Chapter 10

Five months later

“I’m afraid this will be our last year working together,” I reluctantly told Carl, my Kroger liaison.

“You’re going to sell to someone else?” he asked, sounding just as hurt as he was surprised that I would consider doing it.

“No, your people have been great. I just can’t stay here any longer. Every time I go into town, too many people laugh behind my back. I’m going to take a bath when I try to sell the place, but I have to get out of here,” I sighed. Concerned for me, Carl asked what had happened, and I told him the sordid story.

I was moved to tears again as I told the story. This spring, while seeding the corn, the seeder broke down. It would be a simple repair, but required a trip into town to get parts.

I stopped by the house to clean up, and found a strange car in the driveway. Investigating, I discovered the love of my life in our bed with our banker. Despite being stunned and irate, I kept my cool, quietly made a video, and took photos before storming into the room and dragging the naked bastard off my wife. Somehow, (chuckle) he tripped and broke his arm when I gave him a final shove out of the front door--still without his clothes.

My mind was sent reeling even more when my wife admitted that she had seduced the banker two months ago and saw him every chance she got since then. When she realized that I intended to continue working as a farmer, rather than lead the life of the indolent rich, she began looking for a wealthy replacement to provide her with the life she sought. I stormed out of the house, partly to get away from her before doing something I’d regret. Another part of the reason I left was to get the seeder part I still needed, and part was to begin divorce proceedings.

“So much for me being like Lucky Jim,” I mused angrily all the way into town. I wondered just how many times I had that same thought since arriving in Raleigh for college. After marrying Jacqueline, I’d almost convinced myself that, just possibly, I might be heir to the moniker.

My first stop was the bank. Too often, I had heard stories of soon-to-be ex-wives cleaning out the bank accounts. I had to go into Hallston to get the part for the seeder and used a branch of the bank in Hallston that I had visited previously, avoiding a possible confrontation at our local branch in Hiaville. Blushing nearly crimson, I explained quietly to the young teller that I needed to close both my savings account and my checking account. She was taking it fine until I told her I needed half of the money in the checking account in a cashier’s check made out to my wife, and the other in a check for me.

At that point, I had to tell her that I planned to file for a divorce. Gratefully, she said nothing more about it. Then she asked if I just wanted to deposit my half into a new account in just my name. “Normally, I would,” I sighed. “The problem is that I just caught my wife and the manager of the branch in Hiaville together in my bed. I don’t trust that he will leave my new account alone,” I explained.

She turned and motioned someone else over, and had me repeat the last part. “Wilbur Marstad was having an affair with your wife?” he gasped quietly.

I showed him the tamest photo on my cell phone, and he led me to his office. Once there, he explained that the bank had strict policies against that sort of thing. Bank officers were even subject to a morals clause, and this definitely violated that clause.

He had me send him the one photo that showed both of their faces, and called someone in their head office. After explaining the problem, he was silent except for an occasional one-word reply. He also sent them a copy of the photo. I admitted to having several more if needed, but that photo was the most sedate of them.

When he got off the phone, he told me that he had received authorization to open a new checking and savings account for me, free of charge. He would even issue me a new debit card for the account immediately. He gave me a printed copy of the activity and balance from the old account for the month before he closed it.

My new account was set up so that everyone would have to come into the bank and show ID to make any transactions besides using my debit card. No checks would be issued at this time so nobody could write a check against the account. The debit card would only work with a PIN number for now, and couldn’t be used as a credit card. It was also set up so that only this branch could do anything to the account electronically.

He explained to me that someone from their corporate offices would begin an investigation into Wilbur’s activity with my wife. “I’m sorry for the trouble, Mr. Reynolds,” he said as he stood and shook my hand. “That’s no way to treat a customer, and especially not a shareholder.”

“Shareholder?” I asked.

“You didn’t know?” he asked.

When I assured him that I didn’t, he explained, “All descendants of Lucky Jim are shareholders of the Lucky Jim Trust Fund, which includes the Libertyville National Bank. It also includes a myriad of other business interests such as the railroad, numerous still-producing mines, part of the telephone company that the Libertyville Telegraph Company evolved into, and many other businesses. ‘Libertyville,’ ‘Lucky Jim,’ and ‘Lucky J’ are all trademarks owned by the trust. Only the trust can use them with one exception. Any descendent who successfully shows that they are the next incarnation of Lucky Jim can use them.”

He also surmised that my parents still voted my proxy since I had to be twenty-five to vote. That was news to me.

Before I left, he handed me my new debit card and the check for half of the money in the checking account. Everything in the savings account was from before I was married, or from last year’s harvest--also before I married. That account was also protected now.

Still reeling from my wife’s betrayal, I left the bank, but felt marginally better. Before leaving the parking lot, I called the credit card companies and reported that my wife’s wallet had been stolen, including her credit cards. Then I did the same for the cell phone company. “Let her banker boyfriend get her a new cell phone,” I groused to myself.

Twenty minutes later, I left the equipment company with the part I needed for the seeder, and headed for the office of the attorney I used when I needed one. I was in luck as his practice had recently added an attorney specializing in family law, and he was available. It took two hours and a hefty retainer to get everything done, but the paperwork was finished. I’d call them tomorrow to let them know where Jacqueline ended up so they could serve her, although I suspected that she would end up at her parent’s home.

Jacqueline was stunned when I kicked her out of the house as soon as I got home, but berated me the entire time while she packed her things. Her parting shot was telling me how she now had a real man who didn’t make a living wallowing in the dirt, cleaning up after pigs, and shoveling horse shit for a living. It was the first time in my life that I’d been ashamed of being a farmer. Since I had changed the door locks while she was packing and ranting, once she left, she couldn’t get back in. I made her leave her keys anyway, except the one to her car, and had to duck when she threw them at me.

The rare times that I managed to fall asleep that night, I slept fitfully. When I turned my cell phone on in the morning, there were nine angry rants from her after she found out that her credit cards no longer worked. I noted that she was calling from her sister’s house, and called the attorney’s office and left them a voice mail with her temporary address.

Just before noon, the attorney called me. He was stunned by her reaction to being served. She insisted that the man who served her wait while she filled out the response. What she did, knowingly or not, was agree to an uncontested divorce and the division of property that my attorney had suggested. His office had filed the papers immediately, and she would have an uphill battle to change anything.

He did agree that she could not claim any part of the farm since I had owned it before we were married. The same thing covered the millions of dollars in my primary and secondary savings accounts from before we were married. They were still in just my name, as was my account with the money manager.

The shit hit the proverbial fan later that day. The bank’s corporate investigator fired Wilbur within an hour of arriving at the branch. My estranged wife also learned that she wasn’t the only one he was screwing, and that he had no intention of supporting her ass--just fucking it.

When she called trying to make amends, I reminded her that my job still entailed wallowing in the dirt, cleaning up after pigs, and shoveling horse shit. Reminding her how much she hated that, I explained that I couldn’t imagine her ever being happy with me. I learned two new cuss words before I hung up on her.

That night, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Marisa and Carlotta helped with dinner. Marisa was nineteen, and Carlotta was seventeen. They were the two girls whose mothers had tried to convince me to date the girls before I met Jacqueline. When dinner for the three of us was served in the formal dining room, while everyone else ate outside on the patio, the hint was hard to miss. That both girls were dressed to the nines, and had their hair and makeup done as if they were going to the prom was even harder to miss.

I tried to think of something ... anything to protest about after dinner when they pulled me towards my bedroom but too much blood had already left my brain for other parts of my body to allow me to think coherently.

I have no idea what time it was when I awoke. It was before 5:00 because it was still dark outside. I worried how the girls’ parents would take last night, even though both mothers had helped to serve our private dinner. I wondered how the rest of my employees would take it. Somehow, I felt that I’d violated the trust of my employees by sleeping with the two girls. Looking to my right I saw a beautiful face with long, luxurious black hair covering much of it. I could still see a serene smile on Carlotta’s lips.

Looking to my left was another beautiful face with long, luxurious black hair covering much of it. Marisa’s face had a similar satisfied smile. I knew that I had spewed multiple loads of cum into both women with no idea if either of them used birth control. I knew that Carlotta was no longer a virgin this morning. I knew that I wanted to do it again, and not just for the sex.

Carlotta stirred, breaking me from my reverie. “Good morning,” she whispered, tilting her face towards mine and kissing me.

“Good morning,” I replied.

I wondered silently, “What do you say to the naked daughter of your employee the morning after you take her virginity?”

“Last night was even better than I dreamed it would be,” she sighed.

“We don’t know if we can convince you to keep us, but we’d like a chance to try,” Marisa said from my other shoulder. “If it doesn’t work out, at least we know that we tried,” she added.

“What about your parents?” I wondered aloud.

“They know,” Carlotta replied.

“We told them what we wanted to do. Our mothers arranged for us to be on birth control, even though they think it’s wrong. They helped us choose dresses, and did our hair and makeup,” Marisa explained.

“We should go help with breakfast,” Carlotta urged.

“We will be expected to take our place among the women now,” Marisa explained with a touch of pride in her voice.

Despite everything we did last night, they were too shy to share the shower with me. I had to tiptoe across the hall to an empty guest bedroom and use the bathroom to pee before my bladder burst. I finished showering and shaving and crept back across the hall to my room. The girls were gone, but their fancy dresses and shoes were in my closet. That made me realize that they had definitely put some thought and planning into this since they already had a change of clothes here.

Quiet whispers and giggles were coming from the kitchen when I approached, and stopped suddenly when the women saw me. Fortunately, everyone seemed happy. “Good morning ladies,” I greeted them, stopping to give Carlotta and Marisa a hug and kiss as I passed through the kitchen. Both girls smiled proudly. I figured that everyone already knew, so I wasn’t going to try to hide anything or pretend that nothing had happened.

Despite Carlotta still attending school, within a week, the girls had moved in and took their place among the women, including taking their turns preparing meals. At each meal, they assumed the role of hostess. After a week, they told me that it had been Marisa’s idea. While Marisa generally preferred women in her bed, her mother had seen the way she looked at me. That was why her mother had tried before to set us up together, hoping to convince her daughter that a man could fulfill her needs. Marisa now felt that she had the best of both worlds. The two girls referred to themselves as my bed warmers, despite my protests that it was an unflattering title.

Former banker Wilbur tried to have me arrested for assault for throwing him out of my house. The sheriff told him that he was lucky I hadn’t shot him. Next, Wilbur filed a lawsuit against me for breaking his arm. My attorney told me not to sweat it, and he would take care of it. He even managed to get the case heard within two weeks. Since my attorney counter-sued for loss of affection and a bunch of other crap I can’t remember or didn’t understand, Wilbur had to pay me a cool twenty grand, effectively cleaning him out. It was all I could do not to laugh when the judge told him he was lucky I hadn’t shot him. I could have shot his ass and claimed that I thought he was raping my wife.

Even though I prevailed in court, everyone in town knew what had happened and I caught them whispering and snickering behind my back when they thought I wasn’t watching them. That’s one bad thing about living in a small town; it eliminates any chance of anonymity.

“Do you just want to move away, or do you want to get out of farming altogether?” Carl asked, worried.

“I just want to get away, but there is no way that I’ll be able to get what the farm is worth in this economy, even if there was anyone interested in buying it,” I answered resignedly.

“Do me a favor, and don’t do anything before harvest. Let me talk to some people. I can’t promise anything, but I might have an idea,” he offered.

For the first eighteen years of my life, everyone in my extended family told me I would be lucky, just like my six-time great grandfather who had founded Libertyville. There were times in those eighteen years that I was sure they were wrong, and times when I felt they might be right.

Despite being divided further each generation, the original estate left by my namesake, Jim Reynolds, AKA Lucky Jim, continued to provide his descendants with a sizable trust fund, especially since it still accrued profits from many of the businesses he had founded. A few of the families squandered their money, but most, like my parents, continued to work hard and made their share from the trust grow.

In the six generations since my namesake, there were no reports of anybody showing any tendency towards the luck that Lucky Jim had, although everyone kept insisting that it would happen--someday. At one point, they assumed that only the third son would have the luck. Further failure refined that expectation to only the third son, with no elder sisters. I’m the first to meet that criterion, and the jury is still out, but leaning heavily towards a “no” vote.