This is a long, slowly-developing story about psychosexual disorders and their impact on interplaying characters. It's in four parts, so doesn't have to be consumed in one read. If you're looking for a comedy, this isn't it. Votes and constructive feedback are appreciated.
Part 1
The phone interrupted me as I was in the kitchen preparing pasta. "Val!...Oh, Val! Please come quickly! Something awful's happened! Denise has drowned in the pool!" It was Rachel calling, panicked, just returned from grocery shopping at the village market. She'd often referred to her strong-willed mother by her first name, whom I'd gotten to know over the past few months.
"What?" I asked, incredulously. "Have you called the police?"
"They're on their way but...oh, Val, I need you. I can't deal with this alone!"
I was there in ten minutes, throwing on a pair of long pants and driving the mile or so to the house that Rachel's mother owned on the dead end road in our wealthy, gated community. The girl sobbed into my chest as the police combed her house, collecting forensic evidence, and an ambulance crew was hustling Denise's body out to the Coroner's lab.
I was shocked. I'd seen Denise a couple of weeks previously, and had spoken with her on the phone more recently. I informed the police lieutenant of this and he asked that I make myself available for questioning over the next few days. He was encouraged when I told him Rachel would spend the night with me, since he and his crew had a great deal of work to do on the grounds.
That night as we snuggled, naked, in bed, Rachel slept typically restlessly, and we didn't make love...a first for us in a long time. Instead, as the night wore on, my mind retraced the half-year or so that had passed since I'd met her... .
* * * * * *
...I'd been doing some landscaping in my side yard. It wasn't out of habit, nor was I trained for or very experienced at doing groundwork. Instead, it was a way to pull myself out of a year long depression and
do
something rather than sit and feel sorry for myself.
My mourning period was over. I'd buried my wife of 25 years the previous Spring, whose death in an auto accident had shattered our carefully planned lives. Shortly thereafter, at age 48, I'd sold my chemical engineering business for a huge amount, guaranteeing that I'd never need to work again. My two grown children, both married, lived on the East Coast, and I was at the mercy of a good friend who was a psychiatrist. He advised self-immersion in hobbies, occasional consulting work, and travel.
Hence, my landscaping. I had a gardener who came in periodically to maintain the property's grounds, yet I needed something to do on my own. I had an orchid greenhouse at the rear of the large house in which I liked to putter on a daily basis, and from which I supplied local florists and other merchants with exotic flora. But that hobby had been the passion of my loving, departed wife, who'd been a nursery expert. So, to avoid lapsing into a depressing daily funk at her memory, I occasionally altered my routine by doing other work in the gardens.
I met Rachel – quite by chance – on a hot afternoon in the Spring, my job of the week being to lay flagstones on a path parallel to my driveway that leads to the rear, the pool deck and my greenhouse. I was fully engrossed, listening through my headphones to Michael Crawford sing his heart-rending "Music of the Night" number to the Christine character in
Phantom of the Opera
. Out of habit, I sang along, full-voiced. I'd been vocally-trained when in high school and college but was an amateur. As I recall on that afternoon, though, I was really putting my heart into it – complete with full body movements while I set stone in mortar, until the number's climax – when I sensed someone watching from close by.
I turned and there she was, holding a bouncy Golden Retriever pup at bay on a long leash. I whipped off my headphones and promptly dropped a trowel-full of mortar completely down my front. I'd wrapped my tee shirt around my neck and was sweating, so was half-naked. I was wearing cargo shorts, so my legs were bare to my work boots, now covered with gray, sticky cement. I was embarrassed.
"You have a beautiful bass/baritone voice," she said. "You should do something with it," she continued, scanning my cement-covered front. "I'm a music teacher. I could tell the owner here that I'd be happy to coach you."
"
I'm
the owner," I said, extending my hand. "Valentin Noreika. Friends call me Val. Your name?"
She placed her tanned hand in my large palm and exhaled a quick, "Forgive me. I'm Rachel Noyes. I walk my puppy, Thurber, past your drive every day and have seen you working. I thought you were one of the help."
Thurber chose that moment to push his nose into my cement-stained crotch and snort. "Maybe I'd better go clean up," I recoiled, pushing away from the dog's hard, probing nose. "I've made a mess of myself! Awfully nice to meet you!" I said, turning to go inside, conscious that my shorts were soaked through to my privates, which were now very cold.
"Perhaps tomorrow. We come by every day!" she said, as the dog yanked her away. I stole a glance at her, dressed as she was in skin-tight light blue shorts and sports bra with running shoes. I was a bit flustered, since it was the first time since my wife had died that I'd noticed a woman to be in any way physically attractive.
Rachel was about 5'6", with platinum blonde hair in a ponytail that swept down past her shoulder blades. Her fair skin was tanned to a golden brown – the sort of color one seldom sees on blonde women except those who've worshipped the sun. Her widely-set, violet eyes slanted upward at the outer corners with an Arctic, almost Asian, look. All this was bounded by a heart-shaped face with a strong jaw, straight nose, and a widely smiling, full-lipped mouth that begged to be kissed. As she turned to wave goodbye, I remembered having seen pictures of such women in photo albums kept by my Lithuanian relatives.
But it was her body that left me breathless. Though appearing to be in her mid-twenties, her figure was that of an opulent teenager...probably 34C or D-23-36. Her breasts emerged high from her chest, full and succulent. Her torso narrowed to an incredibly small waist that was snugly bound by her tight shorts. Her hips flared roundly – unlike a typical Caucasian women – and were accented in back by a high, bubble-shaped bottom. Her thighs were full, softly delectable while stretching her shorts, and nipped in delightfully at the knees, quickening my pulse as her smooth, muscular calves ended in very trim ankles and small feet. It had been decades, I mused, since I'd been so moved by seeing such a stunning female creature. As I watched her walk away, I felt the first palpable throb in my groin in over a year.
"You're making good progress!" she said the next morning, this time sitting on one of the decorative boulders that circumvented the large front yard while her dog lay next to her feet. Again, she was dressed in skin-tight shorts and sports bra, this time maroon, with a matching, zippered, sweat jacket on top. Her legs were drawn up and – quite by chance – I managed a glimpse of the nexus of her legs. Her labia were perfectly outlined by the very snug material, as a seam in her shorts split them into two sublimely opposed crescents.
