Can a middle-aged, married woman find happiness with a younger man?
When a married woman in her mid-thirties, and a younger man who is engaged to be married become infatuated with each other, they have to do something about it. Was it Cookie's need to find the love she wasn't getting from her husband that initially interested her in Gene? Was it his girlfriend's indifferent attitude toward sex that caused him to become obsessed with the need to make love to his exceptionally attractive neighbor?
It doesn't take long for Cookie and Gene to turn their mutual desires into the most explosive sex either has ever known. And although Cookie is willing to leave her husband for him, Gene is faced with a dilemma. Not only does he not want to break up her family, but he feels obligated to marry Lorraine because he took her virginity. Nevertheless, that doesn't stop them from sneaking off to express their promised undying love for the other as often as they can. But can they stay together? How long can they keep getting away with what they have been doing?
From their first kiss, through the obstacles that must be climbed, and the heartaches that plague them, this story tells of a love that shouldn't have begun. So why did it begin? Can Cookie carry out her threat never to talk to him again if he gets married? Can Gene stop loving her after he is married to an unfaithful wife?
It began on a Friday afternoon. I had just gotten laid off from a construction job that had ended that day and leisurely walked toward my house, which was the last one on the left.
On the following Monday morning, I would go to the union hall for another job. There would, of course, be some grumbling from the laborers who couldn't get jobs or couldn't keep them after a few days of doing as little work as possible. But since I didn't mind giving temporary employers a day's work for a day's pay, I usually got something right away.
Edgar Street is a short, tree lined, dead-end street in Weehawken, a middle-income town in New Jersey. At the end of it, there was a low, concrete wall and a high picket fence, behind which was a water reservoir. Because there wasn't much traffic, children usually played in the street while a few mothers watched them. A few blocks to the east, Boulevard East, the full name of which is John F. Kennedy Memorial Boulevard East, runs along the top of a section of the New Jersey Palisades where one can get a magnificent view of the Hudson River and the skyline of New York City.
I was glad the last day on the job had been an easy one. My girlfriend would probably want to go to a movie that night. Of course, it would have to be up to me to pick one out since she was usually indecisive. But otherwise, Lorraine was okay as far as girlfriends go. What the hell, that would be better than sitting home all night. Making the bar scene with some of my friends wasn't my thing, even though we looked old enough to get served in most of them.
Although our neighborhood was usually quiet, a small group of kids and a woman were standing in front of my driveway. Then I noticed the seven-year-old boy and the worried expression on his mother's face.
“He can't get back over the fence, Gene,” Rickie, the boy who lived directly across the street from me, said when he saw me approaching.
Little Jeffrey was sobbing while standing on a narrow strip of weed covered land at the back of which was a steep incline that led to the top of the reservoir. Luckily, he hadn't climbed the hill and fallen into the water because the sloped, concrete sides were slippery. More than one kid had drowned over the years when he couldn't climb back out.
Although unable to imagine how he had gotten over the high, iron, picket fence, I stepped onto the three-foot-high, concrete wall, put a foot on the horizontal crossbar and lifted myself. I leaned over the pointed, iron pickets, extended my hands and held him in one arm two seconds later. Then I stood him on the sidewalk and looked at his mother comfortingly. “Boys will do things like that,” I said, speaking from experience, and smiled while trying to suppress my interest in her.
“Thank you, Gene,” she said with a hint of timidity in her voice and smiled at me.
I forced myself to look at her face and not lower my gaze to her breasts, which I had often checked out along with the rest of her exquisite body. Cookie had hair the color of golden honey and the most alluring, aqua-blue eyes I'd ever seen. And her complexion was like ripe peaches, the kind that's often described in romance novels. But at that moment, there was a light blush covering the tops of her cheeks.
“That's okay,” I said and went into the house, a two-family dwelling, the second floor and attic of which my family occupied while the first floor was rented.
* * * *
Seeing my mother standing in front of the stove, I slid my hands around her waist, kissed the top of her head and said, “Hi, Mom. What's for dinner?”
I really hadn't had to ask that question. We always ate fish on Fridays. Even though Catholics were no longer restricted from eating meat on Fridays, my mother believed in sticking to the old traditions. Of course, most Catholics still didn't eat meat on Good Friday and Christmas Eve.
“Fish,” she said in a way that suggested I should have known that. “Did you finish your job today?”
“Yeah,” I said while pouring a cup of coffee for myself. “I'll go to the union hall Monday and try to get another one. How was your day?”
“Good.” She rinsed the spatula off, laid it on the counter next to the stove and said, “Another day, another dollar,” in lightly accented Italian.
Since that was part of our regular afternoon routine, we talked for about ten minutes before I finished my coffee, washed the cup, put it into the drain board and went into the bathroom to take a shower.