My Love Possessed

By Robert C. Novarro

To everyone who meets him, Porter Barrington lives a
charmed life. Hes young, handsome and a Princeton
graduate who holds a responsible position in his familys
lucrative ad agency. Then Susan Ashton appears at his
offifi ce door and introduces him to a new world of sexual
pleasure. Soon she possesses him body, soul and mind.
Although hes deliriously happy, he becomes the eye of a
storm and his world soon spins out of control. Through all
of this, he is drawn closer and closer to her flfl ame which
will either warm or destroy him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468594522

Robert C. Novarro

Robert C. Novarro taught middle school history for 29 years and won the Distinguished Educators Award in 2000. In addition to writing, he is an avid orchid grower. Robert is the author of Scarred, Bound by Blood, Il Castrato and My Love Possessed. Robert lives in Bayside, New York and Naples, Florida with his wife Angela.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Why was he going back? Porter felt something inexorably drawing him back to the Victorian mansion just east of Valhalla, New York, which he hadn’t seen in almost a year. In fact, if it weren’t for his psychiatrist’s advice, he knew he never would have returned. The rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers kept Porter alert; he needed to concentrate on driving along the wet, oil-slicked pavement of Route 87 North, which he had followed after leaving Manhattan just a few hours earlier on that rainy Sunday afternoon. Before long, the windshield wipers seemed to take on the measured cadence of his doctor’s monotone voice, repeating,

Porter, you really must return to the house, you must return, you must return… or these nightmares will keep coming back.

Hate is a strong word, yet his love had long ago withered and died, transformed into a full-blown, unadulterated malevolence.

As he approached the familiar exit, he moved to the right lane and exited onto a secondary road where the traffic was less congested. The hum of his ‘64 red Jaguar XKE convertible’s motor lulled him once more into a sense of security, something that had been violently ripped away from him that fateful day in March, almost a year earlier. In fact, it had been on a rainy day just like this one that he had last visited Susan to remove the last of his possessions from their bedroom. They had argued viciously. The reminder of the last day they spent together made him shiver involuntarily, and he almost passed the turn down the country lane. He quickly righted the steering wheel, but the sudden pull on the wet road caused the car to skid and jerk to a stop on the grassy embankment next to the shoulder of the road. For a moment, Porter could not catch his breath. He rested his head on the steering wheel to pull himself together.

She still can get to me after all this time. Get a grip, Porter said to himself, hoping his heartbeat would return to its normal rhythm soon. The scar on his chest burned like the wound he received the day the blade of a kitchen knife plunged into his flesh, tearing through his chest muscles and hitting a rib.

You’re a lucky, young man, Mr. Barrington, the surgeon at the emergency room had said. The attack missed your heart by just a few inches! He had immediately been taken into surgery, and the next few days in the hospital were a medicinal blur of white walls, white sheets, nurses dressed in white uniforms, and numerous unfamiliar faces who kept asking him the same annoying question: How are you feeling? Porter wanted to reply, but his mouth didn’t seem to work, and he kept falling back into a fitful sleep filled with disturbing images.

Months later, after much rehabilitation, he had returned to his job at Barrington and Anderson, but instead of settling once more into his comfortable, familiar life, all he seemed to be able to do was push around papers on his desk and ask his assistant to say that he was in a meeting whenever someone called. How could he concentrate on work when all he could remember was that first meeting with Susan Ashton?

Later, he began missing entire days of work as his creative juices withered. So it was inevitable when his boss, Freddy Colbert, called him into his office for an impromptu confab. Though Freddy’s tone began with just the right amount of sympathy, before long, he got to the point.

Porter, perhaps you should take an extended leave of absence until you’re feeling more like yourself. Of course, Porter knew this usually translated to, Don’t come back, you’re finished here! but because he was the grandson of one of the company’s founders, Porter knew there was no such implied message in this statement. With a hearty handshake, he was then left to wander, free as a bird, onto the city’s teeming streets.

But wait a minute, that wasn’t Freddy, was it? I must be thinking of someone else, he thought to himself. He lifted one hand to massage his temples. Was his confusion due to Susan, who had tried to methodically drive him slowly out of his mind? Or was he still living in some part of the past he didn’t want to face?

For a while, he had stayed home watching insipid talk shows on television or staring at e-mails from concerned friends whom he had no desire to answer. He didn’t even bother to pick up the phone when a previous girlfriend whose name he had forgotten left a message on his answering machine, asking him to call her back.

Months passed with little change, and night and day seemed to blend into a never-ending expanse of time. Finally, his psychiatrist suggested that he return to Briarwood Estate. At first, he had obstinately refused to listen, but after several sessions, the doctor slowly eroded away his resistance. And, as his doctor had reminded him during each session, Porter could never truly put the nightmarish events that he had lived through behind him unless he went back to the scene of the crime.

He checked his appearance in the rearview mirror. Brushing his coal-black hair from his forehead, he caught sight of his brown eyes staring back at him. I’m fine, he thought, I just don’t want to make this trip.

When he tried to pull back into the street, the car stalled. He shifted into park and turned the key in the ignition, but the engine only grinded complainingly.

Not now. Not when I’m so close, Porter groaned, pumping the gas pedal as he prayed for the motor to turn over. Finally, it reluctantly started once more and, shifting into drive, he stepped on the gas. His back wheels ground up the grass until the traction kicked in and he was back on the road. After about fifteen minutes, he steered the vehicle into an almost hidden, gravel-filled lane. The canopy of trees, whose leaves shaded the avenue in the summer, now resembled crooked, bare fingers clasping each other. Pushing on, he drove over the rise that overlooked the house. Putting on the brakes, he sat staring at the ominous estate before him. Porter couldn’t believe that he was there once more, so long after he had almost been killed, but he knew his psychiatrist was right—he could never reclaim his life until he met the bane of his existence head on. With a deep sigh combined with a sense of renewed courage, he drove his sports car down the rest of the way and came to a stop on the curved driveway in front of the mansion.

Getting out of the car and slamming the door shut, he looked up at the imposing edifice that loomed above him like a brooding giant. The house stood silent and eerie as if some omnipotent evil were resting, impatiently waiting for someone to reawaken its hunger. Walking up the granite steps now covered in weeds, Porter felt a sudden chill, but he blamed it on the damp weather.

Oh, the plans Susan and I had for this place, he reminded himself, but that part of his life was totally over. The yellow police tape he remembered had been ripped off the front door, and he reached out and grabbed the cold brass doorknob. It was locked tight. Pushing his hand into his pocket, he grabbed his key ring and found the gold key to the door. Rubbing it between his fingers, he thought about the day Susan found out that she had inherited this house from her great aunt Leonora.

Reminiscing about that caused a flood of disturbing memories to return to his mind. Susan had become an assistant to Frederick Colbert at Barrington and Anderson even before she had graduated from NYU with a Master’s degree in marketing. Blonde, bubbly and bright, she soon proved herself a human dynamo, taking up any challenge and successfully accomplishing each task she was assigned.

At twenty-seven, Porter had had many girlfriends before, but none had sustained his interest for long. Susan, however, was another story altogether. As easy as she was on the eyes, Susan was also his intellectual equal. That was why he still had difficulty comprehending what had happened to change her.

Enough of that, Porter muttered to himself as he inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, its rusting hinges protesting loudly. We were going to have those hinges replaced, he reminded himself, but that’s not going to happen now. The small amount of light that the rainy day provided spilled into the shadows of this deathly, silent domain. With some trepidation, Porter walked into the deserted residence. The foyer was somewhat in disarray, just as it had been when the police had combed through the house looking for evidence.

The cops! he said to himself with animosity. Once he had regained consciousness in the hospital, they did nothing but badger and eventually threaten him if he refused to be forthcoming about how the attempted murder had occurred. At first, he had claimed that the events were fuzzy, and his recollection was understandably unsure, but the cops would not accept this answer for long, and their pressure on him discernibly increased. Finally, after weeks of unending questioning in the hospital and after he returned to his Manhattan apartment, Porter had broken down and given them the evidence that they needed to arrest Susan. Could he still be in love with her? He drove the thought out of his head.

After her arraignment, Porter fell into a deep depression. Finally, he listened to his family and friends and made an appointment with Dr. Martin Abramson, who came highly recommended. After only a few sessions, Dr. Abramson tapped into Porter’s deep anxiety. Guilt-ridden, Porter opened up like the floodgates of a dam.

I don’t sleep well at night, doctor, Porter had proclaimed, but I worry that I will get hooked on the sleeping pills you prescribed for me. Doctor Abramson had listened intently until Porter had finished, the air charged with anticipation as he waited anxiously for the doctor’s next words.

It is my considered opinion that the current state you are now experiencing will continue until you are willing to face two challenges that will fully eradicate the source of your anxiety.

What can I do?

First, you must go back to the scene of the crime to acknowledge your assault and, following that, you will need to visit your attacker at the Creighton Asylum and finally confront her.

I don’t know if I can.

Until you do these things, the bearded, bespectacled psychiatrist advised him, there will never be any resolution to your angst, and no amount of medication will relieve it.

Armed with these instructions, Porter was ready to take on the first assignment. He turned the key and opened the door.

As the electricity had been turned off long before, Porter walked over to the shutters in the living room, throwing them open and letting in the light for the first time in nearly a year. Slowly, he turned around to inspect the room. There was no surprise that the room was in shambles, for not only had the police rummaged carelessly through the house, but the ongoing renovations before that fateful evening had also halted.

Another thing that has been left unfinished, he said, his voice eerily echoing throughout the room. Porter climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Once inside, he felt his way in the dark to the windows and opened the shutters. He noticed the two boxes stacked along the wall just where he had left them to take out to his car that day. Their bed remained unmade, just as it had been when he confronted her. The thought of that day was like stepping into ice-cold bath water. It made him shiver unconsciously. Even though she had tried to end his life, Porter could not understand his devastation when Susan was found guilty of attempted murder due to insanity and was then sentenced to serve her time at The Creighton Asylum for the Criminally Insane. It was his testimony along with the state’s evidence that had convicted Susan, but her own deranged ramblings on the witness stand led twelve people to unanimously agree that she was guilty, and her fate was finally sealed.

Porter looked around the room, bemoaning the money that had been wasted in an attempt to renovate the house. The detritus of sawdust and plaster dust only added to the mansion’s disheveled state. He stood at the top of the stairs, remembering how the argument had started in their bedroom.

Susan was always out of sorts near the end, he remembered, shaking his head. Hoping to get out of there as soon as possible, he left the bedroom with his boxes. He looked down the steps from the landing and envisioned her once more following him down to the foyer, where she had confronted him. For a moment, he felt again the sting of her slap on his left cheek. Slowly, he made his way downstairs with the boxes, but before he left the house, he knew he would have to visit the kitchen, where he had been brutally attacked. Leaving the boxes by the front door, Porter hesitantly moved to the back of the house. As it had been that last day, the kitchen had been ripped apart by the construction crew. Cabinets had been taken down and the stove disconnected, with only the refrigerator still plugged into the outlet. The walls had remained stripped down to their timbers. Everything was just as it had been that day, when Susan ran into the kitchen. Porter realized now that it would have been smarter just to leave the house instead of following her, but by that time, it was too late. What was done was done. She had dashed around screaming and feverishly tearing through box after box until she found what she was looking for—a large kitchen knife. Porter had tried to grab Susan’s wrist to prevent her from striking out at him, but it was as if she had been possessed by something so powerful that she was no longer herself.

Recalling the searing pain of the blade as it plunged into his chest, he winced involuntarily as he had that day. Porter couldn’t recall anything after that; he must have blacked out.

Passing through the living room, the only part of the house where the renovation was complete, Porter stopped in front of the fireplace mantel and looked up above it with some consternation. There, in its familiar place, hung the oil painting of Susan’s great aunt Leonora. He had never really become acquainted with her before she had passed away, yet Porter felt somehow that he knew her more now than he had ever before. It wasn’t that her visage in the portrait was extremely ugly, though the sight of her, in truth, had made his flesh crawl, it was her eyes, just like the first time he had seen the painting and every time after that, which left him feeling as if she were watching him, still alive, and uncomfortably scrutinizing him.

Porter had tried many times to convince Susan to replace the portrait with something atmospherically brighter, and although he had thought he could get her to change her mind, as time passed she became increasingly more adamant that it would remain just where it was and would only be removed over her dead body. He finally tore his eyes away from the disturbing image and moved on.

Being back at the house where he and Susan had spent such happy hours and the equal decline of their relationship was proving too much for him. He grabbed the boxes and slammed the front door shut for the last time. He placed his possessions in the trunk of his car and got back in the driver’s seat, where he sat for a few moments while looking back at the estate.

God damn this place, he cursed under his breath. Everything would have been fine if Susan hadn’t inherited this house. Someone should have taken a wrecking ball to it long ago. He shook off his animosity and started the engine somewhat reluctantly as he considered his next destination.

The clock on his dashboard read 1:17 p.m. Porter knew he was facing at least a four-hour drive, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of putting off the visit for another time. But he knew that if he didn’t follow through now, he most likely never would. Strengthening his waning resolve, he put his foot on the gas pedal and pulled out of the driveway, the tires spitting gravel as it took off.

CHAPTER 2

Pulling out on to the highway artery once more, Porter settled into his seat as comfortably as he could in preparation for the long drive ahead. Maneuvering the car into the center lane, he turned on the radio, hoping it might distract him. Though he was listening half-heartedly, one song captured his attention. The soulful sound of Etta James singing, "At last, my love has come along," filled his ears.

That hits a little too close to home, he said to himself, turning off the radio. The Jaguar moved along the road rapidly. Porter had loved this classic car ever since his father had inherited it from his grandfather, and he had become the proud owner since his own father’s death five years earlier.

Not everything one can inherit is worthwhile, he thought to himself. I wish I had carried out my threat and burned Briarwood to the ground. Then, maybe all this would never have occurred.

As he pushed on, he didn’t even notice the beauty of the bucolic surroundings he passed. His mind drifted to the events that had led up to his present predicament.

###

It had been almost love at first sight when Porter looked up and saw Susan Ashton standing by his office door. She was a vision of female perfection, wearing a mauve dress that flirted with her knees and a single strand of pearls that hung from her alluring neck.

Pardon me, she had said as Porter lifted his eyes from the work on his desk to the statuesque, blonde, blue-eyed beauty. Porter was too enthralled by the vision of this divine creature to even answer her. I’m looking for Mr. Colbert’s office, she continued.

His throat felt suddenly parched and tight as he found himself focusing on the red lipstick that coated her luscious lips. After a moment of awkward silence, Porter finally cleared his head and said, His office is two doors down, on the right. The spell was broken as she disappeared down the hallway. As he went back to the papers on his desk, he couldn’t stop wondering who this beauty was—and, more importantly, how he could meet her.

The morning dragged on, and by noon, he had accomplished almost nothing. He realized that he wouldn’t get much more done anyway because his assistant had called in sick, so he decided to go out to lunch. Putting on his suit jacket and splashing a bit of cologne on his face, which he kept in his desk drawer for times like these, Porter checked his reflection in the mirror and walked over to Freddy’s office, but when he arrived at his supervisor’s door, no one was there. He walked over to Colbert’s assistant, Betty, who said, Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington. Betty was nothing much to look at, but Freddy always boasted that she was a dream of an assistant. She was a dwarfish, plump woman with dyed black hair done up in a beehive reminiscent of the sixties. Her make-up always appeared to have been plastered on her face.

Do you know where Mr. Colbert is? inquired Porter.

Mr. Colbert has taken his new intern out to lunch.

"So that’s who she is, mused Porter to himself. Do you know where they are lunching?"

He had me make reservations for lunch at The Four Seasons.

"Pretty classy for lunch with a new intern," he thought. He’s trying to impress her with his money and connections. I’ve got to move quickly before that married letch gets to her before I do. How long have they been gone? he queried as casually as he could as he glanced at the Rolex on his wrist.

They left about twenty minutes ago.

Realizing he still had time and elated with the news, he said, Thanks, Betty, as he walked to the elevator. When the doors opened in the marble, mirrored lobby, the lunch crowd spilled out with him in all directions. Walking out into the sunlight of an unusually warm April afternoon, Porter went to the curb to hail a taxi. After a half a dozen whizzed by him, one finally pulled over. Porter climbed into the back seat and announced, 99 East 52nd.

The cab driver looked at him and countered, Midtown traffic is really congested today. It’s going to take a little more time than usual.

There’s an extra twenty in it for you if you get me there as soon as possible.

You got it, buddy. As the taxi sped off, Porter wondered what was happening to him. He had never been this impulsive with any other girl. What did this one have, in the few seconds he had talked to her, that had so mesmerized him? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was determined to find out.

It was amazing what a twenty-dollar incentive could do. The driver weaved between cars with dangerous precision blasting his horn as he recklessly maneuvered through narrow openings and braked with a lurch as they arrived in front of the restaurant. Porter righted his tie and hair and walked with an air of casual dignity into the restaurant.

Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington, the maître d’ greeted him. I’m afraid the restaurant is full, but I’ll see what I can do to get a table for you right away.

Don’t bother. I’m joining Mr. Colbert for lunch. Porter followed him into The Grill Room, with its walnut-paneled walls and soaring two-story windows. The sound of lunchtime chatter and the clinking of silverware on fine china plates filled the air. As they moved closer to the table, Porter saw that Freddy had already ordered drinks.

Well, look who’s here! declared Porter, as if he had inadvertently bumped into them. Freddy’s smile faded quickly at the sight of his uninvited underling.

What are you doing here? Freddy asked in a thinly disguised disgusted tone of voice.

Well, there were no available tables, but when I found out that you were lunching here, I knew you wouldn’t mind if I joined you. Without waiting for him to reply, Porter sat down next to Susan. Hi, I remember you from this morning. I’m Porter Barrington, he said, holding out his hand. She demurely took his and answered, My name is Susan Ashton.

It’s nice to meet you. Have you ordered yet?

Just a few minutes ago, responded Susan sweetly.

Good. Then I’m not too late. Porter ordered a gin and tonic and a medium-rare sirloin steak. Well, I’m certainly lucky to have bumped into you, Freddy.

Yeah, lucky, Freddy muttered under his breath.

Your name is Barrington? Are you somehow related to the Barrington who was co-founder of the company? Susan asked, filling the awkward silence.

Guilty as charged. He was my grandfather. Porter figured she was wondering why he was in middle management instead of a higher-level position. So, have you been hired as a new employee? he asked graciously, keeping his eye on Freddy.

I’m still at NYU, but I’ll finish my master’s in marketing this summer. I started as an intern today.

Hey, that’s great. You’re going to find that Barrington and Anderson is a great company. Isn’t that right, Freddy?

Yeah, great, he answered churlishly.

Taking a sip of his gin and tonic, Porter ignored his boss.

So, where do you live? he said, his eyes locked on Susan’s.

I just moved into my first apartment here in Manhattan, but I grew up in upstate New York.

Where in New York? Porter continued.

I lived just outside of Valhalla on an estate called Briarwood that overlooks Rye Lake.

Guess your parents miss you. Are they upset that you’re now living in the city?

My parents died in a car accident when I was three. I grew up with my mother’s Aunt Leonora.

Gee, I’m sorry.

That’s alright. I really have very few memories of them. They were interrupted as the waiter delivered their orders. Fred finished his meal in record time and threw down the rest of his drink with a few gulps as Susan and Porter continued their conservation.

Well, we’d better get back to the office, he announced, trying to get his new intern’s attention. As Susan was about to excuse herself, Porter turned to the rankled man and declared, Don’t worry, Freddy. I’ll see her back to the office.

I really should go back with Mr. Colbert, interjected Susan, realizing the tension she had created between the two men. Porter stood as she rose and said, Before you leave, may I ask you a question?

Certainly.

Would you go out with me for a drink later so we can continue our conversation? He glanced up for a moment to find his boss’s face flushed red in rage.

I would like that. Porter thought he heard Freddy quietly blow off steam like a locomotive.

###

As his thoughts drifted back to the present, he noticed a motorcycle cop flagging him down. Steering the car over to the shoulder of the highway, Porter turned the engine off and waited. The cop put down the kickstand and made his way to the driver’s side of the Jaguar.

Nice car, the cop said, giving it the once-over.

Thanks.

I bet it has great pickup.

Yes, it does.

I guessed that, because my radar clocked you driving 70 in a 55-mile speed zone. Let me have your driver’s license. Porter slipped it out of his wallet and handed it over without a word. As he made out the ticket, the cop continued. You guys from the city think you can come up here and speed on our highways anytime you feel like it, endangering our citizens’ lives. Porter remained silent. Next time you’re up here, maybe you’ll remember this, he announced as he handed Porter the fifty-dollar ticket along with Porter’s license.

Yes, officer.

Oh, yeah, and have a nice day.

Thank you, Porter replied as he rolled up his window. Watching, he saw the cop mount his motorcycle and pull back out on to the highway. He threw the ticket into the glove compartment, slammed it shut and replaced his driver’s license in his wallet. You better start paying more attention, he muttered out loud.

CHAPTER 3

When are you going to settle down and get married? Porter’s mother asked, a long-familiar refrain he had come to expect every time they spoke. You know you should stop running around with different women and find one who would make you a good wife so you can start a family, don’t you? Though widowed, Marjorie Barrington still played the part of a society wife that she handled with great finesse.

I know, Porter answered half-heartedly, listening to the redundant diatribe as he sat in a comfortable chair in his mother’s penthouse apartment.

She looked down at him, slightly frowning. You are good-looking, personable, you come from a good family, and you’re a Princeton graduate. Any girl would jump at the chance to marry you.

As long as they jump into my bed first, Porter thought cockily.

That’s the dilemma. I don’t want just any girl.

Marjorie cocked her head slightly and quickly took on a new stratagem.

Before he died, your father was very disappointed with your lack of commitment in finding the right woman, as well as taking over the reins of the company. That is why he designated the board of directors to make the company’s decisions until they felt ready to put you into the president’s chair, she said as she paced across the fine plush rug in front of him. Yet I have not seen any movement on your part to fulfill your father’s wishes. Your reputation as a playboy totally disheartened both of us, and I’m sorry to say that I see no change in your attitude.

When did I ever see my father? he retorted, turning around in his chair to address her as she pursed her lips. He was a workaholic and never found time for me. Plus, I’m not the same man he was. I’m still young and want to sow a few wild oats while I can. What’s wrong with that?

Your father provided us with a life of wealth and privilege, which you seem to have forgotten all about. You’re twenty-seven, she emphatically pointed out. Your father was married to me by the age of twenty-three and headed up the company when he was twenty-five, two years younger than you are at this moment. Besides, I want to see my grandchildren before I die.

Don’t start that again, he half-moaned. You know you have a long time before you will be joining Father. You’re still very young, her son declared as he took her hand reassuringly. For a moment, neither spoke, and she looked down at the floor petulantly.

Don’t think you can placate me with flattery. As his only child, if you are to rise to a position of importance in the company, you must marry as your father’s will states.

Finding a wife is not my first priority, responded Porter off-handedly.

I don’t understand you. I have introduced you to numerous suitable girls, and still you have taken a fancy to none of them. What are you looking for in a woman?

It’s hard to pin down in words, but I can tell you there was at least one problem with all the girls you tried to pair me up with.

And what was that?

They all wanted to be married.

Of course they wanted to be married! Why wouldn’t they?

There’s nothing wrong with it! I just don’t want to be married right now. Come Mother, let that be the end of it!

What am I to do with you? his mother grimaced, shaking her head in frustration. This is all too much for me. If only your father were still alive. He would know how to rein you in, Marjorie sobbed bitterly. Once she had regained her composure, she continued. I won’t be satisfied until I see you walk down the aisle with your bride, and I won’t stop trying to find the right woman for you, no matter what you tell me. For a moment, Porter regretted that he had made her cry.

Mother, if it makes you happy to keep seeking out the perfect mate for me, so be it, but as I’ve told you many times before, I am not ready to marry anyone.

I still have faith in you, she whispered to him as he rose to comfort her. Then he kissed his mother goodbye and left.

###

Porter wondered whether his mother’s admonishments had pushed him into believing that Susan would be that perfect mate for him, but as time marched on, he began to believe for himself that her attributes might actually make her the one for him.

A week later, Porter asked Susan out for a drink and escorted her to one of his favorite watering holes in the city. Delaney’s Bar, just around the corner from the office building, wasn’t much to look at, but Porter had frequently found it the perfect establishment to enjoy a tall, cold glass of imported beer. Besides, the women who came there were usually easy on the eyes. With its brick walls, red vinyl-covered bar stools, and Sam, the ever-congenial bartender, the atmosphere soaked up his daily troubles almost immediately.

From a booth, Porter called the waitress over. I’ll have my usual, a Heineken, and what will you have? Porter turned toward his gorgeous co-worker.

I’ll have the same, she smiled.

They had chatted before at the office about work-related topics, but they finally relaxed and their conversation became more personal.

So, I recall you telling me that you were raised by your aunt after your parents died, inquired Porter after talking a long draught from his beer glass.

Yes, my great aunt Leonora took me in and raised me. She was the only relative I had who was still alive. If it hadn’t been for her, I probably would have wound up in foster care.

I’m sure it must have been rough not having your parents around while you were growing up.

I really don’t remember much about them. What about your family?

I’m also an only child. I used to grow up wondering what it would have been like to have brothers and sisters, but as I matured, my parents poured all their love and devotion on me. As a result, I guess I grew up a little spoiled.

I had all of my Aunt Leonora’s attention, so I guess you could say that’s what happened to me, too.

So we have something in common, Porter smiled before he took another gulp of his beer.

I guess so, conceded Susan as a diffident smile passed over her lips.

So, how is it going, working for Freddy? Porter noticed she hesitated a bit before she replied.

Mr. Colbert certainly knows the business inside and out.

He should, since my father was the one who took him under his wing, Porter conceded. But is there something that you’re not telling me? You avoided answering my question. Susan blushed at the inquiry.

I’m not sure I should say anything. After all, I’ve just started there.

Has he made a pass at you?

Susan searched for the right words before she answered. Not really.

If he gives you any sort of problem, you can always come to me. Being a Barrington does give me a little power, you know.

Thank you, but I don’t think that will be necessary. As they continued to talk, the noise level in the bar began to rise as more and more thirsty office workers poured steadily into the bar. The couple’s conversation continued to sway between personal and professional matters until a few hours had passed and both had finished a few beers. They waded through the crowd until they reached the front door.

The waning light of day glimmered weakly in the sky as twilight gave way to evening. New York City looked glamorous as the lights of the metropolis sparkled in the inky blackness. The noise of traffic along Fifth Avenue moved rapidly by them and pedestrians hustled past. The weather was still brisk; winter was still holding firmly on, especially in the evenings. Susan buttoned up her coat quickly before she turned to face Porter.

Well, I guess I will say goodnight.

How about getting something to eat?

I’d rather not. I’m a little tired.

Then may I escort you home? Porter asked cavalierly.

I’ll be all right on my own.

Well, at least let me flag down a taxi for you. Not waiting for her answer, he moved toward the curb and whistled for a cab. From the maze of vehicles, a yellow cab screeched to a stop. Porter opened the door so she could step inside. Would you like to go out again, maybe next time for dinner?

I would like that very much, she replied sweetly.

Then it’s a date. I’ll see you tomorrow in the office.

Goodnight, Susan responded before she closed the cab door. Porter watched as the taxi pulled back into the street.

She has distinct possibilities, he postulated.

###

Lost in his thoughts, the car in the left lane speeded past Porter as if he were standing still.

"Where are the cops now, when this guy is driving over the speed limit?" Porter thought. It seemed as if hours had passed since he had driven away from Briarwood, but when he glanced at the dashboard clock, he realized he had only been issued his ticket twenty minutes earlier.

The sky opened up once again and the downpour was so heavy that his windshield wipers had trouble keeping the glass clear enough for Porter to see. He slowed down, but as soon as the rain had started, it suddenly ended and the sun broke through the clouds for the first time that day. The rays of light finally brightened the gloominess. It felt like the first hint of spring had finally broken through the stubborn winter.

Despite his more cheerful surroundings, he suddenly felt exhausted, which he blamed on the strain of driving in poor weather mixed with the great sense of dread that enveloped him as he drove onward to see the very woman who had tried to kill him just the year before.

I could use a hot cup of coffee, he thought, and took the next exit. Driving east, he arrived at a place called the Serendipity Cafe, named obviously by someone with a sense of humor because it looked like every other greasy spoon.

As he walked in, however, he was unexpectedly taken aback by the appetizing aromas that tantalized his appetite. Remembering that he had left early that morning with no breakfast, Porter took off his coat, tossed it into the chair next to him and sat down at a table to look at the menu. The other patrons eyed the stranger who had pulled up in the red Jaguar suspiciously as an outsider.

What’ll you have? a buxom, middle-aged, bleached blonde waitress asked him. Porter looked up at the pink polka-dot hankie pinned to her white uniform, upon which was a name tag that read Minnie.

Well, Minnie, I think I’ll have two fried eggs over easy, a side of bacon, crispy wheat toast, and a cup of coffee.

She took his order quickly and replied, Comin’ up.

When Porter settled back to examine his surroundings, all the curious, wary eyes were diverted from him in other directions. Minnie soon returned with a steaming cup of coffee, which she placed in front of him, as well as a small dish of half-and-half in individual containers. He luxuriated in the warm feeling that spread across him as he drank and looked out the window beside him to observe the rustic countryside. The fields were still brown from winter, but he could imagine what this same piece of land would look like in another month. Bare tree limbs would be decorated with the first green blush of life. Everything would come alive once more. He wondered whether after his visit to the asylum that he, too, would finally come out of his own personal winter.

Minnie interrupted his thoughts with a clank of dishes she put down before him.

Want a refill?

Please.

After she had walked away, Porter could not think about anything but diving into the plates of food. He was hungrier that he had realized. When he finally pushed away from the table and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, he left a five-dollar tip on the table and paid at the register.

Feeling more alert, Porter stepped out into the sunshine. Throwing his jacket on the passenger seat, he started the engine and flipped a switch on the dashboard so that the convertible top folded into the back.

What a great day this would be if I just wanted to leisurely drive in the countryside. Too bad this is no pleasure trip, he thought. He backed up and retraced his way to the highway.

CHAPTER 4

Glancing at his Rolex, Porter noted that about forty-five minutes had passed and he hadn’t yet come to the next exit on the highway. Traffic had now come to a dead stop, allowing him to glance about at other frustrated drivers. While some blew their horns and talked on the phone, others stepped out of their vehicles to try to see what was causing the holdup. In the distance up ahead, he heard the drone of an ambulance siren. Slowly, after almost another hour, the traffic began to crawl along once more.

Porter sat back in his leather seat and let out a protracted sigh. He stared out the windshield to find twin boys, about eight or nine, in the back seat of the Subaru in front of him, making faces and sticking out their tongues at him. His amusement quickly faded as the two imps suddenly flipped him the bird.

What the hell, Porter said, rolling his eyes. I shouldn’t be surprised, though, by the way kids are raised today. Several more minutes passed before Porter also pushed on the horn to add to the cacophony of irritated drivers. That’s it! he told himself. When I get to the next exit, I’m getting off and heading back home.

Trying to calm down and refocus his mind, Porter thought back to his first real date with Susan.

###

Porter had decided on a restaurant named Petrossian as the setting for their first real date with the office intern. Asking her a few days before if she would accompany him to dinner that Saturday night, Susan had quickly agreed. But isn’t it a little late to get a reservation?

Not to worry. They know me there. I’ll make a reservation for nine, but I’ll pick you up at your apartment around eight, he offered. What’s your address?

No… no, don’t bother yourself, really, she said, almost apologetically. Just give me the address of the restaurant and I’ll meet you there.

It’s no bother.

Really, it’s not necessary. I am perfectly capable of getting there on my own. Susan’s businesslike tone surprised Porter, but he realized that some woman took offense when a man made the slightest inference that women were the weaker sex. He also appreciated that women took their time to get to know a man before giving them their address.

No problem, he said reassuringly. I’ll meet you at 182 West 58th Street.

That’s great. I’m looking forward to it, she said before she turned around and left. Porter loved watching Susan as she walked away from him. As her hips swayed seductively in a paisley silk dress, the old, familiar feeling of lust swelled in his loins. Yet his feelings for her were becoming deeper than that. As he grew aware of the stirrings in his groin, Porter retreated behind his desk and took his seat, trying to concentrate on anything else he could, but his mind kept returning to their date that weekend.

Porter waited outside the restaurant in the middle of a particularly cold snap in the city. Whereas he was able to wear a suit outdoors during the week when the weather was balmy, now he stood in his black cashmere overcoat, watching his breath condense in the chilly, intemperate early April weather. He unconsciously kept fidgeting with the knot on his tie as he nervously kept looking for her on either side of the sidewalk. Porter could have waited at the reserved table inside, but he wanted to catch a glimpse of Susan walking down the street towards him. She was already twenty minutes late, and he wondered if something had come up. Or was she going to stand him up? He hoped that that would not be the case.

Punctuality is a virtue, Son, for which one must strive, he could almost hear his father’s voice say. Porter’s father was quite fond of repeating such adages in order to create a responsible man out of