Strangers in the Night
Chapter 9

Copyright© 2015 by Old Man with a Pen

"Which secretary is he fucking?" my stepmother asked me.

I'd arrived home just before dinner, and I was half starved. I cleaned up and the girls sat at table. My body knew what was coming but my mind had never smelled anything like what was wafting from the kitchen in my life.

"Hungry?" Wendy said.

In defense, my stomach produced an entire drum solo.

"What is that wonderful smell?"

"Karjalanpaisti," (hot pot) she said, "Beef, pork and lamb hot pot, served with mashed potato and lingonberry jam, but first we have leipäjuusto (bread cheese) Oven-cooked cheese that squeaks when you bite into it, hot with cloudberry jam."

More drum solo. My body knew.

Stepmom carried in the cheese on a polished walnut plank and laid it on the table in front of me. The pot of hot cloudberry jam was orange and yellow whole berries in a glaze-sauce that screamed calories.

"Serve us, David," she said.

The cheese was hot but not melted ... brown spots over all from the oven. I had all the plates stacked in front of me. When I sliced into the cheese it was pure white inside. A scoop of jam decorated the cheese and I passed the plate. I got mine last... Wipe Out was playing in my gut.

A bite ... the body knew ... the mind did backflips.

"He likes it," Wendy said.

Stepmom agreed.

The maids cleared away those plates and served the karjalanpaisti with perunarieska (hot potato flatbread with melted butter) on the side.

Very soon it was the click and clank of silver on ceramic and the voices of teen age girls talking about the WRC drivers.

I was concentrating on the food. A green salad was last ... desert ... at least for me. Replete, the napkins laid aside and the knife set on the last plate. Finished.

Stepmom nodded to the girls, "I want to talk to David." It was like the queen had said 'Leave Us." "Wendy? You stay."

Stepmom was perhaps 23 ... and very much a trophy wife. Certainly, she had born none of the children ... not with that body. Her dress and manner was of the upper class ... it was her duty to be the perfect hostess, conversationalist and companion to a man of wealth.

We retired to the main room. The fire took the chill off. She turned to me and said, "Which secretary is he fucking?"

"Sabrina Lindgren."

"The Swede?"

"Is she?"

"Yes."

It was all very surreal ... comonplace, no tragedy, no tantrums. Conversation.

"Wendy has decided you are hers. Since you are both transitions it seems reasonable and I will honor that," stepmom said. "Will you race?"

"Do I have a car?"

"In the garage, a race ready Subaru Impreza four wheel drive."

"Honestly?"

"Yes, please."

"Maybe next year."

The door burst open and squealing teen girls tumbled into the room. The fifteen year old, Rikiina, led the way.

"We'll install my new seat tonight and trailer it down to Helsinki tomorrow. The girls will crew. Thank you David."

And they scattered.

What have I done?

 
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