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CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
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The Butterfly Effect
By
D. F. Roberts
A Renaissance E Books publication
ISBN 1-929670-77-X
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2001 by D. F. Roberts
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information contact:
Renaissance E Books
P. O. Box 494
Clemmons, NC 27012-0494
USA
Email [email protected]
Chapter One
It was a sweltering summer day, a dead day, not a breath of wind, no clouds—dead. The barren desert landscape viewed from the deck only came alive after a rain, or perhaps in the dark. At night small sounds carried, scurrying nocturnal live things busy using the cool of night to prolong their short lives—or shortening others. Darwinian concepts at play. Now the landscape was silent.
The portable phone rested in my hand. My sister had just called. She wanted to see me, but wanted me to visit her. I had refused, claimed work-related pressures—a lie. Since my wife died two years ago, I had little desire to socialize. My life had drifted, a malaise at first so pervasive the only contact with the outside world had been through my work. And my avocation. As a hobby, I helped unusual individuals with unusual problems. Lately, my lassitude had improved. Touches of energy intruded. Perhaps a visit with Ruth and little Christie would help. I dialed the phone. Changing one's mind isn't just the prerogative of women. They merely do it more often. Besides, the summer heat in Phoenix had become unbearable. New Orleans wouldn't be much better, but humidity didn't bother me, and New Orleans was green. Right now, I longed for green.
After agreeing to the visit, I closed my eyes to the brown landscape and let my thoughts wander. Disjointed, unrelated memories flickered without resolution or direction. As usual, Dianna, my late wife, dominated any inward scrutiny, but other events and faces flashed among her images. I was at loose ends. As a professor of mathematics at Arizona State University, I specialized in chaos theory. My work was interesting, but my avocation was my true passion and gave me purpose. I applied chaos math and a little help from my friends to solve unusual human problems.
Ah, my friends. Many would describe the group of men and women I had helped as a motley crew, but each was unique, and I loved all of them—some more than others.
My last adventure with my avocation proved dicey. I nearly failed. Dr. Sherry Evans, a child psychiatrist, came to me with a unique problem. Because she was an unusual person and she accepted the terms of my verbal contract, I had taken on her dilemma. As is often the case, a strange set of circumstances had caused Dr. Evans to become aware of a truly evil man, a man of religion others revered. His large congregation had made him wealthy, and he used his phony moral high ground to expand his constituency beyond his congregation. Powerful individuals in government and business sought his guidance and friendship, which gave him additional layers of protection. We took the evil man down using the butterfly effect from chaos theory and a little help from my friends. In the end, he committed suicide—not my goal, but nonetheless a reasonable solution. Now, I included Sherry as one of my friends.
I needed another project like the one presented by Sherry to occupy my time and my mind. In the interim, a visit with my sister would be interesting. Besides, time spent with my niece partially fulfilled usually suppressed paternal yearnings unsatisfied by my childless marriage.
The damned airplane was going to crash. In a swamp! Adrenaline pumped into my system as I gazed out the oval window next to my head. The tops of gnarled old cypress trees growing up out of muddy, slightly brackish water appeared level with the flight path of the aircraft. No dry land, no runway, just cypress and swamp. I glanced nervously at the other passengers, but oddly, none seemed concerned about the pending disaster. I fearfully glanced out the window again. Catastrophe loomed only seconds away. I knew with a certainty that soon I would become gator food. Abruptly the plane hit, and I squeezed my eyes shut (I refused to meet death with my eyes wide open). The aircraft bounced and then hit again. No explosions, no rending of metal or terrified screams. I peeked with my right eye, the one by the window. Miracle of miracles the plane was sliding down a runway! I gulped in oxygen, tried to calm myself. Massive amounts of adrenalin had rushed to aid me in this fight or flight event. Shortly I would collapse, I knew, drained of all energy as my body attempted to neutralized the hormone. Airplanes had a habit of doing that to me.
The heavy, wet air in New Orleans didn't improve my attitude as I deplaned, but the sight of my sister standing at the gate with a wide and impish smile made the trip with all its non-disasters worthwhile.
Mrs. Ruth Crowe James, a widow of five years, had married Ralph James while both attended Harvard, Ruth's first year and Ralph's last. Ruth had been pregnant when they took their vows. I, for one, suspected Ralph was not the father, but the man admirably assumed the role, and paternity became a moot point. Ralph, a vital and active man, fell into a crevasse while attacking the summit of a high mountain in Asia (shamefully, I can't remember the mountain's name). His body had never been recovered, but he left my sister and niece well provided for with loving memories and old family money.
Ruth appeared younger than her thirty-one years. I was four years her senior, but after the non-crash probably looked twenty years older, at least. She wore a light and short summer dress that showed off her best body features: her long tapered legs, and satiny shoulders. Soft and lustrous brunette hair framed her pixie smile and sparkling dark eyes.
Ruth's daughter, Christie, had presented me a conundrum during my last visit a year ago. Christie was eleven years old then, and the scamp loved to tease as she frequently bounced around the house dressed only in skin. Embarrassed, I asked Ruth about her daughter's behavior. She shrugged, told me it was just skin, and that she, too, enjoyed nudity in the privacy of their home. The girl was merely aping her mother, which Ruth promptly proved by occasionally joining her daughter in the altogether. Shamefully, at first I couldn't control an indiscriminate and uncomfortable tightening of my trousers, but soon rediscovered the accuracy of the adage that the unusual becomes commonplace when sufficiently repe
ated. I had refused during that trip to join them in the altogether, and I planned to remain stalwart and fully clothed during this visit.
Ruth wrapped herself around me and kissed me until my toes curled. If you were thinking it was not a sisterly kiss, you would be correct. When we were young, she had asked me to teach her how to kiss. A curious teenager myself, I had enthusiastically accepted the role, although my qualifications at the time were seriously lacking. Now every time we embraced, she wanted to demonstrate my lessons had borne fruit. Also, she knew it confused me, excited and embarrassed me at the same time. Ruth played games. After a while, I gave up and gave as much as I received. Now we kissed each other for pleasure and damned anyone who objected.
"Still the expert,” Ruth whispered in my ear before she released me. “Welcome to New Orleans."
"My turn, Uncle Martin,” a pixie-like voice sang out when I extracted myself from Ruth's embrace.
I sucked in the heavy New Orleans air mixed liberally with jet exhaust fumes, and in my mind, Maurice Chevalier started to sing “Thank heaven for little girls.” Christie had appeared as if by magic and held out her arms for her kiss. It was love again at first sight for me—uncle love, or fatherly. I thoroughly enjoyed lavishing my paternal urges on Christie. The imp was tall for her age, with dancing dark eyes, still narrow hips, perhaps a little wider proportionately than when I saw her last, and her stick-like legs had taken shape, not womanly yet, but almost. She wore a translucent blouse with no bra, and I could see tiny hints of puffed, budding breasts, darker areolas and pointy nipples. I raised my gaze to her grinning expression, so full of mischief I wanted to giggle, but swallowed the urge, and then tried, but failed, not to stammer and look a fool. Christie didn't hesitate, giggled at my awkwardness, and then kissed me with even more enthusiasm than her mother.
A difficult and interesting few days loomed ahead for me, I decided.
The three of us strolled toward the baggage area, one luscious female on each arm. I was pleased I had changed my mind.
An old house, I thought, as I stepped out of the car. New Orleans is an old city with old homes, especially in the Garden District where my sister lived. In front of me, two stories of a crumbling redbrick façade stood behind four massive ionic columns. Above sailed a high-pitched, slate roof, below a raised front porch, big double entry doors, a shutter each side of large but small-paned windows—and ivy, lots of ivy. I looked back at the street from the circular drive at the huge, ancient and gnarled oak tree. A massive, twisted branch of the tree drooped and touched the ground and then reached for the sky again as if it had tried, and failed, to re-root itself. I fondly remember playing in that tree with Christie during my last visit.
"Follow me, Uncle M,” she said, carrying my small bag.
I hefted the other two, and obeyed.
"In the guestroom with the private bath, Christie,” Ruth called after her daughter. “Martin, I'll put the car in the garage and be up in a few minutes. Make yourself at home.” At the rear, a separate three-car garage connected to the house with a covered walkway.
"Okay, Mom,” Christie said with a grin. She pranced toward the two high entry doors, painted black and festooned with brass hardware and a massive decorative knocker no one used. Inside, a two-story entry faced a swooping staircase now occupied by Christie, already halfway to the second floor. To the right of the entry was a formal living room, to the left, an office and library full of musty but well-read books. I loved my sister's library. Her reading was broad and eclectic, both fiction and non-fiction. She had become a successful romance novelist, and although romance wasn't my preferred genre, I enjoyed her books. She had dedicated the last one, her first bestseller, to me. I was touched by her comments.
I reset my hold on the bags and followed Christie.
"Slowpoke,” Christie said at the top of the stairs. I looked up. She stood at the edge of the landing with her legs spread slightly, fully aware of the view she offered me: her no-longer stick-like, long legs, pink panties and a mischievous grin—everything dramatically foreshortened. I grunted and trudged upward following Christie into the guestroom.
"I'm so happy you're here, Uncle M,” she said when I dropped the bags on the canopied bed. The sexy scamp welcomed me again with a kiss, her arms around my neck, and her lithe body pressed up against me from knee to lip. She reluctantly released me when she heard her mother's footsteps on the stairs. Christie's expression was no longer mischievous—a sultry, lusty look had replaced the sparkling tease in her eyes. With no hint of shyness, she glanced at the slight bulge she had created with her embrace, smiled a satisfied smile, and the sparkle and tease returned to her expression.
"See you at dinner, Uncle M,” she said brightly and moved ladylike from the room, except for a compulsive wriggle as she stepped through the door.
Yes, it would be a difficult and interesting few days.
Ruth entered moments later as I was putting socks and whatnot in a dresser drawer. She, too, noticed my embarrassing bulge. Ruth's smile was more knowing than her daughter's, but her expression was no less mischievous.
"The little imp can sometimes be a real tease, Martin. She's just testing her ability to attract the male of the species."
"She passed with flying colors. And, where did she learn to kiss like that?"
Ruth chortled. “It's in the genes. Frankly, she knows she can get away with teasing you, knows you won't take it seriously. She feels safe, so she tests the limits."
"I love her to pieces, but I'd prefer not to be her lab rat."
Ruth chuckled. “I have just the solution for your dilemma. Guess who's coming to dinner?"
"Louie Armstrong."
Another chuckle. “No, Jill Henderson. She'll be spending the night as my guest. You remember Jill, don't you?"
"Jill..."
I definitely remembered Jill Henderson. I was the girl's first lover. She was fourteen, and I was eighteen. I had just graduated from high school when she selected me to be her first. That summer, I lived dangerously, loving and making love with an under-aged, green-eyed beauty with red hair and freckles. When Ruth said her name, a memory surfaced in full color. I could clearly see Jill's striking face as she looked up at me with half-closed lids covering part of her startling green eyes. I remembered cupping her chin with my fingers and studying her face. “Good bones for a model,” I said. “Prominent cheekbones high on your face, a strong but intensely feminine chin. Green eyes to die for. And your full lips are so very, very kissable.” She leaned toward me, a stuttering movement, backed away and leaned again. When finally her lips touched mine, I fell in love with a redheaded girl with freckles. She retreated before the kiss became passionate and I appreciated her reticence.
Yes, I remembered Jill Henderson. She had gone on to become a renowned fashion model. We had only that summer together. I went away to college, and Jill moved to another city before I returned for the Christmas break. We wrote to each other for a while, but fate took us in different directions and I never saw her again. I occasionally saw her face and figure on the covers of magazines, and each time memories of my summer of living dangerously flickered through my mind. My wife would buy magazines featuring Jill and leave them lying around so she could tease me about my reaction.
Ruth chuckled. “Yes, I can see you remember Jill. She certainly remembers you. Take a nap. I know how you are after a flight, and you have time. Dinner is at seven. Dress is formal."
I nodded. “I think I will. The plane nearly crashed into the swamp, you know. And, please curb your daughter, tell her I'm not her lab rat, and for the few days I'm here, I would really appreciate it if the two of you deferred your propensity for nudity."
"Spoilsport,” she said with a pout. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Got to go, things to do. I'm really glad you're here, Martin. We've missed you."
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Chapter Two
I dressed for dinner. Black and shiny Bally shoes, tuxedo trousers, gray si
lk vest, and a Mandarin-styled white dinner jacket, buttoned at the top only. Stylish, I thought as I studied my image in the mirror. Just over six feet tall, I maintained my body by running each morning. Flat stomach, narrow waist, wide-enough shoulders, strong chin, but my nose was a little big, destroying what would otherwise be just another pretty face. My nose gave me character, I had often been told, and I finally accepted the imperfection without rancor.
And tonight I would need to be stylish. I had attended a few formal dinner parties in my sister's home. She would shame me, I knew, with her style and grace if I didn't make an effort. My outfit was new, all the rage—I hoped.
At the bottom of the stairs, a maitre d’ greeted me. (Various New Orleans restaurants catered Ruth's formal dinners.) “The ladies have not arrived, Sir,” he said and guided me to the library. “May I serve you a drink?"
I ordered scotch on ice, without naming a brand. I knew it would be superior. I loved Ruth's library, studied the titles, and opened a book or two without paying attention. My thoughts had drifted to Jill again. I wondered if she had arrived.
"Good evening, handsome."
I turned to Ruth's voice, and sucked in air. She wore a lace, full-length gown in a soft blue. Narrow straps at her shoulders flared to a plunging bodice. If I studied the pattern of the lace, I suspected I could see her darker areolas and nipples peeking through. The gown hugged her undulating curves, and a split at the side exposed a shapely, tapered thigh. Her legs were bare—no hose. It would be criminal to cover or try to enhance perfection. She had pulled her hair up, and the style of her gown and the hairstyle exposed her long neck.
"Captivating!” I exclaimed. “But ... well, the ensemble needs something. Ah, I know.” I pulled a jewelry box from the inside pocket in my dinner jacket and displayed its contents to my sister.
"Oh, Martin, it's beautiful. Put it on, please.” She turned and exposed her bare, silky back to me.
I kissed her neck, just a peck—a compulsion—as I hooked the string of pearls around her neck. “I love you, Sis. Thanks for inviting me for a visit. I needed the change."
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