Impressively fenced in and snobbishly private, Gramercy Park, New York, is filled, on any given temperate day, with imported nannies relaxing in the sun or shade, tending high, wide-wheeled baby carriages built in England and France. The impeccably cared-for shrubbery, lawns and towering trees are abundant. The park is, indeed, a special reservation. One needs a key to unlock the gate, and one must live on its north, south, east or west perimeter to be a member of the society of rich families who have exclusive use of the park's facilities.

When summertime ends and autumn appears with its cloak of many colors, the charm and magic of Gramercy Park increases with the lengthening shadows of the elaborate buildings and ornate last-century homes surrounding it. A veritable oasis in the center of the bustling city--Lexington Avenue pointing north like an arrowhead, Irving Place stretching to the south--Gramercy Park has the dimensions of a square city block. A tall, rugged statue of Washington Irving, the prolific writer, occupies a prominent place in the central plaza.

This is the locale of our little story, which just happens to be true.

A soft, late evening rain had just abated when Mrs. Penelope Luckner, age thirty, divorced, unusually attractive--even beautiful--and mother of eleven-year-old Jeffrey, glanced at the grandfather clock, impatiently waiting for it to strike the hour of ten. This solemn chime would signal her exit from the tall, rococo building in which she still lived in a large apartment awarded in the divorce settlement with Jeffrey's philandering, but nonetheless generous, father.

She had been married to George Luckner for eleven exhausting, sexually unsatisfying years. When George was sober and industrious, he was a gem! But when he drank--and he was now a registered alcoholic--he was a first-class son-of-a-bitch. Mean and contemptible and jealous, he was physically threatening and psychologically brutal, punishing Penny for nonsense misdemeanors and other trifling matters most husbands of George's rank would have easily tolerated as being part and parcel of the union of any two disparate individuals.

The legal separation and the subsequent divorce had been devoutly pursued by Penny, and the result of her efforts was an iron-clad agreement allowing visiting rights with Jeffrey and the like. The final settlement exceeded her wishes. Unfortunately, the reactive depression that overwhelmed her just days following the scene with the judge in his private chambers--the judge was an old family friend of George's--was as fearsome as a forbidding winter wind brutally knifing down a cavernous city thoroughfare.

After several sessions, emergency and otherwise, with a psychiatrist living in the same luxury building, Penelope politely severed her past from the present. She was determined to make new friends, determined to be a good mother to Jeff, and determined to occupy herself with every distraction she could find. After a few weeks of earnest yet dispassionate activity, she had exhausted most of these resolutions, and was now in the habit of waiting until ten o'clock each evening and then leaving her comfortable but lonely apartment and strolling down Irving Place to the corner of Eighteenth Street. There she would sit at the bar in Pete's Tavern and drink three or four scotches. Sometimes she would exchange pleasantries with the amiable bartenders, or eat a shrimp cocktail at the bar. She firmly discouraged tavern prowlers, young and old alike, as she sat preoccupied and alone at the long, old-fashioned mahogany bar.

This particular evening the bar was nearly deserted. In the rear dining rooms the waiters talked quietly among themselves. Few people were dining out. There was an unseasonable chill outside; it was the Monday after the Labor Day weekend.

At the bar Penny removed her rain slicker and folded it neatly across her lap. Bob, the bartender, a cheerful smile on his round face, served her automatically. Saying nothing, he leaned back against the cash register. He appreciatively studied her appearance. Penny was wearing a tight cashmere sweater. He could see the firm, conical outline of her breasts swelling voluptuously under the expensive material. The twin points of her nipples were visible, and Bob noticed they were erect, seeming to poke lasciviously toward his eyes as she lit a cigarette and slipped it into her silver holder.

He saw that as usual she swallowed fully half of her drink and then fell into the pensive mood with which he identified her. He often wondered why such an attractive young woman as she had no escorts, but Mrs. Luckner, as he called her politely, kept her business to herself. He secretly admired her for this. She was quite unlike any of the other lonely women who sat at his bar.

The front door opened and in came someone who looked to be more of a boy than a man. But judging by the drink he ordered, a vodka on the rocks, he was most definitely not as young as he looked. Perhaps twenty, twenty-one at the oldest. When Penny saw his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and then turned to look at him, she remarked to herself that he was probably too young to be drinking in a bar, but not too young to drink, which meant that he was probably closer to nineteen than twenty-one.

"Dreary night," he said in a dull voice as he carried his drink to his full, red lips. Bob was about to agree with him when Penny turned to the young man and smiled. It was then that she saw how handsome he was.

"Yes, quite dreary," she said. Bob leaned back, folded his arms and smiled. He'd never seen Mrs. Luckner so suddenly animated before.

"Cheers," he said in a voice that was anything but cheerful. Penny lifted her glass into the air toward his. They both drank.

"Seems that the weather's got you down?" she asked, not quite knowing what had compelled her to say such an intrusive thing to a perfect stranger. "Here, let me buy you a drink." What had gotten into her? She fumbled in her purse for some money and handed it to Bob. "On me," she said, pointing to the boy with her glass.

The boy nodded in her direction, thanking her. He looked pensive as he watched the ice floating on the surface of his drink. His brow was furrowed, and he looked almost as if he would burst out crying at any moment.

"Is anything wrong?" Penny asked, curious. He seemed, indeed, to be held by the firm grip of some kind of depression. Perhaps it was only the weather. Perhaps it was none of her business. But she had already asked. She looked at him. His features were fine and his skin clean and flawless, unlike most of the late-night patrons of an empty bar. His hair, which was slightly tousled, was otherwise clean-cut. His body appeared strong, though she could not tell for certain as he was seated some stools away from her. But, all in all, his bearing was that of a man of fledgling certainty. She liked men of certainty.

"No, not really," he answered as he took another sip from his drink. Penny had to think for a moment; she'd forgotten what she had asked. Oh yes, she had asked if anything were the matter. The boy's appearance had overwhelmed her for a moment and she struggled to regain her composure.

"I had a fight with my old man," he said, and then brightening he added, "but it'll be okay, I guess. We always fight." The sincere hope that things would be okay was transmitted through his uplifted voice, and Penny laughed for some reason. Her laugh was like the sound of silver bells, and it caused both Bob and the boy to laugh, too, though no one was certain just what it was they were laughing at. But it felt good to Penny, for she hadn't laughed in a long, long time.

And then the boy grew pensive again, downing his drink and taking up the one Penny had bought for him. Again, Penny noticed his strong body and his full, sensual lips as they parted to the edge of the glass. She imagined how it would feel to be kissed by them, and her loins stirred to the thought. It had been so long since she'd had such thoughts that the sensations stirring in her body made her uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat in order to diffuse them, but found that when she squeezed her legs together, the feelings surged with even greater intensity.

"The rich bastard said that I had to earn my keep, said I'm a freeloader, that I haven't done an honest day's work in my life." He looked at Penny, his eyes somehow imploring, as if he needed reassurance that he was anything but that which his father had called him.

"I'm sure that's not true," she said, responding only to his eyes. When she placed a cigarette between her lips, he leaned over and lit it for her. Her hands were cupped around the tip of it, in order to protect the flame from the air blowing from the tiny fan behind the bar, and his fingers brushed hers. She felt a small catch in her breath as she noticed how firm and strong his hands were. She saw the insignia on his expensive ring. It bore the name of an important and quite prestigious boys' school, to which she'd considered sending Jeffrey when he became old enough. She said nothing about it though, as it would indeed make him too young to be drinking in a bar if he still went there.

As he leaned away from her, certain that her cigarette would burn on its own, he began speaking again. "My father said at dinner tonight that I was worthless. That I couldn't earn any money. That the money he gave me was a waste. He was angry as hell at something else, but he took it out on me! I know he did. He said that every one of his friends' sons had worked during the summer vacation and didn't loaf like me." He paused. "He's such a bastard, and I can tell you one thing: I'm not worthless!"

Penny smiled in recognition of his promise that he was not worthless. She could tell that some part of him doubted it, though. He smiled, and Penny was impressed with his perfect, strong teeth. He had a beautiful smile.

"I'm sure you're not," she said soothingly. In a way, he reminded her of her son, though he was much older and very different. Perhaps it was simply a quality that all sons shared, one that made them unsure and yet certain of themselves at once--defiant and doubtful.

He drank the last of the second drink, extinguished his cigarette and thanked Penny. "I guess I'd better be getting back," he said hesitantly. He didn't really want to leave. But it was too risky. He'd already been served, that was true. But you never knew when the bartender was going to pull rank on you and ask for your i.d. He didn't want to take the chance. It was too embarrassing getting kicked out of a bar for being underage. Anyway, he'd had enough. At his age, two drinks--two strong drinks--were almost enough to lay him flat out on his back. Tonight was different though, tonight he didn't feel so drunk. It was probably the fight, he thought soberly as he rose from his bar stool and thanked Penny again. Shaking her hand, his eyes lingered for a moment on the swell of her breasts. When her eyes caught his, a slight smile crossed her face and he felt ashamed. Almost apologizing, he hastily retreated.

When he was gone, Penny quickly finished her drink. She slipped her raincoat on.

"Leaving us early tonight, Mrs. Luckner?"

"Yes, I'm a bit weary, I must admit. Besides," she smiled graciously, "I've got to get home before it rains any harder. Dreary nights like these, it's best to be home with a book."

What she would have said, had she wanted to be completely honest with Bob, was that she was aroused, that her cunt ached, that her panties had moistened as soon as she had realized the virile strength of the young man, the boy, sitting at the bar, that what she really wanted to do was far different than reading a book, that what she really wanted to do was follow the boy and take him to bed with her. But she wasn't completely honest, and so instead she bade him goodnight and hurried out the door and up the street toward Gramercy Park. She was a half a block behind the boy and kept her eyes trained on his strong, quick strides. She had to walk fast in order not to lose sight of him.