| Home | About the Author | Issue 1 | Issue 2 | Issue 3 | Issue 4 | Issue 5 | Order | Contact |
Volume 3 ~ Hearts Content
Hearts ContentA modern Fairy Tale by Yasmin John-Thorpe Prologue The small vessel floundered in the angry Atlantic. No one should have been out in weather as foul as that February the fourteenth. No sane person that is. The area, from the Arctic down the coast to Florida, received a blast of Nature's winter fury. The entire eastern seaboard stood in the path of the worst storm of the season. Gale-force winds howled across both the land and the sea. Huge waves pounded against the unprotected shores. Icy pellets rained on everything and everyone caught in its path. Even though the date on the calendar proclaimed it was Saint Valentine's Day. Normally it was a day meant for lovers, however no one celebrated the event this year. On land, the exchange of gifts and flowers were forgotten in light of the un- welcome destruction, which would undoubtedly follow. Out at sea, survival was upper- most on everyone's mind. Everyone on land tried to stay out of the storm's icy path. However, at sea, trying to live to see another day became the order of the day. The weather offices first tracked the unexpected storm through the night and many landlubbers awoke the following morning, not to Cupid and his arrow, but to a winter wonderland. Ice. The glistening crystals clung to everything. The heavy weight did not discriminate. It brought down spindly branches and strong trees. The roads received sheets of icy coatings, turning into meandering lanes fit only for skaters and curlers. The north side of any standing surface such as trees, electrical poles, mail-boxes, homes and buildings were encased in six-inch slabs of ice. Power lines snapped like twigs and everything came to a grinding halt. No one, absolutely no one, should have been caught out in the storm. Not many were, except for the souls aboard a fishing trawler, listing badly in the heavy seas. The lone vessel rolled in the Atlantic's thirty-foot swells off the north-eastern coast of Newfoundland. The weary crew automatically went about the task of surviving. No one could foresee what was about to happen next. But then again, who can explain the workings of the heart and who among us would not believe that Cupid, sometimes, work in the most mysterious ways... ACT ONE Scene One Aboard The Katherine Somewhere in the North Atlantic "Not much further, Uncle," Phillip Mistovavich's hoarse, gravelly voice rose tiredly over the howling wind. He spoke the words in English. "I can just see the outline of land in the distance, can you?" he asked. Even though sometime during their ordeal Phillip had stopped speaking to his uncle in Russian, the older man continued to use his native tongue. Philip realized it might be out of stress. His uncle was more comfortable using the language of his birth. He didn't think it was the fact his relative wanted him to continue practicing his father's native tongue. "Da, da." Phillip heard the worry in the older man's voice, as the words came and went in the wind. The man turned and Phillip noticed the brief smile; his uncle's first in a long while. "You haven't gotten much of your writing done," he said with humour, "but then again, look what you could now write about." Phillip's only reply was a non-committal grunt. Right now he had a lot more to worry about than writing a play. He squinted into the foggy distance. "We'd better get the lifeboats in the water," Phillip yelled in his best Russian to the crew huddled in fear against the port bulkhead. "I don't see any piers or wharfs. Drop the anchor too," he shouted, adding under his breath, 'quickly for God's sake'. His fear now centered on the one fact that they had no way to stop the vessel, no matter how slow its progress through the turbulent waters. "With the engine gone I knew we could not make it to the St. John's Harbour," Boris Mistovavich explained, to no one in particular. Phillip noticed he clutched the slippery rail of the listing vessel. "Just where are we?" Phillip asked, lowering the rope ladder over the side. He watched the crew move to obey his orders, showing the first real sign of enthusiasm in more than fourteen hours. When the un-forecasted storm hit during the night and the engine failed, the men had become truly frightened. The problems had compounded when, with no means to communicate their position, they had started taking on water and the monstrous waves threatened to swamp the boat. "I don't really know," his uncle replied after a long pause. His gaze searched the coastal topography slowly coming into view through the thick mist. Miraculously the strong winds had driven them south out of the north Atlantic. "I believe we are somewhere off the north-eastern coast of Newfoundland," his uncle supplied. "but exactly where," he shrugged, "that, I don't know." Phillip peered once more into the distance. His eyes stung from the lack of sleep. The skin on his face and hands was swollen and raw from the icy elements. His constant clinging for dear life on the rolling vessel, had taken a harsher toll on his hands, especially his fingernails. But most of all, he was chilled to the bone. The melting pellets had long since found a path inside his survival gear, traveling downward all the way into his galoshes. He prayed for warmth. If their current luck held, his prayers would soon be answered. "What's that?" Phillip asked. He was not the only one to hear the cracking noises. "What the hell...?" He felt the deck shudder beneath his feet. He leaned over the edge to gaze into the dark waters. "Phillip don't," he heard his uncle warn as he climbed over the rail, on to the rope ladder for a better view. He saw the shallow shoals in the dark blue depths, at about the same instant the hull connected solidly with them. His hands, already sore and raw from their ordeal, were unable to support him in this new emergency. Phillip felt himself wrenched from his perilous position. His body went airborne. His flight and free fall happened as the heavy vessel came to an abrupt halt and his body was pitched off his perch on the ladder. His last thought, before he descended into darkness, was his prayers be dammed. He was going to get a whole lot wetter and colder. * * * Scene Two The Walsh Home, Hearts Content, Newfoundland "Why don't I take over for a short while?" Megan Walsh asked as she walked into the room. Earlier, when her family had taken in two of the crew members off the wrecked ship, the older man had introduced himself as Boris. His English was heavily accented and difficult to understand. He'd been so worried about the younger man, who had been injured, he had failed to give the man's name. Now she didn't even try. Boris sat hunched over the figure in the bed. He was replacing the damp cloth on the forehead of the unconscious younger man. The chilled room was lit with the aid of only one hurricane oil lamp. Shadows danced across the walls. The room was one of the draftiest in the house. It didn't help that it faced north, placing it at the mercy of the Atlantic winds. It was one of the only empty rooms in the house. When Boris turned his weathered face as she approached the bed, in the dim light Megan saw the weary lines etched across the kindly face. She smiled tentatively. "Here, let me," she said, reaching to take the cloth and bowl of tepid water from Boris’ shaking fingers. He surrendered both with a sigh. Megan moved to sit in the chair near the bed. She dipped the face cloth in the water, squeezing out the excess. She folded it before applying it to the fevered brow of the large, attractive man laying motionless, under mounds of her mother's favourite quilts. Boris stood beside her. He gently patted her shoulder. He mumbled a few guttural sounds in his native tongue, which she didn't recognize. When she just stared, he tried again, this time haltingly in his limited vocabulary of English words. "My...eh.." he stuttered, pointing to the other man. Megan watched his frustrated struggle for the right words. "Your son?" she helped. "Nyet, nyet," he shook his head. "My...like my son...but... son of my brod … brother!" he uttered happily, finally finding the right words. "Your nephew," she supplied. "Da...yes, my nephew," he smiled and his whole face lit up. He grew serious. "He..no good...he very bad?" his voice shook as he asked the question on everyone's mind. "I can't say," she answered truthfully. It was her turn to pat his hand still resting on her shoulder. "Don't worry, he has a large bump on the side of his head. That might be why he's unconscious." Megan had no idea how much of what she said he understood, but she tried to smile to relieve some of his worry. She might have succeeded a little because he squeezed her shoulder. Just then sounds from her father's fiddle filled the quiet rooms. She placed the bowl on the floor and stood. Linking her arm through the older man's, she drew him out of the lamp lit room into the poorly lit hallway. At the top of the stairs, she released Boris and pointed down to the main floor, where the lilting notes were gaining momentum. "My father is playing," she chuckled. "Why don't you go and enjoy a glass of his favourite Screech...er... his rum? He likes to play his music in the front room, where there is a large fire." She hugged herself saying, "It's too cold up here." Boris searched her face for several silent moments. She caught his brisk nod, then he started slowly down the steps. Megan turned only when she was assured Boris reached the bottom step without incident. She walked back into the room to the bed and stared at the man, who’s head rested motionless upon the white sheets. Ogled was a much better word. Even with his eyes closed, the ruggedly handsome man demanded her full attention. He was a large man. It had taken three local men to carry his dead weight to the second floor bedroom. She wondered about his name. He had jet black hair. A dark shadow covered his the lower half of his face. It didn't appear as if he wore a beard just that he hadn't had time to shave recently. His cheeks were ruddy and flushed from the weather and the fever. It was his long straight nose and full lips which drew her attention. They were his best features. She could only imagine the colour of his eyes under the finely shaped jet brows. She would sell her soul for his long, thick lashes. Sighing, Megan pulled the hood on her Raglan up over her hair to ward off the chill. When she had moved up to the mainland, she'd taken most of her things with her. This old, ivory sleeveless relic, from her teenage years, was the warmest thing she had left in the house. She sat and retrieved the bowl from the floor. What was the use of wondering what colour eyes the man had, or his name for that matter, when no one knew how seriously injured he was. She resumed her earlier task of cooling his fevered brow. Soon she was lost in the deed, ignoring the chilled surroundings and her numbing fingers as she hummed along with the tunes her father fiddled in the front parlour. * * * It was bloody dark and uncomfortably hot. Phillip slowly surfaced out of the ebony depths. He heard the music. What was the tune? He didn't know. He realized he couldn't take a deep breath. Christ! It hurt everywhere. Was he still under the icy waters? Panic surfaced in his body. He was drowning... He couldn't seem to move. His hands were tied by his side. Lord, he was hot! Wait a minute...think. He willed his mind to be rational. How could he be hot if he were in the cold Atlantic? But, there was so much heat...maybe he had died and gone to Hell. He certainly felt like he was burning up. But music? How could he be hearing music? And, humming? Who was humming? With grim determination Phillip commanded his mind and body to calm down and start functioning. He took slow measured breaths. He became aware of his toes and his fingers, but he could not move the rest of his body. His chest felt heavy. Something wonderfully cool touched his heated brow. He willed his eyes to open. No. He certainly had not gone to Hell. Heaven. He had died and gone to heaven. A wondrous Angel sat serenely by his side. Long, wispy curls of wheat-coloured hair escaped the thick, ivory veil covering her head. Her eyes were closed as she hummed to the music coming from a distant flute...no a harp maybe. Heaven, had he died, gone to heaven and found this dream angel? Phillip smiled and waited. The music stopped and the angel's lashes fluttered open. Glittering jewels. She had large eyes of emerald gems. Perfect. She was utterly perfect. He smiled and watched those priceless orbs lower to his mouth. His breath stilled. Hell, for what he was now thinking they, whoever was responsible for him, were surely going to send him to Hell. When she lifted her gaze to his once more, he couldn't hide what he felt. In shocked silence he waited to be cast out, or down, whatever was the fitting punishment. By magic she leaned towards him. Phillip could not breathe. The angel was so close their breaths mingled. She brushed her soft lips against his and he threw caution to the devil. Ever so gently Phillip opened his mouth to taste her. He heard her tiny gasp, but she didn't pull away. Instead, he enjoyed a thrilling moment as she slanted her head and sealed her mouth to his. It was now a full fledged kiss and he took advantage of her willing participation. Phillip plundered her mouth. He kissed her hard and fast. Frustrated that at any moment, before he'd had his fill, it could be over. He wanted to fold her in his arms, but was still unable to move his arms, or much of his body for that matter. When she pulled away he wanted to howl in disappointment. They stared at each other. Her breathing was as erratic as his. Her veil had fallen off and her beautiful hair spilled wildly around her angelic face. Her eyes shone brightly. What an angel...! "Am I in heaven?" he whispered. Even to his ears his voice sounded odd. She didn't answer. Her eyes became huge round saucers. Her lips parted and he wanted to kiss her again. "Are you an angel?" he asked. When she again remained silent, Phillip struggled to free himself. He turned and tossed, flinging the restraints aside. He heaved himself upright and stars exploded in his head. His pain filled gaze searched and found the angel's as darkness swallowed him once again... * * * Megan automatically reached to break the man's fall. With all her strength she eased him back on the pillows. She was too stunned to do anything except what was called for. She kept seeing the heated tiger eyes. With one incredible hot gaze from those unbelievable eyes, her opinion had changed. She now knew what his best features were. Those eyes were so warm they'd beckoned to her and she been trapped in them. Heat... It oozed from him...from his feline eyes and his hot mouth. Holy Mother of God, she could still taste him! She wanted to brush her mouth against his once again, but the chuckle at the doorway stopped her. Quickly she straightened. Boris stood at the door. His entire focus was on his nephew. He continued to chuckle, shaking his head. "He...up, I hear," he said. "He spoke," Megan explained, "but I could not understand what he said," she added. "Russian. He ...talk in...father's tongue," Boris stuttered. He seemed to find this funny as his chuckles turned to soft laughter. "Why is it funny? What did he say?" Megan asked tersely, a little put out. She wondered if the joke was about her. Boris moved into the room and stopped near the bed. His laughter ceased. His gaze lifted from the face of his nephew to hers. For one frightening moment Megan wondered if he'd witnessed the hungry kiss she'd shared with his nephew. "I...hear ...he talk.. as I come...up," he stated. Megan found she could breathe again. "Did you hear what he said" she asked?. "Da," he answered. "He ask...wait... I think," he hesitated. He closed his eyes, maybe mulling over the right words. "Da," he repeated. "He...ask...first, if he in heaven..." "What?" Megan stared at the older man. "Da, heaven...up," Boris said with conviction, pointing upwards. He laughed softly before he continued. "He...ask.. if you...an angel." * * * Scene Three St. John's, Newfoundland "How much longer?" Phillip asked, growing impatient. One week had passed since he awoke to find himself in the hospital. The following days had been filled with unending tests. He understood their importance, but he wanted out of the sterile little room. He watched the doctor flip through the chart. His uncle stood silently staring out of the room's only window. Beyond the pane snow fell steadily. It had been coming down for hours. "Well, everything appears to be in order," the trauma specialist finally said. "But.." "If I'm okay, can I get out of here?" Phillip asked quickly, cutting off whatever the man had been about to say. The last thing he wanted was to spend another night in the hospital. His room didn't even have a phone. His uncle had made all the necessary calls to New York. One was to reassure Phillip's frantic mother that they were all safe. She of course had insisted on a conversation with the doctor before she was satisfied. Phillip had feared she would jump on the first plane bound for the small island, to personally nurse him back to health. Barely breathing, Phillip waited for the specialist's answer. The doctor held Phillip's gaze for several heart stopping moments, before he nodded. "I suggest, young man, that you see your own doctor as soon as you get home to New York," he suggested. "Yes I will." Phillip would have promised anything at that moment. * * * The snow had not let up, but an hour later Phillip found himself at the Hotel Newfoundland. He stood staring at the view from his room's large picture window. At least now, instead of the hospital's parking lot, he looked out on the quaint harbour, North America's oldest, so his uncle informed him. He had not as yet spoken at length to his uncle about all that had passed since the accident. What bothered him the most was his near death experience! Death was not something he had thought much about. He didn't quite understand the entire episode himself. He wondered what his uncle would think about the whole thing; of him being in heaven and all; or about the beautiful, sexy Angel. He didn't know what to think of it himself. He was sure there was a lesson to be learned from such things. The only thing he'd learned was his lust for the beautiful Angel, the very one whose kiss had set him on fire. He was sure to go to hell for that. The serene face and the bejeweled eyes haunted him. He should try to put it from his mind until he could better deal with it. "What are they doing about The Katherine?" he asked his uncle without turning. As before, he spoke in English and the other continued in his native Russian. "The ship has been temporarily repaired," the older man answered. Phillip glanced over his shoulder to watch his uncle pour a generous helping of local rum into a glass. Without pause the man tipped the neat drink down his throat. When he noticed Phillip's gaze, he shrugged. "I've taken a liking to the stuff," was all he commented as he helped himself to another. "Can you sail her?" Phillip asked. "No. They'll tow her to this harbour for all the necessary work," he explained. "Only then can we take her out to sea." "How did her namesake take the news?" he asked with a chuckle. "Your mother thinks I should get rid of it," he shook his head smiling. "Now what will I do if I give up The Katherine and the sea?" he asked, coming to join Phillip at the window. "Retire and marry the woman you love." It was out before Phillip could stop himself. Shocked at what he'd said, he quickly turned tortured eyes to his uncle. The only indication the comment had disturbed the older man, was the slight shaking of his hand as he brought the glass of dark amber liquid to his lips. "Sorry," Phillip whispered. "How long have you known?" his uncle’s quite question filled the room. Phillip sighed. His father had been a Russian diplomat with the Embassy in Washington, DC. His uncle had been a fisherman. His mother, an American had worked at the UN, and spoke fluent Russian. All three had met over a fishing incident. His father had married the elegant Katherine. But she had always had a soft spot for her sea-faring brother-in-law. How long had he known his uncle was in love with his mother? He thought back. "I think about a year before Father died." "Nyet!" "I'm sorry Uncle," he said sadly. "Ten years ago at eighteen, I was at an age to wonder why you named your ship after her." Phillip was silent a few minutes before adding, "I was also old enough to understand the way you looked at her, when you thought no one was watching." He heard his uncle's deep groan. He decided to add more and let the older man forge his own conclusions. "Tell me uncle, why do you think Mother agreed to send me on this trip?" "To practice your father's language and write your new play," he said. "Nyet." "Nyet?" his uncle stared hard at him. "She's been after me for several years now to take this winter trip with you," he explained. "To listen to her explanations, she wanted to make sure you were safe during the repositioning of the vessel." "Safe?" "Let's see... her other exact words went something like this, 'That old fool doesn't know when it's time to give up looking for fish and settle down on land'." "Settle down?" came the incredulous question. * * * Scene Four Enroute to Heart's Content "The crew appears to be in good spirits." At his uncle's comment, Phillip turned from the view speeding passed the school-bus window. "Yes, they are," he replied in Russian. The weather had improved over the last few days. The crew had asked to return to the small town and its inhabitants to personally give their thanks. Their ordeal had been documented in the local newspapers for several days. Some good citizen had donated the bus in which they traveled. Everyone was chattering and laughing. The mood was lively. All, that was, except Phillip. He took a deep breath and decided to find out what had happened that fateful day, before he confided his heavenly encounter to his uncle. The man had always been closer to him than his own father. His parent was always too busy, with his diplomatic duties, to have even a simple conversation with his only child. "Tell me what happened that day?" he asked. "I don't remember anything before awakened in the hospital." Phillip listened while his uncle retold the day's events. The older man's voice shook with emotion at times. At others he laughed aloud. "And the families didn't mind taking in the crew, when they couldn't speak a word of English?" he asked. "Nyet," his uncle replied. "What about the family where we stayed?" he asked out of curiosity. "The Walsh family," he supplied. "Ken, the husband, he likes to drink rum and play music." "Music?" "Da, he plays the fiddle," he chuckled. "These Newfie tunes and songs are funny." "Newfie?" Phillip asked. "Da, this is how Ken referred to the quaint songs," he guffawed loudly. "This English is not like the English you know." "How do you mean?" Phillip asked. "Well, remember how hard it was for you to understand the waitress at the restaurant this morning," he stated. Phillip nodded. The dialect had been difficult. "The clerk at the front desk said it was from the Irish immigrants, from way back, when they migrated to these shores," he said. His uncle shrugged. "Ken and Gertie talk fast and it was difficult," he replied. "I don't have half as much trouble understanding Megan." "Megan...?" "Da, their daughter." "Daughter...?" The older man nodded his head. "Da, you spoke to her." "I spoke to her," Phillip frowned searching his recollections. His uncle chuckled. "What's so funny?" Phillip asked, getting annoyed. "You." He watched as his Uncle Boris slapped his knee and laughed aloud. "You talked to Megan in... Russian," the older man's merriment grew with each word. "In Russian!" Phillip uttered, totally puzzled. "When did I speak to this girl?" he asked tersely. "Woman..." "Woman?" Phillip questioned, his patience ebbing. "Da, you spoke to her while you had the fever," Boris replied. "And I spoke in Russian?" At the other man's nod Phillip grew tense. For some unknown reason he was suddenly apprehensive about what was coming. But he asked the question anyway. "And, what did I say?" "You asked that one if you were in heaven and if she were an Angel." Stunned, Phillip sat in shock. After his uncle's amused accounting of the situation in the Walsh's house that fateful night, he was not in the mood to give his own version of the story. The sad state of his feelings was plain to see. The whole episode had been real. The angel was a alive, flesh and blood woman, one whom he wanted now more than before. He could feel that hunger growing. The yearning was sending him into a panic as they arrived at their destination. The visit to the small community was a joyful reunion. The combination of everyone speaking two languages at the same time lent to a chaotic party atmosphere. Both the locals and the Russians went around with broad smiles on their faces. The crew practiced a few English words and the inhabitants giggled as they gruffly spoke their newly learned 'nyets' and 'das'. Everyone was happy that a disastrous situation had played without tragedy. All, except Phillip. He was too busy searching the crowd for one specific, unforgettable face. He ignored everyone. And, everyone took for granted that the tall, handsome, silent Russian sailor just didn't understand them. Everyone treated him as if he were still unconscious. They addressed him in whispered tones, either gently rubbing his back, or patting his hand. They all spoke in slow child-like sentences to him, unaware that his command of English had a Masters Degree attached to it. Of course Phillip didn't help the situation. He spent the entire time walking around in a daze. He could not believe what he thought was a near death experience, actually happened. At the Walsh's home he mounted the stairs and found the room where he had lain. The room- where Megan had tended him - he had mistaken for heaven, because of the angel who kissed him and whose mouth he had devoured. He asked his uncle in Russian to find out where the illusive Megan had disappeared to. Phillip listened in rapt wonder to the accounts of her devoted parents. He learned Megan had returned to Strathford, Ontario, where she would be busy rehearsing for the spring season on the stage. It thrilled him to know she was an actress. That piece of information amused his uncle to no end. He refused to assist his uncle through the conversation when it got difficult. Why he kept silent about his knowledge of English, he could not fathom. But he kept up a steady flow of the questions he needed answers to. He purposely ignored the pointed looks coming from his relative. With each bit of information, a plan was forming in his mind. His anticipation grew. He was upset at Megan for not being there. But, reasoned that as soon as he put his plans in motion, his little angel was going to play on his side of the fence. Be dammed if he'd let her exit from his side as easily the next time. ACT TWO Scene One Over La Guardia Queens, New York Megan looked down at the crowded city below. It came closer with each circle the airplane completed. The Boroughs and shore line came into view then were left behind. The sight of the ships brought to mind the ruggedly handsome Russian sailor. He entered her thoughts more times than she cared to remember. Lately, those heated tiger eyes had crept regularly into her nightly dreams. She wondered where he might be and if he were okay. She sighed. She should not be here aboard a plane about to land in New York. She should be back in Ontario at the theatre, rehearsing for the lead in several of this year's productions. But the magnitude of what this trip could mean for her career had put a stop to all that. The letter had arrived, addressed to Jeffery Mann the stage director. He had been thrilled, as if he were the one responsible for the luck which had befallen her. Who was really the one granting the good fortune she did not as yet know? The onboard announcement filtered into her wayward thoughts. "We are now in final approach. Please ensure all hand-luggage has been re-stowed, that your chair and table are in the upright position and that your seat-belts are securely fastened." Megan heard and automatically checked. New York! She had been invited to audition for a part in an upcoming play. Which play she did not exactly know. She knew absolutely nothing about it, or the director, the producer or about the cast for that matter. She was baffled as to how her name reached this far to who ever was in charge. It wasn't as if she were an unknown. She'd been on the stage since she turned eighteen. At age twenty, she had been invited to study for two years in England. Only two years. Her stay had ended in humiliation when she'd returned to Canada to nurse a broken heart at the tender age of twenty-two. That was four years ago. How young and foolish had she been back then? Richard Rhodes. She cringed just remembering his name. She wondered where he was today. The young, handsome, up and coming brilliant Shakespearian actor had broken more than just her heart. He'd taken away much of her confidence too. She had been fortunate to meet Jeffery shortly after her return home. He'd literally bullied her, whipping her into a first rate actress. And it had only taken him three years to accomplish that fine feat. For the past season she had held her own. The reviews grew with each performance and each new season. Back at the theatre, the parts she'd been rehearsing were now being studied by another. Megan's stomach muscles tightened and it had nothing to do with the descending airplane. She was excited. There was no doubt about it. New York! Broadway! Wow! * * * Scene Two Manhattan "Is this your first trip to New York, Miss?" Megan turned. Her neck hurt from craning it to check the sky-scrapers. She looked at the limo driver. That had been a huge surprise. The uniformed man had been waiting at the baggage area with a sign bearing her name. She pinched herself before answering. "No, I came once as a teenager on a school trip to see A Chorus Line," she replied. "What's your name?" she politely asked the African American driver. "Cleveland, Miss," he answered. "Well, Mr. Cleveland..." "No, no Miss," he interrupted. "Not Mr...just Cleveland" he explained. "That's what the Boss calls me, seeing as how he found me on a street in Cleveland." "Someone found you on the street?" "Yes, Miss. I was what you'd call a homeless bum. Mr. Phillip, he's the Boss, well, he sort of rescued me and gave me a job," Cleveland said proudly. "That was very good of...er... Mr. Phillip," Megan shook her head, wondering about the millions of stories in the 'naked city'. "Yes Miss, that Mr. Phillip is one cool dude," Cleveland informed her. Cool dude indeed. What Megan needed to know was some details about this unexpected trip. She should try first to find out about the limo. "Tell me...eh Cleveland, how is it that you were there to meet my plane?" "Well, Miss. When the Boss sent for me first thing this morning and he said I was to get myself out to the airport..." "The Boss," Megan interrupted, "you mean Mr. Phillip sent you to get me?" "Yes, Miss," he stated, expertly handling the large automobile in the heavy traffic speeding through the tunnel. It appeared everyone was heading toward the city center. "But, I don't understand?" Megan voiced her doubts. "Who is Mr. Phillip?" "Well, Miss... he's the Boss!" "Yes, I get that," Megan was getting exasperated. "But exactly what does Mr. Phillip have to do with the theatre and the play?" "He's the Boss, Miss," Cleveland patiently repeated. Megan rubbed her now aching forehead. This was very complicated and getting more confusing by the minute. Before she could question the friendly Cleveland, he pulled the vehicle up to an hotel in Midtown, Manhattan. Megan jaw dropped. She stared at the man in the smartly tailored uniformed reaching to open her door. She stepped on to the sidewalk and her gaze automatically rose. 'The Plaza'. She was to stay in the famous Plaza Hotel? She turned to Cleveland who was helping another uniformed man to remove her luggage from the trunk of the limo. Before she could voice her question, the first man spoke. "This way Miss Walsh," he gestured to the lobby. "Your suite is ready." Her suite? They knew her by name? Megan moved forward ahead of the doorman. She mentally pulled herself together. No way was she going to gape and stare and act like the proverbial country mouse, even if that's how she felt. The lobby was impressive, but she refused to gawk. She ignored the others milling around and headed for the front desk. As if by magic she signed the registrar, thanked the proper people and was whisked by the elevator to her suite. Only after the bellman left, closing the door behind him did the starch leave her posture. Something very magical was happening and she had no idea who or what had started it all. * * * Scene Three Broadway Avenue, New York City Megan clutched the large manila envelope under her arm. Magic. A fairy Godmother had waved a magic wand and every one of Megan's dreams was coming true. There was a definite jaunt to her steps as she hurried along on the sidewalk of the city's famous street. "Good morning," Megan smilingly told surprised passersby. Nothing was going to dampen her spirits today. Inside the envelope, the one she'd found on the night table in her bedroom the previous evening, was the play. Who had placed it there she didn't know or care? Desdemona! Some wonderful dear soul was attempting to recreate Othello for the New York stage and she would read the part of Desdemona. The female lead! Megan did a twirl in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. From as far back as she could remember, everyone had commented that she looked just like the paintings of Desdemona. When she was old enough to appreciate what was said to her, Megan spent every secreted hour reading the Shakespearian tragedy. She laughed aloud. She could play the part with her eyes closed. Today she would read for the part of one of her favourite plays, and just thinking about it brought her such joy that she couldn't sit still. The accompanying note had said Cleveland would pick her up and take her to the theatre. It had been signed with a simple P. She concluded that it must come from the fabulous Mr. Phillip, Cleveland's 'Boss'. But Megan was far too excited to wait for the limo. From the previous school trip, she knew the theatre district well. A refreshing walk on such a glorious spring morning was welcomed. With her spirits high and her career tucked under her arm Megan raced to her future. A future, where the sky was the limit! * * * Scene Four The Myjestic Theatre I'm a bit early," Megan explained to the efficient looking assistant leading her towards the dressing rooms. The name tag pinned to her lapel claimed her name was Agnes. "Not a problem," the kindly woman hugging the clip-board replied. "I'd say you're probably excited or nervous." "A little of both," Megan answered. "Just as I thought. Well, here you are" she indicated a change room. "There is a costume that you are required to wear. Do you need help?" she asked Megan. "No thank you Agnes, I'm sure I can manage," Megan smiled at the woman. "Do you know what's going to happen?" she asked. "Let's see," she consulted some notes on the board. "You have about half-hour to get ready. Oh by the way, you're supposed to leave your hair unbound, flowing down your body." "Okay," Megan nodded. "When will the others arrive?" "Oh, you're the only one reading for this role." At Megan's obvious surprise, Agnes continued, "Didn't you know that?" Shocked, Megan could only shake her head. She was the only one to read for the lead? That was unheard of... What would happen if she failed to please those in control? She must not, could not think of failure now. With practiced determination she calmed herself. "Will I be reading alone?" Megan asked. "No. The other parts have already been cast. I understand you'll read with the actor selected to play the part of Iago," the woman said kindly. "I'll come and get you in about twenty minutes to take you up on stage. Will that give you enough time?" "Yes, thank you again, Agnes," Megan replied. Just as promised Agnes arrived twenty minutes later to take her to the stage area. Megan mentally rehearsed the desired lines from the play. She passed stage hands hard at work on sets. The scene was daunting and she tried to put it from her mind. Failure was not in her vocabulary. The future was as bright as she wanted to make it. Agnes left her center stage and moved down the stairs into the darkened theatre. Megan knew there were several people in the seats. People of importance. She wondered how soon she'd meet the others; the actors and the director. The cue director came towards her. His friendly smile beamed. "Well now Megan," he said, "are you ready?" "Yes," she returned his smile. "Good, good." He consulted his notes. "We'll start here..." He outlined to Megan what the director wanted. "Ha... here comes our Iago," he stated, looking over Megan's shoulder. Megan turned. The welcoming smile for her soon-to-be partner froze on her lips. She died a thousand deaths. The man walking towards her was her worst nightmare come true. Had she thought a short while ago that nothing could spoil her high spirits? Well how wrong she was. Richard Rhodes! The one and only. Richard Rhodes moved self-assuredly to her side. A puzzled look covered his handsome face as he gazed at her. All of Megan's hurt and humiliation, buried for so many years, rose to the surface. She didn't even care at the moment that he appeared not to recognize her. She swung her hand upward with all her might. The resulting sound of flesh on flesh vibrated through the suddenly silent theatre. Everyone appeared dumb-struck. People were paused in some form of action or another. Everyone, save Megan. She used the time by going into quick action. She lifted the long trailing skirt high and made a swift exit,... stage left. * * * Scene Five Outside Central Park Megan sat ramrod straight upon the tufted cushion. It was still a glorious day, but she stared unseeingly at the passing scenery. The horse-drawn carriage in which she rode, rounded the corner and entered Central Park. The clip-clop noise from the horse's hooves kept perfect time with her thumping heart beat. At any other time the rhythm would certainly lull her to sleep. Not today. Megan realized she'd blown it! She had been hastily throwing clothes and toiletries into her suitcase when the phone call came. It had taken a few moments to comprehend the message being relayed to her from the front desk clerk. He asked her to come immediately to the lobby, as transportation waited to take her to an important meeting. Megan had not asked who had sent for her. She knew. The dreaded 'Boss', Mr. Phillip. No doubt Cleveland had arrived to take her to meet with the 'cool dude'. But it was not the limo waiting. She found herself handed up into a horse drawn carriage. A very friendly, talkative driver regaled her with historical tidbits as he took off. Megan hardly listened. She recalled the scene at the theatre. Frustrated, she wanted to pull her hair out at the injustice of life's little quirks. Who would have thought she'd blow the best chance of advancing her career, on a no good, low-down, dirty...? What was the use? That chance had disappeared with one resounding slap. Megan giggled. She just could not seem to help herself. She recalled the stunned look on Richard's handsome face. Her giggles intensified. The driver turned a questioning gaze at her and she shrugged, muttering like a ninny about the thrill of being in New York. Ha! Fat chance she'll be here for another day. "Hey by the way, exactly where are you taking me?" she asked, turning serious. "Tavern on the Green," he answered. "You are?" Megan couldn't believe her ears. The posh restaurant was famous with the 'in' crowd; the who's who of New York City society. It was frequented by wealthy patrons and actors. It was built in the park and had the appearance of a giant green-house. Well, well, well, Mr. Phillip was going to give her that biblical last supper. No, since it was early afternoon, then it would be her last lunch. Megan collapsed against the back-rest. Jeffery was going to have her head. Lord, her parents were in for a huge disappointment. Her mother would probably cry for months, no maybe years! When the carriage rolled up before the restaurant doors, Megan wanted to beg the driver to take her back to the hotel. The man jumped off his perch and came to help her down. She stared at his out-stretched hand a long time, before she acquiesced. Once on the sidewalk, she squared her shoulders and moved to the opening. She might as well get this over with. "Megan Walsh," she addressed the maitre'd. "I am here to..." "Ah, yes Miss Walsh," the man cut her off. "Your party is already here. This way please." She followed the man's brisk pace through the other diners. Megan got the brief impression of tinkling glasses, muted conversation interrupted by the occasional spattering of laughter, soft music, and potted plants, all mixed with the unmistakable scent of mouth-watering food. It was around a grouping of trees that the maitre'd stopped at a table. He pulled out the second chair. Megan realized a large male was seated opposite. She slipped into the vacant chair, pausing to thank the other man, before she faced the 'Boss'. For the second time that day Megan died a thousand deaths. Never, absolutely never in her wildest dreams, had she ever envisioned those tiger eyes staring back at her in a situation such as she now found herself. She blinked rapidly several times, hoping the illusion she'd conjured up would disappear. No such luck! Panic began to build inside Megan. Shock kept her glued to her chair. Heat invaded those wonderful eyes and Megan watched the smile as it played on those lips she dreamed of so often. "Hello, Megan." He spoke in perfect un-accented English. It was too much, too soon for Megan. She bolted! He followed, catching up with her several yards away from the restaurant as she stumbled through the park. "Megan! Stop!" he pulled her to a halt. Megan thought of fighting him. Maybe kicking, screaming or pulling his hair out might give her some badly needed satisfaction. He turned her around to face him. He gently took both her shoulders in his large hands and shook her. Megan snapped to attention. How dare he? Her shock ebbed, as did her panic. Now she was angry! He was the reason she was here. He was to blame for the embarrassing scene with Richard earlier. He must have thought that she was caving in to her panic. He shook her again. She'd had enough! Megan's head shot up. She was so angry she could have spit. Before she could utter one word, she saw him shake his head. "If you slap me as you did Rhodes, I might just slap you back," he said matter-of-factly. Megan sucked in a shocked breath. "And, anyway, why would you want to hit me?" he asked. "I'm the one giving you the part of Desdemona." Megan's mouth fell open. Giving her the part? Was he insane? Richard Rhodes would never share a stage with her after what she'd done this morning...would he? "Who are you?" "Ah, we finally get to that," he smiled, his devastating smile. Did the man know what that small action coupled with his heated gaze, did to her body? Or, about the ache that it caused to flare inside her. Her breathing faltered as he reached over with his fingers and tipped her chin up. The action not only successfully closed her mouth, which had still been hanging open, but it brought her gaze to his tiger eyes. "Since you ran away before I returned to properly thank you for nursing me through my injury, you missed the introductions," he said softly. "You also left the theatre and the restaurant before I could say much of anything. So, Megan, please stay quiet for a few seconds, and no slapping," he chuckled. Megan drew away from his nearness. She took a step back and folded her arms across her chest. It was a very negative stance, but at that moment, Megan wasn't feeling terribly tolerant. She waited. He stared hard at her for several seconds. When he assured himself that she was not going anywhere, he spoke. My name is Phillip Mistovavich. I am..." "Wait a minute," Megan interrupted. "You are Russian?" He nodded. "And you speak perfect English...?" "Why shouldn't I? I'm American!" "What?" "Megan, my sweet Angel," he reached over to place a finger over her lips, unaware that she'd gone quite still. His sweet Angel! Megan's breathing picked up a notch. "Shhh...please, let me finish one sentence," he begged. Megan clamped her lips together. She clenched her jaw to keep from screaming in frustration. He must have sensed her actions. He took a step to close the distance between them and brought both hands up to cup her face. His thumbs gently massaged her jaw. "Now... where were we?" he asked. His nearness continued doing strange wonderful things to her. He smelled so sexy. "Ah, yes. I'm American. Although my father was a Russian diplomat, my mother is American. It's because of the Russian side that most people call me Mr. Phillip," he paused to make sure he had her attention. "You've met my Uncle Boris. I was only on his ship to practice my rather inadequate Russian and work on writing a new play," again he paused. "I'm also a playwright." He had Megan's full attention. She couldn't take her eyes off the handsome man. "During my...ah...injury," he stuttered, "I thought you were an Angel. Did you know that?" Megan could not answer. Phillip's hands were still cupping her face, only now the massaging had turned to gentle caresses. "Anyway," he continued, apparently not expecting an answer. "I had thought to try a Shakespearian Tragedy. When I found out, from your parents, that you were a stage actress, I instantly thought of doing Othello," he gazed intently at her. "You do know that you make a convincing Desdemona, don't you?" Megan returned the stare. What could she say? After a moment she said. "Phillip." How easily his name came to her. She licked her suddenly dried lips. "Phillip, you cannot pin your hopes on a successful play, just by the way I look." "You don't think you could do justice to the part?" he asked softly. "Of course I can," Megan returned heatedly. "It's just that... Richard...eh..." "You love him that much." The words were spoken just as softly, but Megan got the feeling that Phillip's breath remained suspended. "Love...are you insane?" she hissed. "I despise the man." He smiled his beautiful smile. "So, what is really your objection?" he asked. "Did you see what happened this morning? Were you there to see what ..?" "Yes, I saw," he uttered in that casual way, she was beginning to understand. "I also asked Rhodes what it was all about." "You asked...!" "Well, my Angel, you ran as if the devil were after you," he chuckled. "Who was there left to ask?" Angel! He'd again called her his. He was confusing the hell out of her. "So, Rhodes is signed. Do you want to give it a try?" Megan searched his gaze. The tiger eyes burned into her. He was offering her a bright future...but would she end up losing her soul as well as her heart? To work with him, to possibly see him everyday…Could she give that up now that he'd re-entered her life? Megan closed her eyes to break the intense gaze. God help her, she could not give up on her career, even if he ended up breaking her heart. She would go home and have Jeffery put her back together again. "You decided to do this play, only because you thought I'd make a decent Desdemona?" Megan felt she had to ask. He stepped closer. His hands cupping her face tilted it up to his. He was so near their breaths mingled. He stared deeply into her eyes. "Megan, I've waited a life-time for you to play Desdemona. Say yes." "Yes." He closed the tiny space separating them and kissed her hard. Epilogue The Plaza Hotel New York City She had done it. The reviews had raved about her fabulous performances. Her parents had even made it on opening night. The play had been a huge success, mainly due to Phillip's skillful direction. He had scored a hit, by staging a limited run of six months. Because of that fine piece of strategy, every night had been sold out. Megan had even formed a fledgling friendship with Richard. Everything had gone as it should have. Yet Megan was miserable. She had hidden her hurt from everyone, except Katherine and Boris. Phillip had moved her into his mother's lovely home for the duration of the rehearsal and play. The elegant woman had become Megan's second mother. Since Boris was spending a lot of time with Katherine, he too knew of Megan's well hidden sadness. Megan realized a deep relationship was slowly developing between her two wonderful new friends. What saved Megan's pride was that the couple thought her sadness was due to the play's ending run. Megan wondered what they might say if they knew she'd fallen head over heels for the handsome Phillip. Since the day in the park, ten months earlier, Phillip had not, by word or touch, shown any interest in her other than that of a director for his star. The only consolation Megan had to help assuage her aching heart, was the number of times those tiger eyes burned into her, when she caught him unawares. Those eyes promised heaven, but Phillip did nothing physical. Ten months. Megan's nerves were at a fevered pitch. If Phillip so much as shook her hand, Megan feared she'd go up in smoke. Phillip did not show up at the wind-up party. The festivities had been going on for close to two hours and still there was no sign of the celebrated director. He was the talk of the town. Several weeks earlier his photos had covered the entertainment section of the news. What hurt Megan was the beautiful woman, hanging on to his arm in the photo. She was Russian with a royal title. Megan left the celebrations in the ballroom and made her way to her room. By some fluke she'd been given the same room as before. That time she'd spent only two days at the famous hotel. She opened the door of her suite and flicked on a lamp. Her long, emerald green taffeta skirt swished as she walked. The matching sweet-heart velvet and lace top hugged her upper body. Megan kicked off the velvet high-heels and pulled out the matching ribbon which had held her hair back. She was on her way to her bedroom, when she noticed, for the first time, the wheeled-trolley in the center of the room. She approached the rose filled vase, standing upon it. In the dim light she saw the now familiar hand-writing on the accompanying card. 'Happy Anniversary' it read. It was signed 'P'. Anniversary? Megan thought hard. She studied the card again. In the upper right-hand corner was today's date. February 14th. Had one year passed already? She saw the chilling champagne. It was uncorked and a lone glass stood beside it. Megan helped herself. Someone, maybe the person who delivered the trolley, had popped the cork for her. She took a sip. Where and with whom could Phillip be at that moment? Why would he have missed the party? Taking her glass she moved on stocking feet through the lounge into her darkened bedroom. She headed for the window seat. 'Happy Anniversary'. She sipped and watched the first snow-flakes flutter by the window. Megan sat on the window-seat, pressing her aching head against the chilled pane. The bedside lamp behind her flicked on. Megan's head snapped around. Her emerald eyes clashed with and held the heated tiger gaze. Phillip Mistovavich, devastating handsome in full evening clothes, sat propped up against her pillows. It was the second time she'd seen him dressed like this. The first had been on opening night. His long tux-clad legs were casually crossed at the ankles. Without breaking eye contact he took a sip from a glass in his hand. Neither spoke a word for several long moments. But Megan recognized the hunger in those heated eyes. Her heart thumped madly in her chest. Her throat felt tight. Like the handsome man in her bed, Megan brought the glass to her mouth. She licked the excess liquid from her lips. Her action brought Phillip off the bed in one fluid movement. He slowly approached her. Megan stood. Without her high-heels she was several inches shorter than Phillip, but that was the furthest thought from her mind at the moment. He stopped close, yet not touching her. When he did reach for her, it was to remove the glass from her shaking fingers. He placed them both on the window-seat. Warm fingers came back to cup her face. He lowered his mouth to within a hair's breath of hers. Ever so softly he whispered to her. "I've waited a life time for you, Angel." "Phillip..." his name was just a sigh before he closed the space between them. Heaven! Megan was in heaven. Phillip kissed her as if he were a thirsty man. She grew weak. Her knees buckled. She need not have worried Phillip scooped her up in one quick movement and headed for her bed. Not once did his lips break contact with hers. With infinite care he lowered her to the bed and followed her down. He ended the kiss and gently eased a breath away. He looked down, his heated gaze devouring her. Megan raised trembling fingers to his face. She caressed his brow, running her tips over his cheek to his mouth. Phillip's hand covered hers and he pressed her open palm to his lips. He gazed longingly at her. "Forgive me?" he finally whispered. "What for?" Megan asked, puzzled. "For wanting you from the first moment I saw you, and for not being able to do anything about it." "What stopped you?" Megan asked, still confused. "You," he said, kissing her palm once more. "Your career..." he must have noticed her frown so he continued. "Megan, my sweet Angel, you were a relatively unknown, I put everything on the line to hire you for the part. I could not add the hunger I felt for you to that scenario," he paused to brush a sweet soft kiss across her lips. "If anyone suspected what I felt for you," he continued, his voice low and husky, "they would have concluded that was the only reason you got the job. I had faith in your ability. I knew you would be the best Desdemona ever!" Megan smiled. "I love you," she whispered. "And I love you with all my heart...my soul...and my body," he punctuated the sentence with several deep kisses. "Will you marry me and put me out of my misery?" "What about a certain titled woman?" Megan had to ask. Her heart beat played out a wondrous, happy tune. "Jealous, my Angel?" When Megan remained silent, Phillip continued. "There are two reasons why you should not feel so." He singled out two of her fingers. He kissed the tip of the first and said. "One, I have given my heart to a beautiful angel and have nothing left for any other woman. And two," he kiss the second fingertip, "the lady in question is a relative!" "You have royal relatives?" Megan was shocked. "From way back, before the Romanoffs," he replied simply. Megan shook her head in wonder. She stilled as he continued. "Actually my Sweet, I inherited a title from my father when he died," he moved close to whisper. "How would you like to be a Countess?" He gave Megan no time to answer as his mouth came down swift and hard on hers. Several breathless moments later, he whispered huskily. "I love you Megan. Say yes." "Yes!" Megan's wildest dreams had all come true. Her Count sealed their fate with a scorching kiss which ignited them both. Volume 3 Hearts Content by Yasmin John-Thorpe CAD $3.50 or 5 for $15.00 + $3.50 (Postage) USD $3.00 or 5 for $13.00 + $3.50 (Postage) To order this book, click HERE |
chris@websitesbychris.com
© 2005