I'm a widower. I lost my loving wife, Joyce, almost fifteen months ago. I was devastated. She was only diagnosed three months before she died, and such a sudden loss weighed heavy on my heart. For a couple of months, I didn't do much beyond going to work and coming home to sit in an empty house before going to an empty bed. I even had trouble reading the Sunday paper because we used to read it together in the morning and then do the crossword puzzle over lunch.
I'm 44, about six-foot-two and not bad looking, I guess. I've been with the same med-tech company for over two decades, and am now the director of the department that develops medical imaging software.
After Joyce died, friends at work tried to get me to go out with them after work, but my heart wasn't in it, and they eventually they stopped asking. Some of the ladies who have known me for years have tried to get me to go out with them, even just casually with no romantic attachments. I know they feel sorry for me and just want to be company for a friend, but I have not been able to do it.
Mercifully, some of the guys eventually spread the word that I was "Mr. Straight-Arrow," and was hopelessly still carrying a torch for Joyce. They remembered that when she was alive I would not stray an inch out of line. Even at conventions in Las Vegas and New Orleans I would not party with them after hours. Oh, sure, I would go the various hospitality suites to glad-hand potential customers and have a drink or two, but I would always excuse myself when the others wanted to hit the town afterwards.
"Gotta call Joyce," is what they always expected me to say, and I always met their expectations.
I knew they were heading for strip bars or dance clubs to look for women. They would say things like "pussy-whipped" or "henpecked" jokingly, but most of them knew I didn't go with them because there was only one woman in the world for me: Joyce. Most of them secretly wished they had our kind of love, I suspected.
The truth was that we were in love beyond what any of them could imagine. We shared everything. She didn't particularly like golf before we were married, for instance, but she took it up so she could share it with me. Likewise, I had no interest in antiques, but her love of them led me to learn about them. Antique stores and auctions became a regular part of our travels. That was one of the secrets to our marriage. We learned to appreciate and participate in each others' interests and hobbies.
Some of the areas of interest into which we initiated each other were far more personal and intimate, but the world knew nothing of that beyond our constant affection.
It had been so long since my wife died that I finally had to snap out of it and take care of a number of issues, including my own state of mind. Except for what had to be done for probate, I had not yet gone through her papers or personal possessions for many months, and her closet space and dresser were still untouched. I was living by myself in a four bedroom house, and certainly didn't need to free up the space that her half of the closets or her office in one of the bedrooms represented, but it was time to do so.
I thought about what I should do with her clothes. She had no family nearby when she died, and when her sister and cousins were here for the funeral, it was way too soon.
With fortunate timing, her older sister, Mandy, had recently moved to a town nearby for a new position with her firm.
Mandy is one of the most loving people I know. When Joyce became seriously ill, she used up a lot of her vacation time and came to live with us for well over a month just before she died. Joyce needed constant care, and Mandy's help was amazing. During that time, we got to know each fairly well . . . or so I thought.
Mandy lives alone. She has never been married, but had several relationships with what Joyce and I thought to be really eligible bachelors. She doesn't think she is beautiful, but I always thought she really was. She is about 5'6" with a slim build that started getting just a little round at the edges when she was in her early forties, and she is now 45. She wears her dirty-blond hair fairly short in a wispy hairdo because it doesn't take much care, according to her. She has a heart-shaped face with a pert little nose and soft, round hazel eyes.
She almost never wears much makeup, but when she does, she is exceptionally pretty. I wouldn't call her glamorous or a candidate for a centerfold. She looks more like the kind of woman that would play the best friend of the lead actress in a romantic movie. You know . . . the one that winds up with the lead actor's best friend.
She told me that she even had a couple of guys propose to her over the years. I told her that I could understand why, as she is smart and funny, and she is wonderful company. What I could never understand was why she had turned her suitors down.
"I guess I'm just too set in my ways," she said. "I like being free to go where I want to go and do what I want to do." I always thought there was more to it than that, but she's an adult. I was not going to tell her how to live her life.
Now that she was no longer living far away, I decided to give her a call about Joyce's clothes. I had seen her a couple of times since she moved nearby to welcome her to the area and help her unpack a bit at her new condo, but I hadn't thought about the clothes until now.
When I called her, she said she was busy but could come over the next weekend. I told her that the clothes had not been touched in over a year, and that another week wouldn't hurt. She said she would be over on Saturday after lunch.
The following Saturday I heard her drive up. I greeted her at the door and gave her a hug and peck on the cheek. I asked her where she wanted to start.
"I remember you have a cedar closet that opens into the master bedroom. Let's start there."
We went upstairs to the cedar closet. As Mandy preceded me up the stairs, I noticed that she had put on just a little weight over the last year or so. I don't think I noticed it on my visits at her new condo since I had not been following her up stairs with her butt a couple of feet in front of me. She wasn't even close to fat, but her butt had rounded out nicely. She was wearing a soft pullover sweater and a pair of tan cotton slacks that were just tight enough that I could see her panty lines. I looked away after I caught myself staring at them.
Mandy started looking through Joyce's coats. She tried several of them on, and most of them fit pretty well. She picked out half a dozen, and we carried them down to the living room, where I had some folded boxes already out for her. She picked up the tape gun and started putting a few boxes together. I had to go to the bathroom.
On my way back I heard her yell, "Hey, do you have any more tape? I just ran out."
"Look in the cabinet by the TV!" I yelled back.
As I entered the living room again, I heard her say, "When did you get all this great scotch?"
I remembered then that she loved single malt scotch, too.
I told her, "Well, your sister liked wine, not hard liquor. We always tried to do things together. Since I knew we couldn't share scotch together, I mostly bought wine. I liked it, too, and sharing it made it 'our thing,' not 'my thing' or 'her thing.' I only had a bottle or two of scotch in the house, which is what the two of us shared when you were here caring for her last year. After she died, I decided to go back to mostly scotch."
"Well this is what I have always wanted," she said, gleefully.
"What, a cabinet full of scotch?"
"No," she quipped, "A
relative
with a cabinet full of scotch! Can we taste some of these?"
I said, "Sure. You're really the first person I've had over who could appreciate them. I haven't even considered dating again, and my poker buddies only drink beer. Pick one out to start with."
She picked out a bottle of 18 year old Glenkinchie. "Let's start here with a Lowland distillery. We'll get to the peatier Islay and Highland stuff later. I want to be able to taste the lighter stuff first."
I said, "It sounds like you want the full tour of Scotland! I don't think we should have full shots of each one, or we'll never make it to Speyside."
While she was admiring the bottle, I grabbed a couple of pear-shaped whisky tasting glasses and a pitcher of filtered cold water from the 'fridge.
I poured about half an ounce in each glass, and said, "Taste it like that."
She swirled the whisky, watched how it clung to the sides of the glass, and then held the glass to her nose. She tasted a sip and swirled it around in her mouth.
