The Courtship of Ollie's Mother

Sticky clumps of Play-Doh smack the floor all bug-splat smushy. It’s funny, and it's fun. Makes Ollie chuckle.

What's keeping Marcella? Josephine's fingers tap her thighs.

"It's fine." Henry says, tidying his hands in a soft gray dish towel. "Little man Ollie is always welcome."

Seated in Henry's expansive living room, Josephine spies his sexy bare feet emerging out of the bottom of his perfectly worn black jeans.

"I like the mess." Henry clanks another saucepan from the rack. The rest of Henry's delectable 6'2" frame is obscured behind stainless steel refrigerator doors. He's quite the artist. The Jackson Pollock of romantic dinner prep.

Crossing into the living room, pleased with his wine-kissed marinade, Henry gives his dimples ample leg room. "Come on, Joey. Our date's delayed, not ruined." His shoulders settle. He can't get enough. He's watching Joey watching Oliver watching oozy bits becoming shapes.

It’s a miracle, really. The ability to take on whatever shape is needed.

Henry arrives at Joey's side. Unearthed from his cellar and gently cradled in his recently retired baller hands are two wine glasses and a bottle.

He places his great triumph on the drink cart at her side. Its label bends Joey's mind. It can't be. 1999 Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru!

The vintage she mentioned to Henry, once, more than nine years ago. Her great white whale. Beyond expensive, such a bottle is unattainable.

Unless, of course, you have money to burn.

Lifetimes ago, they'd been partners in advanced biology.

He was every imperfection that girl craved. Witty, elusive, thoughtful, intelligent, distracted. Smokey cinnamon eyes that spoke in promises. Hair, thickly dark and mirky as the North Sea. Musculature that gave her inner thighs thumb prints. The way he moved, and stood, and leaned and spoke her name. Even the rhythm of his breathing filled her lungs.

Henry had been receptive, however inconsistently, that grueling semester. They'd danced around their chemistry arbitrarily.

He was otherwise engaged.

She didn't know.

The last night of that semester they'd stayed up together, alone in the uni's library. One final all-nighter for their last final. Sexual tension tickling like feathers, cruel as complicit restraint, tempting as leather.

"Taste me," Joey whispered, taking her chance. Henry kissed her back, hungrily. His lips, his tongue, sampling her skin, her open mouth. His eyes exposing his pleasure. His welcomed toxins, sinking into Joey's skin.

He stopped. Obviously, rock hard. That wasn't the problem. Zelda and the ring were, and her father's contingent offer: there'd be no other chance for Henry to get drafted.

In 17 hours, Joey would be high, circling the skies of her beloved Scotland. Forever elsewhere, beyond Henry's grasp.

"Why not come with?" Her eyes invited.

Henry swallowed hard. "I am so sorry."

***

And now, almost a decade later, he reappears.

"A '99 Domaine?" Joey asks as shifts her slight weight, unaccustomed to six-inch stilettos after all the marathons and cross-fit mudders. "Are you serious?" she asks in disbelief.

He shows up now --now-- with that Lamborghini smile and those intoxicating eyes with his "little man's always welcome" and Domaine?

Nine years before he had changed everything, with the stroke of a pen.

"I know what's important, now." Henry winks, his wide receiver fingers finding Joey's exposed shoulder.

She's a concrete wall.

Henry fumbles his hands into his pockets.

Joey searches for signs of lost Marcella.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" She laughs. The pressure she's applying is an anvil pulling G's. Her legs disentangle as she gathers Ollie's things. "We should go."

Oliver’s a sweet boy, a kind boy, easily entertained. He’s fighting gravity and sleep. He's the one who matters.

Joey throws Henry a bone over her shoulder, “Save the bottle?" She says. Thinks, for someone else.

But the cork already has left its bottle. Henry wants to let it breathe.

***

Joey's wristwatch gave up the ghost three months ago, like a psychic, and now its face keeps a different measurement of time.

She searches for her cell phone, buried somewhere inside her silver clutch. She reminds herself, no, it's too late.

“Please.” Henry turns down the music. “Stay.” He thinks of Ollie’s little ears. “You’re here.” The 1990's are louder than he imagined. He retrieves his hands to take up Joey's. “The bacon wrapped figs will keep." He sets aside her iPhone. "Skirt steak's marinating.” He seeks her gaze. "Butternut squash soup's coming together nicely." He kisses her manicured fingertips, one by one. "Dessert can wait." He strokes her wrists. "I'm asking." He nuzzles her palm with his jaw. "Please, stay."

Joey's hand finds pleasure in his scruffy beard. Henry's lips are made for this. It's not a fair fight.

He presents two half-full glasses, hers and his. She disregards Ollie's assorted playthings at her feet.

She holds her glass aloft and Henry moves in. His proximity and his hunger give her goosebumps.

Not in front of Ollie. "Half an hour. Then it's bedtime, mister--" Ollie's momma tells the sweet boy.

"I like the sound of that." Henry coos.

"For Ollie." A meaty jab. A little sparing.

"Spare room's at the top of the stairs." Henry samples the pinot. "If needed." He winks. The wine takes positions across the field of his tongue. It is erotic.

"You think you've thought of everything." Joey brings a one-two punch.

Returning her soulful eyes to her charge, she sees Ollie patting out a lion in Play-Doh blue. She sips the magic potion for herself. "Not bad." His world class wine is wasted on her. Because of John.

"Not bad?" The wine's orgasmic. "Your white whale, not bad?! Are you telling me so much has changed?"

"You have no idea." Joey excuses herself.

Just my circumstances. She sells the broad strokes to his mirror. She paces, deciding if she can trust him not to bolt.

***

When Joey returns to Henry's expansive living room, Mr. Gigglypants has the floor. It appears to be a command performance.

That miraculous smile that Joey kept on ice cracks and splinters. Henry melts, too, a snowman knelt before a glorious bonfire.

With great fanfare Henry scoops up little Ollie in his arms and flies him around the room. They duck and weave and bend the air, breaking the speed of sound.

Henry surrenders Ollie atop a stack of hard-bound books and one fluffy faux fur blanket for his bottom's comfort. "You like coloring?"

Joey leans in, to chime in. Picasso with with acrylics for a living, she has ideas. But Henry cuts her off, flirting like a scoundrel. "I'm asking Ollie."

"I'm good at coloring!" The sweet boy nods.

"How much? This much?" Henry's hands create some space before his pecs. "Or this much?" He holds an invisible football. "Or this much?" His arms encircle a globe he feigns too heavy for him to hold.

"A lot, a lot." Ollie throws his arms around Henry's shoulders and climbs onto his back, his noggin becoming a bobble head. Neither one can stop smiling.

Joey sips at the pinot, savoring its dark entanglements, biting her lip, scratching smooth skin that lacks an itch. Damn your timing.

Her eyes parade the sidewalks, searching for Marcella like a sign.

Henry sprinkles markers across the counter. "Work your magic, Ollie. Go to town."

***

While Ollie colors, Henry cooks and dances. That man is vibing. Effortless as Channing Tatum. Sautéing a glorious mess the size of Texas.

What am I doing? Joey's head spins. It's all too much. She think of John, and his last wishes.

And she thinks of Henry. With his sultry sauces, and artful hands, and insanely sexy lips. His luscious voice. His foodie knowledge. His sexy brain. And those eyes--good god, those eyes.

But I swore it. My life is Ollie.

No matter how sinful on her tongue, she has outgrown pinot noir. Or so she struggles to believe.

She sees it now, what she didn't know to look for years ago. Henry thrives in cold soil, drips perfect earthiness and presence. Deep and bold and wildly complex. He's every single taste she ever wanted. Smart, challenging, and so unpredictable. Richly flavorful, hitting low notes like a saxophone, like a cello. Balanced in ways that feel like mercy. He's perfectly ripe. Maybe even ready. At last, he comes to her and now he's ready.

Three months too late. He can't possibly want an insta-family.

She never should have called his agent to offer congratulations on his retirement. Five months ago.

And now he's fire in her eyes and melting silky on her tongue, and she can’t ignore it, hard as she's fighting. Henry is the one.

But it's too late. Her life is Ollie.

She signed the papers. The courts have ruled. Decision’s final. Her brother's son is now her son. The only family Ollie has. Joey's responsibility. And that's forever.

And yet, even now Joey's boxing like a welterweight. She's all in, fighting for the life she wants -- Ollie and Henry.

Whenever the sitter shows, trusting Marcella's fine, it'll be a sign. Joey will come clean and she'll ask Henry to decide.

She fantasizes about whispering, “sexy never smelled so good,” and yielding her flesh into his, their bodies trembling. Instead, she checks on Ollie's artwork as Henry licks his fingers, tasting hope as much as spices in the air.

Joey is all Henry thinks about. Since those stacks nine long years ago. Her touch, her kiss, her taste, her scent. That goofy way she elongates her O's. How she explains little known facts like tiny treasures. The way she celebrates her scars.

He dreams it, their tongues entwined, sips of merlot shared between them. Her honey eyes inviting him to invite her in.

He's all in, if she will have him.

He's happy stirring homemade Mac and Cheese. "In case Ollie gets hungry. Also great for breakfast, you know."

He made the wrong choice once. Not even three Super Bowl rings can expunge that gnawing feeling.

He seeks her out. His hands taking her hips. They move together. Very slowly. Despacito. A marathon of moves and countermoves.

Joey teases, pulls away. She needs to tell him. She folds bare arms across her chilly skin, against her blouse, and tugs up her jade pashmina. Self preservation. She went sleeveless despite the promise of a downpour after dark.

Rain... The thought of rain...

It had happened so fast. The night Oliver's father drove into the flash flood. In an instant, John and Cassandra lost their argument with a hauling semi, overloaded with lumber, bound for somewhere west of Boulder. Joey lost her only sibling, like a limb.

Henry doesn't see the rain the same way. He smiles as the downpour starts splashing on the sill.

“Ollie’s the best.” He collects a purple marker that sends him careening into his island. I could get used to this.

He reads Joey's body language, and gives her room. “Find me when you’re ready?”

***

Hearing Marcella on the landing, folding her umbrella and shaking off the cold, Ollie issues his best I'm not leaving.

Joey has her answer. She'll tell Henry everything, tonight. After Marcella scoops up Ollie and they're alone, at last.

***

“Don’t give me that look, mister.” Ollie's adorable if predictable.

Joey scoops up the boy like weekday laundry in her arms, rocking him so gently it hurts.

“Can you say thank-you to Mr. Henry for the coloring books?”

The knowing nod. Almost adrift now.

Marcella gathers kid stuff in her octopus arms. A thousand silent forgive me's are met with incredibly relieved you're fine. Marcella's explanations can wait. Joey has more dangerous ground to walk.

"Be good for Miss Marcella." Ollie nods, almost asleep.

Joey issues silent prayers, watching her nephew-son as he's loaded into a car seat in the rain.

A shiver gallops along her spine.

***

And when the last of Marcella's Jeep has passed from view, Joey turns her anxious eyes to Henry, who stands with waiting eyes in the middle of his catastrophic kitchen.

Walking slowly toward him, Joey takes a final, sizable mouthful of that heavenly '99 vintage and pours what's left into his sink.

"If you'll have us, both of us, we're a package deal," she takes Henry's face into her hands, "I choose merlot."

Copyright © 08/16/2021 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.