I'm back from LA

I hardly wrote while there but here is the longest one I ever managed to do. Hope you read it thru.  Val

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STELLA  BY STARLIGHT

 

I'll be busy as a bee today searching for honeysuckle, I have a lot to do. Where do I start? 'OK,' I tell myself, 'rise and shine.' Of course, I don't and lie in my comfy bed for a few extra minutes. It's only 7 a.m. and my belly has yet to make itself heard. I catch a fast glimpse of the sun starting to peek thru my window and that stirs me to action. Up I get. 'Make the bed.' Uh uh. Instead I smooth it over, just fluff up my pillows and get my ablutions done in the bathroom.

 

I'm set, don't have to ponder what to wear to work today. My outfit is organized in the closet. This will be a big day for me. I have to introduce Mr. J. Clarence Powell, new V.P. of the Board of Rockville Labs. Everybody already knows him, but protocol is protocol and I have ordered in breakfast for twenty from Shulman's. All set. I'm wearing my new rust colored suit, light weight green  cashmere turtle neck sweater, gold drop earrings with small, but clearly visible, emeralds. My comfy alligator pumps will attract some male eyes to my shapely legs. They'll wink and I'll blush.

 

The room is ready. I am ready. Everybody is here except our youngest Board member, Mr. Powell's twenty-eight year old son, Harmon. I give him fifteen minutes. He appears in fourteen, carrying a hot cup of coffee. Although I greet him with a smile, I am steaming, am hotter than his coffee. The man is a nincompoop, has little interest in the family business, is at this meeting for his own reasons. One of them happens to be me. Harman has made a few suggestions to me that I don't bother to answer and avoid him whenever possible. Because of my name, he struts and tries to be another Marlon Brando.

 

Mr. Powell, Sr.  asks me to come to his office after the meeting.
I make a lame excuse that he sternly does not accept. A light tap on his highness's door and his sing-song, 'Come in, Stella,' opens it automaticly. He's waiting for me. His desk is cleared. He's smoking a big Cuban cigar, smelling up the entire office. The sun is glaring on the tinted windows and it makes odd shapes on the carpet. I can't help but note the extra long desk lamp that hangs on a brass chain from the ceiling. It looks like a  hangman's noose.

 

 'Stella,' he says, 'Harmon has asked very few favors of me over the
 years. He lives a life that he doesn't share with me. Now he is asking me to speak well of him to you and I really can't. He has money and will have a lot more when I pass, but that is not what you necessarily want, is it?' Sure, that's what I want but have no intention of telling him my personal business. A slight nod of my head 'no' invites him to continue. 'Harmon is almost childlike at times. He has a teen-like crush on you and would like to take you to dinner soon. May he call you?' I am no teenager, am smart enough to realize that my saying yeah or nay may mean my job, one where I have already made my mark. My choice is difficult but I make it, take it, self-preservation, feel sour guile in my gut as I tell my boss his son may call me.

 

I can hear my phone ringing before I unlock my apartment door. By the time I reach the phone it has stopped. Before I can get out of my work clothes it rings again. It might be anybody, any friend or neighbor, but the phone cord tells me Harmon is at the other end of the line. His 'Hello, Stella. This is Harmon,' confirms my nervous feelings, my inability to be warm, welcoming, pleasant. I pull a miracle from nowhere and am able to at least tell him I was expecting his call. He sounds assured of himself and jumps right in, 'How about dinner with me Friday, at let's say, the Algonquin, 8:00. I'll pick you up at 7:30. We can have cocktails and get to know each other. See you then.' He has given me no time at all to say o.k. or not, to ask a single question.

 

For my date with Harmon, I dress neatly, attractively, but simply, nothing sexy, provocative. I wear no perfume. He's wearing a black knit turtleneck sweater, black slacks and jacket. In a dark room, I would need a flashlight to see him. Saying very little, he offers me his arm, opens and closes the car door for me. The drive to the Algonquin takes about fifteen minutes, almost silent minutes, minutes where I feel, see him glancing at me. This young man gives me the creeps.

 

I know the route route well to the restaurant from my home and realize we are not going the right way. 'Harmon, you missed your right turn a few blocks back. Make a 'U' at the next light.' He says nothing, does nothing, just keeps going straight. 'Harmon, please turn back. I'd like to go home.' With that, he jams on the brakes, gets out and tells me to go. I am frightened. The moon is bright and I realize we are passing farmland. 'You want out? You got it.' His uncontrolled anger over nothing makes me walk fast, hoping to see someone, hear a dog bark. I don't but scream as loud as I can. Harmon screams loud too, 'Stella, Stella, you look so beautiful in the starlight. Let me hold you.  I love you, Stella, Stella, I love you!' 'Cut it out, Harmon. Don't rush me.' I play a childish fool. 'I'm not that kind of woman, Harmon, to kiss on a first date. Let's go back, have a pleasant dinner and maybe, just maybe, see each other again.' He starts to stutter, 'Stella, Stella, Stella.' Our table has been given away and we must stand in line for 20 agonizing minutes.

 

Once seated, make our menu selections, have wine, hors deuvres, I try, really try, to have a conversation while being silently stared at. Harmon's words are like an old record, 'I love you Stella. There will never be anyone else in my life but you.' My silence is getting to him. His eyes begin to glare. His face is getting stern. I am being eaten up by a giant crocodile. I nibble at what would have been a delicious meal but is picked at and left for the waiter to clear the table. Harmon barely eats either. I see our waiter talking to the manager who comes over to ask if something was not done to our satisfaction and I make up a goofy story about having just come from a big wedding where we over-ate. He seems satisfied and leaves us alone in a crowded room.

 

Valet brings Harmon's car. He drives with one arm on the wheel and the other groping for my hand. I stick my purse in his searching hand and push myself up tight against the door, ready to open it as soon as he pulls to the curb. While the air has gotten chilly, I am sweating, afraid of this one track mind. 'Will you kiss me good night, see me next week?' he asks. My refusal to do either rouses his anger. My foot is ready to kick him where my pointed shoes will do a lot of damage but I don't have to do it. He leaves me at the door, turns towards his car, humming 'She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me.'

 

I am a nervous wreck, double check the front and back doors. They are securely locked. I punch in the alarm system code and go upstairs to my room, wait to hear his car drive away. My night is fretful, full of snakes, and earthquakes, banners floating on falling buildings, 'Stella, Stella, let me be your Fella!'

 

My position at Rockville Labs is in Jeopardy. I must speak to Mr. Powell about Harmon before I go to my office. His light, warm sing-song 'Come in, Stella,' gives me a little courage. Sitting across from his father, is Harmon. He stands, walks over to me, puts his arm around my back and tells his dad I have agreed to marry him within six months.

 

My denial is loud, can surely be heard half way down the long hall. My shock must have drained my face, turned it to ashes. As I aim for the door, I ruin my future, 'Mr. Powell, keep your f 'n son away from me. If he tries to contact me in any way, I will report him to the police as a stalker.'Before the door is totally closed, I hear Harmon's feet running towards me.

 

 His voice is loud, mean, nasty with a hint of sugar.   'Stella, Stella, I love you.' Mr. Powell, arms folded, is at the door watching.