A Different Kind of Lovely: A Novel

Part 1

The Actor and The Butterfly

Prologue

Mina Automne danced through the pain until she managed to turn it into pleasure. She didn't need music to accompany the movements of her legs, of her arms, of her fingers, for the wind was the conductor of an orchestra of the most particular instruments. It shook the leaves of apple trees and made them chime. It played among grapevines and teased them like fingertips on violin strings.

The lavender flowers bowed forward as Mina's neck arched gracefully backwards.

The weeds trembled, while Mina's body spun and leaped higher and lighter.

The sky above was a cerulean blue, dotted with pure white clouds, and Mina's lithe limbs reached for those unblemished shapes.

When she danced, her parents' disapproval did not matter; when her frame played, the hurtful words of her ex-lover could not break her.

Mina was shaping her life around her art, and she was going to be the greatest. There was nothing wrong with her choices, and there was nothing wrong with her body. She was meant to be a ballerina, and she was capable of feeling pleasure.

The wind teased her fiery red curls; the long strands caressed her bare shoulders and arms, and her blood felt ablaze with adrenaline. Beads of sweat ran along the pale skin of her face, and touched her lips. Mina licked the drops, and tasted salt mingled with excitement. She arched up towards the bright sky, and declared herself a creature of power and beauty.

Chapter 1

Neal Medwin felt the metal cage around him shudder, then lurch back and forth before everything went quiet. Regardless, he didn't open his eyes. Remnants of the sleeping pills he had taken upon climbing into the cab still lingered within his being, and granted some precious numbness to his mind and to his limbs; but it was fading. Neal was beginning to perceive reality crawling into his senses, and awakening them. He smelled the fake leather covering the seats, the unpleasant odor of car exhaust, the overwhelming perfume of the woman driving the cab.

The woman was speaking in French – a language Neal understood, because one of the clubs he owned was located in Marseille. While the taxi driver's scent was cloying, her voice tasted like rich wine on Neal's tongue. His eyelids fluttered and parted slightly, revealing to him that the woman's dark gaze was devouring his frame. Her torso was twisted, so that she could better stare at him, and her fingers were white as they gripped the dark material of the seat. Her lips were smiling politely. She was trying really hard not to look at his crotch, but she was failing.

A lazy grin stretched Neal's mouth, as warmth slithered up his legs and along his spine. His body was anticipating the imminent release.

Is this the place, Monsieur? asked the cab driver, and her tongue seemed to caress each word.

Neal forced himself to consider his surroundings. The cab, as he had instructed, had pulled up near a crossroad, where the main street met a dirt road; a wooden sign indicated its name: Rue des Etoiles.

Yes, this is the place, Neal rasped. He cleared his throat and gave the woman another slow smile, which coaxed a rush of red heat across her neck and cheeks. Then foreign words began to stumble out of her pretty mouth. She wanted to make sure he was all right; she insisted on driving him farther if he needed her to; she told him the ride fee, and Neal silently acknowledged that it was too convenient. While she talked, Neal kept giving her his most charming smiles. The much craved numbness of the sleeping pills was seeping away from his body, and he feared the return of awareness. So Neal was ready to use the attraction this woman felt for him to achieve some more moments of oblivion. Then he would walk away, as he always did after taking what women were often willing to give him; pleasure, relief, and numbness. The sweet feelings didn't linger for long within Neal's body and mind, but luckily the world was full of gentle mouths, flowery perfumes, and soft curves.

Neal pushed the door of the cab open, and slid outside grabbing his black, battered luggage in one fluid motion. The scent of lavender, pine trees, and damp earth hit his awakening senses with such force that he staggered and dropped the bag onto the wet grass.

The taxi driver, who had exited the vehicle as well, stared at him with worry and desire battling within her dark eyes, as the morning wind played silly games with her long, dirty-blond hair.

Neal fished his wallet from the back pocket of his dark jeans, and produced the exact amount of euros the woman had asked for, along with a condom; then he watched as her lips parted, and her body swayed in astonishment. Each one of those actions, though, was stained with the undeniable want of him. Neal adored her naked desire, because of the surge of adrenaline it caused within his being.

The woman accepted the money with a bold twitch of her mouth, then she turned and braced her hand on the hood of the cab, offering him her body.

Neal accepted the gift, and lost himself within the absence of words and thoughts. Soon all he could perceive were his own grunts, and the woman's whimpers of pleasure.

Afterward, the woman kissed Neal's well-shaved chin, and tucked a card inside the front pocket of his pants.

Neal stood and savored the numbness coursing throughout his limbs for a few moments. As the cab drove away, he grabbed his luggage and began the walk down the dirt road.

Awareness was returning rather quickly. The aftermath of sexual release was dissipating. Neal adored women, for they granted him precious moments of thoughtless peace; when he was inside them, he felt like a creature of pulsing energy, fueled by their moans of bliss. The climaxes they shared with him were the essence of life. But lately the oblivion had been lasting for less than an intake of breath, and before long Neal's mind was filled with images of his family; his parents and his sister who were unable to heal and move forward with their lives. The loss of David, even if it had happened years before, still seemed like rotten roots linking them all to a graveyard as big as the world; just like Neal, the rest of his family were constantly searching for ways to suffocate the pain, but the remedies they all found never lasted for long.

Now, the twisted shadows of the pine trees carved inky black paths into the dirt road, which was rendered uneven by roots too large and stubborn to remain buried underground. Neal tried to focus on the movements of his long legs and on the whispers of the French countryside; the lament of the birds, the chiming of leaves, the brush of the scented wind. When the road branched out into another dirt path, which Neal knew to be a shortcut to his destination, the muscles in his legs clenched, and breathing became an impossibility, for the road led to a place, but also to memories of loss and death. As Neal walked on, his mind filled with images of laughing women, of the cottage he was going to buy, of the numerous clubs he'd already bought.

When the crossroad was well behind him, Neal's breathing grew calmer, and his focus returned to his surroundings. The dusty road and its canopy of pine branches faded into a grassy track winding through a field of lavender flowers on Neal's left. The purple expanse gave way to a lush spread of sunflowers. The road disappeared within the yellow fields, then emerged again and led to a cottage, which stood darkly against the bright blue of the sky.

Neal began to follow the grassy path. His gaze remained focused on his destination, the cottage, but a sharp movement of white and scarlet caught his attention; there was a woman amid the lavender flowers, and she was dancing. As though trapped by a binding spell, Neal strode through the multitude of purple flowers, compelled to get as close as possible to the swaying figure.

The warm wind rustling through the shrubs masked the noise of Neal's footsteps, so he managed to stand very close to the dancing woman without revealing his presence to her. He noticed that her movements were lovely and perfect; she was a wild ballerina dancing to the sound of the wind, and to the music created by the waving grasses. The world was her unnoticed audience. She was a work of beauty and energy. The soft cloth of her light pink dress billowed and flowed about her slender, yet powerful legs as she pierced the air with her balletic leaps. The bodice of the garment hugged her small, firm breasts without hindering the graceful stretch of her torso. Her arms painted perfect arcs above her head, while her fingers reached out to graze the sky. The spring sun set her fiery red curls on fire. The long tresses slithered around her pale limbs and fell down her sinewy back; Neal considered them a spark of defiance in an otherwise well-disciplined dance.

He was enchanted. He was unable to move, and he couldn't stop staring at the wild ballerina; not even when her body bowed, signaling the end of her performance. Neal shifted amid the violet grasses, and let out an audible sigh, for he felt suddenly restless and inexplicably envious of the woman's artistic beauty and energy. The movement and the noise, though, broke the spell. The ballerina turned to him and her glassy blue eyes considered Neal for a few moments; finally, she shrugged and walked away, as if he were just a shadow. Neal, surprised and amused, let his gaze trail the dancer, as she made her way through the lavender stretch and towards the cottage. With a dazed smile curving his lips, he followed the mesmerizing woman.

Chapter 2

The slate roof of the cottage was dark red, while the outer structure was made of peach-pink stones. A semi-circle of weeping willows stood behind the house, like guardian angels with wings of green leaves, obscuring the sight of what stretched beyond. The front garden was a well-groomed emerald carpet, interspersed with daisies and violets. A small pond, fed by a natural stream, gurgled gently as the wind grazed its surface. The scene appeared peaceful but also sensual to Neal, and the enticing feeling multiplied as his gaze traveled along a stone statue, which lived in the middle of the pond. The sculpture represented a woman dancing; her feet were bare, her legs slightly parted as her back bowed backwards and her arms distended like wings. Her taut figure was covered by a sheer tunic, which lovingly caressed the woman's curves. Ivy vines hugged her legs and waist like sinewy arms. Her hair was tamed into a bun, and her lips were parted, as though she were breathing, or crying out.

Years earlier, Neal's younger brother and his best friend had spent their Spring break in this place, and their phone calls and emails still lingered clearly within Neal's mind. They told of a house and a garden that hummed with beauty and sensuality.

Neal agreed with the description, and he found himself smiling inexplicably, even as his frame vibrated with expectation. Still shivering, he made his way to the door of the cottage, which stood ajar, as though the house were expecting and welcoming him. Before stepping inside, Neal hesitated for a few moments on the patio. Wood and vines created a complicated pattern overhead, and shattered the sunlight into a multitude of sparkly, abstract shapes. Neal let the small lights blind him, even as the last remnants of sensual haze bled away from his body, and the weight of reality returned. The cottage was a place of beauty, but it was also the stage of his younger brother's last moments.

The wooden floorboards moaned softly underneath Neal's weight. His steps into the cottage were accompanied by a whiff of leaves and petals – green, white, purple – transported by the gentle wind. For a moment it felt like walking on a stage – the sound, the dust, the scent – so much so that Neal's insides churned uncomfortably. There weren't overhead lights scalding his made-up skin, however. The open door and the bay window behind Neal let in timid sunlight, which brightened mildly the cinnamon walls of the house. He knew it was supposed to be a soothing kind of color, but blood was running wildly throughout his veins, and his limbs shook madly. He concentrated on breathing; his chest expanded and contracted over and over again, and before long his anxiousness abated.

The breeze gusted into the cottage once more, carrying the pungent smell of moist grass, mingled with the sugary scent of lavender. Neal's gaze followed the trail of the petals, then finally took in the inside of the house. Every available surface was littered with books, including the dark-red velvet sofa and the wooden table that separated the living area from the small kitchen. A wide bookcase took up an entire wall; the shelves were lined with paperbacks, but also with framed pictures. A pink curtain located at the far end of the living room caught Neal's attention. It swelled as the wind caressed its folds insistently, and then it rose revealing a queen-size iron bed – the frame elegantly decorated with carved vines and flowers – which was covered with a creamy-white comforter. He found the view revealed by the wind both innocent and sensual.

I did not invite you in. The feminine voice came from behind Neal, dragging him away from his musings. He turned slowly, and let the smile that had charmed many women stretch his lips; but the moment he saw the owner of the voice, Neal froze.

She stood in the doorway, a proud and enticing vision; she was the wild ballerina he'd admired amid the grasses and the lavender flowers. She appeared lithe, petite, yet strong. She was the human form of a butterfly with fiery wings.

Mina sensed the brush of the stranger's gaze along her frame as though he were exploring her curves with his hands. Her skin was still flushed from the physical strain and the surprise at being watched dancing so freely. Now the voyeur was standing in the middle of her living space, but curiously she didn't feel scared, or worried; she was intrigued, for something in the stranger's gaze appeared familiar to her, and the way he was admiring her figure fired shivers throughout her being. The bodice of her dress felt like a cage for her labored breathing.

The intruder was regarding her openly, so Mina gave herself a moment to consider him. He was tall and lean; at once, his body exuded strength and fragility, strangeness and, again, a sort of friendliness. The inexplicable dichotomies caused Mina's heart to flutter restlessly within her chest, for she craved to know more about this dark-haired man, with murky, sad eyes, who was standing before her.

Hello, the intruder said at length. When she didn't reply, he filled the silence with a wicked sweep of his lips. His brown eyes sparked with warmth, and a touch of mischief.

The wind broke inside the cottage once more, and played with the man's chestnut hair, which framed his forehead, and then fell down his neck in long, messy strands. Mina pictured herself dipping her fingers within their softness, and a tiny whimper escaped her lips.

The intruder grinned.

What do you want? Mina forced the words out of her chest. She was aware of her rudeness, but it was her way of containing the confusing and strong emotions burning inside her.

The intruder's smile became a polite expression. My name is Neal Medwin. I'm here to visit the cottage – this cottage – my family is planning to buy. His arm spread out gracefully, and possessively, to indicate the walls surrounding him.

The spell was suddenly shattered. The heated current that had been running throughout Mina's frame turned into cold dust, and was scattered by the breeze.

What are you talking about? I'm not selling my home, she declared.

The man's calm demeanor didn't break. That's not what the owners told us, he explained.

I am the owner, and I am not selling. Mina's voice rose, and her form shook with anger; but she tried to reign the feeling in, for she knew there had to be a good reason as to why her parents were doing this to her.

Mina took a deep breath, then she slowly released it. Mr. Medwin, she began with a polite smile.

The intruder said, Neal.

Mina continued, Neal, could you please wait outside, on the veranda, while I make a phone call?

Neal nodded his head, then made his way to the door. Mina stepped away from the threshold to let him pass, still the bare skin of her arm grazed his, and a wave of shivers trailed up her limb. The intruder glanced down at her with parted lips and eyes brimming with surprised interest.

Mina and Neal stared at one another for a long while; finally, they went their separate ways.

Chapter 3

Daylight slowly faded into dusk as Neal stood by the gurgling pond. He could hear fragments of the ballerina's hushed and heated conversation. Her words suggested she had called her parents. Neal thought about his family, and particularly about his mother. He understood her need to own the cottage, regardless he felt as though he was making a terrible mistake.

The ballerina strode out of her home, and joined Neal before the pond, interrupting his musings. She stood very close to him, so he could clearly see that her cheeks were flushed, and he could perceive her nervous breathing, along with a flowery fragrance mingled with a whiff of spicy sweat. Neal found the mixture of scents very pleasant.

The cottage belongs to me, she told him in a measured tone, even as her gaze stayed focused on her garden.

I see, he said, and realized that he was unable to tear his eyes from the softness of her face.

I am not selling it, no matter how much money you're willing to pay. This is my home.

I understand, Neal murmured.

The ballerina looked at him. Our parents are good friends, I'm told. They also reminded me about what happened to your brother. I'm really sorry.

Neal averted his gaze, for her decisive words had turned into a gentle whisper as she mentioned his tragedy. The silvery stream feeding the pond trembled, while Neal tried to tame a pain that, even after several years, refused to ebb. He spent his last days in this cottage, he said.

"I know. I don't understand