An Interlude to Cherish

"So you told me." She pauses, looking as if she's debating whether she should go further. Then: "Look, Colette, I know it's none of my business. But from what I see, and Morty too, it appears there's more to it. I mean, James is still over there, and here you are with this hunk of a basketball player half your age. Not judging you, just--″

"It sounds like you are, Betty. And you're right, it's none of your business. But what do you think is going on other than what I've told you?"

She turns her head into the brisk westerly breeze. Then, turning back to me, she says, "Okay, look, I'm sorry I asked. But if you really want to know, from my perspective, it appears that there's some hanky-panky going on between you and Brice. Remember, you asked. But far from judging you, I find it rather titillating, if you want to know the truth. Brice is hot young stuff. I wouldn't mind if a hunky kid like that stuffed my cannoli as well. Anyway, you're pretty hot stuff yourself for a gal of our generation. I'm sure he sees you as his middle-age bikini queen."

I can't help but double over and laugh. "Stuffed your cannoli? Now that's one I haven't heard before. Middle-age bikini queen? Well, thanks for the compliment, Betty dear. You're the first person who's ever called me that." Being a terrible liar, I'd look silly telling her 'it isn't what it looks like,' or some other cliché of deniability. But I'm not inclined to tell her the raw truth about Brice and me either. "Betty, all I can say is that Brice is a good kid who helps me out, who's been a good friend in my time of need. You're welcome to interpret that any way you'd like."

Saying nothing more, we return to the beach. I get back into my book, while Betty pulls out her own reading material and the guys continue to do what they were doing. It's only when Brice and I decide to head for the ocean that he speaks up. "What happened between you and Betty?" he asks. "There seems to be this vibe that wasn't there before."

I tell him about our brief conversation. "Frankly, I don't care what they think, so long as it doesn't get back to James. Gossip can spread far and wide, even across the pond to Paris. But I'm not going to let what might or might not happen spoil this trip. So, shall we take the plunge?"

Diving into the water, I mean, though the metaphorical meaning of it crosses my mind. Metaphorically, I've already taken a kind of plunge with this 'hot young stuff' as Betty described him.

"Sure, and I'll go first," Brice says. He dives into a wave. Then I follow, feeling the frigid numbness of suddenly immersing in our region's ocean water in early summer. We swim out to where the water is chest-high, at least for me. Brice is tall enough that most of his chest is exposed. "You're shivering," he says.

"No kidding."

"This might help." He then proceeds to lift me out of the water and onto his broad shoulders. "How's the weather up there?"

"Oh, just lovely," I say. Turning toward the beach, I can see Mort and Betty looking at us. But at this point, I don't really care.

Brice keeps me there for a few moments. Then we swim back, return to the beach and drape beach towels around our shivering bodies.

"You guys looked like you were having a grand old time out there," Betty says.

"Yeah, but goose bumps are a bad sign," Morty says.

"Well, if they can do it, so can we," Betty says.

Mort shrugs. "Yeah, I guess we should go in at least once. We ARE at the beach."

Brice and I stay put. It takes only a few minutes for the high temperature and humidity to warm us back up. Brice rubs more sunscreen on my back and legs. This time, he sneaks his fingers under my bikini bottom, giving my vagina a few strokes. "Oh, you dirty boy!" I cry.

He laughs and pulls out. "That's to keep you nice and hot."

"Brice, I've been hot ever since we became intimate."

When I turn over, he looks to see if our company is still away. "Coast is clear," he says, and then leans over and kisses me.

I sit up, toss my previous inhibitions to the wind, and we begin to neck like two teens. Of course, Brice is barely out of his teens, but doing this with him the way I did with boys years ago, makes me almost feel like I'm nineteen again. What I never said to those boys, is what I say now: "You know, right about now, I could spread my sexy legs--your phrase--take your hot thing inside my hot vagina, and let you pile-drive me to the moon. Well, at least to Dewey Beach."

He swishes a hand over his crotch. "Okay, then do it. Because my hot thing is getting hotter. I'm ready. Your friend Betty was right. You really are a middle-age bikini queen."

Of course, we're joking, at least about the actually doing it part on this crowded beach. I think of Betty's remark about being titillated by what she presumes is going on. Yes, I bet she is.

Minutes later, Betty and Mort return, wet and shivering. "I think we'll use the hotel pool for anything resembling a swim," Betty says. She and Mort wrap themselves in their colorful beach towels.

"You two look like you're all warmed up," Mort says.

"Yeah, dude, it's getting hot out here," Brice says. He flashes me a knowing grin.

Judging from the way Betty purses her lips in a sneaky sort of smile, I'm guessing that she might be onto Brice's double entendre. As for me, I couldn't agree more with Brice's assessment. It is indeed getting hot out here, and it will take more than plunging into chilly water to cool off.

Which is why, minutes later, we wave bye bye to our company and return to our hotel room--'doin what comes naturally,' as that old song goes. My mom used to sing it to me when I was a little girl, although what's happening now with Brice is hardly what she had in mind.

The familiar sexy scents and sounds fill the room--sunscreen, ocean and our own natural body odor, the AC humming and the free, uninhibited outpouring of fun and pleasure, the oohs and ahhs, the shrieks and gasps. Oh, what pleasure, laying back and having Brice swish his fast tongue all over my breasts and oozing pussy and then pile-driving me into a climax that almost renders me unconscious. "If it gets any better than this," I tell him, "I've somehow missed it."

He's half on top of me, playing with my hair and kissing me. "Your friend Betty should have it so good," he says.

"Ha, that will be the day. I sometimes wonder if she and Morty still have much of a sex life. When we were by the water, she called you 'hot young stuff' and alluded to a desire to experiencing what I've got with you. Got any good-looking friends that could stuff her cannoli?"

"Huh?" Brice laughs when I tell him the rest of it.

"Anyway, her hot young stuff comment about you should boost your ego up a few notches."

"Betty's not exactly my type, but thank her for me anyway. Besides, it's you I'm hot for."

"And Kelly-Ann, don't forget."

"And Kelly-Ann," he says, with a lackluster nod. "Believe it or not, she's been off my radar during this trip."

"Don't you plan to keep seeing her?"

"Yeah, it's just that I'm not sure I can juggle you and her at the same time."

"Oh, I think you can. With us, it's just about sex. With her, it's the whole package, isn't it?" The question is rhetorical; I'm leading him on to get a sense of where we stand together.

"Colette, it's not just about the sex. In the beginning, yeah And it's still great and important. But I'm starting to like you a lot, starting to care what happens to you. I know it's unrealistic to think we could stay together, but feelings are feelings."

His sincere, loving words gets my eyes to water. I reach out, pull him forward and take him into my arms, hugging him from the back. "That's very sweet, Brice," I say, kissing the back of his shoulders. "I've developed feelings for you also, and not just the kind between my legs. Makes me wish I was thirty years younger."

He considers this for a few moments. Then: "So what happens if and when Mr. Henson comes back? I know I've asked you that before. But now that we're on the subject, I guess we should talk about it."

"Honey, I still don't know because I don't know if our marriage is even repairable. If it isn't, we're off to divorce court. If it is..." I pause to gather my thoughts. "Brice, what I think you're asking is, can we carry on when James returns, divorce or no divorce. Yes, I suppose, if James and I decide to split. But, if we try to make a go of it, probably not. I mean, seeing you and living with my husband would make for an impossibly messy situation that we both could do without."

*****

On our last night in Rehoboth, we take some time to stroll barefoot by the shoreline, holding hands. I had told Brice that he made me wish I was thirty years younger. Doing this, actually makes me feel thirty years younger. The years seem to melt away, and I'm that young girl again, being with a boy I could fall in love with. Thirty years ago, a girl named Colette Perino was doing this same thing on a different beach with a boy named James Henson. She was in love with him, or at least getting there. I can't let that happen with Brice Freeland. As much as I adore him, it wouldn't be good for either of us.

I stop walking and ask him to kiss me. He doesn't hesitate. While locked in his tight embrace, I'm faintly aware of the sounds around us, the seagulls, the wind and the waves lapping gently upon the sand. Brice, too, is moved by the special tenderness of the moment. He says, "It doesn't get more romantic than this, does it?"

"No, it sure doesn't," I say. I nuzzle my face against his. "Look, whatever happens, I just want you to know that this trip, this entire thing with you, has been one lovely experience. I don't regret a single minute of it."

"Me neither," he says.

He tucks his hands under my butt, then lifts me to his waist, while I clamp my legs around him. We're both wearing shorts--it would be easy enough for us to drop them and make love in this position. Mindful of the possible legalities of doing such a salacious thing, we opt to just kiss for a few moments. This is so nice, feeling his strong arms around me, his warm lips on mine, his genuine romantic spark for me, someone old enough to be his mom. When we resume our walk, I look up and notice the eerie glow cast by the moon, half-hidden by dark clouds.

*****

"So, you're coming home?"

"Yes, in about ten days. There's a financial group here in Paris willing to pay over and above for the business what we paid for it. It's a deal I can't pass up. I'm excited. And I miss you, Colette."

"Ah, miss you, too, James. I'll pick you up at the airport."

I'm not totally surprised, though I didn't think it would be this soon. My husband is coming home. We'd been communicating mostly by email, so it was refreshing to hear his voice. It appears that he's still in the dark about Brice and me. Should I enlighten him or keep my mouth shut when he returns? A bigger question: Can we even live as man and wife again after the bitter arguments in Paris and my affair?

I tell Brice it's best we don't see each other between now and when James returns. I need time to think, to sort things out, to decompress. He understands, for he's got work to do on his own relationship with Kelly-Ann. Over the next ten days, we communicate by email and text. And yes, we do our share of sexting. Can't help it.

I'm both nervous and excited when the day arrives. It's mid-July, hot and humid, typical for this time of year. My heart pounds as I wait for James to appear in the greeting area. When he emerges from the group of passengers, carry-on bag strapped over one shoulder and wearing white slacks and a blue and white checkered short-sleeve shirt, I half-run to embrace him. He looks the same, more or less. I still think he's handsome, despite his graying hair and receding hairline, which reveals a few freckles on his balding pate. Somehow, he's managed to keep his weight stable while operating a restaurant that features a variety of irresistible French pastry. He's chunky, always has been, something I found cute when I met him all those years ago.

"You look beautiful as always," he says while we wait at the turnstile to retrieve his luggage. He lowers his blue eyes. "Legs and all. Nice tan."

"Thanks," I say, while a million thoughts and possible scenarios run through my head.

We stuff his luggage into the trunk of his car, the white Lexus that I drove on occasion to keep it from dying and then head for home, chatting away. He fills me in on the sale and other things about his life in Paris. I fill him in on what I've been doing--my part-time secretarial work, exercise, books read, movies seen, girls' nights out. It's all normal, mostly mundane stuff amid the tension that roils inside me. Should I tell him? And if so, what would it accomplish? Sounds counter-productive to me if there's any chance to get the marriage back on track. And yet, keeping secrets is no way to keep a marriage either. Maybe he'd understand. Or, maybe not. Maybe he did the same thing in Paris. And would he tell me if he did? Questions upon questions. It makes me dizzy.

"Have you heard anything from Brice Freeland?" he asks as he drives onto the I-83 entrance ramp.

A chill explodes down my spine. "Heard anything? Like what?"

"Well, I figure he might want to watch our condo again if we go away together." He chuckles. "And I don't mean Paris. Maybe to the shore. Just you and me." Pause. "Man, it feels nice to drive this car again."

"Um, well, like where?"

"Oh, I don't know. Someplace close. Cape May. Ocean City. Maybe even Rehoboth. We vacationed there years ago. Remember?"

I nod. "Of course. I also remember that it rained half the time."

He nods. "Yep. But with the web, we can get a more accurate extended forecast. Can you get onboard with that?"

"Sure, I guess so, James, but don't you think we ought to see how things go first? I mean, when I left Paris, we weren't exactly lovey-dovey."

His seals his thin lips into a cold silence, the way he looks when displeased or annoyed. The way he looked in Paris right before I left. Moments later, he says, "Okay, point well taken. So how long should this trial period of ours last, Colette? A week? Two weeks? A month? A whole year?"

"We're not under some deadline, DEAR. Let's just see how things go. The summer isn't even half over. We've got plenty of time."

Already, tempers are flaring and we're not even home. This doesn't bode well for a happy marriage. Or at least a reasonably civil one. I'm almost in tears when we get to the condo. And James is still pissed. I feel like calling Brice to ask him to run away with me. Just a thought, an irrational thought when James pulls into the parking lot. The cold silence that began minutes ago, continues as I help James carry his luggage inside.

James breaks the ice when we get in. "Well, it's nice to be home again. Now all I need is to find something else to do in my retirement." He folds his arms across his chest and looks me in the eye. "That's one of the reasons I mentioned going away, Colette. Going to the shore can be just a warmup. We've got enough money from savings and the sale of the business to travel around the world. You can quit your part-time job if you'd like. Travel is high on the agenda of most retired couples that have the means and health to do it. Fortunately, we have both."

He's right, so I don't argue. But what he left out was the big number three, good feeling between the couple who is so blessed with the means and health. To keep the fragile peace that we have at this moment, I let it be. "Sounds exciting, James. All except quitting my secretarial job. I enjoy it."

He nods. "Sure, I understand. And look, I'm not ready to take off for Bangkok or some other exotic place right away."

"Bangkok...Can we at least see the Grand Canyon first?"

On point with my attempt at much-needed levity, he grins and says, "Yes, dear. And Yosemite, too."

At dinner, while eating the pot roast meal I prepared just for him (a favorite of his), he again brings up a beach trip. "With this heat and humidity, a trip to the ocean for a few days is just what we need. You love the beach, so I'd think you'd be itching to go by now."

Of course, he doesn't yet know that I've been there, done that. Now is the moment of my discontent. I could tell him that I went there with some girlfriends. Or alone. Or tell him what I told Mort and Betty, that I took Brice, and that we stayed in separate rooms. Or put all my cards on the table, tell him the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Or take the easy way out. Jump for joy and say, 'You're right, James. When do we leave?'

Look, I'm not proud of what I did. I had needs and I acted to fulfill those needs. Deceitful by nature I'm not, and making James believe that I haven't yet been to the shore is as deceitful as one can get. Deceitful I was, but deceitful I shall no longer be.

I imbibe plenty of wine in between bites of pot roast, scalloped potatoes, asparagus and squash--enough to where I'm ready to spill the beans. "Look, James, there's something you should know."

He finishes chewing a forkful of asparagus. "Okay. Sounds serious."

I exhale. Then: "Actually, I have been to the shore. Earlier, you mentioned Brice, about him watching our condo like he did when we were both in Paris. Of course, I paid him, but I also thought it would be a nice gesture if I treated him to a beach trip before he began his summer construction job. So, I took him to Rehoboth Beach."

Fork still in hand, mouth hanging open, James looks at me like anyone else would whose spouse left out an important detail of something that should have been said earlier. "I see. So why are you just telling me this? You didn't say a word about it on the phone or in your emails."

I tap my foot on the rug under the dining room table, something I sometimes do when tense or nervous. "No, I didn't, and that's because..."

I take a few deep breaths, thinking about the old maxim that says the truth can set one free. Of course, it can also get one in deep trouble. But here goes. "Look, Brice and I had an affair while you were away. And that continued in Rehoboth."

He blinks and does a doubletake. "Excuse me?" His tone isn't one of surprise or anger but incredulity, as if he didn't hear right.

"Should I repeat it?"

"Wait...I think you just told me that you had an affair with a twenty-year-old college kid. One that used to be our neighbor."

"Um, yeah. That's what I said." In my buzzed state, I find his jaw-dropping expression amusing. Hand over my mouth, I begin to laugh. He doesn't change expression. I laugh harder. I stop to sip more wine, then laugh some more.

Slowly, his mouth starts to stretch into a grin. Then he begins to laugh, too. He says, "That's a good one, Colette. You always did have a far-out sense of humor."

We laugh together, hitting the dining room table, holding our stomachs, turning red. We're laughing for different reasons. He thinks it's a joke. For me, it serves as a much-needed emotional release.

Finally, when the laughter trails off, I say, "James, darling, it's no joke. We ran into Morty and Betty Sirody at a restaurant. So you can ask them. We all stayed at the same hotel, the Ocean View. I told them that Brice and I were staying in separate rooms. It was a ridiculous, half-baked attempt to cover-up the truth. Not that they believed it."

Now he looks surprised. "You're not putting me on. You're serious."

"Seriously buzzed. But no, I'm not putting you on."

He reaches for his glass and takes a sip. Then: "Give me a moment to process, would you?"

"Sure. Take as much time as you need." His face, that expression, incredulous and exasperated. And me, sitting up and watching him, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. I feel like we're characters out of a bad sitcom. Again, I begin to laugh. Can't help it.