Author's Note: Lately I've been drawn to stories of cheating wives in the Loving Wives section. Having been married for a long time, I find the tales written by some of the better authors to be extremely compelling. I'm not sure exactly why I'm drawn to them. But many of the stories are touching in a way that straight erotic fiction is not. They depict, in many ways, the struggles that are a normal part of a loving relationship. Some couples work through them; others do not. Couples who have been happily married for years suddenly experience an inexplicable bump in their road.
The authors tell us of wives who give in to temptation despite being married to the best of men. The result is lots of pain and heartache, and not very much reconciliation. The depth of heartache in these stories is palpable. Kudos to authors like Ohio, adevilru12, Just Plain Bob, and thecelt. You guys have inspired me. The more of these stories I read, the more I decided I would like to write one myself.
If you are looking for lots of down and dirty sex, you will find a little of that here, but not much. I used it as a tool to make a point, and to develop the personalities of the characters. If BTB and revenge for a cheating spouse is your thing, you won't find that here. You will find love, infidelity, and pain, as well as what can happen when one partner in a marriage runs away from a problem.
I also thought I would try something fun, and make this a story of sorts that would pay homage to one of my favorite singers and actors. As you read through my tale, see if you can discover who that is.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. The story has multiple parts. So, please be patient as I submit them for publication. One last note: this is a story of fiction. Any relationship to real people, organizations, or places is purely coincidental.
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On the eve of her daughter's wedding, just around the time the evening shadows were closing in on a chilly November afternoon, 46-year old Candice O'Keefe Faggioli sat in the middle of the bed in her dimly lit hotel room. Her smart phone was streaming a string of Sinatra songs with the volume set at a comfortable and easy listening level. With wine glass in hand, and with Francis Albert's silk voice invoking love and everything wonderful, she flipped through a special photo album that her daughter left for her in the room upon check-in several hours before. The album contained pictures of Candice and her husband from her own wedding nearly twenty-five years ago to the day.
The photos were arranged in chronological order. And as she flipped from page to page, moving through the years, the happy memories flooded her thoughts. While some of the memories made her smile and laugh, when she flipped to the last few pages, her eyes began to water, and a tear trickled down her cheek. When she got to the last page, she put the album aside, curled up into a fetal position, cried out softly "Oh Nicky, my Nicky," and sobbed. She missed her estranged husband of nearly two years, Nicholas Faggioli, so desperately, and believed that time had run out to get him back.
She remained that way for most of the night, until exhaustion took over and she finally fell into an uncomfortable slumber at some point in the wee hours. But the question she asked herself just before drifting off to sleep was, "How did I end up in such a horrible place after having so many good years and such a good life with Nicky?" As a famous person once said, some mistakes we never stop paying for.
Candice O'Keefe had a typical old-fashioned storybook childhood, but a very difficult adolescence. Her parents kept a home in a middle-class suburb of Chicago that was more like 1950s Americana, as opposed to the 1980s. She was brought up in an Irish-Catholic home with a stay-at-home mom and a blue collar dad. All was blissful until her mom, who suffered horribly with breast cancer, died when she was fourteen years-old. From that point on, she was raised by her father. That's really when her problems started, and she began to make mistakes that would catch up with her many years later in that lonely hotel room on a cold November evening.
Her dad had a very difficult time dealing with the death of his wife, Faith O'Keefe. Shortly after the funeral, Bill O'Keefe began to drink and really never stopped. For all intents and purposes, from that time on, Candice parented herself. She kept the house, cooked the meals, and took on far more responsibility than any little girl should ever have to bear. Sure, neighbors and relatives helped. But, by and large, Candice and her dad were alone in the world.
Early in her junior year in high school, Candice came home one night and found her father passed out in the living room. This had become a typical occurrence. Usually she could rouse him awake and get him into bed. But on this night she could not get him to budge. There were no signs of life, and it was clear to Candice that her father was gone. She spent the next two years living with her father's sister and her husband in the same town. It was not a loving home, and Candice was made to feel that her aunt and uncle were doing her a favor. And to make a bad situation worse, not too long after moving in with them, her uncle sexually abused her while he was in a drunken rage. This was repeated several times over the next eighteen months. Her aunt knew about it, but not a word was spoken. In fact, her aunt, in a passive-aggressive manner, blamed Candice for what her uncle had done to her. Sexually, Candice was on her way to getting lost.
Candice was resolved that when she graduated from high school she would leave for college and never look back. Somehow she would find a way to make it on her own. How did she survive those last two years of high school? She turned to sex for comfort in spite of the fact that sex was the very thing that took such a heavy toll on her young life. So, at a very young age, on top of all of her other problems, she was very promiscuous. She quickly became known as the slut who would do anything for anyone. None of the boys were interested in seriously dating Candice, given her reputation. They were pretty much out for the quick blowjob, handjob, or trip around the world from the high school whore. It was a miracle that she didn't get pregnant or contract an STD.
None of her sexual encounters resulted from normal boyfriend/girlfriend relationships, and none of them were rooted in love or the usual teenage romantic feelings. To Candice, her sexual life was a conflicted dual reality. She used sex to chase after the intimacy that she lost when her mom and then her dad died. And yet, what her uncle had done was the exact opposite of the intimacy she craved from the sexual act. It was brutal. And hence the duality. But, she had several redeeming qualities: she was extraordinarily bright with an off-the-charts I.Q., her work ethic was unbelievable, and she was a stunningly beautiful young lady, with an outgoing and giving personality to match her looks. She was so smart, that she received a partial scholarship to her local community college.
She left her aunt's and uncle's home and entered college as a freshman, majoring in Science. Candice was the recipient of enough scholarship money, financial aid, and work-study benefits, to enable her to have a somewhat comfortable life, even though she lived a pretty Spartan existence.
The going was difficult for a while. But Candice supplemented her income by working several nights a week as a server in a local pub that was frequented mostly by college kids. (Back then, the legal drinking age was 18.) As is typical in this type of establishment, there were some sexual predators who preyed upon vulnerable young college women. Unfortunately, Candice was not immune, and she fell hard for a smooth and slick guy named Sonny "Cordo" Cordoleone.
For Sonny, charming his way into the panties of many a young lady was not a very difficult task. At well over 6 feet tall, and built like a tall bull, he had dark, swarthy southern Italian looks, money, and a line of bullshit that worked magic on horny young co-eds. To borrow from an over-used phrase, Cordo got more ass than a toilet seat. Picture, if you will, the stereotype. That was Sonny.
