"You don't have to feign interest in film for me," he said, letting me off the hook.
"Oh, thank goodness," I groaned.
The Santa Ana winds made the four majestic palms behind the pool house sway. Gerry had built this house on Saltair Avenue around those trees. He paddled our shared floaty over to the edge of the pool, picked up his phone and scrolled to find a song. The Bluetooth speakers from the patio grill area made a huge sound as he played Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro from the Amadeus soundtrack.
“You know, Amadeus won 11 Oscars,” I informed him.
"Mare, you don't have to feign interest in film stats for me," my favorite film star said, letting me off the hook.
I threw my head back and heaved a great sigh, "Oh, thank goodness. It's exhausting," I groaned as he laughed at me.
“Let me change the subject for you and be serious a moment," Gerry said smiling. "The life in this home died with Marc until you came here.” He was looking at me, holding me in his arms as the water lapped against the pool's edge. “You made it a home again and I love you for that. I'm going to miss this house, too but I have you.”
I smiled at his beautiful, movie-star face. “I love Saltair but you are my home, Gerry. Always.”
He kissed me sweetly as he looked in my eyes and whispered, “Race you to the steps.” Before I could answer, he was off the air mattress and swimming, determine to win this race. He can’t beat me on horseback so…
Gerry led me down the hall to our bedroom for the last time and we sat in the sitting area near the fireplace. He pulled two small bottles of champagne out of the mini fridge and poured us each a glass.
“To Saltair,” he said and I smiled at him as our glasses met. We both took a sip and then he said, “I remember the week we were married and the first time I made love to you in this room.”
“Wow, that was a lot of sex ago. Five years, Gerry. I remember that you showed me your Oscar before you took me to bed.”
“I did not. You saw it as we passed it in the hall,” he scoffed and he knew I was pulling his leg.
“You carried me across the threshold and left Tommy out in the hall.” He got a wistful look on his face. Were his thoughts on his sweet old dog who passed?
“Let’s not talk it to death, Mare,” he said, grabbing a bottle, picking me up and carrying me to the bed. No, he's not thinking about Tommy.
Copyright Mare Loch 2023 Mojave: The Fame of Gerry Frey by Mare Loch. © All rights reserved. Read for free on Kindle Unlimited or buy on Amazon.
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