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This weekend you will feel pleasure like never before

Get Aroused And Become Better In Bed

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but it had a purple mark down the front cover where one of Zees crayons had melted. Zee pointed to the stain. Its the book that Finch gave her on her wedding day. Melville looked surprised. Where did you get this? From Finch, he said, his surprised look slowly morphing into a wounded one. She stood looking at him for a long time, the impact of his statement sinking in. The anger that she had once felt for Finch, that she thought she was finished with a long time ago, surfaced in her once again. I dont believe this, she said. 12 MAUREEN A MPHITRITE D OHERTY F INCH was a writer of fairy tales, not simple happilyeverafter stories that lulled ren to sleep but much darker tales with wildly implausible happy endings, usually involving rescue from incredible odds. Very seldom were those rescues performed by handsome princes. Maureen often declared that she was allergic to princes, by way of being Celtic and Irish and fresh off the boat. She wasnt fresh off any boat that Zee knew of. Shed come to America just after she had turned sixteen, after her brother Liam was killed, and there were no boats involved in their crossing. They had all traveled to Boston by plane. But there was no arguing with Maureen when she was telling a story. Being Finchs daughter as well as her mothers, and more governed by logic than her maternal heritage might suggest, Zee had always tried to point out that there were Celtic princes Maureen could have written about, like Efflam and Treveur, as well as great warrior kings to choose from, like Cormac or Cadwallon. Zee suggested the latter two because she knew that her mother had always had an affinity for great warriors. But Maureen would simply reply that the Irish valued poets more than kings and princes. Zee listened to the stories.

The fact was, in those days she had loved listening to her mothers voice. And during Maureens manic phases, when the urge to talk became something that seemed to take her over, Zee had become smart enough to realize that letting Maureens monologues continue uninterrupted would sometimes prevent the more drastic actingout that she became prone to at such times. Occasionally her mother would stop, upset by something shed just revealed, and Zee, whod heard the same stories over and over again for years, would pitch Maureen ahead into her monologues, avoiding the parts that upset her, like an old vinyl record with a scratch that launches it midway into the next song. Even in those manic times, Maureen was a much better storyteller than she was a writer, and the stories Zee loved were not the fairy tales at all but the real stories about grog up and meeting Finch. MAUREEN TOLD Z EE THAT SHE and Finch met at Nahant Beach, the long stretch that connected what were once islands to the mainland and more particularly to Lynn, where the family lived now, in a house owned by Maureens new stepfather. Maureen had just turned nineteen and was celebrating with her friends, three s from the shoebox factory where she worked as an elevator operator. The other s worked on the machine line, but Maureen, being more beautiful than most, had been plucked from the line and trained to run one of the two elevators that took the executives to their seventhfloor offices. She was good at her job, if not enamored of it. She didnt like being inside, in a moving box inside a much larger box, she said. She was accustomed to much harder work than thissuited to it, actually. Still, she knew the privilege of being chosen, and if she would have preferred the line, she simply had to listen to her friends, who daily offered to trade places with her, to appreciate what a lucky she was. Her shift ended at three. Every afternoon, ter or summer, she walked Lynn Beach, not on the esplanade as most walkers preferred but far below it, on the sand itself. She loved the ocean. Living so close to water made the move from Ireland bearable, though she would have preferred staying there, moving south from Derry to a town in the Republic,

maybe, to Ballybunion, where they had traveled once as a family, while her father was still alive and before they lost Liam, and everything changed so terribly, and the Dohertys moved to America and another coastline that, while wildly different and strange, was at least in the end a part of the same ocean. The day Maureen met Finch was exactly five years to the day that she had stood with her brothers on the cliffs at Ballybunion. It was the first day of summer, and though there were no cliffs in this new world, there was a beautiful beach. Although the water was cold, one could actually swim here, in the protected crescent of bay that stretched toward Nahant. The Irish beaches that Maureen knew, with their wild tides and rough waters, had always been too dangerous for swimming. On the day she met Finch, Maureen had not been swimming, though two of her friends had. The waters were still too cold. It would take until July for Maureen to go into the water. She noticed him immediately. He was wearing linen pants and a light cotton shirt, dressed more for a garden party than the beach. He had photo equipment with him, an old eightbyten plate camera on a worn wooden tripod. It was very oldfashioned, as was he.

Elegant, is what her friends called Finch. He had a Gatsbyera quality more suitable to the twenties than the seventies, but lovely just the same, maybe all the more so for its strangeness. He had noticed all of them. But it was Maureen he approached. May I take your photograph? he asked. Her friends smiled. Maureen stared. I beg your pardon, he started again, but I der if youd allow me the privilege of taking your portrait. The s started to giggle. Are you a photographer? she asked, because she wasnt sure what else to say. Alas, no, he said. The s fell into gales of laughter. Alas? one of them repeated. Finchs face turned red. Why? Maureen asked, realizing she was making it worse. You can take my picture, the called Kitty said. You can take my picture anytime. Why would you want my photograph? Maureen asked again, ignoring her friend. Because you are by far the most beautiful I have ever seen. Having brothers, she was not used to such flattery, and she was certain that he was making fun of her. Convinced she had just been insulted, she turned away from him, but, as she did, she caught an expression on his face that broke her heart. He looked so stricken. You should go, she said, not meeting his eyes.