Only In Novels

This a follow-up to Never Say Never published 7/11/2019 in the Romance section.

It's been awhile since Juliet Laghari, ne' Zeboskey, has been this enthused about a writing project. A few days ago, she met Richard Edison, her old college flame, for ice cream, and things went better than expected. In truth, she had no expectations before meeting him. What sort of expectations should one have with an ex-boyfriend who hasn't been your boyfriend since Nixon was president? More than that, they're both married, married and retired with kids and grand-kids, and the times they once shared are ancient history, yellowing like old parchment in the dustbin of memory.

But what memories, and oh what times, and it all shot to the surface during their meeting and then suddenly became so vivid during that long kiss goodbye. She didn't want to leave, and neither did he. Ridiculous thoughts popped into her head, thoughts like running away with him to Tahiti, living together in one of those straw huts and surfing during the day. Pure fantasy, possible only in her imagination, transcribed into novel form about two old flames who bail from their marriages and do just that. Thus, the idea for "Never Say Never," the title of her novel, parts of which swirl in her head even before she commits one word to her flat screen computer.

"Share the fantasy," the voiceover from that old Chanel No. 5 commercial went. And boy would she like to, ever since that kiss in the parking lot of Long Green Creamery. Richard wasn't shy about grinding his body against hers and she wasn't shy about telling him what she felt as he did so. Normally, art imitates life, yet sometimes it's the other way around. As she told Richard at Long Green, 'the line between fact and fiction can be very thin. It can blur and then vanish altogether.'

Which can mean only one thing—she's thinking about cheating on Bradley, her hubby of umpteen years, her controlling hubby who in her present mindset might have every reason to be controlling. "Never Say Never" could be the ultimate roman a' clef, written as it's happening in real time, she thinks. She's seated in her study in front of her screen, chuckling at the daring outrageousness of such a thing. She's in white shorts and a green V-neck top, rubbing her bare feet against the embroidered scatter rug that lies under her chair. Her blue-gray eyes, eyes 'that still sparkle,' Richard had said, stare at the screen, while her brain gropes for an opening sentence, one that will grab a readership that craves such sordid tales.

A chill shoots down her spine when she hears Bradley approach.

He walks into the cozy space of a room, wearing jeans, a T-shirt and house slippers, rubbing his hand over his protruding belly. "What are you working on now?"

She keeps her eyes trained on the screen as he approaches, looking over her shoulder. "Oh, just another novel."

He sees the title in bold caps at the top of the page. "Never say never...hmm, what's that about?"

"Well, I'm not sure," she says, mindful to be as vague as she can. "I'm hoping to write my first thriller. Switching genres seems like a refreshing way to go." She then glances up at him, sees him swishing his hand over his bald pate, brown like the rest of him, like most Indians.

He looks skeptical. "No plot, no characters yet?"

"Just a vague idea in my head. You know my writing style. Unlike some writers, I don't work from an outline. Things just happen, characters take on a life of their own."

He nods. "Well, good luck, and I hope you'll let me read parts of it as it progresses."

When he shows interest, she's let him read short excerpts. But could she do that with "Never Say Never," a work that might reflect what's actually going on in her life? "Sure, Brad, sure," she says. "Now, if I can only write the first sentence."

She feels relieved when he leaves the room. She might let him read a few passages, but she'll be dammed if she's going to let him look over her shoulder while she writes them down. True to his controlling nature, he more than once tried to do that, then backed off when she screamed in protest.

Time for that elusive opening sentence. Let's see. Okay, here goes:

"What does a married, sixty-something woman do when she's messaged by her boyfriend of fifty years ago, asking if she'd like to meet for a chat?"

Not a bad opener, she thinks, leaning back in her chair. At least it will do for now. She's still undecided whether to write in the first or third person, past or present tense. Each has its advantages and disadvantages, and she's got to decide what will be the most effective for a story of this nature. She knows a lot of it will depend on what happens with Richard. They parted ways with the idea of seeing each other again, another ice cream and coffee date perhaps. Or, something else, something more intimate. Visions of her and Richard in some out-of-the-way motel room make her squirm. Dreaming such things is one thing—and she has—but acting them out is something else. She's never cheated on Bradley. Well, unless you count that smooch at the Creamery. She laughs, thinking she'd wag her finger in Bradley's face if he ever found out: "I did not have sex with that man!"

Does she really wish to weave that proverbial tangled web? Tangled webs belong in the pages of novels, safe and secure and far from the trouble where such mischief might lead. Better to act out those fantasies on your keyboard than in real life. And yet, she can't deny that visions of getting naughty with Richard are pulling her in another direction. Less than an hour ago, she received a text message from him:

Juliet - How's the novel coming? Let's get together soon.

Let's indeed, she thinks, and messages him back. Richard - I've written my first sentence. lol. Where shall we rendezvous?

Juliet - Go take a hike! I mean that literally. Let's hike together through Cromwell Valley Park.

Richard - Good idea. I'll get back to you after I work out the logistics.

She means finding the time and the way around meeting Richard without Bradley knowing. It shouldn't be too difficult. He plays golf a couple times a week with the boys. She could sneak out then. Ohmygod, that word—SNEAK. She hates to think of it that way. The least she could do is tell him she's going hiking, just not with whom. Another half-truth, just like last time when she told him the truth about going shopping for shoes, which she did, but then said nothing about meeting Richard at the Creamery later on. This shouldn't be too difficult.

She's right, it isn't. Walking by herself is routine for Juliet, and so Bradley doesn't suspect anything out of the ordinary when she tells him she'll be hiking while he's on the links. She meets Richard at the park entrance, a dirt and gravel lot, pulling up in her white Honda CR-V a minute behind Richard and his black Mazda Miata. She sees him standing by his car wearing jeans, a blue T-shirt and cross-trainers. She's in khaki shorts, hiking shoes and carries a knapsack filled with a couple energy bars and two water bottles.

"Looks like you've come well-prepared," he says, greeting her with a warm hug.

"Well, I didn't know how long we'd be out here. We could get lost, you never know."

He laughs, knowing full well that getting lost in this park, just a few miles from where they both live, is next to impossible. "You're right. I should have brought my GPS," he quips.

Cromwell Valley is part of a watershed surrounding a huge manmade reservoir, dug where once a village thrived in the nineteenth century. Hikers and mountain bikers make frequent use of its miles of leafy trails that snake through wooded, hilly terrain. Long-time residents of the region can't get lost, though the bucolic scenery can almost create the illusion that one is lost in some rural outback rather than in suburbia.

Juliet is about to say 'just like old times,' when she realizes that walking beside Richard like this isn't anything like old times. One can never recapture the feeling of their youth, even with someone they were once madly in love with. Sure, bits and pieces of that special time linger, the emotional detritus of what they once shared. But that was nearly a half-century ago, water under that proverbial bridge that had long since washed out to sea. What a weird social dynamic, she thinks, walking with this guy, someone so familiar and yet a stranger at the same time. Too bad they have to do this on the sly.

Which begs the question...

"So Richard, what did you tell Robyn this time? More reading at the library? I told Bradley the truth, that I'm taking a walk. Of course, not the whole truth."

He adjusts the Baltimore Ravens cap he wears, visor in front. "She thinks I'm doing interval training on Piney Hill, which I've done. It's great for the quads, by the way."

She bends over and smacks the front of her thighs, thighs that have lost muscle over the years. "I could use some of that interval training myself." She sighs, thinking back to high school, when she was a field hockey star and in the best shape of her life.

"And I could use some self-restraint when it comes to food," he says, slapping his belly, which hangs over his pants more than he'd like. "I'm disciplined when it comes to exercise. Diet? Not so much."

Juliet remembers when Richard got admiring looks on the beach, from both men and women, for his sharp muscularity, which included an impressive six-pack. "Well, we ain't what we used to be, are we?"

"How does that Toby Keith lyric go? 'I'm not what I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was.' Or something like that."

She chuckles. "Toby Keith? You used to hate country music. Remember when I tried to get you to listen to it? You wouldn't budge."

"Right, I know. Well, I began listening to it a few years ago after I realized that it doesn't all sound the same. Some of those songs are beautiful, sung by artists with beautiful voices. Reba McEntire. Dolly Parton. Miranda Lambert. I've become more flexible in my old age. At least culturally. Physically, well, that's a different matter." He chuckles.

"Tell me about it," she says. "I could once do a split."

"I remember. I was so impressed. I tried it and the only thing I split was my pants."

She throws her head back and laughs. "I do remember that, in my backyard with my parents watching. Hilarious. Well, these days, for me, just stooping down can be an effort."

As they hike on through the shaded, serpentine trails, Toby Keith's song gets Juliet thinking about their goodbye kiss at the Creamery, when Richard pressed his body against hers and she felt a part of his anatomy that brought back times which she'll never forget. It's obvious he can still perform. She can too, though her post-menopausal state requires generous amounts of K-Y. That is, when she and Bradley have sex, a rare thing and getting rarer. If Richard is as good once as he ever was, he must still be pretty damn good. Not that she'll ever find out. That would be crossing the Rubicon, fine for the characters in her fledgling novel, not so fine for its author. She's used her imagination to create compelling stories and two published novels. She could do it again. But oh, what depth and realism she feels she could add to a real-life experience—fiction imitating life as it were.

Those thoughts meander as they come to an outcropping of rocks and she suggests a brief rest. They sit shoulder to shoulder and sip from their water bottles. Further up the slope, a couple mountain bikers navigate through the tricky terrain. In the other direction, about fifty yards away, deer scamper nimbly through the woods. "We picked a great day to do this," Richard says. "Warm but not too humid."

She nods. "You know, Richard, being with you like this would be great, even in the rain."

He smiles at the memory of that long-ago rainy day in Ocean City, the two of them strolling on the boardwalk, arm in arm, sharing an umbrella.

"Yes, I remember it very well," she says after he asks. "We saw a movie and then went back to our cottage and made love." She pauses, shakes her head. "Or is it the other way around? Sex first and then the movie."

"The former. The movie, then the sex. Now, for ten points, what was the name of the movie?"

"Geez, we saw so many of them. Let me think." She narrows her eyes, intense and pensive. "Mash? Five Easy Pieces?"

"Good guesses. But we saw those back home. It was Start the Revolution Without Me."

She shakes her head. "Ah, that's right. Not one of my faves. Never was a Gene Wilder fan." She pauses to take another sip. Then: "I've just realized there's so many things we didn't cover down memory lane when we met at the Creamery. They can serve as back-story for my novel. It will be a long road to Tahiti."

He raises his thick eyebrows. "Will this fictional couple who rekindles their romance ever get to Tahiti?"

"I sure hope so. Characters take on a life of their own, so maybe not. But I'm hoping."

He puts a hand on her bare knee. "Well, they had an encouraging start with that long kiss. Now what they need is a follow-up. What's that old Chinese proverb? A journey of a thousand miles begins with a first step."

"Then consider this step number two." She leans in and kisses him, and it isn't long before what begins as a light make-out becomes a full-blown, passionate make-out—not 'in all the old familiar places,' as the song goes, but on this rock beside a hiking trail in the middle of Cromwell Valley Park. This might be a small step compared to the long road they'd need to travel to Tahiti, but a giant leap from their encounter at the Creamery. Juliet not only sees the bulge in Richard's pants per last time, but feels bold enough to feel it and free enough to let his hands wander to places on her where they haven't been since the release of those movies she mentioned. "I'd be soaked by now—if my pussy worked as it once did." She says this with a trace of lament, but only a trace, because wet or not, she's as aroused as she would have been in the days before menopause put a damper on her once natural lubing mechanism. Still, she's glad she didn't pack her K-Y. Ohmygod, that might have landed her in more trouble than she surmises she's already in. She thinks: in the novel, the as yet unnamed heroine brings her K-Y to the park—and puts it to it's intended use.

*****

"Well, it's certainly been an interesting day," Richard says on the parking lot.

She rests her arms on his shoulders after a long kiss. "Interesting is putting it mildly, Richard. When I get in front of my computer, it will become even more interesting."

He chuckles. "I take that to mean your characters will be doing things that we did and then some."

She steps back and reaches for her car keys. "You're spot on, especially with the then some. Which reminds me, it's about time I give names to my two would-be lovers."

"And move past that first sentence."

"Indeed, which after today, should be a, well, walk in the park."

"Speaking of walks in the park," he says, playing with her hair, "I hope we can do another one. Soon, if possible."

She likes what he's doing, running his fingers through her now silver and brown locks, just as he did years ago. "Richard, I'm too far into this to stop now. Maybe next time we can take things to another level. If you know what I mean."

She winks, then gives him a final kiss goodbye before driving off. Behind the wheel, her mind runs down a list of names as if she's reading a rolodex. Tom, Dick and Harry. Nancy, Linda and Beth. All valid, all too generic. She can get more creative than that. Let's see...hmm...How about Paige and Kirby? Now that's more like it. Last names she can come up with later.

Pulling into the driveway of her suburban split-level, she sees Bradley dressed in tank top and shorts, trimming their hedges. He pauses when she alights from the car. "How was your walk?"

"Great, just what I needed," she says, trying not to laugh at that double-edged truth. "How was your golf game?"

He shrugs. "I could have done better. We only played nine holes."

She nods, then goes in the house to shower and change. A half hour later, her fingers dance over her keyboard, turning words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs. She's now got last names for her characters—Kirby Scott and Paige Pollack. Like she and Richard, Paige and Kirby are in their sixties. Unlike she and Richard, both are in ideal shape for their age, attractive, physically fit, etc. Kirby's got a full head of hair and Paige can still lubricate on her own. Idealistic perhaps, but not impossible. Paige could be Juliet's alter ego, so it's only natural that she writes this from Paige's point of view, first person, past tense.

She's so focused on her work that she isn't aware of Bradley's approach until he enters the room. "Looks like you found your way past that first sentence," he says. He looks over her shoulder, wiping perspiration from the back of his thick neck. Narrowing his dark eyes, he begins to read what's on the screen.

Juliet huffs, does an abrupt half-turn. "Brad, you know I don't like you reading my stories as I'm writing them."

Ignoring her protest, he strokes his chin and continues reading, his eyes focused on the part where Paige and Kirby message each other through Facebook about planning a secret rendezvous. "What's this novel about, Julie, people committing adultery?"

She scrolls down to a blank screen. "It's about former lovers who reunite decades later, okay? Now, can I get back to work?"

He lets out an incredulous gasp. "What made you come up with that theme?"

She grits and shakes her head. "Nothing, really. I just thought it might be interesting, thought it might make for compelling drama. So, are we done?" Her pleading expression says it all: 'please go away and leave me to my work.'

Barely controlling his mounting ire, he grits back. "Done for now. But I'd like to see this from time to time. Sounds...interesting."

She flips him the bird when he turns his back. "You'll see what I want you to see," she whispers after he leaves the room. Of all the fucking nerve. She feels there's a nasty confrontation brewing, one that's impossible to avoid unless she abandons the project, and there's no way she's doing that. She's too into it, all psyched up and restless with anticipation of what will happen next. She stares at the screen and shakes her head, asking herself what WILL happen next? In her novel, Kirby and Paige will go further on their hike than she and Richard did—and she doesn't mean just in ground covered. In her life, her real life, she can only dream of such things with Richard. People in their sixties do start over, but it's usually because a spouse dies, not divorce. By then, after a long marriage, what you've seen for decades is what you get, what you'll always get. Your mindset is one of grudging reconciliation. You don't expect anything "better," and you sure don't expect the sort of temptation that just came her way, so irresistibly exciting that it compels you to write a whole novel to, if nothing else, live vicariously through your characters. It's much safer that way. Of course, the operative word is VICARIOUSLY. You don't become your characters, nor do your characters become you. Otherwise, you risk trouble on the home front, the sort of trouble that Juliet thinks she might be headed for if she continues to rendezvous with Richard. Is it worth it?

She sends Richard a text, thereby answering her own question:

Richard - How long has it been since you took a day trip to Bay Shore Park or Milford Mill Quarry? That water would feel awfully good during this current heat spell. Can you get away? I miss you.

Juliet - Robyn isn't a big beach person. I've gone to Milford alone for the day, which she hasn't begrudged, so there shouldn't be a problem. Miss you too.