"Mom died last night."
My daughter's tearful news over the phone hit me like a fist to the midsection.
"The funeral's on Friday. Will you...will you fly out to Denver with me?" Monica asked. "I don't want to be alone."
"Of course I will, sweetie."
I would have gone anyway. There was still a warm spot in my heart for my ex-wife. Celeste and I had been divorced for—how long? I had to count up from Monica's twelfth birthday. That would make it eighteen years ago.
We were both at fault for the collapse of our marriage. In my defense, she strayed first. If I'm going to be honest, I drove her to it. Too much time at work, on the golf course, and at the conventions and the sales meetings.
When I discovered she was screwing our next-door neighbor, I blew my top. It got nasty for a while. Soon, we both saw what our fighting was doing to out only child. After that, we split amicably. She married the neighbor, and they moved to Denver.
We agreed that Monica should stay with her Mom. Until my daughter came east to attend college a few hours north, I saw her for only a week in the summer and Thanksgiving, or when the occasional business trip allowed me to swing into Colorado. But I called her regularly. I never wanted Monica to feel as though I didn't care what was going on in her life, or that I wanted anything less than the best for her and her Mom.
Monica was emotional for the entire flight. She didn't bawl, but gripped my hand while a constant stream of tears rolled down her cheeks. Though I knew she enjoyed good bourbon, she refused the free drink offered by the thoughtful stewardess.
"I'm glad you came, Dad," she said, smiling through her tears. "You don't know how much this means to me."
"You may not believe it, sweetie, but I still love your mother. She was a good woman. She gave me the most wonderful daughter in the world. I'm sorry we weren't able to be the parents you should have had."
She leaned to the side and placed a lingering kiss on my cheek. "Even when you couldn't be by my side, I always knew my Daddy loved me. That was all I needed."
We hugged each other across the uncomfortable seats.
At the funeral, Celeste's husband was distraught. He'd never imagined he might be left alone at fifty. Who would've guessed that a simple urinary tract infection could be fatal? Celeste's MS had lowered her body's resistance, and the disease spread quickly. I understood exactly what it was like to unexpectedly lose the woman I planned to live my life with.
After the service, I was commiserating with her husband—her widower—Tom. He paused, gazing across the large stone chapel. A gang of Monica's friends had come to pay their respects. She seemed more animated as they laughed and giggled, recalling adventures from their youth, stories about her Mom, and catching up on where everyone was now.
Tom said, "She looks so much like her mother, doesn't she?"
He was right. With Monica's tall, slender physique and that thick mahogany hair, it would have been easy to imagine that it was Celeste chattering excitedly with her friends. My daughter even had my ex-wife's confident posture, high cheekbones and those enchanting, sea-green eyes.
"You know, Monica never really warmed to me," he said, still staring at my daughter. "She would hug me, and insist that she loved me, but she always called me Tom. She had only one 'Daddy'."
A warmth grew in my heart. I had to fight back the urge to gloat.
Back at the hotel, Monica and I walked across the street to an upscale Italian restaurant. Monica always loved lasagna. She seemed in better spirits. but still declined my offer to share an excellent bottle of Montepulciano. Even stranger, she ordered the Fettucine Alfredo.
"I'll bet they have a great lasagna here," I mention, suggesting her perennial favorite.
She holds up her hand. Her face seems to pale. "Don't talk about tomato sauce. My stomach couldn't handle it."
I presume that she's a little off due to the emotions surrounding the loss of her Mom.
"I like this town," I mention over our salads. "It feels so spacious and open. None of those huge oak trees blocking the view like at home. The humidity's not as bad as South Carolina, either."
"Denver's okay, I guess," she says with a shrug.
"Why did you move back east?" I asked, curious. "You were so smart. You could have gone to just about any school. Or found higher paying jobs in bigger cities."
My daughter shrugs again. "I dunno. It just feels like home."
The candlelit restaurant was dark. But despite her apparent indifference, I would have sworn I caught a hint of a secretive grin, and a flash of those exciting green eyes. Just as quickly, it was gone. Had I imagined it?
Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.
"You still loved Mom, didn't you?" she asked. "Even after what she did to you?"
"It wasn't your Mom's fault. The truth is, each of us shared a little of the blame."
"She cheated on you." There was a sharpness in her voice. Then it softened. "In all the times we talked, you never said the first bad thing about her. It must have broken your heart when she left with Tom."
I lay my fork on my plate. "When I was a little boy, I found a baby bird. It couldn't fly. I brought it inside and fed it worms by hand. It grew bigger and started to fly around the cage. My mother said I had to let it go. I cried, because it was mine. Mom told me, 'If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it is yours forever. If it doesn't, it was never yours'." I shrug with a self-conscious laugh when she rolls her eyes. "I know that sounds trite, but there's some truth in it."
"Did the little bird come back?" Monica asks.
I lower my eyes. "No."
And neither did Celeste.
We chatted over the rest of dinner, but my thoughts kept drifting back to what Tom had said. Monica was so much like her mother. A strong woman, but prone to moments of helplessness where she needs someone to hold her and tell her everything will be okay. My daughter's own marriage fared no better than ours. It lasted only six years. Unlike mine and Celeste's, Monica's was childless. I had never pried into the cause of their split.
We were both exhausted when we returned to the hotel. Although I'd offered to pay for two rooms, Monica had insisted that we share a double-queen room. She was overwrought. Not wishing to add any stress, I acquiesced.
Our flight home was around noon the next day, and we were both still on Eastern time. It was early, but we agreed to call it a day. Monica retired to the bathroom to prepare herself for bed. I usually slept in my skivvies, but had brought along some cotton pajamas. Expecting that I would be hot in the extra clothing, I turned down the thermostat.
When Monica reappears, I have to do a double-take. She's in a long, button-down satiny nightshirt that falls halfway down her thighs. Celeste had often worn one just like that. I feel a stirring between my legs that shouldn't be there. Briskly, I tell her goodnight, then roll over before she catches me gawking.
The bedside lamp went out, and I heard Monica crawl into the other bed. The room went quiet except for the steady, distant roar of traffic. Then I heard it. A sniffle. Then another one. She sobbed and sniffed some more. I heard the rustle of the sheets as she moved around.
I jumped, startled when my bed moved.
"Daddy?" Monica whispered. "Will you hold me?"
"Sure, sweetie." I raised the sheets and she slid in next to me. We embraced each other.
"Thanks, Daddy." She kisses my cheek again, a soft kiss that seems to last longer than I expected. Then she curls up against my chest. She sniffs once more, then she is still, breathing slow and steady. I follow soon after.
Emerging half-awake in the darkness with a hand full of tit, my cock smiles and snuggles up against the soft, pillowy bottom. Since the divorce, I've spent many nights on the road with women I met only hours before. The appreciation of how fine and firm this tit is arrives a split second before the recognition of who it belongs to.
Slowly, carefully, I pull away. An instant later, small feminine fingers grasp the back of my hand and put it right back.
I'm stymied. Is Monica aware of what she's doing? Is she dreaming that she's in bed with one of her lovers? Surely she can't believe that my wayward touch was an effort to seduce her.
The hard nipple poking at the center of my palm is dainty, like her mother's. I'm hard, too, my single-minded erection is still impressing its embarrassing shape into her buns. He remembers the good times with Celeste, and doesn't seem to know that the warm, soft body nestled into me is not my ex-wife.
My conscience asserts itself, and I attempt to draw my hand back. Monica rolls in my arms to face me. The faint light filtering in from the balcony reflects from her eyes. It's too dark to tell if she recognizes me. I can only barely make out the lines of her face.
She seizes my wrist, pushing my hand inside her open nightshirt. Again she covers my hand with hers, compressing, guiding me to squeeze her abundant rubbery flesh. She sucks in a passionate breath.
No words have been spoken. A conflict rages inside me. Does she even realize who is touching her? Or, is she in some sort of somnambulisitic stupor? Should I awaken my daughter, chancing that she might assume I'm molesting her?
Or, is she fully conscious of what she's doing? If my lovely daughter wants my aged body, then I have a bigger problem. Maybe it's the funeral, but I'm consumed by the possibility of reliving just one memory of so many nights like this with Celeste. I can't deny that I'm aroused. And what sort of perverse creature does that make me?
Monica raises her leg, throwing it over my thigh to lock her ankle behind my knee. That gives her leverage to pull us closer. Her arm snakes downward between us. She finds the opening of my pajamas, then the slit in my boxers. I shiver at her touch.
