My Favorite Mistake. Stephanie Bond
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feeling that I was looking at someone I’d known for years. Yet…did I really know him?
In hindsight, I’d known little about Redford when I’d married him—beyond his sexual prowess. A sudden stab of desire struck my midsection, but I closed my eyes against it.
During those few days with Redford in Las Vegas, I had been a different person, wanton and hedonistic…a bona fide nymphomaniac. I don’t know what had come over me…okay, admittedly, Redford had come over me a few times, but I digress. My parents—especially my mother—would be appalled if they knew how I had behaved during that time, and my girlfriends would be shocked. I could scarcely think of it myself without being overcome with shame—nice girls didn’t do the things I’d done with Redford. Especially after knowing the man for mere hours.
At the time, I’d thought that Redford DeMoss, with his chiseled good looks, military manners and tantric sex sessions was the most exotic creature I’d ever encountered. I’d only dated city boys who were competitive and frenzied. Redford’s easy confidence and sexual aura had literally knocked me off my feet. Only later, after I’d returned to New York, did I admit to myself that everything that came out of his sensual mouth—words about down-home cookin’, home-grown lovin’ and small-town livin’—came straight out of a country song. He’d been playing a part—hell, we both had. It was a love-at-first-sight fantasy. We’d had no business getting married.
“Denise?”
I blinked myself back to the present and stared at Barry, who was staring at me. “Huh?”
He frowned and rubbed one of his eyes. “I asked if I left any of my allergy medicine at your place. If not, maybe we should backtrack to my apartment.”
While I had been winding down memory lane, the traffic had begun to unravel. I was suddenly eager to get home—to my cozy apartment, not to Barry’s sterile condo. “You left your toiletry bag at my place when you came back from L.A. Are your allergies acting up?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding toward my new coat. “I think it’s the wool.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem,” he said. “By the way, I noticed your new outfit. Good job.”
“Thank you,” I said, unsure whether or not he’d just paid me a compliment.
He squinted in my direction. “Did you cut your hair?”
“Um, no…I left it down.”
“Oh. It looks…mussed. It’s a different look for you.”
I laughed. “I guess you’ll feel like you’re making love to a different woman tonight.”
“Yeah.” Except he didn’t laugh.
While I pondered my state of mind and general mental health, Barry’s cell phone rang—a crisis at the station—and he remained on the call through parking the car near my apartment, the walk thereto, and the walk therein, rubbing his watery eyes intermittently. Still talking, he headed for the bathroom, presumably in search of his allergy medicine. I scooped up the mail that had been pushed through the door slot and tossed it on the end table, then went to the kitchen to fix coffee for endurance (I was still feeling optimistic).
Listening to the distant murmur of Barry’s voice, I watched the coffee drip and gave myself a stern pep talk (no fantasizing about other men—i.e., Redford—while making love this time), and, to my credit, I’d managed to work up a pretty good lust by the time I carried a tray with two cups of coffee to the bedroom.
Not that it mattered. Barry lay sprawled across the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his cell phone closed in his limp hand. His toiletry bag lay open next to him—the allergy medicine had apparently kicked in rather quickly. I retraced my steps to the living room and drowned my disappointment in my coffee, which was a mistake, since it left me wide awake.
I found a grainy old movie on television and settled back with a cushion across my stomach. But my mind, as it is wont to do in the wee hours, spun into isolated corners of my psyche, stirring up depressing questions. Was Barry the one, or was I simply pinning all my expectations on him and our sexual friendship? Was my soul mate still out there somewhere, waiting for me to materialize? And the most depressing question of all: What if Redford DeMoss had been my one true love?
I brought the cushion to my face and exhaled into it. I knew I had hit rock-bottom lonely when I started thinking about Redford. He was a brief, distant episode in my life…a mistake. The speedy annulment only spared us both more grief and circumvented the inevitable split when he returned from the Gulf. And for me, it helped to gloss over the humiliation of having married someone like Redford. We were such polar opposites, and a quickie marriage in Las Vegas was so, so unlike me. At hearing the news, my friends had been, in a word, stunned. No—flabbergasted would be a more apt description. And my sweet, loving parents who lived in Florida…well, I’d never quite gotten around to telling them.
Similarly, there had never been a good time to tell Barry.
My face burned just thinking about it…and Redford. He had been insatiable in bed, with the endurance of a marathoner. I cast a glance toward the bedroom where the sound of Barry’s soft snores escaped, and felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t fair to him that I compared the two of them in that regard. Redford had been on leave from the Gulf—he probably would’ve humped a picket fence. Although if we hadn’t bumped into each other, he would’ve had no problem finding another willing partner. A compelling figure in his dress blues, Redford had oozed sex appeal—in and out of uniform. I closed my eyes, recalling my first memory of him.
I had been standing in line to check in to the Paradisio hotel in Vegas, fretting over Cindy’s late arrival, when a tall, lone officer had walked in. He must have drawn all the energy from the room, because I remember suddenly having trouble breathing. The manager had offered him expedited service to circumvent the long line, but Redford had refused special treatment. I couldn’t take my eyes off him—his broad shoulders had filled the uniform jacket, his posture proud, but his expression relaxed and friendly. My body had vibrated as if I’d been strummed, every cell had strained toward him. He’d caught me looking and winked. Mortified at my uncharacteristic behavior, I’d looked away. But later, we had found each other again.
And again…and again…and again…
I gave myself a shake to dispel my destructive train of thought. Great sex did not a relationship make—as evidenced by my short-lived marriage.
Forcing my mind elsewhere, I picked up my mail from the end table, hoping the caffeine would wear off soon.
There were lots of credit card offers, which I immediately ripped into small pieces, just as I advised my clients to do. There was an appointment reminder from my OB/GYN for a few weeks from now—yippee. There were bills, of course, and several useless catalogs. There was a thank-you note from Kenzie and Sam for a gift I’d sent for their log cabin in upstate New York. A postcard from my folks from their seniors’ tour in England—they were having a good time, although Dad missed cold beer. And there was a long manila envelope—I squinted—from the Internal Revenue Service?
I studied the address: Mr. and Mrs. Redford DeMoss. My heart lurched crazily, followed by relief. This was obviously some sort of mistake. Redford and I had filed taxes once because our abbreviated marriage had spanned the end of a calendar year. I had filled out the forms myself because I’d wanted to make sure they were done properly (and economically).
Still, my hands were unsteady as I tore open the envelope, and slid out the letter written on heavy bonded paper. I skimmed the words, barely seeing the print. I was familiar with the form letter—in my line of work as a financial planner, I’d seen this same letter dozens of times, only not directed toward me.
Redford and I, it seemed, were being audited.
4
FOR AN HOUR I WAS NUMB. Alternately I stared at and reread the IRS letter commanding me and Redford to appear ten days hence, bearing proof that