Another Love Pt. 01

"Oh, cherie, I thought you knew—after all, they lived together. They were lovers for years. Oh my god, how could you not know," she said, a worried frown now encompassing her exotic face.

"There must be some mistake," I said, grasping at straws, "My wife has lived with me continuously for the last twenty-six years. That is our bedroom with the wallpaper we hung together. That is our bed that we still sleep in TOGETHER," I said.

"I should go," she said beginning to rise.

"No! SIT," I said, "You don't drop this on me and then just flee. Who are you and how do you know my wife and me and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHO IS PHILLIPE."

The story came out slowly and reluctantly. Avril's husband, Philippe Du Monte, was a painter and world-renowned restoration expert. In 1989, he had been hired to restore six paintings vandalized on the South Mall. I remembered the incident of the man who thought he was the reincarnation of Michelangelo and needed to fix the paintings. After an extensive search the State Office of General Services hired a Canadian firm to do the restoration. There was some controversy at the time about hiring out-of-state, but the experts were quite firm. They wanted only the best. Nothing less would do. Apparently, Philippe Du Monte was the man chosen.

Shortly after Philippe arrived to begin work, the affair started. He met Karen in the South Mall when he was working in the Museum building. She worked in the Tower building. They were virtually on top of each other. Avril and Philippe had an open marriage, at her insistence.

"We were young and did not wish to miss anything, but mature enough to understand each other's needs," she said.

She was happy that he found someone when he was away. He traveled back and forth to Montreal, but spent most of his days and nights in Albany for three years. Then, there was the period that began in the summer of 1990 when he moved into my house and stayed. Avril visited on a number of occasions. She knew I was away and still married to Karen, but the reason was never explained. She assumed that I knew of the relationship and approved.

"I just assumed. She spoke of you lovingly and praised you as a husband and father. I understood that Philippe moved in because you could not be with her, and there were such small children. Two boys who needed a man's influence and a lonely woman. We had two girls in their teens, away at boarding school. Philippe spent their holidays with us. Karen spent Christmas 1990 at our house in Mont Royal. My daughters loved her and the boys as I did. How could you not know?"

Whatever doubts I still had about her tale were dispelled, as 1990 had been an... unusual year. A monster invaded his oil-rich neighbor and sent my country and others to war. I had foolishly stayed in the Naval reserves, albeit the inactive reserves. I had left the Navy as a senior Lieutenant and was promoted in the reserves to a full Commander, the result of the work I did in the reserves and on government contracts. My skills were in high demand that August; I was surprised they waited until Saddam's troops crossed the Kuwait border to activate me. The telegram came on the sixth of August. I was gone two days later and woke up on August 9th aboard the Ike. The next ten months of my life were something equivalent to a nightmare played out above the Persian Gulf, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and Iraq.

The one thing that kept me sane was the belief that at home waited a loving wife and two incredible boys. They were all mine, and I was going home to them. When the Grumman F-14 Tomcat engine flamed out on a flight with me in it, I knew I would survive because Karen waited. I was on my way from the Eisenhower to Saudi Arabia. It was January 16, 1991, the day before we started air combat. I didn't worry; the pilot and I ran through the restart engine routines. Each effort failed until our last Hail Mary attempt. It should not have worked—the book said it would not—but it did.

A half-dozen times I saw men die, sometimes close enough for me to wear their blood. Cables failed, planes crashed, and more men were casualties from my maintenance crews than pilots. It's a fact of war. The collateral casualties are always the greatest in number and the least well reported. Accidents happen while men under enormous pressure try to do what should be impossible. We were hurling heavier than air ships into the sky and bringing them down safely... most of the time.

No matter; Karen and the boys waited safe at home for me. They spent part of the Christmas of 1990 in Montreal. I never knew why until now. I remember Kevin talking excitedly about being in a strange city and the two girls, Simone and Suzan, sisters. No mention was made of anyone else, and a not quite six-year-old was not clear on a poor phone connection from the other side of the world. I told Karen I loved her every chance I got, but it wasn't often and apparently it was not enough, although the affair was already apparently a year in progress by the time I left.

"She loves you dearly and with all her heart. Philippe was her second man, her petite passion, her older experienced lover. She did not have much experience. They were, as the saying goes, in love with being in love. As much friends as lovers," she said looking at me as if this explanation should mean something.

"When Philippe died three months ago from a stroke she came to his funeral. I asked for you, and she said you were well. She told me that the last of the boys had moved out, and you and she were happy and still in love. I was happy for her even in my grief. I brought the painting since Philippe requested that she have it. I should have realized and given it to her then. It is magnificent, no?" she said looking at me for validation.

I rose up walked forward, looking directly at the evidence of my wife's complete betrayal.

"It is very beautiful. He has captured her better than any photograph. He has her exactly. A beautiful whore," I said.

Avril gasped, "No! No! You must understand theirs was a thing of beauty, innocent love. Please understand," she pleaded.

I could only shake my head.

She tried for half an hour to convince me of something, I was not sure what. She hesitated to leave the painting lest I destroy it.

"It is very valuable. Please promise me that you will see it safely to Karen," she said.

"Why not? I shall not move it from where it sits. She is nothing to me now."

Avril left, still explaining and crying softly.

"Please, speak to Karen— do nothing foolish. You need not let it trouble you..." she said, as the door closed on her. And on my life as I had known it.

Look for next part same place.