Chapter 2

I tapped the alarm clock into silence shortly after noon and slowly came awake. The house was quiet and all seemed normal. I put on my robe and walked to the kitchen.

Connie was sitting in one of the chairs, cautiously sipping coffee. I got my own cup and sat down across from her.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Shirley Jean. My friends call me Jean."

She produced a wan smile and said, "I'm Connie."

Softly I asked, "How do you feel?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Do you want some breakfast?"

"I don't think so. I've been enough trouble."

"No trouble; I'm going to eat anyway."

She grunted something that sounded like "mumph" and resumed sipping from her cup.

I put orange juice, bagels and cold water on the table and fetched the Tylenol from the bathroom. She took two pills with a small glass of juice, and after a short time slowly ate part of a bagel. It stayed down, and she began to look less and less like a homeless wreck.

When the bagels were gone and we were sharing another pot of coffee, she looked at me and said, "Thanks for last night."

I smiled. "You're welcome. I think your clothes are dry. If you don't want to wear them, you can keep the sweats."

"Where did you put my phone?"

I held up one finger and got all her things from the bathroom counter. As she sorted through her belongings, I wiped her shoes as clean as I could with a damp paper towel.

After asking my address, she dialed a number and began speaking quietly to whoever answered. I removed her clothes from the dryer, folded them and put them on the table. I went to my bedroom to get dressed, leaving her the privacy of the kitchen.

I came back to the kitchen dressed in my usual Saturday outfit of shorts and T-shirt. All the stains had come out of her jeans, but the shirt hadn't fared as well. I saw the tag end of her bra strap peeking from a pocket.

She looked out the window at the sound of a horn, then turned and said, "My ride's here."

I nodded and walked with her to the door. With her hand on the knob, she said, "Look, I..."

"It's okay, I understand," I said.

She leaned down and kissed my cheek, said, "Thank you very much," and walked down the sidewalk. There was a big empty feeling in the pit of my stomach as I watched her get into a car.

Over the next few hours, I thought a lot about our encounter. I was fairly pretty, at least to some people, but she was very popular and pretty. I was young, barely turned twenty-one, and I knew she was older. I couldn't compete in a monetary sense; she probably earned three times what I did. Her sexual experience almost certainly outweighed mine by a factor of ten, and I saw no reason to think she'd be attracted to me. Still, seeing her nude had sharpened my fantasies.

I could relate to the anguish of loss, too, if that's why she'd been crying, and to the anger and frustration that follows. I'd lost Danielle back in high school, and in some ways I hadn't healed completely. My other relationships had been short and occasionally sexually satisfying, but all of them left a deep hole in the emotional side of things.

I shopped for groceries that afternoon and watched some TV later in the evening. I gathered all the nasty stuff from the garage and washed it, just to keep busy.

Saturday evening about ten o'clock I went to bed and played with myself. Yes, I masturbate, and any woman who tells you she doesn't is a liar. And, being multi-orgasmic has a certain soothing quality to it that tells you, 'Yeah, you're okay.'

Sunday came and went without notice. I drove to the river near the landing and ran a few miles; the path starts near Meriwether's restaurant and winds through the trees up to Burnt Creek. The air was warm, and the monotony of putting one foot ahead of the other at a steady pace was helpful in numbing my mind. Bedtime was another self-loving session with several orgasms—three as I recall—and sleep followed soon after.

I got up early Monday morning. I was on the early shift this week, 7:00 am to 3:30 pm. I normally worked 9:00 am to 5:00 pm but someone was on vacation and I had been chosen to fill in.

There was the usual morning rush at the counter where I took people's money and stamped their bills, but around eleven o'clock it slacked off. I was puttering in my cubicle when an older man came in the door with a large, long box in his hands.

He consulted a slip of paper in his hand and asked, "Shirley Jorgensen?"

I raised my hand and said, "That would be me," with a smile.

He grinned back and said, "For you," as he handed me the box.

I almost dropped it; the box was surprisingly heavy. I opened it and found a dozen long-stemmed red roses, wrapped in green paper. My co-workers gathered around me, oohing and aahing at the sight of fresh-cut flowers.

Mandy said, "Hey Shirl, you got a secret admirer! You've been holding out on us, girl!"

I blushed. Mandy knew I was gay, and so did most of the others. I opened the small envelope that contained the note and read:

Jean, Thanks for the rescue. Yours, C.

Mandy read the note over my shoulder and squealed, "Oooh, Shirley! What did you do?"

After a few more minutes of questions which I refused to answer, and a lot of knowing looks, Beatrice gave me a large vase. I trimmed the ends and put the vase and flowers on the outer credenza where everyone could see it.

The flowers ended up as a centerpiece on my kitchen table that night. I ate supper with their scent in my nose, and about six o'clock I went to the Y for my exercise class. The indoor pool would be available for a ladies-only swim after my class, and I was looking forward to doing some laps.

Monday night I took one of the flowers to my bedroom with me. I've always liked roses, red ones in particular, and if Connie thought what I'd done was enough to merit a dozen of them, well, so be it. Dreamless sleep came quickly.

Tuesday was entirely normal, except some of the girls complained about the flowers being gone. I got home, though, and things were definitely in an uproar. I had to park on the street because of the large truck that was in front of my garage door. The door itself was open, and I could hear the hum of machines of some kind and several voices coming from inside the house.

I stepped from the garage entry onto the kitchen floor and a big guy yelled, "Watch it! That's fresh wax!"

I backed up a step and watched the one who'd spoken wrap a cord around the handle of some large, round machine.

"Can I ask what you're doing in my house?" I said.

The machine handler—the tag on his shirt read "Tommy"—turned his head and yelled, "Hustle up! We gotta go!"

Two young men, slightly smaller than Tommy, came around the corner into the kitchen carrying mops, brooms and assorted bottles and cloths in a big basket. They brushed past me without slowing and started stowing things in the back of the truck.

Tommy finished winding the cord and pulled the machine closer to where I was standing.

"Excuse me, miss."

I put my hand on his chest and said, "You aren't going anywhere until you tell me what you are doing in my house. Please."

Tommy, big as he was, was a gentleman.

He blushed and stammered, "It was a—a surprise, miss. Sorry we took so long. We—we was supposed to be gone before you got home."

I looked around and saw a spotless, freshly waxed and polished floor, with no trace of any odor. There were tracks of vacuum wheels on the carpeting, and I didn't see a speck of dust anywhere. Judging by the two men I'd seen earlier, the bathroom probably looked and smelled the same way.

"Who ordered this?" I asked.

Tommy blushed again and said, "Sorry, miss. I can't say."

"Can't, or won't?" I asked.

"She'd have my butt in a sling, miss," he said with a blush.

"Who gave you the key?"

"The man next door, miss."

I told him thanks and stepped aside. He picked up the machine by the handle and walked to the truck, and I closed the door behind him.

I surmised Connie was responsible for the cleaning crew but I had no proof, and I had no way of contacting her to thank her. I changed into something comfortable and started supper.

Right after supper the doorbell chimed. I opened the door to Connie holding a paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other.

Sheepishly she inquired, "May I come in?"

I nodded and closed the door.

She was dressed in what passes for "business casual" these days; a well-cut, very feminine suit, a frilly blouse and low-heeled pumps.