Anniversary Cheat

I sat pondering on the park bench. Luke made me hot. He had me ready to spread for him without even trying. I knew sex with him would be fantastic, the best since Brandon, or even better. He would turn me inside out and upside down and make my body dance to his tune, and I would love every minute of it. But that's all there would be. And ten years from now, there would be nothing. Marie knew nothing about sex (I hoped), and cared nothing about careers, but for some reason, she really did care about me.

The sun began to set, so I reminded Marie we should probably head home. A couple of the smaller kids were getting tired and cranky, so I carried them, one in each arm: another first for me. I was surprised how good it felt. (I know, I know, they're a lot less cuddly when their diapers are full.) The party broke up quickly after the children were reunited with their parents. Mary went inside to get Marie ready for bed; I helped Matt clean up outside.

"We're all glad you came tonight, Lucie – not just Marie." Matt gave me a warm smile. Now if this were a soap opera or a "Loving Wives" story, this is where I would seduce Matt, and make sure that Mary caught us fucking. The destruction of his happy home would be my payback for his divorcing me instead of accepting my bringing other men to our bed. That had been my idea, anyway. There was just one problem. I couldn't do it. No, it wasn't because I suddenly grew scruples: I knew it wouldn't work.

Going back to 'Gone with the Wind,' you remember how Melanie was a plain little thing and from the way Ashley looked at her, Scarlett knew he didn't love her? Well, Mary Morrison Harmon was no plain little thing, despite what I had thought about her in high school. And the way Matt looked at her? Let's just say if he'd looked at the charcoal in the grill that way, he wouldn't have needed a match. There was more in his eyes for Mary than there ever had been for me, in spite of how much and how well he had loved me. He was hers, always would be, and that was that. So we made small talk as we cleaned up the back yard.

Matt and I were relaxing in the living room when Mary ushered Marie in to say good night. She gave me a sweet hug and went off with her Dad to be tucked in. After I blinked a couple of times to clear out my suddenly-blurry eyes, I looked up to find Mary smiling at me.

"Do you think she was really trying to – well, protect me – from Luke?" With anyone else, even most grownups, that would have been a silly question. With that little girl, anything was possible.

Mary laughed. "I wouldn't put it past her. She doesn't like him much. Truthfully, neither do I."

"Then why was he here?"

"Oh, he always seems to know when we're barbecuing and Matt's too nice to turn him away. He does behave more respectfully around Matt and me than other couples. And I don't think Matt knows he's had half the wives on the street. Really, he's just another Brandon."

"Has he tried for you?"

"Oh, yes," Mary smiled. "He pulled out all the stuff about beautiful neglected housewives whose husbands don't appreciate them, aren't 'enough' for them, and on and on. He can probably do that shtick in his sleep. And of course he has that look."

"He certainly does. Didn't you feel it?"

"Of course I did. But I can get just as turned on watching a movie with a hunk on the screen and my husband's arm around me. More, actually, because I know afterwards I'll get love, in addition to great sex. So when Luke got a little pushy, I smiled into his eyes, reached out my hand as if to caress his face, and patted him on the head and told him to run along like a good boy. And he's never bothered me again."

I almost choked, I laughed so hard at the scene she described. "I'll just bet he didn't," I spluttered.

You know how you're laughing with someone, and you're just about to stop laughing, then you look at the other person and off you go again? That's how Matt found us. When we finally got ourselves under control, she answered Matt's quizzical expression by saying she'd tell him later. Somehow I knew she would, too, and completely at that – just as I was sure Matt already knew everything about Luke's attempted seduction of his wife.

After I got home, I wondered if I could live like that – having no secrets whatsoever from someone. Being totally vulnerable, and totally committed to their well being. Their peace, as it were. It obviously worked for Matt and Mary, and created a perfect environment for Marie. I'd have sworn I was stronger and smarter (especially about men) than Mary Morrison, but I was starting to wonder. Did I have the strength and smarts to do what she does – and makes look so easy? Did I want to?

I ended up throwing Luke's phone number away, for the last reason you would imagine: what would Marie say? OK, so I'm a grown-up, successful, smart, sexy, professional woman and I'm desperate for the approval of an eight year old. All I can say is, you haven't met her.

I found myself spending more and more time with the Harmons. I could never figure out why Matt didn't hate me, but when he forgave me that first night, it seems he meant it. Now that I thought about it, it would take a strong and secure man to encourage Mary's memories and Marie's veneration of Jeff the way he did. There was a strength, a peace, about him, that he hadn't had when we were married. Whatever it was, his beautiful wife was at the heart of it.

The idea that Mary Harmon was better at making a man happy than I was took some getting used to, but Matt's happiness was so obvious I couldn't deny it. I would have been insanely jealous, except that they were so sincere about wanting to share their happiness with me. And then there was Marie. I almost dissolved the evening she came up to me and shyly asked if she could call me "Aunt Lucie" instead of "Miss Lucie," because I was family now. Funny – their simply caring about me made my time with them the high point of my weeks. Going out to get laid became less and less important.

Work continued to go well. I was offered the partnership, but turned it down. I wanted to spend my time with clients, not in meetings.

I had discovered I received intense satisfaction from helping people solve difficult financial problems. For one thing, I was good at it. I knew my stuff. But now I grew to love listening, drawing people out, helping them be comfortable around me, teasing out every aspect of whatever problems they brought to me. And there was a fullness, a completeness that was almost sexual, when I could take a financial situation that threatened my client, that made failure look inevitable, and maneuver and cajole and bully that situation until it whimpered and rolled onto its back and gave up and turned into success. Not only did my clients think I was a genius, which of course I enjoyed, they told me in great detail how much better their lives were because of me. That thrilled me more than I had ever imagined it could.

I had put on maybe five pounds since I moved, and had a few more lines on my face. But I could still turn any man's head I wanted to, with the notable exception of my ex-husband. I was entering my mid-thirties, when women are supposed to reach their sexual peak. I had gone weeks without getting laid, and somehow I was OK with that.

It was one of those cold, grey, February days when the snow is dirty and nasty and people are all sniping at each other and you begin to think the hibernating bears have the right idea. I was to meet a new client that morning who had been referred from my old firm. There was nothing noteworthy in that; my friend the old battle axe often steered accounts toward me. The name Philip Peterson conveyed nothing to me, though it probably should have.

Imagine my shock – and his – when old Mr. Faithful showed up at my office door. I'm not sure which of us turned redder, but between us, we made it look like someone forgot to turn off the Christmas lights. He was all apologetic because he hadn't recognized my name (I'd gone back to my maiden name); I was apologetic because – well, you know. I finally got him to sit down and start talking business. Once he stopped being embarrassed, it was fun to talk business with him. He had lost some of the shyness I remembered from before. He was well-prepared and smart, too: he had a couple of ideas that I would be able to use for other clients.

Our firm always sends new clients, regardless of their level, out to lunch with their analyst. I enjoyed doing this, even though I no longer used it as an occasion for flirting. (Well, maybe a little, but nothing like the old days.) It allowed me to listen to the person, as well as the business issues. I offered him the company of another analyst for his free lunch, but he actually blushed a little and said he would prefer to go with me, if that was OK. Well, if he could handle it, I could, so off we went.

We were both having more fun than we expected. He certainly wasn't socially experienced, but he was smart, attractive, could sustain an intelligent conversation, and wasn't full of himself. He didn't even check me out too blatantly. All of which, as any dating woman knows, put him well into the top 20%. Too bad he was married.

Almost reflexively, I stole a glance at his left hand as dessert was served. The wide gold band I remembered was gone, and there wasn't a cheater's mark, either. I must have gasped a little, because he looked at me.

"Umm, your ring?" I stammered. I got no farther. I saw his face crumple before he hid it behind his hands. His shoulders shook as he wept silently. Well that was definitely the wrong thing to say, thought I.

He came to himself, red-faced and embarrassed, after a few moments.

"I'm sorry. I thought I was over it now, but I guess I'm not. Please forgive me."

I murmured something or other; I'm pretty sure we were doing the Christmas lights thing again.

"Do you – I'm sure you – remember..."

I interrupted him. "You don't have to go there, Phil. It's all right."

"I want to. You, of all people, deserve to know." He took a deep breath and continued.

"You remember I didn't go to your office the – the next morning." I nodded.

"I took an early flight home."

I saw where this was going. "Oh, no. Please tell me she didn't..."

"She did. She was right there in our bed with him. And when she called the night before..."

"Oh, Phil, I'm so sorry." We sat there and determinedly looked away from each other. Later, it would occur to me that what his wife had done was not too different from what I had done to Matt. Maybe the fact that my sympathies were with Phil instead of his wife meant that I was finally growing up?

"I can't be the only one!" he finally burst out.

"The only what?" I was very confused.

"All I ever wanted was one woman to love; we'd be each other's one and only and grow old together. Am I the only person left on earth who wants that?"

A bit of a tricky question for me, you might say, given our – and my – history. But after a moment, I had an idea.

"There are some people I think you might want to meet," I said. Somewhat tentatively; I wasn't sure how he'd take this, and he was looking at me a little funny. Clearly, he hadn't forgotten our history, either.

"A couple with a nine year old girl. I think you might like them. Maybe we can meet them together, and I'll introduce you?"

Well, he wasn't particularly excited – I think he was afraid I was still trying to get him to fuck me – but he agreed.

OK, I'm sure you all saw where this was going, even if I didn't, and you're right. Don't get the idea it was a straight ride, though: we went forwards and backwards more times than a first-time driver trying to parallel park. But now Phil and I are a couple, Matt and Mary are our best friends, and Marie wants us to hurry up and get married and have kids so she can baby sit.

Mary and Matt aren't preachy types, and they've never said a word to me about how I should live my life. But they've opened their lives to me, so I can see what you can have if you keep love and sex in the right order. I want it badly.

Phil, bless his heart, is a terrible liar; he can't keep a secret – even a simple Christmas present – to save his life. From the beginning, I could see right through him, and he knew it. So I knew he was going to propose to me the other night. I side tracked him.

Yes, I'm in love with him. Yes, I want more than anything to marry him, have his kids, and be sitting with him on that front porch when I'm 70. I want to make him as happy as Mary makes Matt. I intend for us to be each other's one and only, period. And if it turns out I'm more advanced sexually than he was, that's fine: I'm ready to make sure we both enjoy my teaching him. Because we both know I'll never put sex ahead of love again – ever. So why didn't I want him to propose?

The problem is this. He's gotten over my attempt to seduce him back when I was a company whore. But he thinks that's the worst I've done. He doesn't know about the way Brandon (or anyone else) could turn me on and upside down and inside out just by taking me, though I'm not like that any more. I think. (Luke kept trying, but every time he came on to me, I thought of Mary patting him on the head, and I dissolved into a fit of giggles, which spoiled the mood most effectively.) And he can't imagine my doing anything like what I did to Matt.

That's why I'm writing this. It's not for you, gentle LW reader, though I hope you've enjoyed it. It's for Phil. I will ask him to read it before he asks me to marry him. If he breaks up with me after reading this, I'll be heartbroken. But he is so transparent, I simply can't live with the idea of putting something over on him, or concealing anything from him. And if he does love me in spite of knowing my worst, that will mean I can trust him with anything. I will live completely open and vulnerable with him, and he will know everything about me, and he will be my peace. And my highest joy will be to become his peace. Always.

And there you have it. Will Phil marry me? Will I fulfill all my good intentions, or will I get to my 40s and succumb to the proverbial need to have 'other men' find me attractive? And will the world ever be ready for Marie? Sorry, the Magic 8 Ball says 'answer hazy, try again later.' Meantime, I will post this, give it to Phil when I see him tonight, and go from there. Wish me luck.

EPILOGUE: Three remembrances.

It had been three weeks since I gave Phil the story of my life, and not a word from him. Then he wanted me to come to his house after dinner. I was as nervous as (insert your favorite cliché here).

He seated me in his living room. The coffee table contained three ill-assorted articles – a printout of my story, a wooden spoon, and a bottle of my favorite lotion. The story I could understand, but I was too nervous to even think about the other two. He had read the story – several times, I could tell from the dog-eared pages.

Phil didn't waste time with small talk. He asked what I was willing to do to get past 'this' (he pointed to the story.)

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything." Yes, I know it's a horrible cliché, but our dialogue writer was on vacation that day, or something. Anyway, we were too much in the moment to let a little thing like that concern us.

"All right then." He made me stand in front of him and face away. With a single jerk, he hauled my pants and panties down to my knees. I gasped. You see, we'd been saving it; we both wanted to establish that we could be faithful. And to tell you the truth, I was really looking forward to having my mind blown away when we finally did it. I was disappointed that our first time was going to be punishment sex, but if that's what he thought would work, I was ready to do it.

Imagine my surprise when he bent me over his lap with my bare ass in the air, grabbed the wooden spoon from the table, and spanked me! It hurt, too. Not as badly as it could have, I guess, but between the pain, the shock, and the humiliation, I was bawling by the third stroke. He didn't say a word; he just paddled my bare ass as if I were about six.

Finally it stopped. I heard the spoon clatter as it fell from his hand to the coffee table. I was still whimpering and blubbering and trying to catch my breath when I felt his hands. Warm and tender, they gently stroked me, massaging the sweet lotion into my smarting ass, while I blubbered and hiccuped and generally made a mess of myself. I could feel what little makeup I wore running all over my upside-down face.

Gently, he pulled my panties and pants back up, and turned me over so I faced him, being so careful of my still-sore rear. I know I must have looked frightful, but I couldn't tell it from his face. He smiled at me, with all his love in his eyes, then reached across me for the third item from the coffee table. He took the printout of my story, and ripped it in half.

I melted. I couldn't have put it into words then, but I felt that he had punished me, forgiven me, and it was now all behind us, forever. That he would always hate what I had done, but would always love me.

I didn't start what came next, I swear I didn't. It wasn't my fault. I know he didn't mean it to happen either, but from the moment he leaned over to gently, lightly, kiss the top of my head, it was all over, there was no turning back. And that first time, we did just about blow each other to kingdom come. I'd had lots more skillful, experienced, and adventurous lovers, but I've never had more explosive sex, before or since. And Phil left me with something none of the rest of them did: a sense of deep peace, and a sure knowledge that I had come home. I would never leave again, nor would I want to.

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Phil and I had been married three and a half years. Phil Jr., 18 months, was indulging in his favorite pastime: wrestling with his mother on the living room carpet. We would have to start being more careful soon, because we had just found out that his younger sibling had taken up temporary residence in my tummy. But for now, we indulged ourselves with gusto. We made so much noise I almost didn't hear the doorbell.

I straightened myself up a bit and opened the door. Brandon stood there, giving me that look.

If I still had it (and I did), so did he. In spades. My pulse raced, my pussy began to juice up, and I stood there quivering before him. He didn't say a word. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close to him. I put my hands on his chest, as if to push him away, but we both knew I couldn't do that if I tried, and I wasn't even trying.

Brandon smirked as he bent his head toward my lips. My face automatically raised up to him; my right hand quivered as it rose off his chest, past his neck, toward his face. And past it. Tentatively at first, then more firmly, I patted the top of his head.

Brandon's arms dropped to his sides and he recoiled, a look of utter confusion on his face. I felt laughter bubbling up within me.

"Run along now, Brandon, like a good boy."

I swear to you, he looked just like the IT dweeb from all those years ago, tomato-colored face and all. I held it together, just barely; I managed to smile sweetly as I stepped back from him and closed and locked the door. Then I fell back against the door, helpless with laughter. I'm sure he could hear it through the door; I was nearly hysterical. My son thought anything that Mommy thought was that funny must be a real hoot, so he was laughing too. Of course I had to tell Mary about it, and we had a huge laugh together. I never saw or heard from Brandon again.

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Tomorrow will be my seventieth birthday. I won't spend it sitting on the porch with Phil. For one thing, it's too darn cold out there. (Funny how romantic anticipation never anticipates that sort of thing.) For another, we buried Phil yesterday.