Chapter 1

I first met Karen the summer I turned twenty-six, at a time when I was convinced I had really fucked up my life. Back in the spring I had decided that a career in the military was not my style, and I had bravely given up the relative security of an Air Force re-enlistment for the uncertainty of the real world.

Odd as it may sound, I joined the military because I wanted to write. I had wanted to be a writer ever since I discovered reading. So when I went to college I majored in English, and right after I graduated I went into the Air Force as a public information specialist, and at least I got to write press releases once in a while. It wasn't much, but I was actually putting words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs and trying to convey something somebody thought was important to somebody else. But there were just too many somebodies. "Channels" was the military term. Everything goes through channels: people looking over your shoulder all the time, nervous because there were people looking over their shoulders too. Rules about this. Rules about that. Rules for the sake of rules. Rules that didn't make any sense. So I chucked it. Packed it in. Opted for freedom.

And so I had a real job in the real world, and I hated it.

I was working for a medium-sized ad agency in a medium-sized southern city. I didn't know anybody there; it was just the first place a job opened up. I wasn't doing any writing. My job was to take the words somebody else had written and wrap them around the graphics somebody else had designed. Layout, they called it.

I had a small apartment that didn't cost very much. That was good, because I wasn't getting paid very much. My social life was practically non-existent. It was a cliquish kind of town and it didn't offer outsiders many opportunities. If you hadn't been born there, and your parents born there, and maybe their parents as well, then you just didn't count for much.

But I have to give Kendall credit; he tried to break the pattern. He had done it for himself, and he tried to do it for me.

Kendall Craig was my boss. Not my ultimate boss, just the guy who supervised the layout section. He was younger than I was, but he hadn't taken a military detour. And everybody just assumed he was on a career fast track. Partly it was simply his physical appearance. Nature had blessed Kendall. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair and blue eyes. He had a square jaw and gleaming-white teeth that flashed when he smiled, which was often. He looked into your eyes when he talked to you, and his handshake was firm. He was the perfect picture of the Southern Establishment, destined for privilege from birth, and I hated him on sight.

Except he wasn't exactly what he seemed. But it took me a little while to find that out.

My first surprise was when he invited me to his home for a drink after work, just to welcome me to my new job. That didn't fit the aristocratic stereotype.

His spacious apartment was immaculate. A frosty pitcher of martinis was ready, and there was a tempting array of snacks on the coffee table. And a woman was standing slightly behind him as he answered the door.

"This is Karen," he said, "my wife."

After all the things that happened after that it's hard for me to remember my first impression of Karen. It must have been positive. Karen always looked good, and she often looked sexy in an innocent and unselfconscious kind of way. But I don't recall being overwhelmed the first time I saw her. That means she must have been wearing long pants. If she had been wearing a skirt I would certainly have been overwhelmed. When Karen wore a skirt she always wore a short skirt. And her legs were spectacular.

How do you describe absolutely gorgeous legs? I don't know. I would have to have the eye of an artist and the voice of a poet to attempt it. But I don't, so maybe I can get at it by describing the effect her legs had on me.

You know the whispering sound it makes when a woman in hose changes the position of her legs? The sound of nylon rubbing against nylon? Well, whenever I heard that sound from Karen, no matter what I was doing at the time, I immediately looked at her to see what her legs looked like in their new position. I couldn't help it; I was like Pavlov's dog. The view was invariably rewarding.

When I first knew her, she always wore hose when she wore a skirt. I don't think she was fully aware of her own beauty then, but somehow she instinctively knew the line she couldn't cross without creating a reaction she didn't intend. Some women can go barelegged under a short skirt and not draw a second glance. Karen was not one of those women. Later on, of course, I did see her in a skirt without hose. The sight caused an immediate tingle in my trousers, and I had to stop and think about starting to breathe again. And, seeing how other men reacted, I knew I was not alone.

That's the kind of legs she had.

And that's why I'm sure she was wearing pants the first time I met her. She was probably also wearing a plain white blouse, carefully ironed and possibly lightly starched.

And she was certainly wearing a brassiere. She didn't always, later on, and I always noticed when she didn't. Karen's figure wasn't even close to voluptuous. She had modest curves, not assertive bulges. Except for one thing. Her nipples, even when she wasn't chilly or excited, stood out quite proudly. And a bra wasn't always enough to conceal them. Unconstrained, even under a starched shirt, her nipples were always unmistakably evident. So I'm sure she was wearing a bra that day.

As for the rest ... slim, medium-tall, short dark-brown hair, pleasant but rather inexpressive face, very retiring manner. Come on, she was my boss's wife and I was new on the job; I couldn't exactly be obvious about checking her out, could I? Although, now that I think about it, I must have done a pretty thorough surreptitious survey that first day.

I guess it was predictable that the conversation that evening turned to shop talk. Kendall and I were discussing what made people buy things. We talked about keeping up with the Joneses, the illusion of scarcity, the lemming instinct. And as we talked I realized that Karen wasn't saying anything. She was being left out. But apparently she was used to it; it didn't seem to trouble her;.

I turned to her and asked, "What do you think makes people behave the way they do?"

She had intelligent eyes, I thought, and I really wanted to hear what she had to say.

She looked a little flustered. She glanced at Kendall and then she looked at me and she said, "Well, did you ever think maybe sometimes they're doing it because they really do need something?"

"Huh," I said, "Genuine need? That's not exactly advertising textbook, but I like your thought."

Karen's eyes widened just briefly, and then a shy, pleased smile transformed her face.

I think it was in that moment that I first fell under her spell. I think I saw something in her then that perhaps nobody else had ever seen.

Kendall was waving his hands in dismissal. "You could never sell anything based on a theory like that," he said. "You'd never move enough product."