17 comments/ 54797 views/ 5 favorites Kayla - It Begins By: CeeeEsss Thank you, Erik Thread for your editing skills and suggestions. This is the beginning of a mystery and an obsession, of a man who is seduced and captured by an alluring woman. The end is finished and will be posted tomorrow. More than a century ago, groups of artisans found their small neighborhoods invaded by young families with little interest in carrying on the family tradition of fathers teaching sons a trade. However, a few of those sons did join their fathers in learning the time-honored skills of quality craftsmanship. This younger generation drifted toward each other and sought out a location where they could build homes to pass to their own sons. Because their craft took so much time and energy, they cared little for lawns, gardens, or time-consuming chores around the home. Instead, they built houses adjoining their neighbors into what became a long string of townhomes, larger than an urban family would find when they went house hunting, but less labor intensive than a stand-alone dwelling. When Emilio the woodcarver was ready to install windows at his home, he exchanged his skills for Malcolm's expertise as a glazer. Federico the stone mason shared his craft for the wainwright's skill in making or repairing wagons. Both of them helped Emilio in exchange for his skills when they built their homes. The site the craftsmen chose for their dwellings was on a high bluff with a vista of clear sea water that occasionally gave them views of merchant and pleasure vessels. The long pathway in front of their homes became a road and later a street as the city slowly encroached on their neighborhood. Although they were able to defeat attempts at commercial construction on the grassy verge of the cliff, they could not defeat city hall and reluctantly accepted the property's designation of the area as a long, continuous city park. Most of the original owners had some kind of workshop behind their homes, and over the years those shops were often converted to garages to keep their vehicles out of the weather. The narrow lane at the rear, originally used by horses pulling wagons, remained a somewhat ill-defined dirt lane that wandered in and out of the haphazard buildings. The city didn't want the lane to become a street because it would require extensive excavation to straighten and pave it, so the homeowners themselves generally kept the holes filled and added new gravel when needed. When the city began construction of two parallel concrete walkways in the city park, the townhouse owners held their breath. When the construction equipment was finally removed, the residents breathed a sigh of relief that there was nothing to obstruct their view of the sea. They didn't mind the lighting and soon enjoyed sharing the space with others from the community. In a few places the sidewalk had a gradual slope, along with a few long, deep stair steps to accommodate the uneven surfaces of the land. The length of the sidewalk became a favorite place for people wanting their morning and evening walks. The wide sidewalks easily allowed five people walking side-by-side, but the city had painted some colorful arrows and distance markers that usually kept the pedestrian traffic moving in the same direction. From one end to the other, down one side and then back to the starting point on the other side was a long, not-quite-straight trail of just a little over three miles. Slowly, imperceptibly, the artisans sold their homes to city dwellers, attorneys, shop owners, and other upper middle class residents. In a roundabout way, that is how I became the owner of one of the townhomes. My father's older brother never married. He worked until he had enough money to live on if he invested it carefully. He bought a few acres of land near a small river, and built himself a log house at the edge of a forest. It wasn't a log cabin. It was a fairly large two-story home, with two bedrooms and all the modern conveniences. Yet the construction was primarily logs. He was sort of a lazy man. All he really wanted was to go fishing when the weather permitted, and the rest of the time he lived alone and read books he ordered by mail. Dad and I would go visit him several times a year for two or three days. We would enjoy the fishing and go home with a box of books. More than half of them would be first editions. After Mom, Dad, and I read the ones we cared about, Dad put the box into the attic. When I was a junior in college, my uncle died. Dad said because of some provisions in the will, I needed a lawyer. I didn't know any lawyers, but a friend of mine who lived down the street from my parents' home had an older brother who was an attorney, so I called him for an appointment. He took care of everything for me and changed all the inheritance I received from my uncle's investments to my name. As part of an assignment in college, I wrote the first chapter of a western novel filled with adventure and what I came to learn was a good degree of humor. I wasn't a big man on campus, so I had a lot of spare time and I spent much of it writing, adding chapters to my novel. Almost as a lark, after I graduated college I submitted the book to a publisher and it sold. I really wasn't expecting anything to come of the talks about a movie. If the book were ever made into a movie, it would be many years away. In the meantime, I had nearly finished the sequel and received a sizable advance, based on the record my first book had made. I had some ideas for the third and fourth books. As I had done with the first book, I took the contract for the second book to the same lawyer who had helped me with my uncle's will. I was sitting in his office when he took a telephone call, saying he hated to interrupt our conversation, but the call was important. I didn't mind. I wasn't in a hurry, but I couldn't avoid hearing some of the conversation. I'd noticed a Home For Sale sign leaning against the wall. After he hung up the telephone, I asked, "Are you serious, Hollis? That lady wants to sell one of the townhouses on Craftsman Row?" "Yeah, she's doing sort of what you had to do, dealing with an uncle's estate. She's doing it for her mother." "Which one? How much? Can I go look at it?" "Whoa, whoa, are you serious?" "Oh man, you don't know." "Now, about the price, I won't know until the appraisal is done." Hollis held up two fingers then started to raise the third finger, but put it back under his thumb then opened the lap drawer on his desk and held up a ring of about six keys. "But keys I can give you. It's the boob house, Wendell. Bring the keys back in the morning." I think I grinned all the way to the townhouse. There is no way to know who first called it the boob house. The front of the house was two overly large bow windows that reached from below knee level to near the ceiling of the first floor. The recessed front door was like a woman's cleavage when she wore a push up bra. For two hours, I walked around the inside of the townhouse wandering from room to room. Most of the houses on Craftsman Row had been refurbished, but this one hadn't been updated except for a small half-bath downstairs and a full bathroom upstairs. It still had some furniture in it, but it looked like someone had removed the better antiques. The carpet was lighter where some pieces of furniture had sat and what remained was old and dingy looking. Some of the previous owner's possessions were still in the house. I found an old battered cedar chest filled with bundles of newspaper tied with string. The papers looked about 25 years old. I didn't take the time to read much, but the headlines looked interesting. I thought I might have the details of a real mystery novel I could write after I finished the books that I had committed to write. The next morning I returned the keys and sat while Hollis wrote a contract for what I learned was the average value, based on two separate appraisals. Because he knew what the deceased owner's niece wanted, he included a clause that stated all contents would convey with the sale. Hollis suggested I get a loan, but I didn't want to worry about payments so he helped me cash in some of my uncle's investments to add to some book money. I realized, at the age of twenty-three, I was rather young to own a home of that size and value, but I had the money and wanted to make good use of it. * * * As soon as the contractor finished the work on the bathrooms, I moved into my new home. Several days later, I took a leisurely stroll around the full three mile circumference of the park by following the sidewalk in front of my home. About mid-way through the renovation, I hired a stunning young woman to do some of the interior work. She had a skill with wallpaper few people cared to develop. Kayla's eye could see the misalignment of a seam that was off by one sixteenth of an inch. She would spend hours correcting it when I would have let such a minor detail pass. I watched her work, climbing up and down ladders as she was removing the old wall coverings and replacing them with newer wallpapers. With her advice, I selected products more in keeping with modern decorating ideas of small prints or stripes rather than large bouquets of flowers or dark lifeless scenes of eighteenth or nineteenth century still-life paintings. While I was going to school I'd had an occasional girlfriend, but none of them were long term. I have no illusions; I'm not the good looking hunk. I'm a plain and simple man. Most of my life I've been overweight and I was teased accordingly. Let's face it, I was a slightly pudgy, round-faced man, with thinning hair, and besides all of that, I was just a little pigeon-toed. I was usually rather studious and made good grades, but was never at the top of my class. The day Kayla Rogers announced her work on my home was completed I was fairly surprised that she asked me to join her at one of the local clubs for a celebratory drink. I suggested I drive, to make sure I could find the club. Instead of returning home afterwards, I offered to buy her dinner and was additionally surprised she agreed. By midnight, Kayla was in my bed and I was making slow, gentle love to her, amazed that she returned my first fumbling kisses. When I collapsed on top of her, she held me, as tears filled my eyes. I'd never felt such a deep physical and emotional reaction. I'd never had a woman spend the night with me. I awoke sometime in the middle of the night and carefully reached over to move a curl of hair off Kayla's forehead so I could look at her. She opened her eyes and moved nearer for a kiss. Then she totally surprised me as she threw the covers over our heads and crawled down, engulfing my hardening cock in her wet, warm mouth. I shuddered, nearing the brink of a climax. A moment later, Kayla and I were nose to nose, "Now, fuck me, Wendell, and don't quit or cum until I stop breathing." I'm not sure how successful I was at getting her to the point of being breathless, but it was our first of many more efforts. For several weeks, she spent almost every night with me. She complained of being sore and so did I, but it didn't stop us from having sex. Occasionally she allowed me to make love to her, but most of our evenings were fast sex, rough sex, just plain fucking. By that time I was taking my daily three mile walk at a fairly good clip, I'd lost thirty pounds. I was also involved in a torrid romance with Kayla, The Wallpaper Lady. My townhouse was my pride and joy. In less than three years, I had updated the home to something I felt I could enjoy for the remainder of my life, sacrificing one upstairs bedroom for a hall bathroom and a large master bath. Yet that still left me with three good-sized bedrooms in addition to the master suite. Downstairs I had a full study with all the bookshelves I could ever expect to fill, plus more living spaces than a huge family would ever need. In addition to the well-lit kitchen, there was a breakfast room and a formal dining room. Although I didn't need the two living rooms, I kept them, immediately designating one a formal living room and the other a den where I put some of the older furniture. At the rear of the house was a small, single-bedroom apartment that I never expected to fill with the housekeeper for which the space was designed. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I might eventually have a child who would grow up and live at home while attending college. The rear, outside entry would allow some freedom I never had when I lived with my parents as I was attending school. Not long after the work on the complete house was finished, I asked Kayla to marry me. She went with me on a couple of the book tours my editor arranged to publicize my book. I was nothing like the hero in my book, but with Kayla's careful attention to the way I dressed and a decent Stetson hat, I could pass for a speaker to whom readers would listen. By then I was jogging the full three miles and had dropped almost fifty pounds from my six foot one inch frame. * * * During the first year of our marriage, Kayla grew her business from barely getting by, literally working out of the back of her van, to a small storefront. She sold wall coverings to home improvement customers and provided custom installation for refurbishing projects. She also did some work for new home builders and had built up quite a reputation as the best wall covering artist in town. After three years of marriage, Kayla's business was growing larger. She had two full-time employees and as much work as she could handle. I was still jogging, but had slowed the pace to about the same as most of the other joggers. On a rare occasion, I would make two full rounds of the park. If I missed a day of exercise, I'd feel dull and lethargic. After I sent the first draft of my second book to my editor, I hit a dry period in my writing and knew I needed to do something besides sit in my study all day, staring out the front windows and preparing dinner the few nights Kayla and I managed to eat at home. I purchased a small tee shirt shop a little over a mile from home. It was located in a unique area between the edge of our park and the beginning of the old downtown central business district. The downtown had grown from department stores and shopping into high-rise office buildings and my shop was within walking distance of the largest office buildings. An enterprising developer had created an "old town" atmosphere by moving more than twenty old homes into a space the size of two city blocks, calling his collection of buildings Heritage Park. The houses became businesses, including restaurants, gift shops, an art gallery, along with offices that would stimulate walk-in traffic. My shop was located in one of the old houses. I had the smaller side because I had the old home's bathroom as part of my space. I used it for storage, but I also fixed the old tub so I could take a quick shower after my jog without needing to go home to shower and change into work clothes. I'd dress in jean shorts and sandals, with a tee-shirt to advertise my business, switching back to my jogging clothes and cross trainers for the walk home. I was determined not to return to my pudgy high school and college physique. * * * One day a tall slender woman walked into the tee shirt shop. She looked familiar, but I was having trouble placing her. I'd lived in the city all my life and I was sure I knew this woman. Suddenly it dawned on me. Instead of the running shorts and sports bra I remembered, she was wearing low heels and a conservative dress. The long ponytail I was used to seeing bouncing between her shoulder blades was a neat, twisted bun at the back of her head. I approached her with my most professional, but casual, customer service voice, "Hi there. May I help you?" "Hello." She looked at me for a moment then looked again. "City Park Jogger," we both said at the same time, as we pointed to each other. It was the label the older residents of my neighborhood called those of us who used the city park from about dawn until nine in the morning and then again from about six until dark in the evening. "Yeah," I answered and offered my hand. "Wendell Gannaway." "Patrice Appling ah ... Patrice Harriman." She held up her left hand showing a shiny gold wedding band. "New?" I asked. "Yes, only a month. I'm not accustomed to saying it yet." "Don't be embarrassed, Patrice. I don't think my wife has used my name but two or three times in the three years we've been married. She's still saying her maiden name because that's how everyone knows her." "Well, my husband doesn't like me to say my old name. He's sort of the jealous type." "It'll get easier." I was trying to reassure her as the blush faded from her cheeks. "What can I do for you today?" "That's sort of the problem. He doesn't like it that I run in just the sports bra. He wants me to wear something that covers me. I'm looking for some options that won't ... I don't know ... I guess that won't restrict movement." "I think I can help you there." We walked toward a rack with the shirts I kept on display, telling her to find the style she liked and I'd get clean ones in her size from the back as soon as she decided what she preferred. Eventually Patrice picked out three different style tee shirts, saying she would try each one to see what worked best and then come back for one or two more of those. * * * By default, I'd become the one who prepared most of the evening meals. Kayla often went to lunch with friends or clients and would not want a big dinner. If that happened, I'd take any leftovers with me the next day. If she had an early day, Kayla might start something for our dinner and sometimes I'd finish it if she needed to go out for an after-hours appointment. That was happening more and more often and sometimes she wouldn't get home until late in the evening. Many of the patrons for her custom work preferred to meet after business hours and often in their home. There were many days when she would come home from a full day of working in her store, shower, and change clothes for an evening appointment. She'd done it that way ever since I'd known her. She enjoyed getting dressed up for an appointment with clients who would pay more than the average rate because of her skills. "Hi sweetie," Kayla greeted me when she walked into the kitchen. "What smells so good?" "Chicken and lemon slices in some of the left-over celery soup from last night," I answered. "Do you want a baked potato to go with it?" I didn't always fix a fancy meal, but I tried to eat as healthy as I could. I usually didn't eat much for lunch, but I'd snack on fresh vegetables when I got home from work if I was too hungry to wait for our meal. "Are you going back out, or do you get an evening at home tonight?" "I don't know yet," she answered as she sat on the kitchen stool watching me take the chicken out of the oven. "I'm waiting for a call." "Oh hey," I chuckled. "I met one of my City Park Joggers today." "Yeah? Which one? Was it the guy with no ass or the little ol' lady?" We had nicknamed a few of the joggers, particularly those who were new to the park and we knew they weren't going to last long. I leaned back against the kitchen counter as Kayla and I talked. She had leaned forward with her elbow resting on her knee and her chin on the heel of her palm. It was her 'thinking posture' as I thought of it. When she was trying to work out some design or problem, she'd sit just like that for a while then lean back in her seat when she had the solution. "Ponytail," I answered. "Her name's Patrice Harriman." Kayla sat up straight, as if she was startled, and looked at me. "Harriman? Did you say Harriman?" Kayla - It Begins "Oh, do you know her? I think she's only been married about a month, I forgot what her name was before." Kayla turned her head away to say, "No, no, I don't know her. I was just ... maybe it was some ... I guess I thought ... maybe I recognized the name. It's not important." Kayla couldn't wait to change the subject, "So, how did you meet her?" "Her new husband wants her to cover up her sports bra." "Oh well," Kayla stood and walked over to me, put her arms around my neck and kissed me, then nuzzled my neck. "I'm sure glad my hubby isn't jealous." I put my arms around Kayla and slid my palms down to cup her bottom, pulling her against the bulge that was forming at the front of my shorts. Kayla slid her hand down the inside of my shorts and asked me, "Is this monster for me?" I assured her it was indeed for her. She still had her hand wrapped around my cock and was leading me across the room. Her cell phone rang, but I was startled when she pulled away from me to answer it, saying, "This is Kayla Rogers." In the evenings, she usually let messages go to voice mail, but then I recalled she had said she was waiting for a call. I turned around and took plates out of the cabinet, then looked for utensils, cringing again that she wouldn't say her name was Kayla Gannaway. We'd been married long enough that most people she came in contact with knew she was married, even if they didn't know I was her husband. The few times I'd mentioned it, I'd admitted it was selfish. My name might not be a household word, but I wanted people to know she belonged with me. She had once given me a smart-alecky response that if I was so worried about us both having the same name, I could change mine to Rogers. I shrugged my shoulders and said it might not be a bad idea. It was certainly easier to spell. It wasn't an immediate thought, but I hadn't said a word about jealousy. I didn't think I'd ever displayed any evidence that I was a jealous husband, but Kayla had used the word. I might be a little protective of Kayla, asking her to call me when she arrived at an evening meeting or before she left the meeting, but those were safety issues. I wondered why Kayla would automatically think the reason Patrice was shopping for tee shirts was because her husband was jealous. Kayla finished her call and started walking out of the kitchen, commenting over her shoulder. "I'll eat a few bites when I get changed." We'd done it so many times I was accustomed to eating alone. I put a small serving of chicken and steamed vegetables on her plate, then fixed my plate and took it to my study. I'd been thinking about some research I needed to do for book three, and I was making the corrections and changes my editor wanted done on book number two. I knew I had about three hours before Kayla would return home. I was surprised when I looked at the time. I'd been working steadily for almost an hour. I looked out the window, her car was gone from in front of the house. We had a mild running disagreement with Kayla refusing to park in the rear garage. She did not like the lane at the rear of the townhomes. It was narrow, full of potholes, and required some navigating to get all the way down to our end of the long row of homes. She only wanted to park in front where she could leave quickly, make it to the end of the street, and turn onto a wide thoroughfare. As sort of a celebration on the opening of her store, and because she no longer needed to work out of the rear of her old van, I'd bought her a small sports car. I spent more money than was prudent but she so enjoyed looking out the front windows at her small, easy-to-maneuver car. We'd had a recent discussion on the merits of a new car for her. She was enthralled with some features of the newer, more expensive models, but I was resisting. Kayla had not come in to tell me she was leaving nor had she called to tell me she had arrived at her appointment. I checked the kitchen and found she'd eaten less than a fourth of the chicken I'd fixed for her. I started to clean the kitchen intending to go back to my study, but it really bothered me that Kayla had left without telling me and hadn't called when she arrived at her meeting, so I called her cell phone. "Uh, hi, Wendell. Why did you call?" She sounded out of breath as if she were walking too fast. "I'm just checking on you. You didn't let me know you were leaving or that you'd arrived for your appointment." "Wendell, don't babysit me. I'll be home later." Wow, I wasn't expecting that. Kayla wasn't often so short with me. She'd hung up before I could tell her to call me before she left. I chalked up her shortness to the possibility she was dealing with some difficult clients and went back to my study. By eleven o'clock Kayla had not called and I was growing concerned. I didn't want to interrupt her meeting if it was a contentious one, but she was out later than usual. I waited another half hour and called her cell phone. "Hi, Wendell. I was just going to call you." I heard music in the background and wondered where she was. "Sweetie, I'm at that little restaurant in Heritage Park with Jewel Adams. I'll be home in about an hour or so. Don't wait up for me." "Okay, don't stay out too late." Kayla knew better than to invite me to join her. I did not like Jewel Adams, even though she gave Kayla a lot of business. She was a middle aged, six foot three inch Amazon who ran roughshod over every supplier and subcontractor who ever worked with her. She was mean, seldom paid on time, and the only reason she continued to stay in business was that she built some of the largest homes in the city. Aside from the bank that managed her construction loans, the only people who liked her were her clients. She had a reputation for completing construction on time and within budget. If it wasn't completed on time, it was always someone else's fault, and if it was not on budget, she loudly claimed it wasn't because of her. I finished the outline of the next chapter of book three, shut down the computer, and went to bed. * * * Kayla was still in bed when I left for my jog the next morning. I didn't wake her up because she'd told me the night before that she was going to the store late because the order she was waiting for wouldn't be in before noon. Patrice Harriman was more than one hundred yards ahead of me. I recognized her distinctive flopping ponytail. It looked like she wasn't having any trouble with the new tee shirt she was wearing. She rounded the curve at the bottom of the jogging track and waved at me from the opposite side as I neared the curve where I would leave the track to go to my shop. I'd gotten into the habit of jogging one and a half circles every other day. Today was a short run of about three-fourths of the full circle. I adjusted my stride as I began going down the deep wide steps. I took three steps on each level, down a few inches to the next level and two more steps, down a few inches and two more steps and down a few inches. By the time I reached the lowest level, I could no longer see any of the townhouses or the street. I would adjust my stride when I went up the steps on the other side as I walked home. I was just leaving the jogging track when I recalled I'd awakened sometime around two o'clock and heard the shower running in the master bath. I knew Kayla had taken a shower before she left, she always left the shower door open, and her towel draped over the shower door. I'd hung her towel on the towel rack and it was back on the shower door when I went into the bathroom after I got out of bed. I forgot all about Kayla's showers as I opened my shop and got the cash register ready for the Friday before a three-day weekend. By the time the day was over, I was thinking I needed to hire a part-time helper. I searched under the counter until I found the old Help Wanted Inquire Within sign the building's previous tenants had used and set it on top of the counter. I planned to hang it on the door when I opened in the morning. * * * Kayla was at home when I walked in the front door. "Wendell, I'm in the kitchen." I walked into the kitchen and saw she was involved in a big dinner project. She had several dishes in various stages of completion. I gave her a long leisurely kiss and told her to remember that, as I'd repeat it a little later. I playfully swatted her on the ass and she laughed, promising a payback. I got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat at the kitchen table to talk with her while she worked. I hadn't given it much thought when Kayla reminded me. "You know that big warehouse sale is next week-end. Are you going with me this year?" "I probably shouldn't. I need to keep the tee shirt shop open." "I didn't think you'd want to go. It's sort of boring if you don't need to be there. I'm going to make my reservation the first of the week. If you wanted to go I'd get a larger room." "Then no, I'm not going. I'll just stay home, work at the shop Saturday and on my book the rest of the weekend. I owe my editor the outline for the next couple of chapters and the changes he wanted. He's pushing me to meet some date on his schedule." As Kayla sliced the potatoes she was layering in a casserole dish, she asked, "Say, have you given any more thought to putting my name on the deed to this house? It would be so special if you would do that for me." "Yeah, we did sort of talk about that, didn't we?" She used her long-suffering wifely voice to say, "Yes, dear." "By the way," I informed her, "The bank called this morning to say a large withdrawal was made for your store out of our joint account. Did you use the wrong account number again?" She had done it once before when she purchased a large piece of equipment and then forgot to tell me. It didn't bother me so much that I got angry, but it seemed like she should be making enough money to afford to purchase the equipment she needed. Kayla's hands stopped moving, but she didn't look up from the cutting board, when she answered. "I don't think I did." "Will you check on that when you get to your store tomorrow? They had to transfer some money from my book account to cover the full amount. That's a lot of money to make a mistake on, Kayla." "Okay, Wendell. I'll look at it first thing tomorrow, but write yourself a note about that deed thing. I'd like to say this is my home, instead of feeling like I'm just living with you." "That's silly. This is our home. What brought all this up?" Kayla turned to look at me and put her hands on her hips. "Wendell, I wanted to bring a prospective client to look at the work I did in the formal living room and the dining room. They're looking at one of the townhomes down the row. I didn't like saying this house belongs to my husband." "Kayla, maybe we need to sit down and talk about finances again. I pay all the costs associated with this house and all of our living expenses, including your clothing. I've allowed you to use all of your income to support and grow your business. Maybe we need to do some adjusting around here." Still in her confrontational stance, she said, "Don't be like that. You have a lot more than I do. All I have is my store." "I know that and it's why I've allowed you to build up the business without contributing around here, but that's not a financial arrangement that can continue indefinitely." I stood to go to my office, but turned to remind Kayla, "Remember, don't plan anything for Sunday. We're going to my parents' house for a family barbeque." "Oh Gawd," Kayla wailed as I took a few steps away from the table. I turned to look at her, "What? It's once every couple of months and you didn't go last time because you had a headache." Kayla's voice whined and it only took three words to understand she was trying to mimic my mother, "My, my, Kayla, you're so thin. When are you going to let me have a grandbaby to hold?" Instead of going to my office, I walked back into the middle of the kitchen and put my hands on my hips, much as Kayla had done earlier. "Yeah, when are we going to start that family we discussed before we married?" "Wendell, I'm not going to leave my store to fend for itself while I take care of some burping little brats of yours. When I know my store is financially stable we can discuss children." In the mood she was in, I was not going to remind her that we had discussed having our children while we were still young. She wasn't thirty yet, nor was I, but the calendar pages were turning, sometimes faster than I wished. Both of us had pretty much settled down by the time we were eating dinner. We didn't seem to have dinner together, just the two of us, as often as we would like -- or at least not as often as I would like. We probably managed to eat a home-cooked meal together three times a week, weekends included. Kayla liked to entertain and would have someone or a few couples over for a meal during the week or on a Saturday evening. She usually spent one or two nights away from home. She would occasionally stop off at the local builder's favorite watering hole for a couple of drinks after the work day was over. That pretty much took up the whole week. Kayla seemed very interested in the movie deal being considered for my first book. She also asked if my editor planned to send the second book to the same filmmaker and if I might get an offer for a second film. I just couldn't figure out why she was so interested so I asked her. "I'm worried about my store. If you have to move to California to work on the film, I don't think I can go with you." "Good grief, Kayla, if that first book is ever made into a movie, I won't have anything to do with it. In fact, they'll most likely try to pay me the million dollars and make me sign a release of all my rights to a movie on that story. I doubt Hollis can get them to change the wording in the contract." As we were cleaning up the kitchen, it didn't take but a couple of hints from Kayla to convince me I didn't want to work in the study that evening. We went to bed early. I guess I was still smarting about the 'burping little brats of yours' remark and I got a little aggressive. As I kissed her I put one hand between her legs to discover that she was ready for me. I flipped Kayla over on her tummy, lifted her hips, and slammed my hard cock into her very wet pussy. Kayla grunted and said, "Fuck me hard, Wendell, real hard, but don't cum yet." A few stokes later she was wailing and shaking with her first orgasm. I felt her muscles squeezing me and I stopped moving, I was so close. She dropped her hips and pulled away from me, then nudged me over onto my back and swallowed my cock, lifted her head then slurped along the length of it before taking it all the way down her throat. Kayla jerked her head back and said, "Don't you dare cum. I need at least one more from this monster." She swung one leg over me and held my cock as she lowered herself and began to raise and lower her hips as she fucked herself on my hard cock. It was all I could do to hold on to her hips and her bouncing breasts until she shuddered and shook with another hard orgasm. She fell forward onto my chest, panting, unable to speak as the aftershocks caused her body to twitch for several minutes. She raised her head and shoulders and gave me a sweet tender kiss. "Wendell, will you make love to me now?" She rolled to the side and spread her legs. I could not pass up the invitation. I don't know how long I kissed and licked at my wife's soft responsive breasts. I just know she didn't want me to stop until I was trailing kisses down her belly. When she knew where I was headed she pushed on my shoulders. "Oh yes, baby, eat me. I need it so bad." I was able to give her at least two more orgasms before I began to want something more. As I moved up her body, she pulled me higher until my cock was poised at the entrance to her engorged lips. She had her arms around my neck, kissing me, chewing on my shoulder and biting my neck. Although we had sex two or three times a week, it had been several months since we'd both been in such a frenzy to show our lust for each other. As I pushed into her, Kayla's voice was sweet. "Oh you beautiful man, I love you, I love you, I love you." I was still for a moment, relishing the heat and wetness of her velvet and then I began to move. Once again, it was the most glorious feeling I'd ever experienced. I could never tire of this woman I'd married. We fit so well together that every time I made love to her it seemed like an endless time of passion. Yet, it always ended too soon. After a few minutes of the slower movements Karla was thrusting her hips up at me telling me to go faster and harder. When I finally sent several bursts of semen into her depths, she squealed and shook and I roared like a wild animal. I fell to the side, exhausted and unable to raise my head. Kayla turned her back and pushed her hips against me, moving into the curl of my body, taking my arm across her, and holding my hand against her breast. * * * By the time I was thinking about closing the shop on Saturday, I had six applications for employment filled out by young females and I knew not a single one of them could count change or hold the shop open for more than fifteen minutes without me spending two or three hours trying to straighten up whatever they screwed up. Without me asking, they told me what hours they could work and what days they wanted off, the holidays they had from school, plus the plans they'd made for those holidays. I wanted to put all six applications into the trash but was concerned I wasn't going to get any one better. I was pulling the keys out of my pocket when a woman opened the front door of the shop. "Oh please don't close yet." "Come in, come in. How can I help you?" "That sign on the door, are you really looking for help?" "Yes ma'am." "I'd like to apply." I stuttered, "But ... I don't know ..." "Oh please." My hesitation was because this woman was nothing like I was expecting to hire for part time work. She was in her mid to late forties and although she was slender and had a figure that would look good in a tee shirt, she was most definitely a mature woman. I shrugged my shoulders and asked, "Okay, tell me why you're looking for a job." She laughed and held out her hand, "I'm Linda Bledsoe." I offered my own hand, "Wendell Gannaway," and was pleasantly surprised that I got a decent handshake. As Linda explained it, I had interviewed her youngest child earlier. The girl was the last child to leave home and Linda did not intend to stay home for another day. It was time for her to become a productive member of society. She laughed and said she wasn't going to be attractive to most shop owners because she wanted to use them as her school. She planned to open some kind of small business for herself and wanted to work for someone and learn what mistakes not to make. I wanted her. I wanted her badly. She was exactly what I needed. She was mature, needed teaching about how to use a computer cash register, but already knew something about computers and a great deal about organization. She'd cared for a home, a husband and four children, and could surely put all of those skills to good use as she learned how to operate a small business. She was a godsend. She could start as soon as I wanted her and work as many hours as I needed, even if her husband had to eat a TV dinner at night. He was 100% percent behind her effort and Linda wanted me to call him to verify it. We worked out a schedule to get Linda into a routine of working and I walked home with a spring in my step. When I got home, I didn't even mention Linda, my new shop assistant. I'm not sure why, perhaps it was just information I was going to withhold until I knew how well she would work out. Then later, there was no time to mention her. We had four couples coming for a small informal dinner and Kayla was involved in preparing the finger foods we would eat rather than a sit down meal. I set up the bar with ice and the mixers we had and checked the remaining supplies. It had become a custom that I would prepare the first drink or two for everyone then allow them to fend for themselves. There was always more interest in conversation and politics or city happenings than there was hard drinking. Kayla - It Begins Kayla regularly asked one or two couples, usually people she had previously done some work for, asking each of them to bring another couple. It was her way of pulling influential people into our sphere of friends. It was beginning to work. We had recently begun to receive a few invitations to their homes for a similar small gathering. I sometimes felt out of place, being so much younger than those who attended, but discovered I could manage to find something to discuss that interested my guests. Not as often as I liked, one or more of the guests would mention they had read my book. Rarely, I discovered they had purchased it as a gift and even more rarely, I was asked for an autographed copy with an offer to purchase it if necessary. * * * I could tell Kayla was making a real effort to enjoy Sunday afternoon with my parents and the other relatives who showed up for the simple outdoor barbeque. In addition to my father's brother, who had never married, he had two sisters. One of them had a daughter with three small children visiting from out of state. I hadn't seen my cousin in several years. We were about the same age and had gone to school together. We spent some time talking about people both of us knew, what they were doing, and recent marriages. Kayla spent about an hour holding the youngest child. I could tell my mother was itching to say something, but I'd warned her that her remarks were causing Kayla to feel pressured and might make her even more reluctant to begin our family. Mother was very familiar with reverse psychology. She used it on my father with a lot of success, but she was even better at silence and a smile. She could hide her emotions with very little effort. My dad used to tease me that she had taught me too well because he said I could do the same smile and never let on that I was pleased or displeased with what someone was telling me. I didn't really give it a lot of thought that day, but I wondered if Kayla was reluctant to begin our family because she felt like an outsider. Maybe putting her name on the deed to the townhouse would give her the feeling we really were a family. She seldom mentioned any family. I knew she had grown up living with her grandparents, not knowing very much about her mother or any other relatives, except a half-brother who was several years older than she was. She was shy and withdrawn around my family although they tried to include her. * * * I showed Linda around the shop and left her for about an hour to go to my attorney's office. It would give her a chance to have a good look around without me looking over her shoulder and make her aware of what she needed to know when I wasn't there. I told her to write any sales on a piece of paper and I'd enter them in the cash register when I got back. When I got to my lawyer's office, I explained to Hollis that I wanted to share ownership of my townhouse with Kayla but he didn't like it at first. He started giving me all kinds of information about community property laws, but I told him to write whatever he needed to write that would say from the date of our marriage, Kayla shared in the ownership of the townhome. He said he would prepare a deed to protect my interests as well as he could and if I was in a hurry, I could come in and sign it the next day, which is exactly what I did. I was so excited I couldn't wait for the recorded form to come back, so I asked Hollis to give me a copy of it. I bought a dozen red roses for Kayla and had a nice dinner ready when she got home. I even set the table in the formal dining room. I was going to give my wife the biggest surprise of her life. I heard Kayla come in the house and I was walking out of the kitchen to meet her as she was going upstairs. "Wendell, don't touch me. I smell like a horse. I'm going to take a shower and then I'll help you with our dinner." "Okay, but if you have plans for tonight you'll have to cancel them. I need to have a long talk with you." Kayla stopped with her foot on the next step and turned her head to look at me. She looked exhausted. I knew she hadn't been sleeping well for a couple of weeks, but she really looked tired. The only color in her face was two bright spots of red on her upper cheeks. "Talk?" Her voice was shaking. "What are we going to talk about?" "I'll tell you when you get down from your shower." I didn't say anything else. I simply turned to go back into the kitchen, not daring to give away the surprise. When Kayla walked into the kitchen, she stopped, looked at the vase of flowers on the table, and then looked back at me. "Wendell?" "I decided we deserved a celebration." "A celebration?" "Yeah," I answered as I handed her a glass of wine. We didn't often have wine with dinner, but tonight was something special. She stood in the middle of the kitchen holding the glass of wine. I saw the liquid moving from the tremble in her hand. I suggested she go sit down and I would bring her dinner plate to her. She started to sit at the kitchen table, but I told her we were using the dining room for our meal and maybe she could light the candles before she sat down. I finally told Kayla I'd hired someone to help me in the shop and I tried to entertain her with some of the funny things Linda told about trying to change her head from being a mother at home with children to a working woman. Although she had been in the shop for a couple of days, I was just learning the names of her children. Kayla was finally getting into the slightly festive mood of our dinner. She talked about a fussy woman who had been giving her problems all day long. The woman was unhappy with the color of the expensive wallpaper she had chosen for her dining room. She had thought it would be much lighter on the wall and was turning out to make the room look dark, which Kayla had tried to warn her about, but the woman had insisted on that color. When I finally pushed my plate back, I took the folded copy of the deed from under my placemat and handed it to Kayla. At first she didn't understand what it was then she just started crying, with huge tears rolling silently down her cheeks. She got up from her chair and came to sit on my lap. "Wendell, you don't know ... you can't know ... I can't tell you ..." "It's okay Kayla, I understand." I just held her, soothed her, and kissed her a few times. We moved to the den and sat with our arms around each other. I tried again to tell her I really did understand how I had excluded her from feeling that the home we lived in was hers. I didn't realize I always called it 'my' house. I would try to do a better job of saying 'our home'. After a short while, Kayla stood up, "Wendell, you are such a sweet, sweet man, but I am exhausted. I just must go to bed. Maybe I can sleep a little better tonight." "Okay. You go ahead. I have a couple of hours of work to do in my study. I'll be up later." * * * During the first week Linda worked, she questioned some of the merchandise I carried. The shop wasn't slow, but business wasn't exactly brisk, either. I didn't tell her that income was paying the bills, but might be marginal with salary for an employee. She was surprised I wasn't selling a lot of clothing worn by exercise or sport enthusiasts. Not far from my shop was a small sports store that sold a very good selection of rollerblades, but they carried very little clothing. We looked through a suppliers catalog and wrote a preliminary order of what she said she had seen her daughter and other young people wearing. I watched in utter amazement and then laughed as Linda called the company and was connected to an inside female salesperson. It was a long telephone call, but the two women adjusted the order based on the supplies that were in stock and ended with a promise the merchandise would be shipped within three days. When Linda finished the telephone call, I looked at her quizzically as if to ask, "How did you manage that?" Linda shrugged her shoulders and then grinned, pleased with herself. I spent some time in the storage room cleaning out old merchandise, planning on some kind of sale that would draw in additional customers so they would see we now had exercise clothing. I heard the bell on the front door ring when a customer walked in and then another ring when the customer left. A minute or so later, Linda came to get me to explain a function she had accidently discovered on the cash register. By process of elimination, we learned it was a sophisticated customer tracking database that I had never used. I'd only purchased that particular brand and type of cash register because it was similar to the one Kayla used in her store and it was easy to use. Linda created an account for herself and then entered a single purchase. It took a while to figure out how to show the merchandise was returned for a full refund so the daily receipts would balance. The function she grew fascinated with had the ability to send an email to a customer about a sale on merchandise based on previous purchases made. I promised to bring her the large instruction manual for her to read. For the first time I was going to leave early and allow Linda to close the shop. She could walk across the parking lot and drop the daily receipts into the bank's night deposit. She didn't seem nervous, but I was nervous for her. I changed into my jogging clothes and left the shop. After a few stretching exercises I began the upward climb to the bluff across from my townhouse. I was hyped that I had at least two hours more of daylight than I was accustomed to having and planned on a good run around the full circle. For a couple of weeks I hadn't seen Patrice on the track. I thought she'd changed her schedule, or she might have moved to another track. I was surprised when I rounded the bend and saw her sitting on the edge of a step. She was leaning over with her forehead resting on her knees and she looked like she was shaking. I knew it was Patrice because of the tee shirt she was wearing and her ponytail tied at the base of her head. I feared she had fallen, maybe strained a muscle and might need some help to get to her car. I stopped beside her, "Patrice, are you okay?" She was crying, actually sobbing, with tears running down her face faster than she could wipe them away. Between hiccups she asked, "Do you know any of the owners of those townhouses?" "Yes, I ah ... yes." I started to tell her I owned the one with the cast iron railing going up the steep front steps, but for some reason I kept quiet. I didn't know Patrice well and feared she might be one of those who wanted to complain about the owners who were giving the city a difficult time about the new trees that had been planted around the park. The townhouse owners didn't want the trees because eventually the trees would grow tall enough to obstruct their view. Already disliking those who used the park to rollerblade, they were hearing rumors of picnic tables, children on cycles, and park benches with advertisement on the backs. Anytime two or more owners of the townhouses were in the same place at the same time, those rumors were the topic of conversation between neighbors. "I need ... need to know ... who owns ... the gray ... the gray one ... with ... with the ... with the round windows." I could barely understand her words as she tried to stop crying. As noncommittally as I could, I answered, "O-o-o-kaaaay." I felt certain she was talking about my townhouse. The color of the rock used for the façade was gray but it had a faint pink tinge to it, reinforcing the nickname, 'The Boob House'. However, there was a second gray townhouse several doors down from mine. It also had bow windows but they were not nearly as large and the front steps were not recessed. The gray rock had a little brown in it and I'd often wondered why it wasn't nicknamed, too. I could think of several appropriate words, but they were much less polite than boob. "He ... he goes ... he goes there." "Who goes there?" I looked around, but there wasn't anyone else ahead or behind us. I was growing more concerned with Patrice's anguish. "B.J." "Patrice, where's your car?" She pointed at the parking lot a few steps down the walk and tried to stand. I put my arm around her to keep her steady and suggested, "Let me help you to your car." As we walked to her car, she managed to get her breathing back under control, but she was absolutely exhausted. I got her into the front seat of the car and walked to the nearby convenience store where I could get us a soda in a cup with some ice. I thought she could use the sugar. We put the windows down on her car and sat talking for almost an hour. Patrice may not have realized how much she told me, but I was a willing listener. I wasn't asking questions, I was just listening. Darryl Appling, Patrice's father, owned the travel agency that occupied part of the largest building in Heritage Park. While Patrice didn't actually have a license, she worked for him as a way of paying her way through college. Her mother was old city money, but her father's income supported their family. Her grandfather, whose health was beginning to fail, was still controlling his family money. Patrice knew that his death would release a substantial trust fund she could live on quite comfortably. Patrice's father allowed B.J. Harriman to buy an interest in the travel agency, with the intent he would own the business after a few years, when Patrice's father would retire. B.J. was already increasing business. He liked to arrange travel packages for people who wanted a little more luxury and had the time to enjoy such an extensive trip. One of his favorite plans was for wealthy women who wanted to attend fashion shows, who were interested in a trip to Europe to buy a new wardrobe. When a woman wore a dress she had purchased at a small shop in France, she would usually say it was on a trip arranged by B.J. Harriman. I had heard those comments made in my own home by the guests Kayla invited to our informal dinner parties. Less than six months after B.J. joined the business, he asked Patrice to marry him. He'd pursued her rather diligently and she had fallen in love with him. She had a small photo of him in a plastic holder on her key ring. I thought to myself that he was a real hunk and I was a little surprised because Patrice was rather plain. I wasn't under any illusion that people probably thought the same thing about my beautiful wife, Kayla, and me. Tuesday of the previous week, when her new husband of less than two months went to the restroom, Patrice picked up his ringing cell phone and opened it, intending to tell the caller he would be right back. What she heard was a woman's voice, "Hi baby, are you going to come by this afternoon?" Patrice closed the phone, grabbed her purse, and left the office before her husband returned to his desk. On more than one occasion, she had seen him open the phone and listen, then close it without speaking, particularly if someone was sitting beside his desk. Patrice admitted she started to say something to her father. Instead, she waited in her car and followed B.J. until he parked across the street from the gray townhouse. He didn't bother to ring the doorbell. He simply walked inside as if he lived there. Patrice changed her jogging schedule and saw her husband's car parked in front of the townhouse about every other day. Neither Patrice nor I was dumb. I asked her if they ever had sex on the day she saw his car parked on the street in front of the townhouse. She shook her head. I was shaking, but maybe I didn't show it. It was one of those instances of using my mother's smile and never letting anyone know if I was pleased or displeased with what someone was telling me. The afternoon Patrice had answered her husband's telephone was the same day I'd prepared the special dinner to celebrate with Kayla, showing I'd given her joint ownership of the townhouse. I'd recently learned because of all the work I did and the city's new tax appraisals of Craftsman Row, the townhouse was worth almost half a million dollars. Kayla had chosen one of the bedrooms across the hall for her occasional afternoon nap when she had a late evening appointment. The master bedroom had direct afternoon sunlight shining on the exterior wall and could get a little uncomfortable. She liked the cooler room across the hall. I wasn't ready to reveal all of that to Patrice, but I asked for her telephone numbers and said I'd keep an eye on what was happening at the townhouses in the mornings. She was still in pretty bad shape when I got out of her car. She planned to go to her father's agency and talk to him about her suspicions. * * * I knew Kayla had left mid-morning, for her annual warehouse sale. She had called the tee shirt shop when she checked into the hotel, and I didn't expect to hear from her until later in the evening, if she found time to call at all. She would spend the day going through the catalog and the warehouse, examining anything she might like to buy. The evening would probably be little more than a drinkfest of going from bar to bar, hotel to hotel, while she greeted people who owned operations similar to hers. Even though I thought about calling Patrice to see if her husband was home for the weekend, I didn't do it. I couldn't be certain Patrice was talking about her husband going into my townhouse, or the other gray one a few doors down. I didn't know her name, but the woman who lived there was the young widow of a much older man. She was in her mid-thirties and managed to get her name and photograph in the newspaper on a regular basis. It was entirely possible she was a customer of the travel packages arranged by B. J. Harriman. Despite the time and attention I gave to the tee shirt shop, I knew my major source of income was my writing. I had to get back to work on book three. Based on the sales history of book one, plus what my editor had said was the size of the first printing of book two, I knew I had to finish book three to generate an income I could live on, if I was careful about my investments. If I ever finished book four it would just add to what I had. I would have a proven record of book sales and I could start work on a different kind of book. My secret stash of old newspapers was in the cedar chest in my basement waiting for a time I could go through them to see what I had. When I turned my computer on, I checked my email and found a very large message from my editor with some changes he wanted made to several long chapters. I spent the weekend getting that work done. Kayla was so tired when she got home Sunday afternoon she just wanted a light meal so she could rest and get ready for work the next week. I suggested she take a long hot bath to relax while I fixed her something to eat. I even considered taking a tray of food up to the bedroom, but she appeared about the time I had the food ready. She was wearing her robe and didn't plan to do anything more than eat a little and go to bed. * * * While I was unpacking the first box of exercise clothing Linda ordered, I kept thinking about what Patrice had told me. It was about the only thing I'd had on my mind for several days. I hadn't seen her in the park and I hadn't decided what I would tell her. I was considering a way to check up on my wife, but hadn't figured out how to do it. If she was having an affair, I didn't want to just walk into the bedroom and watch. It turned my stomach to think about what she was doing, but I wasn't sure she was the woman B.J. Harriman was visiting or if it was the young widow. When people work together, they trade information about each other and their family. I'd learned a lot about Linda and her children, but I didn't really know much about her husband. I opened my mouth to ask what her husband did for a living, but I was preempted when she started talking.