Facets of Love

Note to Lit admin. Special formatting in this story includes the use of italics and paragraph centering.

To my faithful followers and new readers: This is the second chapter of a twelve-chapter love story. The entire book is already written, and I will do my best to get each chapter published as quickly as Lit allows.

In chapter 1 you met Robert and Mary, two young people who have found their soul mates. However, with some extremely clever foreshadowing on the author's part, you were left wondering what future events could possibly make this match made in heaven turn south. Part of the answer lies below.

All characters participating in or observing sexual activity are at least eighteen years old. The author is well over the age of consent.

***

Facets of Love

Chapter 2

-

Mary Spencer

December 8

th

, 2017

It was two weeks before winter break. Going to class, studying for exams, and Robert's numerous jobs occupied our days. But we spent most of our nights together. Something I would miss when I went home for Christmas. Apparently, Robert felt the same way.

"How are you getting home?" he asked.

We were in bed, winding down from a particularly enjoyable session of belly bumping. I was lying on my side, facing him, with my head nestled up against his chest. He was on his back, absentmindedly tweaking my nipple between his thumb and fore finger. A habit of his that I found remarkably stimulating before sex and surprisingly soothing afterwards.

"Is your mom coming to pick you up or are you going to fly?"

"Fly," I said. "Would you mind taking me to the airport?"

"How about I take you to Florida."

"Are you sure that's smart? I can't imagine what Mom would do if you showed up at her house."

"Weren't you planning to tell her about us?"

"Yes, when the time is right. Maybe a couple of weeks into the break, after she has a chance to see how happy I am and asks why, I could bring up the fact that we're seeing each other."

"Or we could just show up together and give me a few days to win her over."

"Are you asking to spend Christmas with us? With my family?" I asked.

"Too soon?"

"Probably, but if that's what you want..."

"It is."

-

December 22

nd

, 2017

It is over four-hundred miles from Auburn to my parents' house in the Tampa suburbs. The closer we got, the more nervous we were.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked when we got off the interstate a dozen miles from my home.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"Well, Mom could take one look at you, drag me out of the truck, and send you packing."

"How about your dad? Does he own a gun?"

"Yes, and a gun safe to keep them in."

"Them? How many guns does he have?"

"I'm not sure, but it's a big safe."

For some reason, the idea of my dad owning a small arsenal of lethal weapons didn't seem to bother Robert, but the unarmed security man at the entrance of my parent's gated community threw him for a loop.

"How long you plan on staying?" the rent-a-cop asked.

"I don't know," Robert said. "At least one night, maybe more."

"Not in that vehicle you won't. Community by-laws prohibit overnight parking of any truck, trailer, boat, or mobile home. I'll expect you to be gone before sundown."

The guard checked my ID, gave us a temporary pass, and waved us through.

"That was a joke. Right?" Robert asked.

"I'm afraid not. A lot of these high-end gated communities don't allow pickups. The rich and powerful think only working-class people drive trucks, and they don't want any commoners living next door."

"So, it's okay for a landscaper, plumber, or dishwasher repairman to park his truck on the street during the day - where everybody can see it - but once the sun goes down, you can't park a truck in your driveway?"

"I didn't say it made sense, but it's not an uncommon rule amongst the Florida elite."

"Remind me to never move to Florida."

My parents were sitting on the front porch rockers, waiting for us when we drove up the circular driveway and parked in front of the house. Mom's face turned from quizzical, when she first saw the truck, to pissed, when Robert got out.

Leaving Dad on the porch, Mom sprinted down the steps to the truck. "You said a friend was driving you home," she whispered/yelled at me, completely ignoring Robert.

"Good to see you too," I said. "You remember Robert, don't you? He helped us when I first got to Auburn. And yes, he is a friend. A very dear friend."

"You surely don't expect him to stay in our house."

"Only if you -" Robert started to say.

"Yes. I do. He'll be spending Christmas with us."

"Doesn't he have his own family?"

"No ma'am, I don't. My parents are dead."

Mom was about to say something else, something nasty I'm sure, when Dad saved the day.

"Frank Spencer," Dad said, shaking Robert's hand. "Are you Mary's new beau or just a convenient ride home?"

"A little bit of both, I guess. Pleasure to meet you sir, I'm Robert Jones."

"He's a senior at Auburn," I interjected. "Majoring in Engineering."

"Good on ya son. That's exactly what this country needs. More engineers and less lawyers. So, what's the plan? You spending the night or just passing through?"

Mom said, "passing through," simultaneous with my, "spending the night."

"Well, either way, it's almost dinner time and I'm sure you're both hungry after such a long drive. We can decide where this young man sleeps after we eat."

"That won't work," Mom said. "I only planned dinner for the three of us."

"Which, since you always cook way more than we need, means we won't have as many leftovers tomorrow as we usually do," Dad said.

"But you don't know how much this boy can eat." Mom immediately regretted her outburst.

"Oh really? You two have met before?"

"Robert fixed our van when I moved into the dorm," I said.

"Well, that settles it. Pull your truck around back so they can't see it from the street," Dad told Robert. "If you decide to spend more than one night with us, we'll pull it into the garage, so our overzealous homeowners association won't tow it away."

-

Robert Ryan Jones

Mary grew up in a 4,500 square foot, five-bedroom, mansion. That didn't include the detached four car garage or the cabana room behind the swimming pool, all sitting on an acre of land. While the Spencers didn't have any live-in servants - no butler, French maid, cook, or chauffeur - they did enjoy the weekly services of a cleaning lady, pool boy, and lawn crew. Frank ("don't call me Mr. Spencer") was half owner of a successful manufacturing company. Dr. Spencer ("only my friends call me Martha") charged $200/hour to tell people how to fix their lives.

In Mary's opinion, her parents were upper middle class. In my mind, they were filthy rich. The Spencers knew I was dirt poor. My goal, for the duration of my time in Florida, was to convince Frank and Martha that I was worthy of their daughter.

That first dinner wasn't too bad. Frank and I discussed the upcoming college bowl games while the two women glared at each other. The inquisition didn't start until Frank suggested "we men retire to the study for after dinner drinks while the ladies clean up."

"What does your father do?"

It was an innocuous question, one often asked by fathers when confronted with a new suitor for their daughter.

"He was a peanut farmer. We had a hundred acres south of Dothan."

"You said 'was'. Is he doing something different now?"

"No sir. He passed a couple of years back. Cancer."

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't know. What about your mom. How is she handling the loss?"

"Mom died when my youngest brother was born."

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Two. Mark joined the Army after he graduated high school. Sam's sixteen and lives with my aunt. I'm betting he'll also end up in the service."

"Tell me about your father's farm. Is it still in the family?"

"We had to sell it to pay off Dad's medical bills."

"Mary did say you were a student at Auburn. How do you manage?"

"I've got a scholarship that pays a good bit of the tuition. The university provides me with a trailer to live in, in exchange for maintaining their farm equipment, and I do odd jobs around campus for food and gas money."

The conversation moved on to other topics and it was all very cordial, but the damage was done. Frank knew I was a financially strapped student, with no family, no resources, and a genetic inclination towards cancer. Not the man he wanted for his daughter.

Mary and I got a few minutes alone together before bedtime. We sat on the front porch watching a crescent moon rise over the palm trees.

"How'd it go with Dad?" she asked.

"Not great."

"Was he mean to you?"

"Not at all. He's a great guy, reminds me a little bit of my dad."

"But..."

"I don't expect an invite for spring break."

She reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. "Give him a few days. Be who you are. Do what you do. In a week he'll love you almost as much as I do."

"How was kitchen duty?" I asked.

"Miserable. Mom says you owe her five-hundred dollars, plus interest."

"Did you show her the clothes we bought?"

"Yeah, and she wasn't impressed. Especially with the boots."

"I guess I'll have to come up with some cash."

"Like hell you will. What she did was manipulative, underhanded, and just plain evil. Just because I came out of her womb doesn't give her the right to run my life. I'm an eighteen-year-old adult and -"

I kissed her. Hard. One hand around her back. The other grasping her ponytail. She struggled at first. Tried her best to push me away and continue her rant. But I kept at it. Holding her close. Hoping, praying, that one of her parents didn't step outside and witness me molesting their daughter.

Mary eventually succumbed and kissed me back. I released my grip on her hair and softened my attack on her lips. Our tongues tangoed for a while and, although I desperately wanted to take my actions to their logical conclusion - to explore under her blouse and between her legs, instead, I leaned away.

"Sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Don't ever apologize for kissing me."

"Not for the kiss. For forcing you. That's usually not my style, but I couldn't stand to hear you call your mother evil."

"But she is."

"No," I said, putting a finger to her lips. "She isn't. Your mom is not evil. She did what she did because she loves her daughter. Give her a little time to get used to you being an adult and a lot of grace when she treats you like a child. I wish I had a slightly manipulative, occasionally underhanded mother looking after me."

Looking up at me with tears cascading down her high cheek bones, Mary gave me one last kiss.

"There is absolutely no way I deserve you," she said. "But if you sneak into my room tonight, I'll give you what you deserve."

We startled when the front door rattled a couple of times before opening.

"Two-minute warning you two," Frank said. "We're locking up for the night."

"Did you know your dad keeps a loaded pistol in his nightstand?" I said after Frank left.

"No. And more importantly, how do you know?"

"He told me. It's a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer with a laser sight and ten round magazine. He also said that the upstairs hall floor creaked a little, so I shouldn't be concerned if I hear him walking around in the middle of the night. Good chance we'll be sleeping alone tonight."

-

When my body automatically woke up at 5:30 the next morning and refused to go back to sleep, I put on shorts, t-shirt, and running shoes, slipped out the back door, and set off to explore.

Following a network of paved running paths, I wound through the neighborhood, passing houses of similar size to the Spencer's and a few even larger. A portion of my run cut through a golf course and, when I came upon a good-sized alligator resting next to one of the many water hazards, my detour around the large lizard might have led me through the manicured back garden of one of the smaller mansions.

The run did me good. I didn't sleep well the previous night. My overactive mind kept searching for a way to impress Mary's parents and never came up with a workable plan. Three miles at a moderate pace put my brain in a better place and, by the time I got back to the house, I realized that the only person I had to impress was Mary. Yeah, life would be a whole lot easier if my future in-laws liked me from the get-go, but it wasn't a deal breaker. All I really had to do was not give them a reason to reject me. Be polite, be helpful, and don't do anything stupid.

I was showered, shaved, and dressed by the time Martha came downstairs. She didn't see me at first. I had made myself a cup of Keurig coffee and was partially hidden in the breakfast nook, silently watching as she started her morning routine. There was a graceful efficiency in the way she moved and, when she reached above her head to fetch a stack of plates from an upper cabinet shelf, the morning sun backlit her sheer night gown revealing the outline of her braless breasts... not the magnificent masterpieces of womanhood hiding under her daughter's nighty, but certainly boobs most women ten years younger would be proud of.

If Mary takes after her mother, I'll be ogling a similar sight in my own kitchen two decades from now.

"Anything I can do to help?" I asked.

Martha spun around in fright, the plates spilled out of her hands, I dropped my coffee cup in an unsuccessful attempt to save the plates and was thereafter banished from the kitchen. So much for not doing anything stupid.

After the morning kitchen fiasco, Martha suggested (insisted) that Frank and I do some male bonding while she and Mary decorated the Christmas tree.

"I don't care where you take him," I overheard Martha say to her husband. "Just get the son of a bitch out of my house so I can talk some sense into our daughter."

"You ever done any shooting?" Frank asked me after his not so discreet conversation with his wife.

"Yes sir. A little, back home on the farm."

"What did you shoot?"

"Whatever we could eat. Pheasants, quail, the occasional wild pig."

"How about sporting clays?" he asked.

"Is that like skeet where a machine throws a clay pigeon in the air for you to shoot at?"

"Pretty much. Care to give it a try?"

An hour later, Frank, his younger brother James, and I were loading our shotguns into a golfcart at a shooting venue nestled in scrubland thirty miles inland.

Both Frank and James had Italian made, double barrel over/under guns that had to cost at least five thousand each. I declined Frank's offer to borrow "one of his older guns" and retrieved my Winchester model 12 pump action from behind the seat of my truck. I got some good-natured ribbing when I first pulled my grandfather's field gun out of its case but, when I broke my first fifty pigeons without a miss, I knew I'd finally done something to impress them.

From their conversation, when they weren't talking trash about their shooting skills, it was evident that Frank and James weren't only brothers, they were also business partners.

"Nothing fancy," James said when I asked what type of business. "We make packing material. Cardboard boxes, bubble wrap, grocery bags... all the stuff that people take for granted."

"We've got a half-acre facility in the Tampa area and are thinking about opening a new plant in Texas," Frank added.

"Sounds interesting," I said. "Any chance I could get a tour while I'm here?"

Yeah, I was doing a bit of brown nosing, but I'd always been interested in how things were made, so going to a working factory for me was kind of like visiting an amusement park.

"I don't mind if you don't," James said to Frank. "The number three conveyer shit the bit again this morning so one of us has to go there anyway."

It was a twenty-minute drive from the shooting range to their cardboard box factory. The building wasn't much to look at from the outside and the machinery on the inside had seen better days. Thirty workers stood idle around a non-functional conveyer belt while James tried to get a repairman on the phone.

"Mind if I take a look?" I asked Frank while his brother cursed as he waited on musical hold.

"Knock yourself out. I'm losing a hundred-fifty bucks every minute this damn machine is broken."

It took me five minutes to figure out what was wrong, ten minutes to convince Frank I knew what I was talking about, and fifteen minutes to get the conveyer running again.

"That's just a temporary fix," I told the brothers. "You're going to have to replace the sprag clutch sometime in the next month or it'll quit on you again."

"That conveyer is so old, I don't think they make parts for it anymore," James said.

"Then you'll have to make your own parts or replace the conveyer," I said.

"Can you do that?" Frank asked. "Can you make a new clutch?"

"I'd need access to a machine shop, but yeah, I can."

-

Mary Spencer

"Are you two having sex?"

That's the first thing Mom asked after Robert and Dad left to go shooting. Not "how did you sleep?" or "what courses are you taking next semester?"

"Are you having sex?" The way she asked, it was more of an accusation than a question.

"Yes," I answered. "We are. Several times a week. I've been spending more time in his bed than the one in my dorm room. I sleep better when I'm in his arms, I eat healthier when he cooks for me and, ever since we've been dating, my grades have improved. You might as well quit paying for my dorm room and the meal plan because, when we go back to school in January, I plan to move in with him."

"Is he going to pay your tuition as well?" Mom asked. "Because that's the only way we'll let you live with him. And is he also going to pay for your medical insurance? Your birth control prescription runs out the end of this month. Assuming you've been taking them, you'll be needing a refill."

"Strong words for a woman who had me at eighteen. And remind me, how old was Dad when he knocked you up? Thirty, wasn't he? Six years older than Robert is now."

"Your father was a successful businessman when you were born. Robert is a starving student. Yes, he is charming and good looking, but he is also the first boy you've seriously dated. All I'm asking is for you not to rush into anything. I don't think you realize what a catch you are. There are thousands of young men at Auburn. With your looks, personality, and family connections, you can have any one of them."

"So that's it. You're not worried about Robert's age. You don't think he's good enough for me."

"Yes sweetheart, that's exactly what I think. And I don't blame you for sowing a few wild oats these next couple of years. I expect you to be discreet with your personal affairs, but it will do you good to explore what's out there. That's why I'm going to keep paying for your dorm room and food. When you get bored of Robert or he tires of you, I want you to have an exit plan. A safe place to go when you're no longer comfortable or welcome in his trailer."

"I understand what you're saying," I said. "I don't agree with you. If anything, I don't think I'm good enough for Robert, but you're my mom and expected to think I'm too good for the rest of the world. So how about we agree to disagree on our opinions of Robert and see what this next semester brings. You have to know that I plan to keep seeing Robert. I won't completely move in with him but, as long as we're happy, there's no reason why we shouldn't continue dating. If what you say is true, if he gets tired of dating a girl six years younger than him and dumps me, I'll accept it as a life lesson and move on."