She had known about Samantha and Charles from almost the minute the affair started.  Intelligent, athletic, and ambitious- shit, Sam was a younger version of herself. Most women would be bothered by that. Marilyn was flattered. In an odd way, it simply affirmed that Charles still and always would love her, by finding a Mini-Marilyn to romp with.

To the public, Charles and Marilyn were the poster children for modern marriages: two business powerhouses that supported and complimented one another. They had decided to opt out of child rearing, but had formed several non-profits for children and families. They both believed that you didn’t need to have a kid of your own in order to make a difference in someone’s life. They took their volunteer work and philanthropy very seriously. Big checks were always accompanied by hours of hands on mentoring, building, and teaching. The Andersons were more than detached donors to their community.

As Marilyn threw on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and some boots, she knew that a phone call from Samantha in the middle of the night only meant trouble.

Marilyn Anderson was no pushover. Far from it. She was a brilliant businesswoman in her own right, and her marriage to Charles had been a merger of two great minds, as much as  it had been a union between lovers. They met in grad school, and from the first day, they duked it out privately and publicly to be top in their class. Not only did she take the top spot in their class, but she also commandeered Charles’ love and affection. Charles had always been attracted to smart women, and with Marilyn, he knew that he would never grow bored.

And he never did. He had been faithful all these years because he had never found an intellectual match to Marilyn. Marilyn, however, was a pragmatist in matters of the heart. She had very little faith in men, and their ability to be monogamous. She knew that many women found power and money to be the strongest aphrodisiac. She was more turned on by her own goals and accomplishments. She never competed with others, just herself. There was no one out there who could match her drive, intellect, and ambition. Until Samantha Reynolds.

Marilyn had never received an “I’m fucking your husband” phone call, but she had counseled many of her friends who had. It was amazing for her to realize that no matter how educated or independent a woman might be, some really held on to the idea that they weren’t complete without a silver, gold, or platinum band on their left hand, even if it came from another woman’s husband. But Samantha was not one of those women, so this call out of the blue was making Marilyn’s heart race.

She decided to drive herself in the SUV, instead of calling Raul to take her, as there would hardly be anyone on the road. She was moving on instinct and she needed to be prepared for any and everything.

Her thoughts kept coming back to Sam as the garage door went up and she backed down the driveway. Ivy league educated. Top notch lawyer. A quiet ambition that could lull you into a false sense of security. You would never see her gunning for you until it was too late.

Six months into the affair, Marilyn held her annual charity event for the local literacy council. It was a big to-do. Everyone who was anyone attended the event. It always started out as an elegant and austere occasion , but about halfway in, it often turned into the party of the year. Last year’s event was no different.

Marilyn had watched Sam work the room. She was confident, sexy, and charming. While the men were busy falling at her feet, she was busy being cool and disinterested, yet still having a great time. At one point, she headed to the restroom to get away from a drooling old moneybag and Marilyn decided to follow her. It was time to have a one-on-one with Samantha.

Marilyn wasn’t about playing games and wasting time, so when Sam came out of the stall and headed to wash her hands, she found Marilyn leaning against the counter.

“How are you enjoying the evening?” Marilyn asked, with genuine interest.

Sam was a little uncertain about the situation, but she wasn’t going to let anyone see her sweat. “This has been a great event. Who knew that the Charleston elite could party like this.” She smiled as she washed her hands.

“Yeah, this is one of the best events of the year. But really,what I’d like to know is how things are going with you and Charles?”

Sam blinked, and was slower than she wanted to be in her response. “Um, business is good. We are about to go after a merger with South Coast Technologies. I’m very excited about it.”

“Yes, I understand, but business is not exactly what I’m talking about?”

There was a moment of silence before Sam spoke again. This time she decided to take the direct approach.

“Is there something specific you would like to discuss Marilyn?”

Marilyn’s smile held no hint of malice. “Actually, there is. I need you to keep Charles focused. This merger will have Anderson Enterprises poised for the world stage in the next three years. I need you to do whatever it takes to make that happen. I definitely think you are up for the challenge. You are so like me. Charles has chosen well.”

Startled by this woman’s bluntness, Samantha simply said nothing.

“Oh, come on Samantha. Did you really think that I had no clue about the two of you. I know everything that goes on in Charles’s life. That is what has made this marriage last- what has made it strong. No pretensions.”

“Marilyn, I…”

“Look, I’m not here to scream and cry and tell you to get out of my marriage. You aren’t in my marriage. I’m telling you that business is everything to me. Get Charles through this deal, and your future will be set. You have as much riding on this as Charles does. Make no mistake.”

Sam was taken aback by Marilyn’s honesty, and her curiosity got the better of her.

“Are you actually saying to me that you don’t care that your husband and I are having an affair?”

Marilyn was enjoying Samantha’s confusion. “What are you, like 35, 36? I’ve been married to that man for the last 25 years. I knew before Charles did that he would take you on as a lover. He has never cheated on me before, but the minute I saw you, I knew that you would be the one.  I no more care about Charles getting it on with you than I would if he were banging his secretary. A very old and boring cliche, I might add. Charles and I are soul mates, but beyond that, we are true partners. Equals. Something most women will never experience because they settle for less.”

Sam could only blink back her surprise.

“Oh come on, Samantha. I thought you were more enlightened than that. I spent my youth watching a generation of women throw their lives into turmoil because of the sexual wanderings of their men. I knew early on that I would never be that woman.”

“Marilyn, I have no interest in trying to come between you and Charles. What happened was totally unexpected. And…. Well, I can’t even stand here and offer a justification to you.”

Marilyn reached out and put a hand on Samantha’s shoulder. “Listen to me Samantha. You can’t come between us. What you can do is help Charles make this deal happen. Help him anticipate the roadblocks and then overcome them before anyone else figures out that they even exist.  This is what I do for Charles, but I’m working on my own big deal, and I need to be fully engaged. Charles has never been intimidated by my intellect. If you want to make this work with him, don’t play dumb. He hates that. Challenge him mentally, and don’t take his shit.”

Sam closely examined Marilyn’s face for some hint of a joke, but she found none.

“If you are going to be with Charles, then it’s important to understand who I am. I am his muse. I am always two steps ahead of everyone around me. I never make a move without knowing what my next few moves will be after that. I plan for every contingency. I even planned for something like this. Stay smart, stay focused, and enjoy your time with my husband. It’s a win-win for us all.”

With that, Marilyn patted her hair into place, turned on her very expensive heels, and headed for the door. By the time Samantha had recovered and left the restroom, Charles and Marilyn were dancing and laughing. They looked like they were having the time of their lives.

Pulling onto the road that lead to the beach house, Marilyn began to feel the panic pull at the edge of her calmness. As far as she knew, Sam had never told Charles of their conversation in that restroom. The two women had made an unusual alliance, but the company was the better for it. No good could come of this late night drama.

Here is the first of a three part story. Enjoy.

Samantha’s hand was shaking as she reached for the phone. Never would she have ever imagined she would be making a call like this. Shock was radiating from her body, and grief was standing idly by waiting for its opportunity to settle upon her. She didn’t have any idea how to proceed. And yet, she knew that she had to do something. Charles’s body was splayed out on the kitchen floor. The longer she hesitated, the worse things would look for her.

She had heard the thump as she was getting out of the shower. At first, she simply thought that Charles had dropped something. When she didn’t hear any swearing, she called out to him. The quiet was eerie, even out here at the beach house in the middle of winter. As she wrapped the towel around her, she assumed that he had not heard her and was in his head figuring out how to manipulate the press conference in a few hours.

Charles could do that- tune out the world in a split second, as his mind worked out the next move in a business deal, the best way to woo a skittish client, or what direction he should take his company in the next twelve months. He was always planning, always thinking, always doing. Not noticing the people and activity around him was standard behavior. When he came out of his thinking coma, he was totally refreshed, and fully engaged. He could turn things on and off without a second thought about the ones in his presence.

The cold tile on her bare feet registered in Samantha’s brain as she made her way down the hall. She wondered why she never brought socks or slippers when she came out here. There was a chill in the air because Charles had not turned on the heat when he first got to the house. As a matter of fact, she had only turned the heat on right before she got into the shower. Before then, they were planning on making enough heat together. Sam had been smiling at the thought when she entered the kitchen. Charles was going to give her plenty to smile about tonight. They had a private celebration to begin.

Charles had taken Samantha and the entire executive team to dinner at Carolina’s that night. The food and wine flowed freely. They had just managed to complete the largest merger in southeast’s history. This not only meant more technology jobs for the city, but it made Anderson Enterprises the largest software company on the east coast. And this was just the beginning. Charles was planning to make AE a real contender in the national computer software arena.

Charles and Sam had lingered at the table after everyone left. It was already 11pm, and Charles had sent his titans of industry home. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the media blitz, and he wanted them all fresh and appealing. He wasn’t one to hog the spotlight. He prided himself on the fact that he groomed his executive team to expand and grow in their skills. He also knew that one day, one of them would defect to one of his competitors. He welcomed the challenged. He wanted to see what folks could do outside of his realm. What had he taught them? How would they use what they knew against him? He needed that kind of interaction to keep his mind sharp.

“Do you need to go by your condo before we head to the beach house?” Charles asked Sam, not considering that not going to the beach house was even an option for her.

“Actually, Charles, I had every intention of hitting my own sheets tonight and sleeping in. Tomorrow is going to be a long day with the press conference and all, and I want to be on top of things.”

“I’ll send the car for you, so that you don’t have to drive and see you in about an hour. I have a surprise planned.” It was as if he hadn’t heard her.

Sam laughed at the arrogance of the man seated next to her.

“I’m going to run home and pack a bag, and I’ll see you in about an hour. And I’m driving myself so that I can leave earlier in the morning. Tell your driver to take the night off.”

Charles laughed and signaled the server for the check. As they waited, Sam noticed that he kept rubbing his left arm. As a matter of fact, she realized that he had been doing it most of the evening. As she headed out of the restaurant, she figured he was winding down from the excitement and stress of closing the deal and quickly put it out of her mind.

Sam didn’t spend a lot of time in her condo. She kept a bag packed for her trysts with Charles. She never knew when his schedule would open up, so she decided to always be ready. It was that kind of relationship.

The drive from her condo on the Ashley River to the beachfront property on the Isle of Palms was a mere 35 minutes. Sam parked in the driveway and headed to the front door. There was an electronic keypad that she used to let herself in. There was no pretense to their situation. Charles was a practical man with practical ways. Samantha knew that she would find him in his office, leaning back in his leather executive chair, feet up on the matching ottoman, facing the window with his Mac in his lap and his Blackberry in his hand. He liked to joke that he could multi-task better than a 14 year old.

He was exactly where she knew he would be, wearing a pair of trendy sweat pants, no shirt, and no shoes. She was pretty sure he wasn’t wearing any underwear. She walked over to his chair and leaned down to kiss him. This was the first kiss they had shared in over a week, and she missed his thick lips on hers. She moved from his lips to his cheek, to his neck, and then turned to walk over to the sofa on the far side of the room.

Charles put his laptop and phone on the desk, and then rose to his six feet five inches to walk towards Sam. He never said a word, just extended his hand to pull her to her feet.  She got up and followed him as she always did. Instead of taking her to the bedroom, he took her out onto the deck that was just off the office.

Once outside, he began to kiss her on the forehead, the nose, and eventually worked his way down to her lips.  He wrapped his arms around her and slipped his tongue gently between her parted lips. The kiss was not passionate and lusty, but tender and caring. Through her shirt, she could feel the warmth of his hands on her back. After a couple of minutes, Charles stepped back and finally spoke.

“This is one of the best nights of my life, and I am so l glad that you were there every step of the way. I could have never made this happen without that brilliant legal mind of yours.”

Samantha smiled as she lowered her arms from around his neck to his chest. If she weren’t still in her stilettos, she would be standing on her tiptoes.

“This deal was all about you and your charisma. Once you made up your mind, they didn’t stand a chance.”

Charles laughed. “You’re right. I’m a god.”

Sam playfully pounded his chest and quipped, “whatever” as she turned to face the ocean and nestle her back into his chest. They stood that way for a long while and listened to the waves rolling in, and a few gulls cry out. The moon was beautiful, and it’s gleam on the water, picture perfect. Eventually, the cold became too much and Charles suggested that they go inside and knock the chill off. When they walked into the bedroom, Sam saw that there were lit candles around the room, and a fire already burning in the fireplace.

“So, you decided that a cliché would be the best way to celebrate tonight?”

Two of the reasons that Charles loved her: her sense of humor and the fact that she was not afraid to say what she really meant around him. So many people wanted to be in his favor, that they often censored themselves. He hated a kiss-ass.

“Yeah, babe. I wanted to see your ass on a rug by firelight. Seeing as I’ve seen it every other way.”

She laughed loudly.

“I’m glad to see that your male sensibilities remain fully intact. Before you get a load of my ass on this very expensive rug, you’ll have to grab me some ice cream and a bottle of water while I take a quick shower. I didn’t have dessert at the restaurant, and now I’m wanting something sweet- besides you, I mean.”

“Deal. But make it quick. I’m in the mood for a marathon.”

“How in the world do you have energy for a marathon? I’m tired from all of this wheeling and dealing. How about you give me one good orgasm, and I’ll treat you to a buffet this weekend.” She smiled as she kicked off her pumps and began to unzip her dress.

“Sheesh woman. I’m twenty years older than you are. You should be able to keep up.”

Sam balled up her dress and threw it at him and then ran into the bathroom before he could toss it back at her.

She didn’t waste any time in the shower. She knew that Charles would take care of her needs first. He always did. She heard the thud as she was drying off. Sam wasn’t afraid that someone was in the house. Charles’s security was state of the art, and he also kept a gun in the nightstand drawer. She was a country girl who had learned to shot almost as soon as she could hold a gun.

As she made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, she expected to find Charles cleaning up a mess and cursing about whatever it was he dropped. Instead, he was in a weird position on the floor, with a vacant look in his eyes.

“Charles- are you ok? What happened?”

Charles did not answer.

Sam shook him, and called his name, but there was no response. No blinking. Just the blank stare. She felt his neck for a pulse, and found none. She just figured she didn’t know what she was doing, so she tried his wrist, and then his neck again. Still, there was no response from Charles, nor was there any pulse.

She needed to call for help, but she would have a lot of explaining to do. She was wearing a towel, in her bosses home, with candles burning in his bedroom. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was going on. And what did that mean for her reputation, for her career, never mind for Charles?

It was pretty clear that Charles was not all right. It was actually pretty clear that Charles was dead. She stood up and grabbed the phone off the counter. With the tremor in her hands increasing with each number pressed, she dialed the one person who would be able to quickly get a handle on things. As the phone began to ring, her breathing was so shallow, she was afraid that she would pass out.

The phone was picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” The voice was husky for a woman. As if she had, of course, been sleeping at this time of night.

“Marilyn, it’s me Samantha Reynolds. It’s Charles. Something’s happened, and I need you to come.”

“I can see from the caller ID that you are at the beach house. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t move.”

The next sound Sam heard was the phone being hung up. She held on to the receiver for a while, until she realized that she should not greet her lover’s wife in a towel.

I had every intention of finishing.

But stuff happened, and I lost the passion and energy for it. Which means that right now, I have no plans to return to it. Because- well, I just don’t feel like it.

Call me fickle. I am. I admit it.

I’ve moved on. It’s a writer’s prerogative to change her mind.

I broke up with the story. OK. There, I’ve said it.

Since I’m not going to finish it, I thought I would tell you how it ends.

Basically, Steph and Sullivan spend time getting to know each other. The more time they spend together, the more Stephanie realizes that she needs to tell him about her condition. In the meantime, her best friend plans a surprise for her opening- coverage by a local news magazine. A David vs. Goliath story about how she was taking on the chains and bringing back the neighborhood bookstore. Except, due to the chaos of the opening, the surprise, and just the pressure of it all, Stephanie has an episode that she can’t hide. And it’s caught on camera. She finally explains it to her boyfriend (as well as the onlookers). He’s still in, she starts dealing with her stress, and was the top story in the news the following night.

It’s a lot funnier in my head.

Take my word for it.

Anyway… I won’t be posting serials any time soon.

Instead, you’ll get complete tales. Some long. Some short. Some free. Some not free. Some downloadable. Some you can only read on the website.

I’m experimenting.

Deal with it.

At least the works will be in their entirety.

Next week, I’ll tell you all about the ebook that I’ve written. (Yes, it’s finished. Don’t be a jerk.)

Stay tuned.

Speaking of people watching, I was in the store hanging up “Coming Soon” signs in the display window when this guy in a t-shirt, jeans, steel-toed boots, and a hard hat walked by. He glanced at me and gave me a startled wave. I waved back and muttered an appreciative “ugh” as he headed into the coffee shop next door. Within a few minutes he was walking out the store and heading back in the direction from which he came. I was in the other window. This time, he just nodded. In his hands were two of those coffee dispenser container thingys. You know what I’m talking about. You see them at meetings all the time these days. Anyway, since there is a lot of construction on King Street these days, I assumed he was working nearby.

And I was right, because he came a few minutes later to introduce himself. I had gone to the back o bring out some books to start arranging near the front when I heard the bell on the door jingle. When I poked my head out, I saw that it was Mr. Construction Guy.

“Good Morning. Can I help you?” I asked as I headed to the front of the store. This time I was the person with their hands full. But I had books instead of coffee.

“Um, sort of. I’m just here to introduce myself. I’m Chris Sullivan and I’m working on a restaurant a few blocks down. I saw you working this morning and thought I’d come in and say ‘hello’.”

I put the books down on the counter and extended my hand. “I’m Stephanie Price. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here Ms. Price. And what are you about to open here? Another shoe store for the ladies?”

I bristled at the question. “Actually, it’s a bookstore- you know for folks who READ. It will just have the look and feel of a boutique.”

If he could hear the dismissal in my voice, he did not let on. He just smiled and looked around the store as if he were reassessing things. “The decor threw me off. This doesn’t look like a traditional bookstore.”

“Then it’s ‘mission accomplished’ for me. I wanted a different spin on things. I want folks to relax and hang out and really take their time looking for the ‘perfect read’. I want to get to know my customers so that I can make book recommendations, and I want them to get to know and trust me as their book seller. Book buying shouldn’t be a nameless/faceless experience.”

He broke out into a huge grin, and that is when I realized that I had been rambling. I skittered behind the counter, as if it could protect me from myself.

“A woman with a passion. I like that.”

“And what do you do besides run around getting coffee on Saturday mornings?”

“I told you. I’m working on a restaurant a couple of blocks down. I’ve worked on a lot of these renovations on Upper King. Did you know that in the past, folks of color owned lots of stores on this end of King? Shoot, we couldn’t cross Calhoun St back in the day.”

“I know. My mom was born and raised here in Charleston. I have to hear that lecture every time she comes downtown.”

We both laughed. It was easy and comfortable.

“So when is opening day?”

“Three weeks from today.”

“Wow- that soon. Well, it looks like you are almost ready. Some books on the shelves and your name on the door would help tip people off. All you’ve got are those ‘Coming Soon’ signs in the window. Folks have no idea what’s coming. That’s why I stopped in. That and to find out about the lady putting up those signs.”

I blushed, and hoped that he could not tell.

“So, Ms. Price, how about you let me call you sometime? I’d like to spend more time talking with you, but I’ve got to get back to work. I don’t want the boss having a hissy fit because I’m gone.”

“Um- well. I…” I was speechless is what I was. I hadn’t had a date in two DECADES. I didn’t know how to do this thing. I had been divorced for four years and hadn’t really thought about dating. I had parenting, work, and now the bookstore. I was plenty busy.

Before I could finish stumbling over my words, Chris pulled out his business card and slid it across the counter.

“Think about it. If you are interested, that’s how you can find me.”

With that, he tipped his hard hat and headed out the door. I watched him walk away before I picked up his card and read it aloud.

“Sullivan Construction. Christopher Sullivan, owner and licensed contractor.”

Well now.

Rachel, to my surprise, also saw it coming. Kids are funny like that. It didn’t mean that the divorce was any easier on her, just that she knew her parents were on a very rocky road. David and I were very cordial in our split. We sold the house and divided up the kid’s time with very little drama. He got her on weekends and holidays during middle school, and then the situation would flip for high school. I would become the weekend/holiday parent. After the final decree, he packed his things and moved to Charlotte, where he started his own tech firm with two part-time employees. The minute he got settled, he found a great private high school for Rachel. He just had to bide his time.

So, while I was helping Rachel deal with breasts, getting her period, being taller than all the boys, changing classes in middle school, and living full-time with only one parent, David was rebuilding his career and life. That’s ex-wife speak for: he started dating again. It appears that newly divorced men don’t have the same reservations about getting back out there that newly divorced women may have. He was having more fun, and I was feeling extra burdened. I mean, really- single parenting is so not the easiest thing to do. Especially with a kid going through puberty. I guess you could say I had a few years of resentment.

Rachel has now been living with her dad for two years. She’s starting her junior year in the fall, and for the most part, things have been fine. I miss her more than I ever thought, but I think absence has sort of drawn us closer. Last fall, I started to feel like Director of Marketing was no longer enough. I worked for a mid-size, but very profitable lighting company. We did a lot of regional business and were beginning to take on national clients. I had played a big part in our expansion efforts, but I started feeling like I was on a hamster wheel, and I wanted to get off. In fact, one of the reasons I had worked so hard was because David and I had always planned to retire early and open our own small businesses (even married, we knew it would be a bad idea to work together). I wanted a neighborhood bookstore and he wanted the small tech company. Looks like we both got what we wished for, we just didn’t follow the original plan.

By December I had done research and had a business plan for my bookstore. I told myself that I was just bored and needed entertainment. It was weird coming home to an empty house, even though it had already been that way for over a year. I needed something to keep my mind occupied. The television was wearing thin. How much reality tv can one person take? Of course, I am an avid reader, but there was nothing that was really capturing my attention. I knew when I started buying most of my books from the grocery store that I was in trouble.

Book buying used to be a favorite pastime of mine, but it had become quite uninteresting. The big chains were great for variety and coffee, but I missed the days of my youth when I could walk into Brown Books and Mrs. Brown (I know, very original) would recommend a book based on my personality and reading habits, not because someone who bought a book I just read also bought Book X. I’m just saying. And that is really how my plans began to fall into place so quickly. I was missing my child, bored at home, and feeling like a hamster at work. With Rachel gone, I often found myself spending time in the room that had the most books in it, my home office, and not because I was doing much work in it.

My boss was very surprised when I gave him my notice. I was considered a “lifer”, except, now I was getting paroled. Actually, I was paroling myself. It was scary as hell. I started having the IOs in January. I had contacted a realtor and began looking for retail space. After many not so great showings, we headed to a spot on Upper King Street. The windows were dirty/dusty and there were broken pieces of wood in the display areas. It was dark and dank and had been empty for three years. All I could see was the possibilities. I thought the tingle and wave were signs telling me that this place was for me.

I was 18 and fresh out of high school when I had my first involuntary orgasm.  It was July, and David, the man who would become my husband, father of my daughter, and eventually my ex, was away at football camp for his small military college.  I was three weeks out from heading to college myself, and the girls and I were trying to get in as much partying as we legally could.

It was Friday, and I was closing with Mercedes, the 40 something Filipina in the accessory section of Bates Department Store.  Mercedes always told me funny stories about her family, and she would bring me egg rolls and pancit to take home.  She never treated me like a kid, and she was very encouraging about me heading off to college.  Closing on Fridays was no big deal because back then, folks actually hung out in interesting places on summer evenings. The only folks in the mall were high school kids waiting for their movie start time. If you were old enough to drink, you went to happy hour after work.  Either way, they weren’t in the handbag section that was for sure, so Fridays were generally pretty quiet.

The security guard had escorted the last stragglers to the door, and I was doing the final count on the register when it started.  OK, here is where things may get a little embarrassing.  Anyway, as I’m counting the till and bagging the cash, I began to feel warm and tingly.  My mind was on getting the count right and getting out of there as fast as possible because my best friend Sandy was going to be outside the employee entrance in her dad’s LTD.  We called it the Land Ship, and it could comfortably fit seven teenagers (three in the front, four in the back- no lie).  There would only be three of us tonight -Sandy, Josette, and me. So, I’m starting to feel all throbby and I look around to see what Mercedes was doing.  Thank goodness she was straightening purse racks in the far corner. At this point, I’m thinking that it can’t possibly be what I think it is, and as the throbbing begins to turn into much more, I double over, dropping the cash bag onto the floor.  I had already compartmentalized the bills, checks, and change, put everything into the green bag, ready for drop off at accounting.  Mercedes hears the bag drop and the till drawer clatter to the floor when she rushes over to see what’s wrong.  As she reaches me, I’m reaching my climax, so I remain doubled over with my teeth clenched.  God only knows how I managed not to make a sound.

I reached out to grab the bag and the drawer and then stood up.  Mercedes came over to me and put her arm around my shoulder.

“Are you ok?  What’s wrong?  What happened?”  Her accent became thick as the words rushed out of her.

I was embarrassed and shocked, and there was no way in hell that I was going to tell her what really happened.

“Oh, um.  I got a bad cramp.  Hit me out of the blue.  It’s gone now, but it was really hurting for a minute.”

“I see.  Well make sure you take some Midol when you get home.  I know how bad cramps can get.  Had my own, and I’ve got two girls that have to deal with ‘em every month.”

I smiled and gathered up all of the evidence of the evening’s sales and headed for the window.  I told Mercedes goodbye.  I wouldn’t see her again until the Tuesday.  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  I really couldn’t believe what had just happened.  But, by the time I closed my locker and headed out the door, I had already placed the incident in the “weird things that happen category”, and decided not to worry about it.

I went out and partied with my girlfriends, never letting on about what had happened.  Had I been afraid when it happened- not really.  I mean why would you.  Did I think it was out of the ordinary? Absolutely.  But I also thought that it would never happen again. A few weeks later I packed my things and headed for the insulated freedom of my college campus.

It would be another ten years or so before I experienced it again.

Dr. Lisa Hamilton, the woman supposedly best suited to help me deal with my condition, is so not my image of a psychiatrist.  In my mind, they are paid best friends who listen to all your trouble, ask you how you feel about everything, and look like retired school teachers.  Nothing shocks or phases them, in fact, they are emotionless.  Not so with Dr. H.  A fetish, blonde, with a pixie haircut, she’s not your old school Southern Belle. She’s more like Athletic Barbie- tall, lithe, and very tan.  Not that spray on mess either.  You can tell it’s the real deal ’cause her skin is a little wrinkly around her neck. I like it.  Makes her a real person in my eyes.  Her office has pictures of her on a boat holding up fish of various sizes, that I presume she has actually caught.  She keeps a pair of running shoes by the door and has a model kayak on her desk.  I have a pretty good idea of how she manages her own mental health.

As I settle into the overstuffed leather chair that lets out a “pufft” as I sit down, Dr. Hamilton looks me over as if she can read my mind.

“Hey Stephanie, how ya’ doin’?”

“I’m good.  You?”

“I just watched you have an episode in the Jeep.  What was that about?”

Did I mention that Dr. H seldom wastes words?  Cutting to the chase is her trademark. Two of the walls of her office are floor to ceiling windows.  Basically, she has a great view of the parking lot and the marsh behind it. Of course, she saw me.

“Just riding the wave.  It’s the first one I’ve had in a two days.”

“What were you thinking about right before that happened?”

I rub my hands along the arms of the chair.  The cool leather begins to warm up under the friction from my palms.  “I was thinking about the fact that I didn’t do my homework assignment.  You know, the list of my anxieties.”

“Why not?”

Without hesitation, I jump right in with the excuses.  “This was my last week at the office.  I had several good-bye lunches from different departments.  I had to clean out my office, and I got the keys to the store from the realtor.  And last weekend I went to Charlotte to hang out with Rachel.  Things have been so busy. It just didn’t make the cut on the To Do list.”

“I see.  So why do you think you had an episode in the car?”

“Probably because I didn’t do something that I was tasked to do.  The goody-two-shoes in me had a problem with that.”

“Do you always do what people ask of you?”

“Actually, no.  I’ve never really been a people pleaser.  I don’t see the benefit in it.”

“That’s certainly an interesting response.  Why is there no benefit in doing what someone asks of you?”

“I’m not saying that I NEVER do things at the request of others, but I have found that when my initial reaction is no, and I say yes anyway, I’m extremely miserable.  I have watched a lot of women make themselves very unhappy and unnecessarily busy because they refuse to say no.  There is no benefit to people pleasing.  Folks either like you or they don’t, and it’s seldom because of what you do for them.  Learning to say no was a powerful tool for me.  But that’s not to say that I don’t have a relapse every now and then.”

A flash of surprise danced across her face, and then was quickly gone.  She jotted down a few words on the pad on her desk, and then resumed her clinical posture.

“Do you think you would have benefited from making a list of your anxieties?”

“I’m sure I would have.  It was just a busy week is all.”  Why was I starting to feel and act like a petulant teenager?  I am here to get help.  Dr. H. remained unfazed.

“Let’s do it now.  You can make a list of all of your anxieties during this session.”  Before I could answer, she reached into her draw and pulled out a fresh legal pad.  She then grabbed a pen out a red mug with the word “Diva” on it in bold black script and slid the pen and paper across the desk to me.

I reached over and took the items and placed them on my lap.  I looked out of the window behind Dr. Hamilton at the grasses growing out of the marsh.  They were swaying in the gentle breeze. Apparently the consequence of not doing homework at home is doing homework in session. I looked back down at the blank pad and began to write:

Opening a book store in this economy

Did I do the right thing by letting my daughter go live with her dad

Will my store make money

Will I be able to pay my bills

Will I be able to retire

Is the bookstore a whim or a passion

Will I regret leaving corporate America

When I was done.  I slid the pad back across the desk.  Dr. H read in silence, and then asked: “Why did you leave off your orgasms?”

“What?”

“You didn’t list your orgasms as part of your anxiety. Why?”

I blink a few times before I answer.  “The orgasms are obvious.  They are the reason that I’m here.  I want them to stop.”

“In order for the orgasms to stop, you need to understand why you are having them.”

“I deal with my stress.  Head on.  I don’t run or hide from it, or pretend it doesn’t exist.  I dive right in so that I can get it over with and on to the next thing. I don’t spend a lot of time ruminating over why something is happening.  I look for the solution.”

“In other words, you rush through one difficult situation so that you can tackle the next without rest or stopping to examine what you may have learned or what you can do differently. You do realize that stress can kill you.” I never said Dr. H. was Suzy Sunshine.  “You have to learn to release your stress and anxiety. That’s why you are having the involuntary orgasms.  Find other ways to blow and you’ll take back your clitoris.”

The absurdity of the conversation was so not lost on me.

I call it “riding the wave”.  What else could you possibly call it? You can’t stop it once it gets started, so you may as well go with the flow with as little resistance as possible. I am now able to recognize the signs.  If I’m in public, I know I’ve got about thirty seconds to a minute to either get out of there, or brace myself and try not to show what is happening.  It starts with a tingling, and then I get warm and flush.  As the heat begins to build up, I often find myself throbbing with an ache that is usually best relieved in the presence of a lover.  But I don’t have a lover.  And if I did, he certainly couldn’t be with me 24/7.  So I cross my legs and breathe deeply.  At that point, there is nothing left to do but ride it out.  Seriously.  If I try to fight it, it just becomes more intense, thus making the entire scene that much more embarrassing.  If I ride the wave, it’s over as quickly as it started.

When I can’t hide it, I usually try to play things off by saying that I have muscle cramps from running or some other strenuous exercise.  Most people believe me, unless I’ve made some extremely inappropriate noise for the situation.  Have you ever tried controlling your facial expression while trying not to sound like the star in Diva Does Absolutely Everyone?  And it’s not like I can tell my body not to flip out on me until I’m in the privacy of my home.  That’s not when I’m stressed.  Make no mistake, riding the wave is a direct result of stress.  Apparently, the way I handle things is not to my body’s liking, so it decided that public humiliation was a good way to get my attention.

Now, I have to say that at first my reaction was probably that of everyone else who hears it- that’s not bad, what is there to complain about?  But over the last six months, I’ve gone from having one every decade or so to having one a week.  And they are continuing to crank up.  That’s not so good.

Shit, I’ve got stress just like the next person.  I’m a single mother with a 16 year old daughter.  Just thinking about the pitfalls out there with boys, sex, drugs, driving, whatever and I’ve got plenty of reason to be afraid.  And then I had the audacity to decide to step out of the rat race and open a bookstore in the worst economy since the Great Depression.  A BOOKSTORE!?  Yes.  A bookstore.  Basically, I just asked the Universe to give me nothing but a buffet of stress for the time being.

And then you have my mother.  She’s 65 and of sound mind.  Except for all the meddling that she does in my life.  The woman who has not had a man since my dad died ten years ago.  The woman who spends more time traveling, with her girlfriends, than she does in her very lush retirement condo.  The woman who told me to always be able to take care of myself, and any person I brought into the world because men aren’t always the most reliable sort.  That woman.  She is constantly hounding me about getting a man.   She says she worries about my mental health because I’m alone all the time.  Whatever.

Nope, the wave riding has made me ask “what the hell?”- I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing: working hard, taking care of my kid, giving back to the community, and trying to make a difference.  At first, I thought it was a physical thing.  You know, a tumor or something, that could be cut out and I could go on my merry little way.  No tumor.  No seizures.  No hormone imbalance.  No blood poisoning. Dr. Acetta sat me down with a very serious look on his face when he delivered the test results.  He gave me the “I’ve known you for years, you are one of my favorite patients” speech.  I was waiting for the diagnosis so that we could get to the cure. It never came. Instead, I got this:

“Stephanie, I have to tell you, after all of that testing, we didn’t find any physical cause for your condition.  I staffed your case with my colleagues here in the practice, and we unanimously agreed that I should make a psych referral for you.”

This is where my face cracked.

“A psych referral?  As in a shrink.  Because since you can’t find anything wrong physically, it has to be all in my head?”

“I’m saying that we should maybe look at something psychological as the cause.  I have made a referral to a great psychiatrist.  Her name is Dr. Lisa Hamilton.  She is very good at what she does.  She primarily works with women who have experienced trauma, but she is really interested in your case.”

“I see. Well, let me think about it.”

“Don’t think too long Stephanie.  The longer you take, the worse things may get.”

He was right.  A couple of weeks after my appointment with Dr. Acetta, the episodes started coming more frequently.  I finally called and scheduled an appointment with Dr. Hamilton three weeks ago.  Since then, I’ve been seeing her every Friday.  What I want to figure out is how to get the waves to stop.  She wants me to look at my life and figure out what is the below the surface- the root cause of it all.  Uh-huh.   I’ll keep seeing her until the opening of my store, and then I’m sure that things will return to normal.  I’m not going to miss them much.  I realize that I really like being in control of my body and what it does.  I’ve been pretty lucky, for the most part in that the majority of my “episodes” have been confined to my office and my car.  I did have one in a meeting last week.  That’s when I came up with the leg cramp from running excuse.  It hit me so hard that I doubled over.  Fortunately, the discussion was heated, and no one was really paying any attention to me.

The episode in the grocery store was a little different.  I had stopped at the store before heading home to pick up a pint of butter pecan ice cream when the wave came over me.  I stood there holding the door to the ice cream freezer open for a while.  A woman noticed me and came over to ask me if something was wrong. I guess it’s not everyday that you see a woman just standing in front of the Ben and Jerry’s with the freezer door open and her eyes glazed over.  I was biting my lip to keep from moaning.  I simply nodded my head and relaxed my shoulders as the wave started to recede.  She stood there just watching me to be sure I was ok.  When it was over, I grabbed the ice cream and hauled ass to the checkout line.  I can only imagine what I looked like to that lady.  I’m sure I sounded like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

And now, I’m pulling into the parking lot outside of Dr. Hamilton’s office.  She ended the last session by giving me homework.  I had to make a list of all the things that I am anxious about.  I thought it was a dumb idea.  That’s what I was there to talk with her about.  I didn’t do it.  No big deal really.  I’m paying her…

Oh shit.  Oh damn.  Ugh… Wait… I am just putting the Jeep in park when it starts.  I squeeze the steering wheel with both hands because there isn’t much else for me to do.  Until a couple of months ago, I didn’t know that 90 seconds could be so long.  That’s from start to finish, of course.  Amazing what the body can do. The sigh that escapes is mixed with pleasure and annoyance.  Why can’t this happen when I’m in the Jacuzzi with some jazz playing in the background, or in bed after a busy day, or hell, even in the shower first thing in the morning? Nope, I get hit in grocery stores, meetings, and parking lots. As the wave recedes, I continue to lie back and breathe deeply.  I have really got to get this under control.

Once things are over and my breathing has returned to normal, I step out of the Jeep and slam the door. I do a thorough clothes check and adjustment before heading toward the office building. And that is when I notice the man standing on the steps smoking a cigarette. He grins and moves to the side to let me pass. “I could have helped you out with that” he sneers. I don’t even speak as I charge past him and grab the door. That’s what I get for driving the Jeep without the top.

(Click on the category FictionBytes or use the section at the top right of the Home page.)

I woke this morning to the sounds of birds tweeting outside my window.  Real birds.  I can’t remember the last time I actually heard real birds tweeting outside my window.  It was a nice way to wake up, I have to say. After lolling in bed for a while, I decided to go for a run to check out the neighborhood after I checked out my house. I did a walk through and was happy with all that I saw.  My favorite part of the house is the backyard deck. I couldn’t wait to put my Adirondack chairs out there.  I stood on my deck barefoot and in pajamas listening to the waves crash and the birds sing. It was my first day in heaven.

When I got in last night, I turned on as few lights as possible and headed straight for my room, the shower, and bed. This morning,  I was happy to see that some of my boxes were neatly stacked in the empty living room.  I guess Ms. Racine was a good choice after all to help me with my stealth return to Charleston.  It’s not that I didn’t tell my family when I was coming, I just didn’t give them the exact date.  I wanted to spend my first night in my new home in relative peace and quiet.  No company.  No one insisting that I get the “necessities” unpacked before the furniture arrives on Tuesday.  I have everything I need.  A blow up bed, some linen, electricity, and my cell phone.  Tomorrow the cable company comes, so I’ll have internet by the end of the day.  What more could I possibly need?

As I headed back to my room to change into my running gear, I realized that I was feeling very peaceful and content.  Those were great feelings to have on a Sunday morning.  I had not returned to Charleston as a prodigal daughter.  I had returned as an accomplished woman and writer and I was mighty proud. 

You can tell a lot about your neighbors from what you see (or don’t see) on a lazy Sunday morning.  As I laced up my running shoes, I figured it was best to start my run on the beach.  The sun was coming up over the ocean, and I just couldn’t not make that my first run.  I snapped my Garmin on my wrist and put my earphones in my ear.  No run was complete without music and a GPS.  As Slim Shady began to rhyme, my feet began to move.  The more pounding of the sand I did, the brighter my mood got.  In time for the rising sun.  I stopped the music, paused the Garmin and took a moment to worship my way.  It was beautiful, and my heart was full.

Getting back into my groove, I decided to run through the dunes, and onto the main road.  I wanted to see my new ‘hood from all angles.  It was just as I suspected- very upper middle class.  Very Stepford. The sight of a chocolate woman running caused those early morning risers to try to hide their looks of surprise.  I knew what they were thinking.  I must be some celebrity in town for a vacation.  No worries because she won’t be here long.  Boy are they going to be shocked.

As I rounded the corner and headed home, I noticed that Ms. Racine was out in her garden.  She was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, an oversize plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, linen pants, gardening gloves, and Crocs.  She was brandishing a pair of shears and attacking a rose bush.  I slowed my roll, turned off the Garmin and pulled out the headphones.  

“Good morning, Ms. Racine.”

“Mornin’ Claire.”  Because of her slow, sweet Southern drawl, she pronounced my name Clay-uh. “How was your run? You sho’ are up mighty early.”

“The run was good.  I did a couple of miles.  Just wanted to check out my new neighborhood.  This is a far cry from a high rise apartment in Chicago.  I actually ran without my mace this morning.”  We both chuckled at that.  “Are you always up this early on a Sunday morning?”

“I’m up this early every morning.  Can’t help myself.  I love to see the sun rise, and when you are fortunate enough to live on the beach, you should make it a habit. But on this particular morning, I wanted to get some rose clippings for you to take to your mother today.  I know she is going to be upset that you snuck in last night when she wanted to give you the royal treatment.  Call it a peace offering, and maybe she’ll let you eat dinner tonight.” Ms. Racine’s smile was genuine.  

I visited Charleston several times after I purchased the house.  Had a few modifications made (a girl needs a serious closet no matter where she lives).  Ms. Racine and I spoke on each occasion.  After one such visit, we exchanged email addresses and phone numbers.  Ms. Racine provided me with great information about the community- politics, gossip, and current events.  I told her about my family, my work, and my love for the beach.  She was really my ace in the hole.  She was also very instrumental in helping me get things laid out before I set one foot back in the Lowcountry.  During that email flurry, I also learned that Ms. Racine and I shared a love of books.  I knew then that we would be fast friends.

“You are very thoughtful, Ms. Racine.  I know that my mother will love these.”  

“Why thank you.  Stop by before you head to you mom’s and I’ll have them all wrapped and pretty for you.”

“Will do.  I’d hug you, but I’m pretty sure I stink.”  

We laugh as I turn to head towards my new home.  As I walked up the driveway, I couldn’t help but think what a wonderful day was going to be.