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F5: Desperate Times and Measures

By: Tx Tall Tales



F5: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. Every story for this FAWC begins with the exact same line. Where it goes from there is up to the author.)

* * * *

Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.

I knew it was a desperate tactic, but these were desperate times. I adjusted their position once again, then sat back in my chair, wiping a stray tear from my eye, while waiting for my wife of 21 years to come down the stairs.

I didn't have to wait long. I heard the door creak open, and felt a surge of anger. When had she started closing the door to our bedroom when she got ready? She hadn't done it for the first two decades we were together. It had been a running joke within the family. Sandy's favorite outfit was her birthday suit. She'd come home from work, yoga, or from working out, peeling off her clothing while chattering, walking through the living room, naked as a jaybird. Our daughters would occasionally give her grief, reminding her that anybody could have been around. Her argument was that it's her home, and she should be able to be comfortable. I supported my wife of course. It was my favorite outfit of hers as well. Even though I hadn't been seeing much of it lately. Closing the door? Never crossed her mind in a score of years.

I heard her heels coming down the hardwood stairs, clacking away noisily. Heels. Another irritation. She never wore heels. She was a runner, and had nothing but bad things to say about women who would treat their feet that way. As far as I knew, the tallest heels she had were only about an inch high. Or at least that was the way it always had been. The woman was almost five foot ten. It wasn't like she needed heels. She didn't need anything to emphasize her height or her long luscious legs. Genetics had blessed her with the first, and the 30 or 40 miles she put in each week took care of the second.

She appeared from out of the stairwell, wearing a dress that was nothing less than shameless. For an innocent dinner with two of her girls from work. Right.

Sandy looked up at me sitting there, and unconsciously adjusted the bottom of her skirt, pulling it down a little. Perhaps she was trying to stop me from seeing if she was wearing panties or not. Another inch higher, and there would have been no question. She glanced at me again, and I could see the nervousness. She was a horrible liar, and terrible at deception. How she expected to get away with this I had no idea. Maybe she wanted to be caught.

"Dinner's in the oven," she said, avoiding my eyes. "I might be a little late."

I didn't make an effort to answer, not even nodding. I just watched, stifling my urge to jump up and scream at her, for her idiocy, her disrespect, her horrible behavior. Almost as strong was the desire to fall on my knees, to plead with her, to beg. Honestly, I'd come close to both in the last couple of weeks, neither in the least bit effective.

I could see her eyes scanning the area, looking for her purse. She normally dumped it on the kitchen island when she got home. I had taken the liberty of hanging it off of the arm of one of the chairs pushed into the table. The table I had cleared earlier, wiping it clean, leaving the glass sparkling, before I laid out the three items for her to discover.

She eventually noticed her purse, and stepped toward the table. I saw her look down at the items, first giving them a casual glance, then her head turning back to look at them more carefully. When the realization hit her, she wobbled, her ankle turning as the heel of her shoe flared out beneath her foot, forcing her to lean forward, grabbing the edge of the table to catch her balance.

Sandy looked over at me anxiously, then turned her head away. Looking back down, at my little reminders. She straightened up, back on those ridiculous heels, and I saw her hand drift forward, almost of its own accord, toward my last effort to stop this runaway train.

* * * *

It was a recent thing, her attitude, barely suppressed irritation with me, snippy manner, avoidance, disrespect. I thought I deserved better. Twenty-one fucking years. Our youngest finally out of the home, and off to college. A chance for us to refocus, on each other, and not on the responsibilities of being good parents.

At first I chalked it up to boredom, having me around too much, not having our girls to dote upon. But it didn't stop. She started avoiding me. Spending more time than ever on the computer, usually on Facebook, or chatting on her phone. Names I didn't recognize. Walking out of the room, and closing the door behind her to talk in private. Private, from me.

A love life that I'd hoped to rekindle, instead sputtered and died. She was unresponsive, passive aggressive in her denial, surrendering after enough coercion, but no longer a partner in passion, now a weary victim, waiting for me to finish. It was heart-breaking, but any attempts at discussion were either laughed off, or ended in her walking away.

I thought perhaps she was depressed, until the party at her friend Tracy's. Her behavior was anything but depressed, laughing, flirting, spending far too much time with people I didn't know, one person in particular. He'd been introduced to me when we arrived. I didn't like him then, and was really starting to detest the jerk as the night wore on. A younger guy—I guess you call them metrosexuals now—you know the type. Hair immaculately coiffed, he probably spent a hundred bucks to get it looking just right. His coordinated outfit was carefully chosen from the pages of GQ, hands manicured, soft, lotioned, I'm sure. Shoes no man would wear, not a real man. Even his eyebrows were shaped and plucked. I was certain his chest was waxed. It turned my stomach the way he hovered around my wife, his hand reaching out often to touch her, brush her arm, stroke her lower back. He would lean over and whisper in her ear, and her laughter would fill the room. A sound I'd almost forgotten, it had been so long.

Tracy appeared before me, a worried look on her face. "It's nothing, Dan."

"If it was nothing, you wouldn't have to tell me that, would you?"

She blushed. "It's just flirting. It's how he is."

I saw the guy grin, his perfect caps gleaming. I wonder how they'd feel, cracking under my knuckles. "How long has that asshole been fucking her, Tracy?" I asked.

Her red face changed from embarrassment to anger. "He's doing nothing of the kind. I can't believe you'd even suggest that! Sandy has never been unfaithful to you. She's just . . . confused now. It hasn't gone anywhere."

"Why is he here? Who the hell is he? Since when did you start inviting assholes like that to your parties?"

"Nathan? He's just a friend. A neighbor. He's new to the area, lives two doors down. There's nothing to it, I'm telling you. He acts like that with all the women. He's harmless."

"Harmless. Right. If he touches her again, you're going to have to call 911. I'm going to pound those fake porcelains so far down his throat, he'll be shitting them out his manicured and bleached asshole." I tore my eyes off the scum bag and glared at my wife's best friend. A woman I thought was my friend, for the last decade. "I'm grabbing a beer. If I were you, I'd get that jerkoff out of here. I swear, if I come back and see him within ten feet of her, you'll be replacing that pretty white rug of yours, because you'll never get the blood stains out."

A couple of minutes later, with a new Shiner in hand, Tracy's husband Jake was bracing me, obviously interfering with my going back into the main room. "He's an asshole, Dan. But that's all. I told her not to invite him, but he's harmless."

"Sure, he's harmless to your wife. He's like a fuckin' leech on mine. I'm not putting up with it."

"It's a party. Everyone's had a little too much to drink. She's having a good time. Why not enjoy the results? Don't do anything now that you'll regret. You can talk about it later, tomorrow, when you're both sober."

Enjoy the results? Maybe, once upon a time. Not lately, that's for sure, and it was pretty obvious why. "I'm sober. Not even buzzed. Now do you want to get out of my way, Jake, or is this going to get ugly between you and me? Are you siding with that fucking pussy-hound?"

He seemed to deflate, and stepped out of the way. "I don't want any trouble. It's just a party."

I brushed past him, and back into the family room. It took a few moments to spot my wife, now standing at the edge of a group that contained Tracy, and was notably absent of any assholes of the male variety. Jake had followed me, and was talking softly. "Nothing happened. Nothing will. It's not a big deal, Dan."

Turning, I glared at him. "When'd you lose your balls, Jake? Since when do you put up with shit like that? If that guy was all over your wife, would you just laugh and lick up his cream-pie later? Is that how it is now? Seriously, man, I wanna know."

Jake bristled at my comment. "He'd never do that with Tracy. She wouldn't put up with it. Maybe you should ask yourself why your wife doesn't shoot him down. He's no threat to me."

"Fine. I get it. I thought you were a friend, but now you're running interference for some sleazeball so he can hit on Sandy. That's all I need to know. I'm leaving now. Maybe you can spare a bedroom for my idiot wife. Hell, talk to Tracy, it might just be permanent."

I looked up and saw the gaggle of women were watching us. I was disgusted. Some friends. I turned and headed for the door, turning my beer upside down, and pouring it out on the carpet on the way.

"Damn it, Dan!" I heard Jake snap. I dropped the nearly empty beer in the fancy umbrella basket they had standing by the front door, and let myself out.

I was halfway to the car, when my wife came running out the front door. "What the hell are you doing?" she screamed at me.

"Going home," I said, continuing my trek down to the street where we were parked.

"You were just going to leave me here? And what's with pouring your beer on their rug!" She was still running toward me.

"What do you care, Sandy? Seriously. I get it. You're tired of me. Tired of being married to me. Bored. Whatever. You've found a new boyfriend. Stay, have a good time, get yourself laid. I'll go home and start the paperwork. If you don't want me in your life, I'm not going to force myself on you."

I expected an argument, maybe a screaming match. Instead she shut up. Completely. Got in the car, and never said a word. Not for the rest of the night.

The next morning, she was up early, and had prepared breakfast. She was already dressed. Obviously she wasn't going to try to seduce me to get back in my good graces. I sure as hell wasn't going to apologize for anything.

I sat before the omelet she'd made me, and took a sip of the coffee. She sat opposite, no food, just her over-sized coffee mug.

"There's nothing going on, Dan. He's not my boyfriend. He flirts a lot, and last night it was aimed at me. I probably should have shot him down, but I didn't. I was just having a good time. I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. I don't know where that crap about my tired of being married to you came from. I don't deserve to be treated that way. I would think you would trust me by now, after twenty-two years."

"You don't deserve to be treated this way? Give me a fuckin' break. How about the way you've been treating me? You've been a total bitch. Giving me the silent treatment, always pissed off, keeping secrets, avoiding me, hiding from me when you have your private conversations, sneaking out without saying where you're going, and now that shit last night? I'm not stupid, Sandra. You know that. It's like the old saying, where there's smoke, there's fire. Well, I've found in life that where there's flames, there's fire. We're well beyond smoke here. No, I don't trust you. Not since you started hiding things from me. Not anymore. You've ruined that. I'm done. I'm not about to be laughed at in public because my wife decides she wants to move on and humiliate me publicly. So fuck you."

She looked embarrassed, then angry. "Are you deaf, or just stupid? I told you, nothing happened!"

"Maybe last night it didn't. I stopped it. But I saw how you behave in public with him. What happens when I'm not there? What have you been doing with all your sneaking around? When did you lose respect for me, and when did making love become a chore for you? Since when am I not good enough for you?" I waited for an answer, but she just glared at me.

"Like I said, I'm done. Do what you want. I don't give a fuck anymore. I'm tired, and to be frank, you disgust me." I got up and left, waiting to hear some kind of response, yelling, apology, arguing, something. What I got was nothing.

* * * *

I watched her hand reach out to touch the knife. No, it wasn't some Bowie knife, or a butcher blade. This was a special knife. Sterling silver, crystal handle, engraved. We had used it once a year for twenty years. If times were normal, we'd be using it again in less than a month. I doubted that would happen.

Its mirror-like surface shone. The facets of the handle reflected the lights in the chandelier, casting little mini rainbows of light around the room. As she moved it, the lights danced, shimmering, shaking, darting around.

I wish I knew what was going on inside her head. Since that night we barely spoke. She was openly avoiding me, making no effort to hide the fact. She'd get up and leave when I walked in the room. I knew it was over, we were just marking time. The saddest part was I didn't know why. Even with the information I'd gathered, recording her calls, reading her emails and texts, I still didn't understand it. She never gave a reason.

I'd started organizing our finances, putting money into trust funds for our kids, paying off credit-cards. I cashed out a few investments, moving the money. I even sold our little place down at the beach. It had been my great-uncles, and I'd bought it off him for a song. She loved that place, and I was damned if I was going to let her get her hands on it. She never noticed a thing I did, hell, half the time it was as if I no longer existed.

Her hand left the knife, and landed on the book. Not just any book. Our girls had made it for us, an anniversary gift. Twenty years married. The brag book was a good six inches thick, pictures, mementos, memories of our life together. Organized by year, it documented a pair of lives, intertwined until they were one entity. A joyous union, until about six months ago.

My wife stood quietly, never looking up. Still, at this late date, after all my efforts, I didn't matter. She opened the book, turning pages at random, holding some open for several seconds, others getting no more than a brief glance. I saw a couple of stray tears start down her cheeks, and wondered if there was anything left, or if I was just wasting my time.

The tears weren't unexpected. She'd always been emotional, wore her heart on her sleeve, or at least she had until the last half-year or so. She would cry at the drop of a hat. I stood and picked up the handkerchief, worn, yellowed, threadbare. I wiped her eyes, as I had that first time, so many years ago, but she didn't giggle. Didn't lean into me. Didn't grab my hand in hers, clutching it tightly, as she had back then.

My wife didn't laugh, teasing me for being the only man who still carried handkerchiefs every day. Their only purpose to wipe away my wife's tears, of joy, of sorrow, of empathy. A reminder of how we'd met, and fallen in love. It had been almost two months now that I'd stopped carrying a handkerchief, after more than twenty years. She never noticed.

For the first time in my life, I thought I'd need to use the hanky for myself, and not for her.

I watched her set her shoulders, standing up firmly, closing the book. She didn't look at me for an explanation. "I won't be too late. Maybe we should talk when I get back."

"Don't go," I said. "Talk to me now, Sandy. Stay, please." I'm sure I sounded desperate. I was. If she walked out that door, it was over.

She lifted her purse, and turned toward the entrance, ignoring my words. I didn't matter. Our memories didn't matter. Twenty-one years of marriage didn't matter. Not to her. Not anymore.

If these treasures didn't matter to her, then they sure as hell didn't matter to me.

I picked up the book, and walked toward our fireplace. I looked over at the woman I'd loved more than half my life, as she walked away. Opening the chain curtains, I thrust the book inside. She paused at the crash of the heavy tome against the artificial logs. She hesitated, but still didn't turn around. I turned on the gas burners, and hit the igniter, listening for the loud 'woosh' as the flames ignited.

"I won't be here when you get back," I said, voice raised, as I turned toward the back of the house. My bags were packed and in the car. I had a full tank of gas and almost ten thousand dollars in cash. The single sheet of paper I placed where the book had been would explain everything. If she wanted a divorce, she could apply for it. I was leaving. I'd liquidated what I could, and took ninety percent of it, leaving her the house and its equity. The house and her car were both paid off. She wouldn't need much to get by. I thought it was a fair split, probably more than she deserved.

I heard my name screamed, and turned to see an unknown woman, a stranger really, hardly the woman I'd married and loved. She was kneeling in front of the fireplace, dragging the book off of the fake logs. Too stupid to even turn off the fire, she was crying and yelling, beating out the flickering flames. Her dress had ridden up over her ass, displaying the tiny lines of a red lace thong.

I tucked the twenty-three year old handkerchief in my pocket. I grabbed the knife off the table, inspecting the new edge where one had never existed before. It didn't need to be very sharp to cut wedding cake. Even one that was frozen, sitting in the freezer for nearly a quarter of a century. I had a different purpose in mind, as I headed out the door, ignoring my wife's shrieks.

* * * *

I drove past Jake and Tracy's home. Another casualty. Friends for more than a decade, we didn't speak anymore. At least I didn't speak with them. I didn't hold them responsible, but I wanted nothing to do with anyone who actively participated in the destruction of my marriage.

I slowed the car passing their mailbox, only going another hundred yards before turning into the illuminated driveway. I got out of the vehicle, and walked briskly up the steps, ringing the bell, opening the screen door, standing too close for anybody to see out through the side panels or peephole.

The heavy door opened quickly, the large, practiced, artificially whitened smile fading quickly, taking on a look of surprise and fear. He was dressed to go out, custom made shirt, no pocket, french cuffs. Probably a quart of pomade in his hair, or whatever they called that shit nowadays. The smell of his cologne was nauseating.

"I don't need this anymore, you can have it," I said, then thrust our wedding knife into the asshole's belly, all the way to that shiny crystal. "Same for my wife, she's yours."

He grabbed at the protruding handle, looking up at me in shock. The rivulets of blood pumped out around the heavy leaded glass, extinguishing the lights. He fell to the floor, whimpering like a little girl.

I dropped the handkerchief on him. "Maybe this can stop the bleeding," I said. "They're not phoenix tears, just the snot of a middle-aged heartless slut. Let me know how that works out for you."


F5: Desperate Times and Measures



I turned away, got in my car, and started driving. I had nowhere to go, and planned on taking a long time to get there.

* * * *

Sitting on the porch of my little bungalow, I took another sip of my beer, while I watched the waves, in the dying light. I never got tired of it.

A shape took form before me, a silhouette, blocking my view. I looked up into a face I'd struggled to forget for over a year. I thought I'd been making progress. As I looked at her, a million thoughts ran through my head. Most were not very pleasant. I couldn't honestly say it was completely unexpected, but it was still surprising. I could barely make out her features in the last of the daylight, and considered turning on the porch light but it seemed like too much effort. I didn't like to waste electricity. She wasn't worth it.

I had to wonder how she'd found me. I lived in the middle of nowhere. I wasn't part of the ex-pat crowd, living in a little enclave of foreigners. I'd picked up 27.2 acres of land near Corozal, where some genius had decided he was going to build a retirement community. It cost me less than the beach house I'd sold, but ate up more than half of what I'd walked away with. I lived in the little beach house that was their showpiece three years earlier, when they gave up their idiotic dream. My front yard was the only place where the jungle had been scraped clean and a couple of hundred feet of beach had been filled in. It was desolate and I liked it that way. Isolated, I thought. Yet, here she was.

"I'm sorry."

Not the words I expected. I shrugged.

"Can we talk?"

I almost laughed. She wanted to talk now? I had tried for months. "I don't think so." I took another sip of my beer, staring past her at the white capped waves, their sound now clearer than their view.

She stepped around me and I heard the door open, then close.

It was a couple of minutes before she returned, pulling the other chair up beside me. She held her unopened beer in front of me. I took it from her, twisted off the cap and passed it back. Force of habit, I guess. I heard her take a sip, and did the same.

"You almost killed him."

Damn. Nothing but bad news. "I'll do a better job next time I see him."

I heard the soothing crash of the waves three more times before she ventured to speak again.

"I never slept with him. I never cheated on you."

"I read your emails, your text messages, and listened to your phone calls. For the last two weeks. I know everything, Sandra."

A longer silence. Still not long enough for me. Why did she want to rehash this shit? It was over. I had moved on. She could do what she wanted. I just didn't care.

"Then you know I didn't do anything." Her voice was trembling, a little less confident.

"Only because I stopped him. I couldn't stop you, could I? God knows I tried."

She had no response, and I finished my beer in silence. I got up and saw the way she watched me, nervous. Now, she paid attention. Now, I mattered. Too late. I returned with two more beers. It was my third. One over my self-imposed daily limit, but these were unusual circumstances. I opened hers and passed it to her. She handed me back her empty. A well practiced throw had it clattering among the others in my recycling barrel, mine joining it seconds later.

My latest was half gone before she spoke again. "Thank you."

I was about to make another snide remark, but curiosity got the better part of me. "For what?"

"For waking me up from my private nightmare. For preventing me from doing something horrible. For ending that asshole's slimy seduction that almost succeeded."

She took a sip from her beer, for courage I guess. The wooden legs squealed against the porch floor as she turned her chair to face me. "Thank you for twenty-one wonderful years. For two amazing children. For a lifetime of incredible memories. For loving me, and fighting for us, when I was too lost to do it myself."

"You're welcome."

I could feel her eyes on me. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. I couldn't let her see what her presence did to me. I stared out at the sea, and drank my beer.

"Is there anything you wanted to ask me? Any questions? Anything you want to say?"

"Can't think of any," I said.

The chair groaned as she got up. There's a reason I sit in the good chair. She stood in front of me, and leaned over at the waist. Her tear streaked face lowered, and her lips brushed my cheek. "I love you Dan. I'm sorry I fucked up our lives." Her tears continued to fall, but for once I didn't wipe them away. Not my job anymore.

She dropped her empty in the barrel, and walked off into the night. Where to, I had no idea. The nearest town, about 1600 people, was over a mile away by the main road, where she was headed.

I walked indoors, locking up behind me. Damn her for tearing off the scab on my heart. Damn her!

* * * *

I woke slowly, tired, my mouth full of cotton balls, sandpaper inside my eyelids, ball-peen hammers tapping away at the insides of my temples, and a bladder ready to burst. My self-imposed limit of three beers had been not only broken but obliterated the night before. It hadn't helped.

I groaned, staggering out of the room, and out the back door. I leaned against the railing, and watered the landscape for an eternity. The sun was already up, but it was still cool in the back, under the shade. I adjusted my boxers, and made my way back to the kitchen turning on the coffee. I grabbed a bottle of water and some aspirin, which I downed without stopping for a breath. The second one I took slower.

While the coffee brewed, I strolled out the front door and into the water. A short swim up the beach and back woke me up, and got all the kinks out. It didn't do a lot for my headache, but I didn't expect it to. On the way back to the cabana, I noticed Sandra was on my porch.

Again, not much of a surprise, although I don't know how I missed her on the way out. Sandra was never one of those idle, helpless wives. On our weekends, her honey-do list was as long as mine. She could never bear to let something stand idle, if it needed work done. She was on her hands and knees, dressed in her running shorts, trail shoes, and a tank top. She had the legs off the porch chair, sanding and chipping the old glue off, and putting them back in place. I saw the cord next to her, where she would soon tie them in place while they dried. It wasn't the first time I'd seen her do this task.

The first thing we ever bought together was a table for our kitchen. It was overpriced, but she fell in love with it. We bought it on credit and I think it took us three years to pay that damn thing off. Over the decades we'd reupholstered the seat cushions twice, stripped and stained it once, and fixed loose chairs at least half a dozen times. That was the table. The table where we had our last stand, where she made it clear that nothing I could do, nothing that we shared, ever mattered.

I stepped under the outdoor shower and rinsed off the salt water, then stripped off my boxers to dry in the sun, once again thankful that my nearest neighbor was over a half-mile away. I couldn't help but grin, thinking about those people paying more for their half-acre lots in the planned community, than I had for my entire property. I went in, put on some shorts and a t-shirt, ready to start another day in paradise.

I poured us each a cup of coffee, black. I grabbed the undersized watermelon I'd picked up the day before, cut it in quarters, and went out to join her on the porch. She glanced up at me, and accepted the coffee cup, sipping it slowly, slurping it noisily as she always had, those first few hot sips. I set half the melon beside her, placed my half on the side table, and faced the water.

Early mornings I liked to see what was going on. Watch the local fishing boats coming out of the lagoon to the west, see if there was any wildlife activity in the water, check out the early morning outings from the development east of me. I'd look out to the horizon, checking out the weather, planning my day around it. Crystal clear, that morning, despite the storm raging in my soul. I let the clean air fill my lungs, and waited for the pounding in my head to eventually go away.

I briefly wondered where she'd found the stuff to work on the chair, but it didn't take me too long to figure out she'd been in my shed. I didn't keep it locked. Not much out there worth stealing, and the crime rate was surprisingly low, especially where I was. Out in the middle of nowhere. That was the only reason I could afford waterfront. I was away from everything. Everything except one little town to the south, a delusional bunch of investors to the east, and the suckers who bought into their dream.

"How was your run?" I asked. Damned if I know why that was the first thing out of my mouth.

"Sublime. It's so quiet at dawn, and you know I've always loved running on dirt." She glanced over at me gnawing on my melon. It was pretty obvious I was hung-over, and I could tell she wanted to say something, but she turned away and started working on the last leg of her chair.

She had lost weight. She couldn't afford to lose much. Her legs looked skinny, and the shorts were baggy. The last year hadn't been kind to her. Then again, maybe that was only right. Karmic payback.

We shared the porch in silence. I finished my melon, and checked my watch. Time to go to work. I picked up her empty plate and mug, and took them to the kitchen, rinsing them off, and putting them on the drying rack. Then I pulled down the window shade in the living room, and fired up the laptop. I only worked four or five hours a day, most of the time, for a paltry $35 an hour. Less than half of what I'd made before running away. It was far more than I needed, and I lived a comfortable lifestyle. With the property paid for, my expenses were less than a thousand a month. Most of my earnings still trickled back to my daughters for college. In a couple of months Krystal would be graduating, and hopefully finding a job, reducing that burden. Jenna still had two years to go.

I'd been at it a couple of hours, when I heard her moving around the house. The shower started, and I considered making a scene. She shouldn't be making herself comfortable. She had her house, this one was mine. She was an intruder. An unwelcome one. When she showed up next to my desk, she was back to wearing her shorts and running shoes, but she'd donned one of my T-shirts.

"Can I make you a sandwich?" she asked.

"I normally walk into town," I said. I didn't keep a lot of food around the house. I liked the exercise, and the break from working.

"Ok." She left me to work, and I could hear her again, moving around on the porch.

I uploaded my morning work, stood up and stretched. I put on my shoes at the entrance and grabbed my wallet. When I stepped out on the porch, she closed the book she was reading, fell in step at my side for the mile and a half walk. I guess I could have driven, but I wasn't about to mess up my routine just because she showed up. I had a new life now, and it had taken me a long time to get comfortable with it. I'd be damned if I was going to let her change anything. It was my life, no longer hers.

I took the route through the property, the occasional cleared lots a reminder of the property's original purpose. After a few hundred yards it narrowed to a dirt trail just before coming out on the main road. Named after the community going in to the east, it wasn't much wider than a single car, with wide dirt shoulders on each side, where we walked. About halfway there, I guess the quiet got to me. "I usually have lunch, then do my dinner and breakfast shopping before heading back."

"That explains the empty refrigerator. I was getting worried. Nothing but a case of beer, some condiments, and a dozen bottles of water." She was exaggerating a little, but not all that much.

Worried? Like I was supposed to believe that. I ached to confront her. Ask her what the hell she was doing, hanging around. Why was she sticking her head in my refrigerator? Why couldn't she just leave me alone? What I really wanted to know was why? What had I done? Why did she destroy us? In the end I was a coward and said nothing.

Past the first sugar cane farms, the road turned, and we walked by a few scattered houses. They became more common, closer together for a quarter of a mile, before we hit their tiny main street, and the local market. She followed me into the shade when I took a seat at the tiny open air restaurant so common to the area. David walked over with a smile. "Fresh snapper," he said then made an odd little nod at my companion.

"My . . ." I realized I had no idea. I turned to face her. "Are we still married?" I glanced down and saw she was still wearing her rings. Then again, who was I to talk? Mine never left my finger.

She nodded sadly.

"My wife. Make it two."

The owner/chef walked off shaking his head, and returned with two Cokes he placed on the table, along with a pitcher of water. "Don't drink the water," I said, pouring myself a glass.

She watched me take a long drink. I didn't bother to explain. She could learn on her own if she didn't want to listen. I had the runs pretty bad three times in the first couple of months down here. I got over it eventually, my internal chemistry adapting to the changes. Most ex-pats don't make the effort, bottled water isn't that expensive.

David's daughter came running up to me, chattering like a magpie. She had her coloring book with her, and with a look of intense concentration on her face, she drew me a picture. When she was done I thanked her and gave her a quarter. U.S. It was our little ritual. I got a kiss on the cheek and she ran off, her book rolled up and clutched in her hand. I folded the picture and put it in my shirt pocket. One more for the refrigerator.

The food was ready by then, the usual, fresh fish with rice and beans. Not beans and rice, which would be served separately. I put a little Marie Sharp's on the rice and beans, but shook my head at Sandra when she picked up the bottle. "You won't like it," I told her. She never liked anything too spicy. And this stuff was hot.

I watched her as she tasted the snapper, and saw the look of surprise. I could relate. Hard to believe anything that good could be found in a place like this. The rice and beans took some getting used to, David overdid the coconut milk, and used the local small red beans. I liked it, but it was an acquired taste. She gave it a tentative nibble, then loaded up her fork. She always was a trooper.

"It's good," she said, once she'd cleaned her plate.

"David's a genius with the fish. Don't eat his chicken." I said it loud enough for him to hear me. He laughed heartily. His chicken was what he was best known for.

She was looking at the chalkboard menu on the wall, and commented she thought it was kind of expensive.

"That's Belize dollars. Cut it in half to get U.S." I put down $12 American for the both of us, which included the sodas and a tip. Then it was off to market, across the street.

I typically ate a lot of fish. It was cheap, fresh, and plentiful, but I figured she'd be sticking around if I didn't chase her off properly. Hell, chances are she still would be making a nuisance of herself even if I did. "Preference?" I asked.

"Whatever you would normally eat," she answered quietly.

That made it easier. I went over to the fresh fish stand, and asked what was good. They had some snook, and I wasn't about to pass that up. It was still lobster season, so I added a couple as well. Two doors down Maria had her wares on display. I tended to frequent different stands, avoiding any obvious preference, but Maria had been a help to me when I was just getting started, and I considered her a friend. I gave the little roly-poly grandmother a hug, and she giggled. She always did. A mango, a papaya, and a star fruit from her counter would make up the side dishes and breakfast. Maybe I'd throw in a potato from my miniscule larder.

Sandra was eyeing the sparse choices from a distance. "You'd hate it here," I told her. "The vegetables are terrible, when you can find any." I grabbed a few of the ugly green oranges. They made a great breakfast juice, although they never appeared to be fully ripe.

Sandra wasn't a vegetarian by any means, but she loved fresh vegetables, especially organic or out of the garden. Asparagus, broccoli, spinach, cale, all things I'd never miss, were part of her essential diet. I don't think I'd ever seen one of them in a local restaurant. Even a plain salad was rare enough. I imagine at the tourist places they probably had that kind of stuff, but I was trying to live native. It was a lot more affordable.

She wasn't listening to me. She'd found the small selection of veggies, and picked out a tomato, an onion and a cucumber. "You have olive oil?"

"About a gallon." Anything I couldn't get at the local market, I bought in bulk when I hit the city.

I loaded everything in the backpack I'd brought with me, and we started the twenty minute hike back.

"You do this every day?"

"During the week," I explained.

She was quiet for a while. I barely heard her response. "No wonder you're looking so damn good."

Truth was, she looked pretty damn good to me, she always had, but no way I was going to say so.

I'll say this for her, other than being underfoot, she left me alone. Didn't say squat for the entire journey back, until we hit the property. I saw her looking around, at the abandoned foundations, scattered squares of grass, and the odd little row of fruit trees that were once meant to be the central avenue.

"Neighbors?" she asked.

"Not here. Half mile east of us, someday."

She nodded, but I know she was curious.

At the cabana, I put away the food, and stripped down to my boxers for another dip in the water. I made it a short one, no more than twenty minutes or so, took my outdoor shower, and swapped out my wet boxers for the pair that had dried in the sun. She sat on the porch and watched me. Honestly, it was weird the looks she gave me. "Why outside?"

"Well water, it doesn't use the cistern. I don't like to waste the good water, and I don't like to use the water heater if I don't have to. Saves electricity, saves propane, and saves drinking water. Plus, I like being outside."

I could almost hear the stubborn gears in her head start to move, while she considered the ramifications of living like I did. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

I shrugged, and realized that was the longest conversation we'd had in a year. I grabbed a shirt inside, and sat down at my laptop for a few more hours of work. It looked like I was going to need the money, now that she'd found me. I wondered if there was any way I could be forced to pay alimony.

I heard the shower outside run, but she never came back in the house. From the sounds of things she was fiddling with something, but I blocked it out. I needed to focus for a little while. When I was done, I sent an email to my boss, Frank, and told him if he had any more work for me, I'd take it. I figured it wouldn't be a problem. He was always bugging me to do some odd project or other. I never did because I didn't need to. That might be changing.

When I went out and sat in my chair, for the first of my two daily beers, I didn't see her. A few minutes later she came around the corner of the house and spotted me. She gave me a sad little smile, then went indoors, returning with a beer of her own. She passed me the Belikin, about the only beer I could buy locally, and I opened it for her. She pulled the chair she'd fixed over, and sat down next to me, facing the water.

Once I'd finished the beer, I tossed the empty. "I usually grill the fish," I said.




F5: Desperate Times and Measures



"Sounds wonderful."

I stepped down off the porch, and fired up my homemade grill. Once I was convinced it was going strong, I went indoors.

She followed me into the house, and went to work on her rabbit food. I cleaned two of the little potatoes I still had in the pantry, rubbed them in oil and sea salt, unfolded a couple of pieces of my precious, recycled aluminum foil and wrapped them in it. I ran them out to the grill to get them started, and grabbed a couple of leaves off one of the banana trees before heading back in. Sandra was moving slower, still trying to figure out where everything was. I cleaned the fish, cut one of the oranges into slices, and wrapped the fish in one of the soaked leaves, with the orange slices on top. I broke off the lobster tails and claws, cut the underside of the tail down the soft middle, and stuck a skewer through the tail so it wouldn't curl up. I dumped the fish and lobster remains into the orange garbage bucket. Then I added the fish and lobster to the grill.

I made an herb butter with a stick of butter, some chives, tarragon, minced garlic and black pepper. I mixed it well and took it out to the grill.

Everything looked like it was coming together nicely. I flipped the tails and put a heaping tablespoon of the herb butter on the butterflied lobster meat. Five more minutes and everything should be ready.

While they were cooking, I walked around the porch, lighting the candles that were supposed to keep the bugs away. They weren't bad yet, but it was another habit of mine.

I could hear her moving around, humming to herself. That in itself was odd and a little disturbing. She used to do that all the time. It was her 'happy' hum, something she did when she was in a good mood. I don't think I'd heard it for at least six months before everything went to shit. I peered in the window, and she was setting the little table, folding the paper napkins, adjusting the place settings.

I checked on the grill. The lobster looked just about perfect. I peeled back the leaf off the fish, and checked inside. Done. I brought them inside, and plated them, then finally retrieved the potatoes. Sandra had used the mango and star fruit to make a fruit salad, and she made herself a Chilean salad with the tomatoes and onions.

Dinner in paradise. I ate better every day, than I had through most of my adult life. The only shame was how I'd come to this point.

"Talk to the girls lately?" she asked a few minutes into the meal.

"Every Saturday morning."

I think that surprised her. She took a sip of her bottled water, and went back to eating the fish. "Everything's delicious," she said, stabbing a chunk of the lobster into the little bowl of herb butter before popping it in her mouth.

I never could cook worth a damn. I was waiting for her to say something about it. She didn't.

"David's recipes. For the fish and the lobster."

"You're right. The man's a genius. I'm glad we didn't get chicken."

Near the end of the meal, she put her utensils down. "Do you want to talk?" she asked.

"Not really."

She nodded. "I'll clean up."

"You don't know how."

Over the next fifteen minutes, I showed her the process. Composting materials, recyclables, organic trash, and real trash. I had to clean up the mess she'd already made after making the salads, organizing things into the four five gallon containers I had in the pantry. Once that was done, she followed me around as I dumped the fish and lobster remains in the garbage pit, throwing some dirt on top, and covering it up again. I took the rinsed recyclables and dumped them in the beer bottle barrel.

"What about the other two?"

I explained that the compost bucket didn't go out until it was full, and the trash bucket would go to the landfill when ready.

"How long is that?"

Fuckin' Curious George had made herself at home in my house. "Maybe once a month. When it's full, that's when I make a trip to the city for anything I can't get locally."

With everything cleaned up and put away, I grabbed my second beer, and went out to the porch, with my new shadow falling in step. We sat in our chairs, I opened her beer, and we drank in silence, illuminated only by the light of the candles, and the moonlight above.

When I finished my beer, I stood up to go inside. I usually read for a while each night. Thank god for my Kindle. It used almost no power, and I could download anything I wanted from the laptop. I could thank the retirement community next door for phone, internet, and electricity. It still had cost me an arm and a leg to get it turned on. The internet access was ridiculously expensive, but I'd negotiated with Frank to have that paid for as part of my contract. That saved me almost $200 a month.

Sandra stood after me, and chugged the last of her beer. She tossed it into the bottle barrel. "Thanks for dinner, Dan. It was delicious. I can't remember the last time I ate such a wonderful meal."

"You're welcome." I turned and walked inside before she got any ideas about talking. I watched through the window as she grabbed a tote bag she'd stashed on the side of the house, and took off walking down the road.

* * * *

The following day was eerily similar. She was sanding the porch railing when I came outside, humming her little happy song. I guess she was planning to either paint or stain it. Not that it couldn't use it. Pretty wasn't high on my priority list, when it came to chores. I had my swim, and we ate. I logged my hours on the laptop while she worked out on the porch, then we walked into town. Conch for lunch, some kind of stew that David had concocted. I bought a chicken.

It must have been around three o'clock when I heard the tinkle of the bicycle bell. Shit. With all the craziness, I'd forgotten about Gabrielle. I heard her walk up to the porch, and before I could do anything about it they were talking. Five minutes later Gabrielle was inside doing her bi-weekly cleaning.

I had a choice to make, and in the end it was simple. I wasn't about to let Sandra change my life. Not again. She wasn't a guest, she was an interloper. I didn't owe her anything. If she didn't like it, tough shit. She could leave. I hadn't asked her to interrupt my life.

When I finished my work, Gabrielle gave me her big sweet gap-toothed grin. "Boom boom?"

"You know it."

"But the lady . . .?"

"Doesn't matter."

The way I understood it, the going rate for having someone come in and clean your house was about $10 a day, for a full day's work. Two hundred a month. Gabrielle only came in twice a week for a few hours, and I paid her $40 on Thursdays. The extra hour we spent in the bedroom once a week was worth the added sawbuck.

Gabrielle was neither young, nor particularly attractive. She was as black as the night. What she had going for her was that she was clean, willing, and uninhibited.

We retreated to the bedroom, and enjoyed ourselves for the better part of an hour. She went down on me, I enjoyed the use of her soft body, she got me up for seconds, and I let her do the work for the second round. She took care of the condoms, neatened the bed, and we took a quick shower together. It was about the only time I used the inside shower. We dressed, and I gave her my dirty laundry in a bag which she would bring back clean on her next visit.

I paid her for the week, sent her on her way with a pat on her substantial butt, grabbed a couple of beers and went out to the porch. I was wondering how my little escapade was going to play out.

Sandra was sitting in her chair, ostensibly reading her book. I passed her a beer, and saw the tears on her face. Maybe now she understood. I was over her. I had a new life, and she wasn't part of it.

I sat in my chair, and drank my beer. "I thought I'd do a beer can chicken." I had an old empty can of Heineken, one of the few imports I could find. I saved it for just that purpose.

"That would be nice."

I kept waiting for the explosion but it never happened. We had another quiet dinner, and she did most of the cleaning up. I only had to correct her once. We retired for another silent beer on the porch. When I bid her goodnight, I noticed she stayed on the porch for a good hour before she took off on her mystery walk.

It wasn't what I'd expected, and to be honest, I felt a little bad. I think I would have preferred the confrontation. I noticed that she hadn't hummed at all that night.

* * * *

I didn't see Sandra the next day.

I stayed home and ate alone. Drank five beers and even dug into my bottle of Jack Daniels for dinner.

Fuck her.

* * * *

When I returned from my swim the next morning, I had a surprise.

On my little table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.

The handkerchief was stained with what looked like rust. I knew better. The book had about a third of the cover charred off. The knife looked shiny and new.

I looked around the room, but I was alone. I went out to the porch, but she was nowhere to be found. What the fuck? I didn't want to play her stupid game.

But I did. Against my better judgment I took the book out to the porch, and flipped through it. It was Saturday, and normally I'd walk the property, do a little beach cleanup, maybe even go to town. Instead I leafed through the pages of a different time, a different life. I watched our girls grow up, and our lives mature, from that little first apartment, to the home I thought I'd grow old in. The pages started to blur about a third of the way through. She leaned over and wiped my eyes.

I looked up, wondering how the hell she'd snuck up on me.

"I want another chance, Dan."

It took a minute for me to be able to control myself. "Why, Sandra?"

She sat down and closed the book. She reached for my hand and squeezed it in hers. "I screwed up, baby. I know I don't deserve it, but I love you. I hate my life without you. I'll make it up to you if you'll let me . . ."

I was shaking my head, and I could see the disappointment on her face. "Please, baby—"

"No, Sandra. Why?"

She looked confused. "I . . . I need you. I think you need me too—"

I yanked my hand away. "No, God damn it! WHY? What was wrong with me? What did I do? Why couldn't you love me anymore? Why did you leave me?"

"I . . . I didn't leave you. I wouldn't."

"Bullshit! You left me almost two years ago. Yeah, you lived in the same damn house, but it wasn't you. What the hell happened? Why would you dump me for that asshole?"

She settled back in her chair, folding in on herself. "Because I was an idiot. It had nothing to do with you."

"If you're not gonna be honest with me, just leave, alright? I don't need this. I was happy alone. I was getting by. I don't need you. I don't need anyone."

She was crying. "There's no simple answer, baby. Don't you think I wish there was? Hell, it took me eight months of twice a week sessions to come to understand even a little of what was going on in my own head. There's no excuse for it. None. I fucked up, badly. I hurt you, our girls, and destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me. I don't deserve you, and I don't expect you to take me back. But I'm asking anyway. I'm begging you for another chance."

"I can't, Sandra. I can't, not knowing why. I could never trust you again. I'd never know when you'd abandon me, leave me, hurt me. I can't do it again. I can't. I won't make it this time."

She nodded sadly. "I wish I had a good answer for you. I do. All I have is a lot of psychological mumbo-jumbo bullshit, and a broken heart. I'm sorry. I think we could make it, if you wanted to, but I understand. I probably wouldn't take you back either." She stood up, and leaned over, kissing me on the cheek. "I still love you, Dan. I always will. I'd do anything to change the past but I can't. I'm sorry."

She walked off the porch and I let her go.

* * * *

She messed me up. Again. It took the better part of a month for me to get my head on straight. I was pretty rough with Gabrielle the next week. I used her hard, and I felt ashamed at my behavior. She never complained. I gave her an extra hundred bucks, and told her to take a few weeks off.

I drove up to Mexico, a couple of hours drive. I got drunk, got obnoxious. Almost got my ass kicked. I did my monthly shopping, and returned home.

The girls called twice, wanting to know what was going on. Apparently they knew their mother had come to see me, and I had to break the news that it wasn't going to happen. No reconciliation. I even took the time to explain why. They took it well, better than I thought they would.

When I had first bought the property, I'd had plans for it. Improvements, things I wanted to change. I wanted to extend the beach, for the length of the property. Clear out some more of the jungle. Improve the road. Add solar lights along the main drag. Lots of things.

I worked my ass off, putting in more hours telecommuting, and dipping into my reserves for the cash I needed. More solar panels, a bigger cistern, a shaded gazebo nearer the water. Fix up my makeshift grill. I cleared almost an acre of dense jungle and another of mixed underbrush. So damn many things to do. I kept myself busy from dawn to dark. I spent nights working at my computer, using the daylight to work the property. Fix the shutters before a big storm hit. Paint the place. Extend the porch. Add the solar lights, and a conch shell street border. Stay busy.

Don't think about her. And why the fuck she couldn't answer one simple question.

* * * *

I woke, startled, and felt her arms around me.

"Shh, it's just me, baby."

It took me a few seconds to figure out what the hell was going on. I pulled away from her. "No, Sandra—"

"Shhhh," she whispered, sidling up against me. "I'm not here to cause you any more pain. I'll leave when I'm done."

"We're not going to—"

"I know. I'm here to answer your question, if you'll give me a chance. You may not like the answer. I know I don't."

I could barely see her outline, and I knew the sun hadn't fully come up yet. "Why now?"

She chuckled. "One question at a time, alright?" She wriggled closer, resting her head on my shoulder. I could tell she was naked.

I was torn. I wanted to strangle her for what she'd done to me, ripping open all my old scars. I wanted to shake her, make her feel my agony. Another part of me wanted to hold her, tell her it would be alright. I could sense her pain. I understood she hurt as well, but I knew the difference. She deserved it. I didn't.

Most of all I still wanted to know why.

"Why now?" I asked. I pulled her close, and felt her body molding against mine, so achingly familiar.

"You were right. I didn't deserve you to take me back. Not if I couldn't face the real problem myself. Why would I do that? Why would I throw away a lifetime of happiness? I needed to know, for my own sanity and peace of mind."

I waited patiently, waiting to see what the answer was. So far I was no closer to understanding.

"I spent the last couple of months trying to figure that out. Nothing else mattered. If I couldn't get a grip on what I'd done and why, I was never going to be happy again. I'd never be able to trust myself, never mind having anyone else trust me."

I felt her lips press against my skin. "Thank you for the few days you gave me. I didn't deserve that much."

She sighed, and wriggled against me, her leg slipping over mine. "I went for a run. A long one. When I couldn't run, I walked. When I couldn't walk, I sat down until I could move again. When I ran out of road headed south, I turned around and came back. I ate when I smelled something good, I drank whatever I could find. I slept whenever I had to."

I heard a little giggle. "The people here are pretty amazing. I think it was my third day after I left you when I couldn't move another inch. I crawled up to a house, and asked to sleep on their property. They took me in, fed me, let me sleep in their children's bed. When I woke, they fed me again. They asked me what I was doing, and I told them. We talked, they forced food and water on me, and then I started running again, until I couldn't."

I felt her fingers on my chest, rubbing me. "I probably should have been scared. I don't know why I wasn't. I guess I wasn't right in my head. The next time I was on the brink of collapse, it happened again. Anywhere I went, no matter how little they had, they'd share it with me, help me, talk to me. Each time I'd try to give them money, and they'd fight me on it. Shit, I had money. You made sure of that. So I'd leave them a little, a couple of twenties, and go on."

Her hands were wandering, moving where they shouldn't. I didn't stop her. I wanted to hear her story. It wasn't what I expected. The woman was more screwed up than I was. That's saying a lot.

"I think I crossed this whole damn country half a dozen times. I spent a few nights in jails, when the local police didn't know what to do with me." She actually laughed.

"About a month ago, one of the families that put me up for the night invited someone over. She took me to her home. She was probably close to eighty years old, a Swedish ex-pat."

Sandra squeezed me, and I felt her tears on my chest. "She saved me. Marta saved me. I was fucked up. Skin and bones. I think I was going to just keep moving, keep running and walking until I died. I had nothing to live for."

I started to say something about her girls, and she put her finger over my lips. "Shhh. Let me finish. Hell, this is the easy question.

"She wasn't nice about it. She cursed me, and yelled at me. She forced me to eat, and go out. She had her friends over, and made me play nice. And she talked. I think she must have saved up forty years of conversation and dumped it all on me.

"Marta knows everybody. She took me to visit some of the locals, then she made me go out with her to Ambergris Cay, where there were more people I had to talk to. Or listen to in a lot of cases. We were there for over a week. That crazy old woman has more energy than someone half her age. She just wouldn't stop. Then one day she said I was ready, and told me I had to come back here and make things right. So here I am. And that's 'Why now'."

We lay quietly, while I tried to absorb her crazy story.

"Nothing? You don't have anything to say?" she finally blurted.

"I don't know what to say. You seemed so calm, so normal. It's hard to believe you'd just take off like that. It sounds awful Forrest Gump. Running across the country? Sleeping wherever you collapsed? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? What if something happened to you? What if you were robbed, raped, or even murdered? What the hell were you thinking? Didn't you ever once consider what it would to the girls? How it would destroy me?"

"Baby, I couldn't think straight. All I could do was beat myself up over and over again for what I'd done. I ruined everything, and I didn't even know why."

"But now you do?" I asked.

"As much as I probably ever will."

I waited, and could feel her tensing up. I gave her a little hug. "Go ahead."

"My stupid psychiatrists didn't know shit. The first spent a couple of months telling me that these things happen, that it wasn't my fault. She kept trying to find out what you'd done to cause the problem. I finally fired that bitch."

I could feel myself getting angry when she mentioned what I had done. She noticed. She ran her hand down my chest, kissing my shoulder. "I knew it wasn't you, Dan. That's why I found a new psychiatrist. He was subtler, helping me find excuses for what I did. I was too close to the kids, he said. That fact that my email address was EandJsMom explained it all, or so he said. My identity was buried in theirs, and when they left, I was lost. I was clinically depressed. I was going through the change of life. I was bitter that I had a degree that I'd never used. I never had a real job, since the girls were born. I had dreams, and they'd all turned to dust. It was too much, and I took it out on you, that's what he said. What he tried to get me to believe."




F5: Desperate Times and Measures



I could feel myself getting angry again. So many damn excuses. None worth a damn, in my opinion.

"I knew it wasn't true, Dan. That's why when you asked, I couldn't tell you the same lame excuses he fed me. Not that a lot of that wasn't true. It was. But that's not why."

She clung to me, as if I was going to make a run for it. Like that was likely. I was still waiting to hear her damn excuse.

"Marta knew. I don't know how. She knew, and instead of telling me, she made me work it out for myself, after talking with half the damn ex-pats in the country."

"Why, Sandy? Why the hell did it happen?"

"I did it because I thought I could. I took you for granted. I knew you loved me, and that you'd forgive me anything. I let that damn asshole seduce me, and my idiot friends cover for me, all because I thought I could get away with it. I'd do something wild, and crazy. Rebellious. For a while I wouldn't be the good wife, the doting mother, the happy homemaker."

"That jerk you gave a second belly-button to, he had a lot to do with it, but I can't blame him totally. I knew better. There was nothing you did, nothing you could have done at that point. I was going to be bad, for once in my life. Do something just for me, and the hell with everyone else. All he did was recognize my weakness, and convince me I deserved it. That there was nothing wrong with it, and that nobody would be hurt. A little larceny in the soul was a good thing."

"I don't understand," I said. "How can you go from the perfect wife one day, to hating me?"

"God, you idiot. I never hated you. I loved you, and felt guilty as hell for what I was doing. Every time I saw you I was afraid I was going to confess everything! When you'd look at me, your disappointment showing, all I wanted to do was apologize. And I hadn't even done anything yet. I was thinking about cheating on you and it ate away at me. I had to avoid you. I couldn't look you in the eye. I sure as hell couldn't make love to you, without losing it. So I told myself it was your fault, you were putting all this guilt on me, trying to stop me from doing something for myself just once in my life. I'd given you twenty-one years, didn't I deserve something?"

"You had to know I'd figure it out, Sandy."

She sighed. "No. Well, yes, I knew you'd see through me, know I was up to something. You'd be suspicious, but you'd never really know. Not for sure. I was too smart. I'd be discreet. You might figure something was happening, but you had to trust me after all our time together. You'd give me the benefit of the doubt. I'd do it, and then it would be over, and we'd be fine. You'd never know for sure. And then we'd be together, my urge satisfied, and everything would be Ok."

"I guess I still don't understand. You knew it was wrong, Sandy. You knew I'd probably figure it out. And you still were willing to risk everything."

"No, baby. I was risking nothing. I was absolutely convinced you'd never know for sure, and that you loved me enough to forgive me for my temporary bad behavior. There was no risk. Not in my mind. I was an idiot. I said you wouldn't like the answer. There was no reason why, other than I thought I could get away with it, so I was going to do it."

I laid there, trying to wrap my mind around what she was saying. I could understand there were a lot of elements leading up to it. They all combined to leave her vulnerable. The kids leaving, I knew was a huge part of it. She was right, her identity was as our girl's mother. Without them, she started to lose herself. I never knew she was unhappy that she never got to use her degree. She never said a word about it. She was happy to be a stay-at-home mom. Our children's welfare was her first concern. Maybe I did take her for granted a little, opening the door for some smooth operator to start working on her insecurities. But I'd tried, damn it! I tried to talk to her, tried to understand. I tried to make her see what was happening.

She did it because she could. Shit. In the end, no matter what other excuses she came up with, that's what it was all about. She wanted to do it, thought she could get away with it without consequences, and stuck to that path of destruction.

"You were going to do it that night, weren't you?"

"Yes. I had convinced myself I would do it once, get it out of my system, and go back to being the perfect wife. No repercussions, no consequences, nobody the wiser."

"But you hadn't . . ."

"No baby. Not once in twenty-one years. I was never unfaithful to you. Even with that asshole, it never went further than some inappropriate touching on his part, outside of my clothing, and some light kissing. Any more would have been cheating, and in my fucked up brain, I was only going to cheat on you once."

"Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?" I said, hearing the anger in my voice.

"I wasn't insane. I was stupid, stupid and selfish. I don't get to fall back on that stupid crutch, that I didn't know what I was doing. I knew exactly what I was doing. That's the horror of it. I knew." I could feel her trembling, heard her voice breaking.

So now I knew. And it didn't help me understand one damn bit. In the end, she had a dozen reasons, and only one that really mattered. She did it because she could. Damn her!

I felt her lips on my cheek. "I'm sorry. But you deserved to know. Your only mistake was loving me so much, that I believed I could get away with anything. And I abused your love and trust. Even then, you risked your life, and your freedom, you risked jail, and threw away a lifetime of effort to stop me from making the final mistake, saving me from myself. I think that's what hurts the most. I don't deserve you."

She climbed out of the bed, after one last salty kiss on my lips, and walked out of the room. I guess I could have stopped her. I could have called her back. I could have told her she was forgiven.

I didn't.

* * * *

Krystal graduated. I would have loved to see it, but I couldn't go back to the States. I figured they had to have a warrant out for me. We spoke on Skype, and I told her how proud I was of her. I sent her a check for ten grand, to help her get started. She told me she had a boyfriend, and that they were pretty serious. He wanted her to move in with him.

The last damn thing a father wanted to hear. As far as I was concerned she was still pure as the driven snow, unsullied, a virgin. All those dates over the years, the proms, the weekends at the beach, they were innocent. I was sure of it. Not my Krystal.

I guess I wasn't good at hiding my thoughts and feelings, even over Skype.

"Give me a break, Dad. How old were you, when you and Mom starting doing it?"

"Those were different times, baby girl. You have to understand—"

"Jesus, Dad! Get with the program. I haven't been a virgin since eleventh grade. Moving in with Jimmy wouldn't be the end of the world."

"Does he love you, baby? Really love you? He's not just using you . . ."

"More than anything. Hell, we'd already be married if he had his way. He loves me like you love Mom." She caught herself. "I mean, you know, like you and Mom used to be. Before she—"

"No, I get it. I hope you're right. If that man loves you half as much as I love your mother, I couldn't ask for anything more for you. I hope you make each other as happy as we were."

It was a rough weekend. Missing her graduation, knowing I was losing her for good. That there was a new man in her life, and that I'd taken myself out of the picture. I wondered how long it would be before I could ever return to the States. For the first time I was glad I hadn't managed to kill the asshole. I'd have to find out what I would have been charged with, and what the statute of limitations were. Maybe I could see my grandchildren before they were all grown up.

Jenna wasn't much better. She wanted to enter some exchange program, and do her second year of college in Italy. Italy! The only saving grace in that, was that maybe I could go over and pay her a visit. If I wouldn't be cramping her style too much.

Yeah, I was having a real pity party, even broke my rule about drinking too much. My life was a mess. Hell, my house was a mess. I'd let Gabrielle go. I gave her a nice severance, thanked her for everything, and told myself that I'd be fine on my own. I could take care of myself, in every sense of the word.

That was how my girls found me. Hung-over, living in squalor, empty bottles all over the place, standing under the outside shower naked as the day I was born. Hell, I didn't even know they were there, until I heard the whistles and cat-calls.

"Who the hell are you," Krystal said, giggling, "and what have you done with my Daddy?"

I was stunned. Too shocked at first to even realize the awkwardness of the situation. Jenna's laughter finally woke me up. "Since when are you a nudist, Dad? And where the hell did you get that hot bod?"

I turned away from them, mortally shamed. "Give me a minute. This isn't what it looks like."

Krystal was laughing so hard I was afraid she was going to collapse. I was trying to put my wet boxers back on, almost falling on my ass. "Looks to me like somebody's naked and embarrassed. It's not like you haven't seen us naked a million times."

"Jesus, Krystal! Not since your were four or five years old! Now turn away!"

"No way. We didn't come thousands of miles to turn away, after seeing you for the first time in almost two years!"

That's when it struck me. My girls were here. In the middle of nowhere. "How . . .?"

"Mom brought us," Jenna explained.

I looked around, to see where she was. If she was part of this.

"She dropped us off. We couldn't get her to even come down and say hi. You're ours for two weeks, and then we'll call her when we're ready to be picked up. She said she wanted to see an old friend. Emphasis on 'old'. She said you'd get it."

Marta. I got it. And I realized I was still standing there with one leg in my boxers, nearly naked. I managed to get my other leg into the shorts before dying of embarrassment. Only then did I turn around and see how much my girls had changed. Skype didn't do them justice.

Yeah, it was pretty wonderful. I showed them around the property, told them what it was like and all I'd done. I took them into town, and made sure that David gave them his best. Drove them into the big city, or what passed for one in that area.

But mostly we talked. Talked and talked. We'd sit on the porch when it rained, or lay out in the sun. I bought a blender so I could make them the local rum drinks, and we gabbed. Talked like we never had before. They dragged the whole story out of me, what had happened, back then, and during their mother's two visits. Man did I catch crap for the Gabrielle episode, not because I spent intimate time with her, but that I'd punish their mom like that. I didn't really have a good excuse.

I kept expecting them to try to convince me to give their mom a second chance, but they never brought it up. What they did do, was try to convince me that my place should be their personal resort. They wanted me to put up some shacks, nothing fancy just a roof to sleep under. Clean up the beach, stock the larders, and let them bring their friends to visit. Bring their boyfriends. Plural. I shouldn't have been surprised that Jenna had some guy on the hook as well. Hell, she's the spitting image of her mother, beautiful.

I didn't say no. Didn't say yes, at least not to building them little huts of debauchery, but I didn't say no. I was even thinking about which of the lots would be easiest to finish, and wondering how much a little bungalow would cost if I kept it simple. Two bedrooms of course. At least that way I could continue lying to myself.

I took them to Ambergris Cay and Caye Caulker. Showed them the ex-pat life, when you had money to burn. Drove out to several of the ruins, spent a day on a catamaran. Went snorkeling, and I promised them that if they took the PADI course and passed their test, I'd take them out to do their open water dive with Jon, my favorite dive master.

The two weeks passed all too quickly, and then it was time to go. It was my job to take them into town, and their mother would take them down to Belize City where they'd fly home from. I argued that I could take them, but they stood firm. Their mother wasn't ready to see me again.

That's what they said, but when I took them to town, she was sitting there at David's.

"Hi Dan. Did you have a great visit?"

The girls pulled me forward, literally forcing me to sit down across from my wife. I assume she was still my wife.

"Wonderful. Thanks for bringing them here. How about you?"

She gave me a slow smile. "It was good. Something I needed. When I left here last time, I ran home. I never did stop by and thank Marta for all she did."

The girls monopolized the conversation from that point, telling their mother all the things they'd done, and filling her in on their plans for my property. It broke my heart when Sandy looked at her watch. "We have to go. We have a long drive ahead of us, and we don't want to be late for the flight."

I offered to go along, but Sandy insisted the time wasn't right. I wanted to argue. I needed to spend every minute I could with my girls. In the end I gave them a tearful hug goodbye. The two troublemakers pushed their mother into my arms. I gave her a hug. I was a little bothered that I didn't receive much of one back. I guess she was over me. I knew damn well I should be over her.

Then she was walking away, with the girls in tow. No, 'sorry', no 'I love you', nothing. I remembered that feeling. I didn't matter. Not anymore.

* * * *

I missed my girls. All of them, even the one that broke my heart, if I'm honest with myself.

The first week, after they left, I worked myself ragged. I'd gotten behind on my project, thanks to their surprise visit, but seven 12 hours days had me back on schedule.

A few hours spent with the original plans for the property, some paper, and spreadsheets, and I felt pretty good about things. It wouldn't be that hard to make the place something special for the girls. I switched back to doing most of my telecommute work at night, laboring during the day. I spent a few hours in town, talking to the locals. I was trying to rent some heavy equipment, but the prices came as a shock. Nobody would let you rent the equipment by itself, and a bulldozer and operator ran about $2000 Belize a day. The good news was I could hire a guy with a machete to clear an acre of underbrush for $200. Go figure.

My property shared a road down one side with the retirement community next door. That access road ran from the paved road down to within about a hundred feet of the shore. Turn right, and you're driving behind the $250,000 mansion waterfront lots next door. All unimproved at the moment. There were ten of them.

Turn left, and the road narrowed, almost overrun by the jungle. It traveled a few hundred yards, then formed a nice semi-circle around my little beach, passing right behind my cabana. After another hundred yards of even worse road, it dead-ended. The land to the west of mine was raw jungle, as was most of the land in the area, until the sugar cane fields started near town, half-a-mile away.

At the peak of the road arc, directly behind my house, another road headed straight away from the beach for about three hundred yards. It was two separate lanes, with a line of fruit trees planted in the middle. At one time a bulldozer had come through and cleared the house lots on each side of this lane. Since then most had been overgrown.

David introduced me to a guy in town who hooked me up. I was amazed how much work could be done by four guys with machetes. A couple of times I saw them hook a chain to their truck, and pull out some of the bigger stuff. Manolo became my go-to guy. Labor is cheap, minimum wage is well under two bucks and hour. Manolo charged me $12.50 a day for unskilled labor, and $20 to $40 for guys like 'Chainsaw Eddie' who could bring down a tree two feet in width, and leave me a pile of perfectly cut boards in less than a day.

I'm not stupid. I'd been doing most of the labor myself. When I learned that for an hour at the computer, I could hire two men for a day, I rethought my efforts. I learned to do that a lot.

You know the old saw, "When in Rome . . .?" Learn it. Live it. Love it.

I didn't know better, and I'm not that smart, it turns out. Where I wanted to put in grass, Manolo got me five truck loads of sand and gravel for $400, including guys with shovels to spread and level it. When I bought cinder blocks to expand my storage shed, I learned from Manolo that 'rich foreigners' paid almost double. From then on, I let him do my purchasing. I'd rather pay him an extra 10-20% and have it delivered, then have to pick it up at twice the cost.

A carpenter costs $25 a day. About $20 for a bricklayer. That's my cost, with Manolo's oversight. Painters cost less than the paint. In the end I bit the bullet, and just told Manolo what I wanted, and he billed me. It took me about three months of continuous projects to get me there. I never regretted it. Once I put it in his hands, I was surprised to see my expenses go down. David explained it to me.

"One price for one-time work, cheaper for long time employment," he said. "You let him maintain property, roads, clean the beach, cut back the brush, and keep throwing him new work, he wants to keep you happy. Not a lot of work out here."

I wasn't the only one busy. I was surprised that the retirement community was actually growing. They had enough lots for more than two hundred homes, and four large multi-floor condos. When I'd swim by, I'd see the big equipment out there, over and over again. I saw a couple of 4000 sq. ft. western style homes go in, and one monstrosity of a mansion. I thanked my lucky stars for the small hill and dense jungle that separated my property from everything. I rarely heard anything of the construction.

At the five month mark, Manolo was asking me when I was going to start selling the lots. He was pushing me to put in a dock, but I didn't have a boat. He had a quote for a pool, but I had an entire bay at my front door. He brought over a guy who was building the 'casitas' next door. Cute, tiny little houses, only about 1100 sq. ft. Thatched roofs, 1 bedroom, 1 living area, kitchenette and bath, with a huge wraparound porch. They were adorable, and I was almost tempted to do it, but it was almost 80 grand for two. Dirt cheap, but a goodly chunk of my remaining wealth. Even with my eldest out of college, and working more hours than ever, I wasn't saving a dime. I was barely breaking even, with all the work I had Manolo doing.

I finally explained that I wasn't selling lots. This wasn't a community. It was just for me and my family. I know he thought I was nuts. He was probably right. I'm sure he was a little disappointed. I'm certain forty or fifty homes would have kept him in work for a long time. He wasn't going to get rich off of me.

I slowly started to interface a little with the other ex-pats. Mostly online, except for a few people next store. At first I was just looking for answers to some questions. How to do things, were to buy things. Like a decent pillow, or what would grow in a garden. I was happy living native, but my girls would probably need some western amenities.

The dilapidated, overgrown abandoned place I'd purchased was starting to look like a resort. I mean, seriously. Gorgeous. Landscaped, clean, bright handmade signs by 'Sandy's Beach', and 'Krystal's Klear Pond', a nice little cenote, at least that's what Manolo called it. A turquoise blue pond, only about 30 feet wide and 20 feet across, it had to be at least a hundred feet deep. Sweet water. When I told him I wasn't going to put in a pool, the next thing I knew, I had a marked trail, hardwood benches, and a clearing around our swimming hole. Nobody had even told me it was on the property. It wasn't marked on the map. Surprise.




F5: Desperate Times and Measures



There was a new cleared trail that circled the property. It ran past the swimming hole, and my 'official' Maya Ruins. Honestly, it looked like a pile of rocks. No temple to the sun here, but a professor from the university in Belize City confirmed it. It turns out the area was littered with ruins. Manolo said for only $2000 Belize, he could have it excavated, and see what was under the dirt. I was curious, but not that curious. He still cleaned it up, exposed a couple of steps and a piece of wall, put up a stone and another sign. "Jenna's Rest". It was near the edge of my property, and less than fifty feet later Manolo had the end of the trail coming out on the side road, conveniently across from where the trails at the community next door started.

The roads were improved, with a nice cleared space on each side. The fruit trees were trimmed, sprayed, and mulched. I even had my shade gazebo with thatched roof to the east side of the beach. My original little grill was enclosed, and was big enough to cook a side of beef. I had a half-ton of wood charcoal in the brick box beside it. There were two hammocks down by the water, hanging between some of the trees that had been left when the beach was originally cleared. Two. There was only one of me. You do the math.

What I was missing was my guests.

I'd been calling the girls regularly, at least once a week. Krystal had moved in with her guy, and found a good job. She bitched about it a lot, but don't we all? Jenna was loving Italy, and sprinkled Italian into our conversations. I was keeping most of the work I was doing a secret, I wanted it to be a surprise.

They never brought up their mother. When I asked about her, all they would say was that she was very busy, but when it was time, she'd contact me. I guess it was really over. I had mixed feeling about that.

I was afraid they'd want to spend Christmas with their mother, but I went out on a limb and invited them anyway. I was surprised when they both accepted, eagerly. I wasn't quite as pleased when they both told me they'd be bringing a 'guest'. Call me selfish, I wanted my girls for myself. I told them my gift was the airfare to Belize City and home again. They were to coordinate their travel, for all four of them, and charge it to me. I was scared of what that would cost me. I could probably have my dock built for less.

I told Manolo what was happening, and realized I had no place for four people to stay. He chewed me out good, then told me about the Mennonite pre-fab homes. The next day I was talking to Hans, and I was amazed at how cheaply and quickly I could have a very basic cabin in place. Because of the rush, I had to select from their existing inventory. One was a particularly good deal, because the original buyer defaulted. For a new two-bedroom, one bath, hardwood home, complete, on-site, with a basic interior finish and a 16' x 8' veranda, it was a little over $30,000, and only $24,000 for the second-hand one. Manolo promised to have the interior finished, the place painted, and everything ready for my guests for another five grand. It would hurt my wallet, but I told them to go ahead.

I no longer had a beach house, I had a compound. Alright, I was going a little nuts. But if it meant seeing my girls more often, I figured it was worth it.

* * * *

It was December 16th, I'll never forget it. Four days before my girls were supposed to come visit for two weeks. I could hear the saws running, as the carpenters were putting in the cabinets in the casitas. There must have been at least ten people working on the property. One guy was even climbing the beach trees and installing Christmas lights.

I'd been evicted from my own house, while the floors were refinished. Manolo was pretty amazing, I have to admit. He was always searching auctions, sales, and property recoveries. He'd found some used granite counters, ridiculously expensive new, and was having my kitchen surfaces replaced. My living room office had been relocated to the second bedroom, and they were making the place 'presentable.'

In the meantime, all I could do was sit back and watch the worker bees go crazy. I was walking the beach, and when I looked up I saw a jogger crossing my property. She waved and I waved back. A few seconds later I almost broke my neck. I could swear it was Sandy. I tried running after her, but I was too late. I didn't stand a chance. She was headed toward the retirement resort.

Shit. It couldn't be! I hopped in my car, and took off on the mile and a half drive to get to the sales office next door. Walking, it was a half-mile, but I was in a hurry. Twenty minutes later I left confused. No, she didn't live there. Nobody with her name, or description had bought or rented in the last year.

My heart was beating a mile a minute. I was sure it was her. I mean, I only had a glance, but I'd know that run anywhere.

I returned to "Dan's Escape" as the large sign at the entrance proclaimed. I hadn't chosen the name, but I deemed it fitting. Getting out of the car, I was surprised at how disappointed I was. The bitch broke my heart, right? She left without saying a word. I was better off without her.

"The girl's are gonna love it, Dan. You've done miracles with the place."

I turned and she was standing there, jogging in place, sweaty. Beautiful. "Not even a 'hi' for an old friend?" she asked, grinning.

I stepped over and gave her a hug. "Hi. You're looking great, Sandy."

"Baby, I'm all gross and sweaty," she laughed, pushing me away.

"What are you doing here?"

"It's a long story. How about I tell it to you over dinner?"

"Sure. I'd like that. What would you like? I'll go into town—"

"No, dinner at my place. How about I pick you up here around seven?"

Her place? My mind felt fuzzy, I couldn't think straight, none of this made sense.

She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Say yes, honey. Don't overthink it."

"Yes. Seven. Here. Your place." I must have sounded like an idiot.

She laughed, and gave me a hug. "I love you, Dan. Always have and always will." Then she turned and ran down my road.

* * * *

I was less than useless. I was an impediment. Manolo finally threw his hands in the air and said he gave up, when he asked me something about something. He would do it his way, and I better not complain.

I stood for an hour, watching "Chainsaw Eddie" build beach lounge chairs from a tree with his chainsaw, a hammer and some nails. He didn't even have a tape measure or plans. The man was a freak. He handled a chainsaw like it was a carving knife. As he finished each one, he'd start on another, and some woman I'd never seen before would sand it by hand and paint it.

Sandy. Dinner.

I wondered why my casita was pink. Well not really pink, more like the color of the inside of a conch shell.

A guy was raking my sand. I'm serious. Long straight rows. For some reason I wanted to walk across it. Mess it up.

There were kids walking around, no kidding, kids, no more than ten years old would be my guess, pulling up plants from where they shouldn't be growing.

Dinner. Her place.

Chainsaw Eddie had moved on and was carving what looked like a six foot tall Maya sculpture. It reminded me of the Easter Island statues. He recruited four guys to carry it and stand it up at the entrance to the beach, and he started sculpting it in place. Kinda like those ice carvers.

An older woman was walking on the gravel paths, barefoot. She'd stop every so often and toss a rock she didn't approve of to the side. Occasionally, she'd use a large stone she carried in her hand to beat a piece of seashell into oblivion.

This was insane. I'd let it all get away from me.

Sandy. Here.

I went for a swim.

* * * *

Some woman made me wipe my feet before I was allowed in my own house. I showered indoors, and put on my best casual shirt and shorts. I shaved. I spent fifteen minutes searching through my cabinets for aftershave, then decided against it. Brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and then brushed my teeth. I agonized over which of my two pair of sandals to wear. I stuck a handkerchief in my pocket for the first time in over two years.

I finally walked out to the porch, watching the circus, and keeping an eye on the entrance, waiting for my wife, I assumed she was still my wife, to drive up.

"You look dapper."

I turned and she was standing there, wearing a light weight yellow halter dress. She was stunning.

"Ready to go?" she asked, waiting patiently.

I stood, and looked around at the activity. The hell with it. Manolo had things in hand. I was useless anyway. She slipped her hand in mine and gave a tug. "Come on. I'm sure you have lots of questions."

We walked hand in hand down the road, away from the resort. Toward nothing. Just before the end of the road, she turned up my trail, and fifty feet later, stepped between two trees, tugging me along after her. A few feet later we were on a new trail, and headed back down toward the shore. Five minutes later there was a clearing, and one of the cute little casitas Manolo had originally urged me to buy. The house was yellow, like her dress. Her favorite color.

"Welcome to Sandy's Haven. Isn't it adorable?"

It was. But it didn't make sense. None of it made sense. "I don't understand."

She moved into my arms, embracing me. She gave me a soft kiss. "I know. Come in. Relax, and I'll try to explain everything."

We walked into her house, kicking our sandals off at the entrance. It smelled great. I looked up and David was at work in the kitchen. He looked up and waved his knife at me. I think he meant it in greeting, but I wasn't taking anything for granted.

"Did you know that David makes the world's greatest paella? It's to die for. Can I get you a Belikin?"

I sat on the bright colored couch, in front of the glass covered coffee table. I looked through the glass, and got punched between the eyes again. Under the glass top lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.

She sat beside me and handed me a beer. I opened it and passed it back to her. She gave me mine, and I opened that one, and took a much needed drink.

"A reminder. Of what my stupidity cost me, and what I was going to do my damnedest to win back," she said, leaning back and crossing her legs. Her dress slid up her thighs exposing way too much thigh for my broken brain to handle.

"Please, Sandy. What's going on?"

"I'm sorry, Dan. I knew it was still too early. I was willing to wait. But with the girl's coming for Christmas, I had to try. I had to."

"You live here?"

"Since about five weeks after the girls left."

"How's that possible? How could I never see you?"

"I didn't want you to. You weren't ready. I realized that, after our last talk, and I was willing to wait." She put her hand on my leg. "I can't believe what you've done next door. The girls are going to love it."

"I didn't think this land was even for sale."

She shrugged. "I had help tracking down the owner. It was pretty cheap, actually. It's nowhere near as big as yours. It's got almost 500 feet of waterfront, but no beach like yours. Manolo was able to make me a road and clear an acre for the house, and a view of the water, for less than two thousand dollars."

"Manolo?"

"Yeah, David hooked me up. Manolo's nice, and he can work miracles. He had all my permits in less than two weeks, got the house set up, septic, well, solar power, everything in less than a month. I couldn't believe it. Then this cute little house was on a truck one day, and I was moving in the next." She took a sip of her beer. "Marta helped a lot with getting the inside finished."

"How can you afford this?"

"I sold the house, of course, as soon as I accepted you were gone, and I rented. You left me pretty well off, considering. All of this cost less than half of what I got at closing. I sold the car, and bought that old truck out back. What's the deal with that, anyway? Trucks cost less than a car?"

I wasn't about to go into the whole business of utility vehicle duty versus passenger cars. That didn't matter.

David's little girl walked over and placed a tray of conch fritters in front of us. Not too many, just enough for an appetizer. "For you, Mr. Dan," she said, smiling.

"It looks wonderful, thank you, Deedee." She scampered back to where her father was diligently working, pretending to hear nothing.

I ate one. Delicious, as I'd have expected. I fed her one, watching her. I still couldn't get over the fact that she was here. Right under my nose, all this time. Just a couple of hundred yards away.

I ate another fritter, dipping it in the spicy sauce. I offered her one, but she shook her head. She had seemed so calm, but I could see she was nervous. Anxious.

"Honey, I know the timing is terrible. I'm trying to be patient. I love you, baby. And I miss you so bad. I'm not asking to move in or anything, but I—"

She looked so nervous, so scared. So damn beautiful. All this time, not even a quarter of a mile away. Waiting until I was ready. "Kiss me, Sandy."

"Dan?"

"Kiss me, you stupid woman. Leaving me over there all alone, all this time. Kiss me now, or I swear I'm gonna put you over my knee and give you a whipping you'll never forget."

She scrambled across the couch, and threw her arms around my neck. Her lips met mine forcefully, our teeth clashing. She kissed me for a second, and pulled away.

I pulled her over, lifting her onto my lap. "Is that how a wife kisses her husband, after not seeing him for over six months?"

She grinned. "Actually, I saw you almost every day."

"You know what I mean."

"No. You're the one that hasn't seen me. Kiss me, husband. Kiss your stupid, lonely, repentant wife, and tell her you still love her."

I held her face in my hands, and kissed her. Tasted those lips I'd been without for so long. I ran my hands down her body, irritated that stupid dress was between us. I kissed my wife.

"I love you, I never stopped loving you. You know that," I whispered into her ear.

She smiled, and I could see the tears in her eyes. "I know, but a woman needs to hear it sometimes."

I reached in my pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping her tears away. Big mistake. She started sobbing, clinging to me, her entire body shaking. I held her gently, reminding her I loved her.

"Papa says dinner's ready in ten minutes, and to stop torturing that woman."

I looked up at the little troublemaker, showing me her big smile, one of her front teeth notably absent. "Tell your Papa we'll be ready, and tomorrow, he's gonna have some explaining to do."

Sandy was curled up, leaning against me, wiping her face and mascara on my favorite shirt. I guess I could forgive her for that. I'd forgiven her for a lot worse.

"Can I come home, Dan?" she whispered.

After all we'd been through, the hurt, the turmoil, I thought the decision would be harder than it was. Maybe it should have been, but I knew in my heart there was only one real solution. My life was empty without her. I'd loved her most of my life, and didn't want to spend any more time apart. She'd screwed up, badly, and it had cost us. In some ways, my response had been even worse. But that was our past, and if I ever hoped to by happy again, I needed to put that behind me.

"I think it's about time, don't you?"

Her head popped up, eyes open wide. "Really?"

"Please. I hate my life without you. I tried, I did, but all I could do was pass time. But you have to promise me, promise me that for now on, it's just you and me, nobody else. Forever and ever."

"I do, baby. I swear. If you'll take me back, you'll never regret it. I know now. Know what I risked, what my selfishness cost. All I need is a second chance."

I kissed her softly, and felt my own eyes moistening. This part was hard.

"I need you to forgive me, Sandy. I'm so sorry. I gave up on us too easily, and I . . . I was unfaithful. Never again, I promise. Please forgive me."

She nodded slowly. "I have. It took me a while. You have no idea how bad you hurt me. Not for leaving. I understood that. But that woman. I tried so hard, I put it all on the line. I figured you might have moved on, but to do it like that! With me on the front porch, that was evil, Dan."

"It wasn't intentional. I guess I was still in shock over your showing up like you did. I was determined I wasn't going to let you disrupt my life in any way. You weren't supposed to be there, and I wasn't going to change my life, just because you'd found me. I couldn't afford to. I was just finding a routine, numb to the pain, moving on. I forgot she was going to be there. I know it was wrong, but I didn't mean to intentionally hurt you, it was a way of protecting myself. I'm sorry."

"Do I want to know how long?"

"About four months. Once a week on laundry day. It cost me twenty dollars, which is a lot. Then after you left, I . . . I kind of lost it. The next week I let her go. I couldn't do it."

"Was there anyone else?" she asked.

"No. Not before, and not since. And there never will be again, if you'll forgive me and take me back."

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart."

"Papa says you are two foolish people. You need to kiss and make up, and eat before it gets cold."

Deedee again. Her hands behind her back, bouncing up and down on her toes, grinning like her evil father. "Tell your Papa that I'm gonna make sure everyone knows that he uses instant rice."

Sandy giggled, then threw her arms around my neck. "Are we really doing this?"

I grabbed her left hand, and held it up in front of her with my left. Showing her our rings. "Husband and wife. 'Til death do us part."

* * * *

Dinner was nothing short of amazing, and David left with his girl once we'd been served. Dessert was even better.

It was awkward, after two years apart. Once, we had fit together to easily, so naturally, now we were walking on eggshells. We never made it back to my place. After the meal, she took me by the hand and led me straight to her room. It was small, like the house, and the bed was only a twin. Of course mine was only a double.

She undressed in front of me, blushing. I waited and watched. She looked incredible. She'd gained back the weight she needed and it looked like it all went to the right places. She was tan all over, head to foot.

"Somebody's been running around naked again," I said.

She gave me a hesitant smile. "You always said it was your favorite outfit."

"No, I always said it was your favorite outfit."

"Alright, so it's both of ours. I'll have you know this place is very private. I'm not an exhibitionist." She pouted cutely. "How come I'm the only one naked here?"

"Because that's my favorite outfit, and I've sure missed seeing it."

"Get undressed, and come to bed, husband. Show me you've missed me."

We laid together, touching each other, exchanging tentative kisses. I was re-familiarizing myself with her body, and didn't know how to start. I don't think she did either. It was like neither of us wanted to make the first move. It certainly wasn't because I wasn't up for it. I was. Very much so.

She laid on her side, facing me, and lifted one knee. I scooted closer, giving her a brief kiss. I inched my hips forward, then arched my back, trying to get my cock to line up with her. We were embracing each other, hand caressing skin, tentatively. She shifted again, the head sliding against her little patch of fur. She scooted up a bit, and I kissed her lips, pulling my hips away, and pushing forward again, sliding between her legs. We both wriggled a little more, our hands resting on each other's torso, as we became awkward contortionists, trying to come together. I was staring into her eyes, seeing the love and need. I wiggled again, missing her opening.




F5: Desperate Times and Measures



I saw a tiny smile turn up the corner's of her mouth, which she tried to hide. I couldn't help it. I chuckled. She giggled. We ended up laughing unable to stop. I held her close, feeling her laughter. We had almost recovered, when she slapped my chest. "Jesus, Dan, I can't believe we both forgot how to fuck."

That brought on another attack of the giggles, which ended with me on my back, and her laying on top of me. She sat up, and grinned. "Remind me baby, it's been so long. This thing here," she said, holding me by the shaft. "I know it's supposed to go somewhere."

"Honestly, I think I'm getting Alzheimer's. I know that it's suppose to go in you. You might want to try putting it where you go ca-ca."

Her palm slapped down on my chest loudly. "You son-of-a-bitch! Two years, and that's where you want to put it?"

"Unless you know a better place. I can't remember, remember?"

She gave me a look, the look, and squeezed my shaft hard. "Let's try this again." She rose up a little, poised over my cock head. "Look honey. I think he likes me. Can I play with him?"

"Baby doll, he loves you, and he's yours to play with for the rest of our lives. You alone get to decide where he goes."

"Mmm. I like the sound of that. I might have to try him everywhere, but for now, I think I know where he belongs."

She lowered herself carefully, taking her time, until she was sitting with her full weight on me, my aching cock back where he belonged. "God, I've missed this so much, Dan." She closed her eyes, moving her hips slowly in tiny little circles, hugging herself. "Too fucking long, baby. Way too fucking long. Promise me baby, you're gonna let me have this big guy when I need it."

"As long as you'll do the same," I said, grabbing her hips and pushing into her, straining to bury every last millimeter inside of her.

She gave me a sexy little smile, and started rocking back and forth. I could feel her pussy squeezing me at the end of each stroke. It was too much, too soon, and it had been way too fucking long. I grabbed her ass, and pumped her hard for a few more strokes, then unloaded inside of her. It couldn't have been a minute altogether, and damn if she didn't squeal as I erupted, coming with me.

She laid on top of me, trembling, as I gave her a last few weak thrusts. She looked me in the eye, and kissed me softly. "I love you so much, baby. But, damn! we're out of practice. I have been fantasizing about a lot more. That sucked."

She delivered the line grinning, and when I laughed with her, she popped my guy out of her, starting another giggle rampage. "We're gonna need a lot of practice, baby," I told her.

"No time like the present."

She was right, and that teasing little mouth of hers helped me get ready for a second try. That one went a lot better. A whole lot better, thank you very much.

The third time was almost as good as the fantasies.

* * * *

I awoke with my wife in my arms, amidst an earthquake and thunder. Her eyes popped open, and she grabbed me. I knew she felt it too.

The ground kept shaking, but so too did the thunder, on and on and on.

"Fuckin' Manolo," I growled, and my wife giggled.

She got up and grabbed my shirt, putting it on. At least she left me my shorts. I followed her to the door, and we stepped out on the porch. A friggin' bulldozer was chewing up the earth, not twenty feet from the house.

Manolo stepped up to the porch, wearing a smile bigger than Deedee's. "Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Dan. My gift to you. We make the two properties, one, yes?"

It was kind of late to say no. The trees were already falling as the bulldozer cut a swath through the jungle, toward my road.

"Say thank you to the nice man, dear."

"Yes, thank you Manolo. That's very kind of you." It was. It would have cost me at least a thousand dollars. Somehow, I was pretty sure he wasn't going to pay anywhere near that.

"Do you want to leave this house here, or put it with the others. We still have one more good foundation ready."

I looked down at her, and she shook her head. "No, for now, let's leave it here. We still have a lot of things to work out. Just the road for now."

"And we connect the trails, of course."

I looked down at my wife again, and she nodded, grinning.

"Of course. We've got to connect the trails." I looked at her again, raising my eyebrows, to see if there were any more surprises.

"It would be nice if we could get somebody to move my stuff, honey."

Manolo smiled, and nodded back to his truck. Two ladies got out, carrying boxes. Then he turned back to us. "David say breakfast will be ready in," he checked his watch, "eighteen minutes. He also says if you lie about his rice, he will spit in your eggs."

Sandy took me by the hand, and led me barefoot down the trail, back to my beach house. Our beach house now. We had three days before the girls would be there, and a lot of ground to make up.

* * * *

Epilogue.

I haven't gone back. Sandy did a few times. I thought I'd have to for the wedding, but Jenna decided to hold it at Dan's Haven. Krystal too. When Krystal got pregnant, I thought that was it. No more getting out of it. Nope, I don't know what the hell is wrong with my women, but she wanted to be here for that too. At least the medical services in Belize are stupidly cheap.

Sandy assures me I can go back if I want, without having to fear getting locked up. So far I haven't wanted to.

We've got a dock now. A twenty-six foot boat. Four 'guest' cabins that get a surprising amount of use, considering how far away we are from everyone. Another hundred feet of beachfront, with better sand, and a solid retaining wall. Krystal's husband Aaron is trying to put in a zipline, that will go over 200 ft. He's been working at it for two days. He'll learn. I'll give him another hour or so, then I'll have Manolo put it up. Did I say Aaron? That's right. Jimmy was a flash in the pan. Moved in and back out again within a year. Aaron's a good man, and a good husband and father.

Jenna's trying to get me to install a dive hut, with our own compressor and filter. She says it's too much trouble to travel the mile next door to the dive shop. I keep reminding her I'm not made of money, but she just looks around the place and smirks.

I'm trying to hold out, but it's difficult. If you have daughters you know what I mean.

We're not rich. Not even close. I still work five days a week. Sandy holds yoga classes for the folks next door. It doesn't pay a lot, but it helps, and it keeps her busy. We never hit the lotto. Didn't find gold. Never sold the property for a huge profit. Just the opposite in fact. We bought the property next to Sandy's and it gave us the entire shoreline from the retirement resort to the lagoon. We like not having neighbors on top of us. We enjoy the privacy. Sandy's birthday suit is still her favorite outfit.

We still have the glass coffee table, and even though sometimes it's a painful reminder, it still displays a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.

Sometimes we'll take the book out and page through it. We don't talk about why it got burned, and the kids know to leave it alone.

We went through hell and back. It was terrible, and difficult. Sometimes I feel guilty. Not about putting a knife in that smarmy bastard's gut, guys like him deserve it. No, it still sticks in my craw that I cheated on my wife. Yeah, there were a lot of mitigating circumstances, but I regret it. She never, ever was unfaithful to me. I stopped her, I know. And emotionally, that's a different issue. But still.

I know she still feels guilty on occasion. We've talked about it a couple of times. She knows she did wrong, and for all the myriad excuses she was handed, it still comes down to she did it because she wanted to and thought she could get away with it. Thankfully, neither is true anymore. I believe that. Hell, the woman punished herself harder than I ever could have. I loved her, even when she was a selfish bitch.

Then again, she loved me when I was a heartless cheating bastard. My only excuse was my heart had been torn out and discarded, leaving me heartless.

We've kept our promise about always being there for each other when we need it. When the kids see us walking down to Sandy's old casita, they tease us and give us a hard time. We know it's just teasing. Sometimes we walk down there and don't do anything but watch the sunset. Just to jerk their chains.

I guess I could go on and on about what was uncovered at our Maya ruins, or about our relationships with David, Manolo, and Marta, God rest her soul. I could brag about my genius grandchildren, or talk about the hurricane that almost ruined all of our dreams. I could write about her greenhouse experiment, and thriving garden. Damn, there's a lot I could talk about.

But Sandy's in her favorite outfit, giving me that look. No, not the look, thank God. That look. I think I'm gonna take her down to her casita, and we ain't gonna watch the sunset.

So this is the end. Of the story, I mean. At least the written part. I hope the real story never ends.

* * * *

This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge). If you enjoyed the story, your vote would be appreciated. Thanks.