by Mimi Strong
He had obligations, though, so he put on his sad-yet-resolved face and hugged her goodbye.
“I'll miss you,” he said as he inhaled the spicy scent of her freshly-washed black hair.
“You need to follow your dreams,” she said.
He pulled away, worried she was going to ask him to come with her after all.
“Your writing,” she said. “You don't owe your father nearly as much as you think you do. Put it all on hold and go back to school, to a creative writing program.”
“I'm done with school.”
She looked exasperated now, which was about as angry as she ever got.
“David, nobody knows you and loves you like I do. I don't care how you do it, but promise me you will pursue your passion. Maybe you should buy a cabin out in the mountains, and don't tell your father where you are. Then just go, and write one of those detective novels you love.”
He snorted. “Those aren't exactly great literature.”
“You're right. Detective novels, even the best ones, aren't going to prove anything to the world. Do it for yourself.” She stood close to him, amidst the cardboard boxes full of her things, and placed her hands on his chest.
He covered her beautiful dark hands with his, enjoying the calm feeling her touch always gave him.
“I'll dedicate my first novel to you,” he said.
She smiled up at him, tears glistening beneath her thick, dark eyelashes.
He considered, for the first time, begging her not to go. But he still had his pride.
Kissing her ruby-hued lips now, he unbuttoned her blouse.
They made love for the very last time, and when they were finished, he excused himself to his study, where she wouldn't see him cry.
Extraction from the family business was not a simple task. He was thirty-two by now, but in his heart, he was seven years old again, running away. He thought a policeman had found him and was hauling him back home for the beating of his life, but it turned out he was just being pulled over for speeding.
The police officer was no man, either, but a buxom woman with equally voluptuous lips, her short haircut doing nothing to diminish her sex appeal.
He stammered an apology as she looked over his license and registration. Those gorgeous lips of hers were curving up, and she was warming to him with every utterance of the word sorry, as though the word was an aphrodisiac.
“I'm a writer,” he said, though she hadn't asked. “I'm on my way to the cabin I just bought, sight unseen.”
She pulled off her mirrored sunglasses, revealing gold-brown eyes as beautiful as the rest of her. “Writing the Great American Novel?”
“No. Just some trash. About a detective. Say… would you let me take you out for a coffee some time? I'd love to pick your brain about law enforcement.”
She wrote something on her pad of paper and handed it to him.
“I'll let you off with a warning this time. Slow down, Mr. Wittingham. What's the hurry? Life is all the things that happen along the way.”
He nodded. “Thank you, ma'am.”
As she walked away, he casually checked out her ass in the side view mirror. She glanced back and caught him looking, then smiled.
She'd written her phone number on the warning.
PART 2: THE CABIN
It was March when he bought the cabin, and he split his time between Vermont and staying with his family in New York. He'd never lived alone before, and though the cabin in its current state wasn't exactly living, he was certainly alone.
The police officer, a woman who preferred to be called by her last name, Tomlin, kept him company a few nights a week. She seemed more interested in his outline for the detective novel than in him, but he didn't mind. As long as she was interested.
Tomlin liked to be on top. Not just sometimes, but every time. The whole time.
He'd pick her up in town on the motorbike, and they'd have dinner at a pasta place she liked, then pick up a pint of ice cream for later. The ice cream was Amaretto, that blend of cherries and almonds he grew to associate with Tomlin.
Back at the cabin, they'd sit on the couch and share the pint with two spoons.
She'd lick her spoon and say something sexy, like, “My pussy is aching. I need to fuck you, like, yesterday.”
He'd already have the erection that had started when they'd opened the ice cream, and he'd follow her upstairs to his master bedroom.
They each undressed themselves—no kissing up until this point—and he'd lie spread-eagle on the bed.
She'd crawl up his body, kissing his legs. She'd be naked except for a sports bra, and she'd suck his cock with as much delight as she'd shown the ice cream. As she was powering up and down on his erection, she'd snap her fingers until he passed her a condom. They always used the unlubricated ones, and she'd roll it down his shaft using her mouth, which was a trick she'd learned from one of the working girls she'd befriended during police business.
It wasn't time for fucking yet, though, because she'd continue her voyage up his body, so she could straddle his face. He took his time, licking up and down and side to side, keeping an eye on her chest to gauge her reaction by her breathing. When her skin began to glisten, he slowed down his tongue, drawing her rising pleasure out, teasing her.
She'd abruptly lift away, shaking her head at his apparent incompetence. She'd slide back down his body, impaling herself readily on his hardness. Then the rodeo began. This part took longer than eight seconds, but not much. They fit together well, though, and usually came together. Sometimes she did and he didn't, but not the other way around.
He was neither happy nor unhappy with the arrangement, which went on for three months. When a week went by at the start of summer, and she hadn't called, he decided not to call either. He didn't want to be with a woman who held herself away from him, above him. If she really liked him, she'd call or show up unannounced. After three weeks without communication, he figured it was over.
Tomlin became a character in his mind, in his book he hadn't yet written. She would be the tough-as-nails cop who had an on-again, off-again thing with his detective. He had the whole story figured out in his head; he just had to write it down.
Instead of writing, though, he dove into research. The cabin was remote, but it was 2003, and the whole world was at his fingertips via the internet. In later years of writing, he would purposefully cut the internet off for extended periods, but for now he waded in happily. He wondered, how did people write before the internet? He split his time between google and the two dozen reference books he'd hauled up to the cabin. To further distract himself from the unpleasantness of the blank page, he started renovation plans for the cabin, to upgrade the kitchen and bathrooms.
He always left and did his grocery shopping while the maid was at the cabin, but one day, something was different. The cleaning supplies had been put back in different places, and the air smelled of perfume. Cheap perfume. Like the kind young girls just out of high school wore.
He tracked some mud through the cabin intentionally, and booked an cleaning extra session. At the last minute, he baked some cookies and left out a casual note.
When he returned from shopping, he found the most charming response scrawled on the notecard, from the young woman who'd been cleaning.
She would be perfect as the young woman who got kidnapped in his first novel.
In the name of his research, he continued to leave notes for her, getting gradually more flirtatious, until at last he was so ashamed of himself, he stayed behind at the cabin to apologize to her in person. He was probably gross and old to her, thirty-two and not in the best shape thanks to all those hours eating in front of the computer.
To his absolute surprise, this girl, Lexie Ross, seemed to like him. She wasn't judging him or keeping him at a distance. Perhaps it was because she was from a small town, or because she was young, or because life had finally allowed something good and pure into his life to balance other things out, but Lexie seemed interes
ted in him.
He had no intention of seducing her when he asked her to type for him. He only wanted to be in the same room, to share the same air, with this sweet, innocent-looking girl.
Thanks to her help, he wrote the opening pages of his first novel, and seeing those words on a page was like seeing the thawing cracks on a frozen-over pond in the spring; the progress filled him with hope.
He didn't know quite how it happened, but they were kissing, her youthful lips like fruit in his mouth. They were in the shower together, and then they were on his bed, skin and against skin, bliss against bliss.
On top of her, he felt like a tiger, and when she cried out in ecstasy, he knew heaven.
At the point of no return, she cried out a danger warning, and he pulled away. She milked him, then, and he flooded her stomach as he came, and it felt even better than he could have dreamed.
She never came back after that one day, and he got an earful from her boss. The older woman assumed that he'd been fucking Lexie every time she'd been there for cleaning.
Glumly, he said into the phone, “I wish.”
She slammed down the phone in response.
For months after, he thought about using his resources to track her down. What would he say to an eighteen-year-old girl? The age gap was too great.
Because he was thinking about age differences, he thought about his first love, and his first time, with Brynn.
At the time, their age difference had been a canyon, but now it was almost nothing at all. They were practically the same age.
He went to the computer to see if he could find her phone number.
She was listed, under her married name.
PART 3: BOOK CLUB
Tori
The plane from Montreal had a rough landing, and I caught a glimpse of panic on one of the flight attendant's faces, so naturally I thought we were about to crash and die.
You'd think that in the moments before my demise, I'd have some clarity of thought—some idea about what I was supposed to do next in my life. My heart pounded, and in my mind, I felt the crunching of twigs under my feet as I ran—ran from Smith, or from that moose I'd encountered my first day in Vermont. If we'd crashed, my final mortal thought would have been, what is the plural of moose?
We landed, and as the small plane taxied through the network of runways, I had three more thoughts:
I'd never been so hungry in my life.
I had nowhere to wear a necklace as fancy as the one Smith had hidden in my purse.
My mother was going to be pissed I didn't even get an autographed paperback for her.
Inside the little airport, I hit the fast food counter and ate a big, greasy burger, plus fries and a milkshake. It was the first junk food I'd had in weeks, and I could feel the nitrates and preservatives filling me out and bringing me back to my old life.
I went outside to hail a cab, my stomach already distended with regret. Instead of giving the driver the address of my apartment, where nobody would be waiting for me, I had him take me to my mother's.
There was a party going on at her house, and I would have turned right around, but the cab's red taillights were blinking away down the street. The sun had set during the long drive from the airport, and I could see the ladies of my mother's book club through the sheers.
The door was unlocked, as usual, so I let myself in.
My mother waved me over to the table. “Victoria! You're home early!”
All six of her friends peered up at me with curiosity. One of her friends said, “Spill the beans, girl. Who was this author you were working for? We're all dying to know.”
“You told them?”
My mother looked guilty. “I didn't say who it was.”
“Only because you didn't know.”
She looked even more guilty, twisting her lips from side to side.
I thought about how fun it would be to see the looks on all their faces if I told them I'd been working in close contact with one of their favorite authors, the creator of the Detective Smith Dunham series.
Then I thought about the non-disclosure agreement I'd signed.
Then I thought about Smith Fucking Wittingham and all the twatty things he'd done, including tossing a lamp across the room like a spoiled brat and scaring the shit out of me.
One of the ladies complimented my mother on the “fancy” cheese she'd put out.
I took a seat at the table. “Who are we discussing?”
My mother pointed to her copy of the most recent Dunham novel, little tongues of Post-It Notes peeking out from the pages. “We tried to read Cutting for Stone, because Noreen thought it was 'luminous,' but I couldn't get past the first chapter about aromatic soil or whatever. Now we're talking about our favorite bad boy.”
My mother's friend Noreen said to me, with hope in her eyes and voice, “Have you read Cutting for Stone?”
“No, but I did spend the last two weeks working for Smith Fu... Uh, Smith Wittingham. Did you know he has the entire book worked out in his head, and then he recites it to someone who does the typing?”
My mother narrowed her eyes. “Very funny, miss smartypants. Don't tease us. Do you want some wine?” She shook a white cardboard box with a spigot. “It's the good kind.”
“Seriously. I was working for Smith Wittingham, at his writing cabin in Vermont.” I grabbed the box of wine and filled a glass for myself. “This is all top-secret, though, so it can't leave this room. His publisher could sue me if I blab about the actual story, but… I can tell you about Smith, if you want.”
The ladies peppered me with questions:
“What does he smell like?”
“Did you get a crush on him? I'd be too embarrassed to even talk around him. My heart's all pitter-patter right now just thinking about being in the same room with him.”
“Is Detective Dunham ever going to settle down with one woman?”
“Is Smith dating anyone? I mean the author, not the detective. He's single, isn't he?”
“I don't think he's married. Is he, Tori? He was married to some woman. She does all that charity work, where they rehabilitate people with horseback riding. What's her name? Brynn. Brynn Wittingham.”
I raised my hand to get the seven of them to shush for a moment. “One question at a time, ladies. First of all, he smells like luxury, and he showers two or three times a day. Secondly, he does have a rather charismatic presence, and it's hard not to be put off-balance by him. His eyes are the color of sapphires, for real. The author photos are not retouched. As for the detective, he'll never settle down, because it would end the series, but mostly, I don't think Smith would like that idea. Finally, he's, um…” I glanced over at my mother. “He's currently single.”
My mother's cheeks reddened, and her expression became a confusing mix of emotions.
The other ladies looked from her, to me, then back again.
My mother picked up the paperback and flipped to the back page, to the author photo of Smith Wittingham looking into the camera with his trademark sexy sneer.
“He didn't take advantage of me,” I said.
My mother scowled. “The man is practically twice your age, and richer than God. He had no right. No right.”
I gulped down the top half of my glass of wine. “I'm twenty-three and he's forty-one. That's only eighteen years.” Even as I said it, I surprised myself. Now I was defending Smith?
My mother's best friend Roberta patted my mother's arm. “She is an adult. She has to make her own choices. I might remind you, my daughter's dating a drummer. A drummer! He has more tattoos than a junkyard dog has fleas.” She moved in closer to my mother, putting her arm up around her shoulders. “Actually, I suspect the drummer has fleas as well. He's got such long hair, and talking to him makes me itchy.”
My mother smiled at that. Roberta had a way with her, whereas I had more skill riling her up than calming her down. The other ladies laughed and started trying to one-up each other with stories about the awful people
their kids were dating.
My mother took a closer look at the photo of Smith. “If he's so great, why's he not here with you?”
I sipped the wine. “I don't know if I ever want to see him again.”
Now I had their full attention.
“Start from the beginning,” my mother said.
“We're going to need a lot more wine.”
“I have another box chilling in the fridge.”
I took a deep breath and sighed. “You know, Smith's a real snob. He'd call this poor people food.”
Roberta took a Triscuit from the platter and topped it with marble cheese. “This is real people food. He probably eats foofy stuff like caviar on everything.”
“Not caviar, but he likes weird salads with beans and sprouts in them.”
“He probably has good breath,” Roberta said. “Rich people don't have that smell of decay about them.”
I thought back to kissing him. “You know, he does have good breath. Probably because he drinks tea instead of coffee.”
“What kind of tea?”
My mother gave her friend a dirty look. “For the love of Pete, just ask her what you want to know already.”
Roberta leaned in on her elbows. “Did you two have S-E-X?”
“Several times.” I glanced over at my mother to make sure she was not having a heart attack. She looked uncomfortable, but interested. “Pretty much non-stop,” I said.
She refilled her wine glass and waved her hand for me to continue, so I did.
Some of the women there I'd known my whole life, and others were newcomers to the group, but they all had something in common: way more life experience than me. Between the seven of them, there'd been ten marriages, nine children, and two grandchildren, plus countless broken hearts and shed tears.
That night, they were my friends, my sisters, my therapists, and my tribe of elders, all together.
It took nearly two hours to get to the end, to the final confrontation with Smith in the penthouse, and his confession.
