Pt. 1 - The Rehearsal Dinner
So far it was a very lovely dinner party.
Krista sat at the table with the others, her legs crossed. She slowly brought the glass of champagne to her lips as her eyes danced about the room. She looked over at her mother, Karen, sitting there looking nearly lifeless, a former shell of her energetic self. Krista smiled, knowing all to well, and proudly she might add, that she was responsible for the woman's lack of energy and near lack of a will to live.
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It was a crisp, late November evening in Eastern Canada and we had just driven for an hour through back roads to our remote hunting site. My father-in-law, Edward, parked the truck in a tightly overgrown drive way of sorts, under cover of some trees. The rest of the way to the little cabin had to be by foot, and not just because the driveway was impassible, but because, "Deer don't like the smell of a warm, old pickup," at least that's what Edward would say. Ed was short and stocky and "rough and tough" - a label he'd give himself with a twinkle in his eye.
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It all started with a simple statement. A promise perhaps. They were laying in bed one night during the week after she had just come off of his lap from one of her good girl spankings and rewards she always craved. She looked up at him, a smile across her face and at that moment, he told her that he had something special planned for them this weekend.
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Since the semester began three weeks ago, I haven't seen my dad. My parents' house was a 90-minute car drive away -- close enough to consider a spur-of-the-moment trip every now and then, but too far to do it too often. Classwork was keeping me really busy, too.
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I use hook-up apps as a way to travel I suppose. I don't have the luxury to flit about the globe taking selfies with landmarks, so more often than not, when I get to chat up a guy, I'm dipping my toe into a completely different life. To a degree, if and when we hook up, I become a different, more adventurous guy. And perhaps, ashamedly - when I'll leave town, there's no looking back.
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My father-in-law is tall and well-built, with really sexy bedroom eyes. But I hardly gave Daddy Jim—the pet name I gave him to distinguish him from my husband, who is also named Jim—a second thought, except for the times we went out to visit him, so we could use his pool. Sometimes, when my Jim had to work on the weekends, I drove out there by myself to swim and work on my tan. One Saturday morning about a month ago, pulling into his driveway, I noticed a strange car parked in front of the garage.
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This is a true story. It is the story of a young man who was sheltered, unsophisticated about the world and not sure of himself. He came to Memphis from the countryside of Arkansas with no real experiences. It is about me. Growing up, I knew no real want. My parents were gainfully employed and made good money. I was the middle of five kids and did not get much attention. So, I was always trying to figure out my true identity. I had gone to a small local college and remained fairly sheltered. No one talked about anything out of the ordinary. No taboo.
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"Hello, you must be Shayne. I'm Mr. Caldwell's boy, Jerome. Come on in. I'll take your bag to your room. He's out beyond the great room, in the pool. Go on back."
With that welcome, I entered the world of Ted Caldwell, retired supposed master spy, the man I'd been sent to the New Jersey shore to interview over the weekend for Spy magazine.
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