Kalimaxos wrote the template "Just Once... If You Don't Mind" offering it up as an opportunity for others to write the ending. There really is only one direction the story could go unless you accepted a forced open marriage scenario, which isn't my usual cup of tea. For me, it was a matter of what price the pound of flesh would be. Please read the original and give the author fair marks. I am picking up where the author left off.
My usual disclaimers apply; if you don't like it, pay me to write your story. I'll take $1.00 a word.
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"What do we do? Well, that's quite a question, isn't it, Leslie. I've just had the end of my marriage handed to me and to be honest I don't think it sets the stage for a seduction, do you?"
I looked at her struggling to reply before she pushed the words and syllables out of her moist lips. In another universe, maybe... not this one.
"Rick, you would seriously end your marriage over this? I know Marcy loves you and, my God, if there was ever the perfect picture of a couple."
I looked at her incredulously as I walked over to the fireplace mantle and picked up the wedding portrait next to the family picture with the kids when they were still in high school. The back of the frame held the stiff board keeping the photo in place and with a quick swipe, I tossed it aside and held the portrait in my fingers.
"This is a perfect picture, isn't it? I've always said Marcy looked absolutely radiant in this. Of all our wedding pictures, this has always been my favorite by far."
Leslie stared at me with just a tinge of sadness, a spark of humanity trying to take root in the walking corpse of a bartered whore. Oh, she is a beautiful woman by any measure and were the circumstances different I might take great pleasure in an evening with her. She might even be sincere but she will never wash away the taint of a grand conspiracy with the woman in Bogata. No, there's no chance of that.
"The thing is, Mrs. Nielsen, I've come to the quick conclusion that Marcy has completely forgotten who and what I am. Maybe I'm to blame for some of it, who knows, maybe a lot of it but a perfect picture of a couple?"
I struck one of the long wooden matches we use to start the tinder and held it to the corner of the portrait watching the small yellow flame snake up the side until the sting of its heat sent it flying into the fireplace. It was the strangest thing. The flame consumed most of the picture and died out leaving just my face. Providential, I suppose.
"I certainly thank you for walking this letter over to me but Marcy underestimated things when she offered up my bones for your consumption. I'm going to pass on the offer, however gracious it might be. The Muscato was a nice touch, though.. My favorite."
We both knew the social hour was over and I walked her to the door.
"If you ever change your mind, Rick." She smiled at a vixen's trap.
"I'll keep it in mind but I'm sure it's not likely. Give my regards to your husband."
The door closed to a frighteningly loud silence as I glanced at the ashes in the firebox, the lipstick on the wine stem, the picture frame on the ottoman. In spite of the front I put on for Leslie, the weight of dread was crushing my spirit. I picked up the wine bottle, walked out the back door and heaved it to the other side of the yard before turning to the little cabinet above the fridge where a full fifth of booze waited with devilish glee.
It was the meanness of it, the callous cuckoldry shoved right in my face frosted with the nonchalance of 'meh'. That booze became my best friend that evening, right down to the last drop when my face hit the couch cushion with a soft thump and I ended up on the carpet for the rest of the night.
Morning was no better. I was still alone, stinking from the night before and to kick me when I'm down again, there was no coffee. I did have plenty of Marcy's tea and made the best of it but the weight was still crushing. When the liquor store opened up, I replenished with a case of Woodford; no cheap shit for this soldier, and called into work. I was in no shape to consult and might never be.
That was the routine for the next few days, get shit faced, eat whatever was in the freezer and do it all over again. On the fifth day, I took out the trash and went for a long run, pushing myself and the sun was shining again. When my dad lost his 1st wife to cancer when they were both young, he did something that made a lot of sense to me, especially now. He mourned for several days and burned the grief out of his system. Of course the loss took a long time to heal for him but the burning hurt was gone; he could get on with his life.
I suppose that's how I looked at my marriage in some respects; it was like a spouse had died. It was that fucking letter that blew it to kingdom come and ripped my soul with it's cruel disregard. Now, it was time to act and leave no doubt in anybody's mind who and what I was. Rick Weston is a man, not a cuckold and I'm a goddamn soldier and I'm not taking this shit!
Fuck, if that didn't feel good. Of course I'm not a murderer or a thug who is going to rain special ops hell on a couple of miscreants shacking up in Bogotá but I don't have to take it sitting down either or maybe I was all of those things. The sum of my call with Marcy and her goddamn insulting letter was worth a few pounds of flesh in my opinion and it needed to be peeled off of at least two people and I know some folks...
When I finished out my active duty with twenty eight years so I could be at home for the kids in their last two years in High School, INSCOM out of Fort Belvoir worked it out with G2 command to allow me to work my thirty years off with a stint in the Reserve unit assigned to the post. I was two years into it now with another four to go but the attraction for me other than getting to my thirty years service was that I could go in once a month and a couple weeks a year to hook up with the guys in my old unit.
One of the 'guys' was LTG Laura Porter who was now U.S. Army Deputy Chief of Staff of G2 Operations with responsibility for US SOUTHCOM. Diedre Kiel had been working CIA liaison duties in Miami for SOUTHCOM when I retired and as far as I knew she was still there. When people tell you it's a small world, they don't know how small until they realize how close the CIA's operation in the capital of Columbia is to the U.S. Army command in Miami and G2 in Fort Belvoir.
"Deidre" was all I said when she picked up her desk phone.
"Rick Weston? Oh my God! How are you? What's it been, two, no three years now?"
I have to admit it was comforting and pleasant to hear her voice again. While we had that one discretion together, we both held the other in the highest regard and she always was the first one I could confide in when the need arose. We chatted back and forth for a bit before I got to the meat of my call.
"Marcy told me you visited her and told her about us." I embellished the story a bit but I was also fishing.
"Fuck, no way! Rick, I did pop in for a quick visit but only to let her know you were doing great, I had your six and that she had a wonderful husband who would be home soon. I didn't tell her a thing about what happened between us. I would never do that."
One thing was certain with Deidre; she was a straight shooter. If she said she didn't,
she didn't and it meant Marcy was lying and given the circumstances, I'd take a CIA spook's word over my wife's any day. I went ahead and told her the whole story not glossing over a thing.
"Does Porter know all this?" She asked. "No way." I replied.
Laura Porter was working field ops out of Kuwait when her husband lost his fucking mind and started up with a nineteen year old intern working out of his division back home and ended up knocking her up. The girl gave birth to twins and the University she programmed out of sued both the stupid ass and his company costing the family everything they had saved for ten years. On top of that, the girl sued him for eternal child support and six figure damages for sexual harassment of a subordinate. He settled out of court. Laura settled him out of the country; nobody knows where he is.
"I don't want anybody killed. Other than that, I don't care." I said when we finished our long chat. "And, whatever the case, please do not bring Porter into this."
"Rick, when the shit settles down on this, I'd like dibs."
I pretended I didn't know what she meant. We left off without my being further involved. She'd tell me about it over drinks in Miami.
It had been a couple weeks since my call with Marcy and I had heard nothing from her. The boss at work had pointed me to one of the partners at a law firm he used when he went through his divorce a few years earlier and the meeting with him was pretty anti-climatic; We're a no-fault state and all the joint owned property is split 50-50. She has her own retirement as good as my own and makes enough so that alimony is out of the question. It was all a matter of liquidating and moving on so that is what I put into motion.
Our bank accounts are joint owned and the house is paid for as are all the vehicles. With the kids both out of the house, we were essentially financially fit for life at this point. It was all a matter of placing the assets in two piles and walking away with one of them. I looked at the recent assessment of the house we had done when Kyle left for college and decided to make the decision for Marcy on my own. She could have the house and I'd take the balances in the cash and savings accounts excluding her 401K. That would cover my 50% of the accounts plus half the equity in the house.
