Harry Denby sat at his desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard, oblivious to the sounds of the city outside his apartment. His existence narrowed down to the words that were moving from his brain to the computer screen as fast as he could envision them.

Andie gave herself up to desire as he buried his face against her throat. Reveling in her surrender Jared strung moist hot kisses down to where the collar of her top impeded him. When he reached that barrier he simply slipped his hands under the garment. In less than a moment it was pulled over her head and had joined the small pile of their clothing on the floor near the bed.. The delicate scrap of

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! Buzzzzzz! "Shit!" He hated interruptions. He may not be writing the Great American Novel here, but it did pay the bills and he was on a deadline.

The delicate scrap of her bra seemed to come apart in his hands.

Buuzzzzzzz! Buuzzzzzzzzzz! Harry prided himself on always meeting his deadlines.

Jared cupped her breasts in his palms

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!

Whoever it was, obviously wasn’t going to go away. Harry glared at the intercom on the wall next to the door. It hadn’t worked for at least a month and since Harry didn’t get many visitors he hadn’t felt a pressing need to fix it. "Damn," he groaned, "The life of a super."

Harry grudgingly rose from his desk and walked over to the window. Raising the bottom sash, he stuck his head out into the cool autumn air.

BBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!

"Hey! Down below! What’s your problem?"

Stepping out from the doorway of his building and craning her head back so that her hair fell away from her face and exposed the long, lovely line of her neck, Diane Russell responded curtly. "My problem? You can buzz the goddamn door open, and I’ll tell you my problem!"

From his third floor window Harry felt himself respond to her. She was really pissed, gloriously pissed. That fact would be obvious to even the most disinterested passerby, and Harry had never been disinterested where Diane was concerned As he stared down at her he felt his heart rate increase and his breath quicken. Hurricane Diane. This was what he had told himself he should avoid at all costs. Now that she was here, he knew it’s what he had always wanted. For her to come to him. Even if it was like this.

"Well Denby! Are you going to be an SOB as usual and leave me standing here? Or are you going to let me in?"

"She’s so beautiful," he thought. What he said was, "What are you going to do if I don’t, Diane? Huff and Puff and blow my building down?"

Diane looked around her at the people passing by and glaring up at him again said, "Don’t screw with me Denby or I’ll gladly inform your neighbors and anyone else within earshot of what a prick you are!"

Harry laughed. He actually threw his head back and laughed a full throated genuine laugh. There was no rancor or derision in it. It was honest mirth.

It was also disconcerting. Diane tried to focus on the anger that was still burning in her stomach.

"We can’t have that, can we? I wouldn’t want to raise anyone’s opinion of me." He smiled down at her.

"How can he be so goddamn cheerful," she thought.

"Besides my mother taught me to never keep a lady waiting." He disappeared into his apartment and a few seconds later there was a hum and a click and Diane opened the door and stepped into the building.

She was through the foyer and up the first two flights of stairs before she saw him waiting for her on the third floor landing.

Denby was standing at the top of the stairs leaning sideways against the wall, his arms crossed. He was wearing a snug pair of faded old 501’s that were almost threadbare in spots and were unraveling at the hem. His white undershirt was tucked into the beltless waistband of his jeans, and he was barefoot.

Harry watched her sail up the stairs and pulled up a verse from his memory. ‘Thou art beautiful, my love, comely as Jerusalem, fearsome as troops with banners.’ His eyes hungrily took in everything about her. The unruly chestnut curls that Harry had always wanted to reach out and gently pull, just so he could watch them spring back into place. Her sensible black shoes and slacks, which always led to thoughts of what extravagant lingerie might be hiding under such conservative clothing, to the red sweater she wore under her jacket.

"Someday I’ll have to tell her how much I love her red sweaters." He thought.

Diane paused mid step on the stairway and seeing the look in his eyes, began to doubt the wisdom of her coming here. She fought the impulse to turn and run down those stairs. To get herself as far away from this man as she could.

As if he could read her mind he said, "It’s all right Diane. It’s perfectly safe. These days I only bite upon request."

That helped her. "Who the hell does he think he’s dealing with?" She thought to herself. Her eyes narrowing dangerously she climbed the remaining flight and stood a few feet from him. Her chin raised and her fists clenched.

"If I were a man I’d wipe that smile off your face."

He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows "If you were a man, it would be a crime against nature, and I would be in even greater need of therapy. Besides it’s never stopped you before." He pulled away from the wall and his arms dropped to his sides. "Come on in Diane, if you’re a good girl and don’t break my place up, maybe I’ll let you take a swing at me before you leave. As a reward for good behavior, of course."

He walked to his apartment door, not looking back to see if she followed. He hadn’t felt this exhilarated in ages. He couldn’t help himself, when he was near this woman, drunk or sober, he was compelled to nettle her. To break through that cool composure and touch her. So when he came to his open door he gestured her in with a small flourish and said, "Come into my parlor……"

Diane snorted and strode through the door. She was surprised at what she saw.

The room was very masculine, but warm and welcoming. There was an old worn brown leather sofa whose rounded arms and back showed signs of it’s age. Folded across it on one end was a lovely log cabin quilt. It was a mix of velvets and silks in brown, green, blue and gold. A matching leather club chair sat at an angle to the couch and across from that was the most beautiful old oak rocker she had ever seen. Its arms were gracefully curved, it’s seat and back partially upholstered in soft black leather. It was obviously lovingly cared for. The small tables in the room were also oak and old. Each one held a lamp of brown glazed earthenware, topped with a course parchment shade. Standing beside each lamp were one or two pots containing what Diane recognized as orchids. But these weren’t the lovely ethereal flowers that she had seen in flower shops. These were more like the lady slippers that she had sometimes seen in the woods around her great-uncle’s farm when she was a little girl, but these were larger, and oddly colored.

Throughout the room, hanging on the walls, there were framed black and white enlargements of photographs which she recognized as city scenes, street life. One wall was taken up by shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. The top two thirds were packed solid with books. No knickknacks or momentos interrupted the solid flow of spines. The bottom was filled with stereo equipment and LP’s. There were thousands of them. A CD player sat on the opposite end of the shelf with a CD tower next to it. Bamboo shades were rolled up to the top of the two windows in the room and a window seat stretched between them. It was covered with pots of the same type of plants that were blooming on the tables. In the left hand corner of the room was a desk with a computer and one of those ergonomic chairs pulled up to it. The floor was covered in sand colored carpeting and the walls were painted to match.

The kitchen was across from the living room but open to it with a small counter where two stools were pulled up. Diane noticed the pots of what had to be herbs growing in the small windowsill over the sink. The shelves on the walls held dishes, glassware, bowls and pots and pans. Everything in the apartment was tidy, nothing cluttered.

Realizing that Denby had stepped in behind her and closed the door, she turned and saw beside him, an old mahogany spinet piano standing against the wall. Above it were more framed photographs. One of them she recognized, it was of two old men playing chess in a park, only the park was the one across from the precinct, and the old men were the same two who played there almost every afternoon.

"Who did these? Who took these pictures?" As she asked she looked closer at the other photos and recognized a few more familiar sights." They were good, more than good. Whoever had taken them had talent.

"You recognize them? Charley and Lyle. Did you know they’ve been meeting in that park nearly everyday for seventeen years?"

"You shot these?"

"Don’t sound so incredulous Diane. I had to do something with the time I used to spend drinking." He was standing next to her, close, very close.

"When had that happened? Jesus, what am I doing? I came here to give him hell not to admire his artwork." Diane stepped away from him and glared.

"Stop smiling at me Denby. You look like a damn Cheshire Cat."

He smiled wider, "I can’t seem to help myself. I’m dazzled."

"Well snap out of it. What do you think this is, a social call? You think I’m here because I want to be? I’m here because you manipulated Jill, and you manipulated me, just like you did two years ago, and I’m sick of your games Denby. They end now!"

"Is that what you think I’m doing? Playing Games? Tell me Diane, exactly what is it that I’ve done to entice you into my den of iniquity?" He was still smiling.

"You knew Jill would tell me what you did. Well it won’t work. Doing one decent thing in your life won’t make me think you’re Gandhi. It won’t change anything between us Denby."

"Aha now we have it. We’ve hit bedrock again Diane."

"What?"

You said it yourself, what’s between us. That’s what brought you here today. Not Jill, or whatever you imagine my motives are. This is all about us, Diane. US."

"There is no US."

"That’s exactly what I thought you’d say, and what I have naturally assumed myself. But in the light of your passionate vehemence I’m beginning to reassess. And as intrigued as I am with your reference to Gandhi, let us for the sake of clarity, deal first with what you think brought you here. Except," he raised his index finger and waved it under his nose. "To say that, provided the right inducement, I am willing to don a dohti and shave my head if that’s what appeals to you."

"Noth…" she began to say.

"Ahahah!" he waved that finger again, then his smile left him and he asked quietly. What would it take Diane? To change things between us? If I got down on my hands and knees, confessed all my sins and begged your forgiveness? Would that make any difference?

Diane stood, without speaking, and tried not to show her surprise.

He shook his head. "No I didn’t think so, just as searching out Jill and trying to do something to help repair the hole I blew in her life doesn’t work in my favor either. Don’t you think I know you well enough to understand that? If I had thought that there was anything I could do to fix the mess I made with you, I would have done it. But there isn’t, not unless you let your guard down, and you’re not about to do that are you? So I did what I did anyway, but I didn’t do it because of you, and I didn’t tell you about Jill because to be blunt, Diane, it was none of your business." He looked down at his hands and then he raised his eyes and Diane saw an intensity she had never seen in anyone but Denby. "I haven’t manipulated you. I haven’t even let myself whisper your name at night. And I’ve never had to resort to such machiavelian machinations to lure a woman into my life or my bed."

"Go to Hell Denby." She didn’t sound convincing, not even to herself.

"That was harsh, but then I suppose, I was too. You’ll have to forgive me Diane. I’m somewhat new to self righteous indignation, I haven’t gotten the hang of it yet. And as for my travel plans, what was it Twain said? Oh yeah, ‘Heaven for piety, Hell for company.’"

He moved closer to her and she resisted the urge to retreat another step.

"Now that’s one of the things I’ve always found so appealing about you Diane. You have ethics, but you’re not anymore pious than I am. For some time I wondered why it was, considering we’ve both faced the same dragon, that you couldn’t forgive me my addictions and the events that ensued from them. Then I realized that it is exactly our shared demons and failings that keep you clinging to the belief that I’m incapable of anything but self interest, enlightened or not. It’s why you can’t get past the mistakes I’ve made. You’re afraid of the options that would give you. The vistas that would open before us."

Diane felt so... aware, he was too close, he smelled so good and his voice was disarming her against her will. She wanted to slap him silly and kiss him senseless all at the same time. "Oh god, what am I doing? Why am I feeling this?" She had to stop it now before it was to late. She could feel the heat coming off his body, his breath mingling with hers. She closed her eyes, delved into the morass of her emotions, and pulled out the one weapon she still had.

Opening her eyes she murmured, so close to his lips she almost brushed them with her own. "You using again Harry? Maybe you’ve got a stash hidden somewhere? Scotch? Or have you switched to vodka?" She inhaled sharply, he was so close she could almost taste him. "No smell or aftertaste to give you away? Is that why you’ve lost it?"

With every word she spoke the warmth in Harry’s eyes faded. He stood there stunned, and then stepping away from her he turned and walked into his kitchen. Reaching down and yanking open a cabinet door he pulled out a full bottle of scotch and crossing back to her held it out.

Never raising his voice, he replied hoarsely, "The seals intact Diane. I’ve been walking the straight and narrow for almost two years now. Actually if you want to get technical it’s been 21 months, 16 days, and fucking knows how many hours and minutes." He stared unblinkingly into her eyes and she could see the pain and anger there. "I may be every thing you say I am, Diane. I am an addict, and a drunk, and a prick. I’ve been a fool, and a liar. I guess I still am a fool to hope that you could ever see me as anything more than just another skel who wants to fuck you."

Diane looked down at his hand gripped tightly around the neck of the bottle. Suddenly she felt sick with shame. Was what he had done so terrible that it would warrant this kind of attack? From her of all people. The truth was, without Bobby’s help, she might have sunk even lower than Denby had. She might even still be drinking. Or worse.

He sat the bottle on the kitchen counter, turned and quietly said, "I think I’m going to ask you to leave now Detective. I have work to do."

She walked unsteadily toward the door.

As she opened it he spoke again, "You can consider this contest, this game as you call it, over. Congratulations. You’ve won."

Part 2

"Diane, Diane."

"What? Oh God, I’m sorry, did I do it again? This is getting embarrassing."

"It’s all right. John told me how difficult your job can be. It must take a lot out of you."

"Yes, it does, and it’s been pretty rough lately. Listen I’m sorry, you seem like a really great guy, Dave. But I..."

"Dan."

"What."

"My name is Dan."

"Dan…. I’m so sorry."

"It’s OK."

"No, it’s not, and I just keep making it worse don’t I? I really think, maybe I should go."

"But you just got here."

"I know, I’m sorry."

"You really don’t have to keep saying that."

"Yes, I do. I think it’s the one thing I really do have to say."

"At least let me see you home or call you a cab."

"No really, it’s not far and maybe the walk will help me clear my head."

"If only it was that easy," she thought to herself. It was early evening and there were plenty of people on the streets, either coming home late from work or going out for dinner. Diane walked slowly, her posture straight, trying not to look as distracted as she felt. She’d owe John a big apology tomorrow for how she’d treated his cousin. She couldn’t have insulted the man more if she’d stood him up.

She had been truthful when she had said the last week had been a difficult one, but it wasn’t because of work. The truth was she had taken a long look at her behavior towards Harry Denby and she hadn’t liked what she’d seen. She’d been so unwilling to even consider that there might be more to Denby than his drinking and the cockup he had made of his life and Jill’s. Even knowing that Jill had acknowledged and accepted her own share of the blame and had forgiven, even begun to like him, hadn’t helped. If it was anyone else, Diane might have been able to put aside her misgivings and do the same. After all he’d gotten straight and sober, tried to make amends to Jill, and he seemed to have pulled his life together. But still she was torn, she didn’t know if she could ever trust him. He may have crossed a line, that as a cop she couldn’t condone. At the same time her body was insistent in it’s response to him. Diane sighed. It would be so much easier for her if it was just physical. She could control that, but something inside her head and her heart was touched by him in a way no one, not even Bobby, who she’d loved with all her being, had touched before. There was a perverse connection between them, whether she liked it or not, and she had a hunch that she if she gave him half a chance she would like it. A lot. It was all so confusing. On one hand she didn’t understand him, she didn’t have a clue as to who he really was, how that convoluted mind of his worked, and the fact that she couldn’t tell if he was playing her or not frightened her. On the other hand, she wanted to explore what it was about him that affected her so. Harry Denby made her feel alive again. He made her pulse race and her mouth water. She wanted more. She wanted him. But not at the cost of her peace of mind, or her sobriety. During this past week she had slowly acknowledged to herself that the only way to solve the puzzle that was Harry Denby, was to get to know him better. To get closer to him, to allow him to get closer to her. To do that she would have to take a risk. She would also have to do something she wasn’t very good at. She would have to apologize.

The next morning Diane went into the flower store around the corner from the job and asked the florist if he had any plants that fit the description of the ones in Harry’s apartment. He scratched his head and said it sounded like she had stumbled into the den of a paphiopedilum enthusiast. He could get phaleonopsis or cymbidiums, even dendrobiums from floral wholesalers. In fact he had some lovely cuttings in stock at the moment but paphs weren’t in demand, they weren’t flamboyant enough for the upscale market. Besides in the world of orchidist’s, who were a passionate and contentious breed on the whole, paph growers were considered eccentrics.

"You’d have to contact The Greater New York Orchid Society to find a grower and even if they did sell to the public, there are hundreds of both hybrid and species plants available. I wouldn’t recommend trying to buy one for your friend if you don’t know his preference. Besides any man in his right mind would be happy just to get a smile from a pretty lady like you. Now a small flower arrangement is always nice, how about this one, daisies in a mug. Who wouldn’t like that?"

Diane was leaving the store empty handed when she noticed IT near the front window. A slow smile spread on her face, it was perfect, and as she found out when she asked, ridiculously expensive. "What the hell." she thought and pulled out her credit card. She pondered a few moments over the message on the card, then gave them Harry’s address. As she walked back to the job she hoped that for what it cost, both in dollars and in pride, Harry wouldn’t toss it down the garbage chute.

Later that day Harry was pulling on his jacket. He didn’t have to wear a suit to meet with his editor but he felt it added some much needed credibility. He may be absurdly well paid as the successful romance author Plumeria Frambois, but he felt the subject matter lacked a certain legitimacy. It wasn’t exactly something he could talk about with the guys at the gym. When pushed he told people that he was a freelance writer for detective fiction. It wasn’t an outright lie. It was how he had started out. His cousin Max happened to be a small time literary agent and had thrown a few jobs his way after Harry had returned from rehab. Lots of guns and some tits, was how Max had explained it. Harry found it pleasant work and his writing was good and soon in demand. Then Max was approached by a major house who wanted Harry to ghost write a romance/suspense novel. A real bodice ripper. At a great deal more money than he had been making before. He took it, fewer guns, more tits is how he looked at it. In the beginning he had found it amusing that he spent most of his days writing about heaving breasts, thrusting erections and pulsing orgasms, and the majority of his nights like a monk. The joke had long since worn off.

Not that there hadn’t been a few women in the past year and a half. It was just that he had found that he wasn’t able to invest anything more emotionally now that he was sober, than he had when he was drinking. He’d only been able to offer them some tenderness with the sex they’d shared. Sooner or later they each in their turn wanted more and drifted away. He understood and truthfully was relieved that each relationship had ended so quietly. All except for Lisa that is. He had seen her for a short time six months ago. She was small, blonde and had the face of an angel. She was also the only woman he had ever met who disliked foreplay. She made it very clear that she wanted him inside of her as quickly and energetically as humanly possible and if one or the other of them was tied up she liked it even better. When he had declined one of her more bizarre requests because he was afraid he would hurt her, she broke up with him. She had explained that she felt they were sexually incompatible. "No offense, Harry, you’re a great guy. I just like it rougher than you do." He hadn’t argued.

Then there was Diane, always Diane, even though he had perfected the art of suppressing his memories of her. He thought back to last week and was embarrassed by his behavior and maudlin accusations. What the hell was wrong with him, coming on to her like that and then acting the part of the martyred innocent. Perhaps it was time for him to get out of the romance biz if he was starting to act like one of the sensitive souls that populated the fiction he wrote. He had contractual obligations for two more books and then he was done. Plumeria could fall off a cliff, and he’d find some other way to make a living.

He was picking up his folder when there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was a tenant wanting him to fix a leaky faucet or a broken light switch, he was prepared to put them off until after his meeting. He opened the door to find a florist’s delivery man leaning against his door frame trying to catch his breath.

"You Harry Denby?" he managed to croak.

"Could be, who wants to know? And how’d you get in?"

"Dominique’s flowers, I got a delivery for you and I’m not lugging it back down those stairs. And the answer to your other question is that a couple let me in as they were leaving."

Harry looked down and on the floor was a large barrel cactus, it was at least two feet tall and resembled a huge pincushion. There was also a big red bow tied around the pot.

The delivery man bent down, picked it up and stepping past a bewildered Harry, walked into the room.

"So where do you want this monst…this beautiful specimen?"

"There must be some kind of mistake."

"No mistake. Your name's on the delivery slip." He put the cactus down on the floor by the rocker. "There’s as good a place as any. You want it someplace else you’ll have to move it yourself. I’m a delivery man not an interior decorator." He held his clip board out to Harry. "Sign here. By the way there’s a card." He winked at Harry, "Some guys have all the luck."

Harry stood and looked at the cactus for a few moments after seeing the delivery guy out the door. He reached down and found the card pinned to the back of the bow. He managed to extract it with out impaling himself on a spine and read the note:

Harry,

Under the circumstances this seemed like an appropriate peace offering.

I’m sorry,
Diane

PS-Don’t shave your head. The rest is negotiable.

"Well, I’ll be damned." He felt a wave of relief wash over him, and the knot that had been in his stomach for the last week loosened and dissolved. Harry placed the card carefully in his wallet, then he cleared a space on the window seat and moved the cactus over so it would have more light. It really was spectacular. He turned it a few times, admiring it and began whistling an old tune. Remembering the time he picked up his folder and turned to leave when he stopped and looked over at his desk.. Crossing to it, he opened a drawer and removed a thick bound manuscript. "What do I have to lose?" he thought. "Jill was right, I’ve been a chickenshit about a lot of things. After all if Diane Russell can reach out to me, then the age of miracles may not be past after all." Tucking it under his arm he strode out of his apartment.

Mrs. Shapiro was shoving her trash bag in the chute as that nice young man from the apartment down the hall, the one who had taken over as manager of the building walked by. He was whistling a tune she recognized from her girlhood. "I know that song!" she said. She began to sing the words in a quivery soprano, "I’ll build a stairway to paradise, with a new step everyday. I’m gonna get there at any price. Step aside I’m on my way."

Harry stood at the top of the landing and gave her a dazzling smile. "Stranger things have happened Mrs. Shapiro, stranger things have happened."

As she watched the young man step lightly down the stairs, she thought for a moment he might break out into a little dance-step on the staircase. "If I was 40 years younger," she thought to herself, "One of us would be in big trouble." She listened to the sound of his whistling until he left the building, and then humming to herself, went back into her apartment. Her soap would be starting soon and she didn’t want to miss it.

THE END