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FanFic
The Richard Dawson Experience
Last UpDated: 18 December 2001.
Site Copyright © 2000-2001. Lisa Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Story Copyright © 2001. Casey Rattigan Inc., All Rights Reserved.
THE EYES OF LOVE
Part One: Friday, December 4th, 1964
From the moment I spotted the bright red envelope in my mailbox, I knew it was going to be a most unusual day.
I came home from work that morning thoroughly exhausted, bad-tempered, and aching for a nap. The trip I'd just worked had been prolonged by almost twelve hours, thanks to a freak snowstorm that transformed most of the East Coast into a grey, snowy, slushy mess. With one cruel backhand from Mother Nature, my "weekend off" became little more than a day to rest before I donned my stewardess uniform, pinned my brass wings to my lapel and prepared to smile for yet another load of snarly passengers on Sunday morning.
In short, I was feeling anything but festive. With a sigh, I kicked off my shoes, stretched out on my bed and opened the envelope.
Happy Holidays from Rob, Laura and Ritchie, said the card inside, and even in my grouchy mood, I had to smile. Laura Petrie--Laura Meeker, back when we first met--was my childhood idol, a pretty and popular high-school junior who was also kind enough to befriend the gawky, motherless, low-self-esteem-plagued seventh-grade camera bug who'd moved in next door. Without her encouragement, I doubt that I'd have ever gotten up the courage to go after an airline job so soon after graduation. However, I mused, days like today made me wonder if my career choice was at all wise...
Oh, no!
I sat up and scanned the card again. We're having a holiday get-together on the 4th--hope you can be there! Love, Laura.
With a lump in my throat, I raced to the phone.
"Laura?"
"Lacey! How are you, kiddo? Rob and I were wondering what happened...we hadn't heard from you in so long..."
"I just got your card today! From the looks of it--" I picked up the envelope, and what I suspected was confirmed, "--it took the scenic route from New Rochelle to the Village. The second postmark is from Pittsburgh."
"You're kidding me!"
"I wish."
"Well, we'd still love to see you tonight, you know. I hope you didn't make other plans..."
"To be honest, Laura," I sighed, wiggling my tired toes, "I'm so exhausted that I doubt I'd be much fun. My last flight got delayed by the snow--"
"No excuses," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "You take a nap, drink a nice cool Tab on ice, and then you hop a taxi--we'll pick up the fare, and Sally can drive you back to the city."
"Laura, that's so expensive--"
"You're worth it! It'll be our gift to you. Besides...Ritchie would be so heartbroken if you didn't show up--"
"Oh...was that fair?" I laughed. Laura knew I adored her little boy, and by all appearances, the feeling was mutual. "Okay, I'll be there--a bit worn around the edges, but I'll be there. What should I wear?"
"Just something chic, pretty and comfortable--it's a small get-together, and you'll know almost everyone. You remember Rob's friends from work--Buddy and his wife, and Sally and...somebody, I guess. And Rob's boss Alan Brady will probably put in a cameo appearance, and Mel, and Tracy Rattigan and his girlfriend, and the Peterses...I don't think you've met Rob's brother Stacey--"
"Wait a minute," I interrupted, as a faint memory of a handsome face on a television screen made my heart beat a little faster. "Tracy Rattigan? That Englishman you told me about last year--the one who flirted with you so outrageously that Rob dumped a whole bottle of champagne--"
"The very same," Laura answered. "I haven't seen him since, but he and Rob worked together on a civil rights benefit this spring and apparently all is forgiven. Rob says, 'It isn't the guys that flirt with your wife in front of you and say they're sorry that you have to worry about--it's the ones who flirt behind your back and say nothing at all.' Masculine logic, I guess." She paused. "Anyway, he'll be with a date, so I feel safe...I think."
"Speaking of dates--I won't have one. Dabney has a poetry reading out of town tonight. Will that ruin your seating plan?"
"Oh, good--" she began, then seemed to stop herself. "Uh, no, that's fine! There's no seating plan, unless you call sitting on a pillow on the living room floor a plan. Now stop worrying, get some rest, and I'll see you at seven..."
A few hours later, wearing a huge wool coat, an emerald-green sleeveless brocade top, a slim black skirt, a French twist, and a pair of low-heeled pumps (the better to soothe my still-aching feet) I was on my way to Rob and Laura's cute little ranch house on Bonnie Meadow Road.
I leaned back in the taxi, watching New York City speed by in a dazzling blur of neon lights and snowy shadows. Why was my pulse still a tiny bit quicker than it needed to be? For the umpteenth time, I checked myself out in my little gold compact mirror, making absolutely sure that my lipstick (Dorothy Gray's Spinnaker Pink, no less) was perfect...
Tracy Rattigan. I remembered him more clearly now--the summer replacement host for the Alan Brady show, and a big hit with the critics, who called him "cheeky" and "irreverent" and "elfin" and a lot of other lazy-reviewer's adjectives. I'd only been able to catch the show once or twice that summer, but even on my budget black-and-white Zenith portable, Tracy's twinkling eyes, his slow, sweet smile and his confident swagger of a walk added up to an adjective light years away from "elfin"...
"Sexy," I thought--then I realized, mortified, that I'd said the word aloud! The cab driver jerked his head up sharply, like a man coming out of a trance, and studied me keenly in his rear-view mirror.
"Miss?"
"Oh...nothing," I stammered, suddenly becoming absorbed in some matter of vital importance at the bottom of my black silk purse. The driver didn't say another thing--but he kept stealing furtive glances at me, all the way to New Rochelle.
The party was in full swing when I walked through the door--champagne glasses clinking, candles burning in stylish Danish Modern holders, Andy Williams on the hi-fi. I loved my tiny, overpriced bohemian apartment in the Village, but there was something irresistibly sweet, if irredeemably square, about Rob and Laura's cozy suburban home.
"So, Dabney couldn't make it?" Rob asked as he took my coat, a hint of what sounded suspiciously like relief in his voice.
"No, he's wowing them at a coffeehouse in New Jersey tonight--" I answered, hoping my quick scan of the room had gone unnoticed. Where was Tracy Rattigan?
"Good, sweetheart, " laughed Buddy Sorrell from his spot on the low-slung sofa--and with an embarrassed gulp, I remembered the "discussion" Buddy and Dabney had at Rob's last party on the artistic merits--or lack thereof--of television comedy. "Not that I mind uninformed condscension, but usually I get paid to put up with it," Buddy continued, passing a sharp glance at his producer, Mel Cooley, who stopped in mid-drink to glare back at him.
"Yecch," said Mel.
"Daddy's glad you came by yourself, 'cause he hopes you like Uncle Stacey," a voice chimed from somewhere around my knees, and with a smile I bent down to give my favorite model, Ritchie Petrie, a long, warm hug.
"So much for subtle matchmaking," Rob muttered as the doorbell rang. "Thanks, Rich--bedtime!"
With a flourish, Rob opened the door. In stepped a fair-haired, crew-cut, bespectacled fellow who'd be spotted a mile away as Rob's younger brother--and beside him, a pretty, shy-looking girl in a brown tweed shift dress.
"Rob, Laura--I'd like you to meet Bonnie--"
"Oh! You brought--a date! How nice," Laura said, and after the surprise wore off, she was her unflappable self once more. "Bonnie, it's lovely to meet you--here, let me take your coat and introduce you to everyone..."
Almost as soon as the door closed, the chimes rang out again, and this time my heart did a tiny backflip beneath my green brocade blouse. Even from where I stood, a bit off to the side of the doorway, there was no mistaking that confident, self-assured stride.
The only thing more devastating than Tracy Rattigan on the small screen, I decided, was Tracy Rattigan in the flesh.
He wasn't especially tall--perhaps five-nine or five-ten to my five-foot-seven--but he was put together so beautifully that height suddenly seemed like an overrated attribute. He wore an exquisitely tailored, close-fitting grey wool suit that seemed to hug his perfectly...well, huggable body--not too thick, not too thin, just...perfect. When he turned around, I noticed that his dark hair was a bit different than I remembered; brushed forward somewhat, in a style that was more dignified-Roman than Beatles-esque. He had that slightly crooked, sexy little grin on his face that I'd loved on television, and his impeccable white shirt set off his very un-British suntan deliciously. But what really got to me were his eyes--the most seductive, sparkling silvery-green eyes I'd ever seen, eyes that suddenly looked into mine with an unspoken, saucy challenge...
Stop staring, I told myself, to no avail. There was little use pretending that I could look away, even for a second. Whoever his date was, she was a lucky, lucky lady...
"No date?" I heard Rob ask.
"I'm afraid the young lady was unavoidably detained--by her husband." Tracy smiled. " It's a joke, old fellow!"
Rob smiled back--a little nervously, I thought--and then his eyes widened as he spotted me across the living room.
"In that case, there's someone I'd really like you to meet--"
But Tracy was already on his way over to where I stood, with that half-grin still lighting up his face.
Take a deep breath, I told myself. Relax...
"Lacey, I'd like you to meet our friend Tracy Rattigan...Tracy, this is Laura's old school friend Lacey--stewardess by day, talented amateur photographer by night..."
"How do you do?" Tracy said, looking deep into my eyes as he gently raised my hand to his lips. "Will you marry me? Oh, wait--" he turned to Rob for a second--"she is single, yes?"
"Yes, yes," Rob nodded emphatically.
"You see? I have reformed." With a tiny wink, Tracy turned to me again. "Where were we, love? Oh, yes--will you marry me? Better yet," he stage-whispered, standing a bit closer, "let's begin with the honeymoon in Paris and have fun working our way backwards, shall we?"
I had to laugh. Funny and sexy--a dangerous combination.
"Goodness, where are my manners?" he continued. "Come with me while I say hello to our hostess."
With a squeeze of my hand, he led me to the spot where Laura and Bonnie stood chatting.
"Laura, darling, how are you?" Laura shot a quick glance at Rob, who smiled back as if to silently reassure her.
"Hello, Tracy--good to see you again."
"Lovely as ever," Tracy answered, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
"I don't believe you've met my fiancee..."
The rest of the party seemed to go by in a hazy--but happy--blur, even
though I stuck to ginger ale the whole time. (I do, however, recall
the truly unforgettable sight of Sally Rogers, under the influence of a
few martinis, doing a most inventive version of the Twist on the Petries'
living room rug.)
"Lacey? Are you all right, kiddo?"
"Sure, Laura," I answered, but it was clear that my long working day was catching up with me. Tracy, who'd been my dance partner for most of the evening, moved a little closer to me on the low-slung sofa and sweetly offered his gray flanneled shoulder. With a quiet sigh, I rested my head and closed my eyes for a moment. If only you really were my fiance, I thought, dreamily.
"I think this hard-working bird needs to fly back to her nest," Tracy said.
"Well..." Laura began, but a quick look across the room at Sally (she was now doing the Swim, and nearly knocking Buddy over in the process) seemed to stop Laura mid-sentence. "Lacey, you're welcome to stay in our guest room tonight if you like..."
"Or better yet," Tracy said, "why not ride along with me? I have to go back to the city anyway, and chances are--" he nodded with amusement in Sally's direction, "--Laura's guest room will be occupied by a very talented comedy writer, busy sleeping off the hangover of her life."
I lifted my head and looked into those twinkling, teasing grey-green eyes again, my heart doing a now-familiar double beat.
"Sure," I said.
"Be right back, love." Tracy got up and walked in Rob's general direction, and Laura took his place on the sofa.
"Lacey, sweetheart..." She tapped me on the shoulder. "Be careful, okay?"
"Don't worry, Laura--I'm sure they've cleared the roads by now--"
"No, silly," she smiled, nodding toward Tracy. "I mean...be careful."
Tracy's sleek black Jaguar was more comfortable than I had ever imagined a car could be. By the time he stopped at the first red light, I'd already nestled into the soft bucket seat, feeling drowsy and content as the Supremes sang softly on the radio.
"Well, darlin'," he said with a grin and a glance at me, "I can see that it'd be kinder to spare you my brilliant running commentary tonight. Why not have a nap? I'll wake you when we get west of Broadway."
I looked over at him, admiring the way the streetlights illuminated the curves and shadows of his endearing, very British profile. As sleepy as I felt, I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes just yet. I wanted to take a mental picture of his beautiful face, and carry it with me always.
I've got a crush on Tracy Rattigan, I realized, just like a thousand silly schoolgirls do. He must think I'm gawking at him like a starstruck idiot...
Then the light turned green, and I fell into a restless sleep.
"Here we are, love," he said a short time later, as I sat up and opened my eyes. Hand in hand, we walked to the freshly-shoveled doorstep of my red brick apartment building, and I felt a familiar faint sadness growing inside me. If I'm destined to be on the outside looking in, I thought, I'd better take a long, long look. He'd had a fun time flirting with the young friend of a show-biz contemporary, but when all was said and done, I was a working-class girl from the Village, and he was a sophisticated British TV star, and that was that.
"I had a marvelous evening, dear Lacey." I stood there, gazing openly now into his lovely green eyes. "You're a charming young lady, and I hope our paths cross again very soon..."
"I do, too," I replied. "Perhaps next Christmas--"
Then--to my eternal delight and surprise--he suddenly pulled me close to him, so close that even in the wintry air, I could feel the heat of his trim body underneath his grey tweed coat. With a sigh, he closed his long-lashed eyes and insistently pressed his soft lips to mine, and my sadness seemed to melt like a snowflake on the warm, sweet tip of his tongue.
"I'm hoping sooner," he whispered a moment later, still holding me tight. Heart thumping, I closed my eyes and took in the spicy scent of his subtle aftershave. "Much, much sooner."
We pulled apart a little, reluctantly, and I couldn't help but smile.
"May I?" I asked. With a light touch of my fingertip, I traced the graceful curve of his lip. "I'm not sure Spinnaker Pink is your color."
He tickled my finger with the tip of his tongue in a way that sent a shiver of pleasure down my spine.
"Feel free," he purred, "to try out any color you like on me, as long as you promise to apply it in that same delightful way."
And with another saucy wink, he was gone, striding down my street to where his Jaguar was parked, disappearing into the snowy city night.
Part Two: Sunday, December 6th, 1964
As it turned out, much sooner turned out to be even sooner than I dared to hope.
Sunday brought a fresh batch of snow showers, which meant that the passengers--some of whom had gotten into New York far behind schedule on Friday--were once again delayed by Mother Nature's whims. Unfortunately, Mother Nature wasn't available to take the brunt of their displeasure; we stewardesses were. I was thankful that my last flight for the night was a mercifully short hop from LaGuardia to Pittsburgh.
"Good evening, welcome aboard," I said, as I was required to, to every passenger who boarded my DC9. Many of the replies were not repeatable in polite company.
"Dammit, this airline couldn't get a leaf from point A to point B in a hurricane," one grouchy, bald businessman snarled. He threw his overcoat at me and sat down in his first class seat with a grunt. "Get me a vodka martini, now."
"My dear fellow," a calm, British-accented voice called out from behind me, the faintest hint of anger lacing its tone, "one can hardly blame this kind lady for the snowstorm that caused this flight to be delayed. If you'll heed a word of advice from one gentleman to another--" I stifled a smile at the finely-tuned sarcasm--"it's most unwise to antagonize the people who are responsible for serving your food--or saving your life."
It was a speech worthy of applause--and as I turned around to see who'd just walked onboard, I knew the evening had taken a sudden turn for the better.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Rattigan!" He looked smashingly handsome in a deep-green shetland sweater over sharp black wool pants. Very, very nice to see you...
"Well, if it isn't my favorite air hostess--pulled the glamour trip tonight, did we?"
I laughed. "Not enough seniority to work the London or Paris flights just yet, but Pittsburgh--no problem. Be right back," I said, darting into the galley to mix a martini for the now-quiet bald man and placing it--with a smile--on the tray in front of him.
"So what brings you to Pittsburgh, of all places?" I asked Tracy.
"A mate of mine from the Marines lives there," he said with a sly grin. "I thought I'd stop in and see him before I head back to L.A. But since it looks as though you're going my way, perhaps you'd like to have a drink with me instead? I can meet him in the morning--and frankly, you're much nicer to look at."
"I wish I could--but we're not allowed to drink within twenty-four hours of a flight, and my next flight leaves at seven tomorrow morning--"
"Coffee, then? Decaf?" I looked into those laughing green eyes again and abandoned all hope for a restful, quiet layover.
"Okay--coffee it is. There's a nice coffee shop close to our layover
hotel..."
After the flight, I quickly changed into my layover clothes (a turtleneck, a short plaid skirt, warm opaque tights and comfortable loafers) and waited for Tracy in the hotel lobby.
"There you are, love," he said as he greeted me. "You look like a chic schoolgirl in that gear." As he offered his arm to me on the wintry sidewalk, he scanned me from head to toe again in a way that made me blush. "Just how old are you, anyway?"
It was a question I dreaded--he was somewhere between thirty and forty, I knew, and I hoped he wouldn't hold my age against me.
"I'll be twenty-one next spring," I finally answered as I held on to his elbow and stepped carefully through the snow.
"Oh, good heavens," Tracy laughed. "For the first time in my life, I feel like a bit of a dirty old man..."
The coffee shop was almost a cliche in itself--red vinyl booths, chrome fittings, a neon-rimmed clock that kept time with a loud hum, boomerang-patterened Formica on the tabletop. But by our third cup of coffee, it seemed like heaven. Tracy and I talked about everything and anything--the civil rights movement (I'd done sit-ins, he'd done benefits), his childhood in a rough neighborhood in the North of England, my childhood with my hard-working widowed father, and how Laura became the big sister I'd never had. ("She's truly a beauty, inside and out," I said at one point; Tracy gallantly answered that birds of a feather flocked together, making me blush yet again.) As the evening went on, the conversation grew more and more intimate.
"Tell me, darlin'... " He raised the coffee cup to his lips, holding his pinky finger out in a way that I found utterly adorable, "...how is it that a smashing, intelligent lady like you doesn't have a steady boyfriend?"
"Well, actually--" I began with a sigh. It was hard to explain my freewheelin', on-again-off-again intellectual poet beau Dabney to anyone else; indeed, sometimes I had a tough time explaining him to myself.
"Oh, no," Tracy groaned. "Somehow I have a feeling I'm about to get my heart broken."
"No! It's not...oh, boy." Stirring my coffee absently, I tried to gather my thoughts. "First of all...he'd probably object to being called my boyfriend. He feels that's an old-fashioned, middle-class sexist term that restricts--"
"Stop right there, love," Tracy interrupted, bursting into surprisingly hearty laughter. "First of all, any red-blooded man--no matter what his philosophy is--who objects to being called your boyfriend...well, he deserves to have you stolen right out from under him." He rested his chin on his hand, green eyes twinkling. "Do go on...I've a feeling I'm going to enjoy this immensely. A resentful starving artist sort, no doubt--yes?"
"Well, he does write poetry, but he's not starving exactly--his family has money, so he can devote all his time to writing."
"I see," Tracy said, one eyebrow raised.
"Oh--wait, I'm not a golddigger or anything! As a matter of fact, we're both feminists--when we go out--"
"Hold on, let me guess. It's against his principles of equality for him to treat you to anything, so when you go out, you two split the check straight down the middle...right?"
I sighed, suddenly feeling very young and ridiculous, and gazed through the window at the snowy street.
"Lacey, darlin'," he said softly, reaching for my hand across the smooth, cool table. "I didn't mean to mock you, or your friend. And I'm a feminist, too, after a fashion. I've met a lot of talented women in my work, and I despise the idea that they should be paid any less--or respected any less--than a man in the same position. But when it comes to the lady I love...I enjoy being a gentleman. I'd give up my left arm before I stopped holding the door for her, sending her flowers, or picking up the tab for an evening out. Equality is fine, but when you're really in love, keeping score is the farthest thing from your mind. When you're really in love..." Tracy squeezed my hand, and his sparkling green eyes seemed to look straight into my heart, "...the greatest joy in the world is giving."
I sat there, gazing back at him, as the realization that I was really in love began to dawn within me.
"I'd better see you back to your hotel...it's getting late," Tracy said some moments later. He politely gestured to our waitress, and I had a sudden, irresistible impulse. I reached into my purse and pulled out my camera case.
"May I?"
"Be my guest." While I assessed the lights in the room and made sure I'd loaded the Canon with high-speed film, Tracy watched intently. "I never did learn how to work one of those things properly, " he said. "I'm truly impressed. Shall I smile?"
"Just be yourself...do what comes naturally."
"I don't think it'd be legal to take a picture of that, my love," he said with a wink and a grin--and I got the perfect shot.
"I'll have to say goodnight to you right here, I'm afraid," I said to Tracy as we reached the sidewalk in front of the hotel. "Unofficial airline rule--we can leave the hotel with a man, but we can't come back with one. Keeps the hotel's reputation intact, I guess."
"I see," he answered, leaning closer. "I suppose it would be bad form for me to scurry up the drainpipe, then..."
Impulsively, I hugged him tight--but then he put his arms around me and our casual kiss became something much, much warmer and sweeter.
"I know that between my constant commuting from New York to L.A. and your job, the scheduling is going to be a monumental nightmare...but I really would like to see you again, Lacey darlin'."
"I'd like that, too." We fumbled with gloved hands, exchanging cards and addresses and telephone numbers, and I felt like I was walking on a cloud as I returned to the warmth of my hotel room. Indeed, I was so distracted that it took a moment for the flashing light on the bedside telephone to register in my awareness.
"Message for you from a Mr. Dabney," the hotel operator said after I dialed. "He'd like a return call..."
I thanked the operator and dialed Dabney's number, feeling a bit apprehensive even before he picked up the phone.
"Hi...Dabney?"
"Hey, babe--how's it goin'?"
"It's goin' fine, I guess. How was Jersey?"
"About the same...the usual crowd and a few sellout suburban wannabes..." I felt guilty. Ten seconds into the conversation and I was already bored and impatient. "Denny Camden was there, you know. He's got a book deal with a major publisher now."
"That's great," I said, then stopped, realizing I'd said the wrong thing....again.
"Sure it's great, if he wants to be the darling of the Levittown housewives. He's an ex-friend as far as I'm concerned."
"I'm sorry to hear that--but why? You two were so close--"
"He got mad at me last night for telling him exactly what I thought about his selling out to a big corporation. He said that I could go on playing the starving artist until my father gives me the family business, but he'd worked hard on the book for a year and he had no intention of starving any longer--and if the ladies of Levittown want to read what he's written, he'd be delighted. Can you believe it? Forget him."
For the first time ever, Denny Camden made perfect sense to me.
"Listen, babe, I'd better get going," Dabney was saying, and I heard his doorbell ring behind him. "Come in, " he yelled--then a girl's voice rang out, asking where the ice was.
"Sorry--didn't know you were expecting company--"
"No problem." I sat there on the edge of the bed, trying to find a way to end the call gracefully. "Hey, we always said no strings-- you aren't gonna go all possessive on me now, are you?"
"No, Dabney, not at all." On the contrary, I thought, guiltily.
"Oh. Okay." Another awkward silence. "Catch you later, babe."
"Bye."
Even before I turned out the light and got into bed, the breakup speech had already cobbled itself together in my mind.
Part Three: Sunday, February 14, 1965
Tracy and I embarked upon what could only be called a mile-high courtship--we were so seldom in New York at the same time that he took to surprising me by flying back and forth on many of my short-hop flights, bearing chocolates and flowers and escorting me to coffee shops from Kansas City to Sacramento, with the occasional "real date" when our schedules allowed. We talked more in two months than some couples did in two years--an odd relationship, but in a way, it was perfect. The more I got to know him, the deeper and stronger my feelings grew.
Tracy had a reputation as a fast worker and a legendary flirt, which made his willingness to take it slow with me all the more flattering--and more maddening. Sometimes, sitting across from him in yet another red vinyl booth, tingling while his finger traced lazy circles along my palm as we held hands beneath the table...sometimes I wondered if he wasn't simply being an extraordinary tease, waiting for me to make the first move toward a more intimate relationship.
I knew without a doubt that I wanted to be with him forever--but I also knew that my immediate desires for him were getting to be anything but ladylike.
Valentine's morning found me home in New York for a four-day break; Tracy was in London, working on a brief part in a film, and I knew that by the time I could get out there, I'd have to turn around and come back, so I stayed home. But I was sure he'd call...
"Good morning and Happy Valentine's Day," a beautiful, British-accented voice purred on the other end of the line.
"Happy Valentine's Day to you too, Tracy," I answered, sitting up in my bed. "What time is it there?"
"It's about eight o'clock."
"Wait, it can't be...it's eight o'clock here..."
"Imagine that!" He laughed, then explained. "Darlin', you won't believe this, but while you were gone on your last trip, the studio decided it'd be more economical to do my bit here and send the film off to London--apparently, it flies cheaper than I do, and it's far more tidy in hotel rooms than I've ever been." I chuckled. "I'm here, you're here, it's Valentine's Day--let's get together, shall we?"
In an hour, Tracy was at my door, wearing a beautiful cream-colored turtleneck sweater over snug jeans and carrying a dozen red roses.
"Not terribly original, but they say what's in my heart," he whispered as he handed them to me. "And this is for you as well..."
It was the sort of Valentine I'd only seen in forties movies--a huge, beautiful, lace-trimmed romantic Victorian card that brought a tear to my eyes.
"Look inside, love," he said, tenderly. I opened the card.
"To my favorite ex-amateur photographer?"
Smiling, he handed me a large envelope. Inside, there was a blow-up of the photo I'd taken that night at the coffee shop--captioned Tracy Rattigan on the bottom left corner, with his agency contact information on the right. There was also a check made out to me--a surprisingly large amount, signed by the enormous West Coast talent agency that managed Tracy and many other performers.
"My agent was quite taken with your portrait of me--so much so that he'd like to see you about doing some work for a few other clients." He tilted his head and studied the photo, mock-seriously. "You did capture my rakish-yet-approachable charms quite nicely."
"Oh, Tracy," I said, utterly overwhelmed, throwing my arms around him. "You are the sweetest, most incredible--"
"All true, but somehow I've retained my humility," he laughed.
"Now, then--how about a celebration? There's a place I rent in Connecticut
sometimes--a little cabin in the woods. I was going to head up there
after I got back from London and make sure it was all shipshape, but it'd
be far more fun if you came along with me for the day..."
By the time we'd gotten out of the city and well into the countryside, we knew we were in trouble.
It had actually started off sunny and bright--a picture perfect winter day in New York City. There'd been just enough time since the last snowfall to allow the municipal guys to clean the roads and salt the sidewalks, and the weather had been a lovely accent to the scene, rather than a cause for grumbling amongst stranded, shivering strangers. But as Tracy carefully steered the Jaguar through this latest squall, there was little doubt that we'd have a tough time making the trip in less than three hours or so.
"Are you sure you don't want to turn back, Lacey? There's a chance we might be stuck out here overnight, if this keeps up."
I smiled and shook my head no. Somehow the idea of being stuck overnight didn't bother me at all.
Two hours later, Tracy pulled into a completely white-covered country lane, and in the distance, through the now-lightly falling snow, I could make out the shape of an small A-framed, ski-chalet style house.
"We're here--I think. Be very, very careful, now." He parked under a carport, walked around the Jaguar carefully, opened my door and extended his hand--and the minute I stepped from the car, I slipped on the loosely-packed snow and did a spectacular belly flop into a snowdrift.
"Lacey! Are you hurt?"
I shook my head and giggled, taking Tracy's hand and struggling to get back on solid ground. "Just my dignity, I think...but I'm okay."
He fought valiantly, but it was no use--he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "My adorable Lacey--you look like the abominable snowman."
"Was it that dreadful to watch?" I asked with a grin. I already knew the answer.
"Not quite as dreadful as the Sally Rogers version of the Twist, love--but
close, very close..."
Once we were inside, Tracy immediately draped a soft blanket around me and went to the far right side of the house.
"That was a nasty spill there," he called out. I followed his voice and soon joined him in the skylit, warm-wood paneled bath, where he sat on the edge of an old-fashioned claw foot tub, testing the running water with his hand. "You might not feel a thing right now, but in the morning, you could be a little stiff. A nice warm bath should minimize the damage." He reached into an antique, glass-fronted linen armoire and pulled out a pair of towels and a deep blue hooded bathrobe. "Get out of those wet things now, and hand them to me through the door when you're ready. I'll put them in the wash for you."
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to...help me with the bubbles or anything?"
"Lacey, my love," he whispered, kissing me softly on the forehead, "I'm trying so terribly hard to be a gentleman with you, in case you hadn't noticed..."
"I noticed," I answered with a pout. Perfect timing, I mused inwardly. I fall in love with Racy Tracy just as he decides to reform.
"I'll be right back for your clothes," he said, closing the bathroom door behind him. When he returned, he only opened it enough to reach in and take my snow-soaked sweater and jeans--and then he stretched his arm in again, this time offering me a lit, rose-scented candle in a lantern-style holder.
"Enjoy your bath..."
A little while later, I followed the delicious scent of hot chocolate into the kitchen, where Tracy stood over the stove, wearing the sweet pout that crossed his face whenever he was deep in concentration. Silently, I watched as he poured the cocoa into two earthenware mugs; he closed his eyes as he lifted one of the mugs to his lips, his pinky pointing skyward, and savored the taste.
I could watch him all day, everyday, for the rest of my life, I thought. I adored everything about him--the way his silver-green eyes flashed when he laughed, the way he'd whisper a funny line across the table and turn his head, running his hand through his hair, that sly grin spreading across his handsome face. All my life, I'd looked at the world from behind a camera, seeking out beauty and capturing it as best I could in black and white. But here, in living color, was the loveliest vision I'd ever seen...
"Lacey, darlin' ? I didn't hear you come in." He smiled as he turned, with the mugs of cocoa on a wooden tray in his hands.
"Sorry...I didn't mean to stare..."
"My dear girl..." His twinkling eyes gazed deeply into mine, making me a bit weak in the knees, "...any sane man would give all he owned to be looked at the way you look at me."
Suddenly, feeling a little embarrassed, I glanced away.
"C'mon, love, let's go sit by the fire in the living room."
It was the sort of winter scene every schoolgirl dreams of--a blazing fire, soft candlelight, a cozy, oversized sofa to curl up upon, and the most desirable man in the world at my side. Somehow, it felt almost too good to be true; I felt an odd twinge of sadness as I sipped my cocoa and took in the atmosphere. For a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, a place like this seemed like a dream--a dream I wished would somehow never end...
"What's troublin' you, Lacey ?"
I began to speak, thought better of it, and took another drink from the half-empty mug.
"Come here," Tracy whispered, holding his arms wide open. I leaned against him, my back to his warm, sweatered chest, and closed my eyes.
"Lacey...I have a terribly selfish question to ask you." With a sigh, he kissed the top of my head. "We've only known each other for a short while, and you're so young, and I have such an abysmal track record...but I'm selfish. I simply can't bear the thought of not seeing that sweet look in your eyes every morning, or going to sleep without looking into your eyes every night. Lacey, my love..." I opened my eyes wide as he placed a small, robin's-egg blue Tiffany box in my hand, "...will you marry me?"
I was so stunned that all I could do for a moment was lean there, looking at the box as it reflected the firelight.
"Lacey?"
Turning to face him, I noticed that he actually--unbelievably--looked a little nervous, as if he truly wasn't sure what my answer would be--then I realized that I hadn't answered...
"Yes! Yes, Tracy, of course..." I threw my arms around him, covering his face with kisses while he laughed.
"Almost gave me a heart attack, there," he said, just before I pressed my lips to his and gave him a long, deep kiss that made both of us suddenly aware that the only thing between my willing bare body and a steamy scene was his oversized blue bathrobe. Tracy sighed as I hooked my finger into the edge of his sweater and pulled it away from his neck, leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses from his ear to the curve of his shoulder.
"Lacey," he murmured, "I told you--I'm trying to do the right thing by you--" he held his breath a little as I slipped my hand under the waistband of his turtleneck and ran my fingers through the soft hair on his chest, "--but you're making it very hard--"
I pressed myself against him rather shamelessly. "So I noticed," I said.
"Darlin', listen..."
Something in his tone seemed serious. I sat up, taking his hand and searching his gorgeous face for clues.
He looked down at our intertwined fingers with a slight, rueful grin. "As you might know, I have a well deserved reputation for being a bit of a scoundrel. Matter of fact, I've been engaged a few times before--not married, mind you, but engaged. This time, though, I really do want to do the gentlemanly thing. This time...I'd like our wedding night to really be a wedding night, if you know what I mean."
For the second time that afternoon, I was too stunned to move. The irony was immense. Tracy Rattigan--the most notorious playboy in show business, outside of the Rat Pack--was actually planning to be a perfect gentleman until we tied the knot! I was honored and flattered, as well as--I couldn't deny it--a little frustrated. But after a moment's thought, I realized it was the sweetest gesture a man like Tracy could ever make to the woman he loved.
"I do know what you mean," I finally replied. With a soft kiss on my cheek, he gathered me into his arms again.
"Having said all that...I've suddenly become a firm believer in short engagements."
I pulled away from him and looked into his laughing green eyes. "How short an engagement did you have in mind, Tracy?"
"Well..." He looked at his watch and winked. "I do believe
your airline has a flight leaving for Las Vegas in about five hours..."
Part Four: Monday, February 15, 1965
I stood at the back of the tiny wedding chapel, almost breathless, as Tracy turned around from his place in front of the minister, looking incredibly gorgeous in his black satin-trimmed tuxedo. It was hard to believe, but it was true--in a moment from now, I would be Mrs. Tracy Rattigan.
We'd flown into Las Vegas on the red-eye, and after checking into a romantic little hotel away from the Strip just before dawn, Tracy and I settled in for a comically chaste nap on the four-poster bed in the bridal suite. ("It'll only be a fib for a half-day," he whispered that morning as he signed the register T. and L. Rattigan . "I think we'll be forgiven.") I woke a few hours later to find a tray with fresh croissants, a pot of coffee and a note--which nearly caused me to go into cardiac arrest until I opened it and read:
Lovely Lacey,
I've gone to take care of all the tedious legal bits--please take
this charge card and use it until you've worn a hole through the centre.
I can't wait to see my beautiful bride dressed in her finest tonight.
And do be sure to wear what's in the red box...
A car will be 'round to pick you up at seven. Until then,
my beloved--
T
I picked up the tiny red box on the tray and opened it, completely mystified--then I broke into a fit of giggles. Inside, there was a fresh tube of Dorothy Gray lipstick in Spinnaker Pink.
Like most stewardesses, I'd long ago mastered the art of speed shopping. At the first large department store near the hotel, I quickly tried on and bought a Courreges-style white satin two-piece dress with a long skirt, a green tweed going-away suit, two pairs of shoes, and an alarmingly large pile of satin lingerie. (Every girl has her weakness--that's mine.) When I went to the bridal department and chose a short, simple tulle veil, the sweet-looking middle-aged saleslady stopped for a moment before running Tracy's card through her machine.
"That's not that Tracy Rattigan...is it?"
I nodded, no doubt blushing a little.
"Miss," she said with a look of pleased disbelief, "I'd like to shake
your hand..."
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the minister declared, smiling brightly. "You may kiss the bride."
Time seemed to stand still for a fragile moment as Tracy--my husband, my friend, the light of my life--held my hands and looked into my eyes with such tenderness that I felt a warm tear of happiness fall down my beaming face. With a sigh, he leaned close and kissed me softly, then held me tight, guiding my head to his shoulder.
In a blissful haze, I stood by Tracy's side as we thanked the minister, the harpsichord player, and the kind elderly couple who'd been our witnesses. A very young photographer took a shot of us as we posed under the dangerously overburdened floral arch in the little chapel's hallway.
"Buried by an avalanche of daisies just before the wedding night," Tracy quipped with a wink, looking up at the sagging arch and then grinning at me as the flash went off. "What an ironic end to a glorious love affair..."
We left the chapel and headed for the limo that would take us back to the hotel--and a man in an overcoat jumped out onto the walk, snapping a picture before disappearing into the neon-lit night.
"I'm afraid we're going to make the gossip columns tomorrow, love."
"Well, then, let's be sure to give them something scandalous to talk about." I snuggled next to him as the limo driver closed the door behind us.
"That's the spirit, Mrs. Rattigan," said Tracy, tilting my chin and
kissing me so deeply that it took my breath away.
When we got to the door of the bridal suite, Tracy undid the lock and bowed gallantly.
"I've been dreaming of doing this all my life--may I?" And with a smile, he scooped me up and carried me across the threshold, closing the door with a backwards kick before carefully lowering me to my feet.
The management had spruced up the room while we were gone--a bucket of champagne on ice, flowers, a glowing blaze in the fireplace--but Tracy barely seemed to notice.
"I suppose I should take a break and propose a toast or something, but frankly," --his nimble fingers began to undo the buttons on my white satin overblouse, while my heart pounded wildly--"there is something so incredibly sexy about having this beautiful married lady in my hotel room..."
With a long sigh, he eased the overblouse from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, running his hands along my bare shoulders and tracing the lace edge of my white merry widow corset with a maddeningly light touch. Slowly, flirtatiously, he pressed his warm lips along my ear, down my throat, along my collarbone, down to the swell of my bosom, setting my nerve endings on fire. When he pushed the intricate lace aside and took the sensitive tip of my breast into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his darting tongue, I literally swooned with pleasure.
"Tracy..." I whispered, unable to say much more.
Tracy picked me up mid-swoon and carried me to the draped four-poster bed, smiling as he placed me upon the soft quilted bedspread and began to remove my long skirt and shoes. I propped myself up on one elbow, watching with delight while he carefully undressed me.
"So", I murmured, "how does it feel to seduce your own wife, Mr. Rattigan?"
He stopped for a moment and his intense green eyes gazed deeply into mine.
"It feels," he said, very softly, "like the truest, sweetest, hottest, most genuine pleasure I've ever felt in my life." Stretching out alongside me on the enormous bed, he kissed me deeply again, caressing the curve of my hip with his strong hands. "I intend to be a model husband, darling Lacey," he whispered with a twinkle in his eye. "Prepare to be seduced at least once a day, every day, for the rest of your life..."
My heart began to pound again as he undid the first few hooks of my corset, exposing my bosom to his appreciative gaze and his tantalizing touch. With a firmer caress than before, he took the tip of one breast between his thumb and finger, twiddling it playfully, while he swirled his warm, wet tongue around the other, sucking it sweetly until I groaned and arched my back with joy.
"You are so unbelievably beautiful, Mrs. Rattigan," he whispered. Looking up at him, it dawned on me that while I was wearing only a veil, a pair of stockings and a half-undone corset, my husband was still fully dressed in his tuxedo. No fair, I thought, tugging at his narrow bow tie. He seemed to know what I meant without my saying a word. With a wicked grin, Tracy knelt on the bed and very slowly began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Showoff," I laughed. He winked--then with that cheerfully cocky attitude I adored, he stepped off the bed and stripped, pausing for a second before unhooking his trousers and dropping them to the floor. I gasped in delight as the hard evidence of his desire sprang forth.
"You are so unbelievably beautiful..." Reaching out for him, drawing him close to me for another deep, wet kiss, I was torn between the urge to simply look at his stunning, naked body and the urge to touch him all over. Touching won out. I ran my hands along the hair on his broad, tanned chest, along the curve of his narrow waist, over the swell of his taut, delectable bottom. I was almost too excited to breathe...
"Relax, darlin'," Tracy said, nuzzling me gently below my ear. "I'm not going anywhere, believe me." He smiled, and suddenly I felt comforted and closer to him than ever. "Take it easy and let me give you everything...let me give..."
When you're really in love, the greatest joy in the world is giving...
I took a deep breath as Tracy undid the rest of the hooks of my corset, leaving a fiery trail of kisses as he went. Nuzzling my belly with his sweet round nose, making me giggle, he reached up and squeezed my hand.
"You taste like heaven," he said, tickling the skin of my waist with his tongue. Propping myself up on my elbow once more, I watched as he unhooked my garters and rolled my white silk stockings down my legs. With a flourish, he flung the corset and stockings aside, leaving me nude except for my veil. I reached up to remove it, but he stopped me with a grin. "Leave it on, love."
The feel of his soft lips on the sensitive skin of my legs was almost unbearably pleasurable. He teased me mercilessly, kissing my inner thighs for what seemed like a glorious eternity before he touched the wet tip of his tongue to the sweetest spot on my body, gently drawing my tender flesh into his mouth as the sensations flooding my nerve endings almost overpowered me. I let out a long and passionate moan, and Tracy squeezed my hand again, his lips still working their magic at the core of my being.
"Oh, God...Tracy..." Clutching the quilt, panting, I reached for his tanned shoulders. I couldn't take it any longer--I needed him now.
Tracy kissed his way along my belly and bosom to my lips again, covering my body with his while I reached down and guided him into the heart of me. Filled completely, almost senseless with desire, I let myself be carried along on the exquisite rhythm of his lovemaking, until I knew that my point of no return was very close at hand.
He knew, too--I could see in his eyes that he was struggling to contain himself, to hold back until we crossed the threshold together.
"Tracy..."
"Let it happen, love. Don't close your eyes..." I gasped as the first wave of pure ecstasy overtook me--gazing into the beautiful silver-green eyes of the man who had captured my very soul. "Don't close your eyes...look at me..."
And while my body still shook in the ultimate bliss, my husband called
out my name and filled me with the essence of his passion.
Later, as we cuddled in the glow of the firelight, very close to sleep, I gently kissed Tracy on the cheek, whispering softly.
"Next time...it's my turn to give, okay?"
Tracy turned toward me with a smile and playfully tapped the tip of
my nose with his finger. "Who's keepin' score, darlin'?"
The next day, I called the airline and resigned, effective immediately. "Don't worry; we were expecting the call," the secretary at the other end of the line said with a laugh--the first indication that Tracy's sudden marriage had, indeed, hit the papers with a bang. "Congratulations. We'll mail your last check to your new address." And later that morning, a bouquet of flowers arrived from Rob and Laura, who wished us all the best. ("So my matchmaking was a little off the mark," an obviously pleased Rob said when we called him before checking out of the hotel. " I'm still taking the credit for this one, and that's that.")
To the surprise of all the naysayers, Tracy has indeed been the model husband--well, except for that business during our honeymoon in Paris with the French sex symbol actress, although the end result of that escapade was happier than anyone ever could have imagined. But that, as they say, is another story...