A False Dawn

FORTY-THREE

Leslie said, “I have some Grand Marnier a friend gave me, but I haven’t had a reason to have an after-dinner drink. Now I do, because you’re here. One nightcap?”

“Just one,” I said.

She poured the Grand Marnier and raised her glass. “To the night, may this one be the first of many.”

We toasted and sipped the liqueur. She set her glass down on the counter and touched my cheek with the tips of her fingers. She was trembling slightly, her eyes probing mine. She stepped closer, pressing her body gently against me. I could feel her warmth, the scent of her hair, and a lingering perfume somewhere on her long neck.

“I don’t think…” I heard myself say. Her lips seemed to move to mine with no measurement in space and time. They were just there.

The kiss was like a feather at first, gentle, searching. Her mouth was soft, tasting of the Grand Marnier, lipstick and vanilla. In less than a half minute, the kiss became one of a buried passion erupting. She was sensuous and receptive. I could feel a strong arousal, a heat building in my loins. I wanted to pick her up and take her into the bedroom, but I pulled back a moment, then kissed one of her closed eyes.

“I can’t stay the night,” I whispered.

“Then stay as long as you can,” she said, rising to kiss me again.

In the bedroom, we undressed each other, eyes locking on eyes, hands discovering. I held her close, backing her onto the bed. The light from the patio broke through the partially opened blinds, illuminating Leslie’s beauty. Her body was sculpted from good genes and exercise. I touched her hair and face. Our bodies moved in a rhythmic motion of discovery, and then moved as one. Our fingers locked, and I held her arms beside her head, soft brown hair cascading on the pillow, her eyes searching, finding me. Within a few minutes, we both were climaxing, in long powerful couplings.

I leaned back, but Leslie’s right hand stayed laced in mine, holding me, refusing to let me lean too far up. She reached and entwined her fingers in my other hand.

“Sean…just breathe…say nothing. You’re here now. Nowhere else.”

It was after 3:00 A.M. when I got back to Jupiter. The cockpit door showed no sign of entry. I unlocked it, got a beer from the galley, climbed up into the fly bridge and sank into the captain’s chair. A breeze stirred across the river and lagoon, bringing with it the damp smell of rain. It was the darkness before dawn. Fog drifted through glowing orbs of light cast from security lights down by the charter boats and at the end of the five long docks lined with boats.

The marina was eerily quiet, only an occasional strain from Jupiter’s bowline, the tide moving silently between the boats and pilings. I sipped the beer and turned my collar up in the cool of the morning. I was exhausted, but my thoughts bounced from Leslie to Sherri and then to the dead girl. But Sherri was dead. DEAD. As a former homicide detective, death was my shift. The eternal night shift. I had clocked in again.

I watched the gray daybreak rise over the boats in a cloak of diffused light, enveloping the marina with an ethereal tint of an aged photograph. The dawn arrived unannounced, like the ghost of the ancient mariner. It was a black and white world, devoid of warmth and colors. A light rain began to fall as soft as a whisper. Its gentle rhythm was the last thing I heard as my eyes closed. I wanted to dream in warm colors, to turn away the cold edge of shadows.