Title: The Fourteen Days of Valentine's Day
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17
References/Spoilers: Can't think of any.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: Donald has a romantic Valentine tradition for showing Timothy how much he loves him.

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THE FOURTEEN DAYS OF VALENTINE'S DAY

by

Candy Apple

Monday, February 1, 2010

The first year we were married, Donald began a tradition I've come to call The Fourteen Days of Valentine's Day. Donald doesn't really call it anything. He just does it, and when I asked him about it that first year, he just smiled and said that with me, one day wasn't enough, kissed me on the mouth, and hurried out the door to a meeting with a client. I've never asked about it again, but I treasure it every year. I can't wait for February first to see what he'll come up with to launch it.

The Fourteen Days of Valentine's Day are a series of little things Donald does for me to show me he loves me (as if there's any doubt in my mind!). Where most partners might get you a bouquet of flowers, candy, a gift, maybe a card for the big day itself, Donald does fourteen little things for me starting on the first day of February. They aren't all huge, expensive gifts, though he usually throws in a couple of bigger things with the little things, just to keep it interesting. I keep thinking he'll get too busy, or after we're married long enough, too complacent, to bother with it, and I admit I sort of hold my breath every February first for the start of it, because to be honest? It will break my heart if he ever stops doing it.

Monday, February 1, 2010

After getting up, getting dressed, and making breakfast while Donald snored soundly in bed, my hopes were faltering a bit for this year's Valentine tradition. Usually he kicked off the first day with something special in the morning - a card, breakfast in bed...today, he was dead to the world, sleeping off an all-night stakeout, doped on some over-the-counter cold and sinus medicine for the cold he was fighting. I didn't blame him if he didn't remember what day it was.

"Timmy?" He raised up a little from where his face had been buried in the pillow, one eye looking like it was stuck shut, his voice sounding like something out of The Exorcist. I'd had to go back upstairs to get my watch, which I'd forgotten on the night stand, and that woke him.

"Yeah, it's just me, baby. I'm heading out," I said, kissing his cheek, rubbing his back a little. He didn't seem feverish, just congested. "Go back to sleep."

"Love you," he mumbled, reaching over and pulling my pillow toward him, hugging it without bothering to open his eyes all the way. The gesture touched my heart. It was so natural and so genuine, him wanting to have something that smelled like me hugged close to him. If it hadn't been for a morning meeting I knew I couldn't miss, I'd have been sorely tempted to stay home with him.

"I love you, too. Stay in and rest a while. Maybe I can come home for lunch."

"I'll be at the office by then," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Got a new client."

"Promise me you'll bundle up when you go out?" I covered a bare shoulder with the blanket, wanting to be sure he didn't get chilled while he was sleeping. "The wind chills are awful today, and I don't want you getting any sicker."

"Yes, Mom," he said, grinning a little, relaxing back into the pillows and letting his eyes drift shut. "I could pick you up for lunch."

"How about you stay in your office where it's warm, and I'll bring you lunch?"

"Okay," he replied, smiling.

I hate leaving him when he's sick, because I know he won't take care of himself. I also know it's just a cold, and he's young and healthy and in great shape and usually can toss those things off in a couple days. That doesn't mean it sets any better with me when my Donald's not feeling good.

I slid behind the wheel of the car, and there it was, on the passenger seat. A bag of Hershey's kisses, the ones in the red and pink foil for Valentine's Day, with a sticky note attached.

"Turn on your radio. Love you, D."

I started the car and turned on the radio. He must have put a disc in the player when he got home from his stakeout. I smiled when I heard a familiar Hall & Oates song. Because your kiss, your kiss is on my list, because your kiss, your kiss I can't resist, because your kiss is on my list of the best things in life... Donald knows I've got a weakness for Hershey's kisses, and that the little bag he left me will probably not survive the day. I put the car in gear and took time to unwrap one and pop it in my mouth before starting out. Not nearly as good as one of Donald's kisses, but Hershey's will have to suffice until I have time for the real thing later.

I backed out of the driveway and felt the car sliding a bit as I started out for another wintry commute. I couldn't stop smiling, and wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

"Wear a red tie today," Donald said from the bathroom, where he was shaving. I stopped in the middle of the bedroom, holding the peach-colored shirt I was going to wear. That definitely wouldn't work now.

"Why?"

"Just wear a red tie. I'm picking you up for a late lunch, about one o'clock - you can change your lunch hour, can't you?" he asked, the electric razor finally ending its buzzing.

"Yes, I think so. What's going on, Donald?"

"Can't you just obey me unquestioningly?" he asked, grinning at me as he came out of the bathroom. He looked better, and while he still sounded a bit congested, it seemed as if the cold was on its way out. I'm not sure if that's Donald's wonderful immune system or the assault of vitamin C-laced foods and beverages I'd been shoving in front of him since he sniffled the first time three days earlier. In any event, he was better, and that was all that mattered. He let out a loud wolf whistle, and I realized then I'd been standing in the middle of the bedroom, stark naked, holding a shirt, talking to him about red ties and lunch hours.

"I got distracted," I said, chuckling at my own situation, finishing the trip I'd been making to the underwear drawer when he told me what tie to wear.

"Yeah, me, too," he replied, still ogling me unrepentantly. I could feel myself blushing, but part of me loved the attention. Donald has that way of making me feel like the sexiest man alive. That's never a bad way to start your day.

"Just get dressed," I retorted, mock scolding in my tone.

"If I can't get my pants zipped, it'll be your fault." He went about getting dressed then, and I noticed he was putting on a white shirt, and then pulling one of his good dark suits out of the closet.

"Who died?" I quipped, and he shot me a look.

"Very funny. Just mind your own business and cover that beautiful ass of yours before I pounce on it."

"The last time you wore one of your best suits to work, you were going to a funeral to do surveillance on the mourners for one of your cases." I finally put some underwear on, then went to the closet to find myself something to wear. I followed Donald's lead, choosing one of my best suits, a navy blue one I usually reserve for luncheons with top legislators, or a dressy evening out with Donald.

"I'm not going to a funeral. But I do have an appointment. And so do you."

I stood there, my jaw slack, and Donald produced a medium pink tie from the back of the closet and put it on with his white shirt.

"Pink? The last time I suggested a tie with any pink in it, you acted like I'd held up a cross to a vampire," I said. I had ties in any shade conceivable. I'm something of a tie junkie, and I have no boundaries when it comes to color - they just have to be subtle and in the right taste for where I'm wearing them. Donald, on the other hand, has some kind of code about what colors he will and won't consider. I learned very early that pink and most pastels were excluded from that code.

"I'm broadening my horizons," he replied. "Timothy, if I knew my wearing something unusual would cause you to stand around semi-naked this long, I'd do it every morning. You're gonna be late, honey." He patted my boxer-clad behind as he cheerfully tightened the unapologetically pink tie and grabbed his suit coat. My God, he looked edible.

"You look beautiful," I said, just...staring at him a moment, always more than a little captivated by his blond hair, big blue eyes, and body-to-die-for-in-a-suit. To say Donald cleans up nicely is one of the greatest understatements of our time.

All morning long at work, I was distracted, trying to figure out what was going on. Were we going to some fancy restaurant for lunch where you got a discount if you wore a Valentine-themed tie? I suppose that was a bit of an oxymoron. Not many upscale restaurants ran tacky promotions. He wouldn't give me a surprise party...that didn't even make sense. I couldn't think of anyone special he'd set up lunch with that he'd want me dressed a certain way. It's not like he needed me to wear a red tie so he could find me in the crowd. If we'd been just dating, I would have thought maybe he was proposing, but since we've been married several years, that wasn't it either. I tried to remember if I'd been wearing a red tie the day we met, but he definitely wasn't wearing a pink one, so a "first meeting" or "first date" re-creation wasn't it.

When one o'clock rolled around, I was outside the building, growing impatient. Of course, it wasn't Donald's fault I'd been there since 12:45, unable to stand the suspense any longer. Finally, about two minutes after one, he pulled up, and I hurried out to the car and got in.

"You're going to have to tell me pretty soon what we're doing," I said.

"Not for another couple miles, I don't," he needled.

"Is there some trendy new restaurant that requires odd-colored ties, or what? What are we doing, Donald?"

He just grinned, staying silent, continuing to drive. Finally, he pulled into a parking lot in front of a white brick office building. The entrance we parked near featured scroll lettering on the door, "Fullerton Studios."

"They're the top photographers in town," I said, looking at Donald. He took my hand, kissed the back of it.

"We haven't had a formal portrait taken since our wedding pictures. I thought it was time for an update."

"We're having a portrait taken?"

"A Valentine portrait. They have this promotion going on I heard about on the radio, a really good package deal that gives you three or four poses, and they have romantic backgrounds like gazebos and fake gardens and flower arches, and all kinds of stuff. So I got us an appointment."

I didn't imagine bleary eyes and a runny nose would translate well on film, so I did my best not to get emotional, but it was hard. I hugged him, held onto him for a few seconds, realizing at that moment that hugging Donald was always bittersweet - once I have him in my arms, I never want to let go of him, and when my arms are empty again, they almost physically ache to be back around him.

"Let's go get our picture taken," he said, pulling back, beaming at me.

The photo session was wonderful. It was one of the most romantic things we've every done together as a couple. Between the love-themed backdrops and spending close to an hour in various poses holding hands, holding each other, even kissing, it was one of the best lunch hours of my life.

Donald knows I can be kind of conservative, maybe a little uptight at times, in front of other people, so he knew he'd have a bit of an uphill battle getting me to agree to the lover's pose that came with the portrait session. It was a pose that captured a more intimate moment - in other words, posing for it basically meant making out with each other shirtless while the photographer worked on catching just the right moment. How Donald and I interact when we're making love is nobody else's business, even if we could get an incredible picture out of it.

So we compromised. We did a pose shirtless, but we didn't make out. I just wrapped my arms around Donald from behind, and his hands came up to caress my arms where they crossed over him, and I whispered in his ear how much I love him. I was vaguely aware of the photographer snapping away with his camera, but in that moment, an army of paparazzi could have been taking pictures, and I wouldn't have noticed one of them. Only Donald, his skin against mine, the warmth and the scent of him, and the most heart-breakingly sweet, shy little smile on his beautiful face. Maybe we gave away a little privacy to catch that moment, but I had a feeling the photo would be a treasure well worth it.

We extended lunch hour long enough to have lunch together at one of my favorite places. Sometimes it just hits me hard, out of nowhere, that Donald is my best friend and my favorite person, besides being my husband. We swapped our food back and forth, never ran out of things to talk about, and laughed ourselves silly about a couple things that happened during our photo shoot.

I knew he'd be working late that night, but he promised to try to make it in before midnight. I made him promise to keep warm, and drink the rest of that bottle of orange juice I'd put in his office refrigerator. He just chuckled at that, and promised me, before we kissed goodbye and I we went our separate ways to finish our day.

All afternoon, it was as if I could feel his body against me from that brief embrace at the end of our photo session. I could smell a faint trace of his cologne mixed with mine, and remember how soft and good his bare skin felt to my touch. I really hoped he made it home by midnight. I could wait up that long, and I had a little unfinished business with the man I love.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

If there's one thing I really don't enjoy, it's waking up early after I've waited up late, and then stayed up even later for a night of passion with Donald. The night of passion is worth whatever it costs, don't get me wrong, but there's something so...unjust about that alarm going off at six in the morning, and about my having to give up the sweaty, too-warm, slightly stuck together morning after embrace. I have to leave a sex-ravaged, sleep rumpled, too-sexy-to-be-real Donald alone in our bed and go to work.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't just leave him there. I also couldn't stay home - but I could be a little late.

I eased him over on his back, slid down under the covers, and took his awakening morning erection in my mouth, sucking him gently enough to wake him slowly. I didn't want to startle him. I just wanted him to slip from sleep into the waking pleasure. I started stroking one of those strong thighs of his. It's dusted with that spun gold, that baby soft body hair that is like sunshine, catching the light at just the right angle. He began moaning softly, arching slightly, one hand touching my head with the lightest of caresses.

Now I could really focus on pleasuring him, on making him writhe and gasp by teasing just the right part of him with my tongue. I gently played with his balls, loving the feel of him in my hand, the taste of him in my mouth, the scent of him all around me.

"Morning, sweetheart," he whispered, not quite able to get his breath. I didn't answer him in words. My mouth was too busy with better things.

When he came, it was with a little cry of my name, and he reached out for me, wanting me to hold him. I hugged him close to me, pressing his head against my chest, wishing I could enclose him like this always, keep him this close, keep other people from hurting him. Donald's tough, resilient, and even getting worked over doesn't really upset him that much. But it upsets me. Every bruise I put ice on, every cut, scrape, or wound I help him clean or bandage feels like it's hurting me, tearing my skin. He's mine and I love every inch of him.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Six-thirty," I said, looking over his shoulder at the clock. In an act of defiance, I was ignoring the fact I should be rushing to the shower, getting dressed, gulping coffee and heading out for my morning commute. For some reason, Donald wasn't moving away, wasn't letting go right away like he usually does when he knows I need to get up for work.

Donald is sometimes a mystery to me. I don't always know what's going on in his head, or why he feels the way he does. He doesn't always help me out with an explanation, either. Like this morning. He knew I should be getting up, but he didn't make any move to let go of me.

I cuddled him and kissed his hair, smiling when he snorted and coughed a time or two. I snagged a tissue from the night stand and handed it to him. He blew his nose, then smiled at me.

"Sexy, huh?"

"Sexier than sneezing it onto my chest," I replied, and he laughed. And still hung onto me like he didn't want me to go. "Feeling better today?"

"Yeah, the cold's almost gone." He paused. "You'll be late." It felt like he was hugging me tighter now. For some reason, he needed me at that moment, and I didn't want to leave him.

"Yes, I will be. The world will still be turning," I said, smiling.

"I love you, Timothy."

"I know you do, honey. I love you, too."

********

I was half an hour late (I showered fast, got dressed even faster, and Donald dropped me off so I didn't have to park). No one really noticed except for a couple messages in my "in" tray, and the office was actually still functioning despite the crisis.

I hung up my coat and sat behind my desk, looking at the two telephone messages and not really wanting to return either one just then. One I had to do a little research for anyway, and the other? I had to be in the right frame of might to talk to the assistant for one of Senator Platt's right-wing colleagues. There was something in his tone of voice that made it seem like he thought homosexuality might be contagious over the phone.

Knowing I had a few memos to fire off that morning, I opened my briefcase to take out my notes. On top of the paperwork was something red satin, folded up and tied with a white ribbon. Knowing my favorite cupid had struck again, I smiled, untying the white ribbon and unfolding the gift. I ended up with a pair of red silk boxers in my hand. An even darker red heart covered the groin area. When the fly was open, my...uh...attribute would be sticking right out the middle of the heart. There was a little gift tag attached to the ribbon.

See you tonight, sweet cheeks. Love, D.

"Tim, I was hoping we could go over - " Senator Platt looked startled by my jerky movement and panicked expression. I figured my face was probably the color of the shorts I had balled up in my hand, hidden under the desk. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I was just...really focused on something," I said, realizing the open briefcase gave me some coverage. She probably didn't see the boxers after all. "Sorry about that. You were saying?" I asked, in my most interested, professional tone.

"Why don't you finish up there, and come down to my office when you're done? Something's come up I need your help with."

"Of course, I'll be right there," I said, and she just smiled, starting to leave the office.

"Don booby-trapping your briefcase for Valentine's Day again?" she asked, pausing in the doorway, and I knew then my face got impossibly redder. "All I know is that it was something red. That's all I need to know," she added, laughing and holding up a forestalling hand before leaving the office for real.

I sat back in my chair and looked at the boxers, laughing and shaking my head. Donald Strachey, you're shameless. And I love you.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

One of the things I love the most about Donald's Valentine's Day tradition is the mood he's in while he's doing it. He has fun with it. It's not a chore to come up with fourteen different things to give me or do for me. It's a challenge he really seems to enjoy, and he spends the whole two weeks with this little hint of a grin on his face like he has a really juicy secret that only he knows. Maybe that's what touches me more than anything else - that he has that much fun doing things for me, that picking out little gifts and leaving me surprises every day puts him in such a great mood.

Of course, the upswing in our sex life isn't too hard to take, either. Our sex life is always great, when our schedules permit, and we've gotten very inventive over the years in finding ways to "pencil in" a little intimate time together. But during these two weeks? It's like being newlyweds all over again.

For instance, I knew perfectly well when I found those red silk boxers in my briefcase that they were going to see plenty of action before that night was over. Donald didn't get home until late, and I did sleep a couple hours before he got home, but I wore the boxers to bed. I woke up to eager kisses, to Donald urging me to turn over so we could embrace, and then his hands running down my back until they ended their journey on my new silk boxers, one butt cheek in each hand.

Donald has a thing for silk, I know he does. It's the only time he doesn't efficiently dispense with my underwear when we're making love. Even when he took me in his mouth, he just carefully opened the front of the boxers to do it, his hands still rubbing and kneading me through the silk... If he hadn't been giving me the most tantalizing and remarkable blow job in recent memory, I probably could have come just from him handling me that way, knowing how turned on he was.

When I came, I know I screamed like I was being murdered. I'm just glad we have our own house. If we'd been making love in an apartment, someone would have called 9-1-1, and I'd have been going to the door in my red silk drawers.

I was so turned on, even though I'd just come, that I was mad at my plumbing for not being capable of getting hard that fast, again. I was ecstatic when Donald gently prodded me to roll over on my stomach. If he was inside me, I'd have time to catch up for round two.

Donald hadn't even had round one yet, and he unhurriedly kissed my neck, whispered little love words in my ear, pressing his body against my back, loving me like he didn't have a raging erection demanding attention. His nose was in my hair, his lips on my neck, and he was finally sliding the red silk boxers down my thighs to my calves, where I dispensed with them with a few careful kicks. He moved lower, much lower, his hands gently exposing me, his tongue between my cheeks, making me grip the pillows and moan with the pleasure of it.

He was still taking his time. He has an amazing level of patience and endurance when he makes love to me. I never feel like he's just doing something to get me warmed up for the big event. Maybe that's because we love each other enough, and know how much love is there, that if we're that urgent to just do it, we...just do it. He doesn't have to buy me roses, champagne, and profess his undying love every time he's horny and, thank God, neither do I. But there's still something about it when we're taking our time...I always feel like no matter how good what he's doing to me feels, he's loving it as much as I am, even if it's delaying his satisfaction.

I was getting hard again. I wasn't all the way there, but my body's pretty quick to bounce back when it comes to that devilishly talented tongue of Donald's touching certain parts of me.

As wonderful as that felt, having his body pressing against me again while he got me ready felt even better. I can adjust to him pretty quickly after all our years together, and since he's never inconsiderate or rough with me, he could get away without spending so long preparing me. Sometimes we're more urgent, and I love that part of us, too. Maybe because urgent and passionate never means one of us just taking what he wants. Nothing brings Donald to a screeching halt faster than my being uncomfortable or not being in the mood for something. If I'm not having fun, he isn't either.

And he makes me feel like slipping his finger inside me is as good as having sex with me. Like he enjoys touching me like that, teasing me, relaxing me, as much as he does sliding inside me. I think he makes me feel that way because he really does enjoy it that much. That moves me, touches my heart in a way I couldn't explain to him.

I relaxed and enjoyed the feeling of him sliding inside me in one long, slow move. We set a pretty good rocking motion together, and he was hitting my prostate with an unerring accuracy. I think I swore more in that few minutes than I have all year. The feeling was so intense that there just aren't acceptable words in the English language to express it. He had romanced me, teased me, loved me, and now he was laying claim to me, and that was just fine with me. I hiked myself up and he took the cue, relieving enough weight from my back so I could make it to my hands and knees.

We picked up right where we left off, only now he could reach my erection, pumping it with his hand in time with our thrusts, and his other hand was playing with my balls. We were both moaning, shouting, swearing, and gasping other inarticulate sounds, making the bed creak and the headboard occasionally bump the wall. The damnedest things make you come, and something about us going at it until we made the headboard hit the wall did it for me (that, and Donald grabbing my hips and angling a stroke to my prostate that made me scream like an opera singer and stiffen out most of my body). He didn't last much longer, and when he draped his spent body on my back, I slid down on the mattress, flat on my belly, not even caring that I was in my own wet spot.

"Oh my God," Donald groaned, his head resting on my shoulder blade. "Shit." He eased out of me, and then slipped down a bit and kissed both my cheeks before crawling back up to lie against me, his belly and chest against my side and back, his lips moving over my skin, whatever he could reach without straining himself, his hand caressing my back. While his words weren't the most poetic declaration he's ever made after sex, his touches and his attentiveness were all anyone could possibly dream of. Whether we do it among a dozen lit candles and soft music, or on the kitchen floor in the summer when he's running around shirtless and his ass just looks too cute in those cut-offs to let him alone, he always gives me lots of love when we're done. And I do the same for him. Maybe it's because we've never just had sex even at our horniest. Our love is just too powerful to be pushed aside, even for lust. It's always there.

We shifted positions a little so we could kiss, bump noses, talk mushy. I shivered once, and Donald immediately sprang into action, locating the kicked and abused bedding so he could cover us up. We wrapped around each other and kissed some more, then fell asleep with our faces so close that our noses were touching.

When I woke up the next morning, Donald was still sleeping soundly, not planning to go into his office until later. I wanted to let him sleep, so I grabbed an armload of clothes, slipped out to the guest room, showered and shaved in that bathroom and got dressed. I finally stuck my head back in the master bedroom and watched the bed a few moments to be sure he was breathing, since he hadn't stirred. I saw the comforter move up and down a few times, and was rewarded with hearing him snort in his sleep, so I knew he was fine.

I figured I'd go grab a coffee from a drive-thru, because the smell of it brewing at home would wake him up, and he needed the sleep, after being sick and then working as many late nights as he had.

There was a greeting card in a red envelope on the kitchen counter, my name on it in Donald's handwriting. Smiling, I opened it. Inside was a simple white card with a big red heart on it that said "I Love You" in bold red letters.

Inside was a gift card for $10 to my favorite place to stop for coffee when we don't make it at home in the morning. Chuckling at how much confidence Donald apparently had that we were going to do it wildly enough, long enough, that I'd actually forgo my coffee in the morning to let him sleep, I read the note he'd written inside.

Dearest Timmy,

If I told you every time feels like the first time, I'd be lying. Every time we make love, it's better than the last time. You always smell so good, and feel so good...just the sound of your voice gets me hot.

And the fact you usually let me sleep in after one of my better performances makes me love you even more. Have a latte on me. See you tonight.

Love you, sweetheart,

D

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I tucked the card in my briefcase. No matter how hectic or annoying my day was, I knew I'd melt into a puddle of happy mush every time I read it.

Friday, February 5, 2010

It was a busy morning for a Friday. I'd sat through two meetings, both of which produced more paperwork, and then gotten started outlining two speeches the senator had to deliver within a couple of weeks. The primaries weren't far off, so things were just going to get busier. Our media relations coordinator was on maternity leave, so what I ordinarily reviewed and supervised, I had to do in my spare time.

Donald had listened to me gripe about my schedule through most of breakfast. I kind of felt bad for dumping on him, since it was one of the few times this week we both had to be up early and had breakfast together. Still, there are times if I couldn't dump on Donald I'd probably implode from bottled up stress, and he knows it. He just heard me out, then gave my neck and shoulders the most wonderful little rub while he reassured me that I'd juggle it all flawlessly and make it look easy. I don't know as I'm all that talented, but it made me feel like I could handle my day. I'm used to multitasking, and I actually like it most of the time, but sometimes things pile up and I feel a bit overwhelmed.

I was a little disappointed there was no Valentine surprise that morning, since I sure could have used the pick-me-up. I was getting spoiled, waiting for my present every day. As I prepared to trudge out to my car in the parking garage, I mentally calculated how long it would take to get the oil changed, fill it up, run it through the car wash, and hit a nearby drive thru for a sub sandwich on my way to another meeting at 1:30. I was going to cancel the oil change, but I'd already cancelled it so many times that the car would have been due for the next one in a week or so, and I had a feeling I was due to run out of windshield washer fluid about midway through the next snowstorm (which I could have refilled myself if I'd remembered to buy any when I did the grocery shopping on the weekend).

My cell phone rang, and I smiled when I saw Donald's number on the ID.

"Hello there, handsome," I answered, suddenly feeling like nothing in my day could be irritating enough to make me frown when I had him.

"Don't go to the parking garage. Just come out front."

"I have to take my car in for an oil change, honey. It's way overdue, and I'm almost out of gas, and I have a meeting at 1:30. I want to run it through the car wash first because I'm going over to a donor's house and I don't want to look slovenly. He's writing the senator's campaign fund a check for $10,000, provided I pick it up in person."

"Are you finished?" he asked, a little frustration in his voice.

"Sorry. I'd love to go to lunch but if I don't get this done now - "

"Timothy, do you trust me?"

"Of course, I trust you," I replied, the question stopping me in my tracks, literally.

"Then just come out front."

"Okay. I'll be right there," I said, caving in. I guess if Donald thought it was that important, I could get my oil changed later and drive through the car wash on the way to the appointment and just hope the car was joking when the needle bobbed along on "E."

I got into Donald's car, and the first thing he did was give me a big sloppy kiss right on the mouth. Even if I ran out of gas on the freeway later, it wouldn't wipe the smile off my face.

"I'm taking you to lunch."

"What about my car?"

"Kenny's got it. He's going to take it in for the oil change, fill it up, and run it through the car wash, and I'll pick him up in the parking garage after I drop you off from lunch."

"I thought you had appointments all day," I said, touched by his thoughtfulness, even though he was making Kenny do the legwork while he ate lunch with me.

"I moved a few things around. You were so stressed out this morning, I wanted to help. And it's Valentine season," he added, grinning. "So what'll it be for lunch? Subs, burgers, Italian...the business district is your oyster, Timothy. Name your poison."

"How about that little Chinese place that's really dark, and has that one corner booth we like?" I asked, remembering how private that little niche was, how quiet it could be, and how nice it would be to sit close to Donald and share our food.

"Great choice," he agreed, and we went there. Luckily we could get our favorite booth, and we ordered a couple different entrees and an appetizer to share. We sat shoulder to shoulder and Donald just let me talk out all the things I was obsessing over. Mostly he just listened to me, but every now and then he'd make a suggestion that helped. For some reason I just needed to be with him, to calm down a little, to put things in perspective, and he knew that instinctively. And he was there for me. No matter what he's got going on, Donald is always there for me when I need him most. I've never had to wonder where I rank on his list of priorities.

We took a lunch with us for Kenny, and Donald dropped me off at my car, so I could head right out to my 1:30. I thanked Kenny for his part in Donald's plan, but not before I had thoroughly thanked Donald. We'd spent a few minutes in the back of the restaurant parking lot in Donald's car, kissing like a couple of teenagers.

I felt like I could take on anything by the time I was on my way to my 1:30. Maybe Donald was right, and I could juggle everything skillfully and easily and I just didn't give myself enough credit.

Personally, I believe the secret is knowing that when I feel like I can't do that juggling act, there's someone standing by to catch the things that drop.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

When I woke up Saturday morning, I was disappointed not to feel Donald in bed next to me. I'd been hoping we could lie around together a while, fool around a little, just take it easy. I rolled over and yawned widely, feeling my jaws stretching to their limits. I was tired, but wherever Donald was, I was planning to be there, too, so I figured it was time to get up. Then I spotted a little white tent card on the night stand. On the front it just said, "You're Invited" in gold.

This day was off to a good start. I picked up the card and read the inside.

You are invited to a day at the Strachey Spa. Clothing optional, but completely unnecessary.

"What kind of a disreputable operation are you running, anyway?" I asked, laughing, as Donald entered the room with a tray carrying breakfast. He laughed at that, waiting for me to sit up and get comfortable before setting the tray in front of me.

"Since I plan on spending a good part of the day with my hands on your body, clothes will just get in my way," he replied, sitting on the side of the bed so we could eat from the tray together. He smelled fresh as a daisy with a hint of cologne, he was clean shaven and his hair combed. All he was wearing was a blue silk robe I hadn't seen him wear since our honeymoon. It was all I could do to focus on eating.

"You look more edible than this fruit plate," I told him, and he smiled at that. I thought I could detect just a little flush of color in his cheeks. Donald doesn't blush easily, but the right flattery will do the job every time. He doesn't see himself the way I do. He always tells me how handsome or beautiful he thinks I am, but he never gives himself credit for how beautiful he is. Donald's never told me about all his past relationships, but for some reason, I get the feeling he was never treated very well in them, or at least, not appreciated very much. Maybe I'm wrong, or maybe he'll confide that to me someday, the way he finally told me about Kyle, but he seems unaware of how special he is, and that has to come from not being told enough.

"So what pleasures await me after breakfast?" I asked. "This is delicious, by the way," I added, thoroughly enjoying the assortment of fresh fruit, yogurt dip, and mini muffins he got from the Bagel Stop, a little mom and pop bakery that makes sinful muffins and bagels that are actually soft enough that you don't feel like you're eating a doggie chew toy when you try to get your teeth through them. "Thank you," I said, reaching out and caressing his cheek. It wasn't just for the muffins or the fruit. It was for this whole Valentine thing, and so much more.

"You're welcome. You deserve it," he said. "And I can deal with spending most of the day with my hands on you."

"Is this spa day for me or for you?"

"Hopefully it'll be for both of us," he replied, flexing his eyebrows.

"Good answer," I replied, and he just chuckled.

After breakfast, he drew me a hot bath with some exotic, spicy smelling oil in it that held an element of incense, maybe a hit of vanilla to sweeten it up a bit. The blinds were closed and there were candles everywhere. He served me a mimosa while I soaked in that warm, wonderful water. He shampooed my hair like he had nothing else to do all day but massage my scalp. I not only felt the tension leaving me, I felt my bones melting. I was in paradise, with my own personal angel in blue silk tending to my every whim, and showering me with pampering I wouldn't have even thought to ask for. Donald even shaved for me.

Just when I thought all of it couldn't get any better, he started bathing me. Only he didn't have a sponge or a washcloth or a loofah or any other implement. He just used some kind of foaming body wash that smelled like the bath oil, and beginning with my feet, washed every inch of me with his hands.

"You know what I'd really enjoy?" I asked, and he looked at me, incredulous, as if it were inconceivable I could want anything else. And it was, but I did. "Dump the robe and get in here with me."

"This part is supposed to relax you," he said, smiling.

"It has. The only thing better than your hands on me would be your whole beautiful body all naked and slippery in here with me."

His smile widened at that, and he tossed the robe aside and got into the tub. I pounced on him and rolled us around, displacing some water and not caring. It had been too long since we'd played together. We'd made love, but we hadn't just played around, splashing in the scented water, laughing and making out. The bath oil made our bodies slick enough that we could get what we needed from some determined rubbing against each other.

After we'd scratched that itch, Donald ran a little more warm water into the tub and we just stayed there a while, petting each other and kissing.

"How did I get so lucky as to end up married to you?" I asked him, honestly wondering what God thought I did that was so incredible that I deserved Donald, that I should feel as wonderful as I did right then, with him all warm and naked and wet wrapped around me. That I deserved anyone loving me the way he did, so much that he looked forward to spending two weeks spoiling me.

"I think I got the good end of that deal, sweetheart," he replied, a smile in his voice.

"No better than the end I got," I teased him, stroking his very lovely rear end to emphasize my little joke. He laughed at that. "This week has been wonderful, honey," I said, kissing his forehead.

"It's not over yet." He took my hand and kissed it.

And it wasn't. I was treated to a full body massage - and with Donald, that excludes nothing, trust me. He lingered over each part of me, even the boring parts like my feet. He massaged each foot thoroughly, gently, and worked his way patiently up both legs. He lovingly rubbed my thighs, my hips, my back. He didn't neglect my hands and my arms... I was turned on, but in a lazy, relaxed way. Every inch of me felt good, loosened up, and utterly cherished. Donald's touch always makes me feel good - it soothes my hurts, the big ones and the little ones, it makes me feel safe, happy, like everything's right in my world.

We ate lunch in our robes, took a nap in the afternoon, and by dinner time, got dressed up and went out to a really nice place. That was my idea. I insisted on treating him to dinner and dancing. We often get some second looks when we go out dancing where we're the only male couple there. That doesn't bother me. I'm so happy to be with Donald, so proud that beautiful, sweet, strong, kind man is mine...let them stare. Maybe a little of our happiness will rub off on them.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

I was hoping for a quiet Sunday at home with Donald, but he got a call, and he was off to follow the allegedly unfaithful husband of one of his clients. The wife was convinced he was going to spend the day with his girlfriend instead of showing houses to his real estate clients, as he'd claimed.

Finding myself alone for a few hours, I decided to tackle the ugly jobs that usually back up undone until Sunday. I took an inventory and made a grocery list, went to the store, then went to the other store that carries these lemon snap cookies Donald likes. They're just a crispy, sort of dry lemon-flavored cookie, but he likes having a bag of them in his car to munch on with a thermos of coffee if he's stuck doing surveillance work.

I arrived home, a little disappointed Donald still wasn't back, but not too surprised. If this guy was getting a little quality time with his mistress, he probably told his wife he had lots of houses to show. After putting away the groceries, I made myself some cocoa and checked the TV listings to see if there were any good movies on. I found a couple old black and white classics scheduled on a movie channel that didn't look too bad. Mainly, I liked the noise in the house while I was rattling around by myself. It seemed friendlier that way.

Leaving my drink in the laundry room, I went through the house and emptied our hampers and took that laundry down to join the two baskets already waiting by the washer and dryer. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it seemed like it was Donald's turn to do this, but we rarely stuck to a schedule. Whoever had time, did the laundry. Whoever had the misfortune to run out of something he absolutely couldn't live without, generally did the grocery shopping. Sometimes we did the chores together if we were both home and they couldn't wait while we did something more fun together. We had a vague notion of when one or the other of us should be taking responsibility for things, but we were pretty unconcerned with keeping score.

As I sorted laundry and started loading the washer, I really didn't mind the extra work. There were more sheets to wash because we'd made love more in the last few days and needed clean sheets more often. Hardly a situation to complain about. Besides, Donald never keeps score on how many times he uses the snow thrower on the driveway or takes out the trash or dusts. I hate dusting. It's a bit ironic - I pick out the accessories and knick-knacks in the house, and then Donald ends up dusting them and moving them to dust under them. I don't know why I hate dusting, but I do. I'm not fond of vacuuming, either, but I'll do it to avoid dusting. I guess it's because I like things done thoroughly, and right, and there's very little more irritating that doing dusting thoroughly and right. Donald does it most of the time, and he doesn't seem to mind. He said once it was a nice, brainless way to unwind. I think he just does it because he knows I don't like to.

Of course, he's not thrilled with cleaning the bathrooms or polishing hardwood floors. Or weeding. Donald will work on anything else in the yard willingly, but he'd rather be tortured than weed. I don't blame him. It's second only to dusting on my list of jobs I'm going to delegate to our domestic staff after we win the lottery.

As I pulled out a large bed sheet to put in the washer, a white greeting card envelope fell out. I'd almost forgotten I hadn't received my Valentine yet that day, and I had to laugh at where Donald had chosen to hide it. I guess he figured I'd get around to the laundry while he was out.

I opened it, and found a simple white card inside with the words "Thank You" in ornate gold script on the cover. Sitting in the straight chair we have in the laundry room, I opened the card. There was no printed verse, just a lot of Donald's handwriting. I knew I was going to love this.

Dear Timmy,

Thank you...

...for doing the laundry even though it was my turn.

...for my magic boxers - the ones that leave my drawer dirty, and somehow return clean and folded.

...for helping my estranged socks find one another and live in harmony again.

...for the self-replenishing lemon cookies that appear in my car, or sitting next to my briefcase in the morning about the time my last bag is empty.

...for your beautiful taste and all the little things I'd never think of doing to make our house look good and feel like home.

...for getting over it so fast when I stand you up because of my crappy schedule.

...for all the nights you sit home by yourself and be faithful to me when you could be out cheating on me like so many of the jerks I follow around for a living.

...for making love with me sometimes when I wake you up at three in the morning instead of yelling at me for waking you up at three in the morning.

...for picking me, when you could have any man you wanted.

...for looking at me like I'm something remarkable, for looking deep inside me to find the best that's there, even when it's gotta be a challenge to find it.

...for taking my breath away every time you take your clothes off. Or when you put your clothes on, because you're always the most beautiful man in the room, wherever we go.

...for being you, and for being with me, because I wouldn't want to live without you.

Love you,

D.

I was in tears by the end of the note, sitting there sniffling, surrounded by dirty laundry. The front door opened and closed, and my heart did the little happy flutter it usually does when Donald gets home.

"Honey, I'm home!" he hollered, a little humor in his voice at the so-traditional greeting.

I strode from the laundry room through the house to the foyer where he was draping his coat on the end of the banister, across from the perfectly useful foyer closet. I took him in my arms and held him like he'd been gone for months instead of hours.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" he asked, a note of concern in his tone now, since I couldn't speak without blubbering all over him.

"I found the card," I said, finally letting him breathe again, easing the grip I had on him. "Oh, Donald, it was the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me." I took his face in both my hands and kissed him passionately, deeply, aggressively, possessively, until I finally released his mouth to avoid bruising it.

"I know I didn't find all the right words, but it was the best I could do."

"They were the perfect words." I hugged him again, and he laughed a little this time.

"Okay, okay. You're welcome." He hugged me back just as tightly as I was hugging him. "I love you, Timothy."

"I love you, too," I replied, still a little choked up. Finally, I gave him a break from all the squeezing and emotion. I knew he was probably tired and wanting to relax a little. "You want some cocoa?" I asked. He felt a little chilled.

"Yeah, that sounds good," he said, following me into the kitchen. He looked at the television, watching the old movie that was running. "Bogie, huh?"

"Is that what's on? I just had it on in the background."

"They Drive by Night. Pretty good flick," he said, sitting on the couch. I brought him his cocoa a few minutes later. I thought of finishing the laundry, but there was already a load in the dryer, and the rest of it could wait. I sat down with Donald on the couch and we cuddled, watching the old movie. "It's starting to snow out there," he said.

"Heavily?" I asked.

"Nah, just snow showers. Cold as hell, though."

"Not in here," I said, grinning like the lovesick idiot I was.

"Never in here," he said, grinning back at me much the same way, and I wondered if any other two people in the world were as happy together as we were. I suppose some are. But I'm also sure no one out there is happier together. That's just not possible.

Monday, February 8, 2010

I usually turn my cell phone off completely when I go into an important meeting, because if it vibrates in my pocket, the curiosity will drive me crazy until I see who it is. And if there's one thing I think is rude in the middle of someone making a well thought-out point during a meeting (even if it is brain-numbingly dull) is someone else whipping out a cell phone to see who's calling.

I worry about Donald, about some of the people he investigates. He puts himself in a lot of dangerous situations, but I also know his military training and his street smarts will serve him well in most of them. But he's not bullet-proof or immortal, and he's the love of my life, and it still scares the hell out of me if I think about it too much. Donald knows if he calls my assistant and tells her it's urgent, she'll go find me. I've told her that I don't care if the president is making an impromptu visit and I'm in a meeting with him personally (no, that never happens, but I was making a point), that if Donald says "interrupt," do it. He never abuses that ability to cut through all the red tape in one smooth slice.

When Meredith, my assistant, slipped into the conference room and headed for me, I felt something in my chest twist. Only Donald or someone calling on his behalf would cause her to interrupt a meeting with Senator Platt, the governor of New York, and yours truly, talking about the next move in the gay marriage fight.

"It's Don, he asked me to interrupt," she whispered.

"Excuse me," I said, "Emergency call," I added, and Senator Platt looked concerned.

"We're nearly finished here, Tim. I hope everything's all right."

"Me, too, thank you." I followed Meredith out of the room and then went to my office, where she transferred the call. My hands were shaking, but I told myself if Don was calling for himself, it couldn't be all that bad.

"Donald?" I asked.

"Hey, honey. Sorry to drag you out of your meeting. I...could you come home?"

"Are you all right? What's going on?"

"Something happened. I just...look, if the meeting's a big deal, why don't you go ahead and finish up with it? Maybe you could come home a little early."

"No, no, I'll be right there. It's not that. You're scaring me," I said, standing, irritated to be chained to my desk by the corded phone. I managed to move around my desk and snag my coat off the hook on the back of my door.

"I'm sorry, honey. Don't be scared. I'm gonna live."

"I should hope so!" I replied, struggling into my coat while still on the phone. "I'll be there as soon as I can," I finally said, figuring he wasn't in the mood to tell me anything more over the phone.

"I'm sorry I screwed up your meeting."

His voice sounded weak, defeated, a little sad. If a person's heart could literally break in half, mine did at that moment.

"You think I care about any meeting more than I care about you, honey? It's okay. I'll be there in a flash, I promise."

Fortunately, Albany's finest must have been busy elsewhere in town, because I should have collected at least three speeding tickets on the way home. I parked in the driveway and ran up to the front door, not wanting to mess around with the garage or anything else that might slow me down in getting inside to find Donald. When I burst through the front door, out of breath, looking like I was responding to a fire, it didn't take me long to find Donald. He was sitting on the bottom steps of the staircase, bruised, bloodied, his clothing disheveled as if he'd been in the middle of a huge fight. I was on my knees in front of him in a heartbeat, wanting to examine every inch of him, get him to a doctor, clean him up...my mind was racing so fast I couldn't sort out what to do first. He solved that dilemma by wrapping his arms around my neck and holding on.

As I returned the embrace, and just held him as long as he seemed to want to hold onto me, I was truly scared. What had happened to him? Donald was like a tough old alley cat with more than nine lives when it came to being beaten up, shot, or otherwise physically damaged. He wouldn't cling to me like this because of a physical hurt.

"What's wrong, baby?" I asked gently, rubbing his back, but afraid at the same time to rub much of anything until I knew where he was hurting.

"I need some help getting cleaned up."

"You should be in the emergency room, honey," I said, pulling back, looking at his swollen, blackened eye, the amount of blood that must have come from his nose and a small gash on his forehead that had a nice purple egg under it. His lip was split and swelling, and I was certain he'd taken some significant body blows if he didn't feel able to clean himself up.

"I wasn't unconscious, and nothing's broken."

"What happened?" I asked, finally sitting next to him on the steps, figuring the physical clean up was secondary to finding out why he was so shaken by all of it.

"One of the women I got photos of killed herself yesterday," he said. The words came out so fast they almost ran together, and it wasn't until they were all out that I could really process what he said. "She was running a little home business...turning tricks while her six-year-old daughter was in school. Her ex-husband suspected that was going on, and he hired me to get the goods on her. I did. I got photos of her clients, of her with her clients, and I even posed as one of them and wore a wire long enough to get her to quote prices so I could prove the fact she was selling it, and not just promiscuous. I delivered all that evidence to her ex, and he sued her for full custody of their daughter, and won. She was reduced to supervised visits."

"You can't blame yourself for that, Don. She was doing something illegal, not to mention something that could be potentially harmful or dangerous to her daughter. A prostitute isn't generally considered a fit mother for a six-year-old."

"She always had depression issues, I guess. At least, that's what I gathered from the conversation with her brothers before things got ugly."

"Her brothers did this? Why didn't they just go beat up her ex-husband? He hired you."

"They probably did, or have by now. When she lost custody of her daughter, she went into this deep depression, and finally took an overdose. The found her body late last night."

"Donald, she would have lost that little girl in any courtroom in the world, and if you hadn't taken those photos, someone else would have."

"I got paid ten thousand dollars to do it. He paid me five grand as a retainer, and promised me another five grand if I really got the goods on her, and he won."

"So? Honey, that's no different than a lot of divorce cases you've worked, especially the big ticket ones. You can't blame yourself because this woman made bad choices, or because she was suffering from depression and that made her act in a self-destructive way. You can't analyze all your clients and everyone they ask you to follow."

"I can't help feeling like it's blood money. Like I took that little girl's mother away from her, that I made ten grand off destroying another human being."

"You didn't destroy her, honey. She was doing that to herself. She was bound to self-destruct eventually, even if her husband hadn't gone after her and taken their daughter."

"Do you really believe that? Because I need to know that you don't think I'm responsible for this."

"Oh, baby, no, I don't think that at all," I reassured him, holding him again. "Custody battles are always fluid things. He won this battle, but not the whole war. If she'd resolved her issues, proven herself worthy again, she could have gotten at least shared custody back. She didn't even try. She didn't even feel enough pull to work things out for her daughter's sake. I'm not judging this woman - anyone who is in enough pain to take her own life doesn't need to be condemned for it. But that decision came from inside of her, and whatever her own demons were, they were powerful enough that even fighting for her daughter didn't motivate her to hang in there."

"I want to give the ten thousand back. I don't want it."

"Why don't you set it up in a college fund for her daughter?"

"I like that idea," Donald said, nodding, then holding onto the egg on his forehead. "I know I promised you we'd use that money to do the landscaping we wanted to do this spring."

"I don't want a couple Japanese maples and a rock garden that are going to remind you every day of a case that affected you this way." I stroked the one unbruised part of his cheek with the backs of my fingers. "Don't even think about it." I paused a moment. "Her brothers did this to you? We have to call the police."

"What would you do? If someone did something that upset Kelly so much she killed herself?"

"I would hope I wouldn't go off like some crazed vigilante and beat up someone who was only doing something he was hired to do. I don't know what I'd do. Grieve, rage, want answers..."

"That's what they were doing. I feel like I got what I deserved."

"That's nonsense," I objected, stroking the back of his head gently.

"Kenny was out doing some routine surveillance work for me, so I was alone in the office. The three of them came in, her brothers, and told me she'd killed herself. They demanded to know if I was happy, if the money I made was worth it, if I'd like to be the one to tell her daughter that her mother was a whore, and now she was a dead whore."

"They sound like a great family."

"I tried to reason with them, and I did some damage myself, but three on one are lousy odds. I couldn't reach my gun fast enough, and once they got the upper hand, they just basically beat the shit out of me until they got tired of doing it or figured they'd made their point."

"How about your ribs? Do you think any of those are cracked or broken?" I asked, laying my hand gently on his stomach. I don't know what I thought that would fix, but I just wanted to touch him, to try to ease his pain.

"Probably just bruised. I can get an x-ray or something tomorrow if it'll make you feel better, but I'm telling you, Timmy, it's nothing that won't fix itself."

"Okay. Tomorrow, we get you into the doctor to double check everything. Meanwhile, if you feel any worse, or something's worse than you thought it was, tell me right away and we'll go to the ER."

"I will."

"I still think you should call Bailey and tell him what happened. Those thugs are liable to kill someone, even if you don't want to get back at them for what they did to you."

"Okay, okay," he finally agreed, pulling out his cell phone. He called Bailey and explained what happened, giving him as much information as he had on the men who had assaulted him.

When he was finished on the phone, I guided him upstairs and filled up the tub with warm water, some epsom salt, and a little dash of lavender oil. Since Donald had a tendency to refuse ER's and doctor visits unless he had a limb severed, I've studied up on all the home remedies for making bruises heal faster.

Once I had him settled in the tub, I carefully cleaned the dried blood off his face, and gave him a large ice pack that he could hold on the lump on his forehead and the swelling around his eye at the same time. I carefully shampooed the blood out of his hair, and I couldn't help but think back of the way he'd spent Saturday spoiling me like this, and how I wished I could be doing this to him for a good reason, not because he was hurt and in pain. The ringing of his cell phone jarred me out of my thoughts.

"Could you get that, honey?" he asked. "I left it on the bed."

"Sure," I said, wiping my hands. "Just relax there until I come back."

"I'm good," he said, leaning back in the tub.

I answered his phone, and Bailey was on the other end of the line.

"I just wanted to let Don know that we arrested the three jokers who beat him up. They were at their ex-brother in law's, raising hell, with the little girl in the house. If Don hadn't called when he did, they probably would have worked him over, too. One of them was carrying, so it's hard to say how far it would have gone."

"Thank God you got there in time."

"Just tell Don to stop by tomorrow to take care of his statement. It would be helpful if he stopped by the ER or the doctor's so we can get an official report on his injuries. We've got enough to hold them over night. How's he doin'?"

"He'll be okay. He's pretty banged up, but you know him."

"Any fight you can walk away from doesn't require a trip to the ER," Bailey said, a note of amusement in his voice. "Yeah, I tend to agree with that. By the time they get around to seeing you, most of your bruises have faded."

"I suppose I can't argue with that logic," I replied, smiling. "Do you want to talk to Don?"

"Not necessary. He can give me a call if he has any questions."

"Okay. I'll tell him."

I went back to the bathroom, and filled Donald in on the conversation with Bailey.

"You were right," he said.

"There's nothing about being right that makes me feel good in this situation."

"I know. I'm glad you talked me into calling Bailey."

"It's just good they got there in time. You ready to get out?" I asked, and he nodded. I gave him a hand getting out of the tub and tried not to get too upset at the sight of the myriad of darkening bruises all over his body. I knew he was capable of drying himself off, but I helped him anyway, and he let me do it.

I got him some fresh underwear and a soft old suit of sweats. Once I had him sitting on the bed, I grabbed some warm socks and crouched near his feet to put them on. His foot felt so cold, I took it in both hands to warm it up. It was such a little thing when he was all banged up like he was, but I felt so helpless to fix what was wrong that I focused on warming up his cold feet. I rubbed his foot a little and kissed the top of it before putting the sock on it. I felt his hand stroke my hair lightly, and I looked up at him. Our eyes met for a minute, and I realized that what seemed like a pointless little gesture was just what he needed most from me. I smiled at him, and then did the same thing to the other foot.

"Let's go downstairs, and I'll fix you something warm to eat, okay?"

"What would I do without you, Timothy?" he asked rhetorically, his fingers still lightly touching my hair. I took the hand in mine and kissed it, holding onto it.

"Fortunately, you don't have to worry about that. Ever," I added, kissing his hand again. "Donald, this wasn't your fault, you know that, right? There was no good outcome for that kind of a situation."

"I know you're right."

"It's just taking a while for it to sink in, huh?"

"Yeah, something like that."

I bandaged the cut on his forehead, and we went downstairs where I got him settled on the couch and covered him up with the throw. I made us some beef stew, and we sat close together on the couch and ate it, not saying very much. The doorbell was an unwelcome intrusion.

I went to the door and opened it, surprised to see a delivery man standing there holding a huge bunch of mylar balloons - red, pink, silver - all bearing different messages of love or "Happy Valentine's Day." They were for Tim Callahan, as if I didn't know they would be, or who was responsible for them. It wasn't until he handed me the bunch of balloons that I saw they were anchored to a little stuffed white bear holding a big read heart that said "Be Mine" on it.

I took them back to where Donald was sitting on the couch, and set the little bear on the coffee table, the balloons bobbing around on their strings.

"When did you do this?" I asked, sitting down, kissing him gently to avoid putting pressure on the split in his lower lip.

"I had something else planned, but this kind of got in the way," he said, gesturing at his bruised face. "So I ordered these while I was waiting for you to come home."

"Oh, baby," I muttered, feeling tears burning my eyes as I pulled him carefully into my arms. "You were worried about getting me a present today?"

"I wasn't gonna let those assholes mess up our tradition," he said, hugging me back, even if it put a little pressure on his bruises.

"They're wonderful, honey." I kissed the bruising around his eye, then his lips again.

"Glad you like them," he replied, kissing me this time.

"But they're not as wonderful as you are, my love," I said, holding him close, trying not to dwell on the anger I felt for the bastards who'd hurt him.

We sat on the couch most of that evening, watching a little TV, but our minds weren't really on it. I know Donald was still coping with his feelings about that poor woman's suicide, and even though he's pretty resilient, I knew he was in pain. I gave him some ibuprofen, and he fell asleep with his head on a pillow in my lap, on the couch.

I sat there a long time just watching him sleep, stroking his hair or his shoulder whenever he stirred or seemed agitated. Later, when he woke up, I steered us both up to bed. With him in my arms, I rubbed his back until I could feel him relax into sleep again.

I knew he'd survive if I went to work the next day, but I didn't want him to spend the day alone, or to feel bad or depressed and not have me there to talk to. I knew I couldn't protect him from all the ugliness and pain and danger that lurked in the shadows for someone in his line of work. But I could be there when he needed me, and I could soothe the bumps and bruises, both physical and emotional.

 As I dozed off to sleep, reassured by his healthy breathing against me, I'm not sure which need was greater - his need for my moral support or my need to give it.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Donald was right about his injuries. They were all superficial. Lots of bruises, a goodly amount of pain, but no broken bones, no internal injuries, nothing permanently damaged. With a medical report in hand from a visit to the doctor, we went to the police station so Donald could make his statement. He finally agreed with me that he should press charges and let the court sort it all out. Yes, those men were under a lot of emotional stress and grief, but that didn't justify the rampage they'd gone on, beginning with Donald and progressing to terrorizing their ex-brother-in-law without regard for the fact their six-year-old niece was in the house at the time.

With those errands out of the way, Donald insisted I drop him off at the mall and leave him there. It was then I truly feared he had undetected brain damage, because Donald would prefer surgery without anesthetic to the mall. I can sometimes drag him there near Christmas with the promise of lunch at the Chinese place in the food court, and occasionally I've been able to trick him into going in there with me by springing it on him while we're out. Once or twice, I've resorted to the promise of sheet-ripping, sweat-soaked, marathon sex to get him in there when I wanted his opinion on something I was buying for the house (of course, I don't exactly suffer myself when I have to keep those promises...). But to have him actually tell me to take him there and drop him off, and then go away?

"I have a couple errands to run in there, and you're worse than any detective when it comes to snooping on what I'm doing when I'm trying to buy you something. I swear to God, you must hide in the potted plants watch for me so you can pop up right outside whatever store I go into."

"I do no such thing," I replied, indignant, even though he was absolutely right. I had an unerring instinct for locating Donald when he was sneaking around - in the mall or anywhere else. Maybe that's part of why he has so much fun with this Valentine tradition - he manages to catch me off guard multiple times, even though I'm expecting something. I just never know what.

"Look, just drop me off for an hour or so, and pick me up at the food court exit. I'll pick us up lunch."

"Okay, whatever you say. Are you sure you feel up to this? I would understand if you missed a day or two while you get better."

"I'm not going to miss a day or two, and I'm fine." I gave him a look, and he added, "Okay, not fine, but I'm not in the ICU, either. I can go around the mall by myself for a little while."

Reluctantly, I let him out at the main entrance, and winced as I watched him get out of the car more slowly than usual and limp into the mall. He'd twisted his leg somehow during the fight and while it wasn't broken or even officially sprained, it hurt enough that he was favoring it. I felt guilty that he was literally limping in there to get me things for Valentine's Day, but at the same time, he was determined to follow through on his tradition, even though he knew I wasn't holding him to it.

I stopped by another store across the street and picked up a few things we needed around the house that I hadn't gotten at the grocery store on Sunday, plus a few extra snack foods I knew Donald liked. I was tempted to get him a little present or a mushy little card, but I didn't. For me to start participating in this pre-Valentine gift-giving would almost put me in competition with him, the two of us trying to one-up each other coming up with inventive surprises.

I spoil him horribly over Christmas, and his birthday, according to my gift-buying, is at least a month-long holiday. He gets on me because I start buying him things a month ahead of time, saying "it's an early birthday present." If I kept them all until his actual birthday, it would look like Christmas morning at the Rockefellers'. I can't help it. It's not that I'm overly materialistic, because I'm not. It's just that I love him so much, and he's like a little kid when he opens presents - even if they're just in the bags they came in from the stores - he digs in with a genuine excitement that just makes my heart soar. I get as much out of giving Donald presents as he ever could get out of receiving them.

I had his Valentine present already. I'd had it for some time now. I wasn't sure what he'd think of it, since he wasn't much for fancy parties, tuxes, and all the accouterments, but I hoped maybe it would make getting dressed up for some of those dry political fundraisers I drag him to, a bit more palatable.

So I kept my purchases to more mundane things, but my shopping cart was very Donald-centric. His favorite snacks, a couple of DVD's I thought he'd like (along with my willingness to sit through two or four hours of car chases and explosions), and a couple of magazines I hoped he'd stay home and read while I was at work the next day, along with a couple of cleaning items and a rug I found I liked for the bathroom. I seriously doubted, though, that he'd stay home and convalesce another day. He was upright and walking, which meant he'd be back in his office at some point the following day.

When I pulled up to the mall to pick him up, he came out right away, carrying a fat bag from the Chinese restaurant, and carrying one of those re-usable shopping bags you can buy in most stores now. This one was from a sporting goods store, and I could almost be sure my Valentine presents weren't from there unless he had some kind of acrobatic sex planned that would require me to wear a crash helmet and knee pads. He was getting good at deceiving me, almost as good as I was at uncovering his deceptions. He put the shopping bag in the backseat, and the top of it was stuffed with extra plastic bags to conceal whatever was in it.

"The End Zone, huh?" I asked, teasing him.

"Yeah, I needed a new jock strap," he replied cheerfully. The thought of Donald in a jock strap took my mind in places it shouldn't be going while I was driving, and while his body was too bruised to be pounced on and screwed into the nearest horizontal surface.

"You know, there's this place online that sells black lace jock straps," I replied, steering the car out into traffic, stifling a grin.

"Anybody who's got something worthwhile to put in a jock strap, shouldn't have lace on it," he responded, shaking his head, smiling. "And what exactly were you doing online looking at black lace jock straps?"

"Just because I'm waiting until the fourteenth to give you something doesn't mean I haven't been Valentine shopping."

"If you got me one of those, return it, and we'll never mention it again," he replied, laughing.

"Maybe I got myself one." Now I was just goading him, and he knew it. The day I showed up in our bedroom in a black lace anything, pigs would be flying.

"And I repeat, if you got one of those, return it, and we'll never mention it again," he repeated, still laughing.

"There must be some kind of sexy adult thing you'd like to get for Valentine's Day," I said. I already had the beginnings of a hard-on from that Donald-in-a-jockstrap mental picture, so I figured we might as well go ahead and talk dirty.

"Besides you?" he replied.

"Good answer," I said, laughing, stealing a kiss from him at the stoplight. "I did order something from that website, though," I added, pulling away from the intersection. There was dead silence, and I stole a glance at him to see he was staring at me.

"Well?"

"You'll just have to wait until Sunday to find out. After all, we'll have the whole day together."

"You can't say something like that and then not tell me what it is. That's spousal abuse."

"Oh, is that what it is?" I asked, laughing.

"Mental cruelty," he added.

"I'll make it up to you later," I said, sparing a hand from the wheel to take his hand for a minute.

"I'll hold you to it. Nothing important got damaged, you know."

"Trust me, I checked," I replied, squeezing his hand. I knew those gorgeous privates of his were unmarred and intact.

We spent the afternoon grazing through our Chinese take out, watching the DVD's I'd bought at the store, and fooling around like a couple of teenagers on the couch. I love just spending a lazy day with Donald, kissing, cuddling, eating, talking...just being with him. I didn't even think about the whole Valentine thing all that much, so I was surprised when I came back from checking my e-mail on my laptop upstairs to find the lights dimmed, candles lit, and a new CD in the player. Donald was busily mixing our martinis. The jewel case from the CD was on the end table. It was the new Barry Manilow album, the one with all the classic love songs on it. The theme from Love Story was playing when Donald handed me my drink.

"I've been wanting to get that CD for us," I said, smiling. After all, only The Greatest Love Songs of All Time would be good enough for us.

"To you," Donald said, holding up his glass, "for always knowing how to make everything okay again," he added, his voice a little husky. I tapped his glass, and we sipped a little of the drinks.

"To you," I said, "because sometimes when I think about you I just can't stop smiling, no matter how lousy my day is."

We were managing to make each other misty, but that was okay. I'm a firm believer in saying as much of the mushy things that occur to you because every moment you have with someone you love this much is precious. Donald isn't just my lover, my partner, my husband...he's the one greatest joy in my life. He's like a big splash of color and light and happiness on a grayscale background that used to be my life without him. I'm not saying I didn't have a good life - I liked my career, and I've always had friends and social activities and community involvements to keep me busy. But the thing that makes me hum a little tune for no good reason, smile irrepressibly sometimes when I should be serious, and makes me look forward to every day...well, that's Donald.

After a few sips of our martinis, we slow-danced in the golden glow of candles and the fire crackling warmly in our fireplace. I touched the back of Donald's head, and felt that soft blond hair between my fingers, and that moment of surrender when his head rests on my shoulder, and his arms are around me.

We went upstairs and slowly undressed each other. I urged Donald to lie down on the bed, and I started kissing him at the tops of his feet, moving up his legs, paying special attention to the one he was favoring that made him limp a bit. I know he was enjoying it, and I wanted him to. On some odd, primal level, it felt good to map his body with my mouth, to kiss and caress and worship that sweet, soft skin of his that I love so much, to take him back from the pain, to reassert my claim on him, to put kisses everywhere they'd put blows, in hopes all that love and tenderness would somehow make everything hurt a little less.

I licked and sucked at his nipples, taking him gently in my hand and encouraging his growing erection. He rolled onto his side, and I knew he wanted me inside him. I retrieved the lube from the night stand drawer, keeping it in my hand to warm it up, wrapping myself around him from behind, kissing his neck, his ear, his shoulders, his back, caressing his side, letting my hand skim down his hip to his thigh and back again. I slipped a slick finger inside him and carefully stretched and relaxed him. He moaned and leaned back into my touch when I found his prostate, teasing it with my finger.

I took my time entering him, easing in slowly, one hand stroking him, making him harder. Our pace was slow and languid, no reason to rush. I didn't want to jar him too much with a lot of rapid movement that would cause him pain from his bruises. I just wanted him to feel so good where our bodies were joined that he'd forget about them for a while. He was moaning a little, and so was I. He felt so hot and tight and good around me. I buried my nose in his hair and felt its softness, smelled his shampoo and his cologne and him.

I was glad when he came, because I was on the edge myself, and I didn't want to go without him. I don't like going anywhere without him, even when we're making love. He didn't seem to want to move away when it was over, and neither did I. It felt good inside him, and he relaxed, all boneless and warm and spent, there in my arms. I kissed his shoulder. He slipped his hand into mine, lacing our fingers together.

I treasured that moment of total unity, our bodies as connected as our hearts always are. I cherished his utter trust in me, that he didn't hide anything from me when we were intimate with each other. Donald gives me his emotions, his needs, his fears...lets me into all the secret places inside him that no one else goes. The way he lays his head on my shoulder sometimes when we're dancing, the ease with which he opens up to me in bed, the way he comes to me with his hurts, the ones on the outside and the inside...those are the Valentines he gives me every day we're together, and there could be no more precious gifts.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Timothy

My prediction about Donald striking back out to his office was correct. He got up with me that morning and we had breakfast together. He was still uncomfortable, but he was mobile, and he had some computer work and paper work he could catch up on, and a new client who wanted to meet with him. I put a bottle of Advil in his briefcase, because I knew he'd forget it. I made him promise to call me if he didn't feel well, or needed anything. He just smiled and hugged me, then gave me a big kiss to shut me up from reminding him to take it easy and not overdo it.

We went our separate ways for the day, and I missed him instantly. I don't wish our young years away, not at all - I treasure them. Still, I sometimes find myself fantasizing about retirement, spending all day with my favorite person, puttering around and doing whatever it is retired people who like to be together, do to keep busy. As I neared the office, I couldn't help but wonder what Donald would come up with today. He'd been so urgent about his trip to the mall, and while he'd given me (or us) the CD the night before, I doubted he would have been that insistent just to get the latest Barry Manilow album. Donald had accomplished driving me crazy by making me wonder what was in his shopping bag that he managed to keep me from touching, lifting, or otherwise probing.

******

Donald

The symphony of barking and the lingering aroma of too many dogs was beginning to grate on my nerves. I looked at my watch again, and marveled at how the woman behind the reception desk could go on happily clicking away on the computer keyboard when her office smelled like a kennel and sounded like a rough day at the dog track. The stiff plastic chair I was sitting in wasn't doing any favors for the one big bruise on my ass either. Frustrated, I finally stood with some difficulty (the ass was stiffening up the longer I sat there), and approached her desk again.

"Do you really think Mrs. Schumacher is going to be back in this morning?" I asked, referring to the elusive shelter director. I wondered what kind of meetings animal shelter directors went to. Meanwhile, the receptionist shrugged.

"She had an appointment first thing, and another meeting after that, but she should be in any minute," she said. "You're free to go on back and look for him yourself if you like," she added, referring to the poodle I'd been hired to find. My new client, who'd been at my office bright and early, had give me a ten-freaking-thousand-dollar retainer to find a white miniature poodle with champion bloodlines. So I was making the rounds to every shelter and rescue agency in the area, and still was coming up empty. After that, I'd have to call in some favors at the PD and find out what was going on with dog fighting rings in the area. Sometimes they used those little dogs for bait...a thought that makes my gut churn. The prospect of photographing cheating spouses was beginning to look glamourous.

"Yeah, maybe I will have a look." I pulled out a photo of the missing dog and handed it to the receptionist. The owners had made me promise to speak to all the shelter directors and personally offer them hefty donations for their facilities if they found the dog. Enough was enough. "Tell her the owners are willing to make a $10,000 donation to the shelter if he's found here."

"Wow. It's touching the way some people love their pets, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, very," I replied, forcing a smile that aggravated the split in my lip. Touching and exhausting.

Wandering by the rows of cages, I didn't notice anything white and fluffy. But then those dogs went first. When we'd found Watson years ago at a shelter like this, he'd been dirty and matted and didn't even marginally resemble the pampered, silky white creature he became under Timmy's relentless vet appointments and grooming activities. Still, we adopted him the first day he arrived at the shelter, considering ourselves lucky to have snagged a cute little dog. He undoubtedly would have gotten another home with other owners who could see his potential. Cute little dogs and puppies are the easy ones to place, or so we'd been told.

Satisfied there were no poodles to be had there, I headed back for the reception area. That's when I nearly ran head-on into a shelter worker leading the ugliest dog I'd ever seen on a leash out of the kennel area.

"Sorry," the young man said, stepping aside. "Dead dog walking," he joked.

"Good thing he doesn't know what you're saying, huh?" I said, a little put off by the man's joke about the dog's apparent impending euthanasia. I felt sorry for the old boy, so I stroked the brown dog's large head. "End of the line for him, huh?"

"He's seven years old, missing one eye, and his tongue hangs out funny. He scares the kids, and he's got arthritis, so nobody wants to deal with him."

"What kind of dog is he?" I crouched in front of the beast, and I could understand why small children didn't linger. If the dog's size wasn't enough, the dark scar from the missing eye, the lopsided tongue that hung more out the side of his mouth than the front, and the drool on his jowls made him look something between sinister and just plain butt ugly. Then I got a full lick on the cheek from that sloppy big tongue, complete with stale dog breath.

"He's a Mastiff, mixed with something else. Horse, I think," the shelter worker joked.

"No wonder he's a big fella." I continued to pet the dog, unable to shake the feeling that he liked me. Then he let out a bark so loud that it startled me and I fell backwards on my ass on the floor. Son of a bitch, that hurt. He barked again, and wagged his tail. Or, sort of. He made some motion with his tail. I couldn't believe this particular dog could even make that universal dog gesture look crooked and ungainly.

"You want to adopt him? Looks like he likes you."

"Is that what that was?" I asked, standing, wincing as my bruised body protested the abuse, brushing off my pants. Before I could say anything else, the big dog nudged my hand, then licked it. "Sorry, old man. If I showed up with you, Timothy would put us both out in the backyard," I said, patting the dog's head.

"His name's Farley."

"That's fine, but I really can't adopt a dog right now. At least, not - - "

"Not this one, huh? That's what everybody says. Sorry, dude. Time to be 'humanely euthanized'. Nice way of saying it, huh? We tell people they're getting a lethal injection, but for dogs, it's 'humanely euthanized'." With a tug of the leash, the dog plodded despondently after the shelter worker, and I had the uncanny feeling he knew what his fate was.

"Isn't there some kind of rescue group that can take him?" I called after the shelter worker.

"We made some calls. No takers. I mean, look at him. Nobody's going to adopt him, so if some rescue group takes him, they're just stuck with him for good. These big dogs are expensive to feed, and then you get one like him with health problems - - "

Something about the words got to me, and I didn't even know why. Dogs were put to sleep every day. It was sad, but a reality of life when there are tons of unwanted animals roaming around and not enough homes.

"I'll take him," I said, and I was horrified the words had come out of my mouth. Timmy was going to kill me. The dog would be saved, and I would be not-so-humanely euthanized.

"Seriously?" The other man shrugged, turning around and heading back toward me. "There's some paperwork you need to do at the front desk."

"When do I pick him up?"

"Oh, as soon as you finish the paperwork, he's all yours, man. You can have him right away." Helpfully letting go of the leash, the other man watched, amused, as the big dog lumbered toward me, rising on his back legs to put his paws on my shoulders, looking me square in the eyes - - well, one eye to my two eyes - - before treating me to another bad-breath dog lick.

"It's like he knows," I said, a bit unsettled by the way the dog seemed to know I was his savior, his ticket away from the big dirt nap. "Okay, Farley, down," I said, and was stunned when the dog obeyed, still pinning me with an intent one-eyed, crooked-tongued stare. Then he barked again, and his tail did that off-putting shimmy that passed for wagging. Oh, yeah, Timmy was going to love this. "He's housebroken, right?"

"Far as we know," the other man said, shrugging.

"Great."

I spent the afternoon sitting in my office, working on my computer, with Farley sprawled inelegantly on my couch, staring at me with that one baleful eye of his. I sent Kenny out to find a can of dog food - a big can - and a box of Milk Bones. I knew Timothy would have his own ideas about what Farley should eat, and how to treat his arthritis, assuming he didn't leave me when he got a look at what I brought home. But for now, the dog had to eat something, since I had a feeling my lunch definitely wasn't going to feed both of us.

Kenny returned fairly soon with lunch for all of us. Burgers for us, a can of some kind of meaty, gravy-drenched dog food for Farley. I put it in a dish I'd used for some other food a few weeks ago. It was clean, sitting on top of one of my file cabinets when it should have gone home, since Timmy was probably tearing his hair out trying to locate the eighth sage green bowl in his otherwise perfect set. I suspect he probably knows who the culprit is, just not what exactly happened to the bowl.

Farley was proving to be very mild-mannered and easy going. He didn't make a fuss going after our food. He seemed grateful for the bowl of dog food I put on the floor for him. Although he did come up to me and rest his head on my lap, looking up at me with that one eye of his, while I finished my Whopper. I couldn't stand it. I tore off a chunk and fed it to him.

"Bad move," Kenny said, shaking his head. "He's gonna keep begging if you feed him when he does."

"He's had enough miserable shit happen to him." I rubbed Farley's head and he sat as close as he could get to my chair, keeping his big head right up against me. Shit, I do the same thing to Timmy when I want him to pet me... Disconcerted by that thought, but also thinking of how glad I always am that Timmy has an unending supply of sympathy and affection for me when I give him my best sad dog routine, I managed to finish eating my lunch with one hand, the other stroking the dog.

"You've got to be some special kind of evil to beat a dog," Kenny said, shaking his head.

"No arguments there," I agreed.

When I pulled into the driveway, my heart sank. I thought I'd made it home early enough to beat Timmy home and figure out how to...present Farley. The garage door was open, and Timmy's car was there. Add to that, Timmy himself was there, gathering trash bags to go out to the curb. He brightened immediately when he spotted my car sitting there, then stopped with the plastic trash bags dangling from his hands when he noticed that I was not alone in the car. Or, rather, that some other...entity filled every other part of the car except the driver's seat.

I got out of the car as Timmy set down the bags and headed toward me. At the crucial moment, Farley let out an ear-splitting bark, poking his very distinctive head out of the car. Timmy lurched back from the car, eyes bugged.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what is that?!" My stomach twisted. The last time Timothy had invoked the entire Holy Family was when we were cleaning the attic of our first house, and an oversized rat had scurried out on a rafter to look eye-to-eye with him.

"Farley." I couldn't think of anything more profound to say. Caught between Farley's crooked tongue and adoring single eye, and Timothy's stunned expression, I found myself speechless.

"Farley," Timmy repeated. The dog barked again.

"He obviously really knows his name."

"Why is he with you?" Timmy asked, his tone very even and calm. Too calm.

"Uh...he's...ours." I smiled uneasily. I even touched the split in my lip, hoping to play the sympathy card. Timmy was still staring at me, unmoved. "Happy Valentine's Day, honey," I tried, still smiling.

"What?" Now he just looked irritated.

"They were going to put him to sleep. He got taken away from his owner because the guy beat him, and then he didn't take him to the vet for an eye infection that could have been treated, and it ended up costing the dog his eye. He's got some arthritis, but they said at the shelter with some pain medication, he should be okay. Mostly."

"The arthritis is from the abuse he suffered?" Timmy asked, cautiously moving a little closer to the car.

Between Timmy's trepidation over being presented with a dog ten times the size of the last one we had, and his big heart feeling sympathy for the dog's miserable past, I knew his big heart would win. After all, Timothy has a soft spot for damaged creatures with dark pasts.

"They think it's because of old injuries, mostly."

"His tongue goes out the side, Donald. That's not...normal." Timmy was still wincing, looking uneasy.

"Neither is having one eye and no place to call home." I paused. "I'm sorry, honey. I just couldn't...not help him." I stroked the big dog's head, and he looked up at me, making a disconcerting snuffling noise I hadn't heard before. And then he passed gas as loudly as he barked. "Thanks, pal. I have to do a stakeout in that car tonight."

"And Farley would be staying where, exactly, while you're doing this?" Tim asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"If he's our dog, he'd be here at home...with you."

"I see. You have a lot of dog-sitting planned for me, do you?"

"He's housebroken...as far as I know...and he'll be a lot of company for you while I'm working late."

"As far as you know..." Timmy nodded, smiling faintly. "So we can expect the flatulence is a signal he wants to go out?"

"If I take him back, they'll kill him. Timmy, come on. We've talked about getting another dog."

"I sort of thought we might talk about it again before one of us actually did it."

I surreptitiously motioned behind me at the dog to come out of the car. I didn't think it was possible the dog would know enough to play along, but I watched, stunned, as he eased his way out of the car, then nudged Timmy's hand and licked it, much the way he had done to me in the shelter. I hoped Farley didn't put his paws on the shoulders of Timmy's best topcoat, which he was wearing at the moment. Even I didn't slobber on that coat without permission.

Then Farley did that thing he did that was sort of a tail wag.

"Must be his arthritis that makes it hard for him to wag his tail," Timmy said, sympathy creeping into his tone. "No dog should be in pain when he's happy," he said, stroking the dog's head and patting its back. "Is he on medication now?"

"The shelter can't pay for that. They did the best they could to get him cleaned up and made sure he had his shots and everything, but they can't afford things like pain meds for long-term conditions."

And then Farley did the most remarkable thing. He sat in front of Timmy and raised one paw to shake. Timmy shook the paw, and I knew he was a goner.

"I'll make an appointment with Dr. Marshall first thing tomorrow," he said, referring to the vet we'd used for Watson. "Did they x-ray his back, make sure he doesn't have any fractures or bad discs?"

"I didn't ask."

"He should have a complete physical and some x-rays done."

"I love you," I said, reaching up to touch Timmy's cheek. I knew he'd have room in his heart for a poor old dog who had run out of options.

"He needs us, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I agreed, nodding, smiling. "Maybe we kinda need him, too. It's been pretty quiet around the house without Watson."

"It's been two years, honey," Tim said, referring to the sad day when we'd come home from the vet without Watson, and sat together on the couch and cried into our martinis. We'd talked about another dog every now and then, but between our busy schedules, and the nagging feeling that another dog couldn't replace Watson, it never happened.

"Yeah, well, I still miss him waking us up in the morning, going nuts when we get home," I said, patting Farley's big ugly head. "I know I should have called. It just happened so fast. One minute they were taking him down the hall to be put down and the next minute, I was figuring out a way to stuff him in my car."

"They were literally going to do it today?"

"Yeah. Like, right then."

"We should get out to PetSmart," Timmy said, checking his watch. "I'm assuming there isn't room in there for food, a bed...breath freshening treats?" he added, gesturing at my car.

"I fed him and bought him some Milk Bones, but I figured you'd have a better idea what he should eat long-term...for his arthritis and stuff. I was going to try to figure out a way to butter you up before you saw him. He takes a little getting used to."

"Oh, he's not so bad," Timmy said, crouching to pet the dog and look him in the face. Timmy and his beautiful, camel colored, silk-lined top coat were crouched on the snowy driveway, bonding with a dog that had a face only a mother could love. A mother, and a soft-hearted new dog daddy. "You have inner beauty, don't you, Farley?" The dog let out a loud bark and licked Timmy's face, nearly knocking off his glasses. "Beauty that's very deep inside and potentially impossible to uncover," he added, a bit of sarcasm in his voice, though it was already tinged with affection.

********

Timothy

When we used to take Watson to PetSmart, people always petted him and commented on what a cute little guy he was. Now, we were getting plenty of looks, but not too many comments as we moved through the aisles, Farley loping along at our sides. He was a well-mannered dog, and it troubled me to think that he'd gotten that way out of fear, because his owner would beat him if he misbehaved. Still, I have to think he had good owners earlier in his life, because he knew how to be affectionate, he didn't show any signs of aggression, and he still seemed to hold out hope for the best out of the human race.

The shopping cart was nearly full, stocked with high protein canned dog food specially formulated for arthritic dogs, dog treats to freshen Farley's less-than-delightful breath, an elevated stand for his dog dishes so he didn't have to lean down so far to eat from a dish on the floor, vitamin supplements to further help his arthritis, and a huge dog bed fit for a Mastiff. As we were winding down our shopping, I steered us to the toy aisles.

"He should have a ball or two," I said.

"Don't say that in front of him. He's been neutered." The comment earned Donald a cock of the head and a look. From both Farley and me. What could I say to something like that? "Watson liked these things," Donald said, selecting a combination chew and tug-of-war toy.

"Do you want to play tug-of-war with him?" I asked, evaluating a couple of very large rawhide bones. I added them to the cart. I didn't want him to run out of rawhide and start in on something else - like the banister, or one of our cars. I watched, speechless, as Donald offered one end of the toy to Farley, who stared at it a moment, then locked his powerful jaws on it and pulled.

Donald pulled back, putting his not inconsiderable muscles into it. As Farley moved backward, Donald found himself hanging onto the toy, his feet sliding in Farley's direction. Then man became determined not to give in to dog, and regained his footing, pulling back. Farley growled, lowering his stance, putting some real effort into it. I could swear he heard Donald growl as he countered the dog's burst of strength. Then the oddest thing happened. Donald laughed, and it was as if the dog understood it, and instantly started hamming it up, shaking his head back and forth, Donald playing along with tugging the toy in the opposite directions. The battle of wills had ended up with pure play. When Donald spared a hand from the tugging to pat the dog's head, Farley released the toy and barked a couple times, the closest thing to excited I had seen him since he arrived in our driveway.

"Yeah, you know how to play, don't you, boy?" Donald was still on one knee on the floor, giving the big dog a hug and stroking its head.

"I think we're buying this," I said, picking up the toy carefully by the end Donald had been holding, passing on the saliva-covered end that had been Farley's.

"See if he fetches," Donald said to me, standing, spotting the colorful ball I had in my other hand.

"We'll assume he does and try that at home. Honestly, this is worse than taking two kids into Toys 'R' Us. Do you think you two can behave until we pay for this stuff?"

"Don't worry, Farley, he's not always this uptight," Donald said in a mock whisper to the dog. "If you want to loosen him up, just lick him right under his - - "

"Donald, that's enough. If you were going to say what I think you were going to say, that dog is not licking me there. Ever. For any reason."

"I was just going to say 'ribs', because you're ticklish. But if you're talking about what I think you're talking about, I'll lick you there as soon as we get home, if you're a good boy," he added, flexing his eyebrows.

I could feel myself blushing all the way up to my ears, but I couldn't help returning that evil little grin of Donald's. I looked at him, and then at Farley, who was doing his best to wag his tail. I had the uncanny feeling we were a motley little family now, and I wondered if Farley wouldn't turn out to be one of Donald's better Valentine surprises.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

I was pleasantly surprised at how easily Farley seemed to adapt to his new surroundings. I made sure all our shoes were in the closet, and the closet door closed. I believe in well-behaved dogs, but I also recognize that dogs are not made of stone, and removing temptation goes a long way towards harmonious living. He'd taken to his new bed quickly, settling his tired old bones on the soft cushion. Donald was going to put it in our bedroom, but I vetoed that. Especially since we found out that Farley thinks us having sex is a team sport for three players. Donald and I started fooling around on the bed after we got home from the store, before he went on his stakeout, and suddenly, I was touching something way too hairy and smelling breath that was ten times worse than anything that would come out of Donald.

Sufficiently shaken by that experience, Farley's bed went in the hall, not far from our room. At least that way, we could close the door when we didn't want a threesome, and Farley was still close to us.

The evening did seem less lonely with our new addition in the house. Donald was out until almost midnight, and Farley was happy to pass the time napping on the floor by the couch while I watched television and did some work on my laptop. The little noises that I ordinarily notice when I'm alone, didn't distract me. If Farley didn't bother to go investigate them, why should I? His hearing and sense of smell were a lot stronger than mine, so I let myself enjoy the luxury of having a watchdog.

About mid-evening, he ambled up to the couch and rested his head on the armrest, looking up at me hopefully. I finally set the laptop aside, figuring if Farley got playful, it would end up on the floor. But he didn't get rambunctious, he just moved closer to me and put his big head in my lap. I ran my hand gently over his head, then stroked his back. That was all he wanted. Just a little attention, and some love. I could understand Donald's affinity for him. He reminded me a little of Donald when he gets tired of my being preoccupied with something else I'm doing, and decides we should cuddle instead.

I'd been researching vitamin supplements for dogs with arthritis, and trying to learn as much about the exercise regimens and dietary elements that are best for a dog like Farley to have the longest, healthiest life he can. I wasn't sure how I'd gotten into this situation - well, I knew how, but it wasn't anything like what I had in mind when Donald and I periodically talked about getting another dog. I was thinking another terrier, or something small and reasonably tidy. One of my co-workers has a pug, and it's adorable. I looked at Farley. His face is a bit pushed in, so I guess I can just think of him as my pug-on-steroids. I sighed when I felt moisture on my thigh, and realized Farley was enjoying his time there, leaving a hefty puddle of drool on my pants.

Oh, well, the pants were due to be washed anyway, and it was about time I thought about going up to bed. It's not like Donald's never gotten bodily fluids on my clothes, though generally it isn't drool, and I had a lot more fun acquiring the stain. I guess it's just the price of loving, and being loved. Between the two of them, I'll be doing a lot of laundry.

Even though I was getting used to my new companion, I didn't expect his to be the first face I saw when I woke up the next morning. I had my back to Donald, and I could feel his back against mine, so I was puzzled to hear breathing in front of my face, until realization dawned, and I opened my eyes to see Farley there, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, one eye watching me intently.

"'Morning, Farley," I said, yawning, patting him on the head. Satisfied, he went around the bed to Donald's side. Donald was treated to a big wet lick on his face. Right from the start, that dog was a shrewd judge of character. He knew just what he could get away with, and which one of us was going to be the bigger pushover.

"Timothy, you really need to start brushing your teeth before you kiss me in the morning."

I swatted his butt. "You have a dangerous sense of humor," I replied, laughing.

"Oh, there you are," he replied, rolling over to face me after he'd patted Farley and kissed the top of his head.

"You kiss him first and then you want to kiss me?" I joked. Donald laughed at that, rolling on top of me.

"Yeah, I wanna kiss you. You have a problem with that?" he asked, kissing me deeply, his tongue slipping into my mouth, nudging mine into action. "Farley, damn it, you're gonna cost me a case of blue balls if you keep interrupting," Donald grumbled, leaving me there while he escorted the dog out of the room. I really didn't want to know what Farley did to interrupt, so I didn't ask. Donald came back into the room, closed the door, and climbed back on top of me, into arms I was already holding out for him.

We rolled together on the bed, knowing we didn't have long before that do-or-die moment when you absolutely have to get ready for work or be late. Still, the friction of his body on mine felt too good, and I wanted him in me. He must have gotten that message, because he'd already taken his shorts off and was pulling mine down. Somehow we located some lube, got things slippery enough to be comfortable, and he was inside me.

I pulled him down so we could kiss some more. My favorite way to make love is when I can feel all of him, his mouth, his hands, his body. I was moaning and gasping and carrying on, loving every thrust, every move, every caress from his hands, every movement of his mouth on mine. My legs were wrapped around him, trying to pull him in deeper. The tiny part of my brain that was still functioning wondered if being screwed senseless was a valid excuse to call in sick. Nobody could have sex this good and then be expected to hop out of bed and get ready for work.

My hands were clutching at his shoulders, his back, sliding down to his ass, cupping and squeezing those perfect cheeks. He pulled away from my mouth, gasping, broken little cries of pleasure mixing with my own noises. Then he sucked hard on my neck, just below where my collar would cover it. I was gone. I came with a shout of his name, and I didn't have to wait long for him to come, finishing his steady rhythm with a few more erratic thrusts before we were both still.

The alarm was going off, Farley was barking. Donald raised his head so he could look in my eyes. Then we both started laughing, which is an interesting sensation when your partner is still inside you to the hilt.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said, and despite his big smile, there was a tenderness in his voice, in his touch, that he always uses with me after we make love. He eased out of me, every move gentle and considerate. I love him so much...it's not just the lovemaking that makes me feel so close to him in these moments. It's the way he treats me, the way he always makes me feel...precious, desirable, treasured.

"I love you," I said. It wasn't anything poetic or creative, and it didn't express everything I felt. I just had to say it.

"I love you, too, sweetheart." He kissed my forehead before he reached over to turn off the alarm. Things were quiet again. Farley apparently was satisfied we weren't being murdered in our bed with all the screaming, and the alarm was blessedly silent.

Donald held me close to him, my face tucked against his warm neck. He moved around a little, and all of a sudden, I felt something cool on my wrist, and he was fidgeting with it, until he managed to fasten it with one hand. I looked at it, squinting to see it. He smiled, kissing my lips, reaching to turn on the lamp on the night stand, then handed me my glasses. Only Donald even thinks my flawed eyesight is something lovable.

"Donald, it's beautiful," I said, finally getting a look at what he'd put on my wrist. It was a titanium bracelet, a very masculine design with three straight bars of metal connecting square onyx stations that each had a tiny round diamond in the middle.

"When I saw it, I wasn't even thinking about getting you something like this. I didn't know for sure if you'd like it. It just reminded me of you," he said, still cuddling me, kissing my cheek. "Classy and elegant, and very strong," he added, nuzzling me with his nose.

"Oh, honey, I love it," I said, feeling like a sap because my eyes were filling up. I'm always a little emotional after we make love, I can't help it. The gift and his beautiful words wrapped around my heart like a warm blanket. Or like his warm arms that were around me at that moment.

"Good. You can wear it tonight, to your surprise for today."

"This is my present for today," I said, confused.

"No, this was yesterday's present, that got pre-empted by Farley," he added, smiling, removing my glasses because he apparently wasn't finished kissing me. Several seconds later, when he let me up for air again, he continued. "Tonight, I have another surprise. Casual attire," he added, kissing me again.

"The bracelet is stunning, really, I love it," I said again, and I meant it. I wasn't big on extra jewelry besides my wedding ring and my watch, but the bracelet was so tasteful and masculine and striking that I just loved it.

Just then, there was a mournful howl outside the bedroom door.

"We're going to have to be strong," I said. "If he gets in here by doing that, he's going to keep on doing it."

"Yeah, I know you're right," Donald said. Farley howled again.

"Let him in," I said, better able to resist Farley's howling than Donald's discomfort at listening to it. He was out of bed like a shot, and opened the door. Farley lumbered in, managed to pull his arthritic old body up on the bed, and we let him, playing around and roughhousing with him. A giant who thinks he's a lap dog, and neither one of us tough enough to discourage him from that notion. Should prove interesting.

********

All day at work, I couldn't help but keep looking at my bracelet as it would peek out from under my shirt sleeve. And I kept wondering what Donald had up his sleeve for that night. I also wondered how Farley was doing at home alone, and if we'd have a home left by the time we returned at the end of the day. Donald was going to make a trip home mid-day to check on him, so hopefully that would assuage him and save our carpeting and our furniture.

I completed the drafts of the two speeches I'd been working on for the senator, and got started on another project - planning a fundraising event to start boosting the senator's campaign fund. As I was rifling through my briefcase, looking for the folder I'd started with my preliminary notes in it, I came across the card that Donald had written to me the previous Sunday. Just when I felt a little bit swamped and more than a little unnoticed - you can feel that way when you spend most of your career supporting someone else - when you're always in the background. Even though I have a great boss, there are times I feel invisible, and I wonder if I should be something more, have achieved more, by this point in my life.

And then I sat there and re-read Donald's beautiful words, letting me know that I was anything but invisible. That he saw all the little things I did, that he loved me for them, that he didn't want to live without me. I smiled all by myself in my office, tucked the card in my briefcase, and got started on my next task. And I was still dying of curiosity about what Donald had planned for that night.

On the way home, I stopped back to the pet store to pick up the vitamins for Farley, and I ended up choosing a couple new collars for him, too. Farley might not be a "pretty" dog, but he could certainly be a "well-dressed" one. My cell phone rang as I was waiting in line to check out. It was Donald.

"Hi, honey," I greeted, looking forward to seeing him, hoping this wasn't a call to tell me tonight was off, and a stakeout was on.

"Where are you?" He sounded frustrated.

"I'm at the pet store, picking up a few things for Farley. What's wrong?"

"You need to get home, Timothy. We're going to be late."

"Late for what?"

"We need to leave home by six-thirty, and we haven't eaten yet."

"I didn't know that, Donald. You didn't give me a time I needed to be home by."

"You're always home right on time," he countered.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm next in line here, and then I'll come right home."

"Okay. See you in a little bit."

"Honey, I'm sorry if I screwed something up."

"You didn't," he said, sounding more relaxed now. "Love you."

"I love you, too," I replied, and as I set my purchases on the counter with my free hand, the girl at the register smiled at me.

"I'll get you rung up fast," she said, still smiling, hurrying to get everything bagged.

"Thanks. I guess I'm late," I added, chuckling a little.

When I got home, there was a raucous outburst of barking on the other side of the door before I opened it to find Farley waiting there, doing his odd, crooked tail wag, acting as if my arrival was the event of the century. I barely had time to pet him before Donald appeared, kissing me quickly and ushering me to the kitchen where a pizza was sitting on the counter. Well, apparently a romantic dinner wasn't the surprise. There were two plates out, and on one of them was an envelope.

I looked at Donald with a little smile, which he returned. He looked like he was almost bouncing where he stood, waiting for me to open it. I was equally anxious, so I tore into it, and pulled out two tickets. Two tickets to a Jim Brickman concert that was happening that night, starting in just a couple hours. I'd wanted to go to it, but by the time I heard about it, all that were left were seats up under the rafters somewhere, so I'd just let it go. These were floor seats, just several rows back from the stage. Donald had to have been sitting on these like a mother hen for months now.

"When did you get these?" I asked.

"Before Christmas, when they first went on sale," he replied, grinning widely. I grabbed him in a hug, a surprised laugh coming from him when I lifted him up so his feet left the floor, if only momentarily.

"I wanted to go to this so badly, but you know how I hate nosebleed seats," I said, releasing him, then kissing him.

"I know," he replied, still amused. "Now let's grab a quick bite to eat and get going before the traffic around the arena gets too insane."

We had some pizza, I changed into my favorite khakis and a shirt, and we bundled up to face the cold winter night, heading out to the concert. Our seats were fantastic, with a great view of the stage. The show was wonderfully romantic, geared to the Valentine's Day theme. There's just something about beautiful instrumental piano music that is made for lovers. We spent most of the concert holding hands, when we weren't applauding. On the first of the most romantic love songs, with beautiful romantic lyrics, Donald took me in his arms and we slow danced, and I felt like the other 19,998 people in the arena disappeared. I was thrilled to be at the concert, and I was having a wonderful time, but my favorite part of the whole evening was Donald holding me in his arms and slow dancing with me, whispering "I love you" in my ear.

The drive home was a little dicey, since Albany was being hit by a nasty snowstorm. It took us a while to get home, and when we did, we went out and played in the snow with Farley. The big goofy dog bounded out the door when we got home, and before we could panic and holler at him, thinking he was making a run for it, he stopped in the yard and started...frolicking. Donald just looked at me, laughing, and shrugged, tugging on my coat sleeve to go with him to join our crazy dog out in the falling snow after midnight.

I don't remember how long we were all out there, messing around and throwing snowballs and wrestling with Farley and each other. All I know is that we staggered in the house, all of us wet and frozen. Donald toweled off Farley while I started a fire and dragged his bed there so he could curl up near the warmth. Donald and I treated ourselves to a warm shower and then toweled ourselves off, bundling up in warm robes and then joining Farley by the fire. At the rate the snow was piling up, no one would be going anywhere first thing in the morning anyway. Senator Platt was going away for the weekend with her husband, and wasn't planning to be in Friday, so all things being considered, I had a pretty good shot at a free Friday.

With an old late movie on the TV, Farley snoring by the fire, and all wrapped up in each other's arms, I wondered if I could possibly feel any greater sense of well being.

"The concert was great," I said, and Donald just kissed my temple, resting his head against mine. "I read your card again, the one you wrote me Sunday." I tightened my hold on him. "It made me feel on top of the world all over again. Like I was the most important man in the world."

"Good." He stroked my hair. "You are."

I drifted off to sleep almost believing him.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Just when I thought we had a perfect day planned, shut in the house looking out at the snowstorm, Donald had to go follow up on his new case of the missing miniature poodle. It's not that I don't sympathize with the owners, because I would have walked through a sea of fire to get Watson back. Though it was taking me a while to admit it, I was getting to feel the same way about Farley. He was my constant companion when Donald wasn't around, to the point that I began to feel like we were performing one of those doggy dance routines when I went to the kitchen to prepare food. Fortunately, I had a good supply of healthy treats on hand to feed him so he felt like he was getting in on the action without throwing his diet plan off too far. I wasn't overly worried about his weight. Considering his arthritis and his age, he was very active. He loved being with us, and he loved to play. But keeping the right balance of nutrients in his diet was essential to easing his arthritis issues.

I had looked forward to doing something fun and brainless with Donald like building a snowman. He'll gripe about the cold and bitch about cranking up the snow thrower to clean out the driveway, but once you get him out there, he'll play in the snow like a little kid, and my worst concern is getting him to stick to the task at hand and not leave the driveway half done to have a snowball fight with me when I come out to do the touch-up shoveling, and clear the walk, and put down salt.

We'd managed to get the garage cleared out so both cars fit in there now. Donald had done a quick job on half the driveway so he could get out. I'd told him to leave the other half, and Farley and I would make a project out of it while he was working. I bundled up as if I were going out for an expedition at the North Pole, and I had to laugh at Farley's enthusiasm as soon as I started putting on my outerwear.

"What were you, a sled dog in your last life?" I asked him, and he just regarded me with that one big eye of his. I have the uncanny feeling he knows what I'm saying, but maybe it's just that he likes being spoken to. He seemed starved for human interaction. Who'd have thought a social butterfly would come in such a big ungainly package? I crouched by him and gave him a hug, talking a bunch of "you're a good dog" type of nonsense to him. It was bothering me more and more to think of the abuse he'd suffered in the past. He was one of the sweetest-tempered dogs I'd ever encountered. We always had dogs while I was growing up, and I always enjoyed them, but I'd never had one who seemed to love his people quite as much as Farley already loved us. He deserved to get some of that affection back.

"You wanna go clear out the driveway?" He looked at me, attentive as ever. "You wanna go out and play in the snow?" I asked, and that got a response. He barked several times, then headed for the door, standing by it and barking. I guess he thought I needed help finding the way out. I directed him with me, out to the garage, where I fired up the snow thrower while Farley barked himself senseless getting used to it, investigating it, and finally chasing it down the driveway, still barking at it as if it were a live beast eating the snow and spitting it onto the lawn.

I'm a little fanatical when it comes to cleaning out the driveway - Donald tells me that blowing the majority of the snow off it is sufficient, that we're driving over it, not eating off it. Still, I like a clean driveway and a clean walkway and porch. I touched up the snow thrower's work with the shovel, and then picked up the container of salt to tackle the icy areas, especially on the walk and the porch. We had big bags of it in the garage, but I had a container I used to sprinkle it, and for some reason, it wasn't letting any salt out the top. Irritated, I unscrewed the cap and found something rolled up in a plastic bag. Frowning, I unwrapped it and found a small box inside.

Donald, my own personal Cupid, had struck again. I couldn't help but laugh at his creativity. I opened the box and found a small blue velvet jewelry box inside. He'd already given me that beautiful bracelet, which hadn't been off my wrist since, so I couldn't figure what kind of jewelry he'd come up with now. When I opened the little box, there was a very small gold tie tack inside, two gold circles intersecting, like joined wedding rings. There was a little piece of notepaper folded up to fit inside the top of the box. If it was one of Donald's notes, I had a feeling I'd love it even more than the tie tack, which already had me misty.

Dear Timmy,

I love being married to you. If I weren't married to you, you'd be the guy I'd be cheating on my partner with. This note counts as a gift certificate for one lunch hour tryst at the nice hotel - or seedy motel, whatever turns you on - of your choice, any business day you choose. Just because we're married doesn't mean we can't have the same fun the people cheating are having. I'll even bring my camera if you want.

Love you,

D.

I laughed out loud at that, touched by it but unable to resist laughing at the twisted humor that was so...Donald. Only he could invite me to cheat on him with...him. And only he would plant a gift for me inside a driveway salt container.

Once my driveway work was done, I gave in to Farley's best sad eye routine and brought out what seemed to be his favorite ball and played fetch with him a while, then took him for a walk around the neighborhood. He trotted along happily next to me, good as gold on the leash. As we approached the house, I should have known Donald was outside, because it was the only time Farley strained on the leash and had me trotting behind him. When I spotted Donald walking up to the house, sorting the mail, I let go of the leash, and let Farley bound toward him. I knew he'd have a soft landing in the snowbank he was standing in front of should Farley get over-excited. We were both pleasantly surprised when he only ran up to Donald, barking, moving around him like a little kid when Daddy comes home. I let them have their moment, because when they were done, I was going to have mine.

When Farley had been duly petted and played with, and was on to more interesting activities, like turning a patch of snow under a nearby pine tree a lovely shade of yellow, I went after Donald. Unlike Farley, I was over-excited, and I tackled him, pushing us both back into the snowbank. I kissed him thoroughly, even though he was laughing. I didn't care what the neighbors thought, if any of them were around to see us. I wanted to do something that would totally shock him, something spontaneous and crazy and...not me. Our faces were mere inches apart, our shared clouds of breath visible in the air.

"I love being married to you, too," I said, kissing him again. "And I can't wait to cheat on you, with you," I joked. He laughed, hugging me.

"Kinda hot, isn't it? Doing the whole 'motel-in-the-middle-of-the-day' thing?"

"Oh, so you like the seedy motel thing better than the upscale hotel, huh?"

"Well, it's..."

"Kinda hot?" I repeated, keeping him pinned in the snow, kissing him again.

"I'm getting a hard-on just talking about it," he said. I had no idea how he got his hand in the right place to give me a little squeeze where he did, but he definitely surprised me more than I had surprised him. "Guess I'm not alone," he added.

"Donald, we're in the front yard!"

"So? Nobody can see where my hand is," he replied, rubbing me through my pants until I thought I'd come any second. "You wanna come right here, out in the front yard?"

"Oh my God," I gasped, swallowing. "No. We could be arrested."

"Only if you scream 'Oh my God I'm coming!' at the top of your lungs. He kept up the movement of his hand. "Otherwise, you just lost your balance on a slick spot in the driveway and fell on me. I'm helping you to get it up...I mean, get up."

"You're a devil," I managed, because what he was doing to me with his hand felt way too good to stop. I knew he was right - no one else would know what we were doing, even if they walked right up to us. Between the snow and our coats, no one could see where that fiendish hand of his was. "And if this is Hell," I added, "why didn't the Church tell me it would feel this good?"

"Bad for business," he replied, picking up the pace, knowing I was on the verge, that he should get me to the finish line so we could get up out of the snow before an overzealous neighbor reported us for lewd conduct.

"Oh, shit," I gasped, feeling my orgasm building, feeling the rush of naughtiness and...and...the slight spice of danger of being found out. I was so turned on that it was a good thing he kissed me when I came, or my shout would have carried on the winter wind three blocks over.

"Got you to talk dirty," he teased, grinning unrepentantly.

"A satyr, that's what you are."

"I don't have goat legs," he protested as I moved off him, stood, and then offered him a hand to pull him up.

"You most certainly do not," I agreed, pulling him into a hug, partly because I loved him and partly because my knees were still weak and I wanted to lean on him. "You have beautiful legs with beautiful hair on them that glows like the sunshine in the firelight," I said, pulling my glove off with my teeth so I could touch his face. "But you do have the sex drive of ten men and less shame than any one man I've ever known," I added, touching my forehead to his. "And my God, I do love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart," he replied, smiling, and even though the cold was making his cheeks red, they got a little redder at my rhapsodizing. I was going to go on about his soft, fair skin, but I figured he was red enough already. So I hugged him, he hugged me back, and we went inside, Farley loping along behind us.

I was actually looking forward to going back to work the following Monday, so I could wear my new tie tack, and plan which day I'd be having my "fling" with my "secret lover."

Saturday, February 13, 2010

There's nothing like a nice coating of ice over the snow to make driving and walking a real adventure. I took one look out the bedroom window at the glass that was our road, and made Donald promise that he wouldn't go out, even for a giant retainer from a celebrity client. He just laughed at that, asking me when the last time was he had that problem. Farley had already commandeered the foot of the bed, and when you lay a dog that size across the bed, there is no remaining leg room for those of us with longer legs. Donald was bundled up in a warm robe and thick socks, unshaven, hair sticking every which way, watching some auto repair show on television.

I knew if I were a good, loving partner I'd go downstairs and make him some coffee. Eventually, I'd get there. I went in to take a shower, figuring Donald and Farley weren't going anywhere, and I was confident Donald would manage to wait until I caved in first and made the coffee, and if he was lucky, I'd be hungry enough to make breakfast, and if I did that, he knew I wouldn't make it for myself without making something for him, too. And, of course, you just can't sit there and eat in front of a dog Farley's size without feeding him something, too.

I could see that Donald was operating on the notion that since I'd never really forbidden Watson to climb on anything (the bed, the couch, us), a dog that was the size of ten Watsons spackled together was going to have the same privileges. So far, Donald was keeping an old hand towel handy by the bed so he could mop up Farley's jowls if the need arose, and I hadn't found any scratches, bites, or unidentifiable stains anywhere, so I let them have their fun. Truth be told, I kind of enjoy spoiling Farley. I'm not sure I could discipline him if I had to, knowing what he's been through, and knowing what a good dog soul he has. I keep telling myself that Donald's the pushover with him, but I suspect I'm no better.

I took my time in the shower, enjoying the utter lack of deadlines and the potentially lazy pace of a day too treacherous to take to the roads. I could hear some little commotion in the bathroom, outside the warm haven of my shower, and I figured it was probably Donald using the bathroom or deciding he'd had enough of being unshaven and rumpled. Of course, I wasn't complaining. He's cute as a bug when he's all messy and bleary-eyed and bundled up in an old robe. Besides, if we were going to be shut in the house all day together, chances are good we'd be needing a shower again later.

After turning off the water, I opened the shower door and grabbed my towel, drying off my hair and then wrapping it around my waist. I almost fell down in the tub when I saw Farley sitting there, since I wasn't expecting anyone or anything else to be right outside the shower stall. He was just waiting, calm as can be, a large pink gift bag with a big red heart on it held in his jaws.

"Gee, a Valentine gift from Farley," I said in a voice loud enough I knew it would reach the real culprit, who was apparently still lurking on the bed. "What've you got for me, big guy?" I asked the dog, who willingly released the handles of the bag from his mouth when I tugged gently on them. I patted him and kissed the top of his head, opening the bag. Inside, beneath a tangle of tissue paper that was an ugly parody of a "pouf"and proof Donald had prepared this gift bag himself, was something dark red, on the border between blood red and burgundy. It was probably velour but it felt more like velvet. It wasn't overly heavy, but incredibly soft. I pulled it out of the bag, and held up a beautiful robe I couldn't wait to try on.

I put my finger up to my lips at Farley, signaling him to be quiet. Miraculously, he was, and waited while I finished drying off, got my hair mostly dry, and put on a dash of aftershave I knew Donald liked best on me, even though I didn't shave. He'd told me before he thought I was "dangerously sexy" when I went for the "scruffy" look - unshaven and without my glasses. I feel messy without shaving, and since I don't see all that well without my glasses, I usually don't run around that way too often. But this was a special occasion, and if that turned Donald on, I could handle giving him a little surprise.

I put on the robe, and it fit perfectly. Grinning, I loosened the tie a little and let it hang mostly open, almost to the waist, giving a good view of my chest. Oh, no, Donald's not the only satyr in the house.

I walked out of the bathroom and hit the power button on the TV, turning it off.

"I love the robe," I said, purposely keeping my voice low, letting it drop to the husky level of "bedroom voice." I tried not to smile too widely as I watched Donald's eyes bug, and his Adam's apple bob once as he straightened up on the bed.

"It looks great on you," he said, still staring at me like he wanted to eat me alive.

"You want to put Farley in the hall?" I asked, pointedly flipping the Venetian blinds closed.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, right, the dog," he muttered, retrieving Farley from the bathroom and gently ushering him out the door. The minute it closed, I trapped Donald against it and kissed him, my hands on the door, on either side of him. I tugged open his robe and he was more than happy to let me pull it off him, tossing it aside. I took him in my arms, still tempering the force of my embrace to favor the last of the bruises healing on his sides and his back. Nonetheless, he knew I was in the driver's seat, and he seemed to be one happy passenger.

I kissed him some more, liking the friction of our morning stubble against each other. I kissed his neck, his chest, licked at his nipples, slid down to kiss and nip at his stomach and his navel. He was getting hard and so was I. We made our way back toward the bed, and I urged him to lie on his back. I tugged his boxers off and twirled them around on my finger a few times, tossing them aside. I was grinning and he was laughing. I took off my new robe, tossing it carefully over a nearby chair. I climbed on the bed with him and pushed his legs up, burying my face between them, kissing him, licking him, moving up his thighs, kissing that soft skin, and then before he knew what hit him, I had my tongue inside him, and he was moaning and grabbing onto fistfuls of the sheets. I knew my whiskers were teasing and rubbing on his tenderest of places while I tongued him for all I was worth.

Grabbing the lube, which was in the final stages and almost empty after some very good nights lately, I got us both ready and then slid inside him, leaning over him, loving the feeling of his thighs wrapping around me as I took his mouth the way I was taking his body. His hands were in my hair, then grabbing at my back and my arms, finally on my chest, rubbing over my nipples, his fingers tracing over my chest like he was a blind man mapping the territory by touch. I worked hard at making him come. I wanted him to come first, I wanted to decide when he'd come, my strokes more insistent, my aim at his prostate more deliberate.

"Oh, God, Timothy," he gasped, right before he let out a cry with his climax that was louder than usual, more guttural, more primal. Watching him come, knowing I'd done that to him, I found myself coming, even though I wanted to last longer.

When it was over, I reluctantly slipped free of his body, and then went about gathering him in my arms, covering us both up, cuddling him. His heart was still pounding, like mine was. I could almost feel them pounding against each other, trying to find a shared rhythm as we cooled down, sharing a wonderfully exhausted, sweaty afterglow. I was busy kissing his forehead, stroking his hair, trying to figure out a way to make him feel as loved and treasured as he was.

"If I'd know a new robe would do that to you, I'd get you one every Valentine's Day," he said, looking up at me. "God, you look so fucking hot, I wish I had the energy to screw you into the mattress."

"We've got time for you to get your second wind and return the favor," I replied, running my hand down his side, over his hip and thigh, and back up again. "It's not just the robe. It's all of it...no, that's not right. It's not the things. I love the gifts but it's not the things. It's you, honey, and the way you love me. You're the light of my life, you know that, right?"

"Never doubted it," he said, smiling, kissing me.

"I could get lost in those eyes," I said, looking into those big, stunning blue eyes of his. In all my life, I've never seen more beautiful eyes than Donald's. It's not just their color or their shape, but it's what I see deep inside them. His beautiful soul and his love and his fidelity and...and the happiness that seems to make them sparkle whenever he looks at me. That I'm the cause of that sparkle makes my heart sing.

I don't really know how long I held him, but when I got up, it was because I wanted to make him breakfast in bed. I took Farley downstairs with me and let him outside to take care of business, and then gave him his morning meal while I fixed breakfast for Donald and me.

I performed the death-defying act of carrying a tray up the stairs, without my glasses on, and with Farley deciding he should somehow fit himself between my legs and the railing so he could come with me. I had dog treats in my pocket. I knew he'd want to participate in breakfast even if he had just eaten his downstairs.

We ate our breakfast in bed, occasionally tossing Farley a dog treat as he lounged on the floor nearby. He was smart enough to know that this dog wasn't moving over anytime soon, so he'd have to wait to take the spot next to Donald.

After breakfast, Farley spent more time in the hall. Donald had his second wind, fortified with breakfast. I enjoyed just relaxing there on my stomach on the bed, letting him take the reins this time. He was kissing his way down my back, caressing me, rubbing my shoulders. When he was inside me, he took his time, building the pleasure, measuring his moves to prolong our union. It was a languid contrast to the urgency of our earlier lovemaking, and I savored every second of it.

As we lay there together afterwards, I had to ask him a question.

"Do you really think I look better without my glasses?"

"Huh?" I realized then he'd been so quiet because he'd dozed off. Either that, or he was a lot less eloquent than usual.

"Do you like me better without my glasses?" I asked, raising up on one elbow to look at him.

"No, I don't like you better. There's no way possible I could like you any better," he added, tweaking my nose.

"I could try the contacts again, if you want."

"They irritated your eyes, honey. You look beautiful with your glasses on, so why bother?"

"I just thought, if you like the way I look without them, I would try it again."

"Nah, not on my account. This way, I get two versions of you. Glasses and no glasses. I wouldn't want to do without either one of you." He pulled me toward him for a kiss. Then he stroked my cheek lightly. "Do I make you feel like I think you're better looking one way or the other?"

"No, no, not really. I just wondered."

"Don't wonder. You're beautiful, sweetheart. No matter what you're wearing, or not wearing," he added, giving me one of his big smiles. That made everything okay. I hugged him, and I believed him. And I felt beautiful.

********

Donald

Later that afternoon, we decided to take Farley out to work off a little energy. I started playing fetch with him in the front yard while Timmy made his way carefully out to get the mail. The pavement was so slippery that he could barely stand up, and ironically ended up trudging through the snow instead of walking on the driveway he'd practically licked clean. I was standing up near the house, throwing Farley the ball. He ignored the last one I threw, stiffening his stance and barking raucously. I looked up to see Timmy at the mailbox, pausing in his sorting of the envelopes to look at Farley. And then I saw the black sedan skidding out of control, heading straight toward where Timothy was standing.

"Timothy, look out!" I screamed at him, feeling like my legs wouldn't move fast enough through the snow, as if I were stuck in fucking quicksand. Farley bounded toward him, and it was all happening so fast that Timmy really couldn't do anything quickly enough to save himself. I watched helplessly, still trying to reach him, as Farley knocked him down, the car barely missed both of them, skidding up onto our yard, the front fender just barely grazing me enough to knock me in the snow before it came to a stop. I was on my hands and knees, and then finally on my feet again, running toward Timmy, who was on his back in the road, Farley next to him, barking incessantly.

I dropped to my knees on the hard, icy pavement and picked up Timmy's glasses that had flown off his face. How could he have ever thought I didn't like the way he looked wearing those? I adored that face no matter what was or wasn't on it or around it. I touched his face with both hands, afraid to move him, to jerk his neck or back. He was out, unconscious, not moving.

"I couldn't control the car," a woman's voice came from behind me. "Is he all right?"

I turned to see an older woman with gray hair, well dressed, staggering through the snow from her stranded luxury car.

"Call 9-1-1!" I shouted. She nodded, pulling out her cell phone and making the call.

I took Timmy's hand in mine, terrified, knowing I was on the verge of crying I was so afraid of how hurt he was, that he wasn't waking up. There were a couple neighbors struggling to slide across the ice to join the commotion.

"Timothy, come on, honey, wake up. Look at me," I begged him. He didn't move, didn't blink. I felt like I was going to be sick. In that moment, I knew if he died, I would die, too. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even next week. But soon. He's my heart, my soul, my only true love, the center of my world and the reason I have to be happy, and there's no life I want without him.

********

Timothy

My head was killing me. That much I knew. I also knew enough to know I was in a hospital. They take you when you feel the worst and put you on a bed that is a rack of torture. I fought to open my eyes. I squeezed an all-too-familiar hand that was holding mine.

"Timmy?" It was Donald's voice, but it sounded so tentative, so fearful, like a lost little boy. I squeezed his hand harder, so he'd know I heard him, and then I managed to get my eyes open, even though my head pounded and I really didn't want to face light at the moment.

"Donald?" I croaked. My voice sounded worse than I thought it would. I wondered if I'd been out for days, weeks, months, or if maybe I was one of those coma patients that is out of it for years and then miraculously rejoins the living. I was almost afraid to look at Donald, for fear he'd be an old man.

"Yeah, it's me, honey. I'm right here," he said, and I could feel his fingertips brushing my face in a caress. I turned my head enough to surprise him by kissing his hand. I was going to be equally surprised if my head didn't explode from the pain. I focused on Donald's soft, warm lips on mine, then on my forehead. "You have a concussion," he said. "That's why your head hurts so much," he added. Did I say something about my head? Or did he just notice my scrunched up face?

"What happened?"

"You were getting the mail, and a lady lost control of her car on the ice, and almost hit you."

"Almost hit me? Donald, she ran over my head," I stated firmly. Finally, he laughed. I was so glad to hear that sound. On the rare occasions I've been really sick or really hurt, I know Donald panics, and he's scared to death until he sees for himself that I'm okay. I managed to give him a smile back.

"You hit your head on the cement when you fell backwards. Farley knocked you down, and she barely missed both of you. If he hadn't..." Donald paused, and I knew he was choking up.

"But he did," I said, reaching up to touch Donald's face. "How long have I been out?"

"Just a few hours, but it feels like days," he admitted, holding onto my hand like a lifeline. "The doctor said you'll be sore for a while from the jolt of hitting the pavement, but you don't have any other broken bones or internal injuries. I should be able to take you home tomorrow, since you're back among the living now," he said. "I should get the doctor. I'm sure he'll want to ask you all those fascinating questions to be sure you're not brain damaged."

"Is Farley okay?"

"He's fine. Kenny's dog-sitting. Farley was freaking out with you hurt, and me freaking out, and the ambulance and everything. I didn't want to leave him alone, so I called Kenny. He's at the house with him."

"Good." I sighed and closed my eyes. "He saved my life."

"Yeah, he did. I guess he was returning the favor, saving the life that's more precious to me than my own," he said, kissing my hand. I opened my eyes again for that.

"I love you, Donald. Don't worry about me. I'll be okay."

"I know."

I felt almost too wiped out to move, but I managed to hold out my arms, and in an instant, he was in them, his head on my shoulder. I patted his back and kissed the top of his head. After a few minutes, he kissed me and went to find the doctor.

I glanced at the bedside table, and couldn't believe there was already a dozen red roses in a vase there. I smiled, managing to touch the edge of one of the blooms.

I would be home for Valentine's Day.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Valentine's Day

********

Donald

Timothy finally made me go home. I'm not sure why he thinks I get any sleep when he's not there, but maybe it's because I'm out a lot at night, and he had to get used to sleeping when I'm not there. Is that fair? I can't really sleep without him beside me, but I make him sleep without me when I'm out all night? I don't know, and he doesn't hold it against me. He takes it as part and parcel of living with a private eye, even if he occasionally grumbles about it or gently suggests I should consider another line of work. But he never pushes me. He loves me the way I am. I think it's the first time in my whole life that someone's loved me because of who and what I am, loved my faults and my strengths, my weaknesses, my good qualities and my flaws. He doesn't want me to change into anything other than what I am. Even if that means dealing with my crazy-ass schedule.

I'm glad in a way I did go home, because Farley was inconsolable without us there. Kenny had tried everything, but Farley wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, and eventually took up residence by the front door when it got dark and neither one of us was there. By early evening, he began to howl. And he didn't stop until I got home.

Kenny was apologetic, and more than a little unsettled, at being unable to control anything about Farley's behavior. The dog didn't really do anything horrible, but Kenny might as well not have been there at all. The animal control officer who rescued him had finally returned my call that afternoon, ironically, while I was at the hospital with Timmy. After listening to her voicemail on the way home, I could understand why Farley was as traumatized by what happened as I was.

His first owner, the one who'd been good to him and raised him the first four years of his life, disappeared and ended up in the river, a homicide victim. Apparently he had some major gambling debts and while the murder hadn't been solved, the prevailing theory was that someone he owed money collected the ultimate payment. Farley had been alone in the house for days, and when someone did come for him, it was the victim's brother, the man who ended up subjecting him to three years of abuse before animal control took custody of him.

No wonder he was scared when Timmy and I just disappeared, and neither one of us came home when we were supposed to. When I approached the door, I was stunned by the mournful sounds of howling. In an instant, the howls turned to excited barking. I opened the door, and Farley went after me like I'd been away for weeks. He jumped up with both paws on my shoulders, licking my face, and then he stopped, looking behind me. He followed me into the house, and then went back to the door.

"Man, am I glad to see you," Kenny said, grabbing his jacket from where he'd tossed it on the couch. "He was going nuts here without you guys. How's Tim?"

"He's going to be fine. He has a mild concussion, and he'll be sore for a while from landing so hard on the cement, but he's okay. He's coming home tomorrow."

"Close call."

"Too close," I said.

"You gonna be okay here?" Kenny asked, shrugging into his jacket.

"We're good," I replied, petting Farley as he came up next to me. The way he looked up at me with that one big eye of his told me he was worried about Timmy. I wished there was a way I could make him understand everything was going to be okay. Maybe he would understand when I did. I wouldn't rest until Timmy was home, either.

After Kenny left, I made another attempt at feeding Farley, and he ate a little of his food. I made a sandwich, but I didn't eat much of my food, either. I felt sick in the pit of my stomach, hating the silence and emptiness of the house without Timothy there. I sat on the couch, and I just wanted to cry. It was stupid. Timmy was okay, and he'd be back home tomorrow. I'd be at the hospital in the morning.

Farley got up on the couch and put his big head in my lap.

"Thank you," I said to him, kissing the top of his head. If it weren't for him, I might be sitting there like that coming to terms with the reality that Timmy was never coming home. So I sat there and started to cry. I didn't let myself wallow in it long. Instead, I called Timmy's room. I needed to hear his voice, and I thought maybe hearing it would help Farley, too. God, we were a pathetic pair without him.

********

Timothy

I was dozing when the phone rang, and I had a pretty good idea who it was.

"Hello," I greeted, just in case it was someone other than Donald, or a wrong number.

"Hi, honey. How're you feeling?"

"Anxious to be home with you," I replied. There was a silence, and I realized he was choking up. My heart broke for him, and I just wanted to hold him. "It's okay, honey. I'll be home tomorrow. Valentine's Day," I added. "I've got to get home to see what you've got up your sleeve for the big day."

"I'm sorry. I know you do this all the time. Stay here at night when I'm not around. God, it sucks. Does it suck this bad for you?"

"It sucks, but not as bad. I know you're doing a job you like, even if you don't like it all the time," I said. "I know you'll be home eventually."

"I know that, too," he said, but he still didn't sound convinced.

"You had a pretty good scare. I didn't really see what happened - I just landed on the road. You saw it, thought I was a goner."

"This is going to sound nuts, but would you say something to Farley? I think he needs to know you're okay."

"Sure. Put the phone by him." I waited a few seconds, and then I talked to our dog. He saved my life; the least I could do was make a fool of myself talking on the phone to a dog. "Hey, Farley, you're a good boy, aren't you? You're my buddy, my good dog, huh?"

I cracked up laughing when I heard Farley barking in response to my voice, much to my regret when my head started pounding.

"Thanks, honey. At least one of us will get some sleep tonight," he added. "I miss you," he said.

"I miss you, too, baby," I said, in the gentlest voice I could manage, trying to hug him with my words. "Get some sleep. Remember I'm fine, and I'll be home."

"Yeah, I know you will. It's stupid. I just keep thinking ..."

"What, honey?"

"If Farley hadn't gotten to you in time, and I had to come home alone after..."

"Don't think about that, Donald. I didn't die, Farley did get to me, and I'm going to be fine."

"I know."

"If it helps, I'll be thinking about you all night. If I doze off, I'm going to dream about you. I don't know what it'll be about, but I usually dream about you when you're not with me."

"You do?"

"I do."

"I like hearing those words from you."

"I'm always glad to say them to you. Just get a little sleep tonight, honey."

"I'll do my best."

"You're smiling," I said, hearing it in his voice.

"Yeah, I am."

"Good. I'm closing my eyes, and I can see that beautiful smile. Now I can go to sleep."

"Me, too," he said, and I could still hear that smile.

"I love you," I said, and I put as much feeling into it as I could.

"I love you, too, beautiful. I'll be there first thing."

"Bring me an Sausage McMuffin?"

"With egg, and a potato cake?"

"Oh, yeah, that sounds good."

"I'll be there."

"You always are," I said.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he said.

"Well it's time to go," I sang to him.

"I hate to leave you, but I really must say," he replied, singing.

"Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight," I concluded, and he chuckled. Mission accomplished. We'd progressed from a smile to a chuckle. He'd be okay, and maybe he'd even sleep a while.

"See you tomorrow, honey."

"I'll be here. Love you."

"I love you, too."

I hung up the phone and let myself doze again, though I knew the noises of the hospital and the constant vital sign checks would probably thwart any attempt I made at real sleep.

********

Donald was true to his word, at the hospital bright and early with breakfast take out that was much better than anything on the hospital menu. It took them until noon to release me, since they had to wait for the doctor to see me, and he apparently wasn't inclined to see patients at dawn on Sunday.

I felt like I'd been sprung from prison when we finally had my walking papers in hand, and Donald commandeered a wheelchair to get me out of there. We were about to leave the room when a tall, attractive elderly woman with gray hair and obviously expensive clothing tapped on the open door.

"Mr. Callahan?" she asked.

"I'm Tim Callahan," I replied.

"I'm Genevieve Matthews. I was driving the car that...skidded into your yard yesterday," she said. "I wanted to apologize in person," she added, extending her hand to me. I shook it.

"That was thoughtful of you, but it's not necessary. It was an accident."

"I was going too fast. My daughter called me, and she was going into labor with my first grandchild, and I was so anxious to get there..."

"Thank God our dog saw you coming," Donald said, apparently not as prepared as I was to let her off the hook. She'd almost hit me, even if it was accidental, and it didn't surprise me that he was still a bit terse with her. All I could see was my own mother, who about this lady's age, and picture her driving to the birth of a grandchild through an ice storm. I'd want someone to cut her some slack.

"I know it's not an excuse. I feel terrible that you were hurt. I'm so thankful it wasn't worse."

"Yeah, the charges would be pretty serious if you'd hit him," Donald said.

"Donald, it's okay. It was an accident," I said, reaching back to take his hand as he stood behind my wheelchair, one hand on my shoulder, as if he thought he should protect me from her. Without her car, she wasn't nearly as deadly.

"That's very gracious of you," she said. "Again, I just wanted to apologize, and make sure you were going to be all right."

"Yes, I'm going home now, actually. What did your daughter have?"

"A girl," she said, beaming with all the joy of a new grandmother.

"Enjoy your granddaughter and don't worry about this. We were all lucky," I said.

"Thank you. If there's anything I can do, any expenses your insurance doesn't cover, please let me know. This is my contact information," she said, handing me a small piece of paper with her name and phone number on it.

"Thank you," I said, taking it. She held out her hand toward Donald.

"I really am sorry," she said. I gave him a look, and he somewhat reluctantly shook hands with her. After she left, he didn't have much to say as we started down the hall toward the elevator. I was holding my roses, and Donald had my overnight bag over his shoulder as he pushed the chair.

"That could have happened to anyone, Donald. It was an accident. It's not like she was drunk, or being reckless."

"Fat lot of consolation that would have been if she'd killed you," he said, punching the button for the elevator.

"She didn't, and it was an accident. Let it go, honey."

"Let it go?"

"Yes, let it go. It's Valentine's Day. Do it for me?" I looked up at him, and I knew I had him. He kissed my banged up head.

"Okay, honey. For you." He smiled at me. "Anything for you, Timothy."

I made Donald stop at the pet supply store on the way home, and over his objections that I should be resting, insisted we get Farley a present. He had colorful balls, chew toys, treats, a nice bed...I wasn't sure what I wanted to get, but when I saw it, I knew. I chose a doggy coat, a red one, with sparkly silver letters spelling out "TOP DOG." I made up my mind Farley would wear that whenever we took a walk in the cold weather. I chose a red collar with the same sparkly words on it for the warm weather.

When we approached our door, we could hear the usual flurry of barking from inside. Donald had told me Farley's history, and I felt so sorry for him, and for how scared he must have been when we didn't come home, and then when Donald came home alone. I know he's a dog, that he doesn't understand all the specifics of the situation, but he knew enough to be scared, and he'd been scared enough in his life.

As soon as we were inside, Farley was circling us, barking, excited, but it was as if he knew enough not to jump on me, as if he sensed I was moving more slowly, carefully. I crouched by him and hugged him, surprised that I felt so emotional, that I was tearing up. I removed his plain blue collar and put the new sparkly red one on him. Donald was kneeling with us now, and we shared a group hug. Our little family was intact, thanks to its newest member. We saved him, and he saved us. There is no more beautiful dog in the world than the one who would give his life for you without a second thought.

"I have something to show you, honey," Donald said. "You feel up to coming upstairs with me?"

"Sure," I said, ready to climb a mountain to be with him if that's what it took. Farley loped upstairs behind us, and I had a feeling we wouldn't be shutting him out in the hall tonight. For one thing, I wasn't sure that, between the pounding in my head and stiffness in my neck and back, I felt like much of anything except a hot bath and being treated to all the affection and cuddling Donald wanted to give me. For another, we all seemed to need to just be reassured that we were okay and together. I didn't want Farley to be afraid or nervous. I wanted him to know his family was here, and that we weren't going to disappear on him.

Donald opened the bedroom door and I walked in, stopping short when I looked on the wall above the bed. The intimate portrait we'd had taken, enlarged, matted, and framed, hung there. It was stunning, moving, and more strikingly beautiful than I could have imagined. In black and white, it had a subtlety and tastefulness about it, but at the same time, the love and closeness and intimacy between us just shone in that pose.

"Donald, it's beautiful," I said, wishing I could think of something more profound to say.

"I'm glad we did it."

"Me, too," I agreed.

"How about a nap?" he asked. "You look tired, honey."

He was right. I was tired. I didn't sleep much the night before, and the relief of being home was making me eye the bed longingly.

"Sounds good." I got into my pajamas and he turned back the bed, then stripped down to his underwear. He looked a little puzzled when I went into the hall momentarily, but smiled when I came back in dragging Farley's bed, and placed it a few feet away from ours.

We cuddled together under the covers, and Farley curled up in his bed. My body ached and my head still hurt, but the warm, gentle pressure of Donald's body against my back as he spooned around me felt good, soothing. The bed was our bed, comfortable and safe and warm. I knew we should set an alarm so we didn't miss Valentine's Day, so we could still have our romantic time together. I felt so good there, wrapped up in Donald's arms, our big four-legged guardian angel there to watch over us, that I never wanted to move again.

********

Donald

When I woke up, it was dark. We'd moved around in our sleep a bit, and now Timmy was facing me, his warm breath feeling good against my cheek, his nose almost touching mine. I could hear Farley snoring. This was probably as close to Heaven as anyone could get. I squinted at the clock.

"Eleven o'clock?" I said, forgetting I was shattering the silence and disturbing my sleeping companions. Timmy squinted at me sleepily.

"Did we sleep through Valentine's Day?" he asked.

"Not yet. We have an hour," I said, kissing him between his eyes. I knew his head hurt, and the rest of him didn't feel much better. I put my arm around him, rubbing his back a little. "Do you want to just go back to sleep, honey?"

"No!" He blinked a couple times, easing up on his elbow with a wince. "I want to give you your present. And I'm starving."

"Yeah, me, too."

"Let's just order a pizza," he suggested, and I couldn't argue with that wisdom. Something hot and tasty delivered to our door that we didn't have to cook. Of course, it wasn't exactly aphrodisiac material, but then we weren't exactly dressed in our silky nightwear trying to seduce each other, either.

I ordered pizza for us, got some treats handy for Farley, and when I came back, Timmy was sitting up in bed, a small wrapped package and a card in his lap, smiling that sweet smile of his. I knew he'd have a present for me today, but I still felt a little rush of happiness when I saw him sitting there with it. Not because I was going to get a present, although I admit I love opening presents, especially from Timmy. But because my sweet, beautiful, kind, reason for living was alive and reasonably well and there in our bed to give it to me. The present, I mean. I was hoping he'd be giving it to me in bed again soon, but I didn't want to come on to him because I didn't want to pressure him into hurting himself. I was betting a hot bath and a nice back rub would feel good to him, and give me a chance to put my hands on his beautiful body on Valentine's night.

He looked especially pleased when I lit a few candles on the dresser, and reduced the lamplight in the room to a dimmer level - enough so we could see our cards and gifts. Once the pizza was delivered, we sat in bed eating it. We joked around, feeding each other, turning the pizza into food for lovers. I couldn't stop touching him, nuzzling him, smelling him, just listening to his voice and his laughter, and thanking whatever higher power that let me keep him with me. He put up with me sticking to him like human flypaper, seemed to like it, even.

We broke our policies about food and let Farley steal a few little pieces of pizza that Timmy carefully tore off, as if he were mentally measuring and weighing them. He takes Farley's nutrition very seriously, considering it crucial to dealing with his arthritis. To see the dog bounding around when he's with us, you'd never know he had any mobility issues at all.

I retrieved my package and card and moved the pizza remnants out of the way.

"I thought the portrait was my present," he said, smiling when I handed him the gift.

"I have the whole set of proofs from the photographer. I haven't opened them. I thought we could go through them together," I told him. "You already knew about the portrait session. You have one more surprise coming."

"Should I open it?" he asked. "Can I open my card first?"

"Whatever you want, honey," I said, slipping my arm behind him, squeezing gently. I didn't want to hurt him. I felt like he was made of crystal.

He opened the card, and I watched him swallow at the first few words, and his eyes fill as he read the rest of it. I remembered every word I'd written the night before, when I was sitting here on our bed without him.

Dear Timmy,

I'm sitting here alone without you. I just hung the portrait over our bed, and it looks great. It somehow makes the room feel even more like our intimate retreat from the world. Right now, it hurts to look at it because all I can think of is the feeling of your arms around me, your warm skin against mine, the way you smell, the way you feel, and how the thought of never feeling that again is my worst fear.

You're everything, honey. I love you so much. I can't wait to have you home with me again. In my hottest fantasy, it's all about you. I can't dream up anybody hotter, sexier, or that I could love more or want more. Sometimes it's hard to believe you're real, and that you're mine.

Happy Valentine's Day with all my love,

D.

"I love you, too," he said, choked up, hugging me. I hugged back, kissing his cheek, stroking his hair, careful not to put any pressure on the back of his head where he was bruised.

"Open your present," I urged, anxious to see his reaction. He tore off the paper and opened the box, removing the gift. I'd gotten him a globe - it was dark blue with silver, gold, and copper colored continents. It sat on a black marble base, and was solar powered, so as long as there was light, the globe would turn. I'd had an engraved plate added to the base.

You make my world turn. I love you. Donald

"Honey, it's beautiful," he said, setting it carefully on the night stand. He hugged me again, and I had no objections. Timmy gives the best hugs in the world. "My turn," he said, pulling back. He handed me a card and the small box. I opened my card first. It was a white card with a couple of red roses on it, and two interlocking gold wedding bands. Inside, the printed verse said, Everyday, I'm more glad that I'm married to you. Then I read Timothy's handwritten note.

My Dearest Donald,

For the last two weeks, you've made me feel like the most treasured man in the world. But that's nothing new. You do that all the time. I love looking forward to all the sweet little, and not so little, things you do for me around Valentine's Day, but you are my Valentine and my greatest gift.

I could get lost in those big blue eyes of yours. The way you look at me, the love I always see there, that good, sweet soul of yours that just...shines. When you smile, you light up a room. You light up my life, and lift me up no matter what kind of day I've had. When you smile at me, my heart leaps a little.

You're always there for me. I never wonder if you'll help me, or how I'm going to handle something I don't know how to handle. I know you'll be there, I know you'll listen to me and that you'll care, and I know that you'll find time for me, no matter what else you're doing. You're so smart and so strong, and so resourceful, I don't have to be afraid of anything. There's nothing we can't take on together.

You bring a sense of inner peace to my life. You balance me and you calm me. Sometimes just talking to you makes everything okay in my world.

You've never touched me with anything but love, and you've never said a truly unkind word to me. I never question your love, your fidelity, or your friendship. You're my best friend and my favorite person. There's no one I'd rather be with, and nothing I want or need that you don't give me. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm so glad I have you.

There aren't the right words to tell you how much I love you. Just know that every day I'm alive, I thank God for you, for the day we met, and that you want to spend your life with me.

I love you with all my heart and soul, my body, my mind, my desire...all I am. Happy Valentine's Day, my love.

All my love,

Timmy

I couldn't see very well by the end of the note. I knew I was crying and I didn't care. I held him and kissed him and babbled a bunch of professions of love to him. I knew I'd treasure his note until the day I died. That someone as amazing as Timothy thinks I'm amazing, too? That blows me away.

"Open your present, honey," he urged, handing me the little box.

I tore off the paper, and revealed a black velvet jewelry box. Curious, I opened it. Inside were a pair of cufflinks. Each one was a gold swan with a tiny diamond eye. One was engraved with a "D" and the other was engraved with a "T".

"Swans mate for life," he said softly. "I know you usually are bored senseless with the events where you have to use cufflinks and fancy tuxes, so I thought maybe these would remind you how much I love you for going with me to those things, and how proud I am to walk into those events with you as my partner."

"Timmy, they're beautiful. You're beautiful," I said, not really knowing the right words to express what I felt. So I just took him carefully in my arms and kissed him. Deeply. For a long time. He might be sore and his head might hurt, but there was nothing wrong with that beautiful mouth of his. "You rest, and I'm going to get our bath ready," I said.

********

Timothy

Donald filled the bathroom with lit candles, and prepared a warm tub scented with something calming and soothing. He brought champagne and strawberries and whipped cream, and once we were settled in the water, we toasted each other. We fed each other the strawberries, dipping them in the whipped cream, occasionally swiping at each other's noses or chins with the whipped cream, kissing or licking it off.

He rubbed my achy back and neck, and held me in his arms, kissing me and relaxing me. He knew I was hurting, and he didn't put any moves on me. We just enjoyed the intimacy of bathing each other, and when I could see he was getting excited, I took him in my hand and gently stroked him until he came. Then I held him a while longer before we decided to get out of the tub, dry off, and get into bed.

We cuddled together naked under the covers, shifting around until we found the position that felt best to my sore spots. We left Farley sleeping soundly a few feet away from us, his soft snoring encouraging us to do the same.  

"Happy Valentine's Day, honey," I said, kissing him one more time before I started to drift.

"Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart." Donald's voice came through a yawn, and I smiled, loving the feeling of his body relaxing against mine. I couldn't think of a sweeter way to end our Valentine's Day.