Chapter 4

The next day proved as hot and muggily uncomfortable as the previous one. Evening brought little relief.

Carla West walked up and down the living room in nervous agitation. The doctor hadn't been able to find a thing wrong with her, and had had the nerve to tell her it was her imagination. Last time she'd go there, by God... The gall of that old quack! And she'd been home now for hours, and no sign of Tamera. Where was that girl anyway? She'd promised to stay home today, had promised to come home early last night, in fact-- and what had happened? She'd come home at such a late hour Carla hadn't even heard her, and she'd been sleeping like a log when Carla had to go to that stupid doctor, and now she was gone, not even leaving a note or anything. The young mother held a glass of brandy in her hand, sipping it absently as she fumed, and finally in a huff of disappointment and disgust, she slumped down in an easy chair, feeling lost and morose. Her eyes blurred slightly with tears, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

Get a hold of yourself, she admonished. You're only feeling sorry for yourself, just like the doctor said, and that's no good. Do something. Read a book or turn on the television. But Carla didn't feel like either one. Take a walk... But she just didn't feel like going out. Well, do something! So she finished her drink and poured herself another.

Crickets sawed a mournful dirge outside, and the greyness of a day gone by settled over the house. Carla sipped, liking the dull shadows, for it matched her mood. But she knew that this was no good. Her breathing was loud in her ears, loud in the room, and something had to be done before she cracked. She'd cut out the drinking and save herself for some attractive man who'd replace her lost Arnold, and she'd marry him. She needed a man, and Lord knew Tamera needed a father to make a normal home and supply the necessary love and understanding an adolescent required. And the direction and guidance so that she wouldn't make foolish mistakes that could kill her or ruin her life.

Tomorrow, she'd start, Carla promised herself. Tomorrow she'd have a real motherly chat with Tamera and tell her that things were going to be different from now on, and that maybe her mother wasn't such a bad gal after all, and that she loved her daughter very, very much. She'd--

The doorbell interrupted her reverie, and Carla almost dropped the brandy from the surprise. "Who... who's there?"

"Mrs. West?" a husky, deep voice came through the door. "I'm Mr. McDonald. Eddie's father. I'd like to speak to you, if I may."

"Of course." Carla hurried to the door, opened it to let Mr. McDonald in. He was tall, almost as tall as Arnold, and older but in a distinguished way. He was dressed casually in a lime green polo shirt and matching slacks, loafers on his feet. He smiled at her, his mustache curling up in a friendly manner.

"What... what is it? Is Tamera all right? I mean--"

"Oh, yes," McDonald said with a chuckle. "Don't worry about the kids. I think they're at one of their friend's house, swimming or something." He waited as Carla shut the door and ushered him into the living room. "Fine place you have here, Mrs. West. Fine place." And a fine hunk of woman, too, he thought to himself. His penis lurched in his pants as he eyed the lovely young mother of the girl his son had screwed silly last night with appreciative glances; just the sight of her, in her brief shorts and a man-type shirt that was tied beneath her large, firm breasts with a knot, leaving the satiny tanned belly exposed below made him want to tear off his clothes and thrust his cock up between her smooth, satin-like thighs without a moment's hesitation. But he knew that this was not the moment, that before the physical conquest of her obviously proud flesh had to come a stage of mental submission, a lessening of the barriers a stranger automatically erects towards another, but when the spirit of softness and acceptance had been reached...

"Well, what can I do for you, Mr. McDonald?"

"Mort, please," he said humbly.

"But I hardly think that--"

"Well, you see, that's why I'm here, Mrs. West. Or... can I call you Carla?" The question was rhetorical; McDonald hurried on with his talk. "You see, my son and your daughter have become friendly, quite friendly in fact, and I thought that under the circumstances it would be nice if the parents at least were acquainted. Tamera's a fine girl, Carla, one you should be proud of, and I don't think that Eddie has ever been out with a nicer girl in all of his dating years."

"Why, that's--"

"I can certainly see where her charm and beauty comes from." McDonald interrupted her and continued. "She is certainly like her mother.

"Oh, Mr--I mean, Mort," Carla said, brightening from the compliment. She patted her hair, feeling a little flustered. "Why, why thank you, that was very kind to say."

"I mean it, Carla." He smiled with a faint touch of the Clark Gable look to him, Carla thought. And his voice was so warm and mellow, fitting his very respectable character. And he was so good looking for an older man... McDonald pressed on his sugary attack. "I can't imagine why some lucky man hasn't snapped you up long ago. I heard about the tragic loss of your husband from Tamera, and naturally I know how you feel." He looked properly saddened at her, and she nodded her head, a pang of memory about Arnold momentarily intruding. "Have you spoken much to Eddie?" he asked.

"Why, no," Carla said, "After all, Tamera's only been out with him twice. Three times, counting today." At least she knew where she was; well, she didn't have to worry, she guessed, not if Eddie had such a nice father...

"Then you don't know much about us McDonalds," he said.

"Not a thing, I'm afraid."

"Exactly why I came," he said, beaming. Perfect--perfect... Now to add one more big lie to all the others I've been spreading, so far. "You see, Carla, I'm like you. Alone. I'm a widower."

"Oh, Mort how sad."

He sighed painfully, thinking of the fictitious death of his wife-- and hoping that Agnes would kick the bucket in reality. "Yes, I've raised Eddie alone for three years now. Cancer."

"How terrible." Some of her resistance melted as she looked at his sad, handsome face, and she said: "Would you like a drink?"

"That would be very kind, Carla. Whatever you're having."

"Brandy over brandy," Carla said lightly, and went to fetch another glass. McDonald sat down, drumming his fingers along the back of the chair, gloating to himself. How easy, how absolutely a push-over this young lonely mother was going to be--just like Eddie had hinted she'd be when they'd talked this morning. Like daughter, like mother, all right, and Eddie thought the idea of using the pictures was fantastic, even helped develop them before coming over to take the little girl away for the day. Yeah, McDonald knew that Eddie was probably banging away on the kid just like he was going to fuck her mother in a little while. Well, all of the soft soap would soon be over; he'd gotten in and an invitation to have a drink--now to make sure that the one drink turned into quite a few...

Carla returned and together they sat and talked, McDonald telling a fabric of lies about his life as a widower. There was a gradual relaxation of Carla's natural defenses as she empathized with his plight, her own mind matching and dovetailing what he was telling her with her own sad loss of Arnold. She told him some about her marriage and the death of her husband, and that weakened her still more; she was putty in the hands of such a skilled manipulator, for inexorably he channeled the discussion to the intimate points of love and married life, sensing as he went the subtle mood changes, knowing when to retreat and advance, just as he could sense that he would eventually reach the moment when he'd produce a packet of pictures that would unlock the long too rusty doors to her pussy.

"I'm so glad you asked me to stay," he purred over the table, "It's so much nicer than sitting around all alone."

"Yes, isn't it?" Carla responded, sipping her brandy. Her mind was slightly confused with the suddenness of his presence in her home and life. She was still a little intimidated by him--so masculine and handsome and magnetic, with some sort of musky pervasiveness which hit her with an animal attraction she hadn't known since Arnold had died. Even now, as they drank and talked in a most respectable and civilized manner, she couldn't help thinking of him in a detached way from the standpoint of a sex partner.

Sex! What a stupid thought! Still, it bothered her, and she had a hard time meeting his frankly brazen gaze, and she felt uneasy in an ethereal fashion, as if she was in danger. Which was a silly bother, for she was safe, and perfectly all right in entertaining him alone in her house; the age when such things were considered naughty was of her own mother's Victorian age, not now. And Mort was the soul of discretion... but still the air of something wrong, something deliciously frightening clung to her, and she tried to put her finger on exactly what it was and failed.

It had been two hours now, the time simply flying, and while too many drinks had been consumed, nothing else had happened. She shrugged off her apprehensions as she drained her glass again, determining to enjoy this man's company and stop being such a wet blanket, and chalked up the butterflies in her belly as being the result of too much brandy. What the heck, this was better than being alone.

And the hypnotically talking McDonald caught the almost imperceptible relaxing of her reflexes and grinned in satisfaction to himself. This was what he'd been waiting for, had with consummate skill worked towards for the last boring few hours--and it was just about time to strike. He said suavely: "I could use another refill, Carla. How about you, hmmm?"

"No, not right now, Mort. I better not."

"Oh, come on. There's still a little left in the bottle, may as well kill it off."

"Mort, please. I've had a little too much as it is." Carla's eyes dimmed slightly from the slowly building effect the alcohol was having on her without her realizing it before.

"Carla..." McDonald's eyes narrowed slightly as he lowered his gaze to the couch momentarily. "I think you had better go for one more. I've been putting it off as long as I could but I've got to get around to the real reason for my visit. And... I'm afraid it isn't going to be very pleasant for either one of us."

"W-What do you mean, Mort." Carla stuttered, confused momentarily by his sudden serious tone. "Y-You sound as though something were wrong."

"Yes, my dear," he grimaced. "Something is wrong. And it involves the conduct of your daughter and her young girlfriend, Nancy."

"Well for god's sake tell me," the young voluptuous women demanded, lifting her glass automatically for the offered drink. "It can't be so horrible. They're both nice young kids."

"I'm afraid, Carla," McDonald looked straight into her eyes now, "that they're not quite the innocent little things you seem to think they are. I caught them in a very compromising position with my son and a friend of his."

"Oh Mort, surely a little innocent petting isn't going to upset you. After all, this younger generation is a lot more casual in their ways than we were during our time."

"I'm not talking about innocent little petting." His eyes dropped again away from Carla's as though he were having difficulty saying the words. "I'm talking about stripped down naked petting."

"A-About w-what?", the blood drained from the open mouthed young woman and she quickly raised the glass to her lips, draining the contents completely. "I-I'm sorry," she apologized, "I-I needed that."

"It's perfect understandable. I think we both need it." He echoed her feeling by lifting his glass also and emptying it without pause.

Carla's head reeled from the combination of the alcohol and the sudden revelation about Tamara. She just couldn't believe that Mort McDonald was telling the truth. He must be lying, oh god, he must be.

But why, why would he make up such a story. It just didn't seem like him.

"Mort," her tone changed to one of motherly indignation. "I don't believe what you are saying. I've brought Tamera up to be a nice girl and I have no reason to doubt her just because you-- you say so."

"I think you had better have another drink, Carla." McDonald shook his head slowly as though a great weight were on his shoulders. "I-I wanted to spare you this but... I guess I'll have to show them to you."