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The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 01

By: Rehnquist



INTRODUCTION: A few weeks back, Cloacas made a strong comment on a story. He proposed that the whole husband-runs-away genre was silly from day one, and it's high time we all put the whole damned thing to bed and come up with something more original. Unfortunately, originality has never been my strong suit, and I was already half way through this, my third and final attempt to get this story written, and didn't want to stop. So sorry about that, Cloacas. I still think you were right, though.

I know, third and final time. The first attempt was scrapped when it just didn't seem right. I took the wife's point of view, and it didn't work. I couldn't find the voice. The second attempt went way better, and I was almost a hundred single-spaced pages into a third person point of view story when I just couldn't make any headway. Another month wasted. Then, driving to work one morning, I decided to change the whole focus and write it from the husband's point of view only. That's always been easier for me, but I still had a problem. The problem? Well, neither of the prior incarnations had any of this first part in it. I've never been much of a fan of the stories that begin with we met, we fell in love, we were so happy and I was so perfect, and then she up and cheated on me. Still, the long intro of the type I detest seemed necessary to properly set up the story.

Thus, you are forewarned: This is going to start out slow. When you get to the later chapters, though, you'll be able to remember all that's here and see why I did it this way. It was the only way to make the husband-runs-away scenario believable and, if I succeed, compelling–compelling in that the husband has to run away.

This will be the first of four parts, all roughly equal in length. They will be posted on consecutive days, so you should have all of this with little or no delay.

Thanks for taking the time to read, and please take a moment to drop me your comments.

ONE

I stood on the balcony of our condo, looking out over the wide brown ribbon of the muddy Mississippi meandering by four stories below me. The sun had nearly reached the horizon, but it didn't seem in any sort of hurry to finish its daily trip. Instead, it just sort of lazed there, right on the cusp of dipping down, the muggy summer air hanging on the horizon and dulling it to a creamy lemon color. That lazy old sun, I swear you could just look straight at it forever and never go blind.

The dull, hesitant sun seemed the perfect metaphor for my situation.

For my marriage. My life. Everything I knew.

Everything.

I looked down at my hands on the railing. My wedding band stood out, the same dull yellow as the disappearing disk on the horizon.

I don't know if it was the poet in me or the curious kid coming back to the surface.

Whatever it was, I slid the ring off of my finger and stared at it for a moment. Then I reared back and threw it for all I was worth.

Straight at that lazy old lemon sun.

* * * * *

I have to admit it: They all played it perfectly. Truth be told, though, I don't suppose it was really that difficult. God knows I'd wanted Sandra Truelson since we'd first met in junior high school. She was everything a fine Southern belle was supposed to be. Pretty, demure, strong-willed, witty, intelligent, and . . . and just really pretty and incredibly cool in all ways you can name. Five feet four inches, slim, pert breasts, soft blonde hair, and bemused blue eyes that seemed to laugh at some inside joke concerning everything and everyone around her. Her dress was always conservative, and her make-up always lightly applied. All told, she was the perfect daughter for every family photo op that came her daddy's way.

Unfortunately, despite my obvious ardor for her, Sandy's idolatry was forever firmly fastened on my older brother, Stevie.

Stevie was everything I was not. He was tall and athletic with a full head of thick, curly brown hair, dimples when he smiled, and an easy grace and charm that won people over at the first firm handshake.

Stevie would eventually follow in our own father's footsteps. Everyone said it, and they were all right. He had that easy manner overlaying a fierce competitiveness that seemed central to all political powerhouses. He was definitely my father's son, and he'd someday succeed Daddy as the Senator from the Great State of Tennessee. To do that, he needed the perfect Southern belle by his side. Again, most everyone agreed that Sandra Truelson was that perfect Southern belle to be there in his own climb to the top. She'd look gracious and charming and give him a brood of perfect young 'uns with full heads of hair and toothy, dimpled smiles.

The fact that her own daddy was the Speaker of the State House sure wouldn't hurt, either.

* * * * *

I'd just gotten to bed after playing a gig when the phone rang.

"This better be important," I mumbled.

"It's Stevie," Mom sobbed. "He's dead. A car accident."

I don't remember much of the next week that followed, though certain images are still clear in my mind. I remember Sandy at the funeral, dressed all in black. I remember thinking her gauzy veil was the perfect compliment to the dark gray storm clouds sweeping toward the crowd gathered at the cemetery. I remember Mom and Dad just hustling past the gaggle of reporters shouting out questions as they ducked into a long, black limo and drove away. I almost chuckled. Imagine that, Dad avoiding reporters while in the middle of a hotly contested primary race.

"Maybe we should go now, son," the deep rumbly voice of the minister said as he took my arm.

I remember looking around and seeing no one else there anymore. Just me and him and the cemetery people trying to get that gaping black hole filled in before the rains came and turned it to muck.

* * * * *

Daddy won that Senate primary in a landslide, thanks in no small part to voter sympathies at the tragic loss of a young, charismatic son cut down at the beginning of his undoubtedly brilliant career.

Looking back on it, that's obviously where it all started.

Say this for the political gurus: They knew every angle and dreaded wasting any opportunity no matter how sleazy.

I think Faces said it best: I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger.

It's just so hard to believe your own family could do something like that to you.

* * * * *

A year and a half later–the day after Thanksgiving–Daddy sat me down for the talk. We were in the den, his office away from the office. It was all overstuffed chairs and dark wood paneling, deep burgundy carpeting and a massive oak desk. This was maybe the third or fourth time I'd ever been allowed inside for more than ten seconds, which meant serious business was at hand.

"What're you gonna do with your life, Mark?"

"What d'ya mean, sir?"

"I mean," he said, fixing me with a stare and sipping his bourbon before continuing, "you can't just put off adulthood indefinitely. You can't just keep bouncing from bartending gig to bartending gig while carrying on this silly ass dream of being a famous rock star some day."

"You think maybe you'll let me finish law school before I rush out and conquer the world?"

"Don't be a smart ass."

I said nothing, preferring to grind my teeth and seethe with fury. He stared, then I saw something click in his eyes. I waited to see how he would change course.

"It's your last year," he said. "Six, seven months and you've got to go out and get a job. Have you given that any thought?"

I smiled. "I've applied to the Public Defender's office," I lobbed at him. "In Memphis."

Now it was his turn to grind his jaws.

"Memphis," he finally said. "Public Defender's office."

"Exactly."

He shook his head. "Not gonna happen."

"Why not?"

"Because no son of mine is gonna be defending a bunch of crackheads and child molesters, that's why. Jesus, can you imagine what the press would do if you actually got some of these scumbags off?"

"Congratulate me on giving meaning to the Constitutional guarantee of innocent until proven guilty?"

"Don't push it. You know what I mean. You're not going to work for no damned Public Defender's office."

"And you'll stop me?"

He nodded. I went expressionless, knowing full well he could, and would, call in a few chits and get me blackballed.

"Then what? What plan for my life have you made out for me?"

I'll give him this, he held a straight face and didn't give me a condescending smile at my acquiescence.

"You're set on Memphis?"

I nodded. "I need to get out on my own. Can't do that here in Nashville, Dad. You know that, right?"

He nodded, sipped the rest of his bourbon, then stood to refill his tumbler. When he turned back to me, I was shocked as he held out a second tumbler toward me. I took it and sipped, the smooth amber liquid coating my tongue in smokey goodness before burning its way down my throat.

"You're right. You need to get out on your own and make it on your own."

"But?"

"But there's no reason you can't accept some help from your old man to get started, right?"

"What kind of help?"

He put the tumbler down and leaned forward. "I've talked to Jim Parker at Parker and Smythe. They've got a few openings, and he's definitely interested in you."

I closed my eyes and leaned back, directing my voice at the ceiling. "You're saying you agree I need to get away, and your idea of me getting away is to go to work for your campaign committee chairman?"

"You won't be working on my committee, Mark. He's got two openings for new associates. One helping out some partner who does nothing but appeals, the other doing corporate litigation. He says you'd be a great fit at either one."

I sighed and lowered my head, looking at him. He seemed so earnest, so unbelievably caught up in his own bullshit that even he believed it. Unfortunately, I wanted to believe it, too. Granted, he'd sandbagged me. He'd known I would insist on Memphis and made a plan to deal with that contingency. But the plan really was perfect.

"Tell him I'll take the appellate associate position," I said.

"Not the corporate litigation slot?"

"Appellate," I confirmed. "That'll at least keep me pretty much away from all the corporate bigwigs who only want to cozy up to me because of you."

He sagged, but only slightly. "I'll call him this afternoon."

"Fair enough."

I stood, tossed back the rest of the bourbon, and put the glass down.

"See you at dinner, Dad."

"You're not even going to thank me?"

"For what?"

He didn't respond.

* * * * *

Just shy of a month later, I was helping Edwina clean up the glasses and plates strewn throughout the lower level. Yet another Christmas party had come and gone, and with it the dozens of political powerhouses and their accompanying toadies who had dropped by to pay homage to David Roberts, Senior Senator from Tennessee.

"Mark," my mother said. Her voice had an edge, the edge that told me I shouldn't be stooping so low as to assist the hired help in cleaning up before the latest soiree.

"I'm just gonna finish up here, Mom. Get Edwina home to that passel of grandchildren waiting for their visit from Santa."

I looked at Edwina, and she smiled at me. It was a nervous smile, though. A smile that told me to get the hell out of here before I got her in more trouble than I already had. I took the hint and carried the tray full of dirty dishes toward the kitchen.

"Did you see Sandy Truelson tonight?" Mom said as I stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.

"Yes."

"You talk to her?"

"A little."

"Just a little?"

I turned and faced her, leaning against the counter.

"What's this about, Mom?"

She pursed her lips, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think she's sweet on you."

"Really." The melodramatic whisper seemed a bit much, and her conclusion just a tad farfetched.

"Debra and Pat both said she's coming out of her doldrums," Mom continued. "Pat and your father talked, and Debra cornered me to see if maybe you were interested. She said Sandy's been asking about you. Pat said the same thing to your father. Nothing out in the open, but she's definitely interested."

"Strange," I said. "I didn't really get that vibe when I talked to her."

Mom gave an enigmatic smile, which only proved her next point. "We're good at hiding our feelings, you know. We're not quite so out in the open as you men always are."

Unbeknownst to me at the time, I'd frequently harken back to these words all these years later.

"Anyway," Mom rattled on before I could say anything, "we were thinking maybe you could call her up and take her to dinner. The Christmas party at the club is tomorrow night, and I know for a fact she doesn't have a date."

"And you want I should call her at the last second?"

"Why not?"

"Because maybe she doesn't want to go."

Mom only gave that smile again. "I'm pretty sure she does. If the right man calls."

"Why're you so hot to trot for this all of a sudden?" I asked.

She looked hurt, but she'd given me that same mock hurt look a million times. I'm pretty sure all mothers practice that look in front of a mirror.

"Fess up," I said.

"Is it my fault I want to see you happy with the girl you've always had a crush on? The same girl who was . . . ." She dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips, wiping away tears I couldn't see and wasn't sure were there. "The same girl who was almost a part of this family once? Who's always been like the daughter I've never had?"

Mothers. Is it me, or are they also hands down masters of playing the martyr card? Even when it doesn't pull the heartstrings, you still go along with it just to shut them the hell up, right? I think it's genetic.

I sighed. "Fine, but on one condition."

She looked up, her face brightening already. "Yes?"

"You send Edwina home now to be with her family. And you don't give her any . . . any guff about me helping her."

Mom was genuinely puzzled at my request. "Why? She's paid to do this, Mark."

"And for once you can show some appreciation, Mom. Jesus, it's Christmastime."

"Don't you blaspheme on Christmas!"

I waved her off. "Yes or no?"

"But who'll clean up this mess?"

I shrugged. "I suppose I will."

"But you need to get to bed."

"It's almost done. I'll get to bed soon enough."

"But– "

"Yes or no?"

She turned to the doorway to the other room, her jaws tight. After all, what was the sense in being a belle of the New South if you had to clean up after your own parties? Then she turned back to me.

"Fine. I'll send her home."

I smiled, stepping away from the counter and toward her. "Then I'll call Miss Sandra Truelson as early tomorrow as good manners allow."

Mom stuck out her cheek as I neared, and I leaned in and pecked her lightly.

"And thanks," I said, looking at her briefly. "I guess."

She smiled. "I'll let Edwina go now."

* * * * *

I'll be damned, but Mom was right.

"You're calling me at almost the last minute–on a Saturday, no less–and you think I have nothing better to do than go to this silly old Christmas party with you?"

Sandy's words didn't match the light, playful tone in her voice. She was teasing, something of which she'd long been a master. Teasing in such a way as to make me feel silly once I realized I was asking one of the most beautiful, sought after young ladies in Nashville to accompany me to a prestigious party at an exclusive country club only hours before the party was to start. But there was another side to the teasing, the side that was actually self-deprecating, falsely pumping up her own image only to laugh at it. It was what made her so goddamned endearing to everyone who knew her. She could laugh at everything and everyone, but particularly herself.

"Well?" she pressed.

I grinned. "I guess that that's exactly what I'm doing, Miss Sandra Jean Truelson."

"You sound pretty confident in yourself, Mark Roberts."

I laughed, and so did she. "Well, I understand you declining and all, Sandy. I mean, I have no doubt that your dance card is undoubtedly full for this and every other Saturday night in the foreseeable future. I just thought I'd take a chance."

"Oh really? Take a chance?"

"Exactly. Take a chance. No matter how small."

She laughed. "Well," she said, then paused for a moment before continuing, "I'm flipping through my social register at this very moment and can you believe it? I happen to be available this evening."

I grinned. It was a game, but I could picture her devilish grin on the other end of the phone as she played the game out to its conclusion. Probably twirling a lock of her soft blond hair between thumb and forefinger, eyes glittering, slim, toned legs crossed with raised ankle tapping.

"That being the case," I said.

"Yes?"

"Yes what?"

"You said, 'That being the case.' Well? That being the case what?"

"Didn't I already ask you out to the party?"

"No. You asked if– "

"I specifically asked if you would be so gracious as to accompany me to the party. I know I did."

"It's not polite to interrupt a lady."

"It's not polite to correct a gentleman. Or to leave him hanging."

"Am I doing that?"

"That's exactly what you're doing."

"Okay, Mark Roberts. Then I won't leave you hanging any longer. What time will you pick me up?"

"Six?"

"Bit early, don't you think?"

"Not for the chance to spend more time with you it isn't."

She gave a quick, high laugh. "Damn you're good. Smooth even."

"So six it is?"

"Six it is."

* * * * *

Dad loaned me the Caddy to take her.

"That damned thing'll never do," he'd said, waving his arm in disgust at my Ford Escort.

At five to six, I pulled in front of Pat and Debra Truelson's white Georgian-style mansion and parked just in front of the looming porticos. Pat Truelson answered the door himself.

"Mark, come right in," he said, holding the door open wide. "Sandy's still getting ready upstairs. Won't be ready for a few minutes still. Join me in the study for a little nip?"

"Of course, sir," I said, fidgeting nervously.

Speaker of the State House Patrick Truelson was everything a Tennessee politician needed to be. He had at least five inches on my five nine, and his body still appeared just as solid as when he'd been an All Southeast Conference linebacker for the Vols. His hands were enormous, his face long and pleasant, his head of hair a perfectly swept back mane of black and gray. Even in jeans, a light blue Oxford shirt, and a gray cardigan sweater he looked through and through a man used to leading the way in everything he did. Think about it: Do you realize how hard it is to look good in a cardigan these days?

"Don't call me sir," he said, leading the way into his study. "And for Pete's sake, don't you dare call me Mister Speaker." He exaggerated his deep Southern drawl on the last one, pronouncing is 'Mist-uhh Speak-uhh.' He reached onto his desk, picked up two tumblers of bourbon, handed me one, and waved me to a chair next to his. "Just call me Pat, okay?"

I nodded, trying to smile.

"So what are your plans, son?" he asked as I settled in and took a sip of my bourbon.

I looked around the study as I answered. "I'll be graduating soon, sir. In May. Take the Bar Exam in July, get the results in September or October, and settle into a long, hopefully happy life of practicing law."

His study was nearly identical to Dad's, right down to the burgundy carpets. I wonder who copied whom on the style or if there was just one interior decorator to call when a powerful politician needed his study to look cold and imposing. The only real difference was that Dad had a marble bust of General Lee on a pedestal, whereas Truelson had a bust of Tennessee's very own General George Gordon.

"You like that?" he asked, seeing my eyes on the bust of Gordon.


The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 01



I smiled. "Some folks say he was one of the original founders of the Klan, sir."

His smile tightened a bit at that, and he hesitated before saying, "Told you to call me Pat, son."

"Sorry, sir, but that would just go against all the training and upbringing my folks instilled in me."

He nodded, relaxed in his chair, sipped his bourbon. "Fair enough. Anyway, your daddy tells me you've already got a job lined up with Jim Parker's firm in Memphis."

"I've only interviewed there once. Haven't heard back from them yet."

He chuckled. "Trust me. It's a done deal."

I only nodded, more than a bit pissed that everyone seemed to accept that my father's connections were the only way I could land such a prestigious job.

"I was Law Review at Northwestern, sir," I said. "Actually, I've already passed up almost a dozen chances to work at some of the top firms in the Midwest."

"Then why Memphis?"

I hesitated, then went straight for the truth. "I like the music scene."

"The music scene?"

"Yessir. I play guitar in a band up in Chicago, but I think the music scene's better in Memphis."

"And the lawyering?"

I shrugged. "Just a means to an end. Way to earn a living."

His face hardened. "And your obligations to your family?"

"My family?"

"Your wife? Children?"

"I don't have a wife and children, sir."

He started to say something, then relaxed, leaned back in his chair, and smiled. "But you will someday, Mark. And when you do, are you gonna keep chasing this music thing? Or are you going to knuckle down and give them the best damned life you can give them?"

"Tell you the truth– "

"He hasn't really thought about that yet, Daddy," Sandy said from the doorway.

I stood at the sound of her voice and turned to take her in. She was radiant. Elegant. Sparkling. Hell, pick an adjective for the blonde version of Audrey Hepburn in one of those old movies where she's playing a princess and you've pretty much got the picture of how striking Sandra Truelson looked framed by the backlighting against that doorway. All except the demure part. Audrey Hepburn was demure, but Sandy was bemused. Like always.

"Now why don't you quit trying to scare him away before our first date together?" Sandy said, a smile playing at her lips.

"Of course, sweetie. I'll wait for the third date."

"You'll leave him alone, Patrick," Debra Truelson said as she appeared in the doorway. "Hello, Mark."

"Good evening, Missus Truelson."

"You ready to go, Mark?" Sandy said.

"Whenever you are."

She held out her arm, and I walked to the doorway and took her arm in mine.

"Good night, Mister and Missus Truelson."

"You take care of our little girl," Truelson called out behind me.

"Promise," I called back, and guided her to the car as quickly as I could.

* * * * *

"Sorry 'bout that," she said once we were safely on the road.

"No need to apologize."

She giggled.

"What?"

"Think about it, Mark. They never do that to the girls. Just the guys."

"You mean grill 'em on the first date?"

"Exactly." Her giggling persisted. "Can you just picture it?"

I smiled, then did my best impersonation of her father. "And let me ask you, little lady. Just what are your intentions with my innocent son."

"Why Mistuh Speakuh," she said, her hand going to her cheek in mock innocence, "I assure you my intentions are strictly honorable."

"Then . . . uh . . . well, I'm sorry, young lady, but we're going to have to cancel this fiasco before it can begin."

"You pig," she squealed, then tapped me on the arm.

I laughed. Then, as my laughter died away, I got quiet.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said.

I felt her eyes on me, and I didn't want to spoil the night before it began.

"Nothing, really."

"You can tell me, you know. I don't bite."

I shot a quick glance at her, then got my eyes back to the road. "What are your intentions, Sandy?"

She hesitated, then said, "What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . well . . . I guess this is just weird is all. Y'know? You being engaged to Stevie and all."

I waited for her to say something, but she didn't. We were silent until we got to the Club and the car was parked.

"Stevie's gone," she said when I turned off the engine. I didn't have to look at her to confirm the sorrow that was in her voice. "We all need to move on. All of us. It's been almost eighteen months, and we all need to move on."

"Fair enough," I whispered.

"And I like you, Mark," she said, her hand settling on my forearm. I turned to look at her, and she gave a weak smile. "Really. I've always liked you."

"But I'm not Stevie."

"I know." She turned gave a laugh that sounded almost bitter. "Trust me, do I ever know that." Then she turned back and said, "I'm not trying to replace Stevie. You of all people should know that, right?"

I gave her an odd look, but she just gave a tight smile and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

I should know that how? I wanted to scream. But I didn't. I kept my mouth shut, got out of the car, went around and helped her out, and led her into the dance.

And into the first night of the rest of our lives.

* * * * *

The Christmas party was good. Oh, what the hell, why lie. Fine, it was great, okay? The best damned time I'd probably had with any girl at any party without actually getting my monkey spanked at the end of the evening.

As a matter of fact, the whole damned Christmas Break was just great. It was like we started with the Christmas party and some dances and chatting, and before you knew it we were inseparable. She was over bright and early the next morning to hang out, and we went driving around that afternoon.

Christmas Eve was spent with family, but we managed to sneak in almost a full day on Christmas Day. One of the benefits of having politicians in the family: They spend their holidays at homeless shelters and hospitals getting in plenty of photo ops to prove they really do care for the downtrodden they're constantly screwing in favor of their corporate cronies. That left Sandy and me free to do as we pleased.

When the doorbell rang at nine thirty on Christmas morning, I plodded down the stairs in my pajama bottoms and opened it to find a grinning Sandy. Her eyes took in my bare chest in appreciation–okay, not much hair, but I'm way more buff than you'd think; not nearly as scrawny as the baggy shirts and loose-fitting pants would have you believe.

Her eyes lingered on my abdomen for a moment before meeting my eyes. Her baby blues just sparkled as she clapped her hands and said, "Did you get me a present?"

I smiled through my yawn, nodded, and waved her in.

She hugged me, her freezing clothes against my bare skin shocking me into consciousness. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," I replied, then kissed her.

She returned the kiss with more passion than we'd previously enjoyed. It was with incredible hesitation that I finally broke the kiss. "Let me brush my teeth first."

"It's not that bad," she said, then tossed her coat onto the entry bench, kicked off her shoes, and stuck a present into my hand. "I got you something, too."

I smiled, looking at the tiny box in my hands. I shook it. It was light, and nothing rattled around inside.

"But I get to open mine first," she said, leading the way past me and into the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

"I'll make it while you go get cleaned up."

"I'm on it," I said again, watching her sashay her jean clad bottom down the hall.

"Move it," she said louder without bothering to look back. "I wanna see what you got me."

Ten minutes later, we were sipping scalding coffee next to the Christmas tree.

"I wonder what it is?" Sandy said, holding up the box and trying to hold back her laughter at my pathetic attempt at wrapping her gift. Then she tore into the paper like a little kid and pried open the box.

"Oh, Mark," she said, looking at the three silk scarves nestled within, "they're beautiful."

"You think?"

She took one last look, then put the box down and leaned over and kissed me long and hard. "Really," she said when the kiss was done.

"Then maybe you'll like this, too" I said, reaching under the couch and pulling out two more boxes.

These contained two blouses and a sweater, and her kisses told me she liked these even more.

Finishing my coffee, I stood.

"Aren't you going to open my present yet?" she said, trying to pout through her glee and failing.

"In a minute," I said, holding up my empty mug. "I need energy."

Returning a minute later, I again sat next to her and held out a small wrapped box to her. "Just this one last thing."

Her eyes got big as she looked from the box to me and back again.

"You shouldn't have gotten all this. I didn't really get you hardly anything."

I smiled. "You've made me happy. For the first time in my life I understand what they always said. You know, that it's better to give than to receive?"

Her fingers trembled this time as she carefully unwrapped the small box. Then, looking first at me as if afraid to continue, she opened the box and looked inside. "It's beautiful, Mark," she said, a silvery tear welling up in the corner of her eye.

"Merry Christmas, Sandy," I said, wiping the tear from her eye as she pulled out the small gold locket from the box. "Open it."

She did, looking at the picture of her and me dancing cheek to cheek on our first date the week before. She smiled, but the smile looked so sad I was afraid I'd done something wrong.

"You okay?"

She nodded, just looking at the picture before softly closing the locket and handing me the box. "Please put it around my neck."

I complied, and her fingertips lingered on the small locket at her throat. I said nothing, preferring to sip my coffee and wait for her to settle down.

Her eyes were staring at the empty box on the floor next to her crossed legs when she spoke. "I'm sorry. It's just that . . . well . . . it's just that you're maybe the sweetest guy I've ever met."

"And?"

She looked up and smiled. "And what? That's a compliment, silly."

I shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. "Thanks."

She leaned in and squeezed me hard, holding it as she said, "You really are a great guy, aren't you?"

I didn't respond, preferring instead to hug her warm, soft body in return.

"Okay," she said, breaking the hug and standing up, trying to force a smile to her face. "Let me get some more coffee and then you can open your present."

"Hurry," I said to her retreating back.

Thirty seconds later, she knelt down behind me and draped her arms around my neck and whispered into my ear. "It's not much, I suppose. Really, it's all what you make of it."

I tried to go slowly and act all adult, but in no time the paper was torn off and the box was opened.

"You like?" she whispered into my ear, then sucked in my earlobe to heighten my confusion.

"It's . . . ." I started, then pulled the lacy white panties from the box.

"I took them off just before I came here," she said, switching to my other ear.

"You mean . . . ."

"Uh huh," she said, then started kissing and licking my neck to drive home her point.

I groaned.

"I'm hoping you'll use the gift in the spirit in which it was meant," she whispered, then trailed her fingers over my chest and down my belly.

I held her hand to keep her from getting near my last body part that was only then beginning to awaken.

"You mean . . . ." I started again.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered, pushing her hand past mine and into the top of my pajamas.

I closed my eyes and leaned back into her as her cool fingertips slid into my boxers and traced the length of my arousal.

"Very nice, Mark Roberts," she murmured as she kissed my neck. "Very nice indeedie."

I giggled. "Indeedie?"

She wrapped her small hand around my cock and squeezed. "Indeedie," she confirmed.

I moaned, then turned my head to find her lips. She kissed me, deeply, our tongues dueling. It started out slow and tentative, but soon the passion rose as her hand started pumping up and down. I started unbuttoning her blouse, then freed her breasts from her lacy white bra–the perfect match to the panties in the box. Once free, her mounds were beautiful. On the small side, but perky and firm. Creamy white skin with small, pale pink areolae the size of nickels and erect nipples, the natural weight making them heavier at the bottom but still giving them that perfect upturned look that begged to be kneaded and nibbled and licked. Squeezing one breast, I lowered my mouth to the distended nipple of the other and flicked my tongue over it.

"Let's go upstairs," she said, pulling her hand from my pants and standing.

"Not a chance," I said, pulling her to me and pushing her blouse over her shoulders and down her arms before going for the button of her jeans. "They won't be home for hours."

"But if someone comes to the door," she said, but her face told me the thought excited her.

"Then they'll get the Christmas show of a lifetime."

"Promise?"

"Definitely."

I knelt in front of her and pulled her jeans over her slim hips and down her smooth legs to the floor.

"Let me help," I said, placing my hand on her ass and squeezing as she lifted her feet out of the pants.

She was trimmed neatly, and the carpeting matched the drapes. My face was only inches from a thin strip of downy blonde hair rising from the top of her pink, puffy lips. I was mesmerized as I hadn't been since my very first time, the time Wanda Sue Rawlins showed me her naked femininity. I'd seen my share since good old Wanda Sue, but this one was, hands down, better than all of them. It was magical and petite and puffy and a light shade of pink and glistening just so with her excitement. It smelled clean and tangy at the same time. It was–and I know this sounds silly–a perfect match to the rest of her body as none had ever been before. And it was the one pussy I'd spent my entire post-pubescent life trying to get into.

I looked up into her eyes. There was a twinkling there. An excitement to be sure, but more. It was as if she was daring me and waiting for my approval all at the same time.

My eyes still on her, I placed my hands on her hips and turned, guiding her to the soft leather sofa to my left. She complied, sitting as the back of her legs hit the sofa. Her eyes stayed with me the whole time, and neither of us spoke. I know I had a dumbfounded look on my face, and I swear to God I just froze. I didn't know what to do. Okay, maybe that's not quite accurate. I knew exactly what to do, and I wanted more than anything in the world to do it. Yet, I was afraid. Afraid this was all moving too fast or would suddenly complicate things or ruin everything before it even had a chance to get started.

The realization of my situation began to dawn on Sandy, too. I watched as her face took on a different look, a look of pleasure and pride. Most of all, though, a look of triumph. Her smile got wider and brighter and her eyes more bedeviling than before. That confused me, and I'd undoubtedly be kneeling between her legs to this day, befuddled and frozen, if Sandy hadn't reached out and begun running her fingers through my hair before pulling me toward her.

I kept my eyes on her until my lips were brushing her nether regions. Then I closed my eyes and snaked out my tongue, flickering it against the dewy softness of her opening. From above, I heard a sharp gasp, then a long, low exhalation of breath, and I knew this was going to work out perfectly.

* * * * *

I was laying on my side, stroking the rise of Sandy's hip, which was snuggled back into my groin. My cheek was nuzzled into her neck as my breathing slowed down along with hers.

"Penny for your thoughts," she mumbled.

I just snuggled in deeper, afraid of saying anything. Great though this had been–and it had more than exceeded my wildest imagination–the post coital bliss was coupled with more than a touch of guilt and insecurity.

Sandy wiggled her tiny body around until she was facing me. Seeing my face, she gave a reassuring smile and stroked my cheek.

"You feel bad, don't you?"

I shrugged.

"Because of Stevie?"

I closed my eyes. "This is all just a bit confusing."

"We need to move on, Mark. Both of us. Yes, I was engaged to Stevie. But he's gone now, okay?"

"But I'm nothing like him. I really don't understand why you– "

"That's exactly why I'm here. With you. Now. Because you're nothing like him, okay? If you were like him . . . well, then we'd both be having problems with moving on, don't you think? And there's no way this arrangement would ever work."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'd be looking for an identical replacement, and you'd be trying to be him. But you're not trying to be him. You've never tried, and you never will. You two didn't compete. And there's no way this whole arrangement would work if you were like him. It would just be too much."

"Except over you," I said. "We competed over you."

Her hand stopped on my cheek. "You never asked me out, Mark. Not once."

"But I was going to. He knew that, and he beat me to the punch."

"I didn't know. He never . . . ."

"Don't feel bad. That's not the point. That's not why I told you. But if I had . . . ."

She looked deep into my eyes, doubt and sorrow mixed into one. She knew what I meant, and her lips tightened.

"You're right. If I had known–if you'd asked me at the same time–I'd have chosen him. You're right, but what of it?"

"What d'ya mean, 'What of it?'"

"Just that. So what. That was then, this is now."

"You say that like . . . like . . . well, like it doesn't mean anything anymore."

"But it doesn't."

"Why doesn't it?"

"I'm not following you."

"Stevie was big and rugged and handsome and popular. He was the leader and the quarterback and the chosen one. I'm short and skinny and I play guitar and . . . and I'm nothing like him. Nothing. How can you even be attracted to me after him?"

That wry smile curled her lips, and her right eyebrow rose in a steep arch. "You see short and skinny. I see chiseled and cute. You see introverted and shy, but I see sweet and caring. Stevie had his faults, Mark. We all do, right?"

"Yeah, but I feel like you're driving around a Volkswagen after you've had a Ferrari."

Her hand found my exposed and limp pecker and grasped it, squeezing firmly. "This, my friend, is no Volkswagen, got it? I'm not the world's most experienced, but I've seen more than a few in my day, and this one is definitely a Ferrari. In this department–this whole department–you are a stallion, okay?"

That felt good. "So this was good for you?"

"Share a secret?"

"Sure."

"You turned me inside out. I usually don't get off that easily. It usually takes some finger action to get me off while you're doing it, y'know? Getting off while I'm doing it is few and far between. Damned few and way too far between. But you?" She grinned at the memory. "This is the first time I've ever . . . the first time it's ever happened more than once. And it happened three times. And without any help from your fingers. It feels different, and it feels real good."

I kissed her cheek. "Thanks."

She stroked my cheek, then leaned in and gave me a deep kiss. Not a passionate kiss and not a chaste kiss. It felt different. It felt appreciative and cozy and tender. It felt like a loving kiss.

* * * * *

We screwed like bunny rabbits for the three weeks remaining in our respective Winter Breaks. Neither of us could get enough of each other, and it began to worry me toward the end.

Two days before I was due back in Chicago for my last semester at Northwestern University School of Law, we laid in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

"Why so down?" she whispered. Her back was spooned into me, my fingertips tracing circles around her softened nipples.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 01



"What do we do now?"

"Now?"

"I'm leaving in two days. You're leaving in three. Are we going to continue this?"

She rubbed her cheek in against my forearm under her head. "We see each other on weekends when we can and all of Spring Break and we use the internet to chat and we keep going."

"You sure?"

"Aren't you?"

"I guess so."

"You guess?" She flipped around and started tickling me, her soft blond hair falling into my face and sticking to my lips as I tried to fight her off without bruising her. "You guess? I'm just some trollop for a quick fling, then it's back to the big bad city where you've got a string of groupies chasing after you and your silly little band?"

"They're not silly," I protested.

"The groupies or the band?"

"Neither," I said, taking her wrists and flipping us around until she was pinned beneath me. "But especially the groupies."

"You pig," she squealed in fits of laughter.

We rolled around on the bed, laughing and tickling and teasing for another ten minutes before we settled down. When it was over, we laid there panting.

"I'm going to be here for you, Mark," she said, her voice serious. "You get your degree and I'll get mine. I've already got a job probably lined up in Memphis, too, and we'll get a place together and set up house and get married and all that fun stuff." 

I turned my head to her, not believing what I was hearing.

"You saying you love me?"

"What? You? You've got to be kidding." She flashed a smile. "Why? You love me?"

"You know I do."

"You've never said so."

"Didn't want to scare you off. Seemed a bit too much too soon."

"So you do?" she said, glee all over her face again.

I nodded, smiling.

"Then say it."

"Say what?"

"That you love me."

"Okay. I love you."

"Say it like you mean it."

"Sandra Truelson, I love you with all of my heart. Not a star in the sky burns as brightly as my love– "

"Oh gag me," she said, flipping on top of me. "I said like you mean it, not like a Hallmark card."

I laughed. "But it's true."

"Oh really."

"Really."

She beamed, then said, "Okay. Then I guess I love you, too."

"You guess?"

She shrugged. "Bit early, don't you think?"

"You little shit," I said, again flipping her onto her back.

"Did you just call me a shit?"

"Yes."

For some reason, that sent her into more peals of hysterical laughter that only ended when I started tickling between her legs. At first she tried to squeeze her legs shut and get away from my fingertips. As her laughter died down, though, her legs opened and she began pushing herself against my fingers.

"Looks like someone's in the mood for round two," she said, then pulled my head to her breasts.

* * * * *

Sandy was as good as her word. Every day, frequently two and sometimes three times a day, she e-mailed me little messages. Funny messages, sweet messages, cute messages, messages ranting about someone or something. It was all there. Three or four times a week, we talked on the phone, which wasn't cheap given our distance. Somehow, though we were apart, we grew closer.

Through our correspondence and calls, I learned to anticipate her moods and to laugh inwardly at her impetuous, sometimes utterly unpredictable nature. She said the craziest things, and it was sometimes difficult to tell whether she was joking or deadly serious. Then, just as I would get ready to ask her, she'd give that cute little giggle or some such thing, and I'd laugh at some joke I'd spend the rest of the evening trying to figure out.

It was crazy and whacky and fun and giddy and all that sappy shit you see in the old movies and hear David Gates sing about in old Bread songs.

Sandy was not just a breath of fresh air.

She was a strong, continuous gust that just blew into my life and kept me hanging on for dear life.

God, it was great.

* * * * *

We spent Spring Break together in Chicago. She saw me and the ragtag band I was in play two gigs, one at a club in Lincoln Park, the other at a honky tonk out in the sticks. The rest of the week, we screwed like rabbits and spent lazy days walking hand in hand through the Loop, museums, a zoo, and along the lakefront.

"Why so glum?" Sandy whispered into my chest.

I was laying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling; she was curled on her side, stroking my chest.

I gave a slight shrug.

"Sad to see me go?" Her voice sounded gleeful at the notion, like I was being too cute by about half and she was either mocking or enjoying my confusion and depression.

"What is this?" I asked a bit louder than intended as I turned to face her.

She shrank back, at first surprised. But the smile quickly returned.

"This is the last semester before the rest of our lives, silly."

"All of this, Sandy. What is it?"

Now it was her turn to be confused. "What's what? All of what?"

"Us."

"Don't you know?"

"I'm not sure."

She gave a funny look and rolled our eyes. "Dear Gawd, apparently I have to do all the thinking here."

"See? I don't know when you're being serious or just jerking my chain."

Her face got deadly serious at that, and her eyes bore into mine. "Serious? You want serious? Fine. How's this. We both graduate by late May, both move to Memphis, get apartments close to each other, announce the engagement by September, and have a lovely wedding about August next year. Serious enough?"

My jaw dropped. "Just like that?"

She gave that lopsided grin. "No sense in making it all too confusing, is there?"

I shook my head.

"How long have you been planning all of this?"

"Since Christmas night." She gave a devilish flicker of her eyes and nudged me in the ribs. "That's when I was pretty sure I'd be able to stomach being married to you, I suppose. Remember?"

I did, of course. But it seemed like she was trying to divert me. "So when you raped me in front of the Christmas tree, that– "

"I didn't rape you," she shrieked in protest. "That was a Christmas present. And you'd better not say it was a cheap one, either."

"Anyway," I continued, smiling now, "since you . . . uhm . . . well, worked your womanly wiles upon me, took advantage of my holiday spirit and all, that's when you decided you wanted to marry me?"

She gave a dismissive shrug. "Pretty much."

I nodded. "Do I get any say in this?"

"Sure. If your mother has no objection, you can probably plan your own bachelor party. She and my mother are already making all the other plans. The important ones. Probably as we speak."

I laughed. "Yeah. Right."

She saw I was serious and gave an exasperated sigh. "You men can be so dense sometimes. You think this is easy? Planning a wedding?"

"You're serious, aren't you?"

Now the look of confusion was back, followed seconds later by anger. She pushed the blankets off and swung her legs over the bed, her back to me.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The thought of being married to me really that repugnant?"

"What? No, of course not. It's just that this is all moving . . . well, it's really caught me by surprise."

She whirled on me, her eyes still ablaze.

"You think this is easy for me?"

I held up my arms.

"I'm practically throwing myself at you here, just like at Christmas, and you think it doesn't make me feel just a little bit maybe underappreciated?"

"Jesus, Sandy, I'm sorry. I just didn't . . . I don't want to . . . you're not the easiest person to read, you know, and I don't want to make the wrong step and fuck everything up, okay? I mean, Christ, you wanna get married? Fuck, I'll do it right now. Go to City Hall, get the damned license, and hunt down a judge somewhere."

Her face got all questioning again, then softened, then the grin was back. "Okay, don't go messing with the schedule now. Remember, engagement ring in September or so, wedding ring the following August."

"Should I drop to my knee or something?"

She laughed, then crawled over the bed toward me, pulling the sheets back and exposing my bare body as she did so. "I'll do the knee work for now. You just remind me about what you said earlier."

"What?"

She reached her tiny, cool fingers around my prick and lowered her head. "Something about taking advantage of your Christmas spirit? Was this the Christmas spirit you were referring to?"

With that, she lowered her lips to my cock and sucked me all the way in.

I could only watch with glazed eyes, enjoying the sensations coursing through my body as this pixie nymph gave me a glimpse of what I hoped marriage would be like.

* * * * *

No real sense in giving you the blow by blow of the next eighteen months. They played out exactly they way Sandy promised they would.

We both got our own condos in Memphis, though hers was only rented month to month and went mostly unused.

We were engaged in September; I passed the bar exam and became licensed in October; we were married in August; and her Dad was elected Governor of Tennessee in November.

Oh shit, that's right, there was that one little fly in the ointment. Shortly after our graduation, Pat Truelson announced he would be running for Governor the following year. Thus, what would've otherwise been a minor blurb in the social pages–U.S. Senator's Son and State Speaker's Daughter Are Wed–became the cause celebre of the gossip columnists, People magazine, and a all of those God forsaken rags you buy in the checkout aisle with your toothpaste and baloney.

Thus, our engagement announcement wasn't limited to family and close friends. Oh no, instead it was dispatched to the press with precision and efficiency by Pat Truelson's campaign people. Then, to make matters worse, the campaign picked exactly the angle that would maximize both interest to the public and annoyance for me and Sandy.

"From Tragedy to True Love," is how People put it.

Entertainment Tonight, being bored with Lindsey Lohan, Charlie Sheen, Brangelina, Paris, the Kardashians, and all the rest, decided to make Sandy and me their new poster children for romance, values, love, and success. Hell, you name it, Sandy and I were the darlings of it for awhile there. HLN and CNN decided this was a good idea, apparently. As a result, I was regularly running into video cameras, reporters, and photographers outside both my condo and my office.

"You need to cooperate with them more," Patricia Burley told me for months on end. As Truelson's press attache, she was responsible for milking this for as much as possible, so I didn't exactly trust her.

"How so, Patricia? You want I should get them coffee and bagels every morning before taking a couple hours out of my day to sit for pictures and interviews?"

"Oh no. Bagels? Too New York. It'd never fly. Biscuits wouldn't hurt, though."

I stared at her. She was dead serious, apparently impressed I'd (almost) come up with a really great idea.

Sandy didn't seem to mind all of the attention, though. To the contrary, she basked in it. She was always perfectly prepped–dressed just so with enough but never too much make-up and a bright smile that could turn into a sad look of remembrance at the mention of Stevie before turning back to a shy smile at the mention of how we'd fallen in love and our pending nuptials.

I have to say, Sandy was a natural at it. Then again, she held a Master's in Communications and worked in a public relations firm, so I suppose she should've been good at it.

The shitstorm seemed to die down when the photos and video of our wedding, which was supposed to be private, somehow managed to leak to the press only a few weeks before the November elections.

Pat Truelson's speech to the congregation both eulogizing Stevie and praising Sandy and me for moving on with our lives put him over the top. At the end, he won in a landslide.

Me? I wanted to punch all of them. Patricia Burley, Pat Truelson, the photographers, reporters, cameramen, and talking heads. The whole damned lot of them.

Unfortunately . . . well, okay, fortunately . . . Sandy and I were a bit too busy setting up house and christening all of the rooms in our newer, bigger condo on the river for me to get around to staying pissed off all that long.

So yeah, life was good.

For a little more than three years.

Until a problem arose.

CHAPTER TWO

The problem's name was Napoleon Bonaparte Bonaroo. (I know. That was my reaction, too.)

Nap Bonaroo was a decent enough good ole boy, assuming you manage to look past his string of petty theft and minor drug and alcohol convictions. Simply put, when Nap Bonaroo got to drinking or popping meth, he took things that weren't his and got into the occasional bar fight.

Unfortunately, in 1996, someone slipped into the Dew Drop Inn just east of Memphis with mayhem on his mind. That someone, who managed to keep his face turned away from the low quality camera, approached the cash register with pistol drawn, demanded the money, shot the bartender, and swiped a carton of Pall Malls before skedaddling on down the road to spend the whopping three hundred bucks and change that had justified killing a twenty-three year old mother of one.

The cops got lucky, or so they said. Someone heard someone who told someone who just happened to mention to a confidential informant that one Napoleon Bonaparte Bonaroo was bragging to his buddies about the shooting. Two days after receiving that crappy tip, the cops spotted Nap leaving a liquor store and took him in for questioning. Of course, Nap was a bit eager to get into the two half pints of Old Thompson under his arm, so he refused to go. Cops, being used to fellows like Nap, just slapped on the cuffs, tossed his booze in their trunk to take home themselves, and took him down to the station anyway.

Eleven hours later, the cops had a confession. In their own writing and unsigned, granted, but a confession nevertheless. Or so they claimed.

And Nap? Well, he had a broken cheekbone, busted lip, and a couple of cracked ribs. Resisting arrest, they claimed.

The trial judge denied Nap's motion to suppress the confession. The jury later convicted. Death penalty. The State Supreme Court managed to lend little guidance, instead preferring to send it back to the trial judge for re-sentencing due to another mistake at trial. The trial judge, reading the handwriting on the wall, vacated the death sentence on different grounds and gave old Nap life without parole.

Now that Nap had a life sentence instead of a death sentence, the appeals on the never decided confession issue had to be appealed all over again. This time it started with the State appellate court, who affirmed the trial judge's decision. Next, the Supreme Court reversed the appellate court and found the confession was, in fact, inadmissible. However, they continued, no grounds existed to overturn the conviction because there was ample alternative evidence to convict. Thus, they said, letting the jury hear the confession–the whole goddamned cornerstone to the State's case and the only thing that really put Napoleon Bonaparte Bonaroo at the scene of the crime–was deemed harmless error. The United States Supreme Court refused to hear the case.

That's where it would have sat, of course, except prison inmates have little else to do except try to keep from being forcibly sodomized and filing endless motions with courts. Nap must've found a good jailhouse lawyer to help him right off the bat, too. His Petition for Writ of Habeas Corpus was filed in a timely manner at the Federal Courthouse in Memphis. This is where I came in.

The one thing Federal judges don't like is having to deal with prison inmates who have nothing better to do than file crappy pleadings that are rarely legible or understandable. Thus, all of us who have a Federal trial license are forced to take at least one of these cases a year, investigate it, and present it all properly. For free, of course.

Nap Bonaroo was my first ever appointed case.

Even a cursory exam of the file, which took fifteen hours to give even a cursory examination, made it clear that this poor bastard had been sitting in jail for a decade based on little more than a bogus confession he probably never made.

"It's yours," Jim Parker told me after I'd finished explaining the whole case to him. "You keep up with all of your other work, but you do whatever you can to get this fixed. You need someone to bounce ideas off of, fine. You've got Harvey. But you still have to keep up with the rest of Harvey's cases and anything else that comes along, got it?"

I nodded.

Parker leaned back in his chair. "This is the big leagues, Mark. You take it where you want it, but you'll be the one arguing it, understand?"

Big law firms do this. What better way to get their inexperienced associates some real experience than to let them take complete charge of a case for a nonpaying prisoner? Who cares if the poor bastard's really innocent and suffering and would be better served by someone who knows what the hell they're doing? Welcome to real life.

I was, of course, terrified. My legal career to date had consisted of reviewing the records on appeal, researching until bleary eyed, and preparing rough drafts of appellate briefs. I'd never been put in charge of strategy, never appeared in a courtroom, never argued before the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals in Cincinnati, nothing. Now I'd be doing the whole damned thing, and Nap Bonarro's life depended on me not fucking it up. On top of that, I had to still do my other sixty-five hours of work a week while I was at it. Oh joy.

* * * * *

The problems began two months later.

"There a problem here?"

I turned to look at Sandy, laying on her side under the covers with her head propped up by her hand.

"You know I have to get this research done," I said, pulling on a pair of jeans.

"Jesus, Mark, it's five thirty. In the morning. On a goddamned Sunday."

"But you know this is the only time I can get it done."

"And what type of case is this again?"

"A Federal prisoner case."

"A murderer, right?"

"No."

"But you said– "

"He didn't do it."

"And you're doing what with this?"

"Trying to get him free."

"And that means you can't come home before eleven every goddamned night? And you have to spend twelve hours a day in the office on weekends?"

"You think I'm happy about this, too?"

"Well you sure as hell don't seem all that upset."

I finished dressing in silence. In a way, Sandy was right. All things considered, it was pretty exciting stuff. It was my chance to make a difference for the better in some poor bastard's life.

"Well?" she pressed as I finished dressing.

I walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. "What you want I should do? Just let this poor bastard rot in prison for the rest of his life for a crime he probably didn't commit?"

She pouted, but this was more than the fake pout she usually gave. There was sadness and hurt behind this pout. I'd never seen that on her before. Never.

"Listen," I said, leaning in to her, "I'll be home by one or two, okay? Promise. Then we can go do something for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Whatever you wanna do."

She didn't say anything, just stared at me. When I leaned in and kissed her, she didn't kiss me back.

* * * * *

When I got home at ten past two that afternoon, Sandy was nowhere to be found.

Nor did she answer her cell phone.

Nor was she home by the time I fell asleep on the couch at just past ten.

* * * * *

By month three, Sandy would barely speak to me. Her face was a constant mask of sadness and anger and hurt and disdain all rolled into one. It would've pissed me off or forced me to confront the problem, but I was still too busy preparing for the hearing on Nap Bonaroo's case.

The District Court judge, Leland Duesterboeck, was old, crotchety, and a stickler for the rules. That meant when you asked for a continuance, you'd damned well better have a good reason. The State got the picture on this when their first motion to extend time to answer our petition was only partially granted and the second denied outright. He was holding us to a tight schedule to get this case out of his courtroom, and our hearing was upon us before I knew it.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 01



* * * * *

The hearing was held at month five, and it took four days to present our witnesses and make our arguments. When it was done, Jim Parker told me to take the rest of the week off and not come back until Monday morning.

"Sandy," I called out as I entered the condo.

No answer.

I tried her cell phone.

No answer.

I called her office.

Voice mail answered.

I phoned her folks.

They hadn't heard from her in weeks.

I phoned a few of our friends.

Two were cold to me, the third just hemmed and hawed.

* * * * *

It was nearly midnight. I was sitting on the patio overlooking the dark, sinewy waters of the Mississippi four stories below as it made its way to the Gulf. My feet were up on the railing and a nice little Taylor guitar was across my lap. I was absentmindedly playing a series of songs, chord progressions, little snippets of melodies, and generally feeling sorry for myself and wondering where Sandy was when I heard the sliding glass door open behind me.

"What're you doing out here?" she said, her voice flat.

"Waiting for you."

"Why?"

"Because you're my wife. Because I finally got done with that case today. The hearing at least. I've got the next three days off, and I wanted to spend as much of that time with you as possible."

"Just like that?"

"Just like what?"

"You spend the past five months all but ignoring me, doing your best to drive me away, and now you just wanna show up and say, 'Hey, it's all over. We can get back to normal now.'"

I thought about that while I plucked out some notes with my fingers. Sandy seemed content to wait me out.

"I'm sorry," I finally offered.

"You say that. You keep saying that. But you didn't change."

"How would you know?"

"What d'ya mean, 'How would I know?'"

"I mean, Sandy, that you've been gone most of the past three months, too. I've been taking time off to try and spend time with you, but you've always been gone. No one knows where you are, you're not answering your phone, your friends treat me like shit when I call them. So where have you been?"

"Same as you," she said, her voice a challenge. "At work. Figured if you wanted to work your way to the top this quickly, I might as well do the same."

"But no one answers the phone when I call there."

"Because it's easier to get work done without having to answer the phone every time it rings."

I nodded, still playing that guitar and watching that slow, sludgy line of brown water below.

"I'm going to bed," she finally announced.

Still I sat there. And I was there six hours later when she awoke, got ready, and left for work without a word to me.

* * * * *

I spent the weekend alone, walking the riverfront, drinking beer in quiet taverns, and playing guitar on our patio above the river.

I didn't know where Sandy was, and she wasn't saying. It was a tense silence the few times we were in the same room together, like neither of us wanted to back down and take the first step.

Then again, I'd taken the first step–or so I thought–on Thursday night, and she'd knocked my feet out from under me. We seemed precariously close to a permanent fissure in our young marriage, and I didn't know how to close the gap and get back to where we were. Sandy, for her part, didn't seem interested in trying.

* * * * *

I was up to my elbows editing a final draft of an appellate brief at eleven on Monday morning when my secretary stuck her head in the door.

"You're not gonna believe this," she said.

"What?"

"The District Clerk's office just called. You're to be in front of Judge Duesterboeck at two."

"Problem?"

"Decision's in."

I sat back, speechless. We'd just finished the hearing four days before. Decisions in these matters usually took weeks or months. They were never decided in days. I knew there was no way this was gonna be good. The only way the judge was coming back so quickly was if he was denying the Petition for Writ.

My lunch hour was spent trying to keep down a glass of iced tea and keep my head up, which kept falling to my chest in disappointment and shame. I'd busted my ass on this case, and I wanted Napoleon Bonaparte Bonaroo to again walk the streets a free man, which was what he deserved and what the justice system owed him.

It was in this mindset that I dragged myself into the Federal courtroom and to counsel table in front of the bench. Adding to my embarrassment and depression, a traffic accident had held me up, so I was ten minutes late.

"Glad to see you could make it, counsel," Judge Duesterboeck grumbled.

I lifted my eyes and mumbled my apologies.

In response, he grinned like the Cheshire Cat and said, "All counsel approach the bench."

Margie Layne, the pudgy forty-something attorney for the State strode toward the bench with confidence while I lingered at counsel table for a moment.

"Don't be shy, Mister Roberts," the judge said. "The Petition's being granted. The Writ's issued."

Margie froze halfway to the bench, turning to look at me. Her face was a mask of shock. She'd read the timing of this the same as me, apparently, and was stunned she'd lost.

Slowly, not believing what was happening, I forced one foot in front of the other and made my way to the bench, walking past Margie Layne still frozen in the middle of the room.

Judge Duesterboeck slid two thick stapled piles of paper toward me. "One's for you and one's for her. The original's already with the Clerk."

Looking from the written decision, which had to be well over a hundred pages, to Duesterboeck then back to the decision again, I reached out and took both copies, standing there like an idiot unsure how to proceed.

"The Marshall's office is serving the Writ on the warden as we speak, and Mister Bonaroo should be released in a couple of hours."

"Thanks," I finally managed.

He just shrugged.

Margie finally found her words. "Your Honor, the State requests that Mister Bonaroo not be released until– "

"Save it, counsel," he snapped. "Your request is denied. He's being released on his own recognizance. You want it changed, take it up with the Circuit Court."

This, of course, she was in no position to do. The decision had come down so quickly that nothing was ready for the inevitable appeal to the Sixth Circuit.

Jesus H. Christ in a handbasket, I finally realized. I've done it. A fucking grand slam on my first case. A fucking grand slam.

"And for the record, Mister Roberts," Duesterboeck said as he stood, "very nice job. Unfortunately, that means you're probably going to be getting more of these."

With that, he left.

I turned and looked at Margie. She glared in return. I tried to mask my emotions, but I knew a stupid smile was spreading over my face as I held out her copy of the decision. She snatched the bundle of papers from my hand and said, "This isn't over."

She stormed out of the room. I stood there for a moment, savoring my victory however short lived it may prove to be, then grabbed my briefcase and strode out.

I'd arrived.

* * * * *

I sat to the side, waiting for them to finish scanning the decision. My boss, Harvey Fairstein, finished first. He's an old hand at this and knew exactly what to scan. Once finished, he put his copy of the decision in his lap and looked up, flashing me a broad smile. Five minutes later, Jim Parker finished his reading, closed the decision, slid it to the side, and stood, extending his arm toward me.

"Absolutely brilliant, young man."

I stood and shook his hand. "Thanks."

"No, Mark. I mean it. I don't know how you did it–I suspect old Leland's got a hard on for someone in the State system; maybe one of the justices on our State Supreme Court–but this cannot be assailed. He wrote it airtight, and there's no way in hell he had it done in four days. He's been working on this for weeks. Hell, Scalia himself wouldn't touch it."

Harvey slapped me on the back. "He's right. I'll bet ten bucks they don't bother appealing."

I looked skeptical at that one.

"Seriously, Mark. They're funded by the taxpayers. Their case was shit, and they knew it. I don't really know how the appellate courts let this stand for so long. Not to mention that fucking dimwit at trial. Still, I think you've won."

"When will we know for sure?" I asked.

Harvey shrugged. "Best guess? Close of business tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Because if they're taking it up to the Sixth Circuit, they're gonna file something by then requesting that bail be revoked or at least set ridiculously high. Doesn't take long to do, and they should have it on file while they still know where Nap Bonaroo is."

I nodded, remembering Nap the first time I'd met him and the four days I'd seen him in court. He'd been frail and pale and all jittery. He wasn't cut out for prison, and I had no doubt he wouldn't last much longer if he had to go back there.

Parker's phone rang.

"Yes?"

Pause.

"Okay. You get on the phone to the press, and we're on our way."

He hung up the phone and turned to us. "Bonaroo's still in lockup at the Federal section of County. They were getting ready to transport him this morning when they got the call from the Clerk. The Writ's been served on Warden Tompkins, and he's authorized Bonaroo to be released here. They've already taken care of the paperwork on their end and faxed it over to County. Let's go."

"Where?"

Parker looked confused for a moment, then laughed. "Mark, this is huge news. This guy's been sitting in prison for ten years for a crime he didn't commit. Add to that police brutality and a series of bad decisions by the courts and you've got the lead story on tonight's news. Front pages tomorrow."

"And?"

"And you think I'm gonna let this firm miss out on the opportunity at all this free advertising? You think we're gonna miss this shot at introducing our new golden boy to the world?" Then his eyes narrowed, and he said, "You know, you really need to keep your hair cut shorter. And please tell me you've got a freshly starched shirt in your office. Please."

I shrugged, smiling. "Sorry, boss."

"He can play it as the harried young lawyer who's been burning the midnight oil for this poor fella," Harvey offered.

Parker thought about it, then said. "Good idea. Rub your chin a lot, Mark. Make it look like you're really tired from all of this. Just plain worn down, okay?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now let's get moving. They'll all be there in fifteen minutes, and you need to be there first."

* * * * *

Jim and Harvey were right. There were a gaggle of reporters, photographers, and cameramen waiting for us when Jim, Harvey, Nap, and I walked out the front door of that jailhouse. Jim and Harvey stayed back, and Harvey gave me a firm nudge in the back toward the podium already set up at the top of the steps. Apparently, jailhouses are used to this kind of thing, but I sure as hell wasn't.

The questions were shot fast and furious at Nap and me. Nap played his part perfectly, which is to say he was just himself, scared and relieved and speechless and clueless. I think I did pretty well, too, since the adrenalin rush had passed and left me weary to the bone. I rubbed my eyes and stroked my jawbone and even managed a few yawns.

The press ate it up.

Then the questions took a right turn and caught me flatfooted.

"You think the State's gonna appeal?"

"I don't know."

"Have you talked about it with your father?"

I was immediately on guard.

"Absolutely not."

"Still, Mister Roberts, if they don't appeal, you think it's because he's doing you a favor? You being family and all."

"If that were the case," I said, "then why did I have to bother with a hearing in the first place? No, sir, Governor Truelson is a great man. An honest man. He works for the taxpayers, and I worked here for Mister Bonaroo. The taxpayers were more than ably represented by Margaret Layne, and she busted her rear end to represent their interests. But as the District Court's decision made clear, this never should've happened. Ever. And it all happened way before Patrick Truelson was Governor."

"Does that mean things are a bit tense between you and the missus?" another reporter asked.

I felt it happen and couldn't stop it. I just sagged at the question. "I will only say that I've been spending day and night at the office, seven days a week for the past five months, working on this case. Trying to free an innocent man. That has, understandably, taken a toll on a young marriage. It has required adjustments and sacrifice. Still, I love my wife, she loves me, and I want to take a moment to thank her with all of my heart for standing by me during this time."

"Was it all worth it?" someone shouted.

I shot a look of annoyance, then thought over my last answer. Then I turned to Nap, standing beside me looking meek and befuddled. Next to him was his mother, who was somewhere in her mid-sixties but looked twenty years older. All sagging weathered skin and bones. Her gray, stringy hair hung in a tangle, and her clothes were threadbare and faded. She gave me a nearly toothless smile while tears ran down her cheeks.

"It's not a question of whether it was worth it," I said, my eyes on Nap and his tiny, wizened mother as my voice grew thick and raspy with emotion. "It's a question of whether it was the right thing to do. And the answer to that is yes."

My eyes welled up with tears as Mama Bonaroo stepped closer, threw her arms around me, and buried her face in my shirt. She sobbed her thanks as Nap joined in the hug, then she started squeezing us both so tight I thought I was gonna suffocate. That old bird could hug something fierce.

The press pushed in closer and flashbulbs were exploding all over the place, but we ignored them for that moment. I wanted to enjoy the feeling of helping someone. A real person instead of some faceless corporation. A real person who'd been wronged, but now had their life back thanks to me.

Inwardly, I figured this feeling of satisfaction and pride would provide at least some measure of solace as my marriage disintegrated.

* * * * *

Jim and Harvey insisted on taking me out to dinner and drinks to celebrate. Knowing Sandy would be wherever until God knows when–and not wanting to piss off my two bosses–I accepted.

"My God," Jim Parker kept saying, "you were just the best. That whole group hug thing? All them tears? Boy, you're gonna be on CNN, sure as hell."

"Yeah," Harvey agreed. "Just perfect. We're gonna be up to our eyeballs in the shit for awhile."

"The new clients," Parker said, rubbing his hands together at the thought of all that extra dough rolling through the doors.

* * * * *

Sandy was sitting on the couch when I got home, the lamp beside her casting the only light in the dark condo.

I stopped two steps in and stood there, looking at her.

"Hey," I finally said.

"Hey," she whispered back.

I was fidgety, unsure what this meant.

"Saw you on the news," she said, her eyes in her lap.

"Uh, yeah. I won."

She looked back up at me and I saw the silvery streaks running down her cheeks. "They really needed the help, didn't they?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice going husky, "they really needed the help."

"He didn't do it, did he?"

"No."

"And his mother. She looked so . . . just so sad and beaten down. And she looked at you like you were God. Like you were just the most incredible . . . like you were the only luck they'd either of 'em seen in forever."

"She was just happy to get her boy out of prison, I s'pose."

Sandy sniffled, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "You think maybe you can just sit here with me for awhile? Maybe just . . . ."

She waited for me to move and, when I didn't, looked back into her lap. "I'm– "

"Don't say it," I said. "Let's just forget it, can we?"

She looked back up, searching my face for meaning. I tossed my jacket over the back of the chair and walked to the couch, kneeling in front of her.

"It'll never happen again," I said. "I promise. Next time they'll have to get someone to cover everything else for me."

She shook her head. "No. This happens again, you do whatever it takes to help him. Or her or whoever. You . . . I feel so selfish, Mark. Like a class A bitch."

"You're not a bitch."

"I just thought you were leaving me. You know, you didn't want to come home and you were just using this as an excuse to . . . I don't know, to make it less painful when you finally moved out."

"I won't do that," I said. "We're in this for the long haul, right?"

She searched my face again. It was like she couldn't trust what I was saying and wanted me to reassure her. "The long haul?"

I nodded, then grinned and shrugged. "Well, at least until you get tired of me, right?"

She laughed through her tears, which made her hiccup a couple of times. "Who says I'm not already tired of you?"

Before I could answer, she leaned over and pulled me in and held me until her tears had dried and my shirt was wet for the second time that day.

And for the second time that day, also, I felt my body sag with relief. Moreover, I realized, I really did feel like a superhero. Like Superman. It was like I'd dodged two bullets in one day.

* * * * *

And that's the way it played out for the next three years. Everything went back to normal. Sandy and I both worked our sixty-hour weeks; we spent quiet evenings and relaxed weekends together; and we both moved up in our respective careers. For three years, it was all so good again.

Until Governor Truelson decided to try his hand at making a run for the White House.

That's when I learned for the first time in my life how it felt to be betrayed.

And not just by someone I loved, but by almost everyone I loved.



The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 02



INTRODUCTION: If you're still with me, much of the set up is done. Now it's time to really introduce the conflict or, more accurately, conflicts. Plural. Thus, since I'm too busy getting the stage all set, there was no room for sex in this part. None. Also, since this is being posted on consecutive days and I haven't yet read your blistering comments, I just want to point out a few other things, too.

First, I know my character is kind of unsure and befuddled much of the time. In his defense, though, he's the younger, more unworthy son and he's always been in the shadows of his father and brother. Also, I'm generally befuddled and confused myself, so there you have it.

Second, I really do look forward to reading your comments on the moral dilemma I am creating here. This one isn't so black and white, pretty much right up to the end. I'd be interested to hear your take on it. What would you do? The dilemma spills out over the remaining chapters, and I'm almost giddy to see whether any of your positions change.

Thus, I beg of you all, if I could take weeks to write this, please do me the kindness of taking a few minutes to at least post a comment or drop me a line with your thoughts.

CHAPTER THREE

The Tennessee Governor's Mansion is this really pretty red-brick number in Nashville. One of the bonuses of being the boss, I guess, is that you can reside in that colossal joint if you want to. The downsides? Well, I'm not sure how I'd take to all the tourists traipsing through on their little guided tours. Doesn't seem to make much sense to live such a big place if you can't have sex on the stairways whenever you want, right?

Anyway, Sandy and I were amongst a group of family staying with her folks at the Mansion. The other people there?

Well, gathered around the table were her folks and two younger brothers and my folks. That's it. And that's how I knew something big was up.

Darlene, the busty, frumpy, perpetually frowning middle-aged maid, wheeled in a tray laden with dessert just as Pat stood at the head of the table.

"I'd like to thank y'all for coming this weekend," he said, raising his glass of wine.

Here, here, we all echoed, raising our glasses and taking a sip. I waved off the bread pudding for dessert, and Pat smiled at me. "Darlene, dear, why don't you get him a glass of bourbon instead." I looked at him, and his face was strangely nervous. "And me, too, if you don't mind."

She nodded and scurried to the kitchen to fetch the bourbon.

"I'm not really sure how to say it," he continued, putting the glass down in front of him but remaining on his feet.

"Just say it, Pat," Dad said evenly. His sly grin said he knew what was coming.

"Yeah, Daddy, say what you've got to say," Patrick Junior said, bored with the theatrics.

"I'm gonna be puttin' my hat in for the Presidency," he said, his eyes scanning our faces for our reactions.

I'd like to say I was stunned, but I wasn't. That's what politicians do; they run for higher office and higher office. Once you're Governor, the legislature no longer holds any allure. You're no longer the boss, the head honcho, the big cheese getting his ass kissed everywhere by everybody. Therefore, the only higher office for Pat Truelson was the White House.

"Uhm . . . well . . . Debra and I have talked it over, and we've decided that it's now or never. The Republican field's weak right now, and I've got a real shot."

"Southern politicians dominate at this level," Dad agreed with him.

Pat gave a nervous smile. "Let's hope so."

He sat, looking around the table before his eyes settled on me.

"What," I said. Not a question, but a statement.

"I'm gonna need everyone here to be with me on this, Mark."

I nodded. "And you suspect I won't be because . . .?"

He fidgeted. "You and my little girl. Everything good there?"

I was surprised. I looked at Sandy, who just gave a nervous smile in return, then around the table at the other faces. They all looked at me as if they didn't know the answer.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You two haven't had any babies yet," Debra finally said.

"Not my call. I can assure you I'm doing my part."

Pat gave a big grin. "So I can count on y'all tagging along to events. Holding hands and smiling and looking the loving young couple?"

"Of course." I turned to Sandy. "Right?"

She beamed. "Absolutely."

* * * * *

"What was that all about tonight?" I asked a couple of hours later as I slipped beneath the covers in the guest room allotted to us.

"What?" Sandy said, yawning.

"That whole 'How's your marriage doing' routine?"

"High stakes, hon. I guess they don't need any bumps in the road before the primaries or–if he makes it that far–the general election."

"And why would they think there'd be problems?"

She gave a tired shrug. "Not a clue."

"You didn't say anything to them?"

"Not a word. I told them we were all in."

"So you already knew about this?"

"They told me when we got here."

"And you didn't tell me?"

She gave a lazy smile. "Didn't want to spoil the surprise."

"They ask you about our marriage?"

"Yeah."

"And you said . . .?"

"That we were in it for the long haul."

She snuggled in and curled up close to me. I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. After a moment, I said, "Sandy?"

"Hmm."

"Why haven't we had any children yet?"

She propped her head up in her hand, laying on her side and staring at me. "Because we've never discussed it?"

"Is that the only reason?"

"You want kids?"

"I don't know. I mean, we're so busy all the time, I guess. Still, I'd've thought we'd have at least talked about it sometime."

"Why?"

"Isn't that how most marriages go?"

"But we're not most marriages."

I turned my head and stared at her. Her expression was unreadable. She seemed confused by my questions, and I couldn't figure out why.

"You think we could talk about it sometime? Sometime soon?"

Her eyes narrowed, then a bright smile came over her face. A look of unbridled joy.

"Sure," she said. "When we get out of here–get back to our own place when I get back from this Denver trip–we'll have a nice long discussion and figure it all out."

"Maybe next Sunday?"

"It's a date."

She hugged me, whispering into my ear, "I really do love you."

"Really?" I whispered back.

She hugged me tighter. "Really."

An hour later, her professions of love–and my entire understanding of what love really is–were shattered like a crystal goblet flung at a fireplace.

* * * * *

Sandy was no longer cuddled into me. Instead, she was curled into a ball on the far side of the bed, breathing in light, even patterns that told me she was out like a light.

Me? I was wide awake. Nothing about the whole evening made any sense. And for not the first time, I was struck by Sandy's curious responses to what should've been simple questions.

Giving up on getting to sleep anytime soon, I slid out of bed and pulled on a robe. Maybe another bourbon would help me get to sleep.

Walking softly so as not to wake anyone, I crept down the stairs and was surprised to see light sneaking through the almost-closed door to the study. Drawing closer, I heard voices.

"You mean you never told him?" Pat Truelson said.

"Of course not," Mom replied.

"Why not?"

"Because he was never the hard sell on this. Sandy was."

"How so?"

"The boy's been in love with her since he was almost out of diapers," Debra Truelson explained. "Sandy, on the other hand, was always a bit of a wild one. And independent as hell."

"So how'd you get Sandy to go along with it?" Dad asked.

I felt a deep chill run through my nerve endings, a chill of anger and embarrassment.

Debra gave a low, throaty chuckle. "Truth be told, we didn't. I begged her to just go out with him. See if maybe there's something there. She didn't want to. Thought it was creepy, what with him being Stevie's little brother and all. But I told her she needed to at least try for her daddy. If everything worked out right–the timing and all–it would all but sweep him into the Governor's Mansion. And she'd benefit from that. Her career would benefit."

Someone snorted, and Pat said, "Well, it did that all right."

"She was hesitant for the first week or so, their first couple of dates," Debra continued. "But that Christmas she came home with a grin from ear to ear. I'm thinking she slept with him, and he delivered the goods."

"That's it?" Pat laughed.

"I'm not sure, but she came into my dressing room that night and said she figured she'd be able to stick with him long enough to get married and maybe for at least a year or so after the marriage."

"And poor little Mark just played right into her hands," Dad said, amusement in his voice.

"She's a pretty girl," Mom said. "Besides, he's really been in love with her from day one. This was his dream come true."

There was silence for a moment, silence during which I felt my hands going numb from the ferocity with which I clenched my fists.

After the brief lull, Pat said, "So what's kept her with him all these years? You think she's really in love with him now? I mean, she doesn't have any male friends on the side, does she? We don't need that now."

Debra snickered. "Not a clue. She seems content. I suppose it's just inertia."

"They've both been pretty busy with their careers and all," Mom said. "Probably not enough time for either of them to really find someone else and go through the whole rigamarole of divorce and all."

"So you're sure? That they'll stay together, I mean?" Pat asked.

"Mark's not going anywhere," Mom said.

"And Sandy said everything's just fine so far as she's concerned," Debra said.

I heard glasses get laid on tabletops, then Dad said, "Well, let's hope so, Pat, because you've got a really good shot at this. The slightest bump in the road can upend the whole damned cart."

"You think?"

I heard their footsteps as they all moved toward the door. Ducking back, I pressed up against the wall deep in the shadows. It was all I could do to keep from confronting them all as they came into the hallway, but something told me that wouldn't go very well. In my current state of rage and confusion, I'd probably end up beating them all half to death.

I was still pressed against the wall five minutes later, well after my folks and Sandy's had made their way up the stairs to their respective bedrooms. Now my mind was racing with thoughts.

Sandy's curious answers were all explained now. Her reactions to my moods and her facial expressions when professing love and devotion and planning our marriage and on and on. She'd thought it was all this great big marvelous game, and the notion enraged me.

Then another thought struck me: She'd always acted as if I'd known about the game. As if I, too, knew ours was a marriage of political expediency and little else. If she'd known I was in the dark on this, she'd have played her cards closer to her vest.

Now, though, the thoughts really came tumbling out, crashing back and forth inside my skull with such force and rapidity that I became dizzy. If it had been a game to her, then did she really have a stable of boyfriends? If she didn't really love me, then why had she been so upset when I'd had the Bonaroo appeal a few years before? And why had she seemed so relieved when I'd finished and come back to her?

I couldn't answer any of the questions. Not a single damned one. If she'd been fucking around on me, she'd been doing it during work hours. Still, except for those few months during the Bonaroo appeal, our bedroom antics hadn't seemed to suffer more than the biologically-necessitated ebb and flow, and the lull during the appeal was as much attributable to my long hours as to hers.

Still, it was an arranged marriage. A marriage predicated on political necessity rather than love and devotion. Had it grown to more since then? On my side it had. Then again, I'd loved her from almost the beginning.

But had Sandy ever loved me? Had she grown to love me? Or was she just fond of me. Or did she just tolerate me. Or did she resent me and mock me.

Without warning, my questions about Sandy were cast aside with the sudden realization that my own parents had sold me out. Without telling me, they'd played me like a fiddle for their own reasons. Both of them.

How the fuck do you do that to your own son?

I mean really, how the fuck?

* * * * *

Sunday had been spent dropping Sandy off at the airport for a two-day business conference in Denver before driving myself back to Memphis and getting last-minute shopping and laundry done. I turned in early and spent most of the night tossing and turning, wishing the whole time I'd said something to Sandy before seeing her off. Maybe the bed wouldn't have seemed so . . . so . . . so goddamned transient all of a sudden.

Dragging into the office on Monday morning, I looked and felt like death warmed over. Emotionally, I wasn't up to being there. Physically, my energy was just sapped. Gone.

My problem was that I had no clue what to do. Do I confront Sandy? What would I say? 'Hey, it's come to my attention this is all just an arranged marriage kind of thing. You sure you don't want out?'

Then, of course, she'd look at me like I was a fucking idiot. 'Well fucking duh, moron.' Worse, she'd then insist we stay together, at least until after the elections down the road. And how do I say no? If I'm happy, do I really care if she's truly and deeply in love with me, or do I just keep playing along wondering if and when the hammer's going to fall?

Sandy seemed happy enough. Hell, we both were happy. Did it matter whether it was love? Did it really matter how it had started out? Arranged marriages happened all the time, both in politics and in Third World countries. Hot though she was, you really think Jack Kennedy married Jackie because of a deep, abiding love? Hell no. He married her to get rid of the rumors that he spent his whole life chasing skirts. Then, after they got married, he still spent the rest of his life chasing skirts.

But Jack Kennedy had gone into it with eyes wide open; I didn't. Then again, neither had Jackie, and the history books all said she'd been in love with him. Just like I thought I was in love with Sandy. Now, though, I was wondering if I still loved her.

"Mister Roberts?"

I looked from the wall and my eyes focused in on my secretary, Thelma Sanderson. Her arms were holding a tall pile of thick, heavy binders.

"Yes, Miss Sanderson."

"You mind if I find room for these here?"

I waved around the office. "Sure. What are they?"

"All the books for your daddy's campaign committee. Mister Parker's got no room left and told me to find someplace to park 'em for now. Being as he's you're daddy, I figured this was as good a place as any."

"How long?"

She shrugged as she bent over and stacked them against the wall next to boxes of appellate records I was in the middle of ploughing through. "Couple of days, I suppose."

"Whatever," I said, turning back and facing the walls.

I'm not sure why I did it. I stared at the walls for another ten or fifteen minutes or so. Those books, though. They just kind of called to me. Beckoned me over to have a peek. Jim Parker's people–along with a troop of weary looking accountants in rumpled suits–were always poring over those books. I'd seen them all gathered around the massive mahogany table in the main conference room every few weeks, arguing back and forth and jotting figures and notes. I'd always thought myself well rid of being called in on that crap, but my mind was tired of worry and I decided to sneak a peek at the books.

Hauling two of them over to my tiny round work table, I flipped over the book containing the most recent entries for the first quarter. It was filled with copies of Federal Election Commission filings and disclosures and all manner of esoterica required to be reported for others to pore over and look for irregularities. In short, it was Greek to me.

Pushing aside book one and flipping over book two, I saw something completely different. These were a series of memoranda on different campaign finance issues. This was more like it, I thought. Boring trivialities that make up the sum and substance of the law. How to categorize this donation and that expenditure, how to say what you had to say without really saying anything at all. This was major stuff, I thought. Campaigns try to be as discreet as possible. No sense in letting some expenditure sloppily labeled come back to bite you in the ass when some bastard from the New York Times does his homework on a slow news day.

Almost an hour later, my problems and the piles of real work on my desk forgotten, I came across a curiously titled memorandum. Staff Support or Consultant. It was brief, just short of three pages. It was the first three paragraphs, though, that burst from the page and knocked the wind from my lungs.

"Question Presented: How best to label expenditures of child support so as to facially comply with FEC regulations, but avoid revealing the true nature of the payments?"

Reading on, I discovered that child support payments were being made on a regular basis to one Clarice Talbott. They'd been paying them for seven or eight years, but the regulations had changed on how to label campaign staff payments. The Finance Committee wanted to continue making the payments from its coffers, but it didn't want to raise any red flags on how it was labeled under the new guidelines.

Going back to my desk, I typed in the Google search for Clarice Talbott. There were dozens, but one name popped out from an old Washington Post article. My father. In a picture at his desk. With a very young, very pretty Clarice Talbott, his secretary, leaning over his shoulder as he signed something in his Senate office.

I clicked into my father's Senate website. Nothing on a Clarice Talbott. I went back to the ledgers. Twenty minutes of frantic skimming later, I found an address. The checks were being mailed to some town in Illinois. Grant City. I'd heard of it. Someplace an hour or so outside of Chicago.

Back on Google, I confirmed through a White Pages search that Clarice Talbott still lived at the Grant City address. There was nothing more. Not in the ledgers and not on my internet searches.

Then I sat back and rubbed my temples, trying to ward off the crashing that was building in my brain.

Dad's campaign was paying child support. To Dad's former secretary. A pretty secretary, at that.

There was only one explanation: I had a brother.

A brother I'd never known existed.

And he was in Grant City, Illinois.

Gradually, the throbbing in my head subsided and a peace settled over me. A peace brought on as my plan gradually coalesced and took shape.

With a smile, I leaned forward and typed. Once done, I printed the document, then picked up the phone to call Human Resources.

"Yeah, Marcia," I said. "Mark Roberts here. Just checking to make sure you're in."

"What can I do for you, Mark?" she said.

"Just need to drop off my letter of resignation," I said, and hung up before she could say more.

I was out of there before any of the partners returned from lunch.

* * * * *

And that's how I ended up on that balcony eight hours later. Back where this whole story started.

My car had been sold, checking account closed, clothes packed into a single suitcase, and Amtrak ticket bought.

I watched the sun swallow up that shrinking golden band, gave one last look at the Mighty Mississippi trudging away four floors below, then picked up my guitar and suitcase, turned, and left.

I was off to find my brother and have a nice long talk with Clarice Talbott.

I was taking the City of New Orleans to start a new life somewhere else.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 02



Somewhere away from the cold betrayals of those who'd supposedly loved me.

I was so down, I couldn't even hum the damned tune as I sat on that train.

CHAPTER FOUR

When I got off the Amtrak train in Chicago, I made a beeline out the doors of Union Station and down the street to the Atrium Building. There was a train to Grant City leaving in twenty minutes, and I damned sure wanted to be on it.

An hour and a half later, my body swaying to the rhythm of the train, I looked out the windows and took in the passing scenery. I hadn't been back to Chicago since graduating law school, and I now regretted not taking in at least lunch in the city. I could've dropped by my old haunts, maybe stopped in to see one of my old professors, looked up an old classmate, anything. Anything to ground me again. Ground me in the feeling that I still had a past and people in that past that really gave a shit about me.

"Grant City next stop," the tinny voice said over the intercom. "All exit Grant City. Last stop, Grant City."

Jesus, we get it already, I thought, looking at the other four people scattered throughout the car. People I'd never seen and would probably never see again.

And that's when the thought struck me. I couldn't go back to Chicago and see the people I'd known. This was the White House we were talking about. And Dad's Senate career, too. They'd be looking for me, trying to find out where I'd gone off to and what I was doing. They'd want to talk me into coming back and just playing it all out sweet and easy as pie.

I smiled, picturing them all squirming. I was surprised no one had dropped by my place yesterday afternoon. I know there had been calls, but I'd let them all go to voicemail. Now, though, they'd know I was gone. If not now, then as soon as Sandy came home and saw my clothes and my favorite guitar gone. They'd be scrambling, that's for damned sure, and the whole image satisfied me as I hadn't been satisfied since before Pat Truelson had given his little dinnertime speech. Since before they'd all unknowingly spilled the beans with their little late night brandies and bourbons.

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

* * * * *

Let's cut the bullshit on the next couple of days. The major parts are pretty simple: I got into Grant City; found out it was too small for cabs, but not too big that I couldn't lug my stuff to a hotel a mile and half out on the edge of town; walked next door for a quick lunch, then next door to that to use the cash from my accounts and the sale of my Lexus to buy a decent used car; then went off in search of a realtor and an apartment to rent.

The morning of day two was spent moving a suitcase and a guitar into a furnished one-bedroom apartment, getting a new driver's license, and driving around looking for a job.

Quarter to eleven, I pulled into the parking lot of a tavern on the edge of town. Help Wanted Bartender, the sign read. I hadn't tended bar since law school, but how the hell hard could it be? A gin and tonic's a gin and tonic, and judging by the looks of the place, that would be an upscale drink for this neck of the woods.

It took a moment after walking in for my eyes to adjust to the dark barroom.

"Help you?" a voice to my right said, and I turned. A big dude, late thirties, early forties, maybe six four and at least three hundred pounds, was mopping the floor inside the horseshoe-shaped bar.

"You still hirin'?" I asked.

He motioned me to a barstool, then leaned against the mop and said, "Name's Ferlin Fargo."

I hesitated, unsure whether to give my real name. "Mark Roberts."

"Really," Ferlin said. His eyes flickered to my wrist. To the gold Rolex my parents had bought for a law school graduation present. "You sure about that?"

I nodded. "Last time I checked."

"And you know how to tend bar, Mark Roberts?" The tone of his voice made clear he didn't believe either part of that one, that I could tend bar or that I'd given my real name.

I smiled. "Last time I checked."

"Ever do it before? Tend bar?"

"Some."

"What d'ya mean, 'some?'"

"I did it for awhile in college."

"You know how to make a Rob Roy? A Manhattan? Old Fashioned, Margarita, Daquiri?"

I nodded.

"Then make me one," Ferlin challenged.

"Which one?"

"Old Fashioned."

I stood, made my way to the back bar, looked around at the set up, nodded, and reached for a high ball glass.

"Just tell me what goes in it," he said. "No sense wasting perfectly good booze."

"Muddle some sugar with bitters, stir in a shot of bourbon, fill with ice, top with soda."

"Garnish?"

"Cherry and orange slice if you've got 'em."

He gave a grudging smile. "We've got 'em, all right."

"In the cooler still?" I asked, nodding toward the small refrigerator beneath the cash register.

"Yep. 'Cept we use bar sugar."

"No prob."

His eyes narrowed. "Where you from, Mark Roberts?"

"South."

"Where exactly?"

I didn't say anything, just looked at him.

"You running from the law?"

"No."

"Ex-wife?"

"Not yet."

He looked at me for a moment, trying to gauge my truthfulness. Then he shrugged, apparently satisfied or no longer giving a damn, and reached his hand out. "Ten bucks an hour. Ten thirty to six, Monday through Friday. Maybe some weekend hours if you want 'em or if someone calls in sick or something. Think you can handle that?"

"Policy on tips?"

"Your tips are your own. You work with someone, you split the tips while you're working together. You may want to tip out the waitresses if they help you out or something, or maybe the busboy if he gets you beer or ice. Your decision. How you handle it decides how much they help, I s'pose."

"Fair enough. Prices?"

"There's a list next to the register. If there's a drink special–and there usually ain't unless it's a Friday or Saturday with a band or somethin'–they don't change."

I shrugged. "Seems easy enough."

He snorted. "We'll see."

"So am I hired?"

"S'pose so."

"When you want me to start?"

"Is now too soon?"

"I'm dressed okay?" I asked, looking down at my jeans, loafers with no socks, and long sleeved white dress shirt with cuffs rolled to mid-forearm.

"Overdressed if anything. Need time to go change or something?"

"This works for me if it works for you."

"Works for me."

I extended my arm. "Thanks."

He took my hand in his great big beefy paw on the end of his arm and held me. "Don't steal from me, Mark Roberts. I'll know, okay?"

"Not gonna happen."

"Don't let it."

He gave my hand a squeeze while eyeing me closely, then let go and gave the barest hint of a smile.

"Welcome to The Hitching Rail."

"Glad to be here."

He tipped the mop to me. "See if you can get this area all clean before they start showing up in ten minutes, huh?"

I took the mop and went to work.

"Thank you, Jesus," I heard Ferlin say to himself as he disappeared to the other side of the building, presumably the kitchen.

* * * * *

I waited all of no time before the first customers started rolling in, seven of them before some tall gangly chick with frizzy bleach blonde hair ran in all frantic at fifteen past eleven.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, handing me her purse before reaching over the bar and snatching up a black apron and ticket pad.

"We seem to have it covered," I said, placing the rest of the drinks on a tray.

"I'll take this," she said, her eyes going from the drinks to the dining room and back again. "Two cherries in this one," she said, pointing to a glass of Coke. "Levon always wants two cherries."

I skewered two cherries and laid them across the top.

"I'll take it from here," she said with a bright smile, hefting the tray to her shoulder.

"Go for it."

Two and a half hours later, I was washing up the rest of the dirty glasses from the lunch crowd when the frizzy haired chick plopped down with a huge sigh. "Wednesdays can get pretty nutso, y'know?"

"Not really."

Her head twitched and her eyes narrowed. "Who're you?"

"Mark."

"When did you start?"

"This morning."

She gave a bright, bouncy smile and thrust her arm straight across the bar. "Well, Mark, nice ta meetcha."

I shook her hand and said, "And you are?"

She rolled her eyes like it was the dumbest question she'd heard in ages. "Debbie."

"Debbie who's always late and still hasn't cleaned up the rest of her tables," Ferlin said as he waddled toward the bar.

"That's the one," she agreed, then hopped up and turned to Ferlin. "Jeez, just trying to be friendly and all."

"Be friendly when you've got your tables clean."

Ferlin Fargo sat at the bar looking like a man who'd just played a football game. His thick black hair was damp and all akimbo, his face dripping sweat, his shoulders sagging beneath his sweat soaked shirt. "Water," he croaked.

I got a tall glass, filled it with water, and placed it in front of him. He drank it in one long pull, put the glass down, and nodded for me to do it again. I did, and he chugged this one down in one fell swoop, also.

"Thanks," he said, his breath now returning to normal and the spring returning to his limbs. "Wednesdays can be a real bitch."

"How so?"

"Fuckin' Italian day. Spaghetti and meatballs, ravioli, sausage and peppers. The kitchen's full of pots of boiling water. Like a goddamned steam bath back there."

"Sure seems to pack 'em in, though. Must be good."

He looked at me and I saw the glint of a smile playing over his stubbly face. "Course it's good. More important, it's pretty cheap. That's why it's such a pain in the ass."

"So every day isn't this busy?"

He gave a chortle. "Oh, they're all pretty much like this. Right down to Debbie always being between ten and twenty minutes late for work."

"Always?"

"I s'pose sometimes she's later, but not by much."

"Never early?"

"Never."

I looked at the waitress in the other room, stacking dishes on her arms and humming to herself. "Crowd loves her. They don't love you. She can get away with it. You can't. Understand?"

"Yet," I said, trying to hide my smile.

"Yet? What d'ya mean, 'yet?'"

"The crowd don't love me yet. But they will."

He looked at me, then threw his arms up. "Great. Another prima donna. Just fucking great."

I stifled my laugh and went back to cleaning.

This sure beat researching and writing appellate briefs.

* * * * *

After work, I drove slowly past 714 Madison Street. It was a tiny little bungalow, no more than thirty-five feet wide, painted white with yellow shutters and a green shingled roof. It was neat, though, and the yard was kept up and trimmed. Behind the gauzy white curtains in the front picture window, I saw the shadow of a person moving toward the back of the house. Kitchen, probably.

Pulling over to the curb, I parked and shut off the car. Now what? I'd found where Clarice Talbott lived with her son–with my brother–but I didn't know how to proceed from here. My plans had been to leave and find them. Well guess what? I'd left and now I'd found them. But I couldn't just go up and knock on the door, could I?

As I pondered it, a car drove past me and swung into her driveway. Almost before it was fully stopped, the rear passenger door opened and a little kid in an impossibly bulky football uniform got out. Reaching back in, he pulled out a football helmet, gave a wave, backed away, and slammed the car door.

The front door opened, spilling warm light across the front lawn of autumn. A woman stood in the doorway, a tired smile on her pale face. The little boy ran to her, gave her a hug, and pushed past her and into the house. Without another look, she closed the door and followed him inside.

So that was her. That was Clarice Talbott. Looking much as she'd looked in the eight-year old picture with my father, except now she seemed more tired and worn and sad. Even her smile for the little boy was tired, though it seemed to exude genuine warmth.

What the fuck had Dad done? How could he just so callously do this?

I felt my anger building again, and I slammed the steering wheel in frustration at my years of ignorance.

Goddamn them all to hell. Right straight to hell.

* * * * *

About two weeks later, I walked into The Hitching Rail to be met by the burly figure of my boss, the ever grumpy and grousing Ferlin Fargo.

"Take your shirt off and come with me."

"Take my shirt off?"

"You keep wearing those damned white dress shirts. Don't know how you haven't ruined them all by now, but you'll sure as shit ruin one now."

"Doing what?"

"Helping me move some chairs and tables up from the basement."

"Something special?"

"Lincoln County Women's Bar Association meeting. They meet once a month, bouncing from place to place. They're here three times a year. Today's our turn again."

I smiled. "I've gotta wait on a bunch of women lawyers?"

"You won't be smiling in a couple of hours. Demanding as hell and lousy tippers."

I shrugged, unbuttoning my shirts.

Halfway through lugging up extra tables and chairs, Ferlin grunted, "So why do you always wear the same thing?"

"All I got."

"You ain't got no other shirts?"

"Not appropriate for workin' in, I don't."

"You ever thinking of just maybe buying some? Something cheap at Wal Mart or something?"

"Nope."

"Wierdo."

"Whatever."

Ferlin was like that. Too young to be a father figure, too old to be like an older brother. Still, he treated pretty much everyone the same. Grousing, bitching, complaining, and then a shy smile and a quiet thanks or simple pat on the back. Debbie seemed to worship him, though he easily weighed a buck eighty more than her and had fifteen years on her. She just glowed whenever he was around. All the employees seemed used to him and comfortable with his gentle pokes at everyone.

"So anybody find you yet?" he asked, leaning against a table and catching his breath now that we were done.

"What d'ya mean?"

"This soon-to-be-ex-wife you seem to be running from."

"No one knows where I am."

He nodded, his face troubled.

"What?" I prompted.

"None of my business," he said, shaking his head.

"Fine," I said, smiling. "So it's none of your business. So what? What were you gonna say?"

"Must be hard, is all. Just leaving and now you're surrounded by total strangers. Don't know anyone. No family."

I smiled, grabbing a dry bar rag and wiping the perspiration off my chest and from under my arms. "My brother's dead. Killed in a car accident awhile back. And my Mom and Dad . . . well, let's just say they were in cahoots with the soon-to-be-ex, okay?"

"Taking her side?"

"A little more complicated than that."

He nodded, then left it alone as I pulled on my shirt.

* * * * *

I helped Debbie serve the women of the Bar Association, then spent an hour and a half fetching drinks and refilling water glasses. Most of them ignored me and treated me like a cockroach beneath their feet. Four of them, though, gave me the smile, light brush, and eyelash batting that indicated they may be available.

One was about fifty, full figured in a too tight sweater and too short skirt for both her age and her figure, but she seemed carnivorous whenever I was nearby. I was afraid she'd trip me and beat me to the floor.

Toward the end of the row of tables sat a platinum blonde, maybe in her late twenties, who kept gazing at me and, once I made eye contact, kept giving a gentle tilt of the head to indicate she was curious. When she got up to go to the restroom, though, I noticed she was tall and skinny verging on anorexic. Also, the foam domes and flat ass didn't help things much. I suppose she was pretty if you're turned on by lanky models who look like a pipe cleaner with big tits.

The other two sat next to each other. One of them was short and slim, early to mid thirties, with a pale complexion and tired eyes. Her hair seemed limp, too, which matched the rest of her posture. She reminded me of Ally McBeal, sort of wan and weary in a business suit. She didn't really give the flirtatious smile or the light arm brush so much as she kept looking at me, then turning away with embarrassment when our eyes met. Her smile seemed forced, and she seemed just all broken and insecure.

To her left, though, was the hottest one of the group. My eyes had latched onto her the moment she'd walked in, unable to look away until she was seated and my duties suddenly thrust upon me. She had it all: Pale olive complexion on smooth, flawless skin; lustrous mane of thick, black hair framing the face of a Latina goddess; a beautiful body with high, perky breasts complemented by a round, perfectly squeezable booty and long, slim legs. She was like Pocohantas in those old paintings from grade school. Classic dark beauty, tall and proud and stacked perfectly. She was dressed neither sexily nor conservatively, her eyes and smiles not promising untold delights so much as appraising and considering the possibilities. Her dark eyes were direct and unflinching. She was the bowl of porridge that was just right, and I spent half of lunch imagining how that bowl would taste.

All too soon, they were all gone.

And Ferlin was right. They were lousy tippers.

The fifty-year old left me her phone number, though.

* * * * *

My back was to the bar at five twenty that afternoon, reaching into the cooler for three Budweisers and a Leinenkugel.

"When you have a moment," I heard a voice say to my right.

Turning, I was surprised to see the two women from the Bar Association. No, not the pipe cleaner and the cougar. Pocohantas was the one who had spoken, and Ally McBeal was sitting beside her trying to slink down and hide on her barstool.

"Just a sec, ladies," I said.

I delivered the beers in my hands, then came back.

"Gin and tonic," Pocohantas said. "Lime."

I nodded, then turned to her companion. "And you?"

She looked to Pocohantas, then back to me. "The same, please."

I turned to make their drinks, delivered them, got the money and gave the change, and went about my business, all without another word.

"Mark," Ferlin called a few minutes later from the corner of the bar.

I walked over and leaned against the inside of the bar, my eyes sweeping the bar top for empty drinks as Ferlin talked in that low, gravelly rumble of his.

"Think you can pull a double tomorrow?" he asked. "Terry's kid's got a game."

I shrugged. "Sure."

"It's a Friday, and they're our busiest days around here. The fish fry keeps us scrambling from lunch until closing time."

"I'm in."

I stood to move back to the center of the bar to better keep an eye on things when Ferlin locked his hand around my forearm.

"Don't look now," he said, his voice getting lower, "but I think those two over there are giving you the serious once over."

"You think?"

"Doesn't hurt business none to maybe sidle over and say hey once in awhile. Know what I mean?"

I tensed, then gave a curt nod. The slight smile left my face.

"I'm not saying you need to be a gigolo or something," Ferlin said, backpedaling. "I'm just sayin' that bein' friendly don't hurt things, y'know?"

I tried to force the smile back and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll do my best." Spotting an empty beer bottle hit the bar across the way, I muttered, "Excuse me," and escaped.

"Ladies," I said a few moments later, standing in front of them and giving a brief smile before again sweeping the bar with his eyes. "We set for drinks okay?"

"We're fine on drinks," the taller one said, managing to make that simple response suggestive with the way she emphasized 'drinks.' "We're actually wondering about you."

I looked at them and gave a smile. The tall one raised an eyebrow, but the smaller one seemed to shrivel in embarrassment.

"And what, may I ask, were you wondering about me?"

"You hear that, Whitney? A Southern gentleman." She faced me and said, "I just love a nice soft Southern drawl."




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 02



"We were wondering what your name is," Whitney said.

"Mark," I said, wiping my hands on the bar towel before reaching across and offering my hand. "Mark Roberts."

She shook my hand. Her hand was damp and the shake timid and too quick.

"And I'm Rebecca," the other one said.

Her handshake was, as i suspected it would be, firm and held for enough time to convey intimacy.

"Well, Whitney, Rebecca, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Thanks," Whitney said, her voice barely audible.

"The pleasure's ours," Rebecca said. "Where you from, Mark?"

"South of here."

"We know that," she continued. "But where south of here?"

"Way south of here."

"And when did you move to Grant City?"

"Couple weeks back."

"Where do you live?"

"In an apartment."

"Are you going to play this game all night?"

"What game?"

She gave me a long look, as if she were trying to make up her mind about something. She clearly wasn't used to men who didn't fawn all over her, but she didn't seem to fall back from the challenge, either. Her face softened into a grin of her own.

"Fair enough," Rebecca said. "I'm sorry for prying. We're just wondering if you're available."

"He's married," Whitney said, her eyes on my left hand where the dent from the ring was still visible.

For some reason, I was unable to look away from the pale woman. The look on her face said she expected it; disappointment and relief at the same time. But also sadness and a touch of blueing at the gills, like she was nauseous almost.

"That true? You married, Mark?"

I held up the ring finger in response. "It's a dent, not a ring."

"Divorced then?"

"Something like that."

"Done with it, or still going through it?"

I shrugged.

Whitney surprised me when she said, "Sucks, don't it?"

I turned to her and looked hard. "I would say, 'More than you can possibly imagine.' But I'm suspectin' I'd be wrong about that, right?"

If possible, she paled further, then gave a barely perceptible nod. Rebecca reached her arm around Whitney's shoulders and gave a brief squeeze on her upper arm. "Buck up, kiddo. There's lots more life to live."

She gave a weak smile in response and mumbled, "Sorry."

I tilted my head. "For what? Being in the same sinking boat I'm in?"

"My boat sank a little over a year ago."

"And you're still down?"

"She's just having problems getting back on her feet again," Rebecca explained. "The few guys she's seen since have pretty much been pigs. You a pig, Mark?"

I gave a broad grin at both of them and laid on the accent a bit thick. "Of course not. I'm a Southern gentleman, remember?"

"Exactly," Rebecca said, smiling back at me. Whitney managed to get some color back and give a bit of a smile.

"'Scuse me, ladies," I said, spotting some empty beer bottles hitting the bar and moving off to take care of business.

When I turned back, they were leaving.

"See ya 'round," Rebecca said with a little wave.

I gave a wave back and watched them go.

And tried to hide the first real hard on I'd had in weeks.

They were both intriguing in different ways, and images of a threesome filled my suddenly adolescent mind.

Can't blame a guy for fantasizing, can you?

* * * * *

The rest of the night was spent like most of the fourteen before it. Park down the street from Clarice Talbott's home, watch my little brother get dropped off and charge inside, go home and make a soup and sandwich, and play guitar while watching television.

I still couldn't figure out how to proceed. By now there was no doubt that little Schuyler Talbott was my brother; he looked exactly as I'd looked–and presumably my father had looked–at that age. Yet, just approaching Clarice and injecting myself into her life–and my little brother's life–seemed too jolting. On the other hand, I needed to get off dead center. In the meantime, I was satisfied to just watch the little mini me in the uniform that weighed nearly as much as he did.

Then my thoughts turned, as the usually did just before I got ready for bed, to Sandy. My folks and hers were banished to a dark place I kept suppressed lest my mood turn sour. I still had mixed feelings about Sandy, though.

Once the whole shock of everything had worn away, I was able to analyze our history more clinically. For example, her mood and absence for those three months I was busy righting the wrongs inflicted upon Napoleon Bonaparte Bonaroo. I now suspected–and was pretty much outright convinced–that she'd had an affair. The problem? I wasn't really sure how I felt about that. If she'd viewed the entire marriage as a scam–a scam she was convinced I was about ready to put an end to at the time–then how culpable was she? I mean, we weren't really married, were we? This one kept me going back and forth. I mean, hell, she'd apparently not hesitated even a second to end the probable affair once she'd seen the news reports carrying the coverage of Nap's newfound freedom. She'd immediately come back to me with sorrow and contrition written all over her face. And from there, our marriage had been fun and (I thought) loving and, at the very least, mutually satisfying.

I'd also spent hours upon hours replaying our marriage in my mind and couldn't come up with any clues that she'd had a passel of boyfriends on the side. To the contrary, our love life, her moods, our work hours, all of it was pretty even keel and steady the whole time we'd been together. If anything, it was better than ever after those three months of misery during the big appeal.

The final thing with which I endlessly wrestled was whether Sandy was aware of my ignorance. Looking back on it all–all the way to day one–I could recall hundreds of comments and expressions that, in hindsight, indicated she assumed I was fully aware of our parents' arrangement for us. Then again, she'd never really come out and said it. She'd never said, 'You know, I'm glad our parents talked us into getting married to help Daddy's campaign along, and I'm glad we gave it a go for more than a couple of years.' Thus the conundrum: Were her comments an assumption that I was in it with eyes wide open, or were her comments sly digs at my ignorance and the whole situation in which she found herself?

For the umteenth night in a row, I crawled under the sheets and stared at the ceiling wondering about the answers.

CHAPTER FIVE

The following Thursday saw me surprised twice. First, Rebecca dropped by for a drink after work sans Whitney.

"Gin and tonic with lime?" I said as she sat.

"Very good," she said, her smile a dazzling row of straight, bright teeth that almost buckled my knees.

Once the drink was in front of her and paid for, she said, "So, Mark, you got a last name?"

"Roberts."

Her eyes narrowed. "I've heard that name somewhere before. You famous?"

I swept my arms around the horseshoe-shaped bar. "Monday through Friday from eleven til six."

Her expression remained thoughtful, her lips pursed in concentration.

"Excuse me," I said after a moment, rushing off to get some beers for a gang of construction workers flooding through the door.

When I was done with that, I heard Ferlin swearing into the phone behind me. Turning, I saw him slam down the phone.

"Problem?"

"Fucking band," he said. "Golden Rodeo was supposed to play here tomorrow night. Nine to one. But their singer and bass player were in an accident last night. Banged up pretty good. They've gotta cancel."

I frowned. "Not good."

"No shit, Sherlock."

His blood pressure–never very low in the first place–seemed dangerously high and set to pop through the top of his head like a geyser. "Management company says the rest of their acts are fully booked. No replacements."

I nodded, gave it less thought than I should have, and said, "I can play if you want."

His eyes went narrow, then wide, then he laughed. "Yeah, right. You."

That hurt more than a touch. "I'm not kidding."

"Play what?"

"Guitar. And sing, too."

"Ever done it before?"

"Yeah. I was in a band all through college and law school."

"You still in a band?" he said, his eyes again narrowing and his face getting serious as he thought it over.

"Nope."

"Any chance of getting them back together on a day's notice?"

I shook my head, then said, "But I don't need to. I can just play guitar and sing along."

"What kinda music?"

"Whatever you wanna hear."

"None of that rap shit, right? Or heavy metal?"

"Little tough to do with one guy and a guitar."

He nodded, crossing his arms and scratching the stubble on his chin with his stumpy, thick-as-a-sausage forefinger. "Equipment?"

"I've got an acoustic. No amps, no mic, no electric guitar, no mixing board."

"And the acoustic plugs in? You can run it through speakers?"

I nodded. "Built in."

"And you say you can do this?"

I smiled. "What've you got to lose?"

That settled it. "Let me make some calls."

"For what?"

"I think I can get you some equipment. All of it."

"If an electric's coming along for the ride, I prefer a Telecaster," I said.

"You'll take what I can scrounge up," he said, turning his back to me and picking up the phone.

Turning around, a broad grin spread across my face, I saw Whitney sliding into the barstool next to Rebecca. Her eyes were on Rebecca's cell phone, and Rebecca was saying something to her. Then they both looked at me, Whitney's eyes wide.

Fucking technology, I thought, picking up a glass to make another gin and tonic.

"And you're an attorney, Mark Roberts," Rebecca said. "Apparently a pretty goddamned good one. And you were married to the Governor's daughter."

"And a Senator's son," Whitney shot in, continuing the broadside.

"So what's a Senator's son married to the Governor's daughter doing here tending bar instead of practicing law in Tennessee?" Rebecca said, then sat back to await my answer.

My lips tightened.

"Well?" Whitney prodded when it became clear I wasn't going to answer.

I looked from one to the other, unsure whether to answer. "Long story," I muttered.

Rebecca raised her eyebrows, and Whitney said, "Your marriage fell apart and you ran away up here?"

"Something like that."

"They know where you are?"

I hesitated, then shook my head.

"That's a pretty prickish thing to do, dontcha think?"

Not just the words, but the tone in her voice as well. Snippy and catty and judgmental. I saw red. Me? Prickish? After all the shit my family and wife had put me through?

"I don't know," I said through gritted teeth. "Wanna tell me all about your divorce and how you were perfect and it was all his fault?"

I almost regretted it before the words were out of my mouth. Whitney looked like I'd punched her in the solar plexus. Her mouth hung open, her skin blanched, and she seemed on the verge of tears.

Rebecca, too, was stunned, her eyes shooting from Whitney to me then back to Whitney again. "Jesus," she said, putting her arm around the object of my venom, "settle down. Both of you."

Rebecca recovered enough to shoot me a look that could've vaporized me on the spot. Fortunately, I wasn't backing down. Instead, I was struggling to control my anger. After only a few seconds, I turned my back on them and went to the other side of the bar, making busy cleaning dirty glasses in the washing sinks.

A few minutes later, I saw the door swing open and watched them both leave. This time there was no boner. Instead, my measured breathing was an effort to keep from throwing something and killing some poor schmuck on the other side of the bar. Given that the other side of the bar was mostly construction workers, I figured I'd only survive the first thrown bottle by about twenty seconds.

After a few minutes, someone called hey, and I turned to see who needed a drink.

"For fuck sake, Mark," one of the workers said with a lopsided grin, "what the hell you have to go and do that for? They were the only good lookin' tail in the whole fuckin' joint."

I tried to grin and shrug, failed and managed only to look like a brain dead spastic, and walked around the bar to refresh drinks.

When I got to the half-finished drinks left by Rebecca and Whitney, I almost swept up the napkin without seeing what she'd written there.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

Now I really felt like an asshole, something the construction workers didn't let me forget as I finished my shift and left for home.

* * * * *

Late the next afternoon I was still in a funk waiting for my shift to end so I could go home and crawl into a hole somewhere. I was snapped out of my thoughts at two thirty when Ferlin rapped his knuckles on the bar.

"Yeah?"

"Come on," he said. "Debbie'll watch the bar while we're gone."

"Where we going?"

"Pick up that equipment you need."

Aw fuck, my brain said to the rest of my body. I'd totally forgotten.

"You comin'?" he prodded when I stood there like an idiot.

I tossed the bar rag on the counter and followed him.

Ten minutes later, we turned onto a long gravel driveway and made our way toward a house that was neither new nor old, huge nor small. It was just nice. Off to the right was a field of mowed lawn with a few ancient oaks rustling their dying leaves in the breeze, at the end was a simple pole barn.

As we pulled up around the back of the house, the back door opened and a man walked out and toward us. A man I thought I'd seen before. He was walking toward us with a wide smile and stuck his arm out at Ferlin ten paces before reaching him.

"Hey Ferlin."

"Coop."

They shook hands, then the other fellow threw his arms around Ferlin's massive frame and gave him a tight hug. Once they broke, he turned to me and smiled.

"Hey. I'm Teddy Cooper."

I smiled and nodded. Of course, Teddy Cooper. Singer and guitarist for General Beauregard.

"Mark Roberts," I said, shaking his hand.

"Come on," he said, walking off toward the pole barn and calling back to Ferlin, "why don't you back the Jeep up to the shed?"

I followed him while Ferlin got back in the vehicle.

"Pretty much got your pick," he said when we entered. Flipping a switch, the big room was illuminated by harsh lighting that revealed a traveling band's full instrumental equipment register. Drums, bass guitars, keyboards and two pianos, acoustic and electric guitars, effects pedals, sound boards, mics, cables, wires, every goddamned thing except the light show.

"We practice here a lot before touring."

"We're not putting you out or anything?"

He smiled. "Not a bit. Just got back 'bout a month ago. We're all taking a break while Nick and Will and I work out some new songs and new arrangements."

I nodded. "You got any idea what I need?"

"Sure. I've played there before. Come on, give me a hand."

Teddy, Ferlin, and I loaded up a few amps, some patch cords, a small mixing board, and a mic with telescoping stand.

"Which guitar you want?" he said as we caught our breath."

"Whatever you got."

"Preference?"

"Telecaster."

He nodded his head toward the row of guitars to the side. "Pick one."

I looked. There were three Fender Telecasters amidst some Les Pauls, Stratocasters, a Paul Reed Smith, a Gretsch, and two Rickenbackers.

"These all yours?" I said, envying the hell out of him.

"Some are Nicks."

"Does it matter?"

"What he don't know won't hurt him."

I looked at him. "Still, if it's all the same to you . . . ."

He gave a chuckle. "Fine. Take this one."

He grabbed a white Telecaster from the row and walked over to a row of hardshell cases. He flipped the catches on one labeled "Nick," laid the guitar in, and closed it up.

"I'd really rather not– "

"Really," Teddy interrupted. "He won't give a shit. And that's the best one of the lot. Tons of special specs built in at his request, and easily the most playable. You're gonna do a one-man show, might as well have something with some teeth, right?"

I hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "Thanks."

"So you gonna be there tonight?" Ferlin asked as I loaded the guitar into the Jeep.

"Probably 'bout eight thirty. Gives me plenty of time to set him up."

"You don't have to– "

His look strangled the words in my throat. He was about the tenth person in the past twenty-four hours to look at me like I was daft. "You'll never get it right in that goddamned barn. I've played there before. I'll have you set up in no time."

"Fair enough."

He smiled and stuck out his arm. "Good. I'll see you then."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

* * * * *

Ferlin chuckled to himself half the drive back to work.

"What's so funny?" I finally said.

"You. Jesus, Mark. I know you recognized him, but you didn't even react. Like it was no big deal."

"I've met famous people before," I explained.

"Yeah? That famous? Like who?"

Oh, I don't know, I thought. People like the President and all manner of legislators and governors and entertainment bigwigs and shit like that. Hell, I got to play a guitar duet with Alan Jackson once, and he's pretty big, I wanted to say. But I didn't.

"Just famous people," I finally said.

"But after all that time–the whole time actin' like it's no big deal–you get all flustered when he offers to come help you get it all set up."

"Just didn't expect it is all," I said. "I mean, I'm sure he's got better things to do, right?"

"Nah," Ferlin replied. "Jenny and the kids are outta town. He's probably bored stiff 'bout now."

I was silent for much of the rest of the ride back. As we pulled into the parking lot, though, I said, "How do you know him? Teddy?"

"Everyone around here knows him. Most of the band, actually, but especially Teddy and Nick. I graduated a year ahead of them both. We all go way back."

"And they both still live here?"

"Teddy never left. Nick moved back around the time LeadFoot broke up and General Beauregard got formed."

"Wow."

He put the Jeep in park, shut it off, and turned to me. "You keep your eyes open and you'll see more than just them."

"What d'ya mean?"

"We're not that far from Chicago," he explained. "Far enough to be in the country, not so far that it's a major pain in the ass to get into the city. So there's a lot of pretty famous and powerful folks that live out this way."

"Like?"

He rattled off the names of a movie director, two writers, some coaches and players for the Bears, Cubs, and White Sox, and a few others.

"They all live around here?"

"All within ten miles."

"Where?"

He smiled. "You drive down a country road and see a long driveway disappearing into trees, chances are one of 'em's occupied by one of them folks."

Wow, I thought. This was almost like living in Nashville again. No wonder no one took it all too seriously.

Still, I had to admit that Teddy Cooper was about as down to earth as you can get.

And I was more than a bit nervous about him critiquing my playing and singing.

* * * * *

Teddy was as good as his word. Twenty minutes after he showed, the equipment was all hot and the amps all in balance. He ran me through the effects pedals taped to the floor next to the microphone stand, then gave a nod, wished me luck, and waded into the growing crowd to get a beer. Almost everyone clapped him on the back as he passed, and he stopped to chat with more than a few of them.

I heard a thunk on the tiny stage to my right and Ferlin said, "Move over, son."

I did.

He reached under the mic, flipped the switch, and tapped to make sure it was life. "Okay," he said to the crowd in his gravelly voice, "here's the deal. Couple of the fellas in Golden Rodeo went out and hurt themselves, so they can't play here tonight. Mark here said he could take their place."

There were some jeers and whistles, and I couldn't tell if it was derision or good natured teasing. Probably a mixture of both. A few faces were genuinely upset when they heard Golden Rodeo wasn't going to be playing.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 02



"You just hold tight, Lou," Ferlin called out to a heavyset man with a crew cut leading his wife toward the door. The man stopped. "Give him at least two or three songs before you decide that my original instincts were correct on 'ole Mark's talents, huh?"

The man nodded and cried out, "I'll give him two."

"Fair enough. So if you'd all please put your hands together for a man making his debut in our fine little establishment."

The tepid clapping was better than I expected. Ferlin stepped back from the mic and leaned over and whispered in my ear. "I want you to drop these fuckers, got it? Drop 'em."

Then he gave me a big grin and a sharp smack on the back. I grinned in response, watched him step off the stage and disappear into the crowd, then looked over the sixty or so expectant faces waiting for me to try and fail.

Instead, I smiled and slowly started playing the intro to what I figured would be a decent opening number. Twenty seconds later, I stepped to the mic and hit the key perfectly with the opening lyrics.

"Well I left Oklahoma/Drivin' in my Pontiac/Just about to lose my mind.

I was going to Arizona/Maybe onto California/Where the people all live so fine."

The crowd hesitated at first, then I saw some foot stomping, and by the time I hit the instrumental break after the first chorus of Tulsa Time, they were cheering and whistling. Even Lou Whatsisname moseyed up to the bar and got him and little Missus Lou a couple more beers.

That's when I knew they wouldn't ride me outta there on a rail.

* * * * *

I took my only break at ten to eleven, and the place was wall to wall.

"Need a beer?" Ferlin shouted above the din to my right.

I shook my head. "No thanks. Just water."

He smiled, gave me a thumbs up, and pushed his way through the crowd toward the bar.

The crowd pretty much parted for me as I made my way toward the front door to get some fresh air. There was the occasional pat on the back, head nod, nice job, and such, but mostly they were talking and drinking and waiting for the break to end so they could get back onto the dance floor.

"You're a man of many talents," I heard someone almost shout into my ear as a hand fell on my shoulder.

It was the short, washed out one, Whitney.

I gave a tired smile. "Thanks."

"Goin' outside?"

I nodded.

"Mind if I tag along?"

"Sure."

She pushed through the crowd lining the bar and put her drink on the bartop, then turned to follow me out.

I stepped out and looked up at the stars, enjoying the sharp, icy air as it cooled me down.

"I was serious," she said, her voice louder than normal. Welcome to sudden quiet after a roomful of noise. "I really am sorry about that comment yesterday."

"Me, too," I said. "I was way out of line."

"I had it comin'."

I didn't say anything, just tried to cool down. The lull in conversation seemed to make her nervous.

"You . . . uh . . . you're really good. Seem to know a ton of songs and all."

"Used to play in a band back when I was still in school."

"Why'd you quit?"

"Marriage and a career kinda got in the way."

"They'll do that to you sometimes, I guess."

"I guess."

We were both silent for a few moments, and I turned to sneak a peek at her. She was looking up at the stars, her face lost in thought.

"I was right, wasn't I?" I asked.

She turned and looked at me. She gave me a hard look, her lips pressed with hesitation, then nodded. "I'm divorced and it was pretty much all my fault."

"How so?"

"The short answer or the long one?"

I looked at my watch. "Whatever you feel like tellin' in the next nine minutes."

She sighed, then turned back to the inky sky with its millions of pinpricks of light. "The short answer is I cheated on him. The long answer? We never should've gotten married."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not sure I ever really loved him."

That was like a slap to the face. I felt my arms start to goosebump in the cold, and a deep shiver ran from head to toes.

"I loved him, of course. But it was more respect and admiration. He was–he is–a good man. A great man. Solid, dependable, smart, good looking. He was everything a husband should be."

"But?"

"But there was never any spark."

"Then why did you marry him?"

"At the time, it seemed like the thing to do. I was mid-twenties; marriage seemed the thing to do."

"But why him?"

"He was comfortable. Easy to get along with."

"And it never blossomed into anything more?"

She turned and gave me a look of unbearable anguish. "It got worse. For me, at least. We had a little boy." She gave a bleak smile at the of him. "That kept me focused for a long time. Then my career, too. Between those, they kept me pretty busy."

"And?"

"And it just reached a point where I dreaded going home. It wasn't Luke, it was me. I just . . . other than a son, we really had nothing in common. We didn't want the same things, no shared hobbies, interests. Nothing."

"Except your son."

"Except Kyle," she agreed.

"You ever tell him this?"

She shook her head. "It's better that he thinks I was just cheating. That another man came between us."

"That's bullshit."

Her face took on a determined edge. "If I told him the truth–told Luke I'd been miserable almost since the get go, before we got married even–he'd lose all those memories."

"What?"

"Think about it, Mark. You look back on your marriage, you have happy memories, right? Memories where you were both in love and had fun and it was all roses and sunshine, right?"

I didn't say anything. Truth be told, I was seeing it all differently now. Sandy's motives and emotions were now all jumbled and murky.

"As it stands," Sandy continued, her eyes again on the stars, "Luke has memories of ten years of happiness while we dated and were married and only the last five or six months of pain and misery. I don't want to take that away from him. It's the one thing I can do. I don't need to shit all over his perceptions."

"And he doesn't suspect?"

"Occam's razor. He took the easiest, most direct explanation."

I pondered this, figuring she was right, at least insofar as she and Luke were concerned. The problem for me was that I was already questioning every memory I'd previously cherished. It was like someone had flipped the lens of the kaleidoscope, and now the daisies were dandelions. I didn't know what the real picture was.

"Time for you to get back," she said, bringing me back to the present.

I looked at my watch. "Yeah," I said, then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "Sorry again."

She tried her best to smile, then turned back to the stars as I went inside.

* * * * *

Teddy Cooper stopped me on my way back to the stage.

"You're doin' real good up there, man."

"Thanks," I said, pleased with myself.

"You got anything original?"

"Like something I wrote myself?"

"Yeah."

I shrugged. "Sure."

"Why don't you play a couple?"

I looked from him, then back to the crowd already clearing the dance floor. "I'm not sure they'll want to– "

"Just one or two. Mix 'em in. Don't announce 'em as your own, they'll never know."

"Unless they really suck," I said.

He laughed. "Yeah, there could be that."

I shrugged. "I'll see what I can do."

* * * * *

Once I was back onstage and plugged in again, I looked over the crowd and saw Whitney come back in and look around for her drink. Rebecca handed it to her, and they both turned to look toward the stage.

Keeping my eyes on Whitney, I picked up the Taylor acoustic, popped a capo on the second fret, and leaned into the microphone. "There's a couple of really pretty ladies over there toward the bar with no guys around 'em buggin' 'em for a dance. I'm gonna play a little belly bumper here in about ten seconds, and I'm hopin' someone'll ask 'em to the dance floor before I get started."

I saw Rebecca laugh and take the first arm thrust her way. Whitney, on the other hand, seemed to shrink. Then a slim man in his early forties stepped toward her and extended his arm and, with only a slight hesitation, she took his hand and followed.

I plucked the strings with my fingers, and most everyone recognized the song right off. Her head on the man's shoulder, I could see her lips moving along by the time I reached the chorus:

"Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall/now all you've got to do is call.

And I'll be there, yes I will/you've got a friend."

* * * * *

"That was just friggin' outstanding, son," Ferlin was gushing as he stood behind the bar counting the receipts and putting stacks of cash into a small bank bag. "You packed 'em in and kept 'em here. Just amazing."

I was sipping a beer, my first of the night, while Marla and Denise swept and mopped and dragged a huge garbage can around to collect the empty bottles and cans strewn throughout the place. I took another chug and gave a weary smile. It felt good. I hadn't done this in a long time, and now I realized that I missed it. A lot. The playing, the crowd, the energy. Even just playing for bar crowds was fun if you could get in their groove and play what they wanted to hear and get them all happy and forgetting about their worries for awhile. I'd done that tonight. I hadn't wanted to stop, and Ferlin finally had to come on stage at twenty to two to announce one final song, then everyone had to start clearing out before the cops got there and shut him down.

"You hear me?" he said, suddenly standing directly across from me.

"Sorry," I said, turning to face him.

"I said, 'How much you want for playin' tonight?'"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"Don't work that way," he replied, his voice going low and getting serious. "You made me a lot of money. Got me out of a jam, too. You hadn't been here, this place would've been dead."

I shrugged. "No biggie. Don't worry about it."

He slid four hundred dollar bills across the bar toward me. "That's a little less than I'd have paid Golden Rodeo, but they're a whole band."

I looked at the money, then back to him. "I don't want it, Ferlin."

"You're taking it."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Take the goddamned money," Denise called out. "He ain't leaving 'til you do, and we need to get home."

I looked back and forth between Denise and Ferlin, a broad smile splitting my face. "Shut up," Ferlin said.

"So the two of you?" I asked.

"Used to be married," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Trying to get back together?" I asked, keeping my voice down.

"I can hear you two," she snapped. "And no, we're not trying to get back together. Just need to get laid is all. The both of us."

I laughed.

"What's so goddamned funny?" Ferlin said.

"Nothing. I just think it's . . . I don't know."

"What?"

"Really, Ferlin. I don't know. Just strange, I guess."

"Why?"

He was serious: He didn't think anything was even remotely strange about going home with his ex-wife to knock off a piece.

"You really don't see it?"

"No, I don't."

I chuckled, then reached toward the money. "Tell you what, I'll take this much. You keep the rest, but you're responsible for getting that equipment back to Teddy in the morning, okay?"

I left two of the bills sitting there, and Ferlin looked at them for a moment before shrugging and stuffing them into his pocket. "Fair enough. Which reminds me. Teddy wants you to call him tomorrow."

"What for?"

"Didn't say."

"You got his number?"

"In the book. Under Jenny's name. Jenny Cooper."

I finished my beer. "Okay then," I said. I stood, picked up my Taylor acoustic in its hard shell case, and went home to collapse.



The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 03



Please, if you've taken the time to slog through this crap, take a moment or two to drop me a comment on it.

Thanks. 

*

I was up and at 'em by ten thirty. First order of business? Call Teddy Cooper, of course. A kid answered the phone, but Teddy was on in short order.

"Hey, Mark," he said.

"Mornin'. Ferlin said to call you?"

"Those two you played last night. Your own."

"You spotted them?"

He laughed. "Of course."

"That obvious?"

"Sorta."

"Okay," I said, my voice slowing down. "What about them?"

"How many more you got?"

"Couple dozen."

"Think maybe I could see 'em?"

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope. Me and Nick both. I think he'll want to see 'em, too."

"Why?"

He paused, then said, "They're not totally finished. The two you played, anyways. Need a bit of polishing up. Still, I think there's something there."

I was both proud and disappointed. Hell, I'd thought they were done for ages. Then again, I'd never really thought they were all that good, either.

"Thing is," Teddy continued, "I think maybe me or Nick or both of us could help you get 'em finished."

I was almost breathless with surprise. Teddy Cooper and maybe Nick Harlan were going to help me finish writing my songs? Then sing them?

"You there?"

"I'm here," I said. "So you're thinking of maybe recording them?"

"Doubt it. Not really up our alley. But we know some people that probably would like to record them. And we've got an agent who'll want to meet with you and probably represent you and all that fancy stuff, too."

"So what's in it for you?"

"Royalties," he said, surprised I'd asked. "We help, we get a share."

I pondered this. "Only fair, I guess."

"It won't be fifty fifty or nothing," he continued. "You've already done most of the work."

"So how would it work?"

"Not a clue. I guess we'll just figure it out as we go along. Percentages on each song depending on how much polishing I do or Nick does or whatever."

I thought about his proposal for all of about a split second. Either turn him down and they never get published or accept and maybe make a mint.

"When?"

"What?"

"When do you want to meet," I said.

"I'll get ahold of Nick, then get back in touch with you sometime this week, okay?"

"Sounds great to me."

I stared at the telephone for five minutes after hanging up. The possibilities were endless. I could change careers, maybe get my own shot at the big time. I could see the throngs swaying as I packed stadiums full of people there to see Mark Roberts.

Then the mood passed, and I grabbed my keys to go grocery shopping before heading to the football game.

* * * * *

I was standing at the deli counter waiting for my potato salad, cole slaw, and cheeses to get wrapped, weighed, and tagged.

"Figured you for a churchgoer," she said behind me.

I turned and looked at Rebecca Galarza.

"Ma'am," I nodded, giving her a lazy smile before turning back and scooping up my meal fixins.

Before I could wheel away, Rebecca bumped her cart into mine.

"You were real good last night," she said, flashing a bright smile. "Really good."

"Thanks."

"Is that what you did down there in Memphis? When you weren't busy freeing the innocent and generally just being a brilliant young attorney, you found time to be a famous country singer, too?"

"No. Haven't done it in years. Playing in front of a crowd, at least."

"And that's why you've run away up here to Grant City. Because we're some kinda mecca of bar bands and you're trying to break away from the law and hit it big in music?"

Her eyes and easy, teasing tone told me she was having fun with this. It was infectious, too. I felt myself smiling at her playfulness while looking over her casual faded jeans and t-shirt attire.

"You sizing me up, Mister Southern Gentleman?"

I chuckled. "Sorry, but you could make burlap look fetching."

"Fetching?"

"Absolutely."

"You're smooth."

"I try."

"You succeed," she said, raising an eyebrow and giving me the once over. "When you bother trying."

"You got any plans for today?"

I hesitated, then said, "Sorry, but I'm afraid I've got someplace to go."

Disappointment flickered across her face, replaced by false cheer. "Maybe some other time?"

I wasn't sure what to do. She'd dropped by maybe a half dozen times in the time I'd been working at The Hitching Rail, each time having only two drinks--gin and tonic with a lime every time--before leaving. I'd only briefly talked to her once, but I'd seen her around the other men, too. Though pretty, she'd not been mean or arrogant or any of the other things common to pretty girls who know they're pretty. Instead, she'd been mostly good-humored and lightly teasing. She smiled easily, rarely frowned, wasn't overly melodramatic, and seemed comfortable in her own skin.

"Listen," I said, putting my hand on her shopping cart to stop her, "I've really got to go see someone today. It's . . . well, it's important. To me."

"Fair enough."

She smiled, relaxing, that flirtatious smile back again. I looked at the contents of my shopping cart, then back to her.

"Still," I started, then stopped, trying to figure out the right way to say it. "What I'm doing today won't really take all that long. Then I've just got to get my meals made for the week, which should only take a few hours."

"You asking me out on a date?" she teased. I tensed, and she said, "Because if you are, the answer's yes. You just tell me the time and the place and I'll be there."

"I don't really know where to go around here. I don't really feel like going to The Rail on my day off, and my place isn't really set up for visitors."

"Still getting settled in?"

"Came furnished. Just not the greatest, I guess."

"So it's really, like, a genuine bachelor pad? Like from college?"

"Yep."

"I haven't seen one of those in ages," she said, rubbing her hands together. "Please? Let me invite myself over for dinner?"

My hesitation evaporated at her glee. Her energy was infectious, like it was an adventure.

"I'll make us dinner," I said.

"And I'll bring the drink," she countered. "Wine, beer, or booze?"

"Your choice. I don't really drink much."

"Fair enough." She looked into my shopping cart. "And what's for dinner?"

"Sandwiches," I said. "I really like sandwiches."

"Sandwiches," she said, nodding. Then her face brightened again, and she said, "Sounds perfect. Give me your address and I'll be there."

I did. Then, with a bright smile and a sashay of her perfectly pouty posterior, she was gone, whistling to herself as she did her own shopping.

* * * * *

Clarice Talbott sat in the stands, off by herself on the edge of the bleachers. The other parents, all of whom had known each other for years, chatted easily to themselves, but few of them showed her any interest. Of course, why would they? She was relatively new to Grant City; she and Schuyler had moved there only seven months before, I'd found out. Add to that her cheap, K-Mart clothes, frail figure, and tired looks, and there was nothing about her that invited conversation. Thus, she jumped visibly when I slid in next to her and said, "Mind if I join you?"

She slid over a bit and gave a tight jerk of her head to indicate assent. Or at least what I assumed passed for permission.

"I've just noticed the last few times you've been pretty much on your own here," I continued, speaking easily with a lopsided smile and soft southern accent. "Sorta like me."

She tried to smile, but it looked lame and forced at best. "You're new around here, too?"

"'Bout a month," I confirmed.

I settled in, then turned my eyes to the field and spotted Schuyler right away. Halfback. He seemed impossibly small and weighted down by all of his equipment. Then again, so did most of the rest of the boys on the field, too.

"That's your boy, right?" I asked. "The one at running back?"

"Schuyler," she said, her eyes following mine and watching her son take a pitch out and almost immediately turn upfield. He got smeared by a bigger kid at linebacker, but not before picking up six yards.

"That's what I thought," I said. "You always tense up when he's got the ball."

She turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "So I wasn't imagining things? You've been watching me?"

"Not stalking or spying or anything nearly so sinister," I said, smiling, but keeping my eyes on the field. "Still, you're pretty hard not to notice, right? You and me are the only two on our own here. We both sort of stick out like sore thumbs."

She gave a snort. "Tell me about it."

"I'm Mark," I said, holding my hand toward her.

"Clarice," she replied, shaking the proffered hand. Her hand was thin and boney, her grip light and fleeting.

"Lived here long, Clarice?"

"Just moved here a couple of months back."

"Me, too."

"So we're both outsiders."

"S'pose so."

"Where'd you move here from, Mark?"

"Memphis. You?"

"Washington, D.C."

"You in government?"

"I was."

"And now?"

She smiled. "Finishing my degree at Chadwick. You?"

"Tending bar at The Hitching Rail."

She gave me a direct gaze, her face saying she didn't really believe I was a bartender and no more.

"And Schuyler?" I said, trying to keep the conversation going for a moment. "How old's he?"

"Almost eight."

I nodded, then turned back to the field.

We watched the game in silence for nearly an hour. Then, with only a few minutes remaining in the fourth quarter, the visiting team was starting to move. Down four, they still had a chance of beating the Grant City Generals, and the parents were all pretty frantic.

To add to the drama, a light drizzle started in, which made the chilly day downright miserable. With a minute twelve left, the other quarterback dropped back to pass and--lo and behold--little Schuyler, playing safety, somehow managed to scamper between the ball and the other tyke trying to catch it. Schuyler immediately broke for the other end of the field when I felt a clamp on my forearm. It was Clarice, her eyes transfixed on her little boy running toward his end zone. The other parents were yelling, too, and I just smiled and watched Schuyler eventually get brought down just past mid field with a minute one left in the game.

His team went nuts, the crowd went nuts, and I managed to stand and call out an atta boy. Clarice, strangely, just looked relieved he'd gotten up.

"He's fine," I said.

She looked at me, then down to her hand still clutching my forearm. With a downward flutter of her eyes, she said, "Sorry. I just worry sometimes is all."

"He just won the game," I said. "Or saved it, at least."

"Yeah. That's good. He'll get more friends out of this, right?"

"Without a doubt."

"Good," she said, then took her hand from my forearm and avoided my eyes. She turned back to the field, and I took that moment to slide off the bleacher and disappear.

I'd learned what I needed to learn.

Clarice Talbott and her boy were alone against the world.

And she was scared as hell that something would happen to him.

* * * * *

The smell hit her the moment I opened the door, and her face said she was intrigued.

"I thought you said sandwiches?"

I grinned. "Tortas," he said, inflecting it with a Spanish accent. "You know, Mexican sandwiches."

"I know what tortas are," she said, stepping past him into the apartment. "I just didn't think . . . I guess I thought it would be ham and cheese or something like that."

"Boring." I lifted the bag from her hand, looked inside, and took the beer to the refrigerator.

"I figured that was pretty safe since you said you don't drink much and all," Rebecca called after me as she stood in the entryway and looked around the stark room.

Actually, stark was an understatement. There was a couch and coffee table that had seen better days--probably during the Nixon administration--and a small television on a stand with a DVD player hooked up to it. In the corner was my guitar on a metal stand sitting next to a music stand. The alcove that was the dining room had a cheap table and two chairs. That was it. No pictures, nothing. The microwave told me what time it was.

"You've really lived here a month?"

"Yep."

"And this is all you've got?"

"Home sweet home."

"But . . . I mean . . . . Jesus, Mark, where the hell's you furniture? Christ, even dorm rooms had posters taped to the walls. Don't tell me the bedroom. . . ."

I chuckled, then spun and started down the hallway, waving at her to follow.

"Not exactly the Hilton," I said, opening the door.

She looked inside and stopped. There was a mattress laying on the floor in the corner. It had sheets and pillows and a comforter, and it was neatly made, but it was still a mattress on a floor. Beside it, also on the floor, was an alarm clock and a stack of books. The closet door was partially open, revealing about a dozen white shirts and a half dozen pair of blue jeans neatly hanging, and socks and underwear and some more clothes were folded and stacked neatly on the shelf above. There were three pairs of shoes neatly lined up on the floor of the closet: brown loafers and two pairs of white Nikes.

"What the hell do you do when you're not at work?"

I closed the door and said, "Eat, sleep, and play guitar."

"Really?" she said, reaching out and pinching my ribs. "Then you need to do some more of the eatin' and a little less of the guitar playing."

"I s'pose you're right," I said, heading back toward the kitchen.

I went straight to the small saucepan and frying pan on the stove, giving both a quick stir. The former was filled with barely simmering meat, the latter with onions slowly caramelizing in butter.

"Smells delicious," she said.

"Sorta my own version of a Mexican braised shortrib sandwich with caramelized onions and queso fresco cheese."

She inhaled the aromas of beef, garlic, thyme, and red wine, then took a whiff of the buttery onions. "You a gourmet or something?"

I patted a book laying open on the counter. "Whole cookbook of gourmet sandwiches. From that guy on the cooking shows all the time."

"So when you said sandwiches, you weren't kidding."

I smiled, then opened the freezer. It was packed with neatly labeled plastic containers filled with an assortment of meat and vegetable sandwich fillings.

"I spend every Sunday making a few of the fillings, then I freeze them. I get cheeses and bread throughout the week, and there you have it."

"And that's it?"

"I usually have soup with it, too. Vegetable soup or tomato soup. Sometimes a salad. You know, one of them things in a bag all made up pretty much already?"

She laughed. "Bachelors."

I smiled. "You ever hear of Warren Zevon?"

She shook her head, looking perplexed.

"He was a singer and a songwriter. Great songwriter. One of my favorites. Anyway, he got cancer about ten years ago. Lung cancer. I'll never forget reading the article when it was announced. They gave him like six months to live. He'd been a smoker all his life. And a heroin addict and an alcoholic and all that other shit, too, I guess. So they asked him if he had any regrets; what was he gonna miss. You know what he said?"

She shook her head.

"'Sandwiches,' he said. 'I really like sandwiches.' When they made a tribute album of his songs after he died--there was Jakob Dylan and Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne and Bruce Springsteen--they named it 'Enjoy Every Sandwich.' I figured he was right. I'd never really thought about it before, but I really like sandwiches."

"Still," Rebecca said, "every meal?"

"What can I say?" I said, smiling and shrugging. "He was right. I really, really like 'em, and I don't wanna look back at the end of my life and wish I'd eaten more."

"Well you need to eat more," she said, poking me again in the ribs.

"You really think I'm too skinny?" I asked, opening a bag of fresh rolls and slicing them before putting them on a plate. I wasn't particularly surprised. Maybe it didn't hold true with girls, but guys could definitely be too skinny. Everyone had always preferred Stevie over me because he looked like a man was supposed to look. I looked like an accountant or a computer programmer was supposed to look, except without the glasses and with hair a little too long.

"I'm just joking," she said, seeming to read my thoughts.

I rummaged around the refrigerator before pulling out two bottles of beer and a container of deli potato salad. "Does it make me . . . I don't know, I don't guess I'm all that good looking to begin with . . . but does it make me, like, less attractive?"

I gave her an open look as I popped the caps off the beers and handed her one.

"I was just-- " she started.

"No, I really wanna know. Should I maybe work out or something? You think that would make me look better?"

I took a pull on his beer, and she took a sip of hers as she tried to formulate an answer.

"Turn around," Rebecca finally said.

I looked at her, then turned my back to her and spooned some meat and onions onto the rolls before topping them each with a sprinkle of cheese.

"Well?" I said, opening the potato salad and spooning some onto each plate. "Can I turn around yet?"

I felt a hand on my ass, firmly rubbing me through my jeans. Then she gave a firm squeeze and held it, reaching over and whispering into my ear, "Maybe I was being too critical before."

"Maybe?"

"Probably."

I turned and faced her, my nose nearly touching hers, a broad smile on my face. "You let me know when you know for sure either way, okay?"

Her eyebrow raised as she seemed to just stare at me for a moment. Then, without warning, she leaned in and kissed me. It was soft and tender at first, then more insistent and hungry as I overcame my shock and kissed her back.

Her hands were stroking my upper arms through the thin fabric of my shirt. My arms tensed, then fell as my hands went to her waist. Soon, the kiss deepened as our tongues started brushing against each other, tasting and probing. After a minute or so, Rebecca broke back with a deep breath.

"Come on," she said, taking my hand. "Dinner will hold."

She pulled me toward the bedroom, and I followed willingly. Once there, she turned and pulled her blouse over her head.

"You just let me know if I'm being too forward here," she said with a sly grin.

I just stood there, my mouth agape, my eyes taking in the smooth olive skin of her taut belly and the gentle rise of her breasts disappearing into a black lace bra.

"You like?" she teased, reaching back to unsnap her bra before shrugging it off her shoulders.

My eyes locked on her breasts, then looked back to her face. She had a flush of pride and excitement at my reaction.

"I take it this'll do?" she said, unbuttoning and unzipping her shorts before sliding them down her hips and her legs.

I said nothing. I was frozen in place, the only movement in my eyes as they followed the progress of the faded jeans to the floor before looking back at her midsection clad only in skimpy black silk panties with a white lacy bow.

"Come here, Mark," she said, her voice a husky whisper. I still couldn't move--couldn't seem to process that this was happening--which only seemed to turn her on even more. Still, I could only stare in wonderment. Her breasts, while not huge, were well-proportioned to her body and still holding up; her belly was flat, and her legs were long, toned, and smooth. And that rear end; my God, Renaissance artists dreamed of sculpting such a posterior so perfectly pouty and still proportionate to the rest of the figure.

"Mark," she said, walking toward me, "am I going too fast here?"

My eyes met hers and she hesitated. Her eyes were questioning, but something in my look must have answered her doubts. Slowly, her lips curled into a lewd smile filled with promises of adventure and pleasures untold of in polite society.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 03



"Let's see what you've got here now, okay?" she said, reaching up to unbutton my shirt. She leaned in and kissed me on the lips as her fingers made quick work of the buttons. After a brief freeze, my lips responded with hunger. Yet, my hands remained at my sides, my feet locked in place. The buttons undone, she pulled the shirt off and broke the kiss, standing back to look at me.

"So?" I said after a few seconds. "Too scrawny?"

Her eyes showed only astonishment, followed soon by appreciation and a further curling of her lips.

"Take off your jeans," she ordered, her eyes locked on the growing bulge behind my zipper. When I made no move to do so, she looked back to my eyes, seeing the apprehension and hesitation still clouding my face. She gave a reassuring look. "I can't wait to see the rest of you, Mark. Please, take off your jeans."

Slowly, my eyes still on her face, I undid my jeans and began pushing them down my hips, turning to the side as I did so.

"Don't hide from me," she said. "You're . . . . Jesus, Mark, you're fucking gorgeous."

I stopped and looked at her, unsure whether she was teasing or joking. Her actions seemed to answer the question. She leaned down and yanked my jeans the rest of the way to the ground. She then made quick work of my boxer shorts, grabbing them at the bottom and jerking them to the floor, as well.

I was already at full staff and involuntarily jerked my arms to cover myself.

"Don't you dare," Rebecca said, taking my hands and moving them aside. "You're . . . this is . . . ."

Without another word, she placed her hand around my shaft, softly at first, but soon tightening. Her hand was soft and smooth and a little cool against the heat of my excitement. Add to that the look on her face--hunger and excitement and anticipation all rolled into one--and it was hard to hold back. My soft moan seemed to stir her from her reverie.

"It's beautiful," she said, her voice getting huskier. "So perfect. Big, but not enormous. And with the rest of you . . . . Jesus, Mark, you're fucking ripped. Underneath all those baggy shirts and loose jeans is the body of a goddamned . . . wow."

I smiled, relieved at her assessment. That buoyed my spirits and, coupled with her own beauty, settled my mind on where this was going.

"So maybe has now become definitely?" I said, reaching down and running my fingertips over the smooth, bare skin of her shoulder.

She looked up, and those big, round brown eyes staring at me were captivating. They were so captivating, it didn't even register that she was leaning forward until, her eyes still on mine, she took me into her mouth, running her tongue up the underside of my shaft as she did so. I gasped, and my mouth opened and sucked in a breath in reaction, but my eyes stayed locked on hers as she began sliding her lips back and forth.

As her mouth picked up speed, she gradually closed her eyes and concentrated on the task at hand. Needing to touch her, to connect yet more, I reached down and teased my fingers through her thick hair and grazed them over her cheeks and soft shoulders. Anywhere, everywhere. Any part of her I could touch, I tried to touch.

"Oh my God," I said after a minute or so, not even aware it was me until she slowed and looked up with those bewitching eyes. They flashed triumph as she withdrew from me and slinked back toward the mattress. Reaching her hand up and taking mine, she pulled me down to her. When I leaned in to kiss her, she rolled and flipped me onto my back, sitting above me with her hands kneading my chest and stroking my abdomen.

"Let me taste you," I said, not wanting to return the favor nearly so much as wanting to sink my tongue in her smooth folds and explore her most intimate place.

"Later," she said, reaching back and grasping my cock, holding it straight up. She teased the head back and forth over her lips, leaning her head back and closing her eyes, then slowly lowering herself.

I laid my hands on top of her thighs, then held still as she sank inch by deliriously exquisite inch toward my pelvis. Once fully seated, her body relaxed and I felt her squeezing me as she grew accustomed to my length. I lightly stroked her thighs, letting her make the next move.

After what seemed an eternity of hot, wet, pulsating bliss, she leaned forward and again locked her eyes on mine, then lowered her face toward mine. The kisses were tentative at first--teasing and nipping--then grew more frenzied as she began to slide her hips up and down. Somewhere in there, my hands found her breasts and stroked them before tweaking and pinching her nipples. They were firm and delicious, the nipples engorged and excited beneath my fingertips. Her hands went to my chest and, breaking the kisses, she pushed herself up again as her breathing changed to short, sharp pants.

Her hips began to pick up speed, and I reached behind with one hand and stroked her ass. Soon, I had two hands on her bottom, both firmly massaging her firm cheeks. Soon, feeling my excitement beginning to peak, I was using my hands to help her pick up yet more speed as my own breathing grew ragged.

"Just a little more," she gasped after a few minutes, then sat straight and threw her head back to concentrate on the sensations coursing through her body. I felt the convulsions around my pecker, felt her thighs tighten along my pelvis, and waited her out so I could race toward my own finish.

"Oh God," she moaned as her shuddering increased. She placed her hands over mine, lifted them to her breasts, and guided my squeezing and fondling as the electrons in her body continued firing off. This, in turn, caused her hips to jerk up and down on me, working me closer and closer.

"I'm getting close," I gasped as her own body began relaxing.

In response, Rebecca evened out the pace of her hips and ground down even harder, almost slamming herself into me as my own hips thrust up faster and faster to meet her. Then, my breath nearly gone, my hands locked on top of her thighs and held her still as I made the final plunge, exploding a month's worth of pent up arousal with a loud groan.

With a sigh, I loosened my on her thighs and leaned my head back with eyes closed, trying to regain my breath.

I sensed her movement toward me, but couldn't move a bone in my suddenly worn out, wearied bones. She brushed her lips against mine and said, "No more wishy washy here. You're all-around amazing."

I opened my eyes and gave a lazy smile. "Really?"

"Most definitely."

Finding my strength in the sincerity all over her face, I reached around and hugged her tight to me, my hands stroking the warm, smooth skin of her back as we both settled down from our coupling. 

"This is perfect," she mumbled.

"What?" I mumbled back, my eyes again closed as I enjoyed the contact of a warm, soft body.

"You're a snuggler." She kissed my neck. "Most men aren't much for snuggling once they're done."

I didn't respond, preferring to continue holding her naked skin against mine for awhile longer.

* * * * * 

Fifteen minutes later, we sat at my little dining room table eating dinner, both of us clad only in underwear and t-shirts.

"This is really good," she said after finishing nearly half the sandwich.

"It's better when it's still warm."

"Either way, you're right. I think I'll start eating more sandwiches."

I smiled, took a bite, and chewed, all the while looking her in the eyes.

"What?" she finally said.

"Tonight. What was that all about?"

She shrugged. "You just seemed like you needed to get laid. And God knows I did."

I mulled this over. After a minute of silence, Rebecca said, "Was it okay for you?"

"That's the understatement of the century."

"My . . . I wasn't too forward?"

"Nope. Feel free to seduce me anytime the idea strikes."

"And my . . . my figure? My body? You think I'm-- "

"Pretty much perfect," I said, smiling at the memory and the fact that that body was still within easy reach.

"Pretty much?" she teased, turning the tables from our earlier conversation.

"I didn't exactly get a close up inspection of everywhere. It moved a bit quick for that."

"Like where?" She raised her eyebrow and gave a lewd grin.

"You know," I said. "Toenails and such."

She burst out laughing. "Toenails?"

"And other things."

She shook her head, and I grinned in response. We ate the rest of the meal in comfortable silence. Once done, I stood and took the plates, scraping the remains into the garbage before grabbing two more beers from the refrigerator, popping the caps, and returning to the table.

"So why me?" I said.

"Because you're cute?"

I raised my eyebrow, waiting for the longer answer.

"You're a riddle," she said, then took a drink of her beer. "You're cute, but you're quiet. It's obvious you just went through a divorce, and I'm sure you're still hurting over it. And it was more than obvious before that you're more than just a little bit insecure right now. So I decided to kill two birds with one stone: I got laid and I reassured you that you have nothing to be insecure about."

I paused, thinking it over, then nodded and took a sip of my beer. "So sort of a mercy fuck, huh?"

Her eyes narrowed, not sure if I was serious. "Your ass was like steel. Once I felt that--and once you kissed me, you're a good kisser by the way--I was pretty worked up. So no, it wasn't a mercy fuck."

She seemed serious, not just placating my insecurities or stoking my ego. Serious. A woman for once being serious with me. I wondered how long since Sandy had been really serious with me instead of merely acting out the charade.

Then another thought struck me. Sandy. Jesus Christ, I'm still married. At that, my head dropped to the table, my eyes trying to focus in on the beer label in front of me. In a small voice, I said, "I'm not divorced yet."

I sensed her tighten across from me. "But you said . . . at the bar . . . you're not wearing a ring and-- "

"When y'all asked if I was divorced, I said, 'Something like that.' Well, I guess according to the great State of Tennessee, I'm not divorced. Still married, such as it is. I ran away, that part was true, but we haven't even started the divorce process."

Her face was initially a mask of confusion that quickly went through stunned then realization before settling on anger.

"So what's going on," Rebecca said with a tinge of sadness.

I took a deep breath, then looked at the wall over Rebecca's shoulder. When I spoke, it was flat and without emotion. I was trying to not have to live it all out again--trying to soften the impact that I knew verbalizing this for the first time would have on me.

"Sandy; that's her name. I've been in love with her since I don't know when. Seventh, eighth grade at least. But she was always crazy for my brother. They dated the whole time, and I was always off in the distance. She liked me well enough, I suppose. You know, in a brotherly, friendly sort of way, but her real passion was Stevie, my brother." I gave a bitter snort. "Truth be told, she probably barely knew I existed."

"So why didn't she marry him? Your brother?"

"He died. A little over eight years ago, he was killed in a car crash."

I shot her a quick look. Lips pressed tightly together, eyes narrow, arms folded across each other on the table as she leaned toward me. She looked every inch the attorney getting set for a brutal cross-examination.

"So they pushed us together," I continued, focusing back on the wall. "Year and a half later, our parents decided me and Sandy would make a beautiful couple."

"Encouraged or pushed?"

"Set it all up."

"You mean an arranged thing?" Rebecca said. When I looked at her, she was beginning to lean back in surprise. "Why would they do that?"

"Votes," Mark said. "Sandy's dad was running for office, and it was great political theater."

"But your parents. Why would they go along with it?"

"Pretty much the same reason, I suppose. That and get the payoff of such a big favor to the Governor, of course. He'd owe Daddy, Sandy's dad would."

"And you knew this and played along with it?"

I looked at her and held it this time, fixing her with a stare. "I found out the weekend before I left."

Her face still showed some doubt about that. "You never even suspected anything?"

"Like this? Not a chance. I mean, how the fuck you do that to your own son? Without telling him?"

"How'd you find out?"

"I just did, okay?"

"So you're sure it's true?"

"Positive."

"You didn't figure it out wrong?"

"I overheard a conversation I shouldn't have. Her parents and mine, okay? They spelled it all out in all its glory."

"And you're sure you didn't just misunderstand or something?"

"Jesus, Rebecca," I said, "I'm a lawyer, too, y'know? Give me some credit for an ounce of brains."

"Sorry," she muttered, "it's all just so . . . so . . . well, like India or something. I mean, an arranged marriage?"

I shook my head. "Only partially arranged. She agreed to it knowing full well what the deal was. All they had to do to get me to go along was offer up my dream wife. My dream wife since I was a kid. I fell for the whole thing hook, line, and sinker." 

"Did she know you didn't know?"

I smiled. "Very perceptive. And that's the million dollar question, too."

Rebecca tilted her head. "So you don't know?"

I shook my head. "And I'm still trying to figure out why it should matter."

She pursed her lips at that one, then said, "There's a big difference, I guess. One way, you were both duped. The other way, only you were duped and she was in on it."

I shrugged. "But at the end of the day, it still wasn't a real marriage. Not to her at least."

"But it was to you, right?"

"Yeah. Right up until I found out the truth."

She sat back, eyeing me as whatever was in her mind worked itself out.

"So you see what I meant?" I said. "It's not that I'm divorced. It's more like I wasn't really married."

"But you loved her."

"But she didn't love me. To her, I was a fuck buddy for six years."

"You sure? You sure that's all you were?"

I shrugged. "No, I'm not really sure. But I'm also still not sure it really makes much of a difference."

"How so?"

"Things she said. At the time, I thought it was just this delightfully quirky sense of humor. Looking back on it, it's all different now. Now the things she said can be interpreted a whole lot of different ways. Most of them bad."

"So once you overheard them, you just booked?"

"No," I said, my eyes going back to that spot on the wall. "It took me two days."

"Say it," she demanded. "Something else happened in those two days. What was it? You find out she cheated on you?"

"No, though I'm pretty sure now that she had at least one affair during our marriage. I only know the when--or strongly suspect, at least--but I don't know the who or for precisely how long. Or if there have been others."

"Then what was it?"

"My dad," I said, turning back and putting my hands across the table toward her. She hesitated, then slid her hands over mine. "I found out that I have a brother. Or at least a little boy Dad's campaign committee is paying child support on and trying to hide it."

Her eyes went wide.

I nodded. "That's right. And he's right here. In Grant City. His name's Schuyler, and he looks almost exactly like me when I was his age."

"And the mother?"

"Used to work for my dad. As an aide or his secretary or something."

"So you came here to find him?"

I nodded.

"To do what?"

"Don't know yet."

She pondered this, her eyes looking through me as her fingertips started drumming the table.

"Can't say anything," she said, more to herself than to me. "Expose it and the little boy gets hit in the shitstorm. He doesn't need that; no kid does. And probably not her, either."

I just watched, staying quiet as she gave voice to what I'd long ago concluded. As much as I'd have like to have destroyed my father's career with such a tawdry scandal, I didn't want to hurt any innocents, either.

"I guess the real question is whether your mother knows," she continued after a minute.

"Probably not."

Her eyes twitched, then focused on mine. "You sure?"

"Pretty sure. I'd have gotten even a whiff, I'm sure. Even Mom's not that good at hiding something like this. She'd have leashed him, if not outright nutted him."

"So there's your leverage," Rebecca said. "What do you want him to do? What do you want to see happen?"

I shrugged. "I think I just want to get to know my little brother. I don't need revenge. Not on anyone. I need to stay the hell away from them--from all of them--and just try to start over somewhere else away from everyone."

"Everyone?" she said, a twinkle back in her eye. But it was a soft twinkle.

"I'm sorry," I said, lowering my face. "I wasn't . . . I didn't really . . . ."

She reached over and lifted my chin. "I may have come on a bit strong. I mean, I'm not bragging or anything, but your are a guy and . . . well, I was buck naked and on my knees and you were in my mouth all pretty much before you really had much of a chance to say anything, right? Like I can expect you to realistically say, 'Stop. I need to tell you this long convoluted story about how I'm sorta married but not really.' I mean, it's not like . . . well, you'd pretty much have to be either gay as hell or stone cold dead to have stopped it all, right?"

"Still," I said.

"Still," she agreed. "I don't make a habit outta screwing married guys. You're only the third, actually, and the first two were . . . well, one was . . . let's just say only one of them was where he was using me to cheat."

"I didn't mean to-- "

"No," she interrupted. "This isn't like that. This is . . . I don't know. I know the one made me feel cheap. Used. Like a piece of meat. Not during, but afterwards. This one doesn't feel like that."

"It's not. I swear. I just . . . I guess I don't really consider myself married. She's like an old flame now. Sandy, that is. Like a past girlfriend. But it's not like we were ever really married, you know?"

She gave a sad smile. "No, I don't know. And I'm sorry as hell that you do. Because what they all did to you is about the worst goddamned thing I've ever heard, which is sayin' quite a bit."

I nodded.

"So you're just gonna stay up here and not do anything?" Rebecca asked after a moment.

"What d'ya mean?"

"I mean you need to move off dead center. You need to act. Running up here was a reaction. Now you need to be proactive."

"How so?"

"A divorce, for starters."

I hesitated, then said, "But right now it'd have to be back in Memphis. Back in her neck of the woods. I haven't lived here long enough."

She smiled. "Wrong, Mark. This is a game, man. Like poker. You file here, what's she gonna do? Ask that it be moved down there? You really think her daddy's gonna let her do that? Right in front of all those Memphis reporters?" She shook her head. "I don't think so."

I smiled for the first time in a while. "There's more," I said. "Her daddy's making a run at the White House."

"So he'll definitely try to keep this all as quiet as possible."

I felt my muscles relax and sank into my seat. I didn't realize I was so tense until that happened, and now I was loose and languid, genuinely pleased for the first time in ages. Even Rebecca's next question couldn't stop my relief at having a plan.

"Just one thing left to figure out," she said.

"That being?"

"What're you gonna do if she contests it. You really ready to spill all the beans? Ruin not just her father's career, but maybe your own father's as well?"

I smiled. "She won't contest it. The threat alone will be enough to get her to back off. She'll do whatever her daddy tells her to do."

"You sure?" Rebecca asked.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 03



"Positive."

Come to find out, though, I was wrong.

Dead wrong.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bright and early Tuesday morning, I was sitting in the offices of Taylor & Galarza, Attorneys at Law. At ten past ten, the door behind the receptionist opened and Whitney Patterson saw me, made a brave attempt at smiling, and waved me back. I hesitated, then got up and followed her.

"I thought Rebecca was handling this."

"She pawned it off on me," Whitney said. "If you're uncomfortable, let me know now and we'll re-schedule you with someone else."

We turned into a small office cluttered with files and legal pads. "But Rebecca said-- "

"Sleeping with you kinda changed that," Whitney said, taking a seat behind the desk and waving me to a chair opposite her.

"She told you?"

Whitney nodded. "Yesterday afternoon, after the appointment was scheduled. About the time she realized it could pose a serious conflict of interest."

"How?"

"Because lawyers aren't allowed to sleep with their clients. Big no no. Quick ticket to disbarment."

I pondered this, then nodded. "Okay. How long you been doing this?"

"Lawyer for nine years, divorce and other civil law for the past seven months. I was a prosecutor before that."

She raised her eyebrow, daring me to challenge her bona fides.

I shrugged. "Fine. This should be simple enough anyway."

"That's what Rebecca said, and she'd know."

"Meaning?"

Whitney's face pinched as she pondered how to answer. Finally, she seemed to decide the truth was the best approach. "She was opposing counsel in my divorce. Did a solid job of pointing out the obvious. So she's got experience, okay? She says this is a no brainer, it's a no brainer."

"She represented your ex-husband? Against you?"

She nodded, the glimmer of a smile appearing.

"And now you work for her?"

"I'm a good lawyer and they needed someone with trial experience."

"But . . . you're friends with your ex's divorce lawyer?"

"Strange, huh? What can I say? She wasn't a total bitch or anything. If anything, she knew her cards, played them cleanly, and made it all go smooth as could be. You know what happened, what caused my divorce. How do I blame her for proposing what a judge would give me anyway?"

I said nothing, just stared at her. Lawyers, definitely a different breed of cat.

"So," Whitney said after a moment, picking up a pen and poising it above her legal pad, "we ready to get started on you and your situation?"

I nodded. I spent the next half hour answering her questions, then left with a questionnaire to fill out giving my financial status and everything but preferred brand of boxers. Another appointment was made for Friday morning to come in and sign the paperwork and get it all going.

* * * * *

Rebecca and I had dinner together Tuesday night. Cuban sandwiches with tomato soup. Rebecca stood next to me, her hip against the counter, as I pressed the sandwiches and heated the soup.

"Whitney and I were talking," she said.

"Oh?"

"You told her about almost everything."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"You didn't mention the real reason you came here, though. Your little brother."

I stirred the soup and thought about it, then said, "Does she really need to know?"

"I think so."

"And you didn't tell her?"

"No. I wasn't sure you'd want me to."

"Then why're you bringing it up."

"Because I'm trying to get you to tell her yourself."

"And if I don't?"

"Then she won't find out from me, that's for sure."

I looked at her. Her deep brown eyes just seemed to gaze straight into my soul.

"I know this is all pretty hard on you, Mark," she said, her voice and her eyes both going soft at the same time. "I don't want to force you into anything. On the other hand, I don't want a hurricane to hit, either. A hurricane your own attorney doesn't even know is brewing, by the way."

I nodded. The lawyer in me knew she was right. Still, the human in me wanted to keep it private. "Let me sleep on it, okay?"

"Fair enough."

I finished the sandwiches, ladled the soup into bowls, and carried mine to the table with Rebecca following behind.

She dipped her sandwich in her soup, took a bite, and chewed slowly, her eyes on me the whole time.

"What?" I said when she finally swallowed.

She smiled. "Just because my last name's Galarza doesn't mean you have to make Mexican or Cuban or just generally Latin sandwiches whenever I'm around."

I laughed. "Come here," I said, taking a bite of the sandwich before pushing back from the table and walking toward the freezer.

I opened the freezer door and she looked in. "Left to right," I said, nodding toward the tupperware containers of labeled frozen sandwich fillings. "Sunday through Saturday. Mexican beef ribs, last night was shredded Thai chicken, tomorrow night's pulled pork, and so on."

She looked at me and snorted into the back of her hand. "Jesus, you're about the most anal guy I've ever run into."

"What can I say?" I said, shutting the freezer door. "I'm a lawyer, too. I like my ducks in a row."

She just shook her head and went back to the table. We finished eating, then went for a walk, chatting easily.

Neither of us initiated any frisky business. It was unspoken, but clear as a bell: No more until the divorce.

After Rebecca left, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek before departing, I almost called Whitney to speed things up.

Knowing they talked about me--and what Rebecca and I had already done--changed my mind, though. Seem in a hurry and Rebecca would probably come down on me like a ton of bricks.

That set me to thinking about Rebecca. She was mid-thirties, independent, smart, witty, all around wonderful. Yet, she'd never been married. Why?

That gave me something to think about. It just niggled in the back of my head, and I wasn't really sure why.

* * * * *

"Ask you something?" I asked Ferlin Fargo as I wiped up the bar after the lunch crowd.

"Shoot," he said, not bothering to look up from his newspaper.

"You're divorced, right?"

"Uh huh."

"What's the dating scene like for a divorced guy?"

"Sucks."

"Why?"

He finally looked up from the paper, his lips pursed as he pondered why the singles scene sucked.

"It's like this," he finally said. "Me--and you, for that matter--it's not like we're suddenly single again and the available dating pool is a bunch of young, sweet, innocent things. You're what? Thirty?"

"Thirty-two."

He nodded. "I was thirty-six, but it's close enough. Problem is, single women in their thirties are usually one of two things: Divorced or just not marriage material."

"'Not marriage material?'"

"Don't wanna get married. Or, if they're in a relationship, they're hell on wheels and it never gets close to marriage before it crashes and burns."

"Or they have a problem with even getting serious," I added. "Too independent and just don't wanna be tied down to anyone in any way."

"Yeah, like that," he said, now sliding the paper aside and leaning over toward me. "Then you got the divorced ones. They're a tricky bunch, too."

"How so?"

"You gotta find out why they're divorced. Were they spendthrifts? Too demanding? Sleeping around?"

"It's not always the woman's fault," I pointed out. "Those could just as easily apply to their ex-husbands, too."

He smiled and nodded. "Exactly, which means they're gonna be real leery. The worst their marriage--the worst their husband fucked 'em over--the more they tend to paint every man with that brush."

I pondered this, then said, "Why did you and Denise get divorced?"

He gave a sad shake of his head. "My fault. I was never there. Workaholic."

"Then why do you still see each other?"

"We love each other. She's the only one for me. Always will be."

"But her?"

"Loves me to death, but can't live with me. Can't live with all them nights I'm working til the early morning, all them weekends I'm home for four, maybe five hours then gone again. No way to raise a family, no way to have a marriage."

"You ever think of maybe cutting back?"

His smile was forlorn. "Sorry, buddy, but it's who I am. Might as well ask a leopard to change his spots. Ain't gonna happen."

"And she knew this going in?"

"Didn't start out that way, just ended that way."

"But you still spend time together?"

"When we can. We just don't stay married."

"Too bad."

"Yeah," he said, then sighed. "If only. . . ."

* * * * *

I gave long, hard thought to what Ferlin had said. It wasn't enough to just get rid of one problem only to face a whole slew of problems for which I wasn't really prepared. No, I had to give long hard thought to what would happen after the divorce.

Take Rebecca, for example. A year or two older than me, perfect, and still single. Neither she nor anyone else had ever hinted at any serious boyfriends in her past, which was strange. Women her age--if my secretary, wife, and others I'd known--were at least occasionally bringing up previous boyfriends, if only to bitch about them. Never a word from Rebecca, though. Was she really too independent to ever be married? Or did the thought of marriage just make her nauseous?

Of course, why should I give a damn? We'd slept together once, and the number of meaningful conversations we'd had could be counted on two hands with room to spare. Still, I liked her. She was the first since I'd discovered the sham I'd been part of for more than seven years. And there was more than a bit of fear that she'd prove to be the best prospect I'd ever have as bachelorhood loomed on the not-so-distant horizon.

Whitney was another example. She'd cheated on her husband. Still, I guess she'd never really been too happy in her marriage, either. Did that mean she'd never be happy in a marriage? Or that she'd cheat again at the first sign of discontent? Though I had no romantic thoughts so far as she was concerned, I worried she was indicative of one side of the divorcee coin.

I'd run into the other side of the divorcee coin all too often. Women who'd been so miserable--often for good reason--that they thought every man was a useless piece of shit. They'd been open with their scorn of the male of the species frequently and vocally, then looked at any men gathered near daring us to challenge their assessments. No fucking way I wanted to deal with some shrew like that.

The scariest, though--far and away--was the Ferlin and Denise saga. You've seen it: The case where they got divorced, but they still loved each other to death. Any new men in such a woman's life would be constantly and critically compared to their one lost love, and no one would ever measure up. Maybe with some patience, the man haters would come around and get over their anger. The one-lost-true-lovers would never come around, though. Was it fair? Fuck fair. Fair's got nothing to do with it. It's the way it is.

By Friday morning, though, I decided that Rebecca was right. I needed to get moving, get proactive for a change.

So I showed up, looked over the documents, and signed my petition for dissolution of marriage and a few related forms.

Then I spent ten minutes telling Whitney about my little brother, as well. She'd only sat there, jaws agape, and, when I'd finished, said, "Is everyone down there just a big flaming asshole?"

* * * * *

Sunday afternoon, I spent five hours with Teddy Cooper working out the kinks in what I thought was my best song. By the time he'd finished critiquing it, I was convinced it was a useless dreg not worth saving.

"This A chord?" he said, strumming the progression in question.

"Uh huh."

"I'd do this," he said, then did a progression of suspended chords. It changed the sound dramatically, as I knew it would.

"Sure," I said, "sounds better and all. You think it really fits, though?"

"It does if we throw in an augmented chord here," he said, then proceeded to strengthen the chord progression of the entire song, measure by measure.

By the time we'd finished a couple hours later, you could still recognize my original chord progression, but just barely.

Then we spent an hour flushing out and tightening the lyrics. It was both amazing and depressing to watch his mind work. His thoughts and suggestions were nearly always spot on, and they came out like rounds from a Gatling gun.

We finally spent the final hour trying to work out a bridge he insisted the song cried out for. He was right, and I'd long tried to do something along those lines. Taking what I figured had been one of my more inspired attempts, he smiled and said, "Close. Let's work on the lyrics and progression, though."

By the time I left at almost six thirty, I wanted to rush home and burn all of my other songs before he could go through and dissect them piece by piece. He must've sensed my frustration, though, because his hand on my shoulder stopped me at his front door.

"Mark?"

"Yeah."

"You're really pretty good. Maybe not great yet, but you have a knack for this."

"Yeah, sure," I said, then started to move.

His hand gripped my shoulder tighter, though. "You know, most of the songs Nick and I write, they take a long time. Sure, every once and awhile one'll come up on you real quick and we'll have it almost totally complete in a day or so, but most of them take days or weeks. A few even months or years before we go back to them and a new idea strikes."

I nodded, not really believing him.

"In an afternoon, you've got a piece that's almost ready for publication. Still a few kinks, but I'll have to let Nick hear it and think it over. Just something kinda pokin' at me. But anyways, that's really pretty goddamned good."

I looked at him and said, "It's almost not even the same song."

"Bullshit. Same lyrics with only a few changes; same chord progression, just jazzed up a little; and same melody line except, what, seven or eight notes?"

I shrugged. "But I'd have never even thought of those things."

He smiled. "This is what I do for a living, man. Seven days a week, three sixty-five a year. You get good at something when it's all you do, right?"

"God, I sure hope so. Because right now, I feel pretty goddamned inadequate."

He let go of my shoulder and tapped a light punch to my bicep. "Well don't. You'll get better, just watch."

"Okay," I said, picking up my guitar case next to the door and opening it to go out. Once on the porch, I stopped and turned. "Hey, Teddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't let Nick hear it unless I'm there, okay?"

"Why not?"

"I wanna see how his mind works on it, too, y'know? Helps me get better faster, I think."

"Sure, man. Fine. When he frees up, I'll give you a call and we'll all set something up."

"Thanks."

"Next week then?"

"See ya then," I said, raising my hand in a goodbye wave.

I still felt dumb as a stump.

* * * * *

Monday morning, Ferlin approached and asked if I could play again the upcoming Saturday night. Same time, same equipment, same everything. Golden Rodeo still wasn't healed, apparently.

"Sure," I said.

"Good," he said, then reached into a cupboard and pulled out four posters announcing my upcoming gig. "Hate to think I went through all the trouble of having these printed up for you to tell me to go to hell."

* * * * *

Wednesday night, it was my turn to sit at Rebecca's table while she made dinner. Whitney was there, too, which seemed fine since there was no chance of hanky panky until everything else was done.

"So what're you gonna do when this is all over?" Whitney asked.

"Not a clue. Probably just keep tending bar for awhile."

"And that doesn't bore you? All that education, those years of appellate work, and you're going back to bartending?"

"I like it. I don't have to think that much, and it's nice being around people who aren't always facing the death penalty or suing big oil and stuff like that."

"You'll get bored, though," Rebecca said. "Once this is all done, I give you 'bout a month. Then, one day, you'll be standing back there saying to yourself, 'What the hell am I doing here?'"

"Picking up women," I said back.

She turned and flashed me a grin. "Pervert."

"Still," Whitney insisted, "you don't want to get back into things?"

"I don't have an Illinois license, and I'm not going back to Tennessee. Ever."

"What about teaching?" Rebecca suggested.

"Dunno. Never done it."

"Not a bad idea," Whitney said. "Hell, Chicago alone's got, what, six law schools?"

"And we're not that far from Marquette, Madison, or DeKalb, either," Rebecca added.

I chuckled. "Really. Think about what you're saying. Can you really see me in front of a classroom full of eager young law students lecturing them on civil procedure or contracts or whatever?"

"Actually," Whitney said, eyeing me over, "I can."

"Just keep your pecker away from the student bodies," Rebecca chimed in.

"And with your resume, I'm sure one of 'em would give you a shot if they've got an opening."

I shook my head. "Doubt it."

Whitney pulled out her PDA and typed something into it. "I'm going to call around tomorrow, see what's shaking."

"Is this all part of being my lawyer?"

She looked at me and smiled, but Rebecca answered for her. "She knows what it's like getting divorced. You kinda just give up on things for awhile, seek change whether it's good for you or not. She doesn't want to see you fall into the same boat as most of our other clients."

"That happen to you?" I asked Whitney.

She shook her head. "No, but only because Rebecca caught me moping around one day just after I gave my notice at the State's Attorney's office. She kept me on the straight and narrow."

"So you do this for your other clients?"

"She owes you," Rebecca said, "so she's going the extra mile."

"Owes me?"

"When you played that song a couple of weeks back--the one where you told everyone you weren't playing until someone asked us to dance--well, someone asked her to dance. And now she's dating him."

I looked from Rebecca to Whitney, who gave a sheepish smile.

"Her hero, no less," Rebecca continued.

"Shut up," Whitney said.

"Oh, come on, you know he is."

Whitney looked from Rebecca to me and said, "So far so good."

"Your first since the divorce?"

She shook her head. "Just the first that wasn't out to screw and skedaddle."

I put my hand over hers. "Well good for you."

She sandwiched my hand and said, "It does get better, Mark. Believe me, it really does. It just takes somewhere around forever for it to happen."

* * * * *

I still hadn't approached Clarice Talbott, and both Rebecca and Whitney were on me to figure something out.

Frustrated, I decided on a cold call to her front door. Hell, we'd sat next to each other for two games in a row, so it wasn't like I was a total stranger or anything.

Thus, I went to her front door Thursday night after work and knocked.

Clarice seemed dazed when she opened the door, and I said, "You have a minute to-- "

Whap! She slammed the door in my face.

My eyes went wide, then I heard her frantic voice from within. "Yes, he's here right now." Pause. "No, I don't know that. I told you I don't know that. It was just those few times."

What's going on? I thought, and with my next thought answered my question. They'd figured out where I was and knew I'd be getting to her.

And they were probably already in town.

Right across that phone line.

I got in my car and left, wondering how they'd figured it out.

* * * * *

Whitney's call awoke me at seven thirty the next morning.

"She's been served," she said. "At your condo, last night about nine."

"Not the night before?" I asked.

"Last night," she repeated. "Nine."

"Thanks," I said, and hung up.

Let the games begin.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was almost eleven, and I was just back from my break. The crowd was mostly the same as before: Wall to wall bodies jostling and sweating on the tiny dance area and three deep at the bar. I'd played some different songs than before, but no one seemed to mind. There's a bonus of playing in a cover band for five years; at your fingertips are hundreds of the schmaltziest pop hits of the past fifty years to cover every occasion.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 03



Whitney was there with her male friend from the last time, and they held hands and had eyes mostly for each other. He was a decent looking guy maybe seven or eight years older than her with some gray streaking his close cut hair and eyes that were everywhere when they weren't on Whitney. He didn't miss much, that was obvious, and I pegged him for a cop.

Rebecca sat with them and occasionally danced with one of the dozens of offers. They were lighthearted dances, though, full of fun and laughter and plenty of playful spins and twirls.

Teddy brought his wife with, and they'd been joined a bit later by Nick Harlan and his wife. When I met Nick at during the break, he just said he wanted to see who'd been scratching up his guitar while he was gone and was going to be taking his Sunday afternoons away for the foreseeable future.

I started the second set--at Whitney's request--with "You've Got a Friend." Apparently, it was her and her new beau's song.

Seeing as slow numbers are usually best played in twos or threes, I popped my capo off and was about to begin "Change the World" when I saw her to my right. It was sudden, like one minute it was a group of patrons, the next minute it was just her in that bright yellow blouse and tan slacks with a nervous smile and eyes filled with hope and apologies. I popped the capo back on, this time at the fifth fret, and started my song, looking at her the whole time.

"I wish you love/and happiness/I guess I wish/you all the best. I wish you don't/do like I do/and ever fall in love with/someone like you. 'Cause if you felt/just like I did/you'd prob'ly walk around the block/like a little kid. But kids don't know/they can only guess/how hard it is/to wish you happiness."

I sang the whole song staring at her. Her eyes were welled with tears by the time I reached the second verse, and she was trembling slightly by the time it was done. As the last note died out, she turned and disappeared into the crowd, and I didn't see her again for the rest of the night.

It was hard to concentrate, but somehow I managed.

I played again right up to last call, then dawdled around on stage tearing down until most everyone was gone.

"What's wrong?" Rebecca finally said.

"Sandy was here," I replied.

Her eyes narrowed and a wicked grin spread over her face. "Show time."

My God, I thought, I don't ever want to see her on the other side of any case of mine, that's for damned sure.

* * * * *

The next day, Nick Harlan made short shrift of honing the final kinks out of "Sweet Marlene," my first shot at fame and fortune. He also suggested an up tempo, then proceeded to play and sing it about twice as fast as I'd envisioned.

"That's it," Teddy agreed. "The tempo. I just didn't really see it that way."

I nodded, agreeing but not caring.

It was all I could do to concentrate on the next song we worked on, a hurtin' song definitely written correctly at a slower tempo. They were both more than a bit taken aback when I suddenly started disagreeing with their proposed lyrical changes, though, and instead made the lyrics more painful and biting.

They both agreed with the end produce, though. The song had way more punch that way.

Then they looked at me with a knowing stare, particularly Nick.

"Sucks, don't it."

"Yeah," I said.

"Just make damned sure you never have to go through it again."

I only looked at him, amazed he'd so quickly discerned what was happening in my life. But his hard, level stare told me he'd been there before, too, and knew what he was talking about.

Without another word, I settled down and got more into the collaboration and paying attention to their suggestions and how they got to them.

For some reason, it felt good just knowing I was with someone who'd been there, too.

* * * * *

As I got off shift Monday night, I was subjected to a replay of Saturday night. One minute she wasn't there, then in a blink she was.

"What're you doing here, Sandy," I said.

She froze, afraid to answer.

"I said-- "

"Looking for you, Mark."

I gave a derisive snort. "Why? Am I screwing with Daddy's big plans to be President?"

She looked at the ground for a few seconds, then back to me.

"Yeah Mark," she said, trying to hold my stare but failing, "you're ruining Daddy's plans. But that's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?"

"To apologize."

"Apology accepted. You can go now."

"And to win you back," she said.

I tried to hide my contempt but, judging by her flinch, failed. "Really. Win me back."

She nodded, then her lips started moving as if trying to form words.

"You have every right to hate me, Mark. I know you-- "

"Daddy must be real worried about how this is all gonna look, isn't he?"

She slumped in frustration. "I know what you think, Mark, but you don't know the whole story."

"That's where you're wrong, Sandy. I do know the whole story. Sure, they didn't fill me in on their little plan before we got married. No, I didn't find out until a couple months ago when I heard your folks--and mine--talking about it when I got up to take a leak. That weekend we spent at the Governor's Mansion. Remember that?"

She nodded.

I felt a hand on my shoulder from behind and heard Ferlin say, "Why don't you two go take a seat in the dining room. I've already put her salad there, and that way you can hash this all out in private."

"Sure, Ferlin," I said, still glaring at Sandra. I spun and stalked to a table in the far corner of the dim dining room, away from the few other tables occupied with diners.

From behind me, I heard Sandra say, "Sorry about all of this."

"Doesn't sound like I'm the one you need to convince you're sorry," Ferlin said. "Get back there and convince Mark that you're sorry."

She followed me to the corner of the dining room, then hesitated before she sat down. I'm pretty sure she hadn't envisioned my anger at the whole situation, but I wasn't really happy to have to deal with it totally out of the blue, either. My fingers were drumming on the table, my right knee bouncing up and down, and my head stayed locked to the right, looking outside at the half empty parking lot beyond.

Sandy finally sat and reached across to take my hand. When her fingers touched my skin, though, I jerked back like I'd been bit by a snake.

"Just eat your salad, Sandy."

She dropped her eyes. "I know you don't believe me. Hell, I wouldn't believe me. But I'm telling the truth. I want another chance. Not for Daddy and his campaign, but for me. For us. That's all I want."

I glared at her, the scorn dripping from my words. "Yeah. You've got such a great goddamned track record. You really just want to come back and now really be married to me. No more pretend married, but really married this time. Does that mean you won't go fucking around on me again until at least after we have our first baby, or you gonna just hope the baby's mine?"

She fought to hold back tears. No one had ever talked to her like this, and she was fighting to hold herself together under my barrage. She tried to set her jaw in determination a few times, but failed. Instead, she dropped her eyes to the salad and picked at the lettuce with her fingertips.

"I thought you knew," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Knew what?"

"That we were just getting married to help out our parents. That it wasn't supposed to be real. I thought they told you."

"Well they didn't, okay?"

"I know that now. My mother only saw fit to share that little tidbit with me a few weeks ago."

I leaned across the table, my eyes on fire and voice urgent. "You couldn't tell? You thought I was just playing along with this little fucking charade?"

She bit her lip, her lips moving again to form words and respond so as not to escalate my anger. Then, with a deep sigh, she seemed to decide that truth was her only option. Not a good plan, though.

"We used to tease you--me and my friends--behind your back we'd tease you," she said, her voice barely audible. "You were always so sweet and loving and doting, we said you were like a little puppy dog. I just thought--we all just thought--that you were trying to win me over for real. Trying to . . . I don't know, trying to make me really love you and really be married to you."

It was immediate; I felt my face turn to a mask of fury and fought to keep my voice low so the other diners wouldn't be able to listen in on this little fiasco. "You fucking laughed at me? For trying to be the best husband I could, you fucking laughed at me? Because I tried to make you love me? Jesus, Sandy, I thought you already did love me. That's why I did that. I thought I was the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth. And you all fucking laughed at me? You thought I was just some pathetic little shit?"

She couldn't hold back the tears any longer. "I know that now. Don't you see? Now I know that's what you were doing. And I feel just fucking horrible. I feel-- "

"Fuck how you feel. You treated me like a roommate for six years, probably going off and screwing whomever you wanted whenever you wanted. You and your girlfriends laughed at me and put me down and God knows what else. Now you think I should just say, 'Wow, you're right. It was an honest mistake. I'm over it now. Let's be married for real, because I can sure as hell trust you now that I know all of this.' You think that's how this is gonna be?"

Sandra dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, trying to choke back her sobs as I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms in front of my chest. The anger was ebbing, replaced by astonishment. Her next words took me aback, though.

"After about a year and a half, maybe two years, I sat back and thought about it. Not just on this one occasion, Mark, but over a couple of months. I watched you and noticed how you treated me and how happy you were. And you know what I noticed?"

"That I really was a couple sandwiches shy of a picnic basket?"

She shook her head. "No. I noticed that I was happy, too. That I really liked being with you. That I couldn't wait to get home at night and just cuddle up and watch television or listen to you strum that old guitar on the patio. I thought you had done it all to make it for real, but I didn't care anymore. You'd made it real, Mark. I realized I had fallen in love with you. That I was happier than I'd ever been with anyone in my whole damned life. And when they made their catty comments after that, I told them to go to hell. That you were incredible and we were really married and really in love."

"Why'd it take so long?" I said, leaning over the table toward her.

"I just-- "

"And why'd you go out and cheat on me?"

"You don't-- "

"While I was busting my ass trying to get everything done at work and home while trying to get an innocent man out of prison, why'd you take up with someone else."

"Let me explain," she said, her voice rising in frustration.

A few of the diners gave embarrassed looks our way, but I could only give a weak smile in return.

"Okay," I said, my voice lowering. "Explain away."

"You have to remember, Mark," she said, her tears drying and determination finally setting into her eyes and jawline, her voice urgently pleading with me to understand. "I thought you were in on it all as much as I was. That they'd pretty much said the same thing to you. 'Go along with this and if, after a couple of years--after the election--if you want to move on and find a real marriage, then go ahead. We'll explain it away somehow, but that's all we need.' That's what I thought they'd told you."

"But I never did anything to make you believe I was leaving, Sandy. Never."

"Wrong, Mark. Everything that happened at that time made me think you were leaving. Made me think you'd found someone else."

"Bullshit."

"Put yourself in my shoes, Mark. You're me, and suddenly, after three years at the same law firm, you start coming home at ten every night. You start working weekends, ten hours a day. You quit spending time with me and-- "

"But you knew what was going on," I shot back. "I told you repeatedly."

"No, I only knew what you told me. I didn't know it was true. But it was more than that. You withdrew into yourself. You'd had big cases before, but you barely discussed this one with me. Just said you were working to right a wrong, to get an innocent man exonerated. But nothing else. Not how your day was going, nothing."

"But I'm a lawyer," I protested. "That's all confidential, you know that."

"Never stopped you from at least talking in generalities before, though, did it?"

I thought about it, thought back to that time. She was right, I realized. I'd been so goddamned scared I'd fuck it all up and Nap Bonaroo would die in prison because I wasn't good enough that I'd internalized it all.

"And our love life all but disappeared, too, Mark. What would you think if suddenly, out of the goddamned blue, we went from what we had before--from five or six times a week--to barely once a week because I wasn't interested. And on the occasional time I was interested, it was more of a wham bam thank you ma'am? Huh? Think about all of this? In my shoes, you wouldn't think I was fucking around on you? And if you'd known about the arrangement--about how our marriage started--you wouldn't think I had maybe found someone else and was getting ready to leave you?"

"But I told you," I argued. "I even tried cutting back. That Sunday I said I'd be home, but you-- "

"You said you'd be home by one or two, Mark. I waited until five after two, got tired of being strung along, and left. And I went out for dinner and drinks with a guy I work with who'd been after me from day one. And yes, it got sexual. In the last month, when you were still shut down and not talking to me, I finally resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to find someone else now, too. We did it maybe five or six times. And while that's bad enough, it never happened again. Before or after. Not once."

"But you never talked to me about it," I said, suddenly feeling the inertia of her words dragging me downstream. "You never just came out and asked me."

The tears were streaming down her face now, but the urgency was still in her voice. She needed me to understand, and she redoubled her efforts.

"You're still seeing it all through your prism, Mark. You need to see it through my prism, the way I viewed it. I'm in an arranged marriage that was supposed to already be dead. You knew about it. I mean, hell, I used to joke about it all the time."

"I didn't understand the jokes then," I said. "I do now."

"Yeah, but you played along with them like you understood them. And now I see you pulling away. Not just a little, but totally. You're not spending time with me anymore; you're not talking to me; you're not sharing with me; every time we're together, you're off in your own little world barely acknowledging my knowledge; sex all but disappears; hell, intimacy of any kind is out the window for months on end. What would you think?"

I thought about it and still kept coming back to the same thing. I said, "But if you were really happy, why didn't you say anything? If you really thought I was moving on, why didn't you confront me?"

"Because I knew the deal from day one, and I thought you did, too. I figured you'd just throw that in my face and tell me to grow up."

I closed my eyes, trying to picture the whole thing.

Sandy's soft voice interrupted my concentration, and shattered my whole plan. "When I finally saw that news conference, I knew you weren't pulling away from me, that you weren't setting up your new life. I knew it when his mama hugged you and you seemed so sad and so relieved at the same time. I saw it in your face. It was like the weight of the world was off your shoulders, but from what you'd said earlier, you had problems with us that you were still worried about. And that's when I knew I'd made the biggest mistake of my life, and I vowed to make it up to you, to make sure you'd stick to the marriage regardless of what we'd originally agreed to."

I looked at her, trying to think of what to say. Sandy wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands, smearing what little mascara she had on. She must have seen the confusion in my face, and she gave a tiny smile. It wasn't a happy smile, though. Instead, it was tinged with sadness and embarrassment, her eyes giving just a twinkle of nostalgia.

"The three years after that were the happiest three years we were together, weren't they?"

I hesitated, thinking it over, then said, "Yeah. It was all good, but those were really good."

"Because I made a promise to myself that I'd turn the tables on you. I was goddamned bound and determined to do what I thought you'd done to me. I was going to be the puppy dog and make you love me so much you'd never leave."

"Well," I started, but she interrupted with a new flurry of tears and sniffles.

"And then, just when I was convinced we'd be together forever--right when you finally asked if we could have a baby together and I knew you'd never leave me--you left me, Mark. You just disappeared."

At that, she broke down and started sobbing uncontrollably. I tried to comfort her as I felt every eye in the place on us, but I couldn't. Then, with a final sob, she pushed back her chair and rushed out.

I was too stunned to move or react until I felt heavy footsteps approaching the table.

"That didn't seem to go so well," Ferlin said, his voice sounding as sad as I felt.

He didn't sound nearly so confused, though.



The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 04



INTRODUCTION: Here it is, the final part.

I hope you've all enjoyed the ride. There are some questions still unanswered with a few of the characters, of course, but I've got to leave something for future stories, right?

Please take the time to comment. I'm really curious to see how you all feel about how this turns out.

Thanks again! 

CHAPTER NINE

They were both at my apartment this time. We were sitting on the floor eating grilled cheese with bacon, tomato, and spinach and sipping tomato soup from big mugs. Grilled cheese and tomato soup, it was my favorite meal from childhood kicked up a slight notch. But I couldn't muster up a warm cozy feeling as I ate and listened to Whitney and Rebecca think out loud as if I weren't even present.

"That really does change things," Whitney said, her voice soft. "I mean, I can really kinda see it from her point of view."

"Assuming you believe her," Rebecca snapped.

"But it all makes sense, right? I mean, if she didn't really love him, she could've left, too."

"Or keep on with that boyfriend she latched onto while just toning it down a bit."

"But he said they were happier at the end than at the beginning. And that the look on her face when he brought up having children, how do you explain that?"

"Fuck, I don't know," Rebecca said. "Biological clock or something."

"I don't think so. Her answer is the easiest and it makes the most sense. That's when she realized for sure that he wasn't gonna be ditching out. That's when the arrangement finally clicked into a true marriage."

"Yeah, but it was still based on lies. All of it. And she was part of them. Think about it, if she really thought he was in the know, she's gonna just make snide comments now and then. Never once really bring it up and out in the open?"

"There is that," Whitney agreed. "It is a bit farfetched. I mean, I can see it coming out real easily in a fight or something. That ever happen, Mark?"

"Huh?" I said, listening but not really hearing them.

"You two ever have fights? Yell at each other and throw shit in each other's face?"

I shrugged. "Sure. Doesn't everyone?"

"And she never threw this in your face? The arrangement?"

"Yeah," I said, then, "no. I guess so. I mean, they'd be the same snide comments, just yelled instead of joked about. You know. 'I don't know why I ever agreed to marry you,' shit like that."

"See?" Whitney said. "I can see it playing out like that, can't you? Especially if she thought he was in the know the whole time."

"Bullshit," Rebecca adroitly countered.

"So what d'ya think?" Whitney asked me.

"I don't know. I think I believe her, but I'm not sure it makes a difference."

"So you believe her?" Rebecca asked, astounded at my apparent naivete.

"Yeah, I do. You weren't there, Bec. She was a total wreck. I can't see her being that good an actress."

"Fooled you all those years you were together, though."

"She wasn't acting then. She was just being Sandy; making the best out of a bad situation at first, then genuinely just trying to make the best out of . . . well, out of our marriage. Trying to keep it together. So yeah, I believe her. It all fits."

"Yeah, but-- "

"You didn't see her face the few times she talked about our folks," I cut in. "It wasn't even anger yet. She was still trying to wrap her head around it, like she couldn't believe they'd never told me."

Rebecca snorted, I pushed my plate aside, and Whitney put her hand atop mine. "I think you need to see her again. To talk this through. The divorce is still there if you want it."

"And you should take it," Rebecca insisted.

"But," Whitney continued, looking over at Rebecca in annoyance, "you don't want to look back ten years from now and wonder what if. What if she'd been serious? What if your dream girl really was in love with you and wanted to have your babies and grow old and die with you? What if-- "

"What if she fucks around on you again and again and you just sit back and take it," Rebecca interjected. "What if you continue playing along with their games--all of them--and they win. They all get what they want. Daddy Truelson gets the White House and your daddy gets the Majority Leader position. What do you get, Mark?"

I stood and left them sitting there, almost running to my bedroom and shutting the door behind me. I needed to get away and think this through.

I laid on my bed and pondered. Whitney made solid points. We were all three of us lawyers, and we intuitively knew how we all thought. Law school does that to you; it fucks up otherwise normal thought processes. Still, they'd hammered it into our heads in criminal law: Actions without the requisite intent are mere actions. If you're on a roof and you trip and bump a brick and it falls and kills someone, it's not murder. It's an accident. If you're on the same roof, you see people walking below, and you push off the brick, it's at least voluntary manslaughter, and more likely second degree murder. You see someone you know and intentionally push the brick at them, it's first degree murder. All three scenarios you caused the brick to fall and kill someone, but the outcomes all differ based on what you intended to do.

But Rebecca was right, too. Wilful blindness is not a defense. If you intentionally push that brick not knowing whether anyone's on the street below, it's still gonna fall into the second category, voluntary manslaughter at least.

So I guess the issue was whether Whitney wilfully blinded herself. Did she intuitively sense my ignorance? Should she have said something? Would I have played it any differently in her shoes? The last one was particularly difficult because I'd have to put myself in the place of someone as incredibly popular being foisted upon me.

There was a soft knock at the door. "Can I come in?" Rebecca said, opening the door and poking her head through.

I looked at her, and she hesitated before stepping in and closing the door behind her. She walked to the bed and sat down beside me, placing her hand on my thigh.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I want her to be a bitch because you didn't deserve any of this, y'know?"

"You don't need to-- "

"Yeah, I do. I told you that first night I don't make it a habit to sleep with married men, and here I've let myself begin falling for one. And that's not fair to you. Especially now."

I sat up and leaned against the wall, looking at her.

"Why haven't you ever been married?"

She gave a sad smile. "I'm not the marrying type, Mark. Believe me when I tell you, if you're thinking of blowing her off just to take up with me, we'll never get married."

"But why?"

She got a faraway look, her eyes staring at me but not seeing. "We all have our histories. Our burdens. Our quirks and all that other crap. Some of us can get past it all, some can't. I don't think I can. I'd like to tell you that maybe you're the one that could help me get past it, but I don't really know, and I'd be leading you along if I said otherwise."

I nodded, then covered her hand with mine. I didn't really know what to say.

"I guess what I'm saying here is you need to not think about this right now. Definitely not about us, but also not about what Sandy said. I think you need to think about what you want first. You, Mark. Not Sandy and not your parents and not anyone else but you. You need to do something for you for a change. And once you know what you want to do, then you need to talk to Sandy again and maybe figure out if she's part of that plan."

I thought it over. She was right. It came back to what they'd both said before: Time to be proactive, take control of my own damned life. I thought I'd been in control all along, but I hadn't been. Now I needed to firmly be in control and get what I wanted out of life.

"We'll still see each other, right?"

She smiled and said, "You know we will."

I leaned over and kissed her. It was more than a brotherly peck, but less than full blown romance. It was nice, and it melted her against my chest. Melted her with what I sensed was resignation that it would be our last kiss together for some time, if not forever.

I rested my cheek atop her thick brown hair and stroked her shoulder, enjoying the moment free of the thoughts that had been bombarding me all night.

It felt nice, and I wondered if I'd ever feel this way again.

* * * * *

Just when I thought I had enough shit to deal with in my topsy turvy world, the door of The Hitching Rail opened at quarter to eleven the next morning and my parents strode in with looks of anger and determination.

"Hey, Mom and Dad," I called out cheerily, then turned to my burly boss beside me. "Ferlin, meet my folks. Senator and Missus Roberts. Mom, Dad, this is my boss, Ferlin."

"Nice ta meetcha," Ferlin grumbled, not the least impressed. He turned and rumbled back toward the kitchen.

"He's not your goddamned boss," Dad hissed. "Jim Parker's your boss."

"What are you doing, Mark?" Mom said.

"Working," I said. "I'm a bartender now."

"What kind of silly goddamned game is this?" Dad pressed. "You just quit with no notice, then you up and leave Sandy and just disappear and come to . . . to . . . to this backwater hicksville. What the hell's going through your head?"

"Cut the shit, Dad. You know exactly why I'm here. You think it's just a coincidence I'm in the same goddamned town as Clarice Talbott? You think I just picked this little old town out of thin air?"

Dad's jaw dropped and Mom gasped, her eyes like great big saucers.

"You didn't know she was here?" I said, smiling. "Her and your son? The brother you never told me about?"

They looked at each other, then at me. Then Dad slumped and Mom leaned against the bar for support.

"What've you done?" Dad said.

"Tried to find the truth," I shot back. "For once in my goddamned life, I tried to find the truth about all of you. And don't tell me you didn't know she was here. Someone met with her and scared her. She's too goddamned afraid to even look at me."

"Pat Truelson's people found you," he said, his mind whirling behind his dropping eyes. "We had people making discreet inquiries, but it was his people that found you. He didn't tell me how."

"Please tell me you didn't confront her," Mom said, sitting and looking at me anxiously.

"Why? Afraid I'd rain all over your parade?"

"It's not what you think, Mark," Dad said, his voice sadder than I'd ever heard him. He got a haunted look and mumbled, "Dear God, please not again."

I looked from one to the other then back again. Here we go again, I thought. This is way worse than just having a brother I never knew about.

Then my anger returned, and I was giddy at their sudden misery. "What do you give a fuck what I think? After what you did to me, to my life, you think I really give two shits about what-- "

"How dare you talk to us like that," Dad said, slamming his palm down on the bar top. "I don't know what the hell's going on here, but I will not tolerate-- "

"You'll tolerate whatever the hell I give you," I said. "Just like I tolerated you two selling me out for your own fucking ends."

"What are you talking about, honey?" Mom said, her eyes narrowing as she tried to gauge how much I knew.

"You know damned well what I'm talking about, Mommy dearest. My marriage. How you and Dad and Pat and Debra all arranged it so you could get Pat Truelson a bump right around election time. I don't know what you got out of it exactly, but I'm sure the favor's been repaid in spades."

"What're you talking about?" Dad said, but my knowledge was too much for him to put on a solid face when he asked it.

"Cut it. The weekend at the Governor's Mansion I overheard all of you. You and the Truelsons all chatting away downstairs about how you convinced Sandy to marry me and stay married for just a few years, but you kept the wool pulled over my eyes and just encouraged me to follow my dreams. I heard it all, Dad. Even the both of you laughing at how goddamned gullible your own son was in the whole mess."

His face fidgeted, but Mom was indignant. "What's the difference why we set it up or how we set it up? We set it up, Mark. We gave you your dream come true. You tell us you weren't ecstatic the whole time? Go ahead, you tell us what we did that was-- "

"You set me up for a marriage she was free to leave at anytime after a year or two. You told her that, didn't you?"

"Who cares what we told her," she shot back, not backing down a bit. "She didn't leave, did she? You're still together, right? Who cares how it got started? What's important is that you're married to the girl of your dreams and you were happy as a pig in a poke."

"It matters, Mom. Especially now that I know. Now it matters more than ever."

"Why? Why should it matter now that you know. She still wants to stay married. Debra told us so, told us she didn't want a divorce. She wants to stay married to you forever."

"I'll tell you why it matters," I said, remembering back to my conversation with Whitney under the crisp, starry skies out front. "It matters because now I question everything about my marriage. My memories are tainted now. You look back to when you two first met and you remember the excitement of that time, right?" Dad gave a slight nod, but Mom only grimaced. "Well I don't look back on it like that anymore. I look back to when Sandy and I started dating and I only see myself getting played for a fool. Every second we were together back then that I thought she was happy and in love with me? Now I know she was shaking her head and mocking me behind my back. How's that for love, Mom? Wanna trade some memories?"

Her face was still a mask of fury and determination, but I saw Dad begin to shrink. "I'm sorry, Mark. I didn't think. . . ."

"Didn't think what, Dad? Didn't think I'd ever find out? Or if I did, you didn't think I'd give a shit that you did this to me? Which part exactly didn't you think?"

He looked up and fixed me with a sad stare. "I didn't think about any of it, least of all about you. I got caught up in it and barely gave it a second thought."

I turned from him to Mom, who just harrumphed. "Grow up, boys. It's a real world out there. You want something, you'd better be prepared to take it, come hell or high water."

I just looked at her, not believing what I was hearing. Her voice showed no regret and not even a whiff of apology. Instead, she was triumphant, like she was speaking to a couple of naive little kids, explaining to them the ways of the real world.

"Where did this come from?" I asked, amazed. "Where did my Mom go, and when did this flaming bitch take over her body?"

"Don't you dare," she snarled, leaning over the bar toward me.

"Leave," Ferlin thundered from behind them.

Mom froze, and Dad turned in shock.

"Right goddamned now," he bellowed. "Get the hell out of my place and don't come back, y'hear me? Now!"

Mom turned on him with an evil grin and said, "You will not-- "

"I said right fucking now, lady!" he screamed, taking a step toward her.

She looked at him a moment, then turned to me and said, "This isn't over, Mark. Not by a long shot."

With a final glare at Ferlin, who glared right on back, she raised her shoulders and stormed out the door.

Dad looked from Ferlin to me, then back to Ferlin, "I'm really sorry about all this."

Ferlin only glared at him in response.

With a final forlorn look toward me, Dad slumped further and left.

* * * * *

The lunch rush and clean up after was all a daze of jumbled thoughts and mistaken orders. Ferlin didn't say anything. At first, Debbie just bounced and chirped and swooped in and switched plates and drinks the way they were supposed to be. After awhile, she didn't bother letting me pick up my own lunch orders for those sitting at the bar; she just took the orders herself and delivered them herself.

I was worse than useless, I was a hindrance.

But Debbie never said a word. Instead, she just kept right at it cheery as ever, patting me on the back and giggling every now and again.

Just shy of three, the place was empty and Ferlin slumped onto a barstool. "Explains a lot."

"What?" I said, absentmindedly shuffling glasses on the shelf.

"Last night with that woman. Sandy, I presume. Your wife. And pretty much how you've been ever since you've been here."

That piqued my interest a bit. "What d'ya mean, 'How I've been since I got here?'"

"I mean you don't belong here is what I mean. Here. Tending bar. Jesus, Mark, you're smart as a whip, personable. You dress all . . . what did you do for a living?"

"Lawyer."

He snorted. "Explains the attraction with them women, I guess. Still, you don't really seem the type."

"How so?"

"Too eager to please. Most lawyers, they're super alphas. Don't give a damn about pleasing anyone but themselves. You're the opposite. You only seem to care about pleasing everyone and getting them to like you. Bend over backwards and do things for folks they don't expect you to do just so they'll like you."

"And that's bad?"

"Your mom there was at least partially right about one thing, Mark. You need to look out for you, not for anyone else. You need to be happy without . . . ah, hell, I don't know how to explain it. I guess you just need to quit trying so goddamned hard to please everyone to make 'em like you. They'll either like you or they won't, but it don't mean you need to go kissing their ass up one side and down another, okay?"

"But. . . ." I started, then let it hang there. He was right. And I knew why, too. I was still in Stevie's shadow. Stevie hadn't had to work to make anyone like him, he just assumed they would. Even at that, he'd still had his detractors. Can't please everyone all the time and so on and so forth.

"Still," Ferlin said after a minute, "I think you have a couple of things you need to do."

"Such as?"

He hesitated, then looked at me, unsure whether to say it or not. Finally, with a heave that relaxed his barrel frame, he said, "I think you need to talk to your dad there. Not your mother. She's beyond salvation. But your dad, I think he's really hurtin' now, and I think you need to talk to him. If for no other reason than to find out about this little brother you think you have that they seem so intent on keeping you away from."

I nodded. "Yeah, I sorta got that at the end, too. His . . . I don't know. Shame, maybe?"

"Disappointment," Ferlin suggested. "I think both in himself and in what he may think he's become. It was more than just shame, though. He looked whooped when he left here."

"And the second thing? The second thing you think I need to do?"

He pushed himself up from the barstool and placed his palm on the bar top. "You need to have a long, hard talk with your gal."

I sighed, draining so much I thought I'd turn into a molten Mark puddle in the middle of the back bar.

"I heard snatches last night. Tried to stay away, but still heard snatches. And I heard most of what was said here today, too. And I think you got something wrong, or maybe just haven't really thought about it yet and whether or not it makes a difference."

I replayed the conversations in my mind, trying to figure it out but drawing a blank.

"Help me here," I said.

"You told your folks your memories are all lies, Mark, but they aren't. Not all of them, at least. I heard your wife tell you that she devoted the last three years to making you happy as could be. She tried her best--or so she says--to making you love her so much you'd never want to leave. So maybe the memories of the first few years are skewed, but those ones aren't, right? Not the ones at the end."

I hesitated, then nodded.

"Exactly," he went on. "So now I guess you gotta ask yourself whether those memories--the good ones that are real memories and not a bunch of bullshit--whether those memories are real and whether you want to build on them or whether too much has happened to keep goin' on."




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 04



I leaned back against the cooler behind me and looked at the floor. After a moment, I mumbled, "Care to share your thoughts on the matter?"

His voice went real low and a bit scratchy. "I told you it's about you now. And it's your decision and yours alone to make. I'd like to help you with it, but I won't."

I looked at him and tried to smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. "Truth be told, I'd send you out now to try and take care of all of this. God knows you're worse than useless around here today. But you should maybe take some time for some serious thought before go out and talk to any of them more, y'know?"

"Yeah," I said, going back to my work with newfound purpose. And an overwhelming number of newfound thoughts and dilemmas.

When I got done at six, I asked Ferlin for the next day off. He just grunted.

I took it as a yes.

* * * * *

I sat on the tiny patio outside my dining room door and played guitar in the brisk autumn darkness, my mind lost in thought as my left hand fingers form chords and my right hand fingers plucked out random melodies.

"Do me a favor?" she said somewhere in the shadows to my right.

"How'd you find me," I asked.

"Your address was on the divorce papers," she said, stepping into the dull glow cast by my porch light. She was hesitant and skittish, afraid to move closer.

"Oh," I said, still plucking the strings as I looked at her. I hadn't noticed it much the night before, but she looked like hell now. Her hair was put together, but just barely, and her jeans--always a solid fit to the snug side--seemed loose and baggy. "You been eatin', girl?"

"Sure," she said, but her tone indicated she wasn't really sure either way. She was chewing her lip, trying to find something to do with her hands until she finally thrust them into her pockets, which drew in her shoulders and gave her a hunched, furtive look. "Sure gets cold up here," she tried, then gave her best shot at a smile. "Still pretty warm down in Memphis right now."

"Uh huh."

She fidgeted, indecision written all over her face. "Sorry 'bout last night."

I shrugged, then started plucking out the arrangement to an old Cat Stevens tune. Moonshadow. There was something almost mystic about it that seemed to fit my mood and this whole surreal situation. Whatever it was, it calmed me.

"So you mentioned a favor."

She hesitated, then said, "Can you play me one?"

"Which one?"

"'Calico Skies,'" she said, which I knew she would. It had always been our song. Sweet and bittersweet, pretty and sad all at the same time when you know what it was written for.

"Why don't you sit down," I said, nodding to the old beat up lawn chair to my right.

"Okay." She didn't move, then she sort of took a long step and slid into the chair, like she was maybe afraid I'd hit her or something.

"How'd we get here, Sandy?" I said, my left hand warming up to the trying chord progression of our song.

"I used to think it was blind luck," she said, turning and looking at the dark clouds blotting out the moon as they swept toward us. "I mean, we got married to help out the folks, then you tried to make me love you and--poof--just when I thought you'd gotten tired of trying, I realized you hadn't and I decided to try to make you love me even more. And I kinda felt like I'd fallen into a pile of manure and found the Hope Diamond, y'know?"

"So initially I was a pile of manure?" I said softly.

She looked at me, trying to gauge my mood. I just looked back with open eyes, waiting for her to answer. "You were never a pile of manure, Mark. It just never started the way it should've. Then again, I keep telling myself that if it hadn't started that way, it probably wouldn't have started at all."

"Because I wasn't really your type, right?" I said.

She nodded, chewing on her lip again, her voice low as the breeze when she said, "But you became my type. The only type I ever want."

I nodded. "How? How'd that happen? Was it guilt, or were you just afraid of going out and finding someone else?"

She looked down, her face scrunched up in thought. "I guess it was contentment at first. Not, like, this crazy, wild passion. Don't get me wrong, we had those moments, but it was never like in the movies. But after awhile, it became like in the movies. For me, at least."

"It was always like in the movies for me," I said. "Or a fairy tale, maybe. I don't know, but it was always real to me."

She seemed not to have heard me. She continued with her eyes again on the clouds and her face somewhere faraway. "I remember pretty much when it happened. They were mocking you--Peggy and Tracy and them--about how you were always so polite and bending over backwards and . . . I don't know, how you were always just going out of your way to make me happy. And I compared you to their husbands and their lives. Their husbands were like . . . like Stevie. All macho and swaggering and one of the boys. Have my dinner ready when I get home and fuck no I'm not staying home on Sunday, I've got football with the boys. And I wondered how I could possibly envy them."

I could see the tears in her eyes glistening against the pitch black sky, and a smile curled her lips. Her thoughts were speech, and she was talking as if to herself as she remembered it all.

"Then came that damned appeal, and I hated it. I hated it and I hated you and I thought you were going to turn into one of them. One of those husbands like they had, and I didn't like it. Hell, it was three weeks before you even told me about it, and by then I figured it was someone else. That you'd met another woman and were getting set to run. Then, when you told me it was a big case, I thought you were just gonna do that fuck-you-deal-with-it thing and force me to leave you. Like you couldn't even leave me on your own, but you wanted me to be the one to leave you and you were giving me a push to do it. And I hated myself for thinking it all, because I had to admit that I really did love you by then and I really did want it to work. If I hadn't really fallen for you, I wouldn't have cared that you were trying to drive me away, but I'd fallen and I shouldn't have and I hated myself and everyone for it."

I wasn't playing the guitar anymore, spellbound by a side of Sandy she'd never revealed.

She was silent for a moment, then gave a sad laugh. "Funny thing was, I knew the moment I saw you on that television screen. It should've been your proudest moment, but you looked just plumb beat down and worn away. It was you afraid of me leaving you, not the other way around. And I remember the shame. It was overwhelming. I was in my office and it came up and a whole group of us was just gathered around watching you and they were all slapping me on the back and telling me it must be great for me. But all I saw was the look in your eyes when y'all did that group hug and that tiny little woman like to've squeezed you to death. You looked lost and afraid. I collapsed, it was so overwhelming. Like being hit with a hammer. I've never had that before, not even when Stevie died. Then I remember rushing home to be there for you, but you didn't show up. I sat there and sat there and just prayed to God to bring you home, to give me one more chance."

"And your boyfriend?"

She shook her head. "It was lunch, mostly. Just a few times . . . well, the last month, maybe four or five times we'd go over to his apartment after lunch. But the second I saw you on that screen, the second I knew you weren't trying to leave me . . . I never spoke to him again. He got the point pretty quickly and never pressed it."

"I never cheated on you," I mumbled.

"I know," she whispered. After a moment, she turned and faced me, trying to hold her face together. "I lied last night, Mark."

"How so?"

"I suspected it then. I suspected you never knew. I wasn't sure, but I suspected it."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because I was afraid that if I said something I'd have to come clean about everything. And I was afraid that if I did that, you'd leave me. I didn't want that. Not then, not ever. I wanted to have a chance to make it up to you. To just pretend like it all never happened so we could go back to how it had been just before that appeal."

"So you considered yourself married to me for real then."

She smiled at the memory and nodded. "Yes. As God is my witness, I tried to be the best I knew how. Not for me, but for you. For us. I swear it."

Just hearing it all again made me sad all over again. Sad at what had happened and at how we'd gotten to where I thought we'd already been from day one.

"Please say you'll give me a chance, Mark. Please. I'll do whatever you want; whatever conditions you set, I'll meet them. Just come back."

"Not gonna happen," I said. "Not now, not ever."

Her reaction was immediate as she buried her face in her hands, weeping, her shoulders heaving with the force of her emotions.

I reached over and pulled her hands away and said, "I'm not saying we're getting back together, but if we do, I'm never going back to Memphis. Not even as a visitor. And I'm never going home again, either. And I'm not helping your daddy and his fucking campaign, and I'm not going anywhere near Tennessee again."

"What're you saying?" she said, frantically wiping her tears as her eyes begged me to give her hope.

"I'm still thinking about it, Sandy. But up front, you need to think about what I just said, because I'm serious as a goddamned heart attack, y'hear?"

She nodded. "No more Tennessee."

"And to hell with our parents," I repeated. "All of them. They treated me about as bad as you can treat anyone. Betrayed me and played me and used me up and spit me out. I don't give a shit who they are, they aren't people I care to spend my time with. You need to think about that, Sandy. Long and hard, you need to think about that. If I decide to give us another shot, you'll have to move up here. To this area. And I may just stay a bartender, too. And I'll definitely be playing gigs again."

A smile was forming through her tears. "Groping groupies?"

"Groping groupies."

"Not really, though, right?"

I shook my head. "Of course not really. But I wanna live my life for me for a change. Or at least do some of the things I wanted to do instead of the things my parents demanded I do or tricked me into doing."

"And you're still hesitating on us because I'm one of those things they tricked you into, right?" she said, her smile getting hesitant.

"Wrong. I'm still trying to figure out what to do about us--whether to get back together or not--remembering how happy we both were when you joined in those last three years and made it a real marriage, to hell with how it started."

"But you're not sure those last three years can overcome all the rest," she surmised. "Like the cheating."

"Yeah," I said, sagging and just looking at her.

She just looked right on back, then reached over and took my hand, squeezing. I squeezed back.

After a moment or so, she said, "Can you at least play me that sappy old song?"

I lingered letting go of her hand, then started picking out the intro.

"It was written that I would love you/from the moment I opened my eyes. And the morning when I first saw you/gave me life under calico skies. I will hold you/for as long as you like/I'll hold you/for the rest of my life."

CHAPTER TEN

It was easy enough to get Dad's phone number. Just call his Senate office and find out where he was staying. The hard part was talking to Dad, because it was Mom that answered.

"Yes," she snapped.

"I'd like to speak with Dad."

"After the way you treated both of us yesterday? After the way you let that . . . that . . . that man treat us in public? You think-- "

"Put him on or I'm hanging up."

"You'll not make demands or threats. I'm your mother, Mark Roberts, not some little trailer trash toadie."

I heard Dad say something in the background, and I heard her snap something back, but it was all muffled.

"Mark?" Dad said into the phone, Mom still yelling at him in the background. "Mark, you there?"

"Breakfast in an hour," I said. "Just you. Do not--I repeat, do not--bring her, understand?"

"Where?" he said.

I gave him the name and general location of a little greasy spoon out on the highway leading into town from the south.

When we rang off, Mom was still yelling at him in the background.

* * * * *

I was ten minutes late, and Dad was already getting his coffee refilled when I spotted him in a corner booth and made my way there. He looked rode hard and put away wet, every day of his fifty-nine years and then some deepening the wrinkles in his face and dragging his skin down. The bags under his eyes, glassy stare, and overall slump completed the picture.

"Thanks," he said as I slid into the booth across from him. "For calling me, wanting to meet with me."

"I don't," I said matter of factly. "If I could figure out another way to get the truth about Clarice Talbott, I'd do it, but I can't. So let's hear it."

He winced at the mention of her name, then slumped in resignation as I motioned for and got a cup of coffee from the wizened old waitress with her blue hair up in a bun.

"The little boy's not your brother," Dad said. "He's your nephew. He's Stevie's boy."

"Yeah, right. Because she was Stevie's secretary, right?"

It was Dad's turn to get lost in his thoughts, and the lines etched in his face and around his eyes told me they were painful thoughts.

"We were in recess and Stevie had just gotten in from school. Clarice Talbott was my personal secretary. Great kid. Bright, lively, would work from dusk til dawn and then some. I had a whole slew of campaign stops to make. Remember? I was up for re-election, and it was busier than hell."

I nodded. When he hesitated, I said, "I remember. Move along with the story."

He turned away before continuing. "You were still finishing finals, so I wasn't sure you'd really remember that much. But you know what it was like."

"Yeah," I snapped, getting impatient.

"Sorry," he mumbled, then took a sip of water before continuing. "Anyway, we were off in Chattanooga, a whole round of weekend rallies and stuff. I got back to the hotel late, schmoozing and stuff with the local bigwigs, pressing the flesh. It was just past midnight when I got back there, and I didn't really think much of it. Stevie not being there and all. We were sharing a room, and Clarice was rooming with one of the PR people. Another woman, I can't remember her name."

"And this all matters why?" I said. "Will you just get to the point?"

But I couldn't shake him from it. His eyes took on a faraway look that told me this had something to do with Stevie's death, and I began to get a chill up my spine.

"I didn't really notice her at first. I just saw the beds, and they were both empty. I figured he was just out at a club somewhere kicking up his boots or something. But then I heard this whimper in the corner, a scurrying kind of. And I flicked on the light and she was there, cowering and trying to hide in the corner on the other side of the bed. Her clothes were in tatters all around her, and she was naked. All except her bra, which was only just hanging there. She was frantic, and all afraid. I knew in an instant. I don't know how. I mean, how do you even think that about your own son? But I just knew immediately."

"Stevie raped her," I said, verbalizing what Dad could not.

His eyes found me and, after a brief hesitation, he said, "Yeah. I don't know what he was thinking. Still don't. None of us ever will, I guess. But he raped her. And I swear to God, if he'd been in that room when I showed up--if he'd been there, I'd have killed him with my bear hands."

"What happened next?"

His lips trembled as he fought to hold himself together. "I called the PR gal in the room down the hall. I got her down there immediately. For Clarice, right? I mean, what else was I going to do?"

"How about call the police?" I said.

He smiled, a smile at first bitter, but then tender. "Of course, Mark. That's what you'd have done. I know it is. And it's what I should've done, too, but I didn't. I listened to that other woman and her mind just started spitting out ideas and instructions and scenarios. I saw it all. My Senate career awash in scandal. My son in prison. All of it."

"Did you see Clarice Talbott."

"Of course I saw her," he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "You think I'm that big a monster?"

"Jury's out," I shot back, then took a sip of my coffee. "What happened next."

"She was getting Clarice into some clothes while I tried to phone someone who'd see the poor girl. Just as I was about to give up hope, there was a knock on the door. It was the police, and they were there to tell me that Stevie had wrapped his car around an old oak tree out in the hills around Lookout Mountain."

"So you buried it all," I said. "You bought her off and hushed it all up."

He jerked his head up and down. "What good would come from doing otherwise?"

"How about some justice for Clarice Talbott?"

"Would making all of that public--and you know damned well she'd have been named in public and be the subject of all sorts of sordid gossip--would that have really served her well? You mean that type of justice? Your mother was right, Mark. You really can be such a goddamned boy scout sometimes."

"You say that like it's something to be ashamed of. Like I'm a failure because I want to do what's right, Dad. Is that really such a bad thing?"

He lowered his head and mumbled, "No."

"So when did y'all find out about the pregnancy. And why didn't she get an abortion?"

"Three months later. At first she just thought it was nerves from the . . . from that night. Later, though, as her belly grew, she . . . well, at three months or so."

"And how'd you find out? She call you?"

"I stopped in on her a couple of times a week. See how she was doing; see if she needed anything. I'd kept her on my payroll, but I was worried about her." He motioned for another cup of coffee and, once it was refilled, continued. "Anyway, I showed up one day and she said she was pregnant. I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. Either way, she said she wasn't giving the baby up. I think she's a pretty strict Catholic, father in that Opus Dei thing and all. Anyway, this just made a bad situation for her worse, though, because I'm pretty sure her parents all but disowned her over it."

"So you decided to step in and help, right?"

"I told her she'd stay on payroll until after the baby was born. After that, we'd figure out a way to get her some support money and set her up in a job."

"And she said?"

"Not much, really. I think she just wanted to get away from us. From all of us, but especially from me."

"And the boy?"

"I don't even know his name," Dad confessed. "Her only contact is a post card whenever she changes her address, and we send her a check once a month regular as clockwork."

"His name's Schuyler," I said, glaring at my father. "Your grandson's name is Schuyler, and he plays football and he's healthy and he looks just like I did at that age. I guess he took after your side of the family. Stevie took after Mom's side, but your genes must've come through on this one."

Dad got a weird look at this, like he was trying to picture the little boy. "Schuyler?" he said.

"Schuyler. And Schuyler's living about a mile from here in a shitty little house with a mother who's still not coping all that well from what I could see. And now she's scared shitless because someone showed up at her door and said something to her and showed her my picture. So now I can't even meet her and meet my nephew. If she'll let me, that is. And not that I can blame her if she wouldn't, because she'd be more than justified in comparing me to the other two Roberts men who've gone a long way toward fucking up her whole life, dontcha think?"




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 04



"But that was Pat's people," Dad said. "I didn't do-- "

"I don't want to hear your fucking excuses, Dad," I said. "I wanna hear what you're going to do about it. And I want to hear it right now."

He looked at me, a look of resolution coming over his face. He stood, gulped down the rest of his coffee, and said "I'm going to go take a leak, and then you're going to take me to her, okay?"

* * * * *

Clarice Talbott wasn't home when we got there. At Dad's insistence, we waited in the car for her to get back. After two hours, I suggested lunch, but he'd hear none of it. By one thirty, I needed to take a leak. He told me to get out and go piss behind a tree; he wasn't going anywhere.

At ten to two, she pulled into her driveway and got out of her car.

Before she could get to her front door, Dad was out of the car and calling out, "Clarice, wait a moment."

She froze, then slowly turned to face him. I raced up behind my Dad as he strode across the street, across her lawn, and up to the base of the front porch, looking up at her.

"Senator," she said, visibly shaken.

"Clarice, settle down. I don't know what they told you, but you're not in any kind of trouble, okay?"

Her nod said she didn't believe him.

Dad looked the house over, then back up at Clarice and said, "You mind if we come in for a moment? I think Mark here needs to use the bathroom."

She looked at me, back to Dad, and stuttered, "S-s-sure. Uh, come in."

We followed her in to a neat, cozy little living room with a small, ten-years-out-of-date television sitting on a stand opposite a worn loveseat and a secondhand rocking chair.

"Bathroom's down the hall," she mumbled, avoiding our eyes. "First door on the left."

I went, took a leak, washed my hands, and got back in as quickly as nature's call would allow. Clarice was on the love seat, her hands folded in her lap and her head down. Dad was in the rocking chair pulled up in front of her, speaking in a soft voice. 

"I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am," he said. "Why didn't you tell me."

"We're doing fine."

"You're not doing fine, Clarice. I told you I'd make this right by you, but you've got to let me."

"I did tell you, though," she said, looking up at him with a small blazing in her eyes. "Last year I sent a letter to you. At your house, so no one at the office would get it and find out. I told you then I was having troubles."

"I never got it, Clarice. I swear."

I knew where it went, though. Mom, sure as hell.

"Well I did," she insisted. "I'm trying, Senator. But you have no idea what it's like. How hard it is."

"What're you paying her?" I interrupted. "How much are you getting to help out with Schuyler and everything else?"

"Fifteen hundred a month," Dad said.

"Four hundred a month," Clarice said at the same time.

Dad stared at her. "It's fifteen hundred."

"No, Dad," I said. "It's four hundred. That's how I found out about her. I saw the financial records showing all the payments. It's always been four hundred."

I thought he was going to have a heart attack. "But . . . what . . . it was supposed to be . . . ."

"Who was in charge of setting it all up?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I mean, Jim Parker, I suppose. But I didn't really tell him. It was supposed to be . . . I just thought. . . ."

"You left Mom in charge of it, didn't you?"

He nodded, his face blank with the shock.

"And you," I said, turning to Clarice. "You've probably sent other letters to the house, too, right?"

She looked at Dad and said, "Yes. For five years. Fifteen, twenty letters."

"And when the man showed up at the door, he wanted to know what I'd learned, right?"

"Yes," she whispered, tensing at the memories.

"And he said if you lied, they'd cut you off totally, right?"

"Right."

I looked from her to Dad. "I think I hit the nail on the head yesterday, Dad. She's a monster. Mom's a monster, and Stevie got her genes in more ways than one."

He could only stare at me, whatever little bit of good still left in him so utterly shocked and repulsed at Mom's actions and the continuing rape of Clarice Talbott."

"But you're going to make good on this, aren't you, Dad?"

He nodded.

"You're gonna make good on it right now, right?"

He nodded again, a little faster.

"Then get out your checkbook. Now."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled it out.

"Well?" I said. "What're you waiting for? Start writing."

He reached for a pen, and I turned to leave.

* * * * *

I was four blocks away when I heard her calling out behind me.

I turned and saw Clarice Talbott running after me, waving for me to stop. I did, then started walking back toward her before she collapsed. Seeing me coming back, she waited with her hands on her knees, gulping for air.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know."

"It's why you showed up, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"It's why you went to his games and cheered for him, too."

"Right again," I said. "I thought he was my brother at first. I thought you and Dad . . . you get the picture."

"How much do you know?"

"I'm pretty sure all of it. Dad told me this morning. He told me that Schuyler was my nephew, and he told me . . . ."

She stood up, still getting her breath back. "He told you that Steven raped me. That that's how it happened."

I nodded, then said, "And he told me they were supporting you and Schuyler, too. But I'd seen your house, and I was pretty sure they could do better. Also, I remember that look on your face when you slammed the door on me. I heard you on the phone with someone."

"So you made him come here and tell me that . . . well, set everything right, is that it?"

"I didn't think you should be living in fear or looking over your shoulder for something that I caused."

"How did you cause it?"

"I ran away. Up here to find you and my little brother. That's what I thought, and that's why I came here."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

"Long story."

"I'd like to hear it sometime," she said, her eyes piercing me with an intense gaze. "Because whatever they did, it has to be more than just this. I've never seen anyone--and I mean anyone--talk to your father like that. Ever."

"You wouldn't believe it."

"I'm afraid I would. If it involves your mother, I'm thinking now that I'd definitely believe it."

"Yeah, well, maybe sometime I'll tell you all about it."

I just looked at her for a minute, then turned to resume walking.

"Hey Mark?" she said.

I stopped and turned around. "Yeah?"

"I know he's not your brother and all, but he is still your nephew, y'know?"

"I know."

"Well, I was just wondering if maybe you'd like to meet him sometime."

I smiled. "I'd like that a lot. More than you'd ever believe." I hesitated, then said, "But it won't be too hard on you? Knowing I'm the brother of the guy that . . . you know."

She shook her head. "You're nothing like him. Nothing. And Schuyler needs someone else in his life. So any time you can give . . . well, I think it would help. Anything."

I nodded. "Beware what you wish for. If I have my way, he'll be playing drums in a little band I'm thinking about getting together."

She laughed. "Thanks. That's just what I need. A mini Dave Grohl pounding away day and night."

"We'll work something out at his game on Sunday, if that's okay."

"That's perfect," she said. "And Mark? Thanks. Really."

I waved her off, then turned back and started walking into the brisk wind blowing into my face.

Sandy was right. It was cold up here.

I decided to get some warmer clothes, because there was no way I was leaving now.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It had been a long afternoon spent walking from Clarice's back out to the diner to get my car. Then I'd phoned Whitney and set up an appointment for both her and Rebecca. After driving around and thinking about everything for almost two hours, I made the appointment and told them everything. My folks showing up, Sandy the night before, my scumbag brother, and my nephew and Clarice. The whole mess.

When it was done, they both looked as tired and worn down as I felt. They said no to a meal, so I wandered back to my dumpy little apartment.

It was dark, and I flipped on a switch in the kitchen. I hadn't eaten all day, and my stomach was growling. I was still chilled to the bone, too, but decided against soup on the side. Thus, seven thirty saw me sitting alone at my table with an Italian Beef with sweet peppers and a salad on the side. I didn't taste the food, though the beer chaser calmed my nerves.

One last look at the clock, ten to eight, and I scraped my half-eaten meal into the garbage and made for the bedroom.

Opening the door, I heard movement on the bed and flipped on the lights.

Sandy was laying atop the comforter, curled up on her side, sound asleep. I smiled, not caring how she'd gotten in.

I got undressed, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and got onto the bed next to her. She mumbled and squirmed, then settled back down to a steady rhythm of light snores.

I laid there, content with just watching her sleep for the first time in months. Then the thought struck me: I had my answer if she had hers.

* * * * *

"I thought it was a dream," she whispered when the sunlight woke me up.

I turned to her with a smile. "How'd you get in?"

"Patio door was unlocked. You must've forgot to lock it last night when you went in."

"When did you get here?"

"Late afternoon. I tried that place you work, but they said you'd taken the day off. I decided to wait, but I must've fallen asleep."

"Pretty early, too. I went to bed just before eight, and you were already snoring away."

"I don't snore."

"I'll record you next time."

"You're serious?" she said, mulling it over for a moment. "I snore?"

"Yep."

"What kind of snore?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"You know. Is it a big rumbling snore, or a dainty little snore? Like a cute snore you can just barely hear."

"The big rumbling number."

"Do not," she protested, then shrieked a giggle and pushed me away.

I smiled, reminded of the Sandy of old, the one that was always like that great gust of constant wind.

"I came here to tell you something," she said after a moment.

"What's that."

"That I'll go wherever you want and do whatever you want on whatever terms you want," she said, firmly and convincingly. Then her voice dropped and she said, "Assuming you decide to give us a second chance, that is. Give me a second chance."

"Even if it means staying here?"

"Here as in this town, or here as in this dumpy little apartment?"

"Does it matter?"

She shrugged. "We can afford a nicer place, you know. But if you want to stay here, then fine. I'll stay here with you."

I smiled. "You sure?"

"There's just one condition, though."

"What's that?" I asked, eyes narrowing.

"This new you? The one that's gonna start doing what he wants to do and stuff? He's still got to stay the old you, too."

"Meaning?"

"I fell in love with the Mark Roberts that loved me back and that wanted to spend time with me. You wanna play in a band and do something else for a living--even tend bar, for that matter--that's fine. But I still want the Mark who sings to me on the patio and holds my hand and usually lets me pick the movies, too. Or is that Mark gone?"

"So I've got to keep watching that sappy crap you're always dragging me off to?"

She nodded, but didn't smile. She bit her lip and said, "Sorry. We can see more of yours, but I still wanna see some of mine, too."

"So what you're saying is--assuming we decide to give this another shot, of course--you're saying it still has to be a partnership. I can't turn into some sort of petty tyrant, right?"

"Something like that."

"Even if it gets kinky and involves light spankings and blatant exhibitionism."

"Get out," she said, pushing me again with that playful giggle. "Exhibitionism in this goddamned tundra? You kidding me or something?"

"So the light spankings are in?"

She gave a playful shrug. "Sure, why not? Your ass is like steel. Shouldn't hurt you too much."

I laughed, then replayed what she'd just said and got silent. Rebecca had said that about what I considered my somewhat average bottom.

"What?"

"I may've had a girlfriend up here."

"May have?"

"Did."

She slowly got a scared look on her face. "Do you love her?"

"Never got that far."

"But you're still seeing her?"

"Only saw her a few times, Sandy. Then we sorta just settled into a friendship."

"But you . . . ."

"Yes."

She closed her eyes and laid back on the bed.

"I really thought we were over," I explained. "That it was all a joke from the git go."

She opened her eyes, still looking at the ceiling, and said, "Can we talk about this some other time?"

"You sure that's a good idea?"

"Positive. I just need to get my head around it."

"How so?"

She rolled to her side and looked at me. "You sleeping with her, that was me three years ago. You felt like I did then, like it wasn't really a marriage so what's the big deal, right?"

"Pretty much."

"So how can I hate you or yell at you or blame you or anything? Especially where I did the same thing back then."

"I guess so, but still."

She shook her head. "And you did it after running off after I'd spent three years trying to prove I loved you as much as you loved me, so it's pretty . . . well, it hurts that way, too. But then again, that's pretty much when I did it to you, too. After you spent the first years showing me how much you really loved me."

"I didn't do it to get even," I said. "We only did it-- "

"It doesn't matter if you only did it once," she said, reaching out to stroke my cheek. "What matters it that I just have to deal with it, okay? And I will. I promise."

"If you need some more time to think about this," I started, but was stopped when she leaned in and kissed me.

"I don't need more time, Mark. I know what I want, and I know we've both got some things to get over, okay? I just didn't expect to have to get over this one. Caught me a bit by surprise, though I don't know why."

"What're you saying? I'm a skirt chaser?"

"No," she said, reaching under my shirt to stroke my chest. "That you're hot, and I'm surprised I didn't show up here to find you with a whole flock of chicks all over you."

"Did I forget to mention them?"

She laughed, then pushed me away. "Go brush your teeth."

* * * * *

"Sure got a bounce to your step today," Ferlin observed as I cleaned up after the lunchtime crowd.

"Things are looking up, my portly pal."

"Portly pal?"

I smiled. "Things are definitely looking up."

He looked at me for a moment, then smiled and said, "Good for you."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"No, I mean for everything. Thanks."

"I know what you meant," he grumbled. "And you're still welcome. This mean you're quitting?"

"Not now, but soon."

"Try to give me a week's notice, huh?"

"I'll give you three."

"Fair enough."

* * * * *

Rebecca and Whitney dropped by after work for a drink.

"You're getting back together, aren't you?" Whitney said, her face as happy as I'd ever seen it.

"Looks that way."

Rebecca seemed put off at first, then just smiled and shrugged. "Oh well, maybe next time."

I leaned over and said to both of them, "This doesn't change anything so far as I'm concerned. Other than Ferlin and Teddy Cooper and Nick Harlan and the girls around here, you're the only folks I know up here."

"So you're staying here?" Rebecca said. "Not going back to that high paying job in Memphis?"

"Staying here."

"With her?"

"With Sandy. Yes."

She gave a real smile at that. "Cool."

"Hey, babe," a guy said as he approached.

Whitney's face lit up and she said, "Hey to you, too, babe."

He leaned over and kissed her, then looked at me and said, "Bottle of Bud?"

"Aaron," Whitney said to him, "this is Mark Roberts, the one I've been telling you about."

He gave me a lazy smile, but his eyes narrowed as he eyed me up. "Hey, Mark," he said, extending his arm.

"You're a cop, right?" I said as we shook hands.

"She tell you?"

"Nah. Just a lucky guess."

When they all left a half hour later, Rebecca made eye contact, then looked down to her hand on the bar. I looked down as well and watched as she slid a small piece of folded paper toward the bar rail. When she lifted her hand, I looked back to her face. With a wide smile and flirty bounce of her eyebrows, she left.

I followed that magnificent ass all the way out the door before picking up the note and reading.

"Loyola Law School has three openings for associate professor starting Fall next year," the note read. "Just thought you might be interested."

I thought about it, then slid the note in my pocket.

Hell yes I was interested.

* * * * *

Sandy met me for a drink after work, and we were sitting off in a corner when her daddy walked in with my dad.

"Mark," he called, giving a fake smile from ear to ear.

"Pat," I replied, not bothering to stand or stick out my hand.

He hesitated, the smile faltering, then got it all back together in full force and plodded on. "So we've found you, boy. Mind if I sit?"

"Yes, Daddy, we do mind," Sandy said, a sickly sweet smile on her face.

His features clouded, and this time the smile was gone for good. He stood taller then, trying to use his natural advantages to their fullest.

"I just want to know that you're all right," he said.

"We're out, Daddy," Sandy said. "Got it? Out. We're gonna be living up here now, and we don't want anything to do with any of you. Nothing. Not a goddamned thing. You, Mom, the Senator and Debra, you're all out of the picture now, got it?"

"Who do you-- "

"Let's go, Mark," she said, pushing off the barstool and grabbing my hand.

I let her lead me past them toward the door. Halfway there, though, she stopped and spun around.

"And let's get this straight, Daddy," she said, snarling out the Daddy part. "You leave us alone and you make sure everyone else leaves us alone, too. If the press shows up at our front door, I'm gonna give it to 'em straight. All of it. Then you can explain to the poor voters of Tennessee how you used your own daughter to play them all for fools."

His face masked into fury, and his massive fists clenched at his side.

"Say you understand," she said through clenched teeth.

He only stared.

"Say it," she demanded.

"I understand."

With that, she spun around again and led me out the door in a huff.

* * * * *

She followed me back to my dumpy little apartment. Before Sandy had arrived--and before I'd decided to give it another shot--I'd been okay with the place. Hell, it suited my needs. Now, though, I was a bit embarrassed. Rebecca had been right: It was more a dorm room than a home.

"I'm starving," Sandy said as she unwrapped her layers of jacket, sweater, hat, and scarf, shaking out her hair as she did so. "You got anything to eat?"

"Sandwich?" I said.

She gave me her famous quizzical look, the one that's half what-the-hell and half you-can't-be-serious. "That's all?"

"Yep."

"Is that what you've been living on for the past two months?"

"Yep."

She started smiling. "What kind of sandwich?"

I went to the freezer and opened it. "Tonight's Thursday, so it's Tex Mex sloppy joes made with ground bison."

"Bison? As in buffalo meat?"

"As in buffalo meat."

"Is it any good?"

"Not a clue. I haven't tried it yet."

She closed the gap between us and put her arms around me, burying her face in my chest. "You've already changed, Mark. And I'm thinking for the better."

"How so?"

"I don't know. You just have."

"So you ready for some sloppy joes?"

"Sure."

She helped me thaw and then gently reheat the sandwich filling. Twenty minutes later, we were seated opposite each other at the tiny table, unable to take our eyes off each other as we ate, but also unable to really say anything.




The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 04



When I finished and put my plate aside, I reached across the table and brushed my fingertips across the back of Sandy's hand. That started the waterworks. Brushing a tear off as it slid down her cheeks, I said, "What's wrong?"

"I thought I'd lost you. For two months, I was terrified I'd never see you again. Then, when I finally found you, that look on your face as you sang that song."

"Sorry," I said.

"It's not your fault," she said. "It's mine. And theirs."

"Mostly theirs."

She picked my hand up and stroked my palm against her cheek before kissing it. "If this happens again--if this doesn't work out and you decide to move on--at least tell me to my face, okay?"

"It's going to work out, Sandy," I said, realizing I meant every word.

"But if it doesn't, promise me you won't just disappear."

"Promise."

She smiled and leaned into my hand. "Thanks."

A few minutes later, we were both more relaxed. I was standing at the sink washing the dishes while Sandy dried and put them away. She was getting more playful as we did so, reaching across to flick water on my shirt until I did the same to her and went a touch overboard.

"I'm soaked," she said, looking at the wet fabric dousing most of the front of her blouse.

"Serves you right."

"Fine," she said, that familiar curl lifting the corner of her lips as that twinkle danced in her eyes. "Might as well be now as anytime."

She started unbuttoning her blouse, but I decided to play dumb.

"What're you doing?"

"You know damned well what I'm doing."

I shook my head and leaned back. "Not a clue. We've got dishes to finish here."

"I've got an itch that needs scratching first."

"But the dishes," I protested.

"The itch comes first." She pulled the blouse off and came to me, falling easily into my arms and lifting her face to mine. "So unless this flock of groupies has got you all worn down, get to scratching."

I tilted my head and kissed her, the passion quickly increasing as I ran my hands over her bare back. Her frame, always slim to begin with, was nearly gaunt; I could feel her rib cage against my fingertips and her bra, when I went to unsnap it, was loose.

But the kiss, and the ways and places she touched me, was still Sandy. The Sandy I'd fallen in love with. The one who quickly got going and was now clawing at my shirt to get it over my head before going straight for the jeans and undoing them before tugging them down.

"Wait," I said, breaking away and stepping back.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her face confused and more than a bit hurt.

I gave her a broad grin. "I want to watch you undress yourself."

"Right here?" she said, her eyes darting right to the window over the sink then over her shoulder to the sliding glass doors behind us.

"You started it," I said.

"Is this that exhibitionism thing you were threatening me with?" she said, the hurt gone and the twinkle back as she started sliding her fingers over her ribs, breasts, and belly.

"Maybe."

"Is everyone up here as perverted as you are, or have you just been spending your nights all alone surfing internet porn?"

"Not tellin'."

Her hands slid down the front of her jeans, and I saw her hips start a slow twirl as her right hand got low enough for contact.

"Is this what you had in mind?"

"Pretty much."

Her left hand started massaging her breasts, squeezing and pinching her nipples taut as her right hand continued squirming in her pants.

"You gonna join me?" she asked, exhaling in relief as she spoke.

"As in help you?"

"As in undress in front of me, too."

"Does it work that way?" I said, sliding my jeans the rest of the way down.

She bit her lip, but kept her eyes on me. "It better work that way."

"Like this?" I said, reaching into my boxers and grabbing my hard on.

"Now stroke it," she said, her left hand moving down to unbutton her jeans. She shimmied out of them, and I was treated to a full view of her right hand twirling between her legs.

I started a slow stroke, mesmerized by the sight of my pixie wife pleasuring herself.

"Now the underwear," she said.

With my left hand, I slid them slowly down my hips until they fell to my ankles.

Stepping out of them, I moved toward Sandy and leaned in to kiss her. My left hand joined the hand in her panties, while my right reached behind and grabbed her ass, squeezing and kneading before I pulled her panties down.

"This is nice," she said mumbled, panting into our kisses.

Her hand was soft and cool and it found me and pulled me to the kitchen floor. "I can't wait," she said, leaning backward and pulling me atop her.

She guided me in as her kisses got hungrier. I was overwhelmed by the sensations. She was an impossibly tight, moist inferno, and her hips rose to meet mine as I bottomed out. Her orgasm was almost immediate as she was clutched my ass and tried to pull me in deeper, her hips bucking and grinding against my pelvis to increase the contact with her clitoris.

Once her hips slowed down, I began stroking in and out, slowly at first, but soon increasing both in speed and force.

"Yes, yes," she panted into my ear. "Just like that, baby. Yes, just like that. I'm gonna cum again."

I had to brace my hands on the cool, slick linoleum to keep us from sliding into the wall, and I felt my own release approaching as she again started bucking and writhing beneath me, her fingernails digging deep into my skin and holding me still. Her slick walls were convulsing and sucking me in deeper, and I reared my head back and just exploded into her.

Moments later, Sandy's body collapsed fully to the floor, limp and satiated. "Oh my God, that was hot."

I smiled, still fully sheathed inside her. "Which part?"

"All of it."

"You liked it, didn't you?"

She looked up at me through hooded eyelids and gave a lazy smile. "You're still a pervert."

I chuckled. "Yeah, but apparently so are you."

"Whatever."

"Whatever."

* * * * *

An hour and a half later, just after completing round two, we lay in bed together.

"You've really worked up an appetite, haven't you?" I said.

She grinned. "Like I said, it's one hell of an itch here."

"You gonna try and screw me to death?"

"Maybe."

"Punishment?"

"You complaining?"

"No."

Her smile went from bright to nostalgic, and I said, "Penny for your thoughts."

She exhaled, then said, "It still doesn't seem real, y'know?"

"How so?"

"I was just so afraid. All those weeks, I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Then, when Mom told me that you'd never known, I was convinced you'd just run away from me."

"And this makes it more real?"

"This does," she said, snuggling into me. "I mean the boffing part's great and all--God knows I really need it--but this part, Mark. Just you holding me. It almost seemed real when I woke up in your arms, but I want to fall asleep there, too."

"You asking if you can spend the night?"

"Is it too soon?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I think I need this part, too."

She gave her happy, contented smile, then snuggled her smooth, naked skin in closer to mine. Within a few minutes, she was snoring softly, her breath tickling the few hairs on my chest.

* * * * *

She woke me up the next morning the way she used to wake me up only on Sundays.

I recommend it to anyone who wants to start the day out right.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Friday night dinner was spent catching Sandy up on all that had transpired.

I told her about Clarice Talbott and my brother raping her and my nephew I'd never known about. She was stunned to say the least, but not completely surprised about Stevie's role in it.

"I'm sorry, Mark," she said. "I know he's your brother and all, but he always had a bit of a sadistic streak in him. I used to take that to mean he was strong, but he wasn't. Sometimes he was just plain mean."

"But you loved him," I pointed out.

She shook her head. "I loved the idea of him. Of him and us together. Like the prom king and queen being together and having the beautiful house and making beautiful babies. Later, like I told you, I realized he'd have been just like all the other asshole husbands. I'd have had the house and the babies and lunch at the club, but I'd have never had a soul mate."

"You consider me your soul mate?" I said, a bit tickled at the notion she'd never express.

"You know I do," she said, surprised I'd ask. "Don't you consider me your soul mate?"

"No," I said. "I consider you the yin to my yang. You complete me in ways I need to be completed."

"And that's different?"

"I think so."

"Hmmm," she said, pursing her lips to ponder it.

Then I told her about the gigs and how they led to me meeting with Teddy and Nick to flesh out my songs. At first, she could've cared less because she had no clue who they were.

"They wrote all that music for LeadFoot," I said, cluing her in.

A lightbulb went off in her head. "And now they're in General Beauregard?"

"Exactly."

"Wow," she said. "Okay, that is a big deal, I suppose."

"Exactly," I said, pleased with myself.

"And they're gonna record your songs?"

"Nope. They're gonna help me peddle them to other acts."

She thought for a moment, then said, "And this is what you're gonna do now? Be a songwriter?"

"Just part time. I'm thinking of trying to get a job as a law professor to do full time."

"Professor?" she said, then laughed and flashed me an evil grin. "So it's not enough that you have tons of groupies, now you're gonna have all those little female students fawning over you, too?"

I laughed. "Never have enough."

"And if I start dressing like a schoolgirl, Professor?" She snuggled in closer. "Short little skirts and too tight white blouse? And maybe misbehave in class?"

"You naughty little girl," I laughed, then pulled her over my knees and gave her a firm smack on the ass.

"Ouch!"

"Ouch good or ouch bad?"

"Ouch I've been a naughty girl," she said, turning over her shoulder and daring me.

That led to a rather spirited romp along avenues we'd never before taken. Rubbing her cheeks afterwards, she insisted I apply lotion. That was almost as much fun as the romp. For both of us.

* * * * *

Sunday at noon, Sandy and I sat beside Clarice Talbott, the three of us huddled in tightly under one umbrella as the icy rain drummed upon us. Our banter through chattering teeth and constant shivers centered on weather this far north. I doubt I'd have seen him if someone hadn't gotten up and left just before the end of the first quarter.

He was huddled all alone, no umbrella, his baseball cap soaked as he hunched his shoulders against the weather. Even from where we were, though, I could tell he was lost in his thoughts as he watched his grandson scamper across the muddy field.

I nudged Sandy, and she looked. Her expression was inscrutable.

Clarice turned, looked, and said, almost to herself, "It was never his fault, you know. None of it was."

I held my tongue, but Sandy didn't.

"If he'd cared enough, he'd have gotten personally involved."

"She's his wife, though," Clarice said. "If you can't trust your wife, who can you trust?"

Sandy shot a look at me, then looked down. I took her freezing hand into mine and squeezed, trying to will some warmth into her skin. "You're right," I said to Clarice. "I don't suppose it's easy to believe such things are really possible coming from the woman you gave your heart and soul to all those years ago."

"But he could've been there for you," Sandy whispered after a moment. "He could've tried harder. Tried to be a part of Schuyler's life."

Clarice sighed. "Yeah, maybe. I'm not really too sure I'd have let him, though."

"Then why now?"

"Because a lot of time has passed. And now he's trying to do what's right. It's not just the money, though it sure helps. It's not his responsibility, though. I think it was the shame. All along, I think he blamed himself for Steven and . . . and what he was and what he did."

Clarice turned to me. "I don't know what he did to you, but I know it was more than just this. Still, I don't think it was all his fault. You may want to think about that."

I didn't move, just looked back at him all alone there with his thoughts.

* * * * *

The Generals managed a touchdown late in the third quarter. Not Schuyler, but the quarterback. Schuyler threw the key block just before the goal line, though. They held on to win six zip.

He ran up to us after the game, giving his mom a big hug that covered her rain coat with mud.

"We did it," he said, a bundle of energy even after an afternoon on the torn up gridiron. "Undefeated, mom. You know what this mean?"

"No, honey," she said, combing his hair back with her fingers. "What does it mean?"

"I get a trophy!" he said, giving a smile that accentuated his missing baby teeth.

Then he turned to us. "Who's parents are you?"

Clarice knelt in front of him. "This is your Uncle Mark," she said. "And your Aunt Sandy."

He looked perplexed. "I've got an uncle? And an aunt?"

I saw my dad off to the side, looking on as he swayed from foot to foot, his face a mask of sorrow. I cleared my throat and, when Clarice looked, nodded toward my dad. She looked, then gave a sad smile.

"And a grandpa, too."

"A grandpa?"

"He's over there, honey."

Schuyler turned and looked, not sure what to do. After a moment of staring, he said in a tiny voice, "Are you my grandpa?"

Dad hesitated, then nodded.

Schuyler closed the fifteen feet between him and Dad, stopped, and looked up. "Where've you been?"

Dad cleared his throat, and I could tell he was holding back tears. His body tensed, and it seemed all he could do to keep from bending down and taking the little boy into his arms. After a moment, he said, "I guess I haven't been a very good grandpa, have I?"

"No," the boy said. "You haven't."

They stared at each other for a minute or more. Then, as if in slow motion, Schuyler reached his tiny hand out and said, "Can you buy me a hot cocoa before they run out?"

Tears mixed with the rain on Dad's face, and he croaked, "Yeah. I'd love to."

The little boy led him to the tiny snack shack near the end zone already crowded with players.

"He wants to be a part of Schuyler's life," Clarice said, watching them. "We talked about it after you left, and I think it would be good for Schuyler."

"And my mom?" I said.

She gave a tight shake of her head. "He didn't think that wise."

"He's right."

We made our way to the snack shack as a group, standing off to the side.

"You have any plans for an early dinner?" Sandy said to Clarice.

She shrugged. "Probably just soup and sandwiches. On a cold day like this . . . ."

"You won't believe your luck," Sandy said, brightening under the gray skies. "You think Schulyer likes bacon and tomato on his grilled cheese?"

I looked at Sandy and grinned. "But Sunday's not grilled cheese night."

"It is now," she said, then turned to Clarice. "You guys in?"

* * * * *

Dad turned down Sandy's invitation to dinner.

"Thanks," he said, unable to meet my eyes. "Really. I've got a flight back to Washington, though. There's some things coming up before us, and I really need to be there."

"We gonna see you again soon?" Sandy said.

He looked up, disbelief on his face. "You still want to . . . ."

He turned to me, but my face was uncompromising. His eyes fell again.

I let him stew for a moment, then said, "I don't know, Dad. You used me."

He nodded. "I know. And I'm sorry. More sorry than you'll ever know."

"But you've got a grandson here now," I said. "A grandson who doesn't need to be abandoned a second time."

His eyes darted to Clarice and Schuyler as they walked to her car. "Is it too late?"

"Yeah, it's too late. But better late than never, don't you think?"

"But your mother," he said, still watching Schuyler with a look of longing I hadn't seen on him in forever.

"Looks like you've got some choices," I said.

He turned back to me, searching for a glimmer of forgiveness.

I gave him none. After a moment, his lips set and he started a slow nod.

I took Sandy's hand and left him there in the rain.

* * * * *

Nine months later, I was waiting at the front door of our little home a couple blocks away from my nephew's home.

"Hurry up," I cried out. "I'm gonna miss my train."

"Found it," Sandy called back. I heard her rushing down the hallway.

"Slow down. Jesus, you'll fall."

She slid to a stop at the end of the hall, gave a huge smile, and raised the camera, snapping away. "Look at you. You look awesome."

"You think?" I said, tugging the lapels on the sport coat to straighten the jacket.

"My own professor," she said, putting the camera down before walking over and tightening the knot on my tie. "This is just awesome."

"You think?"

"I think."

"Well, I think this is awesomer," I said, reaching over and stroking the gentle bulge in her belly.

"Awesomer?" she said, her hand going atop mine and pressing against our growing little one. "Is that even a word?"

"Should be."

She beamed, then reached over and gave me a long kiss on the lips. "Knock 'em dead, professor."

The End