Our daughter Dana is a few months older than I was when I began my affair with my father. She has a bachelor's in psychology, and gets pretty good tips as a waitress. Maybe the psychology courses weren't as completely useless as my English degree.
She has dated a few guys, but she let herself go at college, and could stand to drop a few pounds. As with all girls at that difficult age, her confidence could use a boost, too.
I sucked Paul off this morning, and left him lying naked on top of the covers while I came downstairs to make breakfast. Unless I'm mistaken, he's dozing for another half hour or so.
Our daughter is reading the morning comics at the table. She's wearing a thin, short and sexy nightgown that only barely hides her goodies. The timing is perfect.
I'm in my pajamas. "Dana," I say, slicing some fruit. "I'm a little chilly. Will you please bring me a robe from my closet?"
Obviously irritated, she replies, "Jeez, Mom." When she sees my raised brow, she says, "Okay, whatever. I guess so."
"Be very quiet," I tell her. "I think your father is still asleep. Don't wake him up, okay?"
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever."
I wait, expectantly. It is a long wait, and my hope grows. When Dana returns with my robe, she no longer seems annoyed. The poorly suppressed ecstatic grin is all I need to see. She plops back in her chair at the table, and I can imagine the thoughts whirring about in her head.
Paul comes down shortly afterward, noticeably avoiding her eyes, but there is a surreptitious exchange between them says everything. It has begun. Time for me to swing into action.
"Paul, are you ever going to cut that grass? Heavens, it's all the way up to my ankles. And that side gate squeaks so bad. Can't you do anything at all about that? I'm sure it irritates the neighbors."
"I just woke up, Allie. This afternoon I'm going to watch the game at Bob's..."
Exasperated, I exclaim, "Another football game? Heavens, this house is falling apart, and you're watching a silly football game? What about the porch? When do you plan to paint that? After basketball season?"
He glares at me, wondering where the bitchiness suddenly came from. Dana turns her head up, too, with a snarky look. They trade a conspiratorial glance as I turn back to the pancakes.
Dana doesn't eat as many pancakes as she usually does, and uses less than half the usual syrup.
"Aren't you hungry, dear?" I ask, concerned.
She sighs. "Yeah, but I've been thinking maybe I shouldn't have so many sweets, Mom."
"Of course not, dear. You're such a sweet girl already," I quip. "Don't you think so, Paul?"
I'm reading the newspaper, and they don't think that I catch the way he smiles at her. A fresh hunger is in his eyes, and it is not for the pancakes.
"Yeah. She's the sweetest girl I know." he says.
It's a subtle gesture, but Dana's back straightens and her chest juts a little more. She avoids his eyes, but then glances up seductively.
I would love to know exactly what happened up there.
"So what are you doing today?" I ask Dana. "Watching a football game?" I can't resist an extra dig.
She rolls her eyes. "No, Mom. I thought I'd go to the pool. Maybe start swimming laps again, like I used to."
"Well I certainly hope you're not planning to wear that little pink bathing suit again. It makes you look like a whorehouse floozy."
"Jeez, Mom. You sound like Gramma Ellen."
Precisely.
The weeks roll by, and the seduction continues. It is a joyous thing to watch. Dana pushes away her favorite cookie dough ice-cream when I serve it after supper. Exercising daily, her body becomes noticeably more trim, and she's wearing skimpier, more revealing clothes around the house. Makeup, too, and she paints her nails. The pink streak in her hair is gone, and that, alone, adds several years to her looks. She has found a new confidence in herself. She deserves it. In a few days, that confidence will be through the roof.
My verbal lashing of Paul reaches new heights of abuse. He's accustomed to a regular diet of my kitty, but we haven't made love since that first morning when I'm now certain they saw each other in a different light. He also started going to the pool with her after work. All that bare flesh. He's wound up tighter than a top, just waiting for somebody to pull the string.
Sparks fly between their eyes, especially when they think I'm not looking. They touch each other more: little things, like a short backrub, an arm around the shoulder, holding hands on the sofa, and playful slaps - especially on Dana's butt. The 'innocent' kisses I observe seem to linger.
I've been checking the wash regularly. After a visit with my mother at the care center, I find a red smudge on Paul's plaid collar that not-coincidentally matches Dana's lipstick. He wouldn't have noticed it - I'll bet Dana did. There are no tell-tale crusty stains on his underwear, but hers are dark around the crotch. Something made her incredibly wet while she wore them. Hmm... I wonder what that could have been? I grin inside. It's nearly time.
Dana's weight is down by fifteen pounds, and Paul is looking hot. It's hard for me to keep my hands off of him, and I'm almost afraid some middle-aged woman at the pool may make a play. Gotta' keep them focused on the prize.
It's Monday night. Our daughter is in her room. Paul is helping me with dinner.
"Dana's really been working hard on her figure," I mention. "Have you noticed how good she looks now?"
"Um, yeah. I guess so," he replies noncommittally. He would have to be a blind priest to miss her newfound sexiness.
"She must have some special boy in mind. I hope that lucky boy appreciates what she's doing to get him." I say.
Paul is lost in his lascivious thoughts. He doesn't respond.
"By the way," I mention idly. "I'm going to visit with Beth on Friday. I'll probably stay a couple of days, do some sightseeing up in the mountains."
"Really?" he says. The hushed excitement in his voice is palpable.
"Will you two be alright for the whole weekend? I mean, I don't have to go, if..."
"No, Allie. You go and enjoy yourself." He kisses me on the cheek. "We'll muddle through somehow without your expertise and guidance."
That unnecessary remark almost convinces me to stay. If I hadn't worked so hard already...
"Don't worry," I tell him. "I'll leave a list of things that will need to be done while I'm gone."
Including washing all of the sheets and pillowcases...
"I'm sure you will," he says snidely.
The asshole's asking for it. If he only knew the things I did for him. That will come soon enough, though.
The sexual tension crackles before I leave that morning. They both know what's coming. It's like an avalanche, thunderous, irresistible, unstoppable, obeying the gravity of lust. When he thinks I'm not watching, Paul gives her the look that he's given me a thousand times, the one that says, "You're mine." It makes me wet just to see it. I gape at him, feigning surprise, and Dana can barely contain herself. Five minutes after I've gone, somebody's going to have a mouthful of somebody else's sex.
When I hit the freeway, a few miles away, I call home. Paul answers before the second ring. They're still in the kitchen. His voice is tense.
"Paul, I'm on the freeway now. I just remembered that I left some chicken in the fridge for you.
"Chicken. In the fridge." He's obviously distracted by something.
"Yeah. Is that Dana I hear? Why isn't she on her way to work?" I insist.
"I'm taking her this morning. She - she had to get something. Up in her room," he says haltingly. Something - or somebody - is really giving him a hard time.
"You make sure that if she leaves that house, she's properly dressed. I don't want her running around like a..."
"...A whorehouse floozy. Right." he finishes for me, with a half-chuckle in his voice. "Okay, Allie. I'll make sure that she is dressed appropriately. For whatever she does."
I'll just bet he will.
"Good," I say. "See you on Sunday afternoon. I'll call before I hit the road."
"Okay, great. Thanks, Allie. See you on Sunday. Have a good time."
"You, too." I answer. "Both of you."
The silence on the other end lasts about enough time for a flurry of thoughts. "Um, okay, Allie. Gotta' go. Bye."
My work is complete. The rest is up to them. I trust they will follow their hearts, and other parts of their anatomies.
Then, somewhere on the road, the fog of doubt creeps in, and suddenly things aren't so clear. Maybe I had this all wrong. It worked so well for my life, was I arrogant to think that the same rules might apply to someone else? Was I only imagining the chemistry between them? Have I initiated something that will cause permanent damage to our daughter, or our marriage?
All weekend long, while my friend Beth drones on about her loves and losses, I vacillate between vivid fantasies of what might be going in in our house, and the guilt of what I may have created. I have to trust in my husband - he won't let her fall. The only thing that eases my conscience is that, no matter what happens, both of them are in better shape than they were four weeks ago, and Dana seems to be more self-assured.
When I call on Sunday afternoon, Dana answers immediately: too fast. Either she was standing in the kitchen, or she was in our bed. Somehow, I feel lighter.
"Hi, Mom." She seems perky. Maybe even ebullient. "Daddy said you'd call. What time should we expect you?"
Daddy? She never calls him 'Daddy'. But it's the right question, phrased delicately. I'm proud of her.
