Jupiter be the Sea

JUPITER BY THE SEA IS A TALE OF LOVE, BETRAYAL, AND THE POWER OF DESTINY THAT REFUSES TO LET US GO.

LUST

 

 

Plato believed that every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back…

 

I saw Ben Barrymore in Palm Beach late Saturday night, and though I had millions of reasons to say hello, I did not. Instead, I swayed to the music and mimed a popular song, ignoring a man I have known since the dawn of time.

Still on the clock at my current job, I am eager to complete my assignment with the abrasive man whose torment lingers. In despair, I yearn to separate myself from all his demands. As I look around the room, all I see is happiness, and I cannot help but envy it. 

Ben was the biggest attraction in the room, and I would ask him to dance if I was not working. Although he was not the wealthiest man here, he was the most handsome I had seen in years, and I have seen many men. He dressed in a black tuxedo and looked as dashing as ever with his cheerful smile and sparkling eyes that shone as brightly as the midday sun.

I reference his eyes, identical to mine, as they reflected the same emotions and lustful hunger, we both once held for each other deep within our souls.

In an earlier life, I recall an incarnation where a stranger caused my death and affected Ben's life, and I groaned as Ben held the conviction that I had acted recklessly, which was unfounded. Nevertheless, his fury was immeasurable, and it was now up to destiny to decide if we would embark on another journey together. Over time, I have known this magnificent man as my friend, lover, and tormentor. I pondered whether he sensed my passion tonight or was still clueless despite my sending hundreds of signals.

The soft murmurs of conversation and the tinkling of glasses echoed throughout the ballroom's elegant dining area, intensifying my sense of exclusion, as no one had invited me to join them for a meal.

Disgruntled, I eyed Ben with suspicion and jealousy. The bitterness that shook my body inspired me to replicate Hadrian's Wall in England. It was a desperate attempt to protect myself, as I saw that Ben had chosen to ignore me, refusing to understand that I was merely a pawn in a chess game, and unless our King avoided checkmate, we would be at the mercy of a feisty Queen.

Saddened, I sighed and faced the opulent ballroom, where I admired The Carlisle Resort's hand-crafted statues, impressive waterfalls, and tropical flowers. The five-star hotel offers Palm Beach County's wealthiest residents the best hospitality and services.

On my last visit, I stood beside a tall marble statue of a man resting a palm on his knee, with hardened facial features and a non-expressive look. I looked for the exact location that night.

Since I had arrived alone, my inconspicuous stance proved challenging as predatory men roved throughout the room and gawked in my direction. I surmised that this party host lacked friends with the class status quo as most men could not resist their urge to proposition me. Though troubled by the alarming number of mature men requesting discreet favors, I stayed composed and politely declined their advances because it would never happen. If I could vomit, I would. Still, I smiled and strolled to an empty corner of the room, stopping once to nod at a group of women sitting at a table, awaiting an eligible suitor to ask them to dance.

In my experience, I have learned that men are dogs, if not worse, as I have a dog, and he is a darling little male who would mistreat no one.

Applauding the massive chandeliers and the decorative artwork adorning the ballroom walls, I tried adding each fixture's cost, which was challenging, as I still needed to pass math and finish my art degree. Still, my low-income day job and rich connections afford me the luxury of seeing how Carlisle's developers spared no expense, spending upwards of millions of dollars.

The Carlisle Hotel is one of the fanciest resorts I have visited in South Florida. However, since I live in Miami Beach, I seldom accept invitations to bask in its glory. My trips to this opulent town were exhausting, especially during weekend traffic when more drivers were on the road. Besides, I preferred engagements closer to home, as I saved money on gasoline. The long drive also added an extra three hours to my schedule, making my disappearance more noticeable to my friends and boyfriend, Harry.

A cheerful, mature server interrupted my thoughts and offered me a vintage coupe glass from circa 1955. The crystal flute, adorned in yellow gold engravings, sat amongst others beside a bottle of Louis Roederer Champagne. Although I enjoyed Cristal, I declined this light-bodied French beverage even though my mouth was salivating to sample the peach, fruity drink, as I had to drive back to Miami and was still on the clock. So, no boozy night spent drinking the world's finest champagne for me on that spectacular evening.

Remorseful, I watched with envy as the hotel employee soldiered on to a group of men who accepted the import, toasting each other before gulping it down in two mouthfuls.

In better times, I thought and focused on a mature couple dancing together as a love song echoed throughout the room.

Suddenly, a romantic thought about Ben entered my mind. Without further ado, I rebuked my devilish yearnings and forced myself to applaud the grandeur of The Carlisle despite its renovated walls holding me captive.

On that bustling Saturday evening, the paint still smelled fresh, as did the upholstered chairs and the centerpieces of candles surrounded by flowers decorating every table. I could not help but admire the shimmering silverware, plates, and metallic ornaments illuminated by the clandestine light fixtures.

The majestic resort welcomes royalty from as far away as London, Denmark, and Dubai. And though I have stood within its walls six times, I am not one of Carlisle's wealthy occupants or visitors. I am a pauper who sneaks through the city streets unseen in the darkness of night.

True to form, the historic building and all its finished construction were on full display, as were the people attending this function to honor local entrepreneur Clive Owen, a longtime resident who had commissioned a team of engineers and architects to restore the dilapidated structure into the palatial hotel it is today.

Right now, I want to clarify one thing for you. I confess to creeping through Carlisle's expensive crafted four walls six times over the past two months. So, trust me when I say I mean it. Though I am not in disguise or hiding tonight as the man of the hour, Mitch Carter is up for an award. Aside from being a prestigious guest, he is also the sole reason I am here.

Married, Mitch had requested a paid companion for four hours. Now, I know that I may read like I am a w***e or something, but I am not. I am a 'you may look at me, but don't touch me' kind of girl.

The State of Florida recognizes me as a Tour Guide, and two months ago, I paid a nominal fee to get my occupational license to keep my taxes in order. In times of challenge, I can present my license to add validity should hotel personnel question why I am on the property, which appeals to my acquaintances who frequent this resort.

As in earlier visits, my client's fantasy was watching me walk around the room while he tended to his wife. We have met six times but have never acknowledged each other's presence or spoken, except to discuss the date.

Mitch is a mature attorney, and I like that he pays without doubting my worth or rebuking tips, as he is a generous tipper who helps me pay my bills. However, watching him dance to a romantic song with his wife, I caught him glancing my way. I wanted to heave, as his arrogance was nauseating, more so because the attractive middle-aged woman was unaware her husband was a rotten cheat. Not that Mitch has accosted me or asked for intimate favors, but that does not and should not diminish the fact that he is still a pig.

At twenty-six years of age, I have learned little about Palm Beach other than that it caters to old-school family money and tech-savvy men. In contrast, Miami is home to actors, musicians, and other self-made millionaires.

Palm Beach is a beautiful town and a prestigious gathering place for the world's wealthiest people. A haven for Polo fanatics, it also boasts Mar-A-Lago, the home of forty-fifth and forty-seventh President Donald Trump.

Inside the venue, the hours ticked by at a snail's pace, and I struggled to avoid conversing with people and battled extreme boredom while resisting the urge to express a colossal yawn.

In Miami, if out with friends, I could sigh loudly, raise my hand, and exhale a painful groan to signify I wanted to leave. However, this is Palm Beach, and unladylike actions are taboo. Besides, the one thing I have learned is to do as others do when in plentiful company. If not? The snobs will cast you aside and never return.

Such is Palm Beach.

The locals understand everyone has a price, and like them, I have mine.

By day, I attend classes at a local college and work as a copy editor in Miami, earning a salary one step up from minimum wage. In my cheap-paying occupation, I do as I please and do not care what my cheapskate boss, Bob the Knob, thinks about my reckless attitude to the terrible articles that he thrust on my desk every Monday morning.

"I need these proofread by Friday," he would snarl like a rabid dog who had escaped an abusive owner. He made me angry, and I only stayed because it was more of a cover for my secret occupation than the lousy pay.

My dream was to become a bestselling novelist, and editing other writers' work was helpful as I learned grammar, plots, characterization, and what the f**k not to do. Trust me when I tell you that you could not fathom the poorly written scripts on my desk from my boss, Bobby Adler. I would be putting it politely if I told you they read like a five-year-old had drafted the story or, worse, a junkie who had lost touch with reality.

I am the first to admit that I have a pathetic existence. Please understand why my manners are appalling at work. If you knew Bob, like I know Bob, you would behave the same or worse. In contrast, when I am on assignments, I am on my best behavior without one word, foot, or pose out of place. Despite fatigue, I stand tall, hold my head high, and never slump my shoulders. My military stance and technique are what I call them. While in London, I saw the King's guards in front of Buckingham Palace, focused on their surroundings and nothing else. I admire their ability, and even though I have a talent for concentration, I am not superior to those who have honed their skills for years to achieve greatness. I raise my hat to anyone with abundant discipline and the ability to fade out because their work ethic is strict. Those gifted people are who I envy most, and expressing my gratitude is something I would like to scream from the rooftops.

Ouch! Out of nowhere, I felt a painful cramp surge down my right leg, and I tried to shake it out as discreetly as possible. Still, while doing so, a rambunctious admirer approached me, mistaking my discomfort as a subtle sign that I wanted to dance.

Dance?

With YOU?

Are you serious?

I wanted to laugh but smiled and turned to stare at one incredible piece of art hanging on a wall. Since my face was not visible to others, I kid you not; I yawned so profoundly that I thought my windpipe would dry up.

Composed, I returned to the crowds and saw the busy dance floor. Since I enjoyed the current song, I could have had a quick twirl and blended in amongst hundreds of people. However, knowing my client would be annoyed, I stood my ground.

Along with the generous funding I received from Mitch came rules, instructions, and lectures reminiscent of the Spanish Inquisition. As his secretary, Greta, reminded me, I could not flirt, dance, or talk to another man. "You're to look ravishing, so make sure you are," she had quipped early Friday morning.

A lady bowed to a man and waved a fan across her face, waiting for him to lower his knees and raise her back to standing height. It was romantic, considering most men here were hungry for a little more than a dance partner. They put a new twist to the saying, looking for love in all the wrong places. Still, as mundane as these events are, I try to look cheerful and smile for no reason other than that I would look ridiculous prowling the room with a sour expression.

The problem with stuffy social gatherings is that they cannot arouse interest and bring little-needed enthusiasm. A more comprehensive assortment of entertainment, such as a traditional Middle Eastern belly dancer or a small ballet performance, would stimulate people's minds and encourage them to donate more funds.

In my travels across Florida, Palm Beach has no fond memories in my heart, as the superficial people living here are narcissists with egos the size of one of the world's geographical continents.

Aside from judging, I like to analyze the glitz and glamor at events like these. I can instantly spot the mega-wealthy instead of those who live on a budget higher than most but still cannot brag about their multimillionaire status, as most Palm Beach County funds have spread from generation to generation.

To the left of the room, I spotted the public bathrooms. I surmised the ladies' room would be an excellent place to retreat and would allow me to rethink my role here and even wake up from the monotony of idle chatter that did not hold a sincere word in any sentence I had overheard. I hoped the change of scenery would add something interesting to my dull itinerary and ease my tiredness. But, as I walked in that direction, I saw a line as long as those at Walt Disney World. I realized there was no prospect of my gaining access to the bathrooms and no chance to chat with the attendant, if only to have at least one genuine conversation.

Not that my evening had not been stimulating because there had been four or five crazy exchanges of rivalry between the men. Yet, through it all, I felt as ignored and neglected as a lone angel atop a Christmas tree.

Disgruntled, I traced the outline of a large marble slab on the floor, desperately trying to hide my boredom with the idle chatter shoved my way, as my interest was elsewhere. Besides, the light conversation drained my energy. It reduced my positive thoughts to zero, forcing my active mind into a snooze zone with no rhyme or reason to think of anything but an escape plan.

Noticing that the bathroom line was moving slower than I had hoped, I returned to the ballroom. I regretted that decision and choked up when I saw a familiar face whose good looks had haunted me for years.

Goodness, why was he still here?

Yes, he lives in Palm Beach. But he was too young to socialize with people old enough to be his grandfather. Yet, there he was, standing two feet away, and all I wanted was to run for cover.

I inhaled and swallowed hard. Ben Barrymore looked bored but engrossed in conversation with the group of people before me, and that scared me as I have known Ben since childhood. We were never friends, far from it. Our paths had crossed because my mother worked as a servant at his parents' home in Jupiter, Florida. As if that was not embarrassing enough, Benny Boy was also involved in an oceanic fishing venture with my boyfriend, Harry Higgins, who owns a home fueling company that specializes in filling up rich people's boats that aligned the waterways throughout Miami.

Worse, yes, the situation gets worse.

Ben knows of my Miami lifestyle, even visiting Harry's home for occasional Sunday football parties and car sharing at boating events like the Columbus Day Regatta. So, our paths have crossed over the past few years.

Now, I am aware I am not cheating on Harry, but just knowing Mitch had reimbursed me for my time filled me with guilt. I lowered my head and counted cracks on the marble floor to avoid eye contact with Ben. Just before I was about to erupt like an active volcano, I threw caution to the wind, pushed my feet in my heels, and raced away to another corner of the room.

Regrettably, I focused on nothing but Ben and the potential nightmare that would begin when Harry heard about my attendance at The Carlisle Hotel. Still, I did not freak out or even sweat. I was too busy praying and begging the Lord above for this uncomfortable and garish evening to end.

And if so?

How soon?

A slim gold watch, my grandmother's gift, adorned my wrist. Though small, it glowed under the glaring bulbs of a low-hanging chandelier, and I discreetly checked the time. It was close to midnight, the witching hour, the end of my date, which was comforting. However, I planned to leave five minutes before twelve because I could not stand being here, knowing succulent Ben Barrymore was mere feet away.

Nervous, I licked my rose-colored glossed lips, and just when I regained my composure, I almost choked on my saliva as I saw Benny Boy approaching.

Oh no!

Dear Lord, make him disappear, I pleaded and held my breath. Then, I searched for a place to retreat, but the dance floor had emptied, and no seats were available.

My only distraction was a friendly conversation with an elderly lady named Beatrice, who looked to be over ninety. Still, I was delighted in her mannerisms and enjoyable in her chitchat. Darling Beatrice wore her blonde hair in a bun and had various clips displaying the world's finest emeralds. She had a tanned complexion, rosy cheeks, and a gallant smile that caused her mature eyes to twinkle each time she laughed. As gracious as she was, my first attraction to her strong Southern Accent wore off as her pronunciation was challenging to interpret, and more maddening was that the old dear spoke in a low tone.

Georgia-born Beatrice was a Southern Belle in all senses of the word. She was reminiscent of Scarlet O'Hara in Gone with the Wind, with her coifed hair, colorful makeup, and attire. All that was missing was a fan wafting in her direction should she find the Florida humidity stifling.

I listened to the stories she shared about her life in Georgia, where water flowed from mountains down to valleys and into lakes across the State, particularly Lake Lanier, which was popular with the locals and visitors alike. I enjoyed the small talk about her years in Albany as she spoke affectionately about her hometown. Though I had never visited, she almost convinced me to go. Mind you, she left me wondering why she had moved away and, of all places, settled in Florida since she believed Georgia was such a wonderful place to live.

I longed to ask but decided against it, as I did not want to offend Beatrice, as she was such good company. So, why spoil the fun? Besides, she handed me her business card, and since I was desperate to have a friend, the delightful, mature lady was worth her slender weight in gold.

"Bella, my partner, Emily Parker, has retreated from the ladies' room. Since we arrived together, we shall remain at each other's side. I hope you understand," she said. "Please give me your contact information so I may call you."

I recited my telephone number, watched her write it down, and lowered my head.

Astutely, Beatrice noticed my disposition. "Do not be sad, young lady, for I will be in touch. And we will continue our conversation about all these sleazy men. A word to the wise, now that we have exchanged phone numbers, let us not play games about who should call the other first," she told me confidently. "I look forward to becoming friends with you. Once again, allow me to introduce myself. I am Beatrice Ryder, a Georgia transplant enjoying life in South Florida, and I cannot wait to converse with you again in the not-too-distant future," she added, and just like that, she was gone.

I could not resist feeling profound sorrow as I watched her reunion with Emily. I felt guilt for placating the older woman, and I became remorseful as I was once again all alone.

Soon after Beatrice left, I searched across the room for Ben. I spotted him conversing with an alluring blonde in a revealing dress, highlighting her impressive bosom and shapely figure that could rival Kim Kardashian's. I deduced that you are a pig, and a wave of jealousy consumed me, leaving me unsettled with a single plea.

Curves! However, more than a voluptuous figure, I need to stop this awful habit of gnawing at my lower lip. A fixation I adopted last year after quitting smoking. A decision that made Harry happy and me miserable because I still miss the taste of tobacco. I regret adopting this lip-biting self-mutilation, as it causes me more distress than smoking ever did right now. I am so keyed up that I would give anything for one puff on a Marlboro Red or a packet of twenty. In fact, I could smoke an entire carton of cigarettes at rapid speed. Such was the level of my anxiety.

Stop being negative, I cursed, listening to a familiar tune on the stereo system. And before I could stop myself, my right foot was tapping to the beat of the music as I swayed from side to side.

Just stop fidgeting! I cursed again while watching Benny Boy, still schmoozing with the chesty blonde. I wondered what he might say to Harry upon seeing me here tonight. Would Ben mention my presence to my boyfriend?

Of course, he would, I concluded.

Get with it, Bella. I cursed for the third time in minutes.

You are a fool if you believe Ben will not call Harry as soon as the sun rises across the Atlantic Ocean if he can wait that long.

Can he?

Probably not.

Like most men, Benjamin Barrymore thrived on gossip, especially about women. He would use his cell phone to call Harry the first chance he got. Then, Benny Boy would banter about seeing me here and inquire why Harry had not gone with me to the ball.

I imagined the conversation already. "Hey Harry, I saw your girlfriend Bella at an event in Palm Beach on Saturday night. Who does she know in that crowd, and why didn't you come?"

Darling Harry would choke on a Bud Light, his favorite alcoholic beverage, and after chugging a fresh can of beer, he would bombard the tittle-tattle Ben with a hundred questions.

Deep in my heart, I prayed for Ben to be quiet and not divulge to Harry that he had seen me there. If he did? I was in deeper trouble than I already was. Though I am a decent woman, I had a sinking feeling that, like Harry and Ben, the Heavens above would not be too pleased with my current occupation.

The gods would throw me to the wolves.

I predicted that to be correct every time I earned this income. When I considered how risqué my secret life was and my love for money, it was only a matter of time before someone exposed my trash.

What I am doing is a sin in the Bible.

Thinking about my strict religious upbringing, born to a mother who preached biblical quotes all day, particularly on Sundays while attending our local church, I wondered when everything in my life had gone wrong.

How had I succumbed to this sacrilegious lifestyle in which I thought of nothing but money?

I honestly did not know.

All I know is that I lived, breathed, and dreamed about dollar bills, and should my mother see me now, she would tear me apart, for the love of money is a sin in the eyes of the Lord and the only place I was heading to after this life was hell.

 

Author's Note

Jupiter by the Sea is a full-length novel. Here, I offer a sample of the beginning chapter entitled Lust. Enjoy :-)

Reviews

[Throwing Romeo]

Holds attention in detaild way,
Flows naturally and transports
well.
You have a nack for storytelling.
Thank you for sharing,

R.