First Lady in Charge

By Tom Bierdz

An ambitious First Lady conspires with her lover, the president’s physician, to hide the President’s disability by hiring a look-alike, to retain the powers of the office.

She wasn’t your typical First Lady, but he wasn’t your usual president.
She devoted her life, cultivated his rise to the presidency.
He became disabled just when she was about to have it all.
Now when she was so close?
He had to hang on just a little bit longer.
She would see to it, whatever the costs

President Layton Rood collapses while giving his State of the Union speech. He’s rushed to Walter Reed Medical Center where Janet convinces the president’s physician, Dr. Adam Hearon, to care for him at the White House. She doesn’t want anyone to know that Layton is disabled, especially ambitious Vice President Grant Anderson who would assume the presidency.

Can she and Adam truly hide the president’s disability? How? Why? And to what end? A gripping tale, fraught with peril that will have you turning pages to see what happens next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Bierdz
• Release date: Feb 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005945053

Tom Bierdz

Tom Bierdz, a retired psychotherapist, was born and raised in Kenosha,WI. He earned a BA degree from Marquette University and a Masters degree in social work from the University of Chicago. He worked in public welfare in Milwaukee and Kenosha before becoming the Director of Catholic Social Services in Racine, WI. From there he went into the private practice of psychotherapy.Several years later he retired his psychotherapy practice, earned his insurance and stockbroker's license,secured a CFP degree and practiced as a Certified Financial Planner.Tom has been passionate about needing to express himself artistically. He dabbled with writing from time to time before giving it full energy during his retirement. Finally, he has committed to publish independently.He and his wife, Susan, reside in Washington State.

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Table of Contents

1

BOOK ONE: Before the President’s Collapse

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

BOOK TWO: After the President’s Collapse

THE FIRST DAY: 15

THE SECOND DAY: 16

THE THIRD DAY: 17

THE FOURTH DAY: 18

THE FIFTH DAY: 19

THE SIXTH DAY: 20

THE SEVENTH DAY: 21

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ALSO BY TOM BIERDZ

First Lady in Charge

Copyright © 2020 by Tom Bierdz. All rights reserved.

First Edition: January 2021

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

1

L

ooking at him, no one

would suspect something was wrong...

President Layton Rood stood before the podium in the House of Representatives, framed by the Stars and Stripes, prepared to deliver his State of the Union address. It was his first anniversary in office. He smiled confidently and eyed the Congress, just as First Lady Janet Rood had suggested, as if he were going to talk with each one of them individually.

Beaming with pride from the gallery, Janet watched her husband’s commanding presence capture the audience. He looked presidential: his tall, lean frame appeared stately in his tailored navy wool suit and blue and yellow flecked, silk tie. The President’s features were too ordinary to be considered classically handsome, but because he had the capacity to put people at ease, he consistently placed near the top of opinion polls. His enthusiasm cast a youthful vitality to his fifty-five years, as did his charming smile. Janet had even replaced his contact lenses with dark horned-rimmed glasses suggestive of an intellectual seriousness more in keeping with the stature of the office. Coarse, wavy dark brown hair with broad strands of gray topped off his distinguished image.

Janet was a significant part of this special moment. She shared an inexorable symbiosis with the man and his office, almost a co-presidency if that were possible, and at this time she relished the limelight. She smiled magnanimously for the audience and cameras delighted to be in such an enviable position. Then she fixed her eyes on the President to help focus the spectators. The noise in the room diminished to a whisper and then silence.

Suddenly the President staggered. He seemed to have difficulty focusing on the prompter.

The motions went unnoticed by most, but they appeared in slow motion for Janet; a freeze-framed early warning, sending the adrenalin pumping through her veins. She whispered, Oh no, not yet. She held her breath and tried not to imagine the worst.

The President’s hands which clung to the sides of the podium inched downward. He slouched, and then unable to support his own weight, buckled over. His head struck the podium as he crashed to the floor.

Terrified, Janet could not move.

My God! Something’s happened to the President! someone shouted.

Swiftly, with flawless precision, a cordon of Secret Service agents swept down on the fallen President forming an impenetrable human wall around him and sealing off the podium. Concurrently a separate Secret Service detail converged upon Vice President Grant Anderson and Speaker of the House, Larry Haggerty, to shield the successors to the presidency from possible attack. Lifting Anderson and Haggerty off their feet, the Secret Service whisked them out of the chambers and into the presidential holding room directly behind the podium.

The panicked mob filled the aisles.

Janet fought through the crowd, stumbling over feet, pivoting from side to side, manipulating her body through the smallest cracks like a seasoned running back racing for daylight. Please, my husband needs me.

The Secret Service assisted her. A spiked heel tore into the flesh on her foot, tearing her hose and filling her with a jolting pain that she dispelled from memory as abruptly as it had come. Unaware she was limping, she pushed and shoved until the guards assigned to her jerked her up the short distance to the podium.

Dr. Adam Hearon, the president’s physician, was already there and immediately began examining the stricken man.

The noise of confusion filled the room as pandemonium broke out.

Something’s wrong with the President, NBC anchorman Brian Williams told the viewers. He has apparently become ill, or God forbid, been shot by an assassin. As we view this with you live, we see that the Secret Service is in a frenzy.

The words, Camera five were almost inaudible as T.V. engineers and technicians split the screen, one half focusing on the President, the other on the frenetic activity of Secret Service men searching for evidence of an assailant, someone unfamiliar among the crowd, or worse yet a sign of a weapon from among America’s highest elected officials.

There was no sound, no crack of a gun, to suspect an assassin, Williams continued. We will report what occurred as soon as we know. At times like this security protection is at its highest. Members of the media are not allowed on the floor and they are confined to the back of the room or the gallery. We are unable to eye-witness what is going on and rely on the cameras located on the wall above the podium or from those in the back of the room, which presently are not giving us a good angle at what’s happening. We are going to take you to our reporter, Kelly O’Donnell, who is closer to the situation.

Half of the split screen remained on the President. The other half focused on Kelly O’Donnell, her face strained with emotion. She did not speak on cue.

Kelly...Kelly, can you hear me? Williams asked.

Kelly adjusted the microphone in her ear, Yes, I hear you now, Brian. As you can see, all of us in the hall are still in shock after what happened. Secretary of State, Sam Watkins has just confirmed that the President has not been shot. Apparently he has fainted. The First Lady is by his side. As you can see, it is a madhouse here, Brian. That’s all I am able to report at this time.

Thank you, Kelly. We’re watching this historic moment with you. The President has not been shot.

Like sharks drawn to blood cameramen and reporters, using zoom lenses, sensitive mikes and state-of-the-art electronic technology, focused on the body of the fallen president. People everywhere remained wedded to their television sets, even though it was impossible to see the First Lady or the President through the Secret Service guards who hovered over them. Grim expressions covered the faces of the by-standers. The audience was curious and bewildered, aware they were witnessing a slice of history as shocking as it was captivating. It was live television at its best, the drama at which the networks excelled.

* * *

Janet had bonded her entire adult life, her very existence to this man. She knelt beside him and held his head in her lap. He lay there unconscious, unaware of the chaos around him. Janet’s hands trembled as she rubbed the President’s forehead trying to will her energy into him.

Talk to me, Layton, talk to me. She was oblivious to the commotion surrounding her, and not immediately cognizant of the medics who were beside her. Battling the swarm of onlookers they lifted the President on a stretcher and rushed him to the presidential holding room, and from there to a helicopter bound for Walter Reed Medical Center. The First Lady remained at his side.

* * *

In the rotorcraft Janet’s thoughts drifted back to how she had spent the better part of her life since marrying Layton when she was 21, nurturing his political ambitions, promoting his elections to the Senate and cultivating his rise to the Presidency. She was convinced he couldn’t have been elected without her. They were a team, mutually dependent upon one another, energizing, efficient, and explosive when fused together.

His success was due to her vision, her ambition. He did little without her, seeking her advice on matters of State, political stratagems, and appointments. In psychological matters like positioning, visibility, and image building, she became a master of the game. Her influence caught the attention of Washington insiders and the bureaucratic party leaders who sometimes regarded Janet as a tenacious, conniving meddler. Her ambition got in the way of theirs and they hated her for it.

Janet recalled how Layton appeared relaxed and confident as he chatted with a Secret Service agent. She smiled to herself as she remembered Layton telling her she looked elegant in her bishop’s purple, challis wool dress, the color of royalty, especially designed for her by Gucci. She knew she radiated a beauty and charisma unique to First Ladies. She and Layton were a handsome first couple who had returned the glamour to Washington, not seen since the Obama and Kennedy Administrations.

Was the Rood Presidency to suffer a similar early end, prematurely stripped of its vitality like the Kennedy presidency? Janet shivered at the thought. Layton was alive, but how debilitating was his illness? There was so much to accomplish; they’d barely begun. One year was hardly enough time for them to mark their place in history, and certainly not sufficient time to plan a future after the end of their term.

Churning with nausea Janet choked back an urge to vomit. She couldn’t bear such vulnerability in public, even in the company of a benign group of medical personnel. Instead, she studied the man who lay before her stretched out on the gurney, his hand in hers. He was still unconscious and she noted that Layton had a peaceful, cherubic look on his face, a sight she had observed on countless nights when she’d been unable to sleep. At times she faulted Layton for his ability to sleep, but now she welcomed the look as a harbinger that he would be all right.

She thought about how much she coveted the awesome power of the presidency. Most people shied away from such responsibility, but she thrived on it. It gave her a supreme feeling of well-being. It was a super thrill that no drug could match. It would be a pity for Layton to lose the power of the presidency, but an irreparable trauma for Janet.

* * *

The Emergency Room had already been cleared of other patients when they arrived. A team of doctors and nurses were already assembled in the open room that contained six mobile beds separated by white privacy curtains. Bright, overhead lights illuminated the staff’s concerned expressions of readiness. Various monitors showing the President’s vital signs told Dr. Hearon that he was regaining consciousness.

How is he? the First Lady asked.

His vitals are stable. I’ll have to run some tests to further assess his condition, Dr. Hearon said.

I need to talk to you alone, Janet whispered.

Dr. Hearon reacted immediately to the commanding urgency of Janet’s voice, ordered one of the attending physicians to take charge, and led Janet into an adjoining room.

When Janet was sure the door was solidly closed, she looked up at Dr. Hearon, Is it the AIDS?

I’m afraid so.

Janet bit her lip and paced to the other side of the room. It had been only months since Dr. Hearon had diagnosed the President as being HIV positive, and then he had been only mildly symptomatic — experiencing fatigue, fever, a small weight loss, and night sweats. His collapse could not have been anticipated. It wasn’t supposed to happen so quickly, without warning. Layton hadn’t complained much or looked sick. She’d had no time to prepare. She motioned with her head for Dr. Hearon to come to her.

We can’t leave him here, she said.

The doctor was astonished. Janet, he needs medical attention.

Doctor him at the White House.

What?

You heard me. You can take care of him at the White House, not the hospital.

Janet, Layton is the President of the United States. I can’t in good conscience—

Adam, listen to me! Her face grew tight with determination. Nobody must know the President has AIDS.

We can’t keep this quiet. It’s impossible. Sooner or later everybody will know.

They can know later, but they can’t know now. Don’t you see, Adam? It would ruin everything. If Layton becomes disabled, Grant Anderson runs the country. As Janet spoke she knew Adam could feel the fire in her eyes. It would ruin everything we’ve worked for.

Shoulders stooped, the doctor stood silently contemplating the First Lady.

Janet put her hands in his and squeezed. Adam, this is our chance for freedom. Everything we’ve talked about. We’re so close to having it all. Let’s not blow it now.

Adam sighed and habitually stroked his close-cropped mustache and goatee.

Janet hugged him. Adam, you know I love you, she said.

And I love you too.

Then do it for us.

Adam looked into her near violet eyes shining with impassioned seriousness. He buried his hands in his pockets.

We only need to cover this up for a few days, a week or so at the most, Janet said.

What do we tell the world? Adam asked.

We tell them that he’s suffering from fatigue and exhaustion. They’ll buy it. The President’s job is demanding.

It might work, he said.

It will work. We’ll tell them that the President would feel more comfortable recuperating in his own home.

You really believe it will all fall into place in a few days?

I’m sure of it. Janet watched Adam intently, wishing she could read his mind. If he refused to go along with her, it would be all over; the Rood Presidency would be history. She had to trust that his commitment to her was greater than his allegiance to the President.

Okay, let’s do it.

Janet kissed him forcefully. Let’s get him out of there.

They returned to the Emergency Room where Dr. Hearon advised the staff they were moving the President to the White House.

Minutes later, Admiral Polk, the hospital administrator, stormed into the room and walked directly up to Dr. Hearon. Built like a linemen he was the kind of man who used his imposing size to intimidate others whenever he could. Still short of breath he said, Adam, I’ve been informed you’re releasing the President from the hospital.

That’s correct, Admiral.

That isn’t a good idea.

The decision has already been made.

Jesus Christ, Adam! That’s against protocol. You’re dealing with the President of the United States. Certainly an overnight...as a precaution....

The President is going to the White House where he will be more comfortable. Adam’s eyes flashed in anger.

Comfort! What the hell are you talking about, Adam? The medical facilities at the White House don’t compare to what we have.

Get off my back, Admiral! The President is in no danger. I’m his official surgeon. It’s my decision and I say he’s going! You don’t have to worry about being liable. I’ll take complete responsibility.

You’re goddamn right you will, he sneered. The hospital records will show you acted against hospital procedures. You removed the President and I, personally, tried to persuade you otherwise.

The ball was rolling. Adam could not stop to ponder the malpractice implications of the hospital administrator’s threat.

Admiral Polk stormed out of the emergency room as angry as he had entered.

Janet went over to Layton. Layton, honey, can you hear me?

The President opened his eyes and faintly smiled.

Janet smoothed his hair with her hand. Honey, we’re going to take you home where you’ll be more comfortable. If anybody asks you anything, don’t talk to them. Just smile and wave your hand, if you can. Okay?

Again, he smiled faintly.

* * *

Secret Service agents pushed back the restless crowd as the President was wheeled to the ambulance. Some of the reporters saw the President smile weakly and wave limply as he passed. Once the President and First Lady were comfortably settled in the ambulance, Dr. Hearon stopped to address the media.

What’s the status of the President? several reporters asked in unison.

The doctor looked at the crowd and waited for them to hush. Then he spoke, The President is suffering from fatigue and exhaustion which is the result of overwork and the stress of his office. He is in no serious danger. He needs complete rest and relaxation for a period of time so he can recuperate and fully resume the duties of his office.

Where are you taking him? one of the reporters asked.

To the White House.

Shouldn’t the President remain in the hospital for observation? another reporter asked.

The First Lady believes the President would be more comfortable recuperating at home. The President is in agreement with that and so am I since there are no medical reasons to contraindicate his being at the White House. As I said before, he’s in no serious danger.

Several reporters yelled out, Dr. Hearon.

I’m sorry, I have nothing further to add. If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to the President.

He joined the motorcade.

* * *

Seems inconceivable the President wouldn’t stay in the hospital, Craig Mellone, a reporter for the Washington Post said into a crowd of his peers.

Oh, I don’t know. If the doctor says he’s okay and his wife wants him home, I don’t see anything wrong with that, another reporter said.

Craig Mellone wasn’t buying that for one minute. Maybe someone else might recuperate at home, but not the President of the United States. His instincts told him something was wrong.

* * *

I don’t like it, Larry. I don’t like it one bit, Vice President, Grant Anderson said to the Speaker of the House. Anderson paced the floor in the White House underground Situation Room, the hub of global communication for the intelligence and military community. He had been brought directly there by the Secret Service and was prepared to activate a crisis team and become briefed on world-wide conditions. He would be unable to act on any of the information, however, until he was empowered to assume the duties of the presidency. You and I both had a good look at Layton. He was unconscious, and looked like shit. He’s in no shape to run the country.

The rotund Speaker of the House lit up a Havana Monte Cristo and stared off into the distance. Yeah, and who knows what he really looked like underneath all that make-up.

The Vice President changed direction pacing like an inmate on death row. It bothers the shit out of me that they took him out of Walter Reed. You don’t need to be a doctor to know it’s standard procedure to keep him there, at least overnight for observation. He shook his head, It just doesn’t figure.

I’m sure Doctor Hearon can provide for him at the White House, the big man said. With his finger he searched the inside of his lower lip for a shred of tobacco. Finding it, he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and flicked it on the floor.

Maybe, but that’s stretching it. After an overnight stay in the hospital I could go along with that. His fist hit the table scattering papers and hurling a stapler to the floor. I bet that bitch, Janet, had something to do with it.

Why don’t you call her? Haggerty said, blowing out a wisp of smoke.

Call her?

Yeah. Wouldn’t a close friend be concerned about his business partner?

The Vice President picked up the phone. Moments later the First Lady was on the other end.

Janet, it’s Grant Anderson. I’ve been concerned about the President, and thought I’d call to see how he’s doing.

Janet knew that Grant’s call was not motivated by a sense of concern. He had been the Party’s front runner for the nomination. It was only because of a deadlocked convention that Layton became the nominee and won the election. Grant had settled for second best. Janet was aware of his resentment and that he was ready to step into the President’s shoes at the first opportunity. She took a deep breath to quell her anger. Thanks for your concern, Grant. Layton is doing just fine. Gave us all a little scare, but he’s sleeping now. He’ll need lots of rest.

If there’s anything I can do, Janet. Anything at all.

Like take over, Janet thought. She knew that her words wouldn’t satisfy the Vice President. Thanks, Grant. It’s nice to know I can call on you. Let me give you over to Dr. Hearon. He can tell you about Layton’s condition.

She put the phone on hold. Adam, it’s Grant. Get this goddamn leech off my back. He’d be President tonight if we let him.

Adam smiled knowingly at her. Mr. Vice President, this is Dr. Hearon.

Sorry to bother you, Doctor, but I’m concerned about the President. We’ve been very close, and you know how it is— being a heartbeat away.

Of course, Mr. Vice President. You needn’t worry, the President is doing fine. Just a bad case of exhaustion. You can understand that. He should be back on his feet in a few days.

I’m glad to hear that, doctor. He locked the Speaker’s eyes with his own to accentuate the importance of the question he was going to ask. In your professional opinion do you believe he is able to adequately discharge his duties?

I don’t see why not.

You will let me know if his condition worsens?

Certainly. You can be assured that I’ll monitor the President’s condition very closely. But for now there’s no need to be concerned.

Thank you, Doctor. The Vice President hung up and looked at the Speaker of the House from his intense blue eyes. The doc says he’s okay, but I think the son-of-a-bitch is lying.

* * *

Janet Rood called in her secretary and dictated a memo to the Secret Service Head of Detail advising him to inform the servants that none of them were allowed to disturb the President. Only she, Dr. Hearon, and any of their designees, would be permitted to enter the President’s room. Observance of her order was essential for the President’s speedy recovery, and she knew she could count on all of them to cooperate to the fullest.

* * *

Adam went in to check on the President and Janet joined him.

Grant’s an overeager son-of-a-bitch, Janet said as she stared down at her husband.

Adam looked at her with sad eyes and said nothing.

He’s worse, isn’t he? Janet asked.

Yes, his fever is elevated and there’s some respiratory distress. I gave him an injection of AZT and morphine for the pain. I think we’re in for a long night.

Janet placed her hands on Adam’s shoulders. You do know we have to go through with this.

Yes, but between you and me, Layton is no more fit to be President than the Lincoln statue by the reflecting pool.

BOOK ONE:

Before the President’s Collapse

2

J

anet Rood stood in a

black, abbreviated spandex exercise suit that clung to her body like a layer of skin, admiring herself in front of a floor-length mirror in the White House room she had converted into a gym. The room had all the latest Nautilus equipment: weight machines, motorized treadmills, exercise cycles, stair climber, and rowing machines, but today she used none of it. It was Friday and on odd days she did Callanetics, stretching and toning exercises. She used the Nautilus machines on the even days. She looked damned good for forty-five and better than many women twenty years younger.

She placed her hand on her stomach. It was flat and firm. She knew that the stomach, like the thighs, was one of the tell-tale areas of aging. A lot of time and sweat went into keeping hers flat and trim, but it was worth it. She stood sideways, admired her high, tight buttocks, then placed her feet next to one another and noted she still had spaces between her calves and thighs at the right places.

Her preening was interrupted by the President entering the White House living quarters. He threw his jacket on a chair came over and gave her a peck on the cheek.

How was your day? he asked automatically moving to the exercise bike.

Fine. How was yours?

He ignored her, mounted the exercise bike, and pedaled away half-heartedly. The President also believed in regular exercise and kept fit and trim, but lately he’d been sloughing off as he hadn’t felt well. What’s for dinner? he asked.

What you told the chef to prepare—grilled salmon, she said, continuing to stare into his eyes through the mirror.

After a few minutes he got off the bike, said, Talk to you later, and left the room.

Not once did his eyes travel to her body. She knew she was a sexy, alluring woman. Men stared at her all the time. Some of them she fantasized even lusted over her, but not her husband. He looked at the bike, or the meter attached to it that measured how hard he was working, or the floors or the walls, but never at her. Not even unconsciously as eyes sometimes wander to something pleasurable stimulated by memory fragments of learned experiences locked inside the mind. But then she didn’t expect his eyes to fix on her. He didn’t find her sexy. They hadn’t had sex for years, longer than she cared to remember.

Her thoughts drifted back twenty-two years to their second wedding anniversary. Janet was happier than at any time in her life. Her marriage to Layton had pulled her out of the quagmire of poverty into a life of comfortable respectability. It was a fresh start filled with hope and aspiration. A break from the bleak reality she had known as a child.

Layton had just completed law school at the University of Chicago, and with his father’s help landed a position with the law firm of Fitch, Carrington, and Jay. Layton didn’t believe his wife should work even though she’d completed two years of technical training and was an experienced secretary. He and his family thought it more important she learn social skills to feel more comfortable with the bright, young people who were family friends and acquaintances. She also had to stay home to care for their child, Sean, born six months after the wedding. Her in-laws hired Mrs. Springate, a highly recommended nanny. Janet’s income wasn’t needed. Daddy Rood subsidized Layton’s salary and blessed them with extravagant gifts such as a new automobile every other year.

Janet adapted well to her new status. Attending finishing school classes, she eagerly read up on etiquette and expanded her vocabulary: gourmet and gastronomical, metabolism and glycerides, Montessori and Lamaze, money market accounts and compounded rates of return. She plunged into her new role as homemaker and mother with enthusiasm, determined to prove to Layton and his family that marrying her was not a mistake. Rising at dawn she prettied herself and fixed Layton a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast until he decided that eggs were dangerously high in cholesterol and switched to dry cereal that he could have prepared for himself. Still, she got up to make the orange juice and coffee — only one cup as too much caffeine was not good for him — and bid him a pleasant goodbye.

She read all of Dr. Spock’s books to raise Sean and insisted on bathing him. She drained Mrs. Springate’s knowledge of children, asking hundreds of questions until Mrs. Springate threatened to quit if Janet kept hounding her.

* * *

Janet whistled a joyful tune as she parked the vacuum cleaner in the closet. Cleaning the house was an enjoyment and she prided herself on how everything sparkled and shined. She was just about to polish the dining room set when the doorbell rang.

Clad in a mink coat, Janet’s mother-in-law, Mattie, entered when Janet opened the door. She carried a glass container.

Lay’s not home, I suppose, she said.

Janet nodded.

While some might describe Mattie’s features as aristocratic, Janet viewed her long sharp nose with nostrils that flared when she laughed and rabbit size teeth as horsy.

I know he loves Louie’s vegetable soup so I picked some up at lunch.

On her way to the refrigerator Mattie noticed the can of Pledge on the dining room table she recently purchased. What’s this?

Pledge.

My God, Janet, you’ll ruin the table with wax build-up. This needs to be oiled.

* * *

Moreover, Layton’s wife should not be cleaning because it was beneath her. She should instead concentrate on more lofty pursuits. The Roods hired a cleaning lady and Janet enrolled in college, taking courses in poetry, art, and psychology. She joined a book discussion group, became a member of the Junior League, and frequented the South Shore Country Club where she became proficient at tennis and aerobics.

She let none of the Rood family pressures dismay her. Her exuberance was limitless; her new world an adventure full of excitement.

She not only followed their suggestions but learned to master each new venture with verve and pertinacity. Only her closest friend, Cheryl, whom she met through the South Shore Country Club knew of her humble beginnings.

Janet’s sexual life was dull. Since their honeymoon in Maui it averaged once a month, and it was never very fulfilling for her no matter how creative and exciting she tried to be. That puzzled Janet, but she assumed Layton had a low sexual drive. He wasn’t very passionate before they married, even though he did get her pregnant. She told herself that men from Layton’s social class didn’t cotton to sex like the boys from her old neighborhood, and guessed that was because sex was one of the baser emotions. The doers in society sublimated their sexual drives to focus their energies instead to making the world a better place to live. How could she know any better? The boys who pawed at her, who kissed and told, who poured their sticky semen over her, had all been from her social class. Layton was the only one she had been with who was not.

* * *

On the day of her second wedding anniversary Janet lunched with Cheryl at one of the fashionable tea rooms they used to frequent. Cheryl agreed to spend the afternoon with Janet to shop for an anniversary present for Layton.

Janet felt comfortable with Cheryl. They had much in common; both were about the same age and recently married with a young child. Cheryl, unlike Janet, came from a wealthy upper class family with all the proper breeding, but she didn’t flaunt it like other people from the Chicago Gold Coast or the South Shore Country Club. At one time during her adolescent rebellion years, Cheryl even denounced her affluent background for social consciousness-raising, protesting racial segregation. Cheryl accepted Janet as an equal, and exuded a worldliness about her that Janet found refreshing and educational.

They enjoyed a leisurely lunch and gossiped about the goings on at the Country Club before the subject turned to Janet’s anniversary.

Cheryl, exquisitely groomed as always, wore a tailored black and white houndstooth checked linen suit, broad-brimmed black hat, and jeweled silver earrings. Janet admired Cheryl’s taste in clothes and emulated her because Cheryl, born into old money like Layton, instinctively knew what to wear. Still a neophyte in the land of plenty Janet vigilantly guarded against dressing garish. Her determination drove her to fit in and be accepted.

So what are you going to get Lay? Cheryl asked sipping her tea.

Well, I’ve got to pick up this leather bound law book his Dad suggested. She reached for her clutch bag and shuffled through it. I forgot the name of it already. She found it and victoriously waved the torn envelope she’d written it on. Dad was certain Lay would love it.

Boring, Cheryl said, making a face that reminded Janet of Sean when he didn’t want to eat his beets. You mean you want me to go shopping with you for that?

Not only that. I’m going to give him something very special.

What?

Me. Gift wrapped in a sexy, black negligee.

Cheryl giggled. Divine, Janet. Simply divine. Lay won’t be able to control himself.

As long as he doesn’t cum too quickly.

Cheryl let out a yelp. Several heads turned as she nudged herself closer to Janet. "Want to hear about the steamy love session Burt and I had last