Chapter 14

That weekend was a true turning point in my life. After that, there was no going back. It was amazing how quickly Shauna and I settled into our life together. She quickly put her own stamp on the house in a way that Tori never had. The corner desk in the study became hers. It usually housed her laptop and whatever files she was working on. She took over the small study on the second floor. It had been Tori's practice room. It now became Shauna's art studio. She was working on textiles, a long-standing interest of hers. She'd studied Indian and Malaysian textiles, and the influence of them could be seen in her work, although what she produced was clearly hers. I resolved to introduce her to my friend Carole Tailiaferro. Carole owned my favourite bar in Toronto, and she was also one of Canada's leading artists. Carole was a painter, but I knew that she'd appreciate Shauna's work.

In a way, I did introduced them. I had several paintings of Carole's. My favourite was a very large canvas that hung in the hallway between the front door and the dining room. It was a self portrait. Carole was looking directly out of the picture, a brush in her hand. She must have painted herself as she looked into a mirror. The picture was striking, if a bit disturbing.

"My God, she's beautiful," was Shauna's first reaction on seeing the picture, "Who is she?"

"That's a self portrait of the artist, Carole Tailiaferro."

"Really? We studied her work at university. But I haven't seen this one. When was it painted?"

"Last year."

"She's that young? My God, she's so famous! I thought she was much older."

"Yes. She's that young, and she's even more beautiful in person," I said, "but not nearly as beautiful as you."

"Pat, stop kidding around. I'm nowhere as good looking as that. God, she's dramatic! That complexion and those eyes! And the way she looks at you. It's almost frightening."

"I know. But Carole isn't frightening. I want you to meet her. I know you'll be fast friends."

"I hope so."

"I'm sure you will be. You have a lot in common. You're both beautiful, young talented women saddled with old farts. Carole is married to Danny Sullivan, the jazz musician."

There was no reply. My beautiful Shauna was standing rapt in front of the painting. I doubted that she'd even heard my last comment. Her head was tilted to one side. She had a wistful look. Looking at her, I felt a lump in my throat.

I touched her arm. "Shauna," I said softly. She turned to look at me. "I love you. I love you with all my heart and soul. At this moment, I'm beginning to understand why."

Shauna smiled at me. She touched a finger to my lips. "Shush," she said, "I think it's time for us to go upstairs and make love."

I said, "What's wrong with doing it right here?" I lunged for her. She squealed and ran toward the stairs. She almost made it.

After our lovemaking, we were lying cuddled on the floor in the study. Shauna slept as I held her in my arms. I felt so very content and so grateful to have her in my life.

As I held my sleeping love, I remembered the old Pat Connolly. I truly believed that I was no longer the same man. Which was good, because I didn't like most of the things I remembered about the old Pat. About the only thing I could say good about him was that he was loyal to his friends. And he did have friends, oddly enough, Moe Casselman and Joe Dudich chief among them.

But the old Pat had done many terrible things to many people. When I remembered those episodes, I felt guilt and remorse. I kept thinking about Yvette Alvarez.

Yvette was the "secretary" that Moe had mentioned when he chewed me out. I met her about four years ago. She worked in the office of the director of the CBC's National Capital Region. Her title was actually "executive assistant." She was a beautiful young black woman from Montreal. I met her many times when I visited the regional director, something that I often did to plead our case for more facilities and staff. Ray Twomey, the R. D., was always sympathetic. Sometimes, he was even able to help.

Naturally, I couldn't ignore such a gorgeous woman as Yvette. I chatted her up, and I learned a bit about her. Her mother was from the Ivory Coast, and her dad was from Costa Rica. She was fluently trilingual. Her English was unaccented, and her French was flawless. Although I have no real knowledge of Spanish, I'd be willing to bet that she was equally good in that language. Yvette had a degree in French Literature from the University of Ottawa, Canada's only officially bilingual university. She hoped to go to Paris for graduate study. In the meantime, she was paying off her student loans and saving what money she could. She seemed very nearly as intelligent as she was beautiful, an unusual combination to say the least. I invited her to lunch. Soon we were lunching together about once a week.

As usual, I was invited to the annual Press Gallery dinner. It was a black-tie affair and not to be missed. There were bound to be a few boring moments. After all, the Prime Minister and his cabinet would be there. But the speeches by the news guys were always irreverent and often hilarious. I was having lunch with Yvette the week before the dinner. On the spur of the moment, I invited her to be my date.

"Pat, are you serious?"

"I couldn't be more serious. I'd love to have you come with me. It's bound to be a lot of fun, and it would be even more fun with you."

"Gosh, I don't think I have anything to wear. It's formal, right?"

"Yeah, it is. But some people don't get too dressed up."

"Well, I'll see if I can find something appropriate that I can afford."

"Does that mean 'yes?'"

"Yes."

Yvette was able to borrow a gown from one of her friends. The evening of the dinner, I picked her up at her apartment. I buzzed her and waited in the lobby. I was standing there wool-gathering and staring off into space when she came out of the elevator. "Here I am," she said.

Here she was indeed. Suddenly, I had something to stare at. And stare I did. Yvette was wearing a red strapless gown. It was supported by her astounding breasts. The girl had an incredible rack on her, and the rest of her figure was equally mouth-watering. The gown fitted her like a second skin. Either her friend was exactly the same size, or there had been some alterations. She looked more like a super-model than a secretary.

"Wow," was about all I was capable of saying.

"You like?" She did a little pirouette.

"I more than like. I'll be the envy of every guy at the party. The women, of course, will all hate you at first sight."

Yvette beamed at me. "Flatterer," she said, "Make yourself useful and help me on with my coat."

I took the coat from her and did the gentlemanly thing. It was all I could do to keep my hands off her. I resolved to get those hands on her at the first opportunity.

The dinner was held in the ballroom of the Chateau Laurier Hotel. When Yvette and I walked in, I was sure that every eye was on us. Well, on her, to be more precise.

We were seated at a table with some broadcasting people and a couple of newspaper columnists. I knew them all and introduced Yvette to everyone. As usual, the conversation was about the main preoccupation of Ottawa: politics. Yvette proved to be quite well-informed and witty. She joined in the conversation with her characteristic animation.

The speeches after dinner were some of the best I could recall. Jim Howell, the Ottawa correspondent for CTV, did a hilarious impression of the Prime Minister. Reg Burns of The Ottawa Citizen newspaper read a fictional entry from the Speaker of the House's journal. He had everyone in stitches.

The low point of the evening took place at our table. Mike McMahon, the correspondent for the Southam newspaper chain, told a "Newfie" joke. In Canada, Newfie jokes are the equivalent of Polish or redneck jokes in the States. I guess every country has a minority that's made the butt of humour. In Canada, it's Newfoundlanders.

Mike, whose career was largely made by being the drinking buddy of one of the least respected Prime Ministers in Canada's history, was well into his cups. His voice rang out across the din in the ballroom.

"Two Newfoundlanders, Seamus and Brendan, were building a house," he began. "Seamus opened up a box of nails. 'Lord t'underin jayzuz, ' he said, 'it's happened again.'

"'What's happened?' His friend asked.

"'Look at dese jeezly nails. Half of 'em have de heads on de wrong end. We'll have to t'row 'em away.'

"Brendan looked at the nails. He scratched his head. Then he smiled. 'Seamus my son, ' he said, 'if your wellingtons was full o' piss, you'd drown before you'd figure out how to pour it. Some of dem nails is for the udder side o' de house!'"

Rather than the uproarious applause Mike expected, there was near silence at the conclusion of his joke. He looked around, nonplused. Then he looked directly across the table. There sat Glenn Tilley, a CBC correspondent. Glenn was from Newfoundland. The embarrassment was painful.

Yvette actually saved the day. She changed the subject. She began talking to Glenn about the plight of the cod fishermen in Newfoundland. Soon conversation around the table resumed. The situation was defused. My respect for Yvette grew considerably.

At last the party came to an end. As I was helping Yvette with her coat, I asked, "Would you consider it terribly forward of me if I invited you to my place for a little nightcap?"

"Of course I would," she said. "But I'd probably accept. Are you actually making that invitation, or is this a hypothetical question?"

"The invitation is made," I said.

"And accepted," she replied. She kissed me on the cheek.

I exercised all my restraint to avoid speeding on the drive to my house. When we arrived, I shepherded Yvette into the study. I lit the gas fireplace and poured us both a snifter of cognac. I took off my jacket, loosened my tie and sat beside her on the chesterfield.

The firelight gleamed on her light brown skin and the red satin of her dress. She was a vision of beauty.

"You were great tonight," I said. "That Newfie joke thing -- well, you handled that situation in a brilliant way."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"Do I deserve a kiss for that?"

"Definitely."

"Then shut up and kiss me."

How could I refuse an invitation like that? I kissed her. She was like molten lava. Her kiss was like fire. Her body felt like velvet under my hands.

I found myself fumbling with the zipper in the back of her gown. She pushed me away and smiled.

"You'll never manage," she said. "I had a hard enough time getting myself into this thing. You'd never be able to get me out of it. Let me take care of it. You take care of you."

Yvette began to remove her gown. I rapidly worked on my shirt and tux pants. I stared as wonders of glorious female flesh were opened to my view. Under the gown, she wore only pantyhose.

"I didn't want any lines to show," she said, smiling, as she removed the pantyhose.

Looking at this woman was enough to make a grown man cry. She was so fucking gorgeous. Her breasts were much too large to be so firm. Her skin was that colour known as "café au lait." It glinted with the soft sheen of silk velvet. As far as I could tell, her complexion was absolutely flawless. I'd never been with a black woman before. I was glad of that. It was obviously best to start at the top.

I removed my boxers and socks. Then I took her in my arms. The air was electric.

I kissed my way from her face to her breast. I tongued each of her astounding mounds in turn. I kissed my way down her body. I reached her sex.

I spread her legs and gazed on her jewel. Her pubic hair was trimmed to a small band surrounding her labia. Even that was cut very short. There was nothing concealing her lips or the pinkness within.

I remember noting that her labia were much darker than her skin -- almost black. The pink of her vagina was a startling contrast. Her sex gave forth a heady but far from unpleasant odor. I kissed it. I began tonguing it. I continued as she whimpered. She began moaning and then screamed.