Golden Days & Velvet Nights

By Karen Pinney

In August 2011, Karen and Jim, connected on an internet dating site and discovered that it is never too late to find unconditional love. He lived in Canada, she lived in Florida, but a thousand miles of highway couldn't keep them apart. Together they set off to find the road to Camelot. Months into their nascent relationship, a fatal diagnosis throws them off course. Golden Days and Velvet Nights is the story of two people determined to prove that love cures all, living and loving and struggling to divert the outcome of a deadly disease.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644628706

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Golden Days

and

Velvet Nights

Karen Pinney

Copyright © 2019 Karen Pinney

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64462-869-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64462-870-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to Jim

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

The Arrival of Prince Charming Sans the White Horse—Eleven Months Earlier

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part Four

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Forever Camelot

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to:

Mathew Reinecke, my son, who read every chapter and encouraged me to write the next one.

Helen Sue Gaffney who, more than once, kept my finger off the delete button, and my working buddies and managers at Macy’s in Winter Haven, who adjusted their schedules so I could work at night and write during the day.

Ifidgeted with my seatbelt, studied the emergency card, and squirmed with annoyance. A stream of passengers, disheveled and disoriented, were casually wandering through the doorway of the Westjet B737. Idly stowing their bags and leisurely hunting for their seats, they seemed oblivious that takeoff was only minutes away.

I cringed when the line came to a dead halt at the back of the first-class cabin. A tall husky woman whose face scowled with determination was cramming an exploding, bursting-at-the-seams canvas tote into an already-bulging overhead bin. Beads of sweat trickled indignantly across her brow, and her jaws were clenched so tight I could see the outline of her teeth. A nearby flight attendant approached her, tactfully suggesting she check her bag. The woman shot her a glance that threatened road rage, defiantly marked her ground, and refused to budge.

Stuff it and get on with it, lady, I moaned under my breath.

In my opinion, all carry-on baggage should be prohibited, and the government should make the airlines responsible for honing their cargo skills. If everyone checked their bags, the security issues would be minimal. The lines would move quickly, and the boarding process would be just a matter of knowing your first-grade numbers and the alphabet.

I reached under the seat in front of me and whispered the name of my miniature Schnauzer, Raleigh. This was her first airplane ride. Before boarding, she candidly refused my suggestion that she travel in an undersized carrier, but later, with some gentle coaxing and some mouthwatering treats, she reluctantly consented.

You’re the best dog ever. I placed my hand on the screen near her head. She peered at me through the small checkered-mesh window. Her docile, somewhat intoxicated eyes (the vet suggested a tranquilizer) conveyed her canine viewpoint: This sucks. But she didn’t bark, and she didn’t whimper, and I knew her travel accommodations were better than riding in the cold, bleak belly of the plane.

The musty airplane smell piqued my nose. Not exactly the pumpkin coach I had in mind to carry me to my Prince Charming. Numerous lives ago, I had been a flight attendant, and I can’t shake the memory of that arid, stale odor that seeped into my uniform after a long day. It was the same on every plane, and this 737 was no different.

I glanced forward. By now the passenger agent should be closing the door. The bulldoggish lady had finally pushed her large square bag into the small round space and disappeared somewhere in the back. Once the aisle had cleared, the line of stalled passengers decanted into the rows of empty seats.

My nerves sparked like unchanneled electricity, and I mentally coached myself to breathe deeply. In two and a half hours, this plane would slam its wheels onto the runway at the Toronto Airport in Ontario, Canada, and I would be slung into the gale force winds of uncertainty—a new life in a new country with a new husband. OMG flashed before my eyes.

The plane was nearly full. My row mates, a thin, rather attractive young Hispanic woman and her goateed boyfriend, played video games in the seats beside me. Their fingers danced across the back-lit screens, oblivious to the world around them. I pulled my latest copy of Lucky Magazine from my bag and flipped the pages. My mind was overloaded with a slew of frenetic misgivings and fragmenting like a sluggish hard drive. Despite my lust for current fashion, I found it impossible to concentrate.

After what felt like hours, the plane inched back from the Jetway. I cinched my seatbelt a notch tighter. Old habits die hard, and I counted the rows to the window exit just ahead of me. I turned to estimate the distance to the back door in the tail. As unlikely as it might be, I prepared myself mentally to jump ship if the takeoff or the landing went dirty.

With the droning sound of the jets addling my brain, I closed my eyes. An image of my handsome new husband—my PC (short for Prince Charming), as I lovingly tagged him—popped into the empty space behind them. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I was luckier than this year’s Publisher’s Clearinghouse winner to have married an energetic, dynamic, stimulating intellectual genius that was now my husband. But this morning, as I waited restlessly to join him at his cottage in Ontario, I was as nervous as a first-time bride.

Jim was a tall man with small hips and a flat butt, and his long legs made a pair of skinny jeans look unbearably sexy. His upper lip was covered with a soft, tailored white mustache that in no way interferes with his long, slow, delicious kisses. The hair in the center of Jim’s head receded in his early fifties, but a mixture of white and toe-hair blond remains to lightly fringe the back and sides of his head. As a leftover, middle-aged, Michael Stipe (a.k.a. REM) fan, I was nostalgically fond of his baldness.

Words like apocryphal and polemic were woven into his everyday vocabulary; I resemble Jill (with Jack and his dog Jip) from my primary school reader when I attempted to mimic his verbal skills. His keen intellect and mental sharpness made him even more alluring, and I learned the hard way never to challenge Jim’s ability to effortlessly retain pertinent facts and useless trivia.

Few could avoid a humorous attack generated by his quick wit and inventive, ironic sarcasm, but his alpha-male personality attracted more friends than a campaigning politician. On the other hand, I avoided discussing politics because he was unbending in his somewhat free spoken opinions. And as a patron to the original Prince Charming, he gallantly slayed dragons as a mentor and a problem solver to protect his lady friends. But the most endearing of his top ten on a scale of ten qualities was that he loved and appreciated me and recognized that my role in his life was as important as his own.

I pictured my PC with his face glued to the clock, pacing the confined spaces of our picket-fenceless cottage in London, Ontario. His Gordon setter, Rascal, silently stalking in his shadow. His last text said, in capital letters, I need you here. We were a team, and in order to crush the opponent, the quarterback needed his trusted receiver.

Jim and I celebrated our good fortune—we won the lotto when fate, chance, or whatever definition of life was currently in style slung us together. But despite our good fortune, we were acutely aware that we had embarked on a journey more precarious than the voyage of Ulysses—four months ago life kicked us in our butts and smudged our rosy tinted glasses.

The Arrival of Prince Charming Sans the White Horse—Eleven Months Earlier

Darting through the busy Orlando airport with fifteen minutes to spare, I dashed into the ladies’ room. I nudged past the egocentric mirror-huggers doing exactly what I was doing—squeezing in a last minute look. I leaned into the finger smudged glass and took stock: Bobbi Brown guaranteed-not-to-smudge eyeliner in place? Check. Gloss on the bottom lip? Check. Blush and bronze? Check. Hair? I frowned. Florida humidity clutched my blond hair the minute I stepped outside, and my expensive precision haircut sadly slumped into a horrifying tangle of 1920’s kinky waves. I ran my fingers through the windblown, angled bob to hide the unbidden Shirley Temple curls and tucked the left side neatly behind my ear to add a sophisticated twist.

Stepping back, I studied my form-fitting, black-and-white flowered jersey dress from all angles. I smiled to myself. Purchased from an online boutique, a size zero, it wrapped at my waist and cupped the rounds of my little butt-like fuzz on a peach. I was proud of my petite, svelte shape and doubted that many women my age could compete. Well, I whispered to the face returning my smile, You’re as good as you’re gonna get. I took a long, slow deep breath and headed back into the crowded terminal.

My stomach was in knots, and I scolded myself for being so nervous. This was number 102 of Match.com possibilities, and I was an old hand at meeting and interviewing new prospects. But unlike the other cold encounters, today I wasn’t meeting a stranger. Jim and I had exchanged long, soulful intimate e-mails for the last three weeks, and as a backup, we had teased and laughed on the phone till our cheeks ached.

Texters at our age were anomalies, but we proudly intruded on the younger generation’s skills and flirted in cyberspace. To lighten my grueling day, Jim frequently texted a lunch hug followed by a coffee break hug, and as I crawled into bed, an enticing risqué good-night message. Now that our anticipated meeting was eminent, I was confident our face-to-face encounter was merely a formality. Regardless, I was wrestling with a surge of inopportune, almost-paralyzing uneasiness.

In an early e-mail, Jim introduced a concept (as if, he called it) that propelled our commitment long before our scheduled meeting.

From: Jim Hockings

Subject: More Intro

Date: August 09, 2011, 6:15:03 pm EDT

Dear Karen,

As if: I believe in acting as if. On stage, method acting demands that one act as if one were a king or a jilted lover or conniving bishop. The emotions the actor feels—power, rejection, revenge—are the same as they would be in real life, and following the script, the actor behaves as if those emotions lead to certain actions.

As if is how I choose to behave with you. I choose to behave as if a unique and wonderful relationship between us is not just possible, but likely. Acting in such a way does not lead to disillusionment, as I am not stupid and realize that such a relationship is a rare thing and requires the intervention of fate as well as commitment on the part of the two parties. Acting in such a way is the way I choose to live my life with you. I guess the simple word is optimism, but acting as if is much more than mere optimism. It is optimism combined with commitment. Acting as if is not just believing; acting as if" entails directed behavior and performing intentional acts.

And now, the minutes ticking aloud in my head, I couldn’t sit; I needed to stand. I glanced up at the arrival /departure board, and the air left my lungs—flight 2228 from Detroit had just landed.

I’d convinced myself that, tedious as it might seem, internet dating was a numbers game. My ad had read as follows: Quiet, sweet, thoughtful and thought-provoking; strong but not strong-willed; successful, as a result of several failures; a perfectionist but not perfect; energetic yet grounded; seasoned but inherently youthful and always optimistic. My perfect match is the one who will knock my socks off.

Eventually Mr. Right was bound to connect to onlysize2. I’d logged a hundred and one face-to-face meetings, and for one reason or another, nothing clicked. But I refused to admit defeat and was always pleasantly surprised when a new wink appeared in my Match.com mailbox.

Late on a night in August, clinking absentmindedly on the latest entry, I found myself staring at several photos of Sportdog4, a tall gray-haired, unethically (no man should look that good) handsome Canadian. My brows rose, and a loud hmmmm purred from my lips.

Skepticism spoiled my initial reaction. My experience had been that men who fall into the James Bond category are blatantly unreliable, and often require large doses of q.i.d. ego boosting. Sportdog4 looked to me like one of those. Besides, he lived a thousand miles away, a thousand miles away where snow flurries descend on the earth by the shovelful six months out of the year. I didn’t wink back.

I was thrown off guard after work the following evening.

To: Karen Pinney

From: Jim Hockings

Subject: Another Intro

Date: August 10, 2011, 6:15:03 pm EDT

Dear 2 (if I may call you that),

You visited my profile but did not write. That happens to me sometimes. I come off as too intense or something. Although every word in my profile is exactly true, I don’t feel very intense sitting here drinking my espresso and writing to a smiling and undoubtedly charming woman.

Your profile grabbed me for several reasons. The first six words remind me of my first wife, who was tragically torn from me some decades ago. Sorry to bring up another woman while writing to you, but how else to explain the strength of the effect those words have on me.

The other parts that resonate are perfectionist (I am a recovering perfectionist—doing well at being messy and relaxed sometimes) and successful as a result of several failures. Yep, that could describe me too now. Oh yeah, I should get a medal for optimism. I have not been in a salaried position since early 1977. I have been earning my keep by my wits since then and have seldom been discouraged. Give me my medal now!

And, young lady, I specialize in knocking a woman’s socks off in as many ways as you care to interpret that. Not bragging. I try to use my super sock-knocking-off powers for good and not evil.

I live by my intuition and not my intelligence and believe what I feel and not what I think most of the time. My intuition tells me good things about you. I expect that in matters of the heart, you might do the same thing too. If your intuition tells you I might, just might, be the one, don’t let your intellect try to cheat you out of the experience of meeting me. With encouragement I would fly to Orlando for lunch with you. With more encouragement… Well, let us just say I am somewhat geographically flexible now and likely to be more so in the future.

Writing you has been the first bright spot in my day. I hope reading it will bring a bright one to you too.

My compliments and best wishes,

Jim

And if that wasn’t enough, there was more—Weak intermittent maybe’s threatened my armor of hearty no’s.

Please, onlysize2, don’t let distance deter you from exploring what might become a wonderfully rewarding relationship.

I am a sensitive, madly romantic artist who lives by a set of principles—a code of honor, if you please. A man does what he says he will do; a boy does whatever.

I am man who has come to terms with his own flawed existence and turned it into art and sometimes comedy.

Art is the driving force in my universe. I adore the dance (ballet, jazz, modern) and serious straight theatrical pieces and strong, honest cinema. I create both verbally and visually for a living and as an integral part of my life.

What does this man want in a woman?

I want a woman who is emotionally both enthusiastic and available—not afraid of life and love. I am not concerned with how pretty you are as long as you don’t scare the horses when you walk down the street.

I do not wish to merely like you. I will settle for nothing less than being truly madly deeply passionate about you. Just you. I know this is possible.

I am not needy. I have friends of all six sexes, my dog, my work, and my simple pleasures and will not settle for second best.

Each day is precious. I have been laid low and then recovered completely from a serious illness and now value each day. I would like to think you are the woman for me despite the distance that separates us.

I read his message once, twice, three times, my resolve melting like an ice cube on the kitchen floor. I mumbled into the computer, Okay, pretty man, you’ve sparked my interest.

I clicked on Microsoft Word and began typing.

To: Jim Hockings

From: Karen Pinney

Subject: Another Intro

Date: August 11, 2011, 9: 05:03 pm EDT

There is no need to compliment you on your profile; as an author you are well aware of its perfection. For the record, rather than call me 2, perhaps you’d prefer to call me Karen.

I consider myself somewhat unique and objectively normal compared to many (I accept that the definition of normal is relative to the person defining it), creative, flexible, resourceful, and in every way too nice for my own good. I am a soft-spoken girly girl who manages a team of fifty employees as a tireless leader with high expectations. I am no longer critical of myself, and I graciously accept that I am a strong, intelligent woman with unique skills and valuable assets.

I have a great sense of humor, encouraged by my father who constantly reminded me never lose your sense of humor. Also, thanks to him, I can hold my own at a football game and catch a brook trout on a spinner.

I was not intimidated by your profile, but rather charmed by your straightforwardness and pleased to discover a man who is not afraid to be vulnerable.

I look forward to your response, if you feel so inclined. Until then, good night.

And not only did he write back, but Koffe and Karen grew to be his morning ritual; the e-mails arriving every morning before the music from my clock radio insulted my ears.

To: Karen Pinney

From: Jim Hockings

Subject: Another Intro

Date: August 12, 2011, 6:15:03 am EDT

Around women I have either been too much of a clown or too quiet, never sure enough of myself to be charming in a deep or meaningful way—the kind of guy who people say could not get laid in a whorehouse. I want a relationship that is filled with peace and quiet looks and silent touches. We are in agreement that the finest moments have been the quiet ones.

Your looks: I see such a huge dose of sweetness in your eyes mixed with vulnerability. That is true beauty—the ability to be emotionally vulnerable. It’s the vulnerability that really sucks me in. When a right-thinking alpha male sees vulnerability in a woman, he instantly wants to protect her and keep her safe. Since there are not many saber-toothed tigers lurking around anymore, the job of keeping a woman safe these days is to guard her heart and protect her emotionally.

I do love the privacy and the freedom to control my own schedule. I have a long-term low level of loneliness that friends and a dog do not satisfy. I want and need a full spectrum of intimacy with one person. This is not a head game, but a heart game.

Be peaceful. Give yourself ten minutes with no distractions to look at something beautiful and feel at one with it.

My warmest regards,

Jim

After many somewhat successful and just as many unsuccessful web site acquaintances, I became suspicious of men who wanted to play pen pal for more than three or four e-mails. Jim’s notes read like old-fashioned love letters, and, although I was drawn to them I enthusiastically accepted his invitation to call me.

During our first introductory conversation, his proposition, Can I fly to Orlando and buy you lunch? came with internet speed. Infatuated by his gesture, I blurted Yes without a second thought. Seconds later, a confirmation swooped into my inbox.

To: Karen Pinney

From: Jim Hockings

Subject: Another Intro

Date: August 13, 2011 6:15:03 pm EDT

I am thrilled to be meeting you for lunch in two Fridays. I liked your voice on the phone.

As an afterthought, I must clarify. I was sixty-five years old, an overworked executive director in an assisted living community, and the mother of a handsome thirty-one-year-old man. As a single parent for all but two of my son’s birthdays, my life had been a turmoil of failed marriages, unrequited relationships, challenging career opportunities and personal survival. Based on the futility of my earlier choices, my friends thought I should have abandoned my dreams of companionship years ago, but I was convinced that I could and would have one heart stopping, successful relationship before I was too old to remember it.

The tall man about to enter my life was two years younger. I will see you in only sixteen hours, sleep deprived and airline rumpled, but smiling as if." By all statistics and the AARP charts we were seniors. But today, I was more nervous than I was the day my parents left me stranded at the door of my college dormitory.

I stretched my neck to see over the crowd, and my heart stopped. Sauntering slowly, his long legs moving as fluidly as a dancer and as beautiful as I’d pictured him, was Jim Hockings. Standing tall, his shoulders straight, his eyes canvassed the area for me.

Your Jim, as he signed each loving e-mail, was dressed in a loose-fitting black cotton, short-sleeved shirt, black flat front straight legged trousers, and black tassel loafers. On his head, cocked forward, sat a light straw Ernest Hemingway fedora, a narrow black grosgrain band trimming the brim.

I stepped forward to set myself apart from the crowd of cargo shorts, sundresses, and open-collared golf shirts. He spotted me and stopped dead still. Our eyes met across the bobbing heads and waving arms, and for a split second, we were the only two people inside the Orlando airport—a movie shot of lovers in focus, the background menagerie conveniently blurred by Photoshop.

He continued toward me, slowly and confidently. I felt the gap close between us, and for a millisecond, it crossed my mind: if I were a swooning damsel rather than an active pro-feminist, I might faint.

We stood face to face. There was no awkward moment, no hesitation. I walked boldly toward him, slid my arms around his neck, and stretched to meet his height. Tauntingly, I whispered in his ear, Hi, I’m Onlysize2.

His arms wrapped around my waist. He pulled me into him. An immediate rush of synergistic energy sizzled between us, and the lucidity of time stopped.

Our mission, if we chose to call it that, was to have lunch. A fortyish-looking waitress, her hair pulled into a short ponytail, her navy logoed polo shirt tucked into camel pants, steered us to a four seater near an empty bar. We’d agreed upon the Airport Marriott Café on the outskirts of the terminal. Its location provided an easy escape if this rendezvous turned sour. Jim could buy a return ticket back to London, and I, of course, could retrace my steps back to the parking lot.

Jim pulled out a chair near the wall. He offered me a seat and scooted into the one beside me. He grabbed my right hand with his left, and began playing with my fingers one by one like a child learning to count. The heat of his body flushed my cheeks and sweat began to bead on my forehead. I looked up embarrassed. Our waitress, two tall glasses of water in her hand, stared at us, her obvious amusement written across her face.

I flew from Canada to have lunch with this beautiful woman, Jim blurted. I’ve known her for less than five minutes, and I’ve fallen in love.’’

The women answered with a patronizing he’s pulling my leg smile, but I knew better.

When she was out of earshot, Jim twisted in his seat to look at me, his expression resembling a kid who had just pilfered a sucker from the candy store. He deliberately slid his arm along the back of my chair.

His eyes widened as his chest inflated with a long slow deep breath. Gathering his courage, he spewed the words ‘I’ve been married three times’ with his exhale. The words, out in the open, floated between us. Relief shone on his face. His secret was out, but he glared at me…wary of my reaction.

I didn’t say a word. I studied his features from brow to chin, enjoying his obvious awkwardness.

Three times? I repeated.

Yes, he answered.

His eyes begged me to end his agony. I maliciously prolonged my answer. Then, without a twinge of guilt, I leveled my face so close to his our noses nearly collided. I said, very slowly without smiling, Meeeee toooooo.

For a second, as if he were translating my answer into a second language, he said nothing. Then he laughed out loud, a full, from-the-gut belly laugh. Jubilant the jury had found him not guilty, he leaned over and kissed me slowly, sweetly and gently on the lips—a rock star kiss that made my head spin.

We each drank a tall cold Yuengling and shared a plate of seared ahi tuna. Jim paid our check with a generous tip for our waitress for her tongue-in-cheek discretion.

I haven’t made any plans in London for the weekend. Are you busy? I could get a room at a Motel 6 if you want to continue this date, he said demurely,

In my head, Of course not, stupid. I’ve been waiting for you all my life. Why on God’s earth would you think I made other plans? I looked away, afraid my face revealed my delight.

Feigning nonchalance I offered, I have a guest room which you are welcome to use, but— And then I felt my cheeks blush. Setting boundaries at our age seemed foolish, but he read my mind and courted me playfully with his eyes. Yes, I promise to stay in the guest room.

Once we left the cocoon of the airport, our nerves began to falter, and the first-date jitters soon replaced our beer-induced self-confidence. At my conventional home in a South Orlando suburb, I marched Jim to the guest room. I muttered the appropriate instructions and hastily retreated to my bedroom. My heart was racing, and the excuse to change offered time to collect my wits.

Safely inside, I felt a surge of slaphappy giddiness. I pulled on a pair of new, made-to-look-old, cut-off jeans, and tugging up the zipper, I danced a jig like a receiver who had just caught a long pass in the end zone. I slipped a silk low cut blouse over my head, sucked in a brave breath, and rushed to the TV room. Jim, now in khaki shorts and a blue print shirt, stood by the double door. To my surprise, he had a black a professional oversize camera in his hand.

I thought it odd that he wanted to take my picture before he had unpacked or toured the house or the usual things that visitors do. He ignored my protests.

Scoot to the corner of the couch, he urged. He moved my arms, adjusted my legs, and tilted my head. Unconsciously, he molted into the artist admired by thousands of clients who booked his services months ahead of time.

Looking back, I suspect that Jim’s Canon with the three-inch lens was the bulletproof vest that protected him through a personal skirmish with self-doubt. Poised and self-assured, the familiar role of the photographer counter balanced the jitters of the new boyfriend dumped in the middle of the orange groves, somewhere in central Florida.

The ice broken, we glowed like fireflies and blended like love bugs. It was late August in Florida—the least attractive time of year for visitors. Foregoing the familiar tourist attractions, I sat captivated on my red leather couch. Jim sitting sideways, his legs swung over the arm, settled in the tan oversized chair across from me.

My father built our house in Peru, mostly by himself. My uncles and some of his friends hooked up the electricity. Living only fifty miles west of Chicago, he found plenty of nearby tradesmen willing to finish the stuff that required licenses. Like a bungalow, it was small—two bedrooms, small living room and dining area. The kitchen was large, and we ate all our meals at the hinged leaf dinette table.

Was your mom a good cook?

Let’s just say, she was better than you. And he shot me a playful wink.

My mother and my father had the sort of marriage I always wanted. They were drawn to each other physically. My father was conspicuously affectionate, frequently caressing her shoulder or brushing her behind. Somehow though, I wasn’t a part of that. My mom was unbearably nasty and acidy. I assume that she loved me, but growing up, she nipped at me like I was an irritating appendage. No matter what I did, it never suited her. After therapy and reading the words of the self-help gurus, I realize now the things she said were cruel, but in my child’s mind, I thought it was because I wasn’t good enough.

The tone of his voice didn’t change, but his eyes softened with an underlying fondness. My dad taught me how to use a shot gun when I was about fifteen. On the weekends, after the leaves had cluttered the ground, we’d tromp through the woods, the foliage so thick we could only shuffle. We’d hunt squirrels. I never really shot one, but I looked forward to spending the one-on-one time with him. His brow furrowed. But of course, when I was playing football in school, he never once showed up at a game.

They are both dead; my mom died of lung cancer from smoking two packs a day, and my father died in a nursing home after cancer metastasized to his brain. She was eighty-eight, but he was only fifty-nine.

He stood, loped to the fridge in two strides, grabbed two beers, snapped the tops, handed one to me. He scooted back into his chair, took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

I took my first picture with a Kodak Brownie. I was ten. My mom, hanging clothes on a line in the backyard, didn’t notice I escaped. I hightailed it to the park, and once I began snapping photos I couldn’t stop. The shadows through the trees fascinated me, and I snapped until I ran out of film.

There was no money to develop film. I fashioned a crude dark room, behind an old shower curtain, in the corner of the basement without windows. For some odd reason, my mom let me do it—I’m not sure why. Maybe because I was out of her hair. Anyway, the shelf along the one wall was wide enough for my chemicals, but I was too short to reach it.

I salvaged in the garage and found a dusty milk crate under a stack of tools. I confiscated it to add the few extra inches I needed. I filled an old battered set of metal cake tins that I’d bought with my allowance at the thrift store, with the used chemicals the old guy at the camera store had given me. With help from a book from the library, I developed my first role of film. The images just sort of appeared onto the photo paper out of nowhere. Mostly, I was thankful my Mom never came down there, and I was safe, sheltered in my own little space.

Listening, I pictured Jim teetering on the square, waffle-patterned box. A curly tow-headed child, leaning and stretching to reach his pans, sliding the photo paper from one tray of liquid to the next.

London has been kind to me. It’s no secret why I went there. I refused to die in Vietnam for a controversial political cause. The US wouldn’t accept that I was a conscientious objector, so off I went. For many years my photography business thrived, and I was a good-sized fish in a small pond. The onset of digital photos, and the insanely low price of the new cameras, took a big bite out of my earnings. I couldn’t wait for the ax to fall, so I set aside a flat sum of money and glued my butt to the chair to write a book and a series of novelettes. I’m now a budding author marketing my newest book.

In London, I have friendships streaming back to the first year I was there. The only thing I covet and haven’t seemed to find is the love of a good woman—he paused to emphasize the words good woman—and succeed in a marriage as fulfilling as the one my parents appeared to have.

His eyes turned toward me, announcing it was my turn. Nestled in the corner of the red couch, facing him, propped upright with throw pillows, I stretched my legs full length along the sticky leather. Tentatively, I exposed my feelings of inadequacy as the fat girl in grade school, and I recanted the pain from a horrifying experience in college.

My hefty shape and my social ineptitude scared away a Sigma Nu pledge, who had been a blind date arranged by my college roommate. The rather good-looking young frat guy, his glass full of beer, trundled down the rickety stands to the men’s room at halftime, during a Georgia-Alabama football game. He never returned. I was mortified. I sat alone waiting for the fourth quarter to end in a pocket of giddy, slightly drunk Greek gods and goddesses. Not a soul spoke to me.

Anyway, the following summer, I went home and began the first twenty of my sixty-pound weight loss.

The result was an over obsession with calories.

I had confessed in one of my first e-mails, that I did not cook, nor did I want to cook, nor was I ever going to cook. The reluctance stemmed from my calorie conscious life-style.

Jim had answered, "As long as you are willing to eat, I am willing to cook. If you do not eat, I am in trouble indeed. Yes, I am sure we can find things to share other than cooking tips. He was right. We never touched on how to roast a chicken or how to braise a pork chop. After all, Jim was quick to point out, The world was full of great restaurants."

I related to the friction Jim had with his mother. My mother and I also had a sticky partnership. After I buried her, I spent years in counseling attempting to sort out our differences. I briefly recited a cropped version of my life as a single parent and how I’d pursued a career path that took me to every major city in Florida except Jacksonville. Self-consciously, I admitted that the long-term relationships I had been lucky enough to sustain remained alive through Facebook and other social media platforms.

We discovered our early lives had paralleled malevolently—the only children of parents who demanded that the one egg in their basket be flawless. Like the hamster pedaling the wheel in his cage, our endless cycle to please proved pointless. Jim had compensated by becoming a lifetime performer, never allowing his audience to see or feel deeper than his thespian mask of charm and intellect. I was the recluse whose Ricky Ricardo doll assumed the role of sibling, and the young woman who pursued a career without cultivating the friendships that had sustained Jim his entire life.

We confided in each other, peeling the intimate details of our personal lives like the skin off an onion, without reservation and with an unprecedented bond of trust. Seeing no point in crying over milk spilled years ago, the topic ex-spouses—numbers one, two and three, from my son’s father to Jim’s latest (i.e., the previous administration)—didn’t make the top ten list. Bottom line, we were good people who made stupid choices.

With no distractions, except for Raleigh who was so enamored she ate the breath mints in his overnight bag, our wits darted back and forth. We laughed and giggled, and our bellies ached and our sides cramped. For forty-eight hours, we floated on a noninduced high of as if’s—unreserved, honest, and committing.

Between conversations we kissed, and kissed, and kissed some more. I can still feel the flutter of sweet, soft, soul-searching kisses that melted my whole body and fired up his. Jim moaned for months, It was those kisses on the red couch that got me into trouble.

The weekend was over before we blinked. Sunday morning was the time for Jim to hop a flight back to London. Passing the cars on Interstate 4 on the way to the airport where we had met only two days before, Jim broached the topic tumbling fretfully in both our minds—when, where and how soon would we do this again.

Fly to London a week from Friday. I’m shooting a wedding. It’s my last wedding, although my last was my last, but I’m determined to make this next one my last, on Saturday. You can go as my assistant and plus one. I know it doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, ’cause I’ll be busy shooting, but I’d like us to spend as much time as possible exploring the nascent ‘us.’

My heart leapt in my chest. I would have died on the spot had he not committed to another adventure. I shook my head yes, smiling calmly on the outside, but my mind bellowing a fervent Yes, yes, yes—a thousand times, yes on the inside.

Saturday is my birthday.

Good. A prurient grin curled at his lips. I’m sure we can find a way to celebrate. I’d parked behind a line of cars idling at the Delta departure terminal, and there was no time for him to embellish.

He leaned across the seat, and kissed me gently on the mouth. Without a word, he slid out the door. He tugged his bag from the Scion, and through the open window he shouted, I don’t believe in goodbyes. Before I could protest, he turned abruptly and disappeared behind the tinted automatic doors.

I manipulated the busy Orlando traffic blissfully recapturing every touch, every kiss and Jim’s seductive smile. At home at my desk, I logged onto Match.com. I followed the prompts to cancel my subscription, and clicked on Yes when it questioned my intent. Ditching all self-control, I maneuvered to the profile of Sportdog4. My heart, hit dead center by cupid’s arrow, stopped. Jim’s profile had disappeared; Sportdog4 had canceled his membership too.

Part One

Road to Camelot

Chapter 1

The Detroit airport, Michigan’s finest, seemed endless. At a runner’s pace, I hopped from one moving passenger conveyor to the next, passing the myriad of indolent riders aimlessly glued to the rail like careless tourists on a Disney ride. By the time I found baggage claim, I was winded and my legs wobbled as if I had walked Interstate-75 back to Florida. My faded red bag, bulging at the seams, circled the carousel. I seized the tattered handle and heaved it to the floor.

It was Friday afternoon, September 9, 2011, and Jim Hockings (a.k.a. Sportdog4) and I had arranged to meet at Detroit International for our first interlude since our reckless weekend in Orlando three weeks before. Back home, in his cottage in the woods, he’d touched base before unpacking his bag.

From: Jim Hockings

Subject: back here now

Date: August 28, 2011 6:15:03 pm EDT

Dear Karen,

I am still at a loss for words—not really, but I have so much to say that I am afraid of saying it all—all 10,000 words—and then regretting hitting the Send button. This much is true: All is well. With me and with the nascent us.

The exploring won’t be boring.

Your J

Separated by the Eastern United States (the odometer calculates 1000 miles), I didn’t know what to expect from our second meeting. I anticipated the best and feared the worst, and was juggling the jitters between the two. I slowed my steps to inhale a slow, deep, confidence building breath.

During the hiatus, our lengthy, prolific e-mails orbited cyberspace two and three times a day. Like pubertal teenagers, our fingers tapped amorous good morning and good night texts. Our ritual phone calls ate the night away.

From: Jim Hockings

Date: August 31, 2011 6:15:03 PM EDT

Subject: Tonight

Dear Karen,

Thinking and feeling as if we will someday share a full spectrum of intimacy has made a real difference in my perspective and behavior.

J.

From: Jim Hockings

Date: September 1, 2011, 10:27:20 am EDT

Subject: Good morning

Karen,

I realize we both want to communicate with one another, but I also realize we are both sometimes busy and both are introverts. You do not have to answer every e-mail and you do not have to answer my phone call requests in a positive manner every time I text you. I will not feel rejected, and you don’t have to explain yourself