He gave a gasp as he pumped the last of his semen into me, then with a cry of "Oh Cassie," he relaxed. We lay buried in the sweet smelling grass just above the sandbank by the bend in the river. I stroked his hair and face as he lay on me, his shaft still in me, slowly slackening.
It had been sweet, almost bittersweet. It had been thirty years before when I had lost my virginity to Matt on this very spot. It was here that Matt had made me pregnant for the first time, and here were the Parson had married us. This spot by the river had been almost sacred to Matt and I, the place where we loved and where we engaged in our favourite pass time of fishing.
Now all these years on, I had opened myself to young Drew, welcoming his young manhood into me. Had I betrayed Matt, especially as Drew and I had used the old place where Matt and I had loved? No, Matt wasn't like that. He would have said, "You go ahead, old girl, enjoy it. Don't go mourning me forever."
Matt had died nearly three years before, and quite inadvertently, Drew was the last person he spoke to. Knowing he was dying he said to Drew, "Take care of the Misses for me, young Drew." Drew had replied, "I will." Within five minutes, Matt was dead. Now I wondered whether the instruction to "take care of the Misses," included what we had just been engaged in.
Of course, it was something you might expect him to have said to our three children, but over the years they had drawn away from us, following their professions, starting their own families in distant cities. Young Drew, on the other hand, had grown close to us.
As I have said, Matt and I enjoyed fishing. That's how we met, when for the first time I borrowed my father's fishing rod and went down to the river. It was an unusual thing for a girl to do in those days, and I had no idea how to go about fishing. On that first occasion, I met Matt on the sandbar.
He was tall and handsome, and I asked him, "Could you tell me how to put these things together?"
He laughed and set up my rod and reel for me, then showed me how to bait the hook. I think I fell for him right then.
After that, we met frequently on the sandbar, and from fishing we graduated to making love. Contraception in those days wasn't what it is now, so I got pregnant fairly quickly, and we got married. All our married life Matt was a wonderful, caring lover. When he died, I was devastated for months after.
Young Drew, as we called him, came into our lives through fishing. I think he must have been ten or eleven when he turned up one day while Matt and I were fishing. Someone had bought him a cheap rod and reel for his birthday, and like me in the beginning, he didn't know where to start. Matt and I set him going, and thereafter we met up constantly on the sandbar with our tackle.
Drew became a constant factor in our lives, "Our fishing son," as Matt had called him. A bond of friendship grew up between us, or perhaps it should be, "A bond of love."
Not only did Drew join us fishing, he was a constant visitor to our home, and seemed to worship Matt. When the time came for Drew to leave high school, Matt helped get Drew an apprenticeship.
Matt worked at the nearby dry dock, where the ferries that crossed the river at various places, were brought in to be serviced and updated. So, Drew began his apprenticeship working alongside Matt.
When Matt died from an unexpected heart attack, Drew was almost as devastated as I was. In the months after we had scattered Matt's ashes into the river at the sandbar, it was Drew who was my main comfort.
I had never bothered to analyse my feelings for Drew. From our first meeting with him, he had grown into our lives. While Matt was alive, it was he that Drew seemed to relate to more than me. After Matt's death the bond between Drew and I seemed to intensify. Perhaps it was our shared grief and the consolation I received from him. He would put his arms round me, saying nothing, just holding me.
Before Matt's death there had been few physical signs of affection between Drew and I. An occasional peck on the cheek was the limit of our physical contact. After Matt's death the pecks gradually became kisses on the lips, but it never occurred to me that there was anything sexual in this. It was just a dear young friend being kind.
How could it have been otherwise? I am nearly thirty years older than Drew is, and I am not going to pretend that I looked other than my age. Three children had changed my breasts from their youthful firmness, with pink up pointed nipples, to slackness and large brown nipples. My thighs bore the marks of childbirth, as did my belly. More obvious to the world were the lines round my eyes and across my forehead. Why would a young fellow, even a loving one like Drew, want a woman like me?
Having written this, I realise that I have given myself away. However deeply I may have repressed the thought, the mere fact that I had considered my physical self in this way, suggests that there was a sexual element in my relationship with Drew.
Perhaps this is something that is true for all of us. Deny it as we will, when we meet a member of the opposite sex, whatever the disparities between us, we weigh each other up as sexual beings. We may immediately reject the possibility of sexual contact, but the thought has been there, however briefly.
As far as I know, I had never indicated any sexual interest in Drew, so it was, to say the least, a surprise – even a shock – when he made his approach to me.
It began with what seemed like and innocent enough question:
"Cassie, do you still miss Matt?"
"Yes, but not as much as I used to."
"Did it take long before the pain started to ease?"
"You should know, you helped me through it."
"Yes, I tried. What is it you miss most about him?"
