A New Beginning--Champagne Challenge #123 (PG-13)
Posted: Fri Dec 03, 2010 5:16 pm
Disclaimer: Blah, blah, the usual.
A/N: Sorry this challenge piece is a bit late, but things got busy.
A New Beginning
Grand Central Station, April 23, 1954
Josef adjusted his brown felt fedora to a more rakish angle, and surveyed his surroundings, curious as always about the humans swarming around him. He consulted his watch again. He had time. Modern travel, he thought. Hurry up and wait. Okay, that was hardly fair. Only a few days ago, he’d been deep into the fleshpots of Hollywood, and now, here he stood in the bustle and chaos of Grand Central Station, in New York City. It was only a stopover, not a destination, but he was enjoying seeing the place again. He hadn’t been out of L.A. much in, let’s see, the past four years. Not since that trip to Rome the year previous, and they’d flown, then. No stops in the train station that time.
Now, it was a bit different. Not a trip, but a re-location. He had mixed feelings about leaving the West Coast; life in Los Angeles suited him. Curse of his condition, he supposed. Move on, every few years. Not for the first time, he wished his sire had waited a couple of years before turning him. He was simply too youthful in appearance, and it limited his time in any given city more than he would have preferred. Not that it was without its advantages, but every coin had two sides.
The sleeper on the SuperChief from Los Angeles to Chicago was hardly as comfortable as his freezer in L.A., but in the course of a long life, he’d endured worse. He felt the bits of his old identity being stripped away with every mile of clacking travel. And these streamliners made the miles fly by.
The first leg, Los Angeles to Chicago, at least he’d had company. His Sunny, taking one last trip with him, as she went to begin her own new life in Chicago. She’d been a model freshie, bold and amusing, but faultlessly submissive to his needs. He’d sent the other girls, the ones that were staying with him in his new home, on ahead to Philadelphia, but Sunny had wanted this last time together, and how could he refuse? Besides, on a practical level, he generally preferred to travel with…supplies. He’d felt a minor pang when they parted, that last time, in the crowd at Dearborn Station. She'd reached up, kissing one cheek lightly and patting the other with a white-gloved hand.
"You're sure?"
"Of course, Josef. It's time. You've been perfect, but not all of us can stay the same, forever." And she'd given him that sunny smile that had given her her nickname. The excitement was evident. Here she was in a new city, about to start a law degree at the University of Chicago. He could have gotten her into Stanford, or even Harvard, but she wanted to fly on her own merits, and Chicago was a damn fine school, too.
He caught her hand, the buttery leather of her kid glove slick against his fingers. "You know, you only have to call..."
Her eyes got serious, then, behind the small illusion veil of her hat. "Josef...I know." A brief hug, a last cognizance of her particular heartbeat, and she was gone. He watched her walk away, kept his focus on the trim form as she moved down the station platform, out of his life and into her own.
He was not sure whether to be proud, or disappointed, that she never looked back, striding purposefully, with the redcap trailing behind with her luggage. He’d watched, impassive, reminding himself that the ones who fed him came and went, and he’d do better not to worry about them when they did. He checked his heart for breaks or tears, and truthfully, found it largely intact. Sunny had been special, but not--all that special to him.
So, Josef Kostan had watched a girl walk away, but the man who got on the Twentieth Century Limited to New York a few hours later, was someone different. Charles Fitzgerald. It said so on all the papers in his wallet, and his briefcase, so it must be the case. This wasn't the first time, or the fiftieth, that he'd changed identities. Although he supposed through it all, he stayed essentially the same. Ever a young businessman, on the rise, with the looming bulk of his assets hidden behind layers of misdirection and proxies, holding companies and highly skilled attorneys. Sunny wasn't the first freshie—ex-freshie—he'd put through law school. He smiled a little. He hadn’t used the Fitzgerald name for a few decades.
Another train station, another few hours to kill before the train to Philadelphia and his new home. Story of his life, really. A few years, there, and he'd be on a train, or a ship, or an airplane to a new identity and another life. Sometimes he got tired of the game. He should have had his agents here open the Waverly Place townhouse for him, just so he could go by and see the place. He believed it was between tenants, currently, but it had been a stopping point more than once before, for him, and he would have liked to see what condition it was in.
At least another hour before his train arrived. He thought the time could not pass quickly enough. He was anxious to get the bustle of arrival in a new city over, and settled into his new home. His assistant had assured him the new freezer was properly installed and waiting for him. Sub-zero oblivion, he thought longingly. The constant motion of the trains had been disquieting. If the SuperChief, and then the Twentieth Century Limited from Chicago on to New York, were the epitome of luxury on the rails, then he thought the days of passenger trains were passing. It was an apt enough metaphor for the times, though, noisy and busy, rushing blindly through the night on a pre-determined track.
He brushed his hands over his suit. The double-breasted jacket and trousers in dark brown suited his coloring, he knew. His now-former valet, Rodolpho had been adamant that it was the very latest style. A last outfitting before the man went off to open his custom tailoring shop in Los Angeles.
In his earlier decades, he might have found the sheer press of humanity in this space disturbing. So many hearts, so much blood, so much temptation. In his breathing days, he’d seen a massive sheepdog once, maddened by some disease, slaughter a pen full of milling sheep. Well, to be fair, he hadn’t seen the actual killing, but the afternath had been…sickening. He’d helped hunt down and destroy the dog, but he remembered that part of it less than the pen piled with the corpses of sheep, throats torn open and cast aside to bleed out into the mud.
He shook his head. The travel was getting to him, no question. There were more pleasant images upon which to cast his eye. That girl over there, for instance. The back view was little short of spectacular, blue and white spectator pumps, the heels showing off her legs, the straight stocking seams accentuating shapely calves, and the royal blue of a slim-skirted suit hugging the contours of her body. Waving red hair fell past her shoulders from under a white straw hat with blue trim to match the suit, and she held a matching clutch in one hand. Fashion might say that it was a few weeks early for white, but with Easter the previous Sunday, he supposed no one would really complain. Besides, the ensemble looked new, and expensive, and he had little trouble thinking that a girl like that would be eager to show it off. He was an old master at observing without seeming to stare, but when she turned around, he gaped outright. Even from twenty, thirty feet away, he could see the emerald brilliance of her eyes, the generous full-lipped mouth red with lipstick, the flawless complexion.
As she walked his way, he plotted a dozen ways to approach her, to stop her before she passed him by. And as it happened, to his eternal wonder, none of them were necessary. Maybe she saw something attractive in his face, too, because with all the confidence of a twenty-year-old woman in the full flower of her beauty, she stopped right in front of him, pulled out a gold Dunhill’s cigarette case, and said, “Excuse me, do you have a light?”
He was struck so stupid at the sound of her voice that he didn’t answer at first, and she had to give him an amused little arch of her perfect eyebrows. If he hadn’t been lost before, that would have done it.
“Of course,” he replied, fumbling in his trouser pocket, while she extracted a cigarette from the case. Behind the scenes, his brain went into overdrive. Screw Philadelphia, he’d have the Waverly Place townhouse opened. Whatever he’d planned, could be re-planned. He was staying in New York, or wherever this woman was going. He’d sort it all out later.
As he lit her cigarette, he regained a little of his poise. “Permit me to introduce myself. Charles Fitzgerald, at your service.”
She tilted her head a little to one side, and gave him a smile so brilliant he thought his dead heart might have started beating again. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said. “My name is Sarah Whitley.”
A/N: Sorry this challenge piece is a bit late, but things got busy.
A New Beginning
Grand Central Station, April 23, 1954
Josef adjusted his brown felt fedora to a more rakish angle, and surveyed his surroundings, curious as always about the humans swarming around him. He consulted his watch again. He had time. Modern travel, he thought. Hurry up and wait. Okay, that was hardly fair. Only a few days ago, he’d been deep into the fleshpots of Hollywood, and now, here he stood in the bustle and chaos of Grand Central Station, in New York City. It was only a stopover, not a destination, but he was enjoying seeing the place again. He hadn’t been out of L.A. much in, let’s see, the past four years. Not since that trip to Rome the year previous, and they’d flown, then. No stops in the train station that time.
Now, it was a bit different. Not a trip, but a re-location. He had mixed feelings about leaving the West Coast; life in Los Angeles suited him. Curse of his condition, he supposed. Move on, every few years. Not for the first time, he wished his sire had waited a couple of years before turning him. He was simply too youthful in appearance, and it limited his time in any given city more than he would have preferred. Not that it was without its advantages, but every coin had two sides.
The sleeper on the SuperChief from Los Angeles to Chicago was hardly as comfortable as his freezer in L.A., but in the course of a long life, he’d endured worse. He felt the bits of his old identity being stripped away with every mile of clacking travel. And these streamliners made the miles fly by.
The first leg, Los Angeles to Chicago, at least he’d had company. His Sunny, taking one last trip with him, as she went to begin her own new life in Chicago. She’d been a model freshie, bold and amusing, but faultlessly submissive to his needs. He’d sent the other girls, the ones that were staying with him in his new home, on ahead to Philadelphia, but Sunny had wanted this last time together, and how could he refuse? Besides, on a practical level, he generally preferred to travel with…supplies. He’d felt a minor pang when they parted, that last time, in the crowd at Dearborn Station. She'd reached up, kissing one cheek lightly and patting the other with a white-gloved hand.
"You're sure?"
"Of course, Josef. It's time. You've been perfect, but not all of us can stay the same, forever." And she'd given him that sunny smile that had given her her nickname. The excitement was evident. Here she was in a new city, about to start a law degree at the University of Chicago. He could have gotten her into Stanford, or even Harvard, but she wanted to fly on her own merits, and Chicago was a damn fine school, too.
He caught her hand, the buttery leather of her kid glove slick against his fingers. "You know, you only have to call..."
Her eyes got serious, then, behind the small illusion veil of her hat. "Josef...I know." A brief hug, a last cognizance of her particular heartbeat, and she was gone. He watched her walk away, kept his focus on the trim form as she moved down the station platform, out of his life and into her own.
He was not sure whether to be proud, or disappointed, that she never looked back, striding purposefully, with the redcap trailing behind with her luggage. He’d watched, impassive, reminding himself that the ones who fed him came and went, and he’d do better not to worry about them when they did. He checked his heart for breaks or tears, and truthfully, found it largely intact. Sunny had been special, but not--all that special to him.
So, Josef Kostan had watched a girl walk away, but the man who got on the Twentieth Century Limited to New York a few hours later, was someone different. Charles Fitzgerald. It said so on all the papers in his wallet, and his briefcase, so it must be the case. This wasn't the first time, or the fiftieth, that he'd changed identities. Although he supposed through it all, he stayed essentially the same. Ever a young businessman, on the rise, with the looming bulk of his assets hidden behind layers of misdirection and proxies, holding companies and highly skilled attorneys. Sunny wasn't the first freshie—ex-freshie—he'd put through law school. He smiled a little. He hadn’t used the Fitzgerald name for a few decades.
Another train station, another few hours to kill before the train to Philadelphia and his new home. Story of his life, really. A few years, there, and he'd be on a train, or a ship, or an airplane to a new identity and another life. Sometimes he got tired of the game. He should have had his agents here open the Waverly Place townhouse for him, just so he could go by and see the place. He believed it was between tenants, currently, but it had been a stopping point more than once before, for him, and he would have liked to see what condition it was in.
At least another hour before his train arrived. He thought the time could not pass quickly enough. He was anxious to get the bustle of arrival in a new city over, and settled into his new home. His assistant had assured him the new freezer was properly installed and waiting for him. Sub-zero oblivion, he thought longingly. The constant motion of the trains had been disquieting. If the SuperChief, and then the Twentieth Century Limited from Chicago on to New York, were the epitome of luxury on the rails, then he thought the days of passenger trains were passing. It was an apt enough metaphor for the times, though, noisy and busy, rushing blindly through the night on a pre-determined track.
He brushed his hands over his suit. The double-breasted jacket and trousers in dark brown suited his coloring, he knew. His now-former valet, Rodolpho had been adamant that it was the very latest style. A last outfitting before the man went off to open his custom tailoring shop in Los Angeles.
In his earlier decades, he might have found the sheer press of humanity in this space disturbing. So many hearts, so much blood, so much temptation. In his breathing days, he’d seen a massive sheepdog once, maddened by some disease, slaughter a pen full of milling sheep. Well, to be fair, he hadn’t seen the actual killing, but the afternath had been…sickening. He’d helped hunt down and destroy the dog, but he remembered that part of it less than the pen piled with the corpses of sheep, throats torn open and cast aside to bleed out into the mud.
He shook his head. The travel was getting to him, no question. There were more pleasant images upon which to cast his eye. That girl over there, for instance. The back view was little short of spectacular, blue and white spectator pumps, the heels showing off her legs, the straight stocking seams accentuating shapely calves, and the royal blue of a slim-skirted suit hugging the contours of her body. Waving red hair fell past her shoulders from under a white straw hat with blue trim to match the suit, and she held a matching clutch in one hand. Fashion might say that it was a few weeks early for white, but with Easter the previous Sunday, he supposed no one would really complain. Besides, the ensemble looked new, and expensive, and he had little trouble thinking that a girl like that would be eager to show it off. He was an old master at observing without seeming to stare, but when she turned around, he gaped outright. Even from twenty, thirty feet away, he could see the emerald brilliance of her eyes, the generous full-lipped mouth red with lipstick, the flawless complexion.
As she walked his way, he plotted a dozen ways to approach her, to stop her before she passed him by. And as it happened, to his eternal wonder, none of them were necessary. Maybe she saw something attractive in his face, too, because with all the confidence of a twenty-year-old woman in the full flower of her beauty, she stopped right in front of him, pulled out a gold Dunhill’s cigarette case, and said, “Excuse me, do you have a light?”
He was struck so stupid at the sound of her voice that he didn’t answer at first, and she had to give him an amused little arch of her perfect eyebrows. If he hadn’t been lost before, that would have done it.
“Of course,” he replied, fumbling in his trouser pocket, while she extracted a cigarette from the case. Behind the scenes, his brain went into overdrive. Screw Philadelphia, he’d have the Waverly Place townhouse opened. Whatever he’d planned, could be re-planned. He was staying in New York, or wherever this woman was going. He’d sort it all out later.
As he lit her cigarette, he regained a little of his poise. “Permit me to introduce myself. Charles Fitzgerald, at your service.”
She tilted her head a little to one side, and gave him a smile so brilliant he thought his dead heart might have started beating again. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said. “My name is Sarah Whitley.”
WOW! Great 'intro' to Sarah...LOVE it. 
My favorite part is that at the sight of her he has tossed aside his plans. Bye-bye Philly. Hello NYC. 
