A Case of Mistaken Identity

by Collette Thomas

  He gave a knowing wink as if to say what he was doing for Adrienne he would be more than obliged to do for her.

  Slowly, Myrna closed the door.

  Their whispers continued to penetrate the wood. Moments later she heard the noise of bedsprings and realized they had moved to Adrienne's bedroom.

  When she returned to her own bed, she thought of her last relationship; it had been with a man named Roland. She thought of the times they made love, except neither had been very creative.

  Roland told her he loved her, respected her, cared about her. Still something definitely had been missing in that connection. Myrna unable to tell Roland the sex between them was uninspiring—at times boring, realized by her very reluctance to tell the truth ended up hurting whatever possible relationship they could have enjoyed.

  Vanilla sex. A term she had learned after the break up. Roland was good at vanilla sex. And Myrna realized it simply wasn't enough anymore.

  Eventually, uninspiring Roland went his separate way, ended up marrying an uninspiring woman he'd known from college who enjoyed plain old vanilla sex.

  Myrna walked over to the mirror. What she saw wasn't disappointing. Most considered her average of height. At twenty-eight her breasts still firm, some might even say perky. With the palms of her hands she pushed them up slightly to make them full, give more cleavage.

  Suddenly she imagined herself in bed with Art Wagner instead of Adrienne, then envisioned Adrienne in the same bed and both enjoying Art's libidinous talents.

  She continued to assess her body further kept in shape by daily jogs. Her complexion clear, hazel eyes that matched light brown hair, with the right clothes felt she could make heads turn. Adrienne often told her she had ‘huge’ potential.

  Myrna shook her head to dispel the thoughts. This was all totally crazy. She wasn't Adrienne Bennett. She could never live life Adrienne's way. Not Myrna Dunbar, cautious to a fault Myrna Dunbar, safe but never sorry Myrna Dunbar.

  Still, what was she going to do now about that slow burning between her thighs? She thought of the shower stall down the hall and giggled. Take a long cold shower?

  Yeah, a cold shower might work, or a long hard jog. She glanced at the clock—three-thirty. Too early or not, she decided on the hard jog. From a nearby bureau she fished out a pair of yellow and green plaid drawstring shorts and faded yellow ‘I Love New York” T-shirt and hurriedly pulled on both. She sure as hell wasn't getting back to sleep—not with those sounds of continuous moans and squeaking bed springs, knowing the two of them were going at it strong on the other side of her wall.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The melodious strains of Beethoven filled the inner office of the top floors of Wetherall Publishing Corporation. Jonathan had long discovered that the music not only helped soothe the sometimes frazzle nerves of his employees, but his own as well, especially during his grandfather's infrequent visits. One of which was now happening unexpectedly that morning.

  "It's just a small favor that I'm asking, Jonathon.” Big J Wetherall's lumbering frame sat on the other side of the big oak desk, staring back at his grandson with that steadfast stare that would have most people shaking in their boots. He held an expensive cigar that he had just pulled out of a shirt pocket, and went through the ritual of lighting it.

  "A small favor, huh? Well, then it shouldn't bother you if I should refuse this small favor this time.” Jonathan quickly drew open a side drawer and pulled a ceramic ashtray out, shoving it across the desk blotter toward his grandfather.

  Big J clamped the cigar between his teeth, then in the pregnant silence that followed continued to glare at his grandson. Jonathan didn't fool himself into believing that the silence would last for long. The senior Wetherall hadn't been dubbed “Big J” for nothing by his old army unit. Big J had probably been there when the brass had refused to surrender in the Battle of the Bulge and he'd been plowing ahead every since. Plowing into everyone's life, which included his grandson's whenever it suited him. The word ‘retreat’ didn't exist in the man's vocabulary. Still there was a first time for everything and this “small favor” in Jonathan's opinion ranked right up there with hitchhiking to the moon. See Adrienne Bennett again? Not in this century. Was it possible after so many years to feel the same intensity of dislike toward someone, he wondered? In his mind he repeated her name. Adrienne Bennett. The soundless repetition of it could still grate on his nerves, stirring up all those not so pleasant memories. Suddenly he thought of the taste of that god-awful lake water. A memory he thought he'd successfully tucked away. But now because of this favor his grandfather was asking him to perform, although he could see it would mean a great deal to him, would also resurrect all of those painful memories. Jon was well aware that his grandfather had been a friend, as well as business associates with Ralph Bennett for over fifty years. And Jon also knew he would soon run out of arguments not to do this favor. He also knew his grandfather was gearing up for a major assault.

  "Look! You two got off on the wrong foot that's all. You were just kids then when you had that little misunderstanding—"

  "Little misunderstanding? Gramps, don't go candy coating this. We literally hated each other's guts. I'm sure since then she's had second thoughts about not letting me drown that day. And if things were the other way around, I'm not so sure I would've been willing to save her from a similar fate. There will never be any love lost between us.” Jon was tempted to take that cigar of his and smoke it himself. Except he knew it would only aggravate his damn asthma. His grandfather was the only person he allowed indulging this ugly habit inside his office. He also knew by his own orders once the old man made his exit, his secretary would be in there pronto opening up every damn single window and spraying every damn single piece of furniture with a deodorizer. Sure, Big J got away with more than most if you let him, even the contamination of Jon's air. Now he wanted to contaminate his life again with that damn woman.

  Big J let out a long puff of smoke, watched it swirl upward. “C'mon Jon, you can't still be carrying that same old grudge against this poor girl. She was, after all, only a mere child when you and she had that little mishap—"

  "A mere child? Even at her young age she clearly enjoyed manipulating and torturing others, making their lives miserable. Hit them where it hurt the most. She pulled no punches with me and I still think I bear some of those scars. Besides, I don't have time for these grudges. And I certainly have no time for these so-called reunions. I thought back then that our Adrienne was a nasty spoil brat and I would venture a guess that she hasn't changed her spots much since then. Despite the passing years, leopards don't change their spots. That woman thought I was a complete nerd, a complete idiot. Which tells me she would probably rather have bad hair days now than to have me back in her life again. I don't know why you're pushing this thing about us getting together for old time's sakes."

  "Look if she thought you were a nerd, then damn well blame that on your mother. Almost turning you into one of those namby pambies. Wanting you to be of all things, a concert pianist. You can thank me for having enough sense to be able to talk my daughter into getting you straight into military school."

  Jonathan winced at his grandfather's remarks, but knew well enough to remain silent. No use going through it all over again. True enough, the years at military school had toughened him up and taught him to relate to his fellow man to some degree. At least, he had to admit he'd learned to fake all that macho posturing. But it had also ruined his chances for realizing his dream of becoming that classical pianist. He thought of the ticket he had in his coat pocket for tomorrow's night concert. Works by Franz Peter Schubert, among them the Unfinished Symphony. He thought of his own life, which lately seemed as incomplete.

  "And don't forget that girl did save your life,” his grandfather droned on, unrelenting, “pulling you from those lake waters. Why here's your chance to square things away. Show her some appreciation."

  "Square things away? We're talking how many years? I'm
surprised you would even bring any of this up. Plus remember I did try to see Adrienne once to set the record straight between us. We made plans for dinner. I took the flight east and when I showed up at the restaurant we decided on, she never showed and merely stood me up. She never intended to show that face of hers. Isn't it pretty obvious that she's not about to forgive or forget any of what's happened in the past. So why don't we just leave it all there in the damn past?” Jonathan felt his irritation rise, and although he couldn't throw his grandfather out of his office, nonetheless the strong impulse remained.

  "Don't worry. Ralph promised me his daughter would show this time."

  Through a pair of thick lenses Jonathan peered at this man who had once been such an important factor in his life. Still was to some extent. Still could push his buttons, even if they were always the wrong ones. “So you've got this all figured out, haven't you? Well isn't that great! I don't understand why this is so important to you now? You and Ralph have been friends for a long time. Why do you want to go ruin a good relationship just because of some self-obsessed daughter?” It was mid morning and Jonathan had a lot of work to get through yet. He didn't have time for this nonsense and was suddenly afraid he would agree to anything by now if only to get his grandfather off his back, get himself off the hook, and get on with his life.

  "Hell yes, we're good friends. Family almost. And you being my only grandson, the only one to pass on the—"

  "Dammit. Not that again. This is about passing on the Wetherall name, isn't it? Who's going to carry it on after you're gone?"

  Another large billow of smoke floated across the desk and slowly dissipated. Jonathan fought the urge not to break down into a coughing fit. As the smoke dissipated Big J straightened. “Hey, if I could I would. Believe me son. But some things don't work so well after a lot of use. Besides, after I'm gone, you are the last. A man likes to know his blood will continue. That people won't forget him. If your grandmother and I had had more kids, boys instead of one daughter—your mother, I probably wouldn't be sitting here pestering you about all this now. But hey, I ain't one to beat around the bush neither."

  "When I do meet someone, she'll have to accept me for me, my faults, my weaknesses. I don't intend to get involved with someone who cares nothing about anything outside of her own selfish world—"

  "You got to be referring to that Sarah Johnson you once dated."

  "We were engaged,” Jonathan reminded him.

  Big J suddenly chuckled. “And if that wasn't the shortest engagement between two people. Hey don't matter any. She was never right for you in the first place—too skinny. Too tall. And from what I remember she loved to spend your money. Besides she wasn't woman enough for you."

  "It might have been the other way around. I didn't measure up to her expectations. She wanted something I didn't want to be—the proverbial jock. Can you see me out there now, flying around some racetrack in a fancy racecar, or galloping through some godforsaken woods on some stubborn animal? Or even riding a motorcycle just for the glory of catching bugs in my teeth.” Jonathan rubbed his chin. “I get nauseous thinking about it."

  "Hey don't knock it if you haven't tried any of that stuff. You might enjoy it.” Big J let out several more thick puffs of smoke that swirled around his face, distorting it and Jonathan wondered if he was staring at the devil be damned

  "I have no inclination for any of it. I know I'm a man and I don't feel the need to risk life and limb to prove it to anyone else."

  "Is that why you go to the gym and workout, dammit! You think that's really a man's thing?” Big J let out a loud laugh. “Is that why you read books like this?” He pointed to the red and black book sitting on the corner of Jonathan's desk, practically shouting out its contents by the sexually explicit jacket of a blindfolded woman wearing little else the one word title saying it all—Submission.

  Wetherall Publishing had started up a new line—a line that featured best selling writers of erotica. Erotica was doing well by all market surveys; the books flying off shelves, and Wetherall Publishing saw no reason not to jump on the moneymaking bandwagon.

  Jonathan pushed the book to one side, fearing that his grandfather might to request a copy for himself. “I could care less whether you think it's a man thing or not. I do it to please myself. It's safe, and sane, and it fits into my schedule,” referring to his gym workouts and suddenly wondering if his grandfather thought he meant something else.

  Jonathan thought he might have made a point, but his grandfather's appraisal of first him and the office said otherwise. When Big J got quiet, Jon knew he was thinking again. When he stood and started to rock back on his heels and continued to blow those damn smoke rings, Jonathan had to wonder if he were deciding to move in for the kill.

  "Well then maybe it would feel good for you to show her how well you've turned out. You're a good-looking man and you've tripled my success with Wetherall publishing. Why do you think I retired so early? You made me obsolete."

  "Obsolete?” Jon laughed aloud. “You retired from Wetherall Publishing because you wanted to run that printing plant you bought, plus jet set around the world with women half your age."

  "Well, hell a man's got to have his ‘toys.'” He looked down at the book cover and smiled. “Now how about humoring an old man? Meet Adrienne. Talk to her. Who knows? You might even find you like each other. People do change. C'mon, do it this one time."

  Deliberately, Jon stood and walked over to the electric keyboard linked to his spare computer in the corner of the office, and struck some deafening chords. He smiled at his grandfather who flinched, but otherwise continued to blow smoke rings into the air. The keyboard went silent. “You're not going to give up on this, are you?"

  Big J let out another laugh. “You know me too well."

  Jonathan hesitated before answering. Again he looked at the pile of papers on his desk that was not going to get any smaller if he kept stalling. “Only if you give me your word that you'll never mention this woman's name again if things don't work out the way you want them to. And that you'll use your time to play with your new toy, and not waste mine with anymore schemes to convert me into a ‘man's man."

  Big J stopped blowing rings and rocking on his heels long enough to ask, “Does that mean you'll do it?"

  Jonathan smiled, but the effort failed to reach his eyes. “Do I have a choice?"

  Big J returned the smile, then before returning the cigar to his mouth said, “Nope! You never did, son."

  Moments later after Big J. left his office Jonathan picked up the book of erotic short stories and slowly leafed through its pages. A definite plus, he thought with growing interest. A definite plus.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Two months later Jonathan found himself standing inside the deserted men's room of Albuquerque's Airport stroking a well-groomed beard, one he had grown specifically for this pre-arranged meeting with his childhood nemesis. The bearded look complemented the new jeans that sported that faded threadbare look that was the hallmark of high style to non-nerds. The leather jacket and boots added a nice touch, too. Definitely rugged, the look, though not what one would wear to board meetings or the opera, did make a statement. Jonathan stepped back and checked the fit of his jeans one more time. They were appropriately tight, so tight that he began to develop an appreciation for the torture women went through with those pantyhose. Still, the jeans weren't any tighter than any other he'd seen, and if he should break a bone during this little adventure, the denim would at least hold him together until he got himself to an orthopedic doctor. Overall, his choice of attire made a definite statement. Jonathan Wetherall III was now his own man—a man's man. Daring. Reckless. Adventurous. Oddly enough a simple change of clothes and the cultivation of a few whiskers did project the image his grandfather, and several females in his past had always wanted to see. If he'd dressed like this, would they believe he was different now? That he wasn't a boring intellectual nerd? Would they really see him as exciting? Heroic? He
sighed in resignation. Would they regard him as sexy? Virile? A man who would spend the night making wild passionate love to a woman?

  He sighed. It wasn't that that he wasn't capable, chuckling over several of the experimentations he'd had after reading that book. He just hadn't found the right woman who could really inspire him. He was game all right. But he also knew time would tell. If this was what a woman like Adrienne went for, then so be it. Let her try calling him ‘wimp with the limp’ looking this way. The title had taken him years and some therapy to get past. He'd gotten rid of the hobble, although at times it could come back with fatigue and stress, but all in all he felt he had it beaten.

  He checked his Rolex, then picked up his duffel bag. They were calling the passengers for boarding. It was time to indulge ... indulge in fantasies. At the same time confront a painful memory and replace it maybe with a better one. He smiled at that thought as he stroked his beard. Just maybe now he would also find out just how sweet revenge could be.

  * * * *

  Hot summer breezes promised another steamy July night as Myrna Dunbar made her way down Interstate 84 toward Hartford. At five o'clock the mercury hovered at just about ninety degrees. In the distance, against a hazy blue Connecticut sky the brilliant kaleidoscope of colors from a hot air balloon floated languidly by and lifted her spirits in spite of what awaited her at the airport.

  There was adventure. And there was adventure. With the caution that was as much a part of her as her brown eyes, Myrna kept her gaze focused ahead on the steady moving traffic. She shot a quick whimsical glance at the balloon that now drifted lazily on summer air currents. How she envied people who had the courage to trust their faith to a basket and a few yards of nylon. How she would love to fly inside that thing. Fly far away and forget the promise she had ever made to her roommate. She and Adrienne Bennett had been best friends before becoming roommates. Friends should not be required to make those kinds of promises. Nonetheless, she had made the promise to Adrienne. And now the decision was hers to live with for better or for worse, until death ... no, that hadn't been part of her promise.