Defiled Read online

  Connie got out of her chair and grabbed her purse. “Okay, that’s all we can ask.”

  We filed between the tables and moved onto the sidewalk.

  “Where did you park?” Connie said.

  “I used valet parking.”

  She motioned toward the far end of self-parking and said, “I’m way over there,” but she walked alongside me to the valet stand. I handed an attendant my ticket. We stood in silence for a few moments before I blurted out a confession. “I lie in bed at night wondering how I got myself into this mess.”

  Serious, she said, “You chose the wrong Tomkins sister.”

  Had my mouth been full of beer, I’d have spit it all over her in shock.

  “Don’t look so surprised. You’re not the first man to make that mistake.” She kissed me on the lips and turned to walk away.

  I wasn’t surprised that Connie felt she was a better match for me than Carrie. What surprised me was that she thought I had made a choice. Connie didn’t have the slightest reason to think I was attracted to her.

  I said, “What!?”

  Connie looked over her shoulder. “A story for another day, Randle. Call me sometime.”

  I watched her walk down the way and then across the street to the parking lot. As she crossed, she saw me watching her. She waved.

  I imagined the scene as a movie, a chick flick. The male lead would come to his senses and chase after the good sister. He would wrap her in his arms. He would beg forgiveness for his mistake. He would kiss her passionately. He would pledge undying devotion. Fade to black. The problem with that scene was that the premise was all wrong; there was no good Tomkins sister.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At lunchtime on Sunday, Jamie called and suggested an early dinner. We agreed to meet at four-thirty at Maggiano’s at the International Mall in Tampa. Lunch with “my family” would be a welcome distraction from the divorce process. I couldn’t help but mentally rewrite history: If I hadn’t divorced Glenda I would not have met Carrie, would not have suffered through four years of a bad marriage, would not be in the middle of an ugly divorce, would not feel guilt for abandoning Glenda and Jamie. All because I was bored and wanted a new adventure. What an idiot.

  The restaurant lobby was packed and overflowed onto the sidewalk. As I elbowed my way to the hostess station, Glenda appeared out of nowhere on my right and Jamie slid beside me on my left. Both women wrapped an arm around me and kissed me on opposite cheeks.

  “Hello stranger,” Glenda said, and fitted herself into my embrace.

  Arm in arm, we shuffled to the front of the line—three tall, distinctive people whom others watched with interest. Glenda was five-foot-five with a mass of artistically messed copper-colored hair and freckles everywhere. Everywhere. In heels, her height was a good match for my long frame. For her part, Jamie was a mixture of her parents. A couple of inches taller than her mother, with auburn hair worn short to accommodate her uniform headgear, she resembled Glenda facially but had my brown eyes and athletic grace. Today, I admired their contrasting outfits—Jamie wore jeans and sneakers, while Glenda wore sandals and a long print skirt below a mint-green blouse that matched her eyes.

  As the hostess led us to a table on the mezzanine overlooking the main floor, I trailed behind and watched Glenda’s hips sway rhythmically, like the women in Africa who balance urns of water on their heads. Seated at the table, we perused our menus and commented on the entrées we might order. After deciding on my choices, I looked up and glanced toward the lobby. What I thought I saw was the long-haired kid who had sat near Connie and me at the Cheesecake Factory yesterday—the guy I suspected had taken our picture with his smartphone. But maybe it wasn’t the same guy. People milled around and changed positions, and I lost sight of him. If he had been there at all.

  Jamie, ever the cop, noticed my distraction. “What’s the matter, Dad?”

  “Nothing.” I picked up my menu again but peeked over the top. There he was, for just a moment, and then gone again. I was pretty sure.

  The waiter brought drinks and took our order while I surveyed the lobby crowd for another glimpse of the stalker. Glenda chattered away, something about her husband, and I struggled to catch up and appear attentive.

  She finished by saying, “So he doesn’t make me go with him to see his mother anymore.”

  “Wesley went to see his mother?” I said. “Doesn’t she live in Lauderdale or somewhere down there?”

  “Yeah, she’s in a high-rise condo, and she does nothing but complain about not having a boyfriend. At eighty-four years old! There aren’t enough men to go around, so the women compete by cooking for the men, doing their laundry, cleaning their apartments. She says there might be three or four casserole dishes sitting outside a guy’s door every night. I’ll bet the women do more than clean and cook for the men.” She winked at me.

  “That’s what I want to be when I grow up,” I said, “one of the survivors that women fight over.”

  “Women have always fought over you, Randle. Including me. Of course I always lose to some bimbo.”

  “Mom!” Jamie said.

  “It’s true. I never understood how you could marry Carrie. She doesn’t play golf.”

  Even Jamie laughed at that, but I was annoyed again that everyone wanted to criticize my choice of mates. Glenda read my face.

  “Just having fun with you, Randle,” Glenda said. “My mother says we’re destined to get back together someday. You know how clairvoyant she is.”

  “Yep,” I said, “just like those TV commercials at three a.m. Ought to have an 800 number.”

  “Don’t make fun of my mother, Randle. She’s always right.”

  Our food arrived, but Glenda picked up the conversation thread without missing a beat. “Now that you’re single again, will we see each other?” As an aside to Jamie, she said, “While your father was married to Carrie, he wouldn’t spend time with me, but when he was single he couldn’t get enough of me, even though I was married.”

  “Mom,” Jamie said, “let’s not go down that path.”

  “Why not? It was fun. I would pick your father up in the Publix parking lot, and he’d duck down in his seat until we were in the garage so the neighbors wouldn’t see him. It was one of the best times of my life.” She smiled at me, hoping for confirmation.

  Instead, Jamie said, “It’s disrespectful to Wesley. He’s been very good to you, and I hope you won’t do that to him again.”

  “Why not?” Glenda said. “It’s not cheating if you slept with the man for eighteen years.”

  “Stop her, Dad.”

  What I never quite understood is that Glenda and I enjoyed dating one another, but we bored the snot out of each other when we were married. If it wasn’t wrong and risky, it wasn’t fun for us. In some twisted homage to morality, I had never cheated on my spouse, but I had not hesitated to exploit Glenda’s affection for me, no matter her marital status. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, I vowed I would never do that again to a brother husband.

  I cleared my throat. “That brings up a point I wanted to discuss.” Both women waited with interest for me to continue. “My divorce may end up in court, in front of a judge.” I turned to Glenda. “They could ask you about the time when I was separated and staying at your husband’s condo. Carrie thinks we were cheating on her.”

  Glenda said, “Ha!” Then to Jamie she stage-whispered, “I was ready to hop in the sack, but your father wouldn’t do it. Some misplaced sense of loyalty.”

  “T.M.I., Mom,” Jamie said.

  Glenda just kept talking. “You poor thing,” she said to me. “Our divorce was so easy—we shared a lawyer, no custody battle, no child support, got it done in thirty days.”

  We had waited until Jamie was eighteen so there was no question of custody, although I funded Jamie’s education and supported her until she graduated from the police academy. Our divorce had been amicable—two people who had drifted apart and wanted to start life over. I had aba
ndoned her, looking for excitement with other people. After many failed relationships, Glenda had found Wesley and my guilt subsided somewhat.

  “Those were the good ol’ days,” I said.

  While the waiter cleared the dishes and refilled sweet tea glasses, I looked again to see if the long-haired kid was watching us. The kid was not in sight. Maybe he had all the pictures he needed. Or maybe he hadn’t been there at all.

  “Let’s change the subject,” Jamie said. “How is Wesley doing? Is he okay?”

  I didn’t think this was a great conversational direction either, but Glenda responded in a breezy tone. “You mean is he clean? You can just say it, I don’t mind. Yes, he’s sober. What he’s learned is to stay away from AA meetings. They tell alcoholics to change their playmates, then they throw them in a room full of people who want to get high. Do you know that all of those people are addicts?” She snickered.

  Jamie said, “Wesley is good for you, and he seems committed to his sobriety.”

  “Good ol’ Wesley,” Glenda said. Then to me she said, “Will you come outside with me? I need a cigarette, and I don’t want to stand out there alone.”

  I glanced at Jamie. “Go ahead,” she said. “This is my treat. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Glenda and I thanked her and headed outside. We walked away from the doors, around the corner to a shaded spot. Glenda fished a cigarette out of her purse, and I took the lighter and played the gentleman.

  Exhaling, she said, “I’m trying to quit again. I’ve cut back to when I’m nervous and after sex. Since I don’t have a sex life, I hardly smoke at all.”

  I chuckled.

  She eyed me. “What are your plans? Will you leave us again and go back to Atlanta?”

  “No, why would I do that? My house and boat are here. You and Jamie are here.”

  “Your company is in Atlanta, and that means more to you than anything.”

  “I can work from here.”

  “I hope so, Randle, because Jamie would follow you and then I’d be alone again.”

  “I don’t plan to leave, and you do have a husband, Glenda.”

  “Wesley is alright.” She gave me a rueful smile. “He adores me, but he’s not you. There’s no emotional connection for me.”

  “There are worse things than a husband who adores you.”

  Glenda stepped over to a trashbin with an ashtray on top and stubbed out her cigarette. When she returned, she said, “If you’ve got nothing better to do, why don’t you follow me home? We could bake cookies or something.”

  I didn’t answer. I stared at the parking lot, and Glenda followed my gaze. “What is it?” she said.

  I saw him: The long-haired kid was between cars and taking pictures of us with his phone.

  I shouted, “Hey, what are you doing?”

  The kid raced down the line of cars, and impulsively I chased after him. He was young, and I was too far behind to close the gap. Before I could catch up, he jumped into a white panel van and squealed tires as he took off.

  I walked back to the restaurant, where Jamie now waited with her mother.

  “What was that, Dad?”

  “Carrie has a private investigator following me. He’s not Magnum P.I., but he got pictures of your mom and me. We’ll see those again at trial.”

  “Unbelievable!” Jamie said.

  Glenda frowned. “Uh-oh.”

  I said, “Yeah, no cookies today.”

  Glenda and I laughed while Jamie looked at us like we had lost our minds. Then it was hugs all around. Glenda held her hug for a long time before she walked off to her car, but Jamie hesitated.

  “As you can see, Mom is still carrying a torch for you, but if you get involved with her I’ll never speak to you again. Get it?”

  I held up my hands in a defensive posture. “I will not get involved with your mother. I promise.” I meant it.

  She shook her head. “Please don’t. I’d like to have a normal relationship with both of you. Maybe we could get together sometime, just the two of us.”

  “Sure,” I said, “I’ll call you.” I meant that too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As soon as Tony’s law office opened on Monday, I called his paralegal, Melissa, and asked for an appointment with him. She said his calendar was full but I could meet him at the club for lunch.

  I took Gulf Boulevard all the way to Belleair Beach. Along this route I passed the massive beach at Treasure Island, the Madeira Beach Marina, where Carrie’s father kept his Boston Whaler, the condos in the Reddingtons, and the upper-class homes in Indian Shores, before I reached the beachfront mansions rumored to be owned by Christian Scientist celebrities. It took a lot longer than Route 19, but I liked the views of the Gulf to my left and the Intracoastal to my right, at times less than a hundred yards from the roadway. Like all Florida beach communities, the peninsula between St. Pete Beach and Clearwater Beach had a somewhat decadent, decrepit ambience that made me feel at home.

  It wasn’t until Gulf Boulevard became a two-lane road between North Reddington and Indian Shores that I realized the white van had followed me. I used the Belleair Causeway to cross the Intracoastal Waterway to Belleair Bluffs, turned onto Indian Rocks Road, and entered a middle-class neighborhood of mature trees and homes built in the ’70s and ’80s. Fearing he might lose me in the neighborhood, the kid in the white van clung to my bumper like a NASCAR driver drafting and preparing for a pass. Without warning, I yanked my Bronco into the parking lot of the Belleview Biltmore Country Club and stood on the brakes, blocking the entryway. The kid swerved to miss me, hit the far curb with his left front tire, and skidded to a sideways stop. Dazed, he stared through his windshield at me and the white-with-blue-trim, sprawling wooden structure of the Belleview Biltmore clubhouse.

  I flipped him off and parked my Bronco. As I walked toward the entrance, the kid eased away down the leafy street. In the main dining room only half the tables were occupied on this weekday, populated by retiree foursomes that had played golf early to avoid the stifling heat of the afternoon. Tony sat alone at a table away from the prying eyes and ears of old guys with nothing better to do than eavesdrop on a private conversation. Later the old guys would go home to their old wives and recount all the juicy details of other people’s lives. That would be their afternoon entertainment.

  Tony was dressed for golf and drinking a Scotch.

  “You’d play better if you drank after the round,” I said.

  “Not true. I’ve tried it sober, and I’m worse. I’m playing with a prospective client and my boss, so I need to be loose.”

  Tony motioned to the chair across from him, and I took a seat. Almost immediately, a waitress appeared with a menu and asked for my drink order. I had never seen her before, but she was the same as all waitresses in Florida beach towns: older than her years, as tan and leathery as a horse saddle, used up by a nomadic life. Before I came back to the club, she’d be gone, off to find new drug connections or better luck or just a man who wouldn’t beat her.

  I ordered a sparkling water then told Tony, “I’m being followed by some amateur private eye. He’s taking pictures of the people I meet.”

  Tony looked terrified. “Anyone you shouldn’t be seeing?”

  Even my lawyer distrusts me. “Once with my sister-in-law, who invited me to lunch, and once with my daughter.”

  He leaned back and pursed his meaty lips. “I told you they’d counterattack after we filed the countersuit.”

  “Can we do something about it?”

  “You can behave yourself. Let me know if he harasses you.”

  “He followed me all the way up here. He’s invading my privacy.” The old geezers stopped eating and started listening. Ours could be the exciting conversation they’d later relate to their wives.

  “You have no privacy in public places, Randle. Ask the Hollywood stars if you don’t believe me.”

  “Terrific. Guess lunch is over.”

  Tony ignored the sarcasm. “Not yet. Ms.
de Castro called this morning to introduce herself, and she gave me an earful.”

  “Wants to turn you to mush?”

  “No, she wants to turn you to mush.” Tony pointed a fat stubby finger at me.

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really.”

  The waitress—her nametag identified her as “Sally”—served my sparkling water. Tony ordered a shrimp Caesar salad while I glanced at the offerings. I wasn’t hungry but I ordered a tuna melt, and before she retreated Sally told me it was her favorite.

  “So what did de Castro say that has you so concerned?”

  “De Castro says you’re a horrible husband, just to get that out of the way. Who’s Susanne?”

  The abrupt change in direction took me by surprise. “My ex-girlfriend. Why?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Orlando, last I knew.”

  “You’ve taken business trips to Orlando, haven’t you?”

  “Sure, we’ve attended industry events and conventions in Orlando.”

  “They say those trips were excuses to hook up with Susanne.”

  I felt my face flush. “I dumped Susanne to date Carrie. I had to pay her moving expenses to get her out of the beach house before Carrie discovered she was there.”

  Sally arrived with the food, and Tony ordered another Scotch. While he dug into his salad, I stared out the window at the practice putting green and allowed my tuna melt to grow cold.

  After swallowing a mouthful of Gulf shrimp, Tony said, “They say you had extramarital relations with your ex-wife, Glenda.”

  “Glenda is a friend, and we share a daughter. Carrie can’t handle that. When Glenda and I separated, I had nowhere to live. The country house was under construction, and we were living in the beach house. So I graciously let Carrie stay in the beach house, and Glenda let me stay at one of her husband’s vacant rental properties.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.”

  “They could call Glenda to testify.”

  “Tony, they’re trying to intimidate you. Doing a good job of it too.”