Flash Drive

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  “Now how would you know that?” Cat asked, flipping her hair as if affronted.

  “For God’s sake, look at your husbands, they all look like fallen angels. Hell, if I call Tess and Roman answers the phone, I leave a puddle on the floor just hearing his voice. Laurel Darlin’, and just how is my bonny lass today? And Philip, if he even touches my elbow, images of all the women he’s been with before flash in my head like scenes out of one of his porn movies. And oh God, Matt, those eyes—he eats you up with them, devours you with one singeing glance. So I know you guys aren’t angels because I know Matt and Philip and Roman—three of the lustiest men living—were running like wild mustangs until you three figured out how to corral them. So, add me into the mix and there are certainly no angels here. Nuh uh. Not at this table.”

  “Angel or not, I still think you should use your real name. You’re not Lucifer,” said Viv.

  “No, I’m Venus, baring her soul,” Laurel said with a jaunty wave of her hand.

  “I haven’t read your stuff, so would you say you’re on par with say, Jackie Collins?” asked Cat.

  Laurel gestured with her palm up, as if keeping a balloon in the air, indicating something on a higher scale. “Worse, keep going.”

  “Anais Nin, Bram Stoker, Casanova. Lady

  Chatterly . . .?” offered Tess. Laurel gestured for her to go higher still.

  “The Story of O? Nunnery Tales, The Pearl?”

  “Now you’re getting somewhere,” Laurel said, “And all written by Anonymous, mind you.”

  “Hmmm,” from Viv. Then she added, “Those were different times. The Story of O was 1930s or 40s wasn’t it?”

  “Outed in 1954 actually. In France. No one knows for sure when it was written. He or she used a name of no one living at the time. Mine are more contemporary, and more over the top.”

  “Well then I definitely think you need to publish,” Cat nodded emphatically, eyes bright, and they all laughed at the caricature she made as her long ponytail swished and her sunglasses bobbled on her head.

  “So, your material—where do you get it? Do you do like . . . research?” asked Viv.

  “I read a lot. And I have a very vivid imagination for fantasy. And yes, I know you’re dying to ask . . . I do have a copy of Philip’s last masterpiece, Elizabeth’s Initiation.”

  Viv went scarlet to her roots and washed down the flush with a big swig of her tea. “I’ll never get over that sensation . . . knowing that my best friends have seen my husband naked and fucking everything in sight.”

  “I don’t think of him as your husband when I watch it, he’s Drago, defiler of innocents, and God was he prime.” Laurel fanned her hand in front of her face.

  Before Viv married Philip, they’d all gotten together to watch some of his videos. Philip had insisted on it, knowing that if there was going to be a stumbling block to their marriage, that this would be it. His videos, although thirty years old now, were still out there as collector’s items and available through many Internet sources, so he knew it was only a matter of time before Viv would to have deal with issues of his previous life as a once celebrated porn star.

  Viv had gotten drunk that night, in fact they all had while they watched the man Viv loved, taking one woman after another in several of the movies Philip had provided. The odd thing was that while they had developed an appreciation for his talents, they had also seen the masterful yet caring side of him—he loved women and it showed. Surprisingly, they had enjoyed the involved plot lines and appreciated the upscale directing, scenery, and quality of acting. Philip had directed as well as starred in the movies and they had all seen the superb job he’d done bringing upscale porn to the marketplace, while making millions. So while they’d sat sipping wine and mindlessly chomping down popcorn and Chex-Mix, they had gotten quite tipsy and incredibly turned on.

  When their men came to fetch them after having indulged in their own enlightening movie fest, showing Philip’s heretofore prowess and attributes, they scooped up their wives and took them home to delve into the images still superimposed on their minds, and to explore nuances of technique that had peaked their interest. Clearly, they all benefited from Philip’s interesting perspectives and expertise, and with time, they were all able to talk with him and joke with him without everyone going six shades of red. Philip had been right, get it out in the open, so to speak, and confront the elephant in the room, or in this case, the anaconda.

  They were all amazingly good friends now, and maybe it was because they didn’t harbor any secrets. Everyone had a past. Not all were proud. But it was what it was. Philip had been a struggling attorney, had seen the opportunity in doing upscale and hygienically safe movies, amassed a fortune and, as a result, became very wealthy in banking. Sadly, he had destroyed his young wife in the process, but he’d come to terms with that, and had finally overcome his grief and his guilt. He now loved Viv to distraction. The three couples, and now Laurel, were very close. No one ever thought of Philip naked and ready for action when he came into a room in a custom Brioni suit. Well . . . hardly ever.

  “So, back to the research you do and the writing . . . do you get all . . . hot and bothered when you’re writing?” asked Cat.

  “Yeah, do you get horny . . . and have to, you know . . . do the deed by yourself?” asked Viv.

  Laurel laughed, “I will admit, sometimes the re-writing and editing process have me wishing I had a man hanging around the house.” She leaned her elbow on the table and stuck her chin on her fist. A wistful look came into her eyes as she stared off into the distance, looking at the eighteenth hole and beyond, but seeing nothing of the gorgeous landscape. “It sure would be nice to have someone help me choreograph some of the more energetic sex scenes. In fact, in one of the stories I just finished it would have been helpful having two someones!” She thought of Rand and Clint and heat coursed through her, zinging all the right places. She was always amazed when the heroes she made up in her head created such a raging need in her body.

  Tessa’s eyes went wide and she clasped both palms to her face. She was leaning on both elbows staring off too, “Roman and I are adventurous but he’s definitively not into sharing.”

  “Nah, Philip either. Although he sure used to be,” Viv said, adding, “as we can all attest to,” she forced out a big sigh. “He was wild. I’m not sure I could have handled him back then.”

  All three women smiled over at her. Cat was the first one to be able to put words together. “It wasn’t your time to be with him then.”

  “Suppose not.” She had a funny look on her face.

  “Viv, what’s wrong?” Tessa asked.

  Viv looked over at her and sniffed. “I never told you this, I’ve never even told him this. But I saw him once, all those years ago. I walked into the wrong room at a party when I was in college and there he was, big as life, fucking Cassandra.”

  Tessa’s eyes went wide and her arms fell to the table with a thud. Her shock was palatable.

  Cat had an identical expression, clearly agog with the implications.

  “Oh no!” Cat said.

  “What?” Laurel said as she watched their little gabfest go somber. “Who’s Cassandra? Why’s everyone so shocked?”

  “Cassandra was his wife at the time,” Viv toyed with a straw as if it was the most normal thing in the world to say she’d seen vintage porn of her husband with his first wife.

  “I remember thinking how perfect they looked together and I remember stopping in the doorway and watching the intensity in his eyes as he took her. And I mean took her, because the look in hers was anything but adoring. Her eyes haunted me for years and so did everything else about him . . . his broad shoulders, his amazing chest and arm muscles, his taut torso, long legs and his very impressive erection. I masturbated to that image all through exam week.”

  “How d
id you know that the woman was Cassandra?” asked Cat.

  “I found pictures he’d kept of her—in the Charlotte house, under a window seat in his den.”

  “Wow. That must have been tough,” said Tessa.

  “Yeah.”

  Clearly this hadn’t been a good moment for her, Laurel thought, judging by the misery she saw in Viv’s eyes. But then she watched as the woman transformed in front of her. The grin on her face that grew was almost comical. “But I also found more videos.” She waggled her brows.

  “That’s good?” laughed Cat.

  “Let’s just say the man was in his prime in the 60s, and 70s, and so were his friends.”

  “I wanna see ‘em,” Tessa leaned in and then whispered, “You gotta share.”

  “No way. This was his very first one. Very different from the later ones.”

  “Fine. I’ll go online. It should be easy to scare up my own copy,” said Cat.

  “And what are you going to say to Matt when he comes home and sees you sitting on the couch watching his best friend being carnal with a slew of nuns?”

  “Really? Nuns?” said Tess.

  “Not real ones!” Viv gave Tess a glare. “He’s not that bad.” She turned back to Cat, “So what are you going to say to him, huh?”

  Cat shrugged. “I can’t imagine there’ll be a lot of talking going on with Philip as inspiration.”

  “No, me neither,” Tessa said. “It boggles the mind just thinking of it. And Roman . . . that sounds like something he’d be very into. Hey, I wonder . . . you think they’ve watched that one together? Philip’s not beyond a little boasting, and there were six nuns.”

  Laurel shook her head in disbelief. “This is the strangest conversation.”

  “Well, you have to admit, the situation is unique. How many women even know a former porn star nonetheless wind up married to one?” Tessa commented.

  “Come to think of it, ya’ll make me look pretty normal,” Laurel said.

  They all laughed until they cried.

  “So you might as well use your real name if you publish,” said Tess.

  “We’ll see. There’s still a lot of work to do before the decision of a nom de plume has to be made.” Taking a pen out of her purse Laurel added an item to her list and then smiled, waving the sheet. “All fears, thoughts, angst, and emotions are now down on paper.”

  “Then we have a ceremony to perform,” said Cat.

  “All done?” Tessa asked, gripping Laurel’s hand.

  “Completely. Burn baby burn!”

  “Cool. Tonight at midnight,” said Cat.

  “Midnight?” Viv breathed out with exasperation. “Why does it have to be midnight?”

  “It just does. Tonight at seven just sounds so . . .”

  “Early,” quipped Viv.

  “Not mystic,” countered Cat.

  “How about ten, can we agree on ten?” piped up Tess. There was a meeting of eyes around the table. Everyone nodded.

  “Okay, ten it is!” Laurel said with a smile. “I’ve done some research and I think I might have found just the right tree to use.”

  “Do tell,” Cat said and they all propped their elbows back on the table to listen.

  Laurel described the majestic tree she’d seen just around the corner by the old Brooks cemetery. All eyes lit as they made their wacky plans and giggled like schoolgirls. Then they gathered up their things and said goodbye, promising to meet that night at Laurel’s house, so they could drive over to the tree she had selected for her “purging” ceremony.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The next day Garrett and one of his neighbors hooked up to play Sandpiper Bay, and although it was an enjoyable round, it didn’t yield any flower boxes. The houses were only slightly set back from the course, but it was hard to see up close to the homes. He thought about coming back with binoculars but there weren’t any likely candidates. There were no out of bounds markers combined with flower boxes that he could see with the naked eye. And although he was willing to sacrifice a hole by purposely hitting in the rough to get closer to a house, none struck him as likely.

  That afternoon he went back out and played Oyster Bay. Following the cart path back to the clubhouse after playing only fifteen holes as the sun was setting over the marshes, he checked out the decks of the remaining houses on the course. Nada. He was beginning to get frustrated. He’d thought he’d had a good plan, but it was not turning out that way.

  He got back to the beach house just as the sun was bestowing its last glimmer over Bird Island. Stowing his golf bag in the ground level storage room, he muttered to himself and rubbed his hand over his face. He needed a new plan. He was tired. He was hungry. And although he had enjoyed playing golf, he’d dallied with it about as long as he cared to. He had to get back to his investment portfolio, and his body was crying out for a good hard run. But not tonight, he thought as he trudged up the steps. Definitely not tonight.

  A big pile of mail awaited him in the center of his dining room table, left there, he supposed, by Judy, his bi-weekly housekeeper. Two big packages had arrived, one containing a thick prospectus he’d requested, the other with mail forwarded from up north. The mailman must have brought it to the door for him. He loved the hometown feel and the caring nature of the local people. His neighbors often rolled his trashcan back up the drive to its niche under the house to spare him the fifty-dollar fee for leaving it out over the twenty-four hour limit. And the mailman, who was actually a woman, was always bringing bulky packages right up to the door for him. Up north, he’d usually find packages crammed into the box, or resting at the base of the post, suffering the weather, and tempting any passerby to investigate the contents.

  He quickly scanned the mail, tossing the majority of it in the trash. Then he picked up the phone and speed dialed Christopher’s Pizza. He was starved and felt as if he could devour a whole New Yorker Pie. He added an order for the house salad to salve his health-oriented conscience, and then checked his watch against the time. He had enough time to shower before the delivery man got there, so he made his way to the bathroom and to his man-sized, tiled-in, state-of-the-art steam shower—an indulgence that made all his hard work worth it. As far as he was concerned some luxuries were necessities. This was one of them.

  Forty minutes later he was sitting at the table, his fourth slice of pizza in hand as he read the Sports section of The Brunswick Beacon. An article by Elsa Bonstein caught his eye, and he laughed at her Golf Groaner joke at the end. He’d met her once at a First Tee charity golf tournament at St. James Plantation and had liked her right away. Elsa, with her energy and praise for the program, had impressed him, so he’d left a sizeable check in her hand for the kids.

  She’s a good writer, he thought as he scanned a section of the article that had interested him most, a listing of local courses and golf directors’ comments on the quality of the greens this summer. He’d read some of her articles before and liked her writing style. That, and the fact that she seemed quite knowledgeable about the game and well connected in the golfing community. On a whim he decided to email her.

  Elsa, I met you a few months back at a First Tee tournament. I doubt that you remember me, but I was the one you talked into outbidding that obnoxious idiot who thought he could get four tee times for Lion’s Paw for $25 by hiding the silent auction sheet under his hors d’oeuvre plate and blocking it for an hour. If you recall, he wasn’t happy when I changed his bid to $250 at the last moment as he’d already told his friends to call the pro shop and book a tee time, on him. Best laugh I had all day was when he called me a cheater as his friends gathered round and thanked him for paying for the next day’s golf outing.

  Anyway, I wonder if you could take a moment to answer an odd question for me. Digging deep into your vast knowledge of the local courses, do
you remember ever seeing a house with a big rosemary bush close to out of bound markers? Supposedly it also has flower boxes on the deck with lavender.

  He reread it, typed in Elsa’s email address at The Beacon, and pressed send. It was probably going to be fruitless. What were the odds? But he was getting desperate.

  When he got back from taking the pizza box out to the trash, he was surprised that he already had an answer.

  Of course I remember you. You making that guy spit and sputter, paired with a $5,000 contribution makes you pretty hard to forget. That, plus all the young women asking me who you were all day . . .

  Re: the house you’re asking about. Seems to me there’s something like that on Panther’s Run at Ocean Ridge, somewhere around the 3rd or 4th hole, not sure exactly about that though, but I vaguely remember losing a ball in the rough and then getting back into the cart and wanting a big ol’ plate of spaghetti. Hope this helps! Would love to see you at the next benefit if you’re going to be in town. Elsa.

  Garrett smiled. Ocean Ridge. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course. The Food Lion at the Village of Sunset would be the closest grocery store for an Ocean Ridge resident since the Piggly Wiggly, which then became the Lowe’s, had shut down. And the upscale houses that were Ocean Ridge would certainly suit what he knew of his woman’s personality.

  Invigorated now, he decided he’d manage to muster himself up for one more round of golf this week. He went to bed after clearing out some shows on his DVR—reruns of Justified, Castle, Whitney, and The Mentalist that he’d missed. Then he set the alarm for seven. It wasn’t likely he’d get an early tee time in the morning, but unless he called by eight, he probably wouldn’t get one at all.