Taking Chances

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An older married woman cheats and finds passion.
14.4k words
3.29
45.4k
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Catherine Emerson met Thomas Quimby, quite by accident, when he sat down on the park bench across from her in Rittenhouse Park where she often ate her lunch, usually yogurt and fruit, before returning to work as a bookkeeper and office manager at Bronson and McGee's Law office.

Two days earlier, Catherine and her husband, Martin celebrated their thirty-fourth anniversary at The Avalon Bistro because that's where they had their first date. It was a tradition they both enjoyed and they could reminisce and laugh over a leisurely meal. The Avalon served Mediterranean dishes, good wine, marvelous desserts and was now run by the original owner's son and his wife, who always stopped by to congratulate them, treat them to a glass of wine, just as their parents had over the years.

Catherine and Martin always sat at the same table in the corner and enjoyed the darkness, the candles, the red and white checkered tablecloth, the paintings of scenes from European towns and the soft classical music that added to the romantic, old world atmosphere that made the evening special for them. Though neither of them had ever been to Europe, the Avalon Bistro made them feel like they were on their honeymoon and not in Atlantic City where they actually went after their wedding.

Catherine and Martin had a good marriage and though it had its hills and valleys, mostly it was a plateau. Many evenings she would look at him while he read the newspaper or did his crossword puzzles while she sat across from him reading one of her romance novels wishing he would say or do something like the men in the books she read. Sometimes, he would be stubborn about not repainting the bathroom when she was sick of the dull green or insist they not replace the faded carpet in the bedroom--their squabbling growing intense--but he eventually gave in, resigning himself to her decision. Though he said okay, she could feel his resentment and grouchy remarks for weeks afterward. They had other disagreements and tensions and after a flare up, Martin would sulk for a few days then things would return to their normal state which was tranquil, respectful and affectionate though far from passionate.

He was thoughtful and tender when he kissed her goodbye in the morning or a kiss on the top of her head when he came home for dinner. He was a good father to their daughter, Melissa, teaching her to ride a bicycle, reading to her at bedtime, spoiling her with little gifts. He was dependable and conscientious about mowing the small lawn in front of their house and the back yard and taking the trash to the curb on Tuesdays, buying flowers for Valentines day, but it was Catherine who bought flowers on other days for the dining room table or would, for no reason, light candles at dinner or initiate going for a picnic or a movie or to the zoo and Martin would say fine, anything you want to do is fine with me and she wished he would suggest an idea but accepted this is just the way it is. She loved romantic movies and often cried and would dream of Robert Redford after seeing, "The Way We Were" secretly wishing Martin was more like him or Cary Grant in "An Affair to Remember" then realize how foolish she was and accepted the good man he was, but more and more when he would be reading the newspaper after dinner or doing the crossword puzzle, she'd notice his belly, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the way he would tug at his ear or scratch his thin white hair while he was thinking or watching television and feel a longing come over her for something she couldn't name but knew was missing in her life.

Once in awhile he would look up at her and smile and ask how she was enjoying the book or say, "I'm going to have some tea would you like a cup" or did she know a five letter word for a river in China or what was new with Melissa, their daughter who was still single but living with a man she met in graduate school. She liked how he would bend over and kiss her head when she was sewing or sorting through the bills at the dining room table and he often washed the dishes after dinner and she liked how he hummed while he put things away and wiped the table--though she could never recognize what song he was humming.

She would look at him and wonder what would have happened if she had married Robert Garfield who she dated before Martin, how her life would be different married to the college professor he became or if she had pursued her acting career--her dream when she was performing in amateur theater groups all through high school and while she and Martin were dating, but those thoughts would drift away after a few minutes as she looked at her husband, her book resting on her lap realizing what a good man he was, even if he wasn't like the men she read about in the novels. She remembered the days when they made love every chance they could and how he used to come up behind her in the kitchen and wrap his arms around her, grinding into her ass, but gradually, after Melissa was born and he was making his way up the ladder at Gregory and Associates, a small accounting firm, travelling a lot, spending more and more time at the office, their lovemaking dwindled both in frequency and intensity. Still, they made love, usually at her initiation, stroking his thigh then slowly moving her hand between his legs and he would respond by rolling on his side and into each others arms, making tender sweet love, though no longer passionate frantic pulling their clothes off, screaming at each other, no longer surprising each other with something new or daring but always satisfying, both knowing what the other liked, both having orgasms, his following hers within minutes and then they would spoon, laying quietly before falling asleep, glad that they could still feel desire for each other. It was a good marriage of caring companionship, thoughtful gifts for birthdays and Christmas, their annual anniversary dinner at the Avalon Bistro, a nice home in which to entertain their neighbors and friends. It was clear they loved each other and felt good about growing older together.

Still, at fifty-nine, Catherine sometimes missed the intensity she felt when she was twenty-two, the excitement of falling in love, the newness of discovering each other. Though on the outside, she looked her age--the soft swell of her belly, her sagging breasts, broader hips, thicker thighs, her hair short and grey, no longer blond falling over her shoulders, her skin no longer smooth, no the longer the pretty young slender woman she'd see in the old photographs around the house, but inside she still felt youthful--the thought of turning sixty in a few months was hard to comprehend. Though she valued the peace and contentment of having everything she needed--a wonderful home, a handsome, loving husband, an interesting job, no financial worries, but more and more she felt the sky was grey when she wanted to see a rainbow.

So when Thomas Quimby sat down on the bench across from her in the park two days after celebrating her thirty-fourth anniversary and opened the black covered notebook and started writing, she was curious and felt a sudden spark igniting that surprised her. She glanced at him while eating her yogurt. He seemed so intense, writing quickly, concentrating, occasionally looking at pigeons strutting and pecking by his feet or looking up at the sky searching for a word, then immediately go back to writing. She noticed how he'd tug at his short grey beard, narrowing his eyes in concentration. She could tell he was crossing out words by the intense scribbling on the page, shaking his head as if saying a definite "no" then continued writing. What she especially found fascinating was how oblivious he seemed to people walking past him, the children running or wobbling on their bicycles, or mothers pushing carriages, or teen agers walking through the park, carrying i-pods with ear plugs, or talking on their cell phones, or texting--nothing brought his eyes from the page where he was writing and she wished he would look up and notice her and wondered why.

For some reason she couldn't take her eyes off him and even after she finished her yogurt and knew she should return to her work, she lingered, noticing his deep concentration, his passionate intensity. She wondered what he was writing and felt her curiosity growing. Usually she didn't pay much attention to people passing where she sat but the man across from her fascinated her and she felt the urge to say something to him, ask him what he was writing then dismissed that thought, feeling it would be wrong to interrupt him. She noticed his wire rimmed glasses sliding down his nose and his quick pushing them back in place, his white hair, though not wild, was long and hung over his ears and curled up slightly at his shoulders, his beard was trimmed but still he had a slightly disheveled look about him as if not much mattered but his writing. At the same time, he seemed distinguished, scholarly, or artistic, definitely not ordinary. It was the first time she had felt that attracted to a man--especially a stranger.

When she got up to return to work, throwing her empty yogurt container and plastic spoon in the trash can next to her bench, he looked up at her and their eyes met briefly, a slight smile on his lips. He looked down at his writing then back up her and smiled again, placing the pen on the page, using it as a marker and closed his notebook. When he looked up at her and she could see his blue eyes, surprised by his smile, a sudden thrill rippled through her, making her feel she was blushing. She suddenly felt awkward standing there, her hand on the strap of her handbag, a quickening of her heart beat and her fascination, "What are you writing?" she asked then quickly added, "sorry, that's none of my business."

"Just some thoughts," he said, chuckling, his face softening in contrast to the harder, grim look when he was writing.

"You seemed so intense. I was watching you."

"Oh, well, I get carried away with my writing." He glanced down at his notebook, patting the cover then back up at Catherine.

"Well, I better get back to work. I don't want to interrupt you."

"No problem. I was almost finished," he said, looking at her, "Where do you work?"

Catherine turned and pointed to the office building across from the park, "Over there on the fifteenth floor in an office."

He looked where she was pointing and stood up, "Mind if I walk you there. I have to stretch." He stood up.

"If you'd like, that's fine," she responded noticing he was several inches taller than she originally thought, also much thinner. Again, their eyes met as she looked up at him, surprised at his offer, feeling a slight thrill rise in her that she hadn't felt in a long time. She noticed his worn brown corduroy pants, faded and baggy at the knees, his wrinkled tweed sports jacket and open collared flannel shirt that clashed with the jacket.

"Let's go," he said, placing his notebook in his jacket pocket. She noticed a paperback book in the other pocket and the tip of a pipe sticking out of the upper pocket.

Neither of them spoke as they walked towards the entrance of the park. It was autumn and the path was littered with brown and red leaves. He pointed to the leaves covering the grass. "I love this time of year," he said. "It's so colorful and I love how summer fades into autumn." He paused and added, "Like us," then chuckled. He took a deep breath, "And the air is so sweet. I like how warm it is during the day and the chilly nights."

"I do, too," Catherine responded, looking out at the colorful leaves where he was pointing and thinking about his comment, "like us." She also liked how poetically he spoke about autumn, how responsive he seemed to the world around him.

Suddenly, he left the path and went over to the grass, gathering a pile of leaves in his hands and threw them in the air over his head and laughed. His doing that surprised her but, after a moment's hesitation, joined him and also picked up a pile of leaves and threw them up in the air letting them fall over her. He bent down and gathered another pile and threw them up in the air, over her and she did the same, surprised how playful she felt and how she laughed at the sudden impulsive tossing of leaves over each other, realizing she hadn't done this since she was a child and here she was at fifty-nine doing it with a stranger.

Brushing the leaves from her short grey hair and shoulders, still laughing she smiled at him, "That was fun. By the way, what's your name?"

"Tom," he said, brushing a leaf off her shoulder. "What's yours?"

"Catherine," she said, reaching out to shake his hand. "I like to know who I'm throwing leaves at," she said, feeling his strong hand on hers.

"That's very considerate of you," he said, shaking her hand. "Glad to meet you Catherine," he added.

"I better hurry," Catherine said. "I'm already late."

"Sorry, for making you late," Tom said. "I just couldn't resist playing with the leaves.

Catherine nodded and continued walking with Tom beside her, feeling exhilarated by the spontaneous tossing of leaves. She remembered Martin raking the maple leaves each fall in the front of their house, burning them in small piles but never picking them up to toss in the air. It felt strange to be walking through the park with a strange man, someone other than her husband. She was quiet but enjoyed feeling his presence next to her. She noticed him looking up at the trees over head then back at her, their eyes meeting briefly. He smiled at her then looked away as they walked to the park entrance without speaking.

When they left the park and stood at the corner waiting for the light to change neither of them spoke but the silence did not feel awkward, though she was searching for something to say.

"I haven't seen you around here before," Catherine said looking up at him then at the yellow wait hand on the traffic light. "And I come here every day for lunch and fresh air."

"I'm not surprised because I just moved here a few days ago and just discovered this park."

When the light changed, she felt his hand on her back as they crossed the street. Others crossed with them and the sounds of horns and sirens and the busyness of downtown at lunchtime made it difficult to have a conversation. They weaved their way to her office building and she turned and said, "Nice meeting you, Tom. Welcome to the neighborhood. Maybe I will see you again in the park."

Standing in front of the revolving door of the office with people going in and out, he nodded, "Perhaps, you will. I hope we meet again."

"Well, I better get back to work. I'm already ten minutes late," she said, looking at the revolving door then back at Tom.

"Well, we can't be late for work, can we?" he said smiling at her and she could feel he was teasing.

"Right. I'm never late and they're going to wonder what happened to me. They would never suspect I was late because I was throwing leaves in the air."

"We should do that more often," he said.

"Maybe we should," she said and smiled, looking into his eyes. "I'd like that," she added and suddenly realized she was actually flirting with him. "Well, I better get going," she said after an awkward silence.

"What time do you finish work?" Tom asked.

"Four-thirty," she answered surprised at his question but sensed a mutual interest in each other growing. "Why?

"Well, please don't take this the wrong way, but I think we should have a cup of coffee together, or better yet, a glass of wine at that little café up the street."

"You do, do you?" she responded, realizing she was enjoying being playful.

"Yes, I think we should. Why not?"

Catherine laughed, shaking her head, looking at him. "I can think of a lot of reasons why not, but I think I would like that." She remembered Martin was going to be working late that night and she would be having dinner alone.

"Good," he said, nodding, smiling. "I'll meet you at the café when you get out of the work. You will recognize me. I'll be the white haired guy writing in his notebook."

"Okay, Tom. I'll be there but don't you get any ideas. I'm a happily married woman."

"And I'm a happily unmarried man and have no desire to complicate my simple quiet life. It's just a cup of coffee or possibly a glass of wine--no expectations."

"Good. No expectations," she said, quickly walking away then turning back and waving good bye as she pushed the revolving door and disappeared into the building.

While working, she felt energized and especially cheerful when she answered the phone, "Hello, Bronson and McGee--Law Office." It was her job to answer questions, take care of what she could on the phone before deciding if the caller should speak to Mr. Bronson or Mr. McGee. She was their girl-Friday and she loved being efficient, her fingers always on any information her bosses needed. Two other young women worked in the office and she always checked over their work before bringing it to Mr. Bronson or Mr. McGee for their signatures or approval. Both Gloria and Valerie were good workers, smart and they often asked Catherine for her advice on various issues, mostly men they were dating. She envied their slim bodies, the short skirts they could wear--tight but not too tight, on the edge of appropriate, Catherine judged. Gloria liked high heels but Valerie's dressing was a little sportier and her shoes were either flat or had slight heels. Catherine liked that they could work efficiently, chat when there was no one waiting or both lawyers were away from the office, sometimes laughing at a witty observation and the office had a professional but relaxed atmosphere.

"What's up?" Gloria asked when she noticed the smile on Catherine's face and the perkier sound of her voice when she spoke on the phone or asked one of them about the forms they were working on. "You seem different. What's up?" she repeated.

"Nothing's up," Catherine answered. "It's just such a nice autumn day."

"Right," Gloria responded, sarcastically, sensing that Catherine was feeling something unusual. "Did something happen at lunch? You were late and you're never late."

"No nothing happened at lunch. I was just enjoying the warm weather and how beautiful the leaves are this time of year," she said, remembering what just happened in the park and what they would think if she told then she was throwing piles of leaves over a man's head she just met. She almost said something, her excitement brimming over but hesitated, uncertain, then decided not to, suddenly feeling she wanted to keep it to herself.

Just then Mr. Bronson opened his door and asked Catherine for the Reginald Bosnovich file and she turned away from Gloria. "I'll bring it right in," she said, getting up to go to the filing cabinet. But as she searched the files, Catherine knew that Gloria was right, something was different. She found herself glancing at the clock thinking about the time and meeting Tom after work, surprised how exhilarated she felt.

When she walked into the busy Vinery Café and saw Tom at the rear table writing in his notebook, she took a deep breath, swallowing the air and made her way through the narrow space between tables, determined to enjoy a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and nothing more. Still, she could not deny that this was such an unusual thing for her to do and she tried controlling the fear and excitement that was rising.

Tom glanced up just as she approached the table and smiled, closing his notebook on the pen and greeted her, "Well, here you are. How was your afternoon at work?"

Catherine nodded and sat down across from him. "Work was fine. How was your afternoon?"

"Fine," he said. "I went back to the park and continued writing then went back to my apartment which is actually just two blocks from here and then came here to meet and get to know you better."