The Tawdry Tangerine Farewell

Back in high school, the Travis McGee books by John D. MacDonald were something of a guilty pleasure. I came across a copy of

A Purple Place for Dying

at a cabin one weekend and finished it by the time we went home. Over time, I hunted down the others in second-hand bookstores. So, when I decided to write a story that had some (very!) minor action elements and a boat, I decided to pay a little homage.

It's a long story — five parts — but all of it is written, and I'll submit it on sequential days.

I'm not always a fan of stories that start with a character introduction, yet here I've pretty much done exactly that. I apologize to those who are looking for something opening with a bang and moving right on to action and finale. The problem I had was that I kept coming to later points in the story and saying to myself, "Well, that's going to seem odd unless I say something beforehand." So, I hope you enjoy meeting Rick and Molly as things get up to speed.

A special thank you to thewinedarksea for his editing work. He helped make this better in many ways. Any typos were introduced by me after he read it.

--C

─────────

Rick

I was a little surprised at how openly they sat at the sidewalk restaurant. Maybe they thought an onlooker wouldn't notice the occasional look or hand touch and would just assume they were having a casual lunch in the unseasonably warm April.

I, of course, did notice those things from where I sat on my motorcycle less than half a block away. Then again, about five minutes ago I had seen them come out of the townhouse across the street after an hour spent, presumably, dirtying the sheets.

I hadn't spent the whole hour sitting there. I knew when she left the office. I knew where she was going. They were somewhat predictable on Wednesdays: at his place, about an hour, a quick lunch, then back to the office. After all, as far as her assistant knew, she was at a weekly off-site focus group meeting, and they had to make that plausible. I'd pulled up about fifteen minutes ago, not wanting to miss her when she came out.

It wasn't hard to kill those fifteen minutes with

Led Zeppelin III

in my ears. I chuckled acidly at how appropriate it was to hear the whispered count and then that minor chord that opens "Tangerine" just as the two walked outside. Page claimed he was "getting over an emotional upheaval" when he wrote those lyrics about something great with a woman turning into something crap. I could relate.

I started the engine. I don't know if she subconsciously recognized the sound of my particular ride or whether it was just the general noise of a motorcycle engine catching, but she looked over. I saw her stiffen as I swung off the bike and walked toward them.

Her face was a quintessential picture of upset and embarrassment. His was expressionless for the most part, though I could see a little flicker in his eyes once he realized who was behind the open visor. I read it that, while he was the kind of asshole that was okay with banging a married woman, he wasn't the kind of asshole who got his jollies from rubbing it in. That's okay; he didn't make me any vows.

I gave her a tight smile as I dropped a large envelope in front of her, saying, "Some papers you'll need. All your stuff's in Self-Store — keys are in the envelope, too."

I could tell that, for all her gift of gab, she wasn't prepared for this. She finally managed to stammer, "Rick, this isn't what it looks like."

I ignored that. "We'll let the judge determine custody and child support."

"Rick, stop! This is ridic—"

I just turned and walked away mid-sentence. My bike was running, and I was gone in ten seconds. I saw in the rearview mirror that she had gotten up to follow me but it was futile.

♦ ♦ ♦

In Katie's mind, when she and I married fresh out of grad school — she with an M.B.A. and I with an M.F.A. — I was the bad-boy boyfriend of the hotshot marketing whiz. I was a sculptor. I had tattoos, not a lot but some. I dressed in old t-shirts, jeans, and the occasional leather jacket. I rode a motorcycle. I had a loft in a converted warehouse in an edgy-but-trendy section of the city. I was the "my friends think you're so cool" boyfriend, then fiancé, then spouse.

I saw myself somewhat differently. I was a sculptor; yes, that part's true. I had a couple of tattoos because I had some very talented friends and I liked art, not because I was making a statement to the world. I wore those clothes because I prized comfort above all and they were practical for my work, which was sometimes messy and dirty.

I rode a motorcycle because my other vehicle was a well-used Ford pickup I needed for hauling material around, and I'd never find parking places around the city for it. Plus, the motorcycle fit nicely in the truck bed which meant I paid for only one spot in the nearby garage. Sure, my condo had a space that was permanently mine, but Katie's car had occupied that.

As for the condo, that was from my father. He had done extremely well for himself in the 1980s and 1990s, recognizing that companies like Netscape and Microsoft were the wave of the future. My friends have never even heard of the former and think that the latter is a stodgy blue chip but, when he took a flyer on them, they were gambles. He was good at those.

Dad passed away several years ago, while I was still an undergraduate and long before I met Katie. He knew his time was ending and, when he died, he left me with four things. The first was a trust fund. Not one of those look-at-my-Porsche trusts, but one that, every year, paid enough to cover basic living expenses. The second was his

pied-à-terre

in the city, the aforementioned condo, because, while my income wouldn't afford buying much in the way of a place to live, it could handle the taxes. The third was a boat called

The Nut Flush

that I loved as much as he had. The fourth was a letter:

Dear Richard,

I love you, my boy. If your mother was still with us today, she would have been proud.

I have one piece of advice for you. It's not the same one I'm giving your sister because you're two very different people. For you, it's: Don't settle in life.

You and your sister look out for each other, you hear?

Love,

Dad

I think our family attorney worried about the uneven distribution of the estate. My older sister, Rachel, ended up with the family home, Dad's art collection — my old man and I did not share a taste in paintings — a stock portfolio, and her own letter which didn't differ markedly from mine except for the advice. He shouldn't have worried. He didn't realize how close Rachel and I were, or how much our father knew what would make each of us happy in life.

In a nutshell, I saw myself as someone whom Fortune had blessed enough that I could pursue my real love: art. I wasn't cool. I certainly wasn't a bad boy. I was just Richard, or Rick, as I liked to be called.

Time has a way of changing our perspectives and it certainly changed Katie's. Over the six years of our marriage, I could see that the edgy boyfriend she had invented in her mind gradually faded into the spouse who, in a great year, maybe pulled in $40,000 from his job: I hadn't cracked that fractional percent of fine artists who made serious money. My income from art was one-tenth of what she made. Even with my trust money, Katie was the bread-winner of our family.

We had Samantha, our daughter, the second year of our marriage. The obvious choice, both because of the demands of our respective jobs and our relative incomes, was that I be the primary parent — the stay-at-home dad.

I was awkward and bored at the bring-your-spouse corporate dinners and cocktail parties, both of which required a facile adeptness at meaningless chit-chat and business ass-kissing. That awkwardness probably came across as "Rick's a dull boy" to others like they were to me.

I was still the introverted, artsy geek who got picked on in school when he was a kid, even though the exterior was now marginally more presentable. That last was mostly due to managing by my spouse, my sister, and my studio partner, Molly. The remainder was finally maturing into a watered-down version of the Leland genetics. They had made my dad look extremely distinguished. On me, well, Molly said I looked like, "the less attractive and dorkier younger brother of Clive Owen." I guess that's better than "gawk", "lame", and some of the other things I heard in high school.

Anyway, in those six years of marriage, I slid from, "This is my husband. He's the hot, new sculptor, Rick Leland," to, "This is my husband. He gave up his career to raise our darling daughter." Despite the fact that I had done no such thing, it wasn't worth embarrassing her by correcting what she said.

As Katie's career continued on its meteoric track, her networking took her to more events — events I enjoyed about as much as a root canal. After some years of minor grumbling, she learned to be accepting. She went alone or, if the occasion demanded an escort, on the arm of one of her co-workers, usually an older gentleman who was firmly married or a widower. She knew it made me happier and she got a companion who was more congenial in that environment.

I never had qualms about these situations. Katie would no sooner dip her pen in the company inkwell — with the possible flameout of her career if it ended badly — than she would wear a bikini to the office. I'd look at the company social media and see her next to her boss, George Weinbach, who was sixty and still not over losing his wife to cancer, or next to the chief legal officer, Mark Enright, a man married to an actress who was often out of town and one of the few suits at her company I felt comfortable being around. I'd thank my stars that it was them and not me.

However, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed a picture that showed Katie on the arm of someone who certainly wasn't one of those known gentlemen. He was perhaps three or four years our senior, attractive in a well-polished way, a man I had never seen before. I can't say it raised alarms, but it caught my attention.

"Katie, who's this you were with at the awards dinner?"

She looked at the picture and said dismissively, "Oh, that's Scott Randolph. He owns a market research firm we used once. I got paired with him because we were both there stag."

"You certainly look very paired with him," I commented mildly, looking at how closely they were standing, her hand on his forearm and the laughter on her face.

She grinned at me, "Oh, honey. Don't be silly. I'm laughing because someone told a joke."

"Mm."

"Jealous much?" she teased. "Don't be. He's just a business acquaintance whom I barely talked to that night. I'll probably never bump into him again."

Which made it all the more interesting later that night when I googled his name. A click on the images link of the results page showed him giving a speech at a fundraiser for a cancer charity. Katie was seated in the first row. It was an event that, according to the article, was just over a week ago.

I think I knew right then.

It wasn't hard to pin down. I couldn't afford a private detective without touching the joint account but, when you don't have a nine-to-five job and know plenty of people willing to babysit for a short period, watching a parking lot to find out what happens at lunch or after hours when someone has to "work late" isn't very difficult.

♦ ♦ ♦

"Mr. Collins," the judge said, "Mrs. Leland has requested that I order counseling. What are your client's thoughts on this?"

"Your honor, he is very much in favor of counseling to help ease the transition for their daughter, Samantha, and has every intention of pursuing that. As far as marital counseling to try to salvage this marriage: if you order it he will, of course, attend. However, he sees zero possibility that it will change his mind in any way. His statement to me is that he already knows far more than he could possibly overlook or forgive. In my opinion, it would just be a waste of time and money."

The judge turned to Katie. "State law leans toward granting counseling if requested by either of the parties. However, Mrs. Leland, I will tell you that, if the other party is not disposed toward it, it rarely accomplishes anything beyond creating further unpleasant moments. You've said that you'd sign the Affidavit of Consent afterward regardless. Do you still wish to continue?"

She nodded.

"I need a verbal response, Mrs. Leland," he said not unkindly.

She uttered a weak, "Yes."

He looked down at his paperwork. "To confirm: neither party is seeking spousal support?" Our lawyers indicated that was true. "And the listed custody arrangement for the minor is acceptable to both of you?" Again, our lawyers answered affirmatively. "Property disputes?" None.

"Very well. I'm ordering attendance at a minimum of one and a maximum of three marital counseling sessions for Richard and Katherine Leland, all to be completed within the next ninety days. The exact number of mandatory sessions will be determined by the counselor. Mr. Collins, please ensure that your client understands that, while I do not presume to dictate any outcome nor instruct him in any way, I expect good-faith attendance."

"Yes, sir."

Later, in the hallway, Frank explained to me, "You show up on time; you play nice with the counselor; you be civil to your wife; you answer questions that the counselor puts to you. That's it. You don't have to change your mind. You don't have to make an effort toward reconciliation. That's their job."

It turned out to be one session.

We spent the first part talking over the history and structure of the marriage. Then the counselor asked us what we saw as the primary issue we were facing.

Katie's response was technically honest although I felt it muddied the waters. "Somewhere along the way, we went in different directions, and I wasn't getting what I wanted or needed from the marriage. Instead of dealing with that, I had an affair. I was wrong and would like the chance to fix my mistake."

I tried to recast things in the light in which I saw them. "I disagree with the statement that we went in different directions. She turned down a path that I didn't want to follow. I stayed where we were. You can say that's some kind of failure of ambition on my part if you want, and you're entitled to your opinion. Maybe it is. Maybe I was supposed to change somehow. But she knew the score going in. I said from the start that I was content with her ambition but it wasn't mine.

"I also disagree with her statement that she had an affair. I would agree that she's been having an affair. Present tense. The only reason it's ended, if it even has, is because we're sitting here. Otherwise, it would still be going on.

"Lastly, she had her chance to fix her mistake. It was right after the first time she did something inappropriate with another man. The get-togethers I know about, and I'm sure there were some I'm clueless of, show she repeatedly declined the opportunity to mend anything."

The counselor turned back to Katie. "Is that true in your mind? Had the affair ended or, at least, were you taking active and concrete steps to end it prior to Richard discovering it? Or, was it still in progress?"

The look on Katie's face answered the question long before she said, "I was still seeing him when Rick found out." The counselor glanced over at me as Katie answered, and I'm sure she caught the look of disdain on my face.

The two of them talked over goals and expectations. When it was my turn, I think my answer may have been what put paid to thoughts of future sessions.

"I cannot imagine any circumstances where I would even consider reconciliation short of something life-threatening to Samantha. Katie has been unfaithful deliberately and repeatedly. I do not know, and have no wish to know, how many times or with how many men; the one I know about is enough. She knew I would have zero tolerance for this and, clearly, didn't think that was important. This desire for counseling has nothing to do with remorse. It's all about PR, her specialty." I saw Katie frown in irritation but she didn't interrupt.

"Any feelings of love, or even affection, that I once felt for her have turned into sh..." I caught myself and decided to temper the words I chose in the interests of civility, "...have turned extremely negative." I looked directly at the counselor's face as I finished, hoping she understood how completely serious I was when I said, "I don't like carrying baggage, so my goal is that those negative feelings eventually turn to complete and utter indifference to her. Well, other than her capabilities as a mother."

Katie looked stricken.

We ended up with joint legal custody, with me as the residential parent. Katie's visitation rights were liberal but we'd offered that from the beginning — not out of any moral high ground or desire to make Katie's life easier, just trying to minimize the impact on Sammie. And, to be fair to her, Katie never abused them in any way. Sammie stayed on Katie's insurance, relieving the one major concern I had about our new life.

Money wasn't an issue. I really did have enough for my lifestyle. There was a greedy moment when I saw the size of Katie's child support payments, but pride won out and I asked that all of them be put into a fund for Sammie later. I was determined to support my daughter on my own as far as day-to-day living went. I didn't care how much stuff Katie gave her when Sammie was staying at her place as long as it stayed there. I didn't even care that Sammie somehow seemed to have clothes that I didn't remember buying. I didn't want to cut Sammie off from her mother or to disinherit her from what her mother could provide.

My goal was purely driven by one thought: I don't need you, bitch. It's why I refused all alimony, a move that Frank tried to talk me out of just once.

"Rick, it's owed to you. If your roles were reversed, you can bet you'd be paying her."

"Maybe I would, but it's not open to discussion. The only thing I want from her, beyond Sammie's needs, is that I want every penny of your fees paid by her. She broke this marriage, she can damn well pay for it to be cleaned up. I like you Frank, but I don't want to owe you a goddam dime. I don't want to ever be indebted to her for anything."

He understood ... sort of. Her lawyer accepted our offer with alacrity.

I had Sammie; I didn't have real financial worries; friends rallied 'round — but life wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. My mood seemed to cycle through three stages. Usually, I'd be furious at her for smashing up our home, doubly righteous because we had a kid who was going to pay the price. My most common thought, by far, those early months was: fuck her!

But sometimes the uncertainty would creep in: had I let her down? Was I lying to myself that staying home with Sammie, and never protesting the long hours at work and the frequent travel was being a supportive husband? Or was I just finding an excuse for my introversion? I mean, I didn't give a damn about "getting ahead" in that way, but should I have sucked it up and made more of an effort to be part of her world?

And that would turn to self-doubt. Katie knew from the time she met me that I wasn't a social animal, so was it something more than that? Was I an embarrassment in front of her colleagues with their silicon trophy wives and "partner in a law firm" trophy husbands? Did being the bread-winner make her disdainful because I wasn't carrying my weight? Was it — my mind whispered occasionally — that she found me boring in bed?

Then some sanity would return and I'd mentally kick myself.