Chapter 1

Full disclosure: This fantasy was inspired by an incomplete story, read years ago. I can’t find it, nor can I remember where it was. It involved people and a beach trip, but lots of stories have commonalities. There the resemblance ends. My iteration is vastly embellished.

It may not be true, although there is an Italy with actual resorts, people walk the earth, the Adriatic is actually a sea and flying aeroplanes are real. Grander tales have survived on less evidence.

Disclaimer: Close cover before striking. Do not use near open flames. Do not exceed recommended dosage. Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Do not operate heavy machinery. No vehicles over seven feet allowed in drive-thru. Take a number and wait your turn. No refunds without a valid receipt. Restocking fee charged on returns. Please, no wagering. Do not repost without written permission.

The Story:

Maybe I should have seen it coming. It wasn’t the first time clues slipped past me.

A little backstory would come in handy about here.

Me? Ted Charles, a normal guy, not too hard to look at I suppose, around six feet tall, jogger/swimmer build, an average green-eyed dirty blonde. Not too nerdy, not a jock, into martial arts, but I did marry a real honest-to-goodness beauty at the ripe old age of 18. It was not a shotgun wedding, but we were the proud parents of the sweetest little girl you ever saw within the year. Laurie was born on my 19th birthday.

Thanks to my full academic scholarship in engineering and hers in, of all things, French Literature, plus a little (and I mean minimal) help from my parents we managed to graduate college on time. Her wealthy parents thought I was beneath her lofty station. They went so far as to cut Winnie out of their will. I should emphasize one thing: my folks helped as much as they could, but I had a surprise little sister born on my nineteenth birthday, too.

For Mom, it was difficult on many levels. She had a rough pregnancy at 45, becoming a stay-at-home mom, thus ending her career as a credit union loan officer. I thought she would return to work after a year, but Mom claimed chronic exhaustion from the whole childbearing process, plus babies aren’t ever easy. Teresa took up all her time and most of the modest family resources. The medical bills were tremendous. Dad was either at work as a copywriter/editor at the newspaper or slaving at one menial, for him, second job or another.

Who figured they needed ‘family’ insurance coverage in their middle and late 40s? Life is what happens while you are making plans.

When Teri and Laurie were born, my folks, Michael and May, and Winnie and I became two separate family units, each with a unique set of challenges. As long as nothing terrible happened, we knew things were OK-ish, even without talking. We drifted apart, not through design, but benign neglect. Living from day to day takes a lot of time. Mom and Winnie never became close friends, but were cordial, at least. The little girls knew each other existed, but did not play together very often. At two or three, ‘out of sight’ is ‘out of mind’.

Meanwhile, the bills burned through my parent’s savings, my small, unused college fund and a second mortgage. They survived and actually turned things around financially at least, thanks to Dad’s careful management. Then the perfect offer came in from out west. We were juniors when Dad was offered his dream job as the public relations director, spin-doctor if you will, for a contractor at White Sands. He took the position and Mom, having no current prospects career-wise, followed. She seemed depressed and withdrawn. Isolation will do that to a person, even if it is mostly self-imposed. I hoped a change of scenery would cheer her up. Teri was three-ish.

After graduation, we stayed in touch, but our new families had different roads to travel. We talked a couple of times a year, but never visited. It was not a case of estrangement, things just never worked out.

Except for holiday cards and rare terse emails, that’s about all I knew about my parents and sister.

Winnie and I moved to Florida when I was offered a great position with a NASA contractor near Cape Kennedy. Winnie did some freelance translating at home so the relocation had almost no effect on her. I think she welcomed the chance to explore a more cosmopolitan area. She never liked being from Delaware. In her opinion, it was too blue collar with too little glitz and glamor. I loved the move to the Space Center for different reasons: primo beaches, an easy job that paid more than I could believe, and time to go to grad school with a course load that let me to be home every night with Winnie and a cute, happy kid.

Winnie took a teaching post in the public schools. Little five-year-old Laurie spent her time at a pretty decent daycare/preschool when we could not be home. Home was a gigantic hurricane-proof, brick house we picked up at a bargain basement price. It was overkill for a young couple with one girlchild, but you never know what the future will bring when your back is turned.

Clues being the elusive things they are, several slipped under the radar. Winnie missing dinner, Winnie forgetting to pick up Laurie at school, Winnie forgetting Laurie’s birthday party and our anniversary, Winnie missing the gymnastics and piano recitals, etc., excusing it as working extra hours, trying to get ahead in her field. I could understand. It is the same in almost every profession. Management taking advantage of insecure employees, tethered to the job by cell phones and emails, on call 24/7, is an oft-repeated chorus. Live the job. Mandated overtime. Never knew it happened teaching Language Arts in middle school, but what did I know? I was getting square eyes looking at a computer monitor with a squirmy kid in my lap.

I paid for taxis to bring Laurie to my office for after school techno daddy daycare, attended all the rites of passage a little girl could have before aging into double digits and more or less functioned as a clueless single parent who did not know he was a single parent. Laurie figured it out long before I did, having the intuitive wisdom reserved for little girls. Getting volunteered to make cupcakes for the gymnastics team bake sale was another clue missed. She seemed OK with Pops doing mom duty, but never knew life to be different. Nor did I.

I soon realized that, kid-wise, I hit a grand slam home run. Laurie was the most easy-going little girl ever. In comparison, from the little I could glean during our brief chats, Teresa was typical of her age, pushing the envelope at every turn, except with fifty something parents who just didn’t understand ‘kids these days’. Mom had her hands full trying to keep her reined in when it probably wasn’t necessary. It was not going to get any better.

Knowing my Mom, her own envelope was too small. My sister was just a normal girl, smart, bored to tears and stuck in the middle of nowhere, presumably aware that her big brother actually had a life in Florida.

And yes, Kiddo was aware of her mystery aunt, but at her age, it was still a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’. My folks were names on a Christmas card to her. She didn’t know her maternal grandparents either, not that they cared. No changes there.

We prospered handsomely. Winnie published a book or two of poetry and a new pseudo-feminist translation of some justifiably obscure 15th Century French poet, making it readable without nausea but projecting modern themes never written into the original. She made the bestseller lists and a boatload of money, went on signing tours and appeared on talk shows. Though Laurie and I were proud of and happy for her, Winnie became an occasional visitor in our house. We saw more of her on TV.

In a moment of unusual clarity early on in my career, I discovered a way to minimize the exploding rocket syndrome sadly common to new launch vehicle designs, or rather a novel way to computer model angular force vectors vs. vibration vs. acceleration stresses in materials used by the lowest bidder. Plus, I invented a deceptively simple ‘fix’ for the existing mega expensive engines already in inventory, ours and the competition’s. What put it over the top was the prefailure alarm. My corporate overlords were overjoyed at the potential but cooled their enthusiasm when they discovered that I did it on my own time and they had no proprietary claim on the patent. It was all about the exotic alloy design and analysis that were not in my job description. My idea, my time, my work, my money. My patent.

Fine print is a double-edged sword. Sometimes the little guys win. Always read the contract twice.

Some clues are there but hard to see.

They were not evil overlords and we reached an equitable agreement. I licensed the patent to them; they did all the marketing and heavy lifting. I got twenty percent of the profits, which were verifiable and considerable. Preventive rocket surgery pays well. Pays even better when it is applied to commercial jet engines. Broken planes are bad for business unless you are an attorney or undertaker. Planes that don’t break easily, and warn you before they do, make pilots very happy. The NTSB likes boring days. I like to keep them happy, too.

My employers were overjoyed once again. I made a lot of people wealthy. Maybe my starting salary was justified after all. I made a fortune pointing out the obvious. As it turns out, it was obvious only to me. It was still crazy easy money. I’ll take it.

I invested in some outrageously stupid dot coms (email delivery of organic nail polish, personal shoppers for mall walkers, personalized monster truck tires for subcompacts, thought recognition hats, custom-colored 40 weight motor oil, ad nauseum). The same ones all the crazy rich venture capitalists were drooling over in the national hysteria. The difference between them and me was that I didn’t drink the miracle gluten-free, soy-based power fruit juice substitute. Were they really going to make millions on GPS trackers for hot dog vendors at Candlestick Park? Do we really need web-based psycho therapy for ear hair sufferers? Do Quakers need web-based anger management classes sponsored by Smith and Wesson? A lot of investors seemed to think so.

There was no way this fantasy could continue. When did it make sense for the information processors to be more important than the information generators, more important than the workers actually making the products that made the money apparently needing ten layers of overpaid micro-management?

A clue I did catch was tossed out in a departmental meeting. After one particularly colorful presentation, praise was lavished on the assistant-whatever person for the style and pace of the little show. No one seemed to care that the actual content was grim as hell and bode ill for the immediate future of the bottom line. It was all about the cleverness of the show, not about illustrating the obvious problems. Solutions were not even on the table. He could have saved a ton of expensive media by just saying, “We’re screwed this quarter. Stop wasting time on the fancy office toys and fix the problems. Suck it up and make new gadgets. Then find new markets for new gadgets.”

At least my company was diversified and old enough to take a little heat. Not my company, but the one I worked for. I did own some stock, but not enough to call the joint mine.

I bailed out/bought in or IPO-ed around the pyramid schemes until the whole mess became too absurd for words: valuation and job performance based on pretty graphs about companies consisting entirely of mid-level flunkies selling nothing more than potential profits from imaginary products. OK. I lied. Too absurd for words that make sense in a rational business climate. Several months after I sold off the worst offenders, the hot air escaped in a rush and I found myself in possession of a lot of foolish people’s money. That happens when you buy lots of assorted nothing at $5.00 per share and resell the vastly improved nothing for $125.00 per share, several times, different pipedreams.

A small percentage of the ideas became the legendary ‘killer apps’. I still have those shares. The patent royalties made me extremely wealthy. I mean nine significant digits to the left of the decimal place wealthy. The dot com bonanza tripled that. And the money keeps rolling in. I love moments of unusual clarity.

Yeah. Gas prices were not an issue at our house. Is this a great country or what?

Meanwhile, back at the history lesson, Winnie and I kept separate professional and investment accounts. No particular reason, just seemed easier to keep records. Balances were never shared. Perhaps she thought she was stealing a march on me. We never talked about work at home. Not really difficult since she was seldom there. We maintained a joint account to operate the house and keep Laurie in sneakers and tights. We denied her nothing but she never asked for much either. Laurie was a sweet, low stress kid as girls go, or so the other PTA parents tell me. Cute, way smart and a little goofy, she was my favorite daughter.

One Friday, after I collected Laurie at the gym, we picked up Japanese take-out for dinner. It got cold. On the dining room table we found a great huge, might-as-well-have-been neon lit clue shaped suspiciously like a letter. It read like bad poetry, only more pompous.

“Ted and Laurie,

I can’t pretend to live a double life any longer. Barbara and I must follow our dream as a single beating heart. My One True Love and I can never be wife or mother material so, sadly, we say farewell. The page is turned, thus my new chapter is begun. Have as good a life together as we will, chasing our muse.

Sorry to leave so suddenly, but we have to think of us. There is no room for a family now, therefore we decided to cut our ties to the past. It’s nothing personal, just something we have to do. We are sure you understand we have to live our own life.

The pen has writ, the past is prologue, Winifred and Barbara

ps: We have packed my things and departed. I leave you an uncontested divorce, legal fees prepaid. All I want to take away are my separate bank accounts and the Miata. Read and sign the documents in the packet. My attorneys will retrieve them tomorrow and the deed will be done.”

I guess she would earn that fat inheritance now.

Except for an occasional book review or NPR interview, that was the last we ever heard of her and Barbara, directly. In her public biography, we never existed. No family references ever passed her lips. Barbara was the only significant partner ever mentioned and that was very rare. It was all about Winifred and her literary groupies.

We sat there reading and rereading the letter. It didn’t change, nor did it reveal any more. I was shocked at the abruptness. No discussion, no preamble, a poorly scribbled note left on the dining room table. We had grown distant but this was lightyears distant. Sadly, I felt little sadness; mostly regret for the future we had planned when we were older. I hurt for Laurie. Though Winnie played an ever-decreasing role in her life, abandonment by your mother had to be painful.

“So, kid, what ya thinking?”

“Honestly, Pops, it sucks she didn’t care enough to say goodbye, but not much is different. I saw Sadie’s mom more than her. Mary acted like a mom. Mom acted like a roommate. The only hugs I remember are yours and sometimes Mary’s. You are the only real parental unit around here.” Laurie shrugged, attempting to be a tough girl, but her eyes told the truth. “You?” A small sob leaked past pursed lips.

“Kind of like something was torn out. I thought we were going to travel and get old together after you grew up and began your life. Guess I was misinformed.”

“Lot of that going around. Years ago, she promised to tell me the secrets moms share with daughters. I think there was a secret or two she didn’t share with you, too.”

“Any idea who ‘One True Love’ Barbara is? The mystery ventricle of the beating heart with whom she makes decisions as a ‘we’?”

“If she is who I think she is, it’s Barbara Swain, volleyball coach at the middle school. My balance beam teacher, Ms Simpson, shared an apartment with her. I only met her once or twice when Ms Swain picked Coach up after practice.” Laurie made a face. “Why would Mom run away with a volleyball coach?”

“Sweetie, that is something we will have to figure out when you get a little older. It’s one of those girl secrets Winnie kept secret, I bet.” I dreaded that conversation today with a barely ten year old girl, precocious daughter or not. “Let’s wait a day or so and talk to Ms Simpson. Wonder if she saw it coming?”

(I did get a chance to talk to Edie Simpson, the gymnastics coach and jilted lover. The double-jointed coach did not see it coming, was bisexual and into revenge sex over the balance beam. I did stick the dismount on the floor exercises several times, but that is a tale for later.)

“Can I call Sadie? We were going to have a sleepover tonight. Mom was supposed to be here. She said so in an email.”

“Go ahead and call. Don’t cancel the party. Invite Mary for dinner, too. I can make some more rice and we have some frozen spring rolls.” I suggested. “Why change our plans just ‘cause your Mom and my wife ran off and left us?”

“Prolly forgot anyway.” Laurie hissed. “Prolly, nothing! Did forget or blew me off as excess baggage on her dream trip. You, too. Do you think you’ll miss her?”

“Too soon to say. It’s hard to let that many years go, years I thought were good, kid. You can’t just erase and reboot. But, she made it easy to move on. ‘Not mom material, have a good life.’ Not really things you say when you expect to see someone again. But, hey, I’m glad it was nothing personal. Like that will make abandonment OK.”

“Yeah. ‘Have a good life’ is something you say to a girl in class when her parents move away. I vote we take the advice. Turn the page and start a new chapter.” Laurie shrugged without wet eyes this time. “Pops, can you make some of your yummy beef teriyaki to go with the rice? I’ll put this stuff in the microwave. If you get Mary, you get Andrew Larson, too. Package deal.”

This evening set the tone for our near future. With Sadie, attached to Laurie at the giggle, as best friend, Mary Larson as surrogate mom and Andrew as my football and barbeque buddy, life was not that much different. You really don’t miss someone if they were never around anyway.

The next year was interesting. My job mutated as the company re-diversified, directing its new products focus toward the consumer and commercial aircraft markets during the lean years after the end of the Shuttle program. Not sure if that was a good thing, I sold my company stock while it was still high and retired at the age of 30.

Suddenly, I was in great demand as a consultant to the privatized space travel and commercial aircraft industries. A positive report from me became the ‘Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval’. In truth, I did find more than a few dangerous flaws before Very Expensive Things went into production. They rewarded me quite handsomely. I leased office space in an underused building at the Space Center for meetings with clients, which included NASA.

Fortunately, I could do most of the work at home. When I had to travel, Laurie tagged along if Mary couldn’t do the kiddo keeper chores.

What Mary did do was help guide Laurie through puberty. The day my little girl took two hours to tell me she needed to get a training bra for gymnastics was the day I drafted Mary Larson as my adolescence consultant. I knew the facts in the clinical abstract, Mary knew the function and practical little details. When she stopped laughing, she asked what took me so long to notice that our two kids were growing up.

“Laurie is right. You are clueless sometimes. What do you think I’ve been doing these past few years?” Once I learned how many times she saved Laurie and me from ‘delicate’ situations and terminal embarrassment, Mary named her consultant fee. That woman did not work cheap.

All it cost me was the price of a not-so-minivan and the rest of my free time. I became the dad version of the soccer mom, schlepping Laurie, Sadie and their constantly changing mob of teammates, campers and crazies to any number of meetings, practices, lessons, performances and trips to the mall.

Usually, I was easy to find. Look for the bemused looking guy in the bleachers with a laptop and headphones, trapped in and trying to ignore the mad maelstrom of girly insanity loose on the world. Or I was the guy in the sunglasses who appeared to use sleep as escapism.

Actually, it wasn’t that onerous a task. Beat listening to endless PowerPoint presentations and browbeating engineers into fixing their stupid mistakes. They went with me to the dojo. I went with them to field hockey and soccer. I jogged while the marching band mangled Souza. I kept jumbo jets in the air. They kept batons flying. They whined when I played John Lee Hooker, Sonny Boy Williamson and the Stones in the car. I whined when they played anything. And I got to watch my little Sweetie grow up. That was worth every minivan minute spent on the road looking for the next rest stop or burger joint.

What the hell was Winnie thinking when she walked out on that girl’s life? Besides, I loved that Miata.

Soon after Winnie split, Laurie and I put in a swimming pool and freestanding mini-gym in the backyard with a ten-foot privacy fence. Our huge house instantly became the eye of the teen girl storm. Very little time passed before I suspected a vast conspiracy among the Consolidated Moms of East Florida to get more free time at my expense. The first clue was when a Mom I knew from Girl Scout meetings, Tammy Pendragon, called to see if I minded hosting a slumber party over a weekend. I didn’t have a problem.

Apparently, they considered me ‘safe.’ Single father, too science nerdy and detached to be a functioning perv in public, worked at home, not hard to look at, no apparent social life outside of dinners and nights out with the Larsons and familiar with and to the girls. Clearly, I had the qualifications, the pool and the time they needed to borrow. The perfect kidsitter for a weekend away. Single afternoons and evenings weren’t enough.

I laid out the ground rules. No boys. Parents had to be available for emergencies or give me the authority to get health care if someone breaks something. The girls had to act like house broken ladies and not wreck the place. No drama. No fighting. Those and more made the risk management list. The Consolidated Moms agreed. I made them promise to take their girls back Sunday. Some balked playfully at the last item but I insisted.

In retrospect, another clue.

Friday evening, nine eleven to thirteen-year-old lunatics appeared at the door in twos and threes with overnight bags. All I had to do was make sure no one drowned in the pool and that no boys crashed the festivities. And cook breakfast Saturday and Sunday morning. The girls would deal with the pizza orders or make supper as required by whatever stomach alarms teenaged girls marched to.

I survived the weekend and many more like it for the next couple years. So many girls passed through at any time of day, I quit locking the doors.

The girls rapidly grew into young ladies when I wasn’t paying attention. Clues missed again. One summer, I barely recognized most of the guests, and wondered if I was imagining things or were these creatures flirting with me? Then I saw the faces. That was the one who owned the uneven parallel bars, that one was the first string striker, those two had so many merit badges we thought they would develop knee problems.

Incremental changes are easy to miss. Laurie’s friends incrementally turned into short bikini models when I had my back turned. My safe, non-perv status was in dire jeopardy, but I soldiered on, giving the teens the idea that I was the perfect crash test dummy to hone their girlcraft.

I am a guy with normal urges. What early thirties man isn’t? I had not been a monk after Winnie left us, but my relationships were few and never at home. Laurie pretended not to notice just as she pretended not to notice the less than subtle flirting. She was a better athlete than she was an actress. Even clueless me saw the sly smiles. Little Laurie was a ringleader in the teasing department.

The bikinis got smaller, Laurie’s included, but she and Sadie usually refrained from the little accidents the others suffered. They had their ‘accidents’, just fewer. Their friends set my bar pretty high. Tops lost in the pool, boobs popped out and not covered, and assorted ‘innocent’ exhibitionism became the norm. Gradually, the more remarkable accidents became the standard. Shameless, yet somehow shy, toplessness extended for hours, was not unusual.

Excellent clues, indeed!

Weaponized tits, destroying civilization as I knew it. Kill me now. Don’t get me started on the thermonuclear asses. I was operating a hydroponic flasher farm.

This time, the Consolidated Moms were clueless. Of course, they were having an adult life while I watched the kids.

I wore an extra jockstrap and dark sunglasses a lot. It was an interesting season. Winters were almost as much fun. Same routine, moved indoors. Pajamas based on alien technology inflated by weaponized tits and thermonuclear tushes. I could not win so I quit fighting. I think Laurie kept the thermostat set around 85º. I never saw pajama bottoms, much less a single robe or housecoat.

In a private moment before bedtime, my Sweetie confessed the girls were teasing each other, too. “Now I understand why Mom left with Barbara. Some of my friends may be like Mom that way. It’s OK, I don’t care and they are still the same girls. At least they know now before they mess up other people’s lives. I’m still mad she didn’t say good bye.”

“Me, too, a little. But grudges take up too much headspace and that was a different time. Trust me, I’m a rocket scientist. I know about space. I really wish her the best. Let’s face it, kiddo, our life ain’t too shabby.”

She gave me a hug. “So you don’t mind all these shameless tramps running around the house half dressed?” I should mention she was wearing a loosely tied babydoll pajama top, the current standard for sleepovers. I was wearing boxers. Even without company, bedtime dress was casual.

“I have a confession to make. I kind of enjoy your game. None of you are hard to look at. Cute girls showing me their teenaged tits brighten up the joint.” I wiggled my eyebrows and tickled her underboobs. “I like perky boobs a lot.” I might have lightly brushed her nipples when I untied the bow. “Yours especially.”

“Really? You like mine? That feels better than I thought it would. Mine sure like you. Cool.” She smiled. “I enjoy the game, too. Oops. Did I say that out loud?”

“Say what out loud?” That earned me a fierce squirmy hug. An untied babydoll top hug. “But I can play, too, and I always play to win.” Laurie pretended not to notice as I removed her pajama top after she let go of my neck. “Do you spend much time thinking about how my hands will feel on your naked boobs?” She let me strip her without resistance or comment. “I find you very pretty, Laurie, never think differently.”

“Thank you. Good night, Daddy. See you in the morning.” She kissed me on the cheek.

“I see now how your nipples like the way my hands feel.” I pinched slightly.

Laurie shuddered and skipped off to rejoin the minimally clad mob.

The ‘game’ did not progress beyond that point. That line was never crossed though the little accidents occurred continually in the coming months. She and her cohorts upped the stakes at every opportunity.

The next summer Laurie was to be 16 on the same day I turned 35. “Pops. Can we go somewhere for our birthday? Someplace special?” This was the first time she ever asked for a biggie. “I have all summer off except for late August. No practice, no camps. Nothing but glorious free time.”

“Great idea! I will clear my calendar until September. We can blow off June, July and most of August. Tell you what. You book the places and times. Our passports are good, so anyplace you want to go is where I want to go.”

“Really? Any place? Europe? Can I bring Sadie?”

“Any place, except Winnie’s France. And you can invite Silly Sadie if Andrew and Mary agree.”

Her monster smile was a missed clue.

Research began before Christmas and Laurie did a fine job as the travel agent provocateur. All I did was give her my black card, passcode and a promise not to look at the invoices. I lied. Curious choices. She easily convinced the Larsons to let Sadie come along so the girls could do girl stuff while I did whatever ‘Pop’ sorts did.

We were wheels up, bound for Venice, before the first weekend in June. We spent enough time there to soak up some romantic atmosphere, walk where famous dead people walked before they were dead and see some pretty fabulous art. Our hotel was art. Getting over jetlag in a picture postcard is the bomb.

We celebrated our birthdays with a picnic at the Piazza San Marco and a gondola ride back to the hotel. It was very elegant and a lot of fun. Sadie had a good time being our little waitress and clowning around in her striped gondolier shirt.

Chapter 2 »