The Extended Family Ch. 01

Chapter 1 -- Picking Up the Pieces. Two Sexy People Find Each Other.

I was almost in the lotus position. I'd substituted sitting Indian style with a nice straight back instead of twisting my moderately arthritic legs into a position where they'd ache not only during the lotus position but also for days afterwards. I had been this way for about half an hour, my hands extended across my knees in an open accepting position. I was on the beach at dawn; fortunately, this time of year dawn didn't come that early. It was early January in Sarasota, Florida. I wasn't sure this therapy was for me.

I gradually uncurled from my meditation and looked around at the morning, finally paying attention to what was going on around me for the first time since I'd started my meditation and had my day's uplifting experience. Today was one of the first times I had become one with the sound of the waves and the squawk of the shore birds, the feel of the sand beneath me, and the gentle wind at my back.

I'd come every day for the past month, rain or shine, even on Christmas and New Year's mornings. I had elected to spend the holiday period alone this year, for the first time in the five-and-a-half decades of my life. The meditation was part of my self-therapy to get over the loss of Nancy, my wife of thirty-four years, eight months earlier.

At first, after she died, I remained in denial, conning myself that she'd walk through the door any minute and give me the latest on what our son and daughter and their families were up to, as she always had. Then, I got angry with everything and everybody. I hurled a favorite vase through a window; I was mean and vindictive to sympathetic friends and merchants at their least infraction. I thought I'd sue her doctors or the hospital or someone, anyone I could think of. I was pissed. It had been a long and debilitating illness. I'd dissolve into tears at random times.

A couple of months after Nancy's death I discovered alcohol. I moved from an occasional glass of wine with dinner to consuming an entire bottle at dinner and then at lunch too, and then I found that Bloody Mary's at breakfast were nice, then two, then I was drinking all day and all evening. It deadened the pain, and I was then a mean and vindictive drunk for weeks -- for months.

I entered a period where I blamed myself for everything, even Nancy's illness, and I drank more. I became even more morose and deeply depressed. I know my kids were worried about me and so were the few friends we'd developed in our neighborhood. They could watch me sliding away. I'd even thought of suicide but was too cowardly to court that idea for long.

One night I couldn't sleep. I tried late night television in an effort to sleep, but that proved to be an unending series of infomercials and offered no solace to my grief. I felt amazingly clearheaded and for some strange reason didn't want alcohol to dull my senses. A small voice inside told me to go to the beach. At four o'clock in the darkness of morning, I was the only car on the road as I drove the mile or so to the nearest beach.

I walked in the dark to the water's edge and sat. I cried and sobbed to the setting western stars over losing Nancy -- my only and greatest love. People who had known us marveled at our closeness and relationship, our very evident love, caring and respect for one another, and I think they were jealous at how we still did little romantic things for one another all the time. We were always on each other's minds.

Nancy and I met in college, fell in love -- deeply in love, got married when we were halfway through. Somehow we both graduated, and did all the things fine outstanding couples are supposed to do -- careers, kids, house, vacations, relatives, friends, holidays, and wealth accumulation. When Nancy got sick we both stopped working; we didn't need to earn money by that time. We tried to pack in another thirty years of living into the year before she passed.

Nancy was my rock, and I was her rock. I was to protect her from all the bad things that an ugly world might throw at her, but I couldn't combat her cancer. I prayed. I made a thousand promises to God or anyone that would listen. 'Please heal her -- don't let her die.' Nothing worked.

She weakened and tired quickly. I held her in my arms as she'd sleep on my shoulder. I would kiss her hair and forehead. Then, she was bed ridden by some of her treatments, but nothing really extended her prognosis. This was a predictable disease. I'd sleep with her, holding her entire body against mine and bathing her in love. "Oh, dear God, that's all gone," I sobbed and wailed into the night and the uncaring sound of the surf on that November morning.

Dawn came. I stood and for the first time thanked the Universe for the time we'd had together -- thirty-five years from when we'd discovered each other. The Gulf was lapping at my feet, the water chilly in the cool morning air. I fell on my knees and bowed my head and prayed, asking for redemption and forgiveness.

My Inner Voice said to come back each morning for three months to pray and meditate, so I got into a routine. I'd get up an hour or more before sunrise and go to the same spot on the beach. I'd sit and try to open my mind to whatever messages I was to receive. Some amazing things happened in the first thirty days: I stopped my binge drinking almost immediately; my attitude to others improved although I was still depressed -- I guess I stopped trying to take it out on someone else; and I decided not to sue anyone; after all, shit happens and this time it just happened to Nancy - and thus me.

I examined myself more closely in a meditation one morning in early January. A voice said quite clearly to me, "Talk to your friends. Go and help someone else." I actually came out of my meditative state and turned around to see who was talking to me at this early hour, but no one was there. I suddenly realized that I knew the voice; it was Nancy's. I didn't believe in ghosts and yet ... I sobbed at the realization that her spirit was alive and in contact with me.

Nine o'clock in the morning is the earliest you call someone at home in Florida. Many retirees like to sleep late, so I puttered around the house and my desk getting things in order and making a list of the people I wanted to call.

A little after nine I called Dave LaSalle, a friend and neighbor I'd know for twelve years. He was surprised to hear from me and even more surprised at my apology to him for my abusive behavior over the past months. He was forgiving and said he understood and hoped I'd suffer him if he got the same way if his wife died. I told him I'd be glad to help him in some way if he had anything that needed doing; he said he didn't but he'd keep the offer in mind. We chatted some more and by the end of our call I felt like I'd at least patched up some of the wounds I'd inflicted on him and our relationship.

I repeated the process a dozen times before noon. Every person I called was home and responded just as Dave had, with sympathy, tolerance, and forgiveness -- even love - despite how rotten I'd been for these months.

I felt renewed at the end of my calls. I dug out my bicycle and rode into the City, found a sidewalk luncheon spot and enjoyed a cheeseburger and a diet coke. I nodded and smiled at the people who strolled by the restaurant tables. I made a point of not complaining about anything.

Suddenly, I realized I was paying a little more attention to the pretty women than anyone else -- and there were many pretty women downtown that lunchtime. I tried to guess what they did. There were several younger women -- girls in my mind -- who I guessed worked at the bank. They were each wearing short thin dresses that clung to their curves and revealed shapely legs as the wind whirled the light fabrics.

There were tourists of all ages dressed in tight shorts and scoop neck tops. Some were braless, and I noticed more than one whose excitement at life was revealed by the evidence of nipples poking through the blouse material.

Some of the professional women who walked by caught my eye as well. I expected most of them were lawyers since the town seemed to thrive on them for trust management and estate planning, not to mention the real estate market. They carried themselves differently, more upright and alert, more aware. Their clothes were sexier in a way, more expensive but cut to seduce without revealing too much flesh. I expect this contributed to higher billing rates and chuckled to myself over the thought.

As I rode my bike the three miles back home, I analyzed my sudden fascination with women after so long a hiatus. Maybe I was healing.

The next morning in my mediation I heard the voice say, "Go, and help someone other than yourself." I refocused and continued to listen but that message was the clearest of all.

My friend Martin Williams called a few days later and asked whether my offer of help still stood. I told him that it did. He said their daughter Claire had a friend who was moving to the area and looking for help in relocating, finding an apartment and job, and getting acquainted. He hoped I'd be willing to help her. A few minutes later, I had a name and telephone number on a scrap of paper in front of me - Marilyn Seaburn, 443-555-1984.

I thought for a few minutes about what'd I say when I called and then dialed the number.

"Hi. Marilyn here," a cheery voice answered my call.

"Marilyn, my name is Jim Crawford. My friend Martin Williams just gave me your name and number and asked whether I'd play host to your arrival and job search around Sarasota, help you find a place to live, and so forth. I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you how glad I would be to help you in any way that I can."

Her perky voice responded, "Well, I'm positively impressed by how fast THAT circle closed. I talked to Claire, Martin's daughter, about an hour ago and told her what I needed; no, what I'm actually desperate for. Your call is an answer to my plea -- my prayer."

"Glad to be of service," I responded.

"I'm in my car driving down to Sarasota now. I'm coming from Ohio. I'm probably four or five hours out -- I just crossed the state line. I know nobody there; well, except you now. I knew Claire from college, and we've seen each other occasionally since. Somehow, I remembered her parents were in Sarasota and that's where I wanted to go. Oh, I'll explain it all later when I see you."

"Look, you'll arrive late this afternoon. I'd be delighted if you'd join me for a drink or even dinner. I'm completely open and at your disposal. I can help you find a place to stay, and you can freshen up here at the house."

She said, "That'd be wonderful."

She had my phone number since I'd called her cell phone. She said she'd call me when she was closer and ready for detailed driving instructions. I told her which Interstate exit to aim for, and we hung up.

I put some wine on ice, thawed some steaks, made a salad and straightened the house from a mass of clutter I'd allowed to accumulate in my months of depression. Three hours later, I was proud of the place again, and feeling the best I had in a long time.

Four hours later the phone rang. Marilyn told me she'd turned onto Fruitville Road and was now headed into town. I gave her some directions and twenty minutes later an old brown Chevy sedan laden with clothing and luggage pulled into my driveway where I stood waiting for her arrival.

"Welcome to Sarasota," I greeted her with even before she got out of the car. "Come in and make yourself at home."

Marilyn Seaburn looked to be about forty as she sat in her car decompressing from driving for so long. She had a very pretty face -- model quality. Her medium-length blond hair was windblown and had an unkempt look. She gave a big sigh, and then uncoiled herself from behind the steering wheel and stepped out of the car.

She was wearing snug-fitting Levis and an expensive and colorful t-shirt top. She had flats for shoes. The immediate impression she gave, however, was of someone who had dressed in a hurry and then slept in their clothes.

Marilyn was about five-foot-five and on the thin side except for a well-endowed chest. She stretched for the sky; I gawked at her flat stomach and the shapely breasts that tried to escape from her t-shirt but managed to be looking into her car when she brought her head back to eye level.

"I am soooooo glad to be out of that car," she said looking at me and pushing her large sunglasses into her messed up hair. "I've lived in that vehicle every minute of the past thirty hours except for gas, food, and potty stops -- oh yea, and a couple of long naps. I must look a fright ... and I'm a neat-nik too." She tried to smooth some wrinkles out of her top.

"Look, why don't you come in a freshen up. If you have a swimsuit, you could take a dip in the pool. Or there's a shower."

"I like the idea of a swim. And you have sunshine here! This is sooooo much better than Hamilton, Ohio -- it was snowing yesterday when I left. God was that only yesterday -- it seems like a lifetime ago." She smiled at me and added more to herself, "In some ways it was a lifetime ago." She wrinkled her brow in a serious gesture. "I'll tell you later. I want to swim -- I need to swim."

She pulled a small bag and some loose clothes out of the back of her car and followed me into the house. The back of the house faced a large bay and wrapped around a pleasant backyard pool that I kept heated although I didn't use it much. Marilyn clapped her hands with joy as she looked though the house and saw the pool.

"I'm coming pool. I'll be there in thirty seconds." She picked up her bag, and I aimed her at the guest bedroom and bath. I told her she'd also find a towel in there that she could use for pool or bath. She could later shower in there too.

I opened the slider in front of the bath door and wandered out onto the patio. Thirty seconds later a colorful blur sped by and hurled itself into the deep end of the pool. A shriek of joy accompanied her contact with the cool water.

"This is marvelous. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," she shouted with glee as she surfaced.

I grinned and sat on the edge of the shallow end and dangled my feel in the water. I realized that she had pulled off her Levis and shoes, but had jumped into the pool with the same top she had on earlier. I also noted as she swam around that she had on a light blue thong that was doing little to hide her perfectly shaped ass that occasionally broke through the surface of the water as she swam.

Marilyn swam a couple of dozen laps with obvious athletic talent. Her strokes were smooth and well practiced; her turns were also classic Olympic style. I wished I could have offered a larger pool to use her skills in.

She finally pulled up near me and stood. Her shirt clung to her round breasts and left little to the imagination as to their shape or excitement at the cool water. She gave me a big grin.

"You don't know how big a treat this is for me, Mr. Crawford."

"Please call me Jim. And you're more than welcome to swim here anytime you want. It's good to see the pool getting some use. It hasn't had much use in the past couple of years."

Marilyn stepped out allowing me to marvel at her shapely legs and how little the thong did to hide her nether region or cheeks. She wrapped the towel around herself then said, "Let me shower and change then we can talk." She scampered into the pool bath and shut the door.

My tongue was hard, and I was all but speechless. It had been years since I'd been around anyone that shapely or seen that much skin in something other than a magazine or more recently on the Internet.

It was about six. I stood outside the bath door and yelled in, "Would you like a glass of wine? Red? White?"

"Yes, please," she said. "White. I'll be two minutes."

I went into my kitchen that also opened onto the pool patio and opened a bottle of Sancerre wine, a flavorful wine from the Loire Valley. I had a couple of other wines too if she didn't like it. I poured us two glasses, and set out some cheese and crackers as well.

Marilyn appeared, barefoot and back in her Levis. Her pale skin was aglow from her warm shower. A feminine pink scoop neck top had replaced the rumpled and now very wet t-shirt she'd swum in. Her wet blond hair was brushed back and held in place with a pretty wide black ribbon. She'd dabbed on a hint of lipstick and rouge on her cheeks too. She was feminine, pretty; and my heart quickened.

I gestured to a bar stool at the kitchen counter and brought a glass of wine and the hors d'oeuvres to her. "So tell me about Marilyn Seaburn," I said.

She shot me a sideways glance and sipped at the wine. "Oh, I like this," she said as she took her first sip of wine. I told her its lineage briefly. There was a long silence.

"I'm running away from home," she finally announced. "Yesterday, I was deep in my second failed marriage, and I figured it was time to clear out. So I did." She shot me look to see how I received that news. I just nodded and encouraged her to continue.

"I have an eighteen-year old daughter, Melinda, at Ohio State. She knows. She told me for years to just get up and leave, but I couldn't until yesterday. I kept postponing because I didn't know where to go. She told me how to choose a place. I figured out Sarasota based on her idea."

"How's that?" I asked.

"Mel, that's what I call her, said to pick a state -- I picked Florida because of the weather -- and then throw a dart or something like that at a map of the state to pick a city. I did that and that's how I got Sarasota. Then, I figured out I knew someone that had relatives there and so on. Now, here I am having a pleasant glass of wine with you," she toasted me with her glass.

"So you want a complete start over?" I asked. "Job, apartment, friends, ... everything?"

"Yes. Completely. I don't know where to start," She paused, "and to tell you the truth it's a little bit scary -- but not as scary as staying married in Ohio."

"What did you do in Ohio? Job? Schooling? Tell me about your background."

Marilyn talked for fifteen minutes. She'd graduated from Ohio State about twenty years ago and kicked around in a series of marketing jobs, mostly for industrial companies. About ten years, ago she got a steady job doing inside sales for a small steel company. She'd gotten proficient at computers and helped introduce many new systems into the company to modernize its business model.

I asked about her personal life. She'd married the first time right out of college. That marriage failed after two years. She'd had Mel by that time and became a single mother who worked and raised her kid. She'd remarried and now, seven years into that marriage, had given up on that one too.

"Any chance of reconciliation?" I asked.

"Nooooo. Not this time. I've left before, but he found me and dragged me back home - literally. I was sore and bruised for a month the last time -- half a year ago. Now, I really have to go underground. I don't plan on even telling Mel where I am; I'll call her and let her know I've landed, but I won't tell her where. Doug, that's my husband's name, doesn't know Claire Williams and won't figure out that I'm here in any way that I can think of."

"Care to tell me the problem?"

Her voice became quieter as she unfolded her story. "Oh, everybody knew. He kept cheating on me -- drunken shit that he was. Then, he got abusive too. He broke my finger about a year ago. At least, once a week he'd come home and slap me around. He did it Wednesday night and that was the last straw." She pulled up her blouse part way and showed me a large bruise on her left side; I was horrified that a man would do that to a woman -- to anybody. "After that punch I gritted my teeth and I said, 'Self, I'm outta here.' I left the next day -- yesterday -- and here I am."