Michele Campbell - A Stranger on the Beach

The gravity of the situation hit home. I’d picked up the local bartender and brought him to my house, to my bed, for a one-night stand, and everybody in the bar saw me do it. I barely knew this man, and he was still here, fast asleep and snoring. I wished to God this hadn’t happened. But it had, and now I had to face him—in my bedroom. At least I wasn’t worried that he was dangerous. But the shame of it made me feel like jumping out of my skin. Ugh, I wanted him gone, out. I wanted to take a shower, talk to my daughter on the phone, drink a cup of tea, pretend everything was normal and that I hadn’t just violated every rule of decent behavior that my Italian Catholic mother raised me with. I wanted to get rid of this guy— now.

Wait. Did he say he loved me last night?

The thought was crazy. I must’ve hallucinated it in a drunken stupor.

Okay, deep breath. I’d wake Aidan up and ask him to leave. Simple. No problem. Working in that bar, I imagined he was the king of the casual hookup, going home with a different woman every night. He wouldn’t expect breakfast and sweet nothings. Not even a kiss goodbye. Just a pat on the butt, a thank-you, maybe a cup of coffee in a to-go mug if he was on his way somewhere.

I could handle that.

Wait. He drove here in my car. How would he leave?

I would call him an Uber.

None of my credit cards worked.

Fuck.

I needed to take a shower before I could solve this problem. Right now, my body felt like it was held together with Scotch tape and rubber bands, and my fuzzy tongue could barely form words. The hot water would revive me. There was a pink glow around the bathroom blinds. The sun was rising, and if I wanted to get Aidan out of here without being seen, I needed to do it in the next half hour. After that, the gardeners and caretakers and housekeepers would start showing up. Any stray neighbor who’d happened to venture out here past Labor Day would be heading into town for their morning Starbucks and a copy of the Times. And Mrs. Eberhardt, the neighborhood busybody, would be sure to look out her window at the least opportune moment. Francine Eberhardt was a retired school teacher who lived in the one old-time beach shack on the bluff that hadn’t been pulled down and replaced with a palace yet. When my house was under construction, Francine called often to complain about the noise, or how many vehicles were parked on the street, or the fact that the construction workers were smoking in public. I did my best to handle her complaints with good grace, but we didn’t have an easy relationship. The thought of Francine knowing my darkest secret made me distinctly uncomfortable.

I flipped the lights on, then winced and turned them off again. The master bath was massive, with acres of shining white tile, gleaming glass, brushed nickel—altogether too much glitter for my tender eyes at the moment. I turned the shower to full force, made it as hot as I could bear, then stepped through the glass door into the deluge. There was an enormous rain showerhead and jets spraying from both sides. I let the water pound me, but it couldn’t wash away what I’d done last night, or how much my life had changed in the space of a week. My marriage had imploded. My husband took our money and ran. And I morphed into some drunken cougar who picked up men in bars and brought them home for sex. Panic overwhelmed me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I started to cry, the harsh sound of my sobs filling the steamy stall. Then, with a sudden rush of cold air, Aidan stepped into the shower, naked, and pulled me into his arms.

“Hey, hey. Don’t cry. What’s the matter, baby? I’m here. Everything’s okay,” he whispered, pushing my sodden hair back from my face, looking down at me tenderly. His body was sleek and hard under the rush of water. In that moment, even though I wanted him gone, I wanted him to stay even more. At least somebody was here, to hold me, to listen to my troubles.

“What is it? You can tell me anything,” he said.

I was crying so hard that I could barely force the words out.

“My … husband … left me.”

God, it hurt to admit that. Aidan was the first person I’d told other than Lynn. I cried even louder.

“I know,” he said.

He kissed my forehead and stroked my back.

“How did you know?”

“I heard it at your party. People were talking. Look, you’ll be fine. I promise. I’m gonna take care of you.”

“How can you say I’ll be fine? We’ve been married twenty years. Out of the blue, he left me for some Russian whore. She’s not even pretty. He broke my heart. And took all my money.”

“He took the money ?”

“Yes.”

“Well, shit. That is a problem. We have to get that back.”

We? I let the weirdness of that slip by, so desperate was I to believe it was possible to get my money back. I imagined he had some legitimate plan in mind, involving lawyers and court orders and such. Why I thought that, I can’t explain. I was assuming he was normal, I guess. In fact, Aidan’s experience with the law was all from the wrong side, but I didn’t know that then.

“ How? ” I asked. “How can you get it back?”

“Don’t worry. I know what to do. I’ll take care of your husband for you,” he said.

I’ll take care of your husband. Those words should have terrified me. But they went right by me, because of what he did next.

Aidan kissed me deeply, his tongue finding its way into my mouth. Then he took me by the shoulders and spun me around, so I faced the tile wall. The water cascaded over us as he grabbed my hips and thrust into me from behind. I should have known that Aidan was bad news. I should have heard the meaning behind his words. Not, I’m sorry to hear about your problems. Not, I sympathize, or even, I have a smart lawyer friend you can call. But, I want you, I want your money, and I’ll kill your husband to get it if that’s what it takes. I didn’t hear any of that. I couldn’t, over the sound of rushing water, of my own moans of pleasure. There’s no pretty way to say this. I wanted to feel better. I wanted the sex. At that moment, nothing else mattered.

She looked beautiful wrapped in a bathrobe, sitting at the kitchen table, so beautiful it was a crime. Even the bathrobe was beautiful. White terry cloth, thick as a rug, like you’d get in a five-star hotel. Not that Aidan had ever stayed in such a place, but he could imagine. The kitchen table was beautiful, too. Rustic oak, built by a skilled carpenter, with a sparkly chandelier hanging over it, and a view of the ocean waves rolling in the distance. And not just any view, but the view he’d loved since he was a little kid and first realized that the world could be beautiful. So, yeah, the robe and the table and the view of the ocean had moved him this morning. But it was the woman who made the real magic. Caroline. She was his good-luck charm, come to rescue him, and he loved her for it. Hell, he plain loved her, as she sat there laughing, her skin glowing, tendrils of golden hair curling around her face.

“I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” she said, and he leaned down to kiss her on the mouth.

They’d had sex in the shower, then fallen back into the big bed, with the down comforter, and done it for a long time. Every position. He made her come three times, screaming like a banshee. She was starved for it. Then they slept till noon, and he woke up with her tangled in his arms, her hair cascading onto his chest, and he thought, This is what I’ve been waiting for. He loved this place, this house, this woman—completely. It scared him how much. He was almost embarrassed to think it, but meeting Caroline felt like destiny. The bad times were a trial, a test that he must’ve passed, or how else would he have graduated to this incredible reward.