"Wow!" exclaimed Melanie. "We've never been here before!"
It had been a long, two-hour drive upstate to the northern reaches of New York's Finger Lakes. The congestion of Manhattan had given way to neat rows of suburban houses, and then to the countryside and more spacious settings. By the time Melanie and George reached their destination, things were downright sparse; rolling hills, an occasional house intermingled with pastureland and lakes and ponds of all shapes and sizes.
Melanie was worried her new, strapless gown was going to look wrinkled after the lengthy stay buckled into George's Mercedes. She looked down, frowning, then glanced at the mirror in the visor. "Do I have time to fix myself up?"
"Certainly, my dear," said George; he was wearing sunglasses, contrasting with the expensive Armani suit. He glanced sideways at the tall, leggy blonde. "But you look lovely, as always."
Melanie was carefully tracing her full lips with gloss, puckered them a couple of times. "Do I know any of these people?"
"Oh, you've met my friends," he said, turning onto the quarter-mile driveway to the resort. "At the Club. Phil and Jake will be there, and Jim Craddock…"
"He's always so cute," said Melanie, daubing on rouge. "Do you know, last week, he pinched my ass!" She smiled playfully at George, who was watching her reflection. "I was afraid you two were going to have to have a duel."
George laughed. "Perhaps in my younger days."
A valet was waiting at the top of the hill. A magnificent, three-story structure beckoned; smoked glass doors were emblazoned, The Odondock. "The party will be just beginning, in the ballroom," said George. "We're fashionably late. Good morning, Edward."
"Hi, Mr. Wilkinson," responded the young, smartly groomed valet, holding the door open for Melanie. She tried to catch his eye; he was a good-looking kid, but he wouldn't even look at her. "Your guests are waiting." He came around to the driver's side, took George's keys and a ten-spot, and headed the Mercedes around the circular drive with a vroom. "My bags!" Melanie exclaimed.
"Edward will bring them," George said. He held out his arm. "Shall we?"
She took his arm; catching their reflection in the dark glass of the doors, Melanie again thought about how odd they must look together. The sixtyish George, short and stumpy, and his big, bosomy girlfriend, half a head taller and less than half his age. But then, all of George's friends also seemed to have cute young things around them; must be an older guy thing, she decided. Besides, he'd always been so nice to her; she stole a glance at the tinkler on her arm—twenty grand, easy—and the rings dotting nearly every finger. All of that, just to hang with the lonely old guy a few times a week, meet him at the luxurious, secret apartment her kept her in downtown—comes with the territory, she decided. Part of the deal.
Through the smoked glass, she saw the outline of a doorman hustling to greet them. Melanie frowned at her reflection; she'd gained a few pounds. Her hips strained at the fabric; her bosom was spilling out of the abbreviated bodice. The hem barely stretched inches below her panty line; the sheer nylon that encased her long legs was as tight as a second skin. All of those filets and lobster tails; she'd quit her job as a hostess at the nightClub, even though the money was good. George took such good care of her, working was the last thing she needed to worry about…but the soft life, she was starting to fret, was making her too soft.
"He said, 'Your guests'," she said as they entered. "Do you own this place?"
The lobby was huge, opulent, maybe a bit rococo. Gargoyles leered out from the corners of the high ceiling; ornately carved woodwork lined a genuine fireplace, birch logs piled at the ready. "No," George answered. "Members of the Club rent The Odondock for our private parties. The building dates from the Twenties," he continued as they headed across full-shag carpet to the clerk's desk. "Used to be one of the first stops on the vaudeville tour."
"Were you around back then?" Melanie teased him.
George laughed. The clerk, an older man, had his key waiting. "Good to see you again, Mr. Wilkinson." Again, Melanie looked his way; again, he wouldn't even acknowledge her. She'd gotten used to that. Her best friends were the other men's girlfriends; they would gossip together at the Club's pool about who had gotten the nicest jewelry, or a new car. All of them were young and beautiful, with skimpy bathing suits that showed off year-round tans. They could talk amongst themselves, but couldn't tell anyone else about their affairs, not even their parents; that was part of the deal. In exchange for a life of luxury and not too many demands, that was easy enough to accept.
Once in a while, one of the men would drop a girlfriend, replace her a few weeks later with another one; Melanie had tried to keep in touch, but found she couldn't track the jilted girls down. She was told George had had other girls, too, and she probably wouldn't be his last; privately, though, she dreamed that he'd leave his wife for her, and it would be her in the big house on Staten Island, instead of that stuffy old apartment.
A long, dimly lit corridor led to the ballroom, electric lights crafted to look like lanterns emitting their flickering glow every few yards. George puffed as they climbed a short flight of stairs. "Poor baby," cooed Melanie wickedly; she loped up the steps, giving George a peek at her full bottom as the hem of the fancy gown he'd just bought her flopped over the tops of her long legs. George staggered up the remaining stairs, looked at her as he caught his breath, and politely opened the door.
A few steps into the big, overdecorated ballroom, Melanie got her first shock. All of the men were there; they cheered and raised their glasses as she and George entered. But they were with older women—their wives, she decided. The women, all even more expensively dressed than she was, seemed delighted to see her. The men grinned; tall, gaunt Phil Pendleton limped up. "Hey, Georgie, Mel," he shouted. "Join the party."
"Where's Nance, Phil?" Melanie asked, looking around the room as Phil and George vigorously shook hands, clapped each others' backs.
"Oh, you know how it is," he said, vaguely waving a hand. "The wife wants a vacation, and we had this party coming up; Delores," he said to a stately, heavyset woman in a purple floor-length dress who had joined them, "this is George's friend, Melanie."
Delores smiled, broadly. "Of course; so glad you could join our little outing. Hello, George; how's Vivian?"
Melanie looked anguished. "George—I need to talk to you; can we step outside?"
A waiter brought George a Seven-and-Seven; he took a gulp. "There's nothing to talk about, Mel," he said. "It's just a party; everybody knew you were coming. Vivian is fine, Delores; you look wonderful. Come on, let's say hi to the other guys."
They headed toward the hors d'oeuvres and punch bowl; she bent down, whispered in his ear. "It's just that—I didn't expect wives! I feel so out of place. And how does that make you feel, if they keep asking about your wife?"
He stopped, took both her hands, and looked directly into that pert, pretty face, those blue eyes. "Just fine," he proclaimed. "Fine and dandy."
