Virginia's Peculiar Fascination // Chapter 2

Right away, he pegged the dusty Honda Element as his afternoon meeting's ride. Parked curbside in his cul-de-sac, fifteen-years-old at least and way out of place in Piper Glen. He passed it, craning his neck, trying to see behind the wheel, but the windows gleamed with sparkling sunshine. He pulled into his driveway, shut down the Audi, got out and looked at the Element. The driver door opened and Carter's long leg stretched out. They both gave a single wave.

Carter Maddox. Six-three, blond and curly hair, dark tanned, gold hair on forearms. Twenty-three years old. USTA junior national top-100; ranked seventeenth in the country eight years ago. D1 at Wake Forest.

Crossing his grass strip to get on the interlock driveway.

They met at the rear of the Audi.

"Got here early. That's good."

Carter said, "I wasn't doing anything, anyway."

Preston nodded, crossing his arms, smiling and looking Carter up and down. "I told you to dress nice. You're meeting my wife."

Carter looked down at what he was wearing. Polo shirt, sweatpants, running shoes.

"This isn't nice?"

"It's not terrible," he said. "Your shirt has a collar."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Whitmore. These are all clean. I got them out of the dryer this morning."

"Sweat pants to meet my wife?"

"Well, I thought it would be, um, easier?"

"Is that a question?"

"No, Mr. Whitmore. It is easier, though, right?"

"C'mon, Carter. This isn't going to work. The shirt's fine, but you need slacks and shoes. Not running shoes." He took his wallet from his coat pocket and flipped it open. He fingered out three one-hundred dollar bills and passed them to Carter. "There's a plaza right down the street, go out the way you came and take the first left—”

"I know where it is, Mr. Whitmore, I've been there—”

Preston reached up, held the young man's hard, bony shoulder. "First, don't call me Mr. Whitmore. Just Preston. Just call me Preston. And second, sorry if you think I'm being a prick about the pants, but you have to understand: this is my Virginia we're talking about here. Okay? So I'm sorry, I don't want to come down on you, I know you're packing and you're flying away to Europe, but this is important."

"I totally understand, Mr— Uh, Preston. I get it. I'll go do it. I'll be back in like fifteen minutes."

"Get socks that match your shoes, okay?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Whitmore."

"Preston. And can you not walk on the grass? Just go down— Yeah, that's it. Thanks, Carter."

Carter returned to his Honda, got it it in drive and headed out of the cul-de-sac to purchase some real pants.

The Whitmore home for the last fifteen years was a two-story brick Colonial. Two-car garage, flagstone walkways. Urns under the portico with fall colors, geraniums and sunflower. Preston left the Audi in the driveway, trotted up steps to the flagstone walk. Went to the door, found it unlocked. He stepped inside and put down his bag. The house was cool and quiet.

He passed through crown-moulding hallways, through their newly renovated kitchen. Saw his gorgeous wife through the new bay window they'd put in when Parker graduated high school. Ginny was out in the garden wearing her straw sunhat. Samson their mini schnauzer dozed on his side in the bright sun nearby. Virginia was on her knees with a hand rake, fluffing up the mulch in their flower garden. She'd had lunch today with some of the other gals down at the club. It looked like she wore the same sundress she'd worn to the club.

He opened the door and leaned in the jamb, breathing that wonderful smell of late blooming flowers on the edge and watching Ginny's rump. She hadn't heard him and continued working the mulch with the rake.

It was some rump. And the sun felt hot and amazing on his face. He called for Ginny.

His wife turned with an honest smile. "Preston?"

"Hey, Ginny."

She rose and plucked off her gardening gloves. "What are you doing home?"

"I have a meeting this afternoon."

Ginny came, squeezed his hand, and kissed his cheek.

"You just stopping by to freshen up?"

"No, not at all. I'm meeting the client here."

"You're meeting a client here? At our home?"

"It's a special client."

"Oh," she said, her expression more troubled now. "Should I clean up? I've been gardening. How about cocktails? I can make something to eat."

"No need, Ginny. No need."

"Well, who's the client?"

"A young guy. I don't know how it's going to work out. Could be the deal of a lifetime, or this could just blow up in my face."

Ginny's face grew more troubled, and he touched her neck, thumbed her jaw. "Nothing to worry about, Ginny."

"Well, I should get these knee pads off and touch myself up, or are you just going straight to your parlor?"

"No, I'd like you to meet him, Ginny. He's a good young man."

"All right, Preston. Let me get up to the bedroom, and I will make myself presentable." As she walked past him, he took her wrist and pulled her close. "You don't have to touch up anything, Ginny. You're perfect."

“Oh, Preston, stop it. I've been gardening.”

"You have a slight sheen, but you look beautiful. Your makeup's done, and I know under that apron, you wore what you wore to your luncheon today."

“Preston, let me touch up.”

He smiled and let her hand go, then smacked her rump as she walked past him. She jumped and spun around on him, but not mad—perplexed. It wasn't the first time he'd smacked her bottom; it was just probably the first time he'd done it in the daytime. She wasn't exactly perturbed by it either.

“Go spruce up, Ginny. I'll get us some drinks.”

Ginny continued on to the stairway and then went up to their master bedroom. Preston moved into the front room, their sitting room with its two high-backed chairs and large sofa and love seat. There was a bar in the corner, and he thought to prepare some drinks, but he just didn't feel like he was in the mood now. There were so many more exciting things going on.

He stood in the sitting room, looking around, imagining how it might go. Behind the couch was a mahogany-topped side table against the wall. He went to it, turned his back, and leaned on it, shifting around, moving a potted plant—still didn't find the place suitable. He put his hip against the heavy unit and pushed with his feet to move it down the wall about eight inches. Now he sat on the corner of it again, leaning back, opening his legs, and this time felt satisfied.

Maybe he would make those drinks.

As he got to the bar, opened the fridge, and pulled out cocktail-sized soda cans and a bottle of gin, the two other players arrived on scene simultaneously. Outside, a car door slammed. In the archway of the sitting room, Ginny appeared, looking as beautiful as before, but now with more confidence. Gone was the damp gardening sheen—a sign of exertion that a lady like Virginia didn’t like to show. Her lips had been redone, her hair tidied and pulled back into a neat blonde bun.

He told her she looked fabulous, and she thanked him. He poured three gin and tonics, went back to the fridge, and pulled from the freezer tray a row of ice cubes to fill the glasses.

“I think our friend's here,” he said.

“Our friend?”

“My client,” he clarified. “Would you like a drink?”

Ginny said she would but reminded him to cut lime.

“Right,” he said. “Can I ask you to do that? I think I should get the door.”

Ginny looked out the front window now, and he watched her face as she spied Preston's afternoon meeting for the first time. Tall, handsome, rakish Carter Maddox with his tussled blonde hair and tennis-pro tan. Long arms, long legs, big hands.

When Carter appeared in Preston's periphery at the window, he was glad to see the young man had bought some good slacks. He went to the door and opened it before Carter knocked.

“Carter,” he said, “good to see you. Come on in.”

Carter stepped in, a little unsure of himself—like a full-grown adult male, yet still showing the tendencies of a well-mothered boy. Rubbing his arm, hunching his shoulders, looking around, his hair too long and falling into his eyes.

“Those pants look great, kid,” he said quietly. “It's a good set of pants. I like your shoes, too.”

“Thanks, Mr. Whitmore.”

“Preston,” he said, reminding him again and clapping the young man on the waist. “Come on in to the sitting room. Ginny's in there waiting for us.”

Carter hesitated.

Preston ushered Carter into the sitting room where Ginny stood at the bar, waiting to greet him.

“Nice to meet you,” Ginny said.

“Ginny, this is a friend of mine. His name's Carter Maddox. Carter, this is my wife, Virginia Whitmore. I’ve told you about her.”

Carter and Ginny shook hands, Ginny looking up into the kid's bright blue eyes and smiling. It wasn't just politeness; Ginny could manufacture that with the snap of her fingers. But her husband's well-trained eye knew when it was authentic. Ginny was immediately smitten, as he had figured would be the case. Carter Maddox had it all.

“Carter spent the summer at the club.”

“Oh, really? Isn't that something? Some kind of pro—golf, is it?”

“Tennis pro, Ginny. Kid has got a killer serve—a hundred-twenty miles an hour easy.”

Carter shrugged off the flattery, while Preston added, “No, no. Carter's D1, Wake Forest, nationally ranked as a junior. Now this young man's headed off to Italy for a coaching apprenticeship. The Ligurian coast.”

“Well, that is really something,” Ginny said admiringly, treating Carter as if he were a young compatriot of their son. Proud of a young man's early achievement. “Well, I hope whatever it is you're meeting with Preston today, he's able to fix it all up for you.”

“Actually, Ginny, he's here to meet you.”

Ginny smiled, riding along with it like she just didn't understand the joke. But when Preston said no more, she looked at him, puzzled.

“Meet me?”

"That's right, Ginny. He's here to meet you. Aren't you, Carter?"

Carter looked sickly, and despite all his former bravado—from their few previous encounters at the bar and club, where Preston had teased him about more lubricious ideas—now, in the moment, much to Preston's chagrin, Carter looked overwhelmed. “Yeah, that's right,” he said, voice gone dry.

Well, this was going great. "Ginny, I asked him here today because he has something that I want you to see.”

“He has something to show me?”

“You're all right with that, aren't you?”

“Well, I mean, yes, of course. What is it?”

“Carter, come over here. Come follow me this way,” Preston said and walked around behind the couch, their drinks forgotten and left to sweat on the marble bar top. The three of them transferred from the bar to behind the couch, and Preston gestured to the expensive Pembroke table's mahogany edge.

“The light's good here,” he said. “Ginny, you stand here,” he instructed, taking her by the waist and angling her so she wouldn't block the incoming light.

Preston crossed to stand so they were like three corner-points of an equilateral triangle.

“Carter, if you will… show Ginny.”

“Right here like this? Now?”

“Sure. I think so. I don't think we need more preamble. Ginny, are you ready?”

“I suppose so,” she said, using good manners, but her polite mask showing some wear and tear as she struggled to understand what her complicated husband had arranged here.

When Carter's hands moved to his belt buckle, Preston noticed they were shaking. He lightened the moment. “Is that a new belt?”

“Yes. Is that all right?”

“Why wouldn't it… All right. Of course, it's all right. That's a nice belt.”

“I just mean you didn’t say I—”

“Let’s just get on with it,” Carter pressed, bothered by the need to over-explain.

Ginny’s brow furrowed as Carter continued to unbuckle his belt.

“Preston, what’s he doing?” she asked.

“You're going to love this, Ginny. Trust me, this is for you.”

Carter drew down his zipper. Ginny stepped closer to Preston.

“Preston, what is happening?”

“You're going to like it, Ginny. You'll have to trust me on it.”

“Should I keep going?” Carter asked, looking for reassurance.

Preston encouraged him. “Keep going.”

Carter opened his fly and pushed down his pants and underwear.

Ginny gasped and whipped away, averting her tightly clenched eyes. “Preston, what is happening? What is he doing?”