The Morbid and Sultry Tales of Genevieve Clare (19 page)

“You and Ahren, you both had a connection to that woman. She knew your gran and she knew Ahren’s dad. She made the two of you celebrate holidays again. She understood what it was to love and lose then live with the fear of losing it again. She helped guide you guys not to make the same mistake she did.” She rounded the kitchen island and put her hands on my shoulders and gently said, “Get your scotch, get your glasses, get your man, and let it out, honey. Don’t keep this grief from him because he needs it just as much as you do.”

I nodded at the wisdom my best friend, thirty-four years old, had just given me. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you, too.”

And that night, Ahren and I shared tears and whiskey with my mom, my dad, and my gran…together.

There was a mourning service I provided, but did not advertise. I called it The Folsom Special. I couldn’t tell you how many funerals I’ve done over the years, but I could tell you I had been to eleven Folsom’s. There was a part of my website that said, “And if you’re doing the Johnny Cash, leave me a message here and we’ll have a chitty chat.”

It started with a man named Ron, the inspiration behind my Folsom Special. He called himself a “career fuck-up.” I was never worried that some ex-con might show up on my doorstep to say hello after they’d served their time. For the simple fact that I wasn’t a friend, I wasn’t a prison pen pal, I was the woman they hired to attend the funeral of a friend or family member to stand in their place.

I received a text three days ago with the funeral notice and made my way to San Pablo. This meant I had to drive across a bridge, and I really hated that. Ahren offered to come with me and he also mentioned, for the thousandth time, that I needed a new car.

I loved my car, and, as an act of defiance, I went alone. Well, I went to a Starbucks, met Jimmy there, and he took me the rest of the way.

The graveside service was very small, no more than fifteen people in attendance. The deceased was the father of my client. I stood at the back, removed from the intimate crowd, and listened to who I assumed was my client’s brother say, “Lyle brought a pretty girl to see you off, Dad. Wished he could be here, but thought you’d appreciate a beautiful woman more than his ugly mug.”

I smiled under my veiled hat and dark glasses at the compliment.

When it was all over, the brother introduced his mom and sister. The mother commented that, “My Charlie always did like a pretty girl. Lyle was right; he would have loved this.” They went as a family to visit Lyle as often as they could. He was doing twenty years for murder. I had Googled Lyle beforehand to see what exactly his crime had been. The sister who remained quiet throughout the service had been knocked around by her husband. The story in the paper stated that the wife—Lyle’s sister—had tried to leave several times, resulting in an escalation of abuse, both physical and psychological. Her brother solved the problem for her in a permanent way then pled guilty.

I made my way back to Jimmy.

Later, when I returned home, I looked out at Ahren working the grounds. He was dressed in his khaki workpants. His tee was soaked with sweat, and every time he pushed the shovel into the ground, it was like watching porn; every visible muscle tensed and contracted, his hair stuck to his neck. I wanted to eat him.

Suddenly, he picked up the shovel and threw it across the yard as he began to storm toward the house. The front door slammed open and I could hear him take the stairs three at a time, at least until he was standing in the doorway of our room.

“Jesus, Ahren, is everything okay?”

“No,” he replied roughly.

I didn’t have the power to always read him like an open book, so I asked, “Are you hurt? What—”

He put a hand up to stop my advance. “Are you going to marry me?” He asked me in a low, cautious voice.

“Of course I am, what hap—”

“When?”

“When?”

“When are you going to marry me?”

I tried to go to him again, but his body was actually shaking, and not because he was cold.

“We haven’t talked about it, Ahren. I don’t know.”

He stepped back to the doorway and pulled off one boot and threw it down the stairs.

“Ahren, dirt just flew everywhere!”

He pulled off the other one and sent it flying, as well.

“Ahren!” I scolded, starting to lose patience.

“When?” He pulled off his socks and threw them to the side.

“Uh…”

Something was happening and it was clear that he was using sex to get to me.

It was totally working. 

He unbuckled his utility belt and threw it hard against the wall behind him, most assuredly doing some kind of damage. “Answer me, Gen.” His voice was even, controlled, but just barely.

“Christmas!” I yelled.  “I want a Christmas wedding. I used to want a green dress, but I don’t anymore. I want a plaid dress. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I want a plaid wedding dress.”

Then I leaned forward, my hands balled into fists at my side and my voice raised.“With a bustle!”

His hands went to the top button of his pants and popped the first one.

My eyes went there immediately as I drew in a quick breath. “Ahren…”

Then softly he said, “I want kids, Gen, and I want them with you.”

I matched his gentleness and replied, “I know.”

“We’ll get married in December; you go off the pill after Rocky gets married so we can both drink at the wedding. Then we start.”

I stood there in silence, trying to get my head around what had just happened. He grabbed the bottom of his tee, pulled it over his head and threw it in the hall with the rest of his items.

I shook my head, still not sure why Ahren had raised his voice to me. “Ahren, I think we should—”

“No more thinking, Gen. Get out of your head and talk to me. November first, you’re done.”

“I’m done,” I repeated quietly.

“What’s the problem?” he asked me, seeing as I was now on the verge of tears.

“I thought we were taking our time. I thought you were taking your time. Why are you acting like this?” I looked at the floor, not even meeting his eyes, and that changed his attitude back to pissed-off.

“Look at me, Gen.”

I refused.

“Fucking. Look. At. Me!” he yelled.

That was his breaking point, and mine, too.

“Do you love me?” he demanded.

I nodded and said through choked tears, “Yes.”

“Would I ever, ever hurt you? Look at me, Gen.”

I lifted my head, and the quiet tears escaped as I replied, “I never thought so. Not until now.”

“Gen, I would never hurt you,” he told me firmly.

“Then why are you yelling at me?” I hugged my arms around my waist, wondering what in the hell was going on.

He lifted his hand to touch my hair, still pinned partially under my pillbox, and said so quietly, it was almost a whisper, “Because I want our lives to start. And I think, if I don’t get through to you now, it’s only a matter of time before I lose you again, and Gen?”

I looked at his face, his strong tan jaw with a few days of growth he knew I loved, and waited for his words.

“I can’t lose you again.”

That was when it all hit me. He was still living with the fear of losing me. It wouldn’t matter if the loss was physical or emotional. It would all be the same to him. For him, marriage was his guarantee.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I hurt you… again.” I sniffled.

“Baby,” he started.

But I moved away from him and opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. “It’s all here. All of it. I want to open the wall between Mom and Dad’s bedroom and make an ensuite. This’ll be a playroom for the kids up here. They’d love it, I think. Gran’s old room could be the nursery, and when they outgrow it, they’ll move to the room across the hall from us. And here,” I handed him a folder that said “Ahren” in green Sharpie. “That’s for you.”

He opened the folder and saw the four different suits I’d picked out, variations of top hats and tails, with two plaid swatches that had the names Finnegan and Clare written beneath. His gaze went to the remaining contents of the drawer to see I had a folder for myself, on which I’d written, also in green Sharpie, “Genevieve Finnegan” with a smiley face surrounded by X’s and O’s.

“Gen,” he choked out.

“Are we done fighting?”

“We were never fighting, I—”

“Is there something else we need to talk about?”

I knew he’d put his house in Mill Valley on the market since we were now living together. And he wanted to make a career change, but we hadn’t had a chance to talk about that either.

Those things could wait.

“No.”

“Good, because I really need you to make love to me now.” And, with a whimper, he roughly pulled my wet face to his and crashed into my lips with his own.

“You don’t have to be scared to talk to me. I’m not gonna break, and I’m not going to freak out,” I said as I made quick work of his pants and boxers. I backed away from him and undressed, clothes discarded at lightning speed so I stood in just my black bra, stockings, garter, and a thong.

“You are so beautiful, Gen,” he stated.

“So are you, Ahren.” I took another step back and said in a pleading voice, “I love you. You have got to trust me when I say I will never, ever ask you to leave again.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” I asked.

“I got impatient.” He closed the gap between us and moved his fingers down my chest, between my breasts and traced around each nipple across the lace cup. I closed my eyes at his touch and tugged his piercing as he sucked in a quick breath.

His mouth came to my ear and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you now, Gen.”

“Oh good.” I shivered and pressed my tits into him, feeling the warmth and sweat of his skin on mine.

His hands went to my hips so he could pull me against him, against the length of his hard cock, which seemed to always take my breath away. “The Clare tartan is more Christmassy,” he stated.

“What?” I blinked up at him.

“It’s a Christmas kind of plaid.”

“I went with the Finnegan one. Rocky already bought fabric and took my measurements.”

He rested his head against mine as he moved us toward the bed. “You are going to be stunning. In plaid.” He laid me back and spread my legs wide as he looked down. Seeing as I still had a thong on, he jumped up, went to his utility belt, and came back with a set of small garden shears.

Snip, snip.

Then he opened my legs again and just stared at me. His finger glided down my sides, my hips, my legs.  His mouth fell between my legs as he sucked my clit. I let my hands fist in his hair and pull at his head, because I wanted to give. As good as his mouth felt on me, I wanted to give to him, but he was relentless. He licked each pink fold, sucked until I whimpered, and did not stop until he drank all he could from me.

I let my head fall back on the final waves of my orgasm. His mouth was on my chin as he slid deep inside me. I ground into him as he warned he was close.

“Gen, baby.”

“Fuck me until you’re about to come, but I want you in my mouth.”

“Come for me, Gen.” he commanded as he thrust hard. “Come for me.”

It could have been one wave riding into another, but I did as he asked, and as soon as I stopped tensing, he pulled out, grabbed my hair and hat at the back of my head, and pushed into my waiting mouth. A second later, he came, and I took all he had to give.

“Fuck,” he said, gasping for breath.

“Jesus,” I returned.

We stayed there, lying on the bed as afternoon became evening, and only then did I leave his side. Exhausted and sated, he watched me move, and I made a mental note to remember this moment. I also reminded myself that this was one of those times in life when you know you’ve become something else, more of yourself, more of what your future role in life will be—, caretaker, nurturer, lover, wife… I would be all of those things, but that afternoon, I saw a vulnerability that had been masked behind inner and physical strength. Those were the parts of Ahren he allowed me to see. Now, seeing all of him, I fell a little more in love that day because, in my mind, he’d always been perfection. But no one is perfect, not in the real world. His fragility made him so in my eyes.

****

I spent the better part of the summer busy as all get-out. That was something my mom used to say, and every time it randomly slipped from my mouth, I felt like she was right there, watching me, holding me up when I was down.

Before Ahren came back into my life, I was alone. A lot. But there were places in the house where the solitude felt less significant. The kitchen and my old room. Those were the rooms in which she spent the most time with me. Dad and I were close because I helped him in the office, but that didn’t mean Mom and I weren’t just as close. I did homework at the small wooden table while she chopped, whisked, and prepped for dinner. She gave me little tasks to keep me involved and teach me much needed skills, but I never took to it. At all.

My bedroom was the place where mom would tell me stories. She’d read books to me. She asked me about my dreams, and I told her, never holding a single detail back. When I lost my family, I knew I would feel her absence more in the long run. Mothers are there for your big life events: when you get your period, when you get married, when you have a baby, what to do to keep that baby from crying all night long… I didn’t have that person to call and ask questions, and I never would.