Chapter Thirteen

 

 

School suddenly got busy. Classes five nights a week were reduced to three so that everyone would have time to begin their student practice. Dating would slide to the back burner … again. Shelly was so excited; this was what she’d been waiting for. The proving ground. She intuitively felt she was doing the right thing, but this was assurance. She’d accepted a late evening appointment, probably not using the best of judgment—she’d be at the clinic by herself—but because of work, this was the only time he had.

“I’ll stay if you want me to, Shel.” The school’s receptionist, Patsy, was one of those Birkenstocked, sturdy sorts who never wore makeup and had probably been gray since middle school.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’ll be out of here by nine.”

“Well, don’t forget to leave the bathroom lights on and turn off the one in the west hallway when you leave. And, remember, you don’t have to give a treatment if you are the least bit afraid. You stay in control.”

“I know. Don’t worry about me—seriously, I’ll be fine. I have to start sometime.” She hoped her smile didn’t give away the butterflies in her stomach that were very close to swinging off her tonsils. Intern day—hadn’t she been waiting an eternity?

When he called on the phone, he had sounded big. But when all six foot four and probably 280 pounds of him filled the doorway, he moved to the enormous category. She realized she was staring.

“You Shelly?”

“Yes.”

“Brett.”

“Butler?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I’m going to have a problem saying Brett Butler.” She laughed.

“You and about a thousand others over the years— even considered changing my name.”

She stepped forward. She had to do something. Shake his hand? He didn’t seem like the type. The metallic blue Harley outside the door more than hinted at a less formal intro. He saved her any wrong move by stepping into the room and grabbing a magazine off the coffee table.

“You ready to go or do I get to leaf through this five year old Field and Stream?”

“Five years old?” Oh, my God, she’d have to buy current magazines. She’d never thought to check the waiting room’s offering of reading material.

“Hey, don’t go looking all worried, I’m just yanking on you.” He smiled. “I didn’t come here to catch up on my reading.”

“I always wanted to do that.”

“Catch up on your reading?”

She laughed. “Well, that, too. But no, fly-fish.” She pointed at the cover of the magazine he still held.

“I’ve done a fair amount. Not good at it. Never tied a fly that didn’t come apart.”

“Could you teach me?”

“To tie shitty flies?”

“No, fish.”

“They have classes for that at UNM. Try Continuing Ed.”

She felt dismissed. But what a dumb thing to ask. And why? Why was she feeling so drawn to this lunk of a man? Had it been that long since … Actually, she didn’t want to go there. But she couldn’t deny that the air felt electric. He was so alive and straightforward and honest and she was feeling something that had been buried for an awfully long time. She cleared her throat, but realized that he’d been watching her.

“Are you waiting on me? Am I supposed to follow you, or something?”

“Or something.” She grinned. “Give me a minute to get set up.” As if the room wasn’t in perfect order—oil in a heating unit, rocks steaming in a Crock-Pot, sheets creaseless, pillows and towels stacked under the table. She ducked around the corner, gave the room a quick once-over, turned to go back to the waiting room, and almost ran into him in the doorway.

“Are you married?”

Did he really want to know? “Not in nine days, eleven hours and fifty-three seconds.” She responded. “But who’s counting, right?”

She liked his chuckle, deep, resonant—it seemed to start at his toes.

He stood looking down at her as she continued to stand in the doorway, blocking his entry. Move. She had to move, welcome him, turn down the top sheet, give him eight to ten minutes to undress … undress. Was that what was causing her paralysis?

“Last time I did this, I got to lie down on a table—like that one.” He pointed over her shoulder.

“Yes, of course, I …”

“Ah, come on baby, don’t tell me I’m your first.”

“You’re my first.” She tried not to grin sheepishly.

“Shit, I don’t do virgins … but, you know, and excuse me when I say this—I wouldn’t mind ‘doing’ you. You’re a hell of a good-looking woman. But you’re safe—as long as you’re married.” His wink was infectious and she burst out laughing. “So what do we do now? You want to go ahead with this?”

“I have to go ahead with this.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with—that includes doing me.”

“If I don’t do you, I’ll never be able to do this.” She half turned; her gesture included the room behind her.

“Probably some truth in that.” He continued to look at her.

He was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and catch just the faint whiff of cologne—something nice, not what she would have thought. This was expensive and understated and didn’t fit with a Harley.

“So, let me take you by the hand.” He pulled her around and gently pushed her ahead of him into the room. “Now, the drill goes something like this, correct me if I’m wrong. You’ll say, ‘I’m going to step outside and let you get undressed. If you’re comfortable removing all your clothes, it will make my job easier. Use the sheet to cover up with or this here towel—your choice. Take your time. I’ll be back in five minutes …’ How am I doing?”

“Great. Perfect.”

“Good. Then why don’t you take five minutes an’ go take a few deep breaths and then come back?” He gently turned her toward the door and patted her on the behind. “Just don’t forget where I am. I’ll be waiting.”

When she returned and discreetly knocked before entering the room, she was amazed to see him sitting on the table with only his shirt off.

“I don’t understand.”

“I think half a body is enough to get started with. Besides, I didn’t warn you that you’d be massaging a colored man.” With that he turned, and Shelly almost gasped. The scene was vivid—stream, trees, female centaur, giant elk facing each other—all in glorious color and meticulous detail.

“There are a couple more.” He pulled a pant leg up to reveal red-orange-yellow flames licking up the outside of his calf.

“This one ain’t finished. Then there are these.” He pointed to bicep and chest.

“Pretty impressive. I’m looking at a lot of money and a lot of time. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw a picture of a guy one time—one of those e-mailed photos that female office workers pass around …”

“And?”

“Well … I’m not sure how to ask this.”

“Just ask it.”

“Does your penis form the head of a dragon?”

“What?”

“I think you heard me. In the picture the guy had a tattoo of this huge dragon. It’s wings sort of folded up over his stomach, but his penis made up the head with a steel bar through the tip that formed the eyes.”

“Nobody has ever asked me that before.” He was shaking his head.

“Well?” She liked this banter. How long had it been—no, that wasn’t the question—had she ever felt this comfortable this quickly, and been aroused this easily?

“No, no dragon. The artwork is pretty much contained above the waist.”

“Pretty much?” She was grinning.

“Hey, don’t believe me? I’ll show you.” He slipped off the table and started to unzip.

“No. That’s OK.” For just a second she wished he’d continue. With a jolt she realized she wanted to see him naked. Touch him. Maybe even …

“Are you all right?”

“No, uh, yeah … sure, sorry … ” Thank God the light was dim; she knew her face blended with her strawberry blond roots.

“You don’t sound very all right.”

“I think we need to get started. Are you still going to keep your pants on?”

“Probably should.” He gave her a long look. “I can always give you the rest of me at some later time.”

Later time. She would see him again. Was there a double meaning? The rest of him …

“Face up? Face down?”

“What?”

“Me … how do you want me? On my back? Stomach?”

“Stomach.” And how did she want him? Any way. And realized with a jolt that this was probably the first time in twenty-five years that she’d had a lewd thought.

The rest of the massage was uneventful. His skin was warm and responded to her touch. She could feel his muscles relax, heard his steady breathing. He was easy to touch and she didn’t want to stop. She wanted to climb on the table and just snuggle beside him, hold him, bury her face in his warmth. And if she did, she knew that he could make the world go away. This was the kind of man who could be an anchor.

Suddenly, she knew just how much her life was missing. How much the good doctor didn’t, couldn’t, give her—maybe hadn’t ever given her. This man was raw yet oozed passion and, strangely enough, security—it was as if she could feel it beneath his skin. It was the oddest sensation.

She waited for him to dress before turning off the lights in the hallway. It was already dusk. The waiting room was now in shadows.

“That was good, really good.” He paused by the desk, dropped three twenties, and picked up one of her business cards. She wanted to grab it out of his hand and scribble her cell phone number on the back. But that would look a little too eager.

“I’m glad you liked it.” She walked him to the door and stood looking at the bike.

“If you expect me to kiss you, I’m not going to.”

“I’m not saying I expect it … but just out of curiosity, why wouldn’t you?”

“Just gives you something to look forward to.” He winked and laughed.

“I think that comes under the heading of teasing.”

“Yeah, it’s good for you. Don’t want you to get the impression that I’m easy.” More laughter. “Is there some better way to reach you than calling the office here?”

She took the card back, walked to the desk, found a pencil, and added her cell phone number.

Then he was gone. She stood for a moment, trying to figure out why she felt so empty. He was bigger than life … almost literally … and when he walked out the door, he seemed to take all the air in the room with him. Had she ever been so taken with someone so quickly? And the attraction seemed mutual. He would call. She was sure of it. She could still recall the feel of him. She shook her head. This wasn’t getting the office locked up.

 

* * *

 

She literally slept with her cell phone. Four days and not a call. Why would he ask for her number if he hadn’t planned on calling? She felt fourteen again—but not in a good way. This was all the pain of not being asked to dance—of hugging the wall attempting nonchalance. Of turning away so as not to appear eager, of keeping her arms ramrod straight and plastered to her sides lest maturing sweat glands suddenly became offensive.

She remembered too well the burning yearning of an awkward eighth grader—feeling trapped in a body that was leafing out in tune with the rites of spring. And virginity was heavy between her legs, a painful, throbbing lump that called out to be appeased but by what and how, she didn’t have a clue.

Even now, knowing the what and how didn’t make things easier or the throbbing any less—so what had really changed in forty-seven years?

Patrice wasn’t even sympathetic.

“Shelly, he’s a biker. You know nothing about him. From what you’ve said, he knows nothing about you.”

“You mean my age?”

“Well, that for one thing. How old do you think he is?”

“Probably older than he looks. But I’d guess somewhere in his fifties.”

“So you could be eight to ten years older?”

“Maybe.”

“Does he know you’re comfortable?”

“I’m assuming that’s a reference to the fact that I don’t have to work?”

“Yes. Don’t you think that might look attractive to him?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t seem the type.”

“I think it would scare some, but really be enticing to others. I just want you to be careful. I don’t want this to be some reaction to the Art debacle. There are good men out there, Shel.”

The call came ten days later. As if no time had passed, she felt her pulse quicken at the familiar voice.

“Hey, baby, bet you thought I’d died.”

“I did check the obits.”

“Had to work out of town. Wasn’t planning on it taking up a couple weekends.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Arizona. Big project, but it’s winding down now. That’s probably my last trip for awhile. I gotta go back an’ pick up my fifth wheel one of these days.”

“Let me go with you. That could be fun.”

“Naw … I’ll take one of the guys. A five-or six-hour drive isn’t my idea of fun.”

There it was again. Did he think she was pushing? He could close her out as quickly as let her in. And didn’t his cell phone work in Arizona? She felt peevish and more than a little let down.

“Hey, I called to ask if you’d have time to do a rub tomorrow night.”

“Office is closed this weekend—owner’s painting. I could do a treatment here.”

“Now you’re talking. You got any liquid refreshment in that house of yours?”

“I can make a mean pitcher of margaritas.”

“Rubs and ’ritas … can’t beat that with a stick. You tell me where all this is going to take place.”

She gave him the address and they decided upon seven. She asked him to take a hot shower first and then instantly regretted it, but he didn’t make anything of it.

“Hey, cute thing, you got twenty-four hours to decide how much of this ol’ body you want to see this time.” Raucous laughter and then a click.

She sat holding the phone—excited, perplexed, put off by his familiarity, drawn into it, remembering his warmth.

 

* * *

 

He called her from the corner for directions, but she could already hear the deep, throaty rattle of the diesel as the truck pulled to the curb in front of the house. He was here. One last look around. Table was up in front of the fireplace. A Crock-Pot of hot rocks simmered on the hearth. An assortment of oils and lotions lined up along the mantle. An oversized towel draped the table; sheets were pulled taut across a two-inch padding of Tempur-Pedic foam. Ready. Everything was ready … but was she? Deep breath, walk to the door, remind herself that even if this was her home, this was a business deal.

He smelled fresh, something cucumber and mint, and his hair was wet and curled down his neck and around his ears. She wanted to move into his body, just stop him there in the doorway to the living room and hold on, run her hands up his chest, pull his head down to her level, put her mouth on his. Instead, she moved around him and closed the door to the outside.

“I thought you’d ride the bike.”

“Needed to put gas in that thing.” He gestured at the Dodge one-ton. “You got any of those margaritas you promised?”

“It’ll take me all of five minutes to mix some up.”

“Well, let’s get going.”

He followed her to the kitchen and leaned against the counter as she poured mix and alcohol into a pitcher of crushed ice.

“You want a mango margarita?”

“Baby, I don’t care, as long as it has booze in it. I’m not drinking ‘em to get a vitamin C fix.”

“Salt?”

“Yeah, if it’s handy.”

“Right here.” She ran a lime quarter around the rim and turned the glass upside down on a plate of sea salt. A handful of ice, a stir of the pitcher, and she handed a glass to him. “Now, we’re ready to go in there.”

“Do I get a chance to finish this before we start?”

“Sure.” She motioned toward the couch.

“Been a long week.” He sank down, carefully balancing the glass in front of him.

He looked tired. She could have kicked herself, but she couldn’t think of one interesting thing to say. She drew her legs up under her on the opposite end of the couch and waited. Without spilling a drop, he leaned back and soon began breathing evenly. He was asleep.

She leaned over and slipped the glass from his hand. She watched him. He looked older in the half-light of the candles flickering from the mantle. Maybe there wasn’t a big age difference. He was exhausted, but vaguely she was disappointed. Had she expected more? Yes. A kiss? A hug? Some kind of touching. She missed his poking fun at her.

She picked up her glass and walked to the kitchen. Oh well. She was scrubbing the sticky margarita mix off the counter when she heard him behind her.

“Hey, sorry about that.” He stood in the doorway of the kitchen and finger-combed his hair away from his eyes. “Can’t work them fourteen-hour days like I used to.”

“Not a problem. Why don’t you get undressed and get on the table?”

“We doing all of me tonight?”

“If you’d like.”

“Yeah.”

No banter. Was he just tired? Preoccupied? Not interested in her? Why had she suddenly become business only? But hadn’t she been afraid just a few hours ago that she might not be? She was irritated that she seemed pulled in two directions.

“Let’s start face up.”

She waited until she heard him settle on the table before entering the room and dragging up a chair. She positioned herself behind his head. He was asleep before she even laid hands on him.

She took an hour to ease tight muscles, rousing him once to turn over. When she was finished, she let him sleep an extra half hour before waking him. She left the room while he was dressing, and after downing the watery remains of his margarita and a mumbled thanks, he left.

It was nine twenty. So much for a big Saturday night. She grabbed the margarita pitcher from the kitchen counter, filled her glass, and brought both into the living room. The letdown was so great, she burst into tears. Had she just expected too much? She just wanted to be held … kissed … touched. Angry that she’d let this man get to her, she jumped up, pulled the sheets from the table, and carried them into the utility room. It was obvious that they were attracted to each other … so, what had happened? Being tired didn’t mean he couldn’t have kissed her.

Suddenly, she didn’t have the energy to take down the table and put away the rocks and Crock-Pot. She blew out the candles and went to bed.

 

* * *

 

It took her a minute to figure out the jingle of the phone. She turned over and eyed the clock. Four ten. Who would …? Her parents. Oh my God. Something had happened.

“Hello.”

“I forgot to pay you.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “It’s OK. We didn’t have sex.”

A short, explosive laugh on his side. “No, baby, I woulda remembered. And just in case you’re wondering, I usually don’t have to pay for it.” Another laugh.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Gotta go to work. Thought I told you. I’m going back up to Santa Fe for the day. Full crew’s working.”

“Do you ever get time off?”

“Not very often.”

“Plays hell with your love life.”

“Do I have one of those?”

“Would you like one of those?”

“I got this woman I’d like to see more of.”

“How do you mean that?”

“Any way you want to take it, baby.”

“I’m guessing that I know this woman.”

“For all I know, you may be intimate with her.”

“You’re funny.”

“Not very. I owe you an apology for tonight. I’m gonna make it up.”

“How?”

“I’ll think of something. Hey, I’m just pulling into the yard and I need two hands on the wheel. I’ll be callin’ ya.”

He was gone before she said good-bye.

 

* * *

 

But he called the next night. And the next. And the next. The conversation was pretty much the same. His day. How had hers been? They slipped into an easy camaraderie far more comfortable than Shelly had imagined possible.

“Am I going to get to see you this weekend?”

“Don’t know. I’m working on it.”

“Working on it?”

“Yeah, might be out of town. Won’t know ’til Friday.”

“Do you think I’m ever going to get laid?”

“Shit, baby, I don’t remember kissing you.”

“You haven’t.”

“Don’t you think we need to do that first? Maybe kiss and a little fondle.”

“Kiss and fondle?”

“Yeah, it used to be called foreplay.”

“I remember that.”

“Thought you might. Good stuff. Goes real well with ’ritas.”

“And I should warn you, I don’t do one-night stands.”

“So, I gotta do it twice?” Feigned dismay.

“Yeah, but don’t sound so pained.”

“As long as I don’t have to do it on consecutive nights.”

“Shit, we’d be lucky if it were in consecutive years.”

“Probably true.” Deep, rumbling laughter.

“So how do I know I got something to look forward to?” Shelly was thinking of pinning him to a date—like when was this going to happen—but she loved his answer.

“I’ve been told I got the touch, baby. We’ll see what you think.”

She could still hear the echo of laughter after he’d hung up. Wow. She was going to get laid. Had she ever worked so hard all those years ago to spread her legs? Probably not.

Friday morning he told her he’d be by at 7:30 to pick her up on Saturday night.

“Where are we going?”

“To visit my mom.”

“Does she live in Albuquerque?”

“Nursing home in the Heights.”

The first time he had asked her out and they were going to a nursing home? There was either something really wrong with this picture or it was unbearably sweet—and she’d passed some sort of hurdle and was deemed worthy of being taken home to Mom—literally. Somehow she hadn’t realized that the rituals were the same—at twenty or at sixty. It was just Mom who had moved.

He showed up on the bike and it only took Shelly two minutes to slip out of the demure skirt and cashmere henley and throw on jeans, a black T-shirt, and boots.

“Your butt’s gonna look good on the back of the bike.”

“Is that how you choose your girlfriends? Butt presentability doing eighty down the freeway?” She got the laugh she wanted.

“Yeah, it’s as good as any.”

Had she been on a bike before? Not for about forty years. But it felt good. Felt good to wrap her arms around him and just mold to his backside. The ride to the home was all too short. Mom, it turned out was only convalescing—two knee operations had left her hobbled. The tall, eightyish, recently widowed former beauty didn’t mince her words and didn’t fit the image of a tattooed biker’s mother. What had happened to the overweight, chain-smoking floozy in a flowered muumuu spilling over the sides of a wheelchair that she’d imagined?

“So, is this the next missus?”

“Aw, Mom, you promised to be good.”

“No, I didn’t. Life is too short to be good. Wouldn’t you agree?” This last was directed to Shelly.

“Absolutely.” Shelly grinned as Brett looked toward the ceiling.

“If I’d had any sense when your father was alive, I wouldn’t have been good. He didn’t deserve a good woman.”

“If you don’t behave, I’m taking Shelly out of here.”

“There’s nothing I’d say that she hasn’t heard before.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” Shelly was enjoying this.

“His father liked women, you know.” Carol Butler leaned back in her chair and played with the stack of gold bracelets that circled her arm.

Shelly didn’t know, but vaguely wondered if the condition was hereditary.

“Come on, Mom. She ain’t interested in family history.”

“She might be.” Carol looked at Shelly and winked, then addressed her son. “I thought you promised to bring me food. I’ll never get well if I eat the pabulum they serve here.”

“You didn’t ask me to.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You know you’re going to be hiding your own Easter eggs one of these days.”

“I don’t want any lip—I just want food.”

“OK, Mom, let me guess. You want an order of wings from Hooters.”

“Why, that would be perfect. How did you know?” A coquettish batting of eyelashes.

“Mom lives on those things. You up to a little food fetching?”

Shelly nodded. She hated wings and had never been to Hooters, but what the hell? Wasn’t life all about expanding one’s horizons?

 

* * *

 

It was apparent the minute they walked in that one of the waitresses, a twentysomething, probably had known Brett in a biblical sense. She sidled toward them, and Shelly wondered if she exhaled would she lose a cup size. Probably not, but hard to tell. The implants were grapefruit-half perfect.

“Hey, sweet thing, since when have you worked Saturdays?” Brett threw an arm around the waitress and drew her to him.

Shelly noticed that “sweet thing” seemed less than interested in striking up a conversation—probably because Shelly was there—and really wasn’t interested in being hugged. Her interest and talent seemed relegated to maintaining full lungs of air.

“She the one currently riding the trailer hitch?”

Brett nodded. Shelly made a note to get clarification later. The waitress took the order for wings. The butt that was twitching its way to the back was adorable. Had that been enhanced, too? Coming and going, the package was perfect. And it was apparent that Brett thought so too. At this rate, she might not have his attention the rest of the evening. It was already nine and she had visions of being dropped off at the house—another disappointing evening.

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-two next month.”

“Old girlfriend? And I use the term ‘old’ loosely.”

“I told you about her.”

“No, I would have remembered.”

“Hey, don’t go getting all pissed off just ’cause of your old man. Me an’ her didn’t have kids and I wasn’t sneaking around on my old lady.”

“Oh well, that makes all the difference.” Shelly knew how she sounded, peevish and quarrelsome, but she didn’t care. “So you’re only thirty-three years older?”

“Thirty-two.”

She’d found out his age, but it was a hollow victory. She was still six years older than he was.

“Hey, lady, look at me. I don’t see anyone standing next to me right now but you. And that’s the way I like it and that’s the way I want it. You got that?” He’d taken her arm and squared her up to look at him.

She didn’t dare turn to see if sweet thing was watching. But she secretly hoped she was. “We’re gonna drop off some wings for Mom and then we’re gonna make a pitcher of ’ritas and see what happens. I owe you some lovin’ and I plan to pay my debt.”

She opened her mouth to remind him about her rule on one-night stands but he brushed her lips—a kiss? Not exactly, but not exactly not, either. And he was grinning. Ownership. She felt just like she’d been peed on, marked off like that Scottie her parents had had who staked out his territory by lifting his leg and watering her foot whenever another dog got too close. And she couldn’t help but grin back and will her heart to stop pounding.

 

* * *

 

They sat on the couch facing the fireplace with a pitcher of margaritas between them on the coffee table. The first ’rita had slipped down smoothly and she realized she had a nice tequila buzz going.

“Before I forget, what was that trailer hitch comment about?”

“Biker talk. Don’t need to put a seat behind the rider for his old lady, just weld a hitch to the fender.”

“Nice picture.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t want to seem pushy but what’s it gonna take to see some naked skin and nipples.”

“Well, hey, why didn’t you speak up before?” Shelly laughed and pulled the T-shirt over her head and turned toward him in a black lace cami.

“I don’t think I gained any ground here.”

“Maybe something more like this?” She rocked back, her legs beneath her, then pulled the camisole over her head, making certain her right nipple was about an inch from his mouth. And he didn’t disappoint. Bracing her back with two hands, he pulled her closer.

“You’re exquisite, Shelly.”

Oh my God. Had he ever called her by name before? And exquisite? He could replace the boys in her will with far less. But all rational thought disappeared when he put the nipple in his mouth. No one had ever been as gentle. No one. Ed had always roughly “tuned in Tokyo,” then headed south. Never this slow sucking, gently pulling outward, teasing a nipple to a point before circling it with his tongue. Were those aspirated animal sounds hers?

“I don’t want to stop this for too long, but you got another piece of furniture in this house that we could stretch out on?”

She laughed, took him by the hand, and led him to the bedroom. No one said anything. She slipped out of her jeans, thought a nanosecond about leaving her underpants on, and then tossed them aside—all the time watching him undress—not even feeling embarrassed that he was devouring her body with his eyes. And it wasn’t going to take any foreplay to get the other player to join them.

She pulled the blanket and sheet back, crawled into bed, turned on her side, and propped up on one elbow.

“See? No dragon.” He was standing by the edge of the bed, inspecting his hard-on. She reached out and took his penis in her hand, running her thumb under the edge of the head, then over it.

“No hardware, either.”

“Give you all night to stop that, baby.”

He slipped into bed and took her in his arms. And she fit. Sweet and slow—the long kisses, strokes up her inner thighs until screaming was an honest-to-God option. Then he was between her legs, pausing with barely the head inside, letting her do the work, pull on him, hoping to hell all those years of Kegel exercises had paid off; then, arching upward, digging fingernails into his butt, she brought him fully into her. And got lost. Legs around his neck.

“Yeah, baby, oh yeah.”

His excitement was her excitement. The rhythm was perfect. She was lulled by the reaction of her body—the wanton wanting. And suddenly the world turned tingly warm and liquid with ripples of breath-catching intensity that rolled upward and outward. At the same time? Close, she knew that.

It was plain vanilla, but definitely Haagen-Dazs. The sex was hauntingly beautiful in its simplicity. He had made love to her.

He rolled to the side, traced a line from below her belly button to her chin, and turned her head toward him. The kiss was sweet—playful pulling on her lower lip, then tracing the outline of her upper lip with his tongue.

“You OK?” He pulled back to look at her.

“I don’t think ‘OK’ quite captures it. How ’bout you?”

“Probably coulda lasted longer. Been too long. Almost forgot how good that stuff is. Give me a minute. I’ll be back.”

He pushed up and away from her after one more soft, teasing kiss, which stirred something that should have been satiated. The moan gave her away.

“Hey, I know we got a contract, but no seconds in the same night. I gotta give this ol’ body a little rest.”

She watched him walk down the hall to the bathroom and was pleasantly surprised when he returned with a warm, damp washcloth and hand towel.

“Do I get to do the honors or think you can handle it?”

“I probably have it covered—so to speak.”

He took both back to the bathroom when she’d finished, then came back to sit on the edge of the bed.

“You know, my best friend defines chivalry as a guy’s willingness to sleep in the wet spot.”

A chuckle. “She’s got a point there. But I’m not going impress you with chivalry tonight. I hafta get going, baby. Gotta be at the yard at ten.”

She roused and started to get up.

“Hey, I don’t want you to move. I’ll lock up.” Then he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and tucked the covers under her chin. “Talk to you later.”

She didn’t need someone to tell her not to move. The bed felt too good—she felt too good. She heard the click of the front door lock and the throb of the Harley. She turned over and dragged a pillow closer—bathed in his scent—and just buried her head. When she woke, it was to the room starkly outlined by a flash of lightning. Then the rain began. Soft, steady … the desert’s elixir.

Five a.m. She pulled on a tee and underpants, went to the bathroom, opened the window, and let the mist float in. The palest of peach light streaked the sky to the east. The rain wouldn’t last long; already she could see faint patches of blue bordering the gray.

She breathed deeply and leaned into the window, cheek pressed against the screen. The dust and lime-sweet smell of rain on cement pungent, yet the teaser of a hundred memories, made her take comfort in feeling so alive. It had been a long time.

She couldn’t stop smiling, but stood there and hugged herself in the rain-chilled morning. There was something bittersweet about offering herself now at this time of life. Beginning anew yet knowing it was the last fifteen or twenty good years. It put such emphasis upon knowing what she wanted—no time for mistakes, trying something out and then starting over. A biker? Did he fit? She had always been thankful large puzzles came with a picture on the cover of the box. But there wasn’t any picture now. And if she didn’t even know the plan, how could she put the pieces together?

He called at six, just as she was carrying a second cup of coffee to the living room.

“Can’t talk long. Just wanted to make sure you were among the living.”

“Barely. Sex has always been my drug of choice.”

“Yeah, I probably shoulda stuck with it way back when, myself—fewer side effects.”

“You sure about that?”

“As long as you don’t go falling in love with me.”

“You think that’s a possibility?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“I don’t think you have to worry.” For just one perverse second, she felt like hanging up. Talk about being slammed to the floor.

But wasn’t he good at doing that? Just when she felt a connection, she was reminded there wasn’t one. Was there any danger of her falling in love? If she wanted to be truthful? Yes.

“Well, just checking. I’ll call you later.”

With a third cup of coffee, she moved out onto the deck with breakfast—a croissant that she didn’t need, with butter and raspberry honey that she really didn’t need; the handful of grapes was the only healthy thing on the plate.

The air was fresh and the slight breeze cooling. Drops of water still glistened on the dark red leaves of an ornamental plum. Her world. Peaceful. Relaxing. Conducive to muddling through whatever it was she thought she wanted to do with her life. And whom she wanted to do it with.

The doorbell startled her. She hadn’t heard a car, but she leaned over the fence and saw the station wagon parked across the street and two houses down. Ed was standing on the front steps, simply staring up at the house, taking in the Rose of Sharon and the tile overhang. It would be interesting to know what he was thinking. But there was no reason not to be cordial.

“Hi.”

“Do you have time to talk?”

“About?”

“I contacted Stephanie and put in a house offer a month or so back. I haven’t heard anything.”

“OK. Just a minute.” She gathered the breakfast things and placed them in the kitchen sink on her way to the front door. Stephanie had called her, ranting about the offer—some fifty thousand below market—and said Ed had cited numerous repairs, which Stephanie listed and pointed out were mostly cosmetic. Shelly had really not felt like confronting the issue before—had it been one month? Two? Probably. Guess now was as good a time as any.

“Tiffany and I are anxious to reach a mutual understanding on this. Time’s getting away. There’s lots to be done before we can move in.” Ed perched on the overstuffed arm of the loveseat. “Have you even gone back to start sorting? It doesn’t look like anything’s been taken.”

It rankled that he’d been in the house. He’d supposedly given her all the keys and the two garage door openers. But, no, she hadn’t been back.

“I was hoping that one or both of the boys might go through things with me. It’s their stuff, too. Somehow coordinating everyone’s time has just been impossible.”

“Of course, the offer still stands—if you want to wait until after we move in, that’s OK, too.”

“I’m surprised you’re so certain that we have a deal.”

“Of course, we have a deal. Why wouldn’t we? You aren’t moving back.”

“When Stephanie presented your offer, there was some question as to whether it was fair. I’ve contacted two Realtors who specialize in the area and I agree with Stephanie. The offer is easily fifty thousand below market.” A white lie, but if she could believe Stephanie, true.

“That’s ridiculous. I itemized all the repairs—did Stephanie share those figures?”

“She did. I thought several were more cosmetic than necessary.”

“Such as?”

“Bricking the front entry to replace weathered cement, putting double-pane wood windows in the utility room, changing out all ceiling fans—”

“Three don’t work.”

“Then you get them repaired.”

“What are you saying, Shelly?”

“That I want fair market price.”

“You are so out of touch. You have no idea what it’s going to cost us to just make that house safe for children. The swimming pool alone—”

“Those are expenses that you will incur with a growing family. Fencing and gating the pool was not a requirement for us.”

“It’s meeting the subdivision’s code.”

“Code now—not then. Why should I be penalized for changes beyond my control? Beyond my needs? I’m not going to pay for making your family comfortable or safe, Ed.”

“No, and I’m sure it’s too much to ask to have you stop embarrassing us, too.”

“Embarrassing you?” Where had that come from?

“Paul Green saw you riding on the back of a motorcycle last night—behind a man with tattoos. You pulled in front of him to go into Hooters.” Ed’s smugness was suddenly unbearable. His arms were crossed over his chest and for all the world it looked like he’d just delivered a scolding to a small child.

“Can’t help it if the new boyfriend has a few tats.”

“Shelly, I want you to take your maiden name back.”

“What?”

“I think you understand me. As long as you are going to be irrational, irresponsible, and run with scum, I want no ties to you.”

“Sorry, Ed, no can do. My last name will match my children’s last name unless I remarry. Shelly Walters no longer exists.”

The anger was vaulting to the surface. So this is why he came by. How dare he? What gave him the right to take everything—even her name?

“I will be raising children in this community—with the Sinclair name. I don’t want my children linked to some crazy woman—”

“It’s time for you to leave. This is my house. I won’t listen to this.”

“I wish you could see yourself, Shelly. How far you’ve slipped. It’s pathetic. Brian is beside himself. I think they’re rethinking even having children.”

“What a shame. Surely Rachel’s genes can overpower any weaknesses from our side. Now, out. I won’t repeat myself before calling the cops.”

And he left—without a fight, without another word. Shelly was surprised but relieved. Would she have the nerve to take out a restraining order? She wasn’t sure.

 

* * *

 

Brett was working out of town but called every night and hinted that he could probably fulfill his two-night stand contract that weekend. She couldn’t wait. She made sure she didn’t have any massage appointments on Saturday. She wanted the day to do some running around and be fresh for giving Brett a massage that night. Was he costing her money? Yes.

Somehow, when they’d moved from the office to her house, all compensation stopped. If it was a big problem, she guessed she could ask—but knew she wouldn’t. She kept hoping that he’d at least bring a bottle of tequila, but he didn’t. Cheap? Or just horribly strapped for money? He’d taken her out one time to visit his mother and wait in a restaurant for carryout. Even Patrice was giving her little lectures on how she was being treated. Still … the sex probably made it worthwhile.

He was late—pulling up about eight thirty. It probably wasn’t a good thing that she was well into her second marg.

“What are my chances of putting this thing in the garage? I don’t wanna leave it on the street.”

Was he staying the night? She caught her breath.

“Good. I’ll get the keys.”

“If you give them to me, I’ll do the do-si-do.”

When he came in, she handed him a marg. He put it on the kitchen counter and pulled her into him.

“I’ve been thinking about you for days.”

His touch was soft, teasing with promises. If she had to explain what made him the best kisser ever, it was his anticipation—his knowing her move before she even knew it herself. If she opened her mouth a little wider, his was open to match, his tongue, her tongue exploring at the same moment. Softly, tentatively. The pressure was perfect—she could feel his lips, follow his lead as he followed hers.

Not like the boy in high school who should have worn a bib—saliva dripping out the side of his mouth as it was plastered to hers. Funny how so many men couldn’t get something as simple as kissing right. Prolonged kissing and stroking were never a part of Ed’s repertoire either—caused, no doubt, by coming home to grab three hours of sleep before going back on call, and not wanting to choose between sex and sleep.

This time she didn’t leave the room as Brett undressed.

“You’re getting pretty ballsy.”

“Direct proportion to how much of this I’ve had.” She held out the margarita glass.

“Which reminds me, I need another swig of that stuff.” She brought the pitcher in from the kitchen and filled his glass. “You going to do me in the nude?”

“Hadn’t thought about it.”

“And don’t give me any lip about needing to get tucked and sucked. I like your body, Shelly.”

“Spoken like someone who’s horny.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, that, too. But I love your touch—love your softness. An’ you’ve got about the most responsive nipples on the planet.”

“Well, that’s a plus.”

“I think so.”

“Let’s start with you face down.”

“An’ when I start to levitate?”

“Guess we’ll have to turn you over.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be very long.”

She laughed and pulled her T-shirt off, then added bra and jeans to the pile on the couch. Why did she feel so much better leaving underpants on? Some vestige of decorum, no doubt.

“So looks like you’re just letting the sisters out tonight.”

She hadn’t realized that he was watching her. “Yeah. That OK?”

“Hey, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Then I need to get started.”

She ran her thumbs down the long muscles on either side of his spine—the erector spinae. Tight. She leaned in with more muscle and felt her breasts brush the back of his head and top of his traps. Then she felt his fingers trace a line upward on the inside of her right thigh and his thumb push under the elastic at the leg of her panties. She caught her breath as his fingers began to explore and ever so gently tease.

“Not sure the therapist can hold up under those kinds of maneuvers.”

“It’s good for her. And me. You feel good, baby. I’m just thinking about where I want to be later.”

“There’s a lot of body I need to cover first.”

“Nobody’s stopping you. See? Hands above my head. Quit jawing and get a move on.”

When he turned over, she abandoned her massage training and relied on Max’s art. And from the sounds he was making, the choice was the right one.

“You’re good at that, baby.”

“I’m good at this, too.”

She slipped out of her panties and kicked her sandals under the table. Would the table hold the two of them if she got on top? She remembered it held five hundred pounds, or thought she did. This was not the time to dig out the manual and look it up. She quickly calculated and for once didn’t lie about her weight—even to herself.

They should be fine. She had done pelvic adjustments on this very table before, which required her to straddle the client. Of course, her other clients were a lot smaller. Guess she wouldn’t know ’til she tried.

Her mount would have gotten her perfect Olympic tens. She leaned across his chest and kissed him, then, guiding his penis, eased backwards until he was completely inside. Her moves were slow, deliberately arousing and getting the reaction she wanted.

Finally, “How ’bout we adjourn to that other room an’ you let me back in the game? Don’t want my evening to end too early.” He got off the table and took her by the hand.

He started at her ankles and nipped and nibbled his way north. When she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, he entered her, and with long, rhythmic strokes took her over the top. Then he came himself, slipped beside her, and held her. There wasn’t any conversation. He smoothed her hair back from her eyes and kissed her. Finally, she just cuddled into him and fell asleep. His soft snoring was soothing.

She wasn’t sure what awakened her—a noise? Tree branch against the window? But she turned away from Brett and looked. There was a figure in the window— someone looking in. She blinked, sat up, looked again, but saw nothing. Her heart was pounding. There had been someone. She wasn’t imagining things. But there was no one there now. She clutched the sheet to her chin and tried to stop shaking.

“Hey, woman, my butt’s freezing. Where’d you go?”

“Here.” She slid down beside him again and turned away from the window—it could have been a dream. She’d been half asleep.

“You OK?”

“Just cold.”

“Well, get over here.” He took her arm and pulled her into him. And she gave into the feeling of safety and warmth. No one—no thing—could get her. She was protected.

In the morning there was time for coffee, and she followed him out to open the garage and move the Beemer that blocked the door. The bane of old houses—the garages were built for old cars, small cars more buggy-without-the-horse size. If the bike was in, her car was out.

He kissed her, then started the Harley.

“Call you later.”

She watched him back out, turn, and take off up the street. She’d barely made it to the house when she heard her cell.

“Hey, your old man drive an older Benz station wagon?”

“Yes, why?”

“ ’Cause he’s a madman, Shelly. He’s stalking you. He was parked a block away. Pulled out like he was going to run me down. I ditched him by running a light.”

She had seen Ed at the window. Oh, my God. She held the receiver with two hands to keep it from shaking and leaned against the kitchen sink.

“Baby, you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Call your lawyer. Get the restraining order. Do you own a gun?”

“No.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Then do the math on this one, baby—you need to protect yourself. You’re already behind in the game plan.”

“You think I should buy a gun?”

“Not if you won’t use it. You own a gun, you’re making the decision that you could kill someone.”

“I don’t know—”

“Ah, baby, you read it in the papers all the time—unsuspecting wife or girlfriend dies at the hand of someone they swore would never hurt them. And then all the neighbors say what a nice man he was.”

“OK, I’ll look into it.”

“Do it for me, baby. I’d like you around for awhile.”

That came as close to saying he liked her as anything he’d ever said.

 

* * *

 

The day rushed by. Another call from Brett reiterating her need for a gun. Again, she promised to look into it. She stayed busy and reveled in feeling sated and wanted. And knew she needed to be careful—with her heart. Being protected was a powerful incentive to establish emotional ties. She knew she’d end up with a broken heart if she did. It was one-sided, lopsided. But the draw to be taken care of was almost too much to withstand—especially under the circumstances.

The last half of her day was filled with chores—laundry, paying bills, studying. She left grocery shopping until late and then treated herself to a spree at one of the organic markets. She’d bought just enough groceries to warrant a couple of trips to the car. She got her keys out and grabbed the biggest sack. It would be easier to go in the front door and miss all the back steps up to the deck.

She moved the screen door aside and unlocked the front door. The bag of groceries hit the floor within a nanosecond of his turning on the light. She felt her knees turn to rubber. There Ed was on the couch in front of her.

“Get out of here.”

“Shelly, I want to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

She fished her cell out of the back flap of her purse.

911. Domestic violence? Breaking and entering? Both?

“I can’t blame you for being frightened, but you don’t need to call for help.” He crossed the room in two steps and twisted the phone out of her hand. “Just listen to me. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“How did you get in?” Looking down, she realized that she was standing in a puddle of milk. Damn. The grocery bag had broken and so had the container of milk. She pulled the edge of the Persian carpet out of the way.

“You need to start locking the French doors.” He gestured behind him toward the dining room.

“I need to clean this up.” She willed her feet to carry her to the kitchen. Maybe if she didn’t overreact, really did listen to him. Maybe if she could just stop shaking. Maybe if she bolted for the back door—but her keys to the gate were still in the car. She grabbed paper towels and went back to the living room.

“Let me help.” He took the roll, pulled off half a dozen towels, wadded them, and knelt down to sop up the milk. “Take these.” He handed her a jar of mayonnaise, a container of olives, the French bread, and a package of Feta cheese. She rinsed everything and put the olives and cheese in the fridge. Ed had returned twice to the kitchen to throw away the soaked paper sack and towels and finally to wet the sponge mop.

When she returned to the living room, the floor sparkled. It crossed her mind that this was some kind of peace offering. In fact, curiosity was getting the better of her—what did he want?

He was sitting across from her staring at the floor and looked like hell—sallow skin, deep circles under his eyes. Had she noticed a tremor when he handed her the groceries?

“I want the haggling over the house to stop.”

“I don’t think the appraisal’s back.”

“Damn the appraisal. It’s an older house, Shel, that needs work. Tiffany and I are willing to put in that work. We all need to go on with our lives.”

“I sign over the house and you leave me alone?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Brett recognized you this morning. Forcing him through a red light was dangerous. He’s ready to press charges.” Probably not much of a lie; Brett had been angry. “And the Peeping Tom act earlier … not your best form, Ed.”

“Sell us the house. You won’t have to deal with me again.”

And if she didn’t? Would the harassment continue? Could she trust him? Probably worth a chance.

“OK, but I want you to keep your promise.”

He merely nodded. Shelly held the door open and stepped aside when he tried to squeeze her arm in passing. He was gone. The house was gone. And she had absolutely no feelings.

She picked up the phone, dialed Stephanie, and left a voicemail. “Stephanie. Shelly Sinclair. I don’t want the house sale to drag on any longer. I’m not going to fight Ed for an extra fifty grand. Draw up my acceptance and I’ll drop by and sign. Talk soon. Thanks.”

There. It was done. There was a finality that felt good—the last remaining tie severed.

 

* * *

 

Brett didn’t call the next day or the next. How could the sex have been off the scale two weekends and then nothing? Didn’t how good they were together mean anything to him? On Wednesday she called him.

“Well, hi there, sweet thing.”

With one term of endearment, she’d been relegated to Hooters status.

“I sort of missed talking the last couple nights.”

“Yeah, you know me. The guys wanted to take off, make use of the nice weather and get some riding in after work.”

She bit her tongue and didn’t ask if the hitch had been occupied.

“Any chance I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Won’t know ’til Friday.”

“Let me know.”

“Will do.”

Short and not so sweet. He was distancing himself. She knew it. And there wasn’t one thing she could do. Was he afraid of how close they had gotten? How good the sex was? Was Ed scaring him away?

There were men, people for that matter, who wouldn’t get involved in anything with a hint of violence. Or was this just his MO—a couple good tosses in the hay and he was on the road again? The next woman already weeded from the pack? Who was it who said, “Bad boys just grow up to be bad men?”

The phone was still in her hand when it rang. She glanced at the ID. Ed, again. Should she answer? Hadn’t he promised not to bother her? Of course, it could be something about the house.

“Hello, Ed.”

“I don’t know what your time looks like this afternoon, but I’d like to get together with the boys and at least do a walk-through of the house. I’m glad you accepted my offer. Paul Green will transfer the money to your account—or anywhere else. Just tell him.” Jovial—because he felt he’d won? He was so transparent.

“A walk-through should work today. Have Paul contact Stephanie about the money. You’ve decided to move in before repairs are made?”

“Well, I think Tiffany is just anxious to get this all behind us. With school starting we need to be at a permanent address. Marissa doesn’t deserve any more stress. It’s really gotten to Tiffany. I think the bickering and nastiness reminded her of her parents. You know she always looked up to you. You were her role model. She’s been bitterly disappointed in you, Shelly.”

“I’m sure she’s adult enough to get past it.” Interesting how it had become her fault that Tiffany was stressed.

“Do you know what you want? Anything I can box up ahead of time?”

That was sweet. Maybe things were changing. “Well, yes. If you don’t care, I’d like to keep the pictures—the family snapshots—the ones in the garage. Maybe later the four of us could look through them and divide them up. What about you?”

“Just the things from my parents, unless the boys have a particular request.”

“As far as artwork I have the only items I want.”

“I don’t expect to finish today, but it will give us a start. Two o’clock works for me.”

“OK. That should be good for me, too. Have you talked with the boys?”

“Yes. They’ll both be there.”

The old cheery Ed. Happy to be getting his own way? Probably. Or just pleased the love nest issue seemed resolved? It was a great house to raise children.

 

* * *

 

Jonathan picked her up at one thirty.

“What did your father have to say?”

“Nothing, really. He asked if I’d thought of things I might want.”

“Not a mention of Tiffany or Marissa? I’m assuming she won’t be at the house. I can’t imagine she’d be there while we’re going through things.”

“That’d be cozy.”

They continued the ride in silence. Shelly hoped she could count on Ed not to make a scene—get all four of them together and use the reunion to rehash his perception of wrongdoing. She had seen so little of Brian over the summer. A few phone calls, lunch at the bungalow that Rachel conveniently couldn’t make. Of course, he traveled with his job, but no excuse, really. They were estranged. Simple as that.

Another thing she needed to face and decide how she should handle—if at all. Was there ever any guarantee, some fine print on the birth certificate that assured a parent that her child would see life her way? She smiled, thinking of possible conversations between Ed and Brian as to his errant mother’s ways. But she found herself looking forward to seeing Brian. Hope springs eternal … damn, she had to stop sounding like her mother.

Jonathan braked for a covey of quail. She did miss the wildlife up here—maybe not the occasional bobcat or coyote that would dine on someone’s pet, but the flowers and cacti that supported a world of birds and small creatures indigenous to the desert. No, downtown was another world—not necessarily a better one.

“Looks like we beat Brian.”

“Brian’s not coming.”

“What? Your father said he’d contacted both of you— that both of you would be here.”

“Actually, Dad didn’t contact him. I gave him a call, wondering if he wanted to ride with us, and he’s working in Santa Fe today. Interesting, he told me he’d already taken everything that he wanted. Guess he and Rachel met with Dad and went through the place a couple of different times.”

“You’re kidding. I’m not losing my mind. I know your father said both of you would be there.”

Ed never mentioned having already picked things over—leaving her and Jonathan out of the loop. Ed had said something once about his apartment with Tiffany being small—she couldn’t imagine Tiffany’s place being spacious. But maybe he’d taken a few things. One of the beds or the kitchen set. And if Brian and Rachel got things they wanted, wasn’t that just a time-saver? Was it necessary that she know about it? She hadn’t been paying attention—and she was the one who walked away. Other than the deceit, it didn’t really make a difference.

“Is there anything that you want, Mom?”

“Not really. I told your father that I’d like some of the family pictures. There’s nothing else. It’s felt good to start over with new furnishings—and leave the memories. It’s taken me months to just be able to go back into the house. And it’s good that you’re with me. Makes things easier.”

Jonathan reached over and squeezed her hand.

“I guess Dad’s not here yet.” Jonathan pulled into the driveway. The house looked cavernous and abandoned, curtains drawn, garage door down, no cars in the drive.

“Did you bring your keys?”

“Right here.” She’d never taken them out of her purse, but also hadn’t used them since she’d left. Odd to be going back after six months.

For wanting the house so badly, Ed had done nothing to keep the yard up. Evergreens along the garage’s north side were way out of bounds, several of the large Chinese elms had broken branches. He’d been so keen to keep the yard mowed just a few months back, but now the grass was knee-high. But, she thought with a pang, it had been her responsibility. She’d dropped the ball—out of sight, out of mind.

Damn. There she went again. She’d grown up with old sayings, but when had her mother’s recital become less a commentary on life and more an example of dementia? She had to watch it.

“Wrong keys, Mom. Do you have another set?” Jonathan stepped away from the entrance.

“I’m not going to have keys to fit that lock.” Shelly looked over his shoulder and wondered where the brassy-bright Baldwin hardware had gone and whose idea it was to replace it with burnished copper—a much cheaper set.

“He changed the locks?”

“Looks like it.”

“I’ll go check the back door.”

Shelly sat on the bench next to the front door and realized that the five-hundred-dollars-each ceramic urns that had flanked the entry were gone. What else had disappeared? Presumably, to grace the new Sinclair residence, but now would be brought back. Maybe they had been sold. But once again, she reminded herself that she hadn’t cared. She allowed this to happen by noninvolvement.

“I’m not sure you’re prepared for this.” Jonathan held the front door open.

“At least he didn’t change the back locks.”

“I didn’t say that. Every one’s different. I crawled through an open window in the utility room. Mom, Dad’s been living here. Did you know that?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Look for yourself. Oh, and watch where you step, somebody has a new puppy.”

The house smelled—that was her first clue. She didn’t have to look at the floors to know that someone wasn’t picking up after an animal. Luckily, the floors were mostly tile or brick. Pillows from overstuffed furniture were piled in a square on the living room floor. A playhouse for Marissa? There were candy and cookie wrappers everywhere. Empty glasses with scummed milk dried in puddles—both inside and outside the container.

At a glance, she didn’t think there was one piece of furniture without a stain. Two blinds in the living room had missing slats. And the white plastered hearth had been sloppily painted bright pink and green in large asymmetrical circles. Marissa, no doubt. She had moved from painting the front seat of the Porsche to a larger canvas.

“Does pigsty cover it?” The disgust in Jonathan’s voice only echoed her own sentiments. How could anyone live like this?

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Ed was never much for housework, but filth wasn’t in his vocabulary either.”

“He could have hired someone. You used to have Iris what’s-her-name come help.”

“Why would he want to trash this house?”

“Make sure you didn’t want it back.”

“I told him I’d never come back.”

“Then it’s some kind of punishment. Ruin something he thinks means a lot to you.”

“That kind of meanness makes no sense. Do I have to remind you, Jonathan, your father left me? There is a feeling of punishment, though—a sort of ‘I’ll show you.’ I wonder if Brian and Rachel have seen this. ”

“I don’t think so or I’d have heard. One thing’s for sure, there isn’t anything left of value. I wonder where all the artwork went? I didn’t want anything, but I guess if I did, I’d be shit out of luck.”

“He might want to get at me, but why would he take things from you?”

Shelly looked at bare walls, nail holes and picture hooks without adornment. A peek in the dining room showed empty cabinets, a buffet with drawers hanging open.

“I don’t even want to go upstairs. I’m sure the entire house has been ransacked.”

“Let’s get out of here, if there’s nothing else you need to see. I grew up here, but the place is giving me the creeps.”

Shelly couldn’t agree with Jonathan more—and the pictures in the garage? Some other time. Those could be gone, too. Boxed for her convenience. In a pig’s eye. She’d ask Ed to drop them off at Stephanie’s. No, she’d have Stephanie tell Ed. She would never come back to this house. And if she could help it, she would not speak to Ed again.

“He wanted us to find the house like this. He did not plan on being here.”

Jonathan opened the passenger-side door of his SUV.

“Mom, I think Dad’s really sick. Wacko.” He made a circular motion at temple level.

“I don’t know what to think. That was a shock, but it’s his, or their, problem now.”

“I’m glad you’re done with him—divorced, doing your own thing.”

“Me, too.”

They were both quiet on the way back. Digesting what they’d seen? Shelly wondered. She’d never forget the destruction—not the way she wanted to remember the past. What could it be like for a child who had never known another house? And what was Ed’s point? Some sort of one-sided punishment? Or was she supposed to feel sorry for him?

Jonathan pulled into her driveway and turned off the ignition. “Do you have time to talk?”

“Sure. Coffee or a beer?”

“Coffee if you’re having some, too.”

They walked across the deck and into the kitchen. He seemed so preoccupied. And serious. Her curiosity was piqued. Even grown, the bickering and nastiness of the divorce had taken a toll. But she knew she couldn’t pry. He’d open up when he was ready—he was like his father in that.

She gathered up mugs, reached in the fridge for the half-and-half, and carried everything to the dining room table. She made Sumatra, fresh-ground beans, cold water—if she could only hurry the finished product. Finally.

“I’ll let you doctor your own.” She filled a mug and added cream. Jonathan did the same and followed her into the living room.

She sat opposite him on the love seat and waited.

“I’ve been thinking for a long time about coming forward—not just because of what’s happened today. There’s been so much hurt from the beginning. I really don’t think I recognize my father anymore. I’m shocked by the lies, the duplicity.”

She waited and watched him run his tongue over his upper lip, then rub both lips together.

“Mom, Marissa isn’t Dad’s child.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Because I’m her father.”

Shelly realized she was staring, but couldn’t stop, couldn’t even form a comment. Ed had been taken? Throwing everything away, over a lie? His fried bologna, dollop of mashed potatoes sweetie all a sham? She was startled back to reality by the tickle of laughter that was trying to surface, then swallowed hard when Jonathan’s grief-stricken face came into focus.

“Jonathan, I don’t understand.”

“Tiffany and I had an affair. Well, more like a couple one-night stands. She wanted it to be more and, I think, got pregnant on purpose. And maybe that’s unfair; maybe it was an accident. She said she was on the pill. When I wouldn’t marry her, she set up Dad. Duped him into believing Marissa was his. Would you believe that I didn’t even know he stepped in when I stepped out? Not until you told me Dad had announced he was marrying her.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Short of DNA testing? Maybe not. But I have a hell of a lot of cancelled checks that show I’ve supplemented their income for five years.”

“You supported Marissa?”

“Tried to. Tiffany seemed fine with the arrangement. Accepting anyway. Gave me some song and dance about not minding being a single mom. Funny, I never questioned her abrupt about-face. ”

“And all the time Tiffany was boffing your father.”

“That’s what it looks like now.”

Earning a salary, receiving child support from two would-be fathers, one not aware of the other … not bad. The ultimate scam. Obviously, Shelly had never given her enough credit.

“Why are you telling me?”

“I’m sick and tired of Dad acting like an asshole. I can’t believe what Dad’s done to you … to me. Their staying in our home—trashing our home—reducing you to this. ” His arm swept in a half circle taking in the room. “This is a hell of a come down.”

“Jonathan, I love this house. This was my choice. I like my life.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Well, it’s true. I’m adjusting—making new friends even. I‘m working on a new career. Your father was generous. I don’t have to work if I invest carefully—maybe even if I don’t.”

“That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have to be doing this. You deserve more. You should be taking cruises with friends … you worked your tail off for him, at his office, taking care of us, keeping a home. There should be some reward for that. Dad has his head in the sand.”

Shelly took a sip of coffee. “You know the saddest part? Not the lack of a reward for services rendered—I never expected that. But I’ve been a grandmother for four years.”

Four lost years. Funny how she’d always thought things would be so different—the boys would marry, have families, she and Ed would dote on their offspring. Swimming lessons, ballet, soccer, applauding achievements, a sounding board for transgressions. A very important part of her life had just been taken from her. Never to be recaptured, not with Marissa.

“Yeah, I never thought of that.”

There was really just one question left to ask—one that she had mixed feelings over the answer. Was she really past being vindictive? Could she really stifle that niggling spark of excitement? That need to utter, “I told you so”?

“What are you going to do with what you just told me? It could be devastating.”

“I don’t know yet. A part of me wants to tell him— make him see how stupid he’s being. Make him pay. Call Tiffany’s bluff, I guess.”

“But what would you gain?”

“I’d make him realize—”

“Realize what? A lot of things are simply over, Jonathan. It feels right to go forward.” She paused. For the first time she realized she was telling the truth. It did feel right. “I have no regrets, only Marissa. I would expect the same from you.”

“It’s hard to get past the wrong of it all.”

Shelly took a deep breath. “You need to let go. I sense that being duped by Tiffany, paying all those years when you worked part-time, really rankles. It would me. Yet, I wouldn’t want you to lash out just to get even, cause pain for someone else because you’ve been taken.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “We all need to move on.”

“Don’t ask me to forgive.”

“I won’t. I’m not. Only you know whether you can do that.”

“And you? Can you forgive them?”

“Oh, Jonathan, I hope I already have.”

She sat for a long time on the sofa. Long after Jonathan had gone. Had she forgiven Ed? Did Tiffany’s duplicity make a difference? A woman who had hurt both Shelly’s husband and her son?

Oddly, she understood. Understood the need of a mother to protect her young, to attain something that she’d never had—the security, the money to provide even the wildest of desires. Begrudging understanding, admiration even mixed with the hurt. No, she honestly couldn’t blame her. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t hate her. She could only hope that Jonathan would keep the secret to himself.