Taking Chances Pt. 2 free porn video

Catherine barely made the six-forty-five and was glad it wasn’t as crowded as the earlier train. She sat down in her usual seat just as the train bolted forward, then picked up speed. Catherine looked at her reflection in the dark window as the train rattled and wobbled, her mind barraged with thoughts of what had just happened, her emotions swirling, as the realization that she had cheated on Martin hit, filling her with both horror and a painful sadness, as if something cherished had been broken or lost and was now gone forever. Nothing would ever be the same. She was excited about Tom, the newness, the strangeness, but she wondered where this relationship was heading, if anywhere? What did she want and how would she face Martin?

She looked up at the people sitting around her—a heavy-set black woman wearing green scrubs from the hospital, a woman fishing through her pocketbook, taking out a stick of gum, a girl texting, a woman, close to her own age, sitting across from her, reading a book. Catherine wondered if she looked as old as that woman, seeing the wrinkles, the pale flabby skin, dry gray hair, no lipstick, I hope I look younger than she does, she muttered to herself and realized she wanted to feel young again, wanted Tom to think she was sexy and beautiful, and she wondered if she should again try to lose some weight. She looked at the conductor walking down the aisle, punching tickets then heard the computerized female voice saying, “Girard Street Station, a wheelchair accessible station, doors are opening.”

Finally, she got off the train at her station and dashed up the steps to the parking lot. She found her maroon Subaru and drove the familiar route to her house, glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard, realizing she had twenty minutes before Martin would be home. She wondered if he had tried calling and got the answering machine, and what he would think if she wasn’t home to answer the phone. She was glad she didn’t have a cell phone.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Tom and how he had made love to her, how she felt sneaking off to his apartment, how suddenly her life had changed. Did she want it to happen again, or should she stop and not shake up her life with an affair? She never thought she would become an adulterer, and the thought of hurting Martin if he ever found out swelled in her heart and her mind. Where was all of this heading? Where did she want it to go? She didn’t know. All she knew was how confused, frightened and exhilarated she felt. When she pulled into her driveway and parked in front of the closed garage door, she sat there, not moving, looking at her house, the memory of Tom’s small apartment flashing in her mind, the carved animals and the way she felt in his arms. She took a deep breath, opened her car door and entered her house and went straight to the kitchen and filled the white teakettle. A nice cup of mint tea is what I need, she thought and glanced up at the clock and realized she would be facing Martin in ten minutes or so. Could she act normal, now that her life had suddenly changed? She wondered if she could live in the two realms of existence: her life with Martin and what might be her life with Tom?

She was suddenly a wreck of emotions, trying to stay calm as she waited for Martin, wondering what she could fix him when he got home. She remembered the tuna casserole she’d made for dinner last night; there was still some left that she could microwave and she felt relieved it would not be much of a hassle to serve that. The teapot whistled and she poured the water over her mint tea bag, dunking it in and out as it brewed, then sighed, looking up at the clock again before taking the cup to the table. She savored the first sip just as the front door opened.

“Hello, dear, I’m home,” he called then entered the kitchen. He put his briefcase down, and kissed her on the head in the same spot where he kissed her every night.

“Hello, my love, how are you, how was your day? Anything exciting happen?” he asked while taking off his suit jacket and folding it neatly over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Is anything new?” he asked, not waiting for her to answer any of the previous questions.

She often wondered if he really cared since those were the same questions he automatically asked every night when he came home, but she answered. “I’m fine. Nothing is new. Work was good, nothing special—an ordinary day,” she lied, holding down the excitement she felt, and trying to keep the ordinary realm of her marriage away from the new realm she had entered that day.

“Would you like me to heat up the tuna casserole from last night?”

“Yes, that would be nice. I’m hungry.” He sat down at the table and picked up the newspaper from the chair where he had left it at breakfast.

Realizing that she was also hungry, she got up and took the casserole out of the refrigerator, placing it in the microwave. While it was heating up, she took two plates from the cabinet and brought silverware and napkins to the table, still feeling exhilarated, but appearing calm and efficient. After three minutes or so, she took the casserole from the microwave, prepared two plates with the tuna and noodles and brought them to the table, placing Martin’s in front of him. Then somehow, she bent down to kiss his head and gently touched his shoulder before sitting down across from him.

“Thank you, dear.” He smiled at her, then picked up the newspaper and began reading, while she sat and looked at him, enjoying for a moment the comfort of their familiarity. She took a bite and looked at him reading and wished he would talk to her and not read the paper. She started to ask him to stop reading and talk to her, but hesitated. She didn’t want to have to ask him to be with her, to talk to her, to look at her. She wanted him to want to and it hurt like a thud on her heart to know he’d rather read. Then she remembered how passionate Tom was when he was writing in the park. How he’d challenged her with his questions in the café, his bluntness, his smile, the twinkle in his eyes and she found herself comparing the two men who were now in her life. She watched Martin reading, taking bites of his tuna and noticed how he narrowed his eyes as he read, then looked at the few gray hairs coming from his earlobe. She watched how he turned the page, folding it back and continued reading, not looking up at her. She sighed and nibbled at her dinner.

As the weeks passed, the contrast between her life with Martin and her life with Tom became increasingly dramatic. Catherine found it challenging to balance the two, but managed to keep her two worlds apart. At home with Martin, they had breakfast together before he left, kissing her on the head then driving his Volvo to his office in Norristown, while Catherine left fifteen minutes later, driving her Subaru to the Chestnut Hill train station to catch the train and go downtown. She would take the ten minute walk to her office, enjoying the park, and always glancing at the bench where Tom and she first met, but now she would rush to his apartment at lunchtime for a quick, passionate rendezvous, or meet him at the café, or take a walk through the park, though that made her nervous, not wanting to be seen by any of her friends.

Martin and Catherine spent their evenings together when he didn’t have meetings, she reading one of her romance novels, he, either watching the news on TV, or doing the crossword puzzle. They met friends for dinner, or an occasional movie, and he always asked if she wanted tea, or would she like him to massage her shoulders. They often took turns doing that. He would massage her and then she would massage him. In bed they cuddled and she loved how tender he could be, but it was different from the way Tom held her and kissed her, at first gently, but then passionately, and she loved Tom’s imagination when they made love, unlike the familiar routine that she and Martin had.

She was confused and tried not to feel guilty for her adultery, sometimes thinking she should try to save their marriage. She wondered if she should do things that would make Martin know she wanted to have fun with him, wanted to revive the romance they once shared, do something that would make her hold onto her marriage of thirty-four years and forget Tom.

For a few weeks, she made delicious dinners on Saturday nights; dishes she knew were his favorites: sweet and sour meatballs, eggplant parmesan, chocolate cake with raspberry jam between the layers, or her special carrot cake, served with vanilla ice cream.

She brought home different wines to try, cabernet, chardonnay, even buying Muscatti, the Italian red wine they always had on their anniversary dates at the Avalon. She lit candles, put on the old Frank Sinatra records they used to listen to. She changed her clothing, wearing low cut blouses that revealed her cleavage, put on perfume. She tried starting conversations, often reminiscing, or suggesting things they could do, where they could go for vacation. Martin listened, smiling, enjoying these evenings in his mild-mannered way, responding to her conversation, sitting back in his chair and always saying, “This is nice,” or “dinner was delicious, thank you.”

Then, after coffee, he would help clear the table, put the dishes in soapy water to be washed later. She would kiss him on the cheek as they stood next to the sink, wishing he would grab her, kiss her, do something that made her feel he wanted her, loved her, but after a few minutes, he would walk back to their den, put on the television to watch the baseball game, then after the game, the eleven o’clock news, while Catherine knitted or read one of her novels. From time to time, she would glance over at Martin, then take a deep breath and release a heavy, weary, painful sigh.

She knew that Tom used Viagra, something that Martin would never consider, but it definitely made a difference in how hard Tom got and how long he could last. He did things that enhanced their lovemaking, introducing some role-playing, sometimes holding her arms above her head, pinning her hands, gripping her fingers, looking down into her eyes, his mouth inches from her breathless mouth, saying, “you’re mine,” making her feel captured and possessed like the lovers in her romance novels. Sometimes he would come up behind her, pushing her against the wall, his hands grabbing her pussy, grinding his hard cock against her ass, or he would spread her legs, getting his mouth on her pussy, licking and lapping—something Martin never did.

Tom was an adventurous, energetic lover, playful, daring, always finding new ways to surprise Catherine. She loved when he teased her, moving his cock up and down her wet pussy then pulling away, just as she was on the verge of exploding, driving her crazy, making her wilder. She even liked when he talked dirty to her, calling her names, and even though she knew it was playing, it made her shout names back at him, and she loved the wildness and feeling of being possessed. She liked feeling as if she was living one of her fantasies, except this was real. This was Tom making passionate love to her.

Suddenly, she felt youthful, like her life was beginning all over again and she adored Tom’s youthful, passionate spirit, and realized that getting old was more a state of mind than age itself. Tom was still playful and exuberant, and it made her feel young and alive. She was in love.

They found ways to meet and go bicycling through the state park, go swimming in the lake, lying on the beach, laughing, having a picnic. On nights that Martin had a meeting or was out of town, she would stay at Tom’s. She liked the smell of his corncob pipe when he smoked it, sitting in the blue chair after dinner. She loved watching him reading or sitting at his desk, writing.

One weekend when Martin was out of town, Tom rented a cabin in the mountains and they made love on the floor in front of the fireplace and he chased her through the woods, both of them naked, and they made passionate love on a grassy hill. Though he was sixty-seven and she had just turned fifty-six in February, they were like teenagers and she was living in a way she’d always imagined and dreamed of. She knew she was madly in love with Tom, wanting to spend more and more time with him.

When she was home with Martin, their evenings were pleasant and comfortable and she knew she loved him, cared about him, but now understood on a visceral level the difference between loving someone and being in love. Martin was a dear man, still, in many ways, her best friend. They shared so much history and even returned to the Avalon Bistro for their thirty-fifth anniversary and laughed as they reminisced and clicked glasses with the owners, who treated them, as usual, to a glass of the Muscatti, their favorite wine. But still, when she looked at Martin, she didn’t feel the way she felt when she looked at Tom, never felt the thrill when they greeted each other. She loved laying her head on Tom’s shoulder after they made love, talking, laughing, cuddling and feeling close. She loved hearing what he was writing and how he read to her, the warmth of his voice, and even when they were quiet in the same room, her heart melted and a warm tingle swelled in her, the same warmth she’d felt when they first met. It came like a warm wave washing over her. Increasingly, it got harder and harder for her to go home to Martin.

Though she was able to maintain the tranquility of her marriage and knew that Martin had no idea she was having an affair, it was something that actually bothered Catherine. She wished he wasn’t so blind or indifferent to how she now dressed for work, or how she spent more time away, or how she avoided him in bed, though they still made love occasionally. She knew it wasn’t the same and that Martin didn’t realize it. Again, she wished he was more tuned into her. She also wanted to spend more and more time with Tom, and ever since that first afternoon in his apartment, she’d felt she was living a lie and knew she was betraying her vows to Martin. She was an adulterer and hated feeling guilty and selfish for wanting to be with Tom every chance she got.

More and more she felt trapped and frightened of hurting Martin, but the tangled emotions she was feeling were growing tighter, hurting her, strangling her. She felt tense, her mind filled with confused thoughts and she would stare out the window, or up at the ceiling wondering what she should do. She knew she could not continue living this lie, and that she was inevitably heading towards a confrontation that would be the hardest thing she would ever have to do—tell Martin she was in love with another man and had been having an affair for well over a year.

Many times, she discussed her dilemma with Tom and he listened to her, nodding, but would not give her advice. He would ask, wisely, what did she want to do and she would say she didn’t know and he would nod and say, “I understand how hard this is for you, but it’s hurting you, driving you crazy. What are you going to do about it?” And when she asked, “what should I do?” still, he would not tell her. “You have to decide. You have to choose.”

One Saturday, when Melissa was at the house, she apparently noticed how distant her mother was, sitting at the table, stirring her tea, looking deep into her cup, preoccupied, quiet. “Mom, something is bothering you. I can tell. What’s going on?”

Catherine looked at her daughter, wondering if she should tell the truth. She was unsure how Melissa would react to her fifty-six year old mother telling her she was in love with a man other than her father, how she had been having an affair for over a year, how the lie she was living was festering like an infected sore. She didn’t want to say anything that would upset her daughter, even felt embarrassed, but knew she had to say something, change something, or she would not be able to endure the pain she had been swallowing. She got up and poured more hot water into her cup, twisted the teabag around her spoon then sat down at the kitchen table, gripping her mug and decided to tell Melissa everything.

“Melissa, I have something to tell you. This is hard for me to say.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes then looked at her. “I’ve been having an affair for over a year with someone I love.”

“Really? A year?” Melissa’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, it’s something I never expected, but I met this wonderful man in the park last fall. His name is Tom. His wife was killed in an accident, but they didn’t have a good marriage.”

“Mom, I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“I don’t believe it either.”

Melissa sat back in her chair, gripping her mug. “I don’t know what to say.”

“The day we met in the park, it was fall and we threw leaves all over each other. We had just met. I saw him writing. I found him fascinating and we have fun, we go camping, we ride bikes, he makes me feel young again.”

“That’s great Mom, really.”

Melissa’s approval encouraged her to keep talking, getting it all out. “I love your father, but I’m not in love, do you know what I mean?”

“Of course I know what you mean.”

“I can’t stand not being with Tom, but I’m afraid to hurt your father. I don’t know what to do.”

“Go for it, Mom. You have to follow your heart.”

“Are you serious? I don’t want to hurt him. He’s your father.”

“I know, but Mom, you’re hurting yourself. I know it sounds selfish, but you can’t do this to yourself.”

“It would devastate him to know I’m in love with someone else.”

“I know,” Melissa responded. “I know how hard it is. I did it to Michael when I fell in love with Jonathan. It was one of the hardest things I ever did, but I felt I was living a lie.”

“That’s what I feel. It’s horrible. I want to be with Tom, but I don’t want to hurt your father.”

“Are you going to be a martyr?” her daughter asked, pausing, taking a deep breath. “Mom, you have to tell him. Listen, you only have one life, you have to take a chance and go after what you want and need.”

Somehow having Melissa’s approval helped her know what she should do. “Aren’t you upset at how Dad will feel when I tell him I’m in love with another man and want to be with him?”

“Of course, I know it will devastate Dad,” Melissa said. “But he’s a grown man. He’ll have to deal with it. He’s not the first man this has happened to. It’s up to him how he handles it.”

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Catherine said. “I love your dad and don’t want to hurt him.”

“But you’re hurting yourself, Mom. Listen, you only have one life, you have to take a chance and live it and be happy before it’s too late.”

“That’s what Tom said, ‘You have to take chances.’”

“He’s right and he sounds like a great guy. I’m happy for you. I can see Dad is not there a lot of the time and cares more about his work and watching the news than he does for you. It’s obvious to me. I love him, but the truth is, he’s oblivious. It’s even hard for me to talk to him.”

When Melissa left, Catherine knew she had to tell Martin what was happening, and even though she dreaded what he would do or say, she made up her mind that she would tell him that night.

She called Tom and told him how Melissa had responded and that she was going to tell Martin and how frightened she was. All Tom said was, “I love you” which she understood was his way of encouraging her, letting her know he would be there for her and knew how difficult it would be to tell Martin she was leaving him.

Martin was out running errands, getting new batteries for his flashlight, picking up clothes at the dry cleaners, getting a haircut. He would be home soon.

After rinsing the dishes, putting them in the drain board, Catherine stood at the sink staring out the window at her backyard, seeing the red maple leaves on the small patio and on the barbecue grill which now was covered with a green tarp. Her mind was wondering if she could actually do it, what would she say. How would he react , she wondered, would she be able to stay calm and not cry? She knew he was having heart issues and was taking medication. The doctor didn’t think it was too serious, told him to cut down on the ice cream, but it occurred to Catherine that the shock might trigger something and knew she had to be careful not to upset him too much, though she couldn’t imagine he would take the news lightly. She found herself having an imaginary conversation with Martin. They would be sitting at the kitchen table. She would bring him a cup of tea. Should she take his hand, speak softly, gently? Or, just say, ‘Martin, I have something to tell you’ and just bluntly blurt it out, straightforward and direct—the way Tom was with her, a trait she admired but wasn’t sure she could emulate.

That night, she made a pasta dish with a red meat sauce, garlic bread, and a salad. Martin said it was delicious and how much he appreciated all the good meals she made.

Catherine liked that he complimented her when she made a good meal, or brought home a special dessert from the bakery; however, this night it was hard for her to have a conversation while they ate. She stared down at her plate, nibbled at her food, glancing up at Martin twirling the pasta on his fork, closing his eyes when he raised it to his mouth, savoring the taste. When they finished eating, she took his plate, put water in the teapot and asked if he would like some mint tea or the Earl Grey he often drank.

“Either’s fine,” he said, sitting back in his chair and picking up the magazine he had had been reading earlier. He thumbed through it then stopped and glanced at Catherine. “I’ve been reading this article about climate change and how they think there’s going to be more severe storms. What do you think?”

Catherine’s mind was swirling with what she was about to do and didn’t respond. Martin looked up, “Catherine, what do you think?”

“About what?” Catherine responded, turning to Martin. “What do I think about what?”

“Climate change, do you think it’s changing?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know what I think,” she said, pouring the water over the tea bags, the string and labels hanging over the edges of the mugs as she brought them to the table. “Here’s the Earl Grey,” she said, placing the mug in front of Martin and sitting down. She took a deep breath and looked at him reading the article.

“Martin, I have something to tell you.” She sat straight in her chair and cleared her throat.

He shoved the magazine aside, patting it and looked at Catherine. “What is it? I’m all ears.”

She took a deep breath, dreading his response, “Martin, I’m having an affair with a man I have come to love.”

She saw his eyes widen, his mouth open, his body stiffen, as if he had been stabbed with a blunt pole, taking the wind out of him.

“Catherine,” he blurted out.

“Oh Martin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you, but I had to tell you. It’s been going on for over a year.” She reached for his hand, wanting to hold it, but he immediately pulled his hand away.

She reached for his hand again, “Please, hear me out, Martin. I love you. You’re a wonderful man, a wonderful husband, but I met this man completely by accident and I didn’t want this to happen but it did. I’m in love with him and he’s in love with me.”

Martin shook his head from side to side with a stunned look on his face, his mouth open. Finally he spoke, “Are you serious? You’ve been having an affair for over a year?” He paused and closed his eyes, then looked at her as if she suddenly had two heads, “Catherine! What’s gotten into you? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me, nothing. Oh Martin, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you or hurt you. I’m sorry. This is so hard for me. I didn’t mean it to happen.”

“This is crazy. I don’t believe my ears. How could you do this to me?”

“I don’t know. It just happened. I didn’t mean it to happen. I didn’t mean to do anything to hurt you but it happened. It just happened.”

“Things don’t just happen, Catherine,” Martin said, looking at her. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Martin, nothing has gotten into me,” she repeated. “I fell in love. I’m so happy. This is not about you. You’re a wonderful man. I love you. I will always love you, but this is different.”

“Different! What’s different? We have a good marriage. Thirty-five years, a wonderful home. What’s different?” He looked at her, anger darkening his eyes. “God damn it, Catherine, what’s different?” He stood up, pushing the chair back.

“Sit down, Martin. Please.”

“I don’t want to sit down. I want to know what’s different!”

Catherine stood up and went to Martin and tried putting her arms around him, but he shoved her away, staring at her, his face growing red with rage. She knew he had a temper, but it rarely flared up. They hadn’t had a disagreement in months. “Please, let’s talk. Please understand. I love you and didn’t want to hurt you, but I love Tom.”

“Tom!” Martin repeated. “So what’s so different with this Tom?”

“It’s hard to describe, he’s just makes me feel happy, young, even sexy. I don’t know what to say. We have fun. It’s exciting. I feel alive.”

“And you don’t feel alive with me,” Martin said. “Is that it?”

“Martin, I don’t want to compare you with him. You are such a wonderful, good man and so is he. I will always love you, Martin, but I want to be with Tom.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Martin yelled, grabbing the chair and shaking it. Are you losing your marbles?”

“No, I’m not crazy. I’ve fallen in love. I mean, I love you Martin, but I’m not in love anymore. Do you understand? Can you hear what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I hear what you’re saying and no, I don’t understand. I think you must have a screw loose, falling in love at your age. This is nuts.”

Catherine looked at Martin, seeing the rage and confusion in his eyes, his hand gripping the back of the chair and realized there was nothing she could say that would make him understand.

“I’m leaving you, Martin. I can’t say any more. And I didn’t expect you to be happy and say congratulations. I hope you can understand I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing it because I have no choice. I didn’t plan to fall in love. I just did and I want to be happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“Of course I want you to be happy, but not like this. I can’t believe this is happening.”

Catherine didn’t respond. She took a deep breath and went over to Martin, wanting to take him in her arms and soothe him. Seeing him so upset, so hurt, so confused, filled her with anguish. She felt tears coming to her eyes, rolling down her cheek. She put her arms around him, tried holding him close, but felt him tense. “Don’t touch me,” he yelled, shoving her away and leaving the room.

Catherine started to follow him but stopped and let him go. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, feeling she was going to sob but took a deep breath, holding back the urge to cry. She wasn’t sure what to do next, part of her wanting to go to Martin, part of her wanting to call Tom, part of her wanting to fall to the floor, her throat aching from her need to cry, the harsh burning sensation forcing her to shake her head, then swallow. She took another deep breath, trying to gather her strength. That was so hard , she thought, and suddenly started sobbing, shaking, making soft guttural sounds, almost choking on her sobs, the tears rolling down her cheeks, the salty taste on her lips.

After several minutes, she decided to go to her room and pack some things to take with her to Tom’s in the morning. When she walked from the kitchen into the living room, she saw Martin facing the wall, staring. She wanted to go over to him, to touch him, comfort him, but didn’t, afraid of how he might respond. She could see how tense he was, how dark, and she didn’t have the strength to face an outburst. He turned and glared at her, then turned away. She hated how he looked at her. She didn’t want him to be angry, but what could she expect? She had stabbed him in the heart, she knew that, knew that he might never recover from the shock and grief of losing his wife to another man. She hated being the person who had done that to him, but it was inevitable, she knew. She could not continue living a lie, sneaking off to be with her lover, pretending everything was alright with her marriage when what she wanted more than anything was to be with Tom. Sometimes, the pretending hurt so much, it took all of her energy to sit with Martin at night after dinner, or go shopping with him, as if everything was normal. Being with him and thinking about Tom was excruciating. For months she had dreaded the thought of telling Martin the truth.

She remembered the beginning of her affair, trying to do things to revive her marriage, bring romance back, the special dinners, the Frank Sinatra, dressing seductively, hoping she could forget Tom, but the more Martin stayed Martin, the more she knew nothing would change. Still, the thought of hurting him was more than she could bear. She knew she was hurting herself. She had to face reality and do something. Talking to Melissa earlier made her even more certain. Though she felt relieved to finally tell him the truth, she knew hurting Martin, devastating him, was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

She knew that in most marriages when there was a break-up, the man left the house and got an apartment, leaving everything to the wife, but this was different. She didn’t want Martin to have to leave his home. She was the one who wanted to leave the marriage. It didn’t seem right for him to have to find another place. This was simpler. She could live with Tom, maybe find a bigger apartment and, she hoped, eventually, she and Martin would still be friends. She hoped time would heal the fracture, but now, the pain was far too great to know what would happen in the future.

Though they slept in the same bed that night, Martin’s back to hers, and there was no response when she said goodnight. In the morning Martin came into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. She asked if he would like some eggs, but he said, “I’ll make some for myself later,” then went into the living room with his coffee while she sat at the kitchen table, her two suitcases by the front door.

It was a Sunday morning and there was not much traffic when she drove to Tom’s apartment downtown, a forty-five minute drive. It felt strange to realize she was now going to be living in his small apartment, but it was cozy and she liked that Tom always had flowers and was fairly neat and the apartment didn’t feel cluttered. They both liked to cook and she enjoyed standing next to him in the tiny kitchen, cutting vegetables, listening to classical music, sipping wine, stopping to hug each other and kiss, then take a walk through the park, sometimes sitting on the bench where she first saw him.

It didn’t take her long to settle into her new routine. She liked that she could walk the two blocks to work and Gloria and Valerie both admired Catherine’s courage for moving in with Tom. She now shared some of the things they did in bed and liked how the two of them applauded and laughed, calling her a vixen.

“No I’m not,” Catherine responded, but part of her liked that they said that. She liked that Tom called her at work, and before she could say Bronson and McGee, he’d say “I love you” then hang up before she could respond, but then she would do the same thing, impulsively call in the middle of the day and say, “I love you” and hang up.

Occasionally, silly as it seemed, he surprised her by putting toothpaste on her toothbrush in the morning and leaving it there. Catherine would chuckle and loved his little gestures.

When she made trips to the house to get a few things, she made sure Martin was not at home. She was prudent with what she brought back because of the small apartment. She also called Martin each week to see how he was. At first he was monosyllabic and she could feel his hurt and anger, then after two months or so, he mentioned he was taking a trip to England, partly on business but also a vacation and she was delighted. “Good for you,” she said. “I want to hear all about it when you get back,” and she felt there was a possibility they might be able to stay friends, but he responded, “I doubt I will want to tell you about it” and she realized he was still angry.

“Are you eating well?” she would ask and he’d answer, “You don’t have to worry about me, Catherine.” He never asked how she was and she’d hang up, sadness welling up in her at the loss of Martin in her life, but still hoping it would change in time. She asked Melissa to spend more time with him, check up on him, which their daughter did, though Catherine was aware of the ambivalent feelings she had towards her father. He did bring her gifts when she was little and she probably had some fond memories, but as she got older, she complained about him being aloof and critical of the way she dressed and some of her friends and choices she made when what she wanted from him was to feel accepted and not judged.

One night, she and Tom were in bed, cuddling, kissing and things were heating up, when the phone rang and it was Melissa telling her that Martin had a heart attack and was in critical condition at Jefferson Hospital. Melissa was at the hospital with him. “I’ll be right there,” Catherine said and hung up before she turned to Tom. “I have to go,” she said. “Martin’s in critical condition.”

He reached over and hugged her. “Go. You should go.” Catherine appreciated how generous Tom was, not at all jealous; however, just before she left, the phone rang again and it was Melissa telling her, “He died, don’t come.” Catherine heard her daughter’s words, heard her crying, and then burst into hysterical tears, crying, sobbing, gripping the phone. “Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” she screamed, white with shock and gasping.

“I saw this coming, Mom,” Melissa said. “He hadn’t been taking care of himself. He looked terrible.”

“This is my fault. I did this,” Catherine said, shaking her head.

“No you didn’t. Mom, it’s not your fault. You did what you had to.”

When Catherine hung up, she started sobbing again, crying hysterically. Tom held her, rubbing her back, kissing her head, doing all he could to comfort her but didn’t say anything. He just let her cry and feel safe in his arms.

“I broke his heart. This is my fault,” Catherine said, trying to control her crying. “I did this to him. I broke his heart.”

Tom didn’t say anything except, “It’s not your fault. You had nothing to do with his heart attack.” He just held her, knowing this was not the time to analyze what happened, or tell her that Martin had to take charge of his life, get his act together, accept reality. He just wanted to hold and soothe her, but Catherine believed that without her, Martin had nothing to live for, that she took away his happiness. When she said that to Tom the next day, after a restless attempt at sleeping, he again tried to convince her it wasn’t her fault.

“Catherine, you’re not responsible for how he lived after you left him. You weren’t responsible for his happiness.”

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know,” she responded, still feeling grief for the loss of Martin in her life, disappointed that he had remained angry and unforgiving.

At the funeral, dressed in black, standing next to Melissa, holding each other’s hands, they listened to the minister then watched the coffin being lowered into the grave. They were surrounded by their neighbors and friends while Tom stood in back of the small crowd rather than next to Catherine. She was crying, reflecting on their life together, but knew that Tom was right. She was not responsible for Martin’s happiness, or what he did after she left him.

She turned and saw Tom standing next to a tree, thirty or so feet in back of the crowd. Their eyes met and she could feel his love for her, his sadness for her, his understanding of the grief and guilt she was feeling for the way her husband’s life had ended. He knew how hard it must be to see a part of her life being buried, while the man she now loved was waiting for her.

After the ceremony, she hugged friends and neighbors, knowing all of them were shocked and dismayed at the break-up of their marriage, yet still they offered their condolences. The people Martin had worked with at Gregory and Associates for so many years hugged her, saying what a good man he had been, and she nodded and smiled, thanking them. Melissa glanced at Tom by the tree, remembering the one time she’d met him. She kissed her mother goodbye and whispered in her ear, “Tom is a lovely man.”

When everyone left, Catherine stood by the graveside for a few more minutes, looking at the shiny wooden coffin, covered with flowers and dirt. Tom could probably tell she wanted to be alone, but after a few minutes came to her and put his arms around her shoulders. She leaned into his chest, feeling his warmth and comfort. When they walked back to her car, she glanced back at the grave, holding Tom’s hand, squeezing it, feeling his strong loving hand. In the car, she was quiet, but loved the way he looked at her from time to time as they drove back to their apartment for lunch and the happy years ahead of them.