1

Tess sat back in her seat on the train, and watched the stark, modern lines of New York City disappear. The grey urban landscape with the skyscrapers, cargo ships, and industrial plants spewing smoke seemed like a dystopian kingdom. She took a deep, calming breath, as she saw that the tracks were bordered by flowers growing wild. The Spring blooming green of the trees matched the budding feeling in her heart.

Tess Daly loved living in the city, where she had been most of her life, from college in the 1980’s on. She lived through escalating crime, The Yuppies, Wall Street crashes, boss girls in sneakers, Carrie Bradshaw obsession, and so many Broadway sensations from CATS to Hamilton. One morning on September 11th, she had been holding her baby girl on a patio in The East Village, as she saw the monstrous clouds from the falling buildings rise. Her eyes had turned to the sky, as the whole world changed in an instant. That day, the constant wailing of the fire engines and the dust seeped into her bones. She and that place were forever bonded after that. NYC had grit, glamour, grandeur...but most of all, it had heart.

It was her home, but Tess was looking forward to a break from the madness. The ear-shattering honks of the taxis and police sirens, the ashy cement, the garbage piled high, and the rats. Especially the rats. She knew it was called the rat race, but she never thought she would see actual rodents, the size of small dogs, racing down the sidewalks. Yes, this escape was just what the doctor ordered, and she couldn’t get away fast enough.

Tess was a well-respected art restoration specialist, who was skilled at bringing even the most damaged pieces back to life. She had restored many to their original splendor in her 58 years. She had a soft spot for projects that were so old and faded, that everyone thought they were beyond repair. A golden sculpture in a tomb in Egypt with its face missing. An ancient Native American carved totem pole with deteriorating wood. A fresco in an Italian church, faded beyond recognition.

“Bring it on. I can fix it!” She would say, with a sparkle in her dark eyes, like the edge of light in a Rembrandt painting.

Her Millennial and GenZ co-workers called her Legend. She was flattered by this, but also knew this was another way of saying she was their wise old elder. Hashtag Boomer. When her boss told her about an opportunity in Rock Harbor, a small town in Maryland, on the Chesapeake Bay, Tess’s ears perked up. She knew it would not be as elite or exotic as the work she had done in Europe and Asia, but she was ok with that.

Besides, Tess was feeling a bit lonely and weary these days, craving a change of scenery. Her beloved daughter, Olivia, had flown the nest and was living her best life in San Diego. Her husband, Robert, had left what she thought was a decent and loving partnership. He had predictably walked away, after facing his mid life crisis, with a souped up mustang and his yoga teacher.

She could still see his slumped over shoulders, as he packed his collection of obscure punk band t-shirts and some skinny jeans into an overnight bag. He had been dressing more hip lately, and cleaning his trendy sneakers, and now she knew why.

“Her name is Ashley?” She had asked, staring at the V of his swimmer’s shoulders that she had always loved.

“Ash Leigh.” He corrected. “Two names.”

“Of course. And she’s your hot yoga teacher?”

“She teaches hot yoga, yes.”

“So, she’s your hot hot yoga teacher.”

“Tess,” he had said, turning to her with the reddened eyes of a man who had been crying the useless tears of a husband leaving his 32 year old marriage for a 28 year old.

When he left, she threw a perfectly good 1951 Art Deco Lalique at the door. The crystal pieces smashed and fell like gold luster leaves to the floor. She stayed up all night, at the kitchen table, lovingly glueing it back to its nearly perfect form. When the morning sun seeped through the window, she got up and put it back on the shelf. Apparently, Tess was skilled at repairing works of art, but she was useless at holding a marriage together.

This feeling of failure led to a lot of nights, tossing and turning, anxious with worry and existential dread. She would wake up, twisted in covers, and drenched in sweat, with a dull hopelessness in her soul. The 4 a.m. chatter of her post-menopausal brain didn’t help either. She could hear Sinatra crooning, “I wanna wake up in a city that never sleeps”, and she wanted to scream. “Shut up, Frank! Give me some good old fashioned peace and quiet!” Rock Harbor, a town of 1,100 people, mostly watermen, who crabbed and fished, sounded like a goddamn gift to her.

As she headed towards this haven of bucolic simplicity, Tess could feel her body relaxing into the pleather seat that was being warmed by the sun. She became mesmerized by the passing scenery, which made her think of her adventurous “seize the day” youth. It may have only been Northern New Jersey, but the swampy pine forests looked romantic through the window, blurred with the handprints of strangers.

“Tickets, Miss!” The conductor’s voice with the thick Long Island accent boomed from above.

Tess fumbled for her iPhone, with the Amtrak train app, that was of course buried somewhere in the depths of her oversized fanny pack. Awkwardly, she rustled through lip balms, old receipts, pens, 3 pairs of readers, and a bruised banana. Until she noticed that the man in charge of the tickets was not talking to her. He was smiling down at the young lady in the seat next to her. In her rush to get settled, Tess had not noticed that she was sitting next to what the kids today would call a smokeshow.

The girl was maybe 19 or 20. Tess took in the smooth skin, the slim, toned arms with the perfectly manicured dusty pink nails. Her hair was tied back in a severe Kardashian ponytail, and her nose was upturned with a gold piercing. This goddess, who smelled of lilacs and possibility, was also searching for her phone in her Longchamp tote.

“Take your time, Miss.” The Conductor said in a smitten schoolboy voice.

Smokeshow seemed to know her power. After a lengthy search, with graceful limbs, she finally found her iPhone. Ever so slowly, she lifted it up, saying with forced glee: “Yay-ah!”

The Conductor scanned her ticket, all the while barely taking his eyes off the dewy flesh exposed by her tight crop top.

“Thank you, Miss!” He said, enjoying the opportunity to brush his hairy wrist against the porcelain smoothness of hers.

“Tickets, Ma’am!” He yelled at Tess.

And there it was. Ma’am. The word that always felt like a punch in a slightly thickening middle aged gut. Ma’am. The word said it all, in its harsh, monosyllabic condescension. Ma’am, the word directed at her by every barista that laid eyes on her these days. Ma’am. Tess freaking despised that word.

There was no denying she was a very attractive fiftysomethingish woman, still receiving compliments. Although they now came with a conditional clause.

“You look great! For your age.”

For your age…almost as bad and unforgiving as Ma’am.

The reality was that people often mistook Tess for someone 20 years younger. She had long auburn hair, and glowing skin that she attributed to good genes. A city girl, she either rode a bike or walked everywhere, so her legs were shapely. Plus, she had the vibrancy and charisma that drew people to her.

“Momma, you slay!” Olivia always told her over FaceTime. Tess knew she was still capable of turning heads. But, for some reason whenever anyone called her Ma’am, her whole sense of self deflated. It reminded her that she was no longer a vital Miss…she was the aging crone…the dreaded Ma’am.

And now on the train, with The Conductor standing over her, with that annoyed look. This damn Ma’am feeling didn’t help, it only made her seem more inept, and in need of elderly care.

“Can I help you?” Smokeshow asked as if she was talking to her deaf grandmother.

“That’s kind of you, but I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

Though, since she was asking to be of assistance, Tess handed the dumbfounded girl the banana, which was definitely past its prime. The smell was sickly sweet and it oozed some stickiness onto her fingers. Smokeshow looked at the piece of browning fruit as if it were a great inconvenience, holding it away from her with dramatic distaste.

Tess took the banana back from her, and put it to her ear as if it were a makeshift phone.

“Hello? I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”

This was her way of doing what she always did; diffuse the situation with humor. Tess’s core belief was that it was always a good idea to laugh at oneself.

“Come on, Guys, Lighten up!” Tess would say to her team of twenty and thirty year olds. Only to be rebuked with a lecture on gender neutral wokeness and the insensitivity of using the word guys. She really wished sometimes that the younger generation would not take themselves so seriously. The look of confusion and annoyance on Smokeshow let her know this was not going to be one of those times.

Tess was however pleased and surprised that The Conductor, who was probably her age, got the joke, and rewarded her with an amused snort. But then he ruined it by saying more loudly and rudely than before, “I don’t got all day, Ma’am.”

Tess was relieved to find her actual phone in her seat pocket in front of her, and handed it to the man, sheepishly.

“Thanks, Ma’am.” He said handing it back to her, giving an extra appreciative lear at Tess’s nubile seat mate.

“You’re welcome, Sir. And could you take this, please?” She said in an overly polite voice, pressing the gooey, over ripe banana into his hand.

Tess went back to staring out the window. She didn’t hold it against the gorgeous creature next to her. In fact, she knew what it was like to be the object of desire. She had experienced plenty of that in her lifetime.

She remembered another train ride in Italy, from Rome to Naples. She was probably the same age as the girl sitting next to her. The Italian men had whistled and called “Bella!” everywhere they went.Tess and her best friend, Therese, had stayed up all night with some Roman locals. They had all gone to Lido di Ostio that morning. They barely made the train, running like crazy from the taxi to the platform, making them flushed with sweat. Tess’s hair was tousled from the salt air, and you could still see sand on her sandaled toes. She was wearing a gingham bikini top that showed lots of sun kissed skin, and a belly as brown as a wild berry. Making the outfit complete, she wore Levi’s shorts that clung to her young butt cheeks like the skin on a fresh peach.

There was no place to sit on the packed train, so they went to the bar car, full of businessmen drinking espresso. The compartment was full of passionate Italian conversation, the clinking of spoons, and a faded elegance that seemed like something out of a movie. All the men noticed them when they entered, but went back to arguing about their football teams, or wives, or mistresses. All except a silver-haired man, wearing a well made summer suit, with eyes that were as blue as the Mediterranean Sea.

Therese whispered, “Daddy’s got money.”

He could not take his eyes off of Tess, and she stared back, feeling a spark of energy that tingled down her spine. He called them over to his booth, saying, “Signorinas, come sit with me.”

Therese led the way, and said in her perfect American Italian accent. “Prego, Grazie.” She sat across from the gentleman, and he motioned for Tess to sit next to him. Pushing in beside him, he put his arm on her back, as if to protect her skin from the cracking leather seats.

“Prosecco?” he asked.

“Si, Grazie!”

They found out his name was Armando, and he was the winemaker for his family’s vineyard on the Amalfi Coast. He was much older than her, but was very sexy in that mob boss kind of way. They rode all the way to Naples, with Therese mostly talking about her New Jersey Italian roots. Meanwhile, under the table, Tess’s bare thigh was pressed against his leg, which was covered with a soft creamy linen. She could almost feel the blood pumping through their veins at the same pace. It was generating a simmering heat between them.

Tess could feel him watching her, with a polite, burning lust. When Therese went to the bathroom, he turned his attention to her, lowering his tarantula eyelashes, seemingly in awe of her beauty. Tess was feeling emboldened by this male gaze. The surge of confidence it gave her, made her as giddy as the sparkling wine.

“Do you have any Italian in you?” Armando asked.

“No, but I would love to.” Tess said, through a smirking mouth, shiny with lip gloss. She was channelling Talulah Bankhead, or some other old fashioned Hollywood star.

Tess could see him questioning what she meant. But, then she saw it dawn on him, the implication of him being inside of her. She watched him swallow hard. He let out a big full laugh, as if he were embarrassed and excited at the same time.

Armando tenderly squeezed her thigh, and said, “It would be piacere mio.” His whisper tickled the inside of her ear, and made her catch her breath. Therese told her later that it meant, my pleasure.

Tess had never forgotten that feeling of holding a man so captive by what she and her friends called the power of pussy and pheromones. It helped that she was smart and funny, too. But, it’s not necessary at that age to even rely on anything other than the simple, raw guise of youthful beauty.

Tess often felt a wistfulness for that younger version of herself. Then it morphed into gratitude for not having to deal with all the complexity that comes with that kind of physical attention. One of the perks of being a Ma’am was that you could sometimes be invisible. Especially now, on a southbound train, no one would even have the slightest clue that a teardrop crept down her middle aged face.

Tess wiped the tear away, with a hand that didn’t seem like hers sometimes. She looked at this Ma’am hand, with its age spots and crepiness, from not having worn enough sunscreen in the 1970s. Her arm rested against the stunning stranger sitting next to her.

She glanced over, and could see that Smokeshow was not wearing a bra. Tess thought, I used to have those perky young tits. Looking down at herself, she thought they were still not so bad.

Later, she knew she would fantasize about Armando. How he had sent a car for them, and brought them to his mountain top Italian villa, that was of course dripping with bougainvillea and overlooking the sea. They had dinner outside, under a flowering lemon tree. He cooked his mother’s puttanesca, and served a heart melting rosé from grapes he had picked himself.

Tess, would relive in great detail, how he had led her down the crooked steps to the wine cellar. Pressing her against the stone wall, he was gentle, but firm, putting his tongue on all of her sensitive parts. This memory drew attention to the buzzing intensity of the vibrating train between her middle aged legs. Her face spread into a smile that nobody saw, as she could almost feel him whispering in her ear, “piacere mio.”