To the reader:
There isn't any sex in this story so if that's all you want then this isn't going to be for you. But if you enjoy a story about the ending of one life and the beginning of another then read on.
Thanks to jo for editing. Any errors are mine and not because of poor editing.
© Copyright March 2013, by the author.
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Fair-weather friend -- A friend who is only a friend when circumstances are pleasant or profitable. A friend who is only around when they need you. A friend who only sticks by you when things are going well. At the first sign of trouble, these capricious, disloyal friends will drop their relationship with you.
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I had a visit from my daughter today. It wasn't pleasant for either of us and I don't think she left happy. Oh, she was all nice and friendly and amiable, but it's been too long and the wound too deep for me to return any of her affection without considerable thought and soul searching. She said what she wanted to say and left without getting what she came for. What she wanted was me back in her life. I told her I'd think about it.
And when she left I cried.
Megan is a grown woman with children of her own but at the same time she's the little girl that I bounced on my knee when she was three. She's intelligent, articulate, attractive, and from what her sister says a good wife and mother. I have to believe she is because she's the image of her mother. She even has her mother's stubborn streak. She's everything a parent could dream of.
So if she's so wonderful then why haven't I spoken a single word to her, before today, for five years? It started with something her mother did.
I remember the last words I spoke to Megan like it was yesterday. It was five years ago at her mother's funeral and after one of the most emotional days of my life. I walked up to Megan at the grave site and told her, with all the bile I could muster, that she was just as dead to me as the woman we just laid in the ground. Then I put my index finger in my son Stuart's face and said the same thing to him. Scanning the crowd of shocked onlookers, I scowled at each one with an expression that made it extremely clear that my words included them too. The stunned reaction of my family and friends, along with their bug-eyed expressions, will burn deeply in my soul for the rest of my days. It was that pain that I will take to my grave: A pain born of the destruction of our family, the death of their mother, and the loss of their father. I walked away from everything that day, arm in arm with my youngest daughter Faye.
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I loved Connie almost from the first moment we met. It was as though we had been together all of our lives. We've loved and had been in love from that moment on. God must have used us as the model for perfect matches because we were like apple pie and vanilla ice cream, great separately but absolutely the best together. Even before we said our vows we were so much of a twosome that everybody said we were 'old married folks' already. That was way back in high school. We married after college and just celebrated our 25
th
anniversary. Then things happened that to this day I still can't fully explain.
Our 25
th
wedding anniversary was a gigantic affair. It was a beautiful sunny June day and all of our family and friends were there to celebrate with us. My father was in his wheelchair and sat at the head table with Connie's mother and father and all three of our children. Every friend and neighbor congratulated us and showered us with more gifts than we could ever use. Even the town mayor stopped by to give us a little gift from him and our friends on the town council; a plaque declaring June 14
th
as Connie and Marc Jenkins Day. There were over 200 people under that large circus tent, laughing, eating, and dancing late into the night. When it came time to reaffirm our vows I don't think there was a dry eye anywhere. I know for certain that Connie's and mine weren't. But I didn't see anyone else's. I didn't see our children standing beside us at the altar, I didn't see our families holding hands in the front row, and I certainly didn't see our Golden Retriever, Beau, curled up at the feet of the preacher. I didn't see anything but Connie, the woman who completed me, the woman I loved and have always loved, and the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life showing just how much I did.
Our oldest daughter Megan had gotten married a month before our little fete and had just returned from her honeymoon a week earlier. Stuart had just finished his sophomore year at University and our youngest Faye her freshman. It was good to have everyone back at home again. I would never say this out loud but I missed the noise and the pandemonium of the kids at home. I think Connie did too. For a little while at least we were a family again.
A few days after our anniversary party I was returning all of the chairs and tables and other party equipment to the rental place when I had a little fender-bender with my truck in the parking lot. I turned the corner a bit too sharply and mangled the headlight of a nice new Lexus. The police officer who took the accident report was one of the kids that grew up with Stuart and had played on many of his sports teams. Greg was no longer a kid though; he was taller than me now and with his uniform carried an air of authority that made him even taller. I watched him mature and was as proud of him as I was of my own children. After our business was finished we just stood around and talked about nothing. The end of the conversation planted a seed that grew like a weed in my fertile mind.
"Well Mr. Jenkins," Greg said holding out his hand to shake mine. "I've got to get back to the station. It was really nice to see you again and I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your anniversary party. My parents told me I missed a really good time." I shook the hand of the man that I watched try to steal second base in nine and under baseball. He always got thrown out, but grew into a man that I was proud to call friend.
"Oh, and tell Mrs. Jenkins to be careful and stop at stop signs from now on," he said with a mischievous little smile. "I'll have to give her more than a warning ticket next time."