Bethel's Meadow (10 page)

Samantha was right: money has no mother.

It was close to seven o’clock on Sunday evening. Despite having slept on the floor in Samantha’s living room last night, I did feel much better than I had at any point yesterday. A mild, nagging headache and a hint of nausea were all I had to tolerate right now. The only thing I was really trying to recover from was the freight train named Samantha Fleming. She had more energy and more sex drive than anyone I had ever known. It was as if that woman had wanted to swallow me whole.

She’d wanted me to stay for lunch, but I told her I had to get home and do some work around the house. I had lied to her. I’d spent my afternoon instead trying to get through
Atlas Shrugged
. I wanted to finish that book so I could go back to the library and give the redheaded librarian my informed opinion of it.

Though I had broken up with Caitlin, I hadn’t given myself enough time in between relationships to cool my head. But Samantha was an irrepressible force of nature that had drawn me in so fast that I hadn’t had much time to pause and consider things. I’d had more sex in the past twenty-four hours with Samantha than I’d had with Caitlin in the last three months combined. And though Caitlin had done a lot to alienate me, she still deserved better than coming back home to Orlando to discover that I was already with someone else. It just wasn’t right.

But was I falling in love with Samantha? No, I can’t say that I was. A part of me definitely wanted to, but I knew there was trouble with her. She was just too bitter to enjoy life, and it seemed like she was emotionally devastated, to the point of being beyond salvation. There was no light in her eyes, none at all. I wished like hell that I was wrong, but I’d had a sense about these things all my life. Samantha Fleming reminded me too much of . . . my mother.

I suppose that is why the only person I was truly falling in love with was the sexy redheaded librarian. She definitely
did
have that magical light in her eyes. There was nothing in my gut warning me about her. We’d made some sort of cosmic connection. It was just basic chemistry at work. I’d never experienced anything in my life like it. It was more than just a passing infatuation. I was determined to find out if it really meant something.

My reflective mood was disrupted by the sound of the front door opening. There was only one person who would come to my house unannounced and walk in like he owned the place: Sidebottom. I had spoken to Sidebottom this morning and informed him that Caitlin and I were no more. I didn’t mention anything about Samantha Fleming, though.

“Hey,” he yelled as he walked in. “Put it on ESPN, bubba. I want to see
SportsCenter
. My cable’s out.”

I handed him the remote control. “Make yourself at home, Sidebottom. There’s beer in the fridge.”

He went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Now that you’ve broken up with that bitch, we can get back to our old visitation schedule.” Sidebottom never held back his feelings. I would have knocked almost anyone else on their ass for talking that way about Caitlin. But Sidebottom was a special case. Most humans have a self-censoring mechanism that prevents inappropriate and insensitive comments from spilling forth—Sidebottom didn’t have that.

Sidebottom returned and plopped his ass on my old black recliner. He flipped on ESPN and immediately went on a rant: “I swear to God, Smith, I’m going to email ESPN and tell them to stop dressing all their anchors in suit and tie. That is such bullshit, man. When I turn on the sports, I want to feel relaxed and at home. It stresses me out to be around anybody that’s dressed to the nines. Why does ESPN make them do that? Why not just a T-shirt and some jeans, just like you and me are wearing right now? When I drink beer and watch the sports, I want to feel like I’m one of them, one of the gang. Instead, when I watch
SportsCenter
, I feel like I’m in a goddamned court deposition. Hell, they dress Erin Andrews like she’s headed to the streets to pick up a john. Why not allow the guys to let their hair down a little also? I mean . . .”

I let Sidebottom prattle on for a while longer. I eventually interrupted him and told him about me and Samantha. They had known each other since childhood, and I didn’t want him to learn about our involvement from someone else first. I didn’t give him graphic details, but I made it clear that I felt I was in over my head a bit because of how aggressive she was.

“Huh.” He wasn’t angry or upset, but he did look perplexed. “Are we talking about Dr. Samantha Fleming here? The woman I grew up with?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged his shoulders and scratched his head. “You’re the first since her husband offed himself. In fact, I’m floored to hear this. I didn’t think she’d
ever
be with a man who wasn’t a millionaire. She’s sort of in financial dire straits right now. And with her looks, I don’t quite—”

“You don’t quite understand why she’d be with a guy like me?” I said, more than a tad pissed off at what he was implying.

Sidebottom held up his hands and said, “Sorry, bubba. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that since Marty died, she’s been very frigid in the company of men. I mean to tell you, since the cat split the scene known as life, she hasn’t liked
anyone
she’s run into. I’m not lying to you, Smith. She’s been celibate this whole time.”

I didn’t want to say anything more about Samantha. I was trying to make sense of it all. Why
had
she picked me to be her first since the passing of her husband?

“Let me tell you a few things about Sam.” Sidebottom had a rare expression on his face that I didn’t recognize. He was being completely serious. “This isn’t a woman who sleeps around. I mean, she and her husband were supposedly into some weird sex things from time to time, but she never really cheated on him. Just some mild swinger stuff. But I digress.

“I’ve known Sam since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. She was what you would call an ugly duckling, except that’s not what the assholes in grade school and middle school called her. She was called the
Roly Polack
, a play on roly-poly. I swear to God, kids can be such total and complete cocks. Anyway, a funny thing happened to her during the summer between eighth and ninth grade. She had gone back to Poland for the summer to visit her grandparents, and I didn’t see her again until the day school started back up. Bubba, let me tell you, I didn’t even believe it was her. It was a total and profound physical transformation. She came back completely thin, filled out with pretty much the same awesome tits you see now, and an ass that every one of those knuckle draggers on the football team wanted a piece of.

“But you know what?—and I just loved her for this—Sam never once went out with any of those muscle heads. All during high school she just kept getting hotter and hotter, and everyone pretty much had to just eat their heart out, because she was big-time picky about who got to take her out on a date. Sadly, one of the few lucky bastards wasn’t me. She always told me she loved me like a brother. We lived just two doors down from each other, so that was just as well. Anyway, I never saw her out on a date with anyone. She told me about a few older guys from other schools, and later some college guys she dated.

“She never became a cheerleader, never joined the Glee Club, never did a damn thing but study her ass off. She graduated top of the class, skipped the graduation ceremony, and went straight to college. After high school I didn’t really hear anything from her until she moved here to Orlando. She’d been here for a year or so before someone back home told her I had moved down here also.

“But most importantly . . . Well, you’re her first since her husband. It just blows me away that of all people she makes you her first.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. I couldn’t help but laugh, though. After hearing this story I totally agreed with him. It
was
ridiculous that she’d chosen me.

“Be careful with her, mi amigo.”

“Why?” I asked.

Sidebottom reclined in the chair and took a swig from his beer. “I hate to say this because I do love her like a sister. But she’s a little fucked up, Smith. What you say about her attacking you the way she did surprises me, because she’s never been loose in a sexual sense. That swinger stuff I alluded to was pure voyeurism. But, whatever the case, since her husband died she’s just been . . . different. I can’t explain it. Again, I wonder: why you?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll never make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. I’ll always treat her with respect. You know that.”

He nodded and smiled a little. “I know, buddy. I know. But just the same, be careful with her. She really is still angry with the world. She hasn’t forgiven that cowardly fuck for calling it quits on life. She really did love him.”

Then my cell phone ringtone for Caitlin played. I tossed the phone to the other side of the couch.

Sidebottom said, “So it really is over with you and Cathleen?” He actually did know her name. It was just his way of expressing his opinion that she should be persona non grata in my life.

“I think I’m going to change my phone number,” I said. “I really don’t want to talk to her again. Fuck it.”

The cell phone then played another tune. This time it was the ringtone I had just assigned to Samantha: Ravel’s
Bolero
.

“Smith,” she said, not even bothering to say hello. “I’ve been invited to a dinner party on Friday night over in Isleworth. I have to RSVP by tomorrow morning. Do you want to be my date?”

Like she really had to ask.

“Sure,” I said. “It’ll give me an excuse to go get a haircut.”

“Well, what are you doing right now?”

“Talking to Sidebottom,” I answered. “He’s boring the absolute shit out of me, too.” I threw a couch pillow at Sidebottom and smiled at him.

“Okay,” she said. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Nope.”

“Then come on over. I’ll fix you something. No sense in either one of us being alone tonight.”

As I assented to her invitation, the thought of Caitlin didn’t cross my mind. Nor would it for days to come. . . .

11

W
HILE SEATED AT A table at the public library, I seriously considered returning home so I could apply an icepack to my balls. It was Wednesday afternoon. I had spent the past four nights at Samantha’s house, each of those nights wilder and more over the top than the previous one. I had been Samantha’s breakfast, lunch, dinner, and her late night snack. Though throughout my life I’d done everything but kneel and pray for a woman like that, I now realized I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. Be careful what you wish for, right? I couldn’t help but feel that I’d made a deal with the devil.

There was, however, one apparent benefit from that deal: physically, I felt pretty damn good. I had slept quite well every night in Samantha’s bed. I figured our wild romps may have been the healthy antidote to my insomnia. I wanted to test that theory by going twenty-four hours without seeing her. But her will was strong and her allure powerful. Since coming home this morning, though, I had resisted the urge—and Samantha’s passionate requests—to return to her place. To avoid becoming completely addicted to her, I had to slow things down a bit.

I kept looking around for the redheaded librarian, but she was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t know her name, so I couldn’t really go to the counter and say, “Where’s the sexy redheaded librarian with the killer bod?” Maybe Wednesday was her day off, or maybe she was at—

But then, there she was, walking through the entrance with a warm smile on her face, greeting everyone as she strolled in. The glow she emanated was vibrant and colorful: happy colors like yellow, green, blue, and gold. As she took her place behind the counter she just kept on smiling, both to the library’s patrons and to her fellow employees. As I watched her conduct herself I could have sworn I was hearing a song by The White Stripes: “We’re Going to be Friends.” When Mr. Jack White wrote that simple ditty, he must have been inspired by someone a lot like this lovely young lady.

A few minutes later she glanced up and spotted me. She smiled and held up her forefinger, mouthing, “Just one second.” She said something to the woman next to her, and then she briskly walked from behind the counter and approached my table.

“Hey you,” she said spritely.

Damn. The fireworks went off again. Her luminous smile was the very essence of sweetness and innocence, absent any hint of the stark world-weariness that tainted Samantha’s smile. There wasn’t a single dark storm cloud hovering above the earth’s atmosphere that could have withstood her radiance.

“Hello,” I said. But the word didn’t come out too well because my mouth was suddenly dry.

“Did you finish
Atlas Shrugged
?” she asked. She pulled out a chair from across the table and took a seat.

She wore a yellow sundress. Though there was no display of cleavage for me to marvel at today, her breasts still made a delicious contour against the flexible cotton fabric. And, at least from the knees down, she had really great legs. I was nearly breathless. I felt close to fainting. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes she was still smiling at me, as if she didn’t think what I’d just done was the least bit weird.

“Yes,” I finally answered, “I
did
finish this book.” I handed it to her. “It’s a very good book, actually. I hadn’t expected to like it, especially after hearing the media recently blast Ayn Rand as being nothing more than a whacko conservative ideologue.” She leaned forward on her elbows and rested her chin on her palms. It was like she was hanging on my every word, genuinely interested in what I had to say. “My only gripe with the book, however . . .” I stopped. I didn’t want to spoil the ending for her. Besides, my mouth was bone dry. I reached into my pocket for a pack of breath mints.