Connor McCabe sat in the posh parlor of Lady Heather's mansion in the garden district of New Orleans. This wasn't his usual routine when he traveled to the Big Easy, sometimes on business and sometimes for pleasure but his chums back in Memphis had encouraged him to give this establishment a try.
The 50-ish businessman's wife had died a few years ago and although he had gotten over the worst of the grief, it never really went away. He was sociable but not so much into seeking female companionship. His friends had covertly arranged chance meetings at get-togethers but no dice. His children were concerned but also respected his privacy, and were cautious not to upset the dynamic of their eventual inheritance with a second marriage dilution.
He looked around again at the decor. The room was draped with velvet curtains, soft textured wallpaper, and comfortable old stuffed sofas and divans. The color tones were a mixture of deep reds: from dark maroons to fire engine red accents. It reminded him of the classic worldwide image of a bordello.
And it should; because it had been: rescued from bankruptcy and repurposed as a Renaissance House.
A set of velvet drapes parted and a vision of strong femininity slipped through, the hangings closing behind her.
"Connor?"
He stared at the source of the question. She was tall, her hourglass form filled out a long black gown, sleeves covering her arms, the hem skimming the toes of her heels. Her hair was gathered in a matronly bun, the dark hair blazed with streaks of gray. Her face was a vision of high cheekbones, blood-red lipstick, and dark eye shadow setting off crystal blue eyes. The gown had a scooped neckline that boosted creamy cleavage.
He found enough presence in this bold lady's gaze to croak out a reply.
"Yes?"
She paused a moment to establish her presence and take control before breaking into a full-face smile. She stepped forward, extending her delicate hand with its lipstick-matching nail gloss.
"So pleased to meet you."
His hand almost tingled at the woman's touch. It was a lady's handshake, her fingers circling his, not the firm manly clutch with thumb nooks jammed tight when men wanted to show who was boss. She didn't need to show it because she obviously was.
"Yes, same here, ma'am. "
"May I?"
She gestured but didn't wait for an invitation. It was her house; the question was a courtesy, not a request. She sat next to him; half a distance closer than a new acquaintance but not as close as an intimate one. She took his hand in both of hers and rested the three in her lap. She turned her body towards him and looked him in the face with stoic interest. He felt a bit bewildered, doubting his desire to continue, maybe politely escaping. But he was in her control now and stayed put.
"We're pleased you are here. Your friends have arranged all expenses and you should have no hesitation in taking full advantage of our special hospitality this weekend. Any questions so far?"
Conner shook his head 'No'. Lady Heather gently squeezed his hand in understanding.
"Good. So, tell me about yourself. Why is Connor McCabe here and especially what does Connor seek in female companionship?"
She leaned slightly in, closing the distance between her breasts and his vision.
He started slow, not sure what he wanted, if anything. He relayed the years of a happy marriage that had been blessed with children. He described the agonizing final years as his wife's health declined and then she died. Then his loneliness and despair.
Lady Heather listened quietly, taking it all in. Connor wound down and talked about his subsequent few years of existence without his wife. He ended his tale sadly, face lowered, mumbling to the un-captive other hand in his own lap. Lady Heather spoke softly, comfortingly.
"I am so sorry for your misfortune. Without downplaying your sadness, let me tell you this is not the first such story I have heard. We know a way to ease the grief, lighten the dark clouds of perpetual melancholy, but you must trust us. Will you trust us, will you trust me, to show you a path forward?"
Connor nodded. Lady Heather was not satisfied with meek gestures. Spiritual rekindling requires honest commitment.
"I need to hear you say it. It's the first step to recovery. Look at me and say it: Yes, I trust you."
Connor looked up into the steady eyes of Lady Heather.
"Yes, I trust you."
She smiled her assurance and patted his hands again, releasing them as she stood. She looked at the curtains where she had entered and spoke firmly.
"Evelyn."
A rustle preceded a woman entering through the curtains. She was less than middle-aged but not by much. Her styled blonde hair framed her gentle smiling face. She was buxom but otherwise slender. The sleeveless party dress stopped mid-thigh. She would have been any man's fantasy of a side hustle: an obedient secretary or a frisky stewardess.
Connor rose to his feet in chivalrous respect.
"Evelyn, this is Connor, our special guest this weekend. He's a widower and needs some comforting companionship.
"Connor, this is Evelyn. She will take charge for now. We find the first female connection requires experience and patience; an unhurried encounter to get the right mood started. But be assured, you will have plenty of opportunities thereafter to select from a wide range of available therapists."
Evelyn stepped to Connor, took his arm in a boob hug, and pecked his cheek with an elongated smooch.
"I'm pleased to meet you, sir" she whispered in his ear, her breath tickling the hairs in his ear canal. The tickle reflected as a tingle in his groin.
Evelyn took her charge to the in-house dining room where she focused her attention on her guest, getting his story before sharing her own explanation: 'Housewife working the side hustle' when hubby was out of town. Connor's notion of a frisky stewardess was a good first impression.
