A Modern Odyssey Chapter 6: Lotophagus
Perhaps she had been emboldened by the swim suit, or perhaps any amount of fabric felt demure after it. Either way, when Molly selected her dress for that evening she chose, of the two at her disposal, the one she judged to be more flirtatious. It actually covered more than the other, but the way that the fabric wrapped around and about, one sheer end left to drape over her bare thigh, made it seem that she could be undone with a single tug. Checking herself in the mirror a final time, she tugged to make sure that this was not the case.
The dress was not necessary-even an elegant dinner at the resort’s finest restaurant did not require that patrons forget entirely that they were at the beach-but she had decided that she would take advantage of the opportunity. She liked to dress up, to look especially nice. A small voice in the far corners of her mind suggested that she also owed it to Mycroft: he was paying for everything, and since he apparently liked to look… Molly smiled at her reflection and walked out.
Mycroft waited for her in the living room. He stood looking out at the ocean, dark beneath the star-laden sky. His position was carefully chosen: he would see Molly’s reflection in the window as she emerged from the bedroom, giving him a chance to react somewhat to her appearance in whatever sinful delight Susanna had arranged without discomfiting her with a schoolboy stare.
It was not as bad as he had anticipated. Suggestive rather than salacious. He could face her and maintain his dignity.
‘Delightful’, he said.
‘Thank you. And thank you for this.’ She gestured to the dress. ‘All of this’, she added.
Mycroft crossed to her and took her by the hand. ‘Shall we?’
If Molly were to sum up that night in one word, it would be ‘decadent’. The dress, the food, even the breeze coming in from the bay. And especially Mycroft’s way of looking at her.
When he looked at her-and he seemed always to be-she felt as if he were really seeing her. She knew that a lot of people didn’t. They saw a lab coat or a ponytail or, more often, a means to an end. But Mycroft was seeing all of her, and not just the physical. As for need: he had enough people and power that he couldn’t need her for anything. Indeed, it was the other way around: she had needed and he had provided. She wondered if people often didn’t see him the way they didn’t see her.
As for Mycroft, he had no problem sticking with his diet that night, despite the offerings. His evening consisted of walking her to the restaurant, pulling out her chair, helping her to decide on an entreé, listening to her laugh, and watching her sparkle. He suspected that she was far more nourishing for him than anything on the menu.
After dinner they had drinks at the lounge. They talked and held silence, watched the people and watched each other. Mid-way through the night, Molly spotted Troy, fawning over a middle-aged woman who apparently couldn’t get enough of his charms. She pointed out the couple to Mycroft.
‘Yes. I see he’s found someone more suited to his needs.’
‘Do you think I should say something to her? Or you should?’
Mycroft studied them a long moment, then turned back to Molly. ‘She’s in no danger of losing anything substantial while here, and when she leaves, her son will ensure that Troy does not follow.’
Molly looked around. ‘Which one’s her son?’
‘He’s not here; he’s back home in Gravesend.’
‘Oh. You really think she’s not in any danger now?’
‘The worst he can do is double her food expenses and provide memories of a delightful few days with a very attractive, very attentive younger man.’
Molly lapsed into silence but could not stay so for long.
‘How can you be sure? How can you possibly know any of that from one look?’
Mycroft smiled mysteriously, then broke into a low laugh. ‘I know her son. A fine young fellow, destined, I think, to be a true asset to Her Majesty’s government. He’s said that, while he received his good education from his father, he got his good sense from his mother, so I trust her to handle herself well in her dealings with Troy. And I’ll make sure he knows, in case Troy doesn’t get the hint once her bags are packed.’
Molly giggled at his display, and Mycroft drank it down like wine.
When at last they could stay no longer, when the lounge was closing and the nearby bars as well, they made a slow journey back to their suites. They stopped in front of her door and she turned to face him.
‘I feel like I’ve said “thank you” and “lovely” enough this week to last a lifetime, but, really: thank you. This was lovely.’
‘You’re quite welcome, Molly. I, too, had a lovely time.’
She fidgeted with her clutch, then remembered to take out her key card.
‘I guess I’ll...see you at breakfast’, she smiled.
Mycroft had decided on the walk back that it might be nice to kiss a pretty girl. It had been a long time. Do you even remember how to kiss? It had been a very long time indeed. Looking down at Molly now, the curve of her cheek, her gentle eyes, her soft lips, he knew the moment had come. He had only to get it right, or at least not get it wrong. He should move slowly, in case she wanted to turn away; bend fully to meet her mouth, not pull her up to him. A hand at her neck might help, though, should-
‘I’m sorry’, she said, backing away. ‘That was- I’m sorry.’
Mycroft blinked. She had kissed him. Quickly, chastely, a little off the mark but close enough. Just a slight movement forward and up, the press of lips, and she was away before he could respond.
She jammed her key card into the slot and pushed the door open.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She turned back-‘Sorry’-turned away again, and the door was closed.
She was still standing in the middle of the room berating herself for her idiocy-looks were one thing but kisses were quite another-when the mobile on the desk beeped. She slid her finger across it to reveal Mycroft’s text: ‘Please don’t be. I look forward to breakfast.’
Breakfast was on the balcony of his suite. She passed through the connecting door he’d left unlocked for her just as a waiter-type person was slipping out the front.
‘Good morning’, she said.
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek-he would get it right this time. ‘Good morning, my dear.’
They sat and chatted for far longer than was needed to drink smoothies and pick at pastries, but time seemed different here, and different today from yesterday. The sun rose, children ran to play on the beach, and sailboats crossed the bay, while in their own part of the world time was as a faerie's sigh, barely able to stir a blade of grass. It was almost noon when Mycroft turned from the balcony and said to her:
‘It strikes me that you haven’t actually spent much time on the beach. Getting a tan. Having a swim.’
Although it was true that she hadn’t spent a large amount of time on the beach, she had spent some: walking by herself and with both Troy and Derek. She’d spent enough time in the sun to get, if not a tan, a slight pink. And as to time in the water, she had met Derek at a snorkeling lesson, and nothing could top the swim off the sailboat. She was about to point all of this out to him when she realised: he already knew it. Probably down to the precise number of minutes she’d spent at each activity.
She smiled. Tanning and swimming were best done in a bathing suit. He wanted to see her in that bikini again. And why shouldn’t he? And why shouldn’t she oblige him?
‘I’ll go change.’
She was fretting over which blouse might go best and whether she should wear a skirt until she was in place on a chaise when there was a knock on her door. She opened it to see Mycroft holding out a swathe of fabric hanging in delicate folds.
‘I thought you might like this.’ It was one of the cover-ups she’d considered at the boutique. She smiled gratefully.
‘I’ll just be a minute.’
She retreated to the bedroom to slip off top and shorts and wrap herself in his gift. It was a gauze so sheer as not to cover up much at all in a single layer, but it was voluminous enough and drapey enough that it did the job.
They found a free pair of chaises and settled in to enjoy the ocean breezes for a while. Molly placed the cover-up over the back of the chair and stretched out so she could get some proper sun. She closed her eyes both to keep out the glare and to let herself believe that no one was looking at her if they happened to walk by.
After rolling over thrice to even out her exposure (and much to Mycroft’s delight), she sat up.
‘Should we go get our feet wet?’ she asked.
Mycroft also sat up and looked out at the turquoise vastness. Water had never actually been one of his favorite substances, not for optional contact.
‘You go ahead’, he replied. ‘You’re the one more suitably attired. I’ll get us some drinks’, he offered, swinging his feet onto the sand.
Mycroft was wearing the same essential outfit he’d worn his entire stay here, with the exception of their dinner last night: a silk camp shirt, light trousers, and sandals.
‘You could roll up your trouser legs. Like he’s done.’ She pointed to a gentleman at the water's edge with trousers rolled up mid-calf. Mycroft looked uncertain; he had strict habits of dress, and rolls of fabric had never featured in those habits before.
‘Here; I’ll do it’, Molly said, then dropped to her knees before him and set to work.
As she did so, all of the air went out of Mycroft and he didn’t know how to get it back. Her brown hair shone in the sunlight, her breath was warmer on him than his sun-warmed clothes, and each time her hands grazed his ankles, a jolt of electricity went straight to- Dear god!
By the time she was done, he had gained enough composure, he thought, to be able to look her in the eye. But then she said, ‘Stand up. Let’s see’, and he rose to obey her without even thinking.
She sat back on her heels, looked up and up at him, and asked, ‘How’s that feel?’
‘Fine’, Mycroft whispered. ‘Fine’, he tried again, getting out a real sound this time. ‘That’s- Thank you, yes, you can get up now.’
He held out a hand to her, and she lifted herself up. Giving him a satisfied smile, she said, ‘Now we can go get our feet wet.’
She left the cover-up behind.
Mycroft did not need a fraction of his observational skills to note the looks that Molly was drawing. Nearly all of the men and several of the women gave her a thorough examination as she passed by. From the looks some of them gave, they might as well have hired a skywriter: ‘Come see me when you’ve put the old man to bed.’
It took him 687 steps-to the end of the beach and back-to finalise his decision: Molly was going to be his, and not just for a few days of island-holiday flirtation. There was only this one small issue of would-be rivals to be dealt with. He stopped a few metres short of their chaises and turned to face her.
Mycroft Holmes had lived his life in secrecy and subtly long enough. It was time to be obvious.
‘Molly, my dear, you are the picture of loveliness.’ He leant down and kissed her firmly on the lips. ‘And I am honoured to be the man here with you today.’ He lingered a moment to breathe in her scent and smile at the fluttering of her eyelashes. Just as he began to straighten, she closed the distance between them and kissed him with a breathtaking enthusiasm.
Issue dealt with.
Shortly after that kiss, Molly said she was feeling a little light-headed and wished to return to their rooms. Mycroft saw no signs of heat exhaustion, but he walked her back straightaway all the same. When she was seated on the sofa in her suite, he offered her a glass of water.
‘No, thanks, I’m fine, actually. I was just a little-overwhelmed at the attention I was getting out there. I’m not used to that.’ She fingered the fabric of the cover-up spread across her lap. ‘I guess clothes really do make the man. Or woman.’
He sat on the coffee table facing her and took her hand.
‘The clothes would be meaningless without the woman to fill them. I wonder if you fully comprehend the effect you have...’
She considered a moment, then grinned. ‘Maybe not fully, but I do know that you almost jumped out of your skin when I went to roll up your trouser legs.’
He flushed in recalling the scene and the visions it had subsequently inspired.
‘I don’t think’, she said slowly, ‘that I’m there yet. Not that I wouldn’t. Won’t. I just mean, not yet. Here, this week. But after.’ She met his gaze. ‘If you’d like there to be an after.’
The worst in Mycroft came to the fore at that moment. He ached to fold her into his arms and kiss her breathless, to caress every silken inch of her, to hear her moan and sigh and feel her shudder and writhe beneath him. To take her and have her, just to know that he could have, there and then, and needn’t wait for an after.
But more than that, he wanted that after. The words ‘happily’ and ‘ever’ danced in the back of his mind and he nearly laughed, but he put a hand to her cheek and kissed her lips and pressed his forehead to hers.
‘I would like that very much.’