Wife Is A 4-Letter Word

by Stephanie Bond

  She nodded, shocked at the sensations his hands were causing. It was the alcohol, the hunger, the exhaustion, the darkness—all of it combined to play games with her mind. What she needed was rest and daylight to remind her he was only uptight, dweeby Alan.

  He grasped her elbow and steered her in the direction of the hotel. Pam suddenly had a premonition about the place and the week to come, but she kept her mouth shut and tucked her torn ruffles inside her bodice.

  Flanked on either side by two gigantic plastic palm trees, the front entrance was less than spectacular. A dank, musty smell rose to greet them when they stepped onto the faded orange carpet of the gloomy reception area. To their right, stiff vinyl furniture so old it was back in style and more plastic plants encircled a portable TV set with an impressive rabbit-ear antenna. A home shopping channel was on, and two polyester-clad, middle-aged couples sat riveted to the screen. To their left, the gift shop was having a clearance on all Elvis items. Pam pursed her lips—maybe she could expand her collection.

  She glanced at Alan to gauge his reaction. He was frowning behind his glasses, clearly ready to bolt. “This isn’t exactly what I expected,” he mumbled. She bit down on her tongue, suddenly annoyed. She doubted if he’d ever spent a night in less than four-star accommodations.

  The reception desk stood high and long in front of them, dwarfing the skinny frizzy-haired clerk behind the half glass. She was snapping a mouthful of chewing gum. “Can I help you?” she asked disinterestedly, not looking up. She was surrounded by cheap paneling and sickly colors. In a word, the decor was garish. Alan’s ex-fiancée, an interior designer, would have fainted on the spot. Yet for Pam, the place had a certain...retro charm.

  “Hello,” Alan said tightly. “I’m not sure this is the right place. Are there any other hotels named Pleasure Palisades in the area?”

  Twiggy glanced up, her eyes widening in appreciation as she scanned Alan. She completely ignored Pam. “Nope,” she said, sounding infinitely more interested. “This is it.”

  Alan gave Pam a worried glance, then looked back to the clerk. “Do you have a reservation for Mr. and Mrs.—” He coughed, then continued. “For Parish?”

  “Parish?” She flicked a permed hank of dark hair over her shoulder, turned to a dusty computer terminal and clicked her fingers over the keyboard. “Parish... Parish...yep, Mr. and Mrs. Alan P. Parish, the deluxe honeymoon suite through next Friday night.” She glanced up and added, “With complimentary VCR and movie library since it’s almost Valentine’s Day.”

  Alan’s eyes widened in alarm. “We’re in the right place?” Twiggy didn’t answer, only blew a huge pink bubble with the gum, sucked the whole wad back into her mouth, then smiled.

  “I’m sure the room is nice,” Pam whispered, trying to sound optimistic. As long as it had running water, she couldn’t care less.

  He held up his finger to the girl. “Just one moment.” He curled his hand around Pam’s upper arm and pulled her aside. “There must be some mistake. I’ll call Linda and get this straightened out immediately. I saw a Hilton a couple miles down the road—we’ll get a room there tonight.”

  Pam was shaking her head before he finished. “I don’t have ‘a couple miles’ left in me or in these shoes.” She stamped her foot for emphasis.

  “We’ll call a cab,” he said, frowning.

  She stabbed him in the chest with her index finger. “You call a cab, and you go down the road to the Hilton. I’m tired and I’m hungover. As long as this place is clean, I’m staying!”

  He took a step back and poked at his glasses. “You don’t have to get nasty about it.”

  She swept an arm down the front of her dress. “That’s the point, Alan. I am nasty.”

  Holding up his hands, he relented. “Okay, okay—we’ll stay one night.”

  Two minutes later, the clerk swiped his credit card, then handed them two large tarnished keys. “Room 410 in the corner, great view, cool balcony. But the elevator is out of order, so you’ll need to take the stairs.” She smiled tightly at Pam this time, and snapped her gum. “Have a pleasant stay.”

  Alan moved in the direction she indicated, but Pam grabbed his arm. “I’ll need to purchase a few things to change into,” she reminded him, nodding toward the gift shop.

  “You need something in the gift shop?” the girl asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, just reached under the counter and pulled out a piece of cardboard that read, “Back in a few,” and propped it against a can of cola. “I’m the cashier, too.” She snapped her gum and emerged from behind the wooden monstrosity.

  Pam followed the girl into the gift cubbyhole, rubbing her tired eyes. “Alan, what does the ‘P’ stand for?” She quickly surveyed the dusty merchandise on the cramped shelves, searching for items to help her get through the week.

  Alan moved to the other side of the store, intent on his own shopping. “What ‘P’?”

  She stacked toiletries in her arms, then moved to a wall rack of miscellaneous clothing. “Your middle initial, what does it stand for?”

  He was silent for several seconds, then said, “Never mind.”

  She turned around and grinned, her curiosity piqued. “Come on, what’s your middle name?”

  The frown on his face deepened. “Forget it, okay?”

  “Well, it has to be something odd or you wouldn’t be so touchy.”

  He looked away.

  “Parnell?”

  “No.”

  “Purcell?”

  “No.”

  “Prudell?”

  “Pam.” His gaze swung back to her, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t.”

  She made a face at him, then turned her attention back to the shelves. She’d need shorts and a T-shirt, not to mention underwear. Pam spied a single package of men’s cotton boxer shorts and picked it up, then stopped when she realized Alan also had a hand on them. They played a game of mini-tug-of-war, with each tug a little stronger than the last.

  She yanked the package. “I didn’t figure you for a boxer man, Alan.”

  He pulled harder. “And I didn’t figure you for a boxer woman, Pam.”

  She jerked the package. “You don’t know me very well.”

  “I have to have underwear,” he protested, then nearly stumbled back when she abruptly released the package.

  Pam acquiesced, palms up. “Since underwear has always been optional for me, they’re all yours.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed and he looked contrite. “M-maybe we can share.”

  Perhaps it was the timbre of his voice, or his boyish, disheveled appearance, or Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” playing softly in the background, but Pamela suddenly felt a pull toward Alan, and it scared her. “I don’t think so,” she said more haughtily than she meant to.

  Alan shrugged. “Suit yourself. Do you have everything you need?”

  Nodding, Pam yanked an Elvis T-shirt and a pair of pink cotton shorts off the rack, then heaved her bounty onto the counter.

  Alan piled his items on top. “I’ll get these things,” he said, opening his wallet. She started to protest, but he held up his hand. “It’s the least I can do,” he said, then raised an eyebrow when the clerk lifted a package of rub-on tattoos from Pam’s things.

  Pam grinned. “I always wanted a tattoo.”

  Five minutes later she lifted her skirt, shifted her packages and tilted her head back to look up the stairwell that seemed to go on and on. She was exhausted and again her decision to share a room with Alan for a week seemed ludicrous. On the way up they had to stop several times to rest, then walked down a dimly lit outdoor walkway, past several doors to reach the last room, 410.

  Pam could hear the ocean breaking on the beach below them, and she leaned over the railing to get a better look. Suddenly Alan’s arm snaked around her waist and dragged her back against his chest. The length of his body molded to hers, and Pam gasped as her senses leaped. After a few seconds, he released her gently, then admonished in a low voice, “I do
n’t trust that railing, and I don’t want to make a trip to the hospital tonight

  Her heart still pounding in her chest, Pam laughed nervously and listened while he fidgeted with the key in the dark. “You’d think they could put up a few lights,” Alan muttered. He pushed open the door, reached around the corner and flipped on a switch.

  They stood and stared inside the room in astonishment.

  “They obviously saved all the lights for the interior,” he added flatly.

  Pam nodded, speechless. The room’s chandelier was a dazzling display of multicolored lights, multiplied dozens of times by the room’s remarkable collection of mirrors.

  “It’s a disco,” he mumbled.

  And the bed was center stage. Huge and circular, it was raised two levels. A large spotlight over the padded headboard shone onto the satiny gold-colored comforter, and Pam doubted the light was meant for reading.

  “At least the carpet is new,” she said, stepping inside.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And I’m sure they paid top dollar—brown shag is really hard to find.”

  She glanced around the room, at the avocado-green kitchenette, the makeshift living room consisting of a battered sofa—presumably the pullout bed—and two chaise-size beanbag chairs. The sitting area was “separated” from the sleeping area by two short Oriental floor screens. The wide-screen TV was situated to be visible from the bed or from the sofa.

  “It’s spacious,” she observed. “And functional.”

  “Yeah—for orgies.”

  She scoffed and set down her bags, crossing the room to inspect the bed. She poked at the comforter and watched the bed ripple. “It’s a water bed,” she said, grinning. “And look.” She held up a small bottle lying on the pillow. “Complimentary body liqueur—cinnamon.” She twisted off the lid, then dipped her index finger in and tasted it. “Mmm, I’m starved.”

  Alan rolled his eyes, then looked around the room as if plotting how to get through the night without touching anything. “It’s a dump,” he pronounced.

  Pam replaced the liqueur. It was a repeat of the car rental—nothing but the best was good enough for Alan Parish. “Lighten up, Alan, this is fun.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  Straightening, she put her hands on her hips and threw back her shoulders. “Why don’t you come down from your high horse and see how the other half lives?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means life isn’t always first-class, and you have to learn to roll with the punches.”

  He squared his jaw. “I can roll with the best of them.”

  “Hah! You can’t even bend, Alan, much less roll. You’re just a spoiled little rich boy.”

  “I resent that,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Go ahead—it’s still the truth.” She jerked up the bag that contained her new toiletries and headed in the direction of what appeared to be the bathroom. She opened the door, then breathed, “Wow.”

  A large red sunken tub dominated the room, appropriately set off by pale pink tile. It appeared that the sink, shower and commode had been miniaturized to make room for the tub, which could easily accommodate three adults.

  “Hmm,” Alan said behind her. “Another novelty.” His voice was still laced with sarcasm.

  “But not the last,” Pam said, pointing out the picture window over the tub.

  Their room was the last one set in a U formation, giving them a perfect view over an open plaza of the brightly lit room on the opposite side. Though not as spectacular as theirs, the room was furnished in the same style and occupied by an elderly couple who clearly had a disdain for clothing. Pam stared, fascinated, as the couple moved around in the kitchen, completely nude—with no tan lines. “It’s like watching a car crash,” she murmured. “You don’t want to look, but you can’t help yourself.”

  The woman turned her gaze directly toward them, then nudged her husband. Pam and Alan stood frozen, like two animals caught in headlights. Then the couple smiled and waved.

  Alan reached forward and yanked the curtain closed over the tub. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Those people are old enough to be my parents.”

  Pam leaned over and turned on the hot-water faucet. The first few trickles of water looked a little rusty, but it ran clear within a few seconds, so she stopped up the tub and poured in a handful of scented salts from a gold plastic container.

  “Not everyone loses interest in sex when they get older, Alan.” Then her best friend’s comments about her drab intimate relationship with Alan rattled around in her head. “Assuming a person was ever interested in sex in the first place,” she added dryly.

  She reached around the back of her dress to capture the zipper in her fingers, and began to ease it downward. Suddenly, she remembered Alan was still in the room, and stopped. Holding up her neckline, she sighed. “Alan, I don’t have the energy to throw you out, but I’m warning you—these clothes are coming off in the next few seconds, so if you don’t want to be embarrassed twice in one evening, you better vamoose.”

  He paled, then groped for the doorknob and bolted out of the room. Pam giggled, then slid the zipper down and escaped from the hideous, rancid dress. After ripping off her shredded panty hose, she unhooked her bra and stepped into the heavenly, hot bubbles.

  “Ahhhh,” she breathed, sinking in up to her neck. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, her hands moving over her body to dislodge the day’s grime. She automatically lapsed into a series of isometric exercises she always performed in the tub or shower for toning and relaxing. After a few minutes, her limbs grew languid, but her skin tingled.

  Gingerly, she lifted her head and looked toward the closed door. Scooping up a handful of bubbles, she trickled them across her raised leg. Alan Parish was the most conservative, stuffy man she’d ever met under the age of sixty. Of course, he did have a lot to live up to, being the oldest son of such a prominent Savannah family. A subdivision had even been named for them—Parish Corners. He was a regular pillar of the community, unlike herself, who had nowhere to go in the world but up.

  And here they were, two opposing forces, thrown together in a tacky hotel room. Paper and matches. Roses and switches. Uptown and downtown.

  She smiled wryly. Inviting her to come on the trip was no doubt the most spontaneous thing Alan had ever done in his life. How ironic that he was probably the only man in Savannah who would invite her to spend a week with him, without having anything sexual in mind. Pam eased her head back. She could relax—Alan Parish’s relationship with her was even less than platonic.

  ALAN PASSED A HAND over his face and paced the length of the room. He wouldn’t have believed it possible to be so tired and yet so awake at the same time. His hungover head was screaming for sleep, but the rest of his body was rigidly aware that Pamela Kaminski, a woman who had a sexual position named for her—the Kaminski Curt—was in the next room, naked...and lathered.

  He swore and ripped off his bow tie, then tossed it across the room. When he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many mirrors, he came up short, surprised at the anger he saw in his face. He prided himself on always remaining calm, regardless of the situation, but today—he sighed and shoved his fingers through his hair—today he’d been put through the wringer by two different women. His laugh was short and bitter. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect it was a conspiracy.

  His empty stomach rolled, prompting him to call the front desk. Twiggy’s bored drawl was instantly recognizable. “Yeah?”

  Alan bit back a tart comment, and instead mustered a pleasant tone. “My—uh, our package includes meals, and I was wondering if the hotel restaurant is still open.”

  “Just closed,” she said cheerfully.

  He groaned. “We’re starved—can we get room service?”

  Twiggy sighed dramatically. “What do you want?”

  “A couple of steaks and a bottle of wine.”

  “
I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and frowned sourly at the phone. How had his secretary found this place? Remembering he still needed to find accommodations for the rest of the week, he called Linda’s voice mail and left her a message to call him. Then he contacted the car rental agency who promised to have another car delivered to their hotel first thing in the morning.

  Trying mightily to forget the events of the last few hours, Alan removed the black studs from his buttons, shrugged out of his wrinkled shirt and folded it neatly over the back of a stiff kitchen chair. He slipped off his shoes and socks, then lowered himself to the dreadful carpet and performed fifty push-ups. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the odor of his own sweat. A shower before dinner would feel terrific. Glancing at his watch, he frowned and hesitated, then went to the bathroom door and rapped lightly. Steam curled out from under the door, warming his bare toes. Alan swallowed. “Pam?”

  He heard her moving in the water, splashing lightly.

  “I ordered room service and it should be here soon.”

  She didn’t answer. Alan shifted from foot to foot, wondering if she’d fallen asleep in the water. Suddenly, the door swung open and Pam stood before him, holding the ends of a dingy white towel above her breasts, her hair dripping wet. His breath caught in his throat, and the room seemed to close in around them.

  Pamela smiled benignly. “I left my new clothes out here,” she said, pointing to a bag on the floor. She brushed by him, her clean, soapy scent rising to fill his nostrils. He watched with blatant admiration as she walked over to retrieve the articles. Her long, slender legs were glowing with bath oil and speckled with water. His heart skipped a beat when the towel sagged low enough in the back to expose her narrow waist and the top of her—

  “Astringent,” she mumbled, rummaging in the bag.

  “Wh-what?” he croaked.

  “Remind me to buy astringent tomorrow when we go shopping,” she said, bending over, the towel inching up to reveal the backs of her thighs.