Triad Ch. 01

Triad - Chapter 1

2002

Hero worship!

It was the start of the summer out on the Cape. I had written one chapter of my novel,The Pumpkin Man. At the time I had no idea it would become a best seller or that I'd make a small mint off the movie rights. I had hopes; however, I tried to be realistic and keep my fantasies in check.

Abby Donst worshipped me. She was a precocious twelve-year-old, blond, blue eyed, and a little over four feet tall. Abby sat opposite me at the picnic table in my backyard. She watched me work about half the time, and read books from my extensive library the other half - deep, complex, adult books. When I'd take a break, Abby would ask questions - deep, hard questions that were difficult or impossible to answer. I tried. Abby was smarter than I was, for sure.

Abby lived next door during my summers on the Cape. I'd known her parents for a few years, getting seasonal snapshots of Abby's profound growth. Don, her father, a Ph.D., taught economics and finance at the City University, but when Abby was eight he declared that she knew more than he did. Jean, her mother ran the Montessori school in their hometown; a school that put ultimate value on personalized education for each child and pushed them to their full potential. Abby personified the success of that approach.

Abby had taught herself to speed read, and was digesting about two major novels a day. Everyone at the public library knew her too. She was outgoing and might have been the smartest female I'd ever known, even at age twelve.

In the New Year, by 'unilateral agreement,' her term, she could interrupt me as she chose. I didn't choose to argue the point. Thus, from June to early September, she'd arrive daily after breakfast, sit with me either at my outside table under a scrub oak tree - my preferred work location in the warm weather, or in my sheltered lanai on rainy days. I would feed Abby lunch, and also shoo her home about five o'clock per her mother Jean's request.

Jean would often come over in the summer, mostly to assure herself that Abby was not being a nuisance and that she was behaving well. I always assured her that Abby was a welcome visitor for as long as she ever wanted to stay. Abby took that as an open invitation to spend most of her waking hours with me seven days a week.

Several times I suggested to Abby that she find 'playmates' her own age. I got a withering look and was told that she much preferredme and my books to such trivial things as games, tittering about boys, or goofing off. Jean just shrugged and told me she'd gotten the same response.

I invited Abby to call me by my first name; after all, she'd given me the same privilege, although from time to time I did call her Miss Donst, a term she seemed to like because, she explained, it made her feel older than she was.

We did hold interesting conversations several times a week. Abby would pick a topic and then we'd explore the pros and cons of the subject if it were controversial, or just debate the whys and wherefores. The topics were broad and often deep: behavior of the police, relations with Cuba, the congressional stalemate, gay marriage, women's rights and abortion, school testing, America's foreign policy, product liability, fracking, terrorism, and global warming, to mention a few.

One day she asked, "Why aren't you married like my parents?"

I chuckled at the audacity and familiar nature of her sudden question. No adult would ask so directly.

I had resolved to treat Abby as an adult. In many ways she was wise beyond her years. I responded, "Abby, I was married for seven years of that time, but the relationship was only meant to last that long, so we mutually ended it. We're still friends, but we don't talk too much anymore. We're both very busy."

"I thought relationships were supposed to last forever."

"Some people think that, and try to force the issue. Megan and I didn't. We realized that we'd had some very happy times, and yet couldn't see forward to any more of them, so we parted ways. It seemed like the right thing to do, and time has validated that decision. Fortunately, we had decided not to have children, so our separation was pretty simple."

Abby smiled, "You're not dating anybody are you?"

"No. I've become dedicated to this book." I gestured to my computer.

"Did you date girls after you got divorced?"

"A little. I went out a few times, but I found I liked my own company better than most of the women I went out with. I think I was a little sour on the idea of anything permanent after we broke up."

Abby broke into a huge grin, "That's great. I'll be your girlfriend from now on." Her enthusiasm ignored the obvious point that I was lonely much of the time.

I just nodded, but inside I found myself laughing at her presumptive behavior. Despite her intellect and wide range of reading, I wondered if she understood love and relationships, and everything that went along with them.

I should have guessed that my response might invite trouble, because it was after that conversation that Abby started to spend nearly every free moment with me: morning, noon, and night.

Towards the end of that summer, Jean came by one evening while Abby sat reading and I plugged away at my computer keyboard. She indicated by hand gestures that she wanted a private talk with me. I suggested to Abby that she mix up a batch of iced tea for us, and she gladly vanished into the kitchen pleased that she could help out. She'd done this before, so it wasn't out of character.

Jean said in a low voice, "Jim, did you tell Abby you'd be her boyfriend?"

I visibly winced. "Not in those words. Abby told me she wanted to be my girlfriend, and I didn't discourage her thinking. I didn't want to burst her bubble. I figured she'd go home with you at the end of the summer and forget the whole thing. I detect a little bit of hero worship for some reason. I'm sorry if I've caused a problem. I assure you there is nothing between us."

Jean broke the tension with laughter. "Well, you may be right about her forgetting over the winter; however, I suspect that you made more of a tacit commitment than you realized. I just wanted to make sure what was going on."

"I am not planning to rob the cradle and I certainly wouldn't ..."

Jean interrupted, "Oh, Jim, I know. Don't worry. I'm really here to let you know where my daughter's thinking has taken her. Be kind to her. I trust you."

Those conversations set the stage for the rest of the summer and for some of the following summers when I saw Abby.

Towards the middle of August as we were having lunch I teased Abby, "So, will you miss your boyfriend over the winter when you're home?"

She smiled indulgently at me, "You know I will, but you'll miss me too. I will write you, and you must write to me at least once a week. Will you?"

"I will be sure to remain in touch; however, I can't guarantee the frequency. I'm not that good at letter writing," I stated. "Besides, I have to finish my book, and then go through the agony of getting an agent, selling the book, and then editing and revisions, and all that cycle." That seemed to satisfy Abby.

Abby proved to be a steady letter writer. For the next few years, whenever we weren't in each other's presence, I would get a weekly letter from Abby. The first couple of years they were somewhat unemotional and more like a junior reporter reciting the facts of what had happened during the preceding time period since her last letter.

The next two summers Abby was a visitor every day, for most of the day and many evenings. Upon our initial greeting each June, I received a long and warm hug from the youngster that I returned. I got to thinking I was the mysterious 'uncle' she got to spend the summer with.

I discouraged physical contact between us. I was neither a lecher nor a pedophile, and I didn't want to even raise that specter. If I had attraction to anyone in her family, it might have been to Jean - Abby's mother, but she was happily married it seemed and I was not planning on getting into anything like that.

I encouraged Jean to visit often, and she also became a frequent visitor for an afternoon glass of tea. Even afterThe Pumpkin Man got published she worried about Abby disturbing me as well as her own visits. I explained that she was grandfathered in as a good friend and neighbor before all the fame stuff started.

The fame 'stuff' hit like a locomotive. One day I was an unknown, and the next I was on every TV show anybody could think of, doing guest appearances, and the book went into its sixteenth printing. It became a runaway bestseller - of the week, and then the month, and then the year, and then people were talking about how it might be the best book of the century.

I struggled to remain humble and not let hubris overtake me. Normally, I had low ego needs, but the 'fame stuff' can really get to you. It is addictive.

2005

I had limited experience with fifteen-year-old girls, and those middle school or early-high-school remembrances weren't particularly good for me. Abby indicated that I should not generalize from those experiences, when I explained what a dork I'd been. I had been tall, gangly, with coke bottle glasses, and freckles that slowly went away as I got older. I always thought I'd shaved them off.

She announced, "I am NOT like any other girl my age that you may have met - maybe at any age. For one, I am still your girlfriend, and I intend to stay that way - forever."

I had not heard the girlfriend designation for a couple of years, so her statement surprised me. I truly thought she'd forgotten, although she had continued to write weekly letters when we weren't at the Cape, and haunt my living room, porch or back yard during the summers.

"Abby, you know I have to go out with women closer to my own age once in a while. Some of it is work, and some of our dates are just for fun. I have several women closer to my own age that I see regularly."

"Oh, that's fine. I'm encouraged by your other relationships. Hopefully, they'll keep you occupied until I'm old enough to be a full-fledged girlfriend and can do all the things for you that adult women can do."

I sat stupefied by her response, having no idea where to go from there. The sexual undertone to her statement made me wonder just what was going on in her fifteen-year-old head. I ignored the statements, and tried to go back to work. I did have to admit that in the year leading to that summer, she'd certainly matured tremendously; however, she was a teenager that I had no desire to mess with.

Abby had not only matured, she'd also skipped two grades in school, or rather tested out of them. She'd aced the English and mathematics requirements for high school while still in middle school, and been given free rein to display her talent in other areas with near thesis quality papers on various assigned topics. I know they were good; I read them. At fifteen, she was entering her senior year in high school.

Abby continued to visit and sit with me every day, as she had the past summers. In the middle of the summer I had another tour.The Pumpkin Man had been out for two years by then, and still continued to be in the book charts. My publicist had arranged a rapid six-city tour, ending with an appearance in Hollywood where Sony Pictures wanted a raft of publicity photos with the top four stars to be named to star in the movie. Production hadn't even started yet. The screenplay was still in process, and I had approval rights for how the movie was done.

I was away from the Cape for three weeks. I got back late one night, the limo from the airport dropping me off in my driveway with my bags.

I barely got to my front stoop when a blond blur flew through the darkness and into my arms, practically knocking me from my feet.

Abby declared in an excited voice, "Oh, I've missed you so. I'm so glad you're home."

On that note, she hooked an arm around my neck and pulled my face down to hers for a kiss. The kiss was not a little peck on the cheek. It was about as adult as you could get, but it came from a fifteen-year-old. Abby had never kissed me before except a peck on my cheek, so this was a first.

I pulled away and held her at arm's length. "I like you too. What are you doing here ... and in your pajamas yet?"

Abby was in a set of girlish PJs with cartoon characters all over them.

"I've been waiting for the car to drop you off. I just wanted to let you know I thought about you every day you were gone." She pecked at my lips again and I have to admit I kissed back automatically. She said, "See you tomorrow," and scampered back across the sea grass and dunes between our houses and in the front door to her summer home next door. I stood there wondering what had just happened, and noted a light in the upstairs of her house then go dark.

I resolved to say something to discourage Abby's affections; however, in the morning I didn't have the courage, and she seemed to have checked her eagerness and affections at the door. The summer ended, and I didn't get my concern or message across. For some reason, I continued to send a brief note or post card to Abby every couple of weeks. As I started to travel to promote the book and then the movie, they started to come to her from increasingly exotic locations.

The summer of 2006 I never made it to the Cape. The movie was in production and being hyped in every part of the media, slated for a pre-Christmas release so it would be a peak earner. I was on a whirlwind tour, and even had to make some stunning appearances at major star-studded events. I was at Cannes, Sundance, the Emmys and Oscars, and even gave an award at Big Sky Film Festival. Sony kept me busy, and they paid me well.

The summer of 2007 there was still some fallout from the film - now six months since release, so I only made it to the Cape for four weeks in the summer. Abby doted on me, even becoming my cook and companion when I'd let her. I again tried to push her off to other teens, but she insisted that she only wanted to be with her 'boyfriend' - a.k.a. me.

I finally had the 'I am not your boyfriend' discussion with her, even showing her a number of photos where I'd been at media events with well-known starlets; two of whom I'd had reported 'significant' relationships with - simultaneously. Abby looked at me with amusement, and said nothing.

Abby had graduated from high school, and was the class valedictorian. She'd been accepted at several universities with full scholarships. With Don and Jean's permission, I took her to dinner at the most upscale restaurant on the Cape, much to her delight. She amazed me with her sophistication and grace. We even got several pictures taken of us, including one on her cellphone.

2008

I had continued to humor Abby by occasionally sending her a post card or greeting card during my travels, or even when I was home in my new penthouse in Manhattan. My messages were generally 'cutesy' and did not invite or suggest anything other than friendship. They were in no way romantic, and more often commented on my travels or a great restaurant or tourist site I'd enjoyed - 'Here in [name of city] and just had the most divine [type of meal]. Heading to [another great city] tomorrow. Hope your studies are going well. [happy face] Jim.'

That summer, as I opened up my seaside home one June afternoon, eighteen-year-old Abby appeared. I about dropped my teeth in the middle of my front porch. She was gorgeous. I mean centerfold, knockout, and damn-man beautiful. She had transitioned from the gangly flat-chested teenager into a seductive and mature woman with curves in all the right places.

Abby's hair was longer, but now had a special sheen to it. The pudgy baby fat and ill-shaped body of the early and mid teen years had morphed into that of a shapely woman with breasts, hips, an ass to die for, and her face had filled in too. The braces were gone, replaced with a sparkling smile, and those blue eyes could look right through me.

I muttered, "Wow," aloud as Abby walked barefoot across my lawn. In looks alone she was a 'ten.' She wore short shorts and a tube top that made my mouth water. She also had a subtle amount of make up on, especially around her eyes. She was hot.

She came up in front of me, and for the first time since that hot kiss years before, she planted one on me that made my toes curl. I didn't want the kiss to end, and I certainly didn't want to let this beauty out of my arms.

Abby pulled away slowly, "I've missed you a great deal - more than you realize. Barely seeing you the last couple of summers made the time almost unbearable."

I motioned for Abby to sit beside me on my front stoop. I ignored the luggage and boxes I'd only half carried into the house.

"Abby, I know I indicated that I'd be your boyfriend, but I am worried you're taking this too far. I enjoy being your friend, but we havenotbeen having a romantic relationship."

Abby jumped in, "Oh, I know it's too early for that."

"But you can't kiss me, and certainly not that way. That's romantic. You know that." I was turning her away, but I hadn't wanted her kiss of a few minutes earlier to ever stop.

"I'm practicing."

"Practice on someone your own age. I am way too old for you. You distract me."

Abby said, "I know exactly about our age difference. As we grow older, that difference will be less of big deal. A few years from now it'll be meaningless."

I rolled my eyes. "Abby, I can no longer be your boyfriend, if I ever was. You should be going to dances, on dates, and enjoying the rites of passage with guys nearer your age."

"You're not jealous?" she asked, but her voice sounded edgy.

"NO, I'm not jealous. I want you to date and have fun, just know that it's not going to be with me." I could see Abby deflate slightly at my statement; apparently, she wanted me to be jealous.

"It won't be with you for a while I know," Abby admitted. "I appreciate that. This is an awkward age for me because I'm almost there ... where I can be an adult girlfriend for you. For now, I'll cool it. I understand."

I shook my head and gave an exasperated sigh. She'd at least gotten part of the message. I didn't know how to deal with an obsession.

Abby helped me lug my bags, boxes, and groceries inside my house. After helping me with the kitchen staples, she then took up residence on her usual wicker love seat, and stuck her nose back in her book, signaling that our discussion was over, at least on that topic. I unpacked and put things away.

The next day, Abby showed up on my patio just as she had over the past summers I'd been in residence. She was more demurely dressed, brought a book, and just hung out with me. Nothing physical occurred, and I was on guard about that, even positioning my computer so that it discouraged anyone from being near my chair.

I had almost finished the sequel toThe Pumpkin Man. The working title of the new novel wasStar Struck. My publisher was beating me up to finish the novel, and although I had a rough draft, I wasn't happy with it and so progress was exceptionally slow. I'd had writer's block before, but this was more like writer's mountain.

To avoid talking with my publisher I designated Abby as my semi-official secretary. I explained my desire to avoid contact with the outside world, primed her with the names of people I would talk to, and when she was at my house I had her answering the phone and pushing people away politely with a list of great excuses.

Abby took to the job with zeal and enthusiasm. While she had readThe Pumpkin Man many times, as she told me, I started to use her as an aide forStar Struck. I'd bounce ideas off of her, and I listened carefully to her thoughts and suggestions. I found myself using many of them.