Wilson's Women

By Dann Darwin

Ronald Wilson is an American dreamer.
He dreams of landing a big business deal. He dreams of breaking 80 on the golf course. He dreams about women who pass him on the street. One spring night, he begins the pursuit of another dream — to find a woman he made love to 30 years ago.
Wilson decides to embark on his journey. The owner of a modestly successful public relations business in the heart of the Sunbelt, he takes off for a week and finds the Midwestern woman he made love to 30 years ago.
Emboldened by his success in finding a woman from his past, Wilson confides to his best friend that there are other women from an earlier time in his life he would like to see again.
For one frenetic summer, Wilson haunts Best Westerns and Denny's restaurants along the American interstates in his quest to find the women he believes had the most effect on his life.
Sometimes his quests are successful. And sometimes he returns home with only a poignant sense of emptiness.
Finally, Wilson ventures out on his final journey of the summer of 2011, a trip to find a woman he never made love to — his college sweetheart.
It's an adventure he'll never forget.
This short 48,000-word novel should appeal to men and women everywhere who have ever wondered about past loves.
The author lives in Las Vegas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dann Darwin
• Release date: Mar 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9780463205044

Dann Darwin

The author, Daniel Behringer in private life, is a long-time resident of Las Vegas. He worked in the newspaper industry for nearly four decades before turning to fiction and longer-form narratives.

Book preview

1

Did you ever wonder about the first woman you made love to?

We were sitting at a crowded outdoor café in a trendy part of the city, sipping blue margaritas. I was on my second — or maybe it was the third — so it did not seem like an illogical question. And I was asking someone I considered a best friend — maybe my best friend.

What do you mean? my friend asked in return, a quizzical look drawing across his forehead.

I mean, did you ever wonder what happened to her, what became of her, where she’s living, what she’s doing?

He chuckled softly and carefully scratched the back of his neck with his index finger.

Now, why did that occur to you?

Oh, you know, it’s just one of those things you think about in the middle of the night: Will you ever close this big business deal, will you ever break 80 on the golf course — whatever happened to the first woman you made love to?

I’m not sure that’s a logical sequence — but I’ve never expected logic from you anyway, he said.

I looked at my friend, Edward Jay, like me a 50ish male who was trying to earn a living in a Sunbelt city that always seemed to be in a rush.

I was married, but Edward had somehow remained single. He was a journalist, and I had studied journalism in college, too. But I had given up that years ago to run my own public relations firm.

My name is Ronald Roy Wilson but nearly everyone, for reasons not clearly known to me, simply calls me Wilson.

As long as you bring it up, Wilson, he said, the furrows again rippling across his brow. Who was the first woman you made love to? And yes, I’d like another margarita.

I don’t think you knew her. Her name was Carolyn, Carolyn Catellyn.

I caught the waitress’s eye and pointed at the margaritas, which were as blue as the moody twilight sky. It was a Thursday in late April, and I had knocked off work early.

At Indiana?

I nodded. We were in a play together, Sorry, Wrong Number, I think it was but she wasn’t actually in the play, she was part of the production crew or whatever it’s called.

So this was during your, uh, drama career after your liberal arts major but before your journalism major?

I chuckled at Edward’s barb. I had a lot of interests.

Nope, he said, sipping a fresh margarita. Didn’t know her. Was she a drama major?

Good question. She was really, really cute with a Lauren Hutton smile and flawless white skin and a really great pair.

Of legs? he asked dryly.

Uh huh, I said. What makes a blue margarita blue?

I think it’s the blue Curaçao, he said.

God, she was cute.

Where’d you do it?

What do you mean, where’d we do it?

I mean, where’d you do it? In the back seat of that old Chevy or on some high-rise balcony somewhere or out on the back nine of that little municipal golf course?

She didn’t play golf.

Hmmm.

I stopped to recollect for a second. I listened to the murmur of the crowd and the noisy flutter of a helicopter overhead.

We did it at my place.

That little dump off Main Street?

Hey, it was home, I said. And that’s where we did it. It was one of those gorgeous autumn afternoons where it was quiet in the neighborhood except for the ice cream truck going by and the sun was splashing through the curtains and Carolyn pulled off her sweater and her eyes sparkled and she really smelled good and we kind of went from there. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that afternoon.

You never got lucky in high school?

I had my chances, I sniffed. But no one there really interested me.

I was down to the bottom of another margarita.

Actually, I was dreaming about Carolyn the other night.

Is that all you dream about — sex and some woman you screwed 30 years ago?

No, sometimes I dream about breaking 80 at Pebble Beach.

Ah, to dream the impossible dream.

And you know what happened in the dream?

I’m dying to find out.

I went back to visit her.

You mean you went back in time?

I went back to visit her, drove back to Ohio or Indiana or Michigan or one of those godforsaken Midwestern states and knocked on her door.

And then what happened? Edward asked, mildly interested. And don’t tell me the damn alarm went off.

I thought for a second. I don’t remember what happened. I said slowly. But I’ve been thinking about going back to see her.

Yeah, right, and I’ve been thinking about being editor of the Washington Post.

No seriously, I’ve been thinking about going back to see her.

Oh come on now, how would that happen?

Well, I own my own company, you know. So I’m in pretty good shape in terms of vacation time.

So, you’d take a few days off, get in the car, drive back to the Midwest, find a woman you haven’t seen in 30 years, knock on her door and say, hey, you free for lunch? And by the way, how about a matinee at the Motel 6?

I motioned to the waitress to bring the check.

Actually, I was thinking about taking a week off.

Edward laughed a long guttural laugh and slapped his thigh.

That’s what I like about you. You have a great imagination. But I gotta shove off.

You want to get the check?

Don’t I always?

Where else can you get such great stories for the price of a few drinks?

Yeah, right. And let me know if you decide to take off for the Midwest.

Oh, I will. I’ll keep you informed.

I walked unsteadily to my silver Buick Regal, started the engine and let the air-conditioning cool the vehicle. I was a little tipsy and knew only one thing: I had to go to work in the morning.

2

I walked through the double doors of Wilson Communications a few minutes after 9 the next morning.

Dana Winter, my administrative assistant and trusted confidante, quickly glanced at her watch and pushed me a handful of message slips.

It’s my company, I said briskly to the unspoken question. I can be late if I want to.

Did I say anything? she said. You have a client coming at 10:30 and there’s a woman who insisted on waiting in your office. She said she’s here about one of the sales associates positions. Lunch is Rotary Club.

She has no appointment?

She insisted on waiting.

I filled a giant black mug with coffee and headed for my office. I nodded at the woman seated on the sofa and settled behind my desk. The sun glinted in my eyes, and the air conditioner rattled the blinds over the windows. I could feel the effects from last night’s margaritas.

The woman stood quickly and walked over to greet me, hand extended.

I’m Mary Scott, and I’m here to see about the sales associates positions you have available,she said, turning to look over her shoulder. May I close the door?

Ms. Scott, applicants nearly always schedule through Dana Winter. She’s my —

I know who she is, Mr. Wilson. I just prefer the direct approach.

I looked at the woman standing before my desk. Huge, expressive brown eyes, terrific figure and thick, dark auburn hair.

Sit, I said, gesturing toward a chair in front of my desk. Coffee?

No thanks.

I took a sip from my mug and settled back in my chair. My head still had a cottony feeling from the previous night.

She opened an executive-style notebook, glanced at it, closed it and looked directly at me with those eyes.

Ronald Wilson, she said evenly. Graduate, Indiana University, married, no children. Operates Wilson Communications. Company belonged to your father-in-law, who basically neglected it. You took control eight years ago, renamed it although it’s not clear why, signed some very good clients and have restored the business to one of the top public relations firms in the metropolitan area. You’re trying to land the Cashman account right now. If you do, you’ll be the top player in public relations in the area.

I smiled, leaned back in my leather chair, coffee mug in hand. I loved the smell of leather.

I renamed it because it was losing money right and left. I felt as if we needed a fresh start.

I paused to sip some coffee.

Do I have any hobbies? I said playfully.

Not really. You golf, travel a little, visit Las Vegas. She sighed. And you’re known as a ladies’ man.

I smiled.

Let’s talk about you. I presume you have sales experience.

Previous experience with KJBZ radio, David & David PR and right now First Savings, in marketing.

And you’re here because …

I’m here because Wilson Communications is taking off. You’re becoming a very big player. I like to go with the winner. You’re also a good employer — you give sales associates plenty of freedom, reward them very well and promote from within.

OK, Ms. Scott, if you’ll just see Ms. Winter …

Mr. Wilson, I don’t have time to go through all the procedures.

Her voice softened a little bit. First Savings is going to be cutting back in marketing. If I have a job there in six months, it’ll be part-time.

I pondered to think about what I had learned about the woman with the huge brown eyes in the last few minutes. As I was thinking, I was aware she was studying me intently.

Mr. Wilson, may we cut to the bottom line?

Please.

She turned to glance over here shoulder, stood up, and walked over to lock the door. She came back and stood next to her chair and began removing her jacket and a black sweater.

Fifty-some years old, hired maybe 50-100 people, I had not seen this before. I could hear my heart race.

She reached behind her back to unhook her bra, deftly removed it and sat down in the chair.

What do you see?

I was guessing D, maybe double D. Well, they’re very lovely, but —

Take a good look, Mr. Wilson, because you’re never going to see them again. You’re a ladies’ man, all right. You might be having sex with two or three of your sales associates. That’s not going to happen with me.

She began putting her bra back on and looked directly at me.

"Mr. Wilson, I’m a single parent. I need a job. I will probably outwork 95 percent of the people in your company. I may be able to help you land the Cashman account — I know some people over there — but I will never, ever … mix businesses with pleasure."

I sat back in chair again. My heart was still thumping.

You know people at James Cashman?

I know a few people at his auto dealership.

The old man?

She thought for a second. I’ve never met him. But I’m sure I could.

Yes, I agreed. You probably could.

I stood up. Go see Ms. Winter. We’ll get some paperwork started.

Mr. Wilson —

This meeting is over, Ms. Scott.

But —

Over.

She turned to leave. I was thankful the sun was no longer in my eyes.

Dana Winter was at my door shortly.

What was that all about?

I think we’ve filled one of our openings. Did she see you about an application?

She’s in the small conference room now, filling it out.

Let’s check some references this afternoon.

All right, she said, turning to leave.

Dana, one more thing.

Um?

You’re good at tracking people down on the Internet.

Sure. Anybody can do it.

Let’s see if we can come up with an address for Carolyn Catelynn.

Here in town?

No, somewhere in the Midwest, I think.

She gave me a quizzical look.

Don’t ask, don’t ask, I said.

Give me the complete spelling, and I’ll see what I can come up with.

3

Early morning. Easter Sunday 2011.

A sullen red sun hung in a hazy sky. I sat in a golf clubhouse, downing a plate of greasy bacon and eggs and a Bloody Mary. Tee time was 30 minutes away. I thought about hitting the practice tee but instead took a long drag of the Bloody Mary and sat back in my chair.

Edward arrived, slipped in a chair next to me and ordered black coffee.

Nice morning, I said.

Hot, he said.

Beads of sweat speckled his face and neck.

Been hitting balls?

Yeah.

Hot out there?

He shrugged.

It seems awfully hot for the end of April.

He shrugged again.

Humid.

Why do we do this? I asked.

Golf? he asked. I dunno. It’s something to do on a Sunday when there’s no football.

Yeah. It is a nice break from reality, I offered. Grass and sand and trees and water and the sight of that little white ball soaring through the blue sky.

And then landing in a trap, Edward said ruefully. Is that why we do it?

That’s why I do it. And who knows, maybe today I’ll break 80, I said.

You’re a terrible golfer.

Fuck you.

We got up to leave and joined the other members of our foursome. They were a couple of sales executives from Cashman & Associates, but they were merely the old man’s minions so I wasn’t planning on any serious sales talk. Our electric carts hummed along to the No. 1 tee.

I pulled out an oversized driver, cracked a decent shot with a slight fade and climbed aboard the cart.

You still trying to land old man Cashman? Edward asked, motioning toward the two people ahead of us.

You bet. Going to lock it up this spring, summer at the latest.

What’s in it for you?

I snorted. Big bucks. We land this account, Wilson Communications has arrived.

It’s just more money, more work and more stress, he said. He three-putted the first green and muttered something obscene.

These guys … he said, motioning toward the two 25-handicappers.

Small potatoes. They just like to golf. Old man Cashman still very much runs his own show — banking, insurance, real estate, a handful of car dealerships.

"So how do you