The Plumber's Daughter

Chapter III

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“Dad, I…..” “Your father went storming out to the garage, dear,” Mom said, coming back on the telephone, “don’t worry, he’ll get over it. I’m looking forward to your visit and meeting your young man. I have a feeling that Patrick will be quite a challenge for my Dominick…”

After I finished talking with my mother I went looking for Patrick. I found him in his workshop repairing the cracked stock of a musket one of his reenacting friends dropped during a skirmish. When I walked into the shop Patrick was still grinning from ear to ear.

“You must be exhausted from talking all night on the telephone,” Patrick said, putting the stock on the workbench and then wiping his hands on a shop towel, “Why don’t you get some sleep. I can make my own breakfast.”

“No you won’t. I will be making you pancakes and that’s final,” I said, poking him playfully in the chest with my finger.

“Yes, my Queen,” Patrick said, smiling, and putting his arms up in the air in surrender.

“And you didn’t hug me yet this morning,” I added, continuing to poke him.

“Can I put my arms down now, pokey?” Patrick asked, as he grabbed me suddenly, pulling me close to hug me and to kiss my lips.

“Do you think it is wise talking to my father the way you did? Are you trying to force a confrontation with him?”

“I only spoke the truth, Marie. In the end your Dad will respect me for it.”

“Then you are trying to force a confrontation with him?”

“It was going to happen sooner or later, right? Why not get it out of the way?”

“What if my father never likes you?”

“Then he doesn’t. I will not allow your father to lay his hands on me.”

“But what if Dad does?”

“He won’t, Marie.”

“You don’t know my father, humor me, and say that he does.”

“I will do my best not to hurt him. Most likely we will verbally spar back-and-forth, too feel each other out. Worst case scenario is that we will grudgingly get along. You can respect someone without liking them. What the heck. Your Dad might grow to like me in time.”

“How can you be so sure, Patrick? You don’t know my Dad.”

“Just call it a gut feeling. You will have to trust me on this one, Marie. Grudging respect is better than polite disdain,” and I did trust him, “I’m really looking forward to the pancakes though. Let’s hope that there are no unwanted interruptions.”

“Not so fast with the pancakes. I’m not done kissing you yet.”

***************************

I can’t seem to get enough hugs and kisses from my Blue Knight. I hope Patrick is right, but I have to prepare him. I grew up observing the interaction of my father with his close male friends; Dad was totally different with my ex-husband.

Dad and his friends would laugh and joke over a glass of wine or a bottle of beer. Sometimes they would argue loudly in heated debates, going back and forth good-naturedly insulting one another. Father Joe, Uncle Joe was in my circle of Dad’s two close friends. Michael McMahon was the other. The three were friends since grade school.

Uncle Joe could argue and shout with the best of them, particularly when he was into his cups. In most cases, he acted as a moderator to prevent things from getting out of hand; Uncle Joe was a Roman Catholic Priest.

Dad held the Jerk in contempt, but during the holidays was reasonably polite to him. It was contemptuous politeness at best. There was no good-natured arguing or insults tossed back and forth.

Dad’s full contempt and rage came out when he picked the Jerk up and shook him like a rag doll. It took all three of those private policemen to make Dad let go.

While I was mixing the batter, I was thinking about Susan. I wondered if we will ever like each other. Susan lives two miles up the road. Being neighbors, we would eventually have to get along.

Patrick pointed Susan’s house to me on the way to get ice cream. But I was tired that morning and could barely keep from yawning. The thought of sleeping until late afternoon was so inviting.

Patrick didn’t fail to notice how tired I was, he insisted that I go to bed, now. Initially I protested, but Patrick kissed my hands and said, “Please, I’ll be fine,” and that was followed by the look. I gratefully went to bed while Patrick made himself pancakes from the batter.

***********************

It did my heart good to see Marie talking with her parents after almost a year. What is more important than family? I thought about going to see Susan, but then decided it best to wait until I talked to Sam.

These last few days were like a small tornado for me with my thoughts spinning around in my head, despite my outward calm.

Marie was exhausted and could barely keep her eyes open.

Fortunately Marie listened to reason and went to bed with some gentle coaxing, but only when I promised to wake her up by three to go grocery shopping.

After Marie settled down to sleep, I telephoned Sam and he came over alone. We spent much of the day just shooting the bull over coffee in my shop while I finished the musket stock and then started making another project from a well paying customer.

Sam explained things to Susan. He also said that Susan seemed to take things better than he expected. Sam then apologized for putting me in a pickle. He still couldn’t get over White Cloud’s almost colt like behavior with Marie. Sam was a man who forgot more about horses that I ever could hope to know.

*********************

I awoke to find Patrick sitting next to me on the bed, gently rubbing my back.

”I hope you slept well, Marie. It is time to get up. Sam is here to see you.”

“I can’t let Sam see me like this. What does he want, Patrick?”

“Sam wants to apologize.”

“But Sam didn’t do anything wrong. He did know about me then.”

“Humor him then. We will be waiting in the shop until you get ready. I’m looking forward to tasting your sauce.”

“What sauce are you talking about?” I asked, feigning obtuse, while sitting up to touch Patrick’s face.

“Silly sauce of course,” Patrick said, smiling, and tousling my hair.

“What is silly sauce…..? No Patrick, don’t, Stop!” I shrieked, catching on, but not meaning it.

My love pushed me back down on the bed and started ticking me. Soon I was squirming happily and laughing as he was kissing my face all over.

“I won’t stop until you kiss me….good, keep it up….kiss me again, and now, again….don’t you just love silly sauce?”

**************************

It was chilly that afternoon, but I found the most darling sleeveless red corduroy jumper in the closet. It was very feminine, but modest, coming almost to my ankles. It was very pretty with a pin-tuck bodice and a front button placket and adjustable tie back.

I wore a soft, cream color silk mock turtle neck blouse underneath. I was also wearing tan stockings with black pumps. I could tell Patrick approved of my dress when I walked into his workshop to talk to Sam.

Sam stood up and took his ball cap off when I walked in to the workshop. Sam also did this when he walked into our kitchen with Susan and saw me for the first time. Being a man of few words, it was a simple apology, but most sincere. He and Patrick both have such nice, old fashion manners.

********************

We had a one hour drive to get to one of the larger cities with a Macy’s. Patrick waited patiently while the girl at the makeup counter demonstrated different eye shadows, eyeliners and lipsticks on me.

When we left the makeup counter, I had the basic necessities we girls need to look beautiful for our guys. I also received a free makeup makeover.

It was fun. Particularly since Patrick helped me make some the selections.

I am going back to my conservative look for most occasions, which we both prefer. I also purchased some of the more sultry shades of eye shadow, shall we say for the more adventurous occasions. This included red lipstick which Patrick insisted I buy.

Yum, I’m going to paint his cock with my red lipstick lips when we get home.

Up until that day, Patrick never used aftershave or wore cologne in his entire life. Surprised, I asked him why on the drive to the city. Patrick shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Of all the colognes for men on the market, my favorite is Old Spice. That is what my Dad wears. I took Patrick over to the counter selling colognes and asked the young woman behind the counter for a bottle, offering it to buy it for him.

“No thanks, Marie. Women are supposed to smell pretty, not men,” Patrick then quickly walked away like the devil avoiding holy water.

I grabbed the back of Patrick’s jean jacket and pulled really hard, stopping him; Patrick wasn’t expecting that. I then got in front of him of him, grabbed Patrick’s shirt and leaned forward to whisper, “When we get home I’m going to put on my red lipstick and suck on your cock…your big cock.”

“Marie!” he whispered back, looking around, “for God’s sake, do you want someone to hear you?”

“Do you want me to talk louder, Patrick?” I whispered.

“No, of course not, but….” I kissed his lips, interrupting-sticking my tongue into his mouth and watching his eyes get big.

I then raised my voice, “When we get home I’m..,” Patrick put his hand over my mouth, and he was smiling.

“You really are something, Marie. You really would do it,” said, Patrick, removing his hand.

“It is such a small thing, Sweetheart. It would please me so very much if you would wear it for me.”

“If I refuse?” Patrick asked.

“You can’t keep your hand over my mouth forever.”

“Well, I suppose cologne won’t kill me.”

“Then you will?” I asked, kissing Patrick again, less naughtily.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I, my Queen?” he sighed, “You would make me a dandy of your court.”

“No choice at all, Blue Knight” and I kissed him again, and then I turned to look the young woman. I noticed that she was all smiles watching us and nodded her approval as our eyes met.

I handed the young woman my credit card for the purchase, picked up the cologne, removed the stopper and put a few drops in my hand. I rubbed it on the sides of Patrick’s face, behind his ears, on the back of his neck, and into his hair.”

“You smell just dandy, lover,” I whispered, putting my face close to his, “Let’s go get our groceries.”

***********************

I forgot how much I enjoyed such a simple thing, grocery shopping, and planning the next week’s meals together. There are so many advantages having your own business and being your own boss.

I was absolutely overwhelmed and delighted with Marie’s enthusiasm. We were in search of the best ingredients. Marie took her sauce seriously…her tomato sauce.

Marie had to touch or kiss me for every item that we put in the cart. We bought cans of whole tomatoes, cans of crushed tomatoes, cans of tomato paste and cans of tomato puree.

We bought two bottles of first cold pressed extra virgin olive oil, fresh garlic; lots of that, and fresh basil and fresh oregano. Marie made me promise to put in a garden near the house for tomatoes, basil, and oregano. My promise got me a big hug and more kisses. I was thinking, ‘What a damn fool Marie’s ex-husband is.’

We bought a few small red onions, a few hot peppers and a sopressata cured sausage. We bought fresh sweet carrots? Marie explained that the carrots would dissolve to thicken and sweeten the sauce.

Don’t forget the eggs, the Italian bread for the breadcrumbs; Marie makes her own breadcrumbs. Marie always puts a piece of mozzarella cheese in the center of her meatballs. Mozzarella was just one of the cheeses we bought, and I learned how to pronounce it properly in Italian. I’ll get to the other cheese shortly.

Then there was the sea salt. I always figured salt was salt, but Marie insisted on sea salt for everything.

Now for the meat to go into the meatballs; we bought veal and chuck steak; luckily I have a meat grinder. Marie wasn’t happy with the Italian Sausage in that supermarket.

We bought the rest of our groceries, minus the sausage and then went to a coffee shop known for their pies. We placed our order and requested to see their telephone book.

I received an education on Italian sausage while sharing our pie; one slice of blue berry and one slice of sour cherry. We helped each other to a bit of each while Marie explained.

“The best sausage is always homemade because you control what goes into it, only the best ingredients. My Dad’s sausage is outstanding. Dad gets together with his two best friends every December 23rd. It’s a tradition with them.

They make enough sausage for the year, taking close to fifty pounds each. They drink wine. There is bread and cheese and olives and plenty of sopressata for sandwiches.

Christmas Eve is meatless with us and we hold with the tradition of the feast of the seven fishes. After Midnight Mass, it is officially Christmas,” Marie said, smiling, “Mom will fry one piece and Dad would cut it in three pieces for us to share before bedtime.”

“That is a lovely tradition, my love,” I said squeezing Marie’s hand.

“When I was little I would help turn the handle on the meat grinder until bedtime. Dad still grinds the meat by hand. Keep in mind, good sausage must always be coarse ground. It must have plenty of fresh cracked fennel. As much my Dad likes his hot peppers, Dad always makes his sausage mild for Mom.

Just before they mix the ground meat and spices together, the men pour four glasses of wine for a toast, and then our priest says a small prayer. ”

“Your priest makes sausage with your father?”

“Yes, Father Joseph Sebastian; Uncle Joe is a good friend of Dad’s.”

“Why four glasses of wine, Marie? You said that there were three men. Did your Dad let you drink wine when you were you grinding sausage?

“One glass of wine was poured into the sausage mix as part of the recipe. When I was little girl, I got a few drops of wine in glass full of water. Just to give the water a little color. As I got older, and for special occasions, I could have half a glass of undiluted wine if I wanted it. What were your holiday traditions growing up?

“We always had creamed cod over mashed potatoes that were swimming in butter on Christmas Eve. We always had leg of lamb for Christmas Day. Easter was always ham, but Mom would cook lamb chops for my Dad. Dad always insisted on lamb for these two holidays.

When I turned nine and started working on the farm, I was allowed half a glass of beer or half a glass of cider. I saved most of my money that year to buy Christmas presents. I bought a very special one for my Mom. I hitched a ride into town, and…” Marie interrupted.

“You were hitchhiking rides at nine years old?”

“Yea, but I wasn’t supposed too. Mom didn’t drive and Dad was always working. The milk truck driver dropped me off in town, and Mrs. Clark and Susan picked me up on the way back. Boy, did I get an ear full from Mrs. Clark until I showed her the Christmas present I bought for my Mom with my own money.”

“Was that Susan you-know- who?”

“Yes it was. Susan had my back. She convinced her mother not to say anything to my parents. I had to promise Mrs. Clark to stop hitchhiking though.”

“Did you promise?”

“Yes, but it didn’t count. I had my fingers crossed.”

“Did Susan know that you broke your promise?”

“Yes she did, Susan was the one that told me to cross my fingers.”

“Why would she do that?”

"Because Susan wanted something from me.”

“What did Susan want?” I asked, thinking, ‘as if I didn’t know.’

“I can’t tell you, it is a secret and I didn’t cross my fingers. Susan made sure of that.”

“You won’t tell me even after all this time, Patrick, you were children?” I asked wondering what it was he promised Susan.

“Even after all this time, Marie, and I haven’t broken a promise and have kept my word ever since.

“You were a naughty boy.”

“And, I’m going to be a naughty boy when we get home.”

“What did you buy your Mom?”

“White Shoulders Dusty Powder.”

***********************

Looking through the telephone book, we found some numbers to call and found a small Italian Market that made their own sausage almost identical to Marie’s father’s exacting specifications. Just add the wine and it was there.

While we were in that wonderful little market, Marie bought our grating cheese: Pecorino Romano, Asiago, and Parmigianino Reggiano. We would grate the chunks by hand.

Marie also bought three big wood spoons, and warned me that they were for sauce and pasta only. Marie talked about the all the appetizers she was going to make for me, stuffed hot peppers and such.

I said, ‘Wow, and I thought celery with cream cheese on it was a big deal,” I got hit on the ass with one of her big spoons for that smart ass remark.

My big purchase for the day was two quarts of chocolate milk.

********************

When we arrived home, I went upstairs to change into a house dress while Patrick took off his boots and socks before he put the groceries away. He loves going barefoot whenever possible.

While I was up there Patrick called from the bottom of the stairs, “Marie, would you bring down another shirt from my dresser? I spilled chocolate milk all over this one.”

I had no idea in what drawer to look in, so I opened the second from the top. Most people have socks or under garments in the top drawer. I put my hand over my mouth when I saw it. It was so sad, and so sweet, how I loved him. I could have cried.

Patrick told me that his Mother died when he was nine, and I still have my Mom and Dad. Oh, my dear brave man, my Blue Knight.

Patrick loved his mother so much that he hitchhiked into town to buy her this Christmas gift with the money he earned working on the farm. His mother was a healthy vital woman then, but she died suddenly January 2nd from a brain aneurysm.

I lifted it from the drawer and took the cover from the pink box. Almost all of the dusting power was there. I closed my eyes and smelled; this was how Patrick’s mother smelled. How Patrick remembered her that Christmas, and the short time they spent together after.

********************

Marie had the strangest look on her face. Marie smelled it and hugged me, before handing it to me, saying, “I love you Blue Knight.”

“It’s OK, it’s just a shirt, and the stain will wash out. I already rinsed it with cold water and put pre-wash stain remover on it.”

“I love you because you are brave and kind, and sweet and thoughtful.”

“Well thank you, my Queen. I thought it was because of the cologne,” I said, stroking her hair, “I’m thankful to have found you, or perhaps it should be said we found each other, my love. I never imagined that I would have fallen so passionately in love a second time in my life.”

“You seem to always know the right thing to say,” Marie said, hugging me tighter, “and you are far more complicated then you let on. You play the part of average so well. Will you make love to me now?”

************************

“Of course, my beautiful Queen,” and then Patrick took my hands and kissed them. We then walked upstairs to our bedroom where Patrick closed the door. We stood in front of the full length mirror with the stained glass and black iron frame hanging on the back of the closed door. Patrick made the frame for his wife as a gift on their first wedding anniversary.

“I have something for you,” Patrick said quietly, putting his face near mine as we looked at our reflections in the mirror, “As was meant to be, they will finally caress a woman, my woman. Face the mirror and undress while I get them.”

I quickly undressed and watched Patrick slide the large wood chest on the throw rug to one side on the old and worn wide board floor. The chest was at the foot of our bed. It was very old and was used to hold linens and blankets.

Patrick pulled a thin piece of metal; a shim with a notch cut into out of the chest, and pushed it down between the floorboards. He then slid the shim to one side catching a hidden nail underneath, lifting the board on the hidden hinge until it was straight up. This allowed Patrick to lift the hinged board next to it with his hand.

He reached down below the floor boards and removed a woman’s jewelry box, and then a package wrapped in gold foil paper before putting boards down and sliding the chest on the rug back in place. I would never guess that there was a secret hiding place there; were there others hidden throughout the farm. Patrick stood and put the jewelry box on the dresser before walking over to me with the gold foil wrapped package.

“These angel’s tears have never caressed a woman’s neck. Now they shall caress yours’.”

I removed the gold foil paper to reveal a red velvet box. I opened it and I was speechless. Patrick kissed my lips. The tears were now exposed, tears that remained hidden for so long; a tear of love from him, in him…along with a very long strand of white pearls, angel’s tears that had to be at least one hundred inches long.

Patrick looped them over twice and put the pearls around my neck, where they rested between my breasts just reaching my belly button as I looked down. As I looked up, a single tear was running down his cheek as Patrick sought to compose himself.

I reached up and put my arms around my Blue Knight’s neck. I kissed away his single, salty tear, tasting Patrick’s precious love. I then sought his warm lips and kissed them.

I took Patrick’s hands as he always does mine and kissed them, “Thank you, Blue Knight, your precious tear was the best gift I have ever received,” and then still holding Patrick’s hands, I raised his arms above his head so that I could take his tee shirt off. Once it was off I put Patrick’s arms down and tousled his hair saying, “Close your eyes, Sweetheart.”

*******************

I closed my eyes as Marie started kissing and licking her way down until she was on her knees before me. Marie unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, releasing my rock hard cock from its confinement. Smiling, naughtily, my love pulled my jeans down to my ankles for me to step out of and my boxer shorts were next.

Marie started licking the tip of my cock with her tongue, fluttering and teasing. I reached down with my eyes still closed burying my fingers in her soft thick hair, imagining it waist length as was my wife’s. Marie was growing her hair long for me and that was a wonderful gift indeed.

Marie continued, licking the shaft and kissing my cock before she took it into her mouth and started sucking and licking with her tongue. Marie was driving me crazy and she knew it. She kept bringing me to the brink of an orgasm and then backing off.

My love took my hand and said, “Keep them closed, Sweetheart,” as she led me over to the bed and helped me to lie down on my back while propping some pillows under my head, “You may open your eyes now.”

Marie was kneeling to the side looking down at me.

******************************

The sheer curtains on the window softened the late afternoon sunlight as it caressed her naked form. The pearls infused with Marie’s aura, glowed softly, independent of any earthly light source as the nestled between her breasts.

My God, how I loved her. My carnal lust was reined in by my love for Marie, but it was no less intense; to hold my Queen close would suffice for now. I sat up to kiss her warm lips but Marie pushed me onto my back and straddled me, impaling herself on my rock hard cock.

I reached up and caressed and stroked Marie’s firm round breasts. I caressed them with the pearls, adding my aura to hers, while Marie rode me. Marie’s eyes were closed in ecstasy. This was new to me, a woman on top and I liked it. I moved along with her, matching Marie’s rhythm, and thrusting upward, while helping to support her weight.

My beautiful Marie was as light as a feather. I waited for Marie’s orgasm, holding back mine, a dam about to burst with a relentless flood of my seed to fill her womanhood.

Marie was wild as she rode me, bouncing up and down on my cock. Her head was thrown back, and Marie’s hands were buried in her hair, pulling. She was moaning, and talking, “This feels so fucking good…your cock is so fucking hard, and I’m such a horny fucking bitch with you…oh God, I coming, I’m fucking coming…hold me, Patrick..I going to suck on your cock, suck on it, suck on it,” as her orgasm took over. Marie then collapsed on top of me kissing my face over and over saying, “I love you Patrick, I love you, I love you…”

“I love you too, Marie,” I interrupted, “Get on your hands and knees, I’m going fuck you hard, little bitch.”

**************************

I love it when Patrick talks dirty when we are alone. I love being on top sometimes, and it didn’t seemed to bother him a bit, and the pearls; Patrick rubbed my breasts with my pearls. It just got us both more excited and aroused. Patrick actually liked me being on top, good. There are lots of things I want to try with Patrick, all sexy and naughty things. He is going to fuck his little bitch hard now, me, and I’m going to fucking orgasm again.

**********************

Marie was still nice and wet. Her musky woman’s scent was driving me crazy. I am going to pound my little bitch with my cock. It is my turn to come. I had no idea that she was about to come again, and after seeing my Marie in her pearls, I was insatiable as well. I was fucking Marie hard and deep, as she liked it, a bit rough. Marie is a woman not intimidated by a rough hard fucking. My wife Anne liked it slow and gentle, on our sides facing me or facing away; never on her hands and knees. I was never on top and neither was Anne. I am delighted that Marie is more adventurous.

*********************************

Patrick had me on my hands and knees. He was fucking me roughly and lustily with his big, hard stallion cock. I love the sound of his balls slapping my ass as he fucks me with the pure unrestrained lust that is so Patrick. He had his hand in my hair, pulling my head back. I love having my hair pulled when we fuck this way, and I love my Patrick.

*******************

Later, before bedtime, I am going to take a bath with him. Patrick doesn’t know it yet. We will wash each other, change the water, and then just cuddle and talk. He is going to love my granite bathtub in Long Island. I have so many ideas, my mind is just swimming. We will then make love together and Patrick will be slow and gentle. We seem attuned to each other moods, it is just incredible.

*****************************

I had Marie moaning and panting and dirty talking as before. It felt so good to have mined after waiting for Marie’s orgasm, but I was still hard. I continued pounding my Queen with my cock. Marie was practically screaming for me to pull her hair as I fucked her and we came together this time, collapsing on the bed in a satisfied heap.

******************

We lay together in a warm glow as Patrick ran his fingers through my hair. There was no need to speak. Patrick fell asleep, and I covered him with a sheet before I left him. I would let him sleep. Patrick had certainly earned it and was very considerate of me that way.

I took a quick shower to get ready to make my sauce. I then went outside to check on the horses. It was a good thing that I did. I am no expert on horses, but the brood mare was not acting right.

******************

Marie woke me from a sound sleep and a very pleasant dream. I was dreaming about my wife, Anne Marie. I often dream about her. I still love Anne and miss her. That love will never diminish in any way.

This nothing I will discuss with Marie. I want Marie to feel that she is the only woman in the world for me, and Marie is in this world. Anne would understand, my dear sweet, Anne Marie.

I was dreaming that Anne was visiting from heaven having been granted one day to say what was left unsaid before she died; that I should remarry. We were all eating dinner, Marie’s sauce over manicotti with her marvelous meatballs.

It was a pleasant dinner. Marie and Anne were talking like old friends and I was basking in their love, warm and content.

“Patrick, wake up. There is something wrong with the mare!”

********************

Patrick quickly dressed and we went out to the barn together. He said that the mare was in the early stages of parturition although a week early and obviously in distress. The signs were there, getting up and down, switching her tail, and sweating in the flanks. The mare then let loose with a stream of water, and Patrick added, “Yes, and frequent urination. I will stay with her for now. Please go call the vet. The number for Doc Phillips is on the refrigerator.”

I was unable to get a person. I left a message on the answering machine and then I went to the barn to tell Patrick. I wasn’t need there so I went inside to start my sauce. Patrick came in an hour later to call the owner. He could not get a hold of her either, and Sam was out of town visiting his sister. Although he didn’t say so, Patrick looked worried.

We had broiled lamb chops, broccoli with olive oil and garlic, and baked potatoes for supper while the sauce cooked. I like to cook my sauce overnight and then have it sit in the fridge for a day for the spices to infuse their flavors. That is how Mom taught me.

Patrick was in and out of the barn all evening. He had his cell phone with him. At three o’clock in the morning Patrick came into the house and said, “I can’t get a hold of anyone and the colt is in the wrong position. Susan will not answer her cell phone or home telephone, and I can’t leave the mare.

I need Susan’s help. She is experienced in these things. Doc Phillips took over her father’s practice. You are going to have to go to her house and get her.”

“It is three o’clock in the morning, what if Susan won’t come?”

“Susan will come, Marie. If nothing else we are neighbors, and that is what folks around here do in emergencies. Please do this for me.

Susan’s house was less than 2 miles up the road, and her red truck was parked in the driveway.

I rang her doorbell and waited…no answer. I pounded on the door and rang the doorbell, shouting,” I know that you are home. Answer the door. I know we have our differences, that’s why you didn’t answer the telephone,” still no answer, “Patrick told me the story about the time he hitchhiked, and you and your Mom picked him up.

“Go to hell!” Susan responded.

"Patrick told me what you did then. We can’t get the Vet on the phone. The mare might die giving birth if you don’t come. I have no idea how to help Patrick deliver a horse.”

The front porch light came on. Susan opened, standing in the doorway glaring at me, “Patrick remembered that?”

“Yes he did,” I answered.

“If Patrick told you, what did he buy his mother?”

“Patrick bought her White Shoulders dusting powder.”

Susan sighed and said, “Don’t expect me to invite you into my house. You can damn well wait on the porch while I get Dad’s bag. And don’t you dare thank me. I’m not doing this for you. I’ll be right out.”

We didn’t speak on the drive back. Susan went immediately to the barn and spoke quietly with Patrick. There was no point in me being there. I went back into the house to try to get Sam or the vet on the telephone. I was unsuccessful.

Patrick came back into the house around six in the morning.

Thanks to Susan the mare and colt were doing fine. Patrick was explaining the technical stuff when Susan came into the kitchen to wash her hands.

We didn’t speak. Susan looked at me and nodded, and I nodded back. I made us a pot of coffee. We all sat at the kitchen table with a cup keeping to our own thoughts. Patrick took Susan home.

While Patrick was gone, Sam finally got the message came to check on the horses. I made him breakfast, pancakes from scratch, and we talked awhile. I also invited Sam for sauce, and promised to call him later for the time.

After Sam left, I sat on the couch waiting for Patrick to return and I fell asleep. Patrick woke me with a kiss on the cheek, “Come on sleeping beauty, up to bed, we can both use it.”

“Is everything alright with Susan? You were right, she did come. Why were you gone so long?”

“Susan will be fine. We talked in the barn, and then we talked in her kitchen. I want to sleep now,” and Patrick took my hand and we went upstairs to sleep, both of us dropping off almost as soon as ours heads hit the pillow.

*************************

I woke up with Marie’s arm around my waist. My love was sound asleep and Marie was as close as she could possibly get. Glancing at the clock on the dresser it was almost eight PM. The mare and the colt were fine thanks to Susan. That was a load off my mind in itself.

We talked and still remain friends on good terms. Susan promised to be civil with Marie, but she wanted something. If Marie and I parted ways, Susan might still be interested, but would keep her distance for now.

Women are so much more complicated than men, and if I live to be one hundred, I will never completely understand them. If I did understand the completely, they wouldn’t be as interesting. This was between Susan and me and I will never tell Marie. However, neither will Susan.

I went downstairs to find Sam sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper, we have keys to each other’s homes.

“I got a hold of Doc Phillips. Doc has a broken foot. One of McCauley’s Clydesdales stepped on it. It looks like Susan might be looking after things for awhile, short of major surgery of course.

That girl missed her calling and should have taken up where her Dad left off. I’ll have the horses out in another 3 days when the roof on the barn will be done. Thanks for watching them. Did the girls get in another fight?”

“No, why would you say that?”

“Oh, no reason, except the last time it cost me money. McCauley saw your truck parked in Susan’s driveway. He said you were there quite a long time. Did you poke her?”

“What kind of question is that, Sam?”

“It is pretty straight forward one. Did you poke her? I would have, who’s to know?”

“Answer him, Patrick, did you poke Susan?"

I turned to see Marie standing behind me, and boy, she didn’t look happy.

“I’m surprised at you, Patrick, how could you do that to Marie?”

*********************

“That’s it, Patty, I’m leaving. Sam can you drive me to the bus station?”

“There is no sense in that now, Marie. There won’t be any buses until tomorrow morning. You can stay at my place tonight if you like.”

“Are you two nuts?” Patrick asked, incredulously, and it was all I could do to keep from laughing, “You’re not going anywhere, Marie.”

Sam however could not and started laughing, slapping Patrick on the back, “We got you, boy. You should have seen the look on your face.”

“It isn’t funny, Sam, and you of all people should know better. I would never do anything like that.”

“We know, that, Sweetheart. Sam and I had a nice talk about you when you were at Susan’s.

“I still think you are both nuts,” Patrick said grinning, really being a good sport about it, “All this nonsense is making me hungry. I know just the thing I want to eat.”

*******************

They ate like starving men, and I couldn’t get enough compliments about my sauce, and especially for my meatballs. Mine are better than my Mom’s if I do say so myself. Patrick went upstairs to soak in the tub and look at some new catalogs that came in the mail that day after we finished the dinner dishes.

When I went upstairs, Patrick was sound asleep in the bathtub. That was very understandable considering the big meal Patrick had earlier. When I leaned forward to wake him, Patrick opened his eyes and grabbed me, pulling me in with him clothes and all saying, “Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice, shame on me.”

“Are you out of your mind?” I exclaimed, I’ve got my clothes on, and he started laughing. I shouldn’t have gotten angry, but I did. I planned on an erotic bath with Patrick, not this, so I let loose with a string of profanities. Patrick just laughed and said, “Be a good sport, Marie. You had your little joke, and I didn’t get mad."

But I was mad, and I fought him trying to break free. “Let go of me, damn it,” Patrick was like an octopus and no matter how hard I struggled, I couldn’t get loose. The more I struggled the more he laughed and kissed me, so I bit him his arm…. regretting it immediately.

“God bless you, Marie,” he said, quietly, letting go and standing “I was only playing and I was careful not to hurt you.”

I was thinking, ‘Well, Marie, now you have gone and done it. You just might learn how far too far is.’

I scrambled out of the tub getting water all over the floor. I slipped and would have fallen if Patrick hadn’t reached out and caught my house dress. “You have gone too far, Marie. Even Anne knew her limits.”

“I’m sorry, Patrick, I got carried away. I didn’t mean to bite you that hard.” Patrick grabbed a towel and slowly toweled off, looking at me. I followed him into the bedroom.

“Will you please talk to me? What do I have to do to make things right?” He didn’t say anything until he was dressed.

“I love you, Marie,” Patrick said while pulling on his boots, “But I will no longer tolerate you attempting to hit me, let alone actually biting me. You will learn to keep your temper in check.”

Patrick got up and walked downstairs. I followed him not sure what to do. He was so calm. Patrick didn’t rant and rave or swear because that is not his way. “I’m going for a walk. Can you guess what is going to happen when I get back? Make up your mind what you want to do.”

Patrick walked out the front door quietly pulling it shut behind. I would have felt better if he slammed it. What did Patrick mean when he said, “Make up your mind what you want to do?”, and what was going to happen when Patrick got back?

‘Stop kidding yourself, Marie’, I thought, ‘You know what’s going to happen and you have it coming. There is only one thing to do, try and butter him up when he gets back.’

********************

I went upstairs to be ready when Patrick returned. I showered and washed and dried my hair and then curled it for him. Patrick loves playing with my hair. Curls would be a nice sexy touch. Thank God, I finally had makeup. I took my time, going for a sexy and sultry look, putting on the blood red lipstick that Patrick chose for me.

I found a beautiful red silk sheer chemise in the bottom drawer of his wife’s dresser wrapped in white tissue paper. I wondered if Anne wore it for special occasions, like when she pushed Patrick too far. I had to smile at that thought, especially when I unconsciously touched my bottom.

The chemise was short and very sexy with a floral design and lace trim. It had a slit in the hem to mid-thigh, and came with matching G-String panties. On closer inspection, it appeared that they had never been worn, perfect. It was if they were waiting for such an occasion as this. When I put them on they fit like a second skin.

Everything was perfect except for one little thing, the hair on my pussy. Although I keep it trimmed and shaped it didn’t look right with the G-String. Would Patrick approve if I shaved it all off? I decided to surprise him.

Going back into the bathroom, I spread a towel on the floor and carefully cut of the bulk of my pussy hair with scissors. It occurred to me that when we went shopping that I remembered my pink four blade lady razors, but I forgot my shaving gel. Before we went shopping I was using Patrick’s razor and Dove soap on my legs.

Well, when in Rome do as the Romans do. I borrowed Patrick’s shaving brush and shaving soap to whip up a nice hot lather in the bowl. The boar bristle soapy brush really felt nice on my pussy, and I lathered and shaved twice until my pussy was as smooth as baby’s bottom.

As I stood in front of the mirror rubbing my bald pussy with my fingers, I was thinking, ‘I wonder if Patrick would like to shave me down here. I like the nice clean feeling and I think I’ll keep my pussy this way.’

I checked my makeup several times to make sure that it was perfect and then put on my perfume, “Chanel Chance” before going downstairs to wait for Patrick’s return.

Patrick loved this scent when I first wore it for him, but now he was angry. There was no telling when Patrick was getting back from his walk. No matter, I was ready to make up to him, and smelling nice couldn’t hurt.

I had a hard time sitting still while I waited. I turned on the television, distracted, not really watching anything in particular. Patrick was going to spank me. I just knew it. I had better make up my mind what I wanted to do. Patrick had been so patient with me up until now. Nevertheless, I was a grown woman and a spanking was inappropriate, wasn’t it?

But it would only hurt for a little while. I’m sure that Patrick wouldn’t leave bruises; he isn’t that type of man. A spanking might actually do me some good, to remind me to behave. After my spanking came the making up part, from my well deserved punishment. I started to get aroused thinking about that, the making up part after my spanking…OK, I admit it, think about being spanked by him turned me on…just a little.

I went to the bookcase and took out all of his family photo albums. Maybe they will help me with my decision to submit to a spanking. Patrick was giving me a choice and would live with his decision, even if it broke his heart.

****************************

As I passed Susan’s house, I was thinking, ‘Well, at least Marie didn’t break the skin, but it did hurt like hell.’

All married people have their fights and differences. It is how you handle them that counts. When I was angry with my wife, and those times were rare, I always went for a walk or a ride on my scoot. Tonight it was a walk.

I’ll never completely understand women. Did Marie have it in the back of her mind that I threw a poke into Susan while I was there? That scenario was cooked up between her and Sam to break my balls. Was that it? Their little joke had backfired?

Did I hug Susan? Yes I did. I also kissed Susan’s cheek before I left. I told Susan that I had feelings for her, feelings of friendship and loyalty; she seemed to understand. Susan will keep her word and not try and come between us. Susan kept her distance while Anne and I were married.

God forbid that anything happens to Marie. I have to admit to myself now that if it did, or we broke up, Susan was a good match for me. Everything is so complicated. I hate to hurt Susan but what can I do except be honest with her, I owed Susan that. I didn’t want to hurt her and I didn’t want her to wait for me. Susan deserved to be happy. If I had a big ego, I would be happy to have two women who wanted me that way. I am not happy about it. Perhaps I am a heel? I don’t mean to be.

Well, a spanking always worked with Anne. Afterward neither of us dwelt on it. We never dug up old bones to chew on. Making up with Anne, usually a day or two later was always the best part of the spanking.

*********************

Looking out the window, I saw Patrick approaching in the distance. I checked my makeup one last time, and refreshed my red lipstick while Patrick checked on the horses. My Blue Knight had a very serious look on his face when he walked into the kitchen. I could tell that Patrick was no longer angry, his eyes always give him away.

Patrick stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, at parade rest; once a Marine always a Marine. I saw his pictures in the photo album. Patrick looked so handsome in his dress uniform, and I love him so much.

I put my arms around his neck and kissed his lips and said, “I’m sorry, Patrick.”

“You look lovely, Marie. What are you wearing? I have never seen that sexy night wear before,” and I was thinking, ‘You haven’t, then where did it come from?’

“I found it in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Are you still angry with me?”

“No, Marie, but I have to do what is necessary so that you will remember to take me seriously. You are not a child. Adults have choices. Adults must face the consequences for their actions. There are some things that I won’t stand for…even from you.”

“You are going to spank me aren’t you?” I asked, kissing his lips again.

“Yes, my love. You have left me little choice.”

“Do you believe me when I say I am sorry?”

“I accept your contrition, Marie, your apology… but as a Catholic, you of all people know penance always follows contrition.”

“Just your hand?” I asked.

“Yes, applied to your bare bottom and I will not leave bruises. It is going to hurt,” Patrick assured me, offering me his strong callused hand and I took it.

*************************

When I arrived home, I found Marie waiting in the kitchen. Marie spent her time well in the 3 hours that I was gone. My love looked incredibly hot and sexy, most distracting which was no doubt her battle plan all along, subterfuge. I knew that much about women anyway.

Nevertheless, operation bare bottom was about to commence. Marie said she was sorry and I believed her. Marie is anything but a liar. My Queen is strong willed; has a temper and a saucy mouth, and perhaps is a bit spoiled. Marie also has a loving sweetness that has stolen my heart. My Queen loves and trusts me. That was confirmed when Marie gave me her little hand.

***********************

Patrick sat on a kitchen chair and made me lay across his lap and holding me in place with his left hand. He pulled my chemise up but didn’t bother removing my G-String. What was the point; both my ass cheeks were fully exposed to his good right hand.

“There is no turning back now, Marie. I’m going to hold you in place if a have too. You are going to count to twelve,” SLAP, and the sudden pain made me gasp. Patrick would sometimes slap my ass playfully, just a tap, but now he was barely holding back.

“You will count Marie,” SLAP, “Count Marie. Do you want me start over with one?” SLAP “Three,” I blurted out, through my tears, SLAP…. “Four,” the slaps were six seconds apart, and by SLAP, “six” I was sobbing openly like a child, receiving a child’s punishment.

My bottom was beet red and stinging terribly, SLAP, “seven”…SLAP, “eight”, I was determined to submit to my punishment without shirking, SLAP, “nine”….SLAP, “Patrick stop…”SLAP,” please, stop!”

“Did I hear you say one, Marie?”

“Eleven, I said eleven!” my bottom was on fire, SLAP…. “Twelve” and then I went limp on Patrick’s lap, my sobs wracking my body, my tears soaking into his blue jeans, grateful that it was over. Patrick rubbed my back until I stopped crying.

Patrick let me up from his lap and we stood facing one another. My mascara was running, my makeup was smeared, and I looked terrible.

“I must look terrible,” I said, taking a deep breath, while wiping my face with my hand.

“I’m proud of you, Marie. You took your punishment like a lady,” and then Patrick took a wet dishtowel and wiped all the makeup from my face, staining it red from my lipstick.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. I was not sure how well Patrick would take it? He just spanked me for god’s sake.

“What is it, Marie? You can tell me anything you know?” said Patrick, pulling me close and rubbing my back.

“I’m horny.”

“Yes, Marie, I know; I can smell your sweet, musky woman’s scent enhanced to perfection by your perfume. I love that perfume on you.”

“Then you don’t think it strange that I get aroused being spanked?”

“Not at all; you are a complicated passionate woman, Marie Antoinette. If anything, I’m intrigued.”

“Do you know what I think, Blue Knight?”

“What do you think, my Queen, do you want to make love now?”

“I’m still a little sore, but yes, you will be gentle, won’t you?”

*************************

Marie is absolutely amazing. My brave Queen took her punishment, and I didn’t have to hold her down. Marie now fascinates me more than ever. OK, I admit it. Some small part of me enjoyed spanking Marie. It was erotic and enjoyable that Marie submitted to me, I admit that too.

As I held my Marie gently, rubbing her back, I was thinking, ‘Thank God that I will never fully understand women, as it was intended to be. Marie is just full of surprises, how can I possibly stay angry with her?

I wonder what possessed Marie to shave her pussy. I like it this way. Marie has such a nice plump pussy lips that were hidden under all that hair. Now I really can’t wait to taste her. I wonder if Marie will let me shave her; hey, I like that idea.’

“Your wish is my command, my Queen."

We went upstairs to our bedroom and I undressed. Marie turned back the covers and got into bed, touching her bright pink bottom and wincing.

************************

Patrick was a gentle as a lamb as we lay on our sides facing each other, slowly making love. How I needed Patrick’s kisses that night, and afterward we lay there close, and discussed our first adventure together in a few days when Sam brought the boarded horses back to his farm now that the barn roof was almost finished.

We would visit my parents, hopefully spending a few days with them. Patrick could sleep on the couch and I could have one of the bedrooms. There would be no sleeping together, assuming that Dad allowed Patrick in the house at all.

We would then drive to Long Island and spend two weeks there. Patrick was excited about being able to spend time on the ocean on our private beach.

Patrick said that he always wanted to build an ornate sand castle like you see on television or in magazines. The closest that he got to that were piles of stones on the creek bank. I wanted to make love on the beach in the moonlight.

We also planned on renting a U-Haul Truck and driving it back ourselves to bring his horse and any furniture or clothing that I wanted to bring back with me to our farm. After two wonderful weeks at our second home in Long Island, and I’ll get to that later, we left for our farm.

We took our time driving back. There were more people that Patrick wanted me to meet on the way. Patrick also said that we would be able to just make it to a dynamite ox roast fundraiser that a Presbyterian Church put on every year, and then a few days later, an Oktoberfest Fundraiser at another Church.

In between those mentioned events we were involved in a minor motor vehicle accident in the parking lot of a Restaurant where we just had dinner. Things got out of hand and the Sheriff was called.

They were short handed when we got to the Catholic Church. Patrick and I put on aprons and pitched in. We waited on tables, serving Knockwurst, Bratwurst, with sauerkraut with potatoes and pitchers of beer; it was fun.

Afterward, we sat in the church kitchen with the Father Dennis, who Patrick always addressed as Pastor Dennis, and the parish workers. We ate the leftovers, drank beer, and we talked and laughed. We also spent the night sleeping over at Jim & Bea’s house, new friends that we just met at the Oktoberfest.

It turned out that Jim and Bea did Civil War Reenactments, and Jim’s Great Great-Grandfather fought in the Battle of Bull Run. Jim showed us the sword used in the battle. Patrick agreed to repair the handle in consideration for 2 dozen of Bea’s cinnamon buns, the ones she served us for breakfast the following morning before we left.

************************

My parents were waiting for us in the driveway when we arrived. There was plenty of room. A motorcycle doesn’t take up much space. I didn’t tell my parents that we would be arriving that way. I wanted to surprise them, and boy, did we.

I have never had so much fun traveling in all my life while riding behind my man on that red horse. That rumbling, throaty engine vibrating between my legs feels so good, as does holding onto Patrick as I sit behind him. The wind in my face and the freedom of the open road felt so liberating.

The hell with leather corsets! I look hot in my fitted black leather jacket and snug fitting blue jeans; Patrick says so. I’m his biker babe, right down to the black lace up boots. If some of those snooty women I once dealt with in the Art Gallery could see me now?

We took a roundabout way to my parent’s house, taking three days to see the sights when it was really only seven hours of straight driving.

I never realized how many small picturesque towns were in New York, and I was amazed of all the friends that Patrick and his wife made when visiting them. Part of the reason for all the stops were for introductions so that Patrick could show me off.

We stayed in a New York State Park at the Glenn Iris Inn on our first night, and then at a small bed and breakfast on the Hudson, traveling by motorcycle.

I don’t understand all the technical stuff about motorcycles, but Patrick does. It is a full-dresser- 1961 Harley Hydra- glide Panhead with a 74 cubic-inch, 1200 cc v-twin engine. It was his father’s and Patrick maintains it in tip top condition. He explained a lot of other technical stuff, making comparisons to the newer and older Harleys. All I care about is that Patrick takes me with him when he rides.

Riding on his Harley is something that we will absolutely do together.

Patrick’s wife was afraid of motorcycles and refused to ride with him, not even up and down the driveway. Patrick was so happy when I did. He bought me my leather jacket, helmet, gloves and boots the next day.

My horse riding lessons were set aside for short trips on a different kind of horse, to get me used to it. Basically I had to learn and shift my weight in a turn, and anticipate the road up ahead. That didn’t mean that I ignored White Cloud though, I was responsible for all her care now, including shoveling up after her.

I called Sam every day to check on her, and Sam would hold his cell phone up to White Cloud’s ear to hear my voice. Sam is amazed how well she is doing now.

My Dads eyes just about bugged out of his head when I dismounted, took my helmet off, and shook my hair out. I stuffed my gloves in my helmet and handed it to Patrick. I then walked over to hug and kiss my Mom and Dad.

First, I kissed and hugged my Mom, and then my Dad. As I hugged Dad, I could see that he was trying to stare Patrick down over my shoulder as if to say, “What the hell are you trying to do to my daughter?” (The motorcycle), and that was step one, the mean look. That alone got the Jerk nervous. Dad could be formidable and intimidating when he wanted to be.

“I whispered, “Be nice for me, Daddy, “and I kissed his cheek.

“I promise I won’t hurt him to badly, honey.”

Patrick met his gaze with just the hint of a smile. Dad let go of me and Patrick walked over to meet them.

“Mom, Dad, this is Patrick Buchanan. Patrick this is my Mom and Dad; Dominick and Mary Bernardino.”

“I’m pleased to meet you folks,” Patrick said, smiling, while gently shaking my Mom’s hand first, “Marie has told me so much about you both.”

Patrick held out his hand and Dad took it, squeezing Patrick’s hand in his vice like grip. He expected Patrick to try and pull away. Much to my Dad’s surprise, that was not the case at all. Mom put her hand on my shoulder. She was nodding and smiling.

Dad’s confident smile turned to a frown as they both stood there, increasing the pressure. We could see the veins standing out in Dad’s neck as he glared into Patrick’s eyes.

Changing tactics, Dad put his other hand on Patrick’s shoulder near the neck and started squeezing…Patrick dropped my helmet and did same.

“Well I had better go and rescue your father?” Mom whispered.

“What do you mean, Mom? Dad’s doing fine,” I whispered.

“Well, for now he is,” Mom whispered, “You know how stubborn your father can be. It should be over with by now. Dominick was always one for a quick kill and now he is struggling. Patrick is holding back, can’t you tell. He doesn’t want to embarrass your father in front of us. It would be better for this end in a draw.”

“Are you boys going to stand here all day like that?” Mom asked. She was standing behind Dad and looking at Patrick, and it seemed a silent understanding passed between them.

“Not, now, Mary,” Dad, grunted, the perspiration pouring down his face.

“Dominick, you promised not to hurt him. Give this young man a chance. How can he work if you break his hand?”

“But, Mary, you heard what this mamaluke hayseed said to me on the telephone,” Dad grunted.

“And I heard what you said to him. It is a good thing that he doesn’t understand Italian. Talk it out like gentlemen. I invited Joe over for dinner. I want your word that when I count to three you will both let go.”

“I will if he will,” Dad, said, glaring at Patrick, “but I want to hear him say it.”

“I give you my word, Mrs. Bernardino.”

“Fine, it’s settled then, one…two…three,” They both let go, clenching and unclenching their hands several times.

How I loved Patrick at that moment. I hope he knows what he is doing.

“Why don’t you ladies go into the house so that this one and I can get better acquainted,” my father said, deliberately not referring to Patrick by name.”

“Yes, please do,” Patrick said smiling, “We are getting along just fine. Aren’t we, Mr. Bernardino?”

Patrick slapped my Dad hard on the back surprising him. Dad had to catch himself to keep from stumbling. Wow, that had to hurt.

This had me thinking, ‘Well Dad, so much for step one and step two. I bet you won’t arm wrestle with him now.’

“Yes we are,” my Dad said, while Patrick braced himself for what was coming, “We are making progress. We have already agreed on something.”

Dad slapped Patrick even harder. From the sound of it and despite the heavy leather jacket Patrick was wearing, that had to really hurt.

Mom and I looked at each other in silent understanding, “We will all go up together,” Mom said, “Marie can help me in the kitchen while you two retire to the living room and wait for Joe. Hopefully you two will not break anything. Perhaps Patrick would like a glass of wine?”

We went into the house together and Dad excused himself to go to the bathroom. Mom went to the kitchen to put water on to boil for the pasta while I took Patrick into the living room.

Once there I put my arms around his neck and kissed his lips, “I love you, Patrick Ian Buchanan.”

“I love you too, Marie Antoinette Bernardino,” Patrick said, putting his arms around my waist and pulling me tight, “Your Mom is a lovely and gracious woman. Like Mother like daughter, as they say.”

“What do you think of my Dad?”

“The jury is still out on that. What time is it?”

"It is about three o’clock, why?”

“Well, we couldn’t just arrive here empty-handed. I made arrangements to have a fruit basket delivered. You said pears and oranges were Dad’s favorites. It should have been here by now. By the way, what chair does your father like to sit in?”

“Don’t you dare?”

“I wouldn’t think of it. I have aggravated your Dad enough for now. If I push him too far I might not get dinner, and if your Mom’s sauce is anything like yours, I will be missing a feast.”

As Patrick said that, Dad walked into the room with a tray holding a decanter of wine and four glasses. I noticed that Dad had washed his face, and put on a clean white shirt. I walked over to Dad and hugged him, “I love you Daddy, thank you. I’ll help Mom in the kitchen.”

“I love you too Princess, would you like a glass of wine?”

“Two please. I’ll bring one to Mom.”

Dad poured them and I left hoping for the best.

***************

“Well, you might as well sit down.”

“Thank you,” I sat down in the chair across from him.”

“Do you drink wine?” Mr. Bernardino asked, “This is homemade Chianti.”

“Yes, I seldom get a good homemade wine. My Father made a very good hard cider in a whiskey barrel.”

“I don’t like you,” Mr. Bernardino said, leaning forward.

“Oh well,” I replied, sipping and enjoying my wine.

“What do you think of the wine?”

“It is quite good actually. When I do drink wine, I like a dry red.”

“Are you saying that to kiss up?”

“Kiss up to you, don’t be ridiculous. You asked me what I thought and I told you. Perhaps you don’t like my answer. Nevertheless the wine is very good. If it tasted like cleaning fluid, I would have said so.”

“Let me top off your glass. Didn’t your father teach you that it is good manners to bring something when you are invited to dinner?”

“He did, and...” Mr. Bernardino interrupted me, “Then you show no respect. You come to my home empty handed. You dragged my daughter half way across New York on a motorcycle like some kind of hoodlum. Marie deserves better than that.”

I was saved by the doorbell. Shortly after, Father Joseph Sebastian walked into the room carrying an enormous fruit basket, mostly oranges and pears, Marie’s father’s favorites.

“Where do you want this, Dom? They were delivering it when I got here,” and seeing me the Priest said, “You must me Patrick, give me a second,” as he put it on the floor, and then held out his hand for me to shake, “I’m Father Joseph Sebastian, or as my Parishioners call me, Father Joe.”

“I’m pleased to meet you Reverend, I have heard nothing but good about Uncle Joe from Marie.”

“Are you Catholic, Patrick?”

“No, the hoodlum is a can’t-make-up-his-mind heathen, Joe. He doesn’t go to church regular at all.”

“My mother was Catholic, Reverend, and I was baptized as such. I never attended any particular church much after my Mother died. I didn’t start up again until I joined the Marines. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes.

I go to church when I feel the need. I will attend any mainstream Christian Church, regardless of denomination, including Catholic. I have met some very nice people that way and have had many fine potluck or chicken dinners afterward.”

“As I said Joe, he is a damn heathen hayseed, the mamaluke that he is. All he thinks about is his stomach. He doesn’t even know how to address a Priest properly.”

“I would hardly say Patrick is a heathen, Dom, or a hoodlum because he rides a motorcycle. That’s a fine machine Patrick. I saw it when I pulled in the driveway. What year Panhead is it? My best guess would be the early sixties.”

“You know your scoots, Reverend. It was made in 1961 and it once belonged to be my father.”

“That’s Father Joe or Father Sebastian to you, heathen, show some respect!”

“For God’s sake, Dom let the young man speak for himself. Make yourself useful and pour me a glass of that bilge water you call wine. He does have a point though, Patrick, the preferred address is Father, or Father Joe.”

“No disrespect intended Reverend, but you are not my Father. That is reserved for my Father-God of the Holy Trinity. John Ian Buchanan was my father on earth. Dad is now in Heaven with my Mother, and the Lord God Our Heavenly Father.”

“I appreciate your honesty, Patrick. Under the circumstances, no offense is taken. Feel free to call me Joe if you like. Reverend is a proper title, but I am not here in that capacity now. Do you hear that Dom. Let me give you a hypothetical, Patrick. If you were to marry Marie, and came back into the fold, attending Mass every Sunday, would you address me as Father?”

“You’re a big help, Joe, siding with him,” Mr. Bernardino said, handing the Reverend his wine, “now you have this hayseed married to my Marie.”

“No, I wouldn’t Joe,” I answered, waiting for a chance to speak.

“I have known this big lout since Kindergarten,” Joe said, sipping his wine and laughing, “He is not so bad when you get to know him. Dom is even worse. You will soon learn to tolerate him as we all do if only for Marie’s sake. By the way, Dom, this wonderful fruit basket is from Patrick and Marie.”

“Patrick and I were having a conversation. Since you are not a priest today, if you want to eat, shut your yap and listen.”

I was thinking, ‘Well, he finally called me by name? This must be Mr. Bernardino’s attempt at apologizing. I have to admit he is a strong bastard though. He could certainly give Sam a run for his money.’

“What makes you think that you are good enough for my daughter?”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“I don’t like you. You show no respect.”

“Yes, you already said that. Respect goes both ways, Mr. Bernardino.”

“Are you after my daughter’s money?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You are entitled to your wrong opinion.”

“How much money can a farmer possibly make?”

“How much money can a plumber possibly make? I’ll put my bank book up against yours any day.”

“If I didn’t love my wife and daughter as I do, you wouldn’t be allowed in my house.”

“Don’t do me any favors, Mr. Bernardino. I never go where I am not welcome.

“So you are a farmer.”

“No, I’m a Blacksmith who knows how to farm.

“Living on a farm in the middle of the sticks can’t be much of a life for my daughter. Do you even have indoor plumbing?”

“Why, are you looking for work?”

I almost thought I saw the hint of a smile, but he caught himself and scowled,

“Would you ever consider moving to the City?”

“Our homestead has been passed down from father to son since 1786. The land is in my blood and generations of Buchanan’s are buried in the family cemetery.”

“So, you are saying from 1786 to the present, nobody in your family had the brains to pick up a skilled trade?”

"You have a big mouth, Mr. Bernardino and you curse like a girl. Marie does a better job swearing at me than you do,” I put my wine glass down and stood up. “You are treading on thin ice when you insult my family, do you want to settle up now.”

The good Reverend Joe was taking it all in and smiling, “He’s got you there, Dom. You just crossed the line. You would have hit Patrick if he insulted your family. Did you forget the way Mary’s father treated you? Mary’s father didn’t want his daughter marrying an Italian, Patrick.

They wanted Mary to marry the doctor she was dating when she first met Dominick. Mary was a Presbyterian when they married, but embraced the Catholic Church after Marie was born.”

“Wait a minute, son, Mr. Bernardino said, back-peddling, “Sit down. I’m sure you come from a fine family. I take back everything I said, or inferred about them. It’s you I don’t like, and I am entitled to my opinion in my own house. Let me fill your wine glass. You told me on the telephone that you love Marie.”

“That is true, and I say it again, I love Marie.”

“Marie, Mary,” Mr. Bernardino called, “would you come in here please?”

***********************

“Marie, do you love this man, this Patrick Buchanan?”

“Of course I do, Dad,” I replied, walking over to Patrick and squeezing his hand.”

“Did you swear at him? Did you really let him have it? That’s my girl.”

“I did, but only after Patrick wouldn’t let me hit him with a shovel, or punch him in the nose.”

“The Saints preserve us! Marie hit you with a shovel, and you still wanted to come here to meet us, Patrick? What did you do to get Marie that angry?”

“Marie didn’t hit me with a shovel. Marie tried to hit me a shovel. I took it away from her. At the time I had no idea why Marie was angry. My wife had a temper, it’s no big deal. When Marie tried to punch me, I pinned her arms until she stopped struggling and calmed down.”

“I can believe that. Why was my daughter angry in the first place?”

“Marie thought I was still married.”

“You are divorced then?” Mr. Bernardino asked, thinking that he found an opening, “What did you do to make your wife leave you?”

“My wife, Anne Marie died.”

“I’m sure Anne Marie was a fine woman,” Mr. Bernardino offered, making The Sign of the Cross, “But in your case the saintly woman could have done better, much better.”

Mr. Bernardino then raised his glass in a toast, “In memory of Patrick’s saintly wife,” We all took a sip, and then Marie and her mother returned to the kitchen, smiling.

*********************

“Are you two still planning on spending the night?” Mom asked.

“Yes, did something change?”

“No, nothing has changed. Thank you for the fruit basket. If you get a bowl down, I’ll put the fruit out on the table after dinner. By the way, I made your favorite dessert, cannolis.”

“Can I have one now?”

“No, you will have to wait with the rest of us.”

“What do you think of Patrick, Mom?”

“I’ve waited to talk to you face to face, honey,” Mom said, taking my hand, “We didn’t hear from you for almost a year. Your father and I were so worried. You went back to college, and that was a good thing. But you took a wrong turn.

You were spending money recklessly and dressing like a tramp. I couldn’t believe it when you cut your hair, but I’m glad you are back to your God given color. You weren’t the same after your divorce, Marie. You were distant and you were bitter. You stopped attending Mass.

We are your parents, Marie. We love you. You will always be our baby. And then there is Joe, your surrogate uncle, your Priest; the man who Baptized you, from whom you received your First Holy Communion.

When we heard that those bad friends of yours died of an overdose, we were frantic. We went to your house and nobody was home. Nobody at the college has heard from you. Joe called in a favor and no stone was left unturned. They tracked you down to a private nightclub. The trail went cold there.

You have no idea how relieved we all were when you telephoned. We had a telephone number, Patrick’s name and an address. Joe did some further checking. All Joe would tell us was that you were in good hands and not to worry. You were safe. Do I like Patrick? How can I not like him? Patrick brought our baby back to us.”

****************************

When dinner was ready, I went in to tell the men, and then we all sat down to eat, and Uncle Joe said grace. I noticed that Patrick made the Sign of the Cross during the prayer.

My father didn’t fail to notice, “I heard you say you weren’t a Catholic anymore, heathen. Is it appropriate for you using the Sign of the Cross.”

“Don’t call me a heathen, again, Mr. Bernardino,” Patrick said firmly, “The Sign of the Cross is a beautiful and holy gesture. I was baptized a Catholic. My Mother was a Catholic and I attended Mass with her every Sunday until she died.

Mom taught me how to pray as soon as I was old enough to speak, and that is how a prayer begins and ends. I carry my Mother’s memory in the Sign of the Cross. All Catholics are Christians, although not all Christians are Catholic.”

I looked around the table. Dad looked very uncomfortable, and my Mother was giving Dad dirty looks. Uncle Joe had a very thoughtful and knowing look on his face, as he took a sip of wine, smiling.

Patrick was taking everything in stride. He made himself very comfortable in our family, as if my Father’s behavior was the just part of the way things were with us.

Patrick continued, “One meaning of the word, Catholic, found in any good dictionary, is universal. But I’ll stop; I don’t want to beat the subject of Catholics verses Christianity to death.”

“The Church’s position is that you are Catholic from the minute that you are baptized Catholic, Patrick,” Uncle Joe offered, “and therefore logic dictates you will die a Catholic, as well as a Christian. Would you not find comfort in the Last Rites?”

“With all due respect, Joe, you are not the first Priest to tell me that.

“Then you agree?” was the follow up question.”

“I am open to that idea; it would certainly please my Mother.”

“Was your wife, Catholic, Patrick, Uncle Joe, asked.

“She was a Methodist, the same as my Father-in-law, Sam. Anne Marie’s mother was a medicine woman and held with the teachings of her Native American heritage.

“I concede you are a Christian, Patrick,” My Dad offered, trying to save face, “As a Universal Christian and sometimes Catholic, don’t you find it hypocritical not to practice the faith you were baptized in?”

“You and I could argue that point forever, Mr. Bernardino, or until both of us are dead and gone. I promise to save you a seat in Purgatory if I go first.”

‘Wow,’ I thought, ‘Patrick, plays the part of a simple blacksmith so well. Dad is no dummy, but Patrick keeps catching him off guard and Uncle Joe doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. The really amazing thing is that Dad seems to be enjoying himself now.’

**************************

Marie’s father seems to be easing up a bit. He not a bad sort, and is just looking out for Marie. The good Reverend plays the part well as the referee. There is more to Joe Sebastian than meets the eye.

**********************

Mother and I took control of the dinner conversation after the Purgatory zinger. Dad and Uncle Joe sat back and ate, listening while the three of did most of the talking. Mother peppered Patrick with questions about his family and background, but mostly about his reenactments.

Patrick answered with great enthusiasm on that subject. My Blue Knight has a great deal of knowledge about American History of that period of time.

Mother and I cleared the table and started the dishes while they stayed in the dining room with their wine to digest their meal and to make room for dessert.

I tried to sneak a cannoli from the refrigerator and Mom caught me and made we put it back. I got scolded, and then we hugged….I still had to wait to have it with coffee, later.

Dad and Patrick were at it again; ding-ding, round three. Dad started telling jokes to get under Patrick’s skin. Ethnic jokes were allowed, as long as they were not mean spirited. Political correctness was left at the threshold in the Bernardino residence, and our dinner conversations were not for the faint of heart.

Dad started telling every Scottish joke that he knew, most of them funny, many insulting. Uncle Joe even got into the act; maybe it was the wine that loosened his tongue. They were both testing Patrick, feeling him out. Mother and I were listening from the kitchen.

Patrick laughed along with them, taking everything in stride until they ran out of Scottish jokes.

Patrick stood up and announced, “My turn, Gentlemen. But first let me pour the next round of drinks, and after he poured them, Patrick didn’t sit down but walked around the table, circling them as he spoke.

“How do you know you are Italian?” Patrick walked over and put his hand on Dad’s shoulder, answering, “You can bench press 325 pounds, shave twice a day, and still cry when your mother yells at you.

You carry your lunch in a produce bag because you can't fit two cappicola sandwiches, 4 oranges,” Patrick took four oranges out of the bowl, two in each hand, and started juggling them, “2 bananas and pizzelles into a regular lunch bag,” and then Patrick tossed them one at a time to my laughing Uncle Joe, while continuing to rattle them off more Italian jokes.

He stopped circling and put his hand on Uncle Joe’s shoulder, asking, “How do you tell you are a true Italian? “

To which Uncle Joe, replied smiling, “Your mechanic, plumber, electrician, accountant, travel agent, lawyer, and Priest are all friends or cousins.” Which got them laughing all over again, and Patrick continued,

“You have at least 5 cousins living in the same town or street.

All five of those cousins are named after your grandfather or grandmother.

You only get one good shave from a disposable razor.

You netted more than $50,000 on your first communion.”

Patrick had them both of them laughing and slapping the table now. Mom and I were in dining room table hugging one another and laughing near to tears; neither of us expected anything like this.

Patrick must have heard us because he paused to listen and took a sip of wine before calling out,”Would you ladies like to join us and not strain your hearing?” Mom and came out of the kitchen and sat at the dining room table to join them. When we sat, Patrick refilled all our wine glasses.

“You know you are Italian if someone in your family grows beyond 5'9", it is presumed his Mother had an affair.

There are more than 28 people in your bridal party,” and Patrick took my hand and kissed it.

“And you REALLY, REALLY know you're Italian when, pointing to my father, “Your grandfather has a fig tree,” Dad replied, and then to me, “You eat Sunday dinner at 2:00, and on Christmas Eve . . . only fish,” and then to my Mom, who pointed to my Dad, “You think your mom's meatballs are the best. Don’t tell your wife.”

All eyes were on him as Patrick gave his finale, as he spun Mom’s good china a dinner plate on the tip of his index finger as he circled us.

“You know you are Italian because you've been hit with a wooden spoon or had a shoe thrown at you.

Plastic on the furniture is normal.

You know how to pronounce manicotti and mozzarella.

You fight over whether it's called,” and then he quickly pointed to each of us one at a time, the plate still spinning on his finger, before putting his free hand to his ear, and we all answered at the same time, “Gravy or sauce.”

You know you are Italian because you've called someone a mamaluke. Perhaps even your daughter’s future husband, who you don’t like. Think fast Mr. Bernardino.” Patrick pretended to fling the plate at him, startling Dad, but then carefully put it back on the table instead.

“And finally, you know you are Italian because you understand what bada-bing means? What does bada-bing mean? Patrick asked, throwing up his hands, and looking at each of us in turn.

Patrick then bowed to all of us and then raised his wine glass in a toast, saying, “Per la salute” (To your health).














xxx


Wed, 29th December, 2010





xxx





 


RSVP EROTICA