Consequences(112)

Claire smiled. He was so predictable—well, sometimes.

By the time they reached the front doors of the building Eric had the limousine warm and ready for their adventure. Once in the back of the car, Claire asked Tony about their plans. He would only disclose that their first stop was dinner. The cold crisp night air formed crystals on the windows of the limousine, making the lights of the city shimmer. The crystals seemed to flash rhythmically with intensity mimicking the hum of music coming from the cabin’s speakers.

It didn’t take long, considering the traffic, to reach their destination—the Crown Plaza Hotel on Broadway, in the heart of New York’s theater district. Once inside, Tony directed Claire to Brasserier 1605, a beautiful restaurant bustling with patrons. The hostess immediately ushered them to a romantic table with a stunning view of Times Square. The waiter seemed to know their timetable better than Claire—providing exceptionally efficient service. Tony ordered a bottle of wine—approved a taste—and the waiter poured two glasses. They enjoyed delicious grilled sea diver scallops for their appetizer and seared Atlantic salmon as their main course. Claire thought everything tasted scrumptious. Along with other sensory organs recently reawakened, she had a newfound appreciation for food. She enjoyed the aroma as the plate appeared in front of her, the taste on her tongue, and the texture as she chewed. Tony watched happily as she delighted in each bite of her seafood.

His mood amused Claire. It seemed different—in a positive way. He talked excessively, yet not about anything in particular. She asked when they were going back to Iowa, and he said he did need to have a few meetings on Friday. So, they could leave Friday night or wait until Saturday. Claire felt bad about not being with Catherine on Thanksgiving. She would love to be with John and Emily, but knew better than to ask. Catherine had become her closest family. She hoped Catherine had someone to visit for the holiday.

Tony wouldn’t give hints about their next destination. Being in the Theater District, Claire guessed they were on their way to a show. Smiling, he refused to tell her which one. After dinner Eric appeared to chauffeur them to the Broadhurst Theater. The title on the marquee read The Merchant of Venice with Al Pacino. Claire had heard it was one of the hottest tickets in town. They, of course, had amazing seats. She’d never been a Shakespearean fan, yet in no time at all, she became completely engrossed in the play. By the time it ended she’d laughed and cried. The entire cast’s performances were riveting, taking her to another world for two hours and completely draining her with the range of sweeping emotions. She was ready to go back to the apartment.

Eric waited for them as they left the theater. Tony didn’t ask Claire where she wanted to go next. She assumed they’d be heading to the apartment; therefore, when Eric went another direction she was surprised. They headed north to Fifty-Ninth Street, and Eric stopped at Seventh Avenue, at Central Park.

The cold crisp air awakened her as they moved from the warm limousine to the waiting horse-drawn carriage. The horseman was prepared for the brisk weather with blankets, and Eric supplied mittens and scarves. To keep warm, they snuggled under the blankets, held mittened hands, and observed the beautiful park with lights lining the paths and illuminating some of the trees. The large strong horse pulled the carriage slowly and steadily around the eight hundred plus acres. The methodical trot rhythmically created a cadence for their dialogue. Their noses and cheeks reddened in the cool air as they cuddled, talked, and enjoyed the incredibly romantic setting.


Gently holding Claire’s mittened hand, Tony spoke honestly with love, “Claire, you know I’ve dated many women.” She said she’d read about some. “There have been women who’ve wanted to date me solely for my money, and I admit to taking advantage of that.” His honesty had her full attention. “You know I’m a private person. Truly there are few people who have seen the real me. There are all sorts of psychological reasons for why I am the way I am. They probably stem from childhood and traumas early in life, but the past is that, and the reasons don’t matter. What matters is that unlike many of my business associates or acquaintances, you’ve met the real me.” That thought made her feel slightly uneasy. “There are sides to me that need subduing. Honestly, I’ve never cared to try, but I do now, and I believe it’s possible.”