Butterfly Kiss

By Iris Kamen

Everyone knows that butterflies are delicate and beautiful creatures. They don't fly into your life and ruin it. They don't interfere with your career, chase away your boyfriend, or deplete your patience not to mention your savings account.

Above all, everyone knows they don't talk.

Amanda Boots knew that, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468555455

Iris Kamen

Iris Kamen lives, works, and plays in Miami Beach, and has never personally encountered a talking butterfly. Or so she swears.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I never saw myself as the kind of woman who would listen to talking butterflies, let alone talk back to one. Then again, if you’d told me I’d be admiring myself in a mirror, wearing a navy blue Armani suit intended for my boyfriend, I would have sworn you were under-medicated. But in fact that’s exactly what I was doing when the whole thing started.

The boyfriend was Larry Girard, who last night promised to be my date for an upcoming shindig if he was in town the end of February, and if he had something decent to wear. The first I could only leave to fate, or a pilfered airline ticket, but the second was easy. The fact that I’m taller than the average man may have caused a lifetime of agony, but at least it permitted me to reach the thing on the top shelf and to judge which of the exquisite garments around me was sufficient enticement. I slid into the Armani, looked at my reflection and considered the results.

I was gorgeous. Where had I been all my life?

The magic blue suit clung to curves I never knew I had, and there was no trace at all of Amanda, Amanda, big as a panda. I was supersized, yes, but graceful, and radiant from my about-to-frizz brown hair down to my flats.

It was hard to break the spell, but I forced myself to look away, afraid of being condemned, Narcissus-like, to an eternity of longing for myself only, such being the price of self-love.

My eyes stole back to the mirror. Just my luck, it took a man’s suit I would never wear to bring out my best.

What was I thinking anyway? An Armani suit costing $2,125 was a much too extravagant bribe, the act of a woman who would, for example, take her boyfriend’s clothes to the laundromat at one in the morning while he was home packing because he needed clean undies for his trip and his washer-drier broke. She would then scrounge around her Volvo looking for quarters for the machines and bang her head against the steering wheel, ultimately ending up with white underwear and a black eye.

Two grand.

I couldn’t justify spending that kind of money. Cheerfully as a dethroned Miss America giving up the crown, I swapped the suit for my own clothes, lamenting the reverse metamorphosis back to drab cocoon. A too tall, too big cocoon with a trademark grating laugh.

It was wrong to spend so much on one outfit. Who had money to blow these days? I could think of hundreds of better causes off the top of my head…well, maybe a dozen. The suit had felt like a cloud against my skin.

Oh, buy it, someone said. You never treat yourself. It’ll look fantastic with a white shirt and that navy and purple tie you noticed on the way in.

You are so right, I started to say, before realizing someone was peeking. I know privacy is dead and all that, but retail security cameras have really gone too far. Who owned this opinionated voice, and how did she know I never treat myself?

But it’s more than two weeks’ pay, I finally said. What if there’s a cocoa bean shortage and the price of chocolate skyrockets? I have to be realistic.

A snort. Enough reality already. Isn’t it bad enough we have to tolerate real people taking over our TV shows? You don’t want to live like that, do you? Besides, it’s the Armani winter sale, 40% off.

I stroked the silky fabric. I stroked the certificate of authenticity. Giorgio Armani, printed with planchettes so the name could be felt, like Braille for the rich. The voice was right, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d treated myself.

I hadn’t noticed a sale sign but it didn’t hurt to check, so I snapped open the dressing room door and retraced the burnished wooden road to the rack. Sure enough, 40% off. A quick calculation still brought the total to over a thousand. Wait, does that say take another 20% off at the register?

I’ll buy the suit, the heck with reality.

I gathered up the suit, a classy white shirt, and the navy and purple tie, and headed to the front to pay. The salesman took my credit card and I signed the receipt, ignoring the total.

Nice suit, he said, adding that the purple in the tie set off my hair.

It’s not for me, I said, but he’d already turned away. Probably deciding what to spend his commission on.

No matter. The important thing was that this year I’d have a date for the Miami ADDY Awards, the annual event for those of us in the advertising field. I wouldn’t be sitting alone at a table watching couples feed each other canapés. This year, I’d be feeding canapés to Larry.

Chapter 2

I carried the suit out to my car and hung it over the back seat with a reverence usually associated with holy objects, or a first born. Humming, I buckled up and glanced at the happy woman...

What had I just done? What alternate universe was I inhabiting?

I was not a celebrity, a pampered heiress, or even a disgraced CEO. I should be thinking K-Mart, not Armani. I would march back into the store with the suit, find the salesperson who’d led me astray, and demand a refund.

Instead, I blasted the radio and drove out of the lot, imagining how hot Larry would look wearing the suit, and how we’d grope each other all night on the dance floor.

The ADDYs are the first of a three-rung competition sponsored by the American Advertising Federation. Though I had no hope of snagging an award, it’s a great party and chance to network, i.e. look for a better job. Most important, it was a chance to be coupled with Larry, which could lead to bigger things. And bigger things is what I wanted.

It was only mid-November. The ADDYs were more than three months away, and this year I would be prepared. My inner Girl Scout was proud.

I live straight down the main avenue from the mall, but this time chose the longer, twisty route that parallels the Intracoastal Waterway, driving past mansions owned by people who have not one but many Armani suits and even better, past gleaming Jaguars and Rolls Royces, past topiaries shaped like swans, Greek statues posing on superbly manicured and pedicured lawns, and past the electrified fences that keep us undesirables out.

Think Florida, and palm trees pop to mind, but those wispy fronds are as useful in the sun as a too small toupee. On this road, more practical and majestic trees ruled: pines, big crowned paradise trees, gumbo-limbos, and long-limbed mahoganies, their leaves weaving a lush, green, lacy sunscreen.

By mid-November, South Floridians completely forget about summer humidity and hurricanes, and lapse into a collective amnesia that permits us to live here year-round. I drank in the crisp breeze and sang along to You’ve Got to Change Your Evil Ways and I Used to Love Her but I Had to Kill Her, blissfully unaware of the bizarre direction this road would take me in the near future.

Someone had posted a Don’t Even THINK of Speeding! sign and I immediately floored it. Regardless, I arrived home safely, quickly, and ticket-free, proving once again that crime pays.

Chapter 3

Nice suit! the man in the next car said as I got out of my Volvo holding my prize aloft. The space had been empty for months and this was the first I saw of my new neighbor. At first glance I liked what I saw: he was on the short side, had an appealing smile, and even offered to carry my bags. Not in Mr. Larry Blue Suit Girard’s league, but then who was?

My good opinion changed so fast it got whiplash.

I’m Adam, he said, holding out his hand as we entered the elevator. His accent gave him away as a New Yorker.

Amanda Boots, I said, noticing he had hazel eyes. His hand was as warm and misleading as his smile.

Amanda Boots, he repeated, elongating each syllable like he was sucking its life out. You are one mighty tall woman. But definitely not A-man-da. Tall as a man but definitely not one. You’re an Amazon, not an Amanda. An Amazon in Armani and boots. Sure I’d be just chest high but…

He went on, but I’d already snatched my hand away and was paddling my ears like bat wings, purchases flapping against me. I won’t hear you! I sang out, just like I did back in seventh grade. Just like when Jerry Ponzi, the popular boy in the class, was chanting in the middle of a group of his friends:

"Amanda, Amanda,

Big as a panda,

Honks like a gander,

Tall as a man-duh!"

Just like when someone mentioned Pandora’s Box, or when the teacher said, The word pander derives from Pandarus, the Trojan War archer who procured Cressida for Troilus, and the girl behind me started singing Amanda , Amanda, big as a panda, too soft for anyone else to hear.

The word gander means to look or glance. Honks like a gander, tall as a man-duh!

Amanda, are you sniveling again? Don’t be a silly little goose.

Webster’s is a feast for the sadistic, and to this day I can’t eat pate.

It was a long, wet year, and nothing my parents or friends could say about how jealous everyone was or would one day be because of my supermodel height and distinctive laugh could change it.

The elevator door finally opened and I burst out, with Adam close behind.

Stop following me, you tiny pervert! I screamed, grabbing for my key, packages slipping.

I’m not following you, I live next door. Wait, Amanda…did I say something wrong? Let me explain— I slammed the door on the rest of his sentence.

Safe inside, protected from horrid next door neighbors and bad people in general, I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus on home sweet home.

My apartment is cozy, as a realtor would say, and outfitted with vintage ’60’s appliances. The ceiling is cracking and my bathtub running to mold, but from my ninth floor windows I can see the beach and the ocean, watch pelicans fly by, and even glimpse the Miami skyline. Most of the residents are older couples, from Cuba and other places south and they, as opposed to my neighbor, tended to be decent, quiet individuals. My neighbor on the other hand—

There was loud knocking on the door and I could hear his voice. Not home, I called out, adding something about a restraining order. The knocking stopped and I forced myself to put him out of my mind. I had more important things to think about.

Like couture.

The suit was really a stunner. I hung it up and ran my hands over it as if the man of my dreams was underneath. An oasis in an otherwise style-challenged wardrobe, the suit looked embarrassed to be hanging around in such company. If it wasn’t inanimate, it would have turned up its lapels and demanded an upgrade immediately. Definitely Larry’s suit.

I nuked a chunk of frozen meatloaf and ate it standing in front of the microwave. No time to waste; I had a date tonight, helping Larry pack for a business trip.

While I made up my face, I imagined handing him the suit. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction, but if my job’s taught me anything, it’s the importance of presentation.

I rehearsed several lines but nothing sounded right, so I grabbed my phone and rang my #1 emergency contact for advice, then punched end before it connected.

What was I thinking? I knew exactly what Loretta would say.

Sniff. You finally spend some real money and waste it on that man-ikin?

Best friend, yes, but she was not to be relied on here, so I continued down my A-list.

Brenda was always good for advice, even when unasked. Excellent, I could hear her say. New threads for a relationship hanging by one. Or worse, maybe she’d be horrified that I’d spent so much money on one outfit when there were so many needy people in the world. Maybe she’d convince me to return it and give the money to a worthy charity, or force me to spend an extra night at the Treehouse where we both volunteered. It was probably my own conscience speaking, but I wasn’t going to take a chance. Absolutely not Brenda.

My sister might be home on a Sunday evening but I already knew what her reaction would be. That’s nice, she’d say, and dismiss it, because really it’s no big deal, everyone else she knows goes to occasions like the ADDYs twice a week wearing even better suits.

Lisa? Sheryl? Sometimes I thought I’d lost them to Facebook. What happened to the bunch of us who used to hang out together in high school?

And what if Larry wasn’t as excited as I hoped? He’d be busy preparing for his trip, and probably a little snippy, like he was last time.

There was only one thing to do. I’d treat the Armani suit like a persimmon. When fully ripe they’re delicious, but bite into one too soon and all you get is a furry tongue. I’d let it ripen, and tell no one about my secret.

Chapter 4

I hear you. The whole building hears you. Come in, honey, I’m on the phone. A magnificent man held open the door to apartment 2107, and I scurried inside.

It hadn’t been easy. After leaving my apartment sans suit, I first made sure my obnoxious neighbor was nowhere in sight, then drove around road construction to Brickell Avenue, which is Miami’s answer to Wall Street. Larry’s building, the Brickell Aria, is crème de la crop among the pricey high-rises. At the guardhouse, the security guard looked at me as if I was smuggling low-class into the building, but at the last minute he called off the dogs and called Larry instead.

The valet who took my keys looked disappointed, too. A ten-year-old Volvo, a hand-me-down from my mother, slim pickings indeed. In the marble and crystal-chandeliered lobby, there were more narrowed eyes and turned up noses. I was sure it would be easier to get into the U.S. Treasury dressed like Willie Sutton. I couldn’t wait for Larry to give me a key.

But finally I was in. I kicked off my shoes on the welcome mat, per regulation, and kissed both Larry’s mouth and mouthpiece. Hopefully just an appetizer, referring to his mouth of course.

The cell, though, is my nemesis. We both crave his attention, and his face nestled into ours, but guess who usually wins? One blast of Beethoven’s Fifth, and Larry’s all over it. No wonder I sometimes feel I’m out of network.

Big poor-me sigh, but I know being incommunicado is no way to get ahead in real estate, and Larry is determined to succeed. He works for the biggest real estate company in South Florida and fully intends to be top dog sometime soon.

My crystal ball tells me he’ll make it. Even his Facebook page is all business. Regardless of the boom or bust of the housing market, Larry triumphs. When the market was up, he specialized in condo conversions and was a top salesman; now that it’s down, he’s a foreclosure and short sale expert.

It was Larry who developed the condo craze tagline live inside the box, think outside it, which convinced everyone that freeing the mind from remembering garbage pick-up days allows it to do marvelous things, like discovering a cure for the common cold, or searching internet porno sites. It was such an effective line that his boss immediately took credit for it.

Larry was pacing the living room as he talked. His enthusiasm was contagious, but I guess it’s the fact that he’s a 6’3" luscious looking man, with everything bulging in the right places. His five o’clock shadow and slightly mussed hair made me hyperventilate. He caught me staring, half smiled, and mouthed at me to sit down.

The couch is white Italian silk, smooth under the plastic cover, and very firm. I could sit on it and make some hemorrhoid surgeon happy, but decided instead to stay upright.

I looked around the room. Easy enough to entertain myself; anyone who couldn’t doesn’t deserve a pulse. It’s Bang & Olufsen, multimedia, LCD flat-panel, and High Definition all the way. I could make myself a drink from the fully stocked bar and read the latest issue of Architectural Digest. I could try out a version of Chopsticks on the baby grand, courtesy of Larry’s decorator. Too bad neither of us have talent, but even unplayed, the piano is a warm spot in a room that’s otherwise so classy cool it wears dark glasses and goes to trendy clubs every night. Knows all the bouncers by name.

Larry’s talking dollars per square foot, so I headed for the bedroom, toward an emperor-sized bed with extra thick mattresses, swathed in pima cotton linens with a thread count of some astronomically high number not yet known to mathematicians.

I dove into the bed, which is like making angels in newly fallen snow, though a lot softer and warmer. Maybe Larry would come in and join me.

Big snow angel I might be, but my thoughts were scorching my wings. Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass—

Ow! I jumped up.

That didn’t hurt! Here you are slacking off already and we haven’t even started.

I obviously wasn’t getting him into bed this way, so I picked up the attack shirt, folded it, and fed it to one of the open suitcases on the floor. A teal shirt followed, then a cream one.

How was your game? Larry plays golf with his buddies every Sunday morning.

I won.

You always win, don’t you?

Usually. Skip shanked the ball into the woods this time.

Come here, you golf pro. All that exercise, bet you could use a massage. I started toward him.

Amanda! No time for fun and games. Stop pouting. You know I have an early flight. Gotta get some sleep, be sharp for the competition. He’s even cuter when he’s irritated.

He disappeared into the closet and emerged with two pairs of sexy low-rise Levi’s. Some socks followed, then a couple of suits, though I was gratified to see he had nothing as nice as the Armani.

Like the male of many species, Larry is the more spectacular, and he knows how to flaunt his plumage. That’s why I believed that the opportunity to don a designer suit at a posh party like the ADDYs would be an irresistible inducement. Should I tell him?

I took a break to pour a big glass of grape juice with Perrier splashed in.

Larry was lining up his sundries on the bathroom counter, and when he put a big bottle of Macarena next to his facial cleanser, my heart dropped. Someone else would get to smell him for a week.

"Careful with that