Wilma Crane - Family bride

I could be a model if I wanted to, she thought. And anyway, Jeanne isn't exactly a model, she added. She only does that when she can get away from the bar-girl bit. Then, feeling guilty for having been envious of her girl friend, she tucked a few stray pubic hairs into the legband of her blue panties and reached for her housecoat.

It was Saturday morning, and she felt wonderful at not having to go to work at her job as a secretary for a plumbing company. Later that afternoon she had a date with Mike Duckworth, the music teacher who had been her boss when she and Jim were both teachers' aides a year before. In the meantime, she planned to enjoy the first morning of her weekend. First, she would make herself another cup of coffee and settle down with Glamor to discover what they had decided she was doing wrong with her make-up for this month. Later on, when she became disgusted with the magazine, she might get around to doing the few dishes in the kitchen; or, better yet, she would tackle the thick John O'Hara novel she had been reading for two weeks now.

That's what I'll do, she thought. I'll take a bath and read John O'Hara. She had long ago developed the habit of reading while she took her bath. Sometimes, when the book was good as she found this one, she forgot about the bath and stayed in the water until it was quite cool. Then she would have to refill the tub to get her bathing over. Half the books she owned were blurred from the water of the bathtub, and their covers were corrugated like tin from the effect of the steam on their covers.

She slipped her arms into the quilted satin fabric of the knee-length pink housecoat, shivering a bit, her big breasts bouncing, at the first coldness of the material against her skin. Then she padded back across the room to the vanity table. She ignored the soggy bowl of breakfast food, but snatched the magazine from the powder-glazed glass top, making a face at her image in the mirror as though her reflection had caught her preparing to read a sexy book. Then, barefoot and adjusting the neckline of her housecoat over her bare breasts, she swished out of the bedroom with its unmade bed and into the morning light streaming through the big living room windows.

Her creamy breasts floated like life preservers on the surface of the tepid bath water. She turned a page with her wet fingers, then started, for she realized that for some moments she had been listening to the ringing of the doorbell without realizing it.

"Oh, shit!" she cried, standing up in the tub, the water streaming down through her matted pubic hair. She grabbed a towel and made three hasty swipes at her dripping body, then hopped out of the tub.

Quickly throwing on the pink housecoat, she ran through the bedroom and into the living room. Her feet left wet tracks on the stairs down to the front door. Through the frosted glass of the door, she could see the outline of a man.

If that's Mike this early, she thought, I'll kill him!

But when she threw open the door, she saw that it wasn't Mike.

"Mr. Davis!" she gasped.

"Hi, Val," Richard said, swallowing hard. "I bet you're surprised to see me."

Valerie pulled her wet hair away from her face. "Surprised isn't the word," she said. She wondered what he was doing there.

He was dressed in his work uniform – dark-blue trousers stained with oil, and a blue denim workshirt. But he was also wearing a service station black bow tie, which she hadn't remembered him ever wearing before. And in his hands he gripped the neck of a bottle wrapped in a brown paper sack. She stared at him for several seconds, wondering why he had come. She didn't want to be rude to him – he was her father-in-law, and she was fond of him even if she had separated from his son – but she wished he had picked a better time to visit her.

"I was taking a bath," she said.

"So I see," he said, grinning, and nodding at the cleavage showing where she gripped the housecoat shut.

Valerie adjusted her grip on the collar of the robe. "Well," she said, "I guess you'd better come in. I'll put something on." She stood aside to let him pass her on the stairs, then took a quick glance outside to see if anyone had been watching. As she closed the door she said, trying to be casual, "I thought you worked on Saturdays."

Richard looked down at her from the top of the stairs. "Only half a day most of the time. If there's a lot of work, I stay. But there wasn't anything today, so I got the hell out of there. Thought I'd drop in and see you," he said. He held up the bottle and the brown paper bag. "Maybe have a little drink together. You know I haven't seen you for quite a while. Not since you and…"

"I'll just put on some…"

"No, no," he insisted. "I can only stay a few minutes anyway. Besides, I've seen you in your bathrobe before."

Valerie couldn't help grinning at him. In many ways she pitied him, because his wife kept such a tight rein on his drinking habits.

"Okay," she said. "The glasses are over there on the shelf by the window. You get to work, and I'll be back in just a minute. I've got to dry off or I'll freeze to death!"

She watched him as he went to fetch the glasses, thinking how awkward and out of place he looked in a modernly furnished apartment. He didn't particularly like Mrs. Davis' early American furniture, but she was used to seeing him sitting in the big overstuffed chairs, so he looked strange among her brightly colored, low-rise furniture. Then she hurried into the bathroom again to dry herself.

What does he want? she wondered. Probably to try to talk me into going back to Jim, I guess. Well, poor soul, that's a lost cause. He probably got the address from Jim's mother.

When she came back to the living room she saw that he had poured her a healthy portion of a purplish brown fluid. "Well," he said, picking up the glass. "What is it?" she asked sniffing.

"Blackberry brandy," he said. "I don't much care for it, but Jim likes it and I thought that if…"

"We never drank anything but cheap red wine," she said. She took a quick sip of the brandy, but made a face. "Kind of strong, isn't it?" she asked.

"It'll put hair on your chest," he joked.

Valerie glanced down at the thrust of her breasts beneath the housecoat. "I'd rather not have any hair on my chest," she said. "But I'll drink it anyway." She took another sip and sat down in the bright yellow chair opposite the couch where he was sitting. "If you want to talk about Jim and me?" she said, taking a deep breath, "I'd rather not. I'm sorry about it and all, but it's just a closed case, that's all. I can't go back to him."

"But I don't understand what…"

"I'd really rather not talk about it. How's Mrs. Davis?"

"She's worried about you two," he told her. "But, other than that, just as feisty as ever."

"Did she ever finish that pantsuit we were working on?"

"I suppose so. Listen, Val, if it's a problem with…"

"Really, Dad, I'd rather not talk about Jim right now. As a matter of fact, I have a… Well, I have a date this afternoon, and…"

"A date? With who?"

"Well," she said, "I'm not living with Jim any more. It's not like I was cheating on him or anything like that." She was amused to see him so surprised that she was going out. "And anyway, this is just with Mike Duckworth, my old boss. It's hardly…"

"But you're married to Jim!" Richard protested.

"I'm sure," she said, rolling the glass in her palms, "that Jim is going out, too."

"The hell he is! Listen, if you two split up just to shack…"

"We separated because we can't get along together," she told him. "People do it all the time. They make a mistake, and when they realize it, they do whatever they think best to make up for it. Jim and I…"

"I don't always get along with Frances, either," he insisted. "But you don't see us separating, or whatever you want to call it."