by Bridy McAvoy
The Last To Know – What I Did Before We Dated
By: Bridy McAvoy
ISBN: 978-0-908325-12-2
All rights reserved
Copyright © Jun 2015, Bridy McAvoy
Cover Art Copyright © Jun 2015, Brightling Spur
Bluewood Publishing Ltd
Christchurch, 8441, New Zealand
www.bluewoodpublishing.com
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Bluewood Publishing Ltd.
Dedication
To everyone who helped me write this. Especially my husband who encouraged me to explore my fantasies in print.
Chapter One
On Thursdays Sammie always finished work at the library before me. The rest of the week we got home at about the same time—as long as I wasn’t out in the field, which was too often. It was thus a surprise to arrive home to find Sammie not there, not busy in the kitchen whipping up one of her specials. She loved to cook, but the kitchen, as well as the rest of the house, was empty. I’d assumed her car was in the garage, but when I looked it wasn’t there. Since I knew she’d walked to work that morning as usual, the car not being there was odd too. Walking back through to the hall, I noticed the message light flashing on the answering machine, and had to stop myself from slapping my forehead at missing it.
“Hi, honey…” Relief surged through my system. For a moment I’d been dreading it was someone from an ER room somewhere, but her voice was as bubbly as ever. “…had to pop into town this afternoon. The Gazette is running a library feature, so I had to go meet with them. I should be back not long after you. Be a darling, put the oven on, two hundred is fine, the dinner is pre-prepared in the fridge—I’ll cook it when I get home. See you soon. Love you. Bye.”
I smiled, that was Samantha all right—any chance to improve the library provision in our small town, she’d take it. Relieved to find nothing wrong, I did as she asked, started the oven pre-heating then headed upstairs for a quick shower, not without having a quick peek in the chiller to spot the chicken breasts marinating in some red wine and herb-based concoction. By the time I hit the shower I was starving.
I stepped out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around me to see Sammie sitting on the side of the bed watching me.
“Hi, honey. I see you got my message.” I guessed she’d pulled onto the drive while I was in the shower. She beckoned me closer. “The chicken’s in—it’ll take about an hour. I’ll need five minutes to get a salad sorted. What do you suggest we do to use up the rest of the time?” She raised an eyebrow, trying to look coquettish, but the shit-eating grin gave her away.
Since we’d been married, Sammie had lost all shyness about sex and, as I walked closer to my wife, she reached for my waist. A moment later the towel was on the floor and my already half-hard cock was in her mouth. I reached out my hands for her but she shook her head, sending her cascade of blonde hair whipping from side to side, and took her mouth off for a moment.
“Let me, honey, just let me.”
“Good session at the paper then?”
She looked up, made an eye-rolling movement, then returned her attention to my now hard cock. Sammie had given good head for a long time—not as often after we were married compared to our time as an engaged couple, but she was good. It never took her long, and I wasn’t going to complain.
Sammie swallowed everything I had, then let me slide out of her mouth.
“I want a shower. Be a darling and let the wine breathe.”
“Sure.”
I watched as she strolled across the bedroom toward the ensuite, her hands already unzipping her dress down the back. The vee of exposed flesh grew longer and longer until her cheeks were just starting to appear, then she closed the door. I knew better than to try and join her. Sammie enjoyed making love in the shower—for that matter, my blonde bombshell of a wife loved making love anywhere. When she came home from work she wanted to wash the grime off rather than play. Besides, I couldn’t have raised myself again before the chicken was ready, and she never liked me to bring her to completion orally without playing ‘hide the sausage’.
* * * *
Sammie was quiet over dinner, didn’t say much about her day and easily deflected my attempts to talk to her about the visit to the local paper. It was obvious she was thinking hard about something, but she was smiling and seemed happy enough, so I left her to it. My own mind was working on a problem for work, so we both just ate in companionable silence. After the meal, we cleared the table and I helped her finish loading the dishwasher before she shooed me through to the den, telling me to take the glasses with me while she got another bottle of wine out.
Despite it usually being the man’s job to get the wine ready, I have to admit I’m useless with a corkscrew, while Sammie is effortlessly efficient with it.
Five minutes later we sat down in the den but, rather than join me on the couch, she took the chair opposite me, tucking her legs up underneath her as she sat down. After the shower she’d put on one of her simple print summer dresses, and there was a lot of thigh on show, but nothing I wasn’t used to—and she knew I appreciated it.
“Honey…”
Our fate hung on that moment, as I was about to find out. I raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question.
“We need to talk.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I guess there’s a few things you think you know about me and…well, I guess you think you know me, but you’re wrong.”
“There are?” My breath caught. Her face, so sunny earlier, was now solemn, serious, almost frighteningly so. All sorts of things raced through my head and my mouth was spilling them out almost as quickly. “You’re not ill, are you? You didn’t go to the paper, did you—you went to a doctor? Is it serious?” I’d gone into full-on panic mode, and Sammie crossed the room in a flash, laying her hand on my arm as she stood by the side of the couch next to me.
“Whoa there, boy. Slow down. No, I’m not ill. No, I didn’t go to the doctor. I went to the paper, like I said.”
“Then what? I’m left clueless.”
She stayed quiet for a minute, letting me calm down. I realized she had her fingers across my wrist, checking my heartbeat—she knew I had some arrhythmia, and tended to have problems if I got too stressed. Hence the panic attack, and her rapid response to it. Once she was satisfied I had calmed down, she let go of my wrist and I patted the seat of the couch next to me. She shook her head, and I could see she was swallowing nervously as she walked back across to the other chair and sat down again.
“No, honey, I’m going to sit here. No more panic attacks, okay?”
I took a deep breath and nodded.
“Good. Now stay calm and let me talk, all right?”
“Okay, but I’m still mystified.”
“I promise you won’t be.” She took a sip of wine and I could see her almost square her shoulders before she spoke. “The Gazette is running a feature on Friday next week.”
“Good, you deserve it.”
She shook her head. “No. honey. You may be right that I deserve it, but it’s not a nice piece. It’s about me, my personal life.”
“What? You mean it’s one of their exposé pieces?”
“Yes.”
“On you?”
“Yes.”
“How? I mean, what? I mean, why, why now?”
“This is going to take a long time, and you’re going to have to let me tell it to you my way.”
“What the fuck have they got on you? You’re my wife, and I know damn well the budget is too tight for you to be siphoning off funds at the library. Besides, you had this house long before you started working there. You don’t need the money.”
“It’s not about money.”
What could possibly be hurting my wife, and our perfect marriage, so much?
“Please, honey, just listen. Don’t interrupt.” Sammie leaned back, closed her eyes for a moment and started to talk.
Chapter Two – Seven Years Earlier
I guess it all started the year before I met you. I graduated high school, celebrated my nineteenth birthday, then, as you already know, I was in the back seat of my parent’s car driving home from the airport after a trip to the West Coast to see my aunts. I was dozing, not paying attention, but I think I heard my mother scream. I’ve never been sure if the memory was real or not. I woke up in hospital in a spinal brace, my leg in a cast, with a doctor telling me my mother hadn’t survived. Three days later, minus the unnecessary spinal brace, they took me downstairs to the ICU in a wheelchair, to say goodbye as they turned off my father’s life support.
That bit you know. You also know that I buried them, and once the estate was settled I was a wealthy woman. Everything came to me, the only child, including this house, and—something you don’t know about—a small one bedroom condo down by the lake. The life insurance paid off everything, and left me quite a lot of money.
I’ll tell you about the condo later, but that’s a different part of the story. I’m pretty sure my mother knew about it, but she never let on to my father—he still thought his little love nest on the lake shore was his private bolt hole. I don’t know how many women he took there over the years, but there were several, as I was to discover.
The medical bills came in, and the medical and life insurance covered them. There I was, with a home and assets, but no income and, if I wasn’t careful, dwindling capital. My aunts and uncles flew home after the funeral with a couple of them suggesting, half-heartedly, that I packed up and moved out west with them. The cast came off, and the break had healed, I didn’t even need much physio. I’d left school with a diploma, but no college place, and all my friends had gone either upstate, or out of state to college.
Honey, I was alone. So alone, it was unreal. For a couple of weeks I just vegged out, only leaving the house in ratty sweats to get some fresh milk. I knew I needed a job, but there was nothing in the paper, so I almost stopped looking. Then out of the blue, one Friday, I saw the library was looking for an assistant to Frank Bryant. I loved that old library, still do, but they were looking for an experienced assistant librarian, and I, of course, had nada—just my high school diploma.
I waited till the Monday, then went and had my hair and nails done, put on my best white blouse, and long navy skirt, a pair of kitten heels, and drove to the library, resumé in a folder on the front seat.
He was actually manning the desk the day I walked in. I smiled at him and gave him my resume.
“I gather you want the job?”
I nodded as if someone had tied my tongue in a knot—I couldn’t find an answer. He chuckled and smiled at me. I guess I kinda looked like a deer in the headlights—really, really frightened, very much lacking in confidence.
He glanced down at the name on the folder I’d just given him, then quickly rifled through the cardex, finding my library record. He still kept the old system running, despite the fact the library had been computerized for five years at that stage. In fact, somewhere at the back of a cupboard, I’m sure those old cardexes still exist.
“Ah, a local girl. I thought I recognized you from somewhere, Samantha.” His eyes scanned down the list of cards, then half-way down he paled and his eyes shot back up to my face. “I’m sorry, I just remembered who you are. My condolences on your loss, it must have been terrible for you.”
“Thank you.” I blurted the words out in a rush.
“Well, since you’re a local girl, I’m sure I can add you to the interview list. I’m interviewing on Tuesday, but that’s a full schedule and they’re all from out of town. Could you do Wednesday at ten?”
I was crushed. For some reason I’d been sure I was the only applicant. The fact they were coming from out of town told me they would have experience. My hopes plummeted, and I guess that showed on my face.
“Don’t let that get you down. I’ll give you a fair crack at the vacancy, okay? The fact you’re local will be a big positive factor with the board. I’ll see you Wednesday. Chin up.”
A minute later I was back outside, bemused at how I’d landed an interview. It might only be a slim chance, but it was an interview. For the first time since the accident I was happy, really happy.
* * * *
I didn’t sleep much Tuesday night. Remember, at that point I hadn’t had an interview in my life. I spent Tuesday reading up about the duties of a librarian, and even spending time on-line looking at how they dressed, trying to make sure I had the right tools in my wardrobe. It was far worse than getting ready for a date, not that I’d dated much—I was still very much the innocent. I spent two hours on-line chatting to Simone, who was at college, getting her advice on answering interview questions, even going so far as how to sit, how to keep my back straight, my legs crossed at the ankles, my hands in my lap. There was so much to remember.
Wednesday came round all too soon. I was up at five a.m. and I must have spent three hours in the bathroom before choking down coffee and toast—more so my stomach didn’t rumble during the interview than because I wanted something to eat. Then it was make-up and hair and, finally, time to get dressed. I wore a white blouse similar to the one I’d worn on Monday, but this time it didn’t button all the way to the collar and, on Simone’s advice, I left the top button undone. My skirt was a lighter blue, and knee-length rather than long, but I wore navy pantyhose underneath. My heels were slightly taller too, to give more definition to my legs and, although I’d pulled my hair back into a pony-tail, I’d left a couple of ringlets hanging down to frame my face. The blue eye-shadow complemented the skirt, and I finished it off with a pair of my mother’s creole earrings and a small pendant necklace, a piece of heather—she’d always called it her lucky heather—set in resin.
I choked back a sob. I missed my mum at that point—a lot more than my dad—especially after I’d found out about, and visited, the lakeside condo. Remember, I was still a virgin. I could guess at what had gone on there, but I knew my mother hadn’t been there with him. That stung. I felt he’d betrayed me as well as her, and I didn’t exactly hate him for it, but I didn’t like him very much at that point in my life. I still loved him of course, but I didn’t like his sullied memory.
Anyway, I arrived at the library at five to ten, and Barbara Oldfield, the lady who was retiring in a few weeks thereby creating the vacancy, showed me through into Mr. Bryant’s office.
“Thank you for coming, Samantha.”
He rose from behind his desk as I walked into the room and we both leaned across his desk to shake hands. His desk was enormous—you know that, it’s mine now, or at least for now. Anyway, I had to lean forward for our hands to meet. I heard the door shut behind me then realized my blouse had fallen open a little and he had a good view of my cleavage. I almost panicked, but at the back of my mind I remembered Simone’s advice—don’t hesitate, be confident. “Thank you for seeing me, Mister Bryant. I hope I don’t prove to be a disappointment.”
My voice was clear and firm, and I topped it off with a smile as he waved me to a chair. Sitting down, I smoothed my skirt, making sure my posture was right as Mr. Bryant looked down at the folder I’d given him on Monday. As he looked up again, I crossed my legs at the ankles and watched as his gaze dropped. It hadn�
�t been deliberate timing, but I’m pretty sure he thought so. As my interview progressed I realized that the crossing of my legs had sealed my fate.
For the next fifteen minutes we talked about what being a librarian was, and what my duties would be, should I be successful. I knew I was answering the questions well, but I was also painfully aware the other applicants would have had a heck of a lot more experience than me—not to mention qualifications.
The interview dipped with his next question. “Are you a member of the American Librarians’ Association?”
I knew he could check. Besides I wanted to tell the truth and, if nothing else, leave with my head high. Although my voice was firm, my heart sank like a rock. “No.”
“Have you heard of them?”
“Yes, of course. I did do some research.”
“I know that from your earlier answers, young lady.” He chuckled, and shook his head. “So you haven’t started to sit for your ALA Masters Program?”
I shook my head.
“Applied, even?”
“No, I don’t have the entry requirements.”
“Oh?”
“I have my high school diploma, but I don’t as yet have a job in a library, so can’t qualify on experience and, obviously, I don’t have a degree so I can’t get through on the academic route.”
That was one question I knew would be asked, so I’d rehearsed my answer with Simone, trying to give it the best possible spin. He could so easily check everything through them if he wanted to. I hadn’t even heard of the ALA till I started my research the day before. They didn’t offer an associate level entry—unless you already had the job.
“So, to sum up, you have zero experience working in a library, but you want the job. On the other hand, the other three short-listed candidates have experience, one has completed her Masters certificate, and the other two are about halfway along on theirs. So tell me, Samantha, what can you offer me in order to elevate you to that short list?”