#jim davis x reader
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Part 4/7 💜📸📝
May 1936
Dearest Fanny,
Remember when I said I wanted to live like a cherry blossom? Cherry blossoms bloom within the grasp of death. With most flowers, the rot sets in…they fall… That’s the price of new life. Not cherry blossoms, though. They bloom beautiful, they fall beautiful. That’s how I want my life to be. To be beautiful and dignified for a fleeting moment simply by letting go of life. Daring to bloom knowing it won’t last, and so falling in vivid color. I wish I could live like that. I want to experience true beauty, if only for a moment.
I met someone who made me feel different. He showed me a whole new world, gave me hope. I honestly thought he could help me find a new me. I felt it with all my heart. But people didn’t understand us, didn’t want that from us. In the end, they took my hope from me. They took him away. People who can’t achieve beauty seek comfort in others. They fear anyone different. Hate them. Try to tear them down. I can’t take much more of this. Fanny, do you remember when we took apart all those abandoned mailboxes and birdhouses and built Bug Town? I first peered into Mr. Emory’s fascinating cases of beetles and butterflies at the age of six, in the company of Father. I recall my pity at each occupant, dead and pinned for display. It was no great leap to draw the same conclusion of ladies: similarly bound and trussed, pinned and contained, with the objective of being admired, in all their gaudy beauty. I’d go collect pill bugs and slugs and we’d put them in little houses, alive, and make up stories about their lives as we watched them until we got bored and released them back into the wild. Well, I went and set the whole thing back up. I even added new buildings. I just wish we could go back there. I wish I could keep building Bug Town with you. I wish you and I could run away together, Fanny. Just me and you... I just want to run to another place. A simpler, gentler place. A place of gentle pastels and beautiful, breathtaking, and perfect— Why do I feel like this? I’ve never felt like this before. It’s got to be because I lost that special person and the hope he gave me, right?
A long time ago, when I finally got to accept my feelings for Jim, I thought everything was going to change. But every day was still just like every day. He was still a drifter. I was still his friend. When you live in New York, people expect things to stay the same. If anything changed between us, it could ruin Jim and everything around him. So that’s how it went: Nothing changed when my whole world burned. I kept teling myself maybe after I got into college, I’d be able to express my feelings for him. I let the fire in my heart eat through my soul and body. I called myself a coward. But I chose to keep what little I had to enjoy. I was a poor kid crawled up in bed. Poor? Do I really deserve that charity title? Am I really the victim of all of this? Finding myself is the key to finding others, to realizing that I can form real bonds, that I can end loneliness and embrace a better future. Seeking a connection with others is a sign of weakness. It’s running away. The strongest animals don’t form groups; they act alone, and need only themselves to survive. Those who betray themselves to fit into a group are pathetic. There’s no beauty in living like that. But... I don’t really mind. I just want someone to understand me… For those I love, and for those who love me… I want to keep moving forward…and never look back... I wouldn’t go back, to the way my life was before. No. No, I can never go back to that again. Remember the time when I said that I don’t want to be trapped anymore? I think I’ve finally found a way to escape. You’re probably thinking, “Nothing too drastic, I hope.” It is drastic. There’s no going back once I’ve done it, but that's what I want. No going back. So I won’t. I’m far nicer than I was before I went to Cascade, you know. Running away is running a way, running a path both from and toward. It is all a matter of perspective.
Fundamentally, some people, like Mother, misunderstand the desire to escape the flesh. It’s not about escaping decay, or that the heart or the brain is less mutable than the flesh (foolish). It’s about the changeability! It’s about customization! It’s about being able to open yourself up to new things and swap parts around! This was what my spirit longed to do, to wander in strange lands. It couldn’t stand being trapped in one body all the time. It had wanderlust. I get butterflies every time I wander beautiful places I’ve never been. Dr. Jaquith once described me as a butterfly. ‘You are like a butterfly, beautiful to look at but hard to catch,” he said, “yet in that utilitarian life a butterfly of the soul dies, for we need the sweet nectar of the flowers and the warm rays of the sun. The sweet words, the laughter, the silliness and the spontaneous hugs are as needed as the air we breathe.” The sad thing is, I think cold types like Mother need it too, that’s why they seek us and cling to our warmth until our fire is extinguished. “If travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. A person susceptible to wanderlust is not so much addicted to movement as committed to transformation.” I am ready to transform, Fanny. These brick walls have been my cocoon for the years I needed their sanctuary, and I thank them. My eyes wander their rugged clay surface, their rosy color bright yet earthen. My hands feel the warmth of sun, imparted to them yet given back with a steady determination. Leaving home was never going to be easy, but it is part of growing, of moving onward into new challenges. It is so very bittersweet.
Luggage, to pack at this time, is bitter and sweet. Yet it is as the striking clock, hands move onward. When the time of change comes I can only embrace it and make the best of what comes next. Now that time has come again. It brings a sense of rebirth, of the coming of new adventures. It’s not even about wanting something badly, it’s wanting it more than death. It’s dying for something and being reborn. It is as if my heart and soul have climbed into their own luggage and buckled in as happy passengers. There is a time to stay. There is a time to go. I believe I am close to the latter. At a certain point I need to go wandering. My feet need to hit earth, again and again, that bone-filling drumbeat. I need the sky’s colored threads to tangle inside me, pull me somewhere new. Everything I was I carry with me, and everything I will be lies waiting on the road ahead. The road doesn’t rise and the road doesn’t sink, it’s me that does the walking. Every day it’s right there and I can ride it anywhere or sit here on this curb.
I’m leaving, Fanny. I’m sorry but I can’t stay. Sir John Talbot and I have broken our engagement. I wanted it to work, not for Mother’s sake, but for John’s. And, if I was older, maybe I could have made it. But I still have my youth and I can’t throw that away on him. I’m not the right woman for him, and he’s not the right man for me. It was a mutual decision, and came as a surprise to neither of us. We parted amicably, and promised that we’d still be friends and keep in touch. I’m relieved and very glad to know our friendship won’t suffer and that, despite our broken engagement, we haven’t truly fallen out. It feels like a weight off our shoulders, like the stars have aligned and the world has shifted back into place.
Now that things are going back to the way they were between us, I no longer feel dizzy and disoriented, like I’m living outside of my body. But something’s changed, in a good way. I can’t explain or describe it, but I can feel it. I hope John can feel it too. He’s a good man with an even better heart, but it still belongs to his wife. He’s so very lucky to have loved and been loved in return, to have his heart held by a woman who could really cherish it and keep it safe. True love stories don’t end in a wedding, Fanny, they end in a funeral. He had his love story and it had a happy ending, for a time. And isn’t he the lucky one? It is better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all. I don’t know if he’ll ever find another woman to love him, if he’ll ever make room in his heart for her in that way, but I wish him every happiness.
I’m so sorry, Fanny. I do love you, you know. It’ll be hard to go, to let you go, my last link with home. I know that I leave many things behind, but it is time to go towards a new beginning and go in search of my destiny. I don’t know what I’m going to find, but I’m sure it will be wonderful. Being the person I am, and feeling the way that I do, getting excited about going somewhere new can be terrifying. Of course it is, I get it! As much as I had always longed to be freed of my duties and obligations, being released from such bonds was as much a severing as an emancipation. Emancipation resulting in madness. Unlimited freedom to choose and play a tremendous variety of roles with a lot of coarse energy. I might be afraid of damn near everything at first, but I refuse to let it paralyze me. I won’t be the woman who cowers behind four walls, never taking chances. I am a world of uncertainties disguised as a girl, and I want to die like I’ve lived. I always wanted to be larger than life. If I don’t travel, I’ll regret it. My soul will forever be empty. Still, it’ll be scary and lonely…and half the time I’ll be wondering why the hell I’m in Cincinnati or Hungary or North Dakota or Mongolia or wherever my ambition takes me.
There will be boondoggles and discombobulated days, freaked-out nights and metaphorical flat tires. In the first few seconds an aching sadness will wrench my heart, and I know I shall be homesick for you…but it will soon give way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of wanderlust. Still, living in this moment I realize that it is a transition that will live with me all my days. Yet I take these emotions with me, these memories of comfort and joy. I see the places we did hopscotch as kids, throwing down them stones, leaping in time to our rhymes. I see the road in the right here and now, these shoes feeling how the sidewalk pushes back softly, always supporting, never asking. And in that moment I hear it calling with its sweet song of other places, all of them connected by the breathing land that runs under that tarmac, under oceans and mountains. That’s how I know I’ve gotta go, go with the road, take her curves and junctions, pause at the red, go at the green.
I went to such great lengths to hide it, but I suppose I can tell you this now: I wasn’t a very good student. I wasn’t smart enough to just get by. I wasn’t focused enough in class. I rarely passed exams. I skipped assignments. I was constantly on academic probation. I can remember the complicated face Mother made when I told her that my college application was rejected again and that I didn’t want to go to school anyway. None of us were expecting them to approve an application of a dropout with a low grade point average. As much as I wanted to be, I wasn’t anything like Dad. Not that Mother would ever let anyone know that.
You and I always used to stick together, and then when we were in junior high... I would get into trouble here and there and our parents would always compare us. You were the good twin...and I was the evil twin, as I liked to say. Two halves to a whole, and I was the rotten half, they said. I kind of got this image. I totally played it up as if that’s what I had to be or something. But at the time, as Mother and Father were in the middle of their divorce that was neither smooth nor messy, but something in-between, I was already thinking of doing what Jim was accused of doing: selling all my belongings, maybe inventing a fake identity, sticking out my thumb, and hitchhiking to roam around the world to be with the other hippies and vagabonds who had dropped out of school and tuned in to their surroundings.
All I wanted was to live a life where I could be me, and be okay with that. I had no need for material possessions, money or even close friends with me on my journey. I never understood people very well anyway, and they never seemed to understand me very well either. All I wanted was my art and the chance to be the creator of my own world, my own reality. I wanted the open road and new beginnings every day. When no possessions keep us, when no countries contain us, and no time detains us, man becomes a wanderer, and woman, a wanderess. I know, in my soul, that a love for travel is a gift and not a hindrance. It feels like a burden when the bucket list is bigger than the bank account, but a thirst for more of the world is not something to apologize for.
Denying its presence feels like denying something good in me, something God put there. One learns most when one wanders the world. Experience teaches is such a lovely saying. Hypocrisy is something I have learned saturates every level of our society. I see it more now than I did then. At some stage I started questioning everything that I was being taught and turned against various aspects of my upbringing. Maybe I had my reasons and maybe I needed new ways to cope like Dr. Jaquith said. I needed pain, I needed blood. Pain is beauty. The more pain somebody has experienced in their life the more physically attractive they are. Judge me if you want, but I’m talking about my own body. My own catharsis. About marking myself with beauty instead of ugliness. Anger is a thing I channel into my passions, I make it my rocket fuel to create a better world. All those times I have lashed out, lost self-control… I’m so dreadfully sorry. I am learning from those past experiences - learning how to become more as our father who suffered so much and yet was calm and kind to all.
Jim was like Father, always pushing his limits. Well… It was more like he was always being pushed, but he was good at it. That’s why he naturally became a journalist, a travel writer, while maintaining a high for adventure, for exploration, for new experiences and the discovery of previously unknown wonders. Jim was the best chauffeur I could ask for. Seeing him all sweaty as he worked on a car triggered something tingly within me. Something that made me want to catch him behind his back and never let go. All sorts of feelings and thoughts were pumped restlessly into my brain with every heartbeat. It gave me a bad headache. A good kind of bad headache. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to never stop. But as soon as Jim gave me that “Hello” all those headaches were washed away. It used to be the best prescription I could ask for. Take away the pain and let only the good things stay.
I don’t want to start talking shit about her already but how can I resist? Every time I got in Mother’s view, it triggered an obvious backbite. I had an... interesting talk with Mother. One you’re never going to need to have. Well, of course Mother prefers you over me. Why shouldn’t she? I’m ugly and awkward, and I always say the wrong things. I fly around throwing away perfectly good marriage proposals. I love our home, but I’m just so fitful, and I can’t stand being here! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Fanny. I’m sorry about being as difficult as I am, my brain’s just…built wrong. There’s just something really wrong with me. I want to change, but I…I can’t. And I just know, I’ll never fit in anywhere. Why is it that I can’t be content to live a normal life? Why do I spiral into depression when I am away from the wilderness for too long?
I mean...you’ve known, right? Like... I’ve known. I’ve known ever since Father took us with him to Europe. Mother didn’t, I guess. But she saw Jim’s note, and the suitcase under my bed, and she asked, “is there something I should know about you and Jim?” Mother kept doing what she does best: digging into other’s secrets. She tried to use Jim’s ex-wife and four adult daughters against him, against me. But that backfired on her and blew up in her face when I told her I already knew all about Jim’s past. In that moment, I was proud to have rendered her speechless. It gave me great pleasure to watch her sputter, trying and failing to form words. I threw a wrench in her plans, just as she had thrown a wrench in mine. But here’s the thing. I was prepared for her to be mad, or disappointed, or start crying or something. But she was just in denial. “You're too young to know what you want,” “you and Jim are just good friends,” “you just haven’t met the right man...” “It’s a phase.” That's what I didn’t see coming. That she wouldn’t even respect me enough... to believe me.
Maybe Mother thought...thought that Jim only took an interest in me because I was just a “rich but clueless American girl” who was lonely enough to do anything for anyone who was nice to me. Jealousy is a strong creature. It quickly devoured her mind. Soon, anger took control of her, and it took control of me too. And she just needed someone to be mad at, someone to blame for her misery other than herself. Sadly, coping with her bitchiness wasn’t the hardest part of the day. Even after Jim left me, anger stayed. It devoured me whole. A phase, she called it. Well, joke’s on her, because she is in for one very long phase. I only stayed as long as I had because Mother suddenly contracted diphtheria and depended on us more and more. Manby, Uncle George, you, me…all of us. She was ill and getting worse. And there was you, Fanny. I didn’t want to abandon you and leave you alone in that great empty house with Mother. Even if I could’ve chucked everything— But Jim wouldn’t let me. Jim. Jim. What’s the feminine for his word? That’s what I am. I knew he had been married with children before, that he abandoned them, and I walked right in with my eyes wide open. I said he would make me happier. And he had.
But now my beloved Jim has gone away. He left on a train and hasn’t told me where he’s going. I’ve lost touch with him. He vowed never again to step foot on the territory of New York or Wales, wishing for me to be free of him so I could be happy with John. How was he to know we’d break our engagement? And though I haven’t lost everything - I still have you and Uncle George here in New York and Father in Berlin (God, I hope he’s safe. I pray for him every night), my beloved family who lights up my life - If I don’t go after him, it’ll only seal my fate of never seeing him again, and the thought is too much to bear. I lost him twice already, but I can’t survive it a third time. So now you will never see me again, for I am on my way Northeast, there to start the rest of my life. I will never return to the territory of New York, not even when my mother, whom I despise with every part of my being, has left this Earth - unless she changes her ways. But I’m not holding my breath.
Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out. As of now, it looks as if I’m right about one thing, that Mother is never going to change. Even if she told me she understands my need to move out of the city, I don’t feel guilty for leaving her alone in New York. I hate to add to her unhappiness, truly. But she won’t change. Not until she’s happy again, at any rate. She’ll come around when she’s not lonely anymore, if by some miracle Dad comes home. But not before. Our parents smile from the old photographs, full of the promise of youth. Mother stands in her wedding dress, modest by today’s standards, simple and white. Father is the proud man holding the arm of his pretty bride, the sunlight reflecting from his unwrinkled face. That was before...before the illusion shattered. It was before his infidelity and her hypocrisy surfaced and came to a head. I want to see them smile like that again, to find that love hiding inside their aching bones.
Bravery is the sweet spot on a spectrum from cowardice to fool hardy. There are times when running away is that sweet spot, when it is the brave choice. It is all a matter of circumstance, trust your instinct on which it has arisen. This is the moment. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. I tell myself, you aready used up your last chance to change your mind about running away, Miss Skeffington. Get yourself together. if not for you, for Dad. Mother sought her refuge in London and abroad when she was ill, while I found a place in the great wide somewhere. And so I stepped over the divide between childhood and all that lay beyond. I won’t be defeatist and say it will be my last time in this house. I’ll be back. Someday. Maybe. For now, I cautiously regard home as a place I’m leaving behind in order to come back to it afterward. It’s selfish, but at the end of the day, that's what we are - selves. If we don’t look out for our own interests, there are plenty who’ll be more than happy to chip away at our core, piece by piece, until we forget what we ever wanted.
Although I do not have the time to convey my good wishes to you in the way that I would like, I hope you know that you have been the kindest of sisters and although you may not want to hear this after what I’ve done, I am very grateful to you. I am sorry to be leaving home like this after so many years. I know I’ve said it many times in this letter already, and maybe you’re tired of reading those two words, but I feel like I can’t say it enough. Please forgive me for running off and leaving so abruptly without a proper goodbye. As much as I would’ve preferred to have taken leave in person, the matter was urgent, and I had no time to wait for you to get back from your date with Johnny Mitchell. It was decided just that very day, and my boat was scheduled to set sail so soon, so I had to leave rather abruptly to catch it.
By the time you read this letter, I will be halfway across the world, on my way to India. There’s something Jim said in his letter…it might be a hint as to where he is. Or it might be nothing. But I have to try. Besides, it’s not just because of Jim that I’m going. It was a thought, that. Not to attach myself to a man, but to confront instead the open world, the wide fields of France and Spain, the ocean, anything. Not just to hitch a lift with the first fellow who looked as though he knew where he was going, but just to go. I haven’t told Mother or Uncle George this, but there’s an art exhibition in Delhi, and I just received a letter informing me that I have a place as one of the featured international artists! I’ll be able to present my artwork in front of hundreds - no - thousands of people!! It might actually be my crowning achievement. But once this is done…then what? Do I have it in me to come up with something even better? How much longer can I enjoy the fame and praise I get now? Is there despair and disappointment waiting for me right around the corner...? No point in dwelling on what ifs now. I’ve already booked my ticket and it seems too good a chance to miss, so I will be starting my journey there. I must go for the adventure.
Perhaps a slightly perverted adventure of questionable consent, but beggars like me can’t be choosers. I wish to study painting abroad. All I want is a chance to pursue my passions, and I hope that gives me enough to live on and time off for fun with family and friends. I want the kind of work-life balance that has eluded our family for generations. India… It sounds so far away and different. I like different places. I like any places that isn’t here. If Jim is not there, I don’t know where I’ll go after India, but I just know I’ll have to keep searching. For him, for myself… Even if it takes months or years, I will find him - and if and when we can prove to Mother that all we ask of her is her consent - nothing more - then, and only then will I come back home. No sooner than that. I could give up the search, it’s the easiest option. But I’m not going to give up on him so easily, just when the going gets tough. What would I achieve? Many sleepless nights holding regret of all I didn’t seek? That option will never exist to me. My dreams are far too real. Down the hard road I find my place in the world, the closest to home I’ll ever feel. I’ll look for Jim around every corner. I’m taking back my life, and it’s due to him.
It is important, I feel, to give thanks to what has been, for in doing so the future walks upon a clean pathway. You and Father and even Uncle George have always fought my corner and been my allies. Even when I was failing almost all of my other classes and eventually dropped out of school, even when I received rejection letter after rejection letter from countless colleges, you continued to encourage and support me in my pursuit of an art and photography career. You believed in me, always told me that I am talented in my own right, and I am forever thankful to you all for pushing me to pursue my passions, even when Mother didn’t understand and was against them. I would’ve given up without you, Dad, and Uncle George. Not just on my art and photography, but on myself entirely. I leave with thanks for your and their many kindnesses.
In a way, I will carry you all with me. You will be my muses, my inspiration, and I will represent you and the love I feel towards you all in my artwork. If I don’t make the papers, I hope to show you my artwork myself someday. Darling, forgive me and rejoice for my mind is made up. In time you will understand and my prayer is that you will always accept that this was my decision, my free decision. Who would have dreamed taking a semester off to visit landmarks in Switzerland would result in meeting the love of my life and chasing after him? Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I know you must be so worried, but I will be safe and well. No matter what you hear, nothing is going to happen to me. I will be fine and Jim and I will be together soon, I promise. I dare not call home at the risk Mother may pick up the phone, but I’ll write you every week, though there’s no telling when my letters will actually make it to you with how erratic and unpredictable the post can be sometimes. I’d write you every day if I could. I need space, so I believe this time away could be good for me. Leaving is my form of self-protection. There is no other way to accomplish it, or to give myself a chance to recover. My leaving is not only a choice, but a duty.
Anyway, you know Uncle Fred is in Diamond Stud, South Africa, so I have somewhere to go if something goes wrong. You know how much he loves us as if we were his own daughters of his flesh and blood (Dad had to rein him in more than once lest he spoil us too much, especially on Christmas and our birthday. Remember our eighth birthday? It’s very funny to think back on now but, at the time, Mother and Father were mortified. The words “Simple” and “Small” are not in Uncle Fred’s vocabulary). He always used to say our invitation to come live with him over the summer was open, just to cable or call him beforehand so he could prepare a room. He has plenty of space, so I’m sure he would love to have my company, should I ever want to stay with him, if my travels ever bring me around to South Africa.
Though I know he’s of no blood relation to us, and it may sound terrible to admit, there were times when I did wonder if he was my biological father after all. When I was growing up, I felt a certain way towards him, like there was an invisible connection or kinship between us that nobody else could see. I can’t describe it, but I felt it. I felt I was more like him than Father. He’s unmarried but never had and still has no interest in ever settling down and taking a wife, just like me. While he’s no virgin and loves the company of young and beautiful women, he never thought himself a family man. He wasn’t cut out to be a father and would much rather stay the “fun uncle”. Just like how I never wanted and still never want to be a mother. I’d much rather be the “fun aunt”. He was and still is built of different stuff, cut from a different cloth, just like me. He’s free, living it up as a rich bachelor, unbridled by marriage prospects. I envied him for so many years because he had the kind of life I could only dream of. When you receive this letter, let my words be the butterfly and the envelope their cocoon. Though I leave home, our bond remains, traveling different pathways yet eternally connected. Know, too, that I miss you terribly, and always, always will.
Love,
Your sister xx
P.S. Enclosed is a picture of the vilest woman ever born.
May 1936
Dear John,
Wanderlust is the pretty onward road when the duties that kept one anchored are lifted. It is neither running from nor running to, yet a sense of easy adventure, a gentle curiosity, a growing inner peace. What an unfortunate time for the wanderlust to strike! Although we were friends first, we never really had time to discover the souls of one another without the rest of these strong emotions. Perhaps then we would have seen how our passions and purpose would always take us in opposite directions...unless one of us sacrificed who we really are...then what? How could there be a relationship if one of us became a shadow of our former self, or worse, a sort of annex of the other, or a fading echo struggling to find self-worth?
In the carefully scripted wedding rituals, I detected bad faith. I felt less like a bride and more like a person pretending to be a bride, the way a little girl might process through her living room with a pillowcase draped over her head toward some imaginary groom. I refused to take engagement photos because who would ever believe that we were spontaneously bounding through a field at sunset holding hands? Or kissing in front of a brick wall? Who was that photo for? It couldn’t be for us because anytime we looked at it we would know all the work that went into it: A long afternoon spent smiling to the point of jaw exhaustion.
In this breakup I won’t break up. I refuse to because I choose to seize this opportunity, this chance you have given me, given us, to live and love again. I choose to love again with full power because anything less would feel anaemic. In my pain I thought you close to an adversary or oppressor, yet in truth you’re drowning in a sea of your own uncried tears. How can a soul be healthy if you refuse to feel your pain? Over the past four weeks I forgot what it was to smile from joy instead of painting a smile upon my face for others, one that felt empty and wrong. The truth is, we were simply wrong for each other. It takes a lot of healing to feel a spark again, to have the courage to let it grow and burn...so you can be sure I’ll keep on walking, exploring, making a new life with others who spark and flame. So, remembering the good times, cherishing our laughter and smiles, letting the quarrels fade to nothing, farewell, be strong, for I loved you in my own way. Not as a wife or a lover, but as…
Your friend,
Miss Skeffington
May 1936
Dear Jim,
Not every road untraveled is worthy of the imprint of your soles. Some are best left that way, forgotten and erased by the passage of time. For every soul there is a road not traveled by others. There are times we are called upon to take the road not traveled, as a sort of scout, checking its safety, ensuring that it leads to someplace of greater love, than to stick to well-known routes. Such exploration takes a degree of courage, a pure seed of faith, and a complete determination to do what is right for others. For it is the road that your love and passion will call you to explore, it is the reason you were called into existence.
When your soles meet that road, regardless of the challenge, your soul will rise, igniting a fire within. You walk this road not for yourself, yet for the good of others, to make discoveries that bring greater health to your community, to creation, to mother nature. So, I hope you have the courage to walk your road when it is revealed to you. Yet when we find the entrance to new, untraveled roads, when the urge to travel them comes from the loving impulse, from the callings of the heart, when they echo the soul in ways that feel like home, I say we travel them together. Let us be explorers on these paths that lead to greater birdsong and the regeneration of nature. For this sense of love we are all born to seek, is real sense, real sanity, and our inbuilt navigation system.
Why won’t you see me? Why won’t you return a simple message? I miss you so much. You’d love India, I think, probably. The nature here is totally different than back home. I keep thinking about the story you told me, about Allegra and the first mate lost on a mysterious island where even the plants are out to get them…and then I think of them together, out there in the wilderness together…and I start thinking of you again… I lie here in bed and I can almost feel you. I’ve been trying to save it up for when we’re together again.
I haven’t done a good job, okay?! But I tried… The love letter is so underrated. It’s challenging to write a love letter, for when we do the soul is naked. They take courage to write and so are incredibly elevating to read; for to render yourself so emotionally naked is a profound act of love. Without knowing why or how, I found myself in love with you, this strange wanderer. While I won’t lie and say I fell in love with you the day we met, I fell for you harder than a slip on black ice. You were funny, always cracking jokes. You had me in stitches on every date. People flocked to you like you were the only light in the room, hanging on your words, buying you drinks and slapping your back. After a time I wanted more than the “happy guy” persona. I already loved you, and I wanted to get to know the man behind the punch lines. At first you distracted me with jokes and I followed each one, laughing down every blind alley.
Then one day Fanny asked me some things about you, where you grew up, what your parents were like, who your best friends were, and I froze. After six months I knew nothing about you other than your alcohol and bed preferences. Maybe I was just in love with the dream you were selling me: A life of destiny and fate, as my own life up until we met had been so void of enchantment. Those things - mystery, fate, enchantment - they are things that young people offer us as soon as we get close to them. And if we’re not careful, we can be seduced by, and drawn back into, the youthful world they preside over. The freedom of the open road is seductive, serendipitous and absolutely liberating. I sat with you, reached out with my open heart and invited you to reciprocate, to make that connection. But then I walked away and went back to New York. I had to protect myself from the pain of the emotions. I had to make some effort to get over you. Then, just when I thought I’d made progress on that, you came back. You came back on the exact day I was going to make a bigger effort to move on. So, that was that. The universe wants this. I want this. It feels like you want this too. I fell in love more deeply upon meeting you in New York, but I couldn’t say. I thought you wanted to be friends and that was all. It broke my heart. It was rough. But I’d take you as a friend than not at all. Love is that way. You stay, you do all the good you can for them while you do the best for yourself too, get on with your life, pursue your passions and talents...
Your goodbye letter is the boots upon my feet and the bag upon my arm, yet come the calling of the black heavens and stars, it is the bed I rest upon and the pillow that welcomes me to dreamland. So it’s a matter of time and patience, I suppose. I never met a lover before who made every other man appear as if he were a two-dimensional paper drawing, men who would melt in the rain and burn on the first rays of a strengthening sun. And this confidence in your soul, in who you were born to become, as the man who stands with me, is the finest love letter I can ever write. For words are only the crude tools of emotion and it’s my heart you’ve won. With you I’m both completely free and completely in a cage, though it’s a cage I want to be in, because I feel safe there. My imagination is free, my creativity and intellect have no frontiers, it peeks in glee at infinite possibilities for ideas and learning. My romantic love, however, has entered the cage, locked the door behind herself and put the key out of the bars. That’s that. I’m done. I’m yours. I’ve found you at last. When you left I was scattered to the winds. But now... I feel almost whole again. Wanna know how much I love you? I love you to the moon and back. I’m crazy about you. I’m lost without you… I’ve been lost a long time... Let’s go back to our small world, where I placed my hearts at everywhere you loved. Let’s go back. I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. Hold on just a little longer. I know this isn’t real, but the pain sure is. I keep hearing a German man’s whisper in the wind. After weeks of trying to decipher something, anything… I heard the word “Wald”. A little elbow grease at the library turned up a German dictionary. Wald means “forest.” I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. There’s just one thing left to do. Take me with you. Please. Please, take me with you this time. You won’t leave me again, will you? You can’t just shake up my whole world and leave.
All my love,
Your storyteller Xxx
You turned, headed for the stairs. You ran down a busy train station, pushing your way through a crowd of stevedores and waving families. But it was too late. By the time you arrived at the platform, the last call had been announced and the train had pulled out of the station. You stood there, panting, defeated, watching the train receding. But little by little you became aware of another presence standing close by. It was Jim. Shocked, flustered, you backed away. He followed closely.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Skeffington.”
“Mr. Masters.”
“I thought you might find me sooner or later. No one can keep a secret these days.”
“I knew where you’d be. It was hidden in plain sight in your letter. If you didn’t want me to find you, why did you write it? When have you condescended to hide from a woman, especially me?”
“Darling, you really shouldn’t have come.”
“I had to see you. I don’t trust you. I’m giving my regards to Chief Mahabu in person.”
“Well… You might as well know. There is no Chief Mahabu.”
“It’s all right. We’ll find one.”
“I don’t want you with me.”
“Please don’t. I liked you much better when you were blunt and natural. You’re such a bad liar, Jim. I’d never have got anywhere if I were as rotten a liar as you.”
“Don’t act as if you’ve made a great discovery, I’ve known it for years. It did not serve me well.”
“That’s why I’ve appointed myself your guardian. When we get to Los Angeles, I’ll make it legal. It’s a big world. Two can travel in it.”
“So what do you wanna do? Spend the rest of your life with tramps? Derelicts? No goods?”
“Sure. I’m a socialite and you’re a social climber.”
“No. I’m not gonna let you do it. It’s too lonely a life.”
“Not if we’re together, it isn’t.”
"You don’t even know where I’m going."
"I don’t care. I’d like to go anywhere. How can there be any adventure, any exploration, if you let somebody else - above all, a travel bureau - arrange everything beforehand? Is there really nothing I might say so you’ll take me with you?”
“I confess that…I was hoping that I might have a reason to take you with me, but congratulations on the celebration of your marriage. I saw the announcement in the papers. I’m very happy for you.”
“Oh, no! No! No, that’s…that’s Fanny. You remember my sister, Fanny! And Johnny Mitchell, actually. No, I’m… I’m not married. Please don’t go so far away. Not without me.”
“What? What about Sir John Talbot? He was your fiancé when I left.”
“About that... Jim, Sir John and I broke our engagement. We broke it the day you called me.”
“What? Why didn’t you marry him? Don’t you love him?”
“Not like we do. Not like us. He’s like you in many ways. Not your sense of humor, nor your sense of beauty, nor your sense of play. But a fine man, and a kind of refuge I thought I could never have. I thought my fondness for him might grow to be love or something like what we have. When my sister and I had to leave Berlin because of the Nazis and we parted for the second time, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. We’d made our pact, and we were living up to it. Mother thought that, with my engagement, I would get over you, Jim. But when you came back, my feelings for you that I tried so hard to bury came back full force. They never truly left. But then you left again.”
“I couldn’t stay and watch you ruin yourself. I only wanted to stop you from throwing away your future.”
“May I remind you it’s my future to throw away.”
“You talk about the future like you’re flipping through a magazine. I asked you to marry that man and be happy. I didn’t ask you to go against your mother and tag along after me. But thank you for defending me and proving that you do care.”
“I didn’t know how much until she said those dreadful things. She thought the only way to break us apart was to show me what a deadbeat you were. I kept hearing the disgusting words she said, but at the same time, I felt something. A reminder…of how I felt when I fell for you. How it felt so right and terribly wrong. Screaming into my pillow never helped with making the feelings go away.”
“So you’re not angry with me?”
“No. Only with Mother. On the other hand, I thought she described the way you left me rather accurately.”
“If it’s any comfort, I’ve always regretted having let you go. I was a cad to make you care for me and then because of some noble sense of duty, to leave you to get over it the best you can.”
“Don’t blame yourself. Please, darling. John and I weren’t right for each other. But this? I know this is right. Just as I know we’ll regret delaying when we could have made it happen. You’ll regret it. I’ll regret it. ‘He who loves the most regrets the most.’ But we don’t have time for regrets now, Jim. Only love.”
“It’s different.“
“It’s not. Shall I tell you what you've given me? On that very first day, a little bottle of perfume made me feel important. You were my first friend. And then when you fell in love with me, I was so proud. And when I came home, I needed something to make me feel proud. And your camellias arrived, and I knew you were thinking about me. I could’ve walked into a den of lions. As a matter of fact, I did, and the lions didn’t hurt me. I’m reminded of a promise. Didn’t you say you would take me across the world and kiss me in one hundred countries before we die?”
“Let’s not live in a fantasy. Give it up. Give me up.”
“Is that an order? Jim, you should know by now that I don’t follow orders very well. Never have, never will. If we can’t be happy here, we must leave for a place that will accept our love.”
“But, my darling, is there such a place? Think... I can’t bear to see you hurt.”
“Let me tell you a story then. There once was a man named Sidney. He was a big explorer and naturalist who went all over the world. He did a lot of exploration on the Amazon. There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned to set out for the ends of the earth. ‘On! On!’ his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea, night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces. Where? He wasn’t very close with his son, who was also an explorer. They’d only see each other by chance in weird remote places like Samarkand or Walla Walla. One day, he met a woman on his travels. She was a botanist, but was completely daft - she’d wear really bizarre outfits and she was one of the first women to ride on a steam train. He didn’t want her with him, and kept trying to push her away, but she kept coming back. Then he fell in love with her, and she with him. Together they roamed the world, two halves made whole. They never legally married, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need rings or a piece of paper to tell them that they were husband and wife. To them, they already were. Now there’s a plant named after her, and a monkey they adopted that they named after him. That monkey became famous and went on to have many offspring. He has grandchildren and great-grandchildren that are still alive today.”
“The naturalist or the monkey?”
“Yes. Oh, you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? If our love has no home, let us spend our lives searching together! If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone. So I beg of you again... Don’t send me away. Don’t send me back. I’ve come so far. Please, Jim. Take me with you. I promise I will make you happy. And I know you’ll make me happy too. Please give us a chance.”
“You...just won’t give up, will you? Of all the crazy...stubborn...foolish women...”
“Jim, answer me, please! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to have an outburst. I mean, give me your answer. Let us go to Africa with a sense our tomorrows are beginning. Please. Take me away. Take me to a place where we can be happy.”
“But if we run away together or elope, won’t I ruin your reputation? Won’t I be an anchor around your neck?”
“A very nice anchor around a very willing neck. Now, I know what I really want. Jim, let’s just not get married yet. You never wanted marriage anyway. I know that. Let’s just get out of here...and just see the world. Okay? All right? My darling,” you exhaled as he reached you, pulling you into his embrace and holding you close. You clung to Jim, the gentle thrum of your heart against his chest reinvigorating him after his long journey.
“I love you. I love you, sweetheart. I’ve been in love before. I won’t pretend that I haven’t. But I really do love you.”
“Then I’ll take that as a yes.”
“The trouble is, I’m not as simple as I used to be. My life is not as simple. I...just need to be sure I’m being realistic, not living in a fool’s paradise and dragging you into it with me.”
“I’ll still take it as a yes. Please take back what you said in your letter.”
“If you can stay by my side and have a full and happy life, I will. Will you have me?”
“With all of my heart.”
“But I have nothing to give you. My hands are empty.”
You took his hands in yours. “Not empty now.”
“It seems I missed my train. On purpose, darling. I couldn’t go - not yet.”
“When, then? When do you leave?”
“I don’t know. I truly don’t—”
“What do you mean? If you don’t know, who does?”
“You, darling. Only you know.”
He pulled you close and kissed you. You were thrilled. You pulled away.
“I intend to eventually go to Europe one more time, and I need a companion. How would you like to be the person I take?”
“I’d like that more than anything! I’m ready to travel...and you’re my ticket. To get away from that house, away from that life— Leaving has the sense of adventure, coming home to you however, would be my heaven.”
At that moment, you were interrupted by a whistle from a passing train. A train’s lights moved on the sheer curtains. Obeying an old habit, Jim checked his pocket watch - and smiled. “It’s a great day for the tramps of the world. They’re getting new blood.”
“How are we gonna start out? Under the train or in it?”
“This time in it. Just for the novelty.”
The emotion of your reunion sealed as a perfect photograph in your soul. Adventure grinned at you as a new friend, as an old friend, as if he knew the answer was yes before he asked. The ideas would come later, probably when you least expected it. The goal of your life was to tie adventure to your feet, stock memories in your pocket, hold imagination in your palms like fairy dust and sprinkle it on your tales. So you laced your boots and took a step onto the train. The backpack had broad shoulder straps that felt quite natural even with the weight added. With it you walked a little taller, felt the straightening of your back and your head rise a little higher. Somehow it was easy to carry, almost easier than having been free of it. The backpack had that well-loved look, the canvas of spring flowers showing signs of being washed many times. It took the form of your shoulder in the same way a friend’s hand might, gentle and warm. Your luggage hugged at your hips as if it was filled with future good memories. To the heart ready to travel, the backpack brought a frisson of joy. The backpack upon the compartment seat was the color of bright yellow petals, the sort of yellow that got brighter in the rays of the dayshine. It was a sort of bold, "Hello," something that was confident to glow in all weathers. It was the most welcome of sights, for it told of a new adventure afoot. Your luggage bags were plain and well loved, yet what mattered most was not your destination, but the journey. Your luggage bathed in the warm light that entered the window of the train, as if it spoke its contents of good times ahead. You took comfort as the bag hugged itself into your gentle form, the train rocking its maternal rhythm, anchored to centuries old rails. The train ride rocked you so gently as if you were a sweet babe in this carriage. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was your adventure to take and so you smiled.
Dear Fanny,
Here I am at the railroad station with a handful of other bypassers, about to board a train bound for who knows where! The only person who knows where we’re going is the conductor. I’ve found Jim and I’m feeling close to him as I’m back to traveling again. The road and the sky feel full of life. Wish me luck!
Love,
Your sister xx
Just before Fanny left, your mother suffered the ultimate humiliation when Edward Morrison, one of her old beaux, made what she at first believed to be a sincere marriage proposal, only to withdraw it when he began to suspect, incorrectly, that she was no longer wealthy. Without her husband, without her daughters, Fanny was left alone with her maid, Manby.
“Manby!”
“Why, Mrs. Skeffington. What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Manby. Manby. Don’t leave me.”
“Why, of course I won’t.”
“Promise me you’ll never leave me.”
“Of course I won’t.”
“You’re the only one I have left.”
“I’ll never leave you. Never.”
“You see. You see, I’m all alone. I’m all alone.”
“Mrs. Skeffington, wouldn’t you like to rest?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I would.”
“You’ll feel better after you’ve had a little rest.”
“You’re the only one I have left.”
Half a year passed. Not knowing who else to turn to, your mother made one last desperate plea to your sister, Fanny, who had moved out to Seattle with her husband, Johnny Mitchell, and, like you, went low contact with her.
“Fanny, please talk to your sister for me. Please. She hasn’t replied to any of my letters. This is no place for me. The men are cruel, and the land is cruel. I beg of you. I beg of her. I will do everything, anything, to make amends. If she will not take pity, ask if she truly wants to leave her family name to die out here in the dust? You’re our family’s hope now. Your sister is sick, a lost cause. I fear she has had her head turned and her hand claimed by that penniless charlatan, Mr. Masters. Please, say something to her.”
Fanny wasn’t going to defend your mother or take her side. However, though your mother was never particularly nice to her, or to you, she did bring you both into the world. So Fanny thought it’d be nice of her to write just one letter to you on your mother’s behalf, at the very, very least. Not just for her, but for you too. She thought maybe your dad would want it that way. Though Fanny couldn’t promise your mother that you’d listen to her appeals or entreaties, or be swayed into coming back to New York, she could try. And so that was what she did.
November 1936
Darling sister,
I am writing on behalf of our mother, but I do not think you will I miss you terribly, but it seems like Mother misses you most. When you left, Johnny and I went to a play and it was so late by the time it ended that we didn’t return home until the next day. I heard Mother and Uncle George talking. You ran away from home. You took all your things. And then I got your goodbye letter from India some weeks later. Mother still hasn’t opened hers. Though it’s been half a year, Mother is still hopeful that you’ll come home someday. She keeps telling Manby and the other servants that you’ll write to her or call any day now, that you’ll ring the doorbell and she’ll beat Soames to it and answer the door herself. But I had a feeling even then… I don’t think you’re coming back. Not anytime soon, at least. Your room is just the way you left it, though Mother and Manby have kept it impeccably clean for your arrival. Not a speck of dust or askew wall painting in sight. She’s never had much interest in cleaning or helping Manby before, but lately she’s been doing it almost obsessively. I can’t count the number of times she’s plumped the same pillow on the old chair you used to sit in. I think she does it to give herself something to do, to ward off her loneliness and the sad thoughts of you that come with it. She always seemed happy during the day, but at night, I often woke up because I heard something. It was Mother crying. She was always saying that she was sorry while Manby hugged her and tried to shush her with comforting words and pats on the back. I heard her crying even after she dismissed Manby and let her retire for the night. When she called me to ask for help, she was crying in her room again. I wanted to ask her if she needed help from a professional, but I think she doesn’t want anyone else but Manby and I to know. I’m worried. Should I talk to Dr. Jaquith about it? I know that come the morning, she’ll keep talking to herself and go on telling Manby that she’s going to personally make up the guest room for Jim to stay in, even if you come home on such short notice that she won’t have much time to do it.
If you ever come home, Jim can use my room if he wants. I won’t be needing it anymore. You remember Johnny Mitchell, don’t you? One of Mother’s (former) admirers. I didn’t wish to be courted by someone who was still in love with Mother, but he assured me that he wasn’t in love with her. He and I were married shortly after, and we left for Seattle. Johnny opened a branch office there. Mother had no idea, just like she had no idea about you and Jim. She told me the same thing she told you, that I should’ve talked it over with her and that I hadn’t known him very long. But I’d known him for several months, as long as I’d known her. It’s funny in an ironic way. You’ve known Jim far longer than I’ve known Johnny, yet she didn’t put up as much fight with me marrying as she did with you. I wish I had been there the day you left. I knew that one day soon you would go and I wouldn’t have been able to stop you from leaving, but maybe I could’ve stopped you and Mother from having such an explosive row. Maybe I could’ve mitigated the damage done so you wouldn’t have had such a destructive falling out. I won’t try to justify Mother’s actions. I never approved of her meddling in your love life.
Besides your flighty nature, I can only guess that she was so hard on you and pushed for a “suitable” marriage because she thought if you were married, you’d become solid, grounded. I can only guess she chose Sir John not only because he was well-born with money and position (and an ancestral castle to boot!) but because you already liked him immensely and he was a dear friend to you, so she thought he’d make the perfect husband for you. She imagined his homestead in Wales should’ve been enough to cure your wanderlust, that the prospect of spending the rest of your life abroad in a European castle should’ve pleased you as much as it pleased her. But it wasn’t enough and it didn’t please you. There was something much greater you needed to feed your soul. Now you and Jim are both traveling for your own self-care and to feed your wandering souls…existing in other places so that you could remember who you are and then come home to yourselves. You used not to know where you were going, but you knew you would arrive, you knew there would be an end to the long, blind road. Mother didn’t suppose secrecy would have even occurred to you. Ironically, her being so hard on you is what drove you to it. It was also possible, her distaste for Jim was at least partially fueled by her own humiliating experience with her former lovers when she invited them over after her illness. Their declarations of having their breaths taken at her beauty, omnipresent smiles, and devoted facades had her fooled, until after she lost her beauty and she realized most of them had wives and children of their own, and none of them ever truly loved her.
Though she was wrong about a lot of things, she was right about one thing though, in a small way. Sir John would’ve made the perfect husband for you. But only on paper. Not in practice. He was a dear friend, but that’s all he was. There was no spark, no flame. You wanted a love match and she knew that, but she wanted an advantageous match for you and prioritized convenience over love. She tried to appease you with assurances that love would come later, that you’d learn to love him in time, but you knew that this was a lie. Your love and affection for Sir John would never bypass warm fondness, no matter how much you wanted it to. John knew this too, so you both did the admirable thing and called it a day before either one of you got hurt. You parted as friends. Though I didn’t have a chance to tell you in person, I thought that was very classy of you.
Beyond the trails and hikes, there was so much to explore, especially since you were into foraging. Due to the merciless unpredictability of nature when combined with people and their knack for losing possessions, it was advised that you keep a camera with you at all times so you could take photos of memorable sights. Looking back, I think that’s around the time your love for photography was realized. And look at you now! You became a great explorer just like I said you would be! I still remember when you used to take me “treasure hunting” when we were children. I still have our treasures safely wrapped up and put away. I’ve taken great care of them. Hmm, where should I put them? They might look nicer a little closer to the light. They will catch the light from my desk lamp so nicely. My shelves would look much more interesting with your treasures on display! Mother hid most of your discoveries away. I pestered her for weeks to let me bring some of your treasures out of storage when I moved out. Oh, I almost forgot! When I came back inside from searching for your treasures in the shed, Uncle George showed me some of Jim’s published articles that he came across and saved in the travel section of the newspaper! Who would’ve thought we’d have such a talented writer and journalist in the family? I also saw the article printed about you!
‘Her art continues to captivate the hearts of the young, so we reached out to her for comment. Keeping her eyes fixed on her new piece, Ms. Skeffington had this to say:
“All I’m doing is showing what these girls feel on the inside but can’t show on the outside. If any of them connect with a girl in the art, it’s probably because they’re experiencing the same thing.”
She added that the flowers she depicts on the young girls she paints bloom out of the scars they bear. The flowers represent the girls overcoming past traumas, or at least their desire to do so.’
I managed to read them all before Mother took them away and gave them back to Uncle George. Darling, it was fascinating! It almost felt as if I were there myself! It made me think about how I would have loved to go with you so we could’ve gone treasure hunting again like we used to. Even though I was so young I still remember our adventures together in Europe after the divorce. Would you like me to share my memories of them? Well, I’m going to whether you like it or not! We talked about some of them already. It seems like such a long time ago. You were incredibly excited about each one. You were so happy about them, showing them to me and Father, you didn’t stop talking about some of them for hours. I thought, how can my sister be so excited over some old broken pottery or a heart shaped rock or fallen antlers… But it wasn’t long until I understood. I remember you being so proud of each and every find, no matter how small. I remember the first treasure hunt you took me on. The day that started it all! We found a pair of old dog tags. Dog tags are usually fabricated from a corrosion-resistant metal. From the looks of it, that pair must’ve been quite old as they were already starting to rust and deteriorate by the time we found them.
Mother was so upset when we brought those dog tags home, wasn’t she? “Darling, that simply will not do! Regardless of its condition - buried, corroded, or damaged - a dog tag has value to its owner or their loved ones. We should try to locate the owner.” I think seeing those tags reminded her of Uncle Trippy. Then there was the time you brought home that creepy clay mask. You found it wedged behind a stone near the river as you ate your sandwich. It must’ve washed up at some point. It was cracked and chipped in spots, and was a ghoulish green color. The paint was worn away in some spots, revealing its gray base since it had been under the swampy water for who knows how long. Mother was so repulsed by it. She probably thought it was cursed or haunted. Mother took away all the knick-knacks that used to sit on those shelves. “They’re taking up space on the mantelpiece! Take them away!” Once Father moved them to his study, I remember us creeping in to take a peek at them. You tried to scare me with the mask by pretending to wear it and be a monster. Even if there isn’t a specific story attached to that mask, just the sight of it was still creepy enough that I wanted to take a photo to show my friends. Do you still wear the empty locket you found? Does it still hold that picture of us? I hope it reminds you of those adventures we had together when we were children, and how thankful I am for everything you’ve taught me. I’ve had to beg Mother to let me visit you, you know. But now that I’m an adult and a married woman, I don’t need her permission or her money. I shouldn’t worry you with that kind of talk. I know we’ll meet again someday. Now, you must tell me about your visit to Delhi!
Love,
Fanny xx
In response to Fanny’s letter, you surprised her with a phone call. Sticking to your vow, you, of course, didn’t call your childhood house on Charles Street, but the firm Johnny worked at. From there, you asked for him by name and, when he picked up the other line, he happily gave you his home phone number so you could call your sister.
“She’s counting on you to bring me home, isn’t she.” You didn’t make it a question.
“They all are,” she said quite honestly. “But they won’t hold it against you if your heart says otherwise. They—we—wouldn’t want you there if it’s not where you want to be.”
You looked back to the road just outside your window. “I appreciate that,” you said in a quiet but steady voice. “More than you know. More than I knew. Fanny, I don’t think I’d bear it if you tried giving me a piece of your mind. You wouldn’t, would you? Even though Mother asked you to?”
“I would not. I gave Jim my bedroom, and that’s enough.”
“Please don’t tell Mother I called you. I’m not ready to come back, Fanny. It’s too soon. The people in charge of the exhibition arranged for me to meet with Brady Mueller, the agent. Quite a young man for what he has accomplished. During our meeting, Brady asked me many things, as if he was interviewing me. The brief introduction tumed out to be hours long. However, by the end of it, he said he had everything he needed and would get things moving right away. He called to meet with me today. He has the papers ready for me to sign. He said that the location of the new exhibition has been approved. All we need is the down payment.”
“That’s great!”
“I have a good feeling about him. I’d sign the papers almost immediately if Jim wasn’t here to help me look them over first. After that, I’ll inform my accountant, Helen, to transfer the money from my savings, since I’ve saved up quite a bit of money just on my own. Brady has been a great help since I brought up the idea of an art gallery for the public. I’m not sure if things could have gone so quickly if it had been some other agent. I owe him that much. The art gallery will open in three months. I’m so excited about it!”
“I’ll bet! I’m excited for you and I’m not even there to see it! How’s it coming along?”
“We have received most of the artwork from the contributors and artists. All I need is to ask Margot if she would be willing to donate some of her paintings. If this exhibition succeeds, it would be good for me and for Jim. I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time. I have a purpose now.”
“I told you that you would find it someday. I’m glad that day has finally come. Not to sour or dampen your good mood, but have you given any thought to coming back?”
“Oh. That. As for going back home… I don’t know if I ever will. I want to, someday. But…as it stands now… My mind still hasn’t changed from what it was when I wrote you and Mother those goodbye letters. The truth is, I’m not ready to go home… Oh, sure, I’ll travel and go abroad again but future trips will not stretch toward infinity like this one. They won’t contain so many possibilities. Heading home is the full stop marking the end of adventure and the beginning of a responsible life. And despite months of traveling, I’m not ready to be responsible.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stay and help this exhibit get launched, and then… I don’t know. I may stay here in this town another day or I may go on to another town. No one but you knows where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way for the time being. I don’t want Uncle George to worry, so as far as he knows, it’s just rainbows and butterflies here in India. Can you tell Mother to please just…stop? Just… Just stop. Good for her. She’s figuring her shit out. And that’s great. I’m really, really happy for her. But I’m…I’m tired. I don’t want to hurt anymore. And for some reason when I was with her, it just… It just hurt the both of us. So let’s just go our separate ways, okay? Just tell her to let me go. I’ll come back when I’m good and ready. I just don’t know when that’ll be.”
“Okay… I understand. It’s your life and you can choose how you live it. I’ll tell her you wrote me a letter saying that you still need space and to be left alone. And as for everything else… My lips are sealed. She’ll never know about this call. Take all the time you need. It won’t be easy for me, but it wasn’t easy for me either when your stay at Cascade was extended from two weeks to two years. But I survived our separation and sporadic in-person visits back then, in large part because of the frequent correspondence I sent to you. All the drawings, letters, and postcards I sent you helped me to uphold our connection. It tided me over until you could come home. I imagine it was much of the same for you. If we did it once, we can do it again. But that won’t make it hurt any less than before.”
“Thank you for understanding how much I need this, Fanny. Give Uncle George and Johnny my love. I’ll write to you.”
“I will. And I look forward to those drawings, letters, and postcards.”
“It’ll be painful, but we’ll make it through this, Fanny.”
“I know we will. You know as well as I do that we Skeffington women have a capacity for enduring.”
“You’re damn right about that. I love you. Bye.”
“I love you, too. Goodbye.”
“Mr. Martingale, urgent, sir.”
Mr. Martingale read the slip of paper. “Oh, put her on.”
“Mr. Martingale is ready.”
“Oh. Hello, darling. I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh, really? Have you missed me, Uncle Fred?”
“Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Not a phone call, a letter, or even a postcard.”
“Right… Sorry I haven’t been able to write or call you before now. My life has been…eventful…and it’s hard to make time for myself lately.”
“Oh, apology accepted, darling. You know I’m only teasing. I do love giving you a hard time on occasion. Did you get the postcard I sent you?”
“Yes, I got your postcard. Have you been having a pleasant holiday, Uncle Fred?”
“Very nice of you. But you and I both know you didn’t call me out of the blue to ask me how my holiday was.”
“…No. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, Uncle Fred, I’m giving you so much trouble, but—”
“Prerogative of a beautiful woman.”
“—we are headed to our next destination, Casablanca. And we know that’s close to you, so—”
“‘We’?”
“—who better to ask but you?”
“For how long?”
“For how long? That depends! It’s not generally known, Uncle Fred...but I’m very hard up. We’re running low on money…”
“I had no idea. I was under the impression that your father...”
“He did, but… Well, you see, he left most of his fortune to Mother and, well… All the best people make the worst investments.”
“That’s true.”
“Luckily I have a man I can trust to advise me. I should have returned to Diamond Stud a few years earlier, Uncle Fred. I could’ve used your advice. You would’ve been of immense help to me.”
“If you need money, all you need to do is ask. But you’re not in any trouble, are you?”
“No! No, nothing like that. Though we have come across some…unruly characters on our travels—”
“‘Our’?”
“—I promise I’ve been smart and keeping myself safe at all times. I’d never force you to testify in court for me or bail me out of jail. And while I appreciate your generosity, I wasn’t asking you for money. Just merely stating a fact.”
“You’re not asking me for money?”
“No. It’s not money that I want from you, Uncle Fred.”
“So you don’t want money, and you don’t need me to bail you out of a sticky situation. But you want something. So what exactly are you hoping to get from me, sweetheart?”
“It’s just…you said that your invitation to come visit or stay with you in Africa was always open. I was hoping that’s still the case and I could come stay with you? We’ve had a wonderful time in India and on the beaches of Barcelona. I think you would like the Gaudi architecture. It’s from a strange alien world—”
“Hold on. You keep saying words like ‘our’ and ‘we’. Who is ‘we’? Not you and Sir John Talbot, certainly? I followed the story of your engagement to him. Of course, the papers say one thing but the rumor mill says another. They do so love to contradict and misconstrue to keep people guessing as to who to believe. Both the papers and the rumor mill say a great many things, in fact. The papers say you called off your engagement, the bored housewives say you ran away from home—”
“That’s about the size of it. I wouldn’t trust either of them to get any of the details right, let alone all of them, but I can tell you both of those statements hold some truth to them.”
“And where have you been?”
“Oh, too many places to name in one breath. But I’ve had company. I’d be bringing him with me. I want you and him to meet properly, face-to-face.”
“I see. I’m not quite sure what you believe I am to do about your situation. You’re asking me to house a stranger, someone I’ve never laid eyes on before. And a man, at that! Well, plead your case.”
“Right. Uncle Fred, may I present Jim Masters? He’s my…partner. Say hello to my godfather, Fred Martingale, Jim.”
“Hello, Mr. Martingale. How do you do, Sir?”
“Very well, thanks for asking. Now, Jim, you can tell me truthfully, man to man. When my goddaughter said you were her partner, did she mean business partner or intimate partner?”
“Neither, but I lean more towards the latter. It’s a long and complicated story, Mr. Martingale. One I’m sure would be much better told in person. That is, if you’d be kind enough to let us stay. I’d like to meet you in person and put a face to the stories I’ve heard about you.”
“Oh, she’s told you stories about me, has she? She’s a very immersive storyteller, I’ll give her that, but nothing compares to hearing stories from the source. I have many more stories that she hasn’t heard yet.”
“I’d like very much to hear them, sir. And I have stories of my own you’d probably call fantastic, but they’d keep your attention.”
“Is that so? That would be very amusing. But tell me, what do you think of her?”
“What do I think of her?”
“If you’ve spent as much time together as you’re leading me to believe, then you must’ve formed an opinion of her. She said you’re partners, but you’ve all but outright told me you’re not sexually intimate, so tell me, what do you think of her? When you look at her, what comes to mind?”
Afraid Jim was about to fall into a trap, you grabbed the phone from him. “Uncle Fred, I assure you that we love each other very much. While I was deeply flattered by the attention of Sir John Talbot, I… I simply could not ignore my long-standing affection for Jim. You see, Uncle Fred, it wasn’t love at first sight for us, but it was love. What I mean to say is that love is surely the greatest force of all. Once Jim and I realized we were completely enamored with each other, nothing could stand between us. Not even, I’m sorry to say, the attentions of a good and kind man such as Sir John Talbot.”
Jim snatched the phone back from you before you could react. Before you could so much as ask what he was doing, he was already speaking impassionedly to your godfather. “Mr. Martingale, she’s correct in that it wasn’t love at first sight for either of us. There was attraction, certainly, at least on my part. But Miss Skeffington thought me presumptuous, arrogant, insincere. All fair, really. And I thought her a young lady barely out of leading strings. She was so much younger than myself, and so romance was entirely out of the question for both of us. But in so removing it, we found something far greater. We found friendship. You see, Miss Skeffington and I had been fooling all of Charles Street for some time. We had fooled them into thinking we hated each other…when really, all along, we simply enjoyed each other’s company so much we couldn’t stay away from one another. I’ve never been a man that much enjoyed flirting, but I’ve always very much enjoyed talking and storytelling. The trouble was getting somebody to listen, somebody to share with. But with her…Miss Skeffington…conversation has always been easy. She took chances. With every wall I built, she saw a canvas to be painted, a story to be written. Her laughter brings me joy. To meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart. To answer your question, whenever I look at her, I’m a little overwhelmed by such beauty. She’s beautiful not just in her face and body, but in personality and spirit. And it’s with my sincerest apologies, I must say it took Sir John Talbot coming along for me to realize I didn’t want Miss Skeffington to only be my friend or traveling companion. I wanted her to be my wife. I still want her to be my wife. Not today, not next year, but someday. For twenty years I was lost, aimlessly wandering from place to place, without roots, without a home, without a purpose. But when she’s with me, when she holds my hand and looks at me with that “come and get me” grin, there’s no need for words. The sky's brighter looking at it through her eyes. Her eyes utter the sweetest love songs. Every time she turns around to face me, I know she’s singing only for me. I know I’ve found where I belong.”
“Well put, Mr. Masters. You are wise…or perhaps unusually lucky to understand friendship to be the best possible foundation a relationship, especially a marriage, can have. Even if that foundation should crumble as quickly as it was built. Put her back on.”
Jim handed you the phone. He couldn’t hear what your godfather said to you, but from your relieved smile and what you said next, he must’ve given in. It sounded to Jim like he passed the test.
“Oh, thank you, Uncle Fred! What? No, you don’t have to do that. Really, we can pay our own way. We will look for a cheap standby ticket and call you when we’re headed your way. Are you sure? We can manage on our own. We don’t need— Oh, all right. If you insist. You and I are the same. Once we set our minds on something, it’s impossible for anyone to change them. Sorry again for the short notice! Can’t wait to see you again, Uncle Fred! It’ll be good to be in Africa, for you and Jim to meet… Oh, I’m so excited! Right, you have a plane to catch early tomorrow. I won’t keep you any longer, then. Goodbye, Uncle Fred. And thank you again. I love you!” Once you hung up the phone, you turned towards Jim. “He’ll be up by plane in the morning so that he’ll be there to receive us. I tried to tell him he didn’t have to, but he’s insisted on wiring us the money to travel from Casablanca to Diamond Stud.”
“Well, goodbye, Captain Jorham. It was a splendid voyage and I enjoyed it.”
“Mighty smart navigating too. The last time I hit South Africa I was aiming for Charleston, South Carolina.”
“Oh, welcome. Welcome for the good Captain Jorham.”
“Hello, Mr. Martingale.”
“And this, I’m certain must be my goddaughter. Though you’re much taller than when I saw you last.”
“The last time you saw me, I was eight years old, Uncle Fred. I hit a growth spurt since then,” you laughed.
“And this must be…hold on, don’t tell me. it’s on the top of my tongue… Oh! Mr. Masters. Jim. Delighted to greet you.”
“Thank you. And thank you for giving us a place to stay, Mr. Martingale. I’ve never had anyone be so kind.”
“And how’s the enchanting Mrs. Jorham?”
“She’s waiting for me on board. Well, God bless you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Goodbye, Fred.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Martingale—”
“Pablo, My servant, devoted to me. He’ll help load your luggage into my car and drive us to my house. My house is yours, for however long you need use of it. We shall drink to the past, forget the future, and pleasantly live in the present. I have a million questions about Europe to ask you both.”
“Yes, but time is—”
“Oh, please, please, time is unlimited in South Africa. It’s always early in the day, and we still have plenty of time. I’m a gentleman of leisure, with a house full of servants and a charming disposition.”
“And an overwhelming power of persuasion,” Jim noted.
Uncle Fred laughed. “Yes. You’ll be glad I persuaded you, my friend. But wait till you see South Africa, my home.”
“I’m going to write to Fanny and Uncle George once we settle in.”
“An admirable ambition, dear, but quite futile,” Uncle Fred said as he took a puff from his cigar.
“Why?”
“Because the people running the post office in Diamond Stud have quit, gone away. There is nothing left of it but an old abandoned building. Empty. Nothing decorating the brick walls. You can probably have it, but who wants it? It’s only good for squatting. The nearest post office that’s still active is in De Aar.”
“Well, I shall have to go there, if need be.”
“Now let me see. Yes, you’ll need a bit of tailoring the first thing and then… Jim, did you hear me? Jim.”
“What?”
“I said you need compeletely new and different clothes. I shall arrange with my tailors to…”
Jim laughed, interrupting whatever your Uncle Fred was going to say. “You remind me of my aunt. The first time I met her, she thought I needed clothes too.”
“And did you?”
“As I recall, I was two years old and stark naked.”
The men shared a good, hearty laugh. Their laughter was infectious as you found yourself laughing too. Though you tried to cover your mouth with your hand to hide it, there was no missing or mistaking the mirth in your eyes, which gave them a special sort of sparkle in the sun’s light that could rival the world’s largest diamond.
Back in the United States, your sister, Fanny, received two letters in the mail from somewhere in Africa. A place she had never been. Who did she know in Africa? There was Uncle Fred, but why would he write her? She knew he loved her just as much as he loved you, but she was Uncle George’s goddaughter, not his. At first glance, the envelopes looked to the rest of the world as any other but, upon closer inspection, she noticed the envelopes came with airmail stamps. They actually bore several stamps from African countries that she would likely never see, and were easily a couple months old, having taken their time arriving at their destination. The long-awaited envelopes came at last.
Upon opening the first one, she recognized the handwriting immediately. It wasn’t a letter from Uncle Fred. It was a letter from you. The handwriting was absolutely yours, and so Fanny’s heart leaped for joy. You were a more seasoned traveler already than most she knew. She was trembling so hard from either nerves or excitement or maybe both that she had to sit down. Never before had Fanny read a letter so quickly in her life, her eyes darting frantically from word to word, trying her best to take them all in, but her eyes inevitably skipped around. She was so eager and somewhat anxious to know how you’d been getting along that it was difficult to be patient, to resist the temptation to just skip to the end.
March 1937
Dearest Fanny,
I was right about the hunch I had about Jim’s letter. I found him and, when I did, I told him, “I want us to pack up everything we can and get in the car and let’s just drive... until we find somewhere... for us.” And he asked me... if I could really do that. And I said yes. Yes! It’s been a few months since our travels started. We sure get around. At one time my material possessions fitted in one suitcase. Do you know that I have a story for each of these places I’ve been? Well, I don’t know if they’re all true…but they are my memories.
Jim and I are now in the African desert proper, and the heat is beyond belief. It can be so hot here come summertime, yet in truth it’s simply giving back what went in, finding balance as the dawn approaches, ready for each new day. Consider this place for a minute if you will. There is nothing but desolation outside, mountainous crags amidst endless waves of sand. It’s a place as blank as a sheet of paper. It often reminds me of the interior of a whale’s belly. It’s only an intellectual association, of course. But it’s just from the whale’s sordid interior that we scavenge to base for the most exciting perfumes. And that can turn we confused with desirability, with virtue, with great passion. It’s the place we had always been looking for. Flat expanses would call to me… These are the places where the desert is most itself: Stark, open, free, an invitation to wander - a laboratory of perception, scale, light - a place where loneliness has a luxurious flavor... Drifting across the vast space, silent except for wind and footsteps, Jim and I felt uncluttered and unhurried for the first time in a while, already on desert time.
Say, why are we here? I mean Jim, me, Uncle Fred, any of us? Why do we stay here in Diamond Stud? Simply because we’re infatuated. Yes. Infatuated. Plucking at the skirts of this woman, this desert, this heartless courtesan. But we…we stay here, eternally hopeful for some small glittering favor. Amazing place, this place here in the desert where the gems lie just a few inches below the surface, free, free for the taking. Were if not for certain unfortunate restrictions. When we first arrived in Diamond Stud, Uncle Fred had warned us of the dangers of the desert, especially the prohibited areas. He told us stories of different types of djinni that are rumored to have been encountered in the desert.
The ifrit is a djinni of fire and flame, a vengeance called upon a murderer, implacable, unstoppable, the death of cities. It rises from desolation, from broken lands, and its sign is a shining light. It scents the vitality of its victim and seizes them with its burning eye until all life is drained, as a spider husks a fly. A du'a al-mas'alah, a prayer of asking, and true penance is the only defense. There once were men who had taken shelter in the courtyard of a ruined fortress until the sun was lower. But when their bodies were found, their skin was so dry and wrinkled that they looked like dried raisins. The official cause of death was dehydration, but others say it was the Ifrit that got to them and drained them dry, leaving their bodies to overbake in the sun. Then there is the ghûl and the hatif. The ghûl is a base djinni, a thing of fear, of trickery and shadow, dwelling in the deep places of the world. When it scents human flesh, it digs through the sand to the world above to snare the unwary traveler. It is tricksy, speaking with the voice of men, leading its victims into harsh places, there to slaughter, devour, and drink their blood. It doesn’t always kill its victims directly. It takes delight in manipulating its victims, sowing seeds of doubt into its victims’ minds, instilling paranoia and turning them against each other until they’re driven to murder. Similarly, the hatif is a djinni of calling, the voice alone in the desert; the cry of one bereft and in need of aid. Yet this voice is bodiless and unfleshed, spun of air and dreams; it assails the weary and the beleaguered, luring them from their path and into the wilderness. There they may search in vain, lost and thirsty, until they are bone and dust. Many men have died gruesome and unusual deaths in the pursuit of diamonds or hidden treasure, and many bodies were never found, theorized to have been reduced to easy pickings for vultures and other wildlife or otherwise reclaimed by the earth. If the gunfire of the guards stationed around the prohibited area won’t get trespassers, the elements will. The desert, the mountains, and the sea are sisters, tenacious triplets of nature, and once they have you, they won’t give you back.
Uncle Fred has made us feel quite at home. He has taken Jim under his wing, treating him like an unofficial apprentice while we’re here. He has expressed his interest in business to Uncle Fred, who was impressed by his ability to demonstrate his competence in being both personable and persuasive. They’re both “deliciously unscrupulous” (their words, not mine), and have a mutual respect and admiration for each other. They have quickly become close friends and have been showing each other the ropes, trusting each other to divulge the secrets of their respective trades. It’s no surprise to me that they’d warm to each other so quickly. They have a lot in common. So much, in fact, that if I didn’t know any better, I would assume they were two halves of the same person. If I didn’t know either of them as well as I do, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart! They’re a real Tom and Huck to start. Pretty ironic, huh. Uncle Fred has spent his whole life searching for diamonds when all along he has possessed something far more valuable - his uncanny knack for making friends. As for me, I felt bold on leaving Charles Street. I thought my life at home in New York was miserable, but after coming here, I realized I am blessed more than I could ever imagine. When I envisioned my trip, I imagined exciting adventures, exotic locales, a jet-set lifestyle. I never thought grief and doubt would climb into my backpack and come with me. I pictured someday standing with Jim at the top of the Sun Gate, looking down at Machu Picchu, without ever thinking about the steps it would take to get there.
Jim and I had previously been staying in Casablanca but, despite being a neutral zone, corruption and illegal activity ran rampant and it was anything but safe. While we were there, we witnessed a man get shot to death in broad daylight and everyone around us was desensitized to it, like it was just another Tuesday afternoon! And the French Prefect of Police, Captain Louis Renault, kept flirting with me and trying to get me into his bed despite me refusing him over and over and over again! He was nonplussed by Jim being right there! The nerve of that man! With the help of Uncle Fred, we made a plan and moved on within the month. A good thing we left when we did too, because, just a few days after our departure, I read in the papers that Nazis flew in from Berlin. I can’t bring myself to imagine what might’ve happened to me if I had still been in Casablanca and they discovered I was the daughter of a Jewish man! I’ve seen what happens to refugees. I’ve seen how a wicked and corrupt system has given one man the right of life and death over his fellow man. I’ve seen a man beaten, tortured, killed because he was unfortunate enough to have been born poor. I become quite melancholy and deeply grieved to see men behave to each other as they do. Not just in Casablanca, but in Diamond Stud too. Though Uncle Fred has done everything to shield me from it, I know it’s happening here, and I’m sure in other areas of the continent too. Nobody warned me about this part. This is the curse of wanderlust, when the postcard image becomes a brutal reality. While Africa is a large continent, and there’s many parts of it that are perfectly safe and incredibly beautiful, there are others that are not at all what I thought it would be. No. No, it’s more savage, brutal and cruel than I could’ve ever imagined.
I think… I think it odious and unfair that some people are so well off and others are so poor. And beyond Africa, everywhere on the planet, I find nothing but base flattery, injustice, self-interest, deceit and roguery. I often feel I cannot bear it any longer. I’m furious, and it makes me want to break with all mankind, though I know this feat is impossible. Instead, I channel my fury, my frustrations, and any and all emotions that lie in between into my art. It’s the only way for me to cope with everything that’s going on around me. To stop myself from getting crushed under the weight of the world’s suffering when it feels like everything is falling apart at my ears. To stop myself from going insane from overthinking. It’s not up to me to save everyone. It’s not up to me to save anyone. I know this is the truth, but it’s a truth that’s hard to swallow.
I confess I find Diamond Stud rough and strange, and myself strange in it. By now, Mother has probably received word from Uncle George or the grapevine of gossiping ladies that I’m in Africa with Uncle Fred, and believes that I am here for a brief interlude of sensational experience before succumbing to a matrimonial fate. And while there’s surely no lack of sensational experience of every kind available in such a city, I hope that any experience I gain here will strictly go towards my pursuit of becoming a better artist and photographer rather than becoming a wife, and that all events of a romantic or sensational nature will be entirely confined to Jim, or to a sketchbook, canvas, or photograph. I wanted to do something for the people here, something meaningful without ulterior motives of expecting glory or praise and, though I had no luck at first, Uncle Fred has found me an opportunity to teach children. Well, I did not expect opportunity to knock so soon.
My students are dear boys and girls. Some of them remind me of myself when I was around their age. How curious to grow up with no mother or father, and your own older brother or sister having to act as parent in their stead. At first I was only teaching children, but some of the adults expressed an interest in learning too, so that they and their children or younger siblings could do it together as a bonding activity. Now I’ve been teaching both children and adults how to draw, how to paint. Whenever anyone gets discouraged in their art, I reassure them about the importance of not needing to be technically proficient in an activity to enjoy it, that there’s no such thing as mistakes, only happy little accidents. That not everything needs to be clear or easy to comprehend, that there’s beauty in all art, even the most abstract. I never thought I’d ever be good at teaching or giving pep talks, but my words tend to lift their spirits right back up. It isn’t easy, the work I do. Nothing but broken souls around me, and the ones that aren’t broke are greedy. Bone-tired. Life here is hard, but meaningful. I’m doing my best to bring a little joy to the world, what with all the gloom.
I dreamt that we were soldiers, Jim and I. We were dressed as soldiers are, in combat camouflage, guns at the ready. It was nighttime and we stared up a mighty cliff face, yet as we tried to climb, the bullets came from all around. Together we fought them, shot dead each one, then resumed our task of reaching the higher ground. I found a coin, old and covered in dirt, the engravings worn and the head of the king so tarnished as to be stolen from view. I held it in my left hand, watching the mud dirty my skin. So close to my face the coin had the aroma of stale blood. I turned to my right hand and in the palm was a new spring leaf, crowned by a perfect sphere of dew, reflecting an image of my face, softened and relaxed. When I turned back to the coin, the image of the king had freed himself and journeyed over to the leaf, igniting the growth of strong roots and new foliage that reached for the sunlight, robust, virescent.
Maybe Heaven is helping me find my calling? With all that has happened these past few months, my wish to make a difference, no matter how small, might just come true. I must be doing something right, because I feel useful for the first time in my life, like I’ve given children and adults a spot of hope as they try to survive the dark days of the looming threat of war, and that must be a good thing. They need me just as much now as they did a minute ago. And I’ve never been needed before. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll stay, but I hope that, after we leave, my students will remember me fondly. Maybe some of them will still be around when I come back, whenever that day may be. It’d be nice to reconnect with them, see how they’re doing someday in the future.
I miss you by the way, if that wasn’t obvious. I sure hope this letter reaches you before Jim and I move on to Ouagadougou and Nairobi. The post can be unpredictable at times, but I haven’t received any letters from you for a while now. In case this letter doesn’t reach you in time, I feel I should tell you we’ll be going to Algiers afterwards, but I’ve already said more than enough about me and Jim. I want to hear about you and Johnny. I hope you both are doing well in Seattle. How is everything going for you over there? I miss you. I wish I was there with you. Did you find more rocks to skip across the water? I remember when we were children, we would go to the lake to practice. You were worse compared to me then, but now I can never beat you in a match. I’m so proud of having such a hard working sister.
Love,
Your sister xxx
The second letter was much shorter, as if it could’ve been a post-script message for the first letter, but was written separately and at a later date, which told Fanny that you had made a spur of the moment decision.
March 1937
Dear Fanny,
Don’t tell Mother or Uncle George just yet, but we were supposed to only stay in Africa for one more week’s time, but we recently decided that we’ll be extending our stay in Africa for another six months. There’s so much to see and do in this beautiful continent, we want to experience as much of it as we can by committing more than enough time to exploring it. The plan is to still move on to Algiers afterwards, we’re just putting it off for the time being.
Love,
Your sister xxx
In September of 1937, you and Jim left Africa and moved on to your next big adventure. Ever since you left home, months passed, then a year, then two, then two and a half. Nearly three years passed, with you, Fanny, and Uncle George keeping in contact by exchanging letters and postcards back and forth with an occasional phone call along the way.
September 1937
Dear Fanny,
We’re finally in Algeria, and the stories don’t do this place justice. It is amazing! I’ve never seen anywhere as busy as the market in Algiers. The smells, the flavors, the colors and, oh, the noise! Some other highlights:
History. - The colonization of Algeria was rendered difficult by the presence of a native population which already had its own civilization, and was nomad and warlike in its instincts. A start was made in the region of the Tell, and then the mountains and high plateau land were taken in hand. There has been a spontaneous flor of Italian and Spanish immigration, and a system of land grants and other concessions have attracted large numbers of immigrants from the south of France who have settled down well in the country. Between 1904 and 1914, 206,000 hectares of land had been settled, of which 91,200 were free grants.
Mines. - The country is rich in minerals, which, however, have not been thoroughly exploited. The chief mineral resource is iron, the exports of which in 1920 amounted to 1,114,438 tons, valued at 33,879,000 francs. There are large phosphate deposits in the Constantine Province, which exported 334,704 tons in 1920 to a value of 18 million francs. There are also copper, zinc, lead, and antimony mines. Coal deposits were discovered during the war, and the work of British and American prospectors in the Oran indicates the possibility of existence of oil fields of some size.
Native rights. - The valuable help given by the native population of Algiers to France during the last war led, as it did in other parts of the French colonial empire, to a wider recognition of the political rights of the native. A law was passed on February 4, 1919, conferring French citizenship on any native of Algeria who had either served in the French army or navy, was a landowner, farmer, or licensed trader, knew how to read and write French, or was the possessor of a French decoration.
I may have picked up a little something for you and Johnny. You never know your luck! I like this place a lot. The people here are nice to me. Bringing the polaroid camera I bought years ago during my camera-obsessed phase seems like a good idea now. I am wandering through this life of mine, writing snapshots of my life. For me, the real win was the photos I took of Jim (watch out for Miss Skeffington, the rising stalker!) We all carried bottled water and day packs. I brought my camera, but Jim didn’t bring one. He said he didn’t believe in taking photographs; he planned to store his memories in his head, an idea I found incomprehensibly radical. My impulse to record was almost on par with my impulse to travel. But Jim has got every sunset that he’s ever seen memorized. “The best traveler is one without a camera,” he said. Well, I’m taking tons of photos. We’ll have to spend so much time together in the darkroom!
Can you believe your own sister was recently standing face to face with a real mummy? The tour guide was telling us some of the legends surrounding the desert. They tell you to stick with the group on tours. There’s a reason for that. I can’t wait to see you back in the States where I can fill you in on all of my stories. As promised, I’ll save the best stories for next time we meet in person, but I’ll share one of legends with you now, just to give you a taste of what you have to look forward to when I’m back in the States.
In life there was Setyamutef, an Egyptian prince and the only living son of the Pharaoh Senusnet, after his wife had suffered multiple stillbirths and miscarriages. He had seen wonders most men only dreamed of. But when his son was born at midnight, breathing and healthy, he was instantly more precious to him than all the wonders of the ancient world. On that day, the people thronged the byways of the city. When the doors of the tower opened, the name of their new prince rippled through the crowd before him like dye into water. “Setyamutef, Blessed Setyamutef.” Senusnet’s own father died before he was old enough to really remember him, but he grew up with his older brothers. However, the ones who lived past infancy and childhood all died prematurely sometime after they turned eighteen, either from foul play or tragic accidents. He feared his son would share the same fate as his brothers, doomed to die before his time if he ever came of age. He had alchemists from all over Egypt summoned to the palace, and they all came bearing a litter on which rested seven crystal orbs. But despite their best efforts, the rituals and spells they performed on the infant prince all failed. Their combined power wasn’t strong enough. To achieve what he wanted, Senusnet would need a great deal of power. Power that mortal men couldn’t ever hope to possess. The power of a god. So he called upon Khoret, the Goddess of Youth, sometimes called the Mistress of Eternity or the Childlike Empress since her mind was that of an adult woman, but her appearance was that of a perpetual child.
She stepped down, bare-headed and bare-handed, dressed in a simple robe, and she walked amongst the people. Some cried out with joy, some wept openly, but they all kneeled before her as she passed. Behind her came Mnisiria, another childlike deity who had the body of an adult man but the mind of a boy, who was her consort and thought to be a protector of households and, in particular, mothers and children. When they came to the palace, the royal guards and the Queen and Pharaoh themselves knelt before them in respect. They heard Senusnet’s entreaty, but they warned him that there was a heavy price to pay for granting his son eternal youth since it wasn’t a gift that could be given freely to just any mortal, not even ones touched by the gods. Even the gods themselves were bound to laws and rules more ancient than themselves, put in place by an invisible but omniscient being or force that came into existence before them, in order to maintain an always delicate balance. The balancing act that was their eternal obligation was precarious. One misstep too far to one side and the consequences could be disastrous for humans. The Pharoah, desperate to save his son from dying young, didn’t heed Khoret and Mnisiria’s warnings. They fulfilled their end of the bargain, but took all of the Pharoah’s memories from when he was a child as payment, including those of his brothers. He wouldn’t discover until later that, because of him, his son would pay a much greater price.
Like Khoret and Mnisiria, he was cursed to be perpetually a youth and could never age physically or mentally past the age of eight, trapped in a child’s body with a child’s mind. During a tumultuous time period of his father’s reign which included a great famine from which many died, the prince miraculously discovered a source of food in the desert that saved his people from their suffering. A Sifar tribe was founded and, as a gift to the young prince for his act of bravery and heroism, they called upon Tairin, the Goddess of Growth and Harvest, to provide them with special seeds so they could plant a juniper tree to allow the prince to grow to be an adult and purge the desert of rot and infidels. Before he could grow to his full potential, he was stolen away in his cocoon by a rival tribe and brought to what is now Algeria. They wished to have the child elevated to godhood with their leader as his consort. However, regardless of how much blood they tried to share with Setyamutef, there was no response because Setyamutef had in fact stripped himself of his flesh and traveled to the Land of Shadow. This tribe opposed to the Sifar, the Nanaki, called Setyamutef the Childlike Emperor or The Child Who Cannot Die. They were a people that refused the call to Islam, for their own ancestor, Kanebti, a bringer of healing and fertility, walked the sand, and how could they disbelieve the evidence of their own eyes? There was fighting, as there always is in such matters, but the Nanaki were wealthy, and made their peace through trade in salt and meat.
Even in his cocooned form, it’s said that Setyamutef has the ability to compel affection from others. Though originally thought to be a blessing and a sign of benevolence, this is referred to by his modern day followers as terrifying, as benevolence is not always synonymous with harmlessness. Perhaps this is why he is known as the most fearsome of all the Pharaohs and Princes who ever lived. Nevertheless, his tree where he once hibernated is known to provide shelter from the desert’s elements to those who are lost, but only to those pure of heart and free of ill intent. Anyone with a soul or heart that’s been blackened by greed or violence is said to be attacked by the tree, strangled to death by its branches and their bodies claimed by the desert, never to be found beneath the sand. Setyamutef is said to be awaiting for a promised mortal who is worthy enough to be his consort. He will guide them in the Land of Shadow, where he hopes to finally be reborn and manifest into adult form.
Though time has made it little more than folklore, perhaps there was once a real person called Setyamutef, a leader of his people. There’s a mountain named for him, and indeed his body may lie within or underneath it, hidden in the lost ruins deep beneath the surface. But it is speculated that there is more, much more, to that structure, wherever it may be. It is theorized that the deeper ruins are Roman in origin, and it’s there that archaeologists may find a mithraeum, set by the Romans to protect the gateway they seek. Once within...what wonders will those archaeologists see? While skeptics may chalk it up to hallucinations brought on by heatstroke, I think these are ancient memories of what truly happened in that place eons ago. Don’t most legends have some grain of truth to them? I don’t know for sure though. There are other, much older stories that have been conflated with his. Legends of the Gray Lady. The Sifar talk of their guardian spirit, a woman all in gray, who haunts the desert and protects their people against the specter of death. Perhaps the right word for the woman who walks the desert is goddess. She is a deity of healing, of succor in the wilderness. She has many names. People call her the Woman of the Tents, the Daughter of the Desert, or the Mother of Us All. She is wild and capricious; she cannot be summoned, but if her sympathy is roused she may choose to bestow her favor, giving of her body to quench the thirst of the dying, and guiding those who wander in the soft places. So people leave her gifts of desert flowers. There were also legends of a healer and weary travelers who were tested and saved by the Gray Lady as they struggled to survive in the desert.
But Jim and I stopped paying attention after the legend of Setyamutef. To be honest, the tour guide wasn’t the most talented of storytellers, and we eventually grew bored listening to him drone on and on. So we snuck off on one of the unmarked side paths while hiking in Chrea and got a little lost. Okay, a lot lost. For hours. I was running and deliberately lost my way. The world far off and nothing but my breath and the very next step and it’s like hypnosis. The feeling of conquering my own aliveness with no task but to keep going, making every way the right way and that’s a metaphor for everything. Wandering aimlessly, I love the thrill of unknown paths. I am a nomad. I am a wanderer. I am a drifter. Why do I keep on drifting? Yes, I wish I knew why? I am not aware of the reason myself. Why do I keep on drifting? I usually don’t mind getting lost, especially when I’m with someone I love. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t panic a little bit as it started to feel like we were walking for ever and ever and I couldn’t tell if we were getting any closer to where we started or if we were going in the opposite direction or, even worse, going in circles.
Luckily, Jim kept a cool head and right before the bus left, we found a trail, and came running down the path, soaked and covered in mud and sand from head to toe, shouting for the bus not to leave. The dirt was even packed under our fingernails, the skin around them raw and bleeding, and our shoulders ached. We knelt and plunged our hands into a cool stream we found along the way. The cuts stung like fire for a moment, and then cool numbness washed it away. Delay and dirt are the realities of the most rewarding travel. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Jim and I find beauty in the thrown away and broken things, the morbid filth that glues together our world - the necessary decomposition that life must arise from. Still, I can only imagine what Mother would say if I called home and told her about this... “you didn't get in trouble like this before you met Jim!” but I don’t think she know-knows about us.
Mother thought too hard. It’s not like that with travel. We can’t work too much at it, or it feels like work. I eased into the idea of letting go of control and simply letting life take the reins. And when I don’t hold it so tightly, it doesn’t thrash against me so wildly. It calms to a trot and allows me to take in the scenery, experience love, and learn what is important in this world: People, places, memories - not things or perceptions. Jim and I have to surrender ourselves to the chaos, to the accidents. Travel, we agreed, was a litmus test: If we could make the best of the chaos and serendipity that we’d inevitably meet in transit, then we’d surely be able to sail through the rest of life together just fine. So far, we’ve done pretty well, minus the times we overslept and missed our trains. Keep walking, Fanny, for sometimes the detours may find you a door, a route opening into a pathway that you never knew danced inside the buried layers of your wandering soul. The unruly characters we sometimes meet though... I’m really afraid that’s a whole other story. Moral of today’s story: Stick with the group, Fanny. Stick with the group. The tour guide is there for good reason, even if he is dull as dishwater.
Love,
Your sister xxx
June 1939
Dear Fanny,
Our third “anniversary” is coming up. Three years of traveling together. Last year, Jim invited me to my favorite restaurant. It was a complete surprise, and I was so happy. Things had been so hectic, I thought he might have forgotten. After dinner, we went back to our room, but we couldn’t sleep, so we drove to the ocean and spent the rest of the evening taking a turn along the beach. We were walkers of the velvet night, we were lovers of the light and each floral blossom. Our well traveled soles were born to embrace each onward path and seek horizons others dare not gaze upon. Walking was our most beloved way of waking, to stride out each dawn bare soled upon the beach jetty. But seeing it at night… The water was so beautiful as the light from the moon shone down on it. We talked and we played as if we were teenagers in love. Sprinting across the sand, leaving sinking footprints, splashing into the froth of a wave, laughing at the spray, pressing oyster and seashells into the beach, making patterns in the sand…
I sat down in the sand while Jim talked to me about someplace he had been. Every time he looked back at me, I felt a surge of happiness inside. So I sketched him doing just that. Talking, smiling with his hands behind his back… It didn’t take too long for him to figure out that I was, in fact, not paying any attention to what he was saying. He stopped talking and began staring at what I was doing instead. The odd silence made me look up to find Jim with his eyebrows raised, eyeing my sketchbook. “You’re supposed to draw something that inspires you! That’s the only reason why we are here, my dear!”
“I know!” I held the pages up to my chest, hiding it from him as he began to walk to me, motioning for me to show him my sketch. “And I am doing just that. So leave me be!”
He immediately stopped, “I inspire you?”
I nodded, holding back a laugh. “Yes. Now, stand just as you were before I run out of inspiration. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“I wouldn’t dare dream of such things.”
Once I was done and had set my sketchbook safely aside, he flung his arms under my knees, and picked me up bridal style. He looked up at me and grinned, “Darling,” he said, “come and see what I’ve made for you!” The wanderlust crept up again inside me like a shooting star, a sudden, violent urge to escape disappearing into darkness again. I pushed down the afterglow and focused. I could not remember the last time I felt that carefree. Ultimately, I have come to think, travel teaches us about love. It teaches us that the very best we can do with our lives is to embrace the peoples, places, and cultures we meet with all our mind, heart, and soul, to live as fully as possible in every moment, every day. And it teaches us that this embrace is simultaneously a way of becoming whole and letting go. When the world has become a pencil drawing, a masterpiece on the easel of the creator, I await for it to fade to black and arise anew. It is as if the nightfall were the curtains closing, and the dawn were their opening each day, the birds singing on cue with their beautiful serenade. While others sleep through the dying of the light, my task is to remain awake and witness its rebirth, to see how the pencil sketch becomes the greatest of technicolor movies. As the blackness comes I calmly watch myself be erased, eyes open and seeing nothing at all. The only evidence of my being is the steady thump of my heart and the cool air in my lungs.
Love,
Your sister xx
August 1939
Dear sister,
So much has changed, even just since you’ve been away. And my twin sister being gone for three years doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t feel real. But I’m not going to let it phase me. I used to tell you everything, and if I can’t do it in person, because you’re off gallivanting around who-knows-where with Jim, I’ll just tell it to this letter. Just like I was talking to you. I love you and I miss you.
Love,
Fanny x
October 1939
Dear Fanny,
Do you remember when you first wrote to me to tell me of your upcoming nuptials to Johnny Mitchell? Though it took a while for it to make its way to me, when I finally received it, I was ecstatic to hear such wonderful news! Of course, it was announced in the paper, but hearing it from you was all the more meaningful. Though I missed you, I was glad you weren’t there to witness my embarrassing display of excitement. The sounds that came out of me were indescribable. In Jim’s words, I was like a little kid who had too much sugar before bed but, once I told him the reason for my giddiness and showed him your letter, he understood and let me have my moment to celebrate you and Johnny. By the time you received my next letter, I could safely assume you were no longer Miss Fanny Skeffington, but Mrs. Fanny Mitchell. I hoped my letter would reach you by the time you and Johnny got back from your honeymoon.
There were many things I could’ve said, but to keep things short, sweet, and to the point, all I said was something Uncle George once said to me about Jim, and that was that I only spent an hour or so with Johnny, but I could tell you with confidence that there was nothing really wrong with that man. I knew he’d love you and treat you right, as a husband should. Although you said you weren’t going to have a big wedding and were just going to get married at the registrar’s office, I still regret that I could not be there with you. But I had a gift sent to you, enclosed with a card that emphasized how much I love you and wished the both of you every happiness. It was no surprise that you got married before me. You were always the practical one. Do you remember the wishes we made when we were children? Yours was to get married and have a family of your own, while mine was to roam the world and meet new people.
Speaking of marriage… Neither of us are sure how or who brought it up first, but the topic of conversation turned to just that. Nothing particularly happened to push Jim and I to this decision, but we keep having our best conversations while the world is asleep, trying to find ourselves somewhere between dusk and the sunrise. We were talking about anything and everything, even things that were trivial and inconsequential. We reminisced on how we met. We laugh now when we talk about the beginning, how I fell out of a tree and practically into his arms that day in Wakeforte Park! Even if we had nothing important to say, it was lovely just listening to each other’s voices. Now we’re wide awake. Except this time, we think we know what we intend to say to each other. Fanny, Jim and I have decided that… Well, there’s no use trying to win Mother over. She’s too sensible, so we’re going to elope. We’ve decided! We are going to get married while we’re here. I’m ready. I wasn’t sure before about eloping, but Jim thinks that Mother will never come round until after the wedding. I hope you’ll be happy for us, because it’s what we both want. I was surrounded by doubters. Mother, her old friends and neighbors… The only way to silence them is just to get married and have done with it. You can’t leave everything up in the air indefinitely. At least that’s a decision. Uncle Fred once told us he could have a Bedouin ceremony performed and that he’d be our witness. We weren’t too sure of the legality of it, but Uncle Fred said he’d look into it. We’re just going to go to a registrar’s office, just like you and Johnny did. I’d love to tell you more about it, but it can wait until I’m back in the States. Registrar offices don’t allow personal vows and get you in and out within ten minutes, so we’ll probably come back at some point and renew our vows on American soil, just so we can make our wedding a bit more personal and be certain our marriage is legal in both Europe and the States. Things with Mother might be different by then. I hope it will be for the better.
Though we will still have separate lives outside of our marriage, our destiny is by each other’s side. When Mother organized my wedding to Sir John, I was very angry. But, with this year, I’ve learned that I’m ready, that I want to love Jim as a wife loves her husband. We’re best friends, kindred spirits, and we’ll soon be husband and wife. We’ll love each other, and while we won’t be attached at the hip 24/7, all 365 days of every year, we will always be there for each other when it really matters. As I finish penning this letter to you, the wind howls, but I am warm, cocooned under the blanket by the fire in Jim and I’s motel room. We smoked cigarettes until six in the morning and I listened as his words flowed; plans, hopes, dreams, fantasies, everything that we know is possible and impossible, but I know that it doesn’t matter, for we will be together throughout it all, and that is everything. Now I need to stop writing because I’m falling asleep on his chest.
Love,
Your sister xx
October 1939
Dear Fanny,
It’s so insane to me that most of the people you meet in life are just passing moments. You’ll know them for a brief period of time before they’re a stranger again and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it because that is just how it’s meant to be… Hardest part of life honestly. I don’t want to be a temporary moment or experience, I want to be with certain people forever. I realized that people, from new-made friends to life-long family, inevitably come and go in the composition of our lives, but that once they have appeared, they never really leave. And I realized too that the people we love - the memory of the people we love, their enduring, pulsing presence in our lives - is like those violins that street performers play. Every day, in one form or another, we take them out and play them, if just for a while. We become them, swooping, spiraling, soaring to the apex of our minds. We honor them and keep them alive - as they do us, intertwined. I welcome my journey with a strong heart. I stand tall and love the fresh air that comes from following this ever onward road. I stride in bold steps, feeling a sense of pride in each one. And this journey is not about a destination, nor arrival point or finish line... for there is no such thing. This journey is about the traveling, the traveling companions and the reason for the noble struggle. Friends come, friends go, often times I am alone, yet I have my compass, I have my path and I have two well clad feet each dawn.
The path doesn’t care about the terrain, that’s for me to deal with. The path is the path. So whatever comes I keep going. When I get knocked down I have to get up, because there’s no other way. I know what’s out there though, I know because the universe told me. It said, “just walk” and so I did. I still do. It says at the other end is peace, real happiness for everyone, and I gotta keep going even if the path makes me bleed. Sometimes it has, sometimes so much I just wanna stay down and feel the cold... then I remember why I started this journey and find my feet again. It’s lonely though, and I think some company would be nice if you can be brave enough. It’s freedom, it’s duty, it’s leading and following. I can’t promise comfort, but there’s plenty of stuff to kindle my soul and bring the sorts of smiles I thought only belonged to the stars. Jim and I have been going steady for many seasons now, steady in our hearts and souls, sailing quietly onward as ships together upon calm seas, sails always filled by onward breeze. So, as we love one another so much, as we can only see a future together, can we agree that the time has come to settle down, to accept that our stories are forever weaved.
Love,
Your sister xx
December 1939
My darling sister,
I hope this letter finds you well. How are things going? It’s been a while since I heard from you, so I decided to send another letter. You’re always in a different place all the time, so it’s hard to know your exact address. I hope things are going well. Just don’t get discouraged. I know things aren’t easy for you, and how hard it is to find an opportunity for this type of work. Your friends always ask about you. You should write to them too. I always hear them telling others how you took your car and set off on your adventure to chase your dream of being an artist. Oh, I guess now I know why you don’t write to them. I know you don’t want to disappoint them. Mother and Uncle George are fine. Uncle George misses you, and Mother doesn’t talk much about you. You know how she disapproved of your idea, but she loves you. And I love you too. Johnny and I are doing well in Seattle, but we miss you very much.
How delightful to hear you and Jim might elope! Other ladies might find it irresponsible and foolish, but I think it’s so romantic. We always used to say we couldn’t be any more different from each other, and that still holds true, but at least there’s one thing we have in common: Neither of us were ever attracted to the idea of a big, traditional white wedding with all the trimmings. Fashionable weddings reminded us too much of Mother’s extravagant parties and lost whatever appeal they might have had. To be with the one you love and exchange vows and rings signifying your love for each other only in front of someone with the power to bind you together under God… To share a kiss and sign your names on a piece of paper… To seal that bond no man can turn asunder in the privacy of a registry office… That was enough for Johnny and I, and it’ll be enough for you and Jim too, I imagine. All the rest of it - A church, flowers, a towering cake, and an overpriced white dress we’d only wear once… It all seemed so wasteful, just an excuse to throw money at something, to throw a party and be the center of attention to keep up appearances for people you barely know or don’t know at all. You must write to us and tell us of all your adventures! But save the best stories for when you see us again in person – soon, we hope! Your last letter got to me the day before we started riding the train back to New York, and I was reading it while on my way home! If you come home, we can read all our letters together and share our memories!
With love from your sister,
Fanny xx
As promised, you’d save the best stories for when you met again face-to-face. In the meantime, between 1936-1940, you sent both Fanny and your Uncle George snippets of stories in a trail of modest envelopes. Little more than tantalizing teasers for greater epics to be told and shared, yet their contents were always beyond expectations.
December 1937
Dear Uncle George,
Austria has been wonderful so far! Uncle Fred called, he wants me to get him a souvenir while I’m here. We’ll be going to many sites, among them Moosham Castle before we head back to Switzerland, and from there, the United Kingdom. It’s said to be haunted, so I’m expecting some good scares and mysteries!
Love,
Your niece xx
December 1937
Dear Uncle George,
So much for our skiing plans in Switzerland! We arrived here at Moosham Castle last night, just before a blizzard swept in! We didn’t get hit with the worst of it, but the mountain is completely shut down, and the surrounding roads are closed. I think Jim and I are one of the few guests who made it to the castle at all. The castle itself is private property, but there’s apartments and inns nearby and we were able to secure a room. The place is huge and old - and slightly creepy under the circumstances. You should hear this wind! What’s more, the owner is away on business. I tried to ask the caretaker how I could contact them, but he said he didn’t know. Doesn’t that seem odd? I couldn’t help feeling like there was something he wasn’t telling me. All this makes me a little nervous, but I’m determined to enjoy myself. I have big plans to explore the castle, once it opens again to the public after the storm passes and most of the snow melts.
I’ve been reading up on the castle’s history. The original owner must’ve been quite a character to have built such an extraordinary place. It’s filled with strange, dead-end corridors for one thing, and I noticed that one of the towers is totally different than the other ones. I heard from the radio that Switzerland is on high alert for any avalanches and search and rescue is on standby. I fear for anyone who may live in proximity. Avalanches happen so quickly…they’ll sweep you away and kill you in seconds, before you even realize what’s happening. There have been so many deaths and disasters in the past… Hopefully everyone close by was given ample warning and able to retreat to safer ground. Of course, Jim and I are safe where we are, but we may be stranded here for the foreseeable future, until the roads are cleared and safe to drive on again. Once the danger passes, I’ll have to save some time to meet Jacques Brunais, the French ski instructor, while we’re in Switzerland. Tell Fanny she’ll be the first to know if he'’s half as gorgeous in person as he looks in his photo. So Uncle George, I guess things never go quite according to plan! But at least this time, the culprit is just a snowstorm. I could’ve asked Matteo who works at the front desk to mail this letter for me, but I think it’d be best if I just hold onto it for now and send it at a later date. It is just as well, since the blizzard is preventing outside contact. Me? I’m still determined to mail this letter to you, then go out and enjoy this snow, once it’s deemed safe to do so. Talk to you soon! (I hope!)
Love,
your niece xx
August 1938
Dear Uncle George,
I’ve been taking some gorgeous shots while Jim and I are in France. Lush forests, endless hills, and a lake that I’m certain is hiding a couple of dead bodies. I was just joking when I first said it, but after talking to some locals, turns out the lake does have a myth surrounding it involving a dead body that may or may not be in there. The story goes that there was a French violinist and composer, Erique Claudin, who went mad after he was dismissed from the Paris Opera House. In a fit of fury over falsely believing his concerto was being stolen and plagiarized, he strangled a man to death. Acid was thrown in his face, permanently disfiguring him. To evade police, he ran through the Paris streets until he returned to the Opera House through the underground tunnels. Donning a prop room mask and a black cape, he assumed the identity of the Phantom of the Opera or the Opera Ghost, a mysterious figure that lived up to its title. While he was rarely ever seen beyond a silhouette or the end of a black cloak as he turned a corner, his voice was heard and his looming presence was felt. But the managers were skeptics. When he sent them threatening notes, they didn’t heed his warnings. When his demands weren’t met, he sabotaged stage sets, drugged the performers, and even murdered the prima donna and her maid. He kidnapped Christine DuBois, a beautiful singer who was his object of obsession. He caused a deadly diversion by bringing the crystal chandelier down on the audience and, in the chaos and commotion, kidnapped her. He took her down to his lair in the sewers where he intended to keep her with him forever, but she was rescued by police. However, the whole place was dilapidated and falling apart, on the verge of coming down. When the policeman’s gun went off, it caused a terrible rumble. The Phantom pushed Christine out of the way of the falling rubble, but was crushed to death. The policeman and Christine escaped just before the entire place caved in on itself.
The Phantom’s violin and mask were recovered many years later and are on display in a museum today but, after the rubble was cleared away, workers were both baffled and horrified. There was no body. A terrible chill went down their spines and the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up. They felt a presence with them. A presence they couldn’t see. It’s said that Claudin’s body is still down there, hidden somewhere. Maybe he survived the cave-in but, without hope, without love, without Christine, he drowned himself in his beloved lake where he once sought refuge, peace, and solitude. His body may be lost somewhere in the deep, inky black depths of the lake, but his spirit won’t rest, watching over his Opera House as a spectral spectator, a ghostly guardian.
The stories vary. Some say he’s friendly, a protector. A ballerina let her curiosity get the better of her and went down below and accidentally got lost in the underground caverns of the Opera House. She spent so long in the concrete labyrinth she was confused as to which path to take. She sat there all day, lost, figuring she’d never get out, when Erique just walked right through the walls. He stood and stared at the ballerina as he passed through. He smiled and beckoned her to come. “Follow me, child. I’ll show you the way back,” he said with one of his warm smiles. She wrapped her fingers into his cloak, her heart flooded with relief. She could have walked through them herself she supposed, but it was wonderful to have a guide. Others say he’s malevolent, a vengeful spirit seeking to scare away, harm, or even kill those that disrespect or otherwise desecrate his Opera House, his eternal resting place. I know it’s meant to be scary, but I couldn’t help but feel deeply moved by the tragic tale. I was sympathetic for Claudin. The poor man. I know the stories say otherwise, but I hope his soul is at peace.
Ghosts are one thing, but Jim and I have been following the story of Marie Antoinette’s missing diamond and journal ever since we stepped foot on French soil. During the French Revolution of the 1790s, Marie liked to frequent a particular tower in Chateau Rochemont. For her birthday, Louis gave her a tiara with a ruby, an emerald, a sapphire and a diamond in it. It was so extravagant that she refused to wear it, calling it her crown of ruination, as the French public was starving in the streets and it presented her as apathetic towards them. Marie had the tiara dismantled, with the sapphire and emerald sent to family members who lived in other countries and could thus keep the precious gems safe. She wanted the jewels to be returned to the people of France where they belonged, but she knew it couldn’t happen until the country had healed from the tumultuous revolution it was undergoing. We know she sent the emerald to her cousin in Austria, and the sapphire to her sister in Spain. However, Marie and the King were advised to take jewels in case they needed to bribe for their escape, so she took the ruby with her. However, they were still captured by Jean Le Bouef on June 25, 1791 and everything Marie had was taken. She then hid the diamond and her journal in a contraption, in a secret compartment underneath her tower that hadn’t been discovered until only recently, when a gang of diamond thieves attempted to steal both the diamond and the journal, but were thwarted by Auguste de Lancret, a museum curator and French Police when the heist was bungled.
Everyone in France, especially near Versailles, is resting easier, now that Marie Antoinette’s journal and her famous diamond are safe and sound. The journal and the diamond are going to be featured in a new Marie Antoinette exhibit in Paris. And it looks like everyone who contributed to recovering both artifacts will be rewarded! Those involved in the conspiracy are going to be charged with attempted grand theft. Juliette Blauschild, a French-born American author, historian, and museum curator, is thrilled because the French government has granted her permission to publish Marie’s journal in the US before it gets returned to France. This ought to help prove her theory about Marie’s character once and for all. Thanks to Auguste and his great-grandfather's efforts to find the journal, their family name is being celebrated all over France. Meanwhile, Auguste was showed the poem that his father, Jean-Luc, wrote him and he was relieved to know that his old man didn’t carry any hard feelings to his grave. All the talk shows want Auguste to tell his story on national television, but he keeps turning them down. I guess he doesn’t want to be famous or infamous. But, when Penelope Lane called and asked Auguste to be her business partner, he accepted! With her business sense and Auguste’s expert knowledge of the castle, I think they’ll make a great team! So, you know what they say Uncle George: “Il n'est jamais trop tard de changer l'historie.” It’s never too late to change history!
Vis ta vie!
Love,
Your niece xx
October 1938
Dear Fanny,
We are in the Chunnel! This is our second passage through the Chunnel! We’re on our way back from London, this time going to Brussels, Belgium. Sorry I didn’t write you on the way to London but I was too excited about the CHUNNEL!! London was great. I know you’ve always wanted to visit and I think you really should. You’d love it! If you and Johnny wanted to come back here as a family sometime I guess Jim and I could be convinced.
Love you!
Your sister xx
February 1940
Dear Uncle George,
Greetings from jolly old Wales. Although right now I’m not so sure about the jolly part. I’m afraid I come bearing bad news. If it were good news, I’d have telephoned. Jim and I have made an impromptu trip here to attend the funeral of John, Sir John’s elder son. He unexpectedly died on Monday following a hunting accident while on holiday in the Grampian Mountains of Scotland, where he was a frequent visitor. Poor John. He was only thirty-nine and they all knew the girl he was going to marry. I had rather a sad letter from Sir John a few days ago, announcing the death. In one of his passages, he wrote, “I dreamt last night I was in the park at Llanwelly, walking with John under the great trees, listening to the pigeons cooing in their branches. And when I woke, my eyes were filled with tears.” It was very moving. There were darkened spots on the parchment that smudged the ink. It’s a dagger in my heart to imagine Sir John, the charismatic community leader, who always held his head high with a stiff upper lip, crying while writing to me. Poor darling. He’s so unhappy.
A great part of living is expecting the unexpected. Considering our way of life, Jim and I thought ourselves masters of the art. We were living our once upon a time. Every day felt like a lifetime; every moment was alive. Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We thought we knew everything of travel, that we knew everything of loss. Ours was a world of eternal summer, until the autumn came. I’m so sorry for John’s loss. Grief is a journey, long and painful, but he doesn’t walk the road alone. Life is certainly a queer business—so brief, yet such a lot of it; so substantial, yet in a few years, which behaves like minutes, all scattered and anyhow. If humanity ever conquered mortality we would go, knowing that whomever we left behind we’d see again in the future. Time seems so infinite when you’re young…a month is an age, a year is a lifetime…it is a strange feeling, to realize how little of it one might have left. Our time on this earth is finite. It’s common knowledge, yet it’s a strange thing to realize and accept your mortality, to be confronted with it. It’s just one of those things you ignore. The days tick by and you just expect they will keep on coming. Until the unexpected happens.
That’s the thing about life; it is fragile, precious, and unpredictable. Each day is a gift, not a given right. However much you expect death, it’s still painful when it arrives. But that’s just it, we don’t know how much time we have. Jim and I are using ours to love. There’s nothing else worth living for, fighting for, or dying for. Believe me. We love each other, and we love our families, even if we’re estranged from them, above all else. The paradox of love is that to have it is to want to preserve it because it’s perfect in the moment but that preservation is impossible because the perfection is only ever an instant passed through. Love, like travel, is a series of moments that we immediately leave behind. Still we try to hold on and embalm against all evidence and common sense proclaiming our promises and plans. The more I loved him the more I felt hope. But hope acknowledges uncertainty and so I also felt my first premonitions of loss.
It took expensive train and cab rides to get here on such short notice. John sent us the money necessary to travel, and arranged transportation to and from the service. Jim and I are so grateful for his generosity. He doesn’t want anything more in return than our presence here. It will mean a great deal to him to have our support during this difficult time. We’re about to be picked up and dropped off at Talbot Castle, a huge, centuries old castle in the middle of a dark, foggy moor. Since Sir John and I are such close friends and care for each other deeply, (we were almost married, after all) he has invited Jim and I to stay for a couple weeks following the service. In his letter to me, he said the castle is too big for just him, Larry, and the servants, and that it’d be nice if he had an excuse to finally use guest rooms for their intended purpose: To house guests. All these years, they’ve just been collecting dust and he’s itching to air them out. He also said they’ve been having a really cold autumn up there and that there might be snowfall, so Jim and I should pack accordingly. “Usually if I’d wanted to freeze my backside off in the autumn, I’d have gone to Scotland. But lately, it’s been as cold as a bishop’s arse and twice as white, and London isn’t much better. I don’t mind saying it: I’m very disappointed,” he said in his letter.
But it looks like we lucked out and the storm didn’t reach here. There’s no snow falling. It’s a clean, crisp night. Just gone midnight. Feels like we’ve been here forever. Looking at it, this train station, this village is lonely and forlorn. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The station looks like it hasn’t been used in years. There’s not much here except a pile of luggage, including mine. I just dumped it there because it seemed like the right thing to do. The car should be here any moment. I’m surrounded by forests. The trees are completely bare in the winter months, but for now, the leaves are still clinging on to the branches for dear life in colors of orange, red, yellow, and brown.
It’s strange to think I was almost married to Sir John, yet I’ve never been here before. I should explore when I’m back from the service. I imagine there are plenty of forests in Wales to explore, full of treasures waiting to be uncovered in this mucky old moor. I’m reminded of when Tina and I went camping with Charlotte and discovered a moss-covered boot! I remember Tina bringing it up to her face to look inside…and shrieking in horror! “There’s a bloody rat in there!” she screamed! I used to love walking in the forests, going on hiking trails in Europe with Dad and Fanny and… Yeah. Yeah, maybe I’ll go walking in the forests when I’m back, if I can convince Jim to come with me. You should never hike alone. But we won’t stay out too late. Whether they’re to be believed or not, there are many legends out there about forests and the weird discoveries found in them. I was supposed to call the castle from the station to let John know we arrived here safely. So, there I sat, listening to the phone ring, waiting for someone to pick up. It wasn’t John, but his butler, Kendall, who told us that John’s gone! He’s been disappearing a lot lately, going on long walks without telling anybody where he’s going, but he always turns up before dark, so everyone leaves him alone to grieve in his own way. He left a note that suggested something terrible happens here in the moors at night, something about a wolf. The connection was getting really bad, and I could barely hear him, but I’m pretty sure he used the word “prowling” (or was it “howling”?) along with “dangerous” and “be careful”.
Accidents are one thing, but wild animals? Oh dear. I hope I know what I’m getting into. Do I belong to the city or the wilds? Am I human or animal? Am I sane or lunatic? Both? Neither? Yes. It’s nighttime, and although part of me is dying to know what frightened John away, another part of me is starting to feel a little uneasy. I can’t tell whether the uneasiness in my stomach is because of my grief, or because I’m a tad creeped out. Frankly, as beautiful as Talbot Castle is, I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this place. Uh-oh. I have to put this away because the car is here. I’ll let you know what happens when (and if!) Jim and I get back from the service.
Love,
Your niece x
#Jim masters x reader#claude rains#bette davis#mr skeffington#now voyager#the wolf man#rope of sand#crossover fic#crossover#crossover au#pls tag me if you’re inspired by this#I’d love to read it
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Dubble Life (ACTSV x Reader x Batfam) 3
A/n: I forgot to mention that the universe reader is in is earth-42. So, the Prowler is Miles, but he switches with Aaron here and there. and reader has the same last name as Miles.
Part 2, Part 4
Summary: Life with the Waynes so far was pretty good. Damian is still being a brat, so reader decides to be a good big sister. Someone from the past shows their face. In the need of readers help, for Spider-woman.
"I win!" Tim couldn't help but smirk in triumph. You stare at the 'Game over' on your screen. "Nah, nah. You gotta be cheating! Bro what is this!" This was the third time you have lost street fight with Tim.
"You two are acting like children." Damian spoke, watching two play video games for almost 2 hours. You rolled your eyes and gave Damian a look. "Cuz we are. You're like what, 9?" Tim chuckled as he packed his things.
"I am 12!" Damian argued. "Boy, like that makes any difference." Damian began to argue with you, you just stared down at him an announced you were getting a drink from the kitchen. You poured yourself a drink. Suddenly, your Spidey senses were warning you. You quickly turn around, just to see Damian. You scoffed.
It was funny how your Spidey senses always acted up when it came to Damian. You wondered if he wanted to hurt you so you couldn't take the Wayne throne. You turned back and continued to take a gulp from your cup. you paused for a moment before glancing to Damian you was eating a snack that Alfred made.
You thought that maybe the reason that you two haven't fully gotten along was due to both of you not even trying. So why not be the bigger person and try to be nice.
You slide yourself to the table Damian was at and set yourself in front of him. The boy frowns as he sees the smirk you had.
"What do you want, you bug."
You couldn't help but chuckle at that. If only he really knew.
"Look, demon. I think we haven't really gotten the chance to bond as siblings." You leaned in with a smile. Damian looked at you with distaste. "Did father put you up to this? What are you planning Davies?"
"No, I ain't planning nothing. What's wrong with wanning to hang out with you?" You arched your brow and leaned back into your chair. Damian sighed "I don't have time for you. I have work to do. So, if you'll excuse me." Damian stood from his chair and walked away.
"Alright, if you change your mind my door is open!" Literally, you leave your door open sometimes. You just forget to close it. A habit to try and get rid of.
After a few days. Damian did come to your room.
"Oh, look who's here. Is there something my little demon needs? hugs, kisses? whatever sisterly love can provide?" You smirked as you watched him give you a look of disgust.
"I don't want your useless affection. Father wants us to go with him to a meeting. Please wear something that doesn't look like a Hippe made it." With that, Damian walked out. He paused and took a glance of a picture you had hung on the wall; it was of a woman. Your mother no doubt.
You sighed and got yourself ready. Wondering why the hell Bruce wanted you to come along.
"Hey Alfred. Do you know why Bruce needs me at the meeting today?" you asked. Alfred handed you a drink you requested for
"It is a meeting at the Wayne enterprise. You will mistily be there to observe the working environment and understand what the Wayne family is about." Alfred escorted you down and helped you fix your dress up, so it was perfect.
Bruce couldn't help but smile as he watched you come down those stairs in one of the dresses Dick picked for you.
Once you reached the bottom, Bruce took your hand into his "You look beautiful."
Your smiled. Your smile faltered.
Remembering the time, your mother had a date with some man you didn't approve of.
It was cold out. Your mother was going to be with a man named Jim Bolton. You were happy she was happy. But you didn't trust this Jim guy. You asked, practically begged your uncle Jeff to do a background run on the man.
Jim was married at the age of 22, awfully young. He got divorced and has two daughters 3-4 years younger than you. he also had 3 DUI's. Your mother has told you he doesn't drink anymore. But you still didn't like him.
You watched your mother walk down the stairs, with a red dress on, her hair fixed up. Shinny jewels on. She looked amazing. You already saw her as a goddess, this just added onto the beauty you already saw in her. You couldn't help but look at her fondly.
"Okay, remember to lock all the doors. Your uncle Aarons going to be here in an hour to watch you and- . . . what?" Your mother noticed that small smile on your face. You were being silent. Just staring at her.
You chuckled and held her hands to yours "Nothing. . . you just look beautiful."
You missed her. You've been trying to not think too much of her. Not think of the time you two spent. Not think of her hugs. Her smile, her voice.
You have night terrors of what happened that day. At times you stay awake, too scared to close your eyes. Afraid to see every wrong thing you've done as a daughter. You make it worse for yourself by calling her number, only to hear no answer.
The Wayne building was big. Many people in uniforms rushing too somewhere. Rushing to get work done, rushing to get home.
You walked beside Damian. He has been quite this whole time. You wonder what was making your dear little weirdo so silent.
You sat in one meeting with Bruce and Damian. It was rather boring. But you did think Bruce was cool with the way he took over. Bruce had two other meetings that suddenly came up. He was going to take the two of you downtown to look around, get something to eat. Go to the movies even.
"It's alright. Me and De- Damian can go and hang around with Alfred. Can get a little Sibling bonding out of it." You held yourself back from calling the boy, demon. Almost let it slip for a second there.
Bruce liked the sound of that. When he agreed, you gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Bruce isn't the best with affection, but you have been doing these little gestures, hugging, the kisses on the cheek. You would even do the occasional 'I love you's Bruce is starting to think that you might just be getting closer to him. So, he buys you more things.
Sometimes you decline so he just gives you money.
Damian rolled his eyes as you dragged him to the car. Alfred Started the car and you two were now going to be closer than ever. Well, you hope.
"So, little brother, you have anyone that has cached your interest?"
Damian frowns "That is none of your business."
"I see, you must really her then. Or him, I don't discriminate on who you love." You felt a smirk creep up when you catch a glimpse of the look on the young boy's face. It just felt so fun toying with him like this.
"I don't have time for something like dating. Stop talking, you're giving me a migraine." Damian did visibly look tired of you, which made it even more enjoyable for you.
The first few weeks that you came to the manor. This boy has been activating the need for violence. You can't just cuss him out and flip him off like you did with Miguel.
You can tell Damian ain't stupid. He's sharp and very aware of his surroundings. One slip up and your done for. So, you decide to do what you did best.
Be annoying.
Damian ignores you more when you act like that. On top of that, you loved the reactions you got out of him.
You and Damian went to a music shop where they had those old timey records that you liked.
"Why do you need these things. You know you can listen to music like this on your phone, right?" Damian watched as you picked up a record and held it like it was precious. The most fragile thing in the world.
". . .The neighborhood I used to live in. Was loud. I could hear screaming, gun shots. And other things I wasn't supposed to hear." You gently put the record down and continued to walk down the aisle. Damian and Alfred followed behind.
"One night, there was a gang fight right outside. I got so scared. I ran into her room crying. She played a song. . ." You found a song you haven't seen in a while and grabbed it.
"She held me. . . and said, 'son solo sondios, mi amor.' and told me to listen to the music. Let that be the only thing you hear." You let yourself laugh, remembering at how much you cried.
"So, that's what I do. Instead of listening to sounds that give me fear. I listen to these."
Damian watched you happily go through the records.
Damian scoffed to himself. It was the first time he saw a real smile from you. Of course, you smile a lot. But everything was fake. You were putting on a facade. He didn't like fake people.
Lying all the time. People who lie, can't be trusted. And you lie a lot. he knows. You just haven't been caught yet.
But that, what you just did. You were actually being real. You don't seem too bad. For a bug.
"What's this?" Damian spoke up when he picked up a record that had big words on it with a blue background.
"Oh, Boney M. I love these guys." You know Uncle Aaron had full blown collocations of the band.
You looked down to see the look of confusion on Damians face. "Oh, my Go- Come on man. You really don't know these guys?"
"No, should I? . . . My mother wasn't like yours." Damian mumbled. He sets down the record. You stared at him, then glanced to Alfred. You don't know much about Damian's mother. Just that she left him with Bruce.
Due to the boy's uptight attitude, you assume his mother was strict. And based on Alfreds expression, she probably wasn't the best.
You put your hand on his shoulder. "Let's go watch a movie. Yeah?"
The movie was a comedy, it was funny to you. Even more funny that Damian couldn't understand the jokes in the movie. Just watching you laugh so much just because he wasn't understanding the jokes, Damian couldn't help but laugh himself.
"I liked the ending." Damian spoke as you two exited out the theater. "What? for real? . . . why? The ending was kind of butt." You say, Wanting to know why Damian actually liked the ending.
"Well, the main character, Lisa. She found out she was being played by that Moses guy. Even if he caught feelings for her at one point, he didn't have those feelings when he went with that dare. When he kissed her at the prom as some stupid form of an apology, she just slapped him. She knew her worth."
You just stared in utter disbelief. You couldn't help but giggle, then burst out laughing.
"What? Why are you always laughing!'' Damian was scolding you as you continued to laugh and try to explain why you were laughing.
Suddenly you felt your Spidey senses go crazy. Thats when an explosion was heard.
"Oh shi-"
people started running in panic. "It's joker. . ." You heard Damian mumble. You quickly grab Damians hand and try to get to the car where Alfred was parked. Damian let you drag him. So many people were crowding up in a panic.
Damian looked up at you, then to the multiple explosions Joker was dropping. Hearing his damn laugh echo. He was putting his Job as Robin first. And let your hand go. You felt him let go. You quickly turn around. Panic sets in you. You called out his name as you tried to shove people away so you could get through.
"DAMIAN!" You tried to help a few people who got hurt by the falling rubble around them. But all you could think of was Damian. You kept calling the boy's phone. But it would go straight to voicemail. You cussed multiple times.
You went back into the theaters, calling out for Damian, asking anyone if they had seen a little boy come back in.
You didn't know he had left to fulfill his role as Robin.
You were currently in an alleyway. Trying to get to Damian on the phone, no answer. You try to contact Bruce, you lost service. You got frustrated and decided to just run around like an idiot to try and look for the boy.
But you accidentally ran into someone and knock them down.
"Oh no. I'm so sorry Ma'am. Are you alright?" You were quick to help the girl up.
"Thanks. . . you look good, Y/n."
You paused. Who was this? how did she know your name. Your look of confusion started to fade as you recognized the voice. You began to step back.
The girl fully showed her face. Starring you right in the eyes.
"Gwen?"
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tag list: @lockofspades @redsakura101 @ruby-izo
#miguel o'hara#miles morales#atsv x reader#gwen spiderverse#x daughter!reader#damian wayne#bruce wayne x daughter!reader#bruce wayne#alfred pennyworth#batfam x reader#batfam x batsis#tim drake#dick grayson#spoderverse
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keys
llewyn davis x reader
tiny short fic for my wet cat boyfriend llewyn<3
summary: you ask llewyn to officially move in with you.
warnings: tiniest bit of angst, mentions of being broke. it's barely there
tags: gn!reader, established relationship, uhh it's just sweet idk what to tell you
word count: 0.8k
masterlist | taglist | ao3
updates blog @eyelessupdates
Llewyn is standing, leaning against the kitchen counter, almost sitting on it, his hands gripping the edge of it. He sighs and rolls his eyes as you walk up to him handing him a small box, and he feels a bit guilty that you seem so excited about it when he is not really.
“What for,” he exhales as he takes the box from your hands and shakes his head. “You didn't have to.” he declares sternly, an almost scolding look over his face. Where some people say this just to be polite, Llewyn means it. You didn't have to.
“Open it!” you urge him, raising your eyebrows, biting down onto your bottom lip in apprehension and excitation. He sighs once again as he looks down at the tiny box in his hand.
“Come on, you know I don't like gifts, now I feel like I owe you something” he frowns, looking back up at you.
It's your turn to sigh in impatience as you put your hands on either side of his neck, pulling him closer to you so you can press your lips against his and get him to stop complaining; it’s one efficient way to stop him from talking back. He hums against your mouth, his free hand instinctively shifting to rest against your hip.
“Shut your mouth and open the damn box” you order him in a scolding whisper as you pull away, leaving him chuckling softly.
He licks his lips as he finally lifts the lid of the box, discovering a key inside.
“What is that” he frowns, looking up at you.
“It's a key, dumbass.” you scoff, shrugging.
“I know what it is.”
A heavy silence settles in the room, and it makes you confused. Llewyn takes the key out of the box, his expression unreadable as his gaze shifts from the small object to you. “Why”
“I want you to move in with me. Like, officially. No more couchsurfing” you declare. Even though you were a couple and Llewyn was spending most of his time at your place, he sometimes felt like he owed you and needed to give you space, crashing at the Gorfeins or at Jim and Jean’s from time to time.
“This doesn't change much, you're already basically living here anyways. But now it's official, and you have a key, so you won't have to get in through the fire escape when I'm not home” you add tentatively, trying to read over his face whatever he feels at the moment.
His silence is starting to make you anxious, starting to make you regret your decision. Maybe he’s not ready, maybe he doesn’t want this yet, maybe he doesn’t want this at all. You have never really talked about this, about anything regarding your future together.
“Yeah I figured but,” he finally starts, staring at the key in his hand. “It’s just… I can’t pay rent, angel.” he sighs, looking back at you with a miserable expression over his face.
“I know,” you huff out, relieved that it seems to be his only issue. “I’m not asking you to. You’ll help whenever you can” you nod. “I just want to lift this weight off your shoulders” you explain, your hand sliding to link with his.
“Like I said, it’s barely changing anything” you mutter under your breath.
He nods back at you, looking back at the key in his hand before putting it on the counter.
“Okay.”
Your eyebrows raise slightly. “Okay what? Okay you’ll live with me?”
“Yeah.” he smiles, his hands setting at your waist. “I’ll live with you.” he nods, pulling you closer as his arm wraps around your shoulders, peppering small kisses over your temple and forehead.
“Good” you say, leaning into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him. “I’m glad you’re okay with it”
He scoffs, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve been couchsurfing for years. It’s just a damn key but it means a lot.” he huffs out. “Don’t go thinking I’m sad about the thought of not sneaking in through the fire escape anymore.”
You laugh, “Your back will thank me” you smile looking up at him.
“Jean will thank you.” he corrects, earning a scoff from you before you cup his face and press a kiss against his cheek.
He grins sweetly as his lips brush against yours, before full on pressing them against your mouth.
“I'm glad you haven't grown tired of me yet. I love you” he says as he pulls away, his lips curling in a small, grateful smile.
“I don't think I could ever grow tired of you, Davis. I love you too.”
“It’s only a matter of time I’m afraid” he scoffs.
“Mh, we’ll see, then you’ll have to give back your key and beg me to even sleep on the couch” you declare, looking at him with pity.
“You’ll give me the couch treatment?” he gasps, falsely appalled.
“Oh that'll be if I'm kind enough to let you in,” you tease.
“Alright I think I liked you better when you said you couldn't ever grow tired of me”
—
SUPPORT YOUR FANFICS WRITERS, REBLOG, LEAVE A COMMENT, IT IS WHAT KEEPS US GOING<3
inside llewyn davis taglist: @apollo-enthusiast @scarabgrant @lockleysgrl @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @missmarmaladeth @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @anightshift @campingwiththecharmings @dameronshandholder @spider-starry @spxctorsslxt @dowbastan
#llewyn davis#llewyn davis x reader#inside llewyn davis#moon knight#marc spector#steven grant#moon knight x reader#marc spector x reader#steven grant x reader#jake lockley#jake lockley x reader#sorry for the tags it's just to reach more people^^#oscar isaac
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Not Just A Trinket / Izzy Hands Imagine
Request: hi! ur writing is EVERYTHING btw. ur an amazing writer. you mentioned you wanted to write for izzy hands again and i have a request– feel free to ignore if it's not what ur looking for :) maybe izzy hands x reader where the reader has a small gift for him (a little trinket, a beaded crystal bracelet– something they made for him) but they're WAY too anxious to give it to him because they're scared he won't like it so they end up just carrying it around, trying to build up the courage to give it to him pfft
AHHH thank you so much my lovely, that's so sweet of you, and so is this idea!!! :3 Also I know I'm a little early in the timeline mentioning Davy Jones but I like to think of Izzy as a trendsetter ;)
Warning: mentions of fighting/ injury and strong language, some sexual innuendo!
(I do not own OFMD or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @nadsdraws.)
☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°
Izzy Hands was beginning to detest feeling like this.
He would rather charge sword first at a horde of raging Englishmen: would prefer to scrabble and scrape and scratch through the eye sockets of thousands of the Spanish with naught but his bloodied fingernails. Hell, even grovelling under the sole of the snivelling wreck that now possessed his former boss like a twisted nightmare, a horrid regret, would be preferable. If his hand wasn't too firmly attached to tangled rope of one of the shrouds in a death grip, if his glove wasn't close to bursting at the seams with how tightly he was gripping, he had half a mind to draw his dagger out of its scabbard and gouge his heart out right there and then.
He looked furious. So much so, that Roach was quick to side step him as he hopped down the steps with fresh sewing materials in his hand, giving a final look back at the intent man who only bared his teeth at the cook in response. Valuing his life, or at least the ability to keep all his fingers, if the sight of the keen blade being twisted between Izzy's free fingers told him anything, Roach is quick to recoil back and raise a concerned eyebrow in Wee John's direction. He in turn just rolls his eyes and lowers his head back to his sewing, but the rest of Stede's crew are astute enough, from where they're lingering around the deck, to notice the thick tension brewing like cold shivers of electricity in the air. Even Jim and Oluwande were giving each other side eyes, pausing their hammering at the helm to dart their eyes to their side and trace the path of Izzy's line of sight.
It never wavered. Every time they looked, it never changed. He had spent the last two hours gaping sourly towards the edge of the quarter deck. Gawking solely at you, without a single movement, without a single flicker outside the bubble where you hunched.
You thought he was angry at you for arranging a special outing for Ed and Stede at Datura Grotto, finally indulging in finding a way for them to spend some time alone after your Captain had begged and hounded you for days; he had become so accustomed to bursting through doors trying to find you and ask for your help, that the poor daunted man nearly burst into tears when he smashed your bedroom door into your nose and nearly broke it. The rest of the crew believed he was plotting something: trying to pick out the quieter members of their friends first, as payback for being stuck on this so called 'straight out of Davy Jones' arsehole' of a ship for so long.
Izzy, though. Izzy knew he was smitten. And he fucking hated it. He hated feeling so vulnerable.
Out of all the crew members still pretending to mill about, only Lucius was daring enough to purse his lips and look brazenly back at Blackbeard's first mate. Only Lucius, in fact, was feeling equally brave, and equally vexatious that fine afternoon to muster up the courage to slide up beside him. 'Someone in a bad mood today, are we?'. He taps the ships railing with the point of his nail, the broom he had been pretending to sweep splintered pieces off the floor a moment ago soon forgotten about as he leans it against the side of the ship. He replaces the loss by dropping his hand to his hip, cocking his head and smiling at an increasingly agitated looking Izzy. 'Would it have anything to do with that fine young sea farer over there by any chance? How romantic, Dizzy Izzy. Oh, I do love a good fix-me-up-'
Oh, he was enjoying this.
Izzy's quick to snap, not even bothering to look in Lucius' direction. 'Fuck off, before I do you a favour and cut that little seducing tongue out of your mouth for you.' Lucius watches Izzy's fingers tighten into leather clad black balls on the rope ladder, and doesn't need a second warning to trot off back towards his friends again. With a final wide eyed look of shock, he turns back to Black Pete and shrugs, holding his hands up as if to say that he tried his best.
All the while, you just keep your gaze steady out and onto the brewing horizon of the sea, watching as foam shook out like reaching hands around your ankles as they across cut through the wave crests, only the salty sting of thrumming silence keeping you company underneath his watchful gaze. The beaded necklace you had spent the last week or so threading together, carefully crafted by trembling fingers and a bit tongue during long evenings spent in your hammock, was beginning to feel like an anchor weight in your pocket. You tried to distract yourself with mundane, idle chit chat with a very thankful Lucius, who had swung over to your side after Pete convinced him to go scouting out for some more gossip. Swinging his legs between the latches of the port quarter, he merrily took the hammer you were idly holding from your hand and began to 'fix up the ship', his wrist barely moving as he turned to you with a scheming smile.
'So, do you know what's going on then? Why Izzy's acting like this? I swear, that man. If he doesn't bend over right now and try to get that stick out of his arse, he's going to be a miserable sad sack of repressed irritation forever. He's like a jack in the box. I swear to god, I'm just waiting for him to burst.' The tone of his voice sounds almost worried, but Lucius is smiling and waggling his eyebrows the whole while. 'That would be kind of funny, actually. I've always imagined him as a stamper. Or maybe a screamer-'
You have no idea what to say, not understanding Lucius' oh so unsubtle hints, so you just run your fingers over the bulge in your pocket once more and chime in to his rant from time to time with a disinterested 'hmm' or distracted 'oh, yeah. Definitely.' It really didn't help that you were beginning to blush the same champagne hue as the bubbles between your toes with how gravely Izzy was staring at the side of your face. It was growing increasingly harder not to give into the temptation: to not just swing your head around and meet his hard-set eyes head on.
Once he realises you're dead set on staying right there, away from him, hiding in the corner all day, he sighs and let's go of the sails, marching off to do another impromptu inspection of the boarded vessel. It's an easy distraction: yelling orders at Wee John, spitting insults at Roach as he scurries out of Izzy's way, stealing the Swede's cup out of his hand and spraying beads of coffee around Buttons' feet. All of it was a Grade A fantastic distraction, and Izzy was hell bent on forgetting just how quickly time had gone by that day: Ed and the moronic, sappy, massive twat of an arse Stede would be back from their foliage constitutional any minute now, and Izzy was acutely aware that he was running out of both minutes, and chances to ask you to take a walk with him on the island himself. He had spent far too much of the morning wasting away, leaning his back on Stede's antique armoire and watching you with crossed arms: like a weathered statue, the growing umbra he cast somehow seeming to reach its tendrils out and blanch the fringes of the doorway. Even Fang and Ivan had been too terrified to come near him, and so he had been left alone. A silent sentinel, trying to figure out why the fuck his heart was cracking against the cage of his ribs and tearing their ligaments to shreds.
You hadn't exactly made things any easier for the man: feeling so intimated, you had spent the whole morning begging your friends to whisk you away from him at the first sign of danger. Whether that meant ducking behind Frenchie's lute like a crab, or hiding like a bulky turtle under the large bit of crimson cloth Oluwande was fiddling with the tassels of, you had used any form of escape to save you from the embarrassment of having to be near him. To let him see how flustered you became just at the overwhelmingly intense pressure you felt in the air any time he swaggered over to your side: to hide the fact that your eyes would widen in abject horror, your breath hitching any time the back of his gloved hand would 'accidentally' brush against your wrist as he went on his merry way, pretending it was all by accident. That it was all just a little game to him.
Little did you know, that he was feeling exactly the same way. The one time he had dared to come over to you that day had been an unmitigated disaster. He thought he was being... well, as kind as he possibly could be by slapping you on the shoulder and saying 'how good of a job you're doing.' He was nodding his head between every word, that jilted, simpering smile on his face as he supplemented his sentiment with an incredibly heartfelt 'at least Y/n knows how to do a fucking thing on this ship, not like you lot of useless fucking fuckers they have to work with. The rest of you are embarrassing, really.' He went to walk away, the side of his wrist glancing against the back of your hand as he finished with a breathless 'you lot could learn a thing or two from Y/n.'
He had staggered away from you as if mortally wounded, tongue bitten between his teeth as he tried as nonchalantly as possible to make his way back to the stern of the ship. While you were busy trying to bury your head down into your chest and avoid the smirking faces of Lucius and Pete, you happened to notice from the side of your eye that with each step Izzy was ringing out his hand. To your surprise, he used his teeth to rip his glove off, tucking it under his armpit as he wrangled with his fingers; he couldn't stop every cell burning as if it had just been reeled under the bottom of the ship. Couldn't understand why his fingertips wouldn't stop shaking as he flexed them.
Lucius was right. He was about to erupt, and he wondered if he'd ever be alright again.
It took until the sun nearly bowing over the jaded unicorn surmounting the anterior of the Revenge for you to find the courage to finally slink away from your convenient hiding spot to go over to Izzy. Well, that and the feel of Lucius literally dragging you up by the wrist and giving you a well meaning shove in the back towards the helm.
'Oh, fuck me', Izzy hisses as he watches you approach, turning his back to you to hide how flustered he was becoming with each tugging step at his heart you take towards him. He nearly jumps high enough to fall face first off the side of the boat when he feels your hand tentatively tap his shoulder, but he manages to inhale sharply and compose himself as best as he can before he flicks his eyes to look at you.
'I-uh-', you swallow thickly, shakily drawing your hand away from him and tucking it behind your back. 'I-, uh. I, I mean, I-'. The two of you, a far change of pace from usual, can barely keep your eyes on each other.
You feel like throwing your shoe at Lucius when you register the all too familiar sing song-y chime of his voice murmuring 'say something!' from behind your back. 'Or I swear to god, I'll kiss the man for you!'
'Well, I-', you start again, shooting the most vicious glare you could strangle out of you back at your friend. With a final sigh, you continue: 'I saw your necklace, and I don't mean to pry- but since you're always wearing black, which of course is incredibly cool, I just- well, I thought it needed a burst of colour.' Without a second thought, you scramble to pull your makeshift necklace out of your trousers, and shove the glistening glass emeralds and burnished pearls into his fist.
'It's just a silly thing, really. I saw Stede fixing Ed's red fabric and I just thought... well, you don't have to wear it. It's just a trinket, it's stupid. Really, you don't have to wear it. I'm sorry-'. After a pause, the burning sensation is enough to make you turn on your heel and bashfully start to make a break for the Rec Centre, just to get as far away from him as possible.
'It's not just a trinket.' The softness of his tone, despite how harshly he sounds out the letters makes you swivel back in surprise. He takes the opportunity to take a step forward and grab onto your wrist. He tugs you closer, until you're standing dangerously close to him: if he were to inhale deeply now, to puff his chest out just a tenth of an inch, your belly buttons would be tightly pressed upon each other. You can already feel his buttons strain against your shirt as he whistles out through bunched teeth, the breath sharp and warm against the side of your jaw. 'Don't say that. Never say that. It came from you, so it's not-... just, don't say that.'
He blinks, slowly releasing his viper grip.
'I like it. I really do. Thank you.' He motions awkwardly with a flick of his fingers to the side of his neck. 'Would you mind? With the gloves, I'm... not very good with clasps. Haven't, haven't used one in a long time.'
You can't stop your head from nodding, feeling like a wound up spring toy as you unfurled his fingers again and took the gift back. With a final swallow, you try not to turn cerise as you gently roll down the collar of his shirt. It folds easily down over his vest, until your bare fingers are dragging over the naked line of skin on his neck, just teasingly hiding the tense muscles of his upper back.
'You really didn't have to do this for me, you know.'
'Yeah... but I wanted to. You're not as much of an arsehole as Stede tries to make out.' You manage out a giggle, before you're back to biting your bottom lip in concentration, brushing a few strands away from the back of his head.
He wants to say more, but his voice chokes in the back of his throat like rifting water, his mouth trembling as your fingers brush over the coiled grey hairs bristling at the nape of his neck. It feels like a red hot poker is being dragged across his skin; he shivers at the feeling, a tight coil rolling across his limbs before settling uncomfortably heavy in the pit of his stomach.
He looks like he's about to weep when you take a step back, reaching up with a final pat to make sure the little metal swallow that adorns the centre of your necklace is lying perfectly against his breast. You may have lingered there a little longer than necessary... long enough for your palm to begin burning against the firm muscle of his pec, and for Lucius to draw out an enunciated wolf whistle, but it was definitely worth it. Even the sound of Frenchie snickering from the barrel he was perched on down on the deck was drowned out by the thrumming toll in your ears: by the sound of Izzy's sharp breath piercing your ear as he wavered uneasily on the spot. He didn't want to move away from you, not yet. He could barely even hear them. For the first time in his life, he didn't even fucking care. All he could focus on, over the bridge of his nose - through the gentle curls of his tired eyelashes, was you.
He was intoxicated - but even worse, he was finally beginning to understand. By god, he wondered. What the fuck had you done to him? Could this really be what Edward feels? Could anyone, really, feel this much?
'I hear swallows are meant to bring good luck', you state with bated breath, fingering the charm you had picked up from a market stall at the Republic of Pirates for a final time. It had reminded you almost immediately of Izzy: a hidden treasure, glistening white-gold, like fresh sunlight flitting across the glitter combs littered across the sea beds. It had been well buried within piles of muck: old straw, rotten bits of moulding fruit, bloodied bones twisted into odd shapes that you could barely recognise, but it had been lying there. Waiting just for you. A needle in the haystack. The final piece of the puzzle.
Izzy's breath draws in sharply as you absentmindedly begin to brush your pointer finger up and up: tracing the edge of his jaw line before rolling over the same bird tattoo lacing his neck, your eyes still drawn to the gap between his shirt where his Adam's apple lay tautly.
'Yes. Very good luck', he states, amazed he even found his voice. Surprisingly, he doesn't even try to pull away. He lets you trace your finger over the beak, gliding across the round belly until they're dancing teasingly over its tail. In fact, without his wonderous, dipped eyes looking away from you, he seems to be tilting his head in time, allowing you easier access to brush against his skin and steal his soul with every movement.
Before he has time to think of the repercussions of what he was about to do, the leather of his gloves flex around your cheeks and Izzy Hands has bowed his back down over you, lips knocking against yours. It's terse, and rather urgent in its forcefulness; it was both a slip of outrageous passion, and a terse reminder of his years out of practice feeling any sort of physical affection, and yet you couldn't help but brush up even closer to the man. He welcomes you eagerly, even though this eternity lasted only a moment: with his thumb, he tilts the jut of your chin up so he can lick his tongue against your bottom lip all the more easily. His knee slides forward until it knocks against your own, lurching you forward and saving him the embarrassment of having to voluntarily admit to his weakness and slide his other hand around the pulse point of your neck, until he was cradling the bone of your shoulder.
He finally draws back, his tongue darting out to lick along the edge of his top lip. 'Yeah, very lucky indeed.' He seems sorrowful to be letting go of you, but the loud whistling and snorting that begins to bounce back and forth between Stede's crew snaps Izzy back to himself. With a final glance back down to your lips, he struts off to pick up Lucius' long abandoned broom and starts chasing him across the ship with it.
#our flag means death#ofmd#izzy hands#izzy hands imagine#izzy hands x reader#israel hands#israel hands imagine#israel hands x reader#lucius spriggs#edward teach#stede bonnet#ofmd imagine#izzy ofmd#izzy ofmd imagine#con o'neill
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I have absolutely no ideas for writing whatsoever pleaseplease leave requests!!! Smut, angst, fluff, whatever y’all want I can probably do.
Ill write for these people and probably more that I forgot (all male character x fem!reader) :
Formula 1:
Max Verstappen
Lando Norris
Oscar Piastri
Charles Leclerc
Pierre Gasly
Lewis Hamilton
Carlos Sainz
Daniel Riccardo
Mick Schumacher
Criminal Minds
Spencer Reid
Aaron Hotchner
Derek Morgan
David Rossi (preferably young)
Marvel:
Bucky Barnes
Tony Stark
Thor
Sam Wilson
Deadpool
Steve Rogers
Spiderman (Tom Holland, Andrew Garfield, Miguel O'hara)
Call of Duty
Keegan Russ
Simon "Ghost" Riley
König
Phillip Graves
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Star Wars:
Anakin Skywalker
Obi-Wan Kenobi
Kylo Ren
Luke Skywalker
Han Solo
Outer Banks:
JJ Maybank
Rafe Cameron
Topper Thornton
John B. Routledge
Harry Potter:
Harry Potter
Cedric Diggory
Draco malfoy
Ron Weasley
Fred Weasley
Blaise Zabini
Regulus Black
Severus Snape
Tom Riddle
Sirius Black
Lorenzo Berkshire
Oliver Wood
The Walking Dead:
Glenn Rhee
Daryl Dixon
Rick Grimes
Carl Grimes
Miscallaneous:
Jack Champion (Ethan Landry)
Patrick Bateman
Batman (Christian Bale)
Johnathan Crane
Finnick Odair
Josh Hutcherson (Peeta Mellark, Mike Schmidt, Sean Anderson, Clapton Davis)
Rodrick Heffley
Colby Brock
Sam Golbach
Tristan Dugray
Dylan O'brien
Jude Bellingham
Joao Felix
Bellamy Blake
Patrick Dempsey (Derek Shepherd, Ronald Miller)
Joe Goldberg
Timothee Chalamet (Wonka, Paul Atreides)
Minho (The Maze Runner)
Keanu Reeves (John Wick, Neo, Alex Wyler)
Jim Halpert
Farkas
Ulfric Stormcloak
Miraak
Ben Schnetzer (Max Vandenburg, Brad Land, Russ Sheppard)
Brock Purdy
Ralph Macchio (Daniel Larusso, Johnny Cade)
Dallas Winston
Sodapop Curtis
Robby Keene
Zuko (atla dallas liu)
Jet (atla sebastian amoruso)
Cillian Murphy (Johnathan crane, jackson rippner, Neil Lewis)
Evan Peters (all ahs characters, Luke cooper)
What I wont do:
Pedophilia
Beastiality or anything animal-y
Waterworks
Male reader (sorry)
Character x character
Threesomes or anything not 1x1
Character x oc
Specific body types (i just don’t see the point)
Daddy/mommy kinks
Incest or stepcest
(I’ll prob have to add on but its midnight rn)
#f1#f1 imagine#angst#f1 x reader#formula 1#formula 1 smut#formula1#criminal minds fluff#criminal minds#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid#aaron hotchner#aaron hotch x reader#derek morgan#derek morgan x reader#max verstappen angst#max verstappen imagine#charles leclerc#oscar piastri#oscar piastri x reader#lando norris#lando norris x reader#sebastian stan#sebastian stan x reader#marvel#marvel imagine#bucky barnes#chris evans#rodrick heffley#sam and colby
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I WANNA FEEL LOVE AGAIN
Part 1 ; Part 2 ;
Couple: Noah Sebastian x Fem!Reader
Content Warning: I made a little homage to three fanfiction I really love! I leave you to find the references ;)
Taglist: @ada-clarence , @badalmondzzzz , my wifey @starsomens , @raventherockstarhippie @blacksoul-27 , @somewhere-diamond
Summary: This is just cute. I swear.
But you never promised me to be wiser of better.
Time flies.
Two years passed by so fast that you almost didn't notice. At first, your job was not demanding at all, compared with the rest of the crew. You have to accompaning Noah or any other member of the band to attend the interviews, most of them for radio stations. Taking notes for integrations on their website. Keep an eye on publicize enough any tourdates or merch drop, find sponsor for bigger venues and check at the end of the day if the guys need something for the day after.
You had to spend a lot of your time on the band socials, especially instagram and twitter, which you have always shared credentials with your brother and the rest of the band. You also create their TikTok and take care about the creation of fun contents.
It was way easy before the release of Death of Peace of Mind. After the beginning of 2022, you were on the road more than at home. A lot of famous hosters started to ask for an interview with Noah. All the lights switched on the future promise of rock music when Just Pretend became one of the most used/listened songs on TikTok.
And now, in the middle of the summer of 2023, the band is still rising. More money bring more responsabilities, the necessity of arranged a better shows, bigger interviews, more publicity, more interaction through the socials.
Everyone has to work the double, you included. Speaking with radio manager and small magazine specialized in all metal subgenders was a thing.
But now the band is too huge to stop at this level. And you werent trained enough for all this pressure, but it started to grow on you month after month, tour after tour. You are the guardian of Noah's schedule. You are not charming enough to compete with others PR, but since the crew is more similar to family meeting than a serious ansemble of professionals, you became competitive.
Hard work got big results like the european tour with Bring Me the Horizon. Oli wanted Bad Omens to open for him but you were the one who put all her soul and time on the project. On the papers. Because behing any tour there is a mountain of burocracy, sponsor phone calls and publicity. You had to team up with Matt, Miles and Davis so many times that at some point, that it's like having more than just one older brother.
From june 4th, the last day on tour, you are on vacation. You have nothing to do with music creation or audio/video sound checks. You just need a laptop, a lot of patience every time you scroll your emails, and the fantastic mojito your neighbour Brianna makes. A good reason to work on your balcony, along with the sound of the ocean, is her company. You don't have many friends but she is amazing. She moved from Minnesota after the shutdown, and she is an actress. Small roles, but as she always says, small roles bring bigger ones.
《 and it would have been ever better if my prick boyfriend didn't show up and basically assaulted the casting director》
You have heard this story at least ten times, but it's still amazing how boys can be idiots. 《 Why are you still with him? He's a bomb ready to detonate, Bri》 , you know that your concern will not help her in resonate, but you can't shut up.
《 I can't afford either the apartment or the car and you know that, y/n. Also, he is not that bad when he's sorber.》
《 But he never is! 》 you place the now empty glass on the outdoor table, disappointed in seeing her almost offended expression. It's a fortune that Matt isn't around. He has to deal with Jim at least twice a week. 《 You're my friend, Bri. The only one unrelated to my job..... I can't sleep over this situation anymore. I can help you. Move in with me and Matt, take care of my plant and Lucifurr for me while we are on tour. We don't want you to help with the rent. You just need to tell that dick to fuck off.》
《.... but he drives me to every casting》
《 and he's the reason no one is picking you in a very first place. This relationship is too toxic》
《 y/n I think you're crossing the line.》
《 He's gonna kill you one of these days!》
You both muted for a couple of seconds, the now tense air between the two of you being thick as a wall. Yeah, you cross the line but like Matt, you're no good in resonate with people who don't want any help. And like Matt you can't stand injustice, not at this rate.
But you know that you have to excuse yourself, simply it's hard to find the right words. You are not going to apologise for speaking your mind, but just about the way you did it.
《 y/n? Are you ready?》
A raspy voice catch you off guard. It's already seven??
《 Shit, Noah. I'm outside》, you yell in response, before turning again towards Brianna. She already reached the empty glass and without a word, and she comes back to her apartment. 《 C'mon Brianna. I'm sorry, just-for the fuck sake.》
Noah is standing right next to you when Brianna shut the door loudly.
All you can do is sigh out loud - a bad habit you inherit from the tall man on your side - before bringing your hands to cover your face in frustration.
《 What's going on, here?》 He asks , munching a candy.
《 I don't understand women.》
He gives you a funny look. 《 Damn, that's the real deal, man. Not the chicken/egg question, or what's our purpose on earth.... but why you girls act so weird. 》
《 Shut the fuck up, Noah. Not now.》
Your relationship with Noah also changed drastically in the last two years. It required some time and a ton of patience, but he open up to you and from thenon, you became a sort of confident of him. In return, he is the one you call when things are not going well. It was a bit embarrassing, the first months, but your friendship now is stronger than youve ever immagined. You feel like you can tell everything to Noah without being judged. Sometimes he laughs at you, of course, but he knows when a situation has to be manged seriously.
He cares about you with all his heart.
He doesn't aspect nothing in return, but he is dear to you on a level than only your brother have always been.
And he knows you deeply, that's why it is so easy for him to detect how worried you are.
《 Do you think he beats her? I mean, Steve is a scumbag, but I can't figure him being actually that violent. He is always too high to have some form of coordination.》
Since his arrival - Noah has the keys of the apartment so he can come and go as he pleased, especially when both you and matt are not in town and someone has to take care of Luci- Noah asked you questions on Brianna's situation.
He knows you're concerned and he also can't pretend he is fine with your neighbors yelling at each others on daily basis.
《 I don't know but he is getting more and more jealous. She told me he's sabotaging her auditions, now.》
Noah takes a sip of the iced tea you offer him, before grab your hand on the surface of the counter. 《 Start to call the police on them, when they argue. Maybe you're right. He is not beating her yet. But he could start.》 You nod slowly, thanking him with a soft smile. 《 By the way, do you feel okay? Wanna postpone our date?》
He loves to joke around with you, because he knows how this helps in rising your moral.
You pretend to get offended. 《 I would never, ever decline a date with you. Let me change in a more adequate outfit.》
《 take your time, the limo's driver can wait downstairs.》
You giggle, before leaving him in the kitchen, reaching your room for a quick change. In five minutes you're ready: a ponytail, red joggers and a tank top.
《 Ready to run, pretty boy?》
《 I'm always ready, chicken butt.》
Noah has never told you the real reason why he has taken the work out so seriously, but you're glad he did, because you joined him on his program and honestly, you feel at your top right now. It's not a matter of aesthetics, but you feel healthy. You are less tired at the end of the day, and you can endure the - at least- 15 working hours while Touring. Back at home, it became a habit of the two of you going out for a run daily during the sunsets since Noah is not an early bird and you'd rather work in the morning.
The place you chose is on the street that runs alongside the beach in Malibù. One of reason why you got used to LA is also the precious view of the ocean while the sun sinks in it and paints the sky in gold.
There is a small beach, hidden in the stunning nature of the Pacific Coast, that has become your spot. Every day you reach that beach, stretch a little and then go back to your apartment when usually Noah showers before leaving.
Today is a Saturday and even if you don't have big plans, Noah sometimes takes his chances on a Saturday night. Even God took a day off on Sunday, right?
《 It's the red hair?》
You ear him chuckles while you bend, grabbing the tip of your toes to stretch your back.
《 No red hair as far as I can recall》
《 So... the girl you helped at that dive bar?》 You rise again, bringing your arms to the sky 《The one who broke up with her cheating boyfriend? Or maybe your neighbour? I like her. I remember you told me she was so happy when you sent her our merch.》
Noah pushes you a little, making you loosing your balance while a giggle leaves your lips. 《 You're making me look like a fuckboy!》
《you are a fuckboy, always surrounded by beautiful women. And don't look at me like that! I know you like it that way!》
Noah is young and awesome. You got a crush on him in the beginning of your partnership. It's more than obvious that he has a significant number of choices when he wants to spend a night out.
This used to hurt you a bit, but the feeling of jealousy or envy - you still don't know what it was - disappeared in the moment you realised what you have.
All this girls can have noah for a night or two.
You can have him fully, you can call him in the middle of the night if a guy screws on you and Noah will bring you to buy ice-cream to McDonald's. You two can talk for hours about the absolute nothing or regarding the most difficult life choices.
You can mocking him, make him laugh in the golden light of the dying sun, in this very moment.
And that's more than enough.
Maybe you and Noah are not meant to be lovers, but he is your person and you are his. Like twin Flames, that doesn't matter how far they are.
They always burn bright.
《 I don't know, I was thinking for something casual. Like Netflix and chill.》
Lucifurr jumps off the sofa in the moment he hears Noah entering in your apartment. Your cat totally ignores you and starts to purr to the tall man that interrupts everything to kneel and cuddle the black ball of furr.
Satanic animal...
《 Then you should text the neighbor. She is the sweetest of yours hooks up.》
《 Then I can simply ring the door on my way back.》
《 Call her, Noah. Don't be a prick. The world doesn't revolve around you. Maybe she is planning to go out.》
You can hear him sigh in his annoying way. 《Can I shower here, anyway? I smell bad.》
《 You always smell bad.》
《 Am I???》
You exchange a glaze with him and immidiatly know its time to run. In the moment he leaves Luci alone, he is following you around the house while you yell for help. But matt isn't back yet, so you're on your own. As soon as noah reaches you (very soon, his legs are longer than yours), he huggs you tight, trying to put your head under his armpit.
《 NOAH STOP IS DISGUSTING!》 , you try to defend yourself hitting him on his back and between his legs with small slaps.
《Ei! Low blow! Don't slap my nutts!》
《 Don't sweat on me, you piece of-》
A yell interrupted the both of you, follow by a long cry and some smashed dishes. Noah realise the grip on you and sighs deeply looking at the wall that divides your apartment from Briannas one.
《 Is it always like this?》
《 almost every day, now.》
And there is something that broke in your cracking voice that completely shattered Noahs heart.
《 let's call the cops》, he says with a soft voice, hugging your shoulders. 《 I'll stay. We can watch a movie togheter.》
You look at him in surprise while he is reaching his phone. 《 and your date?》
《 you're my date》 , is the cheeky replay. The both of you smile, and you need a second. Not only because you're worried about brianna, but also because these small situations make you feel.... weird on your feelings towards noah.
You don't want to admit it, but a real date would be all you desire.
....but at what cost?
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Successful! Llewyn Davis AU headcanons
Llewyn Davis x gn! reader
Genre: fluff, slight angst
Summary: what if Llewyn became a famous musician?
Warnings: mention of murder
Word count: 1088
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It was just another slightly drunken, shitty night at the gaslight for Llewyn. Nearly empty bucket, scattered clapping that died out after a second. Except it wasn't. He didn't know it was the night that would change his life.
You were sitting in the audience. You weren't a regular at the gaslight, not at all, but tonight you were just craving a strong drink and company. The other bars in the neighborhood were too loud and bright for you that night, so you settled on the dim, depressing, "folk song playing" place.
You clapped politely for everyone, not listening, as you nursed your bitter drink and bitter mood. Until something caught your attention. A handsome (albeit a bit shabby) man with the voice of an angel, who you likened in your mind to a wet cat.
You didn't listen to the words he said. Not that you didn't try, but his voice awoke something within you. As a songwriter on a slump, you jumped the chance and started scribbling on a napkin from the table. Just whatever came to mind. Nothing would come of it anyway, but it's good for your writer's block.
When he left the stage, you downed the rest of your drink and hurried towards him. You slowed before he saw you, trying to maintain your cool.
"Davis, right?" You asked.
"Yeah," he answered and you extended your arm to him while introducing yourself. He shook it tentatively.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
Llewyn thought about it. He automated to say no, but reconsidered. He had nothing better to do, could definitely use that drink, and you looked pretty damn good. So he accepted.
After some conversation (he didn't remember anyone being that nice to him for a long time), you asked him what were his plans for the night. He told you that he was staying with a couple of friends, those Jim and Jean couple, and they happened to pass by.
Jim was nudged by Jean towards Llewyn and awkwardly told him that actually, he couldn't stay on their couch tonight. Jean made some plans. You could see Llewyn's face fall, and when Jim left he just stared downwards quietly, in embarrassment.
"Correction: I'm not staying with them tonight." He mumbled.
You took a deep breath. "You could stay with me, if you'd like. My boyfriend-" you cleared your throat, "Ex boyfriend, just moved out and took all his shit from the study with him. So I got an empty guest room." (Why were you doing this? He's a stranger for fuck's sake!)
He looked at you, surprised. A quick mental calculation showed he had no one else to turn to that night. What's the worst that could happen? You'd kill him? He'd been thinking of joining Mike anyway. So he accepted.
Suffice to say, you didn't murder him. A while has passed, and Llewyn has become your roommate, practically. Yeah, he couldn't help much with the rent, but he did make that up by cleaning a lot, which sometimes is even better.
(Also, it was the 60s, rent wasn't that fucking high. It was about less than half of what it is today.) ANYWAY
One day, while dusting around, Llewyn found a notebook of yours. He didn't mean to peek, it just fell open or something. It was your poetry and songwriting notebook. By the time you came back home he had composed 3 of the songs there and was flooding you with questions about the chorus of a fourth.
You never thought to show it to him, you were just writing to your drawer! They weren't even good, or complete! You wanted to snatch it away from his hands and tell him to forget about it, but you've never seen him so happy. So alive.
He begged you to let him take your songs to his agent. How could you say no to him? Especially to those puppy eyes.
His agent was glad to hear Llewyn has partnered up again. He heard him out, and set him up with some producer. Finally, Llewyn Davis seemed like a good enough investment. And that's how it started.
From then on, Llewyn's career blossomed. He recorded an album (didn't sell away the rights this time) and the money started flowing. He preformed in front of larger and larger audiences, and you were always at his side.
He often felt like he didn't deserve any of that. He was told, so many times, that he was absolute crap and he started to believe it. But you were there to remind him. He deserved the world. Little did you know the only thing he truly wanted to deserve was you.
You inspired each other, creating more music and flowing with good energy. It took him a while, but when he finally found the courage, finally deemed himself worthy, he took a risk.
He asked you out.
When you started laughing at him, Llewyn's heart dropped. He's fucked his life over, again, in the worst way possible. You're going to leave and everything will go down the drain.
"Of course!!!" You said. "I'd love to go out with you, I thought you'd never ask! But oh my god your face..." you giggled. He sighed in relief, clutching his chest. You came closed and hugged him. He held you very tightly, smiling at your laughter.
That night you shared your first (and long awaited) kiss. A few months later you put out an album very different than both your writing so far. It was passionate, sensual, romantic and warm. One of the songs from it became the hit of the decade, and was played at countless weddings. You thought it was a beautiful way to immortalise your love.
And your love was immortalised alright! With two rings, nonetheless. Your wedding was covered by every newspaper in the country. Llewyn didn't like the attention all that much, though.
His solution? Another, more quiet and private wedding. This one ended up being your real anniversary.
Ever since Llewyn started earning a reasonable income, he insisted on paying for everything. Doesn't matter that you both earned a significant amount from the music, and that you joined bank accounts. He wanted to thank you for all that time you took care of him. So no, lunch is on him. Finally being able to provide for you made him really happy and proud (not that you needed any help).
You were one of the only "celebrity couples" who were genuinely happy together. You truly, deeply, loved each other, and when things would become too much you would take a vacation. Just the two of you. As it always was.
Llewyn made it in life, that was all agreed upon. Yeah, he became a famous musician, but the only thing he cared about - was you.
--------------------
No pressure tags:
@eyelessfaces @alwritey-aphrodite @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @romanarose @spider-starry
I hope you like it, everybody❤️
#inside llewyn davis#llewyn davis x male reader#llewyn davis fluff#llewyn davis fanfiction#llewyn davis x reader#llewyn davis x you#llewyn davis angst#fanfic#my post#llewyn davis AU#inside llewyn Davis fanfic#inside llewyn davis fanfiction
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What I write and who I write for
Movies/shows
Gotham
Star wars
Spartacus
Boardwalk Empire
Marvel
DC
The Walking Dead
The Witcher
Salem
Star Trek
Harry Potter
Fantastic Beasts
IT
Barry
Stranger Things
The pirates of the Caribbean
Lotr
The Hobbit
NCIS
___
Gotham characters I write for
Oswald Cobblepot
Jerome Valeska
Jeremiah Valeska
Jim Gordon
Harvey Bullock
Ed Nygma
Alfred Pennyworth
Mr. Freeze
Victor Zsasz
Butch Gilzean
Star Wars characters I write for
Darth Maul
Kylo Ren
Darth Vader
Han Solo
Poe Dameron
Lando Calrissian
Finn
Boba Fett
Jango Fett
Din Djarin
Paz Vizsla
Spartacus characters I write for
Ashur
Gannicus
Crixus
Agron
Spartacus
Glaber
Caesar
Boardwalk Empire characters I write for
Al Capone
Richard Harrow
Eli Thompson
Frank Capone
Ralph Capone
Nelson Van Alden
Arnold Rothstein
Meyer
Lucky Luciano
Gyp Rosetti
Marvel characters I write for
Tony Stark
Steve Rogers
Scott Lang
Stephen Strange
Zemo
Loki
Thor
Clint Barton
Bruce Banner
Peter Parker
Bucky Barnes ❤️
Ultron
Pietro Maximoff
Peter Quill
Drax
Yondu Udonta
Ronan
Rocket (platonic! We ain't furries here!)
Groot (platonic)
DC characters I write for
Superman
Batman
Bane
Joker (Heath ledger or Jared Leto)
Captain Boomerang
Chato Santana
Rick Flag
Oliver Queen
Slade Wilson (Manu Bennett)
X-Men characters I write for
Victor Creed
Wolverine
Colossus
Deadpool
Cable
TWD characters I write for
Aaron
Father Gabriel
Rick Grimes
Negan Smith
Shane Walsh
Daryl Dixon
Merle Dixon
Eugene Porter
Abraham Ford
Paul "Jesus" Rovia
The Witcher characters I write for
Geralt
Jaskier
Filavandrel
Mousesack
Eskel
Salem characters I write for
John Alden
Cotton Mather
Beelzebub/ The Sentinel
Samael
Sebastian Marburg
Star trek characters I write for
Captain Kirk
Spock
Dr. McCoy
Quark
General Martok
Weyoun
Damar
Dukat
Garak
Julian Bashir
Shran
Captain Archer
Malcolm Reed
Trip Tucker
Phlox
Harry Potter characters I write for
Harry Potter
Draco Malfoy
George Weasley
Fred Weasley
Neville Longbottom
Lucius Malfoy
Remus Lupin
Sirius Black
Severus Snape
Fantastic Beasts characters I write for
Newt Scamander
Percival Graves
Albus Dumbledore
Gellert Grindelwald (Mikkelsen or Depp)
Jacob Kowalski
IT characters I write for
Richie Tosier
Ben Hanscom
Bill Denbrough
Eddie Kaspbrak
Henry Bowers
Pennywise/ Bob Gray
Barry characters I write for
Barry Berkman
Noho Hank
Monroe Fuches (As father figure)
Stranger Things characters I write for
Steve Harrington
Billy Hargrove
Dustin Henderson (platonic or as little brother)
Eddie Munson
Pirates Off The Caribbean characters I write for
Jack Sparrow....."Captain! Jack Sparrow!"
Captain Barbossa
William Turner
Bootstrap Bill
Davy Jones
James Norrington
Cutler Beckett
Salazar
Lotr characters I write for
Boromir
Faramir
Samwise Gamgee
Mary
Pippin
Aragorn
Haldir
Legolas
Elrond
Èomer
The Hobbit characters I write for
Bilbo
Thorin
Fili
Kili
Bard
Elrond
Thranduil
Legolas
Azog
NCIS characters I write for
Tony Dinozzo
Tim McGee
Joshany Gibbs
YouTubers I write for
Mully VR
Josh dub
Your favorite Narrator
Juicy
Eddie VR
Smashing
Jacksepticeye
Markiplier/Mark's egos
Angry Cops
___
What I will write
Smut/NSFW
fluff
Male character x Fem reader
Traumatized reader dynamic
Mentions of abuse
Mentions of Death
Mentions of Blood
Slight torture
Knife play
___
What I won't write
Male Character x Male reader (Unless platonic)
Fem Character x Fem reader (Unless platonic)
Incest
Rape (depends on Character and how graphic)
Pegging
Gore
#fyp#foryou#fanfic#foryoupage#x reader#smut#markiplier#markiplier x reader#markiplier x fem reader#barry berkman#barry berkman x reader#marvel#marvel x y/n#the walking dead x reader#mully x fem reader#joshdub x fem reader#eddie vr x reader#your narrator x fem reader#negan the walking dead#the pirates of the caribbean#jacksepticeye x reader smut#angry cops x reader#geralt of rivia x reader#jaskier x y/n#filavandrel x you#gotham x reader#harry potter#salem x reader#fantastic beasts x reader#star wars x reader
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Eddie Munson - AU & !Reader aesthetics
(Images are not a visual representation of reader, just for aesthetic purposes)
Dad!Eddie x Mom!Reader (Gremlinverse)
read all work here 🧸🍼💐
🎵 Dancing in the Moonlight - King Harvest
🎵 To Love Somebody - Bee Gees
🎵 Lovesong - The Cure
(Wild World - Cat Stevens I can imagine Eddie singing this to Gremlin)
Eddie x Cheerleader!Reader
cheerleader!reader's bedroom
read all work here 🎀🍒🍭
🎵 American Girl - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
🎵 Just Like Heaven - The Cure
🎵 Bette Davis Eyes - Kim Carnes
(modern bonus Homemade Holiday - Babygirl)
Rockstar!Eddie x Actress!Reader
read all work here 💋📸🎸
🎵 The Air That I Breath - The Hollies
🎵 Sweet Emotion - Aerosmith
🎵 I’ll Have To Say I Love You In A Song - Jim Croce
(I imagine Eddie wrote Closer - Nine Inch Nails it’s canon now lol)
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❄️ December Writing Challenge ❄️
Day 22. Coffeeshop Date
Pairing: Llewyn Davis x GN!Reader
Words: 842
Warnings: angst if you squint, insinuation of sex
December Writing Challenge masterlist
Llewyn was confused. He’d arrived for his mid-afternoon jam session with a couple of friends at the Gaslight, only for the new manager, Sophia, to call him over to the bar with instructions to meet you at a cafe a block over. She didn’t seem to know why, telling him you’d popped in during your lunch break, looking rushed and excited, and made her promise to get Llewyn to the ‘Black and White’ cafe for 3pm.
He hurried out the door at 2.45pm and headed east in search of a cafe he’d never been to before. Or had he? Was he forgetting an anniversary? Was it a special location that was meant to spark a memory? He was starting to worry he’d messed up the only successful relationship he’d ever had when the cafe sign came into view, black and white stripes adorning the front window like a zebra, hanging baskets covering the red brick building where an awning might be. A woman in a red mini skirt and a scarf that touched her knee length boots held the door open for Llewyn, to which he thanked her and entered the cafe.
He looked around the monochrome room, between each circular table, until he saw you waving him down in the far corner of the cafe. You looked happy to see him, but Llewyn couldn’t help the instinct to run. Because if he had forgotten something, if this was a special occasion and you found out he knew nothing about it, you’d be mad wouldn’t you? And you’d question why you were with him at all if he couldn’t remember something so important.
But he didn’t. Llewyn walked on despite the rush of adrenaline urging him to make an escape. The chair squeaked across the floor as he pulled it away from the table, making him cringe and carefully take a seat.
You’d already ordered a coffee pot to the table, so you poured Llewyn a cup, plopped in a sugar cube and passed it over.
“I was beginning to worry Sophia had forgotten. Or maybe you’d changed your mind about the session at the Gaslight,” you laughed nervously and took a sip of your coffee. Llewyn didn’t touch his, but finally took a moment to look at you. You smiled so brightly for him and it only made him feel worse. You saw his panicked expression and decided to explain.
“I wanted a date,” you shrugged, feeling silly for setting up such an elaborate meeting.
“A… date?” Llewyn cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy.
“Yeah. We never get to go on a date. Something always comes up, or we’re too tired to leave the apartment. Y’know the last date we went on?”
Llewyn, still confused, shook his head slowly in response.
“Sixteen months ago. It was our second date and we ended up snogging in the alley down the side of the Gaslight. Then Pappi fell out the side door, threw up everywhere and ruined the mood.” You sound disgruntled at the memory, because it really did put a bummer on an otherwise great date, but it was still something that made you chuckle.
“But we’ve had dates since then,” Llewyn said slowly.
“Folk nights don’t count, Llewyn.”
“Last Thursday, then. With Jim?”
You raised your eyebrows, as though Llewyn hadn’t answered his own question.
“Dates don’t typically involve more than two people.”
Llewyn looked thoughtfully into his cup of coffee and breathed. He reached over to take your hand, hesitant at first then firmly when you interlinked your fingers with his.
“So I haven’t forgotten anything?” He needed confirmation, then he could let his guard down and begin to relax. You smiled sweetly, gave his hand a squeeze and leaned forward in your seat.
“Not at all.”
“It’s just a date?”
“A simple date.”
Llewyn shuffled his seat closer to the table, added another sugar to his cup and reached for the creamer.
“We should make this into a thing.”
You hum in agreement. You have a full time job, Llewyn takes every opportunity in the day (and sometimes in the night) to write and sing, so dates aren’t a thing.
“Okay. Coffee date. The last Thursday of every month. And we’ll do it here.”
“Always here?” Llewyn asked, glancing swiftly at his surroundings. He didn’t dislike the cafe, but it wasn’t really his style.
“We can begin here. Where we go afterwards can be up to us on the day.”
Llewyn looks up, a cheeky glint in his eye.
“Anywhere?”
You frown. “Anywhere…”
“Home? We could have all evening to ourselves.”
You see where he’s going with that. You pretend to think it over, slowly slurping your coffee whilst watching Llewyn’s hopeful, wide-eyed stare. Finishing your coffee you place it on the saucer and reach for the pot, much to Llewyn’s disappointment.
“Come on,” he implores. You laugh at his displeasure and quickly push away from the table.
“Let’s go home.” With a giggle you pull him from the table and hurry out the door.
#december writing challenge#wwdilfcember#llewyn davis#inside llewyn davis#llewyn davis x reader#llewyn davis x gn!reader
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Breath of heaven
Llwelyn Davis x singer!pregnant! Reader
Plot: you are a singer but pregnant and alone in Greenwich Village New York where you met a man named Llewelyn Davis . When preforming you are suddenly gone into labor right after Llewelyn was kicked out of a village club to help
Warning: pregnancy, swearing,
You were almost near your due date is next three weeks of this month and you’re going to a recording studio in your hometown Greenwich Village here in New York . But with how the snow is around it’s almost blinding and how the sidewalks are a bit slippery with ice . Humming the song your going record soon, you used to sing songs on the streets and sometimes pubs but since you became pregnant from your ex-boyfriend gray who sadly gotten married to someone else his secret girl from New Jersey leaving you alone and pregnant but it was okay, you have started singing lullabies and hopefully people can let their babies help them sleep.
While walking you didn’t notice that you slipped on the a icy pavement until you felt someone caught you “easy there ma’am” the voice said as you looked up to see a man with angel brown eyes and features “you could have gotten hurt” he looked at you smiling making you blush “t-thank you um….”
“Llwelyn, Llwelyn Davis “ he introduced himself to you picking up his guitar case in one hand holding out the other for a handshake which you returned the gesture “Y/N” you told him and then you felt your baby kick making you hide your pain in front of him “I’m heading for a recording studio around here “ he gave you a soft and yet sad look on his face “why? You need a job there ?” Llwelyn asked, “yeah you can say that “ you answered “you know the place ?” He nodded and tells you that he was heading there to sing a song with a friends of his which unknowingly made the two of you walk in front of the building and you didn’t realize that he was holding your hand that made you blushed a little as he lets go and walked inside alone and you walked in after he did.
Surprisingly, you were greeted nicely not noticing you were the other side of the recording where Llwelyn was there with other two men Jim Berkeley and Al Cody supposedly finished recording a song when he spots you in your beauty , he snaps out of it and one recording people (which I don’t know their names) told them to come out and meet you then to the three of them were surprised by the fact you’re pregnant. “Now fella we’re going to give miss Y/L/N a chance to show her some of her skills and we’re gonna record her now “ the man said to them you spot Llwelyn and sheepishly waved at him and Jim and Al Cody. “ come on Mrs let’s go get your song recorded” you nodded but you at Llwelyn and you feel sorry for not telling him about your pregnancy.
Three weeks later….
After finishing recording the fifth song you told them that you were heading home for today, recently your baby has been getting antsy but today something wasn’t right as you continue to walk you felt a sharp pain next in your belly and you realize that something was that your having contractions “fuck “ you cursed as you panting to calm yourself down. Not far from the gaslight Llewelyn just got kicked out from insulting a man who was heavily insulted for his music and about his late partner Mike just by punching him in the nose which kicked him out.
“Llwelyn !” You shouted to him desperately as you speed walked to him and grabbing his shoulder making him turn to look at you with surprise “Y/N ? What the fuck are you doing here?” He asked but you didn’t answer and instead starting to sob through the pain you are experiencing right now “ I’m in fucking labor Llwelyn!” You said to him , Llwelyn blinks a few times it took him a minute to realize that you were actually in labor! “HOLY SHIT YOUR BABY IS COMING NOW! LIKE RIGHT NOW?!?” You wince from not only your contraction but his shouting and he looks around to get a cabby for you to get you to the hospital. He let out a whistle to one of the caddie which stop in front of the two of you “listen man she needs to get to the hospital right now!” Llwelyn told the driver while helping you in the cab “why ?” The driver asked like it isn’t obvious enough “ she’s in labor now go!” Llwelyn growls , you have never seen him like this before and the way he holds your hand tightly for dear life lol you’re going to fade away from him.
Once you and Llwelyn arrive at the hospital, the nurses takes you to the delivery room and your screams behind the door make Llwelyn scared and afraid, from the three weeks the two of get to know one of another and you providing shelter for him when he is desperate he remembers what you told him about the father of your baby “he left you pregnant to be married to someone bitch in New Jersey ? He’s an ass” he told you and that made you laugh so hard that made him laugh too , he even sang one of his songs back when his old music partner mike was around he was surprised to hear that you told him your baby kick from every time he sang at your place, Llwelyn felt like he wished that the baby you were carrying was his . Even though they were good memories he still felt like shit , of course you were there for him when he needed it . To get his mind off of the situation right now he decided to hums one of your songs because apparently smoking is legal in the waiting area now.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and he turn to see the nurse who look weary and tired even when she just smiled, “is she okay? Is Y/N alright? Is the baby okay?” He asked not realizing that he sounded like a concerned husband, “the two of them are alright” the nurse told him “she and the baby boy are good and healthy “ Llwelyn smiles softly “ would you like to see them?” The nurse asked which Llwelyn again unknowingly just nodded and walked in to see you glowing with beauty and seeing the baby in your arms was quite a sight to see . You looked at him smiling “hey” you said and he replied back “hey, you look better” you smiled at him “thanks for saving me and my son Llwelyn” his smile and looks at your baby, so tiny and cute even “what is his name?” He asked you and you answered “Mike, his name is Mike Joseph Y/L/N” Llwelyn nods “you named him after my old partner “he stated and you nodded “why?” He asked which smiled “because I love you and I know you miss your partner/friend so I thought naming my son after him would help you to know mike is there with you knowing it plus he seems to smile at the name” you answered which Llwelyn wanted to cry with happiness that you care for him and learning everything that happened to him. You slowly start to hand over your son to Llwelyn which surprised him, he wanted to say no but couldn’t because when he hold little mike in his arms it made him feel like…he’s holding his own son . “He so lightly and small “ Llwelyn told you and he returns your baby to you smiling.
11 days later,
You finally returned home and Llwelyn decided to stay with you and little Mike for time to time and even deal with the baby crying at night by singing “green green rocky road” to him and that calms him down. The you and Llwelyn spend time together his love for you grew and one night when Isaac was was about to cry for something he stopped to see you rocking him and breastfeeding him too. You looked at him while letting him hear you singing to Mike of your songs to him.
“Breath of heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven
Breath of heaven
Lighten my darkness
Pour over me your holiness
For you are holy
Breath of heaven
Do you wonder as you watch my face
If a wiser one should have had my place
But I offer all I am
For the mercy of your plan
Help me be strong…..” you sang your song to your son and Llwelyn just stares at you lovingly which you noticed and kisses him making him stun but happy that you are accepting him for his kindness.
A/N: finally my first Llwelyn Davis x reader fic. And yes the song is actually a Christmas song that was used in the nativity story soundtrack and Amy grant soundtrack too but it was stuck in my head for quite some time and it is beautiful song
#llewyn davis x reader#inside llewyn davis#pregnancy fic#the poor man needs to be happy#oscar isaac x y/n#oscar isaac hernandez estrada#I don’t experience any pregnancy#*didn’t#stupid autocorrect#brain hurts from stress and writers block
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Part 3/7 💜📸📝
“May I come in?”
“Yes, Jim. Just a minute. Oh, no. That zit is still there. Thank you for seeing me. I was rather nervous when it took so long for you to answer.”
“Fine dinner, Fanny. I enjoyed that roast. You know it reminds me of a roast I once fed to an old cannibal chief in the Solomon Islands. Had a remarkable effect on the old boy. Made a vegetarian of him. I take it back, Fanny. She'll never be the cook Manby is.”
“By the way, Jim, how about a quick smoke? My ex-husband gave up smoking, but I still have some of his leftover cigars.”
“Oh, not a bad idea at all.”
“There we are.”
“Hmm. The Angel’s Smoke. This is their brand. Though I doubt if they afford them on their present salaries.”
“Masters, There’s something you and I— Well, the fact is, Jim—”
“There’s something you want to get off your chest.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Come on, then. You know, I thought that perhaps a good straight from the shoulder heart to heart talk would go with this cigar.”
“I’m afraid it does… Jim, have you been encouraging my daughter to carry on with you?”
“You look lovely, Fanny. You always had a special sort of bloom.”
“No nonsense. Did it not occur to you to speak to me before you addressed my daughter?”
“I suppose I was carried away.”
“You have no right to influence her.”
“Well, that’s true, Fanny. I didn’t have the right to encourage her. Neither did I have the right to discourage her, so I merely looked wise. She mistook it for reciprocation.”
“So I was right to be nervous. You’re birds of a feather, you and my daughter.”
“I’ve always thought of myself as a magnificently exclusive specie. However, there’s room for your daughter if she’d like to join.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Sure, why not? You know we’re not so far apart, we two. We both suffer from wanderlust. Though I must say, she got it with trimmings.”
“How long have you and my daughter been seeing each other?”
“That depends. Are you referring to when we were in Europe or here in New York?”
“You mean to tell me you’ve met before?”
“Yes. In Switzerland. While I was passing through, we saw each other every night.”
“Seeing each other every night? Lovely. So you must be the mystery man.”
“Mystery man?”
“Sometimes when Jones was driving for me and my daughter, she asked him to drop her off at the corner of a street, typically in front of the local café. She was always telling me that she'd make it back home on her own. It aroused my curiosity. So after dropping her off, I asked Jones to park the car and watch her, see where she went and relay his observations to me. She ordered two cups of coffee, to go. She then left the café and walked up the street for about ten minutes to a residential area. She stopped in front of a motel and pressed the doorbell. Shortly after, a man in his mid-to-late forties, wearing a suit, opened the door. He leaned over and hugged her. She gave the coffee to him and they exchanged some words. Jones couldn't hear what they said or see the man’s face. They then entered the motel room together. Who is he, I wondered. It was the sixth time I had Jones follow my daughter. After she went into the building with the man, he parked the car nearby to wait for her to come out.”
“You had one of your household staff stalk your daughter?”
“Is it considered stalking when I’m her mother and only want to make sure she’s safe?”
“When you’re ordering an employee to follow and watch her like he’s on a stakeout mission? Yes.”
“About two hours later, a cab stopped out in front of the motel. Shortly afterwards, she came outside, and the man followed closely behind. They chatted for a bit. She looked extremely comfortable with him. Before leaving, she kissed him on the cheek. When Jones reported back to me, I thought, what's going on? How could she do this? Who the hell is this man? I reported sick for the third consecutive day. As I laid in bed, I kept thinking on why my daughter would be seeing another man. How could she be having an affair now? She's better than that. She's supposed to choose John. There were nights when she inexplicably was absent from home and wasn’t at dinner. I remember being so worried, but Fanny never said a thing about you…”
~
“I’m sorry to trouble you, but we haven’t seen her all day. You haven’t? No, she didn’t come in for dinner. Well, thank you, Mrs. Worthing. The Worthings haven’t seen her. I think I’ll call the Lemps. Are you sure your sister didn’t say where she was going?”
“No, she didn’t. I’m positive. She’s a grown up girl, Uncle George. She knows what she’s doing.”
“With all this excitement I can’t concentrate on my letters.”
“Manby, are you sure she didn’t leave a message in a milk bottle or something? It’s not like her not to be here for dinner.”
“She didn’t say a thing to me. I didn’t hear it.”
“Well, she isn’t with Maggie Worthing. But she thinks she might be with someone called Jim Masters. She says she left the dance with him last night.”
“That’s impossible. She wouldn’t be with Jim. He’s not her type. Besides, I wouldn’t permit it. Jim’s good hearted, but he’s our chauffeur and almost a criminal.”
“Oh, come to think of it, I’m sure she’s not with Jim.”
“How would you know? Where's your sister?”
“Well, I just remembered she told me she was going to Selena’s for some shopping. The bus probably broke down.”
“Why didn’t you tell us before? Really, Fanny.”
“Why don’t you all go to a movie and relax? I’ll wait up for her.”
“That’s a good idea. The movie’s in technicolor.”
~
“She never said a single word to Fanny, did she? You’re an awful liar, Jim.”
“Don’t act as if you’ve made a great discovery. I’ve known it for years. It was our secret pact.”
“You didn’t seem too willing to drive for me. That should’ve been my first clue. I didn’t think a five day trip was that long. Job often had trips longer than that and the previous driver never seemed to mind them. Now that I think about it, you and she were unusually quiet whenever I was around. You didn’t even look at me. It’s like you were avoiding me. I wondered why. So I called Dorothy. She told me something interesting about my daughter. You are telling me that you took my daughter to a motel to meet in broad daylight?”
“Oh. I... I suppose they think something improper went on between us. I suppose everyone does. But it wasn't like that.”
“What was it like, Masters?”
“You only know this because you've opened a letter addressed to her.”
“She’s a young girl. And I’m her mother, and I have every right to know who's corresponding with her.”
“She’s not a girl. She’s a woman, whether it suits you or not.”
“By which you mean?”
“Your daughter is an adult. She cannot be cooped up here forever. I guess you want to know our intentions, Mrs. Skeffington.”
“My daughter is rather young to have intentions.”
“I didn’t intend any harm. We’re not lovers, you know. Not in the way you fear. We’ve never been intimate, never shared a bed in that way. It was quite innocent. Mrs. Skeffington, there's no sense beating around the bush. I'm in love with your daughter. I think she's just about the best girl there is. She's an old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind. She's clever and sensitive and beautiful...”
“You're not courting me, Masters.”
“No.”
“So you love her. That's quite apparent. And is she in love with you?”
“Well, hasn't she told you?”
“As a matter of fact, no. She has not. But I’m going to ask her. Well, that's quite romantic, Jim...but, tell me something, will you?”
“Of course.”
“How old are you?“
“Thirty-nine.”
“Yes, I seem to recall that when you applied for your post as the chauffeur, you listed your age as thirty-nine. But I found out from your ex-wife that you were born in, let me see, 1889, which would make you forty-six.”
“Come on, Fanny. All right, I'm forty-six. Too old for your daughter? Is that it?”
Fanny knew you wanted refuge from the kind of world she and, by extension, you lived in, wanted respite from the kind of life she lived. But old men weren't refuges. They needed refuge themselves, for they were timid, and shrank from responsibility, and advised one to be friends with one's husband, and let go one's arm when they got near the house. There was, in fact, no love in them. Not that one wished love to be in them, except that without it, without, anyhow, the capacity for it, people didn't seem to be much good. Dry as bones, cold as stones, they seemed to become, when love was done; inhuman, indifferent, self-absorbed, numb. Except Jim Masters wasn't an old thing at all. He may not have been exactly a young thing, but he certainly wasn't an old one.
“In a sense. I like you, Jim. I do. You’re charismatic, charming, and extroverted, among other fine qualities. There wouldn't be a woman who wasn't setting her cap at you. But when I see you and my daughter together...”
“Meaning?”
“If you were a couple decades younger, maybe—”
“Don’t start. You’re one to talk about age, Mrs. Skeffington. You oughta be ashamed of yourself. Your daughter and I are both consenting adults. She’s twenty years old. And I'm almost forty-seven. How old are you?” was the abrupt interruption.
“Forty...five.”
And when he gave her a look like he didn’t believe her, she told him truthfully, it being merely foolish not to, that she was fifty, to which he remarked, “You surprise me.”
It was at that point that Fanny began feeling stung; for, from his expression, it seemed as if what surprised him wasn't, as for an instant she had naturally supposed, that she was as old as that, but that she was as young as that. So she was stung.
“But if this light were on, you could see I’m in the prime of life. Far from an old woman.”
“Well, you may not be in a wheelchair yet. But you aren’t in rompers either. Neither are you Lillian Russell. Yet as you’d gotten older and older, your lovers had kept on getting younger and younger. Before your illness, there you were, pushing fifty, yet I recall the most recent and youngest of your adorers, Johnny Mitchell, had been but twenty-six when you met him. To you, he was yet another attractive man you wanted to talk to. It didn’t matter to you that he didn’t shave yet. He voted for Roosevelt, so he was at least twenty-one and fair game. Not only that, but you met before.”
“No, I would've remembered.”
“Sorry, but you did. Your husband introduced the two of you.”
“Job? When was this?”
“About fifteen years ago. Johnny was your husband's office boy and thirteen years of age. It was during summer holiday. Now he’s junior partner in his father’s firm. You must know his father. He said he almost committed suicide because of you.”
“Well, I'll have to look at my records—”
“And now he’s sweet on Fanny, who’s twenty and much closer to his age. I wouldn’t be surprised if they married. Why don’t you stop pretending and tell me what’s really bothering you.”
“We’re a very happy family here, Masters. There was a time where I considered you a suitable match for my daughter, but as I looked into your history, I began to suspect that, if you did marry, you would have no armory for the battle that lay ahead.”
“We’d have no money, you mean.”
“We know New York, you and I. There's a life to be lived here, and a good life. But two penniless strangers from out of town could not have hoped to live it. I’ve someone more practical in mind for my daughter. Sir John Talbot is in love with her. He’s crazy about her and she’s more than a little fond of him—”
“She does not love Sir John Talbot and he does not love her.”
“How do you know?”
“At dinner this evening, I could see it in their eyes, their body language. They engaged in polite table conversation and smiled at each other, but they never so much as held hands under the table or snuck secret glances at each other. I know what love, real love, looks like, Fanny. I’ve seen it in many couples I’ve encountered and passed by in my travels. And what I saw tonight was not love. It was an act put on by the both of them to keep up appearances. But that’s not all. She told me about John occasionally when we were together and only spoke of him like he was her friend and nothing more. She’s told me so herself that she doesn’t lo—”
“You are mistaken, Masters. She’s very much in love with Sir John. You know there’s not a false note in the picture.”
“Well, that is what I do not quite know. But you are right to claim it since a love match is what she’s determined on for herself. I ask you again: Does she love him?”
“I can assure you that she do—”
“Please. You have not convinced her, and you will not convince me. I think you may genuinely like him and that you intend her to be happy in her life with him.”
“More than I—”
“Let me finish! I understand you married Mr. Skeffington after only knowing him for two months, and that you practically knew nothing about him at all. I understand that these marriages of convenience take place in every fashionable church in this city, but I want more than that for your daughter.”
“Of course you do. But these days so many people marry without love.”
“Which means my initial judgment was correct and she does not love John.”
“The fact is— Oh, Jim, there are no facts in love,” she had told him, naturally not liking to be pinned down. Whereupon he had suggested, that she was being foolish.
“My dear lady, there are always facts,” he had said, looking tired and patient. “I'll tell you what the facts are. The more you pushed for her to be a prim and proper lady, the more she felt her desire for it slipping away. I suppose you’re so deep in denial because you thought that if you could only make it happen, then things would come right.”
“I can only promise— I will make sure my daughter— Sir John comes from a good family, and there is money, and she’d be in society, which is what I want for her. He can be very amusing. He does make her laugh.”
“That is a useful quality, I grant you, but it is not enough to base a marriage on.”
Passion, Fanny was sure, was a thoroughly bad basis for marriage. Jim, married to you, would be a frazzle of nerves, and intolerably jealous and suspicious. No, you were best with John. A life with Jim was going to be lonely, it was going to be difficult to bear the increasing loneliness. You ought really, she supposed, to get into touch with other young women, and find out what they did with themselves, but the thought of affiliating with other young women of New York society filled you with nausea.
Besides, you had been in touch with one the week before, and had merely got rapped over the knuckles. Well, anyhow, Fanny had had a wonderful time, she told herself, trying to make you be grateful, and now, she supposed, she must start paying for it. After fifty, the bills were bound to begin coming in. But in an empty present, how difficult to be grateful for even the fullest, most delightful past.
“Sir John Talbot is stable and well-mannered—”
“And has $40,000 a year. Sir John Talbot is much like the spectacularly rich Mr. Skeffington. Mr. Skeffington, who had an extraordinary gift for growing richer, was a wonderful parti for you, a penniless girl. Mrs. Skeffington, I know Sir John cares for her a great deal. The same could be said of me, but I'm not doing as well as he is. But you see, I think your daughter and I love each other very much. She would set her cap at me, if you let her. But for some reason, you're fighting it.”
“I'm not.”
“You’ve forced me to believe that it is my lack of money and position that present the problem, and if that’s truly the case, then shame on you. Aren't you better than that?”
“What?”
“Well, it just seems rather small to me. To not let your daughter marry a man for lack of money is the same as marrying her off to him because he has more than plenty of it.”
“Oh, stop lecturing me!”
“Am I not right?”
“No. You don't begin to understand," she said, turning to the tea-things and pouring herself out a cup of very black tea. “You dare call me a grubby, little gold digger? You've got a nerve!”
“Your daughter told me that you were quite upfront about marrying Mr. Skeffington, the richest man in town, for his money. While you were courted by him, you didn’t love him. You didn’t even fake affection for him.”
“Do you know why I came to his office that day to sell him bazaar tickets? Because I'd made up my mind even then that I was going to marry him.”
“Why?”
“Because he was good and kind...and his eyes were special in a St. Bernard sort of way. There he was half stopping when he saw me, and gazing at me with those opaque dog's eyes of his as though I were the single love of his life. And although I'd never really seen him smile...I always had the feeling he was laughing at me. And I found that attractive. Besides the fact he was very rich. Job… Sometimes I think he’s still laughing at me. Without moving a muscle.”
“I assure you, Fanny, you're no laughing matter. So you just admitted... He’s a bit older than you, isn’t he?”
“Oh, I concede the conspicuous difference in my and my ex-husband’s ages, but you’re wrong. I didn’t marry Job just for his money and to secure my future. I married him for the selfless reason of wanting to save my late brother, Trippy. He had gotten himself into trouble and...all I could do was throw myself on Job’s mercy.”
~
Trippington was at a preparatory school when Fanny got engaged, and she went down to see him there and tell him herself, before anyone else knew.
"What— that Jew?" he exclaimed, horrified. "Why didn't you tell me about this? I didn't even know you were seeing him.”
“I was afraid to tell you, Trippy, because I knew how you felt about him. But you're wrong.”
“But, Fan— You can't.”
“Can't I? You'll see. He's a very nice man. Terribly kind. Much the kindest of anybody we know, and much the—the nicest, really. He has character. And he's a—”
“Don't tell me you're in love with him. I'm not drunk enough to bear that. And— Think of his nose.”
“I do. I've thought of it a great deal. And I've come to the conclusion noses aren't everything.”
“Aren't they, just. You wait till you have to start the day every morning with his wagging at you over the bacon.”
“I'll tell you this much, Trippy. You're safe now. You don't have to worry about anything anymore. And you can spend all the money you want to.”
“Oh, I see. It's me. That's why you want to marry him.”
“Trippy, I'm very fond of Job...but I love you. Now Trippy, little sweet,” she said, leaning over him and giving him a butterfly-kiss with her eyelashes in the hope of making him smile, “don't be silly and throw cold water on my lovely plans. Be a good brother and give me your blessing— Please, darling. Trippy, if you love me at all, you won't leave.” Then she put her arm round him, and began to kiss him.
Trippington, taking no notice of those blandishments, only said, “I love you very much...but I despise Mrs. Skeffington. It's bloody,”—and immediately afterwards, looking suddenly distraught, announced that he must go out of the room a minute, because he was going to be sick.
And now he, for whose sake she had married Job, so that the thousands of acres her father had had to mortgage could be freed from debt and handed over to him, when he came to inherit, in the condition his ancestors knew, had long ago vanished out of her life, and Job, who freed the inheritance, had vanished too—Trippy forever, behind the clanking gates of death, and Job forever too, of course, but differently forever. In his case she could still get at him if she wanted to, still invite him, if she wanted to, according to Sir Stilton's grotesque suggestion, to dinner; while Trippy—ah, but wasn't her darling Trippy, after all, lucky, never to have to grow old? Wasn't it a happy thing, in these days of apparently swiftly approaching horror, to know that he at least, her precious brother, was forever safe? He should have lived forever, but maybe it was better he did not.
~
“Job married me for my youth and beauty. We both got what we wanted after a fashion. I’d always known my daughter would not marry a pauper, but I was considerate in choosing a man she knows very well instead of a wealthy stranger. Sir John answered my letter and, as of today, they are engaged. I expect her and Sir John to set the wedding date within the year. But you’re still here, coming and going as you please. You see, one too many lovers in one household would make things a little top heavy. Now, I’ll admit you won my daughter over either by some peculiar sort of charm or perhaps it’s because she doesn’t know any better.”
“If it’ll make you feel better about what you’re about to say, let’s just say she doesn’t know any better.”
“I know she wants to marry for love, but I want her to marry well and, frankly, Jim, she still wants you around. And if you stay, no man has much of a chance. Whether you want to or not, you’ll win away every scrap of affection she has. Stacked up alongside of you, she’ll see any other potential suitor for what they really are: Dull, pedantic...and then what would happen? One fine day you’d up and leave. That’s the kind of a person you are. And think how that would hurt her. She’d never feel the same towards any other man. All that old, beautiful, carefree relationship would be a thing of the past. Usually I’d give employees the usual two weeks notice but, in your case, I can’t risk underestimating your charm. In two weeks, she’d be sunk. I’ve been so busy living in my own world that I haven’t had a chance to realize how lonely she’s been. All I want now is for her to be happy. And Sir John can make her happy, if you let him. She doesn’t see it now, but the fondness she has for him will turn into something more. She can learn to love him in time. She’ll be luckier in life and in love than I was when I was her age. I didn’t love her father when I married him, but she— The point is, I feel that if you cut your visit short, go away before my daughter grew too fond of you, things wouldn’t be changed. Oh, Jim, you know what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know. You’re trying to give me my walking papers. But I don’t want to go, Mrs. Skeffington.”
“You’ve been here almost eight months, isn’t that a record for you?”
“But I never want to be without her.”
“How long will you feel this way, Jim? You see, I received a very interesting letter recently from a Nan Sloane over in Carmel, California about her ex-husband. She told me he is notorious for having light fingers and a silver tongue. The picture enclosed with the letter was at least twenty years old, but looked just like you, the very same Jim Masters who my daughter is supposedly sweet on. Are you going to deny it?”
“No.” To Jim’s credit, he didn't attempt to lie when she confronted him with the fact that he had a previous family, much like how Job didn’t attempt to lie when she confronted him with the fact that he had been seeing other women, so at least there was that.
“So it’s true, then. You've been married before. You have four grown daughters, and you abandoned them and your wife soon after the youngest, Buff, was born.”
“Yes.”
“Have you no shame?”
“I'm sorry you feel like that, Mrs. Skeffington. You're a good woman, underneath it all. But no, I have no shame. In fact, I have great pride in the love of that young woman and I will strive to be worthy of it.”
“How long with your wife, Jim? Five years? Ten years?”
Jim did not answer.
“I see.”
“Do you, Fanny? If you’re so knowledgeable about what the last twenty years of my life have been like, go on, then. Tell me, what have the past few years been like?”
“It must’ve been lonely.”
“Lonely is a gross understatement. It wasn’t a fever to keep moving. That burned itself out long ago. But I had to keep on going because I didn’t dare to come home. Where our meeting joins: One room in a smelly boarding house... I wouldn’t have minded the one room so much if the wallpaper were to turn and peel. Twenty years of it, Fanny. I was sick to death of trains and ships and strangers and cut-rate buses. But then I met your daughter in Switzerland and everything changed. Then I lost her again in Berlin when the Nazis began to encroach upon the land…and I found her again, here, in New York. We hadn’t planned on meeting again, but it happened. Don’t you see, Fanny? Fate brought us together once, and it brought us together again. My dear lady, the strongest men break when they try to battle with fate. You don’t know what these few months with your daughter have done to me. The wallpaper intact. Nearly eight months without setting foot on a train. Even a trolley car. How many years do you think it's taken me to find someone I want to spend the rest of my life with?”
“Living in my family house? Living nowhere? Working to preserve your livelihood and being outlived by your much younger wife?”
“Oh, I'm tougher than I look. Death doesn’t frighten me. It doesn’t discriminate and is a great equalizer. It takes everyone. I love your daughter, Fanny, and, in an ideal world, I’d want her to be my widow. But there’s always a chance that, God forbid, I outlive her or we die together like Romeo and Juliet. But we can’t waste what little time we have on this earth living in fear of the inevitable. We must live in the present moment. We must live.”
“Oh, Jim, please don't make this harder than it has to be.”
“Are you mad? Your daughter has reminded me that it isn’t too late to start again. If you're trying to get rid of me, I'm going to make this as hard and as horrible as I can!”
“Well, you're being extremely unfair!”
“Unfair? Mrs. Skeffington, I tried to resign four months ago. You talked me out of it. Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“I knew your daughter was falling in love with me again, and I knew what would happen. It's happened before. A few years of happiness and then— I tried to warn her. I did everything in my power to discourage her…”
~
“You know, there’s an old theatrical trick… I did dabble a bit once in New York with a group. Still, it’s hard for me to act as if we’ve never met before, to pretend that we don’t know each other.”
“Not as hard as it is for me.”
“Miss Skeffington...”
“I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't keep it in any longer.”
“I wish you would. Oh, no. Darling— darling, don't. No, wait, darling. We have to talk about this reasonably.”
“I have loved you since the moment we went to the theater together. What could be more reasonable than to run away with you?”
“We'd kill each other.”
“Nonsense!”
“Neither of us can keep our temper.”
“I can. Unless provoked.”
“We're both stupidly stubborn, especially you. We'd only quarrel.”
“I wouldn't!”
“You can't even propose our running away together without quarreling.”
“Jim. Dear Jim. I swear I'll be a saint. I'll let you win every argument. I'll take care of you. I'll give you every luxury you've ever been denied. You won't have to work. Unless you want to.”
“Please, don't. I'd rather not.”
“Jim, please listen to me. I've told myself and told myself you’re too old, too far below me in social status, but things are changing. I feel another war coming and, when it does, by the time it’s over, the world won't be the same place as it was when it started. And it’s not true what they say. You’ll make something of yourself, I know you will. Bet on me, Jim.”
“And if your family casts you off?”
“It won't be forever. They'll come around. And until they do, I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness.”
“I'm terribly flattered.”
“Don't say that.”
“Why not?“
“Because flattered is a word people use when they're getting ready to say ‘no.’”
Jim smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “That sounds more like you.”
“Please don't make fun of me. It's cost me all I've got to say these things. Jim, please. You can't put me off any longer. Will you say yes?”
“Sweetheart, you can't be serious.”
“I've never been more serious about anything.”
Jim stared at the ground uncomfortably.
You watched him, then nodded. “Right.” You put your hat back on. “I'll go. and I won't be here when you get back.”
Jim’s head snapped up. “No, don't do that.”
“I must. They won't let you stay when they've heard what I said. They’ll blame you and I can’t bear to be here when you’re forced to leave.”
“They won't hear. Not from me.”
“I love you, Jim. And even if you don't love me now, maybe you could learn to.”
“I already love you, but we can’t. We shouldn’t. Please go away and let me be.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Won't you even think about it?”
“Just go away. Please go away.”
“Oh, Jim.”
“Sweetheart, I feel I should warn you. If you persist in your pursuit of me, if you do this, you’ll have to defy your mother. I can't let you go against your old woman.”
“Her, or the whole of society? If you didn't care, Jim, you would've left months ago.”
“Oh, I see. Because I don't want to lose my job, it must mean I'm madly in love with you.”
“Well, doesn't it?”
“You say I'm a free spirit, and I hope I am. But I can’t ask you to give up your whole world and everyone in it. That's too high a price to pay.”
“It is a high price. I love my father, but he’s not here. You don't know him. Not really. But I want you to, someday. And I love my sister and my uncle and my friends. Oh, but Jim, when I imagine myself in that life, the kind my mother lives, I can think of only one thing that would make me happy. One person.”
“I'm not asking you to give them up forever.”
“And when they come around, I will welcome them with open arms.”
“And what about your people? Would they accept me?”
“We needn’t worry about that now. Look, it comes down to whether or not you love me. That's all. That's it. The rest is detail.”
“What's this? What's going on here?”
“So surprised to see you, Mrs. Ridgefield.”
“Well, that's evident. What mischief is going on here? I insist upon knowing. Who is this man you’re talking to?”
“Masters?”
“Yes. Masters.”
“He's just our chauffeur.”
“What were you talking to Masters about? When I came into the yard?“
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m ordering the car. That is why one talks to chauffeurs, isn't it? To plan journeys by road. Masters, could you take me into SoHo at three?” You turned to Mrs. Ridgefield and said in an overly polite tone that couldn’t be misinterpreted as anything but sarcasm, “I'm getting some things for Mother and Fanny. Is there anything you want?”
“Nothing you can find in SoHo.”
“Then why are you here?”
Mrs. Ridgefield gave you and Jim an irritated look as she marched off. You and Jim watched her leave, and you gave him one last glance before turning to go back into the house.
~
“In the end, it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t dissuaded or discouraged.”
“Then why didn't you leave?”
“Because, by then, it was too late. I was in love with her, and she was in love with me. I need her. Everything is against it. All my reason and experience. But that doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter.”
“It does to me, Jim. I can't let you be with my daughter. You are welcome to show me what you like, I'm not in a hurry, but nothing will alter my conclusion. I won't allow it. I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!”
“But I don't accept that I am ruining her life, nor that I'm cutting her off from her family. If you want to cut her off, that's your decision.”
“But how will you look after her? How can you hope to provide for her? You know the one thing she wants more than anything else in the world is her own home, and her own paid up furniture so she can rearrange it.”
“No, that’s what you want! With respect, Mrs. Skeffington, you seem to think that she can only be happy in some version of Charles Street or high New York society, when it's obvious that if she wanted that life, she would not be running away with me.”
“I thought it odd she blew up in front of John tonight. I suspected this was some dirty trick of yours. We had none of this - none of it - until you set foot in our house!”
“Are you referring to your daughter’s appalling exhibition of temperament? If so, I had nothing to do with that.”
“How can I believe a word you say? You are a conman. You lie and you cheat by trade. You embellished your resume, and just so happened to be at the right place and time so you could insert yourself into our lives, all so you could get close to my daughter. And all the time, you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping and seducing my daughter behind my back?”
“I don't bow and scrape! And I've not seduced anyone! Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind! To be faced by a virago at this hour of the evening. Listen to yourself. I think it should be I who complains. And in the evening to be confronted by a bawling fishwife, bristling with fury because both her daughter and I fail to appreciate the genius of her marriage scheme.”
“How dare you speak to me in that tone. All this time you’ve been sneaking around. I don't like sneaks. You will leave at once.”
“Look, I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I thought I could present my arguments effectively in person, clearly I was wrong.”
“I can't bear to be maneuvered.” Fanny tossed her hat and cane onto the couch as she sat in her writing chair. “Very well. I'd hoped to avoid this, but I see that I can't.” Fanny pulled out a check book and opened it on the table next to her. She uncapped one of Job’s fountain pens. “How much will you take to leave us in peace?”
Jim was stunned. “What?”
“That’s why you sell phony relics. That’s why you’re in hot water all the time. You want enough money to get out of here and you want it quick. You must have doubts. Your own ex-wife must think you foolish.”
“Yes, she does.”
“Then yield to those doubts and take enough to make a new life elsewhere, wherever you choose. Why don’t you go and make yourself useful? I'll be generous and you'll be rich, if we can bring this nonsense to an end. Be assured that I will honor my offer, but not if you break the terms of our agreement.”
“This is why you brought me here?”
“I am sorry to say so, but it is.”
Jim scoffed. “I see. You know, your trouble, Fanny, you're like all of your kind. Older women like you especially, having grabbed, are inclined to clutch. You’re now an older woman and your beauty is gone. But your money - no, your husband’s money - remains. The ‘cream of the crop’, the ‘cool crowd’… They pretend to know that money can't buy happiness, yet they would choose money every time. They celebrate mediocrity at every available opportunity and love to see others' misfortune. You think love and happiness can be bought with money, that hearts can be won with material or emotional bribes. Money is the only source of power you have now, but it’s ineffective against your daughter and I. You have no power over her, over us, and you hate it.”
Fanny looked up sharply from writing her check. “You are just a rascal.”
“Do you expect me to fly into a rage at that? I’m sorry to disappoint you. You can't make me mad by calling me names that are true. Certainly I'm a rascal, and why not? It's a free country and a man may be a rascal if he chooses. It's only hypocrites like you, my dear lady, just as black at heart but trying to hide it, who become enraged when called by their right names. As I said, you can posture it all you like, Fanny, but it won't make any difference.”
“Oh, yes, it will.”
“How? We don’t want any money and you can hardly lock your daughter up until she dies. Doesn't it occur to you that I might believe the best guarantee of her happiness lies with me?”
“Well!” Fanny put her checkbook away and stood up. “It seems I’m getting nowhere and I won’t disgrace myself by discussing the topic any further. If you’re sure of your decision to turn down my offer, let us leave it there, Mr. Masters.”
“Mrs. Skeffington, If you’re not prepared to listen to reason—”
“I'm not prepared to listen to insults. Presumably you speak in such a manner because you know you have lost your position?”
“Yes, Mrs. Skeffington. I'll pack at once.”
“Good. Now, if you will go, Masters, I will continue with my day. Leave an address where I may forward what is owing to you.”
“No problem there, Mrs. Skeffington. I'll be at the inn until Miss Skeffington is ready to make her departure. I'll arrange to have the car returned in the morning. I will bid you a good day.” Jim picked up his hat and coat. Just as he had his hand on the doorknob, about to turn it and open the door, Fanny said from behind him,
“Do you want some money? For the room?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Skeffington. I can pay my own way.”
“And I want you to leave town. I'll have the money for you when you're ready to leave. You may send a final letter, and after that, you will never communicate with my daughter again. You will not see her. And if you encounter each other socially, you will avoid any contact, providing you can do so without causing comment.”
With his hand still on the doorknob, Jim turned to look at her. “Even though she'll come to me the moment I call? Do you really want me to leave now when I will take her with me that same hour?” Jim put on his hat and left without a word.
A few minutes later, Manby entered. “Is it really true—?”
Fanny adjusted her wig and pushed her real hair behind her ears. She felt the beginning of a dreadful headache coming on. “Please, Manby. I have asked for silence and silence I will have.” Without her hat, she seemed to Manby a good deal less questionable. It was quite possible, with it off, after all, to see traces of beauty; and there was a kind of undefeatable blamelessness about her forehead, however meretricious she might be lower down, with her darkened eyelashes and reddened mouth. She sat staring at the cold face before her without seeing it. In so short a time as less than a month, she reassured herself, it wasn't possible to change from the most beautiful thing on God's earth into an eyesore. Or—again she hesitated—was it? What men there were in the world, she was thinking, what common men. But also, thank God, what other men, who saw one quite differently, who adored one, and swore they couldn't live away from one. At least, that was what they swore last autumn, and last autumn was still only just round the corner; or wasn't it? But anyhow, there was Dwight, and only last autumn, just before her illness, he was declaring he couldn't live away from her, that he would chuck everything and come and be her lodge-keeper, or pantry-boy, if he might only sometimes see her, for she was the most beautiful thing on God's earth. True, since then she had hardly set eyes on him, for almost immediately she fell ill. When it came to you, Fanny felt she was being a fool—another fool, for had she not been one already, for months past, and an arch one, over Dwight? Now she was being a fool again, supposing in her need that she might be able to get the blood of comfort out of somebody who was probably just a stone.
You came down from your bedroom when you heard Jim’s voice coming from the foyer. You were still angry, but you figured it wouldn’t hurt to go down. John had already retired to a guest room for the night. You had hoped for some alone time with Jim in the garage or, at the very least, to go down just for a minute to say goodnight and then immediately go back up to your room. To your disappointment, it had to be the latter, as he seemed eager to leave, and not in the way that excited you.
“I should be going.”
“Not yet, surely.”
“Yes, I should. But, swee— Miss Skeffington... You're a great girl, one of the best I've ever known or ever will know. I mean that.”
“I don't understand.”
“Good night. Good night, Mr. Trellis. Tell Mrs. Skeffington thank you for dinner, and... God bless you all.”
To your dismay, your mother’s firm hand on your shoulder stopped you from returning to your bedroom. Instead, she led you to her bedroom, which you knew could not be a very good sign. A meeting with Mother so late in the evening, especially when you’d just had guests for dinner? Manby had gone, shutting the door very slowly behind her as though wanting to hear more.
“Come, sit.”
You held your breath as you took a seat in a chair across from your mother, who was currently walking laps around her chair, and appeared to be taking deep breaths in order to calm herself down. You held your breath as you watched her calm her nerves enough to speak to you. Finally, she stopped pacing and sat down in her large chair, her deep blue eyes looking at you with such intensity that you knew that you had done something to displease her. Your suspicions were confirmed when your mother leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her lap, a deep frown finding its way onto her face.
“Darling,” she said, not taking her eyes off of you. “Darling, I love you too much to not be straightforward with you on important matters, one of which has come to my attention.”
You gave a hesitant nod at her words, but did not dare speak for fear of saying something that would only get you (or quite possibly Jim) in trouble. “Is anything the matter?”
“You tell me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Janie Clarkson called me last week, telling me she saw a young woman meet a man at a motel in the middle of the night. She knew the woman's name, but not the man’s. In fact, she told me the woman’s name before I could stop her.”
“And who told you the man’s?”
“Nobody. I didn't know his name…until today.”
“Then you didn't know that Jim and I had met before. In Europe.”
“No, I didn't know. If I had known, I wouldn't have agreed to your suggestion of hiring him as the chauffeur. I had no idea you’d ever met Masters.”
“He may be the chauffeur, but he’s still a person. He can discuss other things outside of his work.”
“I'm sure he can. But not with you. Darling, what exactly are your…affections for Masters?” she asked, looking you straight in the eyes.
At the mention of Jim, you felt ready to sigh with joy. However, your mother’s expression told you that it would not be a good idea to do so. Instead, you bit your lip to think of a good and truthful answer. “I care for him very much, Mother,” you said.
“So you lied to me. You and Jim, you cooked this up between you. When he wrote to me, asking for an interview for the vacant position as chauffeur, when I wrote him and asked him to come to Job’s office… You knew each other then, but pretended you didn’t.”
“Yes. He wrote you asking for an interview because that's what I told him to do. I knew what the interview would be about, and that he’d be a good fit for the position. I wanted to be quite sure what your answer would be when you sent your reply, and that you’d give him the job. We’re not proud of the manipulation, but we lied because we love each other. We knew you wouldn't understand.”
“I don't understand. How could you have done this? I’m your mother, yet you have lied and disobeyed me in this way. Are you so knowledgeable about the great world that my instructions are to be set as nothing?”
“Mother, I'm sorry I disobeyed you, but what else was I to do? I knew you wouldn't approve.”
“Which presumably is why you hid your plans from me.”
“I'm interested! I’m political! I have opinions!”
“Of course, I blame Masters.”
“I don't think that's fair. I don't believe this is Masters’ fault. Truly, Mother. I’ve always been this way. Either you’ve never seen it, or you have, but you’ve denied what was right in front of you every time. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me.”
“I do blame you! Now, darling, I’ve asked you time and time again not to go on seeing him. Do you want me to turn into an old fashioned mother and put you on bread and water?”
“But, Mother, he’s a reformed character. He's got a job at a newspaper. He heard it's a real chance. He's a journalist now, which sounds better for you, and he’s working hard. He hasn’t complained once. Really, he’s a changed man. And you know what Freud says in his latest book, mothers should definitely not interfere.”
“Well there’s a new edition out and he’s reversed himself. It’s all right now for mothers to interfere. I’m sorry, darling, I do not approve Jim and neither does Manby. Do you, Manby?”
“Well, Mrs. Skeffington, I think that she is—”
“What?”
“I was only going to say that she is entitled to her opinions.”
“No! She isn't until she is married. Then her husband will tell her what her opinions are.”
“Oh, Mother!“ you huffed, frustrated.
“And perhaps a little more of the conventionality and ordinariness you appear to think is a waste of time might’ve improved your general prospects.”
“My general prospects! Heavens—my general prospects,” you repeated, with a wry smile.
“Now don't tell me about him, because I don't want to know,” she quickly intervened, holding up a prohibiting hand.
“Well, Uncle George likes him.”
“Oh, he does, does he? Well, that proves my point, doesn’t it? I think I have something to say to your Uncle George.”
“I don’t think it’ll help. If you would only explain my crime, the one I'm being punished for.”
“Certainly. You meet with men old enough to be your father. You correspond with them.”
“Not this again.”
“Do you deny it?”
“Mother, I don't deserve to be told off. Not by you. Nothing's happened.”
“Why? What might’ve happened?”
“I mean it. We haven't gone to bed together or anything close to it. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve kissed, and I don’t think any of them lasted longer than three seconds.”
“We are still talking about…?”
“Masters. Yes.”
“The Jim Masters that was our chauffeur? That Masters?”
“Oh, how disappointing of you— Wait. What do you mean ‘was’?”
Your mother ignored your question. “I'm just trying to get it straight in my head. You and the chauffeur.”
“Oh, no, you know I don't care about all of that. If Jim were to ask for my hand in marriage, I would not refuse him.”
Your mother’s frown deepened. “You may not refuse him, but I certainly would!” she said. She tried to get out of the deep chair, feeling she would be able to say what she had to say better on her feet, but it was too low, and she held out her hands for you to pull her up. You, extremely reluctant to take hold of hands you felt you never wanted to touch again, were not obliged to help her. Manby stood nearby as your mother bristled, so she helped her instead. She stood from her chair with such force that it skidded away from her. Uncle George could hear Fanny’s distant shouting and looked up at the ceiling as he paced on the floor below.
“Oh, please, Mother, lower your voice. Someone will hear you.”
“What has he said to you? Did he dare propose to you?”
“That he loves me and he wants me to run away with him. But no, he hasn’t proposed to me.”
“Thank God for that, because no daughter of mine is going to marry a…a… deadbeat!”
“Mother!” you cried, your hands flying to your mouth in shock. “How can you say such a thing? Jim is not a deadbeat!”
“Jim, is it?” She said, her eyes narrowing. “Since when do you address him by his Christian name?” When you didn’t answer her, she grew more frustrated. “You speak his name too casually, darling, which means that you and he are much closer and more affectionate than I thought. Then that alters the whole situation. I believe he is nothing but a no-good greedy swindler. I know you get real mad when I say that, but I've heard about the money he swindles from tourists in the places he passes through. I suppose I should give thanks he didn’t rob us blind and run out on us!”
“Mother, oh, Mother, please. I know what he was and what he did, but even he had standards when he did it. He never, ever stole from houses and only swindled from people he met on his journeys, people that already had heaps and heaps of money, more than they knew what to do with, more than they’d ever spend in their entire lifetime. He did what he had to to survive and get by, and only when he absolutely had to. That doesn’t mean—”
“Yes, it does. A leopard doesn’t change his spots.”
“Now you’re just throwing proverbs at me. The very fact that you can’t be original shows you haven’t got a leg to stand on. Leopards are still just cats, you know. Yeah, they’re big, but they’re only fierce when they need to be. And just like house cats, they can also be sweet.”
“I don't know anything about your relationship with Masters. I don't know how emotionally involved you are with him. But I fear you’re still sweet on him and that you’ve been seeing him when I’m busy. I worry that you’ve been getting letters from him which you hide from me. I suppose that it will be a good thing for me to forbid you from ever seeing one another again.”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh, Mother, no!” you cried, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. “Please don't do this!”
“I fear I must do this, dearest,” she said, her tone softening a bit. “He can provide nothing for you; even if he has a job as a journalist, how can he be trusted to hold it for long? The man has no way of honestly earning money to give you what you need for a future the two of you, and your children, might have together.”
“When did I ever say I wanted children? I’m about as fond of them as you are, so I don’t think I’ll ever be a mother.”
“Most every woman wants a man of her own, a home of her own, and a child of her own.”
“I’m not most women. And I love him!” you cried, tears of anger and frustration now falling freely down your face. You pulled out a handkerchief and buried your face in it.
“Love is all well and good, but I will not have you marry a man who may become a beggar within the next several years,” your mother declared, and while her tone wasn’t harsh, it was final. “With no steady income from him for you to live off of, it’d be up to you to support him, and the two of you would be out on the street before you could blink! It is your duty to marry a rich man and help your family, Miss Independence. And you may be sure that this hook knows that you have a rich relation—me—and that’ll be why, if, and when he ever expresses a desire to marry you. You would have to support the both of you. He’d act as a leech and suck you dry until there was nothing more for him to take. And then he’d move on to the next victim.”
“How dare you say such a thing? Why, my Jim would no more marry for money than I would.”
“It doesn’t matter. Shortly after I returned home after my illness, I wrote to your good friend, Sir John Talbot, asking him to accept your hand in marriage. He has replied to my letter, agreeing to the match. As of today, Jim is dismissed from this house, and you and Sir John are engaged.”
The cup slipped from your fingers and dropped to the polished wooden floor, shattering into a hundred shining pieces. For a moment, you stared at your empty hand, trying to fully understand what was happening. After your mind managed to absorb the fact that you were now engaged, you looked up to examine the faces of those around you. You felt your eyes narrow in anger. How dare she try to run your life and tell you who to spend it with?
“No,” you said, allowing a cold, hard air of resolve to develop around you.
For a moment, the two of you stared at each other, wondering if you had actually spoken that word, wondering if you were actually being disobedient to an order from your mother.
“What do you mean 'no'?” she blurted out, her eyes bulging in their sockets.
“It means, no, I will not marry him,” you declared, holding your head high as you glared at your mother.
“Yes, you will,” Fanny snapped as she took a sip of her tea. “As an unmarried woman, you must obey the head of your household, who, in your father’s absence, is me. If I ask you to marry Sir John Talbot, then you will do as you're told.”
“I will not! And since when are you head of the house? You said so yourself that, since your parents died, Uncle George has been acting more or less as the head of the family in their stead!” you yelled, standing from your seat. You were trying to catch your breath so that you could yell at her some more.
“I make all the domestic arrangements.”
“Mrs. Skeffington, can we do this in the morning? Miss Skeffington needs rest,” Manby tried to interject, but her voice was drowned out and went ignored by you and your mother. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room.
“Darling, what could Jim have that Sir John doesn’t? He's a man without a house, for goodness sakes!”
You could feel your hair whirling around you like a hurricane as you spun around. “Jim just so happens to be the most considerate, the most doting, and the most handsome man that I have ever met!” With each trait, you took one step forward, bringing yourself right in front of your mother’s face. “He treats me like a woman and a goddess at the same time, and makes me feel wanted, beautiful, and loved. He makes my heart soar even as it races within my chest.” Now you were merely inches from her face. “And I would give my life for him if need be.”
You could hear her approach your side, but you did not look up from the veil that your handkerchief provided as you dabbed your eyes. A hand landed on your shoulder, gently gripping it in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, but instead did nothing more than crush your heart.
“While I am sure Masters has many virtues, and I had thought that he could be a good match for you at one time, after discovering his history, I’ve come to realize he is damaged goods. He’s put himself out of the running. He is frightfully full of himself and far too forward in his affection, and has nothing to give you. I cannot allow this to continue. I'm sorry. You must never see Jim Masters again.”
How final, how flint-like was that ‘Never’. At fifty, Fanny revealing herself as a flint. So old and so untender, you thought to yourself, staring at her as though you were seeing her for the first time.
“This is the best solution, darling,” she said softly.
“What have you done?”
“What makes you think I’ve done anything?”
“I know you. You haven't spoiled things, Mother?”
“Not for Masters. You may be sure of that, darling.”
“If you’ve punished Jim, I'll never speak to you again! Never! If I find tomorrow that Jim is missing, I'll run away. I warn you.”
“Oh? And where would you go?”
“Well, I can't think now, but I will go, and you'll be sorry.”
“Oh, darling, darling, don't be such a baby. This isn't fairyland. What did you think? You’d marry the chauffeur and we’d all come to tea? My mother was hard on me too, you know. She taught me that cleanliness was next to godliness. She forced me to wash my face at least twenty times a day, convinced it was never clean enough. But I was very grateful to her. She taught me to be all that I could be. And now here I am. And you will be Lady Talbot.” She pointed to her finger, where a ring with a giant ruby laid. “If you are very good, one day, this ring will belong to you. You just keep being a proper young lady and see if it doesn't.”
“I don’t want your ruby ring. If you think that’s going to be my engagement or wedding ring, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“You’ll see. You’ll be very happy with Sir John.”
A humorless laugh escaped your lips as you turned to face her. “But suppose I don’t love him? You want to make my life a living nightmare just because I won't be your pliant little doll that you can dress up and mold into your carbon copy for your shallow friends and sycophants! I won’t marry Sir John just for his money and family name!” you snapped, giving her a hard glare.
“It’s not just about the money or our family names. Darling, I don’t want you to be on your own forever, I just don’t want you to spend your life in a bare knuckle fight—”
“Just to pick someone who shares the family's values,” you snarked.
“Someone who feels friendly towards us is not the same thing. The union of our two families would put us amongst the greatest and most elite people in both America and Europe. Think of the friends you could make; you with your charm and beauty, right beside John with his ancestral home and influence in the community—”
“I don't want any of those things, I want love! I want a man who I love, and who loves me!” you shouted, pushing her aside to make your way back to the door.
“And he can give that to you!” your mother exclaimed with a touch of desperation in her voice. “Darling, you should consider yourself fortunate that he has any feelings for you at all,” she said, looking over at you. “Even in the most fashionable churches in this city, people still marry for convenience, for wealth and position. Love is overrated, old fashioned. Last generation.”
“Last generation or not, I still want love.”
“Don't be silly. You should be happy that this hasn’t truly been forced on you the way it is in other places.”
“Oh, believe me, this is most certainly being forced upon an unwilling bride!” you snapped, turning away from her.
“You don’t see how lucky you are to lose him now. While you’re so young, it won’t leave a scar.”
“Easy for you to talk. You never liked Jim.”
“You’re wrong, darling. I never liked what he would’ve done to your life. I wish I could think of the right thing to say to comfort you. But believe me, darling, this is for the best. You must marry well and save your family, just as I had done when I was around your age. That’s all I wanted to say to you. You can go finish your…little painting. But remember, I’m only doing this because I love you and I want you to be happy!”
“Love? I’m afraid we have very different definitions of the word, Mother. How can you speak of love? Of wanting me to be happy? You’re torturing me. Don’t pretend you’re doing this solely for my sake or for my own good. You’re only arranging this marriage because of what benefits you can reap from such a match. You want people to point me out in a crowd and say: ‘There goes the smart Lady Talbot.’ And Sir John Talbot would be an ideal son-in-law for you, and not merely because his wealth would be a godsend.”
“Darling, what’s the matter with you? I’m on your side.”
“Then be on my side! I’m not sure why John would agree to your scheme, but I’m going to ask him.”
You watched as your mother sighed and ran her thin fingers through her even thinner hair. It was quite sad to watch, as the poor woman had no attractiveness whatsoever. Poor Mother was just pale and thin…and quite exhausting to be around. Perhaps there was someone out there who would love her, but it certainly wasn't going to be you! Jim already had your heart, and you knew that you had his. You happily watched as your mother frowned. If this was her last word, this detestable, unchristian ‘never’, then you had better go away and not come back, you thought to yourself, as you glowered at her from beneath drawn-together eyebrows. And you thought, watching her, defending yourself against the appeal of her helplessness, it’s not fair. You’re being got at unfairly. This isn't the way to— You won't be caught by— Instead of waiting for her to reply, though, you pulled away from her and let your handkerchief fall from your fingers as you turned on your heel to face the doorway.
You rudely pushed past her, not caring if the force caused her to stumble or fall, and went out the door, heading for your room. If she lost her footing, Manby could help her stand up straight. You had more pressing matters to attend to. You had to speak with John. Just as you exited, Uncle George entered. You didn’t say anything to him as you passed him in the doorway, didn’t even spare him a glance as you marched forward and down the staircase, clearly on a mission. You looked serious.
“You made everything clear, Fanny?”
“I did indeed.”
“You may regret it. Mr. Masters seems a decent fellow.”
“He’s not what I want.”
“Why not? He cares for her deeply. And she cares for him just as much. It may even be love, and what else is there that could be more important than that?”
“You'll see. I’ve found what I was looking for in Sir John Talbot. I want more for her in life than what Mr. Masters has to offer her.”
“And Sir John can make sure of that life for her in Wales?”
“Well, why not? He won't suit the old crowd, but he’ll do well enough with the new, and his fortune is more than ample for both of them. I don’t admire myself for it, but we need Sir John Talbot for a happy life, and I need her to realize that. The sooner she understands that, the happier she will be.”
“You know my opinion, Fanny.”
“George, I'm working to achieve a position that will alter my daughter’s life for the better, that will give her everything that I never had when I was her age. If you want to help her, help me.”
“And how long do you propose to keep her incarcerated, Fanny? It isn't right, you know. Miss Woodell is nice, but you’re having her act as a jailer. And she’s a grown woman whether you like it or not. Girls get married at her age.”
“And live to regret it. I know what I’m doing, George.”
“You can’t keep the girl locked up forever. She must make friends, Fanny.”
“Mr. Masters is not what we want.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s not what I want.”
“If you force her into secrecy, you’re taking a risk. I think we both know that she’s not meant to live her whole life on Charles Street.”
“I won’t countenance any more of her nonsense. I can't even—don't want to—think about the time when she’ll be wanting to head off.”
“But I’m fair to certain she will.”
“What makes you say that?”
He glanced at Fanny again. “I’ve seen the way she looks at Jim, Fanny. She’s got a bit of the wanderlust herself. With that wild charisma and wanderlust of his, he’s her other half. Your sending him away and engaging her to another man won’t change that.”
“Leave my daughter to me. I know what I want, George, and Sir John Talbot can help me to get it.”
The next morning, you didn’t come down for breakfast. Instead you had a tray sent up to your room. Fanny sat at the table with George, going over a small stack of letters while he picked away at his plate.
“By the way, he's written to her. Mr. Masters.”
“Well, give his letter to her now. If you won’t, then I'll give it to her.”
“If you go soft on me now, George, we could lose everything we’ve worked for.”
“Whom am I going soft about? Your daughter?”
“Just please don't be soft.”
“No one could accuse you of that.”
“But what’s he done wrong?” you asked as you paced about your room.
“Your mother thinks that with the state of the world and the looming threat of another war, it’s unwise and unsafe to be galavanting around the world by yourself at present, that’s all.”
“But it isn’t all. If she said I had to wait until the war was over or could only travel to neutral countries, I’d accept it, but she hasn’t.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t pretend. She’s the one who set out the conditions.”
“Why do you say that?”
“‘Your mother has asked for my word that we will not meet again. Or, if we do, that we should not attempt to speak in any private manner’”.
“Your mother thinks it best.”
“You’re one of the most successful men in the country. With connections to real estate and steel and copper and coal and oil and railroads that are the envy of the world, and you can’t stand up to your cousin? I suppose she bought him off. And if he took it, he wasn’t worthy of me. That’s what Mother will say.”
“Don't be too hard on him. She made it tough for him to refuse.”
“I just wish I knew the reason.”
“Because your mother believes that you have more to come than marriage to a man who won’t become anything more than a journalist in Los Angeles or a banker in Manhattan.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s not special.”
“Uncle George, I’m not special. Why can’t she see it? I’m ordinary. I’m just an ordinary person who wants an ordinary life.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“…No.”
“No, my darling. You are not in the least ordinary. On that point, you, your mother, and I are as one.”
Four weeks passed since Jim left. Four weeks. Nearly a month. And you and John were no closer to setting a wedding date than you were last week. Or the week before that. Or the week before that. You ran up to your room in a huff. George was concerned and wanted to know what it was that set you off yet again, but he decided to give you space, allow you time to be alone and cool off. He didn’t want to smother you. Your mother was doing a well enough job in that department. Thirty minutes passed before he walked upstairs and down the hallway to your room. He was about to knock on your door, but he could hear your voice from inside. It was muffled, but he could still make out bits of what you were saying.
“I’m sorry my mother was such a bitch that night. She was hardly ever around because she was always too busy with her lovers and friends, but since they abandoned her, she’s been home all the time. She never had time for anything or anyone else before but now… She has nothing but time. She took it out on you because you’re not a member of the family. She thought you’d be an easy target, that you wouldn’t call her on it, but she was wrong. I know she’s just jealous of our cool and freewheeling lifestyles. I don’t get it. You seemed to be all for it on the night before you left. Always leave them laughing. Is that your idea? I get it. Your heart isn’t in this. You’re just saying a speech for my old lady. I don’t feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for myself. You’re lucky, your parents are deceased. I have to have a mother every day. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up your parents or the mother thing like that. I know, I shouldn’t complain. I still have a dad who loves me, so it’s not all bad, but… No, I’m being totally serious. My mother is a bitch and her lovers were all complete tools. Living in New York with nobody to love her is her punishment in my mind. What do you expect me to do then? So you would rather I live with John in Wales? Is that it? Well, I’m going to go back and tell her my answer’s no. We could have found a way. I know you still care about me. I want to see you when this is all over. I know. All I said was I want to see you. Then why did you call me in the first place? Just see me.”
It sounded like you were talking to Jim. George jumped slightly and quickly stepped back when you opened your bedroom door and saw him standing there in the hallway.
You raised your eyebrows in suspicion. “Hey. Did you listen in on my call?”
“I came to check on you. I know it wasn’t easy last night. Your mother says you don’t want to go with her to London to visit your Aunt Martha.”
“No. There's something I need to have settled before I can leave New York. Of course, that sounds overdramatic, but it won't wait until the end of the spring. This will affect the rest of my life.”
“How grave you make it sound.”
“Naturally you want to make a joke of it, but I can’t. To be honest, I thought everything would be settled already. But day after day goes by...”
“Does it have anything to do with Jim Masters?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You seem so distracted nowadays. And I couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about.”
“Oh, you couldn’t? I find eavesdropping to be rather rude. Forget what you heard and consider the subject closed.”
“Well, something is on your mind. Or are you going to tell me I’m wrong? It may surprise you, but I hope it has something to do with Mr. Masters. Was it Jim? Did he call you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The man you were on the phone with.”
“You don’t know what you heard. You understand me?”
“So it was Jim.”
“You don’t have the context, and aren’t invited into this conversation. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know your mother doesn’t like him. But I think he is someone important to you. The way you’re talking to this man—”
“You want a conversation? Fine. I love Jim. I want to spend my life with him.”
“You’re engaged.”
“A technicality that will shortly be remedied. Jim and I… We should’ve spoken out long ago. I’ve been trying to compose a letter to Sir John to explain the situation, but I can’t seem to find the words.”
“Well, now you won’t have to. Your fiancé is just downstairs, waiting for you. But I assume you’re not getting married?”
“No. I am not. Besides, our engagement was based on a lie. It was mostly pretend. It was all Mother’s doing. I don’t like deceit and John doesn’t deserve it. You see, before John and I got together, I was with Jim. I met him in Switzerland.”
“Known him a long time, haven’t you?”
“Well…a year, maybe, if you count the time we’ve been apart.”
“Well, you needn’t sound so apologetic. I spent only an hour with Jim. And I can tell you there’s nothing really wrong with that man.”
“Will you tell that to Mother?”
“I could, if you believe it’ll help. Of course, what I say to her will depend on what you want me to say. But, darling, If you want to marry this man, then come out with it. Sit through the argument. Hold to your faith. And if he's right for you, eventually it will come to pass.”
“I haven't got time for eventually.”
“Why not? What’s happened?”
“You see, I’m going away.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“No, well, I haven't told anybody.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to, but when Fanny and Johnny get back, tell them my mind was made up and I wasn’t hysterical or anything. And give them my love.”
“Oh, God. Won'’t you wait and talk to them about it?”
“If I talked to anyone, it’d be you or Fanny. But Fanny’s not here, so…”
“Then talk to me, please.”
“I can’t. Not now, anyway.”
“Your mother doesn’t like Jim now, and she will like him even less if you’re planning some sort of escapade.”
“She’ll come to like him when she decides to get to know him.”
“Not if you force her hand.”
“That’s her problem, no longer mine.”
“May I make you an offer? What if I were to promise to support your choice, so long as you can tell me you have fallen in love?”
“Even if Mother is against it?”
“Even then. I give you my word. Can’t you tell me something? Anything. Please.”
“Very well. I’ll write Mother and Fanny goodbye letters to send later, but I might not have time to write you one, so it’s only fair I tell you this much to give you some peace of mind. I won’t tell you where I’m going, but I’ll tell you the reason I’m going - or part of it. You see, most of my bags are packed and ready to go already. Jim and I planned to run away together. He gave me the reasons why I should accept his offer.”
“That was clever of him.”
“He asked me if I wanted to get away from Mother, and of course I do. I used my own savings to purchase our tickets and other travel expenses so Mother wouldn’t know until Jim and I were already halfway across the world.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I don't want to get away from you, but I must be allowed the freedom to make my own decisions.”
“Marriage is not the place to look for freedom. May I ask if you love him?”
“Yes. Yes, I love him. Jim Masters is a good man, and I love him tremendously. I would live and die for him. And I know he’d do the same for me. If soulmates are something that can be believed in, that’s what Jim and I are. I know that sounds incredibly cheesy and corny, or like borderline wishful thinking, but that’s what we felt whenever we were together. But… But on the evening before the day we were supposed to run away together, Mother fired Jim and told me about my engagement to Sir John, which put a massive wrinkle into the plans we had. I found this secret letter he left for me. I still have it and I’ll be taking it with me, keeping it close to my heart, but please don’t ask me to show it to you, Uncle George. It’s something private and personal, meant for my eyes only. To summarize, he said he loved me but that he was leaving.” What you didn’t tell Uncle George was that Jim’s words were seared into your memory. You only read it once, but you could’ve recited the entire letter verbatim to Uncle George from memory if you wanted to.
April 1936
My sweet storyteller,
As usual, things did not work out like I planned. Just when I get everything fixed right for us, I go and get myself fired and expelled from your mother’s house. I am sure to be out of here by the time you read this. I will be gone. Your mother gave me my walking papers, but I wanted to get going myself. She made the motion and I seconded it. I’m sorry if I gave you a false impression, but what made you think I’d stick around here? I told you once before that the first good wind that comes along will take me with it. I’ve never forgotten anything I’ve ever said. That wind has come, so I'm leaving tonight. It's going to be a long, boring journey. Fool that I am, I forgot to bring any recreational reading material, so all I have to pore over are some informational texts for tourists. Thrilling. But I won’t tell you on which train nor where I’m going. Eight months in one spot is all that I can bear. I got a date with the world. A rendezvous with the universe. Dear universe, may I never find myself. I might’ve stayed another week or so, but since you know Manby’s cooking, you will understand. I’ve got to get back on business. I know we said a great many things the night we went to the theater, and the night of your mother’s birthday celebration, and last night too, promises and sweet nothings...but it was all pillow talk. None of it makes any sense in the sunlight. I couldn’t stand the thought of what might’ve been between you and me, the flame that could’ve illumined both our lives… I’m afraid, my love, that ours is a love that cannot be, because in the Indian Ocean there are six islands and I have a wife on every one of them. Well, thanks for the last eight months, anyway, my darling. They’ll make glorious remembering. How’d I live so long without your reckless touch? I don’t remember life before you came into the picture. You brought the beauty I was missing with you, showed me colors I haven’t ever seen. My life was black and white but you’re the painter.
So, these words are my only chance to tell you how much you mean to me. Your mother asked me to break your heart and leave you. By this time, surely I have accomplished both. Your mother seems to think I’m too old for you, darling. She told me the news. You’re engaged to marry Sir John Talbot. Although I’ve only briefly met him, I’m glad you have such a grand person as a friend. I hope you’ll be very happy to have him as your husband too. I must go. If I stay, darling, I’ll destroy you along with myself. Can't you see? I was forced to wander, having no one, forced by my nature to keep wandering because wandering was the only thing that I believed in, and the only thing that believed in me. There’s always something a man wants that he can’t ever get. And you’re it for me. I’ll have everything else. I’ll get out of this place. Find what I’m looking for. Do what I wanna do. I’ll have everything but you. You are more precious to me than all the wonders of the world combined, more precious to me than ten thousand treasures put together. I love you too much to condemn you to my fate. A girl like you why, you’re geared for the best. Perfumes from Araby, spices from Damascus. I can hear you now, telling me, “Oh. We'll fight it together!” No, we won't. I'm the worthless one. I’m the exile. I’m the lost soul. Don’t you see? I can’t ever be normal. Never be the kind of man who can give you a real home. You and me? It’s not written in the books. We’ll never get together. Now you know very well that you and I… Oh, you get the idea. I can hear you again, asking, “How do you know? What makes you so sure?” I just know. Now Sir John, there’s the man for you. I personally guarantee he’ll stay put. He’s the real article. For you and him it is written in the book. Marry him and be happy. I’m asking it myself. Do it for my sake and for yours. With a family tree will grow out of us two nuts. Now let me go.
Though it came from a place of stereotype, people who didn’t know you expected your Jew blood to make you a brilliant storyteller, one capable of igniting happiness and love in the world, and on that you delivered, every time. I hope you continue to tell your stories and enthrall any and all who listen, even though I’m not around to hear them. Though I won’t be a part of it, I hope your own story continues to unfold and twist and turn in ways you might never have expected, revealing to you secrets that you might not have known about yourself and the world around you. Some of them may be terrible, but most of them will be wonderful. Though our paths must diverge and never again meet, our time together was never a waste. It was never a mistake. Because I love you. At the time in which I finish penning this, you still love me. Maybe when you read this, you’ll hate me. Even if you hate me, at least you’d still carry my memory with you wherever you go, for a time, at the very least. Though John holds your future, I will always hold your past. We’ll always have Switzerland. We’ll always have our memories, you and I. And I’ll cherish them when I get to wherever it is I’m going. Indifference is so much worse than hate. I can’t fathom a day in which you’ll forget me entirely, because I’ll still carry reminders of you with me everywhere I go. And I don’t just mean the miniature portrait you painted for me. I love you. Present tense. Don’t let your mother or her friends or my ex-wife have you believe otherwise. Goodbye, my darling. I will look for your wedding announcement in the papers. Though I won’t be able to attend the ceremony and tell you in person, I wish you good health and every happiness in your new life with John.
Jim
The tremble in his pen strokes said as much as his bittersweet words, and that is how a love letter should be written. The letter had so many crease lines, all of them fluffy to the outside from so many times being folded and unfolded. Likewise, the paper was soft to the touch, the blue ink had run but only slightly. The dark spots on the sheet made you imagine a few stray tears fell onto the sheet while Jim was in the process of writing it. It made your heart clench and swell. Jim didn’t cry. He never cried in all the time you knew him. Your eyes caressed the strokes of the pen made just hours ago, seeing the personality behind the strong lines and heavy punctuation marks. This letter was on two cent paper but the words were without price. Everything he said was music to you, no matter the words, no matter the topic... because it came from his mind and flowed down his arm to the pen that would’ve otherwise rested lazily upon the table. You touched the letter as if you could’ve stepped through the page and into Jim’s arms, and in a way, with his words, you did. You held the letter to your face as if the ink carried his heartbeat, taking in the aroma that lingered from his touch. This was your map to finding him.
“By the time I found the letter, he was already long gone. But I couldn’t help but notice his plane ticket wasn’t returned, so maybe he used it or planned on using it… I would’ve began my search for him the very next day after his departure, but instead I waited it out, promising myself I’d stay here for at least two more weeks before going after him. In that time, I’ve done everything in my power to get Mother to come to her senses. I had hoped this engagement nonsense would blow over but, as more days passed, and two weeks became four, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. I didn't want to do anything hasty and split the family when Mother might still wake up, but I can’t wait any longer. I must take my future into my own hands. But just now Jim put in a reverse call to me out of the blue from a telephone booth in a town who knows where.”
“To ask you to come and find him? To tell you that he would come and get you?”
“No, neither of those things. He just wanted to hear my voice again. He confirmed what I had already suspected - that Mother pushed him away in an attempt to push me and John closer together. Even worse, I found these in Mother’s vanity drawer in her room.” You showed your Uncle George the letters Jim wrote to you, all opened, and not by you.
Uncle George looked appalled and disappointed at this discovery. Your mother’s promise to him had evidently been broken. “She still opens your letters?”
“Always. On the surface, he’s accepted the situation, but he writes a little too well. It doesn’t sound entirely like him, only the essence of him. Like words were being forced into his mouth. Mother read my diary and that’s how she found out about our little trips to Wakeforte Park, a seldom-used hiking route discovered by Jim so he could hide from the world around him. Not a flashy place, but it had a great view. I wished it could’ve been our special place. And it was. Ours and ours only. And there was the motel near the Red Fern Gardens... Those places were our main secret hideouts ever since the first time Jim took me there, and Mother thought her knowing about our secret places would turn them into fucking nothing. That Wakeforte Park and the Red Fern Gardens would be nothing but a rockpile of rain-soaked memories now.”
“I don’t think you’re being treated wisely. I used to be proud of Fanny. This time I’m ashamed.”
“And isn’t it wonderful that you know so much better? How could she do this to us? Mother wanted a piece of the Talbot fortune, and the Talbots could stand to benefit from a piece of the Skeffington influence. So excuse me for being conflicted. I want John to be happy, but…”
“I suppose this means you’ll tell him.”
“Tell him what?”
“That you can’t marry him.”
“Y-Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do with John. I’ll go to him, let him down gently. And then I suggest we forget about this whole thing. But how did you— How did you know?”
“Even if Jim was out of the picture, Sir John isn’t really right for you. You know it and so do I. Besides, he’s still in love with his wife. I saw it that night at dinner. Have you told your mother?”
“Not yet, but I will.“
“Your mother will be furious, but she has so much to make her furious just now. You mustn’t let that trouble you.”
“I didn’t love John enough. Not like you and Aunt Nigella.”
“That makes me proud—to be the rule by which you judge these things.”
“Dear Uncle George. All right. If you really think I’m not making a mistake.”
“Of one thing I am sure. You can do better than Sir John Talbot, and he can do better than you. I just wish—”
“I can’t stay, Uncle George, not if I’m ever going to be happy at all.”
“Of course. Oh, darling. Darling, you have so many extraordinary gifts. How can you expect to lead an ordinary life? You’re ready to go out and find a good use for your talents. Though I don’t know what I shall do without my niece. Go, and embrace your liberty. And see what wonderful things come of it. Now, won’t you at least tell me where you’re going? Or can’t I at least drive you somewhere?”
“No. But I will take one of the cars to the station and leave the keys with the station master. You needn’t worry. I do have a plan, dearest Uncle George, I just don’t want you to know the details because I don’t want you to be blamed. I don’t blame you for the departure of Mr. Masters, but...”
“All right, I understand. As for your mother, I wouldn’t tell her about the phone call. It might get you in the wrong. Maybe I’d better keep my mouth shut.”
“If you can. Just until I’m far enough away so she can’t chase after me.”
“I won’t tell a single living soul. I’d soon as sicken and die than put you in the wrong.”
“Really?”
“Well, I’ll try. Naturally I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Remember, if anyone asks, you know nothing.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Skeffington, Mr. Trellis, but Sir John Talbot has asked for a taxi. Soames has gone out, so I'm not quite sure—”
“What? Sir John is leaving?”
“Obviously, if he wants a taxi. What’s happened? Where’s Clinton? Can’t he drive him to the station? Don't bother about it, Miss Woodell. I’ll sort it out.”
“Very good, Mr. Trellis.”
“Do you know where we’ll be two weeks from today? We’ll be on the ocean, two days off Iceland.”
“That’s so soon, John. I do want to be sure.”
“There are so many things about you I don’t understand. You put me off, and you don’t tell me why. I don’t even know if you’re thinking favorably or unfavorably.”
“Oh, favorably, John. But John, there are so many things to think about. Taking over another woman’s domain, her house, her sons.”
“You can redo the house. I’ll build you a new one.”
“Oh. Claire was such a wonderful person. Do you often think of her?”
“Well, yes. I want to be honest. But you needn’t be afraid that Claire will ever come back in any way. She’s just a memory now.”
“I’m sure she's much more substantial than that. You have her sons. And I have only a dried Harrison’s Yellow and box of postcards. And I can’t even say his name.”
“I want to make you understand that I’ll be beginning a new life with you and for you.”
“You know what I’d like?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“I’d like you to take me to some Bohemian restaurant for dinner some night, where we could be very gay, have cocktails and champagne, and you could make love to me, and... Well, what I mean is...if I could...if I could just get rid of some of my inhibitions, just for once, I might have more confidence.”
“Time will give you confidence.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Well, what do you mean?”
“In school I read...a novel once about a woman, a very repressed woman. She was in an automobile accident with a man. It was a very cold night. He gave her a drink to keep her warm. And because of the drink, she lost her inhibitions. You see, she was just... I’m afraid I sound very depraved. The thing is, John, I’ve been racking my brain all night.”
“About our trip... If you like, I can exchange the two tickets for three and take my sons.”
“Would you?”
“Certainly. Darling, I’ve been thinking about us.”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps we wouldn’t be happy.”
“We wouldn’t be, John. I do love you. You’re my dearest friend, but I just can’t be your wife. It wouldn’t be right. I’m desperately sorry. And I’m so sad if this is disappointing for you. I don’t think we want the same things or even the same life.”
“I want a life like everyone else’s.”
“But I don’t. Or not yet. I want to do some good in the world before I settle down, if ever that comes to pass. But I don’t think I’ll ever marry. Some women just aren’t the marrying kind.”
“You say you won’t, but you will.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“Couldn’t you see us bashing around Wales?”
“Wales. Oh, John, I’m not fashionable enough for Wales. You need someone who’s elegant and refined. You ought to marry someone who would enjoy what you enjoy. Someone who can be content to stay in one place. John, do you love me as much as you loved Claire? Be honest, please.”
“Claire is dead.”
“Of course. I know you’re lonely but, in your heart, Claire is still your wife.”
“Well, you can’t stop loving people when you want to.”
“Nor should you. But my point is that, sometimes, you don’t understand a situation at first. But when you think about it properly, you realize that it’s just not right—not for you, not for me. One day, you’ll meet a woman who’s not just a temporary solution and who actually shares your interests, your dreams. I want that for you, but I’m not her. You and I both know it’s true. Let’s not linger over it, John. But you’ll meet someone. Thank you for thinking it was me. I have that on my record, anyway. What’s the matter, John? Are you angry with me?”
“How could I be when you’ve been so kind to me? No, I’m not angry. I just… What about you? I don’t want you to be on your own forever.”
“I may as well tell you. I’ve told Uncle George, and I’ll write goodbye letters to my mother and Fanny while I’m in transit and send them later. You see, I’m going away. To India.”
“It's…not a common destination, is it? I apologize if my bad manners have brought this on.”
“Your manners have been perfect. No need to apologize. I am what I am and you are what you are.”
“Never the twain shall meet!”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Then what brings you there, if you don’t mind me asking? Trust me, I won’t laugh.”
“Okay, fine. It’s a bit of a personal pilgrimage. Uncle George and Fanny will think it’s to attend an art exhibition in Delhi, but that’s only half of the truth. The other half is, I’m going after Jim. He said something in his last letter to me… It might be a clue to his location, or it might be nothing, but I have to try.”
“What does your mother make of that?”
“It was decided just today, so she doesn’t know anything about it yet. But I imagine she’ll think I’m very foolish.”
“I won’t pry any further, but I want to say good luck, and everything else that goes with it.”
“And good luck to you. You’re a fine man, John. You mustn’t let them flatten that out of you.”
“I’d better go if I’m to catch my boat.”
“Yes, hurry. I only wish I could find a proper way to thank you.”
“Shall I tell you how? If you can find Mr. Masters and have a full and happy life with him, then that’s all the thanks I need. Do I kiss you goodbye?”
“No, let’s not. It isn’t really goodbye. We’ll see each other again, won’t we?”
“Of course we will.”
“I want to follow every stage of your life and dance at your sons’ weddings with joy.”
“You don’t not love me, then?”
“Oh, I love you a lot, just not quite as a wife should love a husband. But I pray one day we’ll both be as happy as can be. Now, you better go, or you’ll be late for your boat. And John, I want to say good luck to you, too. I mean that.”
“Well, goodbye till we meet again.”
“Goodbye till we meet again.”
Manby, George, and your mother stood watching you and John from a distance.
George checked his watch. “He’ll miss his boat.”
“Let him miss it. He can catch the next one. What’s happened?”
“Mrs. Skeffington, do I take it the wedding is cancelled?”
“I don’t know, Manby. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening right now.”
You waved goodbye to John as he got in his taxi and departed, mentally making a note to yourself to write him a letter when you next got a chance. You walked back up the long cobblestone path leading up to the house from where you and John were talking in the gardens and finally reached your mother, who stood waiting for you on the terrace.
She turned her attention towards you to ask you herself, “What happened?”
“Mother, Sir John and I have broken our engagement,” you said matter-of-factly, your voice even and your head held high as you maintained eye contact with her.
“What did you say?”
“I said, Sir John and I have broken our engagement.”
“Why have you done that? Why aren’t you going to marry Sir John? Why did you change your mind?”
“My mind was never changed. I never had any intention of marrying him, because I don’t love him. And he doesn’t love me. I never loved him. I tell you, I never loved him.”
“Get upstairs, take off your hat, and I will see you in the drawing room later.”
“No, you won’t.”
You began pacing around the attic, gathering everything you’d need for the art exhibition - your paints, brushes, canvases, sketchbooks - all of it - and shoved it into your suitcase. You then moved to your bedroom, slid open your drawers, and threw a few blouses and trousers that you liked into your duffle bag. Everything you’d need to travel - money, passports, tickets - was already packed and ready to go. You could hear Manby, Uncle George, and your mother from the hallway as they made their way towards your room.
“How could she refuse Sir John? This is ridiculous. I am her mother, and I make the decisions! She’s never done anything to make me proud or to make herself proud either. Why, I should think she’d be ashamed to be born and live all her life as she does. Miss Skeffington, the high school dropout, the vagabond, the wanderer. George, do something! Go upstairs, quick. She’s acting dreadfully, and I don’t like it! George, why are you just standing there? Aren’t you going to reason with her?”
“No, I’m not. I already talked to her and there was no changing her mind. Not that I’d want her to.”
“George! How can you be okay with this?”
“I’m not okay with it, but I’m accepting of it. She won’t give him up.”
“She had. She did.”
“Did she? I don’t think so. Why did you invite John to stay overnight and make himself at home, without asking her first?”
“George, it was past seven and the man’s hotel was in Durham. What did you want him to do? Pitch a tent under a tree?”
“He must have made a plan for his journey back. And I doubt Jim ever went to Rye. He came up here to see her.”
“Who said so?”
“Your daughter did. She saw the look in his eyes. She’s still clearly quite mad about Jim, whatever she says.”
“Don’t tell me you think it’s a good idea! A professional conman? With nothing to his name?”
“You can’t expect me to be rude or pass judgment condemning him. The man’s only crimes are to pickpocket, which he has since given up, and to love your daughter. Fanny, will you just get off your high horse?”
“Why are you interfering?”
“I love my niece and want her to be happy.”
“Well, you’ve got an odd way of showing it!”
“I take it this is Miss Skeffington you’re fighting about?”
“Yes, Manby, it is. And you can dig yourself out, Fanny, because I’ve had enough.” Without another word, George collected his hat and coat from Soames and left out the front door. You could hear him leave.
“Oh! It looks like I’m going to have to try. Wait outside the door for now, Manby.”
You pretended not to have heard anything and continued with your task of getting your bags ready.
Your mother knocked on your door, but didn’t wait for you to bid her to enter before opening it. "Darling.”
You turned to see your mother standing in the doorway. “Yes?” you asked, your tone short and terse as you zipped up the bag and looked around your room to see if you had missed anything.
“Are you going on a trip somewhere, honey?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Don’t be clever with me, missy. Are you planning to meet a certain someone? If so, I forbid it. No, no, young lady. You’re staying indoors today.”
“No, Mother, I’m not. The Lemp girls have invited me to their family picnic, then we’re going out of town for a girls’ trip.”
She knew you were lying. You didn't really care, but, of course, she instantly started. “I know you’re not just going on a girls’ trip.” Her voice cut into barely a whisper, “I know you’re going after Jim.”
“Actually, I had some good news I wanted to share with you all this morning, but Fanny and Johnny went out and John was here... It wasn’t the right moment. Jim’s not the only reason I’m going. But even if it was, so what? I’m twenty years old, and am therefore an independent, fully functional adult. The fact that you’re still trying to forbid me from traveling on my own or going after Jim is, frankly, absurd. Especially compared with when Fanny and I were eleven going on twelve, yet you allowed us to go all the way across an ocean to another continent with Father.”
“That’s not fair. The circumstances of that situation were very different.”
“Were they?”
“Now, dear, this sort of thing is all very well in novels, but in reality, it can prove very uncomfortable. And while I am sure Masters has many virtues…”
You were about to reply when Manby knocked. You heard the door open behind you as she entered.
“I do hope I’m interrupting something.”
“I only wish you were, but I seem to be getting nowhere. I can't help blaming Masters for this.”
“Don’t. We both wanted to wait until we had your blessing.”
“But he hasn’t waited, has he, darling?”
“Only because you sent him away! I will not give him up!”
“Don’t be rude to your mother, Miss,” Manby interjected.
“No, she’s not being rude, just wrong. Darling, I know you’re upset, and I know Jim’s sudden departure still hurts, but soon that pain will subside. Might I suggest that you let him go and then you can use the calm to reconsider John’s offer—”
You scoffed. “No. That ship has sailed. Would you have wanted me married in a lie?”
“I don’t think so, but we’ll never know now.”
“No. You see, I don’t feel I could spend the rest of my life married to someone I don’t love. On the same vein, I don’t feel I could spend my life around someone I don’t trust. Who didn’t trust me. So I’m leaving. Do you understand?”
“I don’t understand. Your life was about to be perfectly wonderful, but now you’ve thrown it all away.”
“What do you want from me? Am I to see if John has a younger brother? One who’s even richer than he is? I’ve let you steer me for long enough. In future, I’ll look after myself.”
“But surely it would be better for us—”
“No! As my mother I love you, but I’ve tried and failed to like you. In fact, I despise you. After the divorce, Father abandoned you—”
“No, he didn’t. I wanted him to go.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
“Well, that’s how it was.”
“There’s no need for this,” Manby tried again to interject.
“You lazed about spending Dad’s money on beauty treatments, courting men, and upstaging women you saw as rivals. You aren’t serious about charity like Uncle George is. Do you remember the Christmas when Fanny and I were seven? We just finished trimming the tree. But the men in the army were having such a terrible winter, so I thought it was right when Uncle George said we shouldn’t buy each other presents. We had to make sacrifices. I was glad to make them. But you bemoaned, ‘Oh, Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.’”
“It’s dreadful to be poor. I especially felt it that winter because I remembered when your Uncle Trippy and I used to be poor growing up with our parents. I didn’t want you or Fanny to have to know what it is to be poor, to experience growing up like we did, especially on Christmas. And now look at us. Look at where we are. We are better off than a lot of people - orphans, for instance. You have your father and me, and your Uncle George, and Fanny, and the servants. You have so much more than I ever did when I was your age. Do you really want to leave it all behind and throw it all away over a man you barely know?”
“I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you. And I’ve told you, this isn’t just about him so, please, save me the guilt trip. Will you please leave me to get on with my life?”
“But this is your home.”
“Not anymore! Take it, and may you have joy of it.”
She began to stride up and down the room. “Darling, it might be well enough to wander if you’ve a place and people to come back to, but I tell you now there’s no desolation like wanting to go home and truly not knowing where it is. I just so happen to know something that would kill you if you knew—” she broke off, stopping suddenly, as though overcome by what she knew.
“Mrs. Skeffington, don’t. Miss, if your news is good, then we are very happy for you. Aren’t we, Mrs. Skeffington?” Manby asked, trying for the third time to salvage the situation. She, for the third time, went ignored.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. Get your things, if you so wish, since your bags are already packed. If you want him, you can have him. Only first, before you go, there’s something I have to say that will intrigue you enormously. You should know what you’re getting. If you take him, it’s a long road. There’s no turning back. Tomorrow’s too late to repent.”
“And your point is? Mother, I don’t have time for this. If I’m to catch my boat, I have to go now.”
“Now can be a long time, darling...but time passes...and then there’s the end of the road. I admire you, darling. Not everyone would accept Jim’s past. Well, he must’ve told you? You couldn’t accept him without him telling you?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Not until you’ve heard the rest.”
You looped the duffle bag over your shoulder and did another once over of the room. “Enough. I’m tired of you speaking in riddles. If all this is about is Jim’s past, you can save your breath. I know all about it.”
“What?”
“I said, I know all about Jim’s past. What the fuck do you know about Jim that I don’t, Mother? Tit for tat. Let’s exchange stories.”
“What do you mean ‘you know’? Do you mean to tell me that you know about his other family? His ex-wife? His four adult daughters? You know, and you’ve carried on with him anyway?”
“Yes. I know that he has an ex-wife and four grown daughters around my age. Yes, I know that Jim was once married. And, yes, I know what that means. I’ve known it for a long time. I knew it when you called for me to come into your office and told me about the engagement you arranged. Jim even thought, ‘Well, it’ll come out sooner or later. It’s best she hears it from me. I might as well make this a public confession.’ So he sat me down one day, took my hands in his, and he told me. He told me the truth, that a little less than twenty years ago he had the bad taste and the poor judgment to leave his family and roam the world. He was in his twenties when he married Nan, at the same age his father was when he got married. He was very young, you know. To be a father. His parents were gone. His mother died in San Francisco shortly after his father. I was sorry, truly. And…and…I stayed to listen. I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t balk. I didn’t run away. I stayed. And listened to every word...”
~
“There once was a young man and woman who fell in love in a special place. They married soon after and had a child together. A healthy daughter who was their whole world. Growing up, she happily followed in her mother’s footsteps. Then the man and the woman had another daughter, and another, and another after that. However, their road was not without obstacles. Money was short, time spent between the six even shorter. And so, the road led to an inevitable end…”
“I’m not shocked exactly. It isn’t that. I promise you.”
“You have to protect the honor of your family. Of course you do.”
“It isn’t even that. You should have told me the whole story from the beginning. You haven’t been fair to me.”
“No. I don’t believe I have.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I suppose I thought it might ruin everything.”
“You mean you didn’t trust me?”
“I can’t have, can I?”
“Listen, Jim. I mean… Well, now I’m wondering... Why did you run out on your family?”
“No picturesque reason. Just plain old fashioned wanderlust. You know, I imagined I had a rendezvous with the universe. The doctor who has a cure for that will find a statue waiting for him.”
“You could’ve come back.”
“Too ashamed. All those years and still I can’t ever scrape together enough courage. There’s Buff, my youngest. The day she was born, Nan and I were so set on a boy. I raised my eyes towards heaven. ‘I don’t wanna complain’, I said, ‘but this is getting monotonous.’ I’ve never forgotten anything I ever said. At this point, it’s far too late to come back. Even if I worked up the courage, I wouldn’t want to. If I came back now, I’d only disrupt their lives. They’re better off without me. I stay away because I love them and I want what’s best for them. I want them to be happy in their lives, even if I can’t be a part of them.”
“Of course you don’t know your daughters very well, but their mother, your wife, didn’t you ever think of her?”
“Their mother was warned against me. She was told what would happen. It was pounded into her. ‘Don’t marry that lunatic. Hook somebody safe and solid.’”
“And who did the warning and pounding?”
“I did. Afraid I didn’t sound very sincere.”
~
“Since then, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve thought about it some more. I’ve thought about it every which way, carefully considered all the implications of what would happen if I carried on with him, what it meant for my future…and you know what? I don’t mind. He abandoned his family, yes. I won’t make excuses for him or pretend that that wasn’t a horrible and irresponsible thing to do. But I’m not put off by it in the slightest. I know all about it. I know all about it and I really don’t care, Mother. Have you ever stopped to consider that Nan was never built for the kind of life being with Jim entailed? Jim warned her against him, but she didn’t listen and married him anyway. She may have thought she was cut out for it, that she could handle it, but she realized too late that she wasn’t and she couldn’t. But as Shakespeare or Babe Ruth or somebody said, I’m made of sterner stuff. I’m leaving this town. Yeah. Jim loves me and I love him. He’s a journalist now and he said he could help us get out of here. He wanted to help me, how can that be wrong?” you asked her in your wide-eyed innocence and idealism. “He’s kind, intelligent, handsome, and my best friend. He makes me feel so good, and I can do the same for him. And what’s more I’ll make him happy and I’m no fortune teller either. He and Nan wanted very different things. They weren’t compatible in the long-term. But Jim and I… We are. We want the same thing. We have the same dreams and ambitions. And to travel is to breathe sentience into one’s ambitions. So I’m leaving. I’m going to travel the world. And when I do find Jim - not if, when - he’s not going to leave me, because there’ll be nobody to get in our way. Not you, not Nan, nobody. It’ll just be me and him and the open road. Since you may also remember that I have my own car now, you can’t really stop me.”
“Darling, darling, please... It’s not right. Now, how could you do that to that poor woman?” she asked you, “What has she done to you?” She rose her voice and took on that tone that she'd been using on you since you were a little girl. There was nothing worse than being surrounded by a bunch of people telling you to do what was right, when they couldn’t define that definition, without a lot of hatred and judgment behind it.
“You only care about her because she’s a woman like you, a woman who needs a man around to take care of her. I was never like that, but now I am. Now I need him, and he needs me too. You sent me to Europe for a reason, and I’ve found two.”
“Don’t you care that he was married?” your mother pleaded with you, “Don't you care that that fool woman was probably head-over-heels for him at one point, just like you? Aren’t you afraid you’ll share her fate?”
Coldly, you replied, “No, Mother.”
“You will break my heart if you leave in pursuit of this man.”
“You and I both know that’s not true. It’s your pride we’re dealing with here, not your heart.”
With tears in her eyes— She was always crying about something or another like her current crisis was the worst in history— she all but asked you to absolve her of her current sin, all but told you to forgive her for inflicting the scar still fresh on her heart on you. “At least think about what your father did to us. Do you really want to inflict that pain on yourself or somebody else?"
Is she really going there? You couldn’t handle this. You stepped into your boots and glared at your mother as you laced them up. “No. What you did to him,” you said icily. “I don’t recall Dad cheating until after suffering nearly twelve years of emotional and physical neglect. Really, Mother, what did you expect? Do you think he ever would’ve looked at another woman if he’d received one grain of affection from you? In private life he was generous, and kind, and affectionate, and devoted. And what’s he got to show for all his years of unyielding devotion to you? Worry lines on his forehead, you, a narcissistic, hypocritical, pseudo-adulterous wife, and me, a delinquent dropout for a daughter. But before his ‘lapses’, as you like to call them, you were shallow and faithless, merely fond of him and largely ignored him. Five secretaries is a drop in the bucket compared to the number of men you brought into the house. Even when father went to camp, you still invited them in. You even acquired a few new ones. Jim Conderley, Edward Morrison, Chester Forbish, Bill Thatcher, Miles Hyslop, Max MacMahon, Perry Lanks… Although I could go on and list them all by name, the list is too exhaustive and I don’t have time to do so. And those are just the ones I know about. The point is, you took Father for granted. You humiliated him every time you brought a lover into the house. You couldn’t survive on oxygen alone, you had to be surrounded by men. Dad knew that, but he had needs too! There was never a selfish bone in his body. For years he put you, Fanny, and I before himself, and those needs went unmet. You were so self-absorbed you never noticed how he suffered in silence all those years and did nothing to alleviate his pain! He was desperate for solace, a kind word, a gentle caress, a loving touch, even if it came from the warm embrace of a woman. More than desperate. He wanted so badly for that woman to be you, but you treated him like a dog. He was admired, petted, but never loved! It’s no wonder that, during the divorce proceedings, you couldn’t bear to look at him. His eyes had such a hurt expression, and you were the cause.”
“He repudiated his eyes. He had no right to feel hurt. He knew I didn’t love him when I married him. He said so himself.”
“He was a very patient man, but you beat him down so much that he was at his wits’ end. Of course he was going to snap. Of course he was going to break down. You mustn’t think too harshly of his secretaries. They were very kind and understanding when he came to the office after a hard day at home. Really, Mother, it was inevitable that sooner or later he was going to seek out what he so desperately needed from other women who were willing to give it to him when you, his own wife, were not. Any man in his position would’ve done the same. You all but pushed him away, drove him into the arms of those secretaries yourself when you exiled him from your marital bed. You know, when a father is neglected in certain sections of Malay, he collects a dozen human skulls and bangs on them with the jaw bones of asses to draw attention to himself. Father found leaving and taking Fanny and I with him to Europe much more sensible. Don’t you dare blame him for your mistakes. Just because you couldn’t manage your own relationship, don’t put that shit on me.”
She came back and stood over you, a woman flushed with equal parts desperation and agitation, with the necessity for persuading you quickly to do what she thought was the right - the only thing. “My dear, this is all unnecessary and unpleasant.”
“See, Manby? I told you. The one thing Mother can’t bear is when things are going better for me or Fanny than for her.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“You don’t know her. Fanny’s taken Johnny Mitchell away from you, I’m going to explore the world, and you’ve lost all your admirers and your husband, and you just can’t stand it.”
“Miss, there is no need for—”
“You’re wrong. You think I care about Jim’s life? That man brought his ruin on himself. And if he’s like every man I’ve ever known, he’d do again with his pants down and a smile on his face,” she lectured you. “Please, for the last time, my dear, I’m asking you to stay home with me. To move on and not to see or even think about Jim anymore.”
She, now, was calling you her dear, always a symptom of at least temporary dislike. That your mother should address you as ‘my dear’ showed you how much annoyed she was. But you were annoyed with her too. “Mother, that sounds very close to an ultimatum.”
“It is. My dear, I’m warning you. I’m warning you—”
“Threats, eh? Mother, if you knew how many daggers I’ve had flourished before me by hysterical anti-semitic classmates in school and severely troubled, mentally tortured patients at Cascade at an earlier period of my life… Some of them I now use for paper knives.”
“Good heavens, you didn’t stab or cut anyone, did you?”
“Just once. And it was just a letter opener. Don’t give me that look. It was self-defense and didn’t even require stitches! A flesh wound. Don’t change the subject. If you’re going to warn and threaten me, get on with it.”
“There’s one thing that lends a threat some dignity, my dear.”
“What’s that?”
“An inflexible resolve to carry it out. You mind yourself, my dear, one day you’ll need me and you’ll wish you had behaved better.”
You chose your next words carefully. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Mother. Charitable people like yourself saved my life. But I wish they’d thought a bit more about what I am to do with it, once the war is over and it is safe. Thank you, Mother, for Jim’s employment and your many kindnesses, but I intend to make my own way in the world. I think Jim and I can manage to get along without any help from you, if that’s what you mean.”
“It is what I mean. And what do you intend to do with your life?”
“Get a dog and a parrot and roam the world, living with Jim in unmarried blessedness.”
“Stop rocking.”
“Well, I could earn my own living, Mother. I’ve often thought about it. If my art doesn’t work out, I’d make a good head waitress in a restaurant, or I could run a cat house, or go on the stage, or—”
“No one makes their own way, not really, least of all a woman. There are but precious few ways for women to make money. You’ll need to marry well.”
“Daphne MacClare isn’t yet married either, Mother, and she’s doing well for herself.”
“Because she’s rich and an only child. She’s sure to keep her money, if her father doesn’t change his mind about making her his sole heiress.”
“So the only way to be an unmarried woman is to be rich.”
“Yes. That’s why you should heed me.”
“That’s not true. I’m not listening to you. You’ll say anything, do anything.”
“Have you no sense of obligation to your family or to me? Here you had the chance to join our name, Skeffington, with one of the finest families in Europe, Talbot. And you tell me that you’re not in love? I certainly didn’t love your father when I married him, and look at how well my life has turned out.”
“You only wanted me to get married to John so you could brag about who your son-in-law is.”
“No, so you could live a better life than I have.”
“I thought you said your life turned out well. I love my life the way it is.”
“You don’t know what you love. All those years you spent at Cascade… This must be Dr. Jaquith’s influence at work. It’s his voice speaking through you, not your own. He cares more about educating children and curing men and women than taking care of his family. He doesn’t have any children of his own, does he?”
“No, but he was right.”
“It is possible to be right and foolish.”
“I don’t think so.”
Your mother softened, but only slightly. “I know you don’t care much about marriage now. I can’5 say I blame you, but you’re behaving like a romantic girl of eighteen.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“This is a folly! A ridiculous, juvenile madness! Which brings me to the business of the afternoon. I don’t want you to marry Jim.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You broke off your engagement, so you must have another candidate in mind to be your husband. I don’t want you to marry Jim.”
“What if I refuse? What if I do someday marry Jim?”
“If you refuse, which you are, of course, fully entitled to do, let me tell you, Miss, that if you chase after and marry this hook or rook or crook, not a penny of my money goes to you, do you understand?”
“Is that all? It’s not really your money, it’s Father’s.”
Your father was a self-made man. He could do what he liked with money. It came dancing into his pockets at a glance—a very different glance from the sort of dog-like glances your mother knew, for these other glances, familiar to his fellow-financiers, were hard as steel and alert and concentrated as a hawk’s. He had an unerring instinct for attracting money, and, having attracted it, for manipulating it with the easy mastery of genius. Invariably he bought at the exact right moment, and sold at the exact right moment. He was a generous spirit, that Jewish man, generous with his emotional warmth in a way that brought the same out in others.
“You should remember that every bit of all this—your flower-filled rooms, the extravagantly wasteful amount of stuff to eat that often goes untouched on the tea-table, and you yourself, sunk in softness, wrapped in probably wickedly expensive garments for all their air of simplicity,—everything in this house, every stitch on your back, is yours because of his generosity. Legally, Father didn’t have to give you one-tenth of what he insisted you have.”
“Well, of course, it was ridiculous of him to settle a fortune on me. But then, it would’ve been ridiculous for me to refuse, wouldn’t it? Twelve years with the wrong husband? It should be rewarded. Of course, I thanked him for the very generous settlement he made on me. But for you, there will be no more money. From here on in, your life will be very different,” Fanny said as she paused, in the chilly voice natural to one whose decency was doubted.
Her chill annoyed you. You glared at her. You were asking yourself if this was really your mother, this cold thing, and whether her heart had grown as fleshless as the rest of her. “We’d get along.”
“Yes. Making over old, secondhand clothes, selling your artwork which is nothing more than mediocre copies of another man’s genius, and sleeping in cheap motels.”
“Unlike you, Mother, I can live without the latest luxury. Your threats are hollow, don’t you see? How do I make you understand? I couldn’t care less. I am not some victim for you to save from consensual, adult relationships.”
“Very well, do as you please. No one takes my advice. Go after Jim, then. If you think he can make you happier than John will. But remember the day that you marry him, I will disinherit you.”
“Is that supposed to frighten me? Marriage is just an idea you old people are trying to force onto us, and we don’t want your baggage. As of now, I’ve no interest in being a wife. I want fun. Lots of laughs. All the married people I’ve seen…why, they’re a little bit short on laughter, aren’t they, Mother? But if my mind were to ever change, I will marry who I please, and I don’t care anything about your money. So what if you have no duty and I have no claim? Why worry about the future? If I’ve got anything coming to me, it’ll come. I know I’m right. About love, I mean. I don’t wanna be stuck here like you, my poor mother, frozen in time and denying the passage of it all her life. I’m just trying to have a good time.”
“Are you sure you’re in love?”
“Of course I am. What makes you think I’m not?”
“Well, you ate an enormous meal.”
“Your mother doesn’t want you to be trapped before you’re completely sure.” Manby tried to placate you and keep the peace.
“But I am sure! How many times do I have to say it? Am I so weak you believe I could be talked out of giving my heart in five minutes flat? Believe it or not, I will stay true to him.”
“Mrs. Skeffington’s right. It’s a very big thing to give up your whole world.”
“Thank you. Listen to her if you won’t listen to me.”
“But I’m not giving up my world! If you want to give me up, that’s your affair. I’m perfectly happy to carry on being friends with everyone.”
“Married to Jim Masters, the former chauffeur?”
“Yes. If we ever change our minds and decide that’s what we want.”
“So you'’re quite sure of your feelings. I mean, you know, people sometimes get carried away. Come to their senses again with a jolt.”
“You’re right, Mother. Here’s hoping you come to yours sooner than later.” You got your luggage and took one last teary-eyed look at her before shoving past her and making to leave the room.
Fanny sighed shakily as she felt her resolve waning. She let herself fall into one of the plush armchairs, unable to speak through her sobbing. She looked up at you and she knew you won.
“You know, this reminds me of something I once read in one of the books Dr. Jaquith lent to me: A hypocritical businessman, whose fortune had been the misfortune of many others, told Mark Twain piously, ‘Before I die I intend to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I want to climb to the top of Mount Sinai and read the Ten Commandments aloud.’ ‘I have a better idea,’ suggested Twain. ‘Why don’t you stay right at home in Boston and keep them?’ While I’m out enjoying my life, why don’t you stay here and cry some more. It’s about the only thing you’re fucking good at.” You heard someone gasp. Whether it was Manby or your mother, you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t care either way. You gave your mother one final look of disdain and walked out of the house. Her face was red and her tears had already made streaks through her makeup. She only managed to smear it more as she attempted to wipe the tears away with her sleeve.
#Jim masters x reader#mr skeffington#now voyager#the wolf man#claude rains#bette davis#crossover au#crossover#crossover fic#pls tag me if you’re inspired by this#I’d love to read it
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yearning
llewyn davis x reader
summary: you and llewyn barely cross paths anymore, work and financial issues eating up your relationship. you surprise him by coming to his gig wearing his favorite dress of yours, and he's more than happy about it, if you see what I mean.
warnings: heavy insinuations to smut, slight dry humping, llewyn being a horny little shit (llewyn should be a warning of his own)
tags: fem!reader (sorry besties), established relationship, llewyn basically worshipping you
word count: 1.5k
a/n: I need him SO BAD guys you don't get it
reblogs and feedback are appreciated!!
You had told Llewyn you weren't sure if you could make it to his gig tonight. When you would tell him that, they were the days where you were coming home late from work, after long rides in the metro and you were just exhausted. Llewyn understood, of course. But you were always so upset not to come and show him how proud you were. But tonight, it wasn't true.
Tonight, you wanted to surprise him. Llewyn hadn't felt really great those past few weeks; and you had barely seen him during it. Even thought you lived together, the extra hours of work that allowed you to pay the rent made it hard for you to see him. When you came back from work, he was gone going to his gigs, and when he came back, you were already sleeping. The only time you could see him was in the morning, but you were both so dazed you couldn't make anything out of it. The both of you not being morning people, the meaningless chatting was hard, so the morning sex option wasn't even conceivable, even if it was the only option available for you to feel eachother's skin.
You didn't want to drift apart from him. Your boss had agreed to free you a few hours early today, and luckily, Llewyn wouldn't be at the flat since Jean and Jim had invited him over for dinner before their gigs. It was the perfect occasion to tidy yourself up and wear that dress you knew he loved, to surprise him by coming at the Gaslight, though you said you wouldn't make it.
You just hoped it would go well, knowing how Llewyn could react when he wasn't in the right mood.
---
You slalom through the small crowd, making your way to Jean who is standing against the bar. Jim is in front of the stage, sitting at a table with his friends. Reaching Jean, she gasps when you put a hand to her shoulder, surprised that you're here.
"Oh hey, I thought you wouldn't be here" she says smiling at you.
"I am full of surprises" you say smirking slightly before turning around to order a drink.
"Well Llewyn's gonna be happy. He couldn't stop whining all dinner long about how you had trouble seeing each other" she says raising her eyebrows before picking up her glass from the counter.
You smile a little at her words, happy to learn that Llewyn still cares and that your relationship isn't completely doomed.
"Yeah I know. It's not easy." you sigh before quietly thanking Pappi for the drink despite his insistant look on you. You grab the glass, turn to Jean and shrug. "I'm trying to make it work" you affirm with a weak smile.
"He needs you" she declares with a stern look, now it being her turn to put a hand to your shoulder.
You nod slowly before bringing your glass to your lips, but you interrupt your action when you see your boyfriend get on stage. You smile lightly, and rest your glass on the counter behind you.
A few people cheer his arrival, but you and Jean are the loudest in the room.
Llewyn spots you amongst the crowd and grins softly, and you raise your glass at him, returning him the smile.
---
Llewyn gets off stage and immediately joins you, leaving his guitar case on the side of the stage. He almost runs to you, and you swear he had never looked so happy to see you.
"Fuck, baby" he huffs out hugging you tightly before quickly pulling away to peck your lips. "I thought you told me you wouldn't come" he frowns with his hands framing your face before kissing you again.
You smile softly, looping your arms around his neck.
"I did. But I missed you, so I asked my boss for a few hours off." you nod before turning your head to kiss the palm of his hand. "I've been doing an unhealthy amount of extra hours so it's all good for him."
"Awesome" he says gripping your hips, planting a kiss to your forehead.
The night goes smoothly. You're happy to be there, happy to finally be able to see your boyfriend and spend proper time with him. You had never felt so loved and appreciated by him than at this moment. His affectionate smiles, his cold fingers on your thigh, the quick kisses on your cheek when no one is looking; it was like the start of your relationship again.
You leave to go to the bathroom and when you wash your hands, Llewyn is there behind you, standing against the wall, arms crossed.
"This is the ladies room, sir" you grin, glaring at him through the mirror, shaking your hands in the air to dry them.
He walks to you slowly, smirking at you through the mirror.
"Don't care" he mutters pressing your back against his chest, putting his hands over your hips.
He wraps an arm around your chest, pulling you closer to his body, and kisses your cheek softly once, twice, thrice.
He looks back at you through the mirror and brushes your hair away before burying his face in the crook of your neck, leaving more gentle kisses there. A chill runs down your spine as his beard softly scratches your sensitive skin, but you're satisfied at the familiar feeling that you haven't felt in what seems to be ages.
"God you're so pretty" he breathes out against your skin. "Do you know how good you look in that dress?" he asks rhetorically, his hand shifting from your hip to your belly.
You smirk, looking at the reflexion in the mirror.
"The bulge against my ass is telling me about it" you scoff, wrapping your damp hand around his forearm holding around your chest.
The remark is insolent from you, as you aren't insensitive to his proximity either.
He lets out a stupid chuckle, tickling the skin of your neck.
"Sorry ma'am" he whispers, and you feel him smile against you. He faces the mirror again and kisses your temple, then lingers there. His thick breath is teasing your skin, and you caress his wrist with your thumb, happy that he can finally be there to hold you like he hasn't done in so long.
You suddenly surreptitiously grind up against him, making it look like a readjustment of your position when you're just clearly taking advantage of the situation and teasing him a little. He immediately lets out a sinful moan, making it hard for you to hide your smirk.
"Ha fuck you" he whimpers before moving his hands to grip on your hips tightly. "I'm not sure I can take this" he murmurs against your shoulder.
"What?" you ask, trying to act oblivious.
"You" he says planting a kiss in the crook of your neck again. "We need to go back to your flat" he almost groans.
You turn to him, facing him and finally drying your hands by sliding them over his chest.
"What are we gonna tell Jim and Jean?" you ask innocently looking up at him, your hands resting on either side of his tummy.
He tuts and looks to the side, Jim and Jean being the least of his concerns at the moment.
"We're gonna tell them that we haven't had sex for what feels like ages and a man has his needs and he can't resist the sight of his wonderful, breathtaking girlfriend wearing this amazing dress she looks irresistible in." he blurts out quickly, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.
"That would be bold" you mutter under your breath teasingly trying to falsely sound stunned, getting closer to his face.
"That would be true" he corrects you, shifting even closer, resting his forehead against yours.
You hum in response, acting like you're trying to figure out a plan to go home.
"Or we could leave without saying anything. Being all mysterious and shit." he continues, pulling away from your face. "Baby, I don't care how we're doing it but we need to get home." he declares in all seriousness, cupping your face nodding close to it. "Listen honey the dress looks awesome and you know it, but you have no idea how much I want to rip it off of you right now." he mutters under his breath just in case someone passes by the open door of the tiled room.
You shiver at his words and feel an eruption of butterflies in your stomach as you imagine the moment you're going to stumble into your shared appartment and he's going to do all the things he wants to do to you. Teasing him isn't a part of the plan anymore and you join his side, wanting to go home as fast as possible.
You hurriedly take his hand and lead him out of the room, joining the back door of the bar. You push it fiercely and drag Llewyn out, the cold air of the night meeting your cheeks.
"My guitar!" Llewyn exclaims, pointing back at the door.
"We're gonna get it tomorrow first hour, if I can still walk. Know what you want, man" you say walking ahead, holding his hand tightly.
The man rolls his eyes thinking about how he's going to justify having 'forgotten' his precious guitar, but smiles when he recalls why the situation is the way it is.
Luckily, your flat is only a few blocks away.
---
reblogs and feedback are appreciated!!
#llewyn davis#llewyn davis x reader#llewyn davis x you#llewyn davis fanfiction#inside llewyn davis#llewyn davis fic#llewyn davis fanfic#oscar isaac#oscar isaac characters#marc spector x reader#steven grant x reader#jake lockley x reader#moon knight x reader#sorry for the tags i just need to reach more people#steven grant#marc spector#jake lockley#moon knight
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Willow: House of Griots | Pilot Script Table Reading
We’re back at it again with the Principal Cast of “Willow: House of Griots,” working through a table reading for the Pilot Episode. We discussed upcoming events, reviewed production scheduling and details, watched our short film “Willow: State of Emergency,” and sunk our teeth into this special 90-minute pilot episode of “House of Griots.” Much love to Elliot Guilbe for the Photography, Glenn Quentin for the Production Support, and Sultan Ali for the Marketing Support.
Principal Cast
Ashley Noel Jones as Willow Kerubo Brown
Suzanne Darrell as Iyoba the Foundress
Cameisha Cotton as Diane X
Kirrin Tubo as Taina
Lilian Oben as Vanessa Charles Masiko
Ensemble Reader
Tommy Coleman
Stage Directions Reader
Heru Khuti
Showrunner & Writer
Paul A. Notice II
Heads Up: Our Short Film “Willow: House of Griots” will be available on Amazon Prime later this year. Keep an eye out for our announcement. In the meantime, save the date for our upcoming Short Film Screening at Weeksville Heritage Center coming OCTOBER, 21st, 2023! Details coming soon!
You can Support “Willow: House of Griots” here.
Special Thanks to all of our supporters:
Josmar Trujillo
Nana Dakin
Will Duggan
James Reilly
Kirrin Tubo
Paul Notice Sr.
Marco Rodriguez
Nyle Emerson
Doreen Notice
Jade Notice
Nichole Villafane
Sita Sarkar
Justin Prince
Kiera Williams
Paul VanDeCarr
Jeannette Colyvas
Daniel Notice
Laura Edmondson
Tommy Schaperkotter
Glinetta Collins
Larry Powell
Erica Saucedo
Megan & Liv
Jeannette Colyvas
Ian Harkins
Jim Costanzo
Melissa Noelle
The Ellen & Andrew G. Celli Foundation, Inc.
Holly Heckart
Sarah Fleming
Edward Rice
Ataefiok Etukeren
Joann Selvidge
James Gantt
Jade Notice
Marie Casimir
Rama Orleans-Lindsay
Shiloh Hodges
Benedict Nguyen
Lizette Vernon
Lily Bo-Shapiro
Saleem Kashif
Kendra Foster
Anika Chowdhury
Lia Bonfilio
Katrina Reid
Zell Davis
Robin Holmes
Gabby Sherba
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Soothe
(Jim Davis x Reader)
A Jim Davis One Shot
Fandom: Harsh Times (2005)
Request by : @leospinkprint
Summary: Your husband Jim Davis, comes home after his first day of work since his return from the Army. Seeing him so exhausted makes you want to provide him the comfort he needed. And to both your benefit, things heat up.
Rating: 18+
Warnings: Swearing and Sexual Themes
Word Count: 2.5k+
Author’s Note: Oh! I was so happy to see a Jim request cause Bale played that character to perfection. Such an underrated character on screen. And given his canon situation, I think the man deserves some happiness in his life, yeah? Given the request, i went a bit further to smutty town. So to all the Jim frustrated readers, Hope y’all Enjoy!
A pot of Chili never fails to look appetizing. Yet, when the mouthwatering dish stands above the stove, and red bubbles form and does a passionate dance to the rhythm of the flames beneath, the level of appeal skyrockets. And it was the sight you indulged in the kitchen this fine evening.
Your hips swayed in subtle motion to the Banda* music played in KLAX FM*, the radio station of your choice, all the while you kept stirring the pot. A hum of satisfaction left your lips the moment they tasted the chili: Explosive with flavor. Your senses were awakened deeper than before.
Dinner was almost ready. Nodding to oneself, you made an involuntary turn towards the fridge to your left. Eyes did not hesitate to find a particular photo held on by the smiley magnet on the fridge door. Photo of two people: You and Jim. Jim Davis. Your husband. It was a photo taken only a few weeks ago. Smiles were in abundance with the two of you holding each other when it was taken on your wedding day. Dressed simple, with you in a knee length white lace dress, and him in his suit sporting his buzz cut. Jim promised to marry you as soon as he returned from his service in Iraq. And he did. Thus, a simple ceremony of registering at LA City Hall was more than enough for the two of you with Your best friends attending as witnesses. Including Jim’s very own Mike Alonzo.
Hope you like it.
Smiling at the Jim in the photo, you thought.
And, lo and behold, the sound of the front door opening reached your ears. Excitement filled in you.
“Baby, is that you?”
Your inquiry carried out throughout as you looked at the clock. 9 pm.
“Yeah…”
It was the deep, male voice you longed to hear, that answered from afar. You chuckled:
“I made you your favorite. I mad-”
You paused when he finally made himself seen to you. Leaning against the kitchen door, his tall frame was accentuated with his suit. Jim Davis may have dressed ‘fancy��, but his expression was far from it. In fact it was dead-beat. And you could do nothing but sigh:
“Oh boy…” you began, offering him a warm smile, “Why don’t you go wash up first?”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The feeling of exhaustion after a long day’s work was not unfamiliar to you. In fact, you had that moment a few hours before. Yet, the sight of your husband looking just as exhausted only after his first day of his new job, somehow saddened you. Returning to normal life, after all the war and violence, Jim Davis certainly struggled in job hunting at first. But thanks to Mike and a few others, luck was on his side when he got employed in a Security Company. One that provided protection to High Level Clientele in Los Angeles.
With the Chili finally done, you waltzed your way through the small apartment. A quick glance at the empty bathroom suggested he finished washing up. This apartment, it was your home. It was the home you lived for as long as you could remember after high school. Ends had to be met, and you did so by working as soon as you graduated school. Elena Tía* was a sensible Landlady, kind enough to let you live here for 3/4 of the rent, while the rest was paid off with helping her with chores. Year passed, and Elena grew to treat you more like the daughter she never had. When she finally passed away, her son was understanding enough to let you stay. Paying the rent in full, you accepted it.
Leaning against the bedroom door, you found your husband inside. The room was fragrant with shower gel. Sitting on the side of the bed in a white tee and black sweatpants, he was fresh but still exhausted.
“Hey, here let me-”
You said, grabbing the towel from him. Sitting behind him on the bed, you sat on your knees before proceeding to dry his head.
“Thanks” Jim grunted, his eyes still looking down. Aside from his grunt, silence reigned supreme. With the special exception of the radio that played softly from the kitchen. And the sound of the towel as you wiped his head in rhythmic motion.
No words were further spoken. And in all honesty, you were not bothered. Silence was the route taken by some when exhausted. And Jim Davis was one of them. But he did not expect you to be that.
“Well, you did it” you began, “First day, Done”
“Yep” Short and low was his answer. You smiled. Any minute now.
“So I’m guessing they found you client to work with on the first day?”
“Oh, no shit, babe…” Sighing, Jim began.
There it is, you suppressed a smile as he continued to talk, “So, this guy that we had to watch, he was some asshole! Fucking getting on my nerves the whole time” with his usual tone, he kept going, “And when he found out I was the new guy, it just got worse”
“Ugh! What a Jerk!” you sighed, “Well, he may be rich, but he ain’t smart. What’s he doing? Messing with the people who actually there to save his ass? Pity he will never appreciate”
“But you know what will? his money…”
“Heh! Well, fingers crossed”
You replied, inciting chuckles from both. Yet, your heart felt a slight pang. Your Jim, he always pride himself to be a good soldier and fighter. And now look at what he was forced to do, “I’m sorry you have to put up with this, Jim” you sighed, your wiping movement slowing down, “It’s my fault. You didn’t have to take this job-”
“Hey! Hey! Don’t say that”
Soft yet quick, Jim replied with his head in a slight turn, “I’m lucky they even hired me after all the LAPD bullshit” he added, “Besides, we can finally be together, babygirl” voice filled with gladness, he held your chin with a soft smile. Your returned with a smile of your own:
“Yeah, You’re gonna get something better than this soon, baby. I know it”
Finishing off the drying, your hands found home on his shoulders to massage. A sigh of relief from him gave you the green light to proceed, even allowing you to take his t-shirt off. His tense aura, it began to loosen up as your hands felt through his toned frame. He was gorgeous, and you never got enough of admitting that. Whilst loosening his tightened shoulders, you did not hesitate to move your hands to his neck, to travel down his back to focus on every muscle. Jim threw his head back with another sigh:
“Ah…this… is perfect”
“Good”
All the sudden, you began to chuckle.
“What? What is it?”
“It’s just that-” you paused, “I cant believe I actually gave you a massage at the end of our first date” you continued, “Remember? In the car?”
“Oh yeah…that was nice” he gave out a mischievous chuckle, “And uh…the kiss after that wasn’t so bad either”
You giggled, “Best payment ever”
“That moment, that’s when I knew you were a keeper” he said, still looking ahead as if he was reminiscing.
“Why?” You scoffed, “Cause I give good massages?…”
“Cause in just a few hours, your hands knew me better than anyone else”
He may be humming away in pleasure, yet only you knew how much those words affected you. A sense of warmth came over you. He always knew what to say to make you freeze, to switch you up, to light you up, to fire you up.
And those hums grew louder. Deep and resonant. And attractive. Hums with confidence to tease you. But you resisted. Tonight was about him. To comfort him. To soothe him after his long day.
However, it did not entail not having a little fun of your own.
“Ah! Fuck! baby…”
A soft cry left Jim when your lips planted kisses on the back of his neck. Kisses so slow and attentive, each more appreciative than the one before.
“You did so good today, baby. I’m so proud of you”
Your praises were in whispers between kisses. All the while your hands held on to his biceps. And so, his hums morphed into moans.
“Fuck!…Baby gimme some sugar”
His hand grabbed yours in desperation, struggling to pull you towards him. It was a choreography you both knew. The one that would lead to something heavenly.
Except tonight, you pulled away. It was difficult to. Yet you did.
“Baby, No! YOU need to relax-”
Until his kiss shushed you.
“YOU…help me relax”
He uttered. Folding his knee on the bed, his attention was all on you. His eyes, they were convincing, offering you plenty reasons as to why he was desperate for those lips of yours to treat his very own again. And in all honesty, you had no reasons to object. His scent intoxicated you, making dramatic entrances into your nostrils. The mixture of shower gel with his natural scent, it was the perfect combination. Nothing about him repulsed you at that moment. Those strong shoulder blades your hands had the privilege to massage, those tattooed biceps, those reactive hums and moans.
They were all enough for you to fold in, to give in to his wishes as your lips took hold on his.
His kiss, it reminded you of all that. And how much you missed them since this morning.
Oh, his kiss. Tonight, it was a slow fire that just started to burn. An incredibly slow fire. These kisses were slower than the ones you shared on your first date. You were surprised yourself as to how controlled these kisses were. For any other night, kissing Jim Davis would be a roller coaster ride full of intoxication, driving you with selfishness.
But tonight, you were far from selfish. You were filled with purpose. You longed to please him, to soothe him. And your lips understood that too well. With the tongues making their entrances, they held tight, dancing a slow rumba. Enamored by the simplicity yet the intoxication of the kisses, you did not even notice Jim pulling you towards him, only to wrap his arms around your waist. Gasps left you when his lips decided to reach for your neck. And his hands reached for your buttocks. You knew where this would lead to.
“Hey! Hey!” You breathed, “Slow down!” Chuckling, you added “You haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“Mmm…It can wait”
With his voice so deep, your ears were soothed in an instant. Enough to be distracted when he pulled the straps of your chemise down. Slow. His kisses traveled far down to greet your shoulders and collarbone, “Fuck! It can definitely wait” he added with excitement.
Like a predator pouncing with greed, his hungry lips savored the skin of your now-exposed breasts, kissing every inch in a controlled pace soon after the first attack. His lips acknowledged the curves, while his tongue amplified the erect nature of your nipples by latching on to each of them.
“Ah! Jim!”
Throwing your head back, your knees grew weak. Butterflies exploded in your stomach and his lips were to blame. He seemed to indulge in the slow pace as much as you did. Even when his greedy tongue embraced your erect buds with passion, even when he sucked them, hard. Even when he paused between to place more kisses on the skin. You winced with every move. You swore you would turn into jello. But you were once again reminded of who was to pleasure whom tonight.
Thus, you surprised him by pushing Jim back to the bed. And he could only let out a hearty laugh.
“Hah! Oh baby…” his tone changed to seductive, “Oh! I love the view” He purred, his eyes growing dark by the sight of you peeling your chemise off your body, leaving you nothing but naked.
“Well” you began, “…you’re gonna love the feeling even more, baby”
Another hearty laughter erupted from him. With his own head thrown back, he bucked his hips to help you pull his sweatpants down. He acknowledged the treatment with moans and hums when your eager hands held his hardened shaft that sprung out. “You did so good today” you breathed. Your touch was gentle, as your fingers grazed it, stroking it gingerly till your mouth watered with desire, “So, so good. You deserve a treat”
He cried your name out loud the moment your lips took charge to taste him in completion. The moment he was at the complete mercy of your mouth.
“Ah! Baby! I love it when you do that” he moaned, whilst your head bobbed up and down, slow. Very, very slow. He was delicious. And he always left you satisfied every single time. Thus, your indulgence was as sincere as it could be.
Drowning in pleasure, Jim Davis’ frustration was translated via swears through gritted teeth, and moans. His aroused expression finding a perfect fit between your lips, caused a part of you to form some jealousy. A jealousy that made itself known by the wetness that formed between your thighs.
“Fuck-”
“You close, baby?” You inquired, making a pop sound when your lips left his shaft. Only Jim decided to answer by sitting up to grab your chin, placing a passionate kiss on your lips.
“Oh Fuck me, Jim” you breathed, “I’m so wet for y-”
Were they magic words?
For you could not comprehend how Jim Davis was able to change positions, pulling you fast enough to push you down to bed, only to hover you. All occurred in a flash, and your cries of pleasure brought you back to the senses when his erect manhood, finally entered your wet opening.
Even in the throws of love making, slow pace was maintained. And it felt different. Tonight, Jim was not the animal that had not eaten for days. Tonight, it was sensual and soothing as the music that played in the kitchen. Pleasurable, yet calming. Holding on to him with your legs wrapped around his waist, you could only stare into those hazel eyes of his. No words exchanged, yet his eyes thanked you, along with his hurried breathing. The exhaustion he had brought home, was kicked out the door by then. He was simply alive. His slow, rhythmic movement was proof enough.
And the speed of which you both reached the final mark with fireworks was also another confirmation.
“Fuuuuck…” Jim drawled, panting “Definitely my favorite kind of massage”
“Perv” you said, rolling your eyes, inciting chuckles from both. A contented sigh left your lips, with the realization of how every intimate moment with him, proved to be unforgettable, “I made you Chili, your favorite”
“YES! Cause now I’m starvin”
Sitting up on his elbows, Jim glanced your way.
“What?” You inquired, returning the look. Except he merely smiled. A smile full of content.
“I love you, baby”
Those words, they melt you every time. They sealed the deal when he became your boyfriend. They sealed it further when he became your husband. And they will continue to seal this relationship more and more every single time. Leaning forward, you placed the softest kiss on his lips:
“I love you too, Jim”
——————————————————
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