Ever since my romance with Ella ended I've been at loose ends and tonight was no exception.
It's been drizzling rain off and on all day and I've been marooned in my condo in the historic Flatiron building down near the lake.
I needed to get out so I decided to go for a rainy night drive in my Bentley—the Bentley Continental, fastback coupé my dad imported back when he was alive.
Even though he’s been dead ten years, I still feel proud to keep the car in the way he would if he were still around. It’s tied me to him and the past—like I’m still tied to Ella and all her jazz.
So, I'm out driving aimlessly and end up back in the old streets where my dad grew up. Yeah, it's sappy and nostalgic, but these things I do when I feel melancholic.
As I'm driving through the rain a figure emerges out of the mist—a young blonde woman wandering aimlessly in the middle of the road. She looks dazed and she’s soaked to the skin.
When I stop to help her I find out she's got a head wound and want to take her to the nearest hospital but she resists—so what do I do? I take her home to my condo by the lake.
I’m really concerned about her. I’ve got a closet full of Ella’s clothes and she can change into something warm. Maybe once she's settled, she’ll let me treat her head wound—then, I’ll fix her something to eat and try to get her to go to an Emergency ward.
Well, that's the plan.
I drive and she sleeps. She’s still woozy when I get her up to my condo, but seems to be coming around.
I set her up on the couch with a throw blanket while I root through Ella’s clothes looking for something practical and warm for her to wear. It’s hard—Ella doesn’t do practical, and well, frankly most of her clothes would scarcely keep anyone warm.
I settle on a dark cashmere sweater and designer jeans—both from Sak’s Fifth Avenue and both sized medium. I set them out on the bed along with undergarments still in their original packaging. Don’t worry—I’m not presuming. Women figure these things out.
While the girl’s in the bedroom changing, I make toast, coffee and bacon and eggs—it’s my specialty, and really, that’s all I have in the fridge to eat.
The fireplace is lit and I put on one of Ella’s Thirties' Jazz albums.
I’m staring out at the rain when I sense a presence behind me and turn and fall into those huge blue eyes again.
“I’m Kath—what’s your name?” she asks.
“J-Jes Connors,” I stammer. She’s incredibly attractive—and somehow more so, wearing Ella’s clothes and smelling of her perfume.
She smirks at my frank appraisal of her beauty.
“Well, I just want you to know, Jes—you’re a real gentleman.”
She says it in a whispered, slightly mocking tone that somehow leaves me breathless.
Most women nowadays don’t talk that way—refined and rarefied—breathy almost.
Ella certainly didn’t possess that art—there was nothing sotto or subtle about her. Instead, she had this gravelly, coarse purr women seem to cultivate thinking it’s sexy, when it sounds more like a growl.
And as for her behaviour...well, it wasn't exactly understated.
This girl seems out of place in time, like this building I live in, but with her it's as if she stumbled into the 21st century by accident.
And unlike Ellla, she’s soft and gentle with a dreamy look in her eyes.
I'm mesmerized by her far away look. It telegraphs she's longing for some long-sought-after something.
I wish it were for me, but it’s not. And I wish she were from here, but she's not...
But I'd like to go with her wherever she's going, though I'm not sure Time will let me.
