She watches him, his breathing, the way he picks up a plate—it’s all
the same, yet completely foreign. He sits at the end of the long
table, the large oak chair resembling a throne. With his right hand,
he picks up his wine glass. How did he take a drink before? She can’t
remember. The tiniest, minuscule things about John Black have begun to
fade from her memory, and it scares her.
The horror of this house in all its dark gothic glory surrounds her,
making her feel like a porcelain figurine. The dining room is lit with
the shiest of candles, their short stems near ultimate destruction.
Her eyes transfix on them. Two sit on the sides, mid-way down the
elongated table; through the center she sees him—his cerulean eyes
picking up the soft light in the smallest portions.
She let him set the table, pick her place. She regrets it now, seeing
as how he is setting at the head, and she is here at the end—the
wife’s chair of the DiMera dining room. It’s enough to make her lose
her appetite, but it’s funny what he remembers and doesn’t. The steak
is wonderfully familiar, and even here it tastes delicious. She didn’t
even realize she missed his cooking, until now.
When he said he was staying here, it was another cleft in her faulty
armor. The one time she had lived here had been enough. She went back
to their new home. She laid down in their old bed, and stretched an
arm across the emptiness next to her. Unlike all the other nights
alone, she did not cry—it didn’t have to be that way.
***
She waited for someone to answer the door; her cheeks already
flushing. It jerked open.
“What?!” He roared. His eyes met hers; he cleared his throat.
“Blondie? Wha. . .what are you doing here?”
Running a nervous hand through her hair, she sought composure before
speaking. “I came to see if you’d come back home with me.”
He gave her a blank stare. “No. You can keep it. I like it here just fine.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” She walked past him into the foyer.
“Well, come on in.” He remarked dryly, letting the door close with a
slight thud.
She sat the large leather suitcase down on the hardwood floor. “You
said I could stay with you. Did you not?”
His eyes fixed on her curves covered in jeans and a white fitted
t-shirt. In silence, he crossed the space between them.
Turning to face him, she jumped with a girlish scream. “What are you doing?!”
“Taking your suitcase upstairs.” Clasping the handle, he lifted it
with ease. His eyes danced from her to the case. “You don’t want me to
take it up?”
“No. . .that’d be nice actually.” Her heart began to slow as she
watched him curiously.
With a nod, he headed up the burgundy carpeted staircase.
*
“Are you hungry?” He asked, turning his attention away from a stack of
financial reports.
She turned away from the window. “Yeah. You?”
“I’m starving.” He opened the top left desk drawer. As it shrieked,
she moved closer.
She ran her hand over the newly finished wood, while he dropped the papers in.
“I heard him talking the next day. Cost a lot to fix that. Something
about it being an heirloom.” Standing, he began to walk toward the
kitchen, speaking before she could reply. “What do you like?”
“Maybe I should come and help you?” Letting it fall as a question, she
took long strides to catch up to him, a smile lining her lips.
“Okay. That’ll work.” He gave her a small grin, and headed into the kitchen.
Once he was gone, she dropped the smile.
***
“You’re quiet.” He says standing from his table, carrying his plate in
her direction.
She hunts his eyes for intention. “I am?”
“Yes.” Pointing at her plate, he finishes. “Can I take that?”
With a nod, she hands it up to him, delightfully shocked. “Thank you.”
Their fingers glide across each other as he takes her plate. They
remember together.
Her lips on his. His hands stroking her flesh. Her legs clinging to
the backs of his. His breath hot against her chest.
“Thank you.” She says again, her voice a whisper.
Smirking rather arrogantly, he releases his hold on the stacked
plates, the china teasing his skin as they fall.
“John!” Her eyes follow his to the floor.
“Oops.” Bending down, he swallows anxiously. Swiftly, he picks up the
pieces, gathering them to place on two larger chunks; slowly, his eyes
travel up her jean covered, crossed legs.
“John?” She asks, her voice deepening at his lust filled gaze.
He catches the darkening amber in her eyes, and lets the plates hit
the floor again, a tiny crash for every piece. “Shhh. . . .”
Tactfully, he slips his hands into the bottoms of her jeans, running
them up her calf, pulling the jeans up, kissing the newly exposed
skin.
Her chest begins to pound, her ears burn. “No.” The word flows from
her lips like a feather, but stays thick like molasses in the air.
Bringing her hands to his face, she pulls him up.
With dark azure, he allows her to lead him. He wants to be lead to her
lips; that is where he goes. Roughly, he takes her top lip between
his, pushing his tongue until she opens her mouth more.
Everything is blurring. All she wants is to kiss him back. She does.
All she wants is to feel his skin against hers. Her heart persists in
its protests to stop this. She does.
Her hands push against his chest until their lips part. Clumsily, she
stands, moving to the corner of the room.
His smile disappears. Disgruntled, he goes back to picking up the plate.
Without a word, she leaves, her finger tips examining her crimsoned lips.
Why did she run away? He can’t understand this woman at all. One
minute she likes him. The next she does not. One minute she protects
him. The next she does not. He gets everyone else in this crumby town.
Everyone but Marlena. Incoherently, he mutters under his breath,
cursing at her and himself. The night before was grueling. He must
have watched every television show known to man—the one good thing
about amnesia; all the episodes were new to him, helped him learn a
lot about social interaction too.
The sexiest thing he’s ever seen—actually she’s something else, but he
has never used that word, at least not in this life. Something was
happening to his thoughts; he’d noticed the change ever since the
plane crash. When she walked in a room, he felt safe and insecure all
at the same time. At times, he hated the feeling so much he lashed out
at her. Then others, he didn’t want to feel any other way.
He can still hear her whispering “I love you” in the night. Knowing
better than to react to it, he always brushed it off. Still, when
she’d said it in between kisses, it mattered more than anything he’d
ever heard. He’d never been so nervous when she removed his clothes
the next morning—vulnerability was not something he dealt well with.
At the same time, he’d never been so excited to take hers off.
Sitting two seats away from him in the home theater, she keeps her
eyes facing the large screen. He can’t help watching her. If she
asked, he wouldn’t know half the characters in the movie or even why
that scruffy looking guy is so obsessed with rebuilding that old
house. It wasn’t his kind of film. At least, he didn’t think it was.
It was her idea to watch this Book movie.
“What?” She says catching him completely staring at her.
Immediately, he turns his head back to the movie. “Just wondering how
much more of this crap I have to sit through?”
Rolling her eyes, she looks back to the screen. “An hour or so. And
don’t call it crap.”
“Gotta call ‘em as I see ‘em, Blondie. Is there another sex scene?”
Standing up, he moves a seat closer to her.
She watches out of the corner of her eye. Betraying herself, she
shifts in her seat, ignoring his obnoxious question.
“Are you cold?”
Exasperated, she glares at him, “No. I am not cold”, then goes back to
the movie.
He slumps down in his chair. “I’m glad you’re here Blondie. Last night
was pretty lame.”
A smile begins to run across her lips, despite her attempts to quell
it. She waits for him to continue, but he does not.
***
“John. Wake up. John!” She nudges him in the shoulder.
Groggily, he returns to humanity. “Five more minutes.”
She laughs at his response—he used to be the one waking her up while
she begged for five. “No way. Mr. Black.” And everything is awkward;
she fell into the past again.
He smirks. “What are you gonna do about it, Mrs. Black?” His hands
travel to her waist.
She pries his hands off of her and starts out of the room. “Which
bedroom did you put my stuff in?”
“The big one.” He states matter of fact as he stands. “Is this when
you usually go to bed?”
She laughs at that. “I usually go to bed around 11. But you and I used
to go to bed around 8. Going to sleep was another matter entirely.”
He follows her out of the room and into the black hall—the only
sources of light coming from the bulbs that illuminate Rapheals,
Rembrants, and Da Vincis. Something about the way she moves in the
midnight makes him pick up his pace. “I like your jeans.”
She can feel him behind her, instinctively she shimmies her hips more
with each step, feels filthy for doing so considering the
circumstances. “Thank you.” All of these compliments tonight are
beginning to get to her.
“And. . . .” He places a hand on the small of her back, moving the
thin cotton fabric of her white t-shirt up until his skin is hot
against hers. “I like your shirt.”
Taking a deep breath, she whips around to face him. “Thank you, John.”
With an annoyed sigh, she turns heading back down the hall.
Confused, he follows. “You know. Maybe you might. . .like to dress for
dinner tomorrow.”
“You? You are going to dress for dinner?” She laughs. “You willingly
are asking to put on a tux?”
“No. I was just thinking how great you’d look in purple satin.” He
says devoid of expression.
Her heart skips a beat. Purple satin. “Did you remember something?”
Stopping again, she turns to him.
There it is again. Another reference to that other guy he used to be.
The anger in him builds. “No. I didn’t remember. And I’m not going to
remember.” Storming past her, he heads down the gigantic hall, his
figure molding into the blackness.
Her suitcase is sitting just where he said it would be. The master
bedroom. . .Stefano DiMera’s bedroom—his scarlet walls, maple floor,
and golden curtains. She walks to the bed, his bed, and slides her
suitcase off of it, a resounding boom echoes as it hits the floor.
What is she doing here? The room is spinning; she can hear his
menacing laugh. Slowly, her throat begins to close.
“Blondie! You alright!” John bursts into the room, his thundering
steps coming to a halt as he turns into the bedroom. She stares
blankly at the black marble mantel. “Are you okay?” Truly concerned,
he touches her shoulder.
The spiral stops. Her fist flies around before she has time to think.
He catches her punch in the rib.
“What was that for?!” Screaming, he grabs the wrist of the hand that struck him.
Glaring at him, she tries to calm down. It’s just John, but this isn’t
the John that makes everything better—now she does want to hurt him.
“Why did you stick me in this room?!” She pushes him back.
He keeps his hold on her wrist. “It’s the nicest room in the house.
That’s why I stuck you in here!”
“In Stefano’s bedroom! Don’t you. . .” she trails realizing that he
doesn’t know what this is doing to her at all. Shaking her head more
at the tears of fury that threaten than anything else, she hisses,
“Let go of me.”
Pain. Lots and lots of gruesome pain, it’s all he sees in her hazel
gaze. Releasing her, he blocks the path out the door. “I’d get you
another room, but the servants are all gone. And this is the only room
I had cleaned.”
She laughs in disgust. “Well, isn’t that lovely.” Pivoting, she heads
for her suitcase. She digs until she finds the small black bag that
contains her toothbrush, facial moisturizer, perfume. . .etc. Ignoring
his presence, she picks up a pajama top and heads into the bathroom.
With a gasp, she takes it all in. Baroque designs fill the bathroom.
Nearly everything is gold, the walls patterned with it, the faucets &
shower head, but the sink is ominous with the same black marble as the
mantle. There are mirrors everywhere; it makes her sick to think about
what’s been reflected in them, makes her even sicker to think that she
will be reflected.
Taking a deep breath, she begins to sit her things about, puts her top
on the towel rack, her bag on the marble. She takes her toothbrush,
spreads a nice glob of Colgate on, and begins her usual routine. The
never-ending mirror gives him away; out the corner of her eye she
watches him.
He stands beside her at the other sink, takes out the toothbrush in
the gold holder, and starts to put on some Crest. Should he bother
her? Why not? “I hate this stuff.”
Pulling her toothbrush out of her mouth, she replies, “What?”, and
then slips the brush back in.
“Can I have some of yours?”
Smiling, she hands him the tube.
“Thanks.” He spreads a humongous glob until the bristles are
completely engrossed, and shoves it into his mouth.
She nearly spits the foamy paste—he always smothered his toothbrush,
and she always laughed.
He smiles back at her, his teeth covered in white bubbling lather.
Rolling her eyes, she tries to hide her grin.
He watches her in the mirror, attempting to be discrete, brushing diligently.
Should she stop? Why is she flirting with him? This is crazy. Her
thoughts jumble as she continues to brush.
Both losing patience simultaneously, they lean down to their sinks to
spit. They’re eyes lock in the mirror as they turn on their faucets.
With a smirk, he walks out.
***
Why does he feel so nervous? Just like the tent. How long does it take
her to get ready for bed? He wanders around the room wearing only navy
silk pajama bottoms, glancing to-and-fro making sure everything looks
nice.
She comes out of the bathroom. God’s sense of humor gets to her when
she realizes John has unknowingly picked out the mate to her pajama
top to wear to bed. Her breath catches at the sight of him, even from
behind, the way his back muscles play stimulate her senses without so
much as a touch.
“It’s about time Blon. . .” his words die when he sees her wearing
only the top to his bottoms. Those legs could go on forever. His
breathing shallows; he remembers how they felt tangled in his. “You
always wear my clothes?”
She looks toward the gold curtains, her fingers playing with a button.
“After you. . .um. . .after you died, I did. Just made me feel closer
to you.” Her eyes go back to the floor, her words stumbling out as she
returns them to his face. “Sounds kind of ridiculous, I know.”
He loves the way she looks, moves, sounds when she’s vulnerable. “No.”
The reply is a subtle whisper.
Giving him a smile, she starts around him. “Where are you planning on
sleeping tonight?”
He gently takes her arm, stopping her.
“What are you doing?” Already, her breathing begins to change.
“Well, you said you wore this. . .” with his other hand he plays with
the fabric around the collar, “to feel closer to me. I’m here right
now.”
She looks from his lips to inviting blue eyes.
Tactfully, he starts to unbutton the shirt from the top. “You don’t need this.”
His breath is hot on her neck as he places a kiss on her collar bone.
She cannot do this again, no matter how good it feels, or how much she
wants it. “John. Please.”
Pulling back, he smiles a mile-wide and picks her up. “Of course, baby.”
Baby. He said it again just like in Greenland, but the tone still has
a strange taste to her. She lets him carry her to the bed, only to
push him back when he begins to climb on top. “John. No. We are not
doing this.” Hastily, she fixes the two buttons he’d undone.
“Fine.” Somber, he stands, walks to the fireplace, pulls the poker
from its haven on the side, and begins to move blazing ashes around.
It’s only now that she realizes he lit it.
“You were planning on sleeping in here tonight. Weren’t you?” Sitting
up, she brings her knees to her chest, crosses her arms across them,
and rests her head there.
Frustrated, he ignores the question, watching the flames dance along.
“I would like that.”
He turns his eyes, picking up her gaze immediately.
“Just. . .no feeling me up. Ok?” Inspecting his intentions like a
child, she questions.
Nodding, he turns out the lights. “The fire will burn out in a few
hours. You want me to make another?”
She shakes her head, a smile across her face. With only the firelight
to guide her, she fumbles with the comforter. “You did get this
cleaned. Fumigated. All that?”
He laughs at her. “Yes. There are no Stefano cooties.”
Peeling back the plush black satin, she slides beneath it and onto the
mattress. Following her, he does the same. They lay in silence.
Huffing, she kicks the covers beneath her, the tightness of the make
driving her insane. It prompts him to break the quiet. “You’re gonna
have to kick it a lot harder than that.”
She kicks it with everything she’s got. The bed shakes, but the covers
remain pinned. “Why don’t you help me?”
He stares up at the golden chandelier, amused by her antics. “Because,
you haven’t asked.”
“I think I just did.” She grits her teeth, kicking the covers again,
but still getting no release. It’s becoming claustrophobic.
“No. You asked why I wasn’t helping.” He places both arms behind his head.
Annoyed, she yells. “Okay! Will you please, please, help me?!”
His laughter fills the room. “Yes. I’ll help you Blondie. Since you
asked so nicely.”
Together, they kick.
“Hey! Watch it!” He yells back at her flying legs, which pound his calf muscle.
“Sorry.” She lies, smirking.
Finally, the covers release, coming un-tucked, freeing them from
confinement. “That’s the last time I—”
“Oh my gosh! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She turns on her side,
kissing his cheek multiple times before realizing who he is not.
“Guess I should try this helping thing more often.” Smugly, he turns
to face her. “Is there. . .”, he looks her up and down, “anything else
I can help you with?”
She rolls over, her back to him. “No.”
Disgruntled, he follows her action, mumbling curses into his pillow.
Several minutes pass before he speaks again. “Shouldn’t I kiss you
goodnight?”
Normally, she would have already been headed for dream world, but not
tonight. “Ok. Just one kiss.” She turns to face him, entertained by
the innocence in his question.
“Ok.” He rolls over. Using his right hand, he smoothes her hair back,
then lets it rest on her cheek. “Goodnight, Mrs. Black.”
Softly, she smiles. “Goodnight, Mr. Black.”
“I’m going to kiss you now.” He says as if he’s reading the lines from
Webster’s.
“Okay.” She giggles, despite her efforts not to.
He leads her to him with his hand, their lips meeting in tender
expectation. She takes his bottom lip between hers, sucking slightly.
When she feels his tongue seek entry, she allows it. Thirty-seconds.
She can enjoy this just for thirty-seconds.
She climbs on top of him, despite all facts and figures. Her tongue
dueling with his for control, feral groans escape from both of them in
rhythmic beats. His hands travel down her thighs, until they rest on
her behind, and begin to slip the pajama top up past her underwear.
A minute. She can enjoy this for a minute, not a second more. Raking
her nails down the sides of his torso, she kisses his neck. Before she
can blink, he’s tossed them into the air, and she is on her back. His
eyes are a glazed ocean, all in worship of her. From her back, he
pulls her body up to meet his, arching her as their lips taunt one
another’s.
With a jerk, he drags his lips back, never releasing his hold on her,
his eyes living in her own. “Do you want me to tell you I love you,
now?”
Her two minutes of enjoyment are over. “If you truly do. Then yes. But
if you’re just saying it because you think it’s what I want to hear.
Then no.” She brushes his hair away from his face. To stop him from
moving in again, she kisses his forehead. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” The phrase comes clumsily as he goes back to his side of the bed.
She turns from him, facing the giant Mahogany bureau. It sits there in
the dark, reflecting the diminishing fire, a few gold picture frames
line the top of the bureau, all of which are flipped over, faces
hidden.
He opens his eyes, pleased to find that she is in fact in his arms.
Somewhere in the night, he ended up here—maybe she pulled him to
her—he’ll never know. She sleeps with her back to him, bundled up, her
hand linked in his over her stomach. His other arm lies wadded up
between them. The muscles scream for release, but he doesn’t dare
move. Her breathing is labored; it soothes him.
This is his wife. Whatever his old self did to deserve her must have
been pretty amazing. Even though he knows she practically sent Stefano
to permanent torture, there is something inside her; something he
doesn’t know anything about—goodness. Her hair is back out of her
eyes, it tickles his nose. Is this what he woke up to every morning?
Her pink cheeks, a simple smile as she sleeps…if he could only
remember, he would have it again.
He can’t remember. It’s not like he hasn’t tried. He’d never admit it,
but he has—in the hospital, that first night in Ireland, in the tent
while she slept, the first day he spent in this house, and now here he
is again…trying. It’s futile and stupid. With a sigh, he puts any
thoughts of who he once was out of his mind. His pajama top has
stretched in the night, leaving one of her shoulders completely
exposed; he leaves his attention on the small freckle that rests just
to the right of the top of her shoulder blade.
Leaning down, he ever so lightly kisses the spot. She stirs, her
fingers gripping his against the silk that drapes her stomach. He
thinks back to the shows he’s seen. The movie last night, she seemed
to like it, maybe he should act like those men. Breakfast. She would
probably like him to make her breakfast, bring it to her in bed.
Smiling, he begins to move.
“Mmm…” She murmurs, her smile growing as she rubs a foot up his shin.
He feels silly, his heart fluttering at the thought she is happy to be
in his arms, right now, not last year, but now. Burying his face in
her neck, he kisses her skin lightly.
“John.” She whispers, a dreamy giggle hanging on to his name.
Her laughter makes him smile. Taking in the smell of strawberries, he
moves her hair back. He whispers into her ear, “You smell good,
Blondie.”
Blondie. Her dream ends. Quickly, she realizes her new reality. She
awkwardly, moves out of his embrace until she is on the other side of
the expansive bed. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He sits up.
“Everything.” With a pained expression, she slides out from under the
black satin.
Turning his head to the side, he watches her pick up her suitcase.
“I’m sorry too,” he states flatly.
She stops her movements toward the bathroom. “For?”
Serious, he looks over at her. “Slamming your head into the door.”
Nodding, she gives him a slight smile before going into the bathroom
and shutting the door behind her.
The gold shower head streams hot water down her back. It feels so good
she momentarily forgets that this is Stefano DiMera’s shower. Her mind
is muddled with thoughts of last night. She never should have slept in
only a shirt. That was stupid. So stupid and selfish. She wanted him
to touch her, wanted to affect him. Maybe she shouldn’t be here after
all.
It feels right being in his arms. John would understand that. When he
remembers he’ll understand that she needed that. She prays that he
won’t see it all as a betrayal—if in fact it is, she still hasn’t
decided. In her weakest moments, she allows herself to be charmed by
his boyish airs. Even now, her heart flutters at the idea of him
waiting for her somewhere in this house.
If he’d have come home, things wouldn’t be so grey. She tells herself
this over and over. Resting her head against the rose colored marble,
she allows the water to wash the confusion away, but it proves too
thick and far too engrained to be removed so easily. He was adorable
this morning. He was her John, if only for a moment, yet not him at
all. Her views of the world are becoming increasingly eclectic,
annoyingly so in her case.
She turns the steaming water off. As she delicately steps out, she
grabs the navy towel from the stack that sits on the brass shelf on
the adjacent wall. The towel is cold, but soothing. Taking a white
towel from the stack, she begins to fluff the moisture out of her
long, blonde hair. Freezing her movements, she focuses in on the
mirror.
***
“I love you.” He breathed into her ear.
She untangled her legs from his waist, all while running her hands up
and down his back. “And I…” Giggling breathlessly, she continued.
“Love you.”
He kissed her forehead. “Will you wash my back now baby?”
“I suppose I should, seeing as how that’s how you got me in here in
the first place.” With a smirk, she made a circle with her index
finger, motioning for him to turn.
Moving as she asked, he smiled. “Yeah. Riiiiight.”
Slapping him on the back, she laughed. “Okay! You don’t have to be so
egotistical. I can’t help it if I’m unable to resist you.”
“And I can’t help the fact that I want you every second of every day.”
He spun abruptly, picking her up.
For balance, she wrapped her legs around his waist. Their laughter
filled the room as they fell against the wall. “Time’s wasting Mr.
Black.”
*
He handed her a towel from the holder. It was flaming orange, a beach
towel Belle forgot to take with her to Puerto Rico. “Thanks baby.”
While she wrapped her towel around her body, he picked up a forest
green one and secured it around his lower torso. “Of course.”
With a small smile, she walked over to the counter, diligently
searching for a comb. “John, have you seen….”
“Top drawer on the right.” Answering, he pulled a tan towel out of the
silver holder.
She opened the drawer finding the black comb. Coming behind her, he
put the towel on her head and began to fluff out the moisture.
“So, we’re supposed to go to the pub today?” He continued his task.
With a sigh, she answered, watching his face in the mirror. “Yes.
About Sami and the annulment and EJ. I wish she would forget about
it.”
Confident that he’d done his usual job well, he laid the towel on the
counter and hunted for his razor while she began to comb through her
hair. “Hopefully, we can all talk some sense into her. Everything will
work out, Doc. I mean look at Belle, she’s going to be a nurse. And
she’s back with Shawn. Yeah, the kids will be just fine.” He reassured
her as he lathered his face in shaving cream.
Pausing mid-way down one of the locks around her face, she smiled,
believing him.
***
“So, you like pancakes or French toast?” He calls from the doorway.
She jumps, her hand sliding her straightener off the marble. The
ceramic insides clang against the rosy tile. “Gah!” She inspects the
outside of her palm which is instantly reddening. “Haven’t you ever
heard of knocking?!”
Dropping to a knee, he picks up the straightener and sits it back on
the black marble. “Do you like pancakes or toast, Blondie?”
“I don’t care!” She yells more at her hand than him, the side beginning to welt.
He notices the grimace. Coming closer, he puts out his hand. “Let me see.”
“The last time you took a look at a wound—”
“Things turned out rather nicely.” With a gleam in his blues, he takes
her wrist, flipping over her hand. Letting go of it, he places his
hands on her waist.
“John?” She fears what he’s thinking, but more than anything wonders
why he gets so turned on by her injuries.
Picking her up, he sits her on the counter. “Don’t go running off.”
His hands leave her body.
Adjusting the towel around her chest with her good hand, she opens her
lips to ask a question, but decides against it as he walks out the
door. To pass the time, she looks at the burn. She’s the doctor. She
knows it’s not serious, aloe would be nice though.
He returns with a bottle of SolarCane. The green gel twinkles in the
light radiating from the fixtures behind her. “There you go.” He hands
her the bottle.
A crooked smile flies across her lips; he didn’t try to put it on her
hand himself—not very gentlemanly of him, yet amusing. “Thanks.”
He heads back out the door without expression.
“I like pancakes. With strawberries and whipped cream.”
Looking back at her, he smiles. “Good to know.”
Tugging at her black t-shirt, she descends the staircase. The smell of
fresh pancakes swirls through the air. With a soft grin, she scans the
living room for any sign of him. Just as she is about to go into the
dreaded dining room, she hears his voice.
“Hey Blondie, foods out here!”
She exits through the large glass doors, her steps crescendo against
the ashen tiled floor. He’s adorned the black-painted, iron patio
table with a stack of pancakes which rest in a large china, turquoise
flowered, server. A matching china bowl filled with strawberries is
adjacent to it. Matching plates with silver forks, their flowered
handles catching the sunlight, are at facing curves of the round
table. All of this elaborateness is thrown off by the bowl of
Cool-Whip that sits to the right of everything as if it’s in time out
for being so ordinary.
“I didn’t know what you wanted to drink.” He says surveying his work.
She notices the standard blue, Rubbermaid cooler that sits in the iron
chair to the right of the Cool-Whip. Its contents are a myriad of
men—Georgi, Jack Daniels, Dom Perignon, and Dr. Pepper. It’s all
strange and deeply touching. “What are you having?”
“Um…I was thinking of maybe a little bourbon or vodka. Would you like
champagne?” He stammers out the question, letting his eyes come into
contact with hers.
Shaking her head, she attempts to explain. “John, people don’t
normally drink alcohol before say…dinner.”
He stares at her, digesting her every word. “But that’s not what I saw
on that movie. And Stefano used to drink—”
“I don’t care what Stefano did!” She recognizes a slight tinge in his
blues; it makes her soften. “You aren’t Stefano, John. And the
movie…that guy was drinking all the time because he was a virtual
alcoholic.”
“And that is bad?” He crosses his arms with the look of a student.
“Yes.”
“Okay. So, what do you want?” Without missing a beat, he starts around her.
“Dr. Pepper will be fine.” She says pulling out the chair in front of
the exquisite bowl of strawberries.
He pulls out two cans of Dr. Pepper, and sits across from her by the
Cool-Whip. Emotionless, he watches her.
She takes her fork, stabs two giant pancakes, and plops them on her
plate. “Did you bring a spoon?”
He shakes his head. “Last time I had a spoon around you—”
“I know.” She waves her hand in front of her. “Never mind.”
Sitting there silent, he watches her pick out four plump strawberries.
She reaches across the table, dipping each of them into the whipped
cream.
She tilts her head to the side, putting them on top of the pancakes.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
He flips open the top of his Dr. Pepper can. “Yes. But I was thinking
of a better way to do this.”
“Okay. How?” Popping her can top, she takes a sip.
With a smirk, he puts her plate in the middle, and puts a pancake on
it. Placing three strawberries on the pancake, he starts over layering
pancake and strawberry. When he’s finished, he picks up the cool whip
bowl.
Marlena sits speechless.
He dumps the tub onto the plate, and starts trying to mix things
around. “Now! That is how you do it Blondie!” Like the basketball
player who hits the ever elusive half-court shot, he is all smiles.
“And what am I supposed to eat?”
“We will share.” He digs his fork into his creation.
Shaking her head, she laughs and does the same.
“What’s so funny?” He says before taking a drink.
“You.” She smiles and takes a large bite. “Oh my gosh! These are amazing!”
“The Warehouse?” Staring at her chest, he asks flatly, shoving another
bite into his mouth.
Looking down at the neon pink logo, she answers. “It’s a restaurant in
Colorado Springs.”
“Why’d we go there?”
She arches an eyebrow. “How’d you know you were there?”
He shrugs, stabbing another chunk of strawberry goodness.
“We went to visit my parents in Denver last year for Easter. Anyway,
you got the idea to stop off of I-70 in Genoa. You saw some billboard
for the place.” She looks toward the brick mansion, lets out a laugh.
Her hair falls in her eyes as she looks down, relishing in the memory.
“‘Doc, we have to eat there. They have the biggest steak I’ve ever
seen.’ I laughed at your corny joke, and kindly reminded you that it
was nearly three hours out of our way, but you….” She smirks. “Still
got your way.”
He puts a strawberry in his mouth. “How?”
“Umm….” She clears her throat. “You had amazing powers of persuasion.”
His eyes light up. “Why don’t we see if I still have them?”
“Okay.” Nodding, she puts her fork down. “Do you remember me?”
He isn’t fazed by her tease. “Of course.” His eyes roam over her, “I
remember every inch.”
She hates that he affects her; desperately, she tries to mask it. “You
remember it all! You know that scar on my knee is from when we took
Belle and Brady rollerblading. You know that I love it when you feed
me Oreos and milk at midnight.” Her sarcasm is bitter; it cuts her.
“You know that I have a scar on the back of my head because when Sam
and I were five our Aunt Lisa got rear-ended on our way back from the
park and the back glass shattered. You know that my first pet was a
tabby cat named Ruffy who liked to climb in the Ponderosa pine outside
my window. You know everything about me.” Fat tears trail down her
cheeks. Feeling completely exposed, she looks away.
He stares at her, blinking slowly. “Who’s Sam?”
“Exactly.” Wiping her tears frantically, she stands and starts down
the tiled pathway to the garden.
***
The black iron bench is warmed by the sun; it feels nice. Flowers of
all kinds are nestled around her. They have yet to bloom fully, but
they’ve endured the bitter cold. Spring is approaching.
“You didn’t eat your pancakes.” John says interrupting the silence.
She looks up from the budding daffodils. He carries the loaded plate,
a fork in hand. Without speaking, he sits next to her.
Unceremoniously, he stabs into a chunk of strawberry and pancake; he
offers it to her. She opens her mouth and takes it. Their eyes stay
locked as she chews.
Abruptly, he stands, hands her the plate, and walks over to a rose
bush. “I wish I knew those things about you. I wish I knew everything
about you.”
“What are you saying? You want to try hypnosis or—”
“No.” He shakes his head and starts to walk away down the tiled path.
She chases after him, leaving the pancakes behind. “Why not? It can’t
hurt. And besides—”
“Look!” He spins around, startling her. “I’m not going to remember!
Why can’t you understand that?! He isn’t coming back!”
“Because you don’t want him to!” She screams.
“You don’t think I wish everyone in this stupid town didn’t stare at
me like I’m some kind of science experiment when I walk by?! You don’t
think I wish you cared about me?!”
“I do care about you, John. I love you.” She reaches up to touch his
face, but he fights her hand off.
His eyes are a blue-ish glaze. “Blondie, you don’t love me. You love
that guy I used to be. The one that liked that Book movie and knew
what you wanted to drink, and a million other things that I don’t and
can’t.”
Emotion. He’s human in her eyes again, no longer soulless. She tries
to come up with something to say. Anything to encourage him. But there
is nothing. He’s right. She doesn’t know this person he’s become. She
doesn’t have a clue how she feels about him. It’s tangled.
This is what it feels to be sad, and he hates it. With each step, his
rage builds. She is his weakness and weaknesses are deadly. He turns
and starts down the path toward the mansion. Its Gothic towers loom
above the daffodils, hiding the morning sun—observing every thing.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto the once dry concrete. Shaking his
head, he promises—just a hundred more. His palms press against the hot
concrete as he lifts his body up, and pushes it back down.
She watches him from the last stone on the path. His toned arms should
be around her. Instead, they’re working out frustration. She crosses
her arms across her chest to warm them from the shadow of the house.
“What do you want?” He grunts.
With a sigh, she walks over to him. “I wanted to apologize.”
“Thanks,” he keeps his azure eyes on the concrete, never stopping his task.
She sits down, Indian-style, next to him, and plays with a broken twig.
Holding his body up, he glances over at her. Following her gaze, he
finds her eyes are trained on the black Lamborghini in front of them.
He stops his exercise, and sits beside her. “You like that car? It’s
yours if you want it.”
Never looking at him, she replies, “I don’t want anything that was
DiMera’s.” She takes a deep breath.
He nods and stands.
“John, I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Facing the house, he takes a step.
“John!” She jumps to her feet, grabbing his arm, forcing him to look
her in the eyes. “You weren’t his.”
“Sure, Doc.” The endearment slips out from the voice of a ghost.
“You weren’t his.” She repeats, putting both her hands on his face.
“You couldn’t have been his.”
“Couldn’t have been.” He scoffs.
“You were mine. And I was…am yours.” Her eyes fill in the blanks for
both of them, and all that matters is that her lips are moving to his.
He takes her top lip, committing his present to memory. She tastes
sweeter than any dessert he’s tried. His hands find their way to her
waist; they push her t-shirt up so he can touch the skin of her back,
all while her tongue brushes against his.
***
Blonde hair swept across his chest. Her lips met his skin with
elegance. His right hand glided along her bare back, while his left
intertwined with hers. It’s maddening how badly he wanted her, but
just as he was about to pull her back up to him she stops. With no
other movement, she slid a finger across the long scar at the
beginning of his rib cage.
“Wha….” He cleared his throat in an effort to get his raspy voice back
to normal. “What’s wrong?” The beat of his heart blared in his ears.
Never looking up, she whispers, “I don’t remember this.”
“Remember what?” He jerked up, leaning back on his elbows.
“Did he do this to you?” Looking up at him, her eyes glistened in the
moonlit darkness.
He watched her point out the spot. “How should I know, Blondie?”
She gave him a crooked grin. “Right. I’m sorry. I guess you aren’t the
only one that forgets, but maybe—”
“We can remedy that, right now.” His teeth were bright against the blackness.
She moved up to him; their lips centimeters apart. Running a hand
through his hair, she searched his cerulean eyes. “Come back to me.”
He grasped her lips with his, and only their breathing, their beating
hearts, and the frigid Greenland night could be heard.
***
Gently, he pushes her back. “I’m tired of cold showers.” He walks over
to the path.
Feeling embarrassed, she focuses on the swing that’s tucked away
beneath a white oak that rises above the drive.
Shaking his head at himself, he turns back to her, “You meant what you
said in the tent about us? I know you did. And last night, and this
morning. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, again, that’s why I
pushed you away.”
She smiles at him, “How did you know I took it the wrong way?”
“You were biting your cheeks.” He points at the swing. “You wanna go sit.”
“Yes, I’d like that.” She takes his hand in hers, and together they
walk to the oak tree.
The flames cast eerie shadows on the walls. The moon shines through
the windows into the still house, reflecting off the largest portrait
in the room—that of Stefano DiMera. Dogs bark into the night, their
presence startling.
Marlena jumps, waking. Running a hand through her hair, she tries to
get her bearings. She looks out the patio doors, hearing the dogs’
continuous barks and John’s voice muffled by distance. Standing from
the couch, she puts the soft blanket—which he must have put on her
while she slept—over the couch.
She slips her feet into a pair of purple flip flops and starts out the
doors. Wind nips her arms causing her to cross them, speed up her
pace. The barks continue, though John’s voice is no longer running
through the air. A part of her is worried; a part is scared.
The path gives way to a thick forest of pines, but a light in the
woods guides her to a cut down trail. She can hear him talking again,
laughing. Her lips curve into a smile. There is nothing to be afraid
of. She hears the dogs again; a chill runs down her shoulders.
Finally, she sees him.
John stands out in the midst of pines and maples, staring ahead at a
relatively large dog pen with four posts and large lights at the
gates. Four rottweilers sit at ready waiting for him to toss another
piece of choice steak. “Come on Balducci share with your brothers,” he
laughs at the way the dogs perk up their ears and wait for his next
command. “Ready boys?”
The dogs point their noses in the air.
“Attack!”
They tear out running past John hitting their black clad dummies
behind him with full forces, gnashing their teeth and growling to
announce full intentions of bringing death.
“Stop!”
Ceasing, they sit, staring at their targets.
“Did you have a nice nap?” He gives her all of his attention.
Her eyes stay fixed on the dogs, uneasy she speaks, “Yes.”
Grinning, he turns back to them, “Come.” The group prances to him.
Using a fork, John tosses each of them a chunk of steak which they eat
leisurely.
“Fed them well I see,” Marlena says observing how they take their time.
John nods. “He had a guy just to take care of them.”
“You helped him?”
“Yes, a few times, when DiMera let me go out. Why are you standing so far away?”
She rubs her arms. “Um…I….”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of Blondie. They won’t hurt you.” He
leaves a hand in the air.
She takes it in hers and allows him to pull her over to him. They keep
their hands intertwined. “So, who do we have here?”
He gazes down at her, his eyes glistening in the nightlight. “Well,
the biggest one,” he points as he names them, “is Balducci. And this
one is Pyrrhus. Verdeliò is the one with golden eyes. And Genese is
the smallest.”
Marlena rolls her eyes, “Great names.”
Laughing, John pats Balducci on the head. “That’s what I said. Of
course Stefano took offense, ‘Each name comes from Italian folklore
and has deep meaning,’” he mocks.
“Always a meaning.” She bends down, reaching out to touch Pyrrhus
behind the ear.
Pyrrhus stands at attention; John nods, and the dog licks Marlena’s
hand, happily unfrozen. “He likes you.”
“You think so.” She looks back at John with a smile.
“Sure do.” He watches her rub the dog’s back. “You want a pet for our
house? Like a cat or a bird or something?”
She furrows her brow, stands looking him in the eyes to gage what he’s
thinking. “This isn’t our house.”
“But we’re married, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.
Right?” He folds his arms across his white t-shirt.
“Right.” She studies Pyrrhus, his dark eyes shining, snout wet against her arm.
***
“Doc, why is it that I always get stuck pushing the cart? Furthermore,
why is it that I always get the crappiest one in the place?” John
kicked the grocery cart wheel until it straightened out, only to have
the wheel across from it squeak as he started pushing it again.
Marlena laughed, hugging his arm. “There are just some things a
husband should do for his wife.”
He raised an eyebrow, undressed her with his eyes. “I’d like to do a
couple of them for you right now.”
“John Black!” She smacked his shoulder.
Laughing, he put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.
Pulling him closer as they walked, she kissed his neck, whispering,
“When we get home feel free to take full advantage of your sexy wife.”
He came to a halt. “Have I told you lately how irresistible you are?”
She bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling. “Um…no.”
“Looks like I’ve got some husbandly duties to attend to when we get
home then.” He started pushing the buggy again.
“You know, we really just need milk and bread; I can come back
tomorrow after work to get the rest.” She took his hand in hers,
lacing their fingers, a full smile on her face.
“I love the way you think.” Leaning down, he kissed her lips quickly
and headed for the check out.
***
John moves closer to her, takes a deep breath. She is beautiful
sitting with his shadow hanging over her. Ever so slowly he reaches
out to touch her elbows. “I’m glad that other me married you.”
Marlena watches him out of the corner of her eye, tries not to react
to his touch. “You were the greatest thing that ever happened to me.”
Using an index finger, he traces the freckles just below her elbow,
making a perfect acute triangle. “I’m sorry that I’m not him anymore.”
“Not half as sorry as I am.” She stands turning to face him.
His fingers fall from her skin, resting by his jeans. “I know you’re
afraid.” Azure gazes into her soul.
“I’m not afraid.” She hides a clenched fist behind her back. “I just
want…I want this to not be so complicated.”
He traces her cheek with his fingers. She’s inside him. He understands
that now; it’s why he is feels lost when she’s not around, why he
watches so much TV about relationships, why he left her inside after
covering her with a blanket and kissing her forehead—because he can’t
stand the fact that she is not truly his. “I realize you still love
him. But I know you have feelings for me—”
“How can I not?” She says, her hazel eyes burning him completely.
Without warning, he lowers his lips to hers, taking them, loving them,
devouring them; she returns everything he gives her with equal
intensity before she can even truly think about it. She can’t think
about anything. She hates that.
He stops, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “I’m sorry. Sometimes
when I’m with you, everything becomes hazy. And I feel like if I don’t
kiss you…I’ll go mad.” Nervously, he glances around in the night,
unable to face any type of rejection from her.
Silent, she watches him, wonders why her life has never been simple,
and wonders why she is in love with such a complicated man. She is in
love with the old John Black, loves him more than anything. In some
ways, this John is hers and in others, he’s entirely different. Her
blinders have been on full force since this version of her husband
entered her life. Only now does she realize that he loves her, and if
he loves her, he has tried to remember, tried but failed.
She wipes a stray tear, her eyes meeting his as he brings his hand up
to help her. “You have something in your eye, Blondie.”
With a simple smile, she puts a hand over his. “I will always miss who
you were.” Pulling him into her, she hugs his chest. He puts a hand in
her hair, another at the small of her back, holding her as close as
he’s ever held anyone. “I’ll always love who you were. And if you’ll
let me, I’d like to get to know who you are.”
He kisses the side of her face. “There isn’t anything I want more.” He
stands still, his arms comfortably encasing her. Summoning the
courage, he flat out asks, “What is love like?”
Easing back, she locks her gaze with his. “It’s like a sickness and a
cure together.”
“Okay.” He nods, pulls her back to him.
Closing her eyes, Marlena doesn’t ask why he wanted to know; instead,
she just allows herself to be in his arms, where she hopes to stay
forever.
~ The End ~
The Jarlena Journal 