Chapter 1: Picking Up the Pieces

I needed the meditation and mindfulness to give me relief from my mental distress and torment.

I was almost in the lotus position. I’d substituted sitting Indian style with a nice straight back rather than twisting my somewhat 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 November in Sarasota, Florida. I wasn’t sure this therapy was for me, but I was desperate.

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 that 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 past five-and-a-half decades of my life. The meditation was part of my self-therapy to get over the loss eight months earlier of Nancy, my wife of thirty-four years.

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 two daughters and their families were up to as she always had. They coddled me for a while, but I told them to stop. We talked every other week, but in my depressed state, I had little to report. What would I say? I stared at the wall all day again?

Then I got angry at 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 royally pissed. Nancy endured a two-year debilitating illness, and then died. I still dissolved into tears at the drop of a pin. My soulmate was gone. I’d cried almost the entire day before.

A month after Nancy’s death I discovered the numbing effects of 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. When I was lucky, I passed out and slept a dreamless state. My solution for a hangover was more booze.

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. The consuming question was, how could I live without Nancy?

One night I couldn’t sleep. Nighttime television is an unending series of infomercials and was no solace. 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 – the Gulf of Mexico.

I walked in the dark to the water’s edge and sat. I cried and sobbed to the setting western stars over losing Her – my only and greatest love. People that 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 a fine outstanding couple were supposed to do – careers, kids, houses, vacations, relatives, friends, holidays, and wealth accumulation. When Nancy got sick, we both stopped working, we didn’t need to earn money anyway. 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. No one could. I prayed. I made a thousand promises to God or anyone that would listen. “Please heal her.” 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 to the night on that morning. I felt sorry for myself – sorry for Nancy – sorry for all the people I’d pissed off with my anger and lashing out.

November 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 at the edge of the surf and bowed my head and prayed, asking for redemption and forgiveness.

An 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 towards others improved although I was still personally 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 to me.

I examined myself more closely in a meditation one morning in early January. A voice stated 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 realized suddenly 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.

I cried and tried to tell her how much I still loved her. I babbled into the dawn skies about how I missed her, and everything I could think of that I’d always wanted to tell her. Eventually, I returned home.

Nine o’clock in the morning is the earliest you should call someone at home in Florida. 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 that I’d known 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 by my mindless anger.

I repeated the process a dozen times before noon with other people that had been in our circle of friends. Every person I called was home and responded just as Dave had, with sympathy, tolerance and forgiveness – even love - in spite of 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 that strolled by the restaurant tables as I read the news on my cellphone. I made a point of not complaining about anything – even to myself. Everything was perfect.

Suddenly, I realized I was paying a little more attention to the pretty women than I was to anyone else – and there were a lot of pretty women downtown that lunchtime. I tried to guess what they did. There were several younger women (girls in my mind) that 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 that walked by caught my eye as well. I expected most of them were lawyers or paralegals 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 guessed 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. Perhaps I was healing.

The next morning in my meditation 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. Maybe the voice hadn’t been Nancy after all. I was aware of the message, and knew it came from somewhere, but I just couldn’t really hear it.

My friend Martin Williams called a few days later and asked if my offer to help in any way I could still stood. I told him that of course it did. He said their daughter Clare had a friend who was moving to the area and looking for help in relocating, finding an apartment and job, and getting acquainted. He was wondering if I’d be willing to help. He was willing, but tied up with his work as an antique dealer with a store to run. 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 Rice. My friend Martin Williams just gave me your name and number based on a call from his daughter Claire, and asked if 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. I’m at loose ends, and this will give me another way to payback the universe for some of the blessings that I’ve received.” I put extra energy into sounding upbeat. Compared to how I’d been for months, this was a major improvement.

Her perky voice responded, “Well, I’m certainly impressed by how fast THAT circle closed. I talked to Clare, Martin’s daughter, about an hour ago and told her what I needed, what I’m actually desperate for. Your call is an answer to my plea – my prayer.”

“Glad to be of service,” I responded.

Marilyn continued, “I’m in my car driving down to Sarasota now. I’m coming from Ohio. I’m probably four or five hours out. I know nobody there, well except you now and I guess indirectly Claire’s father. I knew Clare from college and we saw each other every now and then. Somehow, I remembered her parents were in Sarasota and that’s where I wanted to go. Claire raved about the city and growing up there. 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 and 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 directions. 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 and drunkenness. I found the vacuum cleaner. Three hours later I was proud of the place again and feeling the best I had in a long time.

A short time later, the phone rang. It was Marilyn and she was on Fruitville Road headed into town. I gave her some directions and twenty minutes later a beat-up brown Chevy sedan laden to the max with clothing and luggage pulled into my driveway where I stood waiting for her arrival.

“Welcome to Sarasota,” I greeted her, 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 then uncoiled herself from behind the steering wheel and stepped out of the car.

She was wearing snug-fitting Levi’s 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. I also noticed a heavy layer of makeup, but didn’t allow that to influence me.

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 I 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. You could take a dip in the pool if you have a swimsuit. 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 was two nights ago – it was snowing. 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, if that offer still stands.”

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 also wrapped around a nice backyard pool that I kept heated although I didn’t use it too much. Marilyn clapped her hands with joy as she looked though the house and saw the pool. I told her it was heated. January in Sarasota can be chilly.

She said loudly, “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 and told her she’d also find a towel in there she could use. I explained that she could shower in there later.

I opened the slider in front of the bath door and wandered out onto the patio. The weather was in the high sixties, but the pool would be at about eighty. Thirty seconds later a colorful human blur sped by me 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. She started to swim back and forth, doing lazy laps.

I grinned and sat on the edge of the shallow end and dangled my feel in the water. I realized that all she’d done was pull off her Levi’s and shoes, and 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 butt that occasionally broke through the surface of the water as she swam.

Marilyn swam a couple of dozen laps with some 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 air. There was some transparency there, too. She gave me a big grin.

“You don’t know how big a treat this is for me, Mr. Rice.”

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

Marilyn came up the steps 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 could hear the shower running.

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 cheeses and crackers as well.

Marilyn appeared, barefoot and back in her Levi’s. 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 swam 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. I could also see a faint bruise on one cheek. She was very feminine and pretty; 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 second sip of wine. I told her its lineage briefly. There was a long silence.

“I’m running away from home,” she finally announced. “Two days ago, I was deep in my second failed marriage and I figured it was time to clear out. So, after dinner that night, 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 now. 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 essentially did that and that’s how I got Sarasota. I was in the middle of nowhere, but I remembered Claire’s praise about growing up here, so this became the place. Now here I am having a nice glass of wine with you,” she toasted me with a tip of her glass.

“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 earlier 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 a lot of 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. 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 Clare Williams and won’t figure out that I’m here 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 Tuesday 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 gestured at the bruise on her cheek and she nodded. 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.’ He went out to drink with friends, I raced around and packed, jammed everything in the car, drove away, and here I am.”

“What about work?” I asked.

“I called Art Gosling, my boss, on the drive down. He knew I’d get whacked because cosmetics only hide so many bruises. He’d seen them before. I told him I needed to leave and start over. He’s always been very supportive and this was no exception. He said to use him as a reference and to know I had a good job if I ever came back to Ohio. I hated to leave my friends there but I had to.”

Her tone and demeanor indicated she was sad at the thought of leaving her life behind. She had tears in her eyes as well as a look of defiance – an interesting combination.

We paused in our conversation then I offered some steaks. In a move of evident self-bravado, Marilyn gave me a big grin, “Let me help someway. Yes, let’s eat here.”

Fifteen minutes later I’d produced a steak dinner with all the trimmings. Marilyn just sat and watched as I wrestled up the things I’d prepared in the afternoon. “You prepared all this for me,” she said suddenly after figuring out that this was not a normal meal for a single, middle fifties guy.

“I had an important guest coming from Ohio,” I laughed. “Now I’m especially glad I did after hearing your story. I really am glad to help and to let you know I’m here for you.”

Marilyn got me telling my life story over dinner. I was able to do it for the first time without getting maudlin and without tears coming to my eyes. She seemed very understanding about my loss less than a year before.

After dinner we both made fast work of the cleanup and then took what was left of our wine and went and sat on the patio to watch the lights on the other side of the bay twinkle as we talked. We entertained each other further with events and stories from our lives. We weren’t always dwelling on our problems or losses, but rather on the happy times we’d had with our families and friends. We laughed a lot, something I realized I hadn’t done too much of for a couple of years.

When the wine was gone, I offered her some Grand Marnier or other liqueur. She took the orangey sweet liquid fire in a small glass from me a moment later. I had some Kahlua. We sipped and got quiet, just enjoying the night sounds from the neighborhood.

Suddenly, Marilyn said, “Oh, heavens. I’ve enjoyed myself too much and over stayed my welcome. I must leave.” She jumped up and started to gather her things.

“Where are you going?” I asked without getting up.

“Oh, I’ll find a room nearby and see you tomorrow.”

I caught her anxious look and put my hand up. “You were going to sleep in your car again somewhere, right?”

She guilty and nodded slowly and looked like a kid who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Yes, but it won’t be a problem for me. I’ve done it before – lots; not just this trip.”

“Well, it’s sort of a problem for me,” I said. She looked puzzled. “You see I promised myself I would go out of my way to help you – way out of my way. I also have this very empty guest room that hasn’t been used in a long time. I need someone to live there for a while and bring it back to life. You see if you stay, you’ll be helping me and making me feel that I have honored a promise to myself.”

She looked uncertain about whether to accept.

I tried to make the point stronger and make her feel safer if that was her problem, “I’ll be over on that side of the house. You’ll have your own bedroom, bath and phone – the door even locks. You can check-in your daughter if you want. Try it for a night or two. If you’ve found a place by them you can move, if not please accept my invitation to stay for as long as it takes until you get on your feet. No rent or anything.”

I paused then asked her, “How much money do you have?”

She blanched then answered in a low voice, “About two-hundred dollars.”

I said, “Look, save that for a rainy day or part of your job hunt. If you stay here, it’s free room and board. No strings, no obligations. Just pay it forward someday.”

She thought about it for another ten seconds. “Yes, I’ll stay.” Her eyes teared up and she turned and hugged me. It wasn’t a passionate ‘come on’ hug; it was just a warm, hug of gratitude.

I helped her bring a few more things in from her car and then straightened up the kitchen so I could head for bed.

As I started to head off to my part of the house, I said to her, “Oh, by the way, you might hear me going out for an hour around six a.m. I go down to the beach about that time to ... umm, to think and clear my head – to meditate.”

She nodded in somewhat puzzled understanding of what I’d just said.

I slept well that night undisturbed by so many of the demons that had haunted me over the past months.

I seemed to center myself more easily than usual the next morning at the beach. My mind drifted and I let it drift instead of trying to force an unnatural solitude into my head. After the sunrise, I became aware of two important things I should do: “Help someone other than yourself” and “Give love unconditionally.” I didn’t question either; I was learning not to judge as much when a message like that popped up so clearly in my head. They were simple and direct, and again clearly understood but voiceless. A few minutes later, I picked up my mat and went to the car.

As I drove home, I picked up two coffees and a newspaper for Marilyn but she was still asleep when I arrived home a little after seven o’clock.

I puttered quietly in the kitchen, eating a light breakfast and reading the paper. About half-past seven she padded into the kitchen from the guest room. Her hair was beautifully tousled with a lock of her golden blond hair hanging over one squinted eye. She looked amazingly sexy in a white t-shirt that hung down just past her hips and teased as to whether it would reveal anything further. She had beautiful and shapely legs, the kind you’d see in an advertisement for fine stockings or perfume.

She came up to me with a weak smile on her face as I held the cup of coffee out to her. She took a sip of the coffee then came and kissed me on the cheek.

“Oh, you are going to spoil me so while I am here. This is marvelous service that I could get used to,” she said in a slightly hoarse morning voice.

“My pleasure, m’lady.” I smiled. I actually smiled, and I amazed myself.

She slid onto a high stool next to me, unintentionally flashing me a microsecond view of a pink thong and the very top of her shapely legs. She caught me looking and smiled.

“I bought you a morning paper so you can check out the Help Wanted section. Sunday’s paper has the better ads though.” I pushed the paper open to the Classifieds section to her.

She nodded groggily and drank some more coffee. Her eyes were opening slowly to the bright morning light coming in from the patio.

After asking her preferences, I fixed her some cereal and juice that she devoured.