Surprising Stacy Ch 02

This is the continuation of a story I published here a while back, called "Surprising Stacy." When I wrote it, I wasn't thinking of a sequel; as usually happens, I forgot about it and moved on to other things. But then one day something reminded me of it, and I decided to check back in on the characters, and this is the result. I don't think you need to read the first part in order to understand what's going on here, if you don't feel like it.

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I had just finished a talk based on my recent book,

Lost in ArchivesSpace

, which seemed to me to have been well received. I had quite a few questions at the end of my remarks, and most people seemed interested enough to hang around to listen to my responses. What can I say? In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. The future of libraries and archives is digital storage and access, and that happens to be my particular area of expertise. ArchivesSpace is a relatively new open-source platform that has become, in a very short time, the must-have records management tool for college and university archives. Having spent a year helping the librarians at Marlowe, the small college where I work, learn to master the system, I figured I might as well write a book to share what I'd learned with the rest of the world. And it was well received, and actually sold pretty well, at least in terms of academic book sales. I'm not breathing down the necks of Michael Connelly or James Patterson. I wish. But I did get an invitation to give a talk (and try to sell some books) at the ALA (American Library Association) conference in Chicago this year.

Yeah, Chicago. Not my favorite place, probably because that's where I caught my ex-wife cheating on me a couple of years ago. Yes, I divorced her, and I'm happy to say that I have never regretted doing so. From the one conversation we had prior to our separation it was clear that she could not understand why I was upset that she fucked some guy while she was away at a conference-she was, at the time, an Assistant Professor at the same college where I work, which is how we met-and rather than waste my time trying to get her to see things my way, I decided to cut my losses. I mean, we were only married for three years, with no kids, so it was a pretty easy decision. I guess, in a way, I was lucky to find out sooner rather than later that the woman I'd married was so easily able to cheat on me, although I promise it didn't feel that way at the time.

Anyway, there I was, back in Chicago, and having a much better time than I'd had on my previous visit. For one thing, it was summer, rather than winter. I had taken a day off to drink overpriced beer and watch the Cubs lose at Wrigley Field. I had renewed some old acquaintances, and made some new ones, and I'd even had an offer from a very sexy librarian from Boston to come to her room to continue a conversation, which I declined after she confirmed that she was married. And my publisher had a table set up in the exhibition area where I was scheduled to meet anyone who might be interested in my book (giving me a chance to persuade them to buy it) and even sign if anyone came with a copy they'd already purchased (you couldn't buy the book onsite, unfortunately, although you could order one to be delivered to you from the onsite ALA Store)..

If we haven't already met (I did share the story of my first adventure in Chicago a while back), my name is Ward Egan, I'm 35 years old, single but sincerely interested in remarrying (I had a close call with a very nice woman who works at the same college as I do, a while back, but both came to the conclusion that it wasn't meant to be; from then on I decided to stop dating women I meet at work), and, I think, not a bad catch: I'm taller than average, I keep myself fit (I'm a runner), I have an interesting job that pays reasonably well, I own my own home, have all my hair and teeth, and I am, as I may have mentioned, a published author.

I've only ever been to conventions for academic professional associations, like MLA and ALA, but I have a feeling they are all pretty much the same. The "serious" part of the enterprise consists of either one person or several people (a "panel") talking to seated rows of people on a topic assumed to be in their mutual professional interests, sometimes related to a common theme. These are often boring, but not always, and they can be a good way to identify people from other schools who share your interests (why else would they be there?), and later, if you see them at a cocktail party meet-and-greet (the "fun" part of a conference; these are often sponsored by vendors), you have a conversation starter ("What did you think about the guy who gave that talk on learning to love ChatGPT?" is a conference-goer's "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"). Somewhere between serious and fun is the exhibition, or expo, which is basically a marketplace (for a national convention like ALA, a HUGE marketplace) where vendors set up booths to showcase their wares. Many of them give away logo swag, such as pens, bags, travel mugs, water bottles, etc. You don't usually buy anything there; the idea is that you go home and tell your boss that your program needs the great new thing you saw at the conference. Like my book.

The exhibition space was in an enormous room at Chicago's McCormick Place convention center, and it was packed. Booths were set in rows with wide aisles between them that were filled with people either walking and talking, or stopping to talk to the salespeople. I saw that there were well over 500 vendors, and there had to be ten times that many people. I found my publisher's booth on a map near the entrance, but I was early for my 6:00 pm slot, giving me time to walk around to see what was on offer. It was clear to see that libraries were going all-in on digital access, which made me a little sad; although that's my job, and I love it, I also love books, and I don't look forward to the time when they will vanish from libraries altogether, apart from a few curiosities kept in special collections.

I found my publisher's booth and introduced myself to the two women who were working it. Both of them were very attractive, as were most of the sales reps I had seen, since that's what works: who doesn't want to talk to someone with a pretty face who smiles at you like you're the most amazing person they've ever met? Both were wearing expensive-looking tailored blouses, knee-length skirts, and high heeled shoes that probably cost more than my entire meal allowance for the conference (although I was plugging my book, it counted as professional development, and so the college was paying for me to attend). Jacynta seemed to be about my age, tall and slender, with enormous, dark, almond-shaped eyes, and hair done in a kind of free-form afro that looked natural and probably took a lot of work to maintain. Renée was shorter and curvier, with gray hair in a sort of Rachel bob, and crow's feet around her bright blue eyes, but elsewhere her skin was smooth; she had a colorful, complicated tattoo that began at her left wrist and ran under her three-quarter length sleeve, and another that encircled her right ankle. They were both welcoming and friendly, but Jacynta maintained a slight reserve, and I saw a wedding set on the third finger of her left hand. Renée wore several rings, but nothing that looked like a wedding band or engagement ring, and she was gently flirtatious enough with me to make me promise myself I'd ask her to join me for a drink later. I'm sure she got a hundred such offers over the course of a day, but I saw no harm in trying.

They had set up an easel at one end of the booth that held a placard with my name and a photo of me, next to a table with my book and a holder filled with my business cards (I had been asked to supply them in advance of the conference). The rest of the booth was done up to look like the private library in an English country manor, except that the books on the shelf were set on little easels with the covers facing out. There were tables with more books, and the usual swag with the publisher's name.

Renée reached up to straighten my tie (I normally dress for comfort at conferences, but for this event I figured a blazer and a necktie would be appropriate), then lightly brushed my shoulders and rebuttoned my jacket. It was utterly casual, yet in a way the most intimate contact I'd had with a woman in quite a while.

"You're a tall one," she said with a smile.

"Runs in the family," I replied, grinning at her. I'm grateful that so many women prefer tall men, but I don't claim to understand why, and it always feels a little awkward to be complimented for something that I had no control over.

"I'm off at seven thirty," she said. "If you don't have any plans, would you like to have dinner with me?"

"I was working up the courage to ask you," I said, laughing. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

"Good. You may have to wait a few minutes if I have to help Jacynta tidy up, but I'll make it up to you."

And then someone stopped at the booth to ask for me, and I spent the next hour smiling, shaking hands, and talking to lots of people, some about ArchivesSpace, but a lot about my job, and what it was like working at a small, private liberal arts college in the South. Nobody brought a copy of the book for me to sign, which was, I'll admit, a bit of a disappointment, but I guess if I want that I'll have to write a novel. It was fun, but exhausting, trying to charm an almost endless stream of strangers. I got a few more invitations to meet after the exhibition hall closed, from both women and men, but I turned them all down with what I hope were gracious apologies.

Then, with about a half-hour to go before closing time, I saw a familiar face approaching.

"Uh oh," I said to Renée.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Here comes my ex. What's she doing at ALA? She's not a librarian, or, at least, she didn't used to be."

"Do you want me to head her off? Will she cause any trouble?"

"No and no," I said. "She's not the kind to raise her voice or throw things, and, anyway, I'm sort of curious to see what would make her go to the trouble to find me here."

Stacy Pelletier, my ex-wife, came up to me and smiled. "Hello, Ward," she said.

"Hi," I replied. "I didn't expect to see you here. Have you changed careers?"

"No," she said, and laughed quietly. "I teach at Dominican University, just outside of Chicago. When I heard that ALA was going to be here, I wondered if you would come. I scanned the conference schedule and saw you were speaking about your book, then dug a little deeper and found out you'd be here this evening."

"I guess I should be flattered that you went to the trouble," I said. "I haven't heard from you since before you left Marlowe, and I didn't have any idea you'd ever want to talk to me again."

"I admit that I was angry with you for a while," she said, "but I'm over it, and I didn't come to pick a fight. Actually, I came by to see if you still hate me for what I did, and, if you don't, if maybe you'd like to get a drink, and catch up. I'd like it if we could be friends."

I looked over at Renée, who was watching us out of the side of her eye. "I have plans for this evening," I told Stacy, "but if you'll give me your number, I'll call you and maybe we can get together tomorrow or the next day."

She picked up one of my business cards and one of the freebie pens, and wrote her number on the back, then handed it to me. "This is my cell," she said. "It's the same number, but I don't imagine you have it in your phone anymore."

"No," I replied. "Thanks."

"I hope you call me."

"I will," I said. Then I had a thought: "How'd you get in here?"

She pulled an ID card attached to one of the convention lanyards from her hip pocket. "I'm friends with one of the librarians at Dominican, and she lent me her pass."

I laughed. "All right, I'll talk to you soon."

Stacy gave me a big smile and walked away. She still looked good, I thought to myself.

Then I felt Renée at my side. "That went pretty well, it seems. I admire a man who can divorce a woman and not have her end up hating him for it."

"That's probably more a testament to her character than mine," I said. "There were some hard feelings on both sides for a while, there. But Stacy's never been one to hold a grudge."

"You think she wants you back?"

"I doubt it. She said she wants to be friends. With her in Illinois and me in North Carolina, it may be possible."

"Good," Renée said. "Because I have some plans for you myself." And then she gave me a look that hardened my cock instantly.

With the exhibition set to close for the night at 7:30, the crowds were rapidly thinning. At 7:15, Jacynta told us, "You go on ahead. I can finish up here." I guessed this might not be the first time that something like this had happened, but she seemed okay with it, so I supposed that Renée must have some way of balancing the scales. In any case, who was I to complain?

Renée pulled an expensive-looking handbag from under a table, and said, "Let's go."

"Do you have a place in mind?" I asked. "I don't know the city at all."

"The hotel restaurant is fine," she said, smiling. I almost asked her if she wanted to order from my room, but I was worried she'd agree. I'm easy, but I do like to know a little something about a woman before I take her to bed.

After we had ordered, Renée looked me in the eyes, and said, "I'm divorced, too. I cheated on my husband one time too many. I loved him, but I didn't want to stop having sex with other men, and he couldn't accept that my need to do it had nothing to do with my love for him. I look at you, and I look at your wife, and I think she's the one who cheated, and you couldn't stand it. Am I right?"

"Got it in one," I said, astonished.

"Men love rules," she said. "It's why they all love watching football, because it has so many rules, and interpreting them is an endlessly complex process, which is why it takes four hours to play a game that officially lasts an hour. Let me tell you something: most women don't give a shit about rules. If a woman is faithful, it's not because there's a rule against cheating, it's because she wants to be faithful. Men love rules, so women pretend to care about them, if they care about the men. Do you find this disturbing?"

"No," I said, honestly. "I'm fascinated. Keep going."

"That's it, really," she said. "Your wife, because she loved you, pretended to care about fidelity, because she could see that it mattered to you. Was she careless or indiscreet? Was she disrespectful about it? By which I mean, did she have sex with one of your friends, or someone you work with? Was it an affair-was she forming an emotional bond, or was it casual?"

"Casual," I said. "She did it with a stranger, and I only found out by accident. I think I see where you're going with this, but that doesn't make it okay."

"I know," she said. "My husband was the same. I'm not saying it was okay. One could argue that what she should have done was to have an honest conversation with you, before you were married, about how you both viewed fidelity. But I'll bet that if she had been honest with you, you wouldn't have married her, would you?"

"No," I said. "But you're right, I think that's what she should have done."

"But she loved you and she wanted to marry you. She wasn't planning to cheat, she just knew that it was a theoretical possibility. She knew that the only way for the two of you to be happy together was for her to hide the truth about herself from you, and to be very careful that you'd never find out if she was unfaithful."

"But that's a marriage based on a lie!" I said.

"If you approach it from the perspective of rules-based logic, yes," she said, smiling. "But remember, a woman doesn't really care about that. And a woman in love, if she has any backbone at all, is going to do whatever she has to in order to protect the relationship."

The waiter set our drinks in front of us: a white wine for her, an old fashioned for me.

"Do you want to tell me about what actually happened?" she asked. "You don't have to, but I am curious."

"It's pretty much like you said," I told her. "There was an important conference-MLA, she's a professor of English Literature-and she was invited to present. It was our anniversary, but I told her, go ahead, this is a big opportunity. She went. I came to surprise her, and... well, I surprised her with someone else, some guy she met while she was there. I followed them to a hotel room-I don't even know if it was hers or his-and caught them in the act. I let her know I'd seen her, then walked out and came home. She came home the next day. She was sorry she hurt me, but not, I could tell, really sorry that she had done it. I couldn't trust her anymore, so I was done with her."

"And I bet you have never regretted it."

"No," I said, bristling a bit. "Never."

"Take it easy," she said, smiling. "For what it's worth, which is not much, I think you did the right thing for yourself. She would probably have cheated on you again, and, if you'd found out, you'd have hated yourself for having taken her back. But-" she paused.

"But?"

"But she regrets it. Probably not doing it-there, I think you're right. It's her nature, like it is mine. I can't speak for her, but I can tell you, I hate what I did to my husband. And hurting him was the worst thing I have ever done, and if I could have willed myself to be a different person, and not want to do it, I would have. But we are who we are: just as you cannot forgive her, she cannot help being attracted to other men, and fucking them. And she is a good-looking woman, so she can pretty much fuck any man she wants. Except, of course, you."

"Why would she want to fuck me?"

"Because she loves you, of course."

"Bullshit. I was just... she was using me-"

"She loves you. Trust me. But, like I said, it probably wouldn't have worked out."

"She said that if I wanted a faithful wife, I'd need to find a woman that no man would ever want to try to seduce. She said I should find the ugliest, least agreeable woman in the world. Was she right about that?

"No. She was angry, and I bet if you were to ask her about it now, she'd apologize, and tell you the truth. There are lots of lovely women who will be faithful, not because they're afraid of the possible consequences if they aren't, or because no one else wants them, but because they want, and need, to be faithful to the man they marry."

"How do I find one?"

"Beats me. Not my problem."

Just then the waiter came with our starters.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked, after taking a bite of her salad.

"No," I said. "I appreciate your honesty and your perspective. I feel like I'm getting a crash course in understanding women, and I wish I'd had it twenty years ago."

"Women aren't that hard to understand," she said. "As long as you understand that they don't think like men."

"I'll take your word for it," I said. "But please, tell me something about yourself. All I know is that you were married and divorced. How did you come to be at the ALA convention this year? I want to hear the whole story, starting with when you were little, thinking about what you wanted to be when you grew up."

Renée smiled at that, and proceeded to tell me a version of her life story, which was pretty interesting. She was about ten years older than me-she never said exactly, and, of course, I didn't ask-and her career had taken her all over the book world. It certainly had me questioning the smallness of the world I had made for myself, having only ever lived in North Carolina.