It was May of 2002. I was on a special assignment doing surveys on educational equipment in Denver and Colorado Springs, a project that took four months. I could have stayed in a residential motel but found them sterile and wanted something a little homier. An apartment would have been cheaper but nobody would rent an apartment for less than a year. Pouring through the newspaper at the Waffle House I came across an ad that read, "Furnished room for rent, upscale residential neighborhood, laundry privileges and garage... Rent $400... contact Claire Moore."
Have you ever had one of those nudges that commanded you to do something out of the ordinary? I had never considered a room and there was nothing special about the ad but, it was almost automatic, I made the call to Ms. Moore. She said her office was only minutes away from her house and she could meet me right away. Her voice, one of those syrupy, sultry voices, was a magnet. Being a male, I fantasized that it would be nice to meet a comfortable woman with whom I could spend my lonely nights, someone soft and warm to cuddle up to.
My wife of eight years, a nurse in Los Angeles, couldn't handle my long absences and ended up having an affair with a doctor whom she had since married. That was three years ago. There was no end in sight to the extended travel which interfered with a permanent relationship, so, I'd only been having casual affairs since the divorce.
Even though Claire Moore's voice on the other end of the phone sounded youngish I thought she was probably an older woman. I pictured her as a woman of average height, probably a zaftig body with breasts that were still holding up. But I told myself not to be disappointed if she was old and fat and had false teeth.
Claire had arrived at the house within ten minutes of hanging up the phone. Her husband had been gone for three months and would be away for at least another six. Addicted to gambling, he had run up a fortune in debts and had taken a job as a construction superintendent in Afghanistan, a hazardous, high paying job where the company sent his earnings directly to a New York bank who would hold it in an interest bearing account until he returned. Hopefully the stash would allow him to pay off the debts after which they could get on with their life. Money was getting short for Claire and she reasoned that renting the room on a short term basis would help tremendously. But she wondered if she were doing the right thing.
As I drove passed the graceful Colonial I saw an attractive woman looking out the front window. If she was Claire Moore she was much younger than I envisioned and I wondered what circumstances might have caused a woman liked her to take in a roomer. It was, as she had said, "a nice house in a nice neighborhood." I pulled up in my Porsche Roadster to the house within a half hour of our phone conversation.
Claire pulled back the sheer curtain and looked out the window just as a 1992 black Porsche Roadster passed the house, continued down the street, made a u-turn and pulled up to the curb in front of the house. Watching him get out of the car she thought, He's CUTE. He was wearing dark blue Dockers, a teal Polo shirt and Sperry Topsiders, no socks. Looking into the mirror she primped her hair and waited for him to knock on the door.
The woman I had seen looking out the window opened the door. Wearing khaki pants, a navy silk blouse and a single string of pearls, she was extremely attractive. She was younger than I expected, probably between 35 and 40. Her auburn hair hung slightly below her shoulders and she had fine features. All in all she was a real classy looking woman.
"You must be Mr. Claridge," she said offering her hand. "I'm Claire Moore."
Returning her greeting I said, "I hope the car will be alright in the street Mrs. Moore. It's a classic model Porsche. I've had it since it was new in 92, it's my pet; I keep it in Cherry condition."
"Please call me Claire."
In the living room there was a picture of Claire, a man and a girl somewhere between 15 and 20. "Your family?" I asked, stopping in front of the mantle to examine the picture
"Yes, my husband and my daughter Stacy. Ted's overseas on a project...will be gone for another six months. Stacy's a senior in high school. She's 18. She must have seen me raise my eyebrows and clarified, "Stacy's a December birthday; we held her back in the first grade." She looked out the window and said, "If you take the room there's room for your car in the garage."