it matter what he thought of some rando we’d known for two seconds.
A cry went up in favor of fun, but Henri shushed everyone again.
“We mustn’t lose,” wailed Colin. “I’ve never lost Sardines in my life!”
“So you’ve mentioned,” I said, laughing into Henri’s chest. A puff of air ruffled my hair, and the rumble of laughter began to swell in his chest. I couldn’t stop myself from pressing closer to feel it.
“We are going to burst,” cried Luc from the other side of the closet.