Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born Read online

  I crumpled and discarded sheet after sheet of paper, second-guessing my wording to the point where I began to doubt I'd ever be able to compose something acceptable, respectable—adorable? Yes, I wanted him to adore me. But how does one achieve that in a few sentences?

  Friday, finally. I got no sleep the previous night. Both mental and physical exhaustion were taking their toll on me, and I only hoped it wasn't showing in my work. I didn't want to lose any clients. The money I was earning was enough to allow me to help my mother pay rent and still put some cash away in a bank account. It was good to have a certain amount of financial independence, and that was worth preserving.

  In my pocket was the response note I intended to slip to Beau—somehow. I didn't have absolute confidence in the words I eventually settled on, but it was too late now to crumple up yet another sheet and start anew. This was going to have to be the draft that would be delivered. I took it out and carefully unfolded it to read one last time.

  Thank you for your kind note. It was much appreciated. Since you were kind enough to ask, when not working, I enjoy the picture shows. I also like walks and music and reading and writing letters. What about you?

  D

  Actually, I neither received nor wrote many letters, but I wanted him to feel free to write me as much as he liked. So I included that part as a sort of indirect invitation.

  The addition of the final words—"What about you?"—was something I wrestled with for three days. That's a day per word, for those of you who are keen on numbers. That should tell you something about how big a decision this was for me. Sure, it sounds like a fairly innocuous question, but this wasn't just any boy. Was it too forward of me to ask this particular boy—the son of my employer—such a direct question? Was I asking for personal information the likes of which I had no right to inquire? Would it be viewed as impertinent? I just wasn't sure. Many a draft was torn up immediately after I wrote those words. However, finally and with much doubt, I convinced myself to let them be. I wanted so desperately for this to be more than just a one-note exchange. If I asked a question, at least he'd have a reason to write again, if only to answer it. If he didn't answer it, then I'd know for certain that his interest in writing me his note was merely a simple kindness that would not be repeated. If he answered, then I'd have a second opportunity to gauge if there was a true interest that might flourish into something more. I had to take the chance.

  Timidity be damned! Ask him for another note, and let the chips fall where they may!

  As soon as I entered the Eldridge house, my mind raced with thoughts of how to get my note to Beau. I certainly couldn't stick it in his pants pocket. Undeniably inappropriate. I couldn't just hand it to him, even when I saw him walking about the house. Mr. Eldridge was at work, but Mrs. Eldridge was there, as were Beau's thirteen-year-old and fifteen-year-old sisters, and any of them could happen upon me trying to pass the note to him. What's more, even if we were alone, simply handing him the note seemed wrong. That's not the way he had done it. His way was sneaky. Actually, I prefer the word clandestine because it sounds so much classier. Don't you think?

  Anyway, I assumed I needed to employ a similar method. The opportunity presented itself when I was cleaning Beau's bedroom. There was no one else around, and there before me was Beau's bed, with his pillow, the resting place for his lovely blond head as he slept.

  Should I leave the note on his pillow where he'd find it just before going to bed; hopefully making me the last thing he'd think about before falling asleep? No! Too risky! What if someone else spied and intercepted it? Such a fate for my carefully worded note! Surely, a better, less noticeable place is needed!

  Of course! It suddenly seemed so obvious. The pillowcase. I peered out the bedroom door to see if anyone was coming. The coast was clear. Then I darted toward the bed, note in hand, and slipped my words into the pillowcase such that the paper was covered by the linens, but would be felt through the material as soon as Beau touched his head to it. He, and only he, would receive my message, right at the very end of his day. In a romantic kind of way, I would be with him when he went to bed. It was genius.

  I left the Eldridges at the close of the workday, feeling self-satisfied. I had cleverly done what I had intended. The message delivery was a snap. The really hard part would be waiting yet another week to find out if Beau would respond.

  I sweated out the week, worrying over what Beau thought of my message, worrying about whether he'd choose to answer me, and worrying about the possibility that he somehow didn't feel the paper in the pillowcase.

  What if he turned the pillow over before putting his head on it, never seeing the note at all? What if someone else got to it first and read it before Beau even had the chance?

  I fretted over the catastrophe it would be if Mr. Eldridge were waiting inside the house next Friday to scold me for being a wanton girl and to dismiss me from his service.

  Oh, god! What have I done? What will I do if I'm fired, or if they tell all the other families and they all fire me? Why, oh, why, did I take such a risk?

  Friday again. I tiptoed through the Eldridge kitchen door. Mr. Eldridge wasn't there. Mrs. Eldridge gave me the usual nod that was her typical greeting. Nothing seemed different. Everything and everyone seemed exactly as they were when I left last week. Apparently, the disasters my imagination had concocted didn't materialize.

  And there was Beau. He was seated in the parlor, thumbing through a Sears catalogue. I tried not to look directly at him, although I was dying to read the expression on his face when he noticed me.

  "Good morning," he said in his usual, cordial manner.

  "Good morning." I felt my throat constricting.

  "Did you have a nice week?"

  "Yes. Nice week."

  "Good."

  Had he read my note? Had he not? Was he planning to respond? Was he intrigued? Amused? Put off? For God's sake, Beau, give me a sign!

  I was about to exit up to the second floor when he spoke once more.

  "Oh, would you mind fluffing my pillow when you clean my room?"

  The pillow! He was giving me a sign! He'd read my note! And now he was directing me back to the pillow. Was there a reason for that? What would I find there?

  "Of course." I nodded courteously and continued on my way up the stairs.

  As soon as I reached the top step, I dashed directly for Beau's bedroom. Once inside his room, I skipped to the bed and cautiously felt the pillow. There was definitely something within the pillowcase, something stiff and crinkly. Without even checking to see if anyone was around, I reached into the pillowcase and extracted a new folded piece of paper. I opened it to see what it contained.

  Whiz-bang! There are a lot more words on this note!

  I couldn't spend the time reading the note right there and then. That would be too risky. Mrs. Eldridge could come along and demand to know what I was reading during the time her husband was paying me to be working. I refolded the paper and placed it inside my skirt pocket. This would be something to savor when it was safe. Meanwhile, I basked in the glow of my then most cherished possession—my personal message from Beau.

  The end of the workday couldn't come quick enough, and, even though it meant I'd be leaving the home where my precious boy lived, I was overjoyed to finally have the opportunity I had been waiting for—a chance to read the note. I opened it the moment I was out of sight of the house.

  Dear D,

  What nice handwriting you have. Even if I didn't know who wrote it, I could have told that it was from a girl's hand. Very delicate lettering.

  I like the picture shows, too. Have you seen Chaplin's latest? It's very funny.

  When you take walks, where do you go? Do you ever walk along the Potomac? It's probably too hot to do that now. At least, during the day. But maybe at night when the sun goes down and it feels cooler.

  Did you happen to see the full moon on the 4th? I was at a party with my family that night. And I looked up and saw the moon. And
I wondered whether you might be out taking a walk then and looking at the moon, too. If you were, then you know how bright and big it was. It was like a light bulb in the sky. Did you know they call a July moon a Full Buck Moon? That's because it's the time when buck deer begin to grow new antlers.

  It's only July and this summer already seems so long. Maybe it's the heat. It just feels too hot to do anything. Except maybe swimming. Do you like the water? I'll bet you're a good swimmer. You look like someone who would be a good swimmer.

  I turned 19 last November. How old are you?

  B

  I can't recall if I blinked at any time while I read that note. I know I didn't walk while I read it. Or move in any way. I was so mesmerized by the words—his words. He wrote them to me. He shared his thoughts with me. Oh, my god, he actually thought about me this past week! He thought about me while he was looking at the moon. How romantic!

  What's more, he said I looked like a good swimmer. One doesn't make a judgment like that based on the face. Oh, no! He had noticed my body. He had been looking at my body—or what he could make out of it from beneath the drab blouse and skirts I wore as work clothes. My arms. My hips. My waist. My breasts. My nipples tingled at the very thought of it. I yearned to run back to the house and let him look some more.

  I wouldn't see him for another week, but I began composing my response, at least in my head, on the trolley ride home. Right after dinner, I sat on my bed and reached for pen and paper. The words flowed more easily this time. The barriers had been broken. It was all right to do this. Beau's note made it all right.

  Dear B,

  I'm 17. But I'll be 18 on New Year's Day. You could say each New Year is a new year for me.

  I liked your description of the moon. I wish I had seen it. But I suppose I probably retired to bed early that night. I needed to work the next morning, and there was no 4th of July party for me. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, I'll try to remember to look for the moon when it's full again.

  I do enjoy swimming. Although I haven't been to a—

  "What's with all the writing lately?" My mother plopped down next to me, interrupting my composition. She was holding a drink that smelled of some type of cheap alcohol. "You writing a book?"

  I quickly folded the paper and stashed it under the folds of my dress. I hadn't intended to share it with anyone other than Beau.

  "Can't a girl have a moment alone?" I moaned.

  "Why? You got secrets?"

  "What if I do?"

  My mother squinted at me. Her eyes weren't as strong as they once were, but they were as dark and lovely as ever. I took after her in that respect. I also had her hair, nose, cheeks, and full bosom. I like to think I got the best of her. Not quite forty, she was still an attractive woman. Although her usually pinkish hued face was currently reddened by too many hours spent hanging laundry in the summer sun. That was her job, you see. She and a neighbor—the one who got me my first job—took in other people's laundry and hung the clothes out to dry in the neighbor's backyard. It brought in money, so I'm not criticizing. I'm just saying the sunburn did nothing to improve my mother's appearance or her disposition.

  "Secrets can get a girl into trouble." My mother wagged a finger in my face.

  "So can snooping," I shot back.

  That ended the conversation. My mother retreated to the relative cool of the front steps of our apartment building, and I returned to writing my secret message.

  I won't bore you with the word-by-word details of every puppy love note that was traded through the pillowcase that summer. Let it suffice to say the notes grew longer and more personal with each exchange. I treasured every page, every sentence, every word. Over and over, I would read them, spread them out before me, fondle them. I would even hold them to my nose in the hope of catching a faint whiff of the scent of my beloved.

  Then came a day in August when I was about to slip my note into the pillowcase, only to find another piece of paper already in there. Had Beau not retrieved my last note? Were my heart's feelings still buried within the linen and unread? But, no! It wasn't my previous note. It was a brand new one—from Beau to me. Rather than wait for his "turn," he leapt ahead and wrote me another message. Whiz-bang! From that point forward, we exchanged a letter from each of us weekly.

  Until September.

  School was beginning again. Beau was off to college, and I was crestfallen. Beyond that—I was devastated. My love was leaving me to return to the University of Virginia, all the way in Charlottesville—so much farther than a trolley ride. He was out of my reach. I moped for days. His return to college was hardly a surprise, but I suppose I just hadn't prepared myself for it. Now the day had arrived, and I felt deserted. I felt hollow. There were two full moons in September 1917, and both of them made me cry.

  Autumn was a dreary stretch of prolonged misery. Friends and acquaintances noticed. Even Mrs. Eldridge, who typically paid no mind to my moods, commented that I was "looking rather glum lately." Glum was a colossal understatement. Gloomy and depressed were far more accurate. I suppose I did my job efficiently since none of my employing families fired me. However, it was a grim efficiency that sustained only my need for an income and none of my needs as a girl in love.

  Thanksgiving and Christmas were neither festive nor merry occasions. Not for me, anyway. Although I must admit that enough time had passed to allow for some of the emotional numbness to pass. I simply couldn't remain in a state of constant grief. I moved on. I did my work. I saved my earnings. I lived my life. It just wasn't a particularly happy one.

  On the morning of Friday, December 28th, I entered the Eldridge kitchen, hung up my coat on the rack near the door, and proceeded to the closet where the cleaning supplies were stored. I grabbed a bucket and mop. I figured I'd start with the bathroom. I was filling the bucket at the kitchen sink when I glimpsed something in the next room.

  Oh my god! It was him! He was home for the holidays!

  I dropped the bucket into the sink, causing a loud thud. Beau poked his head into the kitchen.

  "Everything OK?"

  Everything was much more than OK. Beau was there.

  "Everything's fine." I stared with hunger at the boy I'd been missing so terribly.

  "Nice to see you again."

  "Nice to see you, too." I gulped hard. "Do you want your pillow fluffed?"

  "Not today." If it's possible to see another person's heart sink, I believe Beau saw mine do just that when he indicated there'd be no note waiting for me in the pillowcase. "But I do want my room cleaned," he added amiably.

  "Of course," I said. "Soon as I finish the bathroom."

  Both of us just stood there awkwardly. I expected him to be leaving my presence any moment. Instead, he stayed put.

  "Don't you have a birthday coming up?" he asked.

  "Four days."

  "How are you gonna celebrate it?"

  "Probably like everybody else celebrates New Year's Day," I shrugged. "Nothing special."

  "That's a shame." The corners of his lips curled up ever so slightly. "When a girl turns eighteen, she ought to do something very special."

  There was only one thing I wanted to do on my birthday, and, if this boy didn't know it by now, then I had wasted a lot of ink and paper on him.

  "Beau?" Mrs. Eldridge appeared directly behind her son. "Are you keeping this girl from her work?"

  "No," he responded as he cheerfully shuffled out the kitchen door. "Just getting out of her way."

  Mrs. Eldridge gave me one last serious look that told me not to dawdle any longer, and I went back to filling the bucket. The bathroom awaited.

  After that, I dusted and swept the parlor. No Beau to be seen there. Drat! The bedrooms were next. I took a dust mop and cleaning rag with me up the stairs. There was Beau's room right before me.

  Might as well start there.

  I entered the bedroom only to hear the door click shut behind me. I turned with a start. It was Beau. He held his index finger to his lips.r />
  "Sssshhh," he whispered.

  Honestly, there was no place in the world I'd have rather been than alone with Beau. However, I was petrified that Mrs. Eldridge or one of the sisters might barge in at any moment. And then what would we say? What would I say? Alone with a boy in his bedroom? The maid? The employer's son? This was dangerous. I felt incredibly vulnerable.

  "What would you say," he spoke most softly, "if I said I don't think it's right for a girl not to do something special on her eighteenth birthday?"

  "I don't know." I'm amazed he could even hear me. In my fear, my trembling voice was almost nonexistent. Maybe he didn't hear me. It probably didn't matter because he continued calmly.

  "What would you say if I said I think a girl should really celebrate becoming a woman?"

  "How should she do that?"

  "By celebrating like a woman."

  I wasn't sure what that meant. But, for God's sake, this was Beau talking to me! I wasn't about to challenge him.

  "Know what this is?" He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small metal object. "It's the key to the McMahon house next door. They're in Europe for the holidays and asked us to look after the place. Feed the cat. It'll be absolutely empty New Year's Eve."

  "Except for the cat," I nervously quipped.

  "Mr. Whiskers won't mind if we borrow the place for the night," smirked my golden boy.

  Oh, my god! Is he suggesting what I think he's suggesting?

  "What about your family?"

  "Attending a big New Year's Eve bash in Richmond. Staying overnight. Won't be home till the next afternoon."

  "Your sisters?"

  "I'm supposed to watch them. I'll have them in bed by ten. Eleven at the latest. Then I'm free." Beau's expression changed to one of great importance. "Meet me there just before midnight."

  "Is it safe?"

  "It's safe. I'd bet my life on it."