you.”
The girl now sensed that she was being toyed with. There was something in the lush-lipped, ripe-bosomed, expensive smelling woman that was at once offensive and alarming to the Boston social worker.
“Michael, I’ll be outside!” she announced, as he joined them at the counter. She let the door slam behind her, not bothering to disguise the irritation she felt for this stranger who apparently knew her man’s likes and dislikes so intimately.
Michael handed a copy of O Wicked Country to her along with some cash.
“I think you’ll find this oddly compelling,” she said.
“I’ll be back,” said Michael, pocketing the book and the change.
“I’ll be here.”
Marguerite perched upon a low, 3-legged stool, in front of the open hearth in Hugo Sands’ kitchen, to dry her rain-soaked hair. She was wearing only Hugo’s flannel robe, with her splendid body naked under it.
“You still haven’t told me why you were late,” Hugo said, handing her a glass of wine.
“A man came in today, just before closing...” Marguerite sipped from the glass, set it down on the floor beside her, then commenced combing out her wildly tangled hair. Hugo waited, but Marguerite drifted.
“And?” he prompted.
“And nothing. I just want him. I walked over here in the rain, because I wanted to luxuriate in fantasies about my new lover.”
“You’re confident. Who is this paragon anyway?”
“His name is Michael. He’s even taller than you. And much younger.”
“Thanks!”
“He was up in the loft the whole time. He read one of our favorite books from cover to cover, then bought it.”
“Haven’t you left something out, Marguerite?”
“Yes, he was dressed in a handsome tweed suit. The drape was magnificent.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something else, Marguerite?” Hugo interrupted, impatiently.
“Something more important than the cut of this man’s suit?” Marguerite pondered deeply.
“Wasn’t our natty out-of-towner accompanied by a pretty girl in an ugly jogging suit?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Detective Flagg has just joined our local police force. Jane Elliot is a caseworker in Boston. They’re engaged but their wedding isn’t set to take place until spring, when she intends to quit her job and relocate to Random Point.”
“How do you know all of this?” Marguerite demanded, a stab of jealousy piercing her heart.
“They were in the shop today. He bought a mahogany four-poster... for their love nest.”
“How horrifying,” she cried.
“Don’t worry,” Hugo told her. “You’ve got until spring. And we know what Jane is like. It’s hardly even a challenge for you. Now, if you only had until next weekend to get him to call off the wedding, that would be a challenge worthy of you.”
“They aren’t suited to each other,” Marguerite pointed out.
“I agree, but that does not alter the fact that you were late for our appointment. You know how I feel about tardiness, Marguerite. It shows a want of feeling and a lack of respect. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” she answered meekly, putting her hands in her lap and waiting for him to pronounce sentence.
Circling her he said, “Marguerite was naughty to keep Hugo waiting.”
“I just wanted to go for a walk in the rain!” Petulance replaced docility as the disagreeable information about the new talent’s approaching nuptials began to twist her heart into knots.
“Marguerite, do you remember what happened the last time you used that particular tone of voice with me?” Hugo knelt beside her on the highly polished parquet floor and handed her glasses to her. “Put your glasses on, darling.”
Marguerite put her glasses on. Then he told her to stand up and she obeyed. Hugo untied and relieved her of the robe.
“Now go up to the bedroom and put your garter belt, hose and boots back on. Then come back to me.” Hugo turned her around and gave her a slap on her lush, womanly bottom that made her gasp. “Go on, don’t keep me waiting!”
When Marguerite came back downstairs, still naked except for the articles Hugo had named, her milky white skin was suffused with an all-over blush and the rose-colored nipples that capped her full, firm breasts stood to attention.
Hugo was sitting on the stool she’d vacated, with a large cookbook open across his lap and a wooden spatula casually tucked in the crook of one arm. He affected characteristic indifference at her spectacular entrance.
“Now, my dear,” he began, scarcely looking up; “you and I, but mostly you, are going to be baking a cherry pie. Put that apron on.
Come here and I’ll tie your bow.”
Marguerite slipped the starched white linen bib apron over her head, then went to Hugo and obediently turned her bare bottom toward him. First he tied the apron strings into a bow that tightly cinched her slender waist and emphasized the contrasting swell of her hips and buttocks. Then he reached for the length of silver chain and leather ankle cuffs he’d stowed beneath the stool. He made her stand with her feet about 12” apart, fastened the cuffs around the ankles of her high heeled, bisque leather, lacing ankle boots.
“There,” he said, straightening up; “That should make the cooking lesson more piquant.” He turned her about between his hands, approving the addition of the restraints to her ensemble.
“I’ll trip and stumble,” Marguerite fretted, taking a baby step.
“You’d better not be too clumsy, or you’ll get this!” Hugo warned, giving her a sharp swat on her bare bottom, framed by the crisp, ruffled apron and bow, with the flat wooden spoon.
“Ouch!”
“Hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Yes!”
“There’s lots more where that came from if you don’t prove a competent apprentice baker. Now let’s see what we’ll need to start with.” He read aloud, “3 cups drained, pitted, tart red cherries; 1/2 cup cherry juice; 3 1/2 tbs. all purpose flour; 2 tbs. butter; and for the pinch of salt we’ll substitute 2 of Marguerite’s tears. Step 1 says: prepare and set aside pastry for 2-crust pie. Did you get that, Marguerite?”
“Uh... how many cups cherries?” Marguerite hadn’t realized she was supposed to be memorizing the ingredients as he read them off.
“You weren’t paying attention?”
“I
