“He’s head-in-the-clouds romantic.”
“His head is in the clouds, but his hands are on another man’s wife.”
“Yes, but they’re nice hands. I met Brad at my pottery class. He was new and I helped him and he flirted with me. You might not understand, but at my age men in their mid-thirties don’t flirt with women in their mid-fifties. He was paying attention to me. I don’t think you know how painful it is, the atrophy of attention from men that comes with age. It seems one day you walk into a room and turn heads. You’re the hot young thing or the pretty bride or maybe the sexy mom and then one day your husband doesn’t look at you that way anymore and no other man does either. Then one day Brad flirted with me. It felt nice. It made me feel good. He made me feel beyond good. I was finally flushed for the right reasons. The next week he asked me out for a drink. I went. Nothing happened, but when I came home I climbed into bed and made love to my husband like I hadn’t in fifteen years… I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.”
“You’re hoping I won’t tell your husband.”
She smiled at me.
“I love my husband. We’ve had a good life together. Our kids are good kids who visit often and bring our grandkids. And Jack and I love to spoil them all. I don’t want to jeopardize that. I don’t. But when I get in bed with my husband, I’m getting in bed with thirty years of history. I’m getting into bed with thirty years of joys and hardships and miscarriages and childbirths and parent’s deaths and lean times and flush times and sins and forgiving those sins. It’s nice to put all that baggage down and just be looked at like a carefree woman again.”
The bartender interrupted. “Something for the lady,” he asked. I looked at her and she told him no thanks. “And you, sir,“ he asked. I sipped my drink. It was getting warm. I shook my head. I was thinking over what she was saying. She wasn’t trying to play me. She wasn’t trying to get me to keep mum. She was getting this off her chest. I was probably the only person she’d talked to about this. Something in me made me want to challenger her though.
“So you get to drop your baggage at the front desk, have a roll around with your boy Brad and make your husband a cuckold, eh?”
“It’s not like my husband hasn’t strayed. He’s not good at it. Hiding it, that is. It’s only happened a few times, but I can tell because he feels guilty. All of a sudden we’re going on what he thinks is a romantic trip and I get a new car and he doesn’t grouse when I want to redecorate a room. Then after about three months it’s back to grunts and knuckle dragging. Do I mind? I did. I cried the first time. The last time I gave my kitchen a fifty thousand dollar remodel.
“I know my husband’s been wondering about me ever since I started having drinks with Brad and came home that night and curled his toes. He’s been wondering, but he’s also been attentive. Like when he strays. He’s been kissing me hello when he comes home now. He makes me breakfast in bed on Saturdays. He’s been bringing me home little presents. Flowers even. Maybe Brad sparked some caveman mating competition gene in Jack. I like it. That makes me feel sexy and at night I show my husband my appreciation.”
That made me smile. The thought of two almost seniors rocking it like that.
“Mr. Gibb, I’m going to pay for your drink.” When she laid a fifty on the bar, I thought I saw General Grant wink at me.
“Now I’m going to go up to a room on the eighth floor for a few hours and enjoy myself. I’m going to feel sexy, passionate and desired. If things go well, I’ll even come a few times. I’m going to feel the way I use to feel. I’ll sleep a bit, shower then I’ll drive back to Mariemont and make a nice house for my husband to come home to and my children to visit and my grandchildren to sleep over in. My husband just needs to not ask questions and enjoy what could be a nice final third of his life.
“You can tell him what you want, Mr. Gibb, but do me a favor. Let me know. Just drop a note to the concierge, okay. Just so I know what I’m walking into when I get home.”
With that she touched my arm then gave it a squeeze. She looked down, gave my arm another squeeze and smiled. ‘Nice,” she said and left. I saw her pass the corner into the elevator banks. I heard the bell ring and imagine her pressing ‘8’ and rising to an enjoyable night.
The bartender came by and picked up the fifty.
“Add another Manhattan to that, will ya?”
“Sure thing,” the barman said.
“And a notepad. Something to write on.”
I let the second Manhattan push my thoughts around as a jazz pianist started playing something familiar that I couldn’t name. He then launched into a more syncopated number. I saw three couples, all past their Social Security full retirement age, stand up and head for the small dance floor. One man had a handkerchief in his breast pocket that reminded me of Kendra’s eyes. I disrespectfully slammed back the rest of my cocktail and scribbled a note. I folded it three times then wrote “Mrs. Weston” on the outside. On my way out I handed it to the concierge.
“I’m not sure of her room number. Somewhere on the eighth floor.”
“I’ll make sure she gets it, sir.”
I ambled down the flight of stairs to Fifth Street taking my time making sure my drinks didn’t tangle up my feet. I pushed through the doors and pulled out my phone.
“Mr. Weston, Jake Gibb here.”
“So.”
“So, Mr. Carmichael said this isn’t the type of work we do.”
“You’ve been doing it, though. What did you find out?”
“I found out you don’t need to worry. Just relax and enjoy your life.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. And another thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Quit asking questions. You’ll be much happier. Just enjoy it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Goodbye,” I said and hung up.
I moped around my condo all weekend then moped around the office on Monday. At three in the p.m. Mrs. Swanson called.
“I got all these papers in the mail,” she said. “I’m not sure what they mean.”
“I was copied on the same ones. They mean your husband’s name is off all your accounts.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And when I pass, you’ll take my name off all these accounts.”
“And I’ll put your children’s name on them.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Okay. Well goodbye, Mr. Gibb.”
“You have someone to come around and check on you, Mrs. Swanson?”
“Yes, my middle daughter still lives in town.”
“Good. We’ll see you in six months for our semi-annual review.”
“Yes. In six months. I’ll see you, then. Goodbye, Mr. Gibb.”
The closing bell rung on Wall Street and I said goodbye to Mrs. Johnson.
I walked around trying to figure out what I wanted for dinner. I wasn’t in the mood to go back out once I was at my place. After a half hour I said, screw it. If I get hungry I’ll order something in. I walked up Main and walked through my lobby door. I ignored the mailbox. There’d be nothing in there that interested me. I slumped up the stairs and unlocked my door. I could smell her.
“Kendra?”
I heard nothing. Sense memory, I thought. I laid down my keys and roll of cash and kicked off my wingtips. I stood in front of the open fridge and nothing looked good in there either. I made for the bathroom.
There she was. She was curled up on the bed asleep. I stood there for a moment looking at her. She seemed to be sleeping tense. Her brow was furrowed and her muscles looked rigid. She was hanging near the edge of the bed as if she could slip off any minute. I went into the bathroom and did what I needed to do and noticed what I hadn’t noticed before. Two long white wrappers. Empty. In the trash bin.
Back in my room, I kicked off my pants, unknotted my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. I tossed them al
l in a heap on the floor.
I crawled up behind Kendra and wrapped my arms around her as gently as possible trying not to wake her. I failed.
“I missed you,” she said in a sleepy voice without turning to me.
“I missed you, too. How was your trip?”
“Don’t ask me about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t ever ask me about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Will you hold me until I get back to sleep?”
“I’ll hold you until you wake up.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
Lovers in a Dangerous Time — Part VI
Marines stood guard next to a single tank blocking the south gate. Their rifles were at the ready. I slowed down as I neared and saw a fat man in khakis and an untucked Oxford shirt yell something to them and they lowered their weapons. I idled up slower and the man in civilian clothes huffed out to meet me.
“Paul, I was hoping you’d make it,” he said.
“I made it,” I said.
We walked past the tank and the Marines and through the airport gate.
“The rebels have given us until zero six hundred to be gone,” he said. “We’re just waiting on stragglers like you.”
He stopped and turned to me.
“I thought you’d bring Guillermo’s daughter.”
“I did. She didn’t make it.”
“Neither did Guillermo. Three days ago. Outside the ministry building. His daughter?”
“Ten minutes ago. By the east gate.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, damn.”
“You okay?”
“I don’t know yet. This whole thing was pear-shaped from the moment we got here.”
“It was pear-shaped long before we got here, my friend.”
He led me to a civilian airplane. The steps were lowered and the pilot was already in his seat. We climbed up and claimed seats. The fat man reached into a file, pulled out an envelope and slapped it into my chest. I took it.
“Your new documentation, per our agreement. You came through for us. We came through for you.”
Cocktail Accompaniment for The Senator’s Wife — The Pimm’s Cup
In a prior life, I was involved in politics—small time politics. You think Washington is cut throat? You think corporations, politicians and lobbyists get mad and contemplate revenge—even murder—when a multi-billion dollar project is defunded? That ain’t nothin’. It’s nothing compared to the rage a small town city councilman feels when he tells a guy he played high-school football with that he can’t put up a ten foot privacy fence in his backyard because of zoning. Or telling a woman she can’t paint her house the color she wants because it’s in an historic district.
Local politics is brutal politics.
Which is why it’s best that if you’re going to swim in those campaign waters, you swim with a cocktail.
The Pimm’s Cup is a great summertime cocktail. It’s refreshing and low in alcohol—so you can have plenty of them. They’re also easy to make.
Buy a bottle of Pimm’s No. 1. It’s a gin-based, herb-infused liqueur. Most places will have it.
Pour a few ounces of it into a tall glass full of ice. Why don’t I tell you how many ounces? Because it’s a relaxed drink and you should make it in a relaxed manner. Try a few different measures and see what you like. Over whatever number of ounces you decided on, pour either ginger ale or lemon-lime soda.
Next, fancy it up with a slice of green apple and a long spear of cucumber. Don’t think I’m joshing you on this. This vegetation does enhance the drink. Some mint or other herb is nice too, if you have it.
I’m told the Pimm’s Cup is the unofficial drink of the Wimbledon Tennis tournament. That’s one reason I kick off this story on a tennis court. Another reason is that those little white outfits women wear are hot.
So enjoy your Pimm’s Cup and The Senator’s Wife.
– Howard McEwen
The Senator’s Wife
Holly Hessenbaum crashed a bomb across the net. It landed just in bounds. Her adversary, a gamely brunette about ten years younger, scrambled for it but only managed to stumble into a flowerbed. Holly Hessenbaum turned and, without a word or look at her sprawled opponent, put her racket in her bag. She dabbed her face with a towel, looked my way and nodded.
I showed her my smile and volley backed my own nod.
No matter where a woman falls on that ubiquitous ten point scale, she can spot herself two extra digits in the right direction by walking onto a tennis court in one of those nice, little tennis outfits. The Mrs. ex-Governor, ex-Senator Myron Hessenbaum was a ten already, so the short, white skirt and tight, white top she was flitting around in at middle court launched her off the chart.
Holly Hessenbaum was thirty-eight. She looked twenty-eight. She was athletically thin in that way that can only be bestowed by God himself and two hours a day on the tennis courts. However, there were no angles. She was all curves. Her forehand was encumbered by a sizeable bosom, but she managed her swing alright. Her naturally blonde hair was long and today she’d drawn it back into a ponytail. The legs? Well, the legs were killer-diller.
She strutted up the concrete sidewalk and came to the large portico I was perched under where the country club had set up tables for al fresco luncheons. I rose to meet her. She placed her bag on the ground, pulled out a chair and set herself down. Her opponent was still on the court sipping a sports hydration beverage between gulps of breath. Holly Hessenbaum wasn’t even winded.
The waiter, a man in his upper fifties who had been making an obvious point of ignoring me the last twenty minutes, approached us before she had a chance to lean back in her chair.
“A Dark ‘N Stormy, Bobby. You, Mr. Gibb?”
“Do they use the right rum?”
“Gosling’s Black Seal.”
“And the right ginger beer?”
“Gosling’s there too, with a splash of lime.”
Satisfied, I looked up to Bobby who was waiting patiently. He was too old to be called Bobby by someone not an old friend. I knew it and he knew it. Mrs. Hessenbaum may have known it but couldn’t have cared less.
“A Dark ‘N Stormy for me too, but hold the citrus.”
Bobby left to fetch the drinks.
“You know your cocktails, Mr. Gibb.”
“I know my highballs, Mrs. Hessenbaum.”
“Let’s not quibble over semantics, Mr. Gibb. I need your help.”
“Of course. You and your husband are very important clients to our firm, Mrs. Hessenbaum.”
“I’m a very important client to your firm, Mr. Gibb. Remember that all of my husband’s and my money is really all my money.”
I gave a noncommittal nod.
“What can we do for you?”
“I want a divorce.”
I didn’t show surprise, but the news shocked me down to my tippy toes. This meeting was supposed to be an informal check-in. This was supposed to be a ‘buy the client a lunch and a drink and show her how her portfolio is doing and after an hour of chit-chat drive back to the office and get on with your day’ type of meeting. ‘Divorce’ is a portfolio and wealth destroying word. Once uttered—and uttered by the largest client of ‘The Offices of Prescott Carmichael’—I was in over my head. Mr. Carmichael should be brought in as soon as possible.
“Does your husband want a divorce?”
“He does not.”
“Well, it’s still easy enough to do,” I said. “It happens all the time.”
“There’s more.”
“More?”
“Yes, more.”
“What’s the more?”
“You familiar with the trust my family set up for me?”
“I am as far as allowed investments. If I remember right, the investment powers section puts restrictions against gambling and tobacco holdings. No Harrah’s. No Phillip Morris.”
“Yes, my grandfather was a Bap
tist.”
“And no defense stocks.”
“Yes, he married a Quaker. However, I don’t mean the investments. I mean the other restrictions.”
Bobby delivered our drinks. He waited for Mrs. Hessenbaum’s approval. I watched Holly Hessenbaum wrap her plump bottom lip around the red and white striped straw. A few beads of dewy sweat showed on her upper lip. I took another long sip bypassing my straw. It had been a while since I’d had a Dark ‘N Stormy. It was cool and cooling with a nice kick of summer spice.
“Very good, Bobby.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” Bobby walked away.
“Give Bobby a big tip, Mr. Gibb. He’s got a daughter who keeps popping out illegitimate kids. It’s not easy to cover on a waiter’s pay.”
I figured I was paying, but I don’t like to be told I was and how much I should tip. I brought matters back to hand.
“What do you mean ‘other restrictions’?” I asked.
“It’s one my father added when he got sick and knew he was going to die. I was just out of college and was living a lifestyle he thought inappropriate for his daughter. The terms he put in the trust allowed me more access to the money once I married, but any money disbursed has to be signed off jointly by my husband and me. Daddy was old school. The trust also says that if I marry and I later file for divorce that I’m cut off from the trust assets. I’ll only be provided a small income and the assets will be donated to some hospitals. Daddy thought it a good incentive to get me to make a good marriage.”
“How small an income?”
“Whatever the median income is for a woman my age at the time of divorce plus a three percent cost of living adjustment.”
“That would be a big cut for you.”
“Very big.”
“So you need your husband to file for this divorce.”
“Yes. If he files, the assets stay with me. But he refuses.”
“It seems you are in a box of your father’s design.”
“Not at all Mr. Gibb. This is where you and Mr. Carmichael come in. I want you to help me.”
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