Lessons In Being A Flapper (9 page)

“It will take us to Forbes Island. Th
e only man-made floating island you’ll ever see. You’ll even get to see the sea lions on the way,” he said, winking at me.

I was dumbstruck by how thoughtful this was. We had only known each other a short time and already he had treated me better than any man before him. I felt like a princess.

Boarding the ferry, Bayani and I took a spot by the edge where we could look out over the deck and see the azure water slapping gently at the boat. Upon take off, I felt Bayani move behind me and put his arms around my waist and then rest his head on my shoulder. The feeling of him being so close to me sent shivers down my spine.

“I hope you like it, cupcake,” he whispered, before kissing my neck. I was so entranced by what he was doing that I almost missed the famous sea lions splashing in the water and lounging on rocks just five minutes from the shore.

“Oooh! Sea lions! Look, look!” I squealed like I was five years old again and seeing a zoo animal for the first time.  Bayani just laughed his usual throaty laugh and put his head back on my shoulder. The rest of the trip was beautifully silent as both he and I drank in the scenery and wished things could stay this way for ever.

Once we disembarked at Forbes Island, we were escorted to the only restaurant on it by a uniformed waiter. It all seemed extremely posh, but I loved it. I was taking snapshots with my mind so I could tell Marisol and Jeanette all about it later on.

Lunch was simply divine. We had oysters in a garlic butter sauce for an appetizer and herb crusted salmon for our main course. This was punctuated by numerous glasses of red wine and lots of laughter.

“Remember the first time I pronounced your name and I called you Bay Annie by accident?” I
said, chuckling at the memory.  You’ve got to agree his name is kind of hard to pronounce!

“Of course, I remember! You made me sound like a cross dresser who walks the Bay looking for clients!”

“Well, thank goodness you’re not a prostitute named Annie because I like you just the way you are,” I said.

The conversation (and the wine) was flowing so freely that neither of us noticed the song that was playing until there was a lull in conversation.
On the restaurant radio overheard was “Hero” by Enrique Iglesias.  One of my favorite songs ever and one that couldn’t be more appropriately named than for this breathtaking man I was currently seated across from.

Bayani must have sensed my complacency because before I knew what was happening he had gotten up from his seat and came over to my side of the table. Standing beside me, he took a theatrical bow and then held out his arm while saying
“May I have this dance?” Here? Now? Was he insane? We were in a very posh restaurant where people came to dine not dance!

The way his eyes were twinkling mischievously told me to let my guard down and go with the flow. After all, it was only one dance. So I took his hand and he led me to a spot near the window overlooking the water. From here you could see the buildings of the California coast glittering in the afternoon sunlight yet you felt like you were a million miles away from it all. As I rested my head on Bayani’s strong chest and he wrapped his arms around me for the second time that day, I felt like I never wanted to leave his embrace. Swaying to the music or hanging over a deck on the ferry, it didn’t matter to me as long as I was by his side and protected.

W
hen we arrived back on shore a few hours later, the spirit of Christmas was definitely in the air. Gone were the vendors selling beach balls and surfing gear. In their place were new vendors (or maybe the same ones with new wares) selling Christmas items like Santa and Rudolph shaped balloons, red and green tinsel and heavenly smelling gingerbread men decorated with edible silver balls and peppermint candy canes. We had only been gone for a few hours but in that time the entire pier was transformed into a magical Christmas wonderland.

The tree lighting was due to sta
rt soon so we decided to get our place by the tree but before we could reach the roped off area, I saw a spot where you could send a letter to Santa. Now, I know I’m old enough to know that Old Saint Nick doesn’t exactly exist in real life, but at that moment I was so caught up in the holiday spirit that I persuaded Bayani to stop and send a letter to the jolly old man with me. I picked up a green glitter pen and began writing:

Dear Santa :

I think I must have been on the “nice” list this year because I’ve already been given so many gifts and it isn’t even Christmas! But I just wanted to wish for one more thing, if that’s ok. I would be so happy and eternally grateful to you if you could let all of the people in my life right now stay with me. Give me the gift of hope this Christmas, Santa, because I want to believe so badly in my new friends but I can’t seem to let the past go.

Do this for me and I’ll spread good cheer to all the little girls and boys who think that you’re nothing more than an old man in a suit who exists only in their dreams.

Merry Christmas!

Autumn

I folded my letter and tucked it into the envelope addressed to “Santa Claus, North Pole” before sticking it in the mailbox at the end of the booth. I noticed that Bayani was still writing and wondered what he could possibly be wishing for this holiday season. I hope that whatever it was it included me.

T
he tree lighting on Pier 39 was the most spectacular thing I had ever seen. There were so many people; some wearing Santa hats and others just happy to be with their family on such an exciting night. Apparently, the tree was shipped in from Washington and had been carefully decorated with all kinds of baubles and multi colored lights. It shone like only a Christmas tree could and brought cheers of applause and whoops of delight as all the lights were switched on.

Bayani and I held hands on the way back to the car. I liked the way his hand fit in mine, so comforting and strong. I snuggled in closer to him as w
e walked and he slung his arm over my shoulder pulling me to him in a big bear hug.

“That was really fun. I loved your company today,” he said when we reached the car.
I smiled and got in for the drive home, thinking all along that I wanted to feel his lips on mine again before the night was through. If he didn’t make the first move, then I was going to jump his bones myself. Not exactly a ladylike thing to do, but, needs must and all that.

Luckily he pulled me to him as soon as we pulled in my driveway, cupping my chin with his soft hands and kissing me passionately, like he thought I would disappear if he let
go. The feel of his lips brushing against my own was indescribable; it was as if we were two people meant to be here at this exact moment in time. I couldn’t compare it to any other kiss in my life because every kiss before this had been immature and sloppy, whereas this, well, this was what perfection felt like. The kiss seemed to go on forever and when we finally broke apart; our breathing was ragged and full of passion. I thought about inviting him in, but knew that it would go against my beliefs so I ruffled his hair, as he had done to me when we first kissed, and said “Goodnight, Bayani” before getting out of the car without looking back.

W
hen I got inside my house, I noticed the red light on my answering machine was blinking. I walked over to the counter and pressed play, expecting a message from my mother or Jeanette. It was neither.

“Hello Chickadee, it’s Marisol. I’m not sure how to work this damned thing but I wanted to tell you the party is on for tomorrow night. Come early so we can discuss details. Again, this is Marisol. M-A-R-I-S-O-L.” Obviously, Marisol wasn’t aware of caller ID. She repeated her name and number about three times before finally hanging up.

After listening to the message, I sank down on my sofa and wondered if I was really up to attending a dinner party tomorrow. Yes, I loved the twenties and wanted to be a Flapper – at least I thought I did – but acting out all my lessons was really going to be quite the test. Could I do it? I really wasn’t sure, but I’d have to at least try for Marisol’s sake.

The next day, I got to Marisol’s around 2 in the afternoon
and was stunned to find the place decked out with every feasible decoration, including a cigar bar in the left corner of the living room, a photo booth in the lounge and a powder and pearls table near the master bathroom. It was all extremely well thought out and amazing to look at.

“What do you think, darling? Does it seem authentic enough?” Marisol asked me, as she waved her hand around the room gesturing to the wide array of things to look at. “I hired one of the top rated party planners in the area.”

“It’s unbelievable!” I said, and really, it was. “You did a great job of bringing the atmosphere alive.”

Once I got over the initial shock of seeing the party decorations, Marisol took me to her guest room where she had laid out a series of dresses, headpieces, shoes, jewelry and more for me to try on.

“Now listen to me. Don’t go trying all of these things on. Go with your gut instinct and you’ll be set as sugar. I’m going to go get ready myself and I’ll see you back in the lounge in a half hour,” Marisol said before escaping to her own room and leaving behind a light breeze of CoCo Chanel scented air.

Now that I was alone, I decided to check out the dresses on offer and did as Marisol said. I picked up a gorgeous gold dress with fringe that fell just below my knee. I paired it with a black feathered headband and a pair of to-die-for vintage Chanel shoes. I then sat down at the dressing table and looked at myself in the oval mirror. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do with my makeup but I decided to attempt (and I use that word lightly) to do Clara Bow style lips as well as a dark smoky eye. The end result wasn’t as great as I had hoped but at least I wouldn’t scare anyone off. At least I hoped I wouldn’t. Finally, I added some jewelry, which all appeared to be real and sparkled like stars under the dressing table lights. I felt like a real Flapper in my outfit and I knew Marisol would be very proud of my effort.

When I was all set and had calmed my nerves enough, I walked over to the lounge where Marisol was already waiting. She looked so sweet in her own Flapper style dress, with heels – albeit shorter in height than mine – and a vintage hat. I immediately hugged her without thinking twice and although she gave me a gentle squeeze in return, she pulled away quickly.

“My chickadee, you look gorgeous! A true broad you are!”

“Thanks, Marisol. You look lovely youself.”

“Oh, this old thing?” she said, pulling out the sides of her dress to show just how big it was on her. “It used to fit me quite a bit better, but you know how it goes. You get old and frail and things start to sag. My boobs are already well pat my knees. If they go any lower, I’ll be dragging them on the floor!”

I laughed to the point of tears at this comment as I knew it was something to expect from this witty old woman who loved to live it up despite her advanced age.

“Oh! That’ll be our first guest! Bernard! Answer the door, will you love?” she said before patting down her dress and standing up as straight as possible.

“Now Autumn, make sure you converse and socialize tonight. This crowd may seem intimidating but they’re all really a bunch of freaks. They’re nowhere near as dapper as you and I are.”

A
s the guests filtered in, I studied each one intently and watched as they formed circles around the room. Marisol would often whisper in my ear if someone had a particular trait she either liked or disliked.

“Oh, that one over there in the faux fur coat and kitten heels is quite the floozy,” she said of one woman who looked like she was trying too hard to fit in. Of another she said “Don’t talk to her. She’s a little…off. She’s a boozehound who had her beezer replaced last year. Apparently it didn’t work out well because now it’s even more crooked than the original. Plastic surgery is for wannabes. Rule number one of being a Flapper : Be happy in your own skin, Chickadee.”

I stood clear of the woman with the nose job as she did reek of alcohol and seemed a little odd to me, but I tried to talk with other guests and mingle as best I could. The crowd was a bit intimidating. The men were dressed in three piece suits and the women all wore immaculate looking dresses. There were the “Sheiks” – men who wore bell bottom trousers and raccoon coats – and then there were the more dressed up men who resembled gangsters like Al Capone. It was very eclectic mix of people. If I weren’t so involved in the party, I’d have been happy to just sit on the side and people watch.

“Darling, they’re going to do the Lindy Hop now! Do join in! I know your grandfather said you had two left feet but at least try. No one will even notice if you’re a bad dancer,” Marisol said to me as she pished me into the center of the room. I stood stock still for a moment before getting swept up in the excitement that was permeating from every corner of the room. I couldn’t dance for the life of me, but how hard could the Lindy Hop actually be?

Very hard, I soon found out. As Marisol sat in a chair and laughed mercilessly, I struggled to find my footing.  Apparently, dancers were supposed to jump in sequence, which I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of and then the women were swung in the air by their partners. Seeing as my partner was a seventy-something year old with a walking stick, I knew I wouldn’t be swinging anywhere, except on the floor. Luckily, the drop was quick and I was able to jump back on to my feet before anyone noticed.