If you enjoyed my last two stories, My Wife Becomes Bar Bait and A Husband Fights Dirty to Save His Marriage, I am confident you will find your time well spent reading this. If, however, you believe every story should end with a husband celebrating his wife's unfaithfulness please skip this missive. It is not intended for you.
For those who enjoy a mesmerizing tale of love, betrayal, and vengeance read on.
Once again I find myself in the position of being a mere scribe, presenting a story which was told to me by a friend-of-a-friend. The story is not mine, I merely set pen to paper and added structure and punctuation to words that were torn from the soul. I am the omnipotent narrator, not the judge of morality. The protagonist swears the story is true. I will leave that to the reader to decide.
All names and places have been changed.
*****
Did you ever get a phone call from a complete stranger which changed your whole life? Mine came one month ago.
It was a glorious Saturday morning in early May; the sun was shining and the birds were singing. With the coming of spring my honey-do list was as long as my arm. My day of chores became slightly more complicated when my wife, Becky, got lassoed into volunteering to work a marathon. The insurance agency she worked for was sponsoring a 3k run the following weekend and needed all hands to help with the myriad of details that needed to be finalized.
Our twin daughters, Meghan and Tami, occupied themselves on our deck while I worked my way through the backyard portion of the list. I promised the girls McDonalds if they played nice while I mowed the lawn. I filled the gas, checked the oil and was ready to start cutting when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and let it go to voice mail. A moment later it rang again without the caller leaving a message.
My interest was piqued by their persistence and, when it rang a third time, I answered with a friendly, "Hello." The response damn near knocked me on my ass.
"Mr. Richards, you don't know me but your wife is going to have an affair with my husband next weekend."
"What?" I demanded, "Whoever this is, this ain't funny." I hung up but within seconds the phone rang again.
"Look lady," I said, "I don't know who the hell you are but stop calling."
"My name is Daniall Campbell. You may call me Danni. Your wife's name is Rebecca Richards. Right now she is shopping for a new dress and lingerie for date next Saturday night. My husband Randolph has reservations for dinner and dancing at the Pump Room. He also has a suite booked for them to consummate their illicit affair. I know this because I am having them followed."
While I listened in stunned silence my mind screamed, 'No! No! No! That's a lie!'
"My husband is, to use a quaint word, a cad. He finds amusement in seducing then discarding beautiful married women. Randolph knows I know which has made him very careful in covering his tracks. It wasn't easy but I now have a plant at Guaranteed Insurance. Karen is a wallflower who blends into the background but sees and hears everything. She keeps me apprised of his actions on a daily basis. Karen has watched my husband groom your wife as his next conquest. Yes Mr. Richards, that means he has not yet succeeded in having intercourse with Rebecca."
"I suspect your wife spun a story about working as a volunteer at a marathon her employer is sponsoring. The truth is the agency's involvement consists of presenting a substantial check and the owners posing for publicity pictures at the finish line. Oh, and there is no rallying of the troops today. She is, as we speak, shopping at Nordstroms."
"You sir, are being played, as am I. I, however, intend to keep it from happening, with your help or without."
My hands were trembling with rage. I took a deep breath and snorted, "Tell me what I can do."
I guess a little history might help you understand why I was so devastated by the allegations. I met Becky when I was seven years old. After my sister was born mom announced we had outgrown our house in the city; next week we were moving to a brand new home out in the suburbs. Before the moving van was unloaded Becky had wandered over, met me, and announced she was going to marry me. I said "Okay." We spit in each other's palms and shook hands to make it official. All that was left was for us to grow up until we were old enough to make it legal.
True to her word we were an inseparable couple from that day on. I got in more fights than you could count when my friends would tease me for "liking girls." All of that changed when we were in high school as we watched our friends on a constant merry-go-round of who was dating who and who hated who because they had broken-up with another friend. We looked down our noses at these mere bit players in the game of love because we knew we would be together forever.
We both attended community college and, on the day we graduated, I formally proposed.
The first chink in our armor came when our twin daughters entered first grade. Becky got a part time job at a local insurance agency. The hours were great; she could put our girls on the big yellow bus, go to work, and be home in time to greet them that afternoon.
On her second week on the job one of the agents received an award for being high producer in the region. This called for a celebration after work. Becky was invited to join her co-workers at a bar which had a Happy Hour that included two-for-one drinks and free appetizers. She made a quick phone call; grandma was only too happy to babysit her little ones.
Curiously, there seemed to be some kind of celebration every month. But, being a veteran of more than one winding down the week cocktail, I wouldn't begrudge her the opportunity to talk to adults.
It was sometime during the third month I noticed Becky was dressing nicer for work. What had begun as a plain blouse or sweater with pants had evolved into a skirt or dress complete with pantyhose and even heels. "I'm interacting more with customers and have to look good," was how she explained it.
