Chad Houston wasn't much different than millions of other computer users in that he enjoyed tracking down old flames. In pursuing Whitney Craig, nee' Whitney Lyons, thanks to the internet, he had obtained more information than she probably wanted him to know.
He knew that she had moved from Maryland to West Palm Beach, Florida twenty-five years ago (in 1993) with Steve Craig, her then boyfriend who became her husband a year after they moved and bought a house. He knew that they were both Republicans, knew that they had written an Amazon-published book about pet care, knew that Whitney had continued to pursue her passion for animal rights. He also knew that Steve had filed for divorce in 2017. He knew all this through his bloodhound-like research on various web sites that revealed such information. It would have been nice to see her Facebook page. However, neither she nor Steve had a Facebook page.
Whitney and Chad went way back. Way back to when Bush forty-one sat in the White House. Chad was then in his early twenties then, Whitney. They had met at some mixer for young singles hoping to find someone special. For Chad, it wasn't exactly love at first site but he found Whitney cute enough and funny enough to spark his interest. Ditto for Whitney who didn't hesitate in giving Chad her phone number.
They dated for two years. Nothing too serious, though serious enough to where they didn't go out with anyone else during that time. Let the good times roll, as the song went, and for Chad, those were good times indeed. There were rock concerts and movies, romantic dinners, trips to the beach and that never to be forgotten trip to California. And the sex was damn good also, if not a bit tense at times when Whitney, who still lived with her parents, "entertained" Chad in her bedroom by putting on her own girl fashion show, wearing sexy outfits that drove him wild. It wasn't so much the outfits as the sensuous way she posed in them. He became excited before they actually did anything. He was always concerned that either her brother, sister or parents would come in, though they never did. So many years had gone by, years sorely missed, years he'd love to get back. For Chad, back then, she was the One.
WAS, is right, because the relationship, as most relationships do, ran its course and the couple went their separate ways. Chad married, then divorced after three years, a sign that perhaps marriage wasn't right for him. Whitney met a guy named Steve Craig whom she married after they relocated to Florida, where her parents had retired.
When the internet happened, Chad began googling, accumulating the aforementioned information. It was in 2018 that he found a link that took him to civil court in Palm Beach County and the information about Steve filing for divorce. Divorcing after twenty-three years of marriage? Not shocking, people did it all the time, but it did surprise him. It was a first marriage for both of them.
Chad wasn't immune to the grass is always greener kind of thinking. Perfect marriages didn't exist (he knew that as well as anyone), yet he thought that Steve and Whitney were at least reasonably happy and comfortable. Surely, they were at least a lot happier than he had been in his brief marriage. Not so, apparently, if they were divorced. He called the civil division clerk's office to confirm what he had read online. Yep, Steve and Whitney Craig were no longer man and wife. Whitney had even changed her last name back to Lyons. So why no updated address online? Both were still listed at the address of the 2000-plus-foot, 3 bedroom, 2-bath rancher home they bought back in 1994. According to Zillow, that was the last time the house was sold. Could they still be living together? Not the norm, though some couples do choose to stay in the same household post-divorce. Perhaps that was true in their case.
He saw it as a mystery to be investigated. Which can be tough when people you're investigating have no Facebook account. Whitney's brother and sister did, but Chad figured he'd have a better chance of hitting the lottery than getting information from them. Whitney was a private person and he was sure they'd protect her privacy. Both her parents were deceased (he found their obits online).
A not so practical way of finding out might be to show up at her door. Crazy, right? Perhaps, but he had nothing to lose. He had vacation time coming to him and Florida had been on his list of possible places to go anyway. He'd need to go alone because the friends he asked either couldn't get off or Florida wasn't their thing. He didn't relish traveling alone. However, he looked at it as a possible blessing in disguise. He pictured a fairytale scenario where he showed up and she welcomed him with open arms. She'd invite him to stay over, and they'd renew their long-ago romance. He could just picture it, he and Whitney strolling on the beach under a full moon, necking by the ocean's roar, while palm trees swayed in the tropical breezes and caressed their tanned, half-naked bodies. Oh yeah, sure. Well, a guy could dream, couldn't he?
He was confident that he could find her house. Google maps and street views told him what to look for. His GPS would be a big help. He'd fly to Palm Beach International, then rent a car. It was an outrageous proposition, trying to connect with an old girlfriend in this way. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Only what might be gained in this case might not be pretty. She could slam the door in his face. Or, maybe Steve really would be there. Then, anything could happen, none of it likely to go in his favor.
He gave it a month's thought. Then, just after Labor Day 2018, he decided to go for it.
*****
Chad Houston saw this as an adventure. In his obsessive mind, there was no other way to see it. His friends thought it was nuts for a guy pushing fifty to hop on a plane by himself and travel over a thousand miles just to see an old girlfriend that he'd had no contact with for over two decades. At least call first, they had jokingly advised him. In fact, Chad had tried but the online number listed was no longer good. Which made him think that she might no longer live at the house either. Then what? Then he'd do what he normally did when at the seashore--lay on the beach, body surf, check out the babes and find a gym that charged by the day. His five-foot-nine, trim, middle-age body was in great shape and he wanted to keep it that way. Missing a couple workouts wouldn't reduce him to flab. Still, he'd seldom missed a workout since he began a fitness regimen in high school that included cycling.
The Marriott Hotel he checked into wasn't far from Whitney's neighborhood, a suburban residential enclave of modest single homes. According Zillow, her home had doubled in value since she and Steve purchased it.
He got into West Palm on a Friday around noon and decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon around the hotel pool, figuring he'd have a better chance of finding her at home on the weekend. The kidney-shaped pool wasn't large but it featured a maximum depth of sex-feet and there was a Jacuzzi on the side. A couple dozen wood lounge chairs sat on a patio of pink tile. Palm trees surrounded most of the area.
Chad had his reading material and his ear buds to keep him company, though he focused much of his attention to the three young women tanning their bikini-clad, nubile bodies. One of them reminded him of the young Whitney. She had long brown hair, long legs and a face that seemed to get prettier the more he looked. Her seductive, brown, puppy-dog-like eyes, beautiful and mysterious, drew him in, just as Whitney's did all those years ago. He turned away when she caught him looking. He might look good for his age, muscular body, full head of longish hair and all, but no babe in her twenties was going to go for a guy in his late forties. Not unless he was a rock star, and Chad's position as "senior wrench" for a bicycle shop to supplement his government pension (he took an early retirement/bail-out plan) would hardly qualify. And neither did his guitar playing. He was a competent amateur but an Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page he'd never be.
Still, he couldn't help but steal more glimpses of this girl, so uncanny was the resemblance to the young Whitney Lyons. She and the girls next to her, a blond and another brunette with short hair, presumably her girlfriends, laughed, apparently amused by this old fart (in their eyes) who couldn't just leave on his prescription readers sunglasses and keep his head buried in his book. The pool separated them, a close enough distance where Chad could see the aforementioned and where the girls could catch his poorly disguised peeping.
He flipped up his glasses to watch them dive into the deep end, and then swim to the other side. They took turns diving under the water, then coming up for air and shaking the water out of their eyes. Once they did, they caught him looking again, then looked at each other and laughed.
Chad dived back into his book. Enough was enough for this cat and mouse eye game. As he began to read, he chuckled to himself. Little do they know that I'm still their age in spirit, he thought. What he didn't expect was getting splashed from the long-haired brunette, the girl he thought looked like Whitney.
He looked up to see his splasher, her arms draped on the pool deck, grinning right at him. "Come on in, the water's fine," she said.
Teasing or not, at least he was getting some female attention. Before he could think of something clever to say, she asked him what he was reading. He held up the paperback. It one of Laura Lippman's crime novels, I'D KNOW YOU ANYWHERE.
"Oh, I've read a few of her books," she said. "But not that one. Bet it's good."
He nodded. "I'm from Baltimore where a lot of her books are set. Where you girls from?"
"So you're a Marylander. We're from the Philadelphia area," the blond volunteered.
