She gets ready to shoot; her daughter meets a doctor who suggests she shouldn’t shoot because she’s pregnant and suddenly they are friends. The daughter tells him she’s a widow; the doctor has a son and suggests they meet. When the doctor sees the lovely mother, he recognizes her as the woman he had fallen in love with during her pregnancy.
Her husband had them all move because he felt she was getting involved with the doctor. The story goes round and round in a delicious way. You’ll enjoy this story when it’s finished
This is the latest story, another one I Love. Join me in another tale of romance and love. She finds herself in an odd position. The doctor who delivered her baby has discovered her at a place to shoot. What an odd position . Add to this, her daughter is expecting and he reinvites the two of them. What will become of the two couples after all these years.
It’s New Years Eve and Charlie has a date with the big man on Campus, Tom Donnelly. On the way to the party, Charlie tells him that she intends to remain a virgin until the right guy comes along. Tom is shocked since every girl he dates is ready to put out but not our Charlie. They sit on the porch smooching, he’s sure he can go further with her. When the bell rings, her roomie and the boyfriend run out on the porch to wish them Happy New Year.
As far as Charlie goes, she’s through for the night and Tom has lost every chance he might have had.
Let Charles make the first move if he intended to when he knocked on the door
“Charles, does a drink appeal to you before we leave?”
He shook his head. “You appeal to me and right now. Do you mind if I hold you, kiss you, touch you? I’ve heard you’re a recent widow. I’m divorced for a while and I’ve gone out several times, a bunch of times, um, a whole lot of times but never felt drawn to a woman like you before.”
They continued to stand near the doorway, dogs at their feet. Joan pushed him back for some space. “Perhaps I’m someone new, a woman who shoots skeet and rides a Harley. She walked fast to the small bar to see what’s what. Actually the Chardonnay sat cold in the fridge. Her preference. His arms went around her small waist as if they’d done that a hundred times.
“I said I only want you and now.”
“You must be kidding. We just met this afternoon. Trust me, tonight, we’re going to see a play or nothing. Take your pick.” She felt his hands steer her movements. It felt so exciting. Never in her whole life did she almost give in to pleasure so fast and to a stranger. Joan turned to face Charles. Her breath ran fast and she stopped again. “No and no to everything except for seeing your playhouse or maybe you don’t even have one. You’re used to a quick lay from a widow, I can tell. The answer again is NO.”
At her words, his face took on a red cast like a blush. “I’m so sorry; all I can say is I am truly embarrassed at behaving so crazy but there’s something delectable about you I couldn’t resist.” His head hung down like a child’s. “Please may we begin again. Pretend you just opened the door and offered me a drink. In truth, I seldom drink anything and you gathered your um bag and we left. The theater is about twenty minutes from here, down near the lake, it’s so beautiful there. The play is one of my favorites; Uncle Vanya and the cast is good.”
Newly widowed Joan has her mind in a spin. What to do with his car now that he’s gone and his Harley. Yum. She can ride that baby anytime and the Skeet club he belonged to. Hell, she can shoot skeet just as well as the men. Oh yes. And she had their, uh, her therapy dogs all trained and ready to work. That would take up several days each week.
And so we meet the widow to see what she’s up to.
With high hopes, Joan dressed in Larry’s Harley jacket over his fancy club outfit. His suede jacket fit nicely over her pink cashmere sweater and jeans. Her body had a good shape for an older woman; Larry always said so, the jerk, and best of all, the women never came to the event because they weren’t shooters.
She zoomed into the parking lot causing a commotion right away and she removed Larry’s helmet, shook out her beautiful hair and knew she needed a smaller helmet. James Franklin, the president this year so strong and healthy said, “We were all so sad to lose Larry and of course we will reimburse his yearly dues.
“James, that’s not what I had in mind since I’m an excellent skeet shooter and want to continue.” The tall man nodded, his gray hair combed so smoothly back fell forward: “Joan, we don’t have a rule leaving women out of the club so you are welcome.”
Newly widowed Joan braced her hands on the edge of the kitchen sink as she stared out at the garden. She breathed in the scent of lilacs wafting through the open window and thought what a mess and she had to fix it, make it right and why? No one’s home and only she would see the flowers bloom anymore; the fun of pulling dandelions together ended the day his heart attacked him.
A laundry list of pleasure left her life but the worst one to top the list was he never even said goodby.
Joan inhaled a deep breath and let it out in hopes the memories would fade in time; then the backload of conviction she’d summed up to battle her wallowing in the abyss, she snapped her shoulders back and spoke to her deceased husband.
“You exited stage left so I’ll write the next scene myself, if that’s okay, my dear.”
She had to write a letter to him; “Dear deceased Larry, you son of a bitch! “It’s your fault you died and left me alone. Take your pills, I said, everyday, but no; and now you’re gone and I’m alone.
The gravedigger looked up from where he stood six feet below the ground; Rueben,” he said in response to my son’s query as he scrambled out of my father’s final home. He told us he’d been with the Union for sixteen years and made seventeen dollars and thirty five cents an hour.
Paul, my youngest son who traveled with me at a moment’s notice to my hometown Chicago, gathered information about every living creature out of curiousity and intense interest.
So now we knew a lot about Rueben, a Native American, whose long black braid lifted and fell according to the whim of the strong wind that blew across the cemetery on Chicago’s West Side.
I looked into the excavation and pointed to an exposed side of the stone or concrete; their eyes shifted to where I indicated.
Rueben said, “That’s the burial site next door and he jumped into the hole, ran experienced hands over the side, smiled and climbed out. “Good tight fit, no water in there and he bent over and touched the headstone in front of me. “It’s hers.”
The polished marble had my mother’s name engraved on it; I hadn’t knelt down, carressed the letters of her name and years of her life span and lifted the cover protecting her picture from strangers eyes and the harsh element of weather.
I sucked in a deep breath and touched her radiant smile captured forever the day I was married fifty years ago.