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Sorrel's Long Journey to Love

By: carvohi



Prequel: This is a story of misunderstanding, conflict, and two people's journey to true love.

*

Introduction:

A private corporation, accustomed to getting exclusive government contracts; the kind of contracts people never read or hear about except in the quietest corners of the Pentagon had run into trouble. Enormous sums of money, Federal money, unbudgeted money, and important highly secret information had disappeared. After a discreet internal investigation by key members of the innermost circle of the corporation's leadership a culprit had been identified. However, the criminal activity had been so carefully planned and so meticulously carried out that proving the transgressor's guilt without full blown public disclosure was virtually impossible. 

Further investigation had become vital. Ultimately guilt had been proven, and the villainy had been unequivocally assigned. Yet to guarantee the malfeasance never leaked extreme precautions had to be arranged. Guilt was shown, the villain was caught, but their identity could never be made public, their perfidy never exposed. For the sake of the company, for the sake of national security their future had to be tightly regulated, and above all, they had to be punished. 

Punishment was a ticklish task. Since no one must ever know of the crime, retribution had to be prudent. Repayment in this matter had to be well thought out, thoroughly planned, and absolutely air tight. There could be no possibility for error, investigation, or even rumor. Vengeance had to be harsh and irrevocable, but done in such a manner no one would ever suspect the treachery that inspired it. 

The two kingpins of the business, co-founding brothers, hatched a plan they believed would protect their business, guarantee there will be no leaks, and would not only bind the thief, but would humiliate and destroy the evil doer forever. The plan was simple, thorough, and vicious beyond imagining. It would start with a party, but where it would all end was anybody's guess

A Luncheon is Planned:

The Guest List:

The first phase of the trap was to be sprung at an afternoon luncheon. The party was planned for a Saturday afternoon. Steve, an American technical expert was the host. As many as twenty people were expected. 

They included Steve Hammer, the host, and his wife Cynthia. Steve was an up and coming yuppy type businessman. His wife Cynthia was the classic southern debutante. 

There was a Canadian couple; Pearce Vasquals and his wife Collette. They brought their nearly grown son Flail. Pearce was a brilliant computer technician. His wife doted on him hand and foot. Their son Flail was a licentious monster in his late adolescence.

An Australian was present, Charles McNamara. Charles wasn't married, but had brought his girlfriend, Denise. Charles and Denise were both from Sydney. They'd been sweethearts since high school. Charles didn't know it but Denise had been bisexual all her life.

An English couple was also on hand. That was Charles Coburn and his wife Gwyneth. The Coburn's both represented old money and English traditional values. Next to Warren and Mildred Hanson, they were the oldest couple on hand. On first impression they appeared conservative and somewhat staid. In reality they were quite a couple.

Other key guests included Warren Hanson and his wife Mildred. Most people referred to Warren as the Colonel owing to his military record. He was the founder of the company, its largest share holder, and biggest stake holder. He was to be a central character to the plot of the story.

The Colonel's younger brother was there also. His name was Fletcher Hanson, if this story had a male protagonist that would have been Fletcher. He was the second largest share holder. Fletcher was a widower at the time the story began. He had three children who were attending a field day activity at their school, and would not be at the party. Fletcher had come to the party alone. He had been alone most of the time since his wife died two years earlier. Fletcher was a very complex man; a very lonely man.

The next to last invitee was Florence Henderson. Florence was the corporate comptroller, and the person who had first uncovered the culprit's scheme. Florence was a spinster, but had for years loved Warren Hanson from afar. She owned no shares in the company, but she behaved as though the company was her personal fiefdom. 

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A closer look at all the participants above could have revealed a great deal more. Every family had its own story. Over time, if the story unfolds as expected some will become major participants in a tale of manipulation, cruelty, and perhaps love, deep abiding, all consuming love.

Regardless, the story was to be primarily about one woman. She was the last to come to the party. She was the guest of honor, the person for whom the whole gathering had been planned, our heroine Sorrel Sullivan.

Sorrel:

The guest of honor; that was to say the person for whom the picnic had been planned and around whom the story revolved was Sorrel. Sorrel was last to arrive. This was by design, for everyone knew Sorrel had a lot to answer for.

Sorrel was a beautiful woman. She stood a tall five foot five, and weighed a slight one hundred twenty pounds. Her hips were a little on the broad side, but she had a waspish waist.

Her breasts weren't large, only thirty-four B, but she'd learned to keep them firm and supple. The exercise regimen she followed guaranteed they stayed that way. She eschewed the use of fraudulent cosmetics and implants. She found hard work and exercise were the preferred courses of action.

She had a beautiful face, ravishing big blue eyes, a pert little nose, neither long and aquiline nor broad and flat. Her chin, with its tiny dimple right in the middle, gave her a mischievous look. Her ears were small, round, and lay flat against the side of her head. She'd had her lobes pierced just once, and always kept just a small ring affixed in each. She thought men liked hooked earrings; perhaps imagining it inferred a submissive nature. Men she believed liked submissive women; something she definitely was not.

She had magnificent hair. She wasn't a blond; nothing like the flaxen haired beauties one saw at the beach. Her hair was a hazel brown but with lustrous wisps of saffron yellow. It was thick, luxuriant, and when not tightly confined in a bun or braid, willfully undulant. It was the kind of hair women paid large sums of money for, and the kind men wanted to grab and wrap their hands in. It was always well coifed. She preferred a traditional bun, but on special occasions a French braid worked.

Sorrel never had many men friends, that was men with whom she could or would confide. She'd found men a nuisance; an interference regarding her prime objective which was to become as successful as possible. She wasn't a lesbian; she was just driven by forces other than sex.

Certainly her most absorbing quality was her intellect. She was brilliant; an I.Q. well above the Mensa minimum. When people spoke she listened, and she remembered. Nothing escaped her steel trap analytical mind.

She didn't just have the ability to listen. She could talk too. She knew how to talk and flatter men and women. She knew how to assess the ebb and flow of a conversation. No matter the topic she could always blend in with grace and charm. 

There were other aspects of her personality. Her sex appeal, one couldn't discount. She knew how to dress, and she knew how to dress for men. She believed men liked to see women in clothes that exposed as much skin as possible, but she also knew most men had little regard for women who deliberately dressed that way.

She thought the smart way to dress was to wear clothes that hinted at sexuality without being overtly sexual. She knew she had to dress for men, for it was men who controlled the offices and boardrooms, and that was where the real power was. That was just one of those dirty little facts of life.

She avoided clothes with excessively short hemlines or exposed cleavages. Men made assumptions about women like that. However, a soft pleated dress or skirt that rested just above the knee; and blouse or top that hinted at but didn't reveal a woman's upper bodily enticements had a supernatural effect.

Sorrel understood the visual nature of the male animal, and she knew that, after her hair and eyes, it was her breasts that drew the attention of most men. She thought she had found the right bra. Thick padded push up bras and tightly structured bras with pointy nipples were avoided. The best bras were those that allowed a certain amount of freedom, and gave just a hint of aureole. They were the best. She believed men liked to watch a woman's chest as she breathed. They liked the slow swell, the fresh and gentle undulation of small firm breasts. Even the oldest men would bend over backwards to get a brief glimpse at the hint of nipple pressing against soft fabric. Yes, good clothes certainly went a long way at helping a woman get what she wanted. Sorrel knew that, and she kept a magnificent wardrobe.

------------

Sorrel was a magnificent woman, beautiful, talented, smart, and gifted in every way. How could this magnificent woman, a woman with all the physical, emotional and intellectual qualities that she possessed possibly end up facing complete ruination? Well, that's part of the story we're here to tell. 

In Her Own Words:

"Just three years ago I was on the move; upward and ascendant, a rising star. I was on the verge of bagging the biggest juiciest contract of anyone's dreams. Perhaps I was a little over confident, but at the time I didn't think so. It involved a cabal of businessmen at the corporation where I was working. We were all shifting money around on the markets like it was candy. It was the height of the corporate banking bundling era, and we were in the thick of it. Derivatives were the thing. In the midst of this were these four cheeky businessmen and me. Among the men there was an American, an Englishman, and a Canada, and an Australian. Together the five of us were about to make the biggest market killing of all time. I had worked my buns off to get everything just right. We were all going to make millions of dollars. But then it all blew up. It blew up right in my face. How did it happen? At the time I didn't have a clue."

"I know this; my whole life unraveled one afternoon at a luncheon; a luncheon that was supposed to be held in my honor. Little did I know at the time where it would lead me? But one never knows."

The Story Begins:

Sorrel is Undone:

When Sorrel reached the party it was already 1:00 and all the other guests had been there for some time. Steve had planned it that way to guarantee that all the other guests had been well informed as to the true nature of the gathering. When Sorrel got there everyone knew what was up. This was, after all, the innermost circle. They had a right to know, to see, and to participate.

The setting was idyllic. The Hammer's plush backyard had an over abundance of freshly grown flowers. The grass had been freshly cut; everything was magnificently lush and green. Several tables had been set up in the lawn for the guests. Three long tables had been set up with the finger foods, lunchmeats, and pastries.

Off to the left of the main reception area was the swimming pool. It was a mid sized peanut shaped affair. On the far side was the pool dressing room. The dressing area was sumptuous in its own right, with rich deep pile carpeting, sumptuous sofas and love seats, a sauna, hot tub, and richly furbished bathrooms and other privacy areas. In fact, if the party were to be interrupted by inclement weather there was more than enough space in the pool house to accommodate all the guests.

As Sorrel walked into the backyard she was greeted by Steve, "Sorrel we were all getting worried about you." He smiled and clasped her hands, "You're the last to arrive. Did you have any trouble finding the place? I hope my directions didn't confuse you." As he spoke Steve discreetly looked Sorrel over. He wondered to himself how anyone so beautiful could be so deceitful.

Sorrel took Steve's outstretched hands and answered, "No, I thought 1:00 was the appropriate time."

Steve smiled and answered, "Actually it was scheduled for 11:00. I suppose I gave you an invite that was missing a number. I'm sorry."

Sorrel, ever gracious answered, "Don't bother. I hope I haven't missed anything."

By then Steve's wife Cynthia had reached the couple. Cynthia had little compassion for Sorrel. She was secretly suspicious that her husband and Sorrel had become more than just business partners. Assessing what Sorrel had on Cynthia secretly looked forward to what she expected would happen later on. Cynthia spoke, "Sorrel. So good of you to come, and don't you look beautiful. Isn't that outfit you're wearing from Macy's?"

Sorrel smiled and answered, "Why yes it is. Do you like it?" Sorrel had made sure she was at her best today. The outfit she had on was an 'off the rack' version of an exclusive work, but it wasn't cheap, and she had the tailor go over it carefully making sure it fit perfectly. Of course Sorrel knew of Cynthia's silly suspicions, and understood the reason for her thinly veiled antipathy. It pleased her in a perverse sort of way.

Sorrel was wearing a casual suit of the finest linen. It was a pale-blue two piece, with a three buttoned jacket and long pleated slacks. Her hair was up in a tight bun, with just a few errant tresses filtering languidly around her beautiful face.

She was wearing glasses, but Cynthia knew Sorrel usually relied on contacts. The glasses were intended to give her an aura of intellectual keenness Cynthia secretly believed Sorrel lacked. Beneath the jacket Cynthia could see a teal colored translucent blouse. Its collar lay casually atop the folds of her jacket. A beautiful gold pendant clung tightly to the top of her delicate throat. Cynthia was sure Sorrel wasn't wearing a bra, or if she was, it was of the most minimal type. Her long legs were accentuated by dark nylons, and rounded out by a pair of ivory colored low cut heels. Even through the slacks it was easy to discern the firmness of her long muscular legs.

Cynthia hated her, "Sorrel, come over here. I've saved a seat for you at our table."

Sorrel dutifully followed Cynthia to the hostess table. On an occasion like this being seated at the host and hostess table was a true mark of distinction. She had no idea her seating was by design. Sorrel responded. "Thank you so much."

Over the next thirty or so minutes all the guests, either singly or in very small groups made their way to Cynthia's table where they engaged in small talk with Sorrel and the Hammer's.

Each and every guest was instructed to be especially gracious toward Sorrel. All the women were to praise her beauty and grace and especially her intellect as it related to her most recent job coup.

All the men were to comment on her intelligence and magnificent success on the deal they were about to close. Only Florence, the comptroller, stayed away. She had a special something planned for Sorrel; one that every guest, that is every guest but Sorrel, knew was coming.

The Confrontation:

Around 2:00, after everyone who was going had visited the Hammer's table, Steve leaned over and said, "Sorrel, a couple problems have arisen with the deal we've put together. The others know a little about it, but I think I need to talk with you."

Sorrel gave Steve an inquisitive look. She thought; that can't be. The deal was solid as rock. She said, "What's the matter?" Blowing Steve's concern off she added, "I'm sure whatever it might be we can fix it."

Steve smiled broadly, "I think you're right. Come on over to the pool house where you and I can look at the problem."

Together Steve and Sorrel casually strolled across the lawn. As they wended their way through the tables each and every person was quietly smiling to himself or herself, for they knew the axe was about to fall.

Sorrel and Steve sat down at one of the small tables inside the pool house. Steve opened the conversation, "Sorrel you know Florence?"

Sorrel was quick to reply, "Of course Steve, everyone knows Florence; she's our corporate comptroller."

Steve continued, "Well, as comptroller, Florence has the responsibility to investigate any and all claims against the company, and she has the equally difficult responsibility of pursuing those claims, no matter how ridiculous or trivial they might seem, to their conclusion."

Sorrel responded, "I know that Steve. So what's the problem?"

Steve replied, "Well Florence, it seems, found some e-mail messages about you. As it turns out she thinks she's uncovered something of a plot, wherein one member of our group, that member being you, has contrived and conspired to bilk the company out of close to a billion dollars by selling off highly sensitive, that is secret, assets. Do you have anything to say about this?"

Sorrel looked at Steve in utter disbelief, "You've got to be kidding. When this deal is done we'll all be multimillionaires. I'd have to be either a fool or some kind of psychotic to tamper with anything that mutually lucrative."

Steve gave Sorrel a curious look. It wasn't a suspicious look, but more a look one would have if they were reflecting about something they, only moments before, was convinced was right, "That's what Fletcher and I thought. Then Florence showed us the documentation. It looks bad Sorrel."

Sorrel started to fidget in her chair, "No Steve I don't know anything about any plot or scheme. This is the first I've heard of anything, and I guarantee you, if there is such a plot, I'm completely in the dark."

Steve smiled, "I'm so glad. I was sure you had nothing to do with what Florence uncovered. However, there are a few loose ends. Would you care to help me out a little?"

Sorrel had fully recovered her aplomb. She was certain whatever Florence might have found was irrelevant. She, Sorrel, could deflect this, and then she'd find out what was really going on. She said as much, "Steve let me see what Florence has been digging into. If I can see what she's got I'll be able to help her clear it up."

Steve leaned back in his chair, "That's great." He yelled toward the back of the pool house, "Florence can you come out here, and bring those things you found."

Almost instantaneously Ms. Henderson appeared from the back of the pool house. She was carrying a large sheath of papers. Without looking at Steve she marched straight toward Sorrel, "Sorrel I've found some very troubling documents. I'd like you to look them over. I've also come across some recorded messages. Perhaps you could listen to them and explain what they mean?"

Sorrel was taken aback by the rapidity with which Florence had been able to appear, as if from nowhere, and the directness of her comments was disarming. It was unexpected. She responded, "Well Ms. Henderson let me see what you've got. If there's something wrong, we'll fix it" 

Without hesitation Ms. Henderson opened the burgeoning folder she was carrying. One after another she produced documents, all of which bore Sorrel's initials or her signature. All of them implicated her in a secret plan designed to scam millions, perhaps billions, from the company. As she produced each paper she asked the same fundamental questions, "Sorrel can you explain how your name happened to be attached to this document? Sorrel can you explain how these large sums of money were being funneled to our competitors? Sorrel do you understand how incriminating all these materials are?"

Sorrel looked at document after document. It was as though someone in the company had rifled her files and altered every scrap of paper she'd worked on. She was flabbergasted to say the least, but she gave the best answers she could under the circumstances, "I do see my name has been signed on many if these papers, and I see many others have my initials, but I tell you I didn't do any of this. As far as I can see these items are all brilliant forgeries. Yes, I agree they all look very bad, but they are all forgeries."


Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 02



Chapter Two

The Life of the Party:

Sorrel started walking forward. She turned to say something to Fletcher, but he was gone. She looked back at the party and the partiers. Everyone was having a good time. No one seemed to notice her. She was glad of it. She walked over toward the tables where the foods were laid out. Most everything had been pretty thoroughly picked over. Though she had eaten earlier, she was hungry again. She dare not take of the food herself so she walked off toward a nearby tree. The sun was much hotter now than it had been earlier. The shade of the tree looked inviting. 

Cynthia Hammer watched as Sorrel came out of the pool house. Florence had selected the outfit, and she couldn't decide whether she liked or disliked it. She thought it looked pretty, and at the same time it looked a little too youthful for Sorrel. She considered the way the skirt swirled around the other woman's thighs. The blouse was soft looking; on the transparent maybe opaque side. It looked sexy, but overall the outfit still looked too juvenile for someone Sorrel's age. Cynthia thought that was the way she should be kept, in a child like state. It would eventually lead to a child like frame of mind. She'd be easier to control. Cynthia called out, "Sorrel come over here."

Sorrel looked up and saw it was Steve's wife who was calling her. Of all the women associated with the firm Sorrel liked Cynthia the least. She believed Cynthia thought something had been going on between Steve and her. The woman had no idea how repugnant Steve was to her. The way he looked at her in the office made her skin crawl. She gave Cynthia a phony smile and started over.

As Sorrel walked toward Cynthia, Mildred, the Colonel's wife reached out an arm and stopped her. Putting both hands out, one on each of Sorrel's shoulders she smiled and said, "My, aren't we adorable. You look like a young girl, a debutante, an ingénue, a girl at her first party." Mildred peered in, looking closely at Sorrel's face, "What does that say on your cheek. Let me see." Mildred leaned in for a close look, "Why I do believe it says chattel. Are you someone's chattel Sorrel dear?"

Sorrel answered in a low tone, almost a whisper, "Yes."

Mildred said, "Speak up dear. What did you say? Are you someone's property?"

Sorrel answered again more clearly, "Yes I am."

Mildred gave her an acidic smile. She despised anyone who'd try to injure her husband, "Well tell me. Whose property are you?"

Sorrel looked down and away. How was she going to get through this? "I'm the property of the firm Mrs. Hanson."

Mildred beamed, "Oh what a good little girl. I'm going to have to use you sometime. Do you do laundry?"

Sorrel looked at Mrs. Hanson 'this is what they plan to do with me, humiliate me at every chance', "I'll do whatever you tell me to do."

For the moment Mildred was satisfied, "That's a good girl; you treasonous little tart. Now run along. I think Mrs. Hammer wanted to talk to you."

Sorrel walked as quickly as she could toward Cynthia Hammer. She didn't want to be stopped and go through something like that again. She reached Cynthia, "I'm here Cynthia. I was stopped by Mildred Hanson."

Cynthia gave her a sickly sweet condescending smile, "Speak only when you're spoken to Sorrel, and I'm Mrs. Hammer. Mildred over there is Mrs. Hanson to you."

Sorrel blanched. She didn't like being talked down to, and certainly didn't like the idea of referring to these women as Mrs. this or Mrs. that. However, she held her true feelings in. She'd get through this, and she'd get even in time, "Yes Mrs. Hammer. I'm sorry I spoke out of turn, and I'm sorry I was too familiar."

Cynthia gave her a sweet but completely artificial smile, "That's so much better dear. I do like my people to be appropriately polite. I saw you over at the food table. Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?" 

Sorrel answered, "I haven't had much to eat today, and yes I am hungry."

Cynthia said, "Go over to the food table, fix a plate and bring it over here. We'll eat together."

Sorrel gave Cynthia her the most obsequious look she could muster, "Yes, thank you. I'll be right back." She promptly turned and walked to the food table. Taking a paper plate she filled it with some of the foods that still remained uneaten. She then turned and walked to where Cynthia was seated. Upon reaching Cynthia she sat the plate on the table beside her. Not knowing what to do next Sorrel waited.

Cynthia took the plate, turned to Sorrel and said, "Here sit beside me on the grass. I'll feed you."

Sorrel was furious but refused to let Cynthia see it. Remembering Fletcher's warning she knelt carefully on the soft, now damp grass.

Cynthia looked over the morsels on the plate and selected a piece of cheese. With a great show and deliberate movement Cynthia leaned forward and held the piece of cheese out to Sorrel's mouth, "Here dear. Have a piece of cheese."

Sorrel took the cheese in her mouth and began to chew.

Cynthia said to Sorrel, "My, this is fun. It's kind of like having one's own little puppy dog. Here, have a piece of roll." She tore off a piece of roll and held it out toward Sorrel's mouth.

Sorrel took the piece of roll in her mouth.

Piece by piece Cynthia slowly fed Sorrel the food that was on the plate. While she fed her Charles's girlfriend Denise and Pearce's wife Collette came over. They watched as Cynthia made a great show of feeding Sorrel each and every little smidgen of food. 

"What's that written on her cheek?" asked Collette.

Cynthia looked down at Sorrel, "Oh, I hadn't noticed. What does it say Sorrel?"

Sorrel answered, "It says chattel."

Denise spoke up, "Doesn't that mean something like slave?"

Both Cynthia and Collette said nothing but looked at Sorrel. Cynthia was smiling broadly.

Sorrel answered, "Yes. It means the same thing as being owned."

"Well whose property are you dear?" Cynthia asked.

Sorrel answered, "I belong to the firm."

Collette giggled, "We own the firm. That means you belong to us. I'm going to have to get you to baby-sit for me. Would you like to do that?"

Sorrel; wondering where Fletcher was, looked neither to the right nor to the left. She said in a flat voice, "Yes, if that's what you want me to do."

Denise interjected, "Hey, I'm just the girlfriend. Are you required to do what I say?"

Sorrel answered, "Yes, I think so."

Cynthia took Sorrel's chin and pulled her face up so she had to look her right in the eyes, "What do you mean yes? You mean yes ma'am don't you."

Sorrel looked right back at Cynthia, "Yes ma'am."

Cynthia said, "Yes ma'am what?"

Sorrel answered, "Yes ma'am. As long as you're the girlfriend I have to do what you say."

Denise laughed, "Oh this is great." She leaned forward and reached her hand out and touched Sorrel's cheek, "You're pretty. You're like a pretty little girl. That's a cute little outfit you have on. I like those little panties you have on under that little skirt, and the blouse is so sweet." Denise reached forward further. She cupped Sorrel's face in both hands. Moving her hands back and forth ever so carefully she said, "You're a real little cutie; like a little girl. I like little girls. We're going to have a lot of fun, you and me."

Sorrel felt like she was going to be sick. She had to get away. Wanting to run, but knowing Fletcher was watching somewhere she said the only thing she could think of, "I have to go to the bathroom. May I be excused?"

The three women looked at each other and then back at Sorrel.

Sorrel was feeling desperate, "May I be excused, please?" 

Denise spoke first, "Of course you may go to the bathroom." Denise stood up and held out her hand, "Here let me walk you to the toilet."

Sorrel thought, 'Oh. Jesus. She thinks I want to go someplace with her. The woman's a dike.' Sorrel glanced around looking for Fletcher but he wasn't anywhere to be seen; Sorrel stood up. It didn't matter. She knew he was watching from someplace. Taking her hand she said, "Thank you ma'am."

Denise took Sorrel's hand and walked her to the bathroom. As they walked away all the people watched.

Collette was thinking, 'what a nice little ass Sorrel has, and she liked the way she seemed to sashay as she walked. It was cute.' She kept thinking, 'little Sorrel doesn't know it, but Denise is only a 'bi', it's me she'll have to have to look out for.' Collette bet that nice little ass would look really great with a few bright red stripes across it. 'Yeah, Sorrel and she were going to have some real fun one of these days.'

Denise and Sorrel walked hand in hand to the bathroom. Actually it was Denise who was holding Sorrel's hand. Sorrel was mortified. She wished she was anywhere but where she was. 

They got to the bathroom and Denise told Sorrel, "OK. Sorrel let me see you pull your panties down."

Sorrel reached to the side of her skirt and started to undo the buttons when Denise held up her hand and said, "No wait. I'll do that."

Sorrel stopped and Denise took over. She moved as close to Sorrel as she could and still undo the skirt. She reached forward and undid each button, one at a time. Then she pulled the belt apart. She smiled, "Boy that Florence is a clever one. You know it was Florence who purchased all the clothing you'll be wearing from now on. She's a perverted old witch." 

Sorrel stood there trying not to cringe.

Denise went on; breathing heavy, hands a little jittery, trying to control her emotions. She pulled Sorrel's panties down to her knees, "Wow Sorrel you have a beautiful little snatch." Denise reached down with her right hand and made as if to fiddle with Sorrel's private area but averted her fingers at the last second. Instead she softly touched the tops of the woman's thighs. She wanted to rub between her legs, in her privacy area, but was becoming so nervous it was hard to control her actions. 

She looked at Sorrel's face and saw her soft red lips. What she wanted to do was wrap her arms around this woman and kiss her, but she knew this girl wasn't ready. As an alternative she softly rubbed up and down the insides of Sorrel's upper thighs. She tickled Sorrel's navel. She took a finger and pushed inside her navel, "You like that don't you."

Sorrel swallowed hard; keeping her head facing away, "I don't like to be touched."

Looking into Sorrel's face closely Denise could tell she was as heterosexual as they come. "I bet you're wet Sorrel. You like this don't you." She made as if she were going to reach down and touch where her secret place was, "Let me touch you Sorrel."

Sorrel had no desire to be touched by anyone, let alone this person. Her whole world was being ruined this afternoon, and what this woman was suggesting would have been unwelcome anytime, but especially not today, "Please." I'm not like that. I don't do sexual things with anyone. I don't like it."

"Are you sure?" Asked Denise

Sorrel stood motionless, but still had the courage to put up her hands to block any more advances by Denise, "Please; all I want to do is pee." 

Denise moved close to Sorrel and gave her a tentative kiss on the lips, "Didn't you like that?"

"Please no, I'm not that way. Can't I just pee?" Sorrel was afraid; afraid of Denise and what she might say to Fletcher. She didn't like to be touched by men; she certainly didn't like women to touch her. Sorrel refused to respond. She refused to react.

Denise pressed a hand against the frightened woman's cheek, "Now Sorrel, if you're going to be a good girl you're going to have to try harder than that." Denise leaned forward and kissed Sorrel again.

What Denise was doing with the kissing was doing nothing for Sorrel except to terrorize her, but she'd gotten the message. If she displeased Denise, Fletcher might find out, and in her mind, he was becoming more like the anti-Christ every second that ticked by. Sorrel kissed back, but she was shivering when she did it and tears were moistening the corners of her eyes.

Denise pulled her into her arms and started to kiss Sorrel in earnest. She took her right hand and pressed it against her rear end. She took her left hand and started to gently rub the side of Sorrel's left breast over the blouse. She stopped, "Let's get that blouse off Sorrel honey."

Sorrel leaned back against the wall as far as she could go, "No, please." She made another pathetic attempt to push the other woman's hands away.

Denise started to unbutton Sorrel's blouse. She undid the ribbons on her shoulder sleeves, and she started to unfastened the buttons. Pulling the blouse apart she gave Sorrel's breasts a good long look through the chemise, "They're not as big as I thought they'd be, but they're nice anyway." She kept rubbing the side of Sorrel's left breast, while she took her right hand and gently squeezed the terrified woman's ass.

Sorrel was getting ready to pee. She had to do something to stop Denise, "Denise please I have to go to the bathroom!"

Denise stopped what she was doing; looked at Sorrel and frowned, "What did I hear you say?"

Sorrel spoke again, "I'm so sorry ma'am. May I please go to the bathroom? I feel like I'm going to burst."

Denise smiled, "That's so much nicer. Sure sweetie you go ahead and pee. I'll just stand here and watch."

Sorrel was shocked. Denise wanted to watch. Her humiliation couldn't get much worse. Well, there was nothing to do but go. She stepped back into the bathroom, squatted on the toilet and peed. 

Denise watched intently; listening for the droplets of pee hitting the water in the bowl. When Sorrel seemed to be finished Denise said, "Here, let me wipe you." Denise took some of the toilet tissue and reached to touch Sorrel's vagina.

Sorrel held her hand up; pushing Denise away, "No I can do it."

From outside the pool house Denise and Sorrel heard the Colonel call out, "Ladies, everyone is getting ready to leave. We want Sorrel to come out and say good bye to all her guests."

Denise was pissed; she'd been thwarted at the last minute, "Oh damn. Well at least let me redress you. She slowly pulled Sorrel's panties back up, caressing each leg as she did. She refastened the belt and redid the skirt buttons. 

She re-tightened the ribbons on the other woman's blouse sleeves. Then she pulled Sorrel's blouse back together, making sure the backs of her hands rubbed against each breast as she did. She buttoned everything back one button at a time, slowly and deliberately. Her breath hot and heavy on Sorrel's face and neck; she stepped back, "There, good, you're as good as new, just like the pretty little girl who came in." She leaned forward and gave Sorrel a kiss on the cheek, "Now thank me."

Sorrel looked at Denise, blushing for what seemed like the hundredth time, "That you ma'am."

Denise held out her hand, "Let me take you back to the group."

Sorrel took Denise's hand and followed her from the pool house. As they walked Denise whispered back to Sorrel, "Next time you won't get away; we'll have all night." 

Sorrel answered, "I can hardly wait."

The Nadir:

When the two women got back outside they saw everyone was gathered around in a big circle. The Colonel walked forward and pulled Sorrel to the center, "Kneel down please."

Sorrel thought, 'how polite everyone was.'

Sorrel knelt on the grass while everyone else stood around her. Steve and Cynthia stood arm in arm, kissing, Cynthia was quietly laughing. 

The Colonel was standing beside his wife looking very somber, very dignified like an Eighteenth Century judge having just passed sentence on a murderess. His wife Mildred had a look of glassy eyed hatred; perhaps it was hate, but it might have been the expensive bourbon she drank. 

Denise was leaning against her boyfriend Charles, while he stared at Sorrel like she was a piece of fresh sirloin. He made her cringe. 

Fletcher was there too, standing off in the distance and outside the circle. He seemed indifferent to everything going on. Sorrel thought that's probably like him; he's making a list of things he can do to further hurt and humiliate me. 

Pearce, his wife Gwyneth, and his sister Hannah were standing by. They looked bored. 

Sorrel thought; her life was ruined, and they were bored. Then she saw Florence. Sorrel had never seen such malevolence. Sorrel wondered what she ever done to inspire so much meanness. Not even the worst financial scandal could justify the hatred she saw in that face.

From afar Sorrel had been able to exert enough self control to immunize herself from the endless sea of hostility she saw confronting her, but as she drew closer the hateful glares, sadistic grins, and lascivious smirks consumed her will. 

Each step closer chiseled away a little more self esteem. She broke. Her face involuntarily twisted into a tightly drawn raw caricature of its real beauty. Overcome with anguish, she burst into tears.

Her tears, her degradation, her helplessness was greeted with laughter, with mirthless jeers. She looked from face to hate filled face. These had been her peers, her colleagues just days before. How could they do this? Only Fletcher looked away, but she could see the distaste, disgust written there. 

Sorrel knelt on the ground looking from person to person to person. She had to recover her aplomb. One of the people out there knew she was innocent. Which one she wondered; somehow she had to find out.

The Colonel started to speak, "Ladies and gentlemen what we have here is a failure. She's a failed businesswoman. She a failure as a mother, and a she's a pathetic failure as a human being." 

He went on, "Sorrel look at yourself. There you kneel surrounded by people who once trusted you; people who once valued your opinions and ideas. Now you kneel before all of us, a true inferior. You're no longer a human being. You're what the word says that's on your cheek. You're chattel. You're property. You're an object, a piece of flesh with which we can and will do whatever we want. You're trash!"

He was getting wound up. "Sorrel what do you think would happen if those children you abandoned ever found out they had a mother, and that she was a worthless piece of garbage? Do you think they would love you? I doubt it. They'd see you for what you really are, a whore, a snide bitch, and a strumpet who finally got caught. Tell us Sorrel what do you have to say for yourself?" 

Cynthia maliciously chimed in, "Sorrel what would you say to your children?"

Florence added her malevolent two cents worth, "What would you say if we brought your children here and introduced them to their mother and told them what kind of person she really was?"

Mildred threw more gasoline on the fire, "I can't imagine anyone more degraded than someone who would abandon two small children. What kind of woman could ever do something like that? Sorrel would you tell us, what would you do if we brought your children out here right now?" 

Sorrel knelt at the center of the circle, on the grass, in her little skirt and blouse set. The afternoon sun had reddened her naturally pale complexion. Now she felt sore and gravelly. She felt the damp grass get colder as she knelt there. She looked down at the buttons that held her blouse together. Her breasts pressed against the filmy chemise causing the buttons to gape. In the cooler air her nipples were visible through the thin material of blouse and chemise. She could feel the panties pressing into her crotch. It felt gritty. 

She thought of her children. She thought of her abandoned life as a mother. The waist belt was too tight, and the beribboned sleeves were chaffing her upper arms. She wished she were dead. She prayed that she would die at that very moment. Hell couldn't be any worse. 

It was all just too much for a woman who'd broken no laws save the laws of motherhood; the most important laws of all. She burst into tears. Once they started they poured out like ash from an erupting volcano. She didn't try to hide her feelings. She couldn't hide them. She was ashamed. She wasn't ashamed for getting caught trying to rob the company; that never happened. She was ashamed for what she'd done years before. 




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 02



She wished she could have been a good mother. She'd tried, or at least she believed she did. Nothing mattered. She just sat there on the damp, now wet, grass and balled like a baby. She put her hands to her head and covered her face, perhaps to hide the loss she felt; not the financial loss, not the loss of her job, but the real loss, the loss she'd felt but hidden from for years. 

The Colonel shouted, "Take your hands away. We want to look at you!"

Sorrel dropped her hands. She tried to stop crying, but it just didn't work. All her life she'd been tough, hard, and stubborn; it was all a lie. She was exactly what they said she was. She was a shameful excuse for a human being, a disaster, and a failure. She wasn't chattel. Chattel was property, and property had value. She knew exactly what she was. She was nothing.

The gathered group scowled down at her. Finally the Colonel announced, "I've had enough of this; she sickens me." He looked at his younger brother, "Do what you need to do; what we agreed upon" 

One by one the party goers walked away leaving Sorrel slumped in the grass. The sun was starting to set, and the air was getting cooler. She continued to kneel where they left her. She just couldn't stop crying. She overheard Fletcher tell Pearce and Steve it was over. Sorrel had imagined Fletcher was the one who would hurt her; the Colonel's closing comment confirmed it. 

A Trip in Fletcher's SUV:

Everyone was gone. Only Sorrel, still kneeling on the grass, and Fletcher, her inquisitor was left.

Fletcher coolly asserted, "Sorrel it's time to get going." 

The air was cold, she shivered. She'd been shivering from the tears. Now she was shivering from the cold. 

Fletcher held something out, "Here. Put this on."

Sorrel looked up. Fletcher had his sport jacket in his outstretched hands, "I said here, put this on."

There was no compassion in his voice, only a firm command. Sorrel took the coat.

Fletcher held out his hand, "Come on get up. If you stay there you'll catch a cold, and you're much too valuable a property to let get sick."

Sorrel slowly got to her feet and tried to put the cumbersome jacket on. It was large dark brown thing made of heavy wool; way too large for her. 

Fletcher took it out of her fumbling grasp and held it up for her, "Here."

She put her arms through the sleeves while he held it out for her. It had a mild smell of spice; some after shave maybe. Old Spice she thought. 

He looked at her without trying to touch or comfort her in any way, "Follow me. You're staying at my house until we decide what to do with you." He walked away.

She watched for a moment. Then she followed him out to the parking lot. The first thing she noticed was that her car was gone. She saw a huge SUV. Fletcher was walking toward it. Sorrel figured. 'That's his style, big, showy, and vulgar.'

Fletcher walked to the SUV, unlocked it, and opened the passenger side door. Holding the door open he ordered, "Get in."

Sorrel walked over and got in the vehicle. As she slid onto the seat she wondered where he would really be taking her. Her old life was certainly over now. The question she faced was. What happened next? 

Fletcher slid in on the driver's side, inserted the key and started the engine, "Fasten your seatbelt." 

She did what she was told.

The radio was playing an old Toby Keith song. It was one of her favorites, Sorrel had always been a country music fan, and she thought some of Toby Keith's earlier stuff was especially good. The song playing now was the one about the girl who was carrying a torch for some worthless guy, while the singer really loved her.

The man, her tormentor, looked over, "Does the music bother you?"

She sniffed, "No. I like Toby Keith."

Fletcher looked over at her as he spun the steering wheel around, "That's odd. I never figured you for country music. My guess would've been rap or heavy metal."

She sniffed again, "No. I've always been a city girl, but I've always preferred country music."

Pressing his foot down on the accelerator he asked, "Who's your favorite female vocalist?"

Sorrel responded, "Trisha Yearwood."

"You like her because she ruined Garth Brook's marriage."

Sorrel didn't expect that. Suddenly harmless small talk had turned into another attack, "She burst into tears again."

Fletcher didn't bother to look over. He said, "Oh maybe it was that song about the girl living in her Daddy's world." He didn't ask any more questions. He just said, "Shit."

They kept driving. Sorrel kept crying. The radio kept playing song after song.

Fletcher broke the ice again, "Kathy Mattea."

Sorrel sniffled, "What?"

He responded, "Kathy Mattea is my favorite female vocalist. I especially like 452 Rocket."

She kept sniffling but managed to get out, "I like that one too."

They continued to ride on in silence; they had left the city and were headed further into the country. 

Fletcher offered, "My favorite group is The Oak Ridge Boys."

Sorrel, still sniffling, said, "Elvira?"

He responded, "Bobbie Sue."

Sorrel started crying again, "Oh Fletcher I wish. I just wish." She sucked in a deep breath, "You know I'm innocent." She burst into another gale of tears, "My children. I'm so sorry."

The man kept his eye straight ahead, "Just shut up."

Sorrel stopped crying, but kept on sniffling. "I really miss Alabama."

Fletcher didn't say anything right away, but then he blurted out, "I believe there are such things as Angels."

Sorrel started blubbering again, "Me too; I wished I had one now."

Fletcher frowned, "You're really stupid. You've got one; even now you've got at least one. They're all around us. They show up in places we can't predict, and they help us in ways we can't always understand."

Sorrel was a complete mess. She just couldn't stop crying. Her whole body shook, "I need mine now." She blurted out, "Fletcher I didn't do those things."

He ignored the remark and kept talking, as if he were alone, "Everyone has angels; even you!" Then very softly he added, more to himself than her, "Even me." Then he got louder, "Shit, everyone has angels. You get an angel, especially you! Who would be better qualified to get an angel than someone who just tried to rob her own company and who had deserted her own children?" 

Sorrel kept crying, "I'm bad. I'm a monster. I deserted my children. I didn't steal anything though."

Fletcher kept driving and talking, "Yes. You little shit. You have an angel. You've probably got one sitting right here in the car right now. You don't deserve one. None of us deserves one, but I bet you've got one." He stopped talking. Looking at her somehow he couldn't stop thinking about his own situation, how unhappy he was, how lonely he felt. He reflected how afraid and lonely she must feel right now, but then Hell, she'd done it to herself. He hadn't done anything wrong.

They drove on for another three hours. Somewhere along the way Sorrel stopped crying and fell asleep. Fletcher turned the radio off and listened to her breathing. He thought, 'she's a really good lying little tart. She thinks she can lie about what she did, and I'll believe her. Brother, does she have another thing coming.'

Around 9:00 p.m. he pulled into a MacDonald's. He leaned over slightly and gently pushed her shoulder. No response; he pushed again a little harder.

Sorrel looked up. At first she didn't remember where she was, then it hit her again. She looked fearfully over at Fletcher.

"I have to go to the bathroom, and I thought I'd get a coke. You want anything?" He wasn't trying to be nice, just polite.

"I do have to go." was Sorrel's reply.

He gave her a stern look, "I'll walk you to the ladies room, and wait while you go."

She was tired and feeling weak, but not quite ready to concede everything, "OK, I'll run away while you're in the bathroom, or were you going to pee on me again?"

He realized the stupidity of his remark, "You go and I'll go too. You want a coke or anything?"

"A small coke would be nice."

"All right; come on. I'll meet you back here in a minute."

Together they got out of the car. He used the men's room, while she used the ladies. She went back to the car and stood outside it while he waited in line to get their cokes. He was back in a minute, opened her door, saw her in, and handed her a coke.

He got in on his side, and took off again.

They continued to drive on in silence for another ten minutes or so.

She looked over, "You really think I stole all that money?"

"I know you stole all that money." 

Gathering the last remnants of her pride, with determination she told him, "Well I didn't!"

It was after 11:00 p.m. when Fletcher finally stopped the vehicle. They'd reached his house. 

Fletcher's wasn't anything special. In fact, for someone with his money it was quite modest. He owned a three story colonial with an attic that had four gabled windows on each side. Just before he reached the driveway he called on his cell phone and told Mary, his full time friend and part time housekeeper he was almost there, and that he had the 'package' with him.

The vehicle stopped at the front entrance. He reached over and tapped Sorrel on her shoulder, "Hey." He said, "We're here."

Sorrel looked out and saw the house. It was dark, but she could tell it was a nice home. She started to get out, but was stopped by a gruff remark.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

She responded, "Aren't I supposed to get out?"

He brusquely answered, "I'll get the door,"

Sorrel sat back against the seat, "OK." 

He didn't move right away. He sat there on the driver's side and looked over at her. In the dim half light of the house he tried to study her. She was pretty. She looked a lot like another woman he used to know, his deceased wife. He'd urinated on the woman beside him. He knew the other woman would have been ashamed of him for that. He wished now he hadn't done it. But this woman wasn't like the other woman. The other woman had been kind, gentle, and good. This one was a lying thief, dishonest, and she had abandoned her children. They looked a lot alike, but they weren't alike.

He hated this woman. He could tell she was deliberately avoiding his stare. She probably felt so guilty any eye contact was anathema to her. He lashed out, "You're a lying thief! I'm glad I pissed on you. I might do it again."

The woman beside him looked away. She kept her head down. Tears kept dribbling down her cheeks. She kept repeating to her self over and over, 'He doesn't know me. He doesn't know the truth. Some day he'll be sorry.' She wished she was dead, buried in some hole, away from him, his meanness, his accusing looks. He just doesn't know. How could he know? No one would let her talk. 

He watched her tears. He was already sorry he'd said what he did about peeing on her. Men didn't do those things to women. Real men didn't mistreat women. He hated himself for what he said, but he lashed out again, "You're a lying scheming bitch! You deserve everything you get. I'm going to make you sorry for all the things you've done." 

'Shit.' He thought, 'Why can't I keep my mouth shut?' He got out of the car, and walked around to her door. He opened the car door and reached in a hand to help her out.

As Fletcher opened the door Mary; his full time friend and part time housekeeper, had left the house and walked up to the SUV.

Fletcher spoke to Mary in a very quiet, and to Sorrel what sounded like a very sensitive voice, "She's to go upstairs tonight in the room Florence prepared."

Mary gave Fletcher a querulous look, "Not downstairs?"

He answered, "No, not tonight I have a hunch Ms. Henderson isn't far behind."

Mary reached into the car and took Sorrel's right arm, "You look awfully tired. Lean on me, and I'll take you to a room where you might be able to get a little sleep." She peered over her shoulder at Fletcher as she spoke.

Sorrel listened to what Mary had to say. She took one look at the older woman, and burst into tears again.

Fletcher looked at Mary, "Yeah, she's a crier, and it's been one of those days."

Mary wrapped her arm around the weeping woman, "Come on in and we'll get you upstairs and to bed. I'll bring you a nice glass of warm milk and tuck you in."

Fletcher called out, "Shit Mary. She's a damn thief!"

Mary looked back, "Not tonight!"

When Sorrel heard all that she really started to cry, again.

The older woman took her arm, "Here." Mary wrapped her free arm around Sorrel's shoulders, and helped her up the few steps that led into the front of the house.

Fletcher watched the whole thing with incredulity, "Good thing she didn't kill anybody. Mary would want to adopt her."

Sorrel Spends the Night at Fletcher's:

While Mary took Sorrel up to the attic room Ms. Henderson the comptroller had planned for her, Fletcher found Byron. Byron posed as a butler, but was really more like a father to Fletcher, "Did everything get here?"

Byron answered, "Most everything. We got all her furniture and personal belongings, and put them in the two rooms you indicated. She had a lot of clothes so we had to appropriate closet space that you normally use. I didn't think you'd mind. As far as the apparel you selected and ordered from the catalogues, that won't be here until sometime tomorrow. Her car is parked around the back beside the garage. When she wakes up tomorrow morning, if she looks out her window she'll see it."

Fletcher listened and said, "Too bad we have to put her in the attic tonight, but I'm expecting Ms. Henderson either later tonight or tomorrow morning. There's no sense in starting anything with her just yet."

Byron answered, "I see. Well look, if you don't need anything else, I'm tired and want to go to bed."

Fletcher gave Byron a surprised look, "I'm sorry. Heck. You get off to bed. I've got nothing else to do tonight anyway."

That settled, Byron went off to bed, and Fletcher made a beeline for his own bedroom. Since his wife died Fletcher had taken up sleeping in a small room on the first floor. His excuse was that it gave him first dibs on making the coffee. The real reason was he just didn't want to be in the same room where he'd lived and watched his wife die. 

Fletcher thought he'd had enough for one day. He kept thinking; 'This Sorrel was a mystery. She's a thief, that's for sure, but something doesn't seem to want to fit.'

Mary half carried half walked Sorrel upstairs to the attic floor where Ms. Henderson had prepared a special bedroom for her. When they reached the room Mary opened the door, turned on the light, and helped Sorrel over to the small bed. "I know your name is Sorrel. My name is Mary, and I'll be here to help you whenever you need me."

Sorrel was looking around the room dumbfounded. It was a small room, perhaps ten by twelve feet. There were no closets visible, but there a large dresser. The only windows she could see were well above her line of vision. In this room, if she ever hoped to look outside she would need a short ladder or large chair. The bed was small, a youth bed. Beside the bed was small end table covered by a lace napkin. The bed was canopied. The window curtains were lace, the bed spread was lace, the canopy was lace. Every where she looked she saw lace, and every where she looked she saw pink. The walls were pink, the carpet was pink, the bed, the spreads, the sheets, the pillows, the canopy, all pink, all childish, and she immediately understood; it was all totally intended to further humiliate her. 

She was getting ready to burst into tears again when Mary prevented it, "Want to know a secret?"

Flinching, she looked up, "A secret?"

Mary put her finger to Sorrel's mouth, "This isn't really your room."

Sorrel knew she was going to cry now, "Not my room?"

Mary sat beside her on the bed and hugged her close, "Look. You've been very bad. I've know all about you. This room isn't where you'll stay. Now you must not breathe a word to Fletcher understand?"

Sorrel wasn't crying. Her eyes were wet, but she was listening to every word, "This isn't my room."

Mary went on, "Well it is and it isn't. Ms. Henderson, you know her, she planned this little hell for you, but our Fletcher hasn't seen it yet. Once he has you'll be moved. Fletcher can't stand Ms. Henderson, but he likes confrontations even less. There is another entirely different room downstairs. I've made arrangements for you there. I'm not saying anymore, but I know when you see it you'll feel a lot better. But tonight you'll have to sleep here."

Sorrel looked at Mary, "Fletcher is the person who's supposed to punish me."

The older woman looked at Sorrel, "Oh. And he will, but try not to worry about that tonight. Just go to sleep. I'll be up in the morning. Oops! I forgot. Let me get you some milk."

Sorrel smiled. It was the first time she'd smiled all the day, "That's all right."

Mary snorted, "No it's not all right. Almost by magic a large glass of milk appeared. I knew you were coming. I'll set it here on the night table. Drink all you want. Now good night; don't forget your prayers." Then Mary whisked out of the tiny room. 

Sorrel wasn't quite sure whether she should keep crying, and if she did cry would it be in relief or in fear. She remembered Fletcher had said something about Angels. For the first time in years Sorrel said her prayers, "Now I lay me down to sleep; with two Angels at my feet." She started crying again. This wasn't fair. She hadn't stolen anything.

Mary went downstairs. She was tired herself, and wanted to be the first one up the next morning. She was sure Ms. Henderson would there early, and she was just as sure Fletcher had no intention of defying her. Mary paused and looked up the stairs. She shuddered, and spoke to no one in particular, "I can't conceive of Fletcher letting them do to her what they've got planned. No one deserves that."



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 03



Fletcher had a lot on his mind as he curled up in the bed that rested along the wall of the small bedroom sandwiched between the laundry room and the library. He'd been sleeping downstairs for nearly two years; ever since his wife died. 

He lay there on his side in the half light coming from the kitchen. Beside his end table was a picture he and his wife had taken shortly after their youngest was born. She was cradling the youngest, the middle child was standing between them; his right hand on Fletcher's left knee. Marion, their oldest, was standing beside him with her left arm resting on his shoulder. This was his all time favorite picture. His wife had died of brain cancer one year and nine months ago. He missed her so. 

He rolled over on his back; cupping the back of his head with his left hand, he used his right hand to wipe off the tears. He remembered how brave she was. He hated God.

Fletcher thought about the woman upstairs. She couldn't have done those things. But she had. He didn't like what they were planning to do to her. It was unspeakable. Maybe it would be better just to expose her, embarrass the company, let the chips fall where they may. 

His brother Warren had been the one to devise the solution to Sorrel. Warren was forty-seven whereas he, Fletcher, was thirty-five. Warren and Mildred his forty-two year old wife had two children, but their kids were gone; off to college. Fletcher's kids were still in their early adolescence, still at home, active in school, and very much aware of everything that went on at home and at his office. 

He'd already had trouble keeping his daughter away from the luncheon. Marion had met Sorrel once, though he doubted Sorrel remembered her. She had been very much taken with the young businesswoman. He couldn't figure it out, but she'd gotten wind of Sorrel's difficulties, and ever since had been trying to finagle more information. He knew what his daughter was up to. She had this rescue mentality, if someone needed help she was going to find a way to get involved. 

The fact Marion was so inquisitive and helpful wasn't the problem. The problem had to do with the way Warren and he had agreed to solve the Sorrel dilemma. Fletcher's children loved him, and they were still young enough to believe he wasn't capable of some of the really bad things other people did. The decision he and his brother had reached regarding Sorrel was absolutely savage. He was fearful of his children ever finding out what Sorrel's fate was going to be.

Fletcher had no pity for Sorrel. She'd earned whatever she got. The concept of punishment didn't trouble him, but the punishment, or he should say the solution, was something he'd never want his children to find out about. 

There seemed to be another problem now too. He was convinced Sorrel was guilty. She'd done everything she'd been accused of. However, a confession would have been nice. All this crying and hysteria was just too genuine for him. Yes she was guilty, and yes she was going to get what was coming to her, but maybe he ought to slow things down a bit.

Fletcher couldn't get to sleep. He kept tossing and turning. The method of vengeance they'd planned had seemed so foolproof. The only other person who'd been made privy to the plan had been Florence. He'd been surprised; at first she'd been appalled by what Warren suggested, then she'd warmed to it. By last count one would have thought the plan had been her idea all along.

Florence was a plain woman. She was Warren's age, forty-seven. He wondered if she and his brother had ever had a more personal relationship. Sometimes when they looked at each other he thought he saw something. Florence had never married. She was no beauty, but he knew she'd had her chances. He was half convinced there was more to her zeal than just a righteous desire to destroy the woman sleeping upstairs. She'd be on hand in the morning. He hoped he'd be ready. He knew Florence's role required no small amount of cruelty.

Sorrel was curling up in another bed, an entirely different one from where she'd been the night before. It was all like some bad dream. Maybe she'd wake up and things would be different. She knew better. That man downstairs hated her. 

The morning broke with a loud thud. Ms. Henderson was pounding on Fletcher's front door. Mary, still sleepy from the night before, groggily answered the door, "Oh. It's you." Mary responded when she saw who it was.

Ms. Henderson announced, "Yes. It's me. I'm here to check on the whore. Where is she?"

Mary yawned, "Who? You mean Sorrel? She's still asleep."

Ms. Henderson stood at the door tapping her foot, "Well get her up."

Mary yawned again; the second time more for affect than the need to get more oxygen, "No. She gets to sleep in as late she wants today. Come on back to the kitchen and I'll fix us both a cup of coffee."

Ms. Henderson wouldn't be put off, "I need to see the white trash Sorrel."

Mary ignored the comment, "Do you like cream in your coffee?"

Ms. Henderson glared at Mary, "I want to see the woman!"

Mary stared her down, "No. You can't see her. She's asleep. When she wakes up I'll let you see her." Mary withdrew the offer of coffee, and slammed the door shut in Ms. Henderson's face.

Ms. Henderson stomped back to her car, found her cell phone and called the Colonel, "Warren?" Ms. Henderson said, "I'm up at Fletcher's to check on that Sorrel woman, and no one will let me in."

The Colonel hadn't expected to be awakened so early but answered, "Wait a minute. I'll call my brother." He hung and called Fletcher.

Shortly the phone rang in Fletcher's bedroom, "Fletcher." The Colonel started, "I just got a call from Ms. Henderson saying you won't let her in to see Sorrel. What's going on?"

Fletcher answered his brother, "Come on Warren I only just woke up myself. I just got wind of it." He offered some explanation, "Florence had started ordering Mary around. You know how that plays around here, and frankly Colonel, I think Mary has taken to Sorrel. You know if that's true then Florence isn't going to get much traction around here. Don't worry though. I'll go downstairs and let her in."

Warren answered, "This is your responsibility. We agreed on a plan, and I'm trusting you to take care of it."

Fletcher answered, "I will take care of it, but in my own way, and not with a lot of interference from Florence."

Warren wanted to get back to sleep, "Florence has her job to do. Just handle it." He hung up.

A few minutes later Fletcher was at the front door beckoning for Ms. Henderson to come on in.

Ms. Henderson left her car and made her way to Fletcher's front door.

Fletcher gave Florence an enigmatic smile. He knew there had been problems between Florence and Sorrel. He just never understood why. He'd been awake most of the night trying to think this thing through. Sorrel was guilty. He was sure. Still, he wanted to take this thing slow. She needed to be brought down. She needed to be hurt, ruined even, but he didn't want to push too far too fast. 

Fletcher had studied Sorrel's file. She seemed more delicate than determined, more likely to sacrifice for the company than undermine it. He saw the evidence against her. She was caught. She was a conniver, a manipulator, and a charlatan of the worst order. But somehow her history leading up to this was a model of dedication and self deprecation. He thought. 'Let's punish her, put her through the grinder, but there still might be something salvageable.' He hadn't mentioned this to anyone. Certainly not to Florence, and he wouldn't either. If he was wrong, and she was as despicable as things looked he didn't want to look like some moonstruck fool. He smiled to himself. 'She is mighty pretty.' He spoke to Florence, "Come on in. We're all about to have some coffee."

Ms. Henderson didn't hesitate to come inside this time. She looked about the room, "Where's the woman?"

Fletcher told her, "Sorrel's still asleep."

Florence responded, "Get her up."

Fletcher stopped her dead, "Florence just hold up a moment. This is my house, and Sorrel had a rough night. We're going to leave her alone until she wakes up. See here. We have the rest of her life to torment her, and torment we shall. But this morning we're going to let her sleep. Let's give the condemned woman one last good night's sleep." 

He stepped forward a little, "You got it?"

Ms. Henderson answered, "The Colonel won't like it."

"So what! She's in my house, in my care. I'm the one responsible for her until the firm decides." He paused, "Decides to get rid of her." He regrouped, "She may belong to the firm, but she's mine until I say otherwise. Now come on back to the kitchen and have some coffee."

There wasn't much Florence could do at the moment. Later she'd call the Colonel. The Colonel would get the woman out of Fletcher's and into an environment where she could be properly chastised; where the procedures they'd agreed upon could be implemented. 

For the next forty-five minutes Fletcher and Florence sat and chatted in his kitchen. To say they chatted was an error. Florence spent most of her verbiage discussing ways to torment the woman who was still upstairs. Fletcher didn't disagree. He only said that she deserved a decent night's sleep owing to the trauma of the previous day. 

Florence kept pointing to the concept of constant unrelenting punishment right up to the final action. 

Fletcher viewed the woman upstairs as still being a valuable human commodity whose health was as important as her suffering. According to Fletcher she had tried to swindle the company. Now that her intellectual value had dropped off the table, it was still in their best interest to protect her physical value for as long as possible, or until the final solution, or some final solution, was acted on. 

As their conversation wound down they'd agreed to disagree. Florence was all for continuing pain and humiliation. Fletcher was more for long term chastisement coupled with the possibility of long term profit, or the remote possibility of some kind of redemption.

Ultimately the differences of opinion between Florence the comptroller and Fletcher the brother of the CEO settled on Sorrel's physical circumstances. To Fletcher Florence's position bordered on the sadistic, the wrathful. Florence wanted the worst kinds of things; like body modification. She wanted a breast enlargement, modification of the girl's labia, facial surgery, piercings, even branding. 

Fletcher wasn't averse to some modest body modification. In his more perverse moments when he was happily married he'd thought his wife might get a belly button piercing, but on or in the vagina, nipples, tongue, and cheek piercing had been out of the question. Fletcher had never been averse to an occasional Henna tattoo. Those tattoos could be highly visible, and highly erotic, but were only temporary. He and his wife had talked about and laughed about that stuff, but they had never acted on it. 

His point with Florence was once a tattoo or branding had occurred, and later it was perceived as a mistake it couldn't easily be fixed. Regarding vaginal or breast modification Fletcher was adamantly opposed. He considered those kinds of things not as enhancements but a forms disfigurement, and possibly medically harmful. Last, he viewed any changes to Sorrel's face as being grossly wrong. In his opinion her face was perfect as it was, and he would not entertain any thought of harming her in that way ever. The whole idea of physical change like Florence planned was horrid. It made no sense, and it did nothing to help the company, and could harm them when they did the final thing. In short, the woman upstairs wasn't a whore, she wasn't an animal, and she wasn't going to be turned into either.

Fletcher tried to explain to Florence people like he and Steve had children. Fletcher and his wife, while she lived, had worked assiduously to protect their children from the ugly things in society. Sorrel might be contemptible, but to defile her would make them no better, worse even. What if they hurt Sorrel so badly as to permanently change the way she looked, and his children found out. They would think he was a monster.

However, they both agreed on many other things. Both thought Sorrel was capable of working in any physical setting from a resort to the boardroom. Florence wanted to make her into a whore. Fletcher disagreed. He believed making her give away her body to satisfy the vengeance of the company was not only cruel and unusual it was stupid, but he saw nothing wrong with making her earn her keep. Fletcher knew he had an odd set of morals. They could use her appearance to help close deals, but not to satisfy some client's sordid sexual interests. To Fletcher she would make great eye candy, and that's all, at least till the final act.

In the final analysis Florence, along with maybe Mildred, the Colonel, and Cynthia were out to destroy the girl. Fletcher believed Charles, Pearce, and Steve, were only interested in making money without crippling or destroying the property. Hell, he thought, 'no one really knew what the plan was anyway.'

Around 10:00 Mary came into the kitchen and announced Sorrel was up and getting dressed. She'd be down in a moment. 

Mary had gone upstairs and finally awakened Sorrel. She and Sorrel had a brief talk. Mary made her look out the rear of the house. Sorrel saw her automobile. Mary explained, "That's your car. Fletcher doesn't want you to lose it. In his opinion there will be times when he might need you to drive somewhere. Using your own car is the only logical option."

Sorrel listened to Mary. It seemed when Mary spoke about Fletcher he became a little more human. Mary clearly had affection for the man. Sorrel liked Mary. Mary must see something in Fletcher nobody else saw. 'Could it be the man who had urinated on her yesterday wasn't quite the monster she thought he was?' That gave Sorrel reason to pause, but only for a second, 'No, he was a monster.'

Mary helped Sorrel dress for her appearance before Ms. Henderson. In the attic bedroom was a dresser, and inside the dresser was an assortment of clothes that Ms. Henderson had personally selected. It was Mary's duty to help keep the peace, and this morning it meant choosing something Sorrel would certainly hate, but Florence would expect. 

Mary pulled out a small plastic bag. In it was the outfit Sorrel would greet the day in. As Sorrel opened it her heart sank. First it was pink. Second it was made of some soft silky material with some kind of acrylic lacquering. From top to bottom the outfit looked awful. 

There was a frilly little blouse with a frilly peter-pan collar and lacy puffy capped short sleeves. The buttons were pink mother of pearl, and too small for the holes. The blouse only came down to just above her midriff. The button-holes and the bottom edges of the blouse, as well as the collar's edges and the sleeves edges were embroidered with bright pink ruffles. 

The bottom was a skirt not too different in shape from what she'd been given to wear the day before. However it was grossly over pleated and barely came down to mid thigh. There were panties but they were so frilly and ruffed as to be silly.

Though the skirt was at least opaque it was so filmy Sorrel would have to be very careful if she walked or tried to sit. There must have been 200 pleats. There was no belt, only a broad pink ribbon, about two inches wide that tied off in the back. The effect was a grossly large bow with long tails that hung down in the back. 

Mary warned her to be careful and never sit down, "Always kneel so the bow in the back wouldn't be crushed." Accompanying the blouse and the skirt was a pair of high-heeled pink shoes that were tied off by large pink ribbons in the front. The heels weren't excessive, perhaps two inches, but the shoes were tight and uncomfortable. The shoes were abetted by a pair of thigh high acrylic nylons that were to be held on her legs with some sticky substance. Each stocking had a large pink bow at the front.

Mary applied Sorrel's make up for the morning. Her cheeks were liberally decorated with a bright pink blush, and her lips were equally decorated with the same tone of bright pink lip-gloss. Above and around her eyes the color changed from pink to light blue. It gave her a starkly different appearance. When Sorrel looked in the mirror she felt she looked more like a doll than a person.

Mary did Sorrel's hair in two pigtails. She tied each pigtail off with a bright pink ribbon. Mary finished Sorrel off by painting her fingers and exposed toenails with a soft shade of pink.

Mary stepped back. Sorrel certainly looked unusual, but the truth was, though the outfit was intended to be an embarrassment, she was really quite pretty. Mary said as much, "Sorrel you're supposed to wear this and feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. Still I'll be the first to say, it's not something to wear to the mall, but you do look ravishing. No, it's not mature. It's not appropriate for going out, but you do really look beautiful." 

Mary was trying to be reassuring but wasn't sure it was working, "Now, here take my hand, and I'll walk you downstairs."

Sorrel accepted Mary's outstretched hand, and like a child, she allowed Mary to walk her downstairs. When they reached the first floor they turned the corner from the steps and saw Fletcher and Florence sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. Mary glanced over at Sorrel just in time to see her visibly pale and inadvertently shrink back. Mary squeezed her hand but said nothing.

From the kitchen Fletcher and Florence saw Mary and Sorrel. Florence spoke first up, "I see the whore is awake."

Fletcher looked at Florence, "Shall we go in?" Florence responded, "By all means."

As they walked in Fletcher got a good look at the woman he was supposed to destroy. 'What a horrible outfit' was his first reaction. 'All that stupid childish pink, Florence was such a sadist. He swore to himself, 'once this meeting is over she's to go right back upstairs and change.' He couldn't take his eye off her, 'God she was beautiful. Even in that get up she was beautiful. But this was wrong.' 

The four all met roughly at the same time in the corner of the living room where the bulk of the furniture was.

Florence took a seat on the sofa. Fletcher sat in his lazy boy. Mary took a second seat on the sofa.

The older woman looked at Sorrel and said, "Come here and kneel on the floor in front of me."

Fletcher cringed. He didn't want to do this.

Sorrel walked over and knelt where she was told.

Florence started, "Fletcher and I have been discussing some aspects of your future. Would you like to know what they are?"

Sorrel glanced at Fletcher then quickly back to Florence. Looking down and away she responded, "Yes, ma'am."

Florence got it in gear, "We've been talking about some body modifications we're seriously contemplating. Are you sure you want to hear?"

Sorrel glanced at Florence and then over at Fletcher, "Yes ma'am."

Florence started to dig, "Lean forward dear and stick out your tongue"

Sorrel did as she was told.

Florence looked at the woman's tongue. Then she reached for it with her right hand and touched the top, "I think at least one piercing right about here would be good. What do you say Fletcher?"

Sorrel's eyes widened.

Fletcher thought this was sadistic, but looked grimly at Sorrel, giving no hint of sympathy or disagreement, "That's a possibility."

Florence; encouraged by Fletcher's response, pushed on, "Sit up and pull your blouse up."

Sorrel sat up straight from her place on the floor. She pulled her blouse up.

Fletcher gave out an involuntary gasp. Feeling self conscious for the woman he got out of his chair and turned away. However, still being a man he gave her one more backward glance. 'Gosh', he thought, 'those are beautiful breasts.' He looked away again. He felt himself blush; 'perfectly shaped, pear like, firm, supple. They had some kind of marks on them though, little dark brown marks, almost like freckles.'




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 03



Mary shuddered. The idea of forcing Sorrel to expose herself contradicted her own puritanical background. She saw the discolorations on her breasts as well.

Florence impatiently said, "Higher. We want to look at your breasts."

Sorrel pulled her blouse high, well above her shoulders covering her face.

Florence reached out. Taking a breast in each hand, pulling, twisting, and squeezing, she said, "You see Fletcher. These boobies are much too small. They're too tiny. No one wants to fondle anything like these little pimples. Don't you agree Fletcher?"

Fletcher was forced to turn back around. He frowned, he hated being brought into this, "I think it's all a matter of opinion. Some men like big breasts, some like small ones, and some like what Sorrel here has."

Sorrel looked from Mary to Fletcher. Inside she was screaming. 'No!'

Florence took each nipple and pinched it causing Sorrel to flinch, "Yes, I think a change in size is in order. How big are these little things whore?"

Mary kept her mouth shut, but wanted to say something. She wanted Fletcher to make Florence stop.

Sorrel knew she meant her and she answered, "My breasts are a 34B." She paused before she added, "Ma'am."

Florence looked at Fletcher, "There you are. They're just little nubbins. We could expand them to say a 36D. Then she'd have something men could grab and fondle." She turned to Sorrel, "You'd like that wouldn't you whore?"

Sorrel whispered more to herself than anyone, "No." She lowered her blouse enough so that she could more easily see Mary and Fletcher. She looked directly at Fletcher. Her eyes were welling up with water. She had to say something, "Few men have ever touched my breasts, and the few who have never said anything."

Florence scoffed, "You little liar. You're a whore. I bet hundreds of men have grabbed your tits, and I bet you liked it. We're going to give you really big ones, and we're going to put a piercing right in the middle of each nipple." She pinched each breast, "Tell her Fletcher." 

Fletcher looked at Sorrel. Covering his discomfort; giving no hint of sympathy for Sorrel or agreement with Florence he said, "We've been discussing a lot of things."

Sorrel looked down at the floor. She had nice breasts. She'd always been proud of them, and only two men had ever touched them, one was her husband, and the other was a boy she had briefly known while in college. She wasn't gay, she just always had more important things to do than play, but that didn't mean she wouldn't tease.

Florence spoke again, "Stand up whore, and pull up your skirt."

Sorrel shivered. She looked at Fletcher. Her eyes were wide; terror stamped vividly on her face, but Fletcher gave no hint of compassion or sympathy. She stood up and pulled her skirt up above her waist. She knew what was coming.

Fletcher was doing everything he could to control himself. They had more or less agreed to this, that was he, Warren and Florence, but agreeing in principle and actually acting it out was different. He'd never thought this through. If he had this wouldn't be occurring. 

Florence said, "Move over closer." 

As Sorrel moved closer, Florence reached between her legs and pulled her even closer. She grabbed her vagina, and started pulling it here and there. She tweaked and twisted Sorrel's labial lips. She grabbed Sorrel's clitoris and pinched it, "Look here Fletcher; right here!"

Florence was being as mean as she could be, "See we can get a dermatologist to reshape her labial lips. I was researching on the net how her labia can be carved to look like a flower. 

Mary got up as if she were going to leave the room.

Fletcher spoke up, "Stay here Mary." He needed the support.

Florence looked into Sorrel's eyes, trying to perceive some sort of reaction. She glanced over at Fletcher, "What do you say we cut hers up so it looks like a rose? Then we can pierce her clitoris once, and pierce her labia twice, one piercing for each lip. Men at the whorehouses could attach a leash to her clitoris and walk her around like a real bitch." 

Florence looked up evilly at the quaking girl. "What do you think of that Sorrel?" Tell her Fletcher, "Isn't that what we agreed on?"

Mary was borderline apoplectic. She kept her mouth shut for Fletcher's sake, but he had a lot of explaining to do once this little horror show ended.

Sorrel was numb. She swore to herself, 'if they do those things she'd take her own life. They weren't going to turn her into a freak.'

As Fletcher listened to Florence, his face betrayed him. He'd never seen anything like this before, and though he'd heard of such horrid things he doubted any of the stuff Florence mentioned ever really happened. This was awful! He expected Florence to be harsh that was the part she was expected to play. But he was still visibly repulsed. 

He looked at Sorrel and he knew she was about to break down, "I thought a tiny little piercing with a ring in her navel would look nice. He emphasized the tiny. I don't recall these other things you've mentioned Florence. I have no opinion"

He really did have an opinion and he finally said so, "Modifying her body was never something I considered. I told you I didn't believe in disfigurement. I have a daughter. I'd never let anyone do something like that to her. What you're saying Florence is mutilation pure and simple. I won't allow it."

Sorrel listened intently. She thought. He won't allow it, but Florence's next comment dashed that thought.

Florence said, "The labia sculpting and piercing was your brother's idea Fletcher, not mine."

Fletcher knew that wasn't true. Florence was only being unnecessarily cruel. It was a part she was expected to play, but not this well. He said, "I'll speak to my brother about that." 

Florence wasn't done; not yet. "The Colonel wants her branded. He wants the company logo branded on an ass cheek and on her face. He wants everyone to know she's a whore, and she belongs to our company." She looked at Sorrel, "Don't look away and pretend you didn't hear me. You're going to be branded, and branded in a place where everyone will see."

Fletcher sat there, white knuckled. He knew his brother could be vindictive, but he knew he would ever go along with the kind of horror Florence was describing, "I'll mention that to my brother also." Then he got after Florence, "Ms. Henderson you've said a lot. Most of these things my brother has never mentioned, and knowing him, would never agree to. Sorrel's a loser. She blew her big chance with the company, but we're not going to crucify her. I can make her life plenty miserable without doing any of the things you've mentioned" 

He was getting wound up now, "Besides. It's not your company. It's a private firm. My brother is the majority shareholder, but I own all the rest. When you say our company, it's not our anything. It's mine and my brothers. You, like Sorrel, work for us. We're not branding, carving up, or piercing anybody."

Florence felt betrayed. She stood up, "Well I've got to be going. I'm supposed to meet the Colonel for lunch. He and I have a lot to discuss, and I don't want to be late."

Fletcher got up also, "I'll walk you to the door." As he stood he turned to Mary. "Get me a hairbrush will you? Sorrel, stay right there." 

Fletcher walked Ms. Henderson to the door. They were still talking in an animated fashion even as she got into her car.

Fletcher walked back to the living room and sat back in his chair, "Sorrel get over here and kneel or squat down with your back toward me. Your pig tails look very nice and they're very cute, but somehow they just don't seem to work."

Mary reappeared with several hairbrushes.

Fletcher selected one he liked. As Sorrel squatted closer he carefully undid the hair ribbons and let her hair fall down around her shoulders. He gently rested a hand on each of her shoulders. She felt warm, delicate, "You have nice thick hair; lovely color. You seem to have gotten some knots in it. I think I'll just brush some of them out."

Sorrel felt his hands. She didn't like being touched, but didn't resist.

Mary watched him incredulously. He hadn't so much as gone near a woman since his wife died. Now he was brushing this one's hair. 

Sorrel sat dutifully between his legs while he slowly pulled the brush back from the front of her hair. When he found a knot he was careful to stop and re-brush it until the knot was out. 

Sorrel couldn't see his face so she couldn't try to interpret his mood or what he might be thinking. She'd been acquainted with him ever since she had joined the company, and she never liked him. She thought he was an arrogant overbearing blowhard. He was sort of handsome, but not her type. 

Of course, Sorrel knew, she really didn't have a type. She liked to tease men and manipulate them, but she never considered falling in love or anything like that, not since her childhood sweetheart, her former husband, and he had turned out to be such a bust. Sorrel asked, "Are you really thinking about all those things Ms. Henderson said?"

Fletcher had hoped he'd handled that one, but he gruffly answered anyway, "To tell the truth none of the things she mentioned this morning had ever been discussed or even considered." 

He stopped brushing her hair and pulled her head back so she could see his face, "You're a thief and conniver who has been caught. You know the score. You have no rights. You have no choices. What we decide to do. What I decide to do is what will be done. Like I said; you're nobody, nothing. You belong to the company, but you belong to me first, and if I want to pierce your nipples, brand your cheeks, and slice up your vagina I'll be the one to have it done." 

Mary let out a little gasp.

Sorrel was getting ready to cry again, "I told you. I didn't sign those papers. Those audio-tapes were fakes. I never stole anything. Somebody invented the whole story."

Fletcher was embarrassed by what he'd just said, but he was getting pissed listening to her try to squirm out of what she'd been caught red-handed doing. He still wished he hadn't said it, "Why don't you shut up. You've been caught. I saw the documents. I heard the tapes, and you were there when they were played. Don't give me any crap. Keep it up and I'll have you spanked. How would you like that?"

Sorrel didn't say another word.

Mary listened to everything they were saying. She didn't like it, but she knew Fletcher was just venting. He'd never disfigure anyone, let alone a woman, and the idea of having her beaten was silly. When his children were little and his wife was alive, it was her, not him who did the spanking, and that was only for the boys. No one ever, not ever, touched his daughter Marion. Fletcher just wasn't the type to allow it. He liked to yell and holler, but he never hit another person, certainly not a child and never a woman, not as long as she could remember. It would take an awful provocation to ever have him get that mad. 

Mary looked at Sorrel. She'd read all Sorrel's background just like Fletcher. Something just didn't seem right.

Fletcher interrupted Mary's train of thought, "Mary would you be a dear? Out in the back, in my workshop there's a small metal container that just came in yesterday with the other things we purchased. Would you go get it for me?"

Mary was mad at Fletcher. She wasn't sure why. She just knew she was. She turned around and gave Fletcher the sweetest smile, "No dear. Go get it yourself." With that she stalked from the room.

Geez thought Fletcher, 'what's gotten into her?' He better leave her alone for now. He thought he better get the case himself. He looked down at Sorrel, "Would you like a cup of coffee or a piece of toast or something?"

Sorrel thought she'd missed something about what just went on between Fletcher and Mary, she just didn't know what. It occurred to her that Mary wasn't just a housekeeper. She said, "Yes, a cup of coffee and a little toast would be nice."

Fletcher, back to being Mr. gruff and grumbles, said, "Well go on in the kitchen. Fix us a pot of coffee, and make the both of us some toast. Then wait in the kitchen. I'll be right in." He didn't wait for an answer. Mary's answer was enough for now. He turned and went to his workshop to get the case he needed. He wondered what was bothering Mary.

Finding the metal box he needed, Fletcher returned to the kitchen and the smell of freshly brewing coffee. He went over to his chair and sat down, "Pour me a cup, and put in a little cream, no sugar though. Fix me some of that toast you've got in the toaster. Just a couple pats of the butter

Sorrel did as she was told. Pouring out a hearty cup of coffee, and adding only a little of the half and half she found. She pulled out two slices of toast and put two pats of butter on each piece. She carried it all over to Fletcher. 

The whole time she was feeling silly and uncomfortable. The blouse and dress she had on were ridiculous. Neither provided any comfort, and neither provided much in the way of concealment. It felt like the stupid outfit revealed more than it hid. Every time she moved she felt the skirt sliding up and the blouse sliding across her breasts. Then again she thought, in spite of the silliness of the clothes, the difficult situation she was in, and the uncertainty of it all, she felt differently. Just the act of making coffee and toast gave her a feeling of control. It was stupid; odd somehow; any other time, any other place, and in different clothes, she'd be having a good time. 

New Jewelry?

Fletcher came in carrying his little metal case. Pointing to a chair he said. "Sit down here."

Sorrel, finished with the coffee and toast sat where he indicated.

Fletcher looked her over. Gosh, he thought. She's gorgeous. He liked what she had on. It was a little on the fetishistic side, but it sure looked good on her. She had nice firm breasts and her nipples were pressing against the soft material of the blouse. The skirt was so short it was impossible not to see all the way to the very tops of her thighs. He felt nervous, a little self conscious.

Fletcher started fumbling around in his box. Then he began, "I'm going to give you some jewelry. Once I put it on, you won't be able to take it off. Don't even try. It's important that you wear it all the time. This was one of the things he'd decided to do just a few days before. He wanted to make sure he knew where she was all the time, and he wanted to make sure no one forgot who was responsible for her. The jewelry made sense.

Sorrel bristled at the prospect of being forced to wear something and not being able to take it off; something somebody else gave her she'd have to keep on all the time, but she was hardly in a position to argue. She looked up and nodded her understanding.

Fletcher said. "Hand me your left hand." She did so.

He took a piece of metal from his container.

Sorrel saw there seemed to be some sort of gem or stone in the middle, but the thing wasn't a ring, rather it looked like a metal strip about an inch long with a small stone in the middle.

Fletcher said. "Place you left hand on the table." He took a small measuring tape, one a jeweler might use and measured the circumference of her pinkie finger. Then he took the strip of metal and measured the same length off on that. Fletcher took the metal strip and placed it in what looked like a small vise like device. When he tightened the vise the strip of metal formed a perfect circle. He took the now circular piece of metal and slid it over her pinkie. He marked off the point at which the full-length circumference of her finger had been measured. Then using a pair of snips he cut the circular metal strip. 

"I'm going to place this on your finger. Then I'm going to take a very small quantity of solder and seal it on permanently. When I seal it, there may be some pain."

Sorrel looked at him, "Pain?"

Fletcher nodded, "Only a little."

She didn't say anything.

Fletcher took a thin strip of what looked like some kind of paper and wrapped it around her pinkie, "This is supposed to be insulation designed to prevent any discomfort. It may or may not work." He refitted the circular hunk of metal on her finger. Looking in the box he pulled out a small soldering iron. He plugged the device in and turned it on.

Sorrel watched as the soldering iron grew red hot. Fletcher took a piece of solder and pushed it up against the point where the two ends of the circular strip met. He warned, "I read how to do this, but this is the first time I've actually done it. Wish me luck."

Sorrel thought. 'Luck my ass. He's practicing his metallurgy skills using her finger.'

With the solder pressed tightly against the edges of the metal strip Fletcher touched it with the soldering iron.

Sorrel yelped in pain. She jumped out of the chair yanking her hand back and out of harms way. 

Fletcher looked up at her, "I forgot. You aren't supposed to move your hand."

Sorrel was holding her discomfited hand in the air, waving it around, trying to alleviate the pain, "Thanks. Thanks for telling me."

"Let me see your finger. We may have to try it again. He looked and saw her finger was turning red, but it looked like the solder had done its work, "Go run some cold water over your hand, while I prepare the necklace I have to put on you." 

Sorrel looked at Him, 'You're going to solder metal around my neck."

Fletcher looked up and smiled, "Not at all. I have something else entirely in mind for your neck."

Sorrel held her hand under the cold tap water for several seconds, but the pain refused to abate.

Fletcher was getting impatient, "What's taking so long?"

Sorrel answered, "It still hurts."

Fletcher said to no one in particular, "Mary would know what to do." He looked back at Sorrel, "Hold on. I'm going to get Mary."

Fletcher got up and left the kitchen. He trotted over to the stairway and yelled up the steps, "Mary! Hey Mary are you there?"

Sorrel could faintly hear Mary's response.

Fletcher yelled up again, "Could you come down. I think I've burned Sorrel."

Mary trundled down the steps to the kitchen, "You did what?"

Fletcher said, "I was soldering a ring to her pinkie and I think I burned her."

Mary went straight to Sorrel, "Let me see the finger dear."

Sorrel held up her hand.

Mary looked at the finger. She looked at Sorrel. Then she looked at Fletcher, "What were you thinking?"

Fletcher answered, "I wanted to put this strip of metal on her finger so she couldn't take it off."

Mary looked at him incredulously, "So you thought you'd melt metal around her finger?"

Fletcher shuffled and answered, "It was only a tiny amount. It couldn't have hurt much."

Mary continued, "Fletcher why would you want her to be unable to take a silly pinkie ring off?"

Fletcher answered, "It's not so much about her taking it off. It's to make sure no one else could take it off."

Sorrel looked back and forth between the two people.

Mary replied, "Look, that sounds stupid. If anyone wanted a ring like this, I mean really wanted it, they would just cut off her finger."

Sorrel cringed.

Going on Mary asked, "What's so special about this ring that it mustn't be taken off. Are you all that insecure about this woman?"

Fletcher was getting impatient again, "No I'm not insecure about this woman. I just don't want her to be able to take the damn thing off."

Mary looked at Fletcher, "Got anything else you want to put on her?"

Fletcher brightened, "Yes. I have a necklace here. This however won't be hard to do. I already measured her neck, and this has been cut to precisely the right length. It can be affixed to her neck with a small piece of metal I intend to mash on."

Mary looked at him with a thoughtful expression, "You're going to mash a necklace around her neck?" Mary remembered when Fletcher was much younger he had been a great experimenter. Mary was figuring out what these devices were really for, "Fletcher. Let me help you get the necklace on."




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 03



Fletcher smiled, "That would be great."

Together the two people, Mary and Fletcher, fumbled around with the necklace. It was very attractive, much like a tennis bracelet but with numerous colored gems. The whole thing was scarcely three eighths of an inch wide and only about an eighth of an inch thick, but the metal that formed the basis of the necklace was misleading. It was hard but supple, something that could bend but certainly not break. 

They got it around her neck, found the two ends with their corresponding eyelets. They placed the tiny piece of metal intended to go around her neck together. Fletcher took a pair of large pliers and squeezed the metal connector until it was completely compressed again the eyelets. Once the thing was pressed tight it was impossible to tell where the necklace came together. 

All three people went to a mirror and looked at Sorrel's new necklace. It was a pretty piece of jewelry. Sorrel, in spite of her predicament, liked it. However, she had no idea why Fletcher had put it on her. Part of that information came next.

Fletcher said to Mary and Sorrel, "I have one more addition to the necklace." At the very front of the necklace there was a tiny ring, scarcely larger than a sixteenth of an inch in diameter. Fletcher pulled a small tag from the metal box. He held it up, "Read what it says"

Sorrel squinted at the tiny tag. She could discern two letters, "I see the initials, F.H."

Fletcher looked at her and at Mary, "When I put this small tag on the necklace you'll be wearing my initials. Anyone contemplating any funny business with you will be immediately reminded just whose you are."

Sorrel didn't' like it; it was like a dog collar. She said so, "What? This is my dog collar?" 

Mary got it right away, and had figured out its true role. She ignored what Sorrel said, "It's a good idea Fletcher. Any time Sorrel leaves here everyone will see the necklace and immediately know who's responsible for her. No one will try to harm or abuse her because they'll know who they'll have to answer to. There won't be any of that funny stuff Florence was talking about either if they know whose initials are staring at them."

Sorrel was alert to the last comment, "What funny stuff?"

Mary answered, "I mean like trying to pierce your body parts. Don't worry. That won't happen." 

Fletcher looked at both Mary and Sorrel, "Exactly. Then he looked directly at Sorrel, "You got it?"

Sorrel answered, "Yes. I understand." 

Fletcher took the initialed tag and affixed it to the necklace, "There that should settle that."

Sorrel took the mirror and looked at the necklace again. It looked expensive. The tiny tag in no way compromised her sense of self. It was neither degrading nor complimentary, but she understood its protective nature. She evinced a slight smile, "The necklace is very attractive. I'll enjoy wearing it, even if I can't undo it." She looked at the ring. It had his initials as well.

Fletcher looked at her self-consciously. Then he looked at Mary. He gruffly gave Mary an order, "Why don't you take our girl to her real room, and help her find some real clothes. He looked at Sorrel, "I like what you have on, but it will unsuitable for what I want to do with you this afternoon."

Mary gave Fletcher a knowing wink. She turned to Sorrel, "Come with me." 

*

Note from the author: Your comments, appraisals, and criticisms are all always most welcome. Please provide any feedback you deem worthwhile.



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 04



Chapter Four

Florence Confronts the Colonel

Florence Henderson sped up the long winding luxuriant drive to the Colonel's house. Out of the car and up the long set of expansive marble steps she marched. She hammered on the door with all her might. The butler opened the door, "Yes?"

Florence stood on tip toes to get in his face, "I need to see the colonel."

With droll indifference the butler responded, "I'll see if the Colonel is available."

Florence waited outside angry as hell. It had been their idea, the brothers, to brutalize the girl. They'd given her the job to terrorize her into a sense of confusion and fear. She'd tried to get out of it; resented their refusal to take responsibility for frightening the girl. Then, out of nowhere, while she's just trying to do what she was told, Mr. Fletcher, know it all, starts playing Galahad. Shit, shit, shit! Fletcher had made her look like some hate filled crazy bitch. Sure she'd had problems with Sorrel, but it had always been about the business. It had never been personal!

The butler almost nonchalantly sidled back to the front door, "The Colonel has been on the phone with his brother. He understands your problem. He said to go home and relax. He'll call you later."

Florence looked at the butler. She tried to peer around him, but he blocked her vision, "Thank the Colonel for me, and tell him I'll be home all weekend." She walked back to her car, got in, and sped away.

Sorrel's Room:

The morning had started poorly, but seemed to be ending a little better. Ms. Henderson kept talking about cutting up her body parts, but Fletcher had pretty much deflected that. Then Fletcher put some jewelry on her; a ring and a necklace, but he nearly burned her finger off in the process. Other than that at least no one had tried to shoot her, and no one had called the police. 

If she could just get to her computer, or any company computer, she might be able to figure out what had happened, but that looked like it would have to wait. Mary wanted to take her back to her pink cell.

Mary walked Sorrel back through the living room to the stairs. They climbed only two flights of stairs this time when Mary stopped, pointed, and said, "Your rooms are down there."

Sorrel was surprised. She thought she was being returned to her little penitentiary. 

Mary showed her a door about three feet away, "It's unlocked. Go ahead in and get settled."

Sorrel gave Mary a quizzical look. Then she turned, walked to the indicated door, opened it, and went in.

What a shock for Sorrel. It wasn't just a room. It was as though it was her room. Like really hers! Someone had brought all her things here to Fletcher's. It was her bed, her bedspread, her bureau, her night stand, her chairs, her hope chest, her stuff, her everything. She ran to the closet. It was a big one. Everything in the closet was clothing she'd bought. It was all hanging so neatly, just like she'd left it yesterday morning, only then it was in her apartment, now it was in Fletcher's house. It was wonderful to look at her things and see them, knowing they were the things she owned; not some wardrobe picked out by someone who hated her. What a wonderful moment. It felt good. 

Then it felt bad. She realized they'd emptied her real apartment. Her home was gone! Her stuff was now in other person's house. In a very real, sobering, sense one could even say her things no longer belonged to her; they were Fletcher's! On first glimpse it might look like they'd done her a service, but in reality they'd coopted another part of her life; rendered another part of her personhood irrelevant. 

From the hallway Sorrel heard Mary call in. "Don't forget Fletcher is waiting downstairs. Take a good shower, get dressed and made up. He has something he thinks he has to do."

Still, Sorrel was pleased to be able to wear something of her own. After yesterday's mini blouse and skirt set and this morning's pink horror the chance to wear some real womanly clothing would be good. She took a nice hot shower, she shampooed her hair, and she used the opportunity to carefully re-shave her under arms, legs, and trim herself down below. 

Going back to the closet she selected an outfit she'd bought but had never worn. She'd been saving it for some special occasion; nothing formal; something nice, something to impress.

She pulled it out of the closet. It had a bright white cotton blouse with a Midshipman's collar, like those the sailors wore. It was a simple white piece, but with dark blue piping around the collar's edges and around the cape that lay gently on her back. She tied the collar off in a simple knot; she'd had enough bows for a while. The whole thing was sculpted to fit her frame. There were no buttons; it slipped easily over her head as a pull over. 

Underneath she put on a relaxed fit white bra and a lightly laced white chemise. Down below she slipped on a pair of comfortable cotton panties. She slipped on a modest dark blue pleated skirt that came to just above her knees. She donned a pair of skin toned panty hose, and for shoes she selected a pair of dark blue two-inch heels. She looked in the mirror. She looked and felt more like herself. 

Searching the closet she found one of her dark blue cashmere sweaters. She would carry this over her arm as a kind of added accouterment. Then on a whim she grabbed a broad brimmed navy blue hat, and placed it on her head.

After picking out the sweater and hat she went to her vanity and selected the make up she wanted. She lightly brushed a little pale pink blush around her cheeks. She applied a smidgen of black eye liner, and a tad of very pale blue eye shadow. After applying some pale pink lipstick, ugh, she was still trying to get over the pink room upstairs; she overlaid it with a clear lip-gloss. Pressing her lips together and puckering up she thought she looked pretty good. 

Last she addressed her hair. Brushing it out again she went to work and pulled and twisted into a tight French braid that hung gently down her back.

Peering into a full-length mirror she thought she looked pretty good for a woman her age. She wondered if what she'd done with herself would impress Fletcher. She didn't know why, but she sort of hoped so. With one last look and a kick of her heels she left the room and went downstairs.

Fletcher had been waiting impatiently. He had two things, actually three things, in mind to do. Neither Sorrel nor Mary knew, though he thought Mary suspected something; inside both the pinkie ring and the necklace were tiny transmitters. Each worked off a different frequency, and each had its own capacity. 

He'd put those pieces of jewelry on Sorrel, not to humiliate her or reaffirm his authority, but to make them serve as protective beacons. If Sorrel were out somewhere, say in Mildred's or Florence's care, and they were up to something, he'd be able to intercede before they could do any damage. 

He knew he was an asshole for going through all this. He was starting to behave like she was innocent when he knew she wasn't, well probably wasn't. But he was acting like her safety was his responsibility when it wasn't, well probably wasn't. What he was doing was stupid. It would be fun to see if the shit worked though.

Like he told himself, and to the others earlier, he had no opinion about Sorrel. She was a caught thief who was destined to make up for her crimes, but that didn't mean brutality or cruelty. She was a shitty little swindler, but she still shouldn't be abused or mistreated. Humiliation and embarrassment notwithstanding, pain, torture, or mutilation was out of the question. Then again, what did it matter to him? 

His new little transmitters would enable him to watch out for her, but he had to make sure they worked. That was his first order of business. His second order of business was a lot different. Sorrel's situation fascinated him. She was a crook, a thief, and a scoundrel if there ever was one, but what had led her to do it. Their company was a good one. He and his brother had always made sure they were loyal to their good employees, and up to the day Sorrel's criminality was exposed she was considered, if a little single minded and stand offish, always an excellent person. Fletcher just couldn't figure out why she did she do what she did. 

Then again, if she was everything they thought she was; why would she give a shit about two kids she admittedly had abandoned. If she'd really had ditched them, then why did it bother her if they found out. That was puzzling. What was she; a thief who blew off making millions to steal, a runaway mom who was afraid to hurt kids she'd dumped? He wanted to find out what was made her tick. 

Third, the last thing was maybe a little perverse. She was pretty. He liked pretty things, being around pretty girls. If he was going to keep a watch over her, why not enjoy it. Why not take her to lunch? Hell, he might even find something out?

First Day:

As Sorrel reached the bottom of the steps Fletcher whistled, "Wow." You're much prettier than I remember you when I'd come in and out of the office. Sorrel you're a very attractive young woman."

Sorrel blanched. Getting a compliment from Fletcher was one of the last things she expected, and until today certainly the last thing she'd ever want. Fletcher, she saw, was dressed in a dark blue Tee shirt and somewhat scruffy dungarees. He had on a simple pair of black tennis shoes. They bore no emblem or indicator of being associated with any of the big manufacturers. He was wearing Wal-Mart Specials! 

He looked a little ridiculous in black shoes, dark blue jeans, and white socks, but she had to admit, ridiculous in a good way. 

She wondered if anyone ever bothered to try to dress him. For a man whose reputation was that of a braggart and bully he certainly didn't look the part. Sorrel smiled, "Thank you. I think that's the first time either at the office or since that you've ever said anything to me."

Fletcher answered as politely as he could, "You have a reputation as something of a man killer. You know something of an emasculating machine."

Sorrel bridled, but held her thoughts back, "You know your reputation isn't exactly pristine either."

Fletcher didn't like that comment. Using a deeper voice he answered, "I don't have a reputation. Nobody talks about me. Nobody knows anything about me."

Sorrel looked at him, scowling slightly, "Are you kidding. Ask around. You're considered the biggest blow hard and braggart in the company."

Fletcher didn't get mad, but he didn't like what he heard, "Tell me Sorrel. Have you ever heard me brag or act like some kind of blowhard?"

Sorrel reflected, "Well no, I haven't seen you myself, but that's what everyone says."

Fletcher looked at her a little differently, "Come to think of it, I've never heard any of the men say anything about you. I've heard a lot from the women."

Sorrel spoke with some gravity, "Fletcher, since I came to work for the company I haven't been on a single date. There isn't a single man who can say anything about me personally. They may not like the way I've done my job, but no one has anything on me personally."

Fletcher blurted out without thinking, "Well there's a lot of men who have something to complain about now don't they."

Sorrel turned away, but then turned back. There was a firmness and sincerity in her look that disarmed him. She said with a renewed vehemence, "I didn't do anything wrong or illegal. I know you don't believe me. You'll never believe me, but it's true. This is all wrong. If you'll just let me at a computer I'll prove it"

They'd inched their way closer and closer till they were standing almost toe to toe. 

Fletcher looked down into her eyes. "I'd like to believe you. Right now I think believing you're innocent would be a wonderful thing for me, but you and I know both know the truth. Those documents and tapes aren't lying."

Sorrel diffidently rebutted, "Yes they are."

Fletcher backed down, and it surprised him a little, "Look I don't want to make things worse for you than they already are. You have no idea what could be in store for you. But right now, today, I have some other things we need to take care of. Here's your cell phone. It's fully charged. Do you know how to drive a manual transmission?"

Sorrel answered, "I was weaned on one."

"Good." Said Fletcher, "I want you to take me into town and drop me off at, let's say the corner of Maple Street and Graveyard Avenue. Then I want you to drive away. Keep your cell phone on so we can talk. At some point I'm going to tell you to stop. OK?" 

Sorrel answered, "How do you know I won't just try to drive off?"

Fletcher smugly rebuffed her, "You won't try to drive off if you're innocent."

Sorrel didn't retaliate. Fletcher got in the passenger's side of the vehicle, and Sorrel put the thing in first gear and pulled off. They drove into town in silence, neither looking at the other. When they reached the corner of Maple and Graveyard Sorrel stopped the car and Fletcher got out.

Fletcher said, "OK, now drive off."

Before pulling away Sorrel asked, "Any particular direction?"

Fletcher responded, "No, just make sure you drive away from me."

She gave him a look, "This isn't a trick?"

Pointing up the road, he said, "Go."

She pulled off. He stayed on the corner. He started talking on his cell. She understood he was up to something, she just didn't know what; so she kept up the dialogue. What she didn't know was that Fletcher was listening to her through an entirely different device. He'd laid his cell phone aside. After about five or six minutes he told her to stop the car. He asked, "Where are you now?"

She told him. 

He added, "Stay there till I tell you to continue." After he changed receivers he told her to go on. She drove on for another twelve minutes or so. He picked up the cell phone and told her to stop. 

She did. 

He asked her where she was. Then he said, "OK. Come back and pick me up."

Fletcher looked at the locations. One transmitter was good for about five miles, and the other good for close to twenty. Not very far he thought, but the best he'd be able to do. He thought he'd probably never need to use this stuff anyway, but just in case he had something.

About twenty minutes later Sorrel pulled up to the curb, rolled down the passenger side window, and asked, "Did I pass?"

Fletcher looked at her as he climbed into the car, "No, but I'm going to give you another chance. What do you like to eat?"

She answered, "Anything."

"Good," he said, "there's a seafood place down the street. The lunch crowd has probably dissipated. Let's go get something."

They drove on to the eatery in silence. When they got there Sorrel pulled into the parking lot, and started to get out of the car.

Fletcher yelled at her. It was a mock yell, just for effect, "What are you doing?"

It may have been a joke to him, but it still scared her. She stopped and sat back, "Oh, I forgot."

Fletcher went around and opened her door, "Let's go." They started for the front door. As they got closer to the front door he put his arm around her. 

She froze.

Fletcher stopped. He realized he'd slipped up, "Oh. I'm sorry. It's just a bad habit I had from when I was married. It won't happen again." Sorrel looked away quizzically, then she answered, "It's OK."

They went in the restaurant where a waitress was able to quickly seat them. Leaving them some water and menus she asked if they wanted anything to drink.

Fletcher answered, "Coors Light for me." Turning to Sorrel he asked, "What would you like dear?"

Sorrel caught the word but didn't let on. She wondered of he was making fun of her, or if he was really trying to be nice. She answered, "A Coors Light sounds good." Then she one-upped him. She reached across the table and touched his hand. To her surprise he didn't move his hand, but lightly grasped hers in his. He looked at the waitress, "Two Coors Lights please."

The waitress walked away, and Sorrel pulled her hand back. Fletcher didn't stop her, but he preferred she hadn't. Her hand felt warm and dry. He liked it. 

As she looked at the menu he asked her if she saw anything she liked. It was a cop out. That wasn't one of things he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask her about her childhood, her marriage, her children, why she thought she could steal all that money, or what she thought might become of her now. He had a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but the only thing that came out was, "I really like their broiled Salmon here. They have a great Hollandaise sauce."

Sorrel didn't look up. She was feeling funny, not happy funny, not uncomfortable funny, but sort adolescent funny. She was feeling like she was fifteen again. It frightened her, "The Salmon looks good."

She was afraid of him, but he wasn't frightening her. It was an odd situation. 

Fletcher said, "You sure?"

Sorrel answered, "Is that what you're getting?"

Fletcher answered, "Yes, I think so."

Sorrel offered, "Then me too."

The waitress came back with their beer. Have you two decided?

Fletcher answered, "Yes, we'll have the Salmon."

The waitress volunteered, "You get two sides with that." 

Fletcher looked at Sorrel, "What do you think, salad with the house dressing, and perhaps a baked potato?"

Sorrel didn't look up, "Yes, I'd like that." Sorrel didn't like salads as a rule. They were rabbit food, and she seldom ate potatoes. When she said she liked that, she really meant the way he was ordering for her, and the gentle way he was talking to her. She was feeling, well, somehow, silly. It was a special kind of silly. She couldn't explain it. He was being a gentleman, and yet not twenty-four hours earlier he had peed on her; yesterday a brute, but today a gentleman. Yesterday she was a felon. He still thought that. She'd love to prove him wrong. She'd love to show them they were all wrong, especially him; not just to show him up, but certainly to show him.

She was going to cry again. She looked across the table at Fletcher, "I have to be excused for a moment."

He smiled at her, "Don't be gone long. They're quick here, and this fish is best eaten while it's still warm."

She stood up, "I won't be long." She made a dash for the bathroom.

In the bathroom she went to the mirror and looked at herself. She started to cry. What was wrong with her? She should be angry. She should be frightened, terrified. She wasn't any of those things. She didn't know what she was. Things just didn't make sense. She wiped her face a little, blew her nose, and tried to re-fix her make up. It didn't look quite as good, but she doubted if he'd notice. 

When she got back to the table the food still hadn't arrived.

Fletcher looked at her, "I see you've been crying. What is it now?"

Sorrel didn't quite know what to say, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong. You're being nice to me."

Fletcher looked at her, "Oh great. I'm nice you cry. I guess if I get real mean you'll feel better."

Sorrel answered, "No that's not what I meant. I mean. Well. You peed on me yesterday, and today you're taking me out to lunch. We're out on a date."

Fletcher smiled, "Why you're right. We are out on a date. Hey, I have an idea. You want to go to a movie? There's a multiplex down the street."

Sorrel looked at him querulously. Then, pensively, she smiled, "Let's pretend we just met. I'm Sorrel and you're Fletcher, two new people. I'd love to go to the movies with you." Her tears were welling back up, but it was because of feeling silly. She knew she wouldn't cry now, no matter what his answer was.

Fletcher watched her face. She had dimples, and when she smiled the corners of her eyes crinkled all up. She had sparkly blue eyes, and long lashes that fluttered up and down. He guessed she was OK now. She'd stopped crying. He reached across the table and grabbed her hands, "Great. Let's eat and see a flick. We'll get popcorn. I'll even put my arm around your chair."




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 04



Sorrel did start to cry again.

Fletcher pretended he didn't notice. The food was arriving anyway.

They didn't say too much. They ate their fish. Sorrel enjoyed the Salmon, nibbled on the salad, and pretended to eat some of the potato. Fletcher ate everything. They skipped dessert, left the restaurant, and went down the street to the multiplex. They picked a stupid movie neither of them really thought they'd like. He bought a big bag of popcorn. He put his arm around her shoulder like he'd said he would, and they suddenly realized, each individually, they were having a good time.

When the movie let out it was late. Fletcher said, "We have to get back now. I have some things to take care, and I need to talk with Mary. You look a little tired. Maybe you could just like lie down on the sofa and take a nap. I'd say you should go to your room, but I'm afraid you might change your clothes, and quite frankly, I like what you have on. You look really pretty, and I'd like to keep looking at you.

Sorrel looked over at Fletcher. He could be so flattering, "I am a little tired. Maybe a nap would do me good. I'm glad you like what I have on. It's the first time I've worn it. What you just said. It makes me feel funny. I'm wearing this for someone other than myself. Don't laugh at me. It's like I'm back in high school"

Fletcher kept his gaze on the windshield, "I'm not laughing at you."

Back at Fletcher's:

When they got back to Fletcher's Sorrel took up position on the sofa and in ten minutes she was sound asleep. Fletcher watched as she slept, musing over her circumstances. Here was a woman guilty of trying to steal millions from his and his brother's company. The evidence was overwhelming. She got caught. She accepted the terms of the company's deal, yet she accepted this only because she was afraid her two children, two children she admittedly abandoned, might find out the truth of their paternity and become disillusioned. Why did he keep obsessing about this?

She had a reputation as being a cold, heartless bitch, and a man-slayer, but there was no first hand evidence of any of that. The only evidence he'd seen the past two days had been her willingness to or inability to not cry at the drop of a hat. It either all added up, and she was the most conniving evil woman he's ever met, or it didn't add up and somewhere somehow she'd been ambushed. Fletcher looked at her asleep on the sofa. It just didn't add up. 

Fletcher picked up his cell phone, "Mary? If you're not too busy, could you come down for a minute?" Mary's affirmative answer led Fletcher to make a second phone call. He thought. Who among the top personnel in the company were the cleanest; the least likely to get involved in any shady dealings, or who had the least reason to see this woman hurt? 

He narrowed it down to two men; there was Vincent Vasquels and Pearce Butler. He knew these men well. He considered them trustworthy and completely above scandal. He called Vincent and he called Pearce. The conversation was the same for both. Could they get in to the office late tomorrow afternoon say around 4:00 p.m. He wanted to talk. He thought these were good men; they were experienced and smart. If anybody could unravel a subterfuge these two could. By the time he finished Mary had made it downstairs. 

Mary was more than a friend. She was as close to being a part of the family as anyone could be. She'd been working for Fletcher and his deceased wife for years. She had always been a loyal worker. Several years ago her husband had died of lung cancer. Mary was in a hopeless situation. She had two teenage children and no money other than her small income from working for him. 

It was his wife who insisted that Mary and her children move in with them. Mary's children grew up right there. When they were old enough it was Fletcher's wife who insisted they pay for college. Both Mary's children went to college and earned respectable degrees. One had become a doctor at the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore where she was deeply involved in cancer research. The other child, a boy, went to college and had become a public school teacher in Philadelphia where he was working with disadvantaged children. 

His and his wife's investment in Mary and her children had paid off handsomely. Now Mary just lived here. It was her home. She worked as part time housekeeper, and full time counselor for Fletcher. He remembered when his own wife died; he wouldn't have pulled through without Mary. She carried him. She held him together, and it was she who held his children together. Mary wasn't a friend of the family she was one of the Angels Alabama sang about. He couldn't live without her.

Nagging Doubts: 

Mary was at the kitchen door, "Hi, Mary could I speak with you a little bit?" Mary smiled, "Sure."

"Mary." Fletcher began, "You saw all the same information about Sorrel I did. Do you think there's a chance some of this stuff could be wrong?"

Mary sat down. She put her hands in her lap. She pursed her lips. She took her hands and rubbed her steely gray bun that enclosed her hair more tightly against her head. She took off her glasses, "What we looked at was damning beyond all doubt. That woman out there," pointing to the sofa, "was absolutely and totally at the center one of the most complicated and diabolical schemes I, in my untrained life, could imagine. I can't imagine anything being so open and shut."

Fletcher, "So you don't have any doubts."

Mary, "I have many doubts."

Fletcher, "What do you mean?"

Mary, "First of all, check out the complexity of the scheme. This was something that took many weeks, months to develop, and yet the only person involved at the end turned out to be our sleeping sofa girl. That I find troubling; second, Sorrel stood to gain as much money doing the honest things as she did stealing? Why steal if you can get it honestly? She'd have to be some kind of sociopath, yet none of her past history indicates the kind of crazy fool she's been labeled. Next, who produced all the evidence? It basically came from just one person, Florence Henderson with some peripheral help from Steve Hammer, and maybe your brother. In all fairness I don't like Florence, never have, but for her to hold all the cards, well, that doesn't add up. Last, if she is really so completely guilty, then why is she sleeping in our living room?"

Fletcher, "So you think something's fishy."

Mary rolled her eyes, "Fishy. The thing stinks to high heavens."

Fletcher continued, "Do me a favor Mary." I took her out today. We drove around so I could do something I needed to do."

Mary interrupted, "You've got her wired with transmitters."

Fletcher, "Yes."

Mary, "Why do that? She's hardly a danger to run."

Fletcher, "I want to keep an eye on her when she's out with some of the other people."

Mary looked him squarely in the eye, "You don't think she did it."

Fletcher looked at Mary again, more closely, "You said it. It's all too complex, too out of character, and at the same time too easily wrapped up. She probably did it. Then again, I'm just not sure."

Mary put her fingers to her lips, "So what do you want from me?"

Fletcher hemmed and hauled but finally spoke, "Look. I took her out today. We rode around. We talked. I took her to lunch. Then I took her to the movies. We ate popcorn. I put my arm around her in the movies. I'm just not getting anywhere."

Mary leaned forward and took Fletcher's hand, "You like her. You want to be sure. You want me to get close to her, find out as much as I can about who she is. What's inside?" Mary tapped the side of her head, "You want to be sure. Is she? Or isn't she?"

Fletcher answered, "Will you help me Mary?"

Mary squeezed his hands, "I'll help."

Fletcher leaned back. He looked off toward the living room. Talking to no one in particular he said, "We've got to get this right. What if we ruin her life, and she's really innocent?" 

Mary looked across the table, "We'll get it right."

Fletcher stood up, "Thanks Mary. You're always there aren't you?"

Mary didn't say anything. She had a lot of thinking to do. How was she going to get at this girl? How was she going to uncover the truth?

Sorrel got a reprieve for several days. The party had been Saturday, and Fletcher had taken her out to lunch on Sunday. For a day or two Fletcher and Mary sort of hoped no one would want to get at her. They were lucky. It was over a week before anyone called. 

Fletcher worked most days, and that gave Mary opportunities to get to know more about the woman. It wasn't easy. Sorrel was tight lipped. What Mary wanted to find out was about a woman who was more than very bright, she was brilliant. Throughout her public school career she was always the top student in the class. After high school she had her opportunities, but she was cursed with beauty as well as brains. The boys turned her head, and the older boys had money and wheels. She fell for one of them, got married and squeezed out two kids before she understood what she was up against. 

The husband was weak. He couldn't hold a job, and lacked the moral fiber to stick it out. One day he buckled, gave up, Sorrel was there with no money, no future, and two babies. That was when her sister came in. Her sister-in-law was barren, but loved children. She volunteered to baby-sit while Sorrel went back to school. 

Then the advertised college opportunity through the firm appeared; it was the chance of a life time, but the company insisted on a full time student. Sorrel couldn't work part time, be a mother, and go to college too. An understanding was reached. The sister assumed responsibility for the children, and Sorrel would get her degree as fast as she could. It worked. Sorrel got through undergraduate school in three years. 

Then more problems emerged. The company wanted her to get an MBA. The sister wanted to keep the kids. Sorrel wanted the success. She figured once she got going she'd make it fast; then go back for the kids. It didn't work that way. Her sister held back. The demands of work mounted. She kept deferring the day she would retrieve her children, but every day she waited was a day they became further out of reach. 

Her sister warned they didn't remember. Sorrel grew afraid. She was ready to be anything her sister-in-law said. What if they didn't remember? What if they remembered but didn't want her. What if they remembered but hated her for leaving. She kept waiting. The time wasn't appropriate. The workload was too heavy. Her sister-in-law wanted to wait. 

She told herself she'd done it for them. Her sister disagreed. She threatened to tell the children she'd deserted them. Sorrel wasn't sure. Maybe she had abandoned them. Maybe the career was what she wanted, and dropping the kids off was a convenient chance to get the career. She couldn't go here. She couldn't go there. All that was left was work. There was just the work and her memories. Then one afternoon at a party at Steve's it all exploded.

That was Sorrel's story, but Mary couldn't pull it out. Mary knew there was more than met the eye, but Sorrel kept it all in. It was all locked away, and no one could get at it.

An Unusual Dinner at Home:

In the evenings they'd used to have family dinner times. With Sorrel in the house Fletcher had found a way to keep his kids away by farming them out to their friends. The two boys didn't seem to mind. His daughter was another story. Fletcher knew the day was coming when Marion would no longer be put off. Meanwhile he still had some time to try to get a better picture of what he faced. 

Mary was trying, but like she said, Sorrel was tight lipped. The dinners during those first days were sometimes a little awkward. One night however, things took an odd turn 

Dinner was usually set for 6:00, and the first couple of nights, with the kids out of the house, only four people ate; Mary, Byron, Fletcher, and Sorrel. On the evening of the third day however Mary announced that she and Byron had to go to town to get some supplies; leaving Fletcher and Sorrel alone. 

The dinner started out roughly. Fletcher was his usual wooden Indian. Sorrel kept her face to her plate and said as little as possible.

After about ten minutes, out of nowhere Sorrel made a suggestion, "Let's play a game."

Fletcher looked up, "A game?"

"Have you ever heard of the game of favorites?

Fletcher was still semi-comatose, "No, what's that?"

"OK" said Sorrel, "We need two pieces of paper and two pencils. Then we make a list."

"A list of what?" asked the ever bland Fletcher "Look here. We write down a list of things."

"What kind of things?"

Sorrel cut him off, "Don't interrupt, "We list a bunch of things we'd like to know about each other. Not life and death stuff, but fun stuff." "What kind of fun stuff?"

"Like our favorite sport," Sorrel said.

"Oh that's easy, football," answered Fletcher.

"No silly. We don't just blurt out what we like, we write it down. Then we compare what we wrote. Get it?"

Fletcher was intrigued. "All right let's make a list of things."

Sorrel started, "Favorite movie."

Fletcher volunteered, "Favorite male movie star."

"Favorite female movie star." said Sorrel.

They made up a list of twelve different things, and then wrote down what they liked. For several seconds each busily jotted down what they thought they liked the best. Then they traded lists.

Sorrel looked over Fletcher's list. Fletcher looked over hers.

Fletcher looked up first, "Hey we didn't match a single thing!"

"No we didn't." she answered. She started laughing, "I didn't think we would."

"Why not?" he asked

She kept laughing, "First you're a man; that means all your answers are going to be inherently wrong. Second, we come from different backgrounds, so we were raised to like different things, and last."

He interrupted, "And the last thing?"

"Last, well you're something of a curmudgeon."

"A curmudgeon?"

"Yeah, you know; you never think anything's interesting or funny. You never do anything just for fun."

He frowned. "You want to bet. Listen to this." He took his right hand and put it inside his shirt under his armpit. He started pumping his arm up and down making sounds like he was passing gas, "Well what you think of that?"

Sorrel was laughing uproariously. She'd completely forgotten where she was or who she was with. Still laughing she said, "I really like you, you know that?" Her laughter dribbled into giggles.

Fletcher stopped what he was doing. His mood changed completely. The silliness disappeared. He took the two lists they'd made and stared at them. He looked her over, her pretty face, pony tailed hair, flashing eyes, the expressive way she communicated without really using words. "You know what I really like?"

Sorrel realized they'd gone too far. Things were getting too serious.

He smiled. It wasn't a happy or friendly smile. It was more a sad smile, "I like it that you're here." He immediately got up and went into the back where his room was.

Sorrel watched him walk out. She put her fork in her potatoes and held her head down a little. She felt like she was going to cry. She spoke to the chair he'd just left, 'You know what? I do too."



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 05



Chapter Five

A Pink Room

Mary called out to the kitchen where Fletcher was reading the morning paper. It was early. "Fletcher; it's the telephone. Pearce Vasquels is on the line."

Fletcher reached for the telephone and answered, "Hello?"

From the other line Pearce responded, "Fletcher. Good morning. Yes, this is Pearce. How is everyone? I hope you and your house guest are doing well?"

Fletcher had a hunch as to what was coming, "Oh, we're doing pretty well. I've got her under control. She's been helping out around the house, you know working in the kitchen, shopping with Mary, and some off hand odd jobs."

Then it came, "That's what I wanted to call you about. Collette and I had plans this evening, but we just got word our regular baby sitter had taken ill. Then Collette recalled you had Sorrel. We wondered; if it wasn't inconvenient, maybe you could lend out Sorrel for the evening."

There wasn't anything Fletcher could say except yes, "Sure Pearce. I don't see why the girl can't be of some use to someone other than me. When do you want her?" On the other end of the phone he heard 7:30, "Sure." He said, 'I'll have her at your house at 7:30."

By the time the phone conversation had ended Mary had gotten downstairs, "So what was that all about?"

Fletcher told her, "Pearce and Collette want to borrow Sorrel for a baby-sitting job tonight. It seems they have plans and their regular sitter is unavailable."

Mary quipped, "They want a sitter for that psychotic little hellion? He's old enough to take care of himself."

Fletcher answered, "Well that's what they want, and we're not in a position to say no.

"Does Sorrel know about the little monster?" asked Mary.

"I think so. Anyway, we have all afternoon to tell her."

Sorrel had just reached the kitchen. She swept in wearing crisp blue blouse and tan culottes. Her hair was up in its usual bun. This morning she'd threaded a small piece of red ribbon through it. She had on a pair of stockings that just reached her knees, and some kind of relaxed fit suede or something shoes. She had started to feel like she was home. She asked, "Tell me what?"

"Nothing." Mary proffered.

Fletcher glanced up. Oh. No. He thought. Every time he saw her since their date he felt self-conscious. Why did she always have to look so pretty? Doesn't she ever look frumpy? Fletcher answered her question, "Pearce and Collette are going out tonight and wanted you to baby sit for them."

Sorrel looked at Fletcher, "Am I?"

Fletcher gave a shrug, "We don't have much choice. The Vasquels's are part of the group. They call. You go."

Sorrel slumped down a little, "When am I supposed to be there?"

Fletcher, "7:30; I'll take you over." 

Sorrel started to speak but Fletcher held up hid hand, "I know I know. You've been driving all over the place, but no one knows. They all think you're under some kind of house arrest. Let's not disabuse them of their misconceptions. I'll take you over, drop you off, and I'll pick you up when they get back. It'll be an easy deal. One and done." He smiled and added, "Heck. If they get home early we can go out and get a soda or something."

Sorrel smiled at the thought of a late evening soda with Fletcher. She was starting to tolerate his company. Then she said, "I know Flail. He's a reckless young man. He's also too old to be baby sat."

Fletcher knew where she was headed, "He's a little creep. He's gotten several girls in trouble. His parents have had to bail him out of several serious altercations. Everyone knows he's not trustworthy. Further. I don't trust his parents, at least socially. Collette has some interesting sexual proclivities, and Pearce, well Pearce, is who he is." 

Not wanting to comment any further Fletcher returned to his coffee and the morning paper.

Mary got her cup of coffee and went outside.

Sorrel wanted to keep talking, but Fletcher had his head still buried in the paper and didn't seem very communicative. 

Sorrel interrupted anyway, "What should I wear?"

Fletcher looked up, "What do you mean? What should you wear? Wear whatever you want."

"I meant. What if the Vasquels's know about Florence and the clothing she bought for me?"

Fletcher put the paper down, "Oh shit. Go get Mary to help you."

Sorrel responded coyly. Giving Fletcher a sheepish smile, "You won't help?"

Fletcher slapped the paper down on the table, "Come on. Let's go pick something out."

Sorrel smiled cheerily, "OK."

Together the two traveled the distance down the hall to the stairs, up the steps, all the way to the top floor, and into the dreaded pink room. This was Fletcher's first visit to the room Florence had fixed up. The pervasive pinkness of the room was sickening. He flopped into one of the chairs, "OK. Pick something out."

Sorrel walked daintily over to where Fletcher was sitting. She knelt beside him, placing her left hand on his right knee. She gave him her best 'fawn eyed' look, "I thought, maybe you'd pick something."

Fletcher was feeling the heat from her left hand. He hadn't been with a woman since his wife had died. That was over two years now. It wasn't because he didn't want a woman; it was more out of loyalty to his deceased wife. He'd loved her desperately, and somehow, sex with another woman didn't seem right. 

He could feel his pulse quicken and his long dormant manhood was starting to show serious signs of life. He looked down at her. God she was beautiful. She was stunning in that blue blouse and those tan pants. Her hair, her hair; he'd like to wrap his hands in it, and pull her against him. 

Shit, he thought. She knows exactly what she's doing. He jumped out of the chair and walked to the large walk in closet where the 'Florence selected' outfits were. He went in. Christ he thought, so much pink. He wondered what had been on Ms. Henderson's mind when she chose all this stuff. It all looked the same to him, and all of it ugly. He decided she couldn't wear any of it. 

He returned to re-enter the bedroom. 

She was standing there blocking the closet doorway. 

He started to speak, "I; this stuff." "You can't"

Sorrel walked the three paces that separated them, leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. It wasn't a sexual kiss. No, it was too tender, too warm, too delicate a kiss to be called sexual. 

Fletcher was stunned. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to grab her, but he dare not. He was a frozen block of ice, a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car deep in the forest at midnight. 

Then before he had a chance to say or do anything she slipped away. She looked at him with the expression of someone who'd just been saved from something quite awful, something quite harrowing. "Thank you," she said, and then she was gone.

Fletcher got Byron on the cell phone, "Byron. Today I want everything in that fourth floor room taken out and burned. Every stick of furniture, every article of clothing, all of it, I want it all gone. Then I want you and Mary to search every room in the house; ransack every room, every closet. Gather every single piece of pink clothing you can find. I don't care in whose room you find it. Get it all; then burn it. Burn it all." 

His next phone went out to Ms. Henderson. All he got was her answering machine. The message he left was crisp and clear. "Florence I stripped that horrid fourth floor room bare. From today forward everything Sorrel wears will be of her own choosing."

Then he got Mary on her cell. She answered right away, "Sorrel doesn't go out until 7:30. Would you be an angel and take her shopping. Only the best stores; let her buy anything, and everything she wants."

Mary answered. "You know she all her own stuff here already."

"I don't care. I want her to go on a shopping binge. I'm sick of the cruelty."

Mary quipped, "Are you sure this is just about cruelty and not about someone's innocence?"

Fletcher growled into his phone, "No!" Then after a brief pause, "Don't worry about it."

Sorrel Meets Marion

A little later that very morning Fletcher's children got home. He had three. There was fifteen year old Marion, and two boys, Richard fourteen and Robert twelve. 

The two boys, or better to say fledgling athletes, were tall, lean, and well muscled. It was that time of the year when spring sports like baseball and lacrosse were uppermost. Both were avid lacrosse players. As soon as they reached the house, not even bothering with introductions they jumped in Byron's car, which then sped them off to the nearby athletic field where all their friends were prepping for the upcoming season. 

The girl, Marion, was going to be a tall woman, like her father. She; already had the makings of a statuesque beauty. She was long of limb with a lithe lean well-proportioned body. Her long black hair flowed freely down the back of her rugby shirt, and her pleated shorts, white knee high socks, and sport shoes served to accentuate her good health and natural grace. The girl had vivid hazel eyes, and classic patrician features, a long aquiline nose, sunken cheekbones, and prominent chin. A good first impression was to conjure the cool Roman Moon Goddess Diana dashing across the midnight sky, armed with bow and quiver filled with arrows in search of another innocent male heart to break. 

That was the look. The personality was the obverse. Marion was a vivacious, flirtatious, outgoing, warm young woman. Everyone who met her loved her, and she never failed to find and bring out the best in all the people she met.

Marion crashed through the front door and raced for the kitchen. Eschewing coffee, she swung open the refrigerator looking for a suitable drink. Grasping a gallon jug of orange juice she poured herself a hearty helping. She greedily consumed the juice, gulping as though it were her last chance to savor its ambrosial delights. 

She bellowed, "Is anyone home?" She was looking for someone, anyone, to talk to. The previous several days had been an exciting time, and she wanted to share her joys with any and all available ears. She was irrepressible!

Unfortunately, neither Fletcher nor Mary was about, but Sorrel was upstairs and heard the clamor. She came down to see what was going on. Hearing noise in the kitchen, that's where she went.

Marion looked up, not immediately recognizing the woman she asked in her typical forthright style, "Who are you?"

Sorrel gave the younger girl a curious look and recognized her as Fletcher's daughter, "Hi. I'm Sorrel."

Marion remembered her name, "Oh. You're the woman I'm not supposed to meet." She grinned and walked over with an outstretched hand, "I'm Marion; you're here with my father. Tell me, what did you do that was so bad that I and the boys aren't supposed to get near you?" Never to be denied she continued laughingly, "You have AIDS or something?"

Sorrel took her hand, and was given a vigorous shake, "No. I don't have any diseases, but I better not say anything. Let's let your father explain what he thinks you need to know."

Marion opened the cupboard and pulled out a second glass, "Here. Sit down. Join me in a glass of juice you can tell me what I am allowed to know." Marion sat down and started pouring Sorrel a large glass of the orange juice.

As Sorrel joined her at the table she wondered how such a self-actualized, effervescent, buoyant, loquacious child could possibly be the offspring of the staid ultra-sensible man who was her father. Sorrel started to talk, "Until Saturday I worked for your uncle and your father at the corporation. Since then my circumstances have changed, though exactly how I'd rather not say."

Marion changed the subject, "You like my father?"

Being careful but truthful Sorrel replied, "Honestly? Not a lot. We have some serious differences."

Marion jumped in, "I don't like him sometimes either." Then by way of a possible explanation she jumped again, "My mother died two years ago. My Dad's had a hard time." 

Sorrel wasn't sure what to say next but she got out. "I doubt if that has much to do with the lack of conviviality between he and I"

Marion sidetracked her, "Have you seen any pictures of my mother?"

"No. Did she look like you?" Sorrel was curious about Fletcher's deceased wife.

Marion answered, "Heavens No. She was beautiful! Come on upstairs. I'll show you some pictures." 

Marion and Sorrel took the back stairs, those that connected the upper floors by way of the kitchen. Sorrel hadn't noticed the door discreetly hidden behind the table that opened to where they'd been sitting. As they walked up she noted how narrow the steps were the stairs weren't structurally narrow, they were narrow because there were so many boxes lining the sides. 

Most of the boxes were marked. She saw labels like, 'Barbie and Ken clothes', and 'Cabbage Patch Molly'. One larger box they both had to squeeze around was labeled games, and under that heading she noted 'Candy land' and 'Kid's Scrabble'. 

Sorrel noted that while the boxes seemed out of place to her, Marion was oblivious of their presence. It was like these were all her friends, just tucked away for safekeeping. 

Along this obscure stairway Sorrel was bearing witness to the childhood of three very innocent young people. She wondered if her little boy and girl had a similar repository. It made her a little sad. It was just another of the things she hadn't done. 

She had to put those things out of her mind. Thoughts like those weren't good for her. They upset her emotional equilibrium, and she'd had enough grief as it was. 

It was a short way to Marion's room. Before she knew it she was sitting on Marion's bed peering into a photo album. Marion went through her whole family history. Her grandparents, great grandparents, her uncle, Aunt Mildred, her other aunt who lived on the west coast, Marion's, Richard's, and Robert's childhood photos, and finally pictures of Fletcher when she and her brothers were little. Sorrel noticed Marion kept skipping past several pages. She supposed those were pages with pictures Marion didn't want to share. 

For Sorrel the pictures were a kind of revelation. She got a look at a real family, with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends, and a milieu of other people close to the family including Mary, her husband and her two children. She was looking at everything she'd missed as a child. Growing up Sorrel hadn't thought much about it, but looking at all Marion was showing her she realized how much she'd not had.

After several minutes and dozens of pictures Marion announced, "Now I'm going to show you my mother." She turned to one of the pages she'd passed over. 

Sorrel saw Marion's mother, Fletcher's deceased wife. What a shock! She'd been beautiful. More than beautiful she looked like someone out of a fairy tale. There she was; long brownish blond hair, blue eyes, dimpled chin, delicate hands, tiny feet, wearing a long beautiful pearl necklace, and packaged in a soft pastel two piece suit. 

Sorrel stared at the picture. The woman in the picture didn't look precisely like Sorrel, but there was a clear resemblance. The woman in the picture was a little older, but they could have passed for sisters. They both had many of the same physical characteristics, but Sorrel could see a stark difference in other important ways. The woman in the picture was indescribably happy. Even in just a picture, the warmth, the generosity, the graciousness, and the love the woman possessed leaped out at her. Her two dimensional image on an old glossy sheet of paper exuded a thousand fold more life and love than did Sorrel in the flesh. Sorrel looked away, and then at Marion.

Marion stared at Sorrel intently, "You never met my mother."

"No. I never did." 

Marion, tilting her head slightly like she was looking for something, "I think she would have liked you."

Sorrel hid from Marion's gaze by looking back at the picture in the album. This whole experience was making her very uncomfortable. There was a feeling of tightness in her chest she couldn't explain, "Why did you bring me up here and show me this?"

Marion wasn't put off, "You're not blind. You know why."

Sorrel stood up, "We better go downstairs now."

Marion closed the album and put it back in the chest at the foot of her bed, "Sure."

As they started out of the room Marion touched Sorrel's shoulder, "Can I ask you one question?" Sorrel answered, "OK."

Marion rephrased her question, "Actually I have two questions." 

Sorrel stood silently and waited.

"First, why are you so sad?" Sorrel started to say something, but Marion stopped her. I said two questions, "Tell me. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Sorrel felt the blood pounding in her head, she was afraid she was going to faint, "Let's go downstairs. I think I hear your father."

Marion kept looking at her, but didn't say anything.

Sorrel felt like her entire inner self was being examined, exposed, studied.

Marion answered, "Sure let's go downstairs."

Sure enough when they got downstairs they found Fletcher, wearing his customary Tee-shirt and jeans, standing guard at the coffee pot. 

Marion skipped across the room and wrapped her arms around her father, causing him to spill his coffee. It dribbled down on his shirt. She leaned up and planted a big smooch on his cheek, "How's it going buster?"

Fletcher answered, "Great! How bout you babe?"

Marion kept hugging, "I took Sorrel upstairs and showed her some pictures."

Fletcher, evincing a cautious, maybe tremulous grin, "You did?"

Marion bubbled, "Yeah. I showed her a picture of Mom too."

Fletcher stopped smiling. He gazed over at Sorrel. The look was not generous, "That was nice." He changed the subject, "So what are you up to today?"

Marion ignored the question, "Aren't you going to tell me about Sorrel?"

Fletcher lost smile was replaced by a scowl. He speared Sorrel with his eyes, "What did she say?"

Marion answered, "She didn't say anything. That's why I'm asking you."

Fletcher answered, "Well it's complicated." His demeanor flipped from serious to silly. He pinched his daughter's nose, "I don't want to confuse your fuzzy headed girl's brain right now."

Marion knew her father, and she knew when it was time to shift gears, "Look." She pinched him back and said, "I'm going to make you tell me later anyway. Right now I'm going to clean up and change. Then I'm going to the mall and hang out with the girls." Before Fletcher could offer any remonstration she was headed out of the kitchen. With a see you later to Sorrel she was gone.

Fletcher called after her, "Be careful. Stay away from boys. Take your cell phone!"

He turned to Sorrel. In a not too friendly manner he asked, "What did you say to her?"

Sorrel saw the anger in Fletcher's face, and it frightened her, "I didn't say anything. I only told her I used to work for you and that's all.

Fletcher was suspicious, "You didn't tell her anything else?"

Sorrel responded a little defensively but mostly out of fear, "No. She doesn't know anything. I told her you and I had some disagreements, but any details she would have to get from you." 

Fletcher, glaring, "Good. Make sure you keep it that way. I don't want my children involved in any of this, and its best that you steer clear of my children as long as you're here. You understand me?"

Sorrel had been standing. His remarks were like a fist; they shoved her into one of the chairs at the table. She didn't say anything. She kept her head down concentrating on the juice Marion had poured her.

Fletcher repeated, "Do you understand?"

Sorrel kept her eyes focused on the nearly finished glass of juice, "I understand." He was scaring her. She knew if she didn't say or do something she'd start crying again. She peered up at him; half afraid he was going to slap her, "I didn't do it. Why won't you let me prove it?"




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 05



She was trembling, "I'm innocent. I really am."

Fletcher sat down and started fumbling with the newspaper again. He refused to look at her, but grumbled, "Just stay away from my children."

Sorrel looked back, keeping her eyes back on the pulp at the bottom of her glass. Tears were dripping out of over wet eyes, "May I be excused now?" He rattled the paper, looking up, he unkindly rasped, "Do what you want. You don't have to ask me."

Sorrel got up, ran out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and back to her room. She stumbled and fell on the way. Running into her room she dove on the bed, stuffed her head in the pillows and wept.

Fletcher heard the rustling of her feet, heard her fall. He growled to himself. "Shit." He yanked and flipped his way back through the Sports Section.

Sorrel lay there on the bed; Fletcher's the big cold lonely bed. Even the silky soft sheets felt cold and unwelcoming. 

What she could do? She considered her hapless, hopeless situation. There had to be a way; a way she could solve everybody's problems. 

Fletcher hated her, wouldn't even let her near his children let alone talk to them. Marion was so pure, so innocent. She couldn't conceive of doing or saying anything to hurt her. 

He'd been nice, even kind from time to time, but deep down, really deep down, he saw her as some kind of pariah, an unclean thing, something completely beneath contempt. She couldn't go on like this. They were intent on destroying her, breaking her, but she was still at least partially in control of her own destiny.

Sorrel cried big salty tears; there was a way, one way, she could fix things. She could give them their revenge, protect her babies, solve their problems, protect their business, and she'd find peace. She could do it too. She wasn't afraid to do it.

She looked around the room. There was the bathroom, her bathrobe and it's long terry cloth belt. It would be soft around her neck. The big frame to the shower doors were sturdy. She could dot it. It would be over in twenty minutes. They'd find her, and be glad. 

Sorrel got off the bed. She thought about the toys on the steps, happy childhoods, and nice kids like Marion. She knelt down beside the bed. She began to pray, "Please don't be too mad at me. I'm so sorry. Tell me what to do. Don't let it hurt."

She burrowed her head in the soft coverlets, "Please help me. I'm afraid." She knew there were no angels, not for her. Fletcher was wrong. Some people didn't deserve angels. Not her anyway. She deserved everything she got.

Fletcher sat in his big comfortable chair in the kitchen. He thought he could clean the kitchen floors, wipe down the cupboards, maybe clean behind the oven and refrigerator. Let her stay upstairs in her room. Let her cry. She had it coming.

He sat in his big chair, holding the paper, not reading, not moving, and not doing anything. Tears started bulged up in his eyes. "Diana." he said.

He sniffed. It occurred to him he didn't care whether the woman upstairs was guilty or not. He would never be able to carry out the plan they'd concocted.

Sorrel was kneeling against the bed half praying for a miracle; half reconciling her spirit to what she felt she had to do. She heard a light tap on her door. It was nothing. 

She heard it again, a little fainter the second time. Not wanting to be rude she went to the door; she opened it.

Standing at the doorway in his customary jeans, white socks, black tennis shoes, and faded Tee-shirt was Fletcher. Looking down at his shoes he said, "I bought some flowers the other day; thought maybe you'd like to help me plant some of them." 

Some Gardening:

Sorrel burst into tears of joy, "I'd love to. Let me slip something on."

Fletcher gave her a half smile, "I'll be in the kitchen." 

He added, "Making coffee. Want some?"

Wiping away her tears she laughed, "I'd love some!"

As Fletcher walked away she ran to the closet, but before she got there she ran back to the bed and knelt down again, "Oh thank you, thank you." 

She jumped back up and ran back to the closet. Five minutes later Sorrel was downstairs. She'd slipped into a lightweight overall shorty dungaree jumper set with a white Tee-shirt underneath and white tennis shoes with matching white knee high socks.

She walked over close to Fletcher and said. "I'm something of a novice when it comes to flowers, so you'll have to be patient."

Fletcher ogled her again. He blurted out, "Why do you always have t be so damned pretty?" Putting aside the real purpose of her presence he offered his most generous and he hoped most genuine smile, "You're as pretty as the flowers we're going to plant."  

Sorrel beamed! Just a few moments ago she was thinking about ending everything, now her main tormentor was her salvation. She thought, 'This couldn't be the same man who was so cruel the other day.'

They walked out back and down a narrow dirt lane toward a section of the backyard Sorrel hadn't seen before. As they reached the bottom of a low hill she espied a small pond, and some cardboard boxes filled with flowers.

Fletcher pointed to the boxes, "I stopped by the garden store the other evening and picked up a few flowers. I thought we could use them to edge part of the pond."

Sorrel wasn't very familiar with flowers, and even less familiar with where to buy things like that. She asked. "What? Is there some special, like herbarium, where you get your stuff?"

Fletcher didn't correct her mistake, but he laughed, "Yeah. I go to a very exclusive place that specializes in just the kinds of plants I want." He added, "They call it Lowe's." 

Sorrel giggled. Nothing could spoil her day now, "What kind of flowers are we planting?"

Fletcher knelt on the thick grass and started pointing to the different boxes. "Here we have some Black Eyed Susan's. These over here are Hostas. Over there we have some Irises. I got some yellow and some purple ones. They'll look great in couple weeks. Last I thought I'd try some Hibiscus. They tell me they're tricky, but I thought I'd get a couple anyway. So, have you ever done anything like this before?"

Sorrel felt silly and happy too. "No, but I'm dying to learn."

Fletcher made a pretense of seriousness, "Good. We'll start close to the edge of the water. You can start. The dirt's a little softer there and it'll be easier for you. Just take this trowel and scoop out a little hole. I'll hand you the plant. Push it gently into the hole, then use your hands and press some dirt in around each plant." 

He paused realizing her short trousers and white socks weren't appropriate, "Here," he pulled out a small blanket he normally used to cover the ground when he planted, spreading it out, "kneel on this."

She accepted the gift of the ground cloth, and knelt on it.

He handed her the first plant, "Now take your time. These are all hardy plants, but, like anything new, they need a gentle hand at the start."

Sorrel took the trowel, dug a little hole, and placed the first plant. She looked over, "How's that?"

Fletcher grinned, "You're already an expert. Just be careful when you're near the water. I don't want Rupert to get you."

Sorrel leaned back, well away from the water, "Who's Rupert?"

Fletcher gave her a knowledgeable expression, much like someone about to share some profound piece of especially important information, "Rupert is a snapping turtle who lives in the pond. He's about two feet long and weighs." Fletcher paused a second or two for effect, "Oh, probably twelve, maybe fifteen, pounds. We have to be alert. Ole Rupert could bite a finger off, if we're not..." He didn't get the sentence finished. 

Sorrel leaned way away, as far from the water as she could get.

Fletcher gave her a sheepish grin, "Don't worry. He seldom travels up to this end of the pond. He likes the deeper water down the other end."

Sorrel wasn't mollified, "Maybe you should do the planting, and I'll do the handing out."

Fletcher still grinning. He was having fun, "No. You're doing fine. I'll keep an eye out for Ole Rupert. You keep planting, and I'll keep handing."

Sorrel wasn't having quite as much fun, but she was determined to do a good job. Together they slowly inched their way around the pond. The water was clear, and she could see to the bottom. There wasn't any Ole Rupert here. She relaxed and kept digging and planting. Then, suddenly something long and green slithered across her trowel and into the water. A snake! She leapt back! She flew backward falling ass over tin cup right into Fletcher's outstretched, plant bearing, arms, "Oh!" she exclaimed, "A big snake!"

She'd pivoted back into Fletcher. It was so unexpected he didn't have a chance to maneuver. He dropped the plants, and found himself with two beautiful breasts cupped in his hands. He made a quick adjustment, but the event had unfolded so quickly he couldn't escape. 

As quickly as he could he let go; repositioning his hands around her chest just below her armpits. For a second he had been holding her in a deliciously tight embrace; her breasts in his hands, her back pressed against his chest, her head beneath his chin, and her hair rubbing his cheek. 

'Jeez' he thought, 'it had been a long time since he'd held a woman so closely.' He'd smelled her perfume; it was something soft and feminine. Her skin felt so dry and warm. Her hair was so soft. It was in a tight braid, like her personality, wound too tightly, but it still pressed gently, languorously, sensuously, against his cheek. 

Her breasts were small, but even through the rough denim he could feel their supple, lissome, crushable fragility, their welcoming warmth. He hadn't realized how much he missed the pleasurable softness of a woman. She felt good!

With his hands under her arms he lifted her and turned her around. Her eyes were wide and dark. She'd felt it too, "What happened?"

She looked at him incredulously, "Didn't you see that big snake?"

He laughed, "Oh. You mean that giant King Cobra?"

Sorrel didn't think it was funny. She was flustered, a little confused, and more than a little out of sorts. He was holding her much too closely. He was making her nervous and tingly all over. Then there was that big snake. Never in her whole life had she ever been that close to a real snake; a real live snake in the wild, "That wasn't funny. I could have been bitten."

Fletcher realized she'd been traumatized. He gentled his look, "It scared you didn't it?"

She answered, "Yes it did." She felt quite odd. His arms and hands were comforting. She felt warm inside, and soft. She made no effort to pull away.

He kept holding her under her in his arms just under her breasts, "I suppose it was frightening there for a moment. They come out of nowhere, just when you least expect them. But then, things always seem to happen like that. Unexpectedly, I mean." 

Sorrel wasn't afraid of the snake anymore. The moment had passed. She was thinking about a larger predator. She squirmed, "You can let me go now. I think the snake is gone."

Fletcher lifted her around and carefully placed her on the dryer ground well away from the edge of the pond, "That's enough flower planting for one day. What do you say? Want to go for a walk?

Sorrel was glad for the change of venue, "No wild animals?"

Fletcher replied, "None we can't handle." He stood up and reached out a hand. 

She felt awkward and self-conscious. Sorrel accepted his hand and rose from the grass as gracefully as she could under the circumstances. She straightened her jumper, unconsciously feeling her breasts as she readjusted her bra. She made an attempt at realigning her braid, but it was in too much disarray to resume its original platted discipline. She brushed her pants and repositioned her stockings. 

She glanced sideways at her would be rescuer. She reminded herself this was the man who peed on her. He was still dangerous, and she needed to be careful. Then again, this was the man who'd gotten her out of her room. She didn't know what to think.

Fletcher proffered his right arm, "Let's do a circuit around the pond. We can check out the lilies, and, who knows? We might even see Old Rupert."

Sorrel accepted his right arm with her left hand. Together they walked around the perimeter of the pond. It wasn't an especially large body of water. And in less than ten minutes they were back at the place where they'd been planting. To Fletcher it didn't seem like a long time since they'd come down to plant, but he saw the sun was beginning to set. He looked down at Sorrel. "The evening air is starting to get cool. Maybe we should get back."

She didn't want to but nodded her head in agreement.

They worked their way back to the house without saying anything. Once they reached the back door Fletcher asked, "Did you have a good time?"

Inwardly she felt exuberant, but she controlled her response, "I didn't get to see Old Rupert."

Fletcher, holding the back door smiled wistfully, "Maybe next time." He looked at his watch. "Crap!" He said in disgust. "You've got to go to the Vasquels's. I'll call him and explain that you had an accident and can't come."

Sorrel interjected, "No. I should go. I can't put these things off."

Fletcher looked at her. Thinking, for himself, he'd rather keep her home for the evening. They could play that dumb game some more. He only knew he was really glad he'd gone up and asked her to help plant flowers. It was like that whole episode turned things around. He didn't say any of that, "OK. You're right."

Mary watched the two people from the barn. She knew there weren't going to be any shopping trips with Sorrel today. She wondered how much longer it was going to take before something happened.

She fixed some grilled cheese sandwiches for Fletcher, herself, and for Sorrel. Fetcher wolfed down two, but Sorrel only pickled at hers. She watched Sorrel watch Fletcher; something was going on. She suspected Sorrel was softening. They'd find out some things pretty soon. 

The Vasquals's

The drive to Pearce's and Collette's wasn't long and conversation was held to a minimum. Reaching the front of their spacious house Fletcher advised her, as agreed upon earlier with the Vasquals, he would return to pick her up not later than midnight. Before driving off Fletcher admonished her to be careful with Flail. Pulling away Fletcher checked his transmitters. He wouldn't go home tonight. He would pull off at the little diner down the road have a coffee, and listen in.

Sorrel got out of the car and rang the doorbell. Pearce's wife, Collette, was soon there.

Collette opened the door and ushered Sorrel in, "I'm glad we have you to do this. Pearce and I want an evening out. You know I'm sure, just a few hours away, a little dinner, maybe a few drinks, and we'll be back close to midnight. Pearce says he has a meeting tomorrow." 

Collette's vindictiveness got the better of her, "Oh yes; a meeting you would have attended too, "Oh well; your loss seems to be our gain." She chuckled at her attempt to be witty. She had no idea the meeting was the one called by Fletcher for just himself, Pearce, and Charles aimed at unraveling the web of suspicion that surrounded Sorrel. Of course, Sorrel didn't know anything. 

Her husband arrived and handed Collette a light wrap. Speaking authoritatively he told Sorrel. "Flail's already eaten. He has some homework to finish, but he should have it done by nine. It's off to bed for him not later than 11:00. There's a television in the den, and the refrigerator's well stocked. Holding the door for his wife he smiled and whispered, "Try to stay out of trouble." 

As they went down the walk to their car Sorrel wondered what he meant by that. She looked around and didn't see Flail anywhere. Guessing he was in is room doing homework; she headed for the den thinking she'd watch some of the cable news shows. 

She knew well about Flail's so called reputation. She'd wondered earlier when she was dressing just how much trouble a seventeen-year old boy could be, then she remembered her husband. He was just seventeen when they'd met, and he turned out to be more than a handful, so just in case, Sorrel had dressed for any exigency. She'd worn a firm full fitting bra, and a white blouse that she covered with a comfortable V-necked sweater; certainly nothing provocative. She finished things off with a pair of heavy denim jeans, socks and tennis shoes. Feeling well protected she plopped down on the sofa and started flicking through the channels. 

She watched first this show, then that show. Like always everything fit the pattern, some shows wanted to lynch the president, while others wanted him deified. Bored she drifted into the kitchen to get a soda. Flicking on the switch she opened the refrigerator door. Then, like an explosion, Ka Pow! Something hit her. She hit the floor like a rock. Before she could move Flail was on top of her. With one hand he grabbed both of her wrists and ratcheted her in handcuffs. While she struggled to get to her feet he was already locking another set of cuffs around her ankles. "What are you doing she yelled?"

Flailed gave her an evil grin, "I'm the police. You're under arrest! You're mine baby. Now I'm going to rape you." Even as he spoke he was already working on her belt buckle.

She shouted, "Are you out of your mind?" 

Sorrel had managed to lean up, but he pushed her back. Unable to get her belt undone he sat astride her prone body, "All right. Let's see what you've got. First we'll get this sweater and blouse off." He started to clumsily try to work her sweater over her head.

Sorrel was no martial artist, but she was no limp dishrag either. He couldn't get anything off without her cooperation, and pretty soon he'd find that out.

Flail kept wrestling with her sweater, trying to get it off, while Sorrel kept wrestling with Flail, trying to get him off her. Neither side seemed to be able to get the upper hand. Flail sat back. "Look I've got you. That's why my father arranged to go out. Why don't you just give up? I'm going to win in the end anyway."

Sorrel was already breathing heavy. She knew she couldn't hold him off much longer, but she was bound and determined to fight him off as long as she could. As he started his second attack, she shouted up at him, "If you don't let me go I'll rip your penis off!"

Her threat angered the foolish boy. With his right arm he swung around and slapped her hard on the cheek. He yelled, "You're mine tonight. I'm going to have it you thieving bitch!"

From out of nowhere, even more unexpected than Flail's original attack, and certainly more violent; two powerful hands gripped Flail's shoulders and flung him halfway across the kitchen. It was Fletcher! 

Sorrel had never heard such a disturbingly deep voice. It frightened her more than Flail's attack! The voice bellowed, "You little shit bird! You didn't think I'd leave her alone with a squirrelly little turd like you did you? 

Fletcher half ran half leaped across the kitchen. Lifting the miscreant by the scruff of his neck he smashed him, none too tenderly, against the wall, "Where's the key to those cuffs you little shit twerp?" Fletcher was really furious. 

Sorrel was afraid he was out of control. She called out, "Fletcher! Put him down!" Holding up the two sets of cuffs she exclaimed, "Look they're not real. They're only plastic!"

Fletcher let the rascal slide down the side of the wall. Red faced, chest heaving, arms akimbo he backed away, "Are you crazy? You little shit! I ought to knock you into the middle of next week!" Fletcher made as if he was going to grab the boy again.

Sorrel got up and ran to the stupid boy's aid, interposing herself between Flail and Fletcher. She pushed her hands against Fletcher's chest, "Stop it, he's just a boy!"

Flail cringed back, and then scampered away into the far corner. He didn't look any the worse for wear, just scared shitless. "I was only kidding around. I wasn't going to do anything. Honest Mr. Hanson. I was just playing a game."




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 05



Fletcher was breathing heavy, not from the exertion of throwing Flail around, but from released anger. Ignoring Sorrel, "Listen to me you little piece of rat shit. There are a couple things you need to do right now. First, I want a nice sincere, and I mean sincere apology for Ms. Sullivan here. 

Second, I want you to understand that if you say anything to your parents, anything at all, I'll come back and kick your slimy little ass from here to Pittsburgh. I mean it. I'll break every bone in your shitty little body. 

Last, if I ever, I mean ever, here of you treating any other woman, or girl, with anything less than complete respect, I'll come back and break both your arms and legs. I mean it Flail. A man doesn't abuse a woman. Not ever! Never!" He started toward the kid like he was going to hurt him some more.

Flail was pretty piteous, but still had enough nerve to respond, "You pissed on her. I was watching. I saw you."

Fletcher stopped, "You sneaky little shit." He wanted to punch the kid in the nose, but knew the boy had him, "I made a mistake. I was wrong. As soon as I'd done it I regretted it. But that's no excuse for you. You're going to be a man someday, and from now on I expect you to behave like one. You understand?"

Flail nodded.

Fletcher went on, "Listen to me." He turned and looked at Sorrel.

She could see the sincerity, the contrition on his face.

He held his hands upward, palms outstretched, "Sorrel." He paused to gather his courage, "Sorrel I'm sorry for what I did. I mean it. It was unmanly, senselessly degrading." He took a step toward her. 

She could see the regret. It was plain as day.

"It didn't degrade you, a helpless woman. It degraded me." He felt like a complete jackass, but he felt good too. 

She realized this wasn't for Flail. He meant it, "It's all right Fletcher. You were angry."

He felt relieved. Turning back to the boy, "I was wrong, but so are you. Now how about it."

Flail looked over at Sorrel. She was looking at Fletcher and not him, "Ms. Sullivan?"

Sorrel's thoughts came back into focus, "Yes Flail?"

Flail looked at Fletcher then at her. "I'm sorry. I'm really very sorry."

Sorrel was listening but her mind was somewhere else. She said to Flail, "It's OK." She walked over to where he was slumped. She knelt down and whispered. "Come on let's forget this." She tussled his hair. "You're a good kid. Let's be friends." She helped him to his feet.

Flail looked at Sorrel, "I like you. I always have, and honest, I really am sorry."

Sorrel was shaking. She guessed the whole experience was getting to her. "It's late. Why don't you go on to bed? We'll forget this ever happened."

Flail finished. Giving Fletcher a wide berth he said to Sorrel, "Thanks Ms. Sullivan. I want to say again I'm sorry for what I did, and I'm sorry Mr. Hanson peed on you." Then he fled the room.

Sorrel walked over to the trash can and dropped in the two pairs of handcuffs. She started really shaking, "Oh Boy. I can't seem to get through a day."

Fletcher didn't know what to do. He decided the best thing for him was disappear before the Vasquals got home. He looked at Sorrel. He wanted to offer more comfort. Yes, she'd had a rough one, and he'd been a big part of it, "If you're all right now I'm going to leave." 

He looked at his watch, "I can see I won't be gone long" Turning around he flipped a key on the kitchen counter, "This is the Vasquals's extra key. As soon as I'm gone put it back under the mat outside the front door." He thought he'd do it that way so she would know how he got in. Nothing left to say, he made a beeline for the front door. At the last moment he turned around again, "About the other day at Steve's. That wasn't me"

"Forget it. It's OK Fletcher."

He left.

Sorrel took the key and returned it. She went back to the den, sat down in front of the television and had another good cry. She kept thinking. That man's a mystery. I should hate him, but I don't. Why won't he let me prove I'm innocent? 

She knew she couldn't stay this way. The Vasquals would be home shortly. She grabbed some Kleenex, blew then wiped her nose. She went to work dabbing her tear smeared face. 

The Vasquals arrived back home and for the world there didn't seem to be anything wrong. Sorrel explained Flail had gone right to bed after his homework, while she watched an old movie that made her cry. The three of them stood around the front door for a few more minutes chatting when Fletcher pulled into view, "Well, here's my ride. I'll be seeing you." 

Pearce smiled and waved. Collette gave her a sardonic smile and assured her she would.

Fletcher pulled to the front door, got out, walked around and opened the door. She stepped into the SUV, seated her self and thanked him. 

"It's been pretty rough for you I guess. Here's a coke." He handed her coke he'd bought while he was out.

"Thanks." It was nice of you.

For the next twenty minutes, as they returned to Fletcher's, neither said a word. 

As they traveled along Fletcher knew somewhere in their lives a gear was about to shift. The existing cosmos that rendered Sorrel and himself in such a state of uncertainty was on the verge of a significant paradigm shift. He was ready. He welcomed the coming storm. 

Sorrel was exhausted. Too much had been happening too fast. She just wanted to go someplace, curl up, and pretend none of the terrible things of the past few days had happened, and sleep; sleep away the nightmare that was consuming her. Maybe of she could pretend; pretend and everything would go away, all the accusations, the threats, the uncertainties. She knew she couldn't take much more.



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 06



Chapter Six

Breakthrough!

It was close to 1:00 in the morning, the same evening. It was late. Everyone was tired, but no one seemed ready to go to bed. Mary, Fletcher and Sorrel were all sitting in the living room. The television was on, but there wasn't much to watch, even with satellite TV. Fletcher had a pretty good home library, but as yet Sorrel knew nothing about it, and Fletcher was more interested in trying to unravel some of the mystery about Sorrel than in showing her his collection. 

Mary was the one who broke the ice, "Sorrel, we all know basically what's brought you to your present predicament, but I can't for the life of me fathom exactly what happened. Your guilt or innocence notwithstanding, what led you to want to leave your children? I know it's none of my business, but it would sure help me clean up some impressions I have."

Sorrel, though dreadfully tired was still alert enough to be on guard, "There's really nothing to tell. I had two children. They were babies, and I wasn't a good mother."

Fletcher, tired himself, interjected, "How could you not be a good mother?"

Sorrel answered, "I don't want to talk about it."

Mary was the only person rested enough to think clearly, walked over and sat down beside Sorrel on the love seat, "We don't want to judge you Sorrel. We just want to understand."

Sorrel answered, "Look I just don't want to talk about it. OK?"

Fletcher wasn't going to let it go, "Well what happened? Were you abusive? Did you beat them? Did you like lock them in a closet or something? Did you hit on them?"

Sorrel looked across the room at him, for a second both Mary and Fletcher could see a glimmer of real anger, "No. I never hit either of them. I wouldn't, couldn't do anything like that. Look, like I said. I was just a bad mother. I don't want to talk about it!"

Mary still did, "Were you neglectful?"

Sorrel answered, "No I wasn't neglectful. Now let it go."

Mary kept at it, "Did you love them?"

Sorrel, "Of course I loved them. I still love them." Her voice was rising. "I'll always love them. They're my children." her voice settling again, "I love them. Now leave me alone."

Fletcher pried in a little more, "It doesn't sound right. You loved them. You weren't hurting them, and you didn't neglect them, but you left them."

Sorrel squirmed, "A lot of things don't make sense. Can't we just give it a break?"

Mary put her arm around the woman and pulled her over, "Help us Sorrel. We want to make some sense of this."

Sorrel sat stiffly, hard as stone. She wanted to say something, "No." Her composure was starting to crumble, "I." She was crumbling. She burst into tears. Her whole body just collapsed. She became a quivering listless mass, a helpless, hopeless soluble heap of jelly, "It was a mistake. I was wrong. I thought I knew. I thought I had it figured out." 

She couldn't stop crying, "It all turned out wrong. I just wish. I just am so sorry." She just completely fell to pieces right there in front of both of them, "You don't understand. I thought I was right. I had it figured out. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." That was all she seemed to be able to say.

Mary was hugging her tightly. She took her left hand and brushed her tear stained face. Then she took both of her own hands and used them to cup her face. "You didn't desert your children. You didn't abandon them. Your husband ran away. You needed a plan. You had a plan. You'd let your sister be a temporary caregiver while you got your life together. You'd make something of yourself, and then go back and get them." 

She held Sorrel's face in her hands, and wouldn't let go. Sorrel couldn't turn away. She wanted to, but the older woman wouldn't let her. 

Mary went on, "You would become a big success; then you'd ride back like a queen on a great white stallion and give them everything you never got. We know all about you Sorrel. We know all about your childhood. You were going to make things different, perfect. Your children were going to be fabulously happy." 

"Your sister couldn't have children. She'd be the caregiver while you went to college and started a career. You got the chance through the very company you've been accused of robbing. You won a scholarship, and with you're IQ and your determination you knew you would make it. It just took a lot of hard work; something you'd been accustomed to all your life."

Sorrel, between the sobbing and ululation collapsed to the floor. Her knees on the carpet, she knelt with her head in Mary's lap. Her whole body shook. The grief, the remorse, the brokenhearted anguish, the years of hiding from the truth was flooding out. The room was inundated with forlorn heartsick grief. The woman's hurt and pain was palpable. 

Fletcher was exhausted. It was becoming more than he could bear, but he stayed in his seat. He didn't dare get up or move. He couldn't. He watched as he saw Sorrel unravel like a broken toy. What must have been years of suppressed regret and repressed self-loathing was flooding the room in an irresistible deluge. 

Mary kept talking, "You went to school. You aced every class. You were first on every test, you're every term paper was better than any other student's. Yours was a perfect 4.00 GPA. You were Magma cum Laude. You had to be. You were top seeded in the company that gave you the scholarship. On the fast track to the top job, positions of leadership, respect, and responsibility were waiting." 

Mary enunciated the woman's anguish, "It was all yours, but something, or someone, or two someone's, got left behind. You planned to go back." 

Mary kept speaking, pushing with a heartfelt vehemence that was even tearing at Fletcher as he sat across the room, "You wanted to go back. You meant to go back, but what if they didn't know you. What if they didn't remember?"

"Your sister didn't want you back. Your sister didn't want them to remember. You'd worked, studied, crammed, and fought. You'd risen to the pinnacle, and it all turned to just so much sand. It meant nothing. You couldn't go back." 

"You couldn't claim the prize, your heart's desire. You were afraid. You were afraid they wouldn't love you. They wouldn't understand. They wouldn't want their mother, their mommy, and then there was the picnic. Then, even the work, the career was gone. All that was left was to protect the children, but protect them from what? You were going to protect your children from their own mother." 

Sorrel was hugging Mary's legs. She crumpled to the floor, head down, arms hugging knees in complete utter defeat. She'd stopped crying. Now it was just a steady slow weeping. She mumbled into the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm just so sorry."

Fletcher had heard enough. He leaped across the room. In one swift gallant gesture he scooped her from the floor. He crushed her to him. He thought, so this was the terrible secret, the awful monster hidden behind this human working machine. 

He grabbed her by her shoulders, "You're not sorry. You can't be sorry. I won't allow it. It's all, all right now. I'm going to fix it. Your children are still young. They'll understand. Even if they don't right away, they'll learn to understand." 

He proclaimed, "I'm Fletcher Hanson. I'm going to fix this!" He said it with authority, and he meant it. He could save this girl. He'd win this time! This was his job." 

This was Fletcher at his finest, the hero, white knight, man of the hour coming to the rescue. There would be no death bed tears this time. Here was a damsel in distress he could save. He'd make everything right. As far as he was concerned the problem was solved. He would fix it. He could fix it this time.

Mary interrupted him, "Fletcher, I love you. You're forgetting one thing. She's been caught trying to swindle the company you own. There's a sword hanging over her head that can't be easily removed. Let's back off. Let's think this thing through."

Fletcher had had his moment of nobility. Now reality was setting in. He looked at Mary and then at Sorrel. At Mary he said, "She didn't do it. She's been framed. He looked at Sorrel, "You're innocent. You've been framed."

Mary looked down at Sorrel as she sat weeping, her head in Mary's lap. "I'm still not satisfied." 

Fletcher bounced up and down, "What do you mean you're not satisfied?"

Mary looked down at the desolate woman whose head lay on her lap. She reached and pulled Sorrel's face up so she could look at her, "You're lying about something."

Fletcher yelped, "What?"

Sorrel looked at Mary, but she couldn't hold her gaze, "I don't know what you mean?"

Mary took the woman's chin and held it in her hand so she wouldn't be able to look away. "Yes you do."

Sorrel tried to turn her head but Mary held on tightly. Sorrel whispered, "I don't know what else to say."

Mary knew what to say, "Take off your sweater and your bra."

Fletcher didn't know what was traveling through Mary's mind, but he held his tongue.

Sorrel made an effort to pull away, but Mary had her with both hands now, "I'm tired. I need to go to bed."

Mary interrupted, "First, show us your breasts."

Sorrel had the look of a terrified child, "No!"

Mary wasn't pulling any punches, "You take your clothes off yourself, or I'll have Fletcher strip you." She looked over at Fletcher, "Come here."

Fletcher was bewildered. "Mary let her alone. She's been through enough."

Mary looked back at Sorrel, "You know we're not going to hurt you, but let's get this finished, now, tonight."

Sorrel leaned back and slowly slipped her sweater off her shoulders. Both Mary and Fletcher could see the small bruises that had been left by Flail.

Mary said, "Now the bra."

Sorrel leaned back, cringing, "No."

Mary was sharp, "Yes."

Sorrel undid her bra and let it fall around her waist, but she held her hands tightly over her breasts.

Reaching down and grasping Sorrel's wrists, "Take your hands away," Mary gently but firmly pulled the woman's hands from her chest. 

Fletcher got an eyeful. My God, he thought, she's beautiful. Her breasts were almost without blemish, only some dark circular marks around her aureoles, "What are those circles?"

Mary put the palm of her right hand on Sorrel's left cheek. She touched her left breast where the largest discolorations could be seen, "Who did this to you?"

Sorrel started crying again. 

Mary stroked her head, "What else did he do?"

Fletcher was even more confused than before. "What am I missing here?"

Very softly and gently to Sorrel Mary spoke, "You didn't run away from the responsibility of raising two children. You didn't leave them with your sister to pursue a career. Though you believe you did, you didn't abandon anybody."

Fletcher was starting to put the pieces together, "Those are burn marks aren't they? Who burned you Sorrel?"

A tearful Sorrel answered, "He used to leave me tied me up in the bedroom while he watched television. When the children cried he'd come in and beat me. He smoked, and he liked to put his cigarettes out on me. While the children cried, I'd beg him to let me go to them, but he would laugh. It was only after he left to go to the tavern that he'd untie me so I could get to the babies. 

Mary interjected, "He, being your husband."

Through the tears Sorrel blurted out, "Clara isn't my sister! She's his sister! She was as mean to me as he was, but she loved my children. She'd say I wasn't fit to have children, that she should have them. He agreed. He didn't run off. He's still there. If I go back he'll kill me." 

Fletcher had been confused, unbelieving, now he was stone cold sober, "You ran away to escape a slimy wife beating bastard, a monster. A man, that's an oxymoron, and man who would beat his wife and let his infant children cry." 

He walked over and covered her up with her sweater, "No wonder you don't especially want to have anything to do with men. Look what one man did to you." 

He wanted to do something good, something protective. He tried to cradle her in his arms, but she pushed him away, "We're not all like that Sorrel. I'm not like that." 

Mary nodded her head, "You don't need to be afraid of Fletcher." 

Mary was still deeply troubled. She directed her comments at Fletcher, "We have a lot to do. We have to untangle the web that's snared our girl," She patted Sorrel's head, "I didn't mean that in a bad way."

Sorrel looked at Mary through the tears. She didn't know what she meant. She didn't know what to think.

Mary turned to Fletcher, "We have to keep her away from harm. That means your sister, Ms. Henderson, and some of the others." 

Mary lifted Sorrel's head. She wrapped her in her arms, "We're at the bottom right now. This is the worst. Let's get you to bed. We'll start tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll start afresh."

Fletcher was headed into the kitchen. He needed another cup of coffee. It had been a long night, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep.

Mary, with her arm around Sorrel helped her upstairs to her rooms. She got her out of Fletcher's sweater, and into some pajamas. She tucked her in, "There see. You're not alone now. You'll never be alone again. We're going to see this thing through together." 

Mary got up to go, then at the last moment she turned back. "I know you're innocent. I think I figured it out before you got here, but one thing." She paused and then continued, "Just in case you aren't, keep it to yourself."

Sorrel looked at Mary. The tears were gone, only weariness and fatigue remained, "I'm innocent Mary. I won't let you down."

Mary turned out the light. She needed to talk to Fletcher.

A Brief Reprise:

Sorrel had been a rising star in a private corporation whose successes had largely come through secret contracts with the Federal government. However, her value collapsed when an investigation revealed fraud and what amounted to corporate treason. The company, owing to the delicacy of its contracts couldn't allow her misdeeds to leak beyond the most immediate membership in the company's hierarchy. Her deeds had to be sequestered, and she had to be destroyed. 

Fortunately for the company Sorrel's past left an opening for just the kind of maneuvering they needed. Sorrel had apparently abandoned two young children in her quest for financial success. Using this knowledge the two owners of the company, founder Warren, and younger brother Fletcher, were in a position to suppress any potential embarrassment and control their errant employee. However, they believed Sorrel would always remain a potential problem. They, therefore, determined to remove her in some permanent, but nonlethal, way. 

Sorrel's removal was to be accomplished first through blackmail to hold her temporarily in place while they orchestrated a scheme to bring about her total destruction. The method they contrived to achieve this destruction was so fiendish that it had to be hidden from all other members of the company's inner circle except the innermost three. Only Warren, Fletcher, and the company comptroller and long time loyalist Florence knew of the way Sorrel was to be forever taken out of circulation.

Sorrel's misdeeds were exposed at a luncheon, and from there she was to be kept on ice at Fletcher's until the 'final solution' was initiated. However, unexpected complications emerged.

The plan for Sorrel's demise was a simple but horrible one. At first Fletcher was all for it, but he had second thoughts when he considered the possibility, no matter how remote, that the method of her disappearance might leak out. He had children, particularly an impressionable young daughter. He realized the plan they had for Sorrel was so monstrous, so savage, his children would never accept it. Then again there was the issue of Sorrel herself. Prior to Sorrel's exposure, Fletcher had never had direct contact with the woman. Sure he'd met her from to time at the office, but her areas of focus weren't his, and he'd been grappling with issues not related to work that had precluded any interest in any other people. However, once the woman he was expected to destroy started to become a real person he began to have doubts.

Fletcher came to the realization that Sorrel was perhaps the victim of somebody else's machinations. Fletcher, originally Sorrel's engine of destruction, began to metamorphose into Fletcher the heroic protector of a guile free woman wrongfully accused. 

Fletcher's redefined role brought with it more complications. Fletcher was a widower, he was lonely, and he had three children all in need of intangibles he couldn't provide. Sorrel was a single mom with two children she may have been driven to abandon. They all needed someone. 

Sorrel was warm, human, and personable. She exuded a natural innocence that contradicted her dossier. All the people around him, the people he loved and respected, his life long friends, all found the same inner beauty he himself saw in Sorrel. Personal feelings began to interfere with corporate needs.

Sorrel's situation was no less complicated. She had been a dedicated employee, virtually an automaton devoted to the progress of a company that had offered her a chance at professional and pecuniary accomplishment. Yet she had two children she'd been forced to surrender to an abusive husband and malicious sister. 

She loved her children but feared returning to claim them. They were her treasures, but would they accept her? Would they believe her explanations, or would they only reject and hate her. Afraid of rejection, paralyzed by fear, desolate and alone she'd opted to do nothing. 

Then catastrophe struck! She was accused and condemned of things she knew she didn't do. No one believed her. Then she found herself controlled by the most malevolent person the company could produce, Fletcher the younger brother. Reputed to be a vicious man, from the start he seemed to live up to his reputation, but within days she began to see different aspects of the man she saw as a monster. No one on the outside knew he had a family, children, close cherished friends, and he had a well hidden sensitive, even vulnerable, side. And she saw he was a widower, and he was desperately lonely

Sorrel's world had imploded. The agent of her doom was a man who filled her with both fear but compassion too; totally contradictory emotions. He needed warmth and understanding, but she needed vindication. How could she temper her emotional inclinations, overcome her irrational fears, and reestablish her career, her personal imperatives, and revalidate her life?

Resuming Sorrel's Story:

A Shopping Trip:

Shortly after 11:00 a.m. Mary, some time house keeper all the time family friend, had accomplished everything she planned to do. Fletcher had left the house to go in to the office for the afternoon so she was answerable to no job or person. She called out to Sorrel who was sitting by the pond. She presumed Sorrel was still trying to find Rupert, a snapping turtle Fletcher claimed lurked in the murky water. 

Mary doubted if there ever really was a Rupert, believing he was only a figment of Fletcher's imagination, a thought trick he had used to keep the children from getting in the water when they were little. Since Sorrel didn't answer, Mary walked outside.

Sorrel looked up, "You know Mary. I don't really believe there is nor ever was a snapping turtle in this pond."

Mary cast Sorrel an overly too serious look, "I don't know. I've never seen one, but both Fletcher and Byron swear there's a big one in there."

Sorrel looked askance at the pond and then she looked back at Mary. "You think there's one in there?"

Studiously looking at the still waters Mary reflectively responded, "Can't say for sure, but I know you'll never catch me dangling my toes in that water."

Sorrel looked back at the pond, "The still waters of this little pond have a calming affect on me. I get a feeling of serenity here I haven't felt in a long time. I'm glad Fletcher let me help him plant those flowers. I grew up in the city, in something like a tenement. Flowers were always just out of reach. It was fun getting my hands muddy. Do you now what I mean?"




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 06



Mary softly sighed. "Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I love flowers. I helped Fletcher's wife plant some of the flowers here and around the house, the hibiscus, the irises, and the lilies, all of them. The late Mrs. Hanson, she also thought it was vary calming here by the pond. Next to the grove this was her favorite place."

"Grove?" Sorrel didn't know anything about a grove.

"You've never seen the grove. We'll have to get Fletcher to show you. It was a place he and his wife would disappear to every now and then. I remember right after she died we couldn't find him. It took Marion, she found him in the grove. Diana's buried in the family section of the town cemetery, but Fletcher built a little memorial for her down there."

Sorrel gazed at the still water of the pond, "Diana. That was her name?"

Mary knelt on the ground beside some of the older flowers, "You would have liked her Sorrel. I know she would have liked you." 

Sorrel had a kind of wan look. "Was she nice? I mean was Fletcher's wife good?"

Mary looked away. "Yes, she was very nice, very good." There was a momentary pause as Mary recovered her poise. "Hey!" She said, "We're supposed to go shopping. Come on!"

Sorrel inquired, "Who decided we needed to go shopping?"

Mary answered, "Someone must have shown Fletcher Ms. Henderson's special room she had set up for you. He ordered it emptied; the furniture and all the pink clothing. He also told Byron to get rid of any other pink stuff he found lying around. Fletcher wants us to go to town and go shopping. He isn't satisfied that you have enough to wear." 

Sorrel looked back at the pond, "You don't say."

Mary replied, "Oh I do say, and now we better get going. He wants you back for dinner so he can personally drive you crazy."

Sorrel stood up, "Do I look all right to go out?"

Mary gave her a once over. Sorrel was wearing light blue sun-dress. The hem came to just about mid thigh. She had on a pair of sandals, no socks. The girl wasn't wearing any make up. Her hair was in a kind of modified braid, like a ponytail but the way it curled down and under it was like a queue too, "You look terrific. Come on."

Mary and Sorrel drove into town in Sorrel's car since Fletcher had taken his SUV and Mary's car was in the garage for repairs. It was a short drive, and the weather was beautiful. 

Mary explained there were a couple inexpensive boutiques where Fletcher's wife used to shop and where Marion still goes. They had a good selection of casual things, and always a few things that were for special occasions. She told Sorrel, "Fletcher said you could get any thing you wanted, but you had to buy at least two dresses for extra special situations." 

Sorrel was feeling pretty good. After last evening's conversation and confession she felt like a weight had been lifted from her. Mary believed she was innocent, and she was convinced Fletcher believed it too. But she wished she could prove her innocence rather than have these two just go on intuition and faith. She asked, "Mary. Do you think I'll get a chance to prove my innocence?"

Mary looked over at Sorrel, "Oh. I suppose somewhere along the way it'll all wash out. You heard Fletcher last night"

Sorrel protested, "I want to do it."

Mary looked around as they drove; she pointed to a nearby parking lot, "Sorrel, pull the car over there."

Sorrel slowed, turned into the lot, and parked the car, "OK."

Mary, carefully choosing her words, started, "Sorrel what I'm going to tell you is in the strictest confidence. Promise me you'll keep it a secret."

Mary had Sorrel's undivided attention, "I promise."

Mary began, "Fletcher's wife died just over two years ago. It was a long, slow, painful process. It almost killed him. Sorrel, he's a man. As a man he still thinks he can control events. You heard him last night. What did he do? Once everything came out he was on his feet hurling proclamations like they were stones. He would fix this. He would stop that. He would take care of it. You heard him."

Sorrel answered, "Yes."

Mary went on, "When his wife died it tore through him like a knife. She was everything to him. He ranted and railed against the cancer. He called, hired, and consulted with dozens of doctors, experts and specialists. It didn't matter. No one had an answer. When they ran out of alternatives he hired lawyers and threatened to sue every doctor, every nurse, every internist, and very hospital who wouldn't promise a cure. Of course, no one could promise what he wanted. He turned to religion, to faith healers, to pseudo-scientists of every order. He prayed. He paid. He yelled. He cursed. It didn't matter. She died."

Sorrel listened intently. Every word seemed to pierce like ice, "It must have been horrible for him."

Mary for once losing her patience, lashed out, "Horrible for him! He has three children! What about them? What do you think it did to them? They were losing their mother and their father! In his fear and grief they disappeared. Sorrel, when his wife died, it was as though he died too."

Sorrel spoke softly, more to herself than to Mary, "How terrible."

Mary went on, "It was nearly a year before Fletcher came out of hiding. He'd spend days in their bedroom. He'd disappear for weeks. No one knew where he was. After a year he slowly drifted back, slowly picked up the reins of parenthood, work."

Sorrel murmured, "How horrible for the children."

The older woman responded, "Yes it was horrible. It was horrible for Marion, for Robert, for Richard, and for Fletcher. But he did slowly recover. He never became his old self, but he did drift back."

Sorrel looked at Mary, "And the children?"

Mary answered, "They had lost their mother and it seemed like they'd lost their father, but he did come back. When he came back it was slow, physically first, and then emotionally. As for the children, they were there. They'd never left. They love their father." 

Sorrel was thoughtful, "I didn't know. I don't think anyone knew. Everybody at work is afraid of him. He's so ferocious. When I got into the inner circle, about a year ago, he was seen as a kind of ogre, like a Minotaur. You didn't dare talk to him. He might eat you." 

Mary went a little further, "You saw him last night. You know the jewelry you're wearing hides transmitters."

Sorrel looked down at the pinkie ring, "You're kidding. That's how he knew about Flail."

Mary revealed a little more, "Something has clicked in Fletcher. A week ago he was just alive. Two weeks ago, when they presented him with the material about you, it was just another betrayal. He didn't care. You were another insect to be crushed. Then the other day, the day of the picnic something happened. He started to care. He saw something, something in you. Maybe it was your helplessness, perhaps his suspicion of your innocence, perhaps some intimation that you were being betrayed. Who knows? I do know this. He's alive again. I mean really alive. Whoever authored your destruction triggered his resurrection, and I think your salvation."

Sorrel looked through the windshield off in the distance, "You're saying the proof of my guilt or innocence is out of my hands. It's as though I'm his wife. He couldn't save her, but through me, he might have another chance. He proves my innocence he proves himself."

Mary gave Sorrel a cool contemplative look, "That part of it, but there's something else. He likes you. I can see it in his face. He doesn't just care about proving that your innocent, he wants to do this because it's you."

Sorrel looked at Mary, "You think he's falling in love with me?"

Mary responded immediately, "Love is a big word. It's only four letters, but it's a long word, a deep word too. He loves his children. He loved his wife. He wants you, but I don't think love is part of the equation, at least not yet, and I want to warn you, don't you fall in love with him. He's a complicated man."

Sorrel grinned, "Don't worry about that."

Mary smiled back. She was worried about that. She was worried about exactly that. She changed the subject, "Let's shop."

Sorrel restarted the car and pulled back on the highway. The two of them spent the rest of the day going from store to store. Sorrel bought a little something everywhere they went. She bought shoes, slacks, dresses, lingerie, skirts, blouses, sweaters, and socks. She even bought a hat, something she'd seldom done before.

Mary joined her. It had been a while since she'd felt like buying anything, and for a while she matched Sorrel item for item. It was fun.

Fletcher Fumes and Makes a Decision:

Fletcher was at odds with himself. He was trying to figure things out. He remembered when he and Diana had gotten married. She was already carrying Marion. He was twenty and she was eighteen. Marion came along while he was still in college. Warner, his older brother, carried everybody's water in those days so he was able to finish school. 

Marion popped out when he was twenty-one. Now she was fourteen and he was thirty-five. Diana, if she had lived, would have been thirty four. They had been young and in love, but she died, and things never worked out. 

What was the deal with Sorrel? She had an older girl and a younger boy. He'd checked her records, she was twenty-eight. She'd finished her undergraduate work in three years, and whipped through her MBA in a year and a half. It made sense, she checked out well above the Mensa minimum of 140. Hell, her I.Q. was higher than his. 

It bothered him. How old was she when she got pregnant the first time? Eight? Nine? Shit this wasn't India. It wasn't South Carolina either. If she had an eleven year old daughter, then that made her what? Sixteen? If that was the case, then certainly her children, especially the girl, must still remember their mother. 

He decided to take a look into the Sorrel situation for himself. Leaving a note for Mary and Sorrel telling them he'd be gone for most of the day and not to plan on him for supper. He bought a ticket, flew to Sorrel's home town, where he rented a car to check the situation out. When he got there he was genuinely dismayed.

Sorrel's children were indeed living with their aunt and their father, but the kind of life they had wasn't much. They were living in a tenement, public housing, run down public housing. He knew something was wrong since he'd seen Sorrel's financial records; the anonymous checks she'd been sending. These kids should have been living in an upscale neighborhood, maybe even going to private schools. What he saw was real deprivation. Clearly someone was taking the money Sorrel had been sending and pissing it away. 

He watched the kids from a safe distance. He saw Sorrel in the little girl right away. The boy resembled her too. He didn't hang around, but decided when he got back to hire someone to look into the situation more closely. What was going on with these kids? What was their father doing? What was their aunt doing? 

As Fletcher flew back he made some decisions. First, Sorrel didn't need to know anything just yet, and second, those kids weren't going to be staying in the squalor he saw them in much longer. Third, they needed to be reunited with their mother, but most of all he needed to talk to Mary. She'd see the picture from a different angle.

Warren and Florence Put Their Heads Together:

Following the embarrassing morning at Fletcher's when Florence had attempted to initiate the first steps of their plan only to be partially thwarted; Florence and Warren had agreed to hold a separate meeting. As they sat together in Warren's big private office they both agreed Fletcher couldn't be trusted to carry out his end of the plan.

Warren leaned back in his big leather office chair, "I'm sorry you were obstructed by my brother the other morning. I hadn't given Fletcher any thought, but I suppose, what with his own children around and his squeamish nature, some second thoughts, some self doubt, might have crept into his perception of our plan."

Florence listened to Warren, but kept her thoughts to herself. In fact, she wasn't sure she wanted to go through with the plan either. She'd checked and rechecked the documentation that condemned the young woman, and it didn't make any sense. Yet someone had been plotting to ruin the company, who else could it have been? 

She asked, "Are you going to do it, or do you want me?"

Warren smiled at Florence. She'd always been the loyal employee. There had been a time when he would have married her, but Mildred brought money and influence. The choice was a no brainer. He replied, "I'll set things up at the facility. You and my wife arrange for the woman's delivery to my house." He couldn't bring himself to use the young woman's name. He even didn't like what they had in mind, but he knew it had to be done.

"Is there any great hurry?" asked Florence.

Warren leaned forward, "Let's not keep the party waiting too long, Fletcher's such a pushover, but it will be a delicate procedure. I'll call you about this on your cellular telephone; say within the next two weeks."

Florence was nonplussed, "Two weeks?"

"It's not an easy thing getting a civilian into a secret military facility, the necessary screening, and then the deportation. We want to do this the right way. No foul ups. No trail."

Florence wasn't relieved, "I'll wait for your call."

Warren stood up and started for his office door, "Until then its business as usual."

Florence answered, "Business as usual."

For Florence it wasn't going to be business as usual. She had some thinking to do, some calls to make, and she had to wrest Sorrel away from Fletcher.

Fletcher Gets Home Late:

Tired and worried, Fletcher pulled in the driveway a little after 11:00 p.m. He wondered if Mary was still up; he really wanted to talk to her, and felt like it couldn't wait. Walking in the front door he found both Mary and Sorrel curled up on the sofa and loveseat watching some old movie. Glad to see them awake, he said, "Hi! Sorry I'm so late. It was something that had to be looked into." 

Sorrel, half asleep yawned and stretched, "We waited dinner for you as long as we could, but the kids were ravenous." Still yawning she added, "We had Sloppy Joes. Want us to reheat it for you?"

Fletcher walked to the sofa and stood in front of her, "Come here." 

Sorrel, still in her sundress and tennis shoes slowly got up.

Before she knew what was happening Fletcher had her wrapped in his arms. He took his right hand and fluffed the several errant locks of hair that had tumbled down around her face away, "That's very thoughtful Sorrel, but I need to talk to Mary right now." 

Sorrel was dumbfounded. He was affectionately holding her in his arms; a totally unexpected act, "Is this where I'm supposed to say good night and go to my room?"

Fletcher kept holding her. He had no idea why he'd behaved so rashly, "We'll talk in the morning." 

Sorrel broke free, stepped back and said, "OK." Turning to Mary, "Well I guess that does it."

Mary had been watching the whole exchange. Something was weighing heavily on Fletcher; so heavily he'd allowed his innermost emotions to leap forward. It had affected Sorrel, but she couldn't tell exactly how. Sorrel was sure surprised, and she enjoyed it too, at least at first, then she stiffened. 

Once Sorrel was out of the room, Mary asked, "So, where have you been, and what's on your mind?"

"I went to see where Sorrel's children were living." He sat on the sofa, "I don't like it Mary."

Mary joined him on the couch, "Tell me about it."

He leaned back and put his arm up on the back of the sofa, "They're definitely her kids. One look and I could tell. The little girl is her spitting image. The boy is hers too. What' so bad is the way they've had to live. I know how much money Sorrel has been sending, and believe me, there's no justification for the squalor. Somebody's taking the money and pissing it away, and I think I know who."

"What are you going to do about it?"

He paused, but only for effect. He'd made up his mind on the way home, "We know the truth; we just can't prove it." He waited another second, then went into what he had planned, "I'm going to reopen the records. Sorrel and I will go through everything together. Mostly I think I'll let her. Two of the others have already talked to me, one being Flail's father, and they don't see the logic in the evidence either. I'm going to get them to start scouting around from the outside. Maybe something will turn up that way."

Mary didn't want to hear about what she already knew he'd planned. She interrupted, "So what about her kids?"

"We're going to get them and bring here."

"What about their father? Won't he have something to say?" 

Fletcher blanched, "Not when I'm through. When I'm done he'll be only too anxious to let them go."

Mary didn't like the tone of Fletcher's voice, "What are you planning?"

He gave her a dumb look, "I don't know yet. What do you think?"

Mary didn't hesitate, "Money, money first. Then find him something to do; a half way decent job, and get his sister out of the picture. Buy her off too."

Fletcher answered, "I thought about all that. My only concern is bow Sorrel might handle it. We both know she's afraid to face them. I mean her kids."

Mary was quick again, "She's got to do it. She won't ever get straightened out till she faces what she's done. Sure it'll be tough, but I have a hunch she won't have to face them alone."

"No, we'll be there for her." 

Mary stopped him, "Not we, you."

"You won't help?"

Mary put her hand on Fletcher's arm, "Of course I'll be nearby, but this is your call."

Fletcher pulled Mary in his arms, and stuffed his face on her shoulder, "I miss her so. I still miss her. It's been two years, and I still can't get to sleep at night without her on my mind." 

Mary held her closest friend tightly, "I know, I know, but the woman upstairs is someone else entirely. She can't replace what you and Diana had, and she shouldn't. She shouldn't and she won't, but you're helping her will do you both a lot of good." 

She pushed Fletcher away, "She doesn't feel about you the way you think she does. She doesn't trust men, and she may never. But you can make her life better. You can help her."

Fletcher hugged her again, but more in a fraternal way, "You're right Mary. We'll get her name cleared, get her kids back for her, help her reconcile with them, and then let her fly."

Mary let Fletcher hold her, "That's my Fletcher."

Around the corner on the stairway sat Sorrel. She knew they'd be talking about her. She'd eavesdropped. She wished she hadn't. She slipped up the steps silently. She had a lot on her mind. 

An invitation comes from Gwyneth:

Several days after the incident with Flail Fletcher got a second call from someone interested in Sorrel. Gwyneth Coburn, Charles wife, called asking after Sorrel. Gwyneth and her sister Hannah were interested in having Sorrel over for dinner. Charles was going to be out of town, and the two women thought it would be a good opportunity to meet Sorrel and get better acquainted. 

Fletcher, of course, knew the real reason behind their interest in Sorrel, both of these women were sexually attracted to other women, they probably thought Sorrel would be a good companion. If not that, then their natural curiosity had been tweaked, and they wanted to dig up as much about what might be happening to Sorrel as they could. 

Either way, to Fletcher, it looked like this was the kind of offer that just couldn't be refused. Putting the women off was just the kind of thing that might arouse suspicion about how Sorrel really was being treated. After all, her residency at Fletcher's was supposed to be a kind of purgatory before the final axe fell. If he and his cohorts, meaning Mary mostly, were trying to keep Sorrel to themselves it might be construed as an attempt to protect her, and that suspicion, even though it was true, could never be given any foundation.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 06



The fact that Sorrel had little interest in sex of any kind, man or woman, had probably never entered into their calculations. Sorrel would be a companion, probably some kind participant in an all female extravaganza. Fletcher knew these two women, at least on a casual basis. Neither of them, in his uneducated opinion was a serious threat to Sorrel's well being, but he considered allowing Sorrel to enter their little web might not be in her best interest. 

The offer from the two women presented something of a conundrum. He was worried about the fragility of her current state of mind. However, owing to Sorrel's status he knew he couldn't prevent her being exposed to these two lady's attentions. On the one hand he believed he had a good handle on Sorrel's natural sexual proclivities, but on the other hand she might entertain the thought of at least being away from his constant, and as she had said on several occasions, overbearing supervision. 

He had to admit what really annoyed him about the invitation wasn't his fear for her emotional well being, or the chance she might consider some kind of lesbian tryst; it annoyed him that she'd be away from him, not nearby. It galled him to have to admit that he'd become increasingly jealous of anybody other than himself paying any attention to her. He was acting like somebody's damned dog, panicking whenever anybody got too near their master.

Regardless, she had to be told of what was really a subtle command even if it had been couched as a companionable invitation. If she wanted to go, he knew he couldn't prevent the visit, if that is what it could be called. If, contrarily, she didn't want to go lest something unpleasant or untoward were to occur, then some kind of provision, other than a repeat of another intrusion akin to what happened with Flail would have to be contrived. Fortunately, since Gwyneth hadn't set a specific date there was time to discuss this with Sorrel, and time to get her opinion.

That evening, at the dinner table, with Sorrel, Mary, Marion, and the boys all present Fletcher brought up Gwyneth's telephone message. He started this way, "By the way Sorrel, I got a phone call from Gwyneth this morning."

Indifferently, Sorrel responded, "Oh. What did she want?"

Fletcher, keeping it as casual as possible said, "She and her sister Hannah were interested in having a get together; kind of a get to know you party."

Sorrel asked. "What she wants you and I to sort of go over as a kind of, let's say, informal couple?"

Fletcher thought that might be a good idea. He would have liked that, but he had to answer differently, "No, they only want to see you."

Sorrel looked across the table where the boys and Marion were sitting, "That sounds like a nice invitation. Maybe you and I could discuss it later in the living room."

Fletcher got the inference, "Good idea, maybe over coffee later."

Marion interrupted, "Uh oh, I get the impression this is something not meant for younger ears."

Fletcher smiled over at Marion, "Very perceptive little chipmunk."

Marion grimaced at the name. It was something she'd been called when much younger because she was always over stuffing her mouth when eating. 

She gave an insouciant reply, "Hey Daddy. Little chipmunk wants coffee with the grown ups tonight." Fletcher answered, "No, no coffee for little chipmunk tonight."

Sorrel wanted to assert something. First she was thinking maybe it was time for her to spread her wings at some of these evening dinner table talks; like get her two cents in once in a while. Then she thought maybe Marion was probably old enough to understand what would be discussed, and just maybe she might have an idea. Last, she wanted to knock old Mr. I'm Always in Charge down a peg. She said, "Fletcher. I'd like Marion's input tonight."

Fletcher frowned, "No."

Marion chipped in, "Dad. I know what the conversation's going to be about. I'm not an idiot."

Fletcher insisted, "No, and that's that."

Sorrel chimed in, "I think she could offer some insight."

Fletcher was gritting his teeth, and his knuckles were white in two clenched fists, "Who's the parent here?"

Robert, the younger brother stepped up, "If Marion can get in I want to too."

Richard punched his brother, "Shut up stupid. They're talking about Sorrel going out with a couple of dikes."

Robert laughed, "Sorrel's going out with lesbos. Oh wow!" 

Fletcher lost it. He shouted, "Shut up, shut up, all of you!"

Richard started to say something, "I don't see..."

His father pointed his finger at his son, "Not another word." The he turned to Sorrel, "Maybe I ought to let you go. I'm sure they'll take real good care of you."

Mary stepped had to step in, "Fletcher, boys, please." Then she turned to Marion, "You can come."

Fletcher threw his fork, "My house, my kid, and I have no say."

Mary gave him a stern look, "Not now, later."

Sorrel felt pretty good. She'd gotten her way. Smiling, looking neither to the right nor the left she just quietly took her fork and stirred what was left of her food. 

The dinner time meal went on for several more minutes in icy silence.

The Big Pow Wow:

That evening, after the boys had drifted off for homework and sleep, Marion, Mary, Sorrel, and Fletcher sat around the kitchen table to discuss Gwyneth's invitation.

Fletcher opened, "It seems like I'm in here all the time now deciding what we're to do with Sorrel."

Sorrel sarcastically quipped, "Its hard being a God."

Mary interrupted Sorrel before she could go any further, "Let's get on track. Two lesbians want to invite Sorrel over for an evening. Does anyone doubt what it might be about?"

Sorrel answered, "I don't know. Gwyneth and I have met before. She doesn't seem like the overly aggressive type. It might be just what it seems, a casual get together."

Marion asked, "Did they ever invite you out before?"

Sorrel answered, "No, but that might be because I worked with Charles as an equal partner."

Marion stepped up again, "And now you're what?"

Sorrel didn't respond. She held the hurt inside. 

Fletcher picked up the ball, "Sorrel's right Gwyneth isn't a danger, but Hannah sure is." 

Mary queried, "You think Hannah's using Gwyneth to pull in Sorrel for some kind of threesome."

Fletcher interrupted, "Does Marion really have to be here?"

Marion interrupted her father, "Yes I do, and I've got the solution."

Fletcher interrupted his daughter, "Great, Squirt not only has to sit in on a discussion about which she knows nothing and is much too young. Now she says she has a solution when we're not even sure we have a problem."

Marion stopped her father again, "Oh we have a problem. Those two women want to take advantage of our Sorrel. Things could get ugly if they had a free reign, but I have a solution that can't fail."

Sorrel wasn't sure how to interpret what Marion had just said. Was she 'our Sorrel' like a member of the family, if that was the case she felt terrific. Then did she mean 'our Sorrel' like she's our property and we don't want to share. Sorrel had to say something, "I understand they have me, just like all of you have me, but I think I can handle this myself."

Marion was alert to what Sorrel meant, "We don't have you like they do. I know you haven't been here long, and the reason you're here is for something bad, but we don't have you like they do. When I said we have you, I meant we have you like we care about you. I like you Sorrel. I mean I love Mary she's been like a mother since my real mom died. But I like you in another way."

As her emotions crept in she started to stumble over her words, "I mean you're not like my mother. You could never be her. I mean I'm not jealous you're here. Some kids would be, but I'm not." 

Her eyes were juicing up. "I mean." 

She stopped talking. She got up and walked around the table to where Sorrel was sitting. 

Sorrel looked at Marion as she walked toward her. She was unsure. She thought she'd treated Marion like a young adult. She had tried to show respect. What had she done wrong she wondered.

Marion walked around to Sorrel. She could see Sorrel's eyes widening. When she got over next to Sorrel she leaned over and wrapped her arms around her. She hugged her, and the she kissed her neck. She whispered, "I don't want you to leave. I mean I want you to just stay here and live with us."

Sorrel was overwhelmed. She had no idea Marion felt this strongly. She had nothing to say. Her eyes filled with tears. She wrapped her arms around the sixteen- year- old. 

For several seconds they embraced; a teenager and a thirty something. Nothing was said, nothing had to be said. There had been an empty space in Marion's life. Somehow Sorrel, without knowing and without consciously trying, was, at least for now, filling that space.

Fletcher sat there, befuddled again. He felt much the same way, but he couldn't articulate it."

It was Mary, always Mary, who broke the ice, "Marion? You had a solution?"

Marion stood up and stepped away. She wiped her eyes. Sorrel was wiping her eyes too, "Yes I do. It's simple. Look, if Gwyneth and her sister want Sorrel for something they shouldn't, what would be the one thing that would stop them?"

All three, Sorrel, Mary, and Fletcher just sat there looking at Marion. No one had a clue. 

Marion answered her own question, "Me."

Fletcher gesticulated, "You"

Mary asked quizzically, "You?"

Sorrel scowled, "You want to go too."

Marion laughed, "Exactly, I go along. We'll make up an excuse. We'll say Dad took the boys out, and Mary had to go somewhere with someone. I'm much too young to be left home alone. The solution, Sorrel takes me to Gwyneth's."

Mary leaned over and pretended like she was pushing Fletcher's jaw back up. Staring at him she said, "And you didn't want her here."

Sorrel looked concerned, "What would we do?"

Marion answered, "That's the easy part. There will be four of us. We'll all play bridge. We'll play bridge all night. Later in the evening we even suggest a second date at our house for another round. I tell you. It'll blow them away!" 

Fletcher listened to his daughter with rapt attention. What a brilliant young mind, just like her mother. He smiled at his daughter, "Remind me to increase your allowance."

Marion quipped, "I don't get an allowance."

Fletcher retorted, "Well if you did, I'd increase it."

Sorrel was lost, "How does she get her money?"

Marion, Fletcher, and Mary all laughed. 

Marion answered, "I have my own credit card silly."

Then Sorrel laughed too.

Mary looked around the table, "That's the way it should be. Have a problem? Hold a Pow-wow. Find a solution, then all go to bed." She looked over at Marion, "Good night Marion."

Marion knew it was time to become a child again. She got up, first she kissed her Dad, then Mary, and last she went around and kissed Sorrel. As she made for the stairs she said, "Good night everybody." Glancing back at Sorrel she added, "I love you all." 

Mary picked up the dirty dishes and placed them in the sink, "Leave them there, I'll get them in the morning." Looking at both Fletcher and Sorrel she finished, "Don't stay up too late."

Fletcher and Sorrel sat at the table across from each other. Neither said anything. There was a lot Fletcher wanted to say. He wanted to tell Sorrel a lot of things. He was just too afraid to open his mouth. Sorrel sat stiffly, not knowing what to do. She hoped Fletcher wouldn't say anything. She hoped he'd just go to bed. If he started talking now she wasn't sure what she'd say. He still frightened her, but she was becoming more afraid of herself each day that passed.

Finally Fletcher did open his mouth, "I was thinking of taking the boys fishing in a day or two. Would you like to come?"

Sorrel's eyes were watering up again, "Yes, I'd like that."

Fletcher saw the affect his question was having on her. He knew it was time to cut and run, "Well I better get to bed." He got up and left the kitchen just about as fast as he could.

Sorrel sat in the kitchen alone, 'He'd been out to see her kids. He was planning something. He was worried about her. He was genuinely concerned. He was really honest to God concerned about her. He cared. She cared too.' She suddenly realized she cared about him. She cared about him a lot. It scared her. She felt terrible, like she wanted to run away again like she'd done when she'd left her kids. She knew she wouldn't run this time. She couldn't. She didn't dare. Too much was at stake, and she realized she wasn't all alone anymore. Tears were dribbling around the edges of her eyes. She wasn't alone. It was like she had a family. 'Oh please' she prayed, 'don't let me mess this up.' She got up and went upstairs.



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 07



A few days later Fletcher got a second call from Gwyneth. They wanted to invite Sorrel that Friday night. It would be just Sorrel, Gwyneth, and Hannah. They'd get together, chat, and perhaps go out for drinks. Fletcher hadn't expected a second call so soon. He didn't know what to say so he stalled. He made up a story that Sorrel might be busy, and he'd have her call back.

When Sorrel got word she called back saying she'd be delighted to go over. She suggested an early start, say 7:00. Gwyneth agreed; the time and date had been set, Friday at 7:00.

Just as Sorrel and Marion had planned when Friday rolled around at 5:30 Sorrel called back. She explained Fletcher and Mary were both away and Byron had the boys. She couldn't leave Marion home alone all night. Would it be all right if she brought her along?

Gwyneth hadn't planned for that, but agreed. Perhaps, Sorrel suggested, the four of them could find something they all could do?

It had been settled. Sorrel would have a chaperon. Whatever plans Gwyneth and Hannah originally had arranged would, by necessity, have to be put on hold.



The drive to Gwyneth's went quietly. Marion and Sorrel were both a little anxious about the evening. Sorrel wanted to keep Marion as much in the dark as she could about her circumstances, but she knew Gwyneth was a talker and a digger. 

Marion was a digger too. She still knew very little about Sorrel's situation. She hoped to gain a little more insight through Gwyneth, a woman she knew to be incapable of keeping anything quiet.



They reached Gwyneth's at 7:00 sharp. The two hostesses had snacks and drinks on the table. There were chips, dip, and other munchies. Drinks included an array of whiskeys and nonalcoholic sodas. When asked Sorrel eschewed anything stronger than a white wine. Her excuse being that later she'd have to drive Marion home and Fletcher would kill her if she got loopy and tried to drive with his daughter in the car. 

Sorrel's excuses made sense, but still didn't sit well with Hannah and Gwyneth, both of whom wanted to get Sorrel loose. Their original plan was to get her loose enough to consider a three way, but with Marion around and that being out; they still hoped to get her at least high enough to open up about what was happening with regard to her future. That still wouldn't deter them from pumping as much information from their two guests as possible. In fact, Gwyneth figured, Marion might be a better source of information than Sorrel.

Everyone agreed to sit and chat a while, and maybe later play some cards; but instead of bridge, poker turned out to be the game of choice. Sorrel at first was reluctant to let Marion get involved in any gambling games, afraid of what Fletcher's reaction might be, but she was overruled by the collective suasion of the other three.

Chat time revealed very little. Gwyneth was something of a crafts freak, and went on and on about flower baskets, sewing, and, of all things, the new loom she'd bought. Hannah was a health nut, sports like handball, golf, and aerobics kept her free time covered. Marion was the real pistol. There wasn't anything she didn't have at least a passing interest in, from lacrosse and baseball, to reading and poetry she dabbled in almost everything and anything. Sorrel figured that made sense. Marion was only fourteen. Everything was new to her. Sorrel acknowledged her only non-business interests had been puzzles like math games and crosswords. 



Out of small talk the ladies at last agreed to go to the gaming table and try their luck at cards. While Hannah, Sorrel, and Marion collected around the table, Gwyneth put in a pizza and got the cards.

They played nickel and dime poker for a little over an hour, but no one really got an upper hand. Hannah won the most pots, but Marion won the biggest. By 9:00 the party seemed to be running out of steam. It was about that time Marion got a bright idea.

Marion got a new kind of game started, "I'm tired of playing for money. Why don't we up the ante?" 

Gwyneth saw the possibilities, "Why don't we keep playing cards, but throw in a new wrinkle?"

Sorrel's antenna went up.

Hannah prevented any possible rebuttal, "Let's play poker 'truth or dare'?"

"What?" asked Gwyneth?

This was the opportunity Marion envisioned and she grabbed it, "Sure, say I win a hand. I turn to one of you and ask a question or make a dare. You get to choose between the question and the dare."

Sorrel remonstrated, "I don't know."

"Sure, it'll be fun," countered Hannah.

Sorrel had been overruled, but not before she got a condition injected that the challenges and questions had to be harmless; nothing too personal.



The truth or dare poker went along harmlessly for several rounds, but there was this sense of inevitability that sooner or later the questioning was going to turn to Sorrel.

After winning a hand of five-card draw Gwyneth asked, "Sorrel I have a question for you."

Sorrel had been playing along, and so far no one had tried to pry, "Yes?"

"How has Fletcher been treating you since the party at Steve's?"

Sorrel's eyes widened, "No special way."

That was the question Marion had been looking for. It ended the game then and there. She looked at Gwyneth, "How is my Dad supposed to treat her?"

Gwyneth looked at Sorrel, "You want to answer that or should I?"

Sorrel was in no way interested in making any personal contributions to this line of conversation. She thought she'd let the topic die on its own, "You can."

Gwyneth looked at Marion, "Your father is supposed to be punishing her."

Marion figured something like that, but had no clue beyond her own imagination, "Oh he is punishing her, he makes her take out the trash, wash the clothes, do the dishes, and baby sit."

Hannah was the on site bitch for the evening, "Really, I would have expected a lot worse, I mean after what she's done."

Sorrel tried to change the subject, "That's it, time to change the subject."

The door was ajar, and Marion kicked it in. Completely forgetting the affect it might have on the rest of the evening, her father, or any future relationship she might have with Sorrel she asked, "What was Sorrel supposed to have done?"

Gwyneth responded incredulously, "You don't know?"

"No I don't," replied Marion.

Hannah, smiling malevolently, started to say something.

Sorrel pushed her chair back, "Hannah no."

"You don't think she has a right to know?" queried Gwyneth.

"That's her father's call not yours or mine," answered Sorrel.

Looking back and forth between Sorrel, Gwyneth, and Hannah Marion interrupted, "No tell me now." 

Sorrel, her voice an octave higher, said, "Let your father do that Marion. He will if you ask him."

Marion wanted to know, and she wanted to know right away. She was a good kid, and she was mature for fourteen, but her adolescent need for immediate gratification was overwhelming her normally good judgment. She looked at Gwyneth, "Tell me."

Sorrel looked at Marion, "If you drop this now, I promise I'll tell you myself later."

Marion's childishness was bleeding all over the table, "No, they can tell me now." She totally lost her sense of perspective, "Besides, how do I know you'll tell me the truth?" 

Sorrel was mortified, utterly devastated. She'd thought she had a good rapport with Marion. Marion had just figuratively ripped open her blouse and plunged in a knife. She didn't know how to react, or what to say. In almost a whisper she said, "I wouldn't lie to you. You know that." 

Too late Marion realized she'd gone over the edge. She'd betrayed Sorrel, and in the worst possible way, in front of people Sorrel had worked with, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

The evening was over. It was ruined. There was no reason to hang around. Sorrel looked at Gwyneth and Hannah, "I'm sorry. I think its time for Marion and me to go home."

Gwyneth tried to put a good face on things. She hadn't gotten any information, and wanted to keep the two of them around, "Oh come on. Stay." She looked at Hannah, "Go ahead; it's your turn to shuffle."

Sorrel was through, "No we have to leave. Come on Marion."

Marion got up to go. She knew she'd gone over the line. She'd hurt Sorrel, and she'd hurt her badly, "OK."

As they were all getting up Hannah, like the serpent she was, took one last swipe, "Oh by the way. Sorrel, you remember the outfit you left at Steve and Cynthia's"

Sorrel looked at Hannah. She said nothing.

Hannah, fangs already in the flesh, injected the venom, "She had to throw the thing away, said she couldn't get Fletcher's urine smell out." 

Marion, now out of genuine curiosity turned to Hannah, "Urine?"

Hannah sealed the deal, "You didn't know? Your girlfriend here hasn't told you? Your father pissed all over her, the other day at Steve and Cynthia's party."

"My Dad peed on Sorrel?"

Hannah wickedly smiled, "Head to foot; made her kneel in front of him to do it."

Marion retaliated. Not her Dad. Her Dad would never do anything like that, "My Dad would never do that! That's a lie!" She looked at Sorrel, "Tell her she's lying!"

Sorrel stood mute, white as a sheet. She looked at Gwyneth, "Thanks for the evening. We'll see you around." Looking to Marion, "Come on, let's go."

Marion was in a state of shock. Sorrel hadn't refuted Hannah's claim. Her father would never do anything like that. She looked at Sorrel. She flinched back. "My Dad would never do that! Not my Dad! If he did, then you must have done something really wrong, something terrible!" 

Sorrel reached out her hand, "Come on honey."

"I'm not your honey! You're not my Mom! Don't touch me!" Marion was so angry she was shaking. She didn't understand. She didn't understand anything!

Hannah's evening was complete. She'd ruined something fine, clean, and genuinely wholesome.

This was not what Gwyneth wanted. Fletcher wouldn't like this. She knew it would affect her at work.

Sorrel didn't know what to say. Marion had rejected her. She was losing something here, and couldn't figure out what or how much. She needed help, "Marion let's go."

Marion was confused. If her father did do what Hannah said, then Sorrel must be really awful. But if Sorrel was so awful why was everybody at home being so nice to her? She wanted to hit the woman standing beside her. She wanted to hug and hold her too. She wanted to cry. She wanted her mother. 

Once they got in the car Marion turned on Sorrel, "OK, I want to know everything."

Sorrel kept her eyes on the road, "Wait till we get home."

"No tell me now."

"Ask your father."

"No, you tell me."

Sorrel looked down at the ring on her pinkie. She felt the necklace around her neck, "I have a hunch your father already knows what happened tonight, and already has something he wants to say."

Marion was angry, hurt, and feeling a little guilty too, "You're not telling me?"

Sorrel answered, "No."

Marion turned and faced the front. Looking out the windshield she shouted, "I hate you!"

Sorrel wanted to cry. She wanted to stop the car and plead with the girl. She had to say something, "It's OK, I love you."

Marion ripped back, "You don't love me! You don't love anybody, and nobody loves you!"

Sorrel realized she didn't want to cry after all. She'd had enough personalized pity party's. Somewhere along the line she'd changed. The center of her universe was no longer Sorrel Sullivan. Her new polarity had become the confused girl sitting in the car next to her. 

Like a bolt from the blue; it dawned on her, she really did love this young girl. She told her too, "No Marion, I really do. I really do love you."

Marion was too busy being a child to understand, "Yeah, sure." She was mad, and she was insanely unhappy, and didn't know why, "Well I hate you!"

It was gut wrenching to hear it, but Sorrel knew she didn't mean it. She peaked back down at her pinkie finger. She hoped Fletcher had been electronically eavesdropping. She certainly needed the help. 



Regrettably, he hadn't been listening. Fletcher had been in a meeting with Pearce and Charles about something else related to Sorrel. He had no idea what had blown up at Gwyneth's.



The two women continued home in awkward silence; one an angry teenager, a young girl unsure of her father, missing her mother, and feeling terribly alone, the one, older, unsure, wanting to share her love, but just as alone. 

The younger person felt betrayed and needed reassurance from someone, but she couldn't quite figure out what for. Sorrel decided this was Fetcher's child, and though she wished she could help, it was Fletcher's responsibility, but she'd be there if needed. 

Fletcher was meeting with Charles and Pearce. This was their second meeting concerning Sorrel's situation. None of them could quite figure out what was wrong. They all knew they were uncomfortable. Like Mary and Fletcher, both Pearce and Charles agreed the whole thing was too clean, too thorough, too complete to be real. Something was just not right. 

Charles decided to go outside the company. He'd contact all the people Sorrel worked with. Using as an excuse she was sick, and he was covering while she was out, he'd try to find out what he could.

Pearce agreed to reexamine all the paperwork, rehear all the tapes, and get a new outside source to listen through the tapes for possible tampering. He said he'd find a reliable, discreet, source, and if anything turned up he'd let them know.

Fletcher said he'd dig back into the computer banks, both his and Sorrel's, to see what he might pick up. He was convinced, somewhere out there, he'd find a clue, an unturned rock, a mistake, an oversight, something, or anything that might cast doubt on what they already had.



Fletcher got home close to midnight. Sorrel and Marion had been home well over an hour. Sorrel was waiting in the kitchen. Marion had gone upstairs.

He'd hardly gotten in the front door when she called out, "Fletcher, is that you?"

"Yes, why are you still up? How did the party go?"

"Horribly, we need to talk."

Fletcher was tired. It had been a busy day. He thought he'd have good news for Sorrel. Now this, "Can't it wait till morning?"

"No we need to talk. I need you."

He came in and sat down, "Look I'm exhausted. This had better be important."

Sorrel didn't know quite how to tell him, so she just let it out, "Hannah told Marion you peed on me. Now she's angry. She wants to know what I'm supposed to have done. Why I'm here, and why, if I'm so bad, why am I treated so well."

Fletcher had regretted the urine trick as soon as he'd done it, but he never thought it would get back to any of his kids, "Is Marion awake? Tell her to come downstairs."

Sorrel went to the bottom of the steps and called out, "Marion are you awake?"

She was awake. She'd heard her father when he came in. She'd been waiting, wondering of Sorrel would tell him anything. It was a test. If she told her father tonight then, maybe, she wasn't that bad, "I'm awake."

"Your father wants to see you."

Marion called down, "Are you going to be there?"

That hurt, but Sorrel answered, "Not if you don't want me."

Marion was halfway down the steps, "I don't want you." She walked by the woman like she didn't exist.

Fletcher had heard the exchange, as his daughter walked in he said, "I want her."

Marion looked like she'd been crying, and she had, "I don't see why we need her."

Fletcher was tired, and not into negotiation, "Sit down Marion, and shut up."

Marion looked pleadingly at her father; then she glared at Sorrel. She didn't exactly know why she did it, she just felt she should. She shot at her, "You're not my mother; I hardly know you. Why don't you leave?"

Fletcher spoke tenderly, "Marion, please sit down." In a way he was glad Mary wasn't home. It would have been harder explaining what he'd done in front of her too.

Marion sat down, but refused to look at Sorrel, "I want her to leave. She doesn't belong here. She's not a part of our family."

He could tell his daughter was really upset. She was having some kind of crisis that was for sure. He just didn't know what kind. He hoped he got this right. Looking at Sorrel he said, "You sit down too."

Sorrel looked at him, "You're sure?"

He responded, "Absolutely."

Marion started say something.

Fletcher glared at his daughter, "You shut up" turning again to Sorrel, "and you sit."

Marion shut up, and Sorrel sat down.

Fletcher sat in a chair beside his daughter. His demeanor immediately changed from overbearing autocrat to sympathetic Dad, "Marion you're my daughter, and I love you. Now listen. I'm going to tell you everything. When I'm through you'll decide about whether Sorrel should stay, leave, or whatever."

Sorrel was wracked with nervous tension. She was tired, and she felt like her head was about to explode. She didn't want an angry teenager making that kind of decision, but it was a mark of the man that he trusted his daughter so much. She never dreamed she'd ever have this much respect for Fletcher. Regardless of what he said or what Marion decided she wanted very much to be a part of this family, even if only as a hanger on, certainly she could hope for nothing more.

"Marion," Fletcher began, "a few weeks ago Ms. Henderson came to us with a report that implicated Sorrel in a massive swindle of the company. We all studied it, and concluded Sorrel was guilty. The other day at Steve and Cynthia's we confronted her. She denied everything." 

He waited for effect, then continued, "The evidence was, and is, pretty damning. We decided she was guilty, but agreed to keep it secret. I mean keep it from going public. We decided to find a way to get rid of Sorrel, get rid of her in a permanent way."

Marion interrupted, "What like kill her?"

"No worse, I think," answered Fletcher.

"What were you going to do?" asked Marion.

Fletcher held up a hand, "Hold it. I'll come to that. First, we all thought she was guilty. It fell on me to be the tyrant, the one who'd regulate her life till we ruined it for good."

Marion was really upset. She looked scared, "Did you really pee on her Daddy?"

Shit he thought. It would be Daddy now, "Yes I did. But I did for effect. I was supposed to scare her, really make her afraid. Start to make her unravel emotionally." 

He glanced at Sorrel. She wasn't handling this any better than Marion, "Yeah I peed on her, but I was sorry I did it almost right away." He looked directly at her, "I'm sorry Sorrel; I really am." He hesitated then continued, "Like I said at the Vasquals. I'm sorry. I meant it then, and I mean it now."

He looked back at his daughter, "That was a part of the plan."

"What plan Daddy?"

This had to be about the worst day of his life since Diana died. He decided to tell it all, even to Marion, "Sorrel's mental health was frail that day. We figured." He stopped, "No one knows this except me, Florence and your uncle." 

Why was he telling her this? Like a fool he went on, "We planned on causing a mental collapse, have her evaluated as being out of her mind, we have the doctors, and we'd have them lock her away forever in some government run overseas mental facility." 

His gaze shifted back to Sorrel. She looked terrified, "She'd be locked away in a foreign country, gone forever. No one would ever know what happened to her. She'd simply disappear, cease to exist."

He behaved as though he was talking to his fourteen year old daughter, but he was looking at and walking toward Sorrel, "She has no family, no friends, no contacts, nothing. No one would miss her. She'd simply vanish, and the failed fraud would vanish with her."

Sorrel was seated, completely immobilized. Though her body was shaking, she couldn't seem to move. Only her shaking hands and her quivering frame seemed to move.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 07



Fletcher stood in front of Sorrel, but he was talking to Marion, "That was the original plan." He hesitated, "But." He was clawing for the right words, "But I started to believe her when she said she was innocent. I don't know exactly when I believed her, maybe in the car on the way home, maybe later that night, certainly by the time Ms. Henderson arrived the next morning. Anyway, I'd made up my mind. She kept crying. She kept claiming she was innocent, I believed her."

He looked back at his daughter. His little girl, "Ms. Henderson and Uncle Warren still think we're going to do it, put her away." He paused. He looked back at Sorrel, "But we're not."

Fletcher sat down. He felt so relieved, but he felt so damn bad too, "Pearce Vasquals and Charles MacNamara are already reinvestigating the evidence we were given." 

He looked again at Sorrel, "I've already hired detectives to see your husband, and bring your children here."

He looked back at Marion, "So you see I've been doing some pretty bad things, but that's all stopped. Sorrel is innocent. She's clean Marion. I'm the monster here."

Sorrel felt so overwhelmed, like she would pass out. She had to maintain control. This was a horrible story, but good too, in a weird way, like when the dragon decides at the last minute not to breathe on the innocent maiden and burn her to a crisp. Then it really scared her! She was the innocent maiden!

Marion had listened. What he'd said scared her. Most of it didn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense. That didn't seem to matter. She new her father wasn't perfect. He'd been sick ever since Mom had died, but she knew he'd never hurt anyone, and he hadn't. Yeah he peed on Sorrel, but he'd sort of rescued her too. She was just suddenly very tired, and she had a headache.

She loved her Dad, and she knew for sure she didn't want Sorrel to leave, "Can I go to back to bed now?"

Fletcher asked, "What about Sorrel?"

Marian looked at her Dad. She looked at Sorrel. She looked back at her Dad, "I want her to stay."

Sorrel burst into tears.

Marion and Fletcher both rushed to where she was sitting.

Fletcher said, "Come on no tears now."

Marion was crying too, but added, "Don't cry Sorrel."

It was tough, but Sorrel worked at it. She got her tears under control.

Marion was hugging her, "I love you. I love you Sorrel." She looked at her Dad, "I don't want to sleep alone. Can Sorrel stay upstairs in my bed?"

"You two sleep in my old bed." He looked at Sorrel, "We need to talk tomorrow."

Sorrel sniffed. She already had her arm around Marion, "Sure." The two women didn't hang around. Arm in arm the girls went upstairs together.

Fletcher sat back down. He felt so much better. Sure it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done telling his daughter about the 'plan', but he felt like everything was suddenly free and clear. He'd talk to Sorrel tomorrow. He'd explain his plans for her children. They could come and live here. He'd put them in the same schools his kids attended. Together they'd fix things with her kids. He and Sorrel would use their computers to dig up the truth. Charles and Pearce would do their part. Collectively they'd find out the truth. 

Someone had tried to rob the company. He'd call his brother tomorrow; let him know. Warren would certainly want to get in on it. They'd uncover the truth, clear Sorrel's good name, put her back to work, catch the real criminal, and Sorrel and her kids could all live right here with him. He trudged off to his little bedroom behind the kitchen. He'd have to tell Mary everything too. That wouldn't be nearly so easy.

Sorrel and Marion climbed the stairs and went to the bedroom. They each stripped down to their underclothes and climbed in the big queen sized bed. Marion snuggled over close with her back to Sorrel. Sorrel wrapped an arm around the young girl.

Marion whispered, "You're not my mother. You could never be my mother, but tonight I'm going to pretend." She thought about Sorrel. She'd just found out she had children of her own. For some reason that made her jealous. She pressed back against the woman a little more closely. 

Sorrel held her as close as she dared. It was all innocence, nothing more. She had a daughter. Tonight she'd pretend too. She knew she wouldn't get to sleep for quite a while. How did things get so confused? The evening started out as a simple card party. It blew up into a major crisis. Were they really trying to drive her nuts? That might have explained Florence's behavior. Were they really going to lock her away in some foreign mental hospital? Fletcher wasn't anything like she first imagined. He was a wonderful man; a girl could do a lot worse. What was she thinking?





Everybody slept late the next morning. Fletcher was up first, but not till after 9:00. He had the coffee on when Sorrel got downstairs.

"How about a cup of coffee," he asked.

"Oh thank you, I'd love one." She responded.

"How did you sleep last night," he asked.

Sorrel replied, "Once I got my nerves under control I was out like a light."

"Yeah me too, how was Marion?"

"She was gone as soon as her head hit the pillow," Sorrel continued, "I'm surprised, that was some pretty scary stuff last night." 

"You think I made a mistake? I mean telling her everything."

Sorrel answered, "I think you made a mistake telling me. I'm still scared."

"Don't be. I'm calling Warren in a little while. He'll help us find out who tried to do you in." 

Sorrel was putting half and half in her coffee, "Were you really going to get rid of me the way you described?"

"Sorrel it's easy talking about something like that, but it's an entirely different thing to actually do it. Warren, Florence, and I made plans, but they were like a theoretical until I actually had to talk to you. You know, there's the idea, and there's the reality. You were never in any real danger, at least not that way."

"I can see Florence concocting something like that."

"It wasn't her idea. It was Warren's. Florence was dead set against it, especially at first. In fact Sorrel, Florence had serious doubts about your guilt. Just like me, she thought it was all too cleanly wrapped."

"Then it was your idea?"

"Not hardly Sorrel. What did I just say? Warren was the mastermind."

"I'm glad it wasn't you."

"Me too," responded Fletcher.

Sorrel sipped some more of her coffee. Deciding it was too bitter, she dropped in a scoop of sugar.

Fletcher watched her. He wanted to ask her some questions. He wanted to a lot of things. She looked awfully good for a woman who hadn't slept. She was wearing a white button up blouse, and a pair of loosely fitting black shorts. They went nicely with the black lace up shoes and black knee high stockings she had on. She looked good, damn good, even if it was a little out of place.

Sorrel genteelly sipped some more coffee. She'd actually been up a lot longer than she'd let on. Remembering Fletcher had said he wanted to talk to her she'd taken extra care to look particularly nice this morning. She'd dabbed on some lip gloss, pink blush, and a tad of eye shadow. She'd done her hair up in a pony tail. She'd even put a ribbon in it, "You wanted to talk to me?"

Fletcher took her hand in his. He felt like he was fifteen again. He thought it was stupid. He liked it too, "I wanted to talk to you about your future."

She interrupted, "I don't want to be rude, or intrude, but tell me about the grove."

He was seriously taken aback. Mary must have said something, "Oh that was a place Diana and I used to visit."

"Could I see it?"

"Sure I guess so. I'll walk you down sometime."

She asked, "How about now?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

Fletcher didn't say anything at first. In fact he'd completely forgotten what he'd planned to talk about. He just looked at her. She really was beautiful, "OK, I guess so. Let me put some shoes on," he stepped into his bedroom to get some tennis shoes. 'This,' he thought, 'was highly irregular.'

He came out and offered her his hand, "It's not far, maybe a few hundred yards. I haven't been there in a while. It's probably all grown up with brush."

Sorrel answered, "That's OK, I'd like to see it."

He held her hand and walked her down the path. They walked beyond the pond where the legendary Rupert supposedly lurked, then down a small hillock and around and behind a copse of trees. 

They reached a narrow path. Its edges were overgrown with weeds, but it was still navigable. He walked a little ahead, holding her hand from behind. She followed, not seeing as clearly as she hoped, but still able to get a glimpse at what was up ahead. 

On down the wooded path Fletcher walked with Sorrel's hand in his, her trailing along behind. Finally they came to a small clearing. Near the center of the cleared area was a much larger tree. Though they had mostly been killed by disease it looked like a chestnut to Sorrel. Under the tree there was a small bench, and beside the bench she saw a tiny marker. 

Sorrel knew instinctively whose marker it had to be. 

He led her to the bench, "Here we are." 

Sorrel looked around. It was peaceful, idyllic actually; she spoke first, "This is where you and Diana used to come."

Fletcher answered hoarsely, "Yes."

She could tell how special this place was. She felt it was inappropriate for her to be there. It was his and Diana's special place. She didn't belong there, "It's beautiful Fletcher."

"Yes it is," he answered.

"We can go back now."

He was still holding her hand. He made no attempt to get any closer, "No let's sit down."

Sorrel understood the significance of the invitation, "All right," she sat down on the bench.

Fletcher sat down beside her, but he put her in the middle between himself and Diana's marker. He didn't say anything at first.

Sorrel remained very quiet. Though she'd never experienced anything like what he had, she felt like she understood what he was going through. There just wasn't anything to say.

Fletcher looked at the marker, "I made this shortly after she died."

The marker was small, made of some type of wood, and only about two feet high and a foot wide. It had an inscription. Sorrel read it to herself. 'Diana Hanson, Beloved wife of Fletcher Hanson.' There were dates under the inscription, but she couldn't make them out. They'd been worn more than the words.

"Marion showed me her picture. She was lovely."

Fletcher was staring at the marker, "Yes she was."

Sorrel was afraid to let things stay too quiet for too long, "Mary told me a little about her, about how special she was."

Fletcher answered, "Yes she was, very special," he took Sorrel's head, pulled it over, and pressed it against his chest. He didn't know why he did that, it was just something he felt like he needed to do. He wanted her nearness. He wanted to feel her hair against his face, and he needed to smell her fragrance. She wasn't wearing anything, no perfume or body wash. She'd had a shower, he could tell. He liked the smell of the soap she used. He liked the softness of her body against his body. 

He remembered the other day at the pond when she'd reflexively jumped back at the sight of the snake. She'd fallen into his arms, and for a few seconds he'd held her, had even touched her breasts. They had been soft, delicate. It had been a long time since he'd thought about being with another woman. He hadn't touched a woman since Diana had died. It was something he'd put out of his mind until recently. He wanted to be with this woman. He wanted to do the things with Sorrel he'd done with Diana.

Sorrel was deeply touched. His body was firm. His hands weren't overly large, but the way he was holding her head made her feel something she never felt before. She felt protected, safe, and comfortable. She didn't want to spoil the moment, but she had something she had to say, "Fletcher, I'm not like her. I'm an entirely different person."

He held her against his chest with one hand while he took her head and cupped it under his chin against his neck with the other, "I know."

Sorrel waited for perhaps another minute. Then she straightened up, "I think we should go back now."

He let her go. He didn't want to, but he did, "I should go back and call Warren. Then you and I need to look at computers. I want to reexamine every detail. We've got to find the truth. I know if we look hard enough we'll find a mistake."

Sorrel inadvertently put her hand on his thigh. It wasn't intentional, but the result was electric. She could see, and feel his erection. She pulled her hand away as quickly as she could.

He got up and taking her two hands in his, he helped her up. He held her by her hands in front. He looked into her eyes. She was shorter by a head. She looked small, fragile, soft, and delicate, like a porcelain doll. No, not a doll, she was real, a gentle being, a warm and tender person, someone who needed to be cared for, attended to, and protected. He wanted to be the one to take care of her, protect her, share things with her, and hold her. He hadn't had these emotions in a long time. It frightened him. He was falling in love. What if she didn't feel the same?

Sorrel wanted to say something, to say something meaningful and profound. She wanted to tell him she had these feelings. He made her want to be like Diana, to be what he'd loved and lost. She wanted to fix his broken heart, sooth his wounds, and heal his scars. She knew she was in love. She wanted him to love her. She wanted to make love to him. She hadn't really ever made what she thought was love. She thought it could happen with him. He said he was getting her children back. That frightened her. She'd never be able to face that, but if she had him she thought she could. He made her feel stronger. Could she give him what he needed? She wished, no she prayed, she could.

Neither said what was on their minds. They walked silently back to the house. Mary would be up by now. So would Marion. The boys, Robert and Richard were probably running around.

Fletcher kept telling himself. I'm going to fix this. I'm going to find the truth. I'll get her children for her. I'll make her want to love me.

Sorrel had her thoughts too. She wanted to become a bigger part of this family, make her self indispensable. She wanted the boys to like her. She needed to show Marion they could be friends, kindred spirits, without threatening her mother's memory. She wanted to be a helpmate to Fletcher. She wanted to help him clear her name. She wanted her children back. More than anything she wanted him to love her.



As they reached the end of the path close to the house Mary caught a glimpse of them. She saw and understood everything. She called out, "Florence Henderson called. Says she needs Sorrel real soon; says it's important."



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 08



Mary's announcement from the window spurred Fletcher and Sorrel to walk a little faster. He wasn't in the least interested in anything Florence wanted, but Sorrel was of the opposite opinion. Whatever Florence had in mind, regardless of the older woman's intentions, could only serve to help prove her innocence.

They reached the kitchen door and walked in. Mary asserted, "Florence is making arrangements for her and Sorrel to be away for an afternoon very soon. She said she had to schedule appointments, and when she called back she hoped no one would interfere."

"What kind of appointments," asked Fletcher?

"She didn't say, only that they were important, and couldn't be avoided," answered Mary.

"No day or times given?"

"None Fletcher, only that once she had them she needed Sorrel without delay."

"I'll call her," responded Fletcher, "we need more to go on than that."

Mary replied, "Florence said not to try to call, she'd be away from her desk and away from home for a while."

Looking at Fletcher Sorrel interjected, "You're not worried are you?"

"Who me, no, she can't do anything."

Sorrel held up her hand, waving her fingers about, "Even if she did, I doubt if she could get very far."

Fletcher watched her flit her pinkie ring around in the air. He was damn glad he'd taken the precautions he had, "No, I guess not."

Mary, pouring a coffee, asked, "So what are you two love birds up to today?" She watched out of the corner of her eye for their reactions. She enjoyed what she saw; two grown adults blushing like teenagers.

Fletcher stumbled, "I, I don't know what you mean. I'm going in to the office. I have a meeting with Pearce and Charles for later this afternoon." He reached for the coffee pot and an empty cup.

Sorrel was as distracted as Fletcher. She made a big deal out of reaching into the refrigerator for the half and half and pretending to look for something to eat, "I think I'll check out Fletcher's library. Maybe there's something good to read."

While Fletcher fumbled with his spoon and the half and half, Sorrel spilled some coffee in a cup and beat a hasty retreat to the den where Fletcher kept his small library.

Fletcher grimaced at Mary and whispered, "Where do you come off saying something like that?"

Mary, stirring her coffee, Cheshire grin on her face, "You two are having problems hiding you're true feelings."

"You didn't need to say that in front of Sorrel Mary."

"It's true Fletcher. You've got the shit eating grin of a man in love plastered all over your face, and she moons over you like some half starved calf." Mary walked over next to the ridiculously embarrassed man, "Look, I'm a good old bird. I won't ask you to explain why you felt you had to pee on her."

"Who told you?"

"Who do you think?"

"Marion?"

"Marion." 

Fletcher took a sip of coffee, unconsciously slurping and dribbling some down his chin, "How much does Marion see?"

Mary scoffed, "What? How much? Are you kidding? She saw it coming some time ago."

"How do you think she feels?"

"She feels fine. She wants her Dad to be happy, and Sorrel hasn't crossed the line."

"Line?"

Mary looked at Fletcher skeptically, "So far Sorrel hasn't said or done anything to interpose herself between Marion and the memories she has of her mother."

Fletcher put his cup down and looked out the window, "You think she will?"

"What," Mary asked, "Try to interpose herself between Marion and her mom's memory, or replace her as mother?"

"I don't know. I asked you."

Mary poured some more coffee, dropped a piece of bread in the toaster and answered, "Sorrel doesn't know her place yet, but she'll find it. My guess is she'll neither interpose nor replace. She'll become something else entirely. I don't know what it will be. I do know, if you don't screw up this second chance you've stupidly fumbled into, Sorrel will create a new thing, a new warm spot in Marion's heart."

Fletcher got out the butter. He decided he'd have some toast too, "You're confusing me."

Mary took her piece of toast, buttered it and handed it to Fletcher, "You've fallen in love with Sorrel. Any fool can see that. You also still love Diana. Sorrel hasn't taken Diana's place. She just made your heart bigger, more spacious." She pulled out Fletcher's piece and buttered it, "See here, when Robert was born you didn't love Marion less, you're heart just got bigger, same was true when Richard came. We all have inexhaustible supplies of love, or at least we all have the capacity for more."

"What about Sorrel. How do you think she's handling things?"

Mary took a bite toast, "Sorrel's a real enigma. She has her own children, if you're lucky she'll have you and your three. She'll love yours, take care of you, but she's got a lot of lost time to make with her own. I think she's very much afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Sure," said Mary, "She's got two children who barely know her. How will they behave? She wants you. She wants you desperately. She wants Marion, Robert, and Richard to at least accept her, but better to love her."

"I think I see," said Fletcher, "of all of us she has the most work to do."

Mary patted Fletcher on the head, "Good boy."

"You think she can make it?'

Mary swallowed the last of her toast, "That woman has so much love bottled up inside her," Mary sniffed, "she's so filled with..." She fell into her younger friends arms, "You'll have to help her. You have to be there Fletcher."

Fletcher patted Mary's gray head, "I'll be there. I promise. I'll be there."

Mary pushed him away, "Oh go away! Scoot! Get out of here!" 

Fletcher knew when to scram, "I think I'll check the den. See what she's looking for."

Mary was filling the sink with hot water and soap, clunking glasses and dishes, "Good idea."





Fletcher ambled into the library and saw Sorrel had already found something and was sitting on the big cushioned sofa reading, "Find something?"

Sorrel looked up, "Yes I did," she held up the book.

"What's that's? Little Dorritt?"

"Yes, it's one of Charles Dickens less well known pieces. I've never read it, but I think I'll like it."

Fletcher turned up his nose, "Dickens. Yuk!"

Sorrel smiled, "I know. A lot of people are put off by his writing. It's old, somewhat archaic by today's standards, and not a single car chase."

Fletcher chuckled, "No car chases! Now I know I'll never read it." He got suddenly very serious, "Sorrel, I"

"Yes?" she interrupted.

He was doing it again, getting stupid, "I, uh, well."

Sorrel rescued him, "Why don't we talk later when you get back from your meeting."

Fletcher smiled, relieved, "Good idea. Let's talk tonight." He spun on his heels and made for the door.

Sorrel watched him leave. She was all warm inside. She curled up in the big chair. She felt kind of; well, kind of, kittenish. She glanced at the walls of books, the worn rug, the old reading lamp as it sort of leaned forward, the old pictures on the walls. She felt, well she felt, she felt like she was home.



A Meeting with Pearce and Charles:



Fletcher drove into the city. He'd scheduled a meeting with Pearce and Charles. They'd done some additional research, and he wanted to see where they stood. He pulled in the lot, got out, and went in.

It was a Saturday, but Pearce and Charles were already there discussing what they'd found out.

As Fletcher walked in both men stood as was expected when a supervisor or lead shareholder showed up. Fletcher liked the deference, but had never gotten over feeling self conscious about it. He asked, "Has anything turned up?"

Pearce responded first, "We had to be careful. A lot of people have started asking questions. They want to know what's happened to Sorrel. We brushed them off with a health alibi."

"That's good. Did you get anything that might overturn the evidence?"

Charles responded, "Yes and No. I can pretty much guarantee some, but not all the audios have been tampered with. I still have one man working on that, a real expert, great technician. He thinks someone did do a pretty fancy editing job, and by the looks of things, he thinks he knows who did it."

"How so?" asked Fletcher.

Charles digressed, "The work is so good; it had to have been done by some special technique, maybe there's a new laser system not even available yet. Only one man, and our technician knows him, has that kind of pure clinical skill."

Fletcher was curious, "It's not something so developed that could be replicated in a general sense?"

"He explained it this way." Charles turned and pulled out a picture of Osama bin Laden, "Here's a man who has been sending tapes all over the world for ten years, ever since 9-11. Yet he's also a man who, by all logic, owing to his kidneys, should be dead. Yet no one in the CIA will call anything claimed to be his as fake. The voice patterns are just too close. The editing, though primitive, is still too good to be disparaged."

Fletcher reflected, "So we can't discredit the audios."

"I didn't say that," interrupted Charles, I said we can't discredit them, at least not openly. What we can do is ignore them."

"Meaning?"

"They're good audios, very good, but they aren't genuine."

Fletcher, "Then they are fake."

"No," answered Charles, they're real audios, they're just not genuine."

"I don't get it," responded Fletcher.

"Everything we hear on the audios is accurate. There is some manipulative activity, but not enough to matter. The problem is the voices aren't real." Charles hesitated then went on, this time for effect, "Fletcher the voice we hear is real, but it's not Ms. Sullivan's voice."

"Whose voice is it?"

Charles answered with a question, "Does it matter?"

Fletcher hadn't been this relieved since when Richard had been born and everyone was worried about some spinal deformity, "Sorrel's in the clear." He said to himself, in relief, in joy. He glanced over to Pearce, Did you find out anything?"

Charles rebutted, "Sorrel's in the clear to us, but in court the audios are too sensitive to refute."

"Shit," said Fletcher.

Then Pearce answered, "The only thing I found out is that none of her so called co-conspirators outside our company have the slightest clue of anything wrong. Their supervisors have no suspicions, and our government contacts evinced no indication of any wrong doing. There's no evidence of anything.

Fletcher smiled, "Then she's in the clear on the outside."

Pearce, "No I didn't say that. I said nobody knew anything. They could be lying."

"Shit again," Mumbled Fletcher. He added, "We know she's innocent, but our knowledge doesn't matter."

"That's pretty much it," said Charles.

Fletcher got over it, "You were careful when you made your inquiries?" 

"Of course," was the response from Pearce, "but I have a question for you"

"What's that?" asked Fletcher.

"Why didn't we do all this research before we accused her?"

Charles added, "Did anyone think to give her a polygraph?"

Fletcher was numb, "Shit!" How stupid! Why hadn't they done the simplest, the easiest, and the most logical thing right away before going after her with a shotgun, "My brother. He was so sure."

Pearce asked, "Why did we go after Sorrel at all? Sure there's a lot of paper, but there's no real evidence of anything, any theft, any malfeasance at all. It's like the whole crime is a big mirage."

Fletcher had no answers, and no more questions. He had an innocent woman at home, but an innocence that couldn't be proved, but there were a lot of ridiculous audios and specious documents that pointed to a crime; a crime that may never have occurred. 

He wasn't sure of anything, "Florence is the comptroller. She keeps the records. She would know, or should know, if there is any money, or any sensitive information missing she would be first to know."

"Then the answer is simple," chimed in Charles, "We get Florence. We get at the truth."

Fletcher held up a hand, "Let's be careful. We just about burned one innocent at the stake. We don't want to burn someone else. We'll keep all this under our hats for now. Let me find Florence, and I want to talk to my brother."

Charles interjected, "I quite agree, but you've got to remember, it might be your company, but it's our careers, our livelihoods."

Fletcher answered, "I know I know. Look let's have a dinner party at my place this week, say Tuesday. We'll invite all the same people. We'll watch what goes on, but we won't let the cat out of the bag till say Friday."

Charles and Pearce looked back and forth at each other. Neither seemed especially comfortable with the idea, but finally both nodded in agreement.

Pearce said, "OK, we'll wait till Tuesday."

Charles asked, "Why Tuesday?"

Fletcher didn't hesitate, "I'm getting her children."

Pearce again, "Why?"

"They're all coming to live with me."

Charles evinced a concerned look, "You've fallen for her."

Pearce smiled, "I'll be damned."

"Keep it quiet will you," asked Fletcher?

The two men crowded around their employer, but their friend as well. 

Charles commented, "Good for you man."

Pearce added, "Yeah, good for you."





As they walked out on the parking lot Pearce followed Fletcher to his car, "Hey Fletcher."

"Yes Pearce?

"My boy Flail. He told us what he tried the other night."

Fletcher stopped, "Yes?"

"Look I'm sorry for the kid." He paused, "You wouldn't hold it against me?"

Fletcher laughed and grabbed his shoulder, "No, don't be stupid. You're a good man, and Flail will grow into an equally good man. No harm done."

Pearce shook his hand, "Thanks Fletcher."





Fletcher hopped in his car and drove home a truly happy man. Sorrel was in the clear. Of course he knew it all along. Still, it was good to get confirmation, even if the confirmation wasn't exactly provable. There was still another problem though. Somebody had done something terribly wrong. The least that could have happened was the destruction of an innocent person. Then, Sorrel aside, somebody was trying to hide something. He had to get to the bottom of it. 

He drove along gaily; turned up the radio full blast, and listened to every oldie he could find. "Yes sir," he said, "angels beside us." He couldn't wait to get home and see Sorrel. 





Somewhere there are two little Children:





In another part of the country; not very different in climate, terrain, or urban to rural setting could be found two children. They lived with their father and his sister. Their names were Sorrel, or 'Little Sorrel' as she shall be referred to henceforth, and her younger brother Peter. 

Dan, their father, and Aunt Clara had been at best indifferent in the care of their two little dependents. At their worst they'd gone well over the edge when it came to abuse. Just short of being guilty of outright molestation, in fact, they were the center of much of the gossip in the small satellite town where they lived. 

Both children had been beaten, badgered, and brow beaten to the edge of extremity. On more than one occasion Dan had been called to school to explain bruises, sprains, and cuts children in normal healthy homes never experienced. Peter had it rough, but poor Little Sorrel had come to be the special target of their alcoholic father and resentful semi-retarded aunt. 

Details of their mistreatment aren't worthy of specialized description or any alliterative force here, for decent people never enjoy stories about the mistreatment of helpless children, little puppies, or cuddly kittens. It is enough to say that these were two small young people who knew their lives were askew, out of sync with the normality of daily life their peers experienced. They knew their daily condition was grossly, even brutally, different, and they knew their futures were as uncertain as the moods and whims of the two vindictive self-hating people who guarded them. 

The younger child, Peter, couldn't remember his mother, but Little Sorrel remembered. She remembered the occasional visits after her mother had left, no fled was a better word. She remembered how beautiful she looked. Little Sorrel also remembered the mean things her father had done to her mother. She remembered the beatings her mom took, the times she was tied up and locked in the closet, and she remembered her mother's vivid screams when her father tortured her with his cigarettes. Little Sorrel didn't love her father. She was only afraid of him.

Yes, Little Sorrel remembered everything; the pain, the loneliness, and the loss. She also remembered her mom's night time stories, the little dresses, playing dress up, hair washings, the paper dolls, and the love. She especially remembered the love, the goodnight kisses, saying prayers, the hugs and squeezes. She knew her mother loved her. Her mother loved her little brother too. But most of all she remembered her mother's promise. She promised that one day, one day when she was able, she'd come back! She'd come back and get them! She'd take them to a safe wonderful new place where they'd all live happily ever after.

Little Sorrel cried herself to sleep night after night; sometimes sleep never found her. When, oh when was their mom coming to get them?





Fletcher Gets Home from the Meeting:



Fletcher got out of the car. He was dying to tell Sorrel what they discovered, but he'd keep his end of the bargain; no information until everything was in place. Somebody had been up to something, and he didn't know whether Sorrel was capable of keeping anything this big a secret. He knew he was sure having trouble doing it.

He walked in the front door and sped to the den, "Sorrel you still here?" 

Sorrel had fallen asleep on the sofa. She'd been that way most of the afternoon. Charles Dickens was a great author, but like all serial writers, his stuff was best taken in small doses. She yawned, "Yes, I'm here."

"Come on back to my room. Let's get on the computer."

She jumped from the couch. This was the news she most wanted to here. At last someone was ready to let her help prove her own innocence, "Be right there."

They went to his small bedroom, and he yanked the laptop from beneath the bed, "I've been with Pearce and Charles all afternoon. They found out quite a lot."

Sorrel asked, "Tell me."

"No not yet. Times not right."

Sorrel thumped his chest, "Don't you think I'm entitled to at least a little hint?"

He smiled, "OK a hint." He turned back to the computer and hit the key that released his code word so he could get at the confidential information they needed.

Sorrel asked, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What's the hint?"

"Oh, you want the hint."

Sorrel was impatient, and she had every right to be, "Yes, the hint!"

He put the computer down, turned around, and pulled her down on the bed beside him, "This hint is..." He stopped.

She was sitting beside him. Her hair was undone, not in its usual tight bun. It swirled and twirled around her face, framing it in beautiful long curls. Her simple white blouse had come undone, and he caught a clear glimpse of those beautiful feminine orbs. He remembered their softness. Her black shorts did little to conceal the delicious soft swell of the tops of her thighs. He thought she looked more naked dressed than most women do when they really are nude.

She was waiting for an answer.

"The hint is". He wrapped his arms around her, quickly pulled her close, so close her breasts pressed against his chest, "The hint is," he kissed her full, thoroughly, firmly, and completely on her lips. 

Sorrel accepted the kiss. She attempted to move him away at first, but he was more than a woman, at least this woman, could handle. She kissed him back. She put her hands up on either side of his face, puckered up her lips and kissed him right back. It felt good. It felt more than good. It was great!




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 08



She quickly pushed him away, "So what's the hint?"

He tried to pull her in again but she resisted, "That was the hint." He said as he tried to grab her again, but she resisted again.

"What's the computer got to say" she asked?

He was a little hurt, but put a good face on it, "Let's see." He fumbled with the keys a little, but finally finished typing in his password and hit start, then began typing in what he wanted to access.

The computer responded, "Access denied."

He tried again; got the same answer.

Fletcher typed in Sorrel's old password, but the computer still vomited out the same response, "Access denied."

There was one other password only he and Warren knew; their secret company password that got them into anything and everything. He typed it in, "Access denied."

He turned back to Sorrel, "That last password should have worked. Only two people know it, me and Warren." He turned off the computer and slid it back under the bed, "Don't worry, I'll call Warren and see what's going on. It might be that some upgrade is being installed."

Sorrel knew he was lying. That last code word should have worked. His brother wanted to keep him in the dark about something, "OK. So tell me about tomorrow's fishing trip."

That's right he remembered. He said they'd go fishing tomorrow, "Oh it'll keep for a while. What do you say we go in the living room and watch some television? We could put an old movie in."

Sorrel smiled, "Sounds good to me."

Together they strolled into the living room. Fletcher turned on the tube, they found something to watch, and both curled up on the sofa. Every now and then Mary passed through and glimpsed over, but she kept her mouth and her thoughts to herself. Robert and Richard were in and out once or twice, but they didn't even see their father or Sorrel there. Marion knew where they were, but she was deliberately avoiding them. Friday night's traumas had been enough for her.

Saturday dinner was taken quietly. Everyone seemed either tired or pensive. Bedtimes all came early. Fishing, Fletcher had admonished, wasn't for the feint of heart or the late to rise.





Gone Fishing:





Morning came early on Sunday. The boys were up first with Fletcher a close second. Marion and Mary bailed, deciding on church instead. That left Sorrel, who's earliest had always been early, but never 4:00 a.m., 

"What kind of fishing requires getting up in the middle of the night," she asked

Robert was quick to respond, "We're going after crappies."

"Crappies," asked Sorrel?

Richard, "They're a smaller fresh water fish. This is the time of year when they spawn. We get up now, get to the lake early, and we'll catch bushels of them before breakfast. It's fun!"

Robert jumped in and asked Sorrel, "You know how to use a rod and reel, right?"

"Well I..." 

Fletcher finished for her, "Sure she does boys. She's an old tar."

Sorrel spoke up, "Now wait a minute..."

But she was interrupted by Fletcher, "What, you're not an old tar?"

"I'm not even a young tar, or anything nautical for that matter. The only fish I've seen have been on a plate, cooked, and well seasoned," Sorrel said, hoping to set the record straight.

"Oh boy," said Robert, "I'll teach you."

"No you won't, interjected his father, "I'm in charge of all novice fishermen."

"What's a novice," asked Richard?

Robert explained, "Sorrel is somebody who never went fishing. She needs to learn how to do everything, so she's a novice."

Richard added, "Mom was a novice when..."

Fletcher stopped him, "Yes, your mother was a novice once too, but we won't go into that."

Robert laughed, "I bet Sorrel goes into it like mom did."

Fletcher ended the levity, "Come on let's get in the SUV. I've already hooked up the boat trailer."





Off they went; two boys, one man, and one woman, down to the lake to catch bushels of crappies. The ride was pleasant, though still dark, cool, and the morning air was damp. They reached the put in. Fletcher lowered the boat in the water and helped Sorrel in while the boys got the supplies on board.

Fletcher had two thermos bottles ready; one with hot chocolate, and the other with coffee. They had a small cooler filled with sodas for later. 

They added another cooler for which Sorrel found no explanation, "What's in that cooler?"

Robert told her, "Worms."

"Yeah, the bait," said Richard.

Fletcher chimed in, "Yeah today everybody baits their own hooks."

Sorrel flipped out, "I'm not touching any worms."

Robert asked, "How are you going to catch any fish."

She smiled nicely, "I'm sure some kind and considerate gentleman will come along and bait my hook for me."

Richard giggled, "Don't count on it."





The boat motored quietly along the shoreline until they found 'the cove.' This was the spot where they always fished. It was quiet, secluded, and always produced a good yield of fine tasting crappies. The boys grabbed their rods, the worms, their thermos, and jumped from the boat. In a matter of minutes both had their lines in the water, and within seconds it seemed Robert got the first bite. He pulled in a nice sized bluegill, maybe nine inches from mouth to tail.

Fletcher helped Sorrel from the boat, and despite prior assertions, baited her hooks. He explained how she should raise the rod over her head, hold the line down with one finger, and then as she threw forward release the line.

Sorrel gave it a try, but snagged her hooks in one of the branches of an overhanging tree.

Fletcher, like the gentleman he was, took her rod and pulled and yanked until the hooks came free. He refitted her hooks with fresh bait, found her a better site, and stood back.

Sorrel tried again, and this time her line went well out in the lake, an overall good cast for a novice. She turned and smiled, proud of her new found fisherman's skill.

Fletcher smiled back. He put his fingers to his lips admonishing her to be quiet so as not to scare away the fish. 

Sorrel returned his smile, nodded, and began to wait for her first bite. Fletcher got his line in, and began to wait as well.

Robert had already caught two more good sized crappies, and what looked like a yellow perch, though they probably were wrong about the identity of the odd fish.

Richard got several nibbles, then a bite, and last was able to bring one in. He was excited, as his first fish was the largest so far.

Fletcher had the fish line in the water. As the boys caught their fish, he showed Sorrel how to pull a piece of thicker line through their gills, thus securing them for later, but enabling them to remain alive and fresh in the water. 

Sorrel whispered she thought it was senselessly cruel, but Fletcher assured her it didn't hurt the fish. Sorrel wasn't so sure, and asked if he had been told this by one of the fish he threaded. He explained that he had.

For several more minutes the boys continued to get nibbles, an occasional bite, and a sporadic catch. Fletcher caught a couple, but thus far Sorrel hadn't had any success.

Fletcher got her to reel her line back, and he put new bait on her hooks. She got off another cast, and knelt down to await her first strike 

It didn't take long. She got her first bite. She shouted, "I got a bite!" She started to pull on the rod, winding in the slack line just as she'd seen the boys do, but her fish wasn't coming in so easy.

Both boys and Fletcher realized she was having more trouble than was typically expected of even a larger crappie.

Robert said, "That's not a crappie."

"Yeah, she's got something big," added Richard.

Fletcher commented, "Bet it's a pike."

Sorrel was still reeling and fighting. It certainly was something bigger than any of the boys or Fletcher had caught so far. They all drew their lines from the water to watch the drama unfold.

Sorrel was game. Everyone had to agree to that. She certainly was putting up a good fight, but the weight of the line was light, and the size of the fish was immense, her efforts were producing little net gain. Then to everyone's astonishment the fish jumped high out of the water!

Yes it certainly was a pike, and a big one too! Fletcher saw it. He silently bet it was two perhaps two and a half feet long, maybe five, six pounds. He called over, "Be careful, they can bite."

Pike are a fish known to occasionally bite unwary fishermen. Generally, there's little danger, and certainly none when fishing from a bank with three helpers standing by. That didn't matter to Sorrel. The mere mention of being bitten was too enormous an announcement. All that came to mind was the movie Jaws. She yelled, "Oh, oh," and dropped the rod. It fell in the water, and quickly started to drift away from the shoreline.

Fletcher jumped in the water to retrieve the rod and reel, but by the time he got there Sorrel's fish had either broken the line or bit through it. Her giant pike was gone.

"Why did you let go of the rod," Fletcher asked?

"You said it would bite me," answered a distressed Sorrel.

"No, no, I merely said they sometimes bite. They seldom really do," he explained.

Sorrel wasn't happy, "This would have been one of the sometimes."

Fletcher was very understanding, "That's OK, come on, I'll put on some new bait and hooks, and you can fish for crappies."

"That's all right," said Sorrel, "I'll just sit over on that rock, have some coffee and watch."

Robert laughed and pointed to his brother, "Told you."

Richard grinned, "Yeah, just like mom."

Fletcher was laughing too.

It occurred to Sorrel Diana must have had a similar experience with a similar outcome. She didn't say anything, but it made her feel good. There was no resentment here, no jealousy, none of the things she'd been so worried about. They were accepting her.



They continued to fish for another hour or so, till they caught what they thought was a fair allotment. They reloaded the boat, and put back in the water to their original point of departure. Overall it had been a nothing experience; no big emotional moments, no traumas, no big admissions, but for Sorrel it was important. She knew she was being accepted, becoming a part of a family. In that one respect it meant a lot. 

Fletcher had been worried about the boys. They had been largely out of loop. The fishing trip was their official introduction to the woman he hoped would become their stepmom. He thought it went well. He believed they were OK with Sorrel.



They got back to the put in where Fletcher hoisted the boat back on the trailer. Sorrel tried to help. He didn't stop her, though her help was a waste of time. The boys got everything else in order, keeping the fish in water, the thermos bottles were dumped of their residual content, the life jackets stowed away. They drove back quietly. Everyone was a little tired.

Back at the house Fletcher suggested Sorrel might go inside take a warm shower and a nap. Mary and Marion were in the kitchen fixing chicken and potato salad. The boys drifted off to the pond. 

Fletcher went down to the pond too where he cleaned the largest fish but, when no one was looking dropped the smallest remaining fish into the pond. All but one of then slowly recovered and swam off. He thought, they'd gone fishing, bonded a little, and they'd restocked the pond for Ole Rupert. He brought the cleaned fish back up for Mary to fry. They'd have a picnic in the backyard later. Meantime he thought he'd take a shower and a nap too.





That afternoon:





Sorrel went upstairs. She was tired, but it was a good tired. She untied her tennis shoes, stripped off her jeans, tube socks, the plaid cotton shirt she'd worn, and her bra and under pants, got in the shower and lazed in the warm water. It was a delightful feeling soaping all over and then letting the pressure from the shower head rinse her off. She lathered and rinsed twice. Twice she shampooed her hair. Wrapping up in a big fluffy towel she walked over and sat on the bed. It was time to make a decision. 

She hadn't slept with many men, only two really, and she hadn't done anything in close to eight years. Oh sure there had been some furtive self fondling occasionally, but nothing real, nothing meaningful. She didn't even know how to act around a man in bed; never had any genuine experience. What would Fletcher think of her if she offered herself to him? Maybe it was time to find out?

Sorrel took a nice quiet nap. It was a kind of twilight rest. She was in and out, sleeping, dreaming, fantasizing, and being a little afraid.

She got up and went back to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth, and brushed out her hair. She took her time this afternoon, curling it in a newer style, at least a style Fletcher had never seen. First she combed it out evenly, parting it down the middle. She braided it tightly around the sides well above her ears until each side reached a rough junction near the back. She took these two braids and braided they're ends together until it all came down in a short piqued tail which she flipped back and down under the base of the combined braids. If she had a white cap she would have looked very much like one of the young Amish women at the farmer's market. 

She looked at her vagina. It wasn't something she customarily did, but this afternoon she took a pair of scissors and trimmed it so that it looked almost, but not quite, hairless.

She took some pink make up base and worked it in around her face and her cheeks. She added a little blue eye shadow, some darker mascara, some slightly darker pink lipstick, and last some clear lip gloss. Looking herself over in the big mirror she thought she looked almost like a child. 

She checked her fingers and toes. Clipped them carefully, and applied some clear polish. 

She went to the bureau and picked out a white cotton eyelet lace nightie. She slipped it over her head. It came down to be just even with the bottom of her rear cheeks. It had a sculpted scooped front that framed her breasts nicely, and curled down in the center to be just even with the base of her breast line. The top of the faintly laced cups revealed a hint of aureole. 

Looking at herself in the full length mirror she thought she looked pretty good. She only hoped Fletcher would think so. She walked over to the house intercom and called downstairs, "Hello Mary? Is Fletcher about?"

Over the intercom she heard the garbled response, "No he's still in his room. Want me to get him?"

Sorrel nervously whispered back, "No, just tell him I need him upstairs." Shortly she heard the distant call to Fletcher, and his low response. She went back over and sat on the bed to wait.



Downstairs Fletcher had been fooling with the computer again. He couldn't believe he was blocked out of his own company. When Mary told him Sorrel needed him he asked if she knew what was wrong. Mary's negative response was irritating. The last thing he needed this afternoon was more teasing. He sighed, slipped on some tennis shoes, adjusted his pants and T-shirt, and made his way upstairs. Breathing heavily as he slowly trundled along he thought, 'duty calls'.

Sorrel sat on the side of the bed uncertain of what she was doing. She looked at the mirror in the distance, timidly pressed a hand against her hair. Did she look all right? Would he get the wrong impression? Was she doing the right thing? Did she really want to do this? How should she behave?

She heard him make his way up the steps. He was taking a long time. She heard every foot fall. Why was he going so slowly? He was at the door.

"Sorrel," he asked, did you want anything?"

Shyly she responded, "Come in please." Her voice sounded faint, a little hoarse.



Fletcher turned the handle, opened the door and stepped in. He noticed the hinges squeaked a little, "These hinges need..." He was stopped cold, dead in his tracks. He'd never seen anything like her. God she was beautiful! She was just sitting there. On the bed. She looked a little frightened, "Sorrel."

Sorrel stood up.

Fletcher was frozen in place. He couldn't move. His heart was racing. The only other movement was the rapid growth of his manhood. "Sorrel," he said again. He was too choked up to say anything. He started toward her.

Sorrel stood motionless, on the bed, waiting.

He reached for her and with his right hand touched the side of her face, "Sorrel." He took his two arms and slowly wrapped them around her. Her leaned down and kissed her cheeks, her nose, and then her mouth.

"Sorrel," He said her name again. He kissed her long and lovingly. She took her two arms and wrapped them around his body. She kissed him back.

He smelled her, the fresh scent of clean soap, the ambrosial aroma of her freshly washed hair, and that special fragrance only an aroused woman can exude. Her skin felt so soft, so hot, and it looked so pink, so fresh, so delicate, a child's skin but on a woman's body. He pulled her in more tightly.

Sorrel responded with gentle grace. She was truly a novice for the second time today, but she wouldn't throw this one back, not this time. 

Together they slipped back on the bed. He was half in shock, half in disbelief. How could he have ever hated this woman, doubted this girl, questioned her in any way ever. She was so pure, so fresh, and oh so beautiful. He pressed his lips against her long swan's neck. He took his hands and cupped her small firm breasts. He gently rubbed up and down the aides of her body, feeling every nook, every cranny. 

He held her at arms length. He kissed the tip of her nose, her eyes, and each precious cheek. He caressed her mouth with his lips. He reached under the crisp white nightie and found her breasts. He covered them with his hands, rubbing over her nipples with his palms

Together they reclined; her head resting on the top sheet. Side by side they lay there.

He took his hand and rubbed over the curve of her ass cheeks, down her upper thighs, and up against her vagina. He laid his hand on her pubis. It felt small. Though she'd given birth to two children, she was still so small. He pressed down gently but firmly on her pubic bone. She pressed back against his hand.

For several minutes they lay languidly side by side, kissing, caressing, and sharing their private treasures. He gradually pushed one, then two fingers inside her vagina. He slowly massaged the inside of her vaginal cavity, inside and out, side to side, and bottom to top, gently rubbing, pressing, always using his fingers to excite and entice. He could feel her increased wetness, her rising arousal.

Sorrel was beside, then beneath the man she loved. She was amazed at the pleasure two fingers and a palm could bring. She could feel his hard hot manhood pressing against her pubic bone. She used her hands to cradle his head against her chest, pushing his face against her breasts. She wanted him inside her. She pulled him as tightly against her as she could.

Fletcher withdrew his two fingers, and replaced them with that singular instrument that marked the truth of his virility. He was careful, sliding in only slowly at first, but her wetness, the torrid heat of her vaginal walls, and her hot breath on his neck were unrelenting, unbearable, overwhelming, and enrapturing. 

He couldn't resist. He plunged in as deeply as he could. He couldn't get enough of her. He had to get as deeply inside as possible.

She received him openly, willingly. She tasted the sweetness of his lips, she smelled the spicy aroma of his aftershave, and she felt the broad powerful strokes of his manhood as he went deeply inside her. He filled her, he engulfed her, he invaded her deepest secret places, and she loved him for it.  

Their moments of sex, of orgasm, of warmth, and of union was more than a simple carnal embrace; it was a holy consummation of two peoples, though only recently discovered, deep and abiding love. 




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 08



After a while they lay together, side by side, she facing him, her body in the crook of his upwardly stretched legs and chest, him wrapped around her in an almost protective grasp. They fell asleep, one man, one woman, one heart, one soul, united in love, a love neither originally sought nor wanted, but now both clamored for hungrily.



Downstairs Mary waited dinner. When the kids came in hungry she gave them bologna sandwiches. When they asked where their dad and Sorrel were, she told them to leave them alone. Marion knew and understood. She didn't say anything. The boys were too busy. They went back outside to continue the hunt for Rupert, or anything they had a mind to catch.



Later around 5:00 Sorrel and Fletcher started to rouse. They kissed some more. They cuddled and cooed, but for them the sex was over. They weren't kids. As they got up Fletcher still had trouble keeping his hands away. 

Sorrel finally pushed him off, "Get out of here. I have to get dressed."

He loved the way she looked; the way she was, but he understood. As he got up to go downstairs he kissed her once more, "Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day for you and I."

Sorrel didn't quite know where he was headed, "What happens tomorrow?"

He kissed the top of her head, "Florence wants to take you someplace," He smiled, "Don't worry she assured me nothing's wrong. In fact, I think she's on our side."

"And you," asked Sorrel.

"Me? Why I'll be on airplanes most of the day."

She gave him a puzzled look.

"I have to go pick up somebody's children."

Sorrel didn't say anything. She was too scared.





Further in town, at Fletcher's brother's Warren listened to a voice message from Florence. "A polygraph," he blurted out. "What the hell is Florence doing?" Warren knew time was rapidly becoming his enemy. He couldn't wait any longer. Though it was Sunday he knew the CIA never slept. He picked up his private phone and started punching in the coded numbers.



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 09



Sorrel lay in bed, half asleep, half awake. The sun was just beginning to peak through the curtains. It was going to be another beautiful spring day. Someone or something had been touching, no tickling, her feet. She peered down and saw Fletcher. He'd sneaked upstairs while everyone else was asleep.

"Hello sleepy head," he said.

She yawned and spread her arms out, causing the white nightie she'd slept in to stretch tautly across her breasts, "Good morning to you."

He climbed up, crawled across the bed, and lay down beside her, he on the outside, and she on the inside of the covers. He took his hand and wiped several loose fronds of hair from her face, "Did you know I love you?"

She leaned around and kissed him, "I love you more."

He smiled, "But I still love you a lot."

They cuddled for a few moments. Fletcher was ready to make love again, but Sorrel pushed him away, "I have to pee, and I bet my breath smells like an open sewer."

He sat up on the side so she could get up, "Your breath could never be bad."

"Yeah right", she said, as she toddled toward the bathroom.

Fletcher lay back on her bed and listened while she peed, brushed her teeth, gargled, and put her hair up in a ribbon. He thought, 'some things, like gargling, can never be sexy.' He heard her turn on the shower. 'This is my big chance.' He got out of the bed and moved to the bathroom. Damn it! She'd locked the bathroom door, "Sorrel open up. I need to pee."

"I'll be out in a minute. Why don't you use the downstairs toilet? Make some coffee while you're there."

'Damn,' he thought, 'she's still wound just a little too tight,' "OK, I'll see you downstairs." He thought about hiding in the room, and jumping out at her when she came out. But he changed his mind. This was going to be a tough day for the both of them as it was. Best to start things slow. He got up, left the room, and tooled on downstairs.

A few minutes later Sorrel made it downstairs. Knowing she was to go out with Ms. Henderson sometime today she'd dressed for the occasion, wearing a two piece navy blue slack and jacket outfit and a minimally lacy white blouse with a modestly plunging V-neck. 

She asked, "How do I look?"

"Going out with Ms. Henderson today are we?"

"You didn't answer my question." She walked to the refrigerator. They'd started buying the new microwave bacon, and she thought she'd heat up a couple pieces. A little bacon with toast and some coffee might see her through what she expected to be a tedious day, "So answer me. Do I look all right?"

Fletcher thought she looked very professional, like the days when she worked at the company, "You look very professional even a little intimidating. Florence won't know how to behave."

Then he saw she wasn't wearing any earrings, "Let me get something for your ears." He stepped back into his little bedroom.

Sorrel sipped her coffee and nibbled on some toast. The bacon never got cooked. It looked a little too greasy.

Fletcher came back in, "Here try these on." He handed her a pair garnet ear studs.

Sorrel accepted them a little reluctantly, "Who did these belong to?"

"They were Diana's."

Sorrel looked them over like they were some kind of rare treasure. She got a quick undisguised glimpse of Fletcher's face before he covered it up with a mask of congeniality. She realized they were a rare treasure; something on which he placed great personal value.

Sorrel took each stud and affixed them to her ears, "Thank you Fletcher."

He was looking at the earrings, "You're very welcome."

He started talking, partly to make sure they were both on the same page, but partly to mask his feelings, "Today you're out with Florence. I wonder what she's up to. I'm headed for the airport. I'll be late getting home, and I expect I'll have some extra baggage coming back.

Sorrel knew he meant her children, "Are you sure you want to do this. Maybe we should wait and go together."

Fletcher sat at the table, and slurped up some more coffee, "No your husband knows I'm coming. I'm bringing them home today."

Sorrel sat down at the other end of the table, "I think you're kind of a special person you know that?"

He got up and walked the distance that separated them, "This is my home. You're going to marry me. The sooner we get started the better. That means bringing your son and daughter home as soon as possible."

I don't recall you asking me to marry you."

"Will you marry me?"

Sorrel stood up. She moved in so that she was standing between his still downward hanging arms. She took her two hands and placed one on each side of his face. She leaned up and kissed him. Then placing her head on his chest, as he wrapped his arms around her, she answered, "Yes."

He took her chin and lifted it to kiss her. Just as he was puckering up they both heard the raucous laughter and trundling footsteps of three children. 

Sorrel pushed him away. Laughing nervously, "We'll have to watch what we do more closely." She slipped away toward the doorway, as the three youngsters all bounded in.

Marion was first on the floor, "What's up today?"

Fletcher answered, "Sorrel has a date with Ms. Henderson, and I'm on my way to pick up two more kids."

"Can I come," announced Robert?

"Yeah me too," said Richard.

Marion hollered, "I'm going with Sorrel."

Fletcher put his sock shod foot down, "No, none of you is going anywhere. You all need to clean your rooms. Marion Sorrel's daughter will put up with you for a night or two starting tonight, and you guys had better make room for Peter."

For the next several minutes there was the customary grumbling about not needing to clean anything, where they were going to sit at the table, who was eating what for breakfast, and how long would they have to wait to see their new friends.

Fletcher helped clarify one situation, "Sorrels children won't be just your new friends. They're going to be your new brother and sister."

All the noise came to a crashing stop. Marion asked, "You and Sorrel are getting married?"

Fletcher responded, "If that's all right with you."

The boys didn't have much to say. They just looked back and forth at each other and at their father.

Marion did have something to say. She looked at her father and at Sorrel, "It's OK with me. In fact I think it's probably a good idea." Then she got a concerned look on her face, "What happens to Mary?"

Sorrel didn't give Fletcher a chance to answer, "More dishes in the dishwasher? More clothes on the clothes line? Three extra places at the table. I guess we'll have to put a leaf in."

Marion looked back and forth, "We're not making her leave." 

Sorrel jumped, "Absolutely not! She's... Well she's... She'd like ..." Sorrel was getting borderline shrill, "She been like my mother. More than a mother. I love," she corrected herself; "We love her."

Mary had been standing just outside the kitchen and had heard everything. It delighted her to hear Sorrel speak so fondly. She stepped into the kitchen, "Good morning everybody. What's up?" 

Robert answered, "Dad and Sorrel are getting married."

Richard added, "And Sorrel's children are coming to live here."

Mary smiled, "Well you guys better get your room cleaned up." She looked at Sorrel, "We'll need a bigger table."

Sorrel smiled, "Yes ma'am."

Fletcher stumbled around, "I better get dressed. I have a flight to catch." He padded off to his side bedroom.

Sorrel followed him and closed the door behind her as she walked in, "That went pretty well."

He pulled her in his arms and kissed her.

She kissed him right back, but didn't let him take it anywhere. She was dressed to go out.





Florence arrived a little after 10:00. She honked her horn, and Sorrel went out and got in her car.

Florence's demeanor was cool, but not unfriendly. She asked, "You ready for a couple meetings?" 

"I guess so," was the response.

They drove along for about ninety minutes. They went into the city, then across town to a southern suburban location. Florence pulled into a large parking lot, "We get out here."

"Where are we going," Asked Sorrel?

Florence didn't have much to say by way of an explanation, "You're taking a polygraph."

Sorrel didn't overtly respond, but in fact she was delighted. What better way to prove her innocence. She'd thought about the same thing before, and had wondered why no one had suggested it.

They went inside to a private detective agency, a large one with several offices; quite an elaborate operation. The tester was there and ready to proceed. He proffered a chair, offered the usual explanations, and asked Florence to step out of the room. 

The questioning process ran the gamut from her childhood, her children, her personal preferences, and her work experiences. Laced in the array of inanity were the critical questions directly and indirectly related to the allegations about Sorrel's possible criminality. 

The test took longer than she expected, but overall she felt comfortable with the results. The questioner maintained a bland demeanor throughout the process. At its conclusion he took the paper content that had accumulated and disappeared. Returning shortly he announced she was through, and her escort was waiting outside.

Sorrel returned to the outer area to find Florence waiting, "it's nearly 1:00. Would you like to go to our next stop, or would you prefer lunch?"

Sorrel asked, "What's next?"

Florence answered, "A second polygraph."

This upset Sorrel. She was convinced the results of this test were favorable, "Why another?"

Florence answered, "Just a precaution."

"Then if it's all right with you, let's do the second test."

Florence politely smiled and agreed. They returned to the car, drove another thirty minutes to a second location, another private agency, and Sorrel took a second test, with many of the same questions, but quite a few new ones too. 

After the second test Florence asked if Sorrel was ready for lunch.

Sorrel at first declined, but Florence insisted. Sorrel could hardly say no, so they went to a nearby eatery. Both ordered a club sandwich and a coke. It was at lunch where Florence tried to open up.

Looking over the dessert menu Florence commented, "We've put you through a great deal Sorrel."

Sorrel wasn't feeling charitable, "Yes you have."

"It wasn't all my idea you know."

Sorrel played it close to the vest, "Fletcher told me."

"The whole thing was sort of dumped in my lap. Then the brothers started planning revenge. I guess I was just sort of pulled along."

Sorrel wanted to cut to the chase, "How did I do on the polygraphs?"

"Oh come on. You know." Florence wanted to say something. She wanted to tell her about her life. Her problems, her life hadn't been all that great. She felt like she'd given her whole life away, and nobody seemed to care, "Sorrel I'm just very sorry. I did what I was told; said what I was told to say."

Sorrel wanted to forgive her, but she remembered the mean things she'd said. She also remembered the mean thing Fletcher did, "I guess you weren't any better or any worse than Fletcher or Warren. So what happens now?"

Florence responded a little despondently. She'd hoped she could make amends somehow, but it didn't seem possible, "I take you back to Fletcher's. I have a copy of each polygraph for you. The originals I'm taking to Warren."

Sorrel told her, "Fletcher and I are getting married."

This was a crushing announcement for Florence. With Fletcher married to Sorrel it was inevitable that their vengeance would fall on her, "I'm happy for you. Once we get this cleared up I'll resign. There are other companies."

Sorrel was taken aback, "Why would you resign?"

"You'll want to get rid of me I'm sure."

"Why?" asked Sorrel.

"For what I've said; what I threatened, I mean."

Sorrel saw the pain written on Florence's face. This was a broken woman, "No Florence I couldn't allow that. The company needs you too much. Plus it would just be wrong. I think maybe, in some ways, you're as big a victim as I've been. No one wants you to leave."

Florence wasn't very much consoled, but she thanked her anyway.

They finished their lunches, and drove back in silence. Once they got back to Fletcher's Sorrel added, "I'll expect you at my wedding. Afterward we'll eat cake together, and after that Fletcher and I will have you over as our guest. You hear me Florence?" 

Florence smiled wanly, "Yes, thank you." She drove away, still unsure, and very uncertain. Her career was a shambles, and she knew someone was still out there, someone who'd tried to steal and pass the blame. 'OK', she thought, 'Maybe I can still be of some use.'





Fletcher drove to the airport where he met two lawyers, the men who'd worked out the arrangements for the quiet transfer of residency of two young children. All three boarded the plane together. Fletcher sat in the middle of a three seat configuration while the other two men handed and explained the paperwork to him. It looked like an uncomplicated arrangement. The childrens' father was to be provided for very generously.

The essential gist of the whole arrangement involved a transfer of residency, plus an uncontested, quickie, divorce. The children would be moved from the father's immediate care to their mother's. There was to be no loss of filial rights; the children would move and the father would be reimbursed. 

The financial package was generous. Dan, the father, would be offered child support at the double the rate normally payable, and the payments would continue until the younger child turned twenty-five, not eighteen. Additionally, Fletcher was prepared to hand the man a hefty one time gift of several thousand dollars and a new truck. To be sure, Dan was to be paid handsomely simply for not challenging the physical relocation of his children.

Fletcher had arranged some additional legal matters; all of which were highly favorable to the father. Dan would be granted weekly visitation rights; air transport to and from his residence to Sorrel's to be paid in full. In fact Fletcher fully intended to offer the tickets in advance. Should the children's father be unable to make the trip, he could cash in the tickets. Fletcher doubted their father would be able to resist the temptation to collect the ticket money. 

The only thing that could threaten Dan's receipt of all the beneficence Fletcher offered was the least attempt to interfere in the lives of the children. One false step and all arrangements came off the table. Suspecting the father's lack of motivation and the obvious evidence of neglect, Fletcher bet Dan would never interfere.

The plane touched down. Fletcher thanked his two traveling companions, saw them back aboard a returning flight, rented a car and sped off to the father's residence.



Fletcher arrived shortly after 4:00, rang the bell, and was ushered into their shabby living room by Clara. Both Dan and Clara knew Fletcher was coming, and they had the children dressed and ready. Fletcher and Dan sat down at their dinner table and went over all the paperwork. Fletcher enjoyed seeing the greedy glint in the father's eyes as each proposal passed before him. The father's only reservation related as to the make and model of pick up truck he might select. Fletcher placed no limit on that. 

There were some places for signatures. Sorrel's wasn't needed, as she had given Fletcher limited power of attorney. The entire process took less than an hour.

With everything signed and sealed all that was left was the delivery. The children had been sitting quietly in the living room, waiting.

Fletcher walked in, "Children, are you ready to go see your mother?" He could tell they were both terrified. 

He walked over and knelt on the floor in front of the two kids, "I know it's been a long time, but you two are coming with me today. My name is Fletcher Hanson. I'm a very close friend of your mother. You're coming to live with us."

The little girl asked a question. She asked, almost in a whisper, "You're taking us away from our Daddy?"

He answered, "No, not all. You're just going to spend all your days and nights with your Mom from now on, but your Dad will come and see you every week." He looked over at the father, "Isn't that so?"

The father was eager to get the kids out of the house; too much money was at stake, "You bet. I'll be there every weekend."

The little girl looked at Fletcher. She whispered, "You know my Mommy?"

Fletcher already loved this little girl, "I know her very well. I love your Mommy. I'm going to marry her."

The little boy spoke up. His voice was frail, weak, "You'll be our new Dad."

Fletcher was careful, "I'll be your second Dad, but I'll never take your real Dad's place." Fletcher pointed to the other man, "He'll always be your real Dad." Fletcher was getting fidgety. This was a lot more complicated than he thought. What of they refused to go?

The little girl looked scared, "Where are you taking us?"

Fletcher told her the name of the nearest city. He described the house. He told them about his three children and the pond, the woods, the barn, the lawn tractor, the dirt bikes, the kitchen, the dinner table, the cupboards, the bedrooms. He kept talking and talking, telling them everything he could think of; afraid if he stopped they'd refuse to leave.

The little girl asked, "Why didn't our Mommy come?"

Fletcher had planned for that one, "Your Mom had to fill out some legal papers for you today, and then she and the lady who's taken care of me were going to get the house fixed up." He added, "Your Mom's a little afraid you know."

The little girl asked, "What's she afraid of?"

Fletcher had an answer, "Your Mom loves you so much, but she's afraid you won't love her. She's afraid you'll turn her away. She afraid you're mad at her for leaving. She's very afraid you'll hate her."

Fletcher watched; the little boy must have some kind of attention deficit disorder, he couldn't stay focused, but the little girl was sharp, smart. She was older; maybe she had a better understanding. He needed her. If he got her, the boy would follow, he was convinced of that. 

Fletcher watched the little girl too. She seemed to be rallying.

The girl spoke up, very quietly but very clearly. Looking out of the corner of her eye at her father, and speaking low enough so he couldn't hear, "I know why she left."

Fletcher, appreciating the horrific inference of the little girl's comment, only nodded.

The girl asked, "When we leave here, we'll never have to come back?"

Fletcher told her the truth, "Your mother loves you powerfully and deeply. All she wants to do is shower you with kisses and hugs." He could see he was getting through, "But if you decide you want to come back and live with your Dad, she won't stop you. It would break her heart though."

Little Sorrel started talking, "I remember my Mommy. I remember her from always. I used to dream about her, that she'd come and get us, how she'd be rich and beautiful, she'd take us away, and we'd all to live in a grand palace."

Fletcher touched the girl's hand, "She is rich, and she is beautiful. You look just like her. I'm here to take you to her. She's waiting for us right now. The house, well it's not exactly a palace, but your mother and I like it, and I think you'll like it too."

The little boy was paying attention again, "Can I have a dog?" 

Fletcher remembered Diana's dog. She'd had a big yellow lab. It had died a few months after his wife. It was very old, maybe thirteen. Since then he'd felt funny about having any other dogs even though his kids wanted one. He smiled, "Yes, you can have a dog."

The little girl asked, "You're not going to hurt us?"

Fletcher wasn't surprised; he realized they didn't know him. This was probably the scariest thing they'd ever done. He answered, "No, I'll never hurt you. For one thing I have my own three children. And your mother, she'd kill me. No I'll never ever hurt you. No one will."




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 09



To Fletcher's surprise that comment seemed to break the ice.

The little girl looked at her brother, "Peter, go get your suitcase. We're going to go live with Mommy now."

The little boy hopped up and ran into the back. Almost immediately he was back carrying a small travel bag. The girl had gotten her bag as well. 

The girl kissed her father. The boy waved. Neither spoke to Clara. 

In a matter of what seemed like seconds to Fletcher all three of them were seated in the car headed back to the airport. Fletcher had enough presence of mind to make them sit in the back and buckle their seatbelts. He was glad he did; he could tell the girl was waiting to see if he would expect that. He wondered if their father took the same precautions. 





The ride in the plane was interesting to say the least. Once on the plane both children seemed to open up. Peter insisted on sitting by the window so he could look out. Little Sorrel made Fletcher sit in the middle. 

With one or two very significant moments of silence, Little Sorrel talked and asked questions the whole plane ride back. She wanted to know everything. She was going to have a sister and two new brothers. Would she have a room of her own? Did they have any ponies? Could she have a pony? Was she dressed appropriately? Did her hair look all right? Did he think she was too fat or too tall? 

Mostly though, she asked questions about her mother. What did her mother look like? What did she like to eat? What cloths did her mother wear? What kind of car did she have? Did she have any dolls? Had she any American Girl dolls? Did she still have her teddy bear?

Fletcher tried to keep up. He tried to answer every question. When he couldn't give a clear answer he fell back on the old reliable, "your mother only wants to be with you, to make you happy, and to show you how much she loves you and mow much she's missed you".

The plane put down after 10:00 p.m. They drove back in the dark. Both children were exhausted, but seemed more active than ever. Fletcher guessed it was nervous energy. As they pulled in the drive that led up to the house he saw all the lights were on. He bet they were all in the living room, waiting. He knew this was going to be a momentous few minutes. He looked at the two children sitting in the back seat. They were both wide eyed, and obviously scared. He was scared. He bet Sorrel was too.



While Fletcher Was Getting the Kids:



Florence had dropped Sorrel off earlier in the day. It turned into a long afternoon. Sorrel tried to take a nap, but couldn't get to sleep. She tried reading, but Little Dorritt just didn't do it for her. She took a walk, she paced, she drank coffee, she fidgeted, she went down to the grove, she even circled the pond looking for Rupert. There were no other distractions; Byron was out somewhere. Mary had taken Marion somewhere, and the boys were at lacrosse practice. As the afternoon faded and evening closed in she got progressively more nervous. She was wound much too tightly, coiled like a spring, and she knew it.

Finally Mary and Marion, and then the boys got home, but the momentary relief of having company was ended when Fletcher called from the airport. They'd landed and would be home within the hour.

Sorrel ran upstairs and ransacked the closet. She had to look just right! She found a tan colored pleated skirt that came to just above the knees. She threw on a pair of light brown knee high stockings and brown penny loafers. She picked out a soft white cotton blouse, peter-pan collar gently trimmed in tiny ruffles around the neck and the long sleeved cuffs. She pulled out a pale blue cable knit V-necked sweater and slipped it over her head. She needed make up.

She ran to the bathroom and washed off the days paste and replaced it with nothing more than a little pink cheek blush, a smidgen of pink lipstick, and a tad of the palest blue eye shadow. She adjusted the garnet studs, and tied her hair off into pig tails, wrapping each in a thin piece of light blue ribbon. 

God she wanted to look just right. Her children were coming home! Everything had to be perfect! She ran downstairs as fast as she could. She could see the headlights coming up the dark driveway. They were almost here! She prayed. 'Oh please God make them like me!' 

The car stopped. She heard the low ratchet sounding squeak of an emergency brake being pulled, a door opened. Someone had gotten out! She heard a child's voice!



At Warren's:



Further up the road Warren was examining the results of the two polygraph tests. He looked at Florence, "This complicates things."

"How so," asked Florence?

"Well someone was stealing from the company. If it wasn't Sorrel, then who was it?" He looked pointedly at Florence.

Florence was oblivious of the inference, "If it wasn't Sorrel that leaves Pearce, Charles, Steve, Fletcher, me, or you." Florence paled slightly as she glanced up at Warren.

Warren pushed her unfinished coffee cup across the table, "Finish your coffee. Then let's go into my office. We need to check the data again." As Florence finished her brew Warren contemplated the difficulties they would have with this woman. She'd been a good and faithful employee. It was such a shame she'd crossed the line. 'Well,' he considered, 'it couldn't be helped.'



Mildred:



Concurrently, about eighty miles away Mildred, Warren's wife, was reclining in the back of her personal limousine. As instructed, she was on her way to make the final arrangements on Warren's behalf. The private agency they'd worked with from time to time was ready to receive the package Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. The object would be warehoused for several days before export to a foreign location, a location from which the parcel would never return. 

She realized she wouldn't make it home before all the planning was complete. She decided to stay at the facility overnight. She'd finalize the details with officials at the sanitarium tomorrow, stay over another night, and pick up the object on the way home. By the time she got home to Warren everything would be finished. She saw no need to notify her husband. He hated that kind of thing. Just get it done, and spare him the details; that had always been his motto. 



And Back At Fletcher's:



Fletcher got out and held the door for Peter and Little Sorrel, "Now don't go rushing right in. Let me get the front door for you."

He walked ahead, up the short set of steps, found the handle and opened the front door. Little Sorrel, holding her brother's hand, stepped through the portal into the brightly lit front room. At first she felt nothing but awe. There was the bright light, all the people, boys, another girl, an older woman, and someone else; someone standing, almost like they were hiding, behind the older woman.

Little Sorrel, with her brother in tow, pushed into the living room. She pushed past the two brothers who were ogling her and the pretty girl who was smiling. Then she saw her. She was right there behind the older woman. Little Sorrel knew instinctively. It was her mother. She looked afraid, and she looked sort of little, young little. She was standing alone now, really all alone, hands down at her sides. Little Sorrel saw she was clenching and unclenching her hands, sort of self consciously gripping at the hem of her skirt.

Gosh thought Little Sorrel, 'she's so beautiful, and she's our Mom, "Mommy?" She asked.

Sorrel couldn't move. Everything, her whole life, all the things that ever mattered was right there in front of her; her little girl, her little boy, "Yes, it's me."

The little girl, Sorrel's daughter, closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. She tackled her mother, nearly knocking her down. She wrapped her arms around the woman's waist, "Mommy!" She burst into tears! 

Peter was just a step behind. He was younger than his sister. When his mother disappeared he'd locked her memory away in a tiny box in the back of his heart. Now the box burst open! All the memories, the stories, the little games, the kisses, hugs, late night glasses of water, everything exploded back into his consciousness. He yelled, "Mommy, mommy, mommy!"

Sorrel dropped to her knees, arms around her treasures, tears gushing out of big blue eyes, tears of happiness, of delight, of unconcealed, unalloyed joy! She cried out, "Oh my babies!" She squeezed them to her breast, crying, weeping a sing song tune of pure happiness. She showered them with kisses; kisses that had been stored and saved for years. 

Sorrel was utterly, totally, completely out of control! She turned from child to child, to Little Sorrel, to Peter, then back to Little Sorrel, kissing, hugging, squeezing, pinching, and lavishing years of stored up love.

Her children reciprocated. This was their mother; their dream person; the fantasy who had held them together through hundreds of long nights. But that was all gone; the world was new, clean, and pure.



It was Mary who broke the spell, somebody had to, "Let's get them upstairs and give them a bath."

Sorrel possessively spoke up, "I'll take care of it." She took her children's hands and started down the short hallway that led to the stairs. At the last second, just before turning the corner she looked back and found Fletcher with her eyes standing at the far end of the room. She momentarily dropped her their hands, ran the length of the room, wrapped her hands around the man's face and kissed him hard. Without a word she turned and ran back to her children. They disappeared up the stairs.

Fletcher was completely off his oats, "Whew, I'm glad we don't do this every night."

He didn't get in another word. His own three trapped him and wrestled him to the floor. They didn't know the words that correctly expressed the emotions they felt. Marion might have been a little too tomboyish, and the boys might have been overly clownish, but they knew their father had done something profoundly heroic.



The evening was a long one. Fletcher and Mary spent most of the rest of the night in and out of the kitchen, drinking coffee and orange juice. Upstairs the light in the master bedroom stayed on till well past 4:00 a.m. Two children had to be bathed, dressed for bed, cuddled, coddled, and made over. Then there were about three dozen bedtime stories that had to be told and retold. None of them, though exhausted, wanted to go to sleep; mother, daughter, and son had too much catching up to do. Too many kisses, too many hugs, too many hair scruffs, too many finger tracing of profiles had to be performed before anyone considered sleep.

All night, while the three Sullivan's giggled and played; two other boys and another girl crossed and re-crossed by the master bedroom door. It wasn't just curiosity, it was more than fascination; it was more like a feeling, though mild, of deprivation, maybe a little jealousy. They wanted to be a part of what was happening. They felt left out.

Fletcher heard the soft footfalls overhead, and had a hunch it was his kids. He went upstairs and took them in the boy's room. While Sorrel got reacquainted with her little brood, Fletcher reaffirmed his love for his own. 

Tuesday:

It was nearly 11:00 a.m. before anyone was up, and it was going to be another busy day. Fletcher and Sorrel had decided to take all the kids out on a shopping spree and then maybe for food. Little Sorrel and Peter were in desperate need of clothing, and Marion, Richard, and Robert needed to get involved. Mary was to go along too.

Fletcher was up, standing guard at the coffee pot when Sorrel came downstairs with her little brood, "Good morning," he said, "or should I say good afternoon. Did every body get to sleep?"

Sorrel responded with a warm but tired smile, "Yeah we got to sleep." She leaned down and touched Peter's cheek, "Ready to go shopping my little man?"

Peter gazed up at his mother like he was looking at a goddess. He didn't say anything, he only pressed tightly against her. Sorrel had seen the signs of some sort of emotional or cerebral dissonance the night before. It worried her, but only marginally. Whatever it was, it could be fixed.

Little Sorrel, while at their father's had become her brother's guardian; running interference against the depredations of their father's sister, a woman whose own mental faculties were limited. She lightened things up, "He's ready mom. You can count on it."

Sorrel had seen and had come to understand the social dynamic between brother and sister. 'What a remarkable little girl she had,' she thought. She told Little Sorrel, "I'm glad of it. We'll be busy today, that's for sure."

Marion crossed the threshold and attacked the refrigerator looking for juice, "Dad says we're all going shopping today." She looked at Sorrel, "I want to go with you and Little Sorrel here."

Sorrel gave her soon to be older daughter a toothy grin, "I was counting on that."

Marion beamed. She needed to hear that.

Fletcher went about scrambling eggs, making toast, and putting on a fresh pot of coffee, "I expect Mary will be down soon. She wants to go too." 

Sorrel gave him a special private little smile, "I hope so. Mary's become like a mom to me now."

Fletcher caught the gentle look and the warm inflection in Sorrel's tone, "She's like a mom to me too."

"Who's like a mom to you," Mary asked as she slipped into the kitchen.

Sorrel piped in, "We were talking about you Mary."

Mary blushed, "I guess it must be OK then, if the term mom went with it."

Fletcher nodded, "Oh it did. It did."

Mary changed the topic, "Shopping today?"

Sorrel answered, "Yes ma'am."

Mary contributed, "Well with five kids and two lead shoppers what do you say if I went along. You know, just to ride herd."

Fletcher, "We were counting on that."

By then the eggs were just about ready, half dozen pieces of toast were on a platter, the juice was out, and a second pot of coffee had finished. Since the game plan for the shopping had been laid out, it was time to scarf up some chow and then head out.

While eating Mary added, "I hired a caterer for tonight's party." She looked at Fletcher, "You know, Bonsiero's Delicatessen on the edge of town."

Fletcher, chomping on a piece of toast, drooling coffee out of his mouth on his shirt, and trying not to be too conspicuous about it nodded, "They make great crab balls."

A few minutes later Robert and Richard joined the happy little band around the table. Things got a little louder, and Richard rediscovered one of his favorite breakfast pass times, flicking egg at people with his fork. Peter watched his new brother and tried it too. Mary ended it by scooping up all the plates, and ordering everyone to wash up, brush their teeth, and be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.

They traveled to the nearest mall in two cars. Fletcher loaded the boys in his SUV. Mary carted all the females down in her minivan. Everyone in both vehicles cycled through the same essential issues; what station to put on the radio, who got the front passenger's seat, and why it was still too cold to roll all the windows down.

In Mary's van the younger girls sat in the back and talked. As it turned out Marion and Little Sorrel were both active gabbers. Neither had much that was meaningful to say, but they sure had a good time saying it. Sorrel and Mary talked more about the clothing needs of the two girls. Both understood, though Little Sorrel's needs were acute, Marion had to get a good stockpile of spring and summer time apparel too, if only to insure equity. 

Up in the front car, it was understood Fletcher's SUV would always be the lead vehicle, the topics of discussion centered more on baseball mitts and lacrosse sticks. Peter had a passing understanding of lacrosse though he'd never played it. Baseball he understood and liked. Fletcher listened, and could tell his boys were taking charge. The connection between the three would be sports; his boys the tutors, Sorrel's little Peter the learner. 

In both cars a new symbiosis was emerging. Two girls were becoming best friends, and three boys were an emerging team. Whatever private fears Sorrel and Fletcher had about assimilation or inclusion were evaporating. Their lives were being reshaped; a newer larger family, a new mother and father, and Mary, the straw that served to stir the family drink. Sure there would be rough days ahead, fights over bed space, squabbles over television rights, rhubarbs pertaining to make up and athletic equipment, but the big things like acceptance and fairness seemed to be resolving themselves. It was a testimonial to the openness and basic decency of children. But in both cars the adults wondered if the grown ups at the evening's party would have the same amenable behavior as these children.

The shopping spree was certainly an extravaganza of gargantuan proportions. Box after box of dresses, blouses, coats, skirts, hats, designer jeans, make up packets, inexpensive jewelry, CDs, DVDs, sweaters, under things, and knickknacks were piled in the minivan, while the SUV was crowded with athletic apparel, button down shirts, and all the other necessary accouterments of youthful adolescence. 

To everyone's surprise the return trip, the unloading and parsing out of the loot went smoothly and quietly. By 6:00 everyone was done, and everything had found a place; just in time for naps, showers, baths and preparation for the evening. 

The entire return and prep for the evening evinced only one problem, but it was a significant one. A newer and much larger hot water heater had become a very serious priority.



The Party and What Fletcher Saw:



The guests for the evening party started to arrive just before 8:00. The purpose of the party was more a rehabilitation of Sorrel than anything else. All the former participants at Steve and Cynthia's were invited back. That included Pearce and Collette and their son Flail, Charles and Gwyneth Coburn and her sister Hannah, Steve and Cynthia Hammer, Charles McNamara and his significant other Denise, Warren and Mildred, and of course Florence. 

Not everyone came. Warren and Florence were allegedly reprocessing the data that had incriminated Sorrel. Mildred was out of town, and the malevolent Hannah simply stayed away. 

The weather was somewhat warmer so tables were set up both inside and outside the house. This was not a formal dinner, but there were finger foods, chips, pretzels, veggies, and beverages galore. The back yard was well lighted, festooned in fact, with Japanese lanterns. It was still spring so there was minimal threat from insects.

Sorrel looked great. Her hair flowed gently around her face down to her shoulders; an unusual occurrence for her, but her make up still had that same subdued understated magnificence. She had on a dark deep red dress that came just above her knees. It was a pullover, but was buttoned partly down the front with a plunging shirred neckline. Short sleeved with shirred capped shoulders it was beautiful on her. He noticed the dress matched exactly the garnet earrings she wore, the same earrings he'd once given to Diana. He got a lump in his throat at the sight.

The people gathered, mingled and talked, mostly about trivial matters. Fletcher was most concerned about intercourse involving Sorrel. He wanted everyone to see and understand the changed relationship she had with them and with him. 

Early on he announced their intention to marry. Everyone at least overtly expressed their pleasure. 

Sorrel's and his children were allowed party access for a short time, so everyone had the opportunity to meet and greet the kids. His kids were old hands at the sort of stuff that went on, but it was all fire new to Sorrel's two. Little Sorrel blended right in. It helped she had Marion at her arm. Peter was more reticent than his sister. Fletcher wondered if a lot of Peter's backwardness had more to do with a quiet reflective nature than with some mental infirmity. The little boy, when pressed, certainly held his own in age appropriate conversations. Subtly watching Sorrel Fletcher could tell she was probably of the same frame of mind.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 09



Among the adults, behavior patterns ran the gamut. Denise was just as mindless and frivolous as ever. Fletcher wondered what Charles saw in her. He figured she must be great in the sack. He watched Denise around Sorrel. Like the last occasion Denise looked for every opportunity to touch, even fondle, Sorrel, and like the last occasion Sorrel just as determinedly fought her off. 

Cynthia was frosty at best, but Steve went overboard attending to Sorrel. It annoyed Fletcher how Steve was on her arm almost all night. If one didn't know better one might have assumed something had been going on. Fletcher knew it was just his suspicious nature, now coupled with an added twinge of possessive jealousy. But it still bothered him, and it didn't help that Sorrel seemed to enjoy the attention. 

The Coburn's, Charles and Gwyneth, were their usual reserved selves; definitely a welcome relief. Hannah's absence was also most welcomed, since it had been her who had precipitated the crisis over the peeing incident, an event about which Fletcher still felt strong twinges of guilt.

Pearce, his wife Collette, and their son Flail were there. Pearce was guarded. Fletcher correctly guessed he was more worried about his status in the company than anything. He bet 

Collette had the same fear, but she evinced her fears in an irritatingly different manner. Perhaps as a come on, or perhaps as a form of overcompensation Collette wouldn't leave him alone. Everywhere Fletcher went Collette followed like some bitch in heat. She fawned all over him, a real sycophant she was, touching, holding, and gently squeezing his arm, caressing his neck. It was quite embarrassing. 

The best guest of the evening turned out to be, of all people, Flail. What a remarkable change had come over the boy. He spoke with Sorrel, and Fletcher could see she was delighted by his comments. When he approached Fletcher he took a manly tone; reminding Fletcher of his prior pledge to change, and asserting he had with significant positive outcomes among the girls in his immediate circle. It pleased Fletcher to hear the boy was becoming a man.



The party was a short lived affair. By 11:00 all the guests had departed. Both Fletcher and Sorrel thought it was a success.

As they said their last good byes, and started back inside Fletcher had to say something about Steve's obnoxious behavior, "I thought the party went well don't you?"

Sorrel answered, "Yes it was a lot different than the last time."

Fletcher made a soft stab, "Brother what were you saying to Steve to keep him around all night?"

Sorrel looked up a little surprised, "What?"

Fletcher, "Well the guy hung on you, like a fly on shit, all night."

Sorrel thought it was a joke, "He likes me. WE used to hang out in the old days. Didn't you know that?"

"No I didn't," responded Fletcher.

"Sure," continued Sorrel, "we'd eat lunch together, stay late and work on the project."

"I don't want to hear anymore." He hesitated then added, "You have a thing for him?"

Sorrel laughed, "You kidding?"

"You do like him," responded Fletcher suspiciously.

Sorrel realized Fletcher was serious, "I couldn't and can't stand him. He was always hitting on me, trying to corner me someplace, putting his hands where they didn't belong. I thought, and still think of him as a jerk."

"You sure didn't act like it."

Sorrel retaliated, "Well you and Collette seemed to be having quite a good time."

"Don't worry about Collette. You keep away from Steve."

Sorrel was a little pissed, "What do you mean don't worry about Collette. You have a thing for her?"

Fletcher growled, "Oh, shut up!"

Sorrel growled back, "I will not shut up, and I will talk to Steve whenever and wherever I want!"

Fletcher put up his hands, "Maybe you should go out with him?"

Sorrel got in his face, grabbed the end of his nose and twisted it, "And maybe you're a little jealous."

He wrinkled his abused proboscis, "I'm not jealous."

She teased, "Oh yes you are!"

He deflected, "No I'm not."

Sorrel reached down with her hand and did something extraordinary, at least for her, she grabbed his scrotum and squeezed it, "Are to!"

He pulled her in and engulfed her mouth with a warm kiss, "OK, I confess. Yes I guess I am." He hurled his tongue halfway down her throat in a mighty French kiss. Coming up for air he asked, "Should I be?"

She answered, "Of course not." She pushed two fingers in his open mouth, "Your breath isn't half as bad as his."

By then he had her dress half way down, and was working on her bra, "Come on let's go to bed."

She jumped up sideways. He caught her and carried her into his little side bedroom. She held his neck in her hand and nibbled on his ear. It would be the wee hours of the morning before they would get to sleep.



Late, very late that night, Fletcher still lay awake in bed. On his back, with the woman he loved breathing deeply and rhythmically beside him he thought he'd finally found what he needed. Sure he thought about Diana, but in a different way now. She was in Heaven, and he was sure she was happy for him. He peered over at the sleeping angel beside him. He nuzzled her neck. She was so warm, her skin was soft, and she was oh so delicate. He took his free hand and softly, carefully, rubbed over her elegantly sculpted breasts. He thanked God. Not many men got a second chance at happiness. He drifted off in a blissful sleep.



Trouble on the Horizon:



Several miles up the road Fletcher's brother was also awake. He was staring at the inert supine heavily sedated body of a woman he once loved. He wondered how different things might have been if he'd married the less attractive but certainly more devoted woman at his feet. Even when he dumped her, she had remained loyal. Now she was a liability. Yes, Florence had to go. The solution was obvious. He still had to hide his malfeasance; but with Sorrel in the clear that left only Florence. Instead of spiriting Sorrel away Florence was to be chosen for eradication. He'd simply claim she came to him, confessed, and fled. Out of past loyalty he agreed to give her a few days head start. No one would question him. He'd call Fletcher, and bring him up to explain things in the morning.



Mildred:



Mildred had finally gone to sleep. Her plan was a simple one. When she awakened she'd have the limousine drive her to Fletcher's. On the pretext of a meeting with Warren to make amends she see the girl off. By this time tomorrow night Sorrel would be on her way to hell. 

Her foolish rangy assed husband would be covered again. Sorrel, well Sorrel would be, for all intents and purposes, dead.

A couple notes from the author:

If you have any comments or suggestions, anything you like, dislike, or would like to see please let me know

Also, I warned everyone at the start this was not a story intended to necessarily titillate. Literatica has thousands of stories like that. This is my story, the way I want it. I only hope you're enjoying it as much as I am writing it.



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 10



Early the next morning Sorrel awakened before Fletcher; a first she thought. She quietly lifted the covers and peered down at his man thing. Penises were strange things she thought; sort of fascinating, but really ugly to look at. His looked a little tumescent; not what she would call hard. It was semi-erect. She half giggled to herself; he had a semi. 

She took her fingers and softly stroked up and down the length of his shaft. She touched the tip; the head, as men liked to call it. She was surprised at how fast it started to get big. She stifled another giggle. This was something she'd never ever dreamed of doing with any other man. Somehow it seemed OK with him. She kept touching and gently smoothing it with the tips of her fingers. He'd been circumcised, and she was glad of it. She couldn't imagine living with a filthy Philistine. 

Sorrel noticed the rhythm of his breathing had changed. She glanced over, and saw him looking at her.

He asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm touching your thingy."

Puzzled, Fletcher commented, "My thingy?" 

She asked, "All right what do you call it?"

He grinned, and answered in a low gruff tone, "I call him Mr. Tibbs!"

"Oh shit," she responded, "Is that the best you can do?"

"OK," he countered, "What do you think I, or I mean we, should call it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Let's call it your Thingy."

"My Thingy," he retorted, "Is that the best you can do?"

"Hold on," she said, as she pulled the covers down and crawled down so that her face was beside it.

Fletcher warned, "You better watch out. My Thingy has to pee."

Sorrel took her tongue and licked around the head of his penis. It got even bigger.

He rolled over, "I've got to go to the bathroom."

"Me too," she said as she rolled off the other side.

Together they held hands and strolled to the small bathroom off from his bedroom. Once inside he took his penis in his hand and started to go, but she slapped his hand away and took it in hers, "Let me."

Fletcher stood still with his hands behind his back while Sorrel held his penis and directed the flow of urine into the toilet bowl. Since it was hard she had to push down to get it aimed at the water. She pointed it first this way, then that way. It was kind of fun. When he was finished she shook it, took a piece of toilet paper and wiped the end off.

"There," she said, "Now it's my turn." She pushed him away and sat down on the toilet seat, her face eye level with his penis, his Thingy. While she peed she took her left hand and held his penis. She put the head of his penis up close to her mouth and licked it with her tongue. Then she put it in her mouth and started to suck.

"Oh!" she said with disgust as she turned and spit, "You weren't done peeing."

He grinned again, "Sometimes it does that."

She recovered and took him back in her mouth. She continued sucking on his penis, slowly swallowing more and more into her mouth. She took her two hands and held him by the hips; every second or so she let it slip out of her mouth only to take it back in again.

While she sucked him off, he took his two hands and gently massaged her breasts, making sure to use his palms to lightly rub over her nipples. He liked doing that because it made them stick out more. 

While he rubbed and she sucked, he asked, "Taste good?"

She looked up, his penis still in her mouth, and nodded.

He took her by the shoulders and lifted her up so she had to stop what she was doing. He stood her up and kissed her. He picked her up like a baby and carried her back to bed, laid her down, and climbed in beside her.

"One good turn deserves another," He crawled down and started licking her pussy. At first he only licked her labial lips. Up and down in slow rhythmic strokes went his tongue, but soon he found his way inside her vagina. He licked, kissed, and nibbled on the edges of her vaginal opening. He liked it. She had a smallish, clean, pink little pussy. It was a mild surprise how even after two kids she still had such a small sweet little snatch. No, he thought, snatch was the wrong word, too bold and vulgar. She had a girlish little puss; a cute little pussy.

He crawled back up and turned his attentions to her mouth. He kissed her softly at first, but gradually increased the depth and intensity of his mouth on hers. While he kissed her he took two fingers, his index finger and tall man, and started massaging inside her vagina. While he rubbed inside; up and down, then, fingers slightly hooked, he massaged forward and back. He used his thumb to press downward on the top of her pubic bone. 

Sorrel had been touched down there by other men, two other men, but never quite like what he was doing. It was as though he knew exactly what, where, and how to touch. She felt herself getting warmer and wetter.

He kept kissing her, but he kept his fingers pulsing up and down inside her puss. He used them to press against the softer top of her vaginal walls, and then down against the bottom. He made her feel warmer and wetter. In fact she was getting down right excited.

As the sensation of his fingers inside her pussy became more urgent she tried to push his hand away, but he wouldn't let go. He was seriously titillating her, he knew it, and he was enjoying every minute of it. He started kissing the tips of her nipples; that only made her more nervous.

She tried to squirm away, out of reach, but he wouldn't let go. He kept up the pressure inside with his fingers, even while he kept kissing and nibbling on her nipples. He leaned down again and bit the tip of her vagina. It produced an electrifying response. She kept squirming, her pelvis involuntarily jumping up and down on the bed. She tried to push him away again. She felt like she had to pee. 

"Oh stop," she said, "I'm going to pee on you."

He refused to stop. He kept pinching her vagina with his teeth and lips. He crawled back up and reengaged in another wanton invasion of her mouth with his lips and tongue, while his fingers continued to plunge up and down, in and out inside her crevice. He used his thumb to press down on her pubis, and to occasionally flit back and forth across her clitoris. 

She was so sensitive; every time his fingers flipped over her clitoris she quivered. She gave up trying to hold him off. He was driving her silly! She couldn't control her body. She was shaking, quaking, squirming, and undulating like a wanton. She felt helpless, like a little girl. 

She had to pee. She gave up and let it go.

It wasn't pee that escaped her. She released a flood of vaginal juices, a flood like she'd never, ever, given up before, not ever.

As her juices released, he climbed back on top, and slid his penis inside. He penetrated deep, way deep inside. He was so big, so hot, and so hard. This was the most exhilarating sexual experience of her life! She kept quivering, shaking, and bouncing up and down on the bed. She wanted to let out a scream, but knowing the kids were nearby she held it in. 

He ejaculated! She felt his semen explode inside her. She'd had this sensation before, but never with this much physiological impact. It was a stirring, mind blowing experience. She felt him slow, and then relax; his manhood began to drift away. She'd climaxed too, and it felt nice.

Fletcher climbed off, but he didn't stop touching her. He took his hands and kept rubbing up and down her torso. He rubbed against her breasts and her sides. He used his fingers to tickle her. He kept kissing her lips, neck, and the side of her face. Then to her surprise his fingers were back inside her. 

She wanted him stop, she tried to push him away, and she almost said something, but he was determined to keep massaging the insides of her pussy. It didn't hurt. It felt incredibly good. She wasn't able to stop him, and she wasn't able to stop her own reactions. She kept bucking and bouncing on the bed; squirming, writhing, giggling, and bouncing about uncontrollably. She kept repeatedly having the same sensation, over and over; they were repeated orgasms. This was unbelievable she was having multiple orgasms!

Finally he pulled his fingers from her pussy. He lifted them to her lips, and slipped them in her mouth. She tasted the warm salty flavor of her own vaginal juices. They sort of tasted good, but not good. The taste made her have another orgasm, a tiny one, but a real orgasm non-the-less.

She grabbed his head and pulled him to her chest. "I love you," she said.

He took his hands and smoothed away her loose hair. He ran his fingers over her lips, sticking an index finger in her mouth. She bit it.

"I love you too," he replied. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly.

Outside they heard the muffled voices of children. Everyone else was getting up. Fletcher got off the bed, and reached for her bathrobe. Pulling her out of bed he helped her slip it in on. He held the collar of the robe and kissed her on her lips again.

"God you're beautiful. I love you so much."

She blushed. 



Sorrel and Fletcher pulled themselves together and went into the kitchen. Everyone was sitting there; all three boys, both girls, Mary, and even Byron. No one said anything. They just watched the two adults as they quietly slipped into the kitchen.

Peter looked around, "I smell fish. Does anybody else smell fish?"

Mary got up to pour a coffee.

Byron got up and left for the garage.

All the kids just sat there and stared at their parents. Marion sort of knew, but the others didn't have a clue.

Mary placed a coffee in front of Sorrel and another in front of Fletcher, "The girls are with me today. Byron's got the boys. Fletcher, your brother called. He wants to see you. Sorrel I made up a list for you. We need food. We're nearly out of everything." 

Both Fetcher and Sorrel were relieved they had Mary. Everybody's day had been pretty much planned.

Fletcher looked at Sorrel and winked, "After I see my brother I'll meet you back home."

Sorrel, looking away, down at the floor, feeling a little sheepish, answered, "OK."



Fletcher and Warren:



After breakfast, the dishes were stacked in the sink, and everyone made arrangements to get their respective chores completed. The assumption was everyone would be back later that afternoon and they'd trade stories and plan for dinner.

Fletcher led the caravan down the driveway in Sorrel's smaller car, thereby providing her the convenience of the larger SUV. Mary pulled away second, Byron with the boys was third, and Sorrel brought up the rear. It gave Fletcher a warm feeling being able to look in his rearview mirror and see his little tribe. Yes he thought, 'life was good.'

He got to his brothers a little after 11:00, and found him waiting there. Warren explained that Florence had come over the night before, distraught, and wanting to confess. She confessed that she had taken huge sums of money from the company and invested it in what turned out to be a fraudulent scheme. When the recent banking bubble burst all the money, like someone's lap when they stood up, simply disappeared. 

He continued; explaining how she had happened on the idea of stealing even more money from the new investments, investments that wouldn't be audited for months. She hoped to be able to use the second pile of pilfered capital to recover the first. It had backfired, and she knew she would get caught if she didn't come with something fast. That's when she looked into the investments Steve, Pearce, and Sorrel had been developing. Figuring Sorrel was the most vulnerable she laid all the blame on her.

Florence had detailed to Warren how everything would have worked too, except Sorrel had passed the polygraphs.

Fletcher listened to his brother, but only half believed what he heard. He believed the scheme, and how it had exploded, but he didn't believe it had been Florence that had concocted it. When he asked his brother where Florence was, he knew his brother was lying.

Warren said he'd felt sorry for Florence. She'd been a good employee for years, and he couldn't bring himself to simply turn her in without a chance. He decided to wait one day before going to the SEC. Now he explained Florence had gotten her day; it was time to lower the boom. 

He wanted to convene a meeting of all the other key investment parties so everyone would know and understand how they'd mistakenly blamed Sorrel when it had been Florence all along. Warren wanted his brother to set the meeting, hopefully for the next day. 

Fletcher agreed. He said he'd call everyone immediately, and they could meet that very night.

Warren demurred on that quick of a turn around. He insisted his brother make the calls from his house, and set the meeting for his house, that was Fletcher's, for the next day. Fletcher agreed and left.



Warren's Dilemma:



As Fletcher, the always easily mislead younger brother left, Warren considered the next thing he needed to do. He concluded the best way to solve the problem was to permanently remove Florence. The best way to accomplish that was to use the abduction plan, originally set up for Sorrel, on Florence. He and Mildred could cart Florence to some rendezvous point, and let the secret agency they'd contacted remove the unwanted person. Instead of Sorrel, Florence would disappear. It was already set up. It was a done deal, easily accomplished. 

Warren laughed to himself. Florence was sedated and sleeping in a back bedroom. Once Mildred arrived they'd carry out the plan. It would all be over; except for the bogus meeting Fletcher was to set up, by late that very afternoon. 

Even as he sat there congratulating himself he saw his wife's private car pull in the driveway. The deal was already done! 



Sorrel Goes Shopping:



Sorrel's vehicle, actually Fletcher's SUV, was the last in the caravan that pulled away from the house. Her job was to get to the Super-Wal-Mart and buy the place out. Mary had made a list. Fletcher had a list, the kids had things they wanted, and she had a bunch of things she wanted to get too. She figured she'd be lucky if there was enough room in the SUV to get it all in. 

She reached the store, parked the car, walked in, and grabbed a cart. She bet she'd need two before it was over. Sorrel started down the first aisle. 

She thought, 'here she was, out buying groceries for a big family, her family.' She'd never particularly liked food shopping till now, until just this day, today. Always over the last several years she'd only been buying for one. 

She remembered in the past going up and down the aisles, looking at the foods, the foods she bet kids liked, and wistfully wishing she was buying for her little girl and little boy. Well here she was this morning, and she was doing exactly that, buying stuff for her kids, her happy kids. It gave her a warm feeling inside. It was more satisfying than the sex she'd had with Fletcher earlier. 

It was remarkable. She hadn't felt this happy in her whole life. She had her kids, plus three more. She had Mary; her first best friend, a real best woman friend, someone she could talk to, confide in, and to share her dreams with. Then there was Fletcher; her man, her soon to be husband, the man she was ready and willing to share all the rest of her life with. It was all a dream come true.

Fletcher had become so special to her. Just a few days earlier she'd been terrified of him. He'd peed on her, threatened her with bodily harm, and he had told her how much he hated her. That all seemed like a million years ago. Now he was everything, her hero, her help mate, her soul mate, her protector, and her lover. 

It was funny how things had turned out. Once not long ago she was alone; alone in the most meaningful, most lonely, most desolate sense. She remembered how she'd go to work; perhaps leave a coffee cup on the counter. When she got home it was still exactly where she'd left it. No one, not anyone, had been there; no one to put it away, cleaned it, or even lost it while she was gone. 

She understood people who had never lived alone could never appreciate the forlorn, lost, and lonely sight of an unmoved cup, a freshly made bed that no one ever crumpled, a tidy room, forever neat, always untouched, never used, never shared.

Sorrel felt good, wonderful. She felt good about the missing sheets, the uncapped toothpaste tube, the rumpled sweater someone else had worn, the broken pencil point someone else had used. It was a great, no terrific, sensation to be able to yell at someone about moving something, breaking something, or using something they weren't supposed to touch. She knew it probably would sound stupid to most people, but it made her feel more alive. It made her happy; the happiest she'd ever been in her whole life. She had a home, a family, a life, a future. 



It did take two carts to get all the things she needed, and it took what seemed like an hour to get through the check out line. She enjoyed every long boring moment. She pushed one cart and pulled the other out to the SUV. Foolishly she'd parked it well off to the right and way too far away from the front of the store. It was a long arduous trip getting everything to the car.

She unpacked everything, and repacked it all in the vehicle. She was careful to keep the eggs on top, the ice cream and milk containers stowed safely, the meats all together, and she was careful to keep the hot fried chicken she'd bought well away from the cooler things. She'd get home, unload, and have the chicken out on the kitchen table when everybody else got home. 

The chicken was her treat; her first big selfless purchase. She kept imagining who would want what pieces. She imagined Fletcher was a wing man, and Mary probably a thigh girl. She wondered what her two kids, and Fletcher's three, now her three also, would prefer. She thought, if they didn't have enough of one or another type of piece, she'd run back out and get more. 'Jeepers', she thought, 'when did waiting on other people start to become so much fun.' She started humming a little tune.



From out of nowhere it seemed a large black minivan had pulled into the spot beside Sorrel's SUV. She paid it no mind. Then, out of thin air, some man grabbed her by the waist. He clapped something over her mouth. She tried to yell out, but his large hand over her mouth held her so tightly.

Then she smelled the awful chemical odor of chloroform. 'Oh no, she wanted to yell, someone was trying to kidnap her!'

Seconds later the minivan, operated by Mildred's hired henchmen, was trundling down the local bypass toward the Interstate. They'd covered the woman with just enough chemical to quiet her for only a few moments. Soon, even as the van traveled, just a few miles from her home, she'd awaken; awaken to the knowledge that her life had taken a terrible new turn. 



Back on the parking lot, the big Super-Wal-Mart lot, an SUV sat forlornly, alone, one door slightly ajar. Inside the ice cream for the kids started to melt. The big containers of coffee, the trash bags, and the rolls of paper towels, all sat idly in their plastic bags, and the fried chicken, the special treat Sorrel had gotten for everyone slowly cooled. 



Something is Amiss:



By 3:00 Mary and the girls had gotten back. Byron and boys were back shortly thereafter. Fletcher had gotten home first, and typical of most men, he'd slumped down on the living room sofa for a nap. 

Mary went in the living room, tapping Fletcher on the head, she asked, "Hasn't Sorrel gotten home yet?"

Once stirred, he sat up and stretched, "I haven't seen her. What time is it?"

Mary said, "It's after 3:00."

Fletcher glanced at his wristwatch, "She should have been home by now. Call her on her cell phone."

Mary took the house phone by the sofa and punched in Sorrel's phone number. It rang the customary four times, "There's no answer."




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 10



Fletcher took the phone, "Here let me try." He punched the numbers, but got the same result.

Mary asked, "You saw your brother. Would he know anything?"

"I doubt it," answered Fletcher, "but let's give him a try." He punched in his brother's phone number. No answer. He tried Sorrel's number again, still no answer.

He looked at Mary.

She looked at him.

Fletcher said, "Think I'll drive over to the Wal-Mart. You keep trying her number. I'm sure its nothing." Honestly, he wasn't sure of anything. 

By then the children had come in. Little Sorrel asked, "Where's Mom?"

Mary answered, "Your father's going to get her now."

Marion asked, "Can I come?"

Fletcher answered, "Why don't all you kids go play or something. I won't be long."

The children all believed him. They scampered off. Mary tried the phone again.

Fletcher told himself as he got in Sorrel's car, "There's nothing wrong. She probably got tied up in traffic, or she was driving and won't use the phone; afraid to get a ticket." He drove off to the Wal-Mart.





Mildred Informs Warren of Her Actions:





Mildred reached home, and went inside to convey the good news, "Hey Warren, our troubles are over."

Warren answered sarcastically, "Oh really?"

"Yes," responded a slightly out of breath Mildred, "The stupid bitch Sorrel has just been picked up; she'll soon be completely out of circulation, and she'll be out of the country in a few days, a few weeks at the most."

Warren was flabbergasted, dumbstruck to say the least, "What?"

"Yes," Mildred explained again, "I had Sorrel picked up by some of our special friends. She's on her way to that CIA place; I can't remember the name, you know the one in Western Maryland. That place near Camp David. She'll be held there till arrangements are complete for her rendition to one of our government's Middle Eastern disposal facilities." 

Warren was stunned. He couldn't find the words. He simply stood there, in front of his wife, open mouthed awe-struck."

Mildred felt good, "I can't imagine what they'll do to her. I bet in a couple months she won't know her own name; that is if she's even alive."

Warren finally recovered his aplomb, "You dumb shit! You dumb fucking shit!"

It was Mildred's turn to be confounded, "What's with you? Isn't that what we wanted?"

"No you stupid cow, not now!"

Mildred was confused, baffled, "I don't get it."

"I'll tell you my stupid wife. Our sweet little stupid girl Florence took Sorrel to get a polygraph. No actually two polygraphs. The twit was innocent."

Mildred countered, "So what, nobody knows."

"The hell you say. Florence gave Sorrel and Fletcher copies. The damned dinner party the other night was for her benefit. Now everyone knows she had nothing to do with the shortages."

Mildred had to sit down, "What do we do now?"

Warren answered, "Nothing about Sorrel. She's dead. The problem is Florence."

"Where's she," asked Mildred?

"I have her tucked away in the back. Fletcher was here earlier. I gave him a cock and bull story about Florence confessing, and me giving her a head start. The fool believed it." 

Mildred perked up, "We have to get rid of Florence."

"Right," answered Warren, "you have any good ideas?"

Mildred pursed her lips, pressed the fingers of her hands together in front of her face, "Yes."

"Well," asked Warren?

"Florence commits suicide."

Warren laughed at his asshole of a wife, "Florence would never do that."

Now it was Mildred's turn to laugh, "Of course not. You couldn't be as stupid as my father said you were."

Mildred stood back up and walked across the room. Looking out the window she added, "While she's still drugged we take her back to that little toilet she calls an apartment. We get her inside, and then we poison her."

Warren really was just as stupid as Mildred's father had warned; "Now how do we do that?"

"Shit, like always, I have to figure out everything. We press a few pills down her throat, or better, we push a tube down her throat and pour something in. She types a note on her computer. She apologizes for all her misdeeds, and our problems are solved."

Warren was stupid, "What kind of poison?"

Mildred curtly answered, "Shit who cares, anything that will kill her. Damn, we'll fill her stomach up with liquid cleaner for all I care. By the time anyone finds her she'll be dead."

"Will liquid cleaner work?" Warren wasn't thinking.

"Hell," answered Mildred, "Remember that liquid cleaner 'Sun Up' or whatever it was people thought was lemonade back a few years ago. It killed a dozen people."

Warren was slow but it had finally clicked, "So we haul Florence to her apartment, load her stomach with cleanser, and then what?"

Mildred answered, "You and me get the hell out of town."

"What do you mean," asked Warren?

Mildred just shook her head, "We fly to Key Biscayne and wait. If things don't shape up like we want, then we get the hell out of the country."

"We run?"

Mildred yelled at her stupid husband, "No stupid, we fly. Think it over. The suicide plan is thin as a sheet of ice in April. Someone will certainly get wise. Not your dumb assed brother; he's as stupid as you are. Sorrel might have, but she won't be around. Pearce or Steve might smell something though." 

Mildred had just about had it with her husband. First he'd lost a ton of money investing in some hair brained banking scheme. When that collapsed he started selling government secrets to make up the difference, but instead of bailing out of the failed bank deal he just poured in more money. To cover that he ended up altering the company's books, that's when Florence had started to sniff around and she and Warren had to concoct the crazy plan to implicate Sorrel.

Warren was tired of thinking, "We better get Florence moved. Come on she's in the back."

"Not me stupid. You do it.," answered Mildred.

Warren whined, "I can't carry her. She's too heavy."

"Well get your lame ass butler to help you. He knows as much about all this as you do. He's in just as deep as we are."

Warren didn't argue, and he had no more questions. He disappeared down the corridor to find his butler.

A few minutes later Warren and the butler had the limp Florence in the car; it made sense to Warren. By the time they'd get to Florence's she'd be alert enough to get in her own apartment with his and Mildred's help. Then they'd poison her, and head for Florida. The police would find Florence's corpse, the computer confession, and that would be that. 

It made him feel a little sad about Sorrel, but she was the original sacrificial lamb anyway. If she disappeared and died as first planned, it didn't really make that much difference. 





Sorrel Awakens:





Sorrel looked up groggily from the floor of the van, "Where am I?"

A husky woman's voice from the front asked, "Is she coming around?"

An equally husky sounding male voice responded, "Yeah."

The voice in the front continued, "Let her wake up, she needs to know what's happening to her."

Sorrel, still half dazed from the chloroform, asked, "Where are we? Why am I here?"

The two people in the van had no idea who she really was. They'd been given instructions to pick this woman up. She was to be considered only passively aggressive, not a threat to fight, but a real threat to national security. She was one of several such 'security subjects' they'd hustled out of the country over the last several years. Her final destination meant little to them. They only knew she was a traitor and should be treated as such. 

They weren't to physically harm her. It was believed she might have information that would be helpful in the war on terror, but it was information that couldn't be gotten through normal channels. Her case, like so many others, was going to require 'special interrogation techniques'; techniques that could only be accomplished in some third world country; a place where the leaders weren't so squeamish about human rights.

The man in the back answered her, "You're on your way to a hospital, a very special hospital."

Sorrel was rapidly coming around. She remembered the shopping trip, the SUV, the packages, and then there were the arms grabbing her. Oh no! She realized someone had decided to take her away. Someone, one of the people at the party, or maybe Florence, had gone ahead with the plan to have her imprisoned someplace. 

Sorrel tried to sit up, "You've made a mistake."

The man took two fingers and flicked them across her cheek. The mild slap didn't hurt, but it surprised and scared her. He said, "Shut up."

Sorrel, frightened, but increasingly alert responded, "No, listen!" This is a mistake. I'm not what you think..."

The man put his hand over her mouth. He wasn't supposed to hit her, "I said shut up."

Sorrel was too scared to fight, but also too scared to stay quiet, "I'm telling you this is a mistake. I'm not the one you want. Call Fletcher Hanson. He'll..."

She was brusquely pushed down to the floor of the van. The woman in the front asked, "Who's this Fletcher Hanson?"

The man answered, "Beats me. I never heard of him." 

Sorrel, terrified, tried again, "Listen to me. I'm not what you think. This is all a big mistake. Please call Mr. Hanson." She tried to hand the man her cell phone, but couldn't find it.

The man asked, "You looking for this?" He held up her phone.

"Oh please. His number is on my contact list." Sorrel was desperate. This couldn't be happening. What of her children, of Fletcher, of Fletcher's children? Just a little while ago everything was so right. 

She pleaded, "Please just call him. He'll tell you."

The man pretended to punch in the contact, "No, there's no answer," He laughed. 

Sorrel started to cry, "No please. You don't understand."

The van continued down the highway. They passed the side street that would have led them to her home. They drove on southward, toward the Interstate, the Interstate that would lead to her new domicile; a government interrogation center disguised a maximum security mental facility.

Sorrel lay crushed on the floor of the van, half crouched, half sprawled, her face pushed into the carpeting, a strong unfriendly hand pressing against her back, keeping her helpless and supine. 

The man holding her in place noticed the necklace, "Hey look here."

"What," asked the woman in front?

"Someone's attached a necklace to her neck, and guess what."

"What," asked the woman?

"It's a transmitter, a fucking transmitter." He reached into his pocket and extracted a small pen knife. With one swift swipe the necklace fell to the floor. 

Sorrel tried to put up some resistance, but all she did was reveal her pinkie ring.

In another second he had the ring off, "Look at this will you? Two little transmitters; we've got a live here."

Sorrel realized Fletcher's tiny electronic devices, intended to protect her, had only confirmed these two people's suspicions. No amount of pleading would help now. She started weeping; 'why now, why now, after everything had become so right?' 



Fletcher Finds the SUV:



Fletcher drove the circuit around the Super-Wal-Mart. He found the SUV. He jumped from Sorrel's small car, and rushed to open the door. The first thing that accosted him was the smell of fried chicken; then he saw her pocket book and keys on the front seat. He saw the plastic bags in the back. Oh no, he thought. Oh Jesus no. What's happened here? Whatever it was had happened so fast she never got a chance to react. He reached for his cell phone and dialed 911; he gave them the information they needed, and told them he'd wait at the site. He had to argue with them to even come. They half believed it was no big deal; as though some scattered brained woman had simply up and run off. Then he called Mary and told her he'd found the SUV. 

He called his brother, but got no answer. Fletcher definitely knew something was up. It hadn't been that long since he'd left his brother's. Where was Mildred? Where was Florence? Where in the hell was Sorrel? His stomach was twisted in a million knots. He threw up.

This wasn't just a confused mistake. Fletcher knew something was up; something far more terrible than some wildcat kidnapping coupled with some half ass ransom proposal. Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong. He had to reach his brother. There was no answer. 'OK,' he thought. 'He'd wait for the police; and then make straight for Warren's.' He bet he knew what had happened. His brother was behind this. He'd sensed it earlier. His brother knew far more than he'd been letting on.





Mildred and Warren:





Mildred and Warren drove to Florence's and together they struggled to get the weak and still partly comatose Florence into her apartment. Using a thin tube and small funnel they'd procured at a CVS store on the way they inched the tube down her throat into her stomach. Using the funnel and tube they managed to get her to ingest a fair amount of dishwashing cleanser mixed with a prescription cough syrup they'd found in her medicine cabinet. The bottle had indicated the substance should not be taken internally, and added with the cough syrup, they felt comfortable they'd found the right ingredients. 

Warren, with a pair of rubber gloves normally used for dish washing covered any trace of fingerprints as he typed in a forlorn message of regret on the older woman's computer. He left it up on the screen for everyone to see. Mildred quietly went about making certain anyone venturing in would find the cleaning substance and the empty bottle of cough syrup. 

All that was left was to insure Florence remained sufficiently docile until the poisonous substances did their work. They made her as comfortable as possible in her bed, placing a large pillow very close to her mouth and nose thinking that might encourage some level of added somnolence, maybe even suffocation. Last they turned up the heat in the apartment to well above eighty degrees in the belief that might hinder any potential for undesired wakefulness. 

With what they hoped was a convincing work of suicide, they cleaned the entire apartment of any possible trace of their fingerprints. They congratulated each other on what they expected would be considered an open and shut case of self destruction. They closed out the apartment, and left for the airport.

Warren, though they certainly had the resources, had eschewed the purchase of a private plane for the company. He publicly attributed it to his natural disinclination to fly. However, on this occasion he and Mildred decided to overcome any such reluctance. They went ahead, bought tickets with cash, planning to fly coach to Florida where they would await events. 





Fletcher:





It seemed like ages to Fletcher, but finally a patrol car reached him at the Wal-Mart parking lot. They checked out the SUV, listened to Fletcher's hyper-tense and confused explanation, and took the information down in a report. However, they explained, though things looked suspicious, their hands were essentially tied until more time had elapsed or until Fletcher or someone else near the missing woman was contacted by someone with a ransom demand. They advised him to go home, calm down, and wait; exactly the last things Fletcher wanted to hear. 

He thanked the policemen, assured them if they didn't take this more seriously their careers were in the toilet, got back in Sorrel's little car, and sped off toward his brother's. On the way he called Mary.

"Mary," he spoke, as he drove along the highway.

"This is she," answered Mary.

"I've been with the police. They're no help. I'm headed to my brother's. I think that's the best place to start. I'm convinced he knows a hell of a lot more than he let on this morning," He paused, half scared he continued, "How are the children?"

Mary answered, "They are worried, but they don't know anything yet. What do you think I should say?"

Fletcher hesitated but then said, "You have to tell them something. Tell them I've gone to fetch her, that she had am minor mishap, nothing serious, but she's not immediately available."

Mary listened to Fletcher with dread. She was left with the kids, and she was the one who had to invent some crazy story, "OK, I'll tell them something. Don't you lose control!"

Fletcher responded, "I'm all right. I'll call you when I get to Warren's."

The drive to Warren's didn't take long at all. He reached the front door and rang the bell. After several seconds he tried the door. It was locked. He walked around to the back and tried the rear entrance. It was locked too. Not hesitating he took a fair sized chunk of wood and smashed in one of the rear windows. That set off the burglar alarm, but he didn't care. He climbed in the rear window, careful not to cut himself on the broken glass.

As he got through the window he was greeted by the butler. Fletcher asked, "Why didn't you answer the fucking door?" 

The butler gave him a smarmy smile, "Mr. and Mrs. Hanson are not at home."

Fletcher wasn't in any mood to swap barbs with his brother's overbearing butler, "I know that. Where did they go?"

The butler dissembled, "They didn't tell me." He paused, "Sir."

Fletcher knew damn well the son of a bitch was lying. He never liked the bastard anyway. He grabbed him by his shirt collar and threw him against the wall, "Yes you know. So tell me."

The butler, in feigned outrage answered, "If you don't let me go, I'll have to notify the police."

That was all Fletcher needed; first came a knee to the groin, followed by a powerful fist directed at the man's solar-plexus. As the butler collapsed to the floor, Fletcher's fists followed. Furious beyond measure he rained a hail of hammer like blows on the man's face and upper body. Fletcher heard the man's jaw crack, and he watched as his nose flattened between his cheeks, "You better start saying something! That is if you want to live!" 

The butler was gagging on his own blood and sputum. Still he managed to garble out, "They've taken Ms. Henderson to her apartment."

Fletcher, still slamming his fists in the man's increasingly pulpy face yelled, "Why?"

The bloodied butler replied, "They're going to kill her and make it look like a suicide. Then they're leaving for Florida."

Fletcher threw the bleeding, bludgeoned man to the floor. He turned to go.

As Fletcher made to leave the butler hollered out, "You're too late. She's already dead and the Sullivan woman is going to be dead soon too!"

He heard the butler, but made no effort to turn back and renew his punishment. The man had confirmed his worst fears. He had to get to Florence's and save her. Saving her would lead him to Sorrel. He hadn't been this scared since he was in high school. His heart was in his throat! This couldn't be happening! Not again! He knew he wouldn't be able to face another day, not without her, not without Sorrel!





Mary and the Kids:





Mary called the children into the living room, "Children I have some news about your father and your mother." She didn't try to rephrase her description of Fletcher and Sorrel to the children. It was time they fully accepted what they already knew. 

The children, all five of them sat down, some on the sofa some on the floor.

Mary looked at five sets of eyes, trusting eyes, innocent eyes. She went on, "Someone's taken Sorrel." She saw the looks of fright and with Little Sorrel outright terror. "Don't worry. Our Dad's on it. He'll have her back here safe and sound in no time."

Mary watched; she didn't know what to expect. How would they handle what she said? She was counting on Marion to be her rock. The boys, well she just didn't know. It was Little Sorrel who worried her the most.

To Mary's surprise it was Marion who panicked.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 10



Marion jumped from the sofa and ran crying from the room. The three boys all watched in terrified disbelief. Mary believed they were young enough to believe what she'd said. But for Marion to run, that was unexpected.

Mary jumped up, "Marion wait!"

Little Sorrel ran after her new big sister, "Marion, wait up!"

Marion ran to her room and jumped on the bed. She buried her head in the pillows and comforter that lay on top. She started to cry.

Little Sorrel was right behind her. She ran in the room, and jumped on the bed beside her, "Don't cry Marion. Don't be afraid."

Marion was crying and wringing her hands, "I can't do this. I can't lose another one. Not now."

Little Sorrel grabbed her new found older sister and held her close, "Don't be afraid. It'll be all right. You'll see."

Marion shuddered, still crying, "No you don't know. You don't know."

Little Sorrel held her tightly, "I'm not afraid. Hold onto me." Little Sorrel had done this very thing before. Years ago when her mother first fled the baby in her arms then had been Peter. Now it was Marion. 

Mary watched from the hallway. She watched as Little Sorrel tried to comfort the older girl. She didn't know what to make of it. If she knew the truth she'd be more afraid than ever, for Little Sorrel was drifting into her own little fantasy world, a fantasy world she'd created years before and had hidden in until Fletcher had appeared to release her. 

If Mary had known, if she had any understanding of the intricacies of the human mind she might have seen Little Sorrel's attempts at comforting Marion as something far more serious, far worse than imaginable. Was the younger girl evincing the outward symptoms of an emotional malady sometimes known as 'dissociative fugue'? Was Little Sorrel's protective behavior aimed at consoling her knew big sister, or was it more accurately designed, unconsciously, to protect the younger girl from another terrible reality, a reality much like an earlier one she'd suffered through years before. 

Having hidden from the awful reality of abandonment once before; it was easy for Little Sorrel's vulnerable frail young ego to find that special protected place again. The real terror wasn't just in the little girl's finding that safe hidden place. The real terror was whether, after the trauma was complete and the crisis passed, would she be able to return? What horrific thing had Mildred, and by proxy her foolish husband, done to this precious little person? 



Mary slowly walked back downstairs. It was her immediate job to pretend as though nothing was wrong, to carry on. She'd done it before when Diana had died. Did she have the stamina to do it again; so soon? She didn't know. She prayed she did, but her heart was pounding so. She felt light headed. She clung to the wall as she staggered down the stairs.

She whimpered, "Help, help me. Somebody help me." She crumpled to the floor at the bottom of the steps.



A Note from the Author:

Not all stories end happily. We'll have to see about this one. 

Of course, your comments and suggestions are most welcome. 

Still be reminded Sorrel and Fletcher's story is not intended for the larger Literotica readership. The sexual content here is meant only to broaden and deepen the relationship between our two protagonists. If you want gratuitous sex from me, read The Gold Digger, or for sadism try Angela and Vonda. Then again, if you're one of the few hundred people who've stayed with Sorrel and Fletcher this far, you're all right! 



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 11



Driving down the highway as fast as he dared Fletcher knew the key to rescuing Sorrel certainly rested with Florence, but Florence was in danger too. To save one he had to save the other. He could do it, he knew he could. He had to do it.

Pulling into the lot in front of Florence's apartment complex, he got out of the car and raced to Florence's apartment. He climbed the three flights of concrete steps that took him to her front door, and knocked.

Florence lived in what most would have called garden apartments. There was an unheated outer hallway reached by ascending several flights of concrete steps, each with a metal edged run. He waited several seconds and knocked again. He tried the door, and to his surprise and as yet unrealized relief that it wasn't locked. 

He opened the door and walked in, "Florence," He called, "Are you here?" There was no answer. He scouted around. It was a small, tidy little apartment. He'd been there before, but had never gone in. he walked around, found the kitchenette, the small bathroom, and what he thought was a nice walk in closet. No Florence. He walked down the short hallway to the end bedroom. This was a two bedroom apartment. 

He roamed about the apartment a few moments. He noticed all over there were little porcelain pieces; tea cup and china sets. He saw all kinds of figurines, mostly glass ballerinas. There was a picture on the wall. It was a younger woman, a much younger woman dressed in a pretty dress. 'This was stupid,' he thought, but he gave the picture a closer look. It looked a lot like Florence, or how Florence might have looked years ago.

The more he looked around; the more junk, woman junk, he saw. He had no idea Florence was such a collector; a collector of such little things, tiny delicate little things, girlish, feminine things. Most of it looked cheap and old; things someone might have bought when they lacked the money to afford a more expensive version.

He realized there was a side to Florence he'd never seen, never even knew existed. Yeah, he guessed she had her dreams once too. It made him a little sad. He rechecked the picture. She was never very pretty, but there was a kind of charm there, an innocence, an inner beauty. 

He wondered of she ever got lonely, wished maybe she'd done things differently, hadn't been so slavishly devoted to his indifferent and ungrateful brother. 

Fletcher decided, after they got out of this, Florence would become a bigger part of his family. She'd certainly put in the time making them all rich, what would it hurt?

As he entered the far bedroom, the larger one, he saw her. She looked like she was asleep, "Florence?" There was no response.

He walked over and shook her gently, "Florence." Still no response; something was wrong. He raised his voice, "Florence, wake up!" Still no answer. That's when he smelled the cleaning fluid. He looked at her mouth. Something was wrong. Scouting around with his eyes he espied the funnel, the tube, and the bottle of cleanser.

"Holy shit," he shouted. He ran to the phone and dialed 911. He thought they're going to get tired of me, if this keeps up. He got a dispatcher, "Hello. I think I have an attempted suicide or maybe an attempted murder here." He gave them the address and went back to Florence.

What to do. What should he do? He knew instinctively this was no attempted suicide. Someone had set this up, and he knew who. What should he do? He checked her pulse, listened for a heartbeat. She sure wasn't dead. Sick maybe, but not dead, at least not yet. 

He sat her up. She was still out of it. He knew he had to get her to throw up. Get the shit out of her stomach. He stuck his finger down her throat. He punched her in the stomach. He shook her at the shoulders. This wasn't working. He knew he'd get her in the shower. Maybe cold water would revive her. He half dragged, half carried her to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. He jumped in with her on his arm. He turned the tap on full blast, as cold it could get.

He heard the siren, and seconds later he heard the paramedics in the hall, "In here." He shouted, "We're in here." 

They rushed inside and immediately saw what was going on.

One asked, "Suicide?"

Fletcher answered, "No I think somebody wanted to kill her but make it look like a suicide."

The other paramedic commented, "They may have."

They pushed him out of the bathroom, loaded her on a gurney, and went to work. He was amazed at their efficiency. He'd never thought about the work they did. He was grateful that there were people willing to do this kind of thing. He'd remember the next time a legislative bill was on the ballot about improving their working conditions he'd support it. 

Fletcher asked, "Will she be all right?"

One had called the police. The other answered, "Will you get out of here?"

The first added, "But don't leave."

They got her in the ambulance and sped off toward the hospital. Meanwhile the police had arrived and he gave them all the information he could. He remarked about his earlier call to 911, and his earlier concern. Then he followed the ambulance to the hospital. On the way he called his house to talk to Mary.

Mary:

Byron had found Mary on the floor. It wasn't as bad as it might have been. She'd suffered something, maybe a pin stroke he thought, maybe a mild heart attack. Shit, he wasn't a doctor. He didn't know.

When Fletcher called, he told him he wasn't a doctor. She might have only hyper-ventilated. One thing was certain, she needed rest, and she needed a quiet stress free environment. 

Fletcher listened to Byron and he felt trapped; quiet and stress free environment? Shit, that was certainly the one thing she wouldn't find where she lived now, not with them. But damn it, he needed her! Sorrel needed her! The damn kids needed her! He swore into the phone at Byron that once they got everything cleared up he'd send the both of them, Byron and Mary, on a long relaxed vacation

Byron thanked him for the offer, but not to worry. He told Fletcher he'd pitch in with the kids for a while, but they'd have to find somebody pretty soon.

Fletcher's world was imploding. No Sorrel, Florence near death, and Mary on her way to the hospital. He pleaded with Byron to hang on for the night, while he, Fletcher, stood watch over Florence. Florence had become the key. If she regained consciousness, if she recovered, he'd have something to go on. If she didn't, then, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. No he couldn't think about that. Florence had to recover!

Sorrel:

The two agents and Sorrel in the black mini-van reached their destination. It was late; the sun had already gone down. For Sorrel that was a blessing. Had she seen the outside of the facility that was destined to be her home for the next several days, perhaps weeks, she would have most assuredly faltered.

The 'so called' hospital, was as disheartening a facility as one could ever imagine; virtually a domestic Guantanamo, an Alcatraz on land. It was a somewhat older building, 1970's vintage, made of concrete with plexi-glass windows that, thanks to acid rain, had long since glazed over. It sat atop of high hill, and looked more like a sarcophagus than a hospital. It had the look of a cold dead place, more prison than hospital.

Even more disquieting, it overlooked a massive old cemetery; a cemetery with large granite stone monuments, like something out of a Vincent Price movie or a Steven King novel. Yes the facility had windows, or at least things that passed for windows, but they were drab, plastic, sightless things, long and narrow, clearly sitting too high for people inside to see out of. They looked like eyeless apertures never intended to be used for vision; only to torment and torture those inside. 

To call the place barren would have been a disservice to the meaning of the word; a huge concrete box, sightless windows, and holding court over a macabre graveyard. It was encircled by what must have been miles of concertina and other types of barbed wire knit through and over a cold bloodless looking page link fifteen foot high fence. 

Inside the wired enclosure was layer upon layer of thick slabs of concrete stretching all the way back to the building's walls. There was no vegetation, no grass, no trees, no flowers, only cold lifeless cement.

Prior to reaching the long drive that led to the granite archway that served as an entrance the man in the back seat had blindfolded Sorrel. It was a blessing. The one thing she might have been able to discern would have been the broad, partly rusted, metallic sign that swung heavily, ominously, over the locked gated entrance. The sign read, 'Hadamar, Hospital for the Criminally Insane.' Even the name was intended to offend the sensibilities, terrify the well schooled, and weaken the staunchest heart, for Hadamar had been the very name used by the Nazi's for a mental facility in Germany; a place that at one time regularly euthanized its most needy patients. 

A mental visualization that might have been best likened to Sorrel's new home would have been something akin to that written about by the Renaissance Italian author Dante Alighieri; "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Yes, for Sorrel, crossing the threshold into this facility might mean the loss of all hope.

The mini-van pulled to a side entrance. The agents got out. The woman went to the entrance and rang a bell. Within seconds, two other women, both clad in white medical attire, old fashioned nurses uniforms replete with broad white polyester skirts boasting large side pockets, open V-necked tops, and the trademark triangular cap. One pushed a wheelchair; the other carried a bag filled with what was to become Sorrel's hospital apparel. 

The man who'd ridden in the back of the van with Sorrel reached in and pulled her from the vehicle. As she exited he twisted her arm so as to place her in an awkward and uncomfortable position; an incomplete half nelson that rendered her incapable of any meaningful resistance. Just as swiftly he took her other arm, and placed it in the same discomfiting position. His intent wasn't to hurt her, but rather to render her incapable of unmasking her face, as she still wore the black cloth blindfold. The discomfiture also served to remind her of the complete helplessness of her circumstances.

He slowly pushed her toward the waiting nurses.

Sorrel made another plea for understanding, "You're wrong about me. You've made a terrible mistake. I'm not supposed to be here. Please call Mr. Hanson's number again."

No one paid her the slightest attention. The female who'd driven the van spoke to the two 'would be' nurses, "You knew we were coming?"

The nurses only nodded. Though they were sure the woman about to come into their care certainly knew they were there, but it was understood all unnecessary conversation in front of Sorrel, the subject, was to be minimal. Hence, they deliberately remained silent. The less their 'patient' heard the greater her insecurity, and the greater her insecurity the more compliant she would become, the more compliant, the more susceptible she'd be to their darker plans.

Sorrel didn't know it yet, but all communication with any staff, and certainly with the outside world, was to remain, from that moment onward, nonexistent. Hers, for as long as she remained at Hadamar, was to be a world of absolute silence. It was intended that she would sleep walk through time and space. She was to be isolated, cut off, exiled from all but the most minimal stimuli, and what little interaction or stimulation she would get was intended only to humiliate, degrade, and further undermine her sense of self and her confidence. Sorrel was about to enter a long night of sensory and emotional deprivation.

The nurses and the doctors placed in charge of Sorrel weren't necessarily to blame for the evil they perpetrated on their charges. Though they were all kindred spirits in their shared, well concealed, sadism; their job, their objective, was to destroy not save people. Paid by private foundations that received their money, in turn, through other dark shadowy agencies secretly set up by their own government; these were professionals, if that was a word that could be applied to these types of medical people, whose personal and professional ambitions had been so distorted that what had been considered good was evil and what was evil had become good. 

These were twisted men and women; each twisted by his or her own personal dark and nightmarish fantasies. Their government had found them, and had given them a home, a place where they could unleash their personal demons, nurture their perversions, be handsomely rewarded, and do it all in the name of a country whose fundamental mantra was anathema to their horrific deeds they perpetrated.

The man propelled her inside the door. Still blindfolded the two nurses unceremoniously stripped her of her clothing. All her street clothes, her last tangible contact with her past life, was removed and forever discarded. From that moment forward she was to be given a completely different identity. The woman Sorrel, lover of Fletcher, Mary's friend, mother of two, now five, would simply cease to exist.

The women, using a bottled solvent and cloth towels, wiped her down. They slipped her into a plain white cotton hospital gown, tied it in the back using the three string ties available, and sat her in the wheel chair. 

While one held each of her arms, and then each leg in place, the other affixed her in the chair using black slightly elasticized Velcro straps; then a tight Velcro belt was wrapped around her waist. Once she was held in place they rolled her through the hospital corridors to a room that had been prepared for her. 

The hospital was large, but not so large as to cause a sense of confusion or disequilibrium; at least not to any sighted normal person. Sorrel, however, fit neither of those categories. She was to remain sightless and treated in the most abnormal ways. Therefore, to help facilitate a sense of muddled perplexity she was taken on a more round about route. Her room was on the fifth floor. The nurses stopped at each floor and wheeled her up and down the halls on each separate tier. 

By the time Sorrel reached her destination she had no idea how far she'd gone, what floor she might be on, or how many halls she'd traversed. It was all part of the plan, to cause as much disorientation, as much uncertainty as possible.

Still blindfolded, and still trapped in her wheelchair they reached her room. One nurse unlocked the door while the other waited at the wheelchair. The door was opened, and they wheeled her in.

The room was small, barren, and windowless. The walls were cinder block, all painted gray. It wasn't a cold room, but it gave the appearance of a cold unfriendly place. As they removed her blindfold Sorrel, for the first time, saw the place she would have to call home for the foreseeable future. It was a disheartening first glimpse.

The room's dimensions measured ten by eight feet. Stretching two thirds of the length, on the right side was the bed, such as it was. Term bed was a misnomer; it was more cot than bed; six feet long and just twenty-four inches wide. It hung suspended from the ceiling, perhaps a foot above the floor. Suspended above the bed itself was a second horizontal tier of equal width and length. Lying across the top of this upper tier was metal grate, a grate of narrow metal bars, each roughly three inches apart. This grate was attached to the top tier by six metal hinges. 

The nurses undid her blindfold, and removed her hospital gown. The gown was considered an unsafe item, since its string ties might be used by the wearer to try to commit suicide. The nurses discarded the gown and produced the apparel Sorrel would be expected to wear from then on.

The outfit they produced was a one piece white cotton romper. While one nurse held Sorrel's arms the other helped her step in it. The item fit snugly up around her waist, over her breasts, and tightly around her neck. While one nurse held her in place the second nurse enclosed her in it by zipping it up the back. As the zipper reached the romper's top, at the back of the neck, Sorrel heard a loud snap. The hasp of the zipper locked tightly around her neck in the back. 

The romper fit tightly, uncomfortably so, and the way it was fixed on with its sturdy zipper, she would be unable to take it off without help. There was no opening at the crotch; any attempt to find relief; the expulsion of bodily waste, would require the removal of the outfit. 

The romper was long sleeved, presumably for protection against the cold. The cuffs were heavy, made of some harder, sturdier material. Each cuff was held in place by a heavy snap that required the use of two hands to snap it shut. Sorrel would be unable to free her arms from the sleeves without help. 

Once she was dressed the nurses backed her on the bed, forcing her to lie back on her back. About thirty- six inches separated the base of the bed to the underside of the top tier that hung myopically, claustrophobically, above her head. 

Safely on her back in the bed, one of the nurses lifted and drew a top sheet over her. It fit snugly, and, with the use of a set of two zippers, one on each side, they sealed her in the bed. In just moments she was safely entombed between the bottom and top sheets. One of the nurses took a thin coverlet, a blanket of sorts, and placed it atop the zippered sheet.

Then one of the nurses folded the metal grate that lay flat above the upper tier down and beside Sorrel so that it rested like a barred curtain between the bed's occupant and the rest of the room. This they fastened to the bottom of the bed, and attached it to two other metal grates, one at the head and another at the foot of the bed. 

Sorrel was completely, thoroughly trapped in her tiny bed; first by the snugly fitted sheets and then by a metal cage. She gazed about the rest of the room. There was nothing else there, no bathroom facilities, no sink, not even a chair, just the floor and the bed, not even a window.

Sorrel spoke up, "I have to go to the bathroom."

The two nurses looked at each other. They looked back at Sorrel. One said, "Hold it till we come back."

Sorrel asked, "how long will that be?'

Neither nurse answered. They quietly left the room. From somewhere outside one turned out the single incandescent light that burned faintly from the ceiling in the center of the room. Sorrel heard a lock snap shut somewhere on the outside.

Locked in from the outside and caged and swaddled from within, Sorrel was left alone, in the dark, in a room in a hospital or someplace, she had no idea where. She wanted to cry, but thought better of it. She knew she was in trouble. She understood this had been the original plan; the plan Fletcher, Warren and Florence had concocted. She also knew, no matter how bad things seemed, no matter what terrible things the people at this awful place might do, she knew she wasn't alone. Somewhere on the outside people were already looking for her. Fletcher would be looking for her. She wasn't alone. Yes she was afraid, but she knew help would come, he would come.

Fletcher:

Fletcher stayed at the hospital long enough to be reasonably certain Florence was on the road to recovery. The doctors explained what they thought had happened. It was clear she hadn't tried suicide; somebody had stuffed a tube down her throat and flooded her stomach with cheap cough syrup and soap. It was an amatueristic job; the soap they used wouldn't have killed her, and there wasn't enough cough syrup to do any more than give her a good night's sleep and a headache later. They pumped her stomach, and put her in a room. She'd be out for a while, but they figured, by the next afternoon she'd be well enough to talk, and in another day well enough to go home.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 11



The doctors explained they wanted to keep her because of her age. Had she been younger they would've released her to Fletcher that evening. They insisted, however, she'd have a place to stay for a few days anyway; just in case there was a reaction to the tube insertion.

Fletcher assured them she'd be with him. He thanked them, and promised to be back the next day.

Fletcher started home. He called Byron, who gave him the assurances he needed. The kids though scared, were in a stable setting. Mary was at the nearby 'County General' and receiving excellent care. In fact, Mary was already up, demanding to get to go home, and generally feeling foolish. 

Fletcher considered the situation. Mary was OK. Florence was on her way to a full recovery, and the kids were, at least for the moment, not going nuts. That left Sorrel. 

It was time to go after his brother and Mildred. He couldn't go to Key Biscayne, but he could put the screws to them. He punched up 311, and got the phone number of the FBI. He was sure they'd love to hear about all the things that had been happening. He also figured he'd need help somewhere along the line getting Sorrel free, wherever she was. He'd get in touch with a detective agency the company had used off and on. Once he got those organizations involved, he'd call his brother. 

He got home in the wee hours of the morning. He needed to sleep, or at least try. The next morning he'd check in with the kids and Byron, then he'd get back to the hospital to see Florence, and last he'd swing around to get Mary.

Sorrel:

Somebody turned a light on. Sorrel slowly looked up and around. It had been a long uncomfortable night; first she'd had to go to the bathroom, second, the sheets held her so tightly she could barely move, and third the jumper was tight, unyielding, and uncomfortable. 

Eventually, she didn't know how long, she succumbed to her body's natural needs. She peed in her clothing. It wasn't long before she regretted even the short reprieve of not struggling with her bladder. The warm wet urine attached itself to her attire and quickly became cool, sticky, and unbearably itchy. 

No thanks to the tight arrangement of the sheets she was unable to reach far enough to touch herself to alleviate the itching. She had to merely suffer and squirm throughout most of the rest of the night. 

She could tell the mattress was certainly covered with some kind of plastic sheathing. The urine, and there had been a lot of it, never soaked into the mattress, it laid on top in a slippery little pool. It soaked her outfit and it soaked the sheets; after that she simply squished, slid, squirmed about. 

She thanked God for small favors; she was in total darkness and didn't have to see her embarrassment, the room was comfortably warm, and it was quiet. 

Sorrel knew her situation was serious, but she didn't think it was desperate, at least not yet. She was still in the United States, probably at some transitional site. She was absolutely confident Fletcher was on the trail, and, thanks to her adroit decision making in college, she had a pretty good idea what they might try to do to her.

While an undergraduate she'd been persuaded by one of her more lascivious professors to take one of his courses on human behavior. His sole purpose for getting her to take his class was to get her in bed. That never happened, but she certainly walked away with a wealth of information, information she was convinced would hold her in good stead in her current situation.

She remembered all people had seven basic needs, five of them being vital, and two more voluntary. She could throw out the two voluntary needs; acceptance and the need for success. Success for her for the moment was surviving whatever they threw at her. 

The basic needs were trickier; the need to sleep, eat, void, breath, and she tried to remember, avoid pain maybe; they would be harder to deal with. Already, she sensed, they were playing with her need to void. Certainly, last night, they knew she would have needed to go. They didn't let her, and now she was uncomfortable. She was convinced, as long as she knew what they were trying to do, whatever it was, it wouldn't work. 

The only thing she wouldn't be able to reckon with was what they might give her to eat, and what it might have in it. If they started putting things in her, like certain kinds of drugs or chemicals, she didn't know what that could do. She just knew she had to stay cool. Help was on the way.

Key Biscayne:

Mildred and Warren had safely reached their summer home in Key Biscayne. It hadn't been that long since they'd left it. Their Latino employees were still busy repairing the landscaping and renovating the things left undone. 

Mildred slouched back on one of the many large divans, "It's comforting to be back."

Warren wasn't so sure, "I hope things get straightened out up north quickly. It gets unbearably down here, the golf greens and fairways all burn up, and the summer tourists are always a surly lot."

Mildred countered, "Oh relax. You have your bourbon, your little sweeties will no doubt be back over once they know you're here, and if it gets too hot we'll just stay inside."

Warren retorted, "That's easy for you to say. You're so dumb; you're like a fish in a fish bowl. You forget everything you see once you've been around one time. I have a brain. I can't stand sitting and laying around. I need action!"

Mildred scoffed, "Look when those young chicks you like so much show up I'll disappear. You'll be able to play house with kids young enough to be your children."

Warren hated it when she reminded him of his indiscretions, "Oh shut up."

Fletcher again:

Fletcher got the detective agency right away, and arranged to have someone on his brother's tail night and day. He didn't want to alarm his brother yet, not until he had all his ducks in line. Still, he didn't want his brother scramming out of the country either.

The FBI agent on the other end of the line listened, but he was noncommittal. They had both Fletcher's 911 reports, and agreed there might be a connection, but were reluctant to act immediately. 

The truth of the matter regarding the FBI was a little different than what they told Fletcher. The issue with Sorrel could wait till enough time lapsed or until a ransom demand was made. Otherwise that might be a hoax. In fact, if there was foul play regarding the Sullivan woman, the FBI couldn't be sure if Fletcher Hanson wasn't the culprit. The suicide report regarding the Henderson woman was too comical to be taken seriously. Mixing soap suds and cough syrup to commit suicide; not even a depressed adolescent was that stupid. The FBI did put a man on the situation, but his role was to keep an eye of Fletcher, not anybody else.

Fletcher got up early and looked in on Byron and the kids. He pulled everyone together again, and reasserted his control of the situation. He assured them Sorrel would be home in no time. Mary was doing better, and she would be home soon too, but they were to be quiet around her. He explained Byron would handle the day to day things for a while. 

The children all seemed to accept everything h e said at face value, but he was still mightily worried. Marion was acting like she was in shock, in fact so did the boys. Little Sorrel was another matter. She was pretending to take charge; taking on too many adult responsibilities. It scared him. He knew he couldn't delay. He had to find Sorrel. It was too much like being on the hot seething crust of a molten volcano. Things could blow at any time.

The Sanatorium:

It wasn't until nearly 9:00 a.m. before the nurses returned to check on Sorrel. It was two different women, but the attitude, the approach was the same. 

The women walked in, and immediately one commented, "Oh yuk!"

The second added, "She did it didn't she."

Sorrel was only too glad someone had finally come, "Oh thank goodness. I never got a chance to..."

Both women ignored her. One interrupted, looking at her colleague, "What should we do?"

The other responded, "I don't know. The doctors said they wanted to interview her this morning, but we can't take her smelling like this."

Sorrel prompted, "I could take a bath and get a change of clothes."

Both nurses looked in her direction but without acknowledging her existence. The second said, "At least we can get her up, and see how bad it is."

Sorrel was thankful. She knew she smelled of urine, and if something didn't happen soon she'd smell of fecal matter as well, "Please hurry. I need to defecate."

The nurses looked at Sorrel; they looked back and forth at each other. One said, "Leave her."

The two nurses walked out of the room, leaving Sorrel trapped in her bed. They closed and locked the door. 

Sorrel shouted after them, "I have to poop!" But they were already gone.

Fletcher:

Fletcher felt clammy. He'd gone to bed without showering. After his conversation with the kids and Byron he went back to his tiny bathroom, showered, shaved, did his oblations, and brushed his teeth. It felt good to get cleaned up. He knew it was time to go see about Florence. 

After he dressed he yelled out to Byron, "I'm on my way to the hospital. I'll check back in a little later."

Byron yelled back something indiscernible. Fletcher didn't understand him; he was already halfway down the steps to Sorrel's car. 

An hour later Fletcher was at the hospital standing outside Florence's room. 'Well here goes,' he thought. He walked in and found her sitting up in bed.

He gave her his most reassuring smile, "Good morning."

She smiled back, "I heard you saved my life."

He answered, "It was nothing." Then, thinking of her apartment he added, "Look you're important. We, I mean I, want you around."

He changed the subject, "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

Florence looked at him like he was an imbecile, "I did no such thing. Your sweet brother and his shitty wife tried to kill me."

Fletcher nodded, "I thought so. They've done something with Sorrel too."

Florence made in involuntary grimaced, "Oh no, what?"

"I think they had her kidnapped," he answered. "Do you have any idea what they might have dome with her?"

Florence didn't hesitate, "Hadamar. They've had her taken to Hadamar."

Fletcher had never heard of the place, "Hadamar?"

Florence explained, "Remember the plan to get rid of her? Well Hadamar is a pseudo mental facility hidden away in Western Maryland, not far from Camp David. They do things to people there."

Florence had Fletcher's full attention, "What kind of things?"

Florence digressed, "When you want to get rid of someone short of outright murder you simply destroy their brain."

This scared Fletcher, "What do you mean?"

Florence went on, "The plan for Sorrel was simple, just like we said. Take her someplace and destroy her. Hadamar is a facility that still performs seldom used but highly controversial surgeries."

Fletcher felt like he was going to throw up again, "Like what?"

Florence answered, "Like lobotomies."

He was borderline hysterical, "That's crazy! They would slice up her brain?"

Florence realized how bad this was for Fletcher, but she couldn't seem to let up, "No exactly. They'll take a tiny scalpel, insert it through her eye, just about here," She pointed to the top of her eye lid, "Then they'll wave it back and forth inside her frontal lobe. Before it's over she'll be another Frances Farmer"

Florence wasn't deliberately trying to be cruel, but this was what they'd ordered her to plan. It was a nightmarish scenario. It had filled her with revulsion when organizing it.

Fletcher remembered the Frances Farmer story. Her mother had her committed, and by the time they were finished, after the repeated rapes, and other abuses, plus the lobotomy the woman was little more than a vegetable, "They couldn't. They wouldn't do that."

Florence answered, "They can, and they will. I should know. I arranged it."

Fletcher sat down. He was almost in tears, "What can we do?"

Back at Key Biscayne:

Down in Key Biscayne Mildred picked up the telephone. She listened and turned to her husband, "Warren, it's your brother."

Warren took the phone, "Hello Fletcher, how are you?" Whatever Fletcher said, it had a profound impact on his brother. He turned back to his wife, "We have to fly back north."

Mildred asked, "Why?"

Warren answered, "Don't ask. We just have to get back right away."

Mildred wasn't in any mood to put up with the shenanigans of the two brothers anymore, "You go back. I'm staying put."

Warren wasn't paying any attention. He was already on the phone arranging for travel back north.

Fletcher:

Fletcher was back in Sorrel's car. 'Thank God,' he thought, 'she had a good one. It had a navigation system in it. The only problem was the place he wanted to find wasn't showing up. He realized then, it was a secret facility. He'd need help. He called the detective agency, told them what he needed, and asked to be met at the place by as many agents as they could get their hands on. If he had to break into the place he would.

Sorrel: 

Sorrel slowly, oh so slowly, reawakened. She had a splitting headache. It was as though someone had hit her in the temples with a hammer. She realized she was lying on a bed, but it wasn't the same bed she'd been in earlier. Carefully, so as not to aggravate her aching temples, she sat up. She looked around. She was in another smallish room. It looked larger than the room they'd originally taken her; this one looked to be about ten by ten. Across the wall on her left were windows. They were long narrow windows, and they were perhaps seven feet above the floor. This room had a much higher ceiling. It was at least twelve feet high. 

She tried to stand on the bed to see out, but got so dizzy she had to sit back down. She'd seen enough though to know the windows weren't of any value. They were glazed. They apparently let in the light, but nothing more. She couldn't even be sure if the light was from outside, or maybe from some hallway. She sat there and tried to remember what had happened.

God her head hurt. What had happened? She remembered two nurses had come in, seen she'd peed, and then left. It wasn't long and she'd given up and pooped in her pants. Later, much later, the same two nurses came back. They brought a wheelchair, some kind of soap, and a new outfit.

She remembered more clearly. They'd lifted the bars that encircled the bed. Then they'd pulled off the blanket and undid the top bed sheet. She remembered how bad it smelled.

They had talked about what they were supposed to do. She remembered asking them if she could have something to eat, but they had ignored her. In fact they ignored everything she said. She remembered realizing that was probably part of the plan; get her to feel inadequate by disregarding everything she said. 

They'd helped her from the bed, and made her stand beside it. While one held her arms the other undressed her and used the soapy cleanser to wipe her down. She remembered they'd taken an extra long time wiping her privates; like maybe they were lesbians and enjoyed it or something.

One had talked about the need to punish her for not holding her water and her poop, but the other remonstrated, saying a paddling would only be an unnecessary and unwarranted source of pain considering what was in store. 

She remembered figuring the threat of a paddling was designed to make her more afraid. She remembered the concept of avoidance of pain. If the best they could come up with was a spanking, then they had a long way to go. That was when they first really frightened her.

Right after their silly talk about a spanking one of them mentioned the reason why they were going to 'let her off,' as she said. They said something about the proper protocols, the procedures, and then something about E.S.T. 

It didn't sink in right away; what E.S.T. was. It sounded like some kind of transactional therapy, some sort of counseling system. Were they taking her to a doctor for counseling; a brain washing session maybe? 

She remembered, that was when it hit home. E.S.T. wasn't about counseling, or some silly Korean War vintage brain washing. E.S.T. was an acronym for electroshock therapy. They were talking about electrocution! That scared her. That kind of shit had gone out in the 1960's; right after all that other shit psychiatrists used to try, like...

That's when she heard them talk about the really scary shit. Electroshock was, according to them, part of a procedure, a set of protocols that led to something else. Then she heard one mention something about a frontal! A frontal! A frontal what? 

She remembered then how she'd tried to fight. She tried to put up her hands and push them away. The word 'frontal' in this place could only mean one thing. They were talking about a frontal lobotomy! Were they going to lobotomize her, cut behind her eyelids inside her frontal lobe? Was somebody planning to take a scalpel and slice up her personality? 

She recalled then! She'd tried to fight them, hold them off, keep them away, but they were stronger, and they knew martial arts. One had yanked her arm and twisted it! The other had taken her fingers and had jabbed her in her side, and then on the side of her leg. She knew exactly where to punch to make it really hurt. She remembered crying then, begging, pleading. She remembered entreating for all she was worth; appealing to them not to cut up her brain. 

The looks on their faces betrayed them. They obviously enjoyed every plea, every supplication! It was then, at that moment, Sorrel remembered how she realized she was in a very bad place. The nurses, the doctors, and any orderlies about were a part of this facility because they liked hurting people. She wasn't in a hospital, a prison, or even a mad house. They had brought her to a chamber of horrors!

Sitting on the bed now, headache pounding, feeling fragile and achy all over, she remembered the hospital gown, being strapped in the wheelchair, the rolling trip to the lab room. The sign over the door had said 'lab room'. 

They'd taken her in, lifted her out of the chair, they'd strapped her to a plastic or rubber lined metal examination table she couldn't remember exactly which. Her hands, arms, feet, and legs had all been fastened with straps. They'd wrapped straps around her upper torso just beneath her breasts, then another around her waist and a third over her thighs. 

Someone, probably one of the nurses, nurse, an odd word for these women, had applied some sort of lubricant to the sides of her head. Someone had injected her with something. That's when she remembered how in class it was explained the doctors liked to introduce a sedative before the shocks. 

Oh no she had remembered more and more. There was unilateral and bilateral therapy. Bilateral meant an electrode on both sides of the head. The idea was to induce convulsions. The affects of the convulsions, she remembered reading, had never been studied. Some people did fine, others didn't, some even suffered loss of memory and some even experienced prolonged periods of mental confusion. 

She recollected the electrodes. She remembered the shocks; the first one, then a second, if there were more she didn't know. She only knew she remembered how it hurt. 

Here she was, sitting on the bed, dressed in a hospital gown, no shoes or slippers. She looked around the room again. There were straps attached to the bed, all lying in casual disarray. The floor was dark linoleum, an ugly green color. It was cold in the room. A single stark incandescent light kept it from being pitch black. She was alone, nearly naked, a pounding headache, and at once totally, fully aware of what they intended to do with her.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 11



She had to get out of there. She had to escape. Where was Fletcher? The nurses had mentioned a procedure, a protocol. What did that mean? Did it mean one, two or three more treatments? She remembered modern doctors didn't call it shock therapy anymore, too brutal sounding. Nowadays it was called Electroconvulsive Therapy, E.C.T. for short. These people still used the older, cruder, acronym. 

She knew and understood now. This was all a joke, a game to them. They'd knock her down one or two more times with electricity, and then they'd persuade themselves to cut up her brain. This was far worse than anything she ever imagined. She thought there migfht have been be some sleep deprivation, maybe some physical suffering, but to cut up her brain. Get inside her frontal lobe, and slash away her personality? 

She remembered reading about Rosemary Kennedy, John Kennedy's sister. They'd cut her up, and when they'd finished with her there wasn't anything left. This was what Fletcher had alluded to that first day, but that was then. Things had changed. They were in love. She wasn't supposed to be here. Something had gone wrong. She had to tell them. This was all a mistake. They had to understand. She had a life now. She had her kids, Fletcher's kids. She had Fletcher. No, no, they couldn't do this. They had to see. She was a person! They couldn't destroy her mind, not now!

Fletcher's doing the Best He Can!

Fletcher reached the medical facility where he believed Sorrel was being held. It was nearly dark so he made arrangements to spend the night in a nearby Motel 6. 

Inside the motel he called Byron and got another update on the kids. They were about to run into another problem. Marion and his boys had to go to school the next morning, but Little Sorrel and Peter hadn't been enrolled yet. They'd be home all day with Byron. He had to find a way to work something out.

Fletcher got Byron on the telephone, "Byron can you get my kids off to school, and then babysit Sorrel's?"

Byron Answered, "Why don't I pick up Mary and then Florence tomorrow too? I'll have the two kids plus the two older ladies. The five of us can make a day of it."

Relieved, Fletcher answered, "That would be great."

Then it was Byron's turn, "What can you tell me about Ms. Sullivan?"

Fletcher answered, "I'm at the place where Florence said she'd be, but it was too dark to see anything. I thought I'd get some sleep, meet the detectives in the morning, and see what we can find out."

Byron had another question, "I got a call from Warren. He was on a plane home. I'm going to get him to come here."

Fletcher hadn't thought about how important Byron was to him, "Thanks Byron."

Byron finished, "You get some sleep, and don't worry. Everything will turn out all right. I'm sure of it."

Fletcher answered, "Thanks again Byron." He hung up. He reminisced about Byron and the role he'd played in his life. He was always the guy who was just around, just a friend, just there when he needed him. He thanked God for good friends. Now he had to get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

With the Nurses at the Sanatorium:

The nurses were back in Sorrel's room again. They changed her again; out of the hospital nightie, back into a little jumper. IT was something akin to what she'd had on before, only maybe a little more comfortable. This one buttoned up the front, was short sleeved, and had no waist cincher. It was a very loose, shapeless outfit, and Sorrel was glad of it.

The nurses brought in a bed pan, and stood outside, just at the doorway, and allowed her to void in relative peace. They'd also brought her something to eat, her first real food. Though they'd provided some tepid water from time to time, this was her first taste of food. It was a bland mixture of skim milk and cream of wheat. The stuff was tasteless, colorless, and absent any seasoning, but it tasted marvelous.

Once she finished eating they brushed her hair, and put it up in a pony tail. There weren't any mirrors about, but she guessed they'd done a good job. It felt good to be touched and made over a little bit, even if it was by two people whom she was sure would be the source of some real anxiety later. 

Finished with their tidying the nurses looked her over. Her hair was for the most part ready. When they came for her in the morning they might have to tidy her pony tail a little, but otherwise she was set. They weren't sure yet, but tomorrow might be the day the doctors would perform her frontal. If that was the case they'd have to cut away her eyebrows and her eyelashes, but that could wait till the morning. 

The nurses had learned from experience the doctor in charge liked the patient's face free of hair, especially if it was a woman. At least they thought they wouldn't have to cut away any more hair than the brows and the lashes. They liked Sorrel's hair. It was thick and wavy. They wondered how she would look, hair done up prettily, rosy cheeks, perfect teeth, and vacuous dead eyes.

Both nurses had personal issues. Neither was very pretty. Though they both had attractive figures, men had never paid much attention to them. Both were raging heterosexuals, but their sex and love lives had been as forlorn as a thirsty camel on the Sahara Desert. 

This deprivation had side affects. Looking at an attractive woman like Sorrel, a woman they knew had given birth to children, and, based on her entreaties, had a lover, it had sparked latent jealousies and poisonous feelings of envy. Why should she have happiness and not them? Just the thought of her happiness drove them to extremes of antipathy. 

If Sorrel were to be cut up in the morning, it would be done in their presence, and they would watch with a certain small amount of perverse pleasure. The woman in their care might have had a life, but very likely, after tomorrow, it would only be a vague confused memory, something she'd try to recall, something she knew she'd once had, but something that would be gone, gone forever.

One looked at the other. They could each read the other's minds. Tomorrow, one deft slice of the knife, and the beautiful young woman they were primping would become a memory, a shadow, a ghost. Her personality, career, childhood, all her history, everything that made her who she was would cease to exist. 

They silently laughed. Maybe she had it coming.

Then there's Fletcher:

Just a few miles and a few minutes away by car, tossing and turning, in a small motel bed was the only person who could make the difference between a woman's life and her living death. He couldn't sleep. He had to do something. She was in there, in that fortress, but he didn't have a clue what to do.



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 12



As a result of Mildred's excessive exuberance Sorrel had been transported to Hadamar; a maximum security institution for the criminally insane; an institution, from its inception, known as the worst possible place any patient might ever be drawn into or in Sorrel's case, compelled to enter. Even the name, taken from a Nazi place of horror, conjured the most frightening images. This was the kind of place a person entered, but from which they never returned. 

Originally intended as a staging area for people in need of unique interrogation techniques; a place where inmates could be processed in special ways, usually for departure to foreign countries where more macabre cross examination procedures could be employed. Since its first creation in the 1970's Hadamar had been refined, improved, and reshaped in fiendishly new ways.

With time its first role had been expanded to include more ambitious activities. Secret officials interested in securing additional funds had progressively extended and refined its purpose. Instead of a half way house restricted to the strange bedfellows covert operatives happened across it had grown into a mentally invasive investigative center. From simple investigation it evolved as a facility equipped to employ techniques that encouraged the most exotic extremes in behavior modification. Then from behavior modification came the penultimate attribute, the permanent alteration, erasure, of selected patient's physiologies through the implementation of the most controversial of surgical procedures.

It was this last category of activities for which Sorrel was intended. For Sorrel Hadamar was not a staging area, not a storage unit, nor some benign halfway house. For Sorrel Hadamar was no simple stopover; it was her terminus, her final destination. 

At Hadamar Sorrel was to be permanently, biologically, mentally, psychologically changed. Using techniques developed in the 1920's and 1930's Sorrel was to be transformed from a vibrant vivacious active living breathing beautiful young woman to a near lifeless inert expressionless vegetable. In so doing anything she ever knew or ever could know was to be forever eradicated, expunged. 



It took special kinds of people to work at Hadamar. Some served as medical personnel, others as security of clerical operatives.

Of course many people, men and women, have entered the medical professions as a way to improve the lives of their fellow human beings. Yet in truth, there have been some who have used their medical training to sublimate baser, more feral, inclinations. Everyone has read the disquieting stories of those doctors who worked for the Nazis during World War Two. No one who studied history could ever forget the 'Angel of Death', Dr. Mengele; his horrid pseudo-experiments at Auschwitz, or the cold blooded way he dispatched countless thousands of children to their deaths.

People can never know how many caring wonderful doctors, world famous surgeons, respected internists might have become sadistic monsters; savages using primitive home made tools to hack, slice and maim innocent lives. Cruder interests in carving meat, human meat, have certainly been redirected by societal prohibitions; the meanest most vicious inclinations sublimated by the medical profession into positive outlets. 

Does anyone ever really know what demons might lay at the root of any person's true behavior? It has long been common knowledge grieving ancient Egyptian families withheld their daughters from the Houses of the Dead until rigor mortis had thoroughly set in. Can anyone say how many morticians are at heart necrophiles; interested more in touching, defiling, and debasing their dead clients than in preparing a loved one for their final rest? 

Tradition has long held that law enforcement is one of the noblest professions. Yet do some policemen really only join the force for the chance to handcuff nubile young girl's hands behind their backs so unopposed they might fondle helpless supple breasts.

Do some doctors deliberately turn the air conditioning lower when a pretty girl comes for a visit only so they can watch in perverted glee the girl's self conscious discomfort as she tries to conceal nipples deliciously extruding in the cooler environment? 

Has there ever been the caring nurse who deliberately waited until well after the comforting affects of the drugs they are trusted to inject had worn off before introducing a new round of soothing medication. Has anyone ever been in hospital knowing there was one nurse who took secret, furtive, delight in seeing the pain, before condescending to the relief the desperately sought medication would bring? 



Of course, to even consider that someone in one of the caring professions might derive pleasure from the pain they've been trained to ameliorate would be vigorously, no vociferously, denied. But doctors, nurses, and all care givers, come from the same gene pool that produces society's worst criminals. Is it conceivable once in a while some sick deviant does find his or her way into the healing professions? The answer to that question is a redounding yes!

Then if that is the case, what if there was a place, an institution, where such people might be allowed to congregate. What if there was such a facility where the sickest, most perverted, most muddled minds might gather to feast on the helpless, the infirm, the trusting, and the vulnerable needy? Would, could such a facility ever exist? 

Of course, the answer to that question would be obvious to anyone who has read the foregoing chapters of this story. For that was exactly the kind of facility Hadamar had become; yes, certainly a home for the criminally insane! But the real deviants weren't the patients; the real monsters were the care givers! 

A visit to Hadamar, even by the most casual observer, would have revealed an institution so fundamentally different in the way it conducted its daily operations, so despicable in its standard patient care, so diseased in the way medical treatment was administered, that it would induce such profound revulsion as to be nauseatingly sickening to even the stoutest of hearts.

Tragically, on the fifth floor of this modern Tartarus, this Twenty-first Century Gahanna, a pretty protagonist lay in despondent half sleep feebly twisting and turning in deliberately over tightened straps and maliciously fitted undersized garments. Had she committed some terrible misdeed, performed some awful crime? No, poor Sorrel's only crimes had been her innocent determination to do her very best, to avoid senseless office complications, to seek the means by which she might reclaim her children, and to work assiduously, determinedly, toward the completion of a project that would have been beneficial to millions. 

Sorrel's crimes weren't of her own choosing. Her crimes were rooted in her natural beauty, her selfless grace, her feminine purity, her womanly charm, and her fundamental goodness. The normally beneficent things that brought good people good will had become sources of jealousy and envy for some few of those around her. Her crimes had been her lack of sophistication, her failure to cultivate the influential and the powerful , and these things, in her trusting innocence, contributed to a vulnerability, a belief in the goodness of others, that enabled those same others to exploit, to torment, even perhaps destroy her.

Would this innocent young woman, so pure of spirit, kind of heart, of such gentle nature, be stripped of her identity, her life, her personhood? Was there anyone, anywhere, ready to stand against the malignant forces that had placed her in such jeopardy? If there was such a person, where was he?



Fletcher awakened early. He knew the private detectives would be several hours away, so he used the time to get a good view of the place Sorrel where was confined. The first time around he knew this was no place for someone like Sorrel. The sign 'Hospital for the Criminally Insane' was proof of that.

The front looked like a steel trap; a veritable Fort Knox. He couldn't imagine anyone placing a mental facility above a cemetery. It was as though he were glimpsing a mortuary sitting atop a gruesome field of cadavers.

Thankfully, the rearward areas weren't nearly so forbidding, even if everywhere he looked he saw evidence of high chain linked fencing and electronic surveillance equipment. The fencing didn't worry him; a good set of snips would manage that. He might be in his thirties, and he might not have kept up with his more youthful exercise regimen but he was still a pretty strong fellow, still reasonably agile. Breaking through the fencing could be handled. 

What did bother him was the surveillance equipment, and the off hand chance that portions, if not all the fencing was in some way electrified. He realized this was a high security, government operated, interrogation operation; a fortress not easily breached, anything was possible. But his sweetheart, his 'Helen', was inside. It behooved him to batter down its walls.

Fletcher was proud of his country, but he understood what most Americans hadn't; that most of his country's technology had been devoted more for destructive than productive goals. Had this been a college or university corners would have been cut at every turn, but never at a place like this.

He circled the place three times trying to find the most likely place to break in. It looked tight as a drum, but still he imagined he saw at least two places where he, if he had some help, might be able to at least penetrate the outer perimeter. 

Actually, where to get in the building once inside the fence was still a mystery; a conundrum he'd have to resolve later. He hoped perhaps Florence, or maybe Warren, would come up with some kind of floor plan; some way to get inside. Once inside he'd figure something out. He'd manage some way to locate her, his Sorrel.

He had to control his emotions. From time to time his imagination got away from him. He imagined what they might be doing to her, and it scared the hell out of him. Were they cutting up her brain? What if they were trying all kinds of sick experiments on her? What would she be like when they finished with her? What would her mind be like? If he didn't get to her in time what would he tell his children, all his children?? It scared him. He had to get in there. Still, even if he was too late, and even if she was some kind of lost soul, he'd care for her, he'd love her no matter what. It frightened him, but he had to put it out of his mind. If he didn't he'd end up so paralyzed with fear he'd be unable to get anything done.



A little after 10:00 that morning several detectives did finally show up. Their overall appearance wasn't very comforting. He thought they acted like this was the last place they wanted to be.

Fletcher asked the lead detective if any of them had ever heard of the place.

The leader, an older, somewhat overweight man, responded that none of them had ever heard of the institution, and none of them even knew anything like it even existed.

At Fletcher's request their boss called his home office to get as much information about the place as they could; it took several minutes before they got a return call. What they found out was most disheartening.



Earlier that very morning, perhaps an hour before Fletcher had risen three nurses entered Sorrel's room and had awakened her. This was the third room she'd occupied in as many days, or at least that was what she thought. For Sorrel the days and nights had somehow seemed to bleed together. Had she been there one, two, three nights? She just didn't know. 

In this room they'd confined her to a small bed with soft but tight Velcro straps. Both wrists and both ankles were held snugly, most uncomfortably, and tightly to the sides of the bed. She hadn't slept well spread eagled as she was, or at least she didn't believe she'd slept well. She had no idea what sedatives she'd been given.

She was still wearing the same kind of simple hospital gown she thought was tied in the back. She knew it was uncomfortable in as much as it had managed to wrap itself around her torso in the most discomfiting ways during the night. 

Three women entered her room. She assumed they were nurses; at least that was how they were dressed. No one spoke to her. The woman who must have been in charge instructed the other two to unstrap her and assist her to a bedpan they proffered her. Sorrel was glad for the chance to get a little relief.

She asked, "Might I have something to drink?"

No one responded to her question so she asked again.

"See here, I'm thirsty, might I have at least a glass of water?"

To her surprise the head nurse, if nurse she was, reached down, pressed her hand on her breast, and pinched her nipple, "No talking."

Sorrel jumped slightly and after an involuntary ouch replied, "You didn't have to do that."

She watched as the three women glanced back and forth at each other. Sorrel knew she'd better be quiet. These weren't real nurses. She didn't know what or who they were, but she knew they weren't nurses, not like the ones she'd known anyway.

They got her up and walked her to the rear of the room to a door she hadn't noticed before. While one opened the door the other two pushed and handed her into a shower room. One turned on the shower, while the other opened a tube of what she assumed was some kind of cleanser.

For next ten minutes or so the nurses scrubbed her from head to foot. They didn't miss a single spot. She thought they dwelt overlong on her private parts, but that wasn't the worst of it. The soap they used seemed more like toothpaste than cleanser; all very abrasive and uncomfortable. It felt like they were trying to scrub her surface skin away. 

Once finished her shower they half walked half pushed her back in the room. She was thoroughly dried and placed in another of those hospital outfits. Once tied off in the back they helped her slip into some soft slippers, combed out her hair, and unceremoniously lifted and laid her on a gurney she hadn't seen brought in.

They strapped her down. As they tied her, the woman who was the head of the group spoke to her for the first time.

She looked smugly down at Sorrel and said, "Today's your big day."

Sorrel grabbed at the remark, "Why? What happens today?"

The other two nurses were smiling. The head nurse added, "Do you know who you are?"

Sorrel answered, "Yes, of course."

"You know your name?"

Sorrel replied, "Of course I do."

You know where you're from, who you work for, who your friends are?"

Sorrel was getting scared, "Why are you asking me this?" She asked, but in her heart she already knew.

The head nurse answered, "After today you'll be lucky if you'll be able to count to ten without getting it wrong."

Sorrel heard what she said. She'd been afraid of this. She struggled with the straps that held her hands and feet, "Let me go!"

To her surprise the head nurse slapped her, hard on the cheek. "Shut up!"

Sorrel wasn't deterred, "No! You've got to stop. This is a mistake. I'm not who you think. I'm not supposed to be here!"

The nurses slowly and deliberately wheeled her down the corridor. Every now and then an orderly or she believed they were orderlies, passed them in the hall.

Sorrel grew more frantic with every step. She kept calling out, "You've got to stop! I'm not supposed to be here! You're making a mistake! I'm not what you think!" Between her calls, her appeals, and her entreaties she cried.

The nurses who pushed her cart seemed to be enjoying every moment, every cry, every pathetic plea. At some point they reached another door. The head nurse opened it, and they wheeled her in.

As Sorrel crossed the threshold from hallway to room she read the sign; 'Experimental Lab A'. She started to scream!



Outside, somewhere on the edge of the wooded area and outside the fence Fletcher waited impatiently while the head detective first talked and then listened to someone on his cell phone.

The man flipped his phone closed, "Mr. Hanson."

"Yes, answered Fletcher.

"I've been instructed to leave."

"Leave?" asked Fletcher incredulously.

"Yes, it seems this institution really doesn't exist."

Fletcher looked at the man like he was crazy, "What do you doesn't exist? You can see it right in front of you."

The man looked at the fencing, then he looked at Fletcher, "No, I don't see anything."

Fletcher took the man by the shoulder and tried to walk him away from the other men, "Tell me what you were told."

The detective declined to move. He refused to look at Fletcher. He turned to his colleagues, "All of you get in the car."

Fletcher tried to hold him, "You can't do this."

The man backed away; as he started for his car he spoke, "You're in way over your head. I suggest that you forget you ever saw this place. Forget about anyone you ever knew who went in there. This place doesn't exist, and anyone you think you know who might have ever gone in there no longer exists."

Fletcher was disbelieving, "You can't mean that."

The detective, a leader in one of the nation's top private firms only shook his head, "Get out of here. Get out while you still can." He climbed in his car, backed it up, turned it around and drove off.



Sorrel screamed all the way into the lab room. She yelled. She hollered. She cursed. She cried. She made as much noise as she possibly could. She was determined they weren't going to cut her up, Not her! She'd fight. She'd fight them! She'd fight with every ounce of strength. She was fighting for her life! 



In a nearby room one of the orderlies attached to her case asked, "What is that baleful noise?"

Another answered, "Oh you get used to it. Once they find out, they usually do a lot of yelling and screaming."

The first asked, "Yeah, but why do we have to put up with it?"

The second responded, "Look wouldn't you yell and scream if you found out they were going to cut away your personality, and leave you a lifeless hulk, a freak?"

The first answered, "Well, yeah, I guess so, but it's giving me a headache."

The second suggested, "Well come on, the doctor isn't due for a while yet. You want to go in and look her over? I hear she's not bad."

"OK," said the second.

The two orderlies walked in the room. Sorrel's gurney had been parked against the far wall. She lay there screaming and yelling. The two young men walked over.

"Wow," said the first, "She's beautiful!"

The second looked at his new friend, "You want her?"

"What do you mean?" asked the first.

"After they're done with her, we'll roll her back to a storage cell. They'll leave her there for a few days. We get to do anything we want."

The first asked, "Won't she be sort of like dead?"

The second replied, "She won't know who she was. She won't be able to say much, at least not much that makes sense, but her body will be working fine. In fact, I think they're better after the surgery than before. You know no inhibitions, hardly."

The first was starting to think about what it would be like to have this woman, "What about now?"

The second orderly answered, "No, she's the doctor's for now."

The first asked, "What, he does her first?"

The second replied, "Not this doctor. He's really fucked up. He does things, but not sexual stuff. He just does stuff. Stuff I wouldn't do."

The first asked, "Really? Like what?"

The second looked at his young friend, "Not now, not before lunch, I'll tell you later. In fact, if it's like the last time we'll get to watch, not really watch I mean, but we'll see it from a little further off. This doctor, he's one sick man." 



The two orderlies looked down on the young woman as she lay there bound, screaming, and writhing.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 12



The second orderly spoke to her in a soft soothing voice, "You're a pretty one your are."

Sorrel flinched back in terror, "You've got to help me. I don't belong here."

The orderly gave her a lecherous smile. He gently touched her cheek, "Of course you don't. 

He leaned closer, so close she could smell his putrid breath, "You and I are going to become close friends, very close friends." He took the fingers of his right hand and slowly, salaciously rubbed them up and down the sides of her face. He stopped just short of her chin, "You're going to love what I'm going to do with you."

Sorrel tried to squirm back. She yelled, "You pig! Let me go!" She had never seen two more hideous looking excuses for men. The man who was defiling her with his fat little fingers looked to weigh a cool three hundred pounds; all of it fat, no worse, blubber! A whale! He reminded her of something she'd seen in a National Geographic; a giant beached whale. 

The second, the quiet one looked even worse. She thought he must be giving all his food to the fat one. He looked like a scare crow; an ugly, emaciated skeleton. She looked at his sunken eyes, his hollow chest, and his rounded shoulders. His pallid dead flesh. These weren't men, they were grotesque monsters. She was being ogled and fondled by Mary Shelley's Igor!

The second orderly giggled. It was a mirthless little laugh, an animal's laugh, the chortle of a jackal, or a sickly hyena, "We'll be back sweet one. We're going to have fun, you and I."

Sorrel screamed again. Then she burst into uncontrollable sobbing. This couldn't be happening. What of her children, her real life. They couldn't really mean to do this!



Warren had taken the 'red eye' into Dulles International Airport just outside Washington D.C. He caught an airport taxi that took him straight home. If he was going to get anything done, get Fletcher off his back, save that stupid girl, he had to do it from a closed phone line, a direct line to the person he needed. He encouraged the driver to go as fast as he could. There was precious little time. 

They finally pulled into the driveway. Warren jumped from the car; he threw a wad of money at the driver on the way, and ran inside. He found the butler slumped over a chair, crying and whining about Fletcher. Warren ignored the simpering bastard. He dashed into his back office, found the phone, and punched in the vital and oh so secret six digit number. It was a week day, a work day; he knew the man he needed would be there.

On the other end of the line a man answered, "Hello."

Warren didn't waste time, "Professor Kellerman?"

"This is he."

"This is Warren Hanson. A mistake had been made, a terrible mistake."

Warren could almost hear the yawn on the other end of the line, "Do tell."

Warren talked as fast as he could, "The other day a woman was taken to Hadamar. He corrected himself, to facility #9912. Her name is Sorrel Sullivan. She mustn't be touched."

The bored professor on the end asked, "Really? Why?"

Warren had to lie, and lie a good one, "She's knows too much to have her destroyed. She and she alone has knowledge of the secret code that enables and disables the malware virus we've unleashed on a certain country in the Middle East. If she is destroyed we'll never regain control of the virus. You've got to prevent her surgery!"

The professor had been listening. He knew and understood what Hanson was talking about. He checked his watch. It was 11:25, "It's awful late. I don't know that it's not already too late."

Warren interrupted, "This is a matter of highest national security. You must stop this surgery!"

The professor replied, "Well OK. I'll call over there, but I don't know. Once they start something it's hard to turn them back."

Warren answered, "I'll hang up. Call me back as soon as you know something."

Warren hung up the phone.



On the other end of the line the professor rechecked his watch. It was already close to 11:30. He wanted to break for lunch. He figured it was probably too late, but if only to cover his own ass he'd make the call. He picked up the receiver of his direct line to facility #9912. He punched in the numbers, "Hello. Hello."

Someone answered.

Kellerman said, "Get me Experimental Lab A."



Fletcher looked at the high metal fence. What did he have to lose? He drove off to the nearby small town. He'd buy the tools he needed. He'd cut through the first fence, scale the second and fight his through. He had to try. If he made it, if he got to the building and got inside, he'd have a fighting chance. He jumped in his car and sped off.





Back inside, in the lab room, 'Experimental Lab Room A', the doctor designated to perform the surgery had finally arrived. He was a smallish man, dour in appearance; taciturn by nature. Someone a person on the outside might see and pay no notice of, but inside the walls of Hadamar he was a God. He casually walked over to the gurney where his patient lay. 

He looked her over. She was pretty, he'd like doing this one, "Better get her on the table, strap her down, arms, legs, chest, thighs, and," as he looked down at her beautiful face, "of course her head."

The two nurses scurried to do his bidding. Surgery was scheduled for 11:30, just before lunch. They'd ordered a large pizza from the cafeteria. It was to be fully loaded, extra cheese, sausage, peperoni, mushrooms, onions, the works; one of those types of pizzas best eaten really hot. If surgery ran over the doctor would undoubtedly want to scold and ridicule them for their inefficiency. That would only make lunch that mush less appetizing. 

Sorrel squirmed and fought, but they got their patient turned and rolled into position. In seconds she was thoroughly affixed to the operating table. 

The doctor came over again and looked at his patient, "The prep," he scowled, "Don't forget the pep!"

Sorrel shouted at him, "You can't do this!"

He paid her no mind.

Sorrel tried to lower her tone of voice. Maybe if she reasoned with him, "Listen this is all a mistake. I'm not supposed to be here."

The doctor was checking his medical supplies and still paid her no mind.

Sorrel kept trying, "You can't do this. Please! Oh God! I have children! I have a life!"

The primary nurse took out her surgical razor and a tiny set of scissors. She went to work. Her job was to first shave away Sorrel's eyebrows, and then scissor her eyelashes off. This was all done with speed and efficiency. She'd done may time before.

Sorrel felt them cut away her eyebrows and lashes. It was a terrible feeling to know they were already slicing away a piece of her personality, but she refused to let this get to her. She kept crying and pleading, "No please stop."

The doctor strode back over and pulled up a rolling chair, "I guess it's only appropriate I explain what we're here for."

Sorrel spoke, "Please, you got to listen to me. You've got to understand. This is all a big mistake. Yes, I was supposed to be taken here once, but they saw the mistake. I'm not supposed to be here. Not now. Someone made a mistake. If you'll just call..."

The doctor smiled, "They all have the same story."

Sorrel looked at him in absolute terror, "No. Not me."

He continued, "Everybody has a story. Everybody has a reason. It's no use. Don't try to explain. You're here. I'm here. That's all that matters."

Sorrel tried again, "No please, you've got to listen..."

The doctor turned to one of the nurses, "What do you say we gag her for now?"

The nurse walked over and produced a small cloth object. It was like a small sling shot. She gently pushed it over Sorrel's mouth. She covered the smooth mouth piece over her lips, took the two thin strips of cloth on each side of the coverlet, and tied them off behind her head. She fastened the strips extra tight. Sorrel's mouth was snugly gagged.

The whole time Sorrel tried to keep her from covering her mouth. She swung her head back and forth; she held her mouth open as far as it would go. It mattered little. The nurse was adept at this sort of thing. She'd done it many times before. The gag was on and fixed.

The doctor sat bedside Sorrel. He looked at the clock on the wall. The time read 11:25. These were his favorite times; so what if he ran a little late. He brushed back her hair. Leaning forward he said, "Let me explain what I'm going to do."

Sorrel looked at him in absolute utter horror. She knew what he was going to do! 

He started his little spiel. He loved the telling of it; it was like his special little tale, "There are many different ways to perform a lobotomy. In the old days they'd drill small holes in the patient's forehead. Then through the holes they'd push in a thin wire like scalpel, something like a tiny button hook I guess. They push it in, and pull it out. As it came out, so out came some of the brain. The more times one inserted and extracted the tool, the more brain was removed."

Sorrel was borderline hysterical, but with her head held and the gagged tightly there wasn't anything she could do. The doctor kept smoothing her hair, rubbing his hands over her forehead and her cheeks; it was like he was caressing her. Then she realized that was exactly what he was doing. He was becoming sexually aroused!

He went on, "I don't ascribe to those old primitive techniques." He leaned forward and lightly kissed her forehead. "Why should we mark up such a beautiful face? I'm going to preform what we call a trans orbital lobotomy." He smiled.

"Here let me show you." He reached down and picked up a small object. It looked exactly like an ice pick. "First one of the nurses will take a small tool and pull your eyelid away. After all we don't want to scratch those beautiful eyes do we? Then I'll take this little tool, it's called an orbitoclast. I'll push it up against the thin bone that rests just above your eyelid. Then with this small mallet." He produced a tiny hammer. "I'll tap ever so gently, and the orbitoclast will penetrate your frontal lobe. I'll push it, swirl it around a few times, and then pull it out. I'll do this five or six times over each lovely eye. When I'm finished, why you'll be a brand new person. Doesn't that sound like fun?" 

The doctor hadn't even begun surgery and already he was close to sexual orgasm. He looked at Sorrel again, "Ready dear?"

Sorrel, eyes wide, tried to scream through the gag. It was a futile effort.

The doctor looked at the nurse, "Would you please prep her left eye?"

The doctor slid back a few inches in his wheeled chair. The nurse stepped forward to raise Sorrel's eyelid and hold it in place with a small metal clamp.

Sorrel looked desperately at the nurse, then back at the doctor. She couldn't speak. She couldn't move. She wanted to tell them at least one more time they were wrong, so very wrong. She wanted to tell them about her little boy and her little girl. After so many years they were hers again. She wanted to scream out about Fletcher, the love she'd found, his three children, now hers too. She wanted to enunciate to these people her hopes, her dreams, her plans for the future. They couldn't do this! Please God! Please God make them stop! 

The clamp over the left eyelid was in place. The doctor rolled his stool over close to the patient. He looked over his choices of orobitoclasts. He had three sizes to choose from. He hesitated only a moment. He'd start with the smallest, that way he'd do a better job, and it would take a little longer.

The two nurses looked at the clock. It was past 11:30. Their lunch was on its way.

Sorrel was screaming into her gag, a silent, helpless, pathetic scream, "What kind of terrible place is this?"

The two orderlies watched as closely as they could. For one this was his seventh such procedure. He liked to watch the doctor get off on the surgery. For the newer orderly this was all scary, but exciting too. He was about to watch a human being become a vegetable. He chuckled inwardly. She was about to become a what, an artichoke?

The doctor, breathing heavily, perspiring profusely, pants tight with an erection leaned forward for his first incision. He gave Sorrel a generous smile, "Here we go." 





Fletcher had made it back to the wooded area where he thought he'd found the most likely place to break through. Leaving the car close to the side of the road he crept over to the fence. Using the wire cutters he opened a small hole and crawled through. Next step was the still higher fence that lay a few hundred feet ahead. He crouched down and made his way for the second obstacle.



Sitting at one of the control booths inside Hadamar a security agent had been watching as some foolish man tried to break into the facility. He watched as the man cut through the outer wire fence. The security agent smiled. Sometimes people are even stupider than they look. He picked up the receiver of the phone at his desk, "Hello Mark."

On the other end a man named Mark responded, "Yeah, this is he."

The security agent commented, "We've got a security breach along line eight. Looks like one man."

Mark answered, "OK, I'll drive over. Have an agent on the outside find where he penetrated the outer fencing. Between the two of us, we'll pick him up."

The security agent laughed to himself, "Soon we'll have another specimen for the good doctors to look over."





Florence was feeling terrible, but she knew she needed to contact Fletcher before he did anything too incredibly stupid. She picked up her cell phone and dialed, "Hello Fletcher is that you?"

Fletcher answered, "It's me."

She asked, "Where are you?"

He whispered, "I cut through the outer wire of this hellhole, and expect to be on the inside in a few minutes."

Florence yelled into the receiver, "Get out of there! Get out of there now!

He asked, "Why I'm almost in."

She answered, "Because we're getting Sorrel out as we speak, if you go any further we'll being trying to find a way to rescue you, and I don' think that can happen."

Fletcher answered, "You're getting Sorrel out?"

Florence clarified her first remark, "Not exactly out, but out of immediate danger. But if they catch you; they'll ruin the both of you. Please Fletcher. Get out of there."



Fletcher looked up and saw a 4wheeler headed his way. He jumped up and ran for the fence. He ran as fast as he could. 'Shit!' he thought, 'He didn't want to be the one in trouble now!' He made it to the fence. Dove through the hole he'd just cut, and raced for Sorrel's car. Already he heard another car speeding down the road. He inserted the key, turned on the ignition, the car leaped forward, and none too soon, for just around the corner another 4wheeler sped into view. Fletcher put the pedal to the metal, and sped off down the road, out of trouble, out of danger, and without a second to spare.





Back in 'Experimental Lab A' two nurses and two orderlies looked on with a combination of keen interest and undisguised boredom. Some had never seen this performance before; some had seen it too many times. 

The doctor was leaning in with his first surgical tool. His face was covered in perspiration, "Nurse, I need a wipe."

One of the nurses immediately stepped forward and wiped his sweaty brow. She could see his arousal. She thought it was funny.

The doctor breathed deeply. They had sedated their patient, but she was still very much awake. The medication they used calmed her, and removed nearly all sensations of pain, but she'd feel the instrument as it penetrated her skull. It was a form of sedation of his own invention. He loved the thought that the patient would not only be awake, but would see, feel, and even hear as their brain, their personality, their life was slowly sliced away, sliver by tiny sliver. He placed his left arm over her head to help steady his hand. He held the tiny ice pick up against her eyelid. He grinned, "This won't hurt a bit."

In the distance a telephone rang. It momentarily broke his concentration. Turning to an orderly, "Go shut that thing off." He looked at the clock. It was 11:40.



The orderly left the room and picked up the phone. It was Professor Kellerman, "Have you performed surgery on that woman, Susan Sullivan, yet?" 

The orderly answered, "Why no. He's just about to open her up."

Professor Kellerman yelled into the phone, "Tell him to stop at once!"

The orderly asked, "What stop the surgery?" As he asked the question the orderly could see the doctor's scalpel was already under the woman's eyelid.

Kellerman, "Yes, now immediately. Tell the doctor he's to come to the phone right away. But stop the surgery."

The orderly rushed back in the surgical lab; he approached the doctor, "Doctor."

The doctor, surgical tool under the eyelid, ready to spike it with the mallet, looked up, "What!"

"It's Professor Kellerman. He's says to stop the surgery. He wants to talk to you on the phone."

The doctor stared at the orderly in disbelief, "What?"

"I said Professor Kellerman said not to operate, but to come to the phone."

The doctor was breathing heavily, gasping for air. He dare not get up; his pants were too tight from the erection he was carrying, "Ask the son of a bitch, why I shouldn't operate on this subject."

The orderly scampered back in the anteroom, "Professor Kellerman. The doctor wants you to give him a reason why he shouldn't operate."

Kellerman answered, "Ask him if he wants to live. No wait, better. Ask him unless he wants the next lobotomy to be performed on him he better stop."

The orderly dropped the phone and ran back into the waiting doctor, "Professor Kellerman said if you operate on her the next lobotomy will be yours."

The doctor visibly paled. He leaned forward into Sorrel's ear. He was so close she could smell his foul mouthed garlic breath. In a slathering tone of voice he whispered, "It seems your surgery will have to wait till after lunch. He was close enough to kiss her. In fact he placed his wet slobbery lips on her cheek, "How about a bowl of spaghetti?"

Sorrel was near shock. She saw and heard everything. For the moment she was spared, but for how long?

The doctor stood up and walked into the anteroom. Picking up the receiver he asked, "What's this about?"

Kellerman answered, "The woman on the table is a priority person. She has information we need. Don't destroy her, at least not till we get what we need."

The doctor sat back. He knew what this meant. She still might be his. She still belonged to him, but he had to wait. Someone else handled interrogations. He was stuck till they were finished. But they'd finish. Then he'd get her back. After that! Well then, well then, yeah. 

The doctor spoke to the nurses, "It seems there's been a minor change in plans. Our subject needs to be interrogated first."

One of the nurses asked, "What do you want us to do?"

The doctor was curt. He always enjoyed these medical sessions, and he was disappointed, "Take her back to a regular holding room. No restraints. Let her move about."

The nurses answered in unison, "Yes sir." They went to where Sorrel was strapped down, unfastened the Velcro, and helped her to a waiting wheelchair where they re-strapped her in. If they hurried their pizza would still be good and hot.

Pushing her out of the room, down the hall, and to her next holding area one said, "Well, sweetie you got a temporary reprieve for now, but don't count on too much. You apparently have something the doctors wants to find out. It won't be easy for you, and when it's all over you'll be back on the slab again."

Sorrel was half delirious, first from fright, then from the unexpected relief. She had no idea where she was headed or what they had planned. She only knew they hadn't destroyed her mind. 

As they rolled her down the hall all Sorrel definitely knew was what she heard; someone was in the lab they'd just left throwing chairs. The doctor was furious! He was having a tantrum.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 12



Kellerman returned Warren's call and the two of them had a lengthy conversation. It was made clear the doctor was to do nothing until further direction was forthcoming. The subject had important information, and she was to be left alone until further instructions came down. She wasn't to be questioned by anyone at Hadamar. She would more than likely be moved; moved out of the country.



The immediate crisis had passed. Sorrel was in no imminent danger. Still a rescue had to be planned.



Back on the outside, much later that evening Warren, Fletcher, and Florence gathered at Florence's apartment. Excepting for Mildred's and Warren's botched suicide plan; it seemed the least troublesome place. 

Fletcher was a nervous wreck. He'd driven back from Hadamar in a fuzzy netherworld of imagined threats to Sorrel and fantasy plans for her rescue. He definitely knew when this was all over he would kill his brother.

Warren had little interest in Sorrel except in getting her out so his brother wouldn't retaliate. His most abiding fear, now that he'd been largely exposed as a thief and a lying charlatan, was in whether anyone would want to extract some kind of vengeance or worse, charge him and put him in prison. 

Florence was the most stable of the three. She had already worked out what she thought was a feasible way to rescue Sorrel. But it was a plan that would require time, and she wasn't sure Fletcher or his children could wait. She was also worried Warren, or more likely Mildred, might have something else in mind.

Together the three sat down at Florence's kitchen table to examine what she had in mind. Florence began the discussion, "I'm of the opinion Sorrel is out of immediate peril, and that should work in our favor."

Fletcher didn't buy it, "We need to get her out, and get her out right away."

Warren, now the brotherly sycophant, agreed, "Yes you're right Fletcher. The sooner we get her out the better."

Florence disagreed, "No you're both wrong. If Warren's right about Kellerman's orders," She gave Warren a derisive stare, "and you better be. Then in a few days they'll largely forget about her. Hadamar is a large place. A lot goes on there. Sorrel could be easily overlooked. Our only concern might be her sanity. Will she be able to hold out?"

Fletcher pushed back from the table, "Oh Jesus! You think she might crack?"

Warren nodded, "Yes, we have to worry about Sorrel's sanity."

Florence patted Fletcher's clenched fist, "We'll get a message in to her. Someone will tell her she's not forgotten. She'll know she's not alone. She's tough. Look what we've already put her through. Let's give her some credit."

Fletcher involuntarily pulled his hand back, "How are going to get a message through that wall of secrecy?"

Florence reached across and pulled his hand back, "Trust me. I think I can do it."

Warren nodded like a fool, "Yes, let's let Florence take charge. She's good at this."

Fletcher ignored his brother. He looked at Florence. This time he didn't withdraw his hand, "I think this was a close call for Sorrel. I don't know how much she can take? Are you sure?"

Florence wasn't sure of anything. She'd been duped by Warren, manipulated by Fletcher, made a fool all her life by both Mildred and Warren. She didn't owe anybody at this table anything. But she felt she did owe something to Sorrel. She lied, "I'm sure. But I want you to make up a reasonable story; something that will make sense to tell the children. Something they'll believe. Something we can all concur on." 

Florence went on, "Use Mary. I know she had a bad experience, but she's a trooper. Between you, her, and your friend Byron you can keep the kids mollified."

She looked at Warren, "You stay out of the way. Only do what I tell you. You have our immediate contact inside the institution. I'll be in need of you from time to time. Don't screw this up. If you do I'll fix you and your wife good." She smirked, "You get it?"

Warren nodded, "Yes, I'm on your side."

Fletcher wanted to punch his smarmy brother in the nose, but held it in.

Florence looked at the two men, "Now get out of here. I have things to do." At the last minute she grabbed Fletcher's arm, "You've got to trust me on this." 

Fletcher gave her a long heartfelt look. He wanted to trust her. He needed to now. She was about to become his link with sanity.

Florence wouldn't let go of his arm, "Say it. Say you trust me."

Fletcher saw the strength in the woman. He saw her resolve, "I trust you Florence. All I've got. My life, my children, and the life of the woman I love. They're all in your hands."

Florence turned to Warren, "I'll be calling you in the morning."

Warren insipidly answered, "Yes Florence."

An epilogue as prologue: 

The immediate danger may have passed, but Sorrel's future may be in even greater peril. The Hadamar personnel have decided she needs to be relocated to some foreign country; a country where any rules regarding interrogation simply do not exist.

And then there are the children, the poor children.


Your comments and suggestions are most welcome. 



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 13



Sorrel, as a result of miraculously good timing, had escaped, at least for the time being, the eager scalpel of Hadamar's most infamous doctor, but her safety, like all things, was ephemeral, a momentary interruption in what might still be a long painfully slow and odiously ugly submersion into the abyss. 

Questions arose about Sorrel. Did she know things? Did she have secret information? Did Sorrel possess vital secret information about say 'stuxnet', the malware virus that had been unleashed on Iran's nuclear machinery, or maybe she possessed knowledge of some other equally strange and equally exotic computer virus as yet to be hurled at some 'Western' adversary? 

The answer to the question of Sorrel's knowledge of vital secrets, secrets of any kind, was of course, she knew nothing. But under torture people have been be persuaded to confess to anything, say anything, fabricate anything. 

Sorrel had been a strong woman all her life, but no one was ever strong enough when the right procedures have been applied. 

Questioning techniques like water boarding, a relatively soft, though still brutal and internationally banned, torture tool had been used, secretly, inside the borders of the United States with impunity. But the real torture methodologies, the really robust measures required deportation to some friendly, though less scrupulous, third world nation.

If Sorrel were to be successfully removed from the relatively safe confines of her own home nation, one could only imagine the joys; the pleasures that might await her in say Egypt, Yemen, or even now the conspiratorially friendly Iraq. Yes the Middle East, that vast depot where Twelfth Century interrogation methods had melded with Twenty-first Century technologies and old fashioned feudalistic zeal. 

Somewhere in that vast emptiness, that voiceless mindless human rights wilderness known as the Middle East there awaited an overzealous technician armed with the torture technologies of a grim forbidding past, the merciless new mechanism of the present; plus, to poor Sorrel's chagrin, the emotional and psychological temperament of a Tomas de Torquemada, that most feared and most despicable of Sixteenth Century Inquisitors. 

Oh what hellish, vicious, cruel, things awaited the beautiful and unsuspecting Sorrel Sullivan? Could it be someone had already connected the electronics of modern man to a Sixteenth Century Rack? Had some crazed maniac been sharpening the vicious scythe-like edges of a modern day Breast Ripper? Have the hinges of the Iron Maiden been sufficiently greased? Did someone remember to sufficiently hone the cruel steel tips of the Judas Cradle? What of the Wheel; how many of Sorrel's delicate bones might be broken and woven into its pitiless spokes? Had the Judas Fork been steel tipped? 

One could only imagine with utter terror the sharpened tools that awaited poor Sorrel's anatomical cavities. What of poor innocent Sorrel's sweet ears, her delicate nostrils, her beautiful mouth, that gorgeous peach of an anus, and oh woe, what savage terrors lurked under that dark silken cloth resting atop that broad metal table; all ready to penetrate her most secret, most personal, most sacred of places?

Then again, the waiting inquisitor might be a modernist; some pseudo-sophisticate, a contemporary 'apparatchik' only too willing and too ready to earn promotion and recognition through the despicable devices at his, or her, disposal. Consider the chemicals, the biological, or the neurological treats that might await our precious heroine. 

Could it be something as simple as a drug that emulated the worst aspects of a serious case of influenza? Or perhaps something more innovative; say something that attacked the middle ear; imagine the excitement of watching someone as they tried to escape the thunderous drumbeat of an artificially imposed migraine headache. 

All these things could be awaiting our sweet protagonist; these and many more. No one dared to mention the unlimited possibilities of permanent disfigurement. Consider the loss of the nose, an ear, the removal of an eyelid, the whisking away of those soft nipples Fletcher found so tempting, or those colorful and sensitive aureoles; all things can be made possible where no rules apply. 

Thank God Sorrel had no idea what possible treats the diseased minds of her own nation might have ready for her. Give God thanks Fletcher had no clue either, for such knowledge would surely have driven him mad. Only Florence and Warren knew what might lie in store, and thankfully, it happened to be Florence who had taken on the challenge of rescuing our maiden fair. 

Give it up for Florence! She's working out a plan!

Florence knew they had to rescue Sorrel before the people who held her got her out of the United States; for once out of the country she might end up anywhere. To save her before she left the country Florence needed information. It was not a new thing; all governments all armies worked best when they knew and understood what their enemy's plans were. She knew what they intended; she needed to know when and how, and to get that information she needed someone on the inside. The first step in that direction was going to require some negotiation with Warren.

Warren was in a deep world of shit, and he knew it. Both his brother and Florence had unraveled his subterfuge. Warren was a hapless duck, a fish out of water, a piece of odorous shit floating haphazardly in the yellow piss water of a not yet flushed toilet. He needed their benevolence, and he knew neither was feeling very benevolent. Still, he had one trump left. He had the key to the first step on the inside track to Sorrel, and without knowledge of that first step Sorrel was sunk. The question was; what was his single piece of information worth?

The very afternoon after Florence, Fletcher, and Warren had met following Sorrel's close call at the butcher's Warren was visited by three men in dark suits. Three agents, presumably from the SEC, were at his portal. They explained that they'd received a phone call from a reliable source wherein someone had enumerated several violations of marketing regulations and attributed them all to Warren Hanson.

Warren was taken by surprise. He was sure his trail had been thoroughly covered. He did the best he could to deflect their questions. Using bluff and bluster; he managed to gain a three day grace period before opening his records. After the agents left he called Florence. He was in a panic.

Of course, the agents who'd visited Warren weren't SEC personnel at all. Florence had immediately hired three people to impersonate SEC investigators. Her ruse had worked. Warren would still want to negotiate, but he would be negotiating out of fear now more than ever. He would be much more amenable when it came time for them to talk.

Florence wasn't in any hurry to get Sorrel out just yet anyway. Her first concerns regarded Fletcher, keeping him on an even keel, and in finding a way to get a message inside to Sorrel. Florence believed if they waited a few days before taking any action on Sorrel the Hadamar people might become lax, less focused on Sorrel, making it easier to free her when the time came. 

------------

Sorrel was crying hysterically. She'd felt the metal scalpel, or whatever it was, press up against the inside of her eye. She knew how close she'd come. 

The nurses had fastened her in the wheelchair and taken her to yet another room. This was the fourth room she believed they'd taken her. When they reached the room one unlocked the door while the other rolled her in. The nurses didn't tarry. They unfastened her fetters, and unceremoniously left her in the room; no discussion, no explanations, and no solace. 

The nurses had discharged their patient. It was time for lunch, and the pizza was getting cold. The woman they'd left in the room could be handled later.

Sorrel looked around at her new domicile. It was, more or less, what she expected; a bed, sort of, more of that cold green linoleum flooring, gray cinder block walls, no windows, two recessed fluorescent lights, that were a change from the incandescent bulbs the other rooms had all had, and there was one small chair clearly bolted to the floor. 

The bed was of the same disheartening style she'd found in the first room; not very long, narrow, and a flexible metal cage that could be lowered over her once she was tucked in. There were no coverings; only a gray vinyl mattress, no pillow, no coverlets of any kind. She'd be caged in bed during sleep times, and, she believed, probably any other times they wanted her closely confined; though she couldn't imagine anything more confining than this small room.

She took note of the door for the first time, and noticed it was different in some important ways. First this door opened outward, not inward. Though she doubted she'd ever have the opportunity, but if they ever left her to her own devices, as was the case at the moment, she wouldn't be able to surprise anyone by hiding behind the door. It really mattered very little; hiding behind the door might have afforded a better chance for surprise and then perhaps escape, but she had no idea where she might escape to if she did get loose. 

The door, she saw had a small window at just about eye level, or eye level for someone a little taller then she; just the kind of window one might have seen in some medieval castle, or an insane asylum.

Then again, from another perspective, the window was mirrored; meaning a one way aperture; like some cell in an old Soviet prison. They'd be able to see her from the outside without her being able to see them. However, it was a mirrored opening; it was her first opportunity to see herself since she'd been abducted. She used the chance to see what she looked like. 

Oh! She looked awful! Dark circles under the eyes, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, hair a jumbled mess, and she was building a nice shiner where the nurse had clamped her eyelid back. She looked sallow, tired, and malnourished.

At first she thought it was awful. But wait a minute! No it wasn't awful! It was great! She could see herself, and she knew who she was. They hadn't lobotomized her. She still had her brain, her personality, and most of all, her sense of humor, or better, her sense of whimsy.

Sorrel went back over and sat on the bed. It was hard, uncomfortable, and she'd be caged in it when she slept. That was the worst of it, at least for the moment. 

But there were other things to consider. She knew, she really knew, and she really did know, that Fletcher was hunting for her. She bet he had something to do with the stoppage of her butchery. 

She thought about it. The phone had rung. Someone; somewhere had intervened. Yes! Somewhere outside, out in the free world she had a hero, a man on a brilliant white steed with a long javelin, or whatever those long spears were called knights used. Yes! Her Galahad was campaigning for her at that very moment! When he came she'd be ready.

Sorrel looked around the room; back at the door. She could handle this! She checked out the door again. There was a bracket for a door handle and there was a key hole, but no door knob or handle. So what! So she couldn't get out. She had a hero. He'd come. He'd break the damn door down. He'd rescue her, and when he did she show her gratitude. They raise their kids together. They make some more kids. They'd overfill that damn house with so many mouths they'd need a bigger house. 

She sank down on the bed and wept. It sounded good. Maybe too good; but he had to come. Would he come? God she hoped so. Of course he'd come. He just had to! Meantime she had Peter and Little Sorrel to worry about. Were they OK? She hoped so. 

She got off her ass and plopped her knees on the floor. She needed to pray.

------------

After the meeting with Florence and Warren where they agreed to turn things over to Florence Fletcher went home. He had to speak with Byron and Mary and he had to invent some kind of plausible story about Sorrel's disappearance for the kids. It wasn't going to be easy. Hell, Little Sorrel and Peter; Sorrel's two kids, hadn't even been back with their mother a week and she was gone again. His own kids were a problem too; especially Marion who'd become so attached to Sorrel so fast.

He pulled in the driveway, but didn't go straight in the front door. He got out and slipped around the back. He was careful; he didn't think anyone had seen him pull up. He wanted to walk down to the grove. It was in the grove where he'd made a little memorial to his first wife Diana. That's where he went when he wanted to think, talk to his deceased wife, and sometimes pray, and today was a day he really needed help.

He got down to the grove and flopped down on the small bench he'd built. It sat beside Diana's little memorial. He started talking, "Diana I really need some help right now. I know you don't mind me and Sorrel. I know you'd like her. But now she's in trouble, and I'm really worried."

That's how he started most of his conversations with his deceased wife; first a request, followed by some kind of mea culpa, and then straight prayer. 

He started, "Diana I need an angel. I need guidance. What am I going to say to these kids? Sorrel's little ones don't deserve this. Mine don't deserve it either."

He was down on his knees, one arm resting on the bench the other holding Diana's little marker, "Tell me what to do." 

From out of nowhere he felt a hand on his shoulder!

He almost jumped out of his skin. Someone had put their hand on him. He turned around half expecting to see Diana. It was his daughter Marion.

"Dad," she started, "I love you. What wrong?"

Fletcher turned and sat on the damp ground. It was late in the day, but it was still spring time. He tried to put up a brave front, "Hi munchkin. I didn't hear you come down."

Marion sat on the bench and rested her hand on her Dad's shoulder, "Don't fool around. Sorrel's in trouble and you're scared."

He looked at his fourteen year old girl. 'Where did she get all this maturity? One day she was a little kid, and now she's a woman.'

He answered, "Remember when we said we were going to punish her? Well Mildred and my brother went ahead and put the plan in motion. They didn't know we'd figured out the truth."

Marion got off the bench and sat on the ground with her Dad, "They've taken her someplace to kill her?"

Fletcher, still the father, "Let's get off this wet ground." He got up and pulled his daughter up. They both sat on the bench. 

He answered her, "They almost got her yesterday." He watched her reaction. He thought, 'Why am I telling her this. She's still a kid.'

Marion squeezed one of her father's hands, "Almost, you said."

Fletcher responded, "Yeah, we got a call in and stopped what would have been a devastatingly fatal surgery. Right now she's being held at some hospital. They don't know who she is. Florence is figuring out a way to get her out."

Marion looked at her father. This scared her, but not so much as he thought, "Florence will come up with something." She paused, "Dad, you can count on me. I'll take care of the kids and Mary."

He was wowed. He thought, 'she'll take care of the kids. She's a kid herself. He answered, "You'll take care of the kids? Who'll take care of you?"

She didn't bat an eye, "You and Mom."

He choked back a tear. He grabbed her and hugged her as tightly as he could, "God I love you."

Marion reacted more than responded, "I love you too. Now let's go up and tell the boys and Little Sorrel. They've been scared to death."

He looked at her, what do we tell them?"

Marion was quick, "The truth Dad."

He and his fourteen year old daughter got up, arm in arm, him leaning a little to get it right. They walked back up the hill to the house. As he walked he started talking to himself, 'Diana you're always there when I need you. Now you're here with me through this little girl.' 

He looked at Marion, "You think your mom knows?"

Marion had the answer, "Of course she knows. She's right here with us now. Who do you think told me what to say to you?"

------------

The nurses had finished lunch. The pizza turned out to not be nearly as tasty as they hoped. They blamed Sorrel.

One spoke to the other, "What do we do with the woman?"

The other wasn't in a very charitable mood, "We'll get some manacles and restrict her arms and legs. We'll keep her dressed in something simple; some kind of apron or smock we can tie off at the shoulders. I want to keep her room cool say 68, no 67 degrees."

The first nurse commented, "You've really got the knife out for her, huh?"

The second answered, "No, I just know, and you'll learn, who we're working for, and what they like." 

The other nurse only nodded. 

The first nurse added, "When we get her trussed up, you take her to the bathroom, see that she voids and showers. While you're out I'm going to change the lighting."

"How so?" asked the first.

The second replied, "That room has fluorescent tubing. I'm going to change the tubes, put in a lower wattage. We're going to leave her lights on day and night. You and I, and the night nurses will check in on her at inconvenient times. I don't want her sleeping too well." 

------------

Florence took two days before she got around to calling Warren. Her fictitious SEC people had told her they'd given Warren three days. Two days were up. It was going to be fun watching him squirm.

The two met at a restaurant of Florence's choosing. It was an eatery where they'd often met back when she believed he really loved her. That had been before she found out he had planned on marrying 'Miss Moneybags'. Well he'd married Mildred, gotten the money he wanted, started a company, used Mildred's father's contacts, make tons of cash, bought three homes, squeezed out two ugly ungrateful kids, over extended himself, and finally broke the law. 

All the while she, Florence, had hung around, hung around like a dumb bitch believing someday he'd come back. He never came back; not the way she wanted. Oh, he came back all right! Whenever he wanted a quick blow job or a night in the sack he'd show up, but never really for her. 

It had taken her years to see the light, but in the end she finally had. Mildred was a cold bitch with a sand paper cunt so good ole Warren only came back for Florence when he wanted to masturbate in her mouth or her vagina. 

Today was her day. This was her one and only chance to fuck the man who'd been fucking over her. Of course, she knew she had only herself to blame, but today, on this day of days, she wasn't thinking about self guilt. All that personal angst she was leaving at the door. For once in her life she was having it her way.

Florence got to the restaurant first, and found the same table where they used to sit. When Warren arrived she sat stiffly and simply pulled him over using the crook of her finger. 

She started, "You've gotten yourself into a fine mess Warren."

He played dumb, "OK I made some financial miscalculations and tried to hide them, but I've broken no laws."

She smiled, "Of course you haven't, but you've got to get Sorrel free or your brother will certainly kill you."

Warren smiled back, "I can help. In fact I think I know a way to get her out, but I'll expect something in return."

Florence kept up the pretense, "You mean a quid pro quo."

Warren responded, "What do you propose?"

Florence gave him her most endearing, most artificial smile, "For starters I want you to turn over all your stocks to me."

Warren's eyes widened. He unconsciously pushed away from the table.

Florence didn't let him say anything, "I want your bank accounts, your houses, and all your other assets."

He interrupted, "That's preposterous!"




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 13



"No it's not," she retorted, "and for the record I know about everything you have, where you keep it, what banks, foreign and domestic, and in what Caribbean countries. I want it all, every penny!" 

He made to get up to go, "You'll get no such thing!"

"Yes I will; and more too!"

He was quivering, shaking, almost apoplectic, "Like what else?"

"You're going to divorce Mildred and marry me!"

He thought he detected an angle, "You still love."

Florence laughed, "I can't stand the sight of you. You make me sick! I want you so I can play with you, control you, and humiliate you all the rest of your life."

Warren was furious, "You're crazy! I won't agree to any of that! Furthermore, you can go to hell, and take Fletcher and that sickly little bitch Sorrel with you!"

Florence answered, "I know the SEC is after you, and later today, if I don't get what I want I'm calling the IRS. Further, you aren't the only person who knows people in our nation's Black Operations. I know people too. If I don't get what I want I'm calling them, and I'm telling them what you've done, how you've used them. Who knows? Maybe you'll be on the next plane bound for Egypt?"

Warren was shaking uncontrollably, "What do you want from me? I mean I hear you. You want my money, my stocks, and my foreign accounts. Done! You want me to leave Mildred? She's gone! The houses? There yours. You want me to marry you? I'll marry you."

Florence sat back, smiling, "Now give me the name and the phone number I need to get Sorrel."

Warren wasn't as stupid as Florence thought he was. If he married her she wouldn't be able to testify against him. Sure she'd have him for a while, but he'd get out of it." He thought; she must still love him.

He replied, "I have a private line back at my, your house. I use it to get through to the people we want."

Florence was already on her feet, "Come on. Let's go."

Warren got up as well. 

------------

Back at Hadamar the nurses made for the storage lockers where they got the materials they intended for Sorrel. Loading everything into a laundry cart, they traveled back to where she was imprisoned.

They reached her cell, and while one opened the door the other rolled the cart into the room.

The first nurse spoke up, "Up and at it sweetie. We have some things for you."

Sorrel had been resting on the bed. She'd wondered how long it would be until they came back for her.

The original nurse started, "You're going to be with us a while, so we want to make you as comfortable as possible.' Pointing to the floor she said, "Come over here and kneel down."

Sorrel was too tired and too disoriented to argue. She did as she was told.

The nurse doing all the talking continued, 'We're going to put you in restraints." She saw Sorrel's eyes widen in fear. "Not to worry, no straight jackets, just simple stuff."

Sorrel didn't feel any less fearful.

The second nurse leaned forward and wrapped a steel collar around her neck. It was broad, perhaps two inches high, and maybe a quarter of an inch thick. It was hinged in one place and looked like it had the interstices necessary to make a second hinge when it was closed. It did. 

When she closed the collar it wrapped tightly around her neck. It was uncomfortably tight. Then the nurse took a small wrench; an Allen wrench. 

She got out a cylindrical bolt about equal in length to the width of collar. First using her fingers, and then the wrench she tightened the collar in place. The front of the collar had a large O-ring; something Sorrel assumed could be used to attach a leash or lead.

In this fashion the collar was doubly hinged around her neck; no locks or bolts, just two completed hinges holding it in place.

The nurse said, "Go ahead. Feel it."

Sorrel took her hand and felt around the collar. It was tight, uncomfortable, and unyielding. She could barely tell where the hinges were. There was no way of knowing which had the real hinge and which had the locking bolt. Unless one of the nurses gave her the wrench, or they chose to do it themselves, there was no way this was coming off. 

The first nurse ordered her to hold out her hands.

Sorrel did as she was told.

The second nurse unwrapped a set of manacles, "Place you hands on the bed, palms facing upwards." 

Sorrel followed her instructions.

The nurse took the manacles and placed each of her wrists on top of their encircling arcs. Each manacle was easily an inch wide, and again, about a quarter of an inch thick. . She took each arc, closed it, and for each wrist produced a corresponding inch long bolt, which she first fingered screwed and then, using the wrench, tightened. 

Sorrel looked down at her hands. They were trapped in rigid steel bracelets. Each had an O-ring, and both O-rings were held together by one large link of shiny steel chain. Her hands were trapped together. She twisted her hands trying to see if she could reach the bolts. She tried snapping her hands apart real fast to see if the link of chain might break. It was no use, her hands were held sturdily.

The first nurse said, "Feet up on the bed."

While Sorrel sat up on the bed and placed her feet out, the second nurse unwrapped another set of bracelets. The circumference of these was larger, and there were several links of chain between the O-rings. She fit each manacle around an ankle, closed each arc, and as with her collar and wrists, used first her fingers and then the Allen wrench to tighten each in place.

The first nurse ordered, "Stand up."

Sorrel got off the bed and stood barefoot on the cold linoleum flooring. She was completely naked except for the collar and two sets of shackles. She felt helpless and horrible; completely at their mercy. 

The first nurse stood back, "My you look pretty. Now we have to get you dressed."

The second nurse reached into the laundry cart and pulled forth a white cotton bag. Very officiously she placed each garment in the bag on the bed.

The first nurse ordered, "Hold you arms out straight."

Sorrel did as she was told. 

The second nurse stepped behind Sorrel and handed forward a sheath like outfit. Actually it was the top of a jumper set that buttoned at the shoulders and zipped up the front. While the second nurse held the item in place the first nurse did the buttoning and zipping. 

Then the second nurse lifted what was obviously a large diaper. Together the nurses pulled the diaper up and around her waist. The second nurse found a belt and slipped it through the rear flap of the diaper, around the side and through the loop of the front half of the piece of apparel. 

She affixed the two ends of the belt together and locked them in place with a small padlock. 

The diaper felt thick and heavy. The belt holding it in place was uncomfortably tight, and the padlock was cold against her flesh.

The first nurse said, "Feel your clothing."

Sorrel took her hands and felt the top piece. It was made of some kind of acrylic material. She felt the bottom and knew immediately it was constructed of something far more substantial. 

Both top and bottom were much too tight and terribly discomfiting.

The first nurse commented, "The top is made of a thin plastic substance. It won't shrink, expand, and it is almost impossible to cut. As you can see your breasts are completely covered, if someone wanted to they might be able to touch, or even fondle you from the outside, but your flesh is absolutely inviolate."

She added, "The bottom is constructed from a combination of materials; an alloy you might say. It is composed of a very resilient new kind of rubber serving as an interior liner, but it has an outer layer made of finely woven metal. You may touch yourself on your more private area, but it is absolutely impenetrable."

Sorrel, though distressed by the lack of comfort and fearful for her safety, still had the presence of mind to ask at least one question, "What's the point in the in-elasticity of the materials, and how am I going to go to the bathroom?" 

The first nurse was ready, "We'll be here, me and the other nurses, and from time to time, we'll help with your toilet. And not to worry, you'll be kept clean and fresh at all times. We'll wash you, shampoo your hair, and we'll even help you with your teeth. But no man will touch you until such time as the appropriate man appears."

Sorrel dreaded the answer, but she asked anyway, "Who would that be?"

The first nurse answered, "Maybe no one. Maybe they'll just question you and then kill you. But I doubt that. I think when they're done questioning you'll end up on the market."

Sorrel knew the answer, but asked anyway, "The market?"

The first nurse smiled, "Sure, pretty girls like you are worth money. If you're lucky you might end up somewhere in a Middle Eastern Seraglio. If you're not so lucky you might end somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa. Hell you might end with that guy in Zimbabwe. What's his name? Mugabe?

Sorrel shuddered. Her mind was working in overdrive. Fletcher had to be out there. Someone had to be out there. She couldn't go from a happy home in America with her children and future husband to some slave in a rat hole; some shit factory African country where she'd be subjected to daily degradation.

The first nurse could almost read her mind, "They really like the white girls down in some parts of Africa I hear. You'll be quite an attraction."

The nurses didn't stay any longer. They had their regular work to do. As they left the first nurse waved, "Sleep tight!" 

Sorrel slid back down on the bed; collar tight around her neck, hands and feet cuffed together, wrapped in an awful outfit, with nothing to do but think. Then to her surprise the first nurse popped back in, "Almost forgot! Hop in bed."

Sorrel lay down on the bed while the first nurse lifted the side cage out and down, attached the end frames, and locked them all in place. In a matter of seconds she was on her back, caged in her bed. The door closed, and somewhere the lights were turned off, however, the room still remained partially lit by the dim wattage of the overhead fluorescent lights.

She lay there in the half light and quietly wept.

------------

Warren and Florence had returned to his house where he handed her the phone and the number code. Florence ordered him from the room and tapped in the digits. 

A man answered, "Yes."

Florence started, "I'm trying to reach a man named Kellerman."

The man on the other end was immediately suspicious. Anyone using this line would automatically know who would answer, "May I ask who is calling?"

Florence responded, "I'm calling on behalf of Warren Hanson in reference to a woman you were ordered not to violate the other day."

Kellerman was cautious, "You must be mistaken. You have the wrong number." 

Florence expected that, "You're betting your life on that."

Kellerman remained silent on the other end for nearly a minute, "OK, who are you, and what do you want?"

Florence didn't hesitate, "This is a matter of utmost urgency. The woman you're holding has to be released from Hadamar and turned over immediately."

Kellerman answered honestly, "I can't do that."

Florence knew that too, "We need to meet. Like I said, this is an urgent matter, a matter of the highest priority."

His suspicions hadn't been eased, "Who are you?"

She answered, "Go to the Embers restaurant tomorrow evening at 9:00. When you get there ask for Mrs. Diana Hanson." 

Kellerman knew the name. He knew the woman named was dead. This was a set up. He was sure of it. But he had to go, "I'll be there." He hung up the phone, and immediately called his supervisor. They agreed he should go, but he would be tailed. If anything looked funny then steps might have to be taken. Meanwhile they both agreed the woman at Hadamar should probably be relocated, out of the country preferably.

Florence was a lot of things, but she was no fool. She'd been giving the whole thing a lot of thought. She figured they'd probably take steps to move Sorrel before there was any meeting. That left her two choices, and she figured it was best to act on both. She sat down and made several more phone calls; one to Fletcher, one to a friend she had in the CIA, and another to an individual whose identity was clouded in criminality. She laughed to herself, 'Yes, she had a past; a past few people had any knowledge of. Her family wasn't a bunch of rubes from eastern Kentucky; hicks from the hills. She knew people. She had a few connections.

------------

Back in Hadamar two orderlies had just finished their rounds. One looked at the other, "You remember that cutie they were going to cut open the other day?"

"Yeah sure, why," the other answered.

"I know where she is."

The second asked, "So what?"

The first replied, "I have a key. Why don't we go pay her a visit?"

"You mean like?"

The first responded, "Yeah, like."

The two orderlies smiled at each other. One checked his watch, "We've got like three hours before we're needed, and nobody will be bothering her I'm sure of it."

The second responded, "She sure was a cutie. I'd like to taste a piece of that."

The first pulled a key from his pocket. Swinging the chain on which it was suspended he whispered, "Follow me."

Off the two men walked. Both horny, both with free time, and both with a sadistic streak that fed on innocence and vulnerability like piranha in season.

------------

Fletcher and Marion, walking slowly, neither particularly eager to talk to each other or to anyone, finally reached the house. Fletcher called out, "Hello is anyone here?"

From the front of the house Byron called back, "We're all in the living room." Byron and Mary, both home, and both fully aware, had already called all the other children together.

Fletcher and Marion walked in. Marion sat over beside Little Sorrel. Fletcher took up position near the boys. Fletcher started, "I have some things I want to tell all of you."

No one said anything.

He began, "You all know something's happened to Sorrel."

He looked around. No one moved. There wasn't a sound, not a whisper.

He went on. He looked at Littler Sorrel first, then Peter, and then at his boys, "Our mother has been kidnapped; kidnapped by some pretty mean people." He watched for a reaction, any reaction, but neither saw nor heard anything. He figured they knew that much. What was most disarming was the obvious trust on their faces. They trusted him. They believed in him. Whatever had happened, wherever their mother might be, whoever had her; they trusted him utterly and completely to save her. It was just about the most frightening experience of his life.

Marion spoke up. She looked around the room at everyone, "Dad and Ms. Henderson know where she is. They already have a plan to rescue her. Dad told me what he thinks I need to know. Believe me; he's got it under control. She'll be home soon."

Robert asked, "Why don't we call the police?"

Richard added, "Yeah, the FBI."

Fletcher lied, "They know, and they're on the job too. But this is mainly something I've got to do through another agency. Don't worry. Don't be afraid. Like Marion said, it's just a matter of days."

Peter asked, "When am I going back to school?"

Fletcher answered, "My three have to go back right away. But you and Little Sorrel haven't been enrolled yet. Your mother has to do that. When she gets home she and I will both go."

He looked over at Little Sorrel. He didn't like what he saw.

Little Sorrel murmured, "I'm going to need my mother pretty soon. I don't know what to wear, and she hasn't finished her story."

Marion pressed closer, but didn't try to touch her, "She'll be home very soon. She has to help me with some of my homework, and I want her to help me choose what to wear too. We'll wait for her together."

Fletcher looked at Marion, "Good idea."

Mary interrupted, "It's time to eat, and Fletcher why don't you get to work?"

He smiled at Mary, the ever faithful, always helpful Mary, "I'll be in my office." He looked around, and then quietly stepped to his bedroom. 

He needed to call Florence. 

Florence had put in the calls she needed to make. Then she got on the phone with Fletcher. He must have been getting ready to call her, as he picked up the phone before the phone rang, "Fletcher?"

"Florence, what can you tell me?"

She answered, "Quite a lot. I've talked to your brother, and gotten what I needed from him. I've made several follow up calls, and several arrangements have been made. If you'd come over in the next few minutes I'll go over what I can with you."

Fletcher answered, "Be right there." He was exhausted, but he felt time was running short. Florence needed to talk. He needed to do something, anything.

------------

Inside Hadamar the orderlies had found Sorrel's room, unlocked the door and gone in. They found her awake and lying on her back inside the metal cage.

The second, younger orderly, asked, "What do we do now?"

The older orderly smiled, "I have the keys." He pulled forth another smaller chain and unlocked the cage that entombed Sorrel in her bed. He looked at her, "Out!"

Sorrel, hands and feet manacled, struggled to get off the bed and on the floor. Standing in front of the two men, both of whom she recognized, she asserted, "You two aren't supposed to be here."

The older orderly looked her over. Her hair was mussed and it looked dirty. She had one hell of a black eye, and she looked overtired. He immediately recognized what she had on, and he knew they weren't getting anything. Still she looked good from a strictly anatomical point of view. Her nipples breast pressed urgently against the top, and her vagina was clearly visible through the thin but impenetrable lower garment.

He commented, "I see they've packed you in armor." 

For the moment Sorrel was grateful for the uncomfortable apparel, "Yes, I'm well protected from the likes of you."

The older orderly knew to stay was a waste of time, but he still felt the inclination to at least touch this woman. He took his hands and smoothed them over her chest, feeling her breasts. Even in her imprisonment her nipples grew taut. He reached down and, using three fingers, he rubbed over her mons. He felt himself grow with excitement; having this woman so helpless, so tightly confined, in front of him. 

It made him angry that he couldn't have her. He wanted to hit her, but dare not. 

The younger man wasn't quite so ready to give up. He looked at his cohort, "What about a BJ?"

The older orderly smirked, "Go ahead, but if she bites it off, there's nothing we can do."

Sorrel stood there smiling. She asserted, "Yes do try. You put your thing near my mouth, and I'll bite it off." 

The older orderly gave her resigned look of disgust, "Back to bed." 

As soon as she got back on her rubber mat that served as her bed, he relocked the metal cage. 

The two men stalked out of room, still horny, and thoroughly pissed off. 

As they strode off down the hall the older man looked at his colleague, "They'll be other times, other women."

The younger man looked back at the closed door forlornly, "She looked good though, didn't she."

At the same time the orderlies were embarking on what turned out to be a frustrated attempt at sexual gratification a phone call was made through to the nurses' station. The older nurse was given a message and another number to call using her personal cell phone just as soon as she hung up. She listened, hung up, and made her excuses to the younger nurse. She quietly stepped down the hall to the ladies room.

Once in the womens' bathroom the nurse did as she had been instructed. She walked to the farthest stall, dropped her panties and rook up the position of someone performing the necessary rights of passage. She obtained her phone and made the call. She quietly listened, taking mental notes the entire time. After a suitable length of time she redressed and returned to the nurses' station. 




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love Ch. 13



Upstairs, while two disgruntled orderlies ambled off back to work and an otherwise nondescript nurse sat on a commode collecting data on the phone, Dr. Kellerman, head of medicine and personnel for two 'special' facilities was making plans. He called the hospital garage, then the secret CIA warehouse, and ordered the supplies that would be needed for this unique, one time, rushed operation. 

With those phone calls completed he returned Florence Henderson's call, and arranged a meeting between her and him for the day after the next. This being a Tuesday, he and she would meet Thursday at 4:00 p.m. in one of the rooms at the CIA branch office in the suburbs just north of the nation's capital. If all went according to plan by the time he met to confer with Ms. Henderson, the woman they were both interested in would already be aboard a plane bound for a country in northwestern Africa. Whatever conversations they might have would be moot. The woman, Sorrel Sullivan, or whoever she was, would already be headed for interrogation and eventual oblivion. 

A few hours later Florence was busy talking to her erstwhile employer Fletcher Hanson. Fletcher was to meet three men the next morning, Wednesday morning. They would provide him with a large black van. In the van they would have placed a smallish black metallic box. On Thursday, not later than 3:00 Fletcher was to deliver the 'filled box' to a waiting private jet, sited at the end runway three at the Dulles International Airport west of the Washington D.C. There, at the airport, he was to be met by three men, all CIA, who were to take the box from the van and load it on the jet. Florence explained; if Fletcher missed the flight, or was delayed in any way Sorrel's life would be worthless. This was to be the most important delivery of his life.

-------------

The next day, back in Hadamar the older nurse made her rounds alone. She told the younger girl, since there was little to do, she could go home early. The older nurse, unencumbered by her companion made for Sorrel's cell. 

The older woman unlocked the door to Sorrel's small room and went in. She saw Sorrel uncomfortably lying awake. She wondered if the woman had slept at all the past two days. She walked over and unlocked the cage enclosure. The night nurses had seen to Sorrel's personal concerns so there was no worry about any bathroom needs. It wouldn't have mattered; the older nurse was on hand for a far more important mission.

She lifted the metal cage grate, and helped Sorrel struggle to the side of the bed, "Good day to you. This is going to be the second biggest day of your life."

Sorrel looked at her, "Something's bigger?"

The nurse replied, "Tomorrow, but first we have to get you ready." 

The nurse helped her down, and seated her in a wheelchair, "I'm going to wheel you down to the bathroom, clean you up, and prep you for the biggest trip of your life."

Sorrel wasn't curious at all, but asked anyway, "Where am I going?"

The nurse smiled, "It's a surprise."

From there the nurse took her to the bathroom. Using the Allen wrench she unshackled her ward, and showered her off, careful to clean and scrub every tiny area of flesh. She redressed her in a simple shift, unlike the uncomfortable metallic armored apparel she'd been forced to wear earlier. 

She ordered her to kneel on a towel while she slowly, very carefully, even tenderly combed out her hair, and put it in two tight braids which she tied off with narrow strips of string. Then she took the two braids and tied them together behind the woman's head. 

The nurse turned her around. Sorrel was as clean and as fresh as a newborn, and her hair was done in two snug little braids. The nurse believed, and correctly, the woman she was looking at was absolutely adorable.

She told Sorrel, "I'm sorry. I wished there was something I could do about the eye. It's still pretty dark. I think the discoloration will probably last three or four more days, but I don't think you'll really mind."

She returned Sorrel to the wheelchair, wheeled her back to the same room, re-shackled her, but this time did not enclose her in the caged bed. 

She said, "I suggest you try to get some sleep. You'll need all the rest you can get, because tomorrow is going to be a very busy day." 

Sorrel felt a lot better, cleaner, and less awkward in the more comfortable shift, "What happens tomorrow?"

The nurse gave her a small smile, "Everything." She briefly placed her left hand on Sorrel's right cheek, "Till tomorrow." She quietly left.

The next day, Thursday, Fletcher was up early. He'd acquired the black van and the metal box. He loaded the box as Florence had instructed, drove to Dulles International, and sat in the van waiting for a call from Florence.

Around 11:00 a.m. that same morning two orderlies and the same day nurses arrived at Sorrel's room. The orderlies were pushing a large flatbed cart. Resting on the bed of the cart was a smallish black metallic box. 

They opened the door to Sorrel's cell. The older orderly, looked at Sorrel, "You! In the box!" 

Sorrel looked at the box. She looked from the orderlies to the nurses, "No!"

The older nurse gave Sorrel a tiny smile, "No dear. Do as you're told. Get in the box."

Sorrel didn't know what to think and for a second what to do. She certainly knew if she put up a fight they'd cram in her anyway. She gave the older nurse an inquisitive look, but got no more clues from her. She slowly, resignedly, climbed in the box. 

The younger orderly, reflecting on a lost opportunity almost angrily slammed the box lid shut. The older orderly snapped the lid shut, and hitched it with a padlock. He looked at the nurses, "OK, off we go."

Together the orderlies, two nurses, and Sorrel ensconced inside a small uncomfortable container made their way down the hall to the elevator, and outside to a waiting back van. As the orderlies loaded the van with the box, the nurses returned to the inner chambers of the sanatorium.

As they stepped inside the older nurse spoke briefly, "I'm feeling sick. I have to use the bathroom. I'll catch up with you."

The younger nurse looked at her colleague with concern, "You want me to come with you?"

The older lady replied, "No, I just need to evacuate."

While the older nurse retired to the restroom, the younger nurse and the two orderlies set off in a desultory little caravan back upstairs.

------------

Florence answered the telephone and listened to the message. She thanked whoever it was, hung up, and made two calls of her own. First she telephoned an old friend from her younger days; someone she once might have had a relationship. 

Then she called Fletcher.

Reaching Fletcher she told him, "Wait twenty minutes, and then drive to the indicated location at the airport. Deliver your product and leave immediately. Call me once you're safely out of the airport." She heard Fletcher on the other end of the line respond, and then hung up.

Florence checked her watch. She had a cool two hours before she was scheduled to meet with Dr. Kellerman. She went upstairs and took a quick shower. She had her clothes already laid out. She wanted to look her very best for today's meeting. 

------------

On the seventh floor of Hadamar Dr. Kellerman and his associate, the doctor who liked to perform lobotomies, looked out as the black van pulled away. Kellerman looked at his equally sadistic friend, "Well she's on her way."

The sadistic surgeon asked, "Do you know where she's going?"

Kellerman gave his friend an evil grin, "She's on her way to hell. She's on her way to hell."

The other doctor, a medical man with degrees from the most prestigious American universities smiled back, "So be it."

Around 12:00 noon Fletcher drove to the end of the runway. He nervously waited while three men, all dressed in dark blue suits, white shirts, and dark ties, approached and asked for the keys to the back of the van. He obliged. They stepped to the back of the van and loaded the box on a flatbed cart.

One of the men returned to the front of the van and asked, "What, Josh couldn't make the trip today?"

Fletcher was taken aback. He hadn't expected any questions, "No he's on another operation."

The man asked, "You have the key to the trunk. We usually like to look to make sure we have the right cargo."

Fletcher had no key, "No I guess Josh still has it."

The man replied, "No matter." Then he added, "The trunks really light; must be a woman or a child."

Fletcher gulped. He'd only put in two fifty pound bags of potatoes. He hoped the man didn't see how his hands were shaking, "It's a small female."

The man commented, "Too bad."

Fletcher's curiosity was just too much for him, "Why? Where's she headed?"

The man gave Fletcher a querulous look, like he should have known better, "You're new aren't you?"

Fletcher caught the inflection. He nodded.

The man responded, "Never ask." He tipped his hand to the side of his head, "Now get out of here."

Fletcher didn't look up. He put the van in drive and spun around. He wanted to be as far away from these men, this plane, and this airport as he could get. For some reason he couldn't fathom, by the time he reached the parking lot and the exit ramp he was crying; crying like a baby.

Florence pulled into the CIA branch office parking lot, got out, and walked in. There ready to greet her was Dr. Kellerman.

After a few modest pleasantries Florence asked, "I need to acquire the woman Sorrel Sullivan."

Dr. Kellerman gave her a plastic smile, "I'm so sorry. She's been relocated already."

Florence, pretending to look shocked, asked, "Where is she?"

Kellerman, smiling smarmily, answered, "Out of the country."

Florence responded, "Oh no! You couldn't have, not already?"

Kellerman answered, "Sorry ma'am. She was a priority subject. Her immediate removal was imperative."

Florence pretended to lose control. She broke down into sobs. 

Dr. Kellerman, always a gentleman, offered his handkerchief, "I'm so sorry. But she was a priority person. That's how it goes."

Florence couldn't be consoled, "I can't stay." Crying big crocodile tears she fled the office and returned to her car. 

Even while Dr. Kellerman was trying to console poor Ms. Henderson, a convoy of three large Cadillac SUVs had pulled a black van to the side of the road. 

As the male passenger sitting beside the driver went to get out of the van he was accosted by two men who unceremoniously threw him to the ground. 

Two other men pulled the driver from the van.

A fifth man demanded, "I need the key to the back of the van, and I need the key to the box you have in the back."

Josh, the driver, answered, "I'm sorry..."

That was one sentence he never completed. A swift kick in the groin followed by several healthy punches in the face were all the persuasion he needed. The keys the man had requested were made available. 

One of the men opened the back of the van. Another climbed in and, using the key unlocked the padlock and lifted the top of the trunk. He looked down inside.

As he gazed in he saw a diminutive young woman with a black eye wrapped in an army blanket, hands and feet shackled together, and Styrofoam packing material strewn all about. He gently reached in and lifted her out.

As he carefully pulled the terrified young woman from her dark little prison he smiled, "You're Sorrel Sullivan?"

As yet she still had no idea she was being rescued. She nodded her head fearfully.

The man gave her a reassuring smile. He said, "With compliments from Fletcher Hanson and Florence Henderson, let me be the first to welcome you back to the land of the living."

It was all she needed. She burst into tears, tears of the most profound joy. She was saved!

As Fletcher drove along the Interstate that encircled the capital he got a phone call from Florence. She gave him directions to a Ramada Inn on the north side of the city where he was to find Sorrel. She recommended he keep here there for at least a day to make sure she was somewhat recovered. He agreed.

It was already 4:30 when the phone rang. All the kids were home. Robert and Richard were upstairs doing their homework. Marion was downstairs keeping an eye on Peter and Little Sorrel. Mary was in the kitchen with Byron with little more to do than wait. No one knew anything.

Mary picked up the phone, "Hello?"

It was Sorrel on the other end of the line, "Hello Mary, it's me."

Mary started crying, Marion, Little Sorrel! Get the boys!" She looked at Byron, "She's safe!"

All the kids were downstairs. Mary put the phone on the speaker so everyone could hear.

Sorrel started, "I'm out. I'm safe, and I'm here with your Dad. We'll be home later tomorrow. But like I said. Everything's fine. We're all safe." 

She could hear the cheering on the other end of the line. She heard her kids, all of them shouting. They were shouting crazy stuff like, "I love you mom. I miss you. Come right home."

Sorrel handed the phone to Fletcher. He made a few stupid comments, and promised to bring their mother home first thing tomorrow. Then he hung up. The noise, the joy, the cacophony of happy noises was just too much. He started crying again. 

Sorrel and Fletcher stayed overnight at the Ramada Inn. He refused to leave her alone. He doted on her hand and foot, literally. He refused to let her do anything. He bathed her. He gave her a full, though perhaps amateuristic, body massage. He rubbed motel lotions vigorously over her chaffed ankles, wrists, and neck. He kissed every nook and cranny, every morsel of flesh, every corner of her body. 

When he was finished lavishing attention on her poor tired frame, he lowered himself on her and they made love. He simply couldn't keep from touching her. It was as though he wanted very part of his body to have access to every inch of hers, and when he wasn't touching and fondling, he was talking, murmuring, praising, and whispering endearments. 

Sorrel lay still and allowed him to caress her. She'd missed him so much; his hands, his breath, his warmth, his presence. For that single night nothing else mattered.

The next morning they awakened early. He left her alone for a few moments while he slipped out to the nearest Wal-Mart and bought her something to wear home, something he hoped she would find attractive. It turned out to be a slightly small pale blue sun dress, a pair of soft ballet shoes, and white socks. 

He eschewed the purchase of any underwear. It might have been perverse, but he wanted her to be as available as possible for the drive back. He wanted to be able to touch her breasts, her thighs, her ass, and her pubis without hindrance all the way home.

She didn't care. She delighted in the attention. This was Fletcher. 

When they got home they were both exhausted, but they found the whole tribe all wide awake and ready for bear. The kids smothered her in kisses. 

They refused to let her go. Peter ran around and around. Robert and Richard had drawn pictures, and had made up a story.

Marion refused to leave her side. She held her hand, hugged her close, and wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, all the while proclaiming her undying devotion.

Yet among them all it was Little Sorrel who wrung out the most tears, tears of joy. Little Sorrel didn't dance, or sing, or prance about; she just sat beside her mother, head on her arm, then on her lap. She kept quietly proclaiming, "Mommy I knew you'd be back. I knew you'd come back home. The angels, the angels told me all along. Now tell me the story of the fairy princess, you remember, the one who was trapped in the tower. Tell me about her again mommy." 

And Sorrel told her the story of the fairy princess. She told it over and over.

An Epilogue:

They got Little Sorrel and Peter enrolled in school. They were right about Peter. He had a mild learning disability, but with time, patience, and lots of love and attention everyone was sure he'd come along. 

It turned out Little Sorrel had special needs too. She was about two years behind her age group academically, but she tested as being in the genius range. With a few months of tutoring everyone was confident she'd be well ahead academically. All her teachers and all the psychologists were amazed at her potential. She had her mother's intellect.

------------

Spring had passed to summer, and summer started to wane. Sorrel's first husband, at Fletcher's behest, got a quickie divorce. The time had come to cross new thresholds, face new difficulties, and meet the new challenges life might throw at them.

They were all in the grove; Sorrel dressed in white. Marion was her maid of honor, Little Sorrel her flower girl. Fletcher was waiting at the end of the path dressed all in manly black.

It was hard to imagine. It all seemed so long ago. There had been a party. She'd been accused, defamed, peed on, humiliated, and driven home by a man who claimed he hated her. Humiliation had fallen to despair, then discovery, acquaintance and rapprochement. Rapprochement had led to affection, affection to love, and love to devotion. There had been fights, arguments, a kidnapping, a rescue, and reclamation. It had all happened so fast.

The music was about to begin. Flowers were everywhere; along the path, encircling the pond, beside the tiny memorial near the bench. Someone said they even spotted Ole Rupert. Everyone was there; even Florence with Warren in tow.

The sky was an azure blue. Bright white fluffy cumulus clouds decorated the horizon. There it was; that spasm again! She'd felt it for the first time earlier that morning! Yes this was a growing family; yes she, Fletcher, the children, friends, their first unborn child, and of course all the angels in their midst. But then; they had been there all along.

*

A note from the author. I warned everyone this wasn't some standard sex story. Literotica has tons of them. I hoped you enjoyed it. Please leave a remark, a comment, or some suggestions. 

Last, I fell in love with Sorrel somewhere along the way. I didn't really want to say good bye.



Sorrel's Long Journey to Love



Ms. Henderson didn't hesitate, "Would you care to listen to some recordings?" She pulled out a disc and a lap top computer. Within seconds Sorrel was listening to her voice on audiotape. Time after time she heard herself discussing in low whispering tones how she and co-conspirators from another, a foreign, company could and would manipulate and, maneuver countless accounts from bank to bank in an illegal scheme to garner millions of dollars for themselves. 

It was time for Sorrel to lean back in her chair. She felt more confident. She knew none of these tapes were valid. Someone had spliced simple conversations she'd had with dozens of people. The conversations were all either slick splicing jobs, or outright fakes. No one would believe any of this. She had too good a reputation. She was too well known, and she had worked too damn hard on the project. It was time to fight her way out, "These tapes sound good, but they're all fakes, just like the papers you have. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to hurt me."

Ms. Henderson was relentless, "These documents are genuine, and these tapes are genuine. You've been caught stealing millions of dollars from our company, a company that has nurtured your career from your first day."

Ms. Henderson let all the venom loose, "You're the lowest vilest kind of criminal. You've tried to ravage the very people who've helped you, nurtured you."

Sorrel was furious. She lashed out at Ms. Henderson, "Not true! Not true! If you'll let me examine the briefs. Give me a little time to research what's in front of me I know I can clear all this up.

Ms. Henderson closed for the kill, "We've already researched everything. We checked and double-checked. All we have is genuine. You're a thief, and we've caught you!"

Florence had penetrated her armor. Sorrel's blood was up. She started to speak without thinking, "You've got nothing, and I know, in a courtroom I can get a good lawyer to persuade any jury there is some plausible deniability in those ridiculous documents you've been waving around."

She was really burning, "As for the tapes Florence? They're fakes, but it still doesn't matter. You can't use them if I don't permit it. That's the law. I might be out of a job, and I might even be unable, at least for a while, to work at another firm, but in the long run I'll be all right."

Sorrel blushed. She realized she'd lost control. She'd defied the corporate framework. She said she'd fight in court. It was tantamount to admitting she was guilty. She tried to take it back. She spoke very calmly, "Of course, I wouldn't go to court. Just let me look things over. I'll find out what's going on."

It was too late. From another part of the room a different voice spoke up. It was the Colonel, "That's what we thought you'd say. We've planned for that eventuality."

Sorrel turned to where the Colonel was standing. She was still too furious to think straight. She lashed out, "I don't see what you can do. You can't threaten me!"

Standing beside the Colonel was his younger brother Fletcher. It was Fletcher who took over the conversation, "Sorrel we know you. We know all about you. We know you entered our employ under false pretenses. For a while it didn't matter, but now it does." He walked nonchalantly over to the table where Florence, Steve, and Sorrel were sitting. When he reached the table he flipped an envelope on its surface, "Open this up, and then tell me we haven't got you."

Sorrel leaned forward and picked up the envelope. Seated on the edge of her chair she opened it up. At once, she saw an entirely different set of documents. This time she was looking at pictures. There on celluloid was the one thing she never dreamed would come to the surface. There before her in vivid color she saw the things that made her completely vulnerable. Looking first at the Colonel, then Steve, then Fletcher, she spoke, "You wouldn't"

Fletcher answered in a cold and calculated voice, "Yes, Sorrel, we would."

The one thing Sorrel had managed to keep secret from everyone was her earlier life. When she was younger, much younger, she had met and fallen in love with a young man. The man, or boy, and she had even gotten married. The marriage didn't last. The young man just wasn't up to what she had in mind. He was lazy and he drank. However, they had made two children. Though she loved her children beyond all measure, as a mother Sorrel proved to be an abject failure. She was only sixteen when she got pregnant with her first, and the second came the very next year. She'd deserted her husband and her children, no she'd fled from her husband and children.

The idea of a family, the responsibility of raising two children had been beyond her emotional capabilities, but still, she'd always kept in touch. In the beginning she only called, later she intermittently sent money. During more recent years she'd been able to provide more help.

Her husband, she believed, had wandered off. No one seemed to know what happened to him. Sorrel had been too ashamed and too confused to resume the responsibilities of raising two babies, but she had an older sister. Clara agreed to take Sorrel's children, but only on the condition that she would be allowed to formally adopt them. Sorrel was to never come back. In the beginning Sorrel agreed. She'd stayed away, but they were her children and Clara was like her real sister. She started to visit them occasionally, always bringing rich gifts.

They were her children. The older was a girl who had even been named after her. The younger was a little boy. It was all too overwhelming. It was all a part of a life she wished she could relive, but she knew down deep she never could or would. Her children were innocent. Clara had put up with too much. She knew nothing should ever be allowed to touch them. 

Now she saw they had pictures. They knew about her past. They knew about the lie she'd been living. If they exposed her, they exposed her children as well. Her babies were old enough now to understand. What would they think about a mother too stupid or too selfish to stick it out? What could such a revelation do to the psyches of those two sweet, innocent, little children? No. She'd already done enough damage. Sorrel knew there was nothing Ms. Henderson, the Colonel, or the fearsome Fletcher could do to her, but they could destroy her children. That she could never allow. They had her.

Sorrel tried one more time, "Look. Please listen to me. These papers you have, these tapes, they're not real. This is just some sick joke. Let me investigate this. I'll fix it."

Fletcher answered, "Not a chance."

Sorrel held the pictures of her children tightly in her hands, "So what do you want?"

The Colonel spoke first, "We want you."

Sorrel answered, "Well, you obviously have me. What do you intend to do with me?"

The Colonel started in, "You present us with a special kind of problem. You know we have many contracts with our government, and with the governments of foreign powers. Much of what we do is very sensitive. If your little shell game ever reached the public eye we'd be ruined. How could we ever explain how you were so clever as to get so deep into the bowels of the company only to nearly destroy it? I guess the easiest thing to do would be to get someone to, as they say in the movies, to just rub you out, but there would be an investigation, and who knows where that would end up?"

Sorrel was visibly shaken. They were dead serious. Couldn't they see this was all a mistake? Couldn't they see someone was trying to hurt her? Someone was trying to deflect a crime away from them to her. Surely, didn't they know she'd been a loyal, trusted, employee?

The Colonel went on, "So we've had to devise something else; some other approach."

Fletcher was next, "Sorrel you're a little long in the tooth to do us much good as things now stand, and you stand as a very serious threat to the future of the company. Any public acknowledgment of your obvious wrong doing would destroy us. We can't fire you, we can't allow you to be indicted, and we can't have you killed."

Fletcher smiled menacingly, "Yet you're still a mighty good looking woman. You have great physical presence and a good mind as long as it's kept under firm control. Sorrel, we intend to use you. You're still a valuable property."

He went one step further, "Sorrel. Look at it this way. We either use you or make you disappear. I mean make it so you no longer exist." 

He ground it in. "You've placed this company in serious jeopardy. Our reputation, as you well know, was shaken in the recent banking crisis. If what you've done leaked out, if could ruin us. My brother and I won't allow that. I'll kill you myself and mince you up for hamburger first."

Sorrel looked back at Fletcher diffidently, "Please don't kill me. I don't want to die. Especially not now! Look. You think I'm a thief, a monster. Maybe I'm a bad person, a bad mother, but I really haven't stolen anything. I know how bad it looks. I'm not stupid, but I can still work. You'll see. Just watch me. In time the truth will come out. I'll be exonerated." Then she did something very uncharacteristic. She reached across the short distance between herself and Fletcher and touched the sleeve of his shirt. She was pleading, trying to entreat. It was just so hard. She didn't like men, and she found this man particularly objectionable, "I'm not a danger to run. I can still be useful even if it's just stapling papers.

Fletcher pulled his arm back. He looked at her with undisguised contempt, disgust. "Don't touch me. You smell of filth. We're going to use you in ways you could never imagine. You're nothing to us, nothing to me. You're less than nothing. When I see you all I see is offal."

Sorrel looked at the man with genuine dread, "You mean what? You want me to become a whore?"

Fletcher smiled evilly, "You mean a woman whom we would sell for sex? Hardly! That will be the least of it. You're much too valuable in other ways. We caught you. There's a lesson to be learned from your misdeeds. There is a lesson there to be shared with other men and women. You're going to become part of a new inducement program. Why, a woman with your body, looks, and intellect, can be exploited in a myriad of ways. Believe me Sorrel I'm telling you there is market out there crying for opportunities to use people, that is women, like you. You're going to become our poster child for penitent behavior."

Fletcher was proud of himself. His comments were filled with contradictions and misrepresentations. He was convinced she had absolutely no idea what was really in store for her. He laughed to himself. If she knew what was really in store she'd beg for a life of prostitution.

Sorrel was scared, but she still couldn't quite believe what was happening. She looked at Steve, "Steve are you going to let them do this?"

Steve answered, "Honestly Sorrel I was surprised. Now I'm ashamed of you. Worse, I'm even more ashamed of what I know is going to happen to you. Cynthia, on the other hand, feels no remorse whatsoever. But she doesn't know the details like I do. Besides, Sorrel you did it to yourself. You've got whatever happens to you coming."

Sorrel looked at Ms. Henderson, "Florence you're a woman."

Ms. Henderson cut her off, "You'll get no sympathy from me. I see you sitting there in your finery, all fancy and dressed up. Like some queen of the may. We'll see how fine you look in a few months. In fact, I'm going to be one of your, shall we say, social secretaries. From where I'm sitting this could be fun."

Sorrel looked back at Steve one last, desperate time, "Steve?"

He just looked away.

Sorrel looked at the others, the Colonel, at Fletcher. She saw no sympathy, "All right." She said, "Do what you think you have to do."

Fletcher smiled, "Now that's my girl." He turned to the others, "Why don't the rest of you return to the party. Sorrel and I have some getting acquainted to do, and then we have to do some planning." He spoke to Steve, "My kids are at a school field day. Could you and Cynthia pick them up for me?"

Steve nodded.

Then looking back at Sorrel again, Fletcher smiled, "Sorrel, your new life and new life style begins right here, today,"

The Colonel, Ms. Henderson, and Steve Hammer all got up and left. Fletcher and Sorrel were alone in the pool house.

As soon as Steve left the pool house he went to the table where his wife was still seated, "Cynthia, its time. Get the boys and leave. Fletcher wants you to pick up his kids. I'll call you when you can come back."

Cynthia and Steve had agreed earlier they didn't want their two young sons to be exposed to what was going to happen once Sorrel returned from the pool house. On her way through the tables Cynthia approached Pearce and Collette. "I'm leaving with my two now. Would you like me to take Flail as well?"

Pearce looked over at his young but dissolute son. "Flail, you're to leave with Mrs. Hammer now."

Flail was a lot of things but he wasn't stupid. He'd found out about the situation with Sorrel. He'd met her twice before and lusted after her, "Dad, I know what the scoop is. I don't want to be left out of this."

Mr. Vasquels looked at his son. "Don't argue. Get out here now."

As Flail got up to leave, his father leaned forward so that he would be out of hearing range of his wife. "Don't worry son, your turn will come."

One by one all the party goers who were considered too young or too immature were escorted out. The rest all quietly waited.

Back in the pool house Fletcher looked over at Sorrel and gave her a comfortable smile, "You look mighty fetching in that two piece suit. Come on over here and let me get a closer look."

Sorrel didn't like the look she was getting. He had a thoughtful, contemplative look, like someone who was looking at an old dog and trying to decide whether to feed it or shoot it. She slowly walked toward Fletcher. She hated this man. He was such a blow hard, that's what everybody said. Hell she reflected, considering the emotion that he displayed when his wife died, he just might have been the one who caused her death. Still, she reasoned, this was a man she had to get to. What she needed was a chance.

As soon as she reached him he said in a flat emotionless tone of voice, "Kneel down."

Sorrel wasn't sure what he had in mind. If it was some sort of perverted sexual act she wasn't sure she had the stomach for it. She'd never done anything like what she was afraid he had in mind. Her husband had tried to get her to do certain things, but she thought they were too degrading, too dirty. She knelt as she was told.

Fletcher unzipped his fly and pulled out his penis.

Sorrel thought, well here it comes. I don't think I can do this.

Fletcher didn't have what she was thinking in mind at all. He looked down at her. God, he thought, she looks so much like his deceased wife. It isn't fair. His wife, the center of his universe had been dead for nearly two years. Oh how, he missed her, and now this one was here. It just wasn't fair. He hated God. He hated this woman. Without a word he proceeded to urinate. He started with her face, but quickly slapped his penis back and forth so that the urine splattered, not just on her face, but on her jacket, her neck, down her blouse, and even down on her slacks.

It was a sickening experience; something Sorrel had not expected. She made as if to stand up, but Fletcher reached out with one hand and held her in place. He growled, "Get used to things being different." He gave a somber chuckle, "Look your beautiful suit is ruined. You can't be seen at the party all covered in piss. We'll have to find something else for you to wear." He watched her as she looked down at her suit. He could see her face begin to contort, muscles contracting like someone about to cry.

Sorrel had been peed on, "You monster!" She nearly cried, but held it in. His hand held her in place. Trapped, her lips started to involuntarily quiver, "You awful cad! How could you?"

Before she could get out another word Fletcher started laughing, then he grabbed a handful of leftover half- eaten food that was sitting on a nearby plate. He took it in his hand, squeezed it into a gooey mess, then grabbing and holding Sorrel's head with one hand, he smashed the slimy content into her face, "You know what Sorrel. If you don't watch yourself I'll be pissing on your pretty little daughter tomorrow."

Sorrel tried to pull away, but he held her firmly while he continued to mush the wasted food all over her face and into her mouth. Sorrel grimaced and gagged, but she was getting the message. She knelt back down, spitting and sputtering. "OK, OK."

Fletcher was having the closest thing he'd had to fun in years. He hated this woman. Hated her! He smiled, "Get up and come with me. We have to get you prettied up to get reacquainted with your colleagues and their wives." He walked toward the back of the pool house. Looking back he said. "Come on. We haven't got all day."

Sorrel followed along lamely.

Fletcher walked into one of the back rooms. He pointed toward the bathroom, "Get undressed and shower off. There is a box in there, put on the apparel you find inside. Then we'll start your new life with a brand new look."

Sorrel went ahead into the bathroom. It was small, but not cramped. She stripped off her soiled suit, blouse, nylons, shoes, bra, and panties. She looked at them dejectedly. What was happening here? She stepped into the shower. She found the necessary soaps and shampoos. She turned on the water and set it as hot as she could bear it. She was in no hurry to finish.

She washed herself twice, and shampooed her hair two times as well. She realized she had been trapped into something, and she wasn't at all sure how to get out of it. The very fact that they'd found out about her children was more than troubling. Right at that moment, with the hot water cascading down on her she realized the one and only good and true thing she'd ever done was to have her children. 

Sorrel didn't know what they had in store for her, but she did know her children didn't deserve to be dragged into her life, not now, not ever now. She turned off the spray, wrapped one of the towels around her torso and stepped into the outer area. She slowly dried herself. As long as she was washing, drying, or dressing she wasn't facing whatever was in store.

After several minutes of procrastination Sorrel turned to the box where the clothing they had set aside was awaiting her. She opened the lid. What she saw inside caused her to wilt. She wanted to cry. So this was how they would degrade her.

Inside the box was the apparel someone had selected for her degradation. On top was a pale white translucent chemise. She put it on, and found it came to just slightly below her waistline. 

She found a pair of panties. They were also of the same pale white translucent silken material. She pulled on the panties. They fit comfortably around her waist. They were held in place by elastic. There was a thin slit down the front of the lower portion of the panties; akin to the slit one would find on a pair of men's boxer shorts. The reason for an opening of that sort there made no sense to her. The chemise she tucked snugly inside the panties. Both top and bottom were trimmed in delicate lace. She was able to fit her breasts comfortably inside the front of the chemise. It was a pretty two piece undergarment set.

Next she found an ivory colored translucent blouse. It was a V-necked button up item. She pulled it on, and fastened the slightly iridescent tiny pearl buttons. It was a short sleeved affair with slightly capped shoulders, and a gently plunging neckline and discreet, very feminine, lapels. Each sleeve had two tiny pieces of ribbon. These she presumed were to be tied off. She couldn't reach them with the blouse already on, and decided they were unnecessary anyway. Otherwise she liked it.




Sorrel's Long Journey to Love



Beneath the blouse she found a charcoal colored pleated mini-skirt. She pulled it on. It came to just about mid-thigh. Made of a light weight linen fabric it swirled and twirled with her every movement. Three buttons at the side and a thin, perhaps an inch in width black leather belt held it on. She tucked the blouse in the skirt, and found she was totally in love with the look.

Near the bottom of the box she found a pair of charcoal nylon pantyhose. Their color matched the color of the skirt exactly. She pulled them on.

The last thing in the box was a pair of shoes. They were high heeled black leather shoes. The heels couldn't have been more than two inches, and a thin strap with a small buckle on the side enabled her to attach them to her feet.

Sorrel looked herself over. It wasn't anything like the sophisticated woman of the world attire she'd worn to the party, but it wasn't some degrading outfit they might have laid out. It was a pretty little blouse and skirt ensemble; something she might have bought herself. 

Last before stepping into the outer portion of the pool house she had to reapply a little make up and adjust her hair. Looking in the box again she saw the only make up provided was a small tube of pale pink lip gloss, and a tiny amount of equally pale pink blush. The lip-gloss went on easily. The blush she applied lightly to her cheeks and very lightly to her eyelids. She took the only available hairbrush and redid her hair in the same tight braid she'd worn when she first came to the Hammer's.

Again, looking at herself in the mirror, in spite of the overall attractiveness of the attire, she fully realized just how unpleasant her situation was. Sorrel stepped back into the outer room to greet her foremost tormentor, Fletcher.

Fletcher stood up and smiled as Sorrel returned to the outer portion of the pool house. He spoke in a soft, almost deferential, tone of voice, "Come over here and side down." He pointed to a stool.

Sorrel knew she was in no position to challenge this man. She walked as gracefully as she could over to the stool and sat down.

Fletcher looked at her attire. He thought to himself how pretty she looked. Too bad, he considered, nothing's more attractive than a snake, a coral snake at that, "I see you were unable to tie off your sleeves. Please allow me." With two swift strokes he managed to tie the ribbons on each sleeve into two very attractive little bows, "Now that looks better."

Then Fletcher began to speak in earnest, "Sorrel your world has changed. Beginning today you are no longer a shareholder and partner in the firm you tried to bilk. From this moment on you have become a property; a property belonging to the firm. Like an automobile, a desk, a stapler, the members of the firm may use you in whatever way they see fit."

Watching her facial expression change from legitimate concern to outright fear he redirected his comments, "You're nobody's whore. Don't think that. No one will physically abuse you. Understand?"

A little relieved Sorrel nodded her head.

He went on, "If at some point in the distant future we decide you no longer have any value we'll release you, or do away with you. But honestly Sorrel, you're future is pretty much a certainty."

Sorrel interrupted, "You promise to leave my children alone?"

Fletcher responded, "Don't interrupt. Your children are of no concern to us. They will only become an issue if you choose to make them so. Is that understood?"

Sorrel nodded again.

Fletcher continued, "I'm going to lead you outside where you'll be allowed to visit with the other guests, though admittedly the party is winding down. While you're outside there are several things you must not do. One, don't try to persuade anyone to interceded on your behalf. Two, avoid direct eye contact. Your role from this day forward is to be obedient, obsequious, and dutiful. Don't sit on any of the furniture unless invited to do so. Don't take any food or drink. If someone offers something, you may accept it, but only if offered. If you feel the need to relieve yourself ask for permission. If you are told to sit, kneel beside the person. If you have to kneel on the grass be careful not to stain your clothes or your legs. While you're among the other guests, that is the real guests, I'll be watching you. When the event breaks up you'll leave with me. If I see something I disapprove of, then I'll punish you later. Is everything I've said understood?"

Sorrel answered, "You know you'll never get away with this."

Fletcher laughed, "Sorrel we already have. Now I'll ask you again. Do you understand?"

Sorrel looked away. There were tears in her eyes, but she didn't want this man to see them, "Yes." She hesitated, trying to maintain some control, some level of dignity, "I understand."

Fletcher responded, "Good. Now lean forward and kneel in front of me for a moment."

Sorrel leaned forward. She felt very uncomfortable. The last time he said that she had been urinated on.

Fletcher pulled a small red object from a shirt pocket. It looked like a small pen, which it was. He took the pen and, in small neat letters, not more then an eighth of an inch each in size he printed something on her left cheek. He took a second and gently blew on her cheek where he had just been printing. "Sorrel go look in the mirror and see what I've put on your cheek."

Sorrel stood up and went to the mirror. There on her left she cheek she faintly discerned the one word he printed. That word was 'chattel'. It was too much. She dropped her face, and held it in her two hands. She started to weep.

Fletcher pulled a tissue from his pocket, "Here, wipe your face. We have to go see the guests." Sorrel, breathing heavy and trying not to weep, took the tissue and wiped the tears from her eyes.

Together, Fletcher in front, and Sorrel following behind, the two people walked back out on the grassy sward and returned to the party.

Fletcher turned to Sorrel. Giving her a sarcastic smile he said, "Have a good time."

------------

Notes from the Author: 

This is a long story, and it is a love story. Like many such stories, it just may not start out the way you think it should.

If you're looking for something where people hop from bed to bed this isn't for you. If you want something more, stick around.

Please, criticisms, comments, suggestions, and remarks are all always welcome. Don't hesitate in that regard.