She also hated gossip and sure as hell didn't want to be caught in the middle of a father-son power play. "You're asking the wrong person," she told Fletcher's father. "Does it matter if he is?"
She gave the man credit for answering without a hint of hesitation. "Not in the least. I want him to know that, but how do you say the words without sounding condescending or patronizing? We've never really been close, but we generally could talk things out--until he picked becoming a cop over going to law school. The dispute turned ugly. We'd go for days without speaking. Frankly, I was surprised when he stuck around. I thought he'd made peace with his choices. Apparently, I was wrong." His sigh seemed weighted with disappointment. "Do you have regrets, Judy?"
She hooted softly. "I'm fifty-four years old. You don't live that long without wishing you'd done a thing or two differently." She paused. "Like buying Intel when I had the chance. 'Let my ex talk me out of it. Second biggest mistake of my life."
"I take it he was the first?" His half-smile was among the most handsome she'd ever seen. I wonder where meeting Wiley Canby will rank on my list of regrets? Time would tell. Nothing good would come from the powerful magnetic pull she felt towards him, of that she was certain.
She nodded. "I don't spend a lot of time pissing and moaning about what I should have done. It's too damn late, isn't it? Should I have told Buddy Fusco no, when he asked if we could get it on? Probably. Am I sorry he's dead? Yes. Am I glad he had one last hurrah before passing on? Actually, I am. And, now that his son has had time to mull things over, so's Lewis."
"The person whose hotel room..."
She didn't want to go there. She finished her coffee and started gathering her things. Her cheeks warmed imagining the sight she must have made when Wiley Canby crashed the small, impromptu orgy in Lewis Fusco's room. Who wanted to be remembered as the woman wearing a G-string and fishnet stockings and not much else? "Talk about regrets," she muttered under her breath.
"Judy, about that night--"
Luckily, her phone cut him off when it started playing Madonna's "Like a Virgin."
"My friend, Pru," she told him. "Probably dawned on her she left me stranded. I'd better take this in case she's on her way back." She clicked to answer. "Hello."
"I'm at your place and you're not here."
Pru's plaintive whine made Judy laugh out loud. "Of course, not. I'm still at the gym. Where you left me. Without a car."
"Oh."
Judy gave her a few seconds to connect all the dots.
"I panicked. That man scares me."
"Nothing scares you. You're perfect, remember?"
"Well...there's that. Do you want me to come and get you? I will. But I'm running late. Gerald will be here within the hour and I promised I'd have his coat to take with us. Iceland's probably cold, right?"
Judy felt great fondness for the trench coat she'd borrowed for her confrontation with Lewis Fusco. "I just got it back from the cleaners. Check the front hall closet."
"Your door is locked."
"The key is on the deck, under the gnome with the green hat."
Pru squealed in delight. "Oh, good. I knew you were smart enough to hide a key. Under the gnome's butt. How appropriate. Hmm...Judy...I hate to ask, but could I have the glittery f-me platforms back, too? Gerald's gonna love 'em."
"Gerald's a size eight and a half? Really?"
Pru's giggle turned serious. "In some areas of his body for sure. But not his feet."
Judy rolled her eyes and happened to notice the judge watching her--and clearly eavesdropping. She looked at her settings. Damn. Maybe she was losing her hearing. She'd held the phone to her ear but the darn thing was set on speakerphone.
"I gotta go, Pru. Have a great trip."
"I will. Thanks. Oh. What about your ride home?"
"I think I've got that covered."
She ended the call and stuffed her phone in her purse. "Is your offer still good?"
"Absolutely." Wiley Canby stood, cleared their mess, stashed it in the nearby garbage can and then opened the door for her.
They didn't have far to walk. "A Prius?" she exclaimed. "Really? That's so much less pretentious than I would have assumed your job required."
His low chuckle sent a shiver up her back before it reversed course and hit the place she'd marked Off Limits to any man until her life was back on track. Then, she'd think about having sex again.
As she'd told Pru the morning after their foursome, "I don't blame sex--or even my raging menopausal hormones that go from hot flash to hot-mama's-gotta-get-laid, but men, in general, have complicated my life to the point I'm seriously considering becoming a nun."
Pru had laughed until she wet herself. "You. A nun. I'd like to see the size hat you'd need to get your ass off the ground. No offense, Judy, but you still have a few pounds to lose before you can fly."
Judy had stared mouth agape a full five seconds before deciding her friend was joking. But Judy meant the threat--figuratively, at least. She'd taken a hard look at her life and decided something big had to change. She wasn't Catholic so joining a convent probably wasn't an option, but there might be an operation she could have done to remove her sex drive--preferably an Out-Patient, painless and quick procedure since she'd need to do it before her health care benefits ran out.
Her other option was to share her whacky sex life with the world. The success of cable shows like Duck Dynasty made her consider pitching her story to some X-rated cable station. She'd even bounced around a few titles: Trailer Trashed, Hot and Heavy Does It or Bang This!
Eventually, she'd axed the idea. Who would want to watch a chubby fifty-four year old woman screw the be'jesus out of any old Tom, Dick or Harry on the slim hope the encounter might result in a 911 call? Nope, she had some serious reconfiguring to do to make the last part of her life less of a sitcom and more of something she could look back on with pride.
And that meant fighting her crazy desires. No jumping the bones of a hot judge just because he made her pussy hum with interest when her breast accidentally brushed against his arm as he held the passenger side door for her.
"My other car's a 1964 Mustang convertible if that helps. It belonged to my wife. I had it completely restored a few years ago, thinking Fletcher would like it, but he said it didn't fit his image."
She could see that. She didn't know Fletcher Canby well--in part, because he played the role of sober, earnest, cop-of-the-people so flawlessly. A spiffy little convertible would have made his co-workers wonder what else they didn't know about their comrade.
"Nope. Sorry. A Lincoln Towncar. That's what I was picturing."
"Ah. Of course. Sorry to disappoint. Fletcher's step-mom was a tree hugger. We went green the first chance we got. I put in solar last year."
Judy waited until he was seated beside her to ask, "So, not that I know squat about carbon footprints--I live in a twenty-year old mobile home, after all--but aren't you fu...er, screwing the pooch, so to speak, by living alone in a giant house that probably has...oh, I don't know...a pool?"
He nodded. "And built-in hot tub. Julie got some relief from her pain by swimming in the early years after her accident."
"Do you swim?" He didn't stay that slim by sitting.
"Once in a great while." He started the car and pulled out of the parking spot. "I do host a summer party for my staff and friends. Although now that you mention it, I can't remember any of them swimming, either." At the first intersection, he looked at her and said, "Are you saying I should move?"
She shrunk against the noticeably un-luxurious seat cushion. "I wouldn't dream of giving you advice. Since losing my job, I've had a dozen people tell me if I can't make my mortgage payments, I should stay in my house until foreclosure goes through. Like I'd do that." She felt dirty even repeating the idea.
"You're a woman of principal. You don't see that a lot in my business."
His business. Law. Judging people. No, thank you. She'd been on the receiving end of bad opinions all her
life--starting with her mother. No way was she getting involved with a man who judged people for a living. "Turn left at the next intersection, then my place is the third on the right."
Her faded old Honda took up most of the driveway so he parked behind it. Compared to some of the homes in her park, Judy's place was slightly above average--thanks to the lovely new deck Jed built and Buddy paid for. She opened the door. "Thank you for the lift. If you were serious about apologizing to me--although why you think you owe me an apology is a complete mystery--then buying my breakfast more than squared things up."
She started to get out, but his hand lightly brushed her bare arm, stopping her cold. Her heart rate shot up and heat flooded her body--even the places that had no business displaying the least bit of interest in Fletcher's dad. "I..."
How could one letter hold so much feeling, she wondered? Or was her imagination playing games? What could a woman like her possibly offer a man like him? And why would he ask? Did she even want to know?
Since no more words seemed forthcoming--apparently he was as baffled as she by this odd attraction--Judy reached into her purse and pulled out a business card she'd been carrying around for days. Fletcher had given it to her on that first day when he responded to her 911 call. "I wrote your son's email on the back," she said, handing it to him.
He flipped it over then looked at her, his gaze troubled.
She stood, paused to make sure she had all her stuff, then bent over and said, "Your son suggested I might need help from his aunt--a sex addiction therapist. I've decided not to give her a call. I'm far, far from perfect, but I like myself just the way I am. Anyone who has a problem with that can go jump in a lake."
She jogged up the steps to her front door. One, because she could, and, two, because she figured he'd seen her ass bare and she looked a heck of a lot better in Spandex. As she passed by her gnome, she winked and thought, "See, Pru, I can make nice in public. I didn't say, 'Anyone who has a problem with that can go fuck themselves.'"
Chapter Three
Judy spotted the flashing light on her answering machine the minute she walked through the door but decided she needed a shower--and quite possibly a few moments alone with her fantasy lover--courtesy of her adaptable spray shower head--before tackling whatever surprises life had up its sleeve. Bad enough she met the man of her dreams for breakfast and discovered that...why, yes, thank you very much, he is as handsome and intelligent and courteous as she'd imagined him to be. What could possibly be worse?
Twenty minutes later, she got her answer via her sister's unusually subdued voice-recorded message.
"Hey, Judy, it's me, Nanc. Call me back as soon as you get this. Just FYI. Pete and I are moving Mom into Heritage House tomorrow. I know you're not working there any more--your boss said she couldn't give out any details because it violated some Hippa oath or something. I don't care why you quit. She hinted at some sort of scandal, but none of that matters. Actually, it's probably for the best that you're not there. But I have no intention of telling Mom until after she's moved in. Okay. I gotta go. Call me on my cell."
Judy's hand shook too badly to hit the pause button, so the second call quickly followed. "Here's my number in case you don't have it."
"In case I don't have it?" Judy yelled at the phone, innocently resting in its cradle. "You know perfectly well you've never given me your cell number. You said you never carry your phone except on trips. Liar, liar, pants on fire."
The childish outburst helped mask the overwhelming sense of panic building in her chest. Mom was moving? Here? To the same town? To the building where Judy once worked? To live amongst the seniors Judy once taught, laughed with, cried with...oh, my ever-loving God how could this happen?
If it was karma for her recent sexual transgressions, it sure happened fast.
Mom was moving in tomorrow?
She took half a dozen deep breaths before dialing her sister's number. Enough to slow her heart rate without making her light-headed. Judy needed to keep her wits about her.
“Oh, good. You got my message."
"I did, but it doesn't make any sense. Why is Mother moving to Heritage House?"
"Because I’m divorcing her,” Nancy said simply. She sounded a bit breathless and possibly a bit teary-eyed.
"What happened?"
“Nothing awful. The truth is Mom flew to Minnesota for Aunt Jean's granddaughter's wedding and then the two of them visited family in Chicago." She paused. "Judy, I don't know how to explain it. Those two weeks were probably the best Pete and I have had in years. Years," she repeated. Now, her voice sounded youthful and giddy. "We came and went as we pleased. Saw a few movies. We laughed more, slept better, made love for the first time in months. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper one night. You know what Mom would have said if we’d tried to give her that."
Judy shuddered. Mom was big on ritual. The evening meal was a sit down affair. At least three dishes with bread and butter. And you cleaned your plate—even if the food tasted like cardboard. Mom wasn’t a great cook. She scrimped too much—even on spices.
Nancy went on. “On a whim, we started looking at some of the independent living centers around here. But the cost anywhere in the Bay area is out of sight. So, I called Heritage House. Guess what? They have an opening.”
Buddy’s room?
“And they said they'd move her name to the top of the list because of you.”
Me? Because they feel guilty about screwing me over? "I don't work there any more, Nanc."
“I know. But, if for any reason Mom calls you, don't tell her, okay? One of the reasons she’s agreed to go is because she thinks it will hurt me to think of her bonding with you."
"I'm her way of punishing you? That's sick."
"That's Mom." Nancy sighed. "The fact you’re not there is a good thing. I would have felt guilty sending her to you. I feel like someone with Stockholm syndrome, Judy. I let her control me. I don’t want to be that person anymore.”
It wasn’t just me, Judy thought. Her brain struggled to process everything her sister was saying. If the perfect sister couldn't handle Mom's negativity and belittling attitude, what hope would Judy ever have had in maintaining a relationship with the woman who bore her?
"Does this mean I’m not as bad as Mom always said I was?"
"Oh, Judy," Nancy cried, suddenly bursting into tears. "I'm so sorry. I was your big sister. I should have stood up for you instead of saying nothing when Mom cut you down. I'm a horrible person, but I'm going to change. I mean that. Pete and I are going to counseling as soon as we get back from Mazatlan."
"You're going to therapy? I mean...Mexico?" She'd practically thrown the therapist's card in Wilson Canby's face. Maybe she'd been a bit hasty. If her sister--the perfect one--felt the need to seek counseling, who was Judy to turn up her nose at a little help?
"Yep. A friend's time-share. As far as Mom knows, there are no phone connections whatsoever. We're making a clean break. We think it will be best for everyone."
Judy couldn't argue with that logic. She'd used the same rationale when she married Shawn. At the time, she'd thought she'd found someone to love her for who she was. Eventually, she realized she'd replaced her mother with someone just as mean-spirited and negative--only the method of belittling had changed.
“What if she wants to move back?”
“The house is already up for sale. Screw the market. We're downsizing.”
A lot of that going on right now, she thought, looking around. Perhaps the loss of equity would be worth it. Southern California was looking better and better.
~~~
The unseasonably hot dry wind pushed back every step of his run. His twenty-plus year habit had lost any sense of joy or accomplishment. Wiley ran because it ate up two hours of his day. Two hours he didn't have to think or worry or weigh the fate of wrongdoers. He'd been an athlete in college. He'd been proud of his body, his looks. He'd had his choice of women, but he'd never slept around. As r
idiculous as it sounded, he'd been with three women in his life. Two, he'd married. One, a mistake he blamed on grief.
When Judy Banger handed him Wendy's card that morning, Wiley nearly had laughed out loud. Oh, the irony. A ridiculous twist on some classic dime-novel plot. The woman his son recommended to counsel Judy Banger cheated on her husband to sleep with her grieving brother-in-law.
Eva and Wendy had been competitive their whole lives. Eva used to joke about it. She claimed her lawyer husband, who clerked for a member of the Supreme Court while in law school and would one day wind up wearing a black robe, trumped Wendy's psychologist hubby, who wore sweaters with patches on the elbows and Birkenstock sandals and seemed content to work in the prison system for the rest of his life. Wiley didn't know what twisted psychological trigger prompted Wendy to seduce him, but less than a year after his wife's death--at a particularly low point in Wiley's life, she'd orchestrated the beginning of a brief affair that Wiley ended the moment he heard his late wife's voice on their answering machine.
He'd never completely forgiven himself. He cared about his brother-in-law and Wendy's children. She didn't fight him on his decision. Her attitude told him she'd accomplished whatever it was she'd needed to prove to her dead sister. He learned to follow Wendy's suit--pretend it never happened. Not a particularly enlightened mental health protocol, but who was he to cast aspersions on someone else's poor judgment?
A vibration against the top of his thigh made him miss a step. He lunged to catch his balance, his palm planting hard against the bark of a tree. He looked down, halfway expecting to see blood from a sniper's bullet. "Oh, Jesus," he muttered. "My phone."
He never carried it when he ran, but he'd called Fletcher and left a message and wanted to be available if his son called back. He frantically unzipped the narrow pocket and fumbled to get the phone out before it went to voice mail.
Ding.
Damn. Missed call. He didn't recognize the number but hit reply, anyway.
The Big Bang! Theory - A fourth--and final--short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger kind Page 3
