Bethel's Meadow (13 page)

“Dr. Fleming, I’ll ask again. What business is it of yours? Are you going to start charging me rent at your place? Really, what do you care?”

She gave me a stern, steely-eyed look. “You’re apparently very upset about me wanting to find a man with money. Well, if you want to be that man, you’re going to have to bring something to the table.”

“You mean . . . money?”

She nodded and crossed her arms. “Damn straight. If you want to have a say in how I conduct my affairs and how I live my life, then you have to step up and prove yourself.”

“We barely know each other,” I said. “Fuck it. Go find your rich guy. Even if I relocated to the north for better money, I still couldn’t pull down more than a hundred and twenty-five grand. That would hardly suit your extravagant tastes.”

“You could start your own business,” she said. “If you can’t find work here, then print out business cards, start a website, and get some money rolling in.”

“Just like that? Hell, I don’t even want to work with computers anymore. I’m getting out of it.”

“Why?”

“Because, Dr. Fleming, when you’re in computers all of your friends and colleagues want freebies from you. Real estate agent friends of mine have no problem calling me for help, service, or advice, without any mention of payment. Can you imagine me calling them up and asking them to give up a percentage point on a real estate transaction for me? Do you think a pharmacist friend will give me free meds? Do my lawyer friends ever offer to draw me up a will, free of charge? Even if I did a computer favor for a prostitute, do you suppose she’d give me a free hand job?” I crossed my arms and said, “
Humph
.”

“Well,” she said, “what the hell are you going to do then?”

I closed my eyes and rocked back in the recliner. “I’m trying to figure that out, Samantha. Honest to God, I put enough pressure on myself without you adding to it.”

“Sweetheart,” she said. “Look at me.”

I looked at her.

“Do you think I’m going to have any difficulty gaining a wealthy man’s interest?”

I didn’t like the question, so I let it hang in the air.

“Well do you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Christ, do what you have to.”

“It’s going to be easy,” she said. “You just give me your checking account and routing numbers, and the money will be flowing to you in no time. I guarantee you I can get a minimum monthly stipend of thirty grand, even in this economy.”

I laughed. “A
stipend
?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to do to take care of the two of us.” She stood and approached me, expertly discarding her pajama top in one fluid motion. She ran her fingers through my hair and leaned forward to offer me her breasts. I supposed she wanted me to suckle them or something. “I’ll get your book published, baby. You want to be a writer? I’ll help you. We’ll have a place of our own that will be quiet and secluded, where you can write to your heart’s content. Trust me. I can do this.”

Though her tits looked absolutely porn-star spectacular as always, I pushed her away and said, “Are you that fucking twisted? Come on! Do you think I’m going to consent to being part of a con game like that? What do you take me for?”

“You push me away one more time, it’ll be the
last
time.” There was no emotion there, just a simple statement of fact.

“Dammit, Samantha,” I said, so tired now I was nearly in tears. “I’m sorry. I really am.” I stood and put my arms around her. I just wanted to give her a big hug to show her some love. She embraced me, but not fully. In fact, Samantha was almost limp in my arms. I wished I knew of some meaningful way to touch her, both physically and emotionally, through some other form of intimacy that didn’t involve—”

Oh, Jesus
. I could hear Caitlin’s words echoing inside of my head: “You confuse sex with intimacy.”

Well, my dear Caitlin, not anymore I don’t.

“I’ll leave,” Samantha said, “but only under one condition.”

I released her and grinned. I wanted her to relax—she was still tense. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “What’s the condition?”

“I want your manuscript,” she said. “I want to read your book to see if it’s any good, or if it’s just trash.”

I didn’t really want to give it to her, or anyone else for that matter. But I was too tired to fight and I wanted her ass out of there.

“Hold on,” I said. “I’ll go get it. But I have to tell you, I don’t think it will ever get published the way it reads right now.”

“Darling,” she said with a wink as she put her pajama top back on. “It’s all about who you know or who you blow. We’ll get it done. Your book
will
be published. You just have to trust me.”

…

After Samantha left I unfolded Caitlin’s note. It simply read: “Fuck off, Smith!”

Fair enough. I’d let her have the last word.

I didn’t sleep that night or the next, nor for many more thereafter.

14

“
S
O THIS IS HOW the rich and famous live?” I said to Samantha as I swirled the ice in my vodka and tonic. We were in the home of someone famous, but I won’t say whose Isleworth mansion it was. The owner of the eight-bedroom estate was, after all, a patient of Samantha’s.

“It’s his fiftieth birthday party,” Samantha said of the homeowner and host of the evening. “His wife and his ex-wife are here.” She leaned into me and whispered, “He beds with both of them—
at the same time
.”

We’d been there for an hour shooting the shit with the wealthy folk. I had been introduced to PGA tour professionals, chart-topping musicians, prominent actors and actresses, politicians on the state and federal level, CEO’s, Arab oil sheiks, bestselling authors, and television personalities that included a Fox News babe who was nowhere near as nice in person as she seemed to be on TV. And Samantha had provided me with at least one juicy and salacious tidbit about each celebrity in attendance. It turns out that when you’re filthy rich you tend to get pretty bored with everything, and you end up doing crazy things like sleeping with four women simultaneously and snorting enough cocaine in one evening to line a football field.

Of all the beautiful women inside that castle of a house on that Friday evening, not a damned one of them was spinning heads off the men’s necks like Dr. Samantha Fleming was. What she wore couldn’t really be considered a dress. It was a tiny, frilly, sleeveless, cream-colored number that came down to no more than three inches below her panty line and just barely hung from her shoulders. I had resolved to shield her from air currents of any kind to prevent a wardrobe malfunction. Her hair was an ornate wonder, a last-minute $250 styling job I had witnessed firsthand earlier in the evening. And her golden six-inch fuck-me heels alone were enough to stir every man’s imagination. I didn’t bother with the usual undressing of Samantha with my eyes—a hundred other men were taking care of that for me (and no doubt some of the women too).

I wore a blue suit I had purchased just for this occasion. Though Samantha had told me I looked “delicious,” I didn’t sense many women taking notice of me. And of those that had stolen a glance in our direction, I wasn’t certain they were necessarily scoping me in particular, especially given the number of lesbians and bisexuals that Samantha claimed were in attendance. And as dead and dry as I felt after experiencing two sleepless nights, I may as well just have been a doorstop.

Samantha and her late husband had once resided in the Isleworth community, so for the good doctor and her ex-neighbors it was like old home week. In fact, there was so much to catch up on that Samantha suggested I leave her side for a while and go mingle with the other guests. No shit, there was a line forming with folks dying to dish with her. All she needed for her reception line were some stanchions and red velvet ropes. She may have been one of the least famous women in attendance, but she was
the
most sought-after of them all for the entire evening—no one else came close in that contest.

I don’t remember everything that was served in the buffet line. I just know that I loaded up on delicious little finger sandwiches. Between the wafers of toasted bread was the planet’s choicest cut of roast beef, topped with brie cheese and some sort of a pepper jelly. In the short time I had been with Samantha I had partaken of food that tasted out of this world, even if I didn’t know exactly what it was I was eating. It wasn’t just the sex that kept us together—it was the food, too.

I was gorging on the finger sandwiches because I had begun the evening feeling nauseated, lightheaded, and dizzy. Samantha had convinced me that these symptoms were significantly alleviated by rich food and drink. The hearty-flavored beef was hitting the spot, and the vodka and tonics erased the troubling minutiae of everyday life from my weary head. If I could keep the good food and drink coming, I could tolerate the insanity of insomnia. At least for a little while, anyway.

There was a band in the house: a rock and roll quartet that was really smoking. I didn’t know who they were, but I had a feeling the world soon would. They were that good. Given the informal sonic ambience of the evening, I wondered why the hell everyone was formally dressed. Then again, everyone was a millionaire, which probably meant they were all trying to outdo each other, sartorially speaking. I now knew why Samantha had insisted we come in her Mercedes instead of my Camry. A car can almost be considered a garment too, if you think about it.

The band launched into a fiery rendition of Free’s “All Right Now.” No kidding, their version sounded so much better than the original. I was truly impressed. Meanwhile, over in her reception line, Samantha was engaged in conversation with one of the Arab oil guys, who was so bedazzled by her tits that I was certain his turban would soon unravel.

After consuming more than my fair share of finger sandwiches, I decided to embark upon a very important cultural mission. My first stop was an opulent bathroom fit for a king and queen, where I wasted no time in flipping the toilet paper roll to its proper position. I flushed the toilet and moved on to locating the next bathroom.

The house was amazing. It had two large dining rooms, a huge kitchen with professional-grade appliances, a great room damn near the size of the Taj Mahal, three living rooms, eight bedrooms, a six-car garage, and seven bathrooms that now had all of their toilet paper dispensers oriented in the Smith-approved fashion.

Upon successful completion of my mission, I moved through the mansion as though I were invisible. Nobody—and I mean nobody—introduced him- or herself to me or even acknowledged my presence. Seeing all of these beautiful women, I wondered where they hung out when they weren’t busy impressing the absolute hell out of people at extravagant parties. I bought all my groceries at the Publix right here in Windermere, but I couldn’t recall having seen any of these women there. Hell, maybe they had their groceries delivered to them by servants. Or maybe they looked different in daylight, absent seven layers of makeup and a pushup bra.

I had been separated from Samantha for nearly an hour before I finally found her outside on the rear deck. She was talking to a man I recognized who was the CEO of a local technology company. He was outfitted in a tux, and at damn near seventy-five years old he was quite a dapper-looking fellow. I hoped I would look that good when I reached that age. I wondered if he had to use Viagra to get it up. Maybe this was just the sort of man Samantha was looking to recruit as a sugar daddy.

“Darling,” she said to me as I ambled toward her. “Where have you been?”

She introduced me to the gentleman, and he asked me, “Why do you not go by your first name, young man?”

I was drunk enough by then to have almost considered a truthful answer. Instead I was about to deliver a smartass reply, but I was cut off by another man who was also dressed in a tuxedo. He appeared to be about my age, coloring, height, and build: my fucking doppelganger.

“Sir, could you please join me and my wife for a drink?”

I excused myself and followed the guy back inside. He introduced himself as Warren. He pointed to a pretty middle-aged brunette who was sitting on a loveseat in a far corner of the living room. I have to say, the woman had quite an impressive rack. Obviously store-bought, but very well crafted. I gave the surgeon a 9.6 out of a possible 10.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, signaling to a chair next to the loveseat. “This is my wife Angelica. Angelica, this is . . . ?”

“I’m Smith,” I said. I shook her hand—she offered a very firm and confident grip. Right as I sat down a waiter came by and served me a vodka and tonic with a lime twist, just the way I like it. I thanked the waiter, but he looked at me and said, “You owe your thanks to this lovely couple.”

Huh.
They’d been watching me.

“My wife thinks you are a
very
handsome man,” Warren commented.

“Is that right?” I smiled at the woman—she nodded and smiled back. Lady Angelica then licked her lips in the most theatric way imaginable. These folks didn’t beat around the bush.

“Well, I am indeed flattered,” I said. The man was still standing for some reason. It made me uncomfortable. “And Warren, if I may say so, your wife is super-duper extra hot.”