Kayla - It Begins

Kayla regularly asked one or two couples, usually people she had previously done some work for, asking each of them to bring another couple. It was her way of pulling influential people into our sphere of friends. It was beginning to work. We had recently begun to receive a few invitations to their homes for a similar small gathering. I sometimes felt out of place, being so much younger than those who attended, but discovered I could manage to find something to discuss that interested my guests. Not as often as I liked, one or more of the guests would mention they had read my book. Rarely, I discovered they had purchased it as a gift and even more rarely, I was asked for an autographed copy with an offer to purchase it if necessary.

* * *

I could tell Kayla was making a real effort to enjoy Sunday afternoon with my parents and the other relatives who showed up for the simple outdoor barbeque. In addition to my father's brother, who had never married, he had two sisters. One of them had a daughter with three small children visiting from out of state. I hadn't seen my cousin in several years. We were about the same age and had gone to school together. We spent some time talking about people both of us knew, what they were doing, and recent marriages.

Kayla spent about an hour holding the youngest child. I could tell my mother was itching to say something, but I'd warned her that her remarks were causing Kayla to feel pressured and might make her even more reluctant to begin our family. Mother was very familiar with reverse psychology. She used it on my father with a lot of success, but she was even better at silence and a smile. She could hide her emotions with very little effort. My dad used to tease me that she had taught me too well because he said I could do the same smile and never let on that I was pleased or displeased with what someone was telling me.

I didn't really give it a lot of thought that day, but I wondered if Kayla was reluctant to begin our family because she felt like an outsider. Maybe putting her name on the deed to the townhouse would give her the feeling we really were a family. She seldom mentioned any family. I knew she had grown up living with her grandparents, not knowing very much about her mother or any other relatives, except a half-brother who was several years older than she was. She was shy and withdrawn around my family although they tried to include her.

* * *

I showed Linda around the shop and left her for about an hour to go to my attorney's office. It would give her a chance to have a good look around without me looking over her shoulder and make her aware of what she needed to know when I wasn't there. I told her to write any sales on a piece of paper and I'd enter them in the cash register when I got back.

When I got to my lawyer's office, I explained to Hollis that I wanted to share ownership of my townhouse with Kayla but he didn't like it at first. He started giving me all kinds of information about community property laws, but I told him to write whatever he needed to write that would say from the date of our marriage, Kayla shared in the ownership of the townhome. He said he would prepare a deed to protect my interests as well as he could and if I was in a hurry, I could come in and sign it the next day, which is exactly what I did.

I was so excited I couldn't wait for the recorded form to come back, so I asked Hollis to give me a copy of it. I bought a dozen red roses for Kayla and had a nice dinner ready when she got home. I even set the table in the formal dining room. I was going to give my wife the biggest surprise of her life.

I heard Kayla come in the house and I was walking out of the kitchen to meet her as she was going upstairs.

"Wendell, don't touch me. I smell like a horse. I'm going to take a shower and then I'll help you with our dinner."

"Okay, but if you have plans for tonight you'll have to cancel them. I need to have a long talk with you."

Kayla stopped with her foot on the next step and turned her head to look at me. She looked exhausted. I knew she hadn't been sleeping well for a couple of weeks, but she really looked tired. The only color in her face was two bright spots of red on her upper cheeks. "Talk?" Her voice was shaking. "What are we going to talk about?"

"I'll tell you when you get down from your shower." I didn't say anything else. I simply turned to go back into the kitchen, not daring to give away the surprise.

When Kayla walked into the kitchen, she stopped, looked at the vase of flowers on the table, and then looked back at me.

"Wendell?"

"I decided we deserved a celebration."

"A celebration?"

"Yeah," I answered as I handed her a glass of wine. We didn't often have wine with dinner, but tonight was something special.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen holding the glass of wine. I saw the liquid moving from the tremble in her hand. I suggested she go sit down and I would bring her dinner plate to her. She started to sit at the kitchen table, but I told her we were using the dining room for our meal and maybe she could light the candles before she sat down.

I finally told Kayla I'd hired someone to help me in the shop and I tried to entertain her with some of the funny things Linda told about trying to change her head from being a mother at home with children to a working woman. Although she had been in the shop for a couple of days, I was just learning the names of her children.

Kayla was finally getting into the slightly festive mood of our dinner. She talked about a fussy woman who had been giving her problems all day long. The woman was unhappy with the color of the expensive wallpaper she had chosen for her dining room. She had thought it would be much lighter on the wall and was turning out to make the room look dark, which Kayla had tried to warn her about, but the woman had insisted on that color.

When I finally pushed my plate back, I took the folded copy of the deed from under my placemat and handed it to Kayla. At first she didn't understand what it was then she just started crying, with huge tears rolling silently down her cheeks. She got up from her chair and came to sit on my lap.

"Wendell, you don't know ... you can't know ... I can't tell you ..."

"It's okay Kayla, I understand."

I just held her, soothed her, and kissed her a few times. We moved to the den and sat with our arms around each other. I tried again to tell her I really did understand how I had excluded her from feeling that the home we lived in was hers. I didn't realize I always called it 'my' house. I would try to do a better job of saying 'our home'.

After a short while, Kayla stood up, "Wendell, you are such a sweet, sweet man, but I am exhausted. I just must go to bed. Maybe I can sleep a little better tonight."

"Okay. You go ahead. I have a couple of hours of work to do in my study. I'll be up later."

* * *

During the first week Linda worked, she questioned some of the merchandise I carried. The shop wasn't slow, but business wasn't exactly brisk, either. I didn't tell her that income was paying the bills, but might be marginal with salary for an employee. She was surprised I wasn't selling a lot of clothing worn by exercise or sport enthusiasts. Not far from my shop was a small sports store that sold a very good selection of rollerblades, but they carried very little clothing. We looked through a suppliers catalog and wrote a preliminary order of what she said she had seen her daughter and other young people wearing.

I watched in utter amazement and then laughed as Linda called the company and was connected to an inside female salesperson. It was a long telephone call, but the two women adjusted the order based on the supplies that were in stock and ended with a promise the merchandise would be shipped within three days. When Linda finished the telephone call, I looked at her quizzically as if to ask, "How did you manage that?" Linda shrugged her shoulders and then grinned, pleased with herself.

I spent some time in the storage room cleaning out old merchandise, planning on some kind of sale that would draw in additional customers so they would see we now had exercise clothing. I heard the bell on the front door ring when a customer walked in and then another ring when the customer left. A minute or so later, Linda came to get me to explain a function she had accidently discovered on the cash register. By process of elimination, we learned it was a sophisticated customer tracking database that I had never used. I'd only purchased that particular brand and type of cash register because it was similar to the one Kayla used in her store and it was easy to use.

Linda created an account for herself and then entered a single purchase. It took a while to figure out how to show the merchandise was returned for a full refund so the daily receipts would balance. The function she grew fascinated with had the ability to send an email to a customer about a sale on merchandise based on previous purchases made. I promised to bring her the large instruction manual for her to read.

For the first time I was going to leave early and allow Linda to close the shop. She could walk across the parking lot and drop the daily receipts into the bank's night deposit. She didn't seem nervous, but I was nervous for her. I changed into my jogging clothes and left the shop.

After a few stretching exercises I began the upward climb to the bluff across from my townhouse. I was hyped that I had at least two hours more of daylight than I was accustomed to having and planned on a good run around the full circle.

For a couple of weeks I hadn't seen Patrice on the track. I thought she'd changed her schedule, or she might have moved to another track. I was surprised when I rounded the bend and saw her sitting on the edge of a step. She was leaning over with her forehead resting on her knees and she looked like she was shaking. I knew it was Patrice because of the tee shirt she was wearing and her ponytail tied at the base of her head. I feared she had fallen, maybe strained a muscle and might need some help to get to her car.

I stopped beside her, "Patrice, are you okay?"

She was crying, actually sobbing, with tears running down her face faster than she could wipe them away. Between hiccups she asked, "Do you know any of the owners of those townhouses?"

"Yes, I ah ... yes." I started to tell her I owned the one with the cast iron railing going up the steep front steps, but for some reason I kept quiet. I didn't know Patrice well and feared she might be one of those who wanted to complain about the owners who were giving the city a difficult time about the new trees that had been planted around the park.

The townhouse owners didn't want the trees because eventually the trees would grow tall enough to obstruct their view. Already disliking those who used the park to rollerblade, they were hearing rumors of picnic tables, children on cycles, and park benches with advertisement on the backs. Anytime two or more owners of the townhouses were in the same place at the same time, those rumors were the topic of conversation between neighbors.

"I need ... need to know ... who owns ... the gray ... the gray one ... with ... with the ... with the round windows." I could barely understand her words as she tried to stop crying.

As noncommittally as I could, I answered, "O-o-o-kaaaay." I felt certain she was talking about my townhouse. The color of the rock used for the façade was gray but it had a faint pink tinge to it, reinforcing the nickname, 'The Boob House'. However, there was a second gray townhouse several doors down from mine. It also had bow windows but they were not nearly as large and the front steps were not recessed. The gray rock had a little brown in it and I'd often wondered why it wasn't nicknamed, too. I could think of several appropriate words, but they were much less polite than boob.

"He ... he goes ... he goes there."

"Who goes there?" I looked around, but there wasn't anyone else ahead or behind us. I was growing more concerned with Patrice's anguish.

"B.J."

"Patrice, where's your car?"

She pointed at the parking lot a few steps down the walk and tried to stand. I put my arm around her to keep her steady and suggested, "Let me help you to your car."

As we walked to her car, she managed to get her breathing back under control, but she was absolutely exhausted. I got her into the front seat of the car and walked to the nearby convenience store where I could get us a soda in a cup with some ice. I thought she could use the sugar.

We put the windows down on her car and sat talking for almost an hour. Patrice may not have realized how much she told me, but I was a willing listener. I wasn't asking questions, I was just listening.

Darryl Appling, Patrice's father, owned the travel agency that occupied part of the largest building in Heritage Park. While Patrice didn't actually have a license, she worked for him as a way of paying her way through college. Her mother was old city money, but her father's income supported their family. Her grandfather, whose health was beginning to fail, was still controlling his family money. Patrice knew that his death would release a substantial trust fund she could live on quite comfortably.

Patrice's father allowed B.J. Harriman to buy an interest in the travel agency, with the intent he would own the business after a few years, when Patrice's father would retire. B.J. was already increasing business. He liked to arrange travel packages for people who wanted a little more luxury and had the time to enjoy such an extensive trip. One of his favorite plans was for wealthy women who wanted to attend fashion shows, who were interested in a trip to Europe to buy a new wardrobe. When a woman wore a dress she had purchased at a small shop in France, she would usually say it was on a trip arranged by B.J. Harriman. I had heard those comments made in my own home by the guests Kayla invited to our informal dinner parties.

Less than six months after B.J. joined the business, he asked Patrice to marry him. He'd pursued her rather diligently and she had fallen in love with him. She had a small photo of him in a plastic holder on her key ring. I thought to myself that he was a real hunk and I was a little surprised because Patrice was rather plain. I wasn't under any illusion that people probably thought the same thing about my beautiful wife, Kayla, and me.

Tuesday of the previous week, when her new husband of less than two months went to the restroom, Patrice picked up his ringing cell phone and opened it, intending to tell the caller he would be right back. What she heard was a woman's voice, "Hi baby, are you going to come by this afternoon?"

Patrice closed the phone, grabbed her purse, and left the office before her husband returned to his desk. On more than one occasion, she had seen him open the phone and listen, then close it without speaking, particularly if someone was sitting beside his desk. Patrice admitted she started to say something to her father. Instead, she waited in her car and followed B.J. until he parked across the street from the gray townhouse. He didn't bother to ring the doorbell. He simply walked inside as if he lived there.

Patrice changed her jogging schedule and saw her husband's car parked in front of the townhouse about every other day. Neither Patrice nor I was dumb. I asked her if they ever had sex on the day she saw his car parked on the street in front of the townhouse. She shook her head.

I was shaking, but maybe I didn't show it. It was one of those instances of using my mother's smile and never letting anyone know if I was pleased or displeased with what someone was telling me.

The afternoon Patrice had answered her husband's telephone was the same day I'd prepared the special dinner to celebrate with Kayla, showing I'd given her joint ownership of the townhouse. I'd recently learned because of all the work I did and the city's new tax appraisals of Craftsman Row, the townhouse was worth almost half a million dollars.

Kayla had chosen one of the bedrooms across the hall for her occasional afternoon nap when she had a late evening appointment. The master bedroom had direct afternoon sunlight shining on the exterior wall and could get a little uncomfortable. She liked the cooler room across the hall.

I wasn't ready to reveal all of that to Patrice, but I asked for her telephone numbers and said I'd keep an eye on what was happening at the townhouses in the mornings. She was still in pretty bad shape when I got out of her car. She planned to go to her father's agency and talk to him about her suspicions.

* * *

I knew Kayla had left mid-morning, for her annual warehouse sale. She had called the tee shirt shop when she checked into the hotel, and I didn't expect to hear from her until later in the evening, if she found time to call at all. She would spend the day going through the catalog and the warehouse, examining anything she might like to buy. The evening would probably be little more than a drinkfest of going from bar to bar, hotel to hotel, while she greeted people who owned operations similar to hers.

Even though I thought about calling Patrice to see if her husband was home for the weekend, I didn't do it. I couldn't be certain Patrice was talking about her husband going into my townhouse, or the other gray one a few doors down. I didn't know her name, but the woman who lived there was the young widow of a much older man. She was in her mid-thirties and managed to get her name and photograph in the newspaper on a regular basis. It was entirely possible she was a customer of the travel packages arranged by B. J. Harriman.

Despite the time and attention I gave to the tee shirt shop, I knew my major source of income was my writing. I had to get back to work on book three. Based on the sales history of book one, plus what my editor had said was the size of the first printing of book two, I knew I had to finish book three to generate an income I could live on, if I was careful about my investments. If I ever finished book four it would just add to what I had. I would have a proven record of book sales and I could start work on a different kind of book. My secret stash of old newspapers was in the cedar chest in my basement waiting for a time I could go through them to see what I had.

When I turned my computer on, I checked my email and found a very large message from my editor with some changes he wanted made to several long chapters. I spent the weekend getting that work done.

Kayla was so tired when she got home Sunday afternoon she just wanted a light meal so she could rest and get ready for work the next week. I suggested she take a long hot bath to relax while I fixed her something to eat. I even considered taking a tray of food up to the bedroom, but she appeared about the time I had the food ready. She was wearing her robe and didn't plan to do anything more than eat a little and go to bed.

* * *

While I was unpacking the first box of exercise clothing Linda ordered, I kept thinking about what Patrice had told me. It was about the only thing I'd had on my mind for several days. I hadn't seen her in the park and I hadn't decided what I would tell her. I was considering a way to check up on my wife, but hadn't figured out how to do it. If she was having an affair, I didn't want to just walk into the bedroom and watch. It turned my stomach to think about what she was doing, but I wasn't sure she was the woman B.J. Harriman was visiting or if it was the young widow.

When people work together, they trade information about each other and their family. I'd learned a lot about Linda and her children, but I didn't really know much about her husband. I opened my mouth to ask what her husband did for a living, but I was preempted when she started talking.