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Authors: Michael Sears
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and with her back to me, undid the snaps on the front of her gown. Then with the grace of a veteran dancer, she turned again and let her academic robes fall to the ground—revealing a short black silk dress with spaghetti straps.
“Ta-da!”
It wasn’t her skimpiest underwear, but I took the picture anyway.
“Disappointed?” she said.
“No. The illusion was there when I needed it.”
She gave me a quick kiss on my cheek and handed me her robe. “Now, feed me!”
• • •
THE TOWN CAR wound up the hill and circled the drive surrounding the Cloisters, the medieval art museum at the northern end of Manhattan.
Skeli gave me a questioning look. “Would you believe I have never visited the Cloisters before? It’s lovely here.”
“Yup. A little bit of magic hidden away uptown.” And built by a man who had spent the better part of his life atoning for the sins of his own inherited wealth. “But we’re not stopping here. I’ll bring you back someday.”
The driver continued down the one-way drive and stopped when we reached Fort Tryon Park.
“Ready for a short walk?” I said.
“In these heels?”
They looked fairly normal to my eyes, but the sum total of what I knew about women’s shoes had been learned from my ex and could have been most easily expressed by a positively sloped sine curve charting height versus price. Still, I could tell Skeli wasn’t wearing hiking shoes.
“A very short walk. I am trying to surprise you with something wildly romantic.”
She took my arm. “Wildly romantic is good. And if you find a way to combine it with good food, you’ll be well rewarded.”
I told the driver where to wait for us after dinner and led Skeli down the short hill.
The wooded park and its environs, situated on the tallest hill on Manhattan, with a breathtaking view of the raw, undeveloped Palisade cliffs across the Hudson, may be one of the most romantic places in the city for an early-evening stroll through the winding pathways and heather gardens. In late May, the range of flowers, shrubs, and trees in bloom was at its peak, with occasional explosions of brilliant yellows, reds, and purples against a subtle background of misty lavenders, muted pinks, creamy whites, and wisplike honey gold. And though I once correctly identified a calla lily, to the amazement of both Angie and her mother, I am normally hard-pressed to name any flower other than a rose or a tulip. I vowed that if I ever proposed to a woman again in this life, I would do it here. But not yet.
“I know you said no flowers, but I thought this might be okay.”
We strolled slowly along the pathway, Skeli’s head on my shoulder, her arm wrapped around mine.
“Thank you, Jason. I love it. How can I have lived in New York for this long and never come here before?” She stopped and kissed me. “Don’t say anything—I don’t want you to blow it.” She kissed me again. It was a very good kiss.
I kissed back.
“Mmmm. Take me home,” she said. “Now.”
“Without feeding you first?”
She laughed. “Ah, you know me too well. Then please tell me there is some divine eatery just minutes from here.”
There was—the New Leaf Restaurant, a stone-walled, lead-windowpaned anachronism, resembling an Old World country inn as envisioned by a WPA team from the 1930s. And it was just another few steps down the path.
We drank two rounds of Bellinis and shared a dozen raw bluepoints while watching the first pink rays of sunset spread across the western sky. Skeli insisted on dousing her oysters in the sweet red cocktail sauce, thereby killing any chance of actually tasting the stony, cold, fresh salt of the ocean. Otherwise, she was perfect.
“May I propose a toast to the world’s sexiest new DPT?” I said, raising my glass.
We drank.
“You know, this is the first time in my life that I was actually on hand for the big ceremony. I skipped high school graduation to come to New York to audition. It would have been
“Ta-da!”
It wasn’t her skimpiest underwear, but I took the picture anyway.
“Disappointed?” she said.
“No. The illusion was there when I needed it.”
She gave me a quick kiss on my cheek and handed me her robe. “Now, feed me!”
• • •
THE TOWN CAR wound up the hill and circled the drive surrounding the Cloisters, the medieval art museum at the northern end of Manhattan.
Skeli gave me a questioning look. “Would you believe I have never visited the Cloisters before? It’s lovely here.”
“Yup. A little bit of magic hidden away uptown.” And built by a man who had spent the better part of his life atoning for the sins of his own inherited wealth. “But we’re not stopping here. I’ll bring you back someday.”
The driver continued down the one-way drive and stopped when we reached Fort Tryon Park.
“Ready for a short walk?” I said.
“In these heels?”
They looked fairly normal to my eyes, but the sum total of what I knew about women’s shoes had been learned from my ex and could have been most easily expressed by a positively sloped sine curve charting height versus price. Still, I could tell Skeli wasn’t wearing hiking shoes.
“A very short walk. I am trying to surprise you with something wildly romantic.”
She took my arm. “Wildly romantic is good. And if you find a way to combine it with good food, you’ll be well rewarded.”
I told the driver where to wait for us after dinner and led Skeli down the short hill.
The wooded park and its environs, situated on the tallest hill on Manhattan, with a breathtaking view of the raw, undeveloped Palisade cliffs across the Hudson, may be one of the most romantic places in the city for an early-evening stroll through the winding pathways and heather gardens. In late May, the range of flowers, shrubs, and trees in bloom was at its peak, with occasional explosions of brilliant yellows, reds, and purples against a subtle background of misty lavenders, muted pinks, creamy whites, and wisplike honey gold. And though I once correctly identified a calla lily, to the amazement of both Angie and her mother, I am normally hard-pressed to name any flower other than a rose or a tulip. I vowed that if I ever proposed to a woman again in this life, I would do it here. But not yet.
“I know you said no flowers, but I thought this might be okay.”
We strolled slowly along the pathway, Skeli’s head on my shoulder, her arm wrapped around mine.
“Thank you, Jason. I love it. How can I have lived in New York for this long and never come here before?” She stopped and kissed me. “Don’t say anything—I don’t want you to blow it.” She kissed me again. It was a very good kiss.
I kissed back.
“Mmmm. Take me home,” she said. “Now.”
“Without feeding you first?”
She laughed. “Ah, you know me too well. Then please tell me there is some divine eatery just minutes from here.”
There was—the New Leaf Restaurant, a stone-walled, lead-windowpaned anachronism, resembling an Old World country inn as envisioned by a WPA team from the 1930s. And it was just another few steps down the path.
We drank two rounds of Bellinis and shared a dozen raw bluepoints while watching the first pink rays of sunset spread across the western sky. Skeli insisted on dousing her oysters in the sweet red cocktail sauce, thereby killing any chance of actually tasting the stony, cold, fresh salt of the ocean. Otherwise, she was perfect.
“May I propose a toast to the world’s sexiest new DPT?” I said, raising my glass.
We drank.
“You know, this is the first time in my life that I was actually on hand for the big ceremony. I skipped high school graduation to come to New York to audition. It would have been
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