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Boudewijn Janssen was nineteen, when he left the Netherlands in the early 1620s for the New World. Actually it wasn’t him who left, but the ver Planck’s and as he happened to be their gofer, he happened to end up in a small Dutch colony at the Delaware River. What use they could have for a gofer in this solitude that didn’t have shops, not even proper streets, was beyond him, still they always had paid and treated him good and as Boudewijn wasn’t the kind of boy who liked changes, he decided to go with them. Better working for people he knew in a foreign country than working for people he didn’t knew in his own country, he told himself. Besides, he liked the scullery-maid of the ver Planck’s. Actually he liked her very much and spent a huge amount of time daydreaming more or less x-rated scenarios, although (and because) the scullery-maid couldn’t have shown less interest in him. Still Boudewijn hoped to win her over in the land without shops and streets that - as he figured out – therefore would have a lack of men and possible competitors as well.

Boudewijn was unlucky however as Katrine (the scullery-maid who stared in Boudewijn’s more or less x-rated daydreams) was one of the girls, who speculated for a social raise through marriage. She only went with the ver Planck’s because she had figured out that such a marriage would be much easier to achieve in a land that didn’t offer men a wide range of potential candidates for marriage than in a country with thousands of girls.

As she was personable and ambitious, Katrine actually succeeded in winning the attention and favour of the middle Verplanck, the scion of another expatriated Dutch merchant family. But while she already saw herself as the future Mrs. Verplanck, the middle Verplanck only saw her as cheap compensation for his desperately missed Amsterdam prostitutes. Stupidly poor Katrine didn’t have the birth control knowledge of those Dutch cocottes and after six years of longing Boudewijn finally was not only the man of the hour, but the man a pregnant and sullen Katrine saw herself forced to say “Yes” to.

Despite the fact, she was married to a gofer without any other ambitions than sharing bed with her, Katrine had no intentions to let the dream of a better life and status go and she was smart enough to use Boudewijn and his blind love and lust alongside the money she had pressed of the middle Verplanck, to influence the faith of the family.

A constantly growing family (Katrine never learned the secrets of the Dutch cocottes the middle Verplanck would mourn until the day he died) with a constantly growing fortune (Katrine had decided that Boudewijn would take part of the profits of the exclusive trading rights of the Dutch West India Company instead of being a gofer for the rest of his life) and when Katrine died in 1661 she did not only leave four children (actually she had given birth to nine, but none of the other five ever saw the age of two), seven grandchildren and five great-grand children (if she would’ve lived long enough, she would’ve witnessed the birth of six more), but also a devastated Boudewijn and the cornerstone of what would eventually turn into the empire of the Johnson Trade Inc. (The family changed the name from Janssen to Johnson with the final British takeover of the Dutch colonies). And although the members of the family soon enough looked down on everyone below their status and money; and gofers and scullery-maids were nothing more than a necessary evil in their eyes; they were proud to be one of the first families whose substantial fortune and reputation had its origin in hard and ambitious work. The Johnson’s, a descendant of the Dutch gofer and his scullery-maid said on the occasion of a family wedding in the late 1880s, virtually invented the famous American dream.

But just as every family has its black sheep, actually every generation of the Johnson’s had one or two of them through the 300 years of American family history. The first one was the Verplanck bastard (Willem Janssen, 1628-1672, who actually had no other faults than being the son of the wrong man), then there was a gambler with a drinking problem (Boudewijn Johnson III, 1689-1757), a alcoholic with a gambling problem (Arthur Johnson, 1713-1762), a alcoholic and gambler (Michael Johnson, 1753-1817); and there was Gilbert Johnson (1755-1832), who neither was a gambler nor a alcoholic, but still happened to be the first one to be repudiate by the family, because he unfortunately had fallen in love and married a dark-eyed Native American beauty in 1774 . The family however welcomed Gilbert back in their (so called) loving arms 27 years later as the Johnson’s suffered a family shortage around 1800 (the male/female percentage was 1:7) and Gilbert happened to be the only male Johnson alive without a drinking and/or gambling problem and a male descendant (Carl Johnson, 1776-1859) without a drinking and/or gambling problem and someone simply had to continue family business, even if it were a man who was married to a savage and a man who was a half-savage by blood.

For the following one hundred years there were surprisingly no more black sheep (may it be gamblers, alcoholics or men with a soft spot for dark-eyed savages), only most of the female Johnson’s were duffers and as their excesses fortunately had no real input on the healthy male family-line and all had been married away to mercenary bachelors in Europe or Australia, they didn’t count or even exist anymore in the minds of the inner family circle. Those one hundred (more or less scandal-free) years can be seen as the calm before the storm; a storm that broke out around the turn of the 20th century with the birth and adolescence of Baldwin Johnson V (1899-1973) and his younger brother Carl Johnson II (1902-1991).

Actually none of both drank or gambled or had a soft spot for dark-eyed savages during their whole lives (which had been the known problems of the male Johnson’s so far); however both were predestined to be black sheep thanks to some other innateness.

Baldwin’s problem was that he simply had no business sense or interest in politics, economy and trading. He couldn’t help this lack, he simply was born with it, and still it turned him into the known maverick of the family (although his younger brother Carl had just the same potential to be the known black sheep of the generation), who probably would’ve ended in the streets, if Carl (who became the manager of the Johnson Trade Inc. due to Baldwin’s lacks) wouldn’t have been fair-minded enough to support him with the same interest of the family business he received monthly, although Baldwin never lifted a finger.

Of course Carl wasn’t unselfish; he simply had to cope with his own problems: He had no interest in ever getting married as he did not have any interest in the female gender at all. Moreover, growing up between some particularly strange specimens, like hell he would let a woman into his house voluntarily, not even for the purpose of keeping up the appearance. But Carl loved the business and he wanted the business to stay in the closest family line. Therefore, he supported Baldwin financially and in return Baldwin was supposed to give Carl an heir for the family business.

To be honest, Baldwin hadn’t much interest in the other gender as well, but unlike Carl it wasn’t due to the sexual and romantic preference of men, but due to his over-all and almost abnormal love for art: Baldwin could’ve died happily between his canvas’ without getting married at all. Still Carl pegged away and eventually managed it to set up his already thirty-nine year old brother with the twenty-one years younger Lillian Goldsmith in 1939.

Despite his successful matchmaking and planning Carl failed. Not only did he have to wait years until the first child of Baldwin and Lillian finally was born (Emily Katherine Rose Johnson, 1944), moreover the child was a disappointment for Carl as it was a girl and therefore did not answer his purpose. Same applied for the second child of his brother and sister-in-law (Henriette Pauline Johnson, 1949), who turned out to be another female Johnson (The male/female percentage in the Johnson family was 1:8 by then).

“Listen to me, Baldwin, I’m not going to talk to you until you manage it to procreate a boy. And not another cent - ”, Carl yelled at his older brother not five minutes after the birth of Henriette, “- you won’t get a single cent anymore until I finally get my nephew”, he added, stormed out and never came back as Henrietta was the last child Baldwin procreated. Carl never stopped paying Baldwin his fair interest, however. The potential mothers of the looked-for family heir, Carl felt after he had calmed down in the arms of his long-time lover and secretary, shouldn’t have to suffer under a bootless and useless father. Besides history had proofed that no reputable man ever had been crazy enough to marry a Johnson woman who had not at least a decent education and an enormous marriage portion. And hell, if he wanted a suitable heir, he had to make sure that those girls would marry reputable men.




Baldwin Johnson was a man with a compact body, who – despite his name and fortune – always looked a little scruffy. And no matter how many essential oils and aftershaves his wife put into his bathroom, he always gave off the smell of oil paint and turpentine. Just like a rose smells like a rose, he smelled like a colour palette and even looked like one most of the time thanks to the dashes that graced him from bottom to top. Yes, Baldwin Johnson considered himself as an artist. A brilliant mind, mulcted of fame by the infamous Picasso, who – as Baldwin Johnson never got tired to point out – stole the idea of cubism of nobody less than Baldwin Johnson himself. But despite decades of unsuccessfulness, he never gave up the hope to have his breakthrough eventually and to put the Spanish thief in his place and heat-up the open fire in his atelier with the overrated works of his intimate enemy.

Of course this war was a one-sided; Picasso probably didn’t care about the existence of an American painter named Baldwin Johnson who claimed cubism to be his invention. Still Baldwin couldn’t have fought with more passion, if Picasso would’ve stooped to reply one of his letters or even taken the invitation to a duel (an artistic one, of course, Baldwin loathed physical violence as he considered it to be controversial to his artist mind). Actually all passion that ran through his veins belonged to his art and only when this bothersome physical lust spread in his body every now and then, he remembered the existence of his wife, who’d lie willing under him during these rare occasions as it is what wives are supposed to do, while his mind already started to paint a new work as he got rid of the fruitless burning in his loins.

Fruitless in an artistic sense only, because during his marriage and at his brothers urging, Baldwin managed it to procreate twice. Although he did not consider his children to be his best works, sometimes he couldn’t help to look at them with an almost infantile amazement. The oldest one was a scrawny girl with the thick brown hair and the dark eyes of her Indian foremother, Baldwin’s rangy fingers and his strong chin that somehow appealed misplaced in the otherwise delicately face. The younger one only had inherited his sparse blonde hair which looked ridiculously bald around her rosy-cheeked, round face that was decorated with her mothers’ green cat eyes and almond-shaped mouth. Whenever Baldwin made out these characteristics of his two daughters, he couldn’t help to giggle inside. What a hell of an artist he was that even his children, although he did not consider them to be his best works, partook of abstractivity.

If he ever would’ve spoken out this thought aloud, his wife probably would’ve lost the patience she had with him and his strange behaviour (as Baldwin and Lillian hardly ever spoke more than five sentences to each other in a day, there actually never was the slightest danger for him to utter this thought in the presence of his wife). Although Lillian Johnson knew that her daughters never would have looks that make every man weak in the knees, she knew that her daughters would be good looking enough to turn some heads and hopefully the heads of two respectable bachelors with good breeding and reputation as well as a brimmed account, who would turn them into their wives. If they were lucky enough, they would be able to get someone like Baldwin, who despite and because of his art delusion at the same time, was a rather good husband (The fears she first had about marrying a man so much older, had vanished into thin air during their first month of marriage). Baldwin hardly ever thumbed his marital rights and never interfered into her matters, but trusted her in all social and financial concerns (Of course he did as he had no other choice, her poor husband hardly knew how to tie his shoes). Therefore Lillian had more freedoms than all the other married women in Albany together and as everyone wrongly thought life with a man like Baldwin must be hard, she had a markedly good reputation, although her husband was denounced as screwball. Yes, sometimes she would’ve willingly given up some of those freedoms if her husband would’ve stopped his smearing and took a job in the family business. Nevertheless, Lillian Johnson was a very lucky and happy woman and she made every possible effort to put her daughters into the same position.

Therefore, Lillian Johnson arranged for her daughters an education that hopefully would turn them into two desirable catches. Since the day of their births Emily and Henriette were taught everything she knew about life, society and home economics, moral, marriage and manners by Lillian; moreover she paid expensive schools to have others teach them the things she didn’t knew. The end result was acceptable. Well, almost acceptable.

Neither Lillian nor any of the teachers had managed to tame the temperament and stubbornness of her daughters, as well as their unspeakable penchant to pert (all Johnson attributes, the Goldsmith women were known for their sweet temper and patience), down to a level which would be appropriate for two mannerly Ladies. As both however managed to curb those attributes in public most of the time, Lillian had very high hopes that her future son-in-laws wouldn’t find out until they were married and it was too late to retract.

The Johnson girls had no idea of their mothers concerns; they didn’t know that their father considered them to be abstractive; they didn’t know that they were supposed to give their uncle Carl Johnson an heir for the family business. Actually, Emily and Henriette knew nothing, but how to act and re-act in public, how to start a proper conversation around non-committal topics like the weather, fashion, literature, art (with the small exception of cubism, at least in the presence of Baldwin Johnson) and culture and how to talk about those topics in three different languages, their mother tongue and a basic knowledge of Latin not included. The older one played a rather good piano, the younger one a virtuoso violin; they knew how to dance, stitch and crochet, arrange flowers and their hair, they knew how to put on decent make-up and smiles. And because both were bright girls and no one ever asked them to do something else, they were not only perfect in it, but it never came to their minds that girls could be taught to be or even be more than wives, nor that they could be something else themselves. In their universe, the universe their mother and social status had created naturally, getting married was the sun everything revolved around.

Hence Emily Johnson felt it as a personal and hard defeat to turn18 without being married or having the ghost of a chance to be married in the near future. She did not know what went wrong and something must’ve went wrong as she was 18, unmarried and hadn’t the ghost of a chance to be married in the near future and she spent hours mulling her situation over. Of course, her father was a known screwball, but it was known as well that neither she nor Henriette had inherited his art craziness but were well educated girls. Besides, the otherwise famous family name and the quiet presentable marriage portion that came with it, should be able to balance a crazy father. (At least Emily hoped so.)

After three hours in front of the gold-framed mirror in her room, having looked at every part of her face and body with an unerring eye, Emily came to the conclusion that her looks couldn’t be the reason as well. Yes, her chin was too big and she would’ve given anything to look less like that savage relative of hers no one ever talked about, but to have the light, almost aristocratic European appearance of her sister and mother – the overall picture was satisfying, however. She had a rather nice body and beautiful hair (Maybe it wasn’t blonde like Henriettes’, at least she didn’t have to sleep with curlers in her hair ever since she was five in order to conceal its actual form) that detracted of the slight defects her face had. Still, there must’ve been something; she must’ve had a lack she didn’t know of, a stigma that kept men away.

Asking thirteen year old Henriette wasn’t a big help, her younger sister only grinned and announced that she wouldn’t have any problems in getting married and that every family had a spinster.
“I’m no spinster”, Emily whizzed in return, blood surging to her face.
“Yes you are. I wouldn’t be surprised, if I’d be married before you are. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised, if you’d never get married at all”, Henriette capped it all of, enjoying her older sisters reaction.
“You will not be married before I am.”
With a mischievous smile in the corner of her mouth, Henriette pursed her almond lips. “Time will prove me right.”
“It won’t.”
“Yes, it will.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”, Emily replied another time, although she knew that Henriette and she weren’t having a intelligent conversation and she was actually too old for such baubleries. She finally should learn to ignore her sisters’ provocations.
“Yes. Yes. Yes”, Henriette affirmed, prodding her finger at Emily’s upper arm with every word, visibly enjoying the quarrel and her sisters’ enragement.
“Stop it!”
“As you wish, spinster.”
“Do not call me that, Henriette!”
“Alright, spinster, I’ll keep the truth a secret until it can’t be kept secret anymore. But don’t worry; you’re my sister and I like you. You may live with me and my husband.”
“How very generous of you.”
“That’s how I am”, Henriette grinned. “Generous. And your only hope for a roof over your head and some company in your future spinster life.”
“My only hope”, Emily snorted. “Go fly a kite, hope, otherwise your hopes to marry ever will cease suddenly with your early death.”
“Idle threats.”
“Want to take the risk?”
“I salute and leave you alone with your mirror”, Henriette gave in, partly because she felt she had won the argument anyways, partly because she really didn’t want to take a risk. Still she couldn’t deny herself to tweet a “Mirror, mirror upon the wall, who is the fairest of all? Oh Lady Queen, though fair ye be, Henriette is fairer far to see”, while leaving Emily’s room, hardly being able to avoid the brush her sister shied after her while eventually losing her poise. That was childish and inopportune. That was probably the reason, Emily thought, while picking up her brush. Which man would want to marry a girl, who’d throw brushes after him when losing her poise? Especially if the girl lost her poise three times a day.

As Emily Johnson never had thrown a brush or any other item in public and she only happened to throw something twice in her future life after this incident (her purse after her future husband, 1963, and the flacons and tins on her dressing table onto the floor, 1985), her assumption was wrong. It wasn’t her temper, her looks or her father; it was the soap bubble she lived in and it was Lillian Johnson who caused and finally realized it.

First, Lillian had been worried about her oldest daughters’ marriage status, too. After all, she had been engaged to Baldwin with 17 and married two weeks after her 18th birthday. An arranged wedding, she realized after some pondering and talks to her fellow DAR friends, something that might’ve been quiet usual 20 years ago, but gone out of style in the 1960s. Nowadays young men wanted to chose their wives themselves. And most of the time, they weren’t introduced to them at tea-parties or the yearly city ball, but they meet them at college and university. Therefore, Lillian felt, her oldest daughter should continue her school education, although it actually had been considered to be complete with Emily’s graduation from High School two months ago.

Although, Emily was sent to College in order to meet a man, Lillian Johnson did not want to go over the top and chose Smith, a college for girls only that was known to take care of its students in every respect. Still Lillian feared Emily could go astray being completely on her own and without motherly control for the first time in her young life. Her worst nightmare (an unmarried and pregnant daughter) didn’t come true, because Emily simply was too well-bred and the rules of a modest contact with men had been thumbed into her from childhood. Her dream (an engagement and wedding around her daughters 19th birthday) didn’t come true as well however, because Emily was too busy in collecting and handling the new impressions during her first year at college, her first year outside the soap bubble.

This new knowledge changed many of Emily’s views and some of her attitudes, but had no impact on her self-conception and the way she wanted to live her life. If she had been younger and capable of being influenced on a deep level, this probably would’ve been different as her letters home were enough to change Henriette. The universe of the youngest Johnson got some new suns and the girl higher hopes than being married before her older sister. Henriette never got rid of the nickname, however, that Emily called her by ever since she had proclaimed to be Emily’s only hope: A taunting Hope first, a fond Hopie after the dispute had been forgotten.

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Hier die ersten beiden Teile meiner neuen FF, hoffe sie gefällt, freue mich über Feedback

hi,
ich hätte die bitte, das du vor beginn der ff ein paar gezielte infos setzt, damit man weiss, in welchen canon/ genre es spielt und man in etwa einschätzen kann, ob das thema interessant für einen selbst ist. denn es handelt sich nicht um GG, wenn ich bisher alles richtig verstanden habe...

Im Titel steht doch worum es geht: Reconcilers, Emily und Richard

So, wie angekündigt habe ich mir die ersten beiden Kapitel durchgelesen..

Erstmal muss ich sagen, dass es super geschrieben ist, die Ausdrucksweise ist.. wow.

Da inhaltlich noch nicht so viel passiert ist,kann ich dazu noch nichts sagen, außer dass mir die Familiengeschichte am Anfang etwas lang war.

Und ich ahne wer das nächste Schwarze Schaf der Familie sein wird, dass sich in die lange Reihe stellt

Bin mal gespannt was noch kommt...

Emily Johnson knew that her major (history of art) and minor (architecture) was only a stalking horse for daughters of good families. Studying history of art was their plea to make contacts with men at different university overlapping events and in cafes, bars and dancing halls that had a reputation for it. As Emily studied it for the same reason, she didn’t mind. Studying was a pastime until she would finally find a man and marry him. In contrast to her first weeks at Smith, she had learned to see the whole looking for a husband-endeavour easier, however. Moreover, she had taken a fancy to student’s life and decided to get her bachelors degree before marrying.
Marrying. Emily had no more doubts that she would find an adequate husband, if she wouldn’t be too picky. Moreover she truly enjoyed the search for one. Having dates with men who found her attractive, who gave her compliments and sent her flowers and chocolates were balsam for her soul. Actually, she had worked out a perfect system that comprised three dates a week. On Mondays she used to visit one of the cafes, bars and dancing halls in order to make new contacts. Whenever she liked a man, she would accept his invitation to a date on Thursday. Whenever a man proved to be short listed on Thursday, she agreed on a Friday night date. Whenever a Friday night date turned out to be really short listed, she’d accept a date on Saturday. And whenever a man turned out to be a duffer, she would recruit a new one on Monday evenings.
During one and a half years of meeting men and dating them, there had been only twelve who made it to a Saturday date. The first seven, because Emily Johnson still had been in a desperate search for any husband by then, the last four, because she liked them. Hence number four (Martin Dafoe, a Harvard student and heir of a Texan oil empire) had been the first man she ever kissed in her life. The kiss was short and wet and all she felt while it lasted was the urgent need to get rid of the second-party tongue in her mouth. She had the same want with number five and seven (a Yale student with a trading company in his back and Princeton man with the prospects of becoming a successful lawyer), while she was able to enjoy the kisses of number six and eight to a certain level. Number six, Zachary Dagett, a Yale man and future owner of a famous hotel chain, threw away with Emily yet despite being a good dancer, because he unfortunately turned out to have no sense for arts and humour or anything else she liked or enjoyed and bored her to death after Saturday date number four. Number eight, a guy named Robert Tadman, student of economics at Princeton, made it to seven Saturday dates and ever since date number five Emily had high hopes that she would end up as Mrs. Tadman eventually.
Despite her ingenious and tight dating schedule, Emily took life easy (as easy as it is possible for a person like her). She spent as much time as necessary with studying (which was less) and lots of time with her friends and sports. Ever since she had been a child, her mother had urged Emily to train her body. It had begun with ballet (for the perfect posture and graceful gait) and swim (the only dignified work out in Lillian Johnson’s eyes) lessons, there were badminton and tennis lessons (back then still the sport of the rich and privileged population) and with 12 Emily joined the field hockey team of her school (as she had to do a team sport and both, mother and daughter, considered field hockey to be more dignified than soft- and volleyball), which soon became her favourite sport.
Emily simply loved everything about field hockey, especially the games. She loved the whistle that opened the sportier competition, the scraping and squeaking of the shoes and hockey sticks on the grass, the sound of a fast hockey ball hitting the goal and all the shouts and cheers that came with it. She loved the hum of blood in her ears and veins, the wild beating of her heart and even the sweating that came with the exercise as well as the satisfactory exhaustion afterwards. She loved the sensation of having won and loathed the knockdown of having lost. Especially today. First of all the opposing team hadn’t been equal and gained an unfair victory with tricks and fouls, although the rules of field hockey forbid any physical contact or elbowing. Second Robert Tadman was sitting among the viewers. Suffering defeat in the presence of a man she was seriously dating since some weeks was hard enough, but she had fallen onto the ground after a fast and hard ball of C.C. Everetts had hit her side. A ball that had been batted with the purpose of hitting her. But although Emily was fret and fume after the game, she tried to play fair as the fighting belonged onto the field. It started with the tingler and ended with the final whistle. Everyone knew that, really.
Well, everyone except the hockey team of Wellesley College, whose members apparently had left their manners in Wellesley, if they had any manners at all. When Emily heard C.C. Everetts calling the Smith field hockey team “a pride of duds” on the parking lot, she lost the rest of her poise therefore and unhesitatingly took the opportunity to ram her elbow into the neck of the smaller girl while passing her, which caused C.C. to fall onto the ground.
“Have you lost your mind?”, C.C. screamed, getting back onto her feet and rubbing her red neck.
“I’m so sorry, I must’ve overlooked you”, Emily replied with the most sweet smile. “Did I hit you?”
“You know perfectly, you did.”
“It was an accident.”
“Snake in the grass, you did it on purpose.”
“If you want to prevent people running into you, I suggest you to wear a high red hat to mark your tiny appearance, but do not imply things you can’t prove.”
“You’re right, I can’t prove it”, C.C. replied, a smile forming on her otherwise combative face. “Just like you won’t be able to prove that I batted the ball on purpose, which will hit your pretty face during our next game.”
“Listen, darling”, Emily replied, the sweetness in her voice was replaced with cold sharpness by now. “If you ever should happen to bat a ball into my direction or badmouth my team again, it just might happen that I accidentally run into you again. And then you won’t get off as lightly as today.”
“I’m afraid, there won’t be any other hockey games you’ll participate in, Miss Johnson”, the voice of her trainer resounded.
“What!?!”, Emily spun around, being sure, she got hold of the wrong end of the stick.
“You understood me perfectly. You’re barred from the team.”
“You can’t bar me! I’m one of the best players!” Emily exclaimed in shock. “Besides, she started it, I was just - ”
“I don’t care who started it or why”, the trainer interrupted her. “All I saw was one of my players elbowing and threatening one of our guests and I can’t and won’t tolerate such behaviour in my team.”
“But –“, Emily tried to defend herself again.
“There are no buts. I’ll meet you in my office in half an hour.”
“But”, she murmured another time, watching the trainer walking away, feeling the gleeful views of C.C. Everetts and her team-mates lying on her.
Officially Richard Gilmore had watched the field hockey game between Smith and Wellesley, because he had promised Susan Miller, a Wellesley girl he dated every once in a while, to cheer her. Unofficially he was here to watch those girls running over the grass in their tight and short tricots. And although neither he nor any other male viewer would ever admit it freely to a woman, the tricots and the bodies inside of them were the only reason why men attended those games. Field hockey simply couldn’t be considered as a sport and he was sure it only had been invented to give the players the opportunity to lose some calories and showcase their bodies and legs in front of their idols.
Observing the encounter of the Wellesley and the Smith player on the parking lot had puzzled him hence. He remembered the fierce pass of the small redhead and the downfall of the dark-haired Smith player (her skirt had ridden up while falling and revealed a well-shaped right thigh and bottom line), but he never would’ve thought, they would take the whole coincidence seriously enough to attack each other at a parking lot. Or that one of them would be kicked out of her team for it.
Notwithstanding he couldn’t understand her enragement, Richard felt slightly sorry for the Smith player. Since Susan Miller was still in the changing room, he decided to spend the waiting time with a chat to the brunette after the bunch had dissolved. He strolled towards the bench she was meanwhile sitting on, making a thorough inspection of her. He had already noticed her legs, which looked even better on this second view; same went for the rest of her body that was featured with sizeable breasts, although she was very slim otherwise. Thanks to her dark eyes and hair and the glowing cheeks she had almost something of an Amazon.
“It looks like you need a new sport”, Richard started the conversation, it was always good to start it with a remark that showed interest and humour, women like that. “You’d make a heck of a football player.”
Usually women liked it. Emily Johnson looked at him with an angry twinkle in her eyes, however. The last thing she needed, were stupid comments. “I don’t remember having asked for your opinion”, she replied therefore.
“Well, you didn’t”, Richard said rather stupid as he hadn’t counted on such a reply.
“Why tell it to me then?”
“I tried to start a conversation.”
“And why would you do that?”
Richard couldn’t help to grin. Her snottiness had something. “You struck me during the game. And afterwards.”
“Why thank you”, Emily smiled sarcastically. “And for your further information: You don’t start a conversation with saucy remarks, but with a ‘Hello, my name is’.”
To her relief, the guy’s only reaction was the bevelling of his head and then he started to walk away.
To her disfavour he turned around after some metres and came back.
“Hello, my name is Richard Gilmore. May I?”, he pointed at the bench and sat down without her affirmation. “You played a hell of a field hockey game today.”
“My team lost”, she remembered him, not knowing what was going on.
“Not your fault, you played a fantastic midfield.”
“I’m playing centre forward.”
“And you were fantastic.”
“I was awful.”
“You were not”, he disagreed, although he hardly remembered more than her fall down. “That goal of yours was impressive.”
“My goal was impressive”, Emily replied dumbfounded, which encouraged Richard to continue.
“Yes”, he nodded enthusiastically. “That’s why I appealed to you. The way you bashed that ball into the goal was probably the most formidable shot I saw in my entire life.”
Emily smiled benignly. “Was it?”
“Yes, the power and boatmanship knocked me for a loop”, he continued praising something he never had seen or could rate. “Very professional, they’d affiliate you into the national team without a blink, if they had seen it. With you on the team, they’d win –“, as she had started to giggle with the “loop” and laughed loud by now, Richard stopped and cleared his throat with slight embarrassment. “You didn’t goal, right?”
“No”, still grinning, she shook her head.
A beautiful smile, Richard thought and congratulated himself for his decision to talk to her.
“Neither did I goal”, she went on. “Nor do you have any knowledge of field hockey.”
“You caught me red-handed”, he confessed. “I do have a very distinct knowledge of beautiful women, however. And you were definitely the most beautiful on the field.”
“You better do not tell that the girl you’re here for.”
“How would you know, I’m here for a girl?”
“It’s quite evident that you aren’t here for field hockey.”
“You win 2:0”, Richard said, thinking about how to safe the situation. It annoyed him that she had debunked him completely and he looked like a pretty big jerk, now. “Still, I mean it. You were the most beautiful on the field and if I had known you before, I’d be here for you.”
As Emily didn’t know, if to feel flattered by his compliments or to be annoyed by his brazenness, all she answered was a short “Thanks”. Fortunately, Robert Tadman showed up and she practically jumped off the bench. “Robert, there you are”, she exclaimed with a relieved smile.
“Emily”, he took her hand, kissing it lightly. “You look fabulous.”
“Thank you”, she smiled, Robert was really handsome and charming. He knew how to threat women. “I’m afraid, I’ve to reschedule our date, however.”
“Why?”, Robert asked visibly crestfallen.
“Well, something interfered”, she evaded the question.
“Something more important than a trip to the Quabbin Reservoir?”, he said it with a wink, still Emily felt horrible.
“Well, I. It’s just that I -”, she started, being unable to finish the sentence. Cowardly, she knew and hated herself for it. But elbowing other players and getting banned from the team wasn’t exactly what she wanted Robert Tadman to know of her.
Richard Gilmore apparently thought differently. “She elbowed one of the Wellesley players, was kicked out of the team and has to report to her trainer’s office, now”, he jumped in.
Emily’s jaw dropped open and she gave him a mad view, boiling with rage for the third time today. Not only because of Richard’s remark, but because he didn’t realize that he was interfering and didn’t show the slightest inclination to go. This time she pulled herself together, at least as long Robert Tadman was here and they agreed on a new time.
“What on earth have you been thinking?”, she snapped at Richard once Robert was out of hearing. “That was really the rudest behaviour I experienced in my entire life. How could you tell him? And how could you not notice that your presence was unwanted? Are you some sort of idiot or what?”
Richard was wordless. No woman had ever talked to him like that. Never. Surprisingly, her directness impressed him not only, but sparked his interest for more than a chat on a parking lot. The girl was definitely dating material, he felt. “I’m sorry”, he apologized therefore. “I really wasn’t thinking.”
“You can bet.”
“What about a coffee in satisfaction of my stupidity?”
“You want to drink coffee with me?” Emily was more than puzzled. She called that guy an idiot and he wanted to spend time with her. Now that was something.
Richard nodded. “Yes.”
“I have to go to my teacher’s office and you’re waiting for another girl”, she remembered him.
“Then a drink later tonight.”
“Not two minutes ago, I agreed on meeting Robert for a drink later tonight.”
“What about tomorrow?”, he staid obstinate, there was nothing to lose anyway.
“I have to study tomorrow.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your major?”, he digged deeper, nothing to lose and nothing lost, yet.
“History of arts.”
“That’s perfect”, he grinned. “The Yale museum of art is fantastic. You’ll love it, you’ll have fun and you’ll learn many things. Talk of killing three birds with one stone.”
“I don’t know”, she hesitated, although she almost regretted venting her wrath on him as he (despite his lack of manners and tactfulness) seemed to be sort of a nice guy. So was Robert Tadman, she recalled, as well as Arthur Caine and Marcel Burton, the other two men who held the spots in her dating system. She wasn’t in need of another one. Besides, she really had to study for a test
“Please”, Richard said with a smile.
Emily really didn’t know why. Still she agreed.

Richard Gilmore contrived to date women and how to leave a mark. He knew how to compensate his rather unspectacular looks with charm and wit and how to make girls see things in him that actually weren’t there. The power of words worked for him like a devoted servant for his master. And he let it work for him; there was nothing wrong in it after all: you can’t impress someone, who doesn’t want to be impressed and as he considered himself being a polite guy, he gave them what they wanted. Everything they wanted.

Still, Richard knew his exact limitations with all of his dates and never cut across them. Some of his friends (just like a high percentage of the male earth population) divided women into two very simple categories: either bonkable or not. Latter with the subcategories kissable or not, first with the subcategories intelligent or not. Although, he found this classification shallow and cheap, Richard couldn’t deny that it was true somehow and sometimes he even found himself using it.

According to it he preferred dating women of category one, subcategory intelligent. They considered themselves as modern and independent, were a pleasure to talk to and (just like him) enjoyed life and dates and saw nothing wrong in having some fun (with all meanings of the word) without serious strings being attached. Whenever he met a member of category one, subcategory not so intelligent, he didn’t say no either (he was a man after all and they had to offer a lot in the physical section), although they hardly interested him on a higher level. Still, he held them in regard as the pleasure was two-sided, easy to get and none of the girls ever would’ve considered a joint night as a promise for anything.

Because of promises and seeing them, Richard hardly ever dated category two. Of course, there were some beautiful and intelligent women in it, too, and he enjoyed being around them, talking, dancing and flirting with them. Unfortunately most of them considered three dates and a kiss good-night (if they were kissable) as a promise for a serious relationship or even an unofficial promise of a marriage however. Something he wasn’t willing to offer as he already gave a girl the unofficial promise of a marriage. A very unofficial promise, they never even had seriously talked about this subject, still Richard was sure as hell that he and Pennilyn Lott would marry one day. Well, as soon as he had his graduation and a job and she’d be back from Florence, Italy where she was studying.

Meanwhile, both had agreed on going their separate ways, leaving each other all freedoms. Pennilyn, because she knew that Richard had to sow his wild oats; Richard because he trusted Pennilyn and as they’ve practically been a couple since they were 17, he knew her well enough to know that she was definitely category two. Kissable maybe, very kissable actually, but no chance that even the most versed Italian Casanova would be able to talk her into category one. Even he hadn’t managed that so far, neither during her occasional visits home after months of separation nor during his visits in Florence last summer and this spring. But as he knew he’d have her in their wedding night at the latest, he easily could live with it.

With Emily Johnson, the girl he had met after the field hockey game between Smith and Wellesley, he wasn’t quite sure in which category she belonged, yet. Actually he could already tell that she wasn’t dumb, their conversation and her sharp answers had proved that. As she had shown temper, he hoped she’d be a category one girl, but then her conversation with that guy had been a typical category two talk. No matter what category she was in, he absolutely felt that she was dating material and he’d have a great afternoon and hopefully evening with her.

At least her looks confirmed Richard’s hopes and presumptions. A red hair-band with white dots on it tied back her long, open hair and the light summer dress with the same colour and muster simply looked gorgeous on her. It accentuated her physical amenities perfectly, a paradigm for elegant and unobtrusive sexiness. Next to her promising looks, the date turned out to be a disappointment however. The girl he walked through the art gallery of Yale with had nothing in common with the girl he had asked out. It was as if she had sent her well-bread, polite and hence boring twin instead of coming herself. Talking of category two, not kissable. Not even interesting.

Regardless, Richard ran his well proven program. He talked about the pictures in the gallery, about those in Europe, about the Louvre and Titian. He tried to be charming and witty, without any success, not only did she bore him; he seemed to bore her as well, which mortified him somehow. As they stopped in front of Pollaiuolo’s Hercules and Deianira he decided to start a last attempt before ending this debacle of a date.
“Hercules and Deianira by Antonia Pollaiuolo, circa 1470” he explained with a frown and took a step back, examining the painting intensely with a wrinkle on his face, sighing almost ecstatic after some seconds of silence. Something he did in front of most paintings as Emily had realized amazedly. “One of the most beautiful paintings in this gallery. One of the most tragic love stories in the mythology.”
“Is it?”, she got into it, hoping that she had found the decent tone that showed well-educated interest but not the enthusiasm she felt about the painting as well as seeing the original for the first time and the fact that Richard shared her opinion upon it. Sometimes she really wished that her nature would be more like the one everyone expected her, expected a young Lady to have, because the pretending tired her – especially today as Richard talked about so many things whether she had a completely different opinion about or that made her heart jump out of acceptance, because she had thought she was the only one with that opinion so far.
“Yes”, he replied rather disappointed upon her cold and somehow disinterested reaction. “Do you know the legend of Hercules and Deianira?”
Emily shook her head, a brief glance into his eyes. The blue was really unusual for a man, she realized, just like several times before since their date lasted. “No”, she lied as she was curious to hear is version. Besides, she liked the way he explained things, the sound and expression in his voice. She couldn’t remember ever having dated or even met a man (despite her father, but Baldwin Johnson did not count), who had such a distinct knowledge of art and the stories behind it and it impressed her somehow.
“Deianira was Hercules’ wife”, he started to tell a story he had told dozens of times before in front of this painting. “The centaur is Nessus. Hercules killed him with his bow when he tried to kiss Deianira while carrying her over the river Euenos and she cried for help, just like Pollaiuolo painted it on this painting. Dying the centaur told Deianira that his blood had the magic power that would guarantee her Hercules’ everlasting love, if she would put it onto his shirt. She didn’t use it however until a servant told her that Hercules brought his old love as slave to their court in order to make her his lover. Deianira got jealous and send Hercules a shirt with the blood of the centaur - who had lied to her”, a short, dramatic pause. “Instead of making Hercules loving her forever, the centaurs’ blood slowly killed her husband. Broken by the fact that she had murdered the man she loved, Deianira killed herself with his sword.”
“An entertaining story behind a beautiful painting”, she said absentminded, while she actually and once again wondered why Deianira had been so stupid to trust someone, who had been shot by her husband.
Richard sighed, it really was no use and he had erred in Emily. No matter how great she looked, calling the legend of Deianira and Hercules “entertaining” showed a true lack of intellectual grasp. “Yes, it is”, he confirmed, already walking over to the next painting, wondering how he’d be able to end the afternoon as soon as possible.

Emily Johnson had a hard time to hide her disappointment, when Richard suggested driving her home the moment they’d left the gallery. Nevertheless she smiled and agreed politely. There was nothing else for her but to agree, she hardly could tell him that she didn’t want to go home yet. Getting kind of dumped was something she never had experienced before and it annoyed her a lot. Especially as she didn’t understand what had been going wrong. She had been the picture perfect lady during the entire afternoon, biting her tongue more than once, trying very hard to show her best manners after she’d acted so impolite during their first meeting. It couldn’t be her fault, she decided therefore, but Richard really must be the idiot she had considered him to be during their first conversation. A shame that she had wasted a Sunday afternoon, though it had been a quiet pleasant one until now, with him. That’s what happened, if she dated outside her system and she confirmed on oath that she never would do it again.

“Here we are”, Richard declared when they arrived at his car, opening the passenger door for her.
“Thank you”, she said and got in, wondering how she’d survive the long drive to Smith with that guy on her side. Unbelievable that she’d erred in him. Unbelievable that he even hadn’t invited her for a coffee. Unbelievably rude. What the hell was he thinking? For a moment she was tempted to give it to him straight, but she controlled herself. She had acted perfectly until now and she wouldn’t forget her manners just because of this idiot of a guy. It wasn’t worth it and she wouldn’t begrudge that to him. Afterwards he’d possibly think… heaven knows what he’d think and actually she couldn’t care less.

Still Emily was not really happy, when they finally arrived at Smith. Of course she was happy to get rid of him, but during the long and silent drive, she had enough time to go completely overboard for his impoliteness and it got harder and harder for her to keep it to herself. Hence, the first thing she did as soon as she closed the door of her apartment behind her was fizzing a thunderous “God”, while dashing her purse onto the commode.
“Did you have fun?”, her flatmate Melinda grinned.
“As much fun as you’d have at your execution. That man is probably the most impolite, ignorant idiot on this earth”, Emily got down on one of the sofas. “Can you believe that he even didn’t ask me to have a drink with him? There he schleps me through this museum for almost two hours and it even didn’t come to his mind that I might be thirsty. Not to talk of the fact that it would’ve been the proper procedure to invite me for a drink. And not with one word, not with a single syllable he mentioned that he enjoyed the afternoon or that he wants to see me again.”
Melinda’s grin grew bigger. “Now that’s what it is about.”
“What do you mean?”
“It annoys you that there’s a guy who doesn’t like you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Come on”, she laughed and put away her book. “I saw you fretting about teachers, grades and classmates. Not to talk of waiters and C.C. Everetts. But never about a guy.”
“Because no one ever dared to turn me down”, Emily confessed offended. “He had no right to do so.”
“But you turn guys down as well.”
“That’s something different.”
“So you’re allowed to break hearts, but no one else is?”
Emily bristled with slight amusement. “First of all: I never broke any hearts. Second: My heart isn’t broken.”
“I did not say it was.”
“You suggested it.”
“If you say so”, she lifted a brow, giving her friend an intense glare.
“God, Sweetie”, Emily sighed. “Don’t give me that look.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Put that in the past tense.”
“I see, I see.”
“Don’t make such a fuss about it”, she demanded. “Of course I liked him; otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to date him. But it turned out that he isn’t likeable at all and there you have the end of the story.”
“Well, at least you dated him because you liked him and not because of his bank account.”
“I never dated a man because of his account”, Emily denied first, although Melinda knew her well enough to know the truth and gave her one of her looks again. “Maybe earlier”, she agreed therefore. “But not anymore. Just look at Robert. I like him. I really do.”
“But you aren’t in love with him.”
“You don’t have to be in love to marry. Love is something you grow into.”
“Welcome back to 1845.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. I just don’t understand you.”
“And as we had this talk dozens of times before, I doubt you ever will”, Emily replied as patient as possible. “We’re simply seeing this issue in a much too different light to agree ever.”
“And I simply don’t see what’s wrong with falling in love.”
“It complicates things.”
“It’s wonderful”, Melinda exclaimed.
“Tell me what was wonderful about you crying your eyes out, because Steven bumped you.”
“Well, that part really wasn’t fun. But the time before was worth it.”
“You’re helplessly romantic, Sweetie.”
“And you’re helplessly pragmatic.”
“Because I like it that way”, Emily got up. “And now excuse me please; I’ve no intentions to fail in the test, because I wasted my time with an idiot.”
“Why thank you.”
“You know, I was talking about him.”
“I know”, Melinda nodded with a smile, watching Emily vanishing in her room. She’d had given up all hope already, to see Emily liking a guy enough to loose her temper and now – even if it was because of her hurt pride only, that was really something.

Despite Melinda’s new insight and Emily’s anger, the whole affair, Richard, would’ve probably been forgotten all too soon, if there hadn’t been Robert Tadman and an invitation to a tennis match with his sister Moira and one of her gallants. A gallant who turned out to be no one less than Richard Gilmore.

To be continued

ATN: Ach, Karana ist das Auch wieder etwas gelernt (Ebenso wie das es automatische Beitragsverschmelzung nicht gibt, wenn der zweite Beitrag zu lang ist *G*) Freut mich, dass du dir's durchgelesen hast und danke für's FB.

Hey!
Also ich wollte nur sagen, dass ich dei FF spitze finde! Erstens weil ich Emily und Richard liebe, zweitens weils dann noch auf Englisch ist und drittens, weil du absolut geil schreiben kannst!!!Schreibst du noch weiter? Es gab schon so lange kein Update mehr... bitte schreib weiter! Ichz brauch mehr von der Story!

Zitat:“Listen, darling”, Emily replied, the sweetness in her voice was replaced with cold sharpness by now. “If you ever should happen to bat a ball into my direction or badmouth my team again, it just might happen that I accidentally run into you again. And then you won’t get off as lightly as today.”

Solche Stellen sind es echt wert gelesen zu werden! Typische Emily Gilmore Kommentare oder ihre nette erste Unterhaltung mit Richard.

Zitat:What on earth have you been thinking?”, she snapped at Richard once Robert was out of hearing. “That was really the rudest behaviour I experienced in my entire life. How could you tell him? And how could you not notice that your presence was unwanted? Are you some sort of idiot or what?”
Richard was wordless. No woman had ever talked to him like that. Never.

Es würde mich echt super freuen mal wieder ein Update zu finden und ich hffe einfach, dass du noch weiter schreibst

LG Krümelchen

also ich kann nur sagen W-O-W super tolle FF über mein lieblings couple Emily und Richard und mal zur abwechslung was anderes =)
die sprüche passen perfekt zu Emily

Zitat:“God, Sweetie”, Emily sighed. “Don’t give me that look.”

dafür liebe ich Emily Gilmore!

oder wie nett sie sich mit Richard unterhält

Zitat:“It looks like you need a new sport”, Richard started the conversation, it was always good to start it with a remark that showed interest and humour, women like that. “You’d make a heck of a football player.”
Usually women liked it. Emily Johnson looked at him with an angry twinkle in her eyes, however. The last thing she needed, were stupid comments. “I don’t remember having asked for your opinion”, she replied therefore.

er is echt so süß perplex! also ich liebe die story absolut! und deswegen hoffe ich auch auf ein ganz schnelles update!

Mu

Danke für das Feedback Da ich dachte, hier interessiert sich eh keiner dafür (die bisherige Resonaz war ja nicht so prickelnd ), habe ich die Updates hier nicht gepostet. 6 (? ungefähr, zu faul zum nachzählen) weitere Kapitel sind allerdings auf Fanfiction.net zu finden:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3316411/1/

Viel Spaß beim Lesen, ein weiteres Update sollte heute Nachmittag/Abend folgen. Freue mich auf Feedback, entweder hier oder auf FF.net

Hier Mal wieder was Neues:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3316411/13/

Danke an Krümelchen und Mushrushu für die Reviews!