Allan Chase - The straying wife

And always, she had that vague uneasy feeling of dread, of something going wrong. She never noticed that she was being watched…

There's nothing like a sunny morning in Carmel. Being a town full of trees, birds sing and chatter and down near the beach, gulls wheel and tower up, looking much like confetti thrown from skyscrapers in New York whenever they have a parade.

In Carmel, there are no street addresses. This is by choice, for Carmelites like their privacy and the daily trip to the post office where they pick up their mail, meet friends, and chat, sometimes having coffee. It is said that, sooner or later, you see and meet everyone at the Carmel Post Office. Each morning around nine, after a bracing walk on the beach, Kim would drive to the post office, park and go to their mail box. Each morning she saw an air mail letter, her heart would pound, for it was bound to be a letter from Hank. Each day without a letter was a disappointment, and she tried hard to conceal her hurt. Hank had written only twice since he left, and both letters were short and vague.

This morning there had been no mail. She was leaving the post office, head down, ignoring the beautiful morning, hands in her pockets, when out on the street a voice called. "Kim?"

She stopped and turned, seeing an attractive girl on the post office steps, laughing up at her. Kim smiled in welcome, "Nichole!"

"Kim! It is you! Kim!"

"I didn't recognize you, Nichole."

They embraced; or, rather, Nichole took the red-haired wife in her arms and kissed her, her lips pecking at Kim's mouth. It was an awkward moment. Kim liked affection, and she had liked Nichole, but she wasn't used to such a demonstrative greeting. Also, Nichole had changed in some subtle way. It wasn't just that she was very well-dressed, very expensively and tastefully dressed. And it wasn't the fact that her teeth had been fixed into a dazzling smile. She was obviously doing well, but it wasn't just that. Kim stared at Nichole and saw something: hints of debauchery, a certain look in the eyes, a way of smiling, the first traces of hard lines on the face, an attitude that was a mixture of barely concealed brazenness, and an expression on her face that alluded to masochistic acceptance and sensuality.

Again, for no reason she could put her finger on, Kim was filled with a feeling of dread and bad times yet to come.

Nichole seemed delighted to see her again and the two of them stood chatting happily while people moved around them on the sidewalk. Nichole squealed with delight when she saw the wedding ring and wanted to know all about the marriage. She insisted they have coffee together and have a good talk. Kim was only too happy to talk, since she had nothing but the rest of the morning ahead of her. It was good to have another human being to talk to and she hadn't seen Nichole in a long time. They had worked together for a brief time about a year ago in a restaurant called The Butcher Shop, and Nichole had been the cocktail waitress with the racy reputation.

There were all sorts of rumors about Nichole and what she did when she wasn't working. Kim had seen her behaving in ways that gave credibility to the rumors and certainly wasn't any way a proper lady would behave. Yet, despite everything, she found herself liking Nichole and defending her to the other waitresses. Nichole seemed a warm, silly, sad human being to Kim. She sometimes felt the other girl acted the way she did because she had to have attention. This was strange, for she had a good personality and certainly was beautiful enough to stand out in any crowd. Nichole had simply not bothered to show up for the job one night, and Kim never saw her again… although she heard rumors that she was being "kept" by some millionaire in Pebble Beach.

Now, over coffee, she smiled at the sensual looking dark-haired girl and asked, "And what are you doing now, Nichole?"

"I'm in public relations up in the city."

"San Francisco?"

"Yes, and I just love it. I'm down here on business and pleasure. You know, any excuse to get back down here." She pointed to the red-head's wedding band. "What does he do?"

Kim laughed, knowing what Nichole was referring to. "He's an engineer, and he just left on a job."

"Where?"

"South America," Kim said, thrusting her lower lip out in mock-despair. "Brazil. Way up the Amazon in some Godforsaken place."

"How long will he be gone?"

"Six months."

"Oh, poor Kim. What are you going to do?"

"Stick it out, keep myself busy."

If the conversation was to be thought of from Kim's standpoint, it must be recorded that she thought that Nichole was terribly perceptive or that she was wearing her heart on her sleeve. In what seemed like no time at all, she found herself talking about Hank and their "problem". Nichole seemed to be so understanding. Soon, they were paying for their coffees and walking, talking quietly, feeling they were more private than in a crowded coffee shop. They walked to Devendorf Plaza, where they sat on a bench, and Kim found herself pouring her heart out.

Not all her heart and not all the truth. How many of us are capable of telling the whole truth? She did tell Nichole a great deal of what happened, and Nichole seemed eager to hear every word, licking her lips so that they were wetly glistening and her eyes seemed to be just a little unfocused.

"Wow," she said, when Kim was all through. "I wish I had been there when you hit him with the flashlight."

Kim was a little taken back by her statement then dismissed it as being simply Nichole, as her way. She had always been flip and fancy-free, and sometimes said things just to shock.

They talked on, or rather Kim talked on with Nichole only prompting her, urging her to talk more. Finally, the young housewife stopped, embarrassed, as tears blinded her and she groped for words. Nichole pressed a handkerchief in her hand and walked her back to her car. It was agreed that Nichole would call her, and they'd get together before she want back up to the city.

The wildly sensual brunette stood waving as Kim drove off. Once out of sight, she walked purposely to a car, a Mercedes that was parked nearby and got in next to a gray-haired man dressed all in gray. She grinned at him and resisted an urge to throw her arms around his neck and give him a fervent kiss. You just didn't do things like that to Web Hardman. "Well?" he asked, arching his eyebrows.

"You're a genius!"

"It went as I said it would?"

"Almost word for word. Web, I think you're right about her. About sex, I mean."

"We'll see. Did you remember to start the tape recorder?"

Nichole grinned triumphantly, leaning close to him so that he could smell her perfume and see the deep cleavage between her large, firmly ripe breasts. Nothing would please her more than to have Web himself work her over. "Here it is," she said, opening her expensive leather purse and pulling out a small finely made portable tape recorder. "What do I do next?"

"That will be determined by what I find on this tape."

How had it all happened? They had met for a drink. They had met for a drink in the Pine Inn. They had met at the "Happy Hour" in the red and white Pine Inn bar that spoke of elegance, of quiet, casual wealth and good taste. They had met with the Pine Inn regulars who met every day at five and drank quietly and well.

And she had too much to drink! She had driven home tipsy, driving slowly, and felt immediately sleepy going to bed and wondering vaguely and only half-seriously, if anything had been put in her drink. She had become "high" so quickly and babbled things she ordinarily wouldn't have. Before she knew it, she was agreeing to a long weekend with Nichole up in the city. "What you need is a change. You're in a rut and you don't know it. I've got a wonderful apartment on Sutter Street. What you need is a weekend with me. Well go places and meet people and have a good old dirty time."