A Strange Car in the Driveway?

"And another thing," she said, "we have had a lot of break-ins in our neighborhood lately. You have Franklin's keys and clothes. If the key we keep hidden in the backyard is gone when he gets here he may try to break in. And if our security system is turned to instant alert, he could attract some interesting help from the police."

"Molly, I think I am falling in love all over again. You are magnificent."

"Okay, okay, calm down. Franklin may just wait to return until the kids and I are back from school this afternoon. But I can pick them up and go to a park for a while. Give him more time to get into more trouble than he is going to be in when I see him."

"Whatever happens, please let me know, especially if he does get into trouble with the police. And call me when you need the car back. I don't want you to get into any trouble."

"Will do. Now you need to get out of here, and so do I." Max left, in the nice gold Mercedes, wondering how much one like it, in a better color, would cost. Molly had given him the permission slip and he assumed she would get the hidden key, set the alarm and leave for the rest of the day.

Camille (and Franklin)

Camille and Franklin did arrive at Franklin's house about noon that day. Camille dropped him off and quickly sped off, like she was trying to avoid any further contamination. Franklin walked up to his front door, hoping it might be unlocked because Molly was home and at the same time dreading that she might be. Of course it was locked and he hurried around the house to the rock in the backyard where they kept a spare key. But the rock was gone.

"Oh fuck," he muttered as he looked at the back side of his house, wondering if he should break in. He did try the back door, but it was locked also so he decided he really had no choice but to break in. He looked at the windows along the back, calculating which was the best one to break. He decided on the window into the family room. It was the largest in the back and breaking it would give him the most room to get through into the house. He broke off a branch from a tree that he had been meaning to trim and studied the window. Since he was barefoot he needed a way to get thru the glass he would break from the window. He pulled two chairs from the back deck and laid them next to the window. He thought he could climb over the chairs to avoid the glass and then just be careful after he got into the family room. A few deep breaths and he was ready to go.

Franklin swung the branch into the family room window and it exploded with a satisfying crash, followed immediately, and unfortunately for Franklin, with the wailing siren sound of the family's home alert system. Even more unfortunately for him, a police cruiser just happened to be driving down his street, since Molly had called the local police station that morning to complain about possible break-ins in their neighborhood.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Franklin was muttering as he tried to quickly climb over the chairs to get into the house and shut off the damn security system. But not quickly enough.

"Police. Stop right there and back away from the house slowly. Put your hands in the air." Franklin looked back and saw two police officers, both with their guns drawn. He did as he was told, and cut his feet only slightly as he climbed off the chairs and backed away.

"Officers, I can explain," he started to say as one of the cops pulled his hands down behind his back and handcuffed him. The cop ignored his attempt at an explanation and recited his Miranda rights. Then the cop asked if he had anything to say.

"Yes, yes, this is my house and I uhhh don't have my key so I was breaking in to get some clothes and call my office." The cops were looking at Franklin's sweatsuit outfit, maybe thinking "clown wear" when one asked him if he had any id.

"Uhhh, no, no I don't. You see, I lost my car and all my clothes and stuff and I just need to get in so I can get some real clothes."

"How did you 'lose' your car, sir?

"Uhh, well, I was staying last night at a friend's house and this morning the car was uhhh gone."

"Just gone, uh? Did you report the mysterious disappearance? Did you maybe leave it at a bar somewhere?" Franklin was stumped. He didn't want to reveal where he had been, or why he had not reported the car's disappearance, but he also didn't want to go to jail for trying to break into his own house. And the handcuffs were really uncomfortable. Then he came up with a solution that might work.

"You can call my wife. She can identify me and maybe you could drive me to my office. I can get some help there to get some clothes." He knew that he would take a lot of shit at the car dealership, but that was a lot better than going to jail or having Molly come to the house. One of the cops took Molly's phone number from Franklin and walked off to call her. Franklin could hear the cop's side of the call.

"Ma'am, this is Office Riles with the Charlotte police. We are at (he gave the address) and we have a man here who claims to be your husband. He was trying to break into your house because he lost his clothes and....." "Yes ma'am, ... no ma'am ... uh yes ma'am. We certainly will. Thank you, ma'am." He turned back to Franklin. "The lady says her husband is in Atlanta and anyone breaking into her house must be a burglar. She hopes we put you in jail and throw away the key."

"But, but ... ," Franklin was almost crying as the cops marched him to their cruiser for the ride to the station.

And Camille: she had driven to her office, half a day late, but she would make it up. Still wondering about Max since she still had not heard from him, she called his cell phone, but no answer. Then she called his office again.

"Hi Sheila, Camille again. I'm getting a little worried about Max since I still have not heard from him. Have you?"

"No, I haven't. I guess that means he is still in New York with the lawyers, but it is really unlike him not to have called. You do sound a little worried so I'll call up there and check on him, and either he or I will call you back in a few minutes. Okay?"

"Thanks, Sheila, you're the best secretary in the world." A few minutes Camille did get a call back.

"Camille, it's Sheila. I talked to one of the secretaries in the law office, and she said Max left late yesterday, hoping to catch the last flight down to Charlotte. So I called Max's cell phone to check on him. I did speak with him and he asked me to tell you he would call you later. Okay?"

"Thank you, Sheila, uhh thank you," said Camille as she disconnected. A snake started growing in the pit of her stomach.

MAX

Max hung up from his call with Sheila. He was driving the gold Mercedes to a new lawyer, a divorce lawyer recommended by Fred Thomas, his longtime business lawyer. He trusted his business lawyer, and he hoped he would be able to trust the divorce lawyer.

"Mr Tronder, please have a seat. Ms Reinhardt will be with you in just a moment," the receptionist informed him. He sat down, somewhat comforted by the lawyer's office: no expensive furnishings, but not cheap looking either. Before he had time for more worrying, a 50-ish, somewhat stout lady with obviously dyed red hair walked into the reception area.

"Mr. Tronder?" Max stood and nodded, and she continued, "I'm Anna Reinhardt. Fred called and told me to take the best care of you. Let's go in my office and talk about your situation." Max followed her into a nice, but not luxurious office, accepted some coffee from the receptionist, and told his story: finding a cheating wife, wanting a divorce, and also wanting to protect his assets, especially the proceeds from the sale of his and his sisters' company. He skipped the Mercedes part of the story, although he suspected Anna might find it entertaining.

"Max, okay if I call you that?" He nodded and she continued, "and I'm Anna. Good news, well relatively good news, given your situation: Fred told me that you and your sisters owned your company before you married your wife, so your shares are considered separate property. That is, your wife has no claim on your company shares or on the sale proceeds. BUT, you need to keep the shares and the sale proceeds separate from any joint account you might have with your wife. Make sense?"

"I think so, but what about our house, and retirement accounts, and things like that?"

"Well, not such good news for you there. Since your salary is much higher than hers, you will be paying some alimony for a few years. We can probably avoid any retirement account payments by increasing the alimony. I know that's not appealing, but the short-term pain avoids what is usually worse: having to share your retirement money decades in the future. And your kids are in college, so no child support. I assume you are okay being on the hook for the rest of their college expenses?"

"Yes, that's fine. And the house?"

"You, and your wife, need to decide what you want. You can decide to sell it and split the proceeds, or one of you can buy out the other based on the current appraised value."

"After what I saw last night, I definitely don't want the house. I don't think Camille can afford to buy my half, so I guess that means selling."

"Okay, I can draw up the papers that way. The divorce petition is a pretty standard form, so I can have it ready for you to look at tomorrow, early if you want, so we can have her served tomorrow afternoon. Then a proposed settlement agreement can follow next week."

"Geez, that's pretty fast. Um, I ...."

"Mr. Tronder, Max, listen to me. If there is a chance for you and your wife, if counseling or just some time might ...."

"No. No, it's really just the shock I'm dealing with. I mean, less than 24 hours ago, I was happy, anxious to get home to my wife, share with her the good news about selling the company. And now, I'm sitting here talking about filing for divorce. But you should go ahead. I'll figure out how to deal with it."

"Okay, but if you change your mind, just call me and we can adjust." Max thanked her, paid a retainer, and left her office. He walked back to the gold Mercedes, wondering a bit about what was going on with the asshole he had seen the night before. And that reminded him that he had told his secretary he would call Camille.

CAMILLE

"Hello," Camille answered her phone in her office at the law firm where she worked.

"Camille, it's Max. You called, looking for me."

"Oh, Max, thank you for calling. Um, I've missed you. Are you ...? Uh, where are you?"

"I'm here in Charlotte, Camille."

"Um, when did you get back?" That snake deep in her gut raised its head.

"Last night, Camille, I got back last night." And the snake bit. Bit hard. Camille slumped back into her chair. She knew she had to keep this conversation going, but she could barely breather, much less speak. "Camille, I'm hanging up now."

"No, Max, no," she managed to squeak out. "Please, please, can we meet somewhere? I need to see you and, and, just see you for a few minutes." Max hesitated. This woman had been his love, the mother of his daughters, the most important person in his life for more than twenty years.

"Okay, Camille, Center Café at six." The snake bit even harder. Camille had to say yes, but Center Café was where she and Max had met long ago, both of them out with friends. That café had been a special place for them ever since, and now she was afraid of why Max had suggested it. But she had to say yes.

"Max, I'll see you there, and please, listen. I'm sorry and I love you." Max hung up. Camille sat there crying, the snake biting ever harder.

Camille arrived at the café early, Max not there yet. She ordered a glass of wine and sat there thinking about what a horrible person she was. Her first real sexual experiences had been with big, strong football players in college. She had messed around in high school, but it had taken those college football players, holding her down, making her feel helpless, to fuck her into orgasms. When Max came along, she thought she was over that need to feel helpless. Max was everything she needed: strong in bed, loving, a great father for the girls, a good provider. Everything, except sometimes, when she was alone, when she was sure no one would see, she would think of one of those football guys and masturbate to orgasms that let her relive, just a bit, that feeling of being held down, of being made to come by that strength and power.

Those solitary masturbation sessions would have been enough except for a plane ride back to Charlotte from the west coast. Max had been visiting some pharma company, trying to sell a new drug, and she had accompanied him for a getaway weekend before his meetings started. Flying home alone on an overnight flight, she had been seated next to a big man, a coach, as it turned out, of the local NFL team. They had chatted, had too many drinks, and she had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder. She awoke with his hand between her legs, under her skirt, just touching her panties. Now, thinking about that night, she knew she should have screamed or at least pushed his hand away. But no, Camille, like a slut to be, spread her legs and scrunched down in her seat, to give him more room to push a finger and then two into a welcoming pussy.

The flight landed and they immediately went to a nearby motel, where she fucked and sucked until her pussy was sore and her mouth tired. She loved those helpless, pinned down orgasms that a big man could give her. And guilt? She didn't remember feeling guilty, only relief that Max didn't return until later that week, when her pussy had recovered. That coach had only lasted in Charlotte for one season and maybe Camille would have gone back to being a faithful wife, except, before he left, he introduced her to an offensive lineman on the practice squad. Not a star, not even a starter, but just as strong and dominating in bed as the coach had been. Camille was actually thankful when he was traded away. She wanted to remain faithful to Max and guilt feelings had finally surfaced. She assuaged them by giving Max something she had never given the big men who had fucked her: her ass. She introduced the two of them to anal sex. Max liked it; he was a guy after all, who loved sex with his wife, and fucking her in the ass was just another part of their sex life. Camille learned to, not enjoy it exactly, but bear it as something she owed Max.

Camille thought she was over her cheating by the time their girls left for college. She dearly loved Max, and she loved the extra time they had for just the two of them with the girls gone. But that snake slithered in when Max did something nice for her. He told her it was time for her to get a new car, a luxury car that she should choose. And, unfortunately, she chose to go to the Mercedes dealership, where she met Franklin Thompson. He didn't sell her a Mercedes, but he did push all the right buttons to get her into bed. And she knew this was wrong, wrong because Franklin wasn't all that great in bed. He was big and strong, and he did give her orgasms, but what Max did with her was much better. And also wrong because it was just wrong. She had gotten away with her previous affairs, and she thought her marriage had not suffered. But now, she and Max were more in love than ever, and she wanted to be faithful: that was the right thing to do, not have sex with a big oaf. Letting Franklin spend the night in her marital bed was a horrible mistake, even if Max had not discovered them. But she had let him, and now she was afraid of the horrible price she might be paying.

"Hello Camille." Camille looked up to see Max standing there. He looked much older than he had looked before he had flown to New York, and she knew that was on her. The snake in her belly kept nibbling.

"Hi Max. Thank you for being here. I don't even know how to start saying how sorry I am."

"May I ask some questions?" he said as he sat down.

"Oh Max, please no. If we have any chance, questions and answers will just kill that chance. Max, we should run away, just for a few days, to some island in the Caribbean, where we can reconnect, where we can hold each other, where ...."

"Camille, please. Don't be delusional. If you can't answer my questions, I'll get up and leave now." The snake kept biting, but Camille knew she had to endure that pain and let Max vent as much as he wanted. Maybe, just maybe, he could come out the other side of his anger to some kind of reconciliation.

"Okay, Max, ask me anything."

"Do you know what time I got home last night?" A strange question, she thought.

"Uh, no, not exactly, it had to be after ...." She shut up. She knew what his next question would be, and it was:

"And do you know what I saw when I got home, when I walked upstairs to our bedroom, or, I should say, what used to be our bedroom?"

"Yes, Max, I know what you must have seen, and I know it had to be one of the worst things you ever saw in your whole life, and I know it is entirely my fault that you saw that, and I beg you to please hear me. Max, I am sorry, sorry enough that I will not contest any kind of divorce you want. If you want to beat me, you can do it right here and I will not complain. If you want to ...."

"Shut up, Camille. Next question: how many men since we have been married? If you lie, if I think you lie, I get up and walk out." Camille's first thought was to lie; her second thought was that lying was just too risky, and her third thought was that her marriage was most likely dead anyway.

"Three, Max, three men that I wish now I had never met. I think I see in your eyes that our marriage is over, and I understand that. You deserve someone better than I am. I'm willing to do just about anything to give us another chance, but I understand if you want to not have anything more to do with me."

"Get a lawyer, Camille, you will be served with divorce papers tomorrow." Max got up and walked away. Camille sat there, too stunned even to cry at first. As she processed what Max had just said, that snake in her gut bit hard and she did start to cry.

MAX

Max walked away from the cafe, remembering how he and Camille had first met there, decades ago now, and wondering if this latest meeting would end up being the last time they ever had any kind of intimate conversation. 'Intimate,' he thought bitterly, that must be the worst kind of intimacy: to hear your wife saying she has fucked other men. And seeing her with that toad Franklin, in their bed, in their fucking bed, asleep, her snoring for god's sake, how could he ever get over that? Maybe he could have dealt with three faceless men over the twenty plus years they had been together. Just maybe, with counseling and lots of groveling on her part, maybe. But he would never get over that scene in their bed. Their marriage was over. And sitting in that damn gold Mercedes, he finally started to cry.

At some point, Max realized it was getting dark. He blew his nose, wiped his face and thought about what Molly Thompson had said that morning, which now seemed like a year ago. She had told him not to send her pictures of her husband sleeping with Camille. She had sensed that forgiveness would be much harder if she had confronted the visual evidence. Max decided to call her, to share that thought with her and to check on the status of the Mercedes.

"Hello," Molly answered her home phone.

"Molly, this is Max Tronder, from this morning. I'm just calling to see how you are and to check on what I should do with the car."

"Max, thanks for calling. I'm hanging in there, I guess. You can keep the car for now. Franklin is in so much trouble he won't need it for a while."

"Trouble? I hope you didn't shoot him."

"No, but he might be wishing that I did. He got arrested, for trying to break into our house, and apparently took a swing at one of the cops. You know he's a big guy and the cop tasered him. Then something happened while he was in jail. He won't talk about it, but I think he may have been assaulted in some way by another inmate. I wouldn't talk to him, and he finally had to call his brother to bail him out. And that means his whole family knows what's going on."