Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love

Couple Relaxing In Bed Helen E. Fisher, PhD biological anthropologist, and Research Professor in the Department of Anthropology at Rutgers University, has written a new book entitled, Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love. 

In the book,  Fisher offers a new map of the phenomenon of love—from its origins in the brain to the thrilling havoc it creates in our bodies and behavior. Working with a team of scientists to scan the brains of people who had just fallen madly in love, Fisher proved what psychologists had until recently only suspected: when you fall in love, specific areas of the brain “light up” with increased blood flow. This sweeping new book uses this data to argue that romantic passion is hardwired into our brains by millions of years of evolution. It is not an emotion; it is a drive as powerful as hunger.

She discusses the idea of love and the brain in her TED talk:

Helen also brings up the idea of personality and what attracts certain ones to others. She suggested you take the personality quiz here

And what do you do if you are already in a wonderful relationship? How well do you know your partner? Take the Anatomy of Love Quiz Here

True Romance: Love & Laughter

Layout 1Many of the relationships in these eleven stories begin as serious tales of rejected advances, broken engagements, sexless marriages and cheating husbands, but just when a happy ending seems impossible, a little laughter brings about a positive outcome! A shallow woman fixated on meeting a handsome but oblivious stranger is charmed instead by a persistent funny guy with a winning personality. The klutzy secretary with a snobby fiancé meets an admirer who finds her clumsiness more endearing than embarrassing. A married couple attempting to rekindle their sex life is faced with the challenge of finding a time and a place for intimacy while raising their two curious little boys, only to realize how much closer they’ve become since their carefree days as newlyweds. Finding a little humor in your relationship can make all the difference!  Continue reading

True Romance: 9 Romantic Stories

Layout 1While the ’70s were about equal rights and the sexual revolution, women in the ’80s were more concerned about their economic situation. It’s easy to understand why some of the women in these stories would fantasize about finding romance on a cruise ship, or running off to a big city and becoming a fashion model, but as this collection of stories reveals, there are no shortcuts to happiness.

These were not the days of speed dating and finding love online. Women looked for love with personal ads and a very rudimentary form of computer dating. Continue reading

Rock ‘n’ Romance

drummerFrom the June 2010 issue of True Love Magazine

I stared in horror at my friends’ gloating faces. “Did he just call my name?”

The man with the microphone waved a slip of paper in his hands. “Nicole Malone, we hear it’s your birthday? Come on up.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumbled.

Sarah shoved against me with her shoulder. “Go on. You gotta do it.”

“No, I don’t,” I hissed. It was bad enough my three closest girlfriends dragged me to karaoke on my thirtieth birthday, but to embarrass me by having me stand in front of a crowd of self-deluded crooners was beyond humiliating.

Michelle and Heather jumped from their barstools, each taking a hand and pulling me toward the stage.

“Ah, there’s the beautiful birthday girl. Come on, sweetheart. We don’t bite.” Given the karaoke master, or whatever his title was, wore a studded collar around his neck, I couldn’t take his word for it.

Accepting there was no way out of standing center stage while enduring an off-pitch rendition of the happy birthday song, I faked a gracious smile and walked to the front of the crowd.

Catcalls and whistles pierced the air in the packed bar.

I took my place next to the Pat Sajak of the karaoke world when suddenly a spotlight flipped on. Great. Now the whole room can see my red face.

“Woo hoo! Go Nikki!” Sarah was really going to get it when I returned to the table.

The announcer put his arm around my shoulders as if we were good buds. “Ladies and gentleman, it’s the lovely Nicole Malone.”

Crazy cheering broke out. You’d think I was a celebrity with their level of enthusiasm. And I had to admit that their energy was contagious. Just to be a good sport, I curtsied. So what if they sang happy birthday to me? I was a big girl, officially a real adult. No longer a twenty-something.

Wow. That was a depressing thought. Thirty years old in an uninspiring job and no relationship to speak of, unless you counted my live-in Scottie. And no, I didn’t have some hot-kilted guy waiting for me at home. My Scottie was a dark haired cutie who liked walks in the park and belly rubs.

The announcer handed me the microphone, and I stared at it as if he’d handed me a snake. Did they expect a speech? “Um, thank you?”

“Material Girl!” someone in the back shouted out.

“Love Shack!”

“Queen!”

What is wrong with these people?

The announcer, who towered over me by a good foot, grinned expectantly. “Well, what’s it going to be? Are you an 80’s girl, or do you wanna rock?”

Whoa! They expected me to sing? I covered the microphone with my hand. “I’m sorry. There’s been some mistake. I don’t sing.”

When he took the microphone back, I almost melted with relief, but it was short lived. “Our little Nikki is shy, and she needs your encouragement.” He waved both arms in the air, cuing the crowd to join him. “Nik-ki! Nik-ki!”

Soon the whole room exploded with noise. They chanted my name over and over until I knew there was no way I’d leave that stage without singing. Now I wished I’d had that second margarita.

I nodded as my knees knocked together. Again, they cheered. I accepted the microphone. “I don’t know what to sing,” I whispered.

The man looked into the crowd. “Tyler, why don’t you come help out the birthday girl?”

Someone stood, but with the light behind him, I couldn’t tell anything except he had nice shoulders and a tapered waist.

The crowd broke into a frenzy of excited screams as Tyler made his way to the stage. Forget the margarita. I wanted some of whatever everyone else was drinking.

The first thing I noticed when he hopped on the stage was his bare feet. They were nice-looking feet as far as that went, but who didn’t wear shoes in public? In fact, didn’t I see a sign when we came in that said, “No shoes, no shirt, no service?”

My gaze traveled up his long blue-jean clad legs, took in his slender hips and screeched to a halt at his gorgeous face. My, I’d never seen any man that handsome unless he was twenty feet tall and projected onto a movie screen.

His smile about knocked me on my backside, and the amused look in his eyes told me he’d noticed my bold assessment. My cheeks burned with mortification.

He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Tyler.”

I shook his hand. “Hi, I’m the worst singer on the planet, but my friends call me Nicole.”

He winked. “You couldn’t possibly be the worst. My dad holds that title.” He grabbed another microphone from the table and leaned to say something to the karaoke guy, who consulted his laptop.

Tyler returned to my side and nodded to a screen set up to the right of the stage. “Do you know ‘Cruising’ by Smokey Robinson? You sing the lines in green and I’ll take the red ones.”

I swallowed hard, sure I might pass out.

He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Just think of the stories you’ll have to tell at work Monday.”

For some reason, the touch of this stranger’s hand settled the turmoil in my stomach. The intro started to more cheers, but the crowd quieted quickly.

Tyler looked into my eyes. “Baby let’s cruise.” His voice was as smooth as café au lait and made me warm all over.

“A-away from here.” I almost missed my cue and my voice came out as a rusty squeak at first.

He beamed at me as if I’d done something miraculous, like founded the Hair Club for Men or invented the Magic Bullet.

I cleared my throat as he sang the second line. “Don’t be confused.”

“The way is clear.” This time I surprised myself by not sounding like fingernails against a chalkboard.

SingersBy the time we reached the chorus, I was more relaxed and I had to admit, I didn’t sound half-bad. And my partner was quite the performer. Even I wondered by the end of the song if we were involved in some torrid love affair. Right. No such luck.

The applause was shocking. I couldn’t believe how wild the crowd went. Tyler stepped back and swept an arm toward me. It really was invigorating.

Once the clapping died down, Tyler led me off stage and escorted me to my friends. “Mind if I join you ladies?”

“Not at all,” Michelle said, and scooted over for him to pull up another barstool.

His hand touched my upper back and he spoke softly in my ear. “That was fantastic. Let me buy you a drink.”

I nodded, too overcome by his nearness to speak.

“Another margarita?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He offered to buy a round for my friends, too. As soon as he left for the bar, Sarah leaned over. “Do you know who that is?”

“Should I?”

“He’s the drummer for Chaos.”

“Chaos?”

Sarah lifted her eyebrows. “The band? Hello, where have you been hiding the last year?”

Michelle squealed with excitement. “They’re touring with the Repentant Ones soon. Sold out shows all over. I wanted tickets so bad.”

My friends all began talking at once, but shut up fast when Tyler reappeared with a starry-eyed waitress and our drinks. I didn’t miss how she brushed against him when he gave her a tip. He probably had women throwing themselves at him all the time. Didn’t women go gaga over drummers?

I could see why in this particular situation. The drummer of Chaos made me feel like a chaotic mess inside.

“Well, thank you for the drink,” I said. “And for standing beside me on stage. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dim light. “Is that a hint I should go now?”

Sarah, Michelle, and Heather all shouted out, “No!”

Tyler chuckled. “Thanks, ladies, but I was asking Nicole. After all, she is the birthday girl.”

I smiled shyly. “Of course, you should stay if you’d like.”

He leaned close, sending my heart into a rhythm to upstage any drum solo. “I like.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t leave our table the rest of the night, despite the different women stopping by trying to gain his attention. He spoke politely to each one, and then picked up our conversation again.

Eventually, my friends became bored with watching us talk and wandered off to speak to other people they knew.

“What’s a famous drummer doing in the Midwest?”

The smile slid from his face. “Am I famous?”

I shrugged. “That’s what I’m told.”

“So, you didn’t know who I was on stage?”

“No, I just thought you were some dorky guy with no shoes. Which reminds me, where are your shoes?”

Tyler laughed. “Ah, Nicole. You are a breath of fresh air. I guess you have no idea the reason I’m not wearing any shoes either.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Should I?”

“It’s my thing, my gimmick.”

I made a face. “But it’s disgusting! You can’t tell me this floor is clean. Let me see the bottom of your foot.”

“No, I don’t want to.” His sudden bashfulness was adorable. “I don’t eat with my feet.”

“Good thing,” I retorted. “You might get hoof and mouth disease.”

He laughed again and hugged me to his side. “I really want to take you home.”

I stiffened. This is what he wanted? A one-night stand?

I squirmed out of his embrace. “Listen, Tyler. I’m sure you’re used to women jumping in bed with you, probably without an introduction even, but I’m not—”

His eyes widened. “No! Oh, man. That’s not what I meant.”

What? He didn’t want to sleep with me? Why the heck not? I’m still a hottie. Really, thirty is not that old.

He must have noticed my frown. “Don’t get me wrong, Nicole. You are gorgeous, but I meant you’re the type of girl my mom would really like.” I wasn’t sure if he was blushing or if it was simply the red glare of the disco lights. He blew out a long breath and ran his fingers through his dark curls. “Wow. I can’t believe I said that aloud. You probably think I’m some kind of freak.”

I reached out and placed my hand over his. “You are a complete freak, but I kinda like you. How about we meet for coffee first, then if we hit it off, in ten to twelve dates you can take me to meet your mom.”

“I’m only in town for three weeks. Could we start dating tomorrow?”

How could I resist? I could use a little fun in my life. “We could count tonight as our first.”

“Excellent.” He cocked a grin. “How many dates until I can get to first base?”

“What are you, an adolescent?” I teased. “What is first base again?”

“A kiss.” His husky voice sent chills racing along my skin.

“I don’t believe in PDA. Otherwise, you’d probably get lucky tonight.”

Despite my flirtatiousness, I was usually very uptight. Never in a million years would I have dated a rock star or kissed a guy I just met, but I was thirty. Time seemed to be slipping by a lot faster than I liked. My entire teens and twenties sped past without me ever doing anything wilder than purchasing a skimpy bikini off the clearance rack, one I never wore.

At the end of the evening, Tyler walked us to the car. We arranged to meet the next day at Maggie’s Café, and I gave him my number.

All the way home, my friends squealed like teenage girls, and their excitement began to make me nervous.

When I walked into Maggie’s the next morning, Tyler was already there in a booth. An older waitress fussed over him.

“Now, are you sure I can’t get you anything else, sweetie?”

Good grief. Were there no women immune to his charm?

“No, Aunt Kay,” he answered. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

Oh. Did I ever feel foolish!

Tyler broke into a big smile when he spotted me. “Nicole.” He scooted out of the booth to greet me with a hug. “I’d like you to meet someone.” He turned to the waitress with his arm around my shoulders. “This is my favorite aunt, Kay.”

We exchanged warm greetings, and she poured me a cup of coffee before leaving us alone.

I leaned on my elbows. “I thought we agreed to several dates before I met your family.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know she worked today. Besides, we agreed you wouldn’t meet my mother until ten to twelve dates. I have family all over town, so I’m afraid we won’t be able to avoid them.”

That explained why he was in town.

He reached across the table and took my hand. His touch had the same effect on my senses as the night prior. I felt giddy inside. “Of course, you’ll fall madly in love with me before ten to twelve dates, so I let her know we’ll stop by toward the end of the week.”

I knew he was joking, or at least I thought he was. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. And don’t worry, I won’t fall in love with you. In three weeks, you’ll be on the road. I’m nothing, if not practical.”

He flashed his grin, his sea-blue eyes sucking me right in. I really couldn’t allow myself to fall for him.

“Three weeks gives me plenty of time to convince you otherwise,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Knock yourself out.”

Over coffee, I found out Tyler was born and raised in this town. He left after high school to attend Northwest University in Chicago and graduated with a degree in fine arts. For fun, he’d joined a band with some of his classmates, and when they started booking gigs in small clubs, he discovered he loved performing.

He hadn’t had a serious girlfriend since college, and I got the feeling from some of his comments, that he’d had some bad experiences with women who turned out to only care about his modest fame.

“So, I make a living doing what I love,” he said, passing a creamer across the table after Aunt Kay refilled my cup. “I’m one of the few living a dream.”

He leaned back and draped his arm along the back of the seat. “What about you? What’s your dream? Don’t tell me you enjoy banking.”

I wrinkled my nose and peeled the paper from the creamer. “There’s nothing wrong with banking.”

He chuckled. “No, but your eyes don’t light up when you talk of your job. If anything, you look as if you’re about to lapse into a coma.”

Dumping the cream into my coffee, I figured he had a point. “It pays the bills. And I’ve made good friends.”

Tyler leaned forward. “But isn’t there anything that stirs your passion?”

I sighed. “Let’s go. I have something to show you.” We both slid from the booth and Tyler dropped a twenty on the table.

“Bye, Aunt Kay. I’ll see you next Saturday.”

Aunt Kay waved from behind the bar. “Sounds good, sweetie. It was nice to meet you, Nicole.”

I returned her warm smile. “What’s next Saturday?” I asked Tyler.

“Family gathering. I’d ask you to join us,” he said with a teasing twinkle in his eyes, “but I don’t think we will have been on enough dates by then.”

We stepped from the cool air-conditioned café into the balmy summer air. “I always love how the heat feels like a cozy blanket wrapping around me when I first step outside.”

He took my hand and squeezed it. “So, where are you taking me?”

I pulled him along the sidewalk. Our destination was only two blocks away.

A bell tinkled when I pushed open the glass door to enter the Second Street Gallery.

Janice, the owner, broke out a large smile and stepped forward, but she caught the warning look I sent her. “Welcome,” she greeted as if we were customers. “Please feel free to browse, and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“This is your passion? Art galleries?”

I shrugged. “Care to look around?” I led him to a display of black and white photographs. My stomach churned. What would he think? These pieces were a glimpse into my soul.

“Wow. These are amazing. Are these your favorite?”

He perused my work, candid photos I had taken around town. One was of a vagabond passing through with his backpack. He’d taken refuge in the alley behind the bakery and leaned against the chipped red brick wall. The vacant look in his eye had drawn me to him. It was as if he’d already lived life and only the outer casing remained. After I took his photo, I offered him twenty bucks. I still tear up when I see his image.

I had pictures of young children playing in the water fountain at the park, an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand with love in their expressions, and a baby napping on a picnic blanket while his father gazed at him in such adoration.

Tyler moved closer to the photos. “N. Malone?” He smiled at me over his shoulder. “Nicole, these are magnificent.”

The wonder and admiration in his voice warmed my heart. “These pieces are my passion,” I said shyly.

Tyler faced me again and stepped closer until I could feel his body heat and smell his light cologne. With a gentle touch, he pushed a piece of hair behind my ear, sending waves of pleasure zinging throughout my body. “Thank you for sharing these with me. I am honored.”

I grinned. “And I’m easily flattered.” The gallery was empty of other patrons, and Janice had disappeared into the back storage room. “Enough to allow you to get to first base.”

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about.”

His fingers slid into my hair to cradle the nape of my neck, and he brushed his lips over mine. If I thought his touch was electrifying, his kiss was like a lightning bolt. My legs trembled, and he wrapped his arm around my waist to steady me.

When we broke the kiss, he didn’t let me go. Instead, he stared into my eyes, his having darkened to a stormy blue. “Nikki, Nikki. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.”

If only that were true, but I’d be a fool to believe it. He’d be gone soon enough, and he’d have plenty of women ready to make him forget all about me.

From the art gallery, we walked to the riverside park, just enjoying each other’s company.

“Would you photograph me sometime?” he asked, as we meandered along the shaded path.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll sell them to the tabloids?”

“Ooh,” he rubbed his hands together in mock delight, “nude pictures might make me a star.”

My cheeks heated, but I couldn’t help laughing. “That wasn’t what I meant.” Then feeling like the flirtatious girl I had been the night prior, I added, “But I have a feeling you’d be a work of art.”

“As would you, my pretty.”

As evening approached, I was reluctant to leave Tyler. Darn him if he turned out to be right and made me fall in love with him.

As I lay in bed that night, my cell bleeped with a text message. “Can’t stop thinking about u. See u tomorrow? Tyler.”

Tomorrow wasn’t soon enough, but it would have to do. I sent him a message in return.

Funny, but by the end of that week, I was ready to meet Tyler’s family.

We attended the family gathering, and everyone treated me as if I was part of the clan. I couldn’t believe how sickeningly happy I was.

That night, against my better judgment, Tyler and I made love. I was head-over-heels for a man only a week earlier I’d promised I’d never love.

When the rising sun peeked through my windows the next morning, it created the most beautiful shadows on Tyler’s face. I quickly grabbed my camera and clicked off several frames before he stirred.

He grinned, and looked as sexy as could be. “I knew you’d take pictures of me in the nude.”

“I wasn’t.”

Male model in bedHe eased the sheet down to reveal his sculpted chest and firm abdomen. The trail of dark hair disappearing under the covers stood out in strong contrast to the white sheets. “Why not?”

Tyler was beautiful. I clicked a few more frames, all very tasteful, while he posed for me. The only semi-inappropriate one accidentally showed his bare bottom, but I was too enamored with his captivating smile to notice until later.

He reached for my camera. “My turn.”

I felt really awkward being in front of the lense, but as Tyler showered me with loving words and admiration, I loosened up. I actually felt like the seductress he believed me to be.

At the end of three weeks, I hated to see him leave on tour. We made plans for Scottie and me to join him for two weeks on the road in the middle of his tour, and I marked off each day on my calendar, hoping it might speed up the process.

Unfortunately, time seemed to slow down instead, and talking on the cell phone in the wee hours only made me miss Tyler more. When he ended each call with “I love you,” it was all I could do not to cry. I was a goner whether I liked it or not.

Two weeks after he’d left, I invited my girlfriends over for dinner thinking it might help me get back into the swing of things. It was nice getting together with them again. I had ordered Chinese take-out and we sipped on white wine.

We sat in my living room laughing and gossiping about the latest office romances. I pulled out my camera, as I often did, and shot a few pictures of my friends. When my cell rang, I sat my camera on the side table and hurried to find my phone.

It was Tyler. He’d gotten a chance to call before the show. We didn’t talk long since my friends were over, and when I walked back into the living room, Michelle held my camera.

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed. “He is so hot!”

My other friends jumped from their chairs to crowd around her to see the viewer.

“Totally hot,” Heather agreed. “Nikki is so lucky.”

My heart tripped and I ran across the room to snatch the camera before they discovered Tyler’s bare bottom picture. “I’ll take that,” I said, scooping the camera from Michelle’s hands.

“Spoil sport,” she teased. “So, when do you meet up with him again, anyway?”

I shared our plans to meet in Kansas City in six weeks.

“You really are lucky,” Michelle said on a sigh. “I wish it had been my birthday that night. Tyler Samson is the best gift ever.”

“Yeah,” Heather agreed. “How will you stand being away from him for so long?”

I shrugged. “We’ve only been dating a few weeks.” I tried to play it off, but the separation really was killing me.

The time to join Tyler on tour was close. Scottie and I would be on a plane in three days, and I couldn’t wait. As I wrestled over which bathing suit to pack, my phone rang. It was my mom.

“Now, Nicole, don’t freak out,” she said. My mom always said that when she called, so I never freaked out. What was it this time? Her seventy-year-old neighbor bought a red sports car and traded in his wife for a buxom blonde. Buxom. That word always made me laugh when my mom used it.

“Okay, I won’t,” I promised, cradling the phone with my shoulder while folding a pair of shorts.

“Tyler’s on TV.”

I chuckled. “Yes, Mom. He is from time to time. What channel?”

“Seven.”

I grabbed the remote from my bedside table and clicked on the flat screen. A butt filled the screen, and my mouth went dry. The picture widened to show Tyler’s smiling face. No way! It was my photo!

“It’s an exposé,” my mom whispered. “Apparently, he’s posed for some X-rated magazine. They say he’s selling pictures of himself to pay for drugs.”

“That’s a lie,” I exclaimed. How could this be happening? How did my photo end up on Entertainers Exposed? “Hold on, Mom.” I dropped the phone on my bed and raced to find my camera. Popping it open, I saw the memory card was missing.

No! Oh my gosh! Tyler’s going to think I betrayed him. Frantic, I scrambled back to my bed and rifled through the covers to find my phone. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Tyler doesn’t use drugs.”

“I know that, honey. Don’t you worry, no one else is going to believe it either.”

My heart beat against my ribs, and my hands shook as I hung up. Immediately, I tried to reach Tyler, but his voicemail picked up right away. “Um, Tyler. It’s Nicole. Please call me when you get this message.”

An hour later, I still hadn’t heard from him. I tried again, but I reached his voicemail. He probably hated me, and how could I blame him. Even though I hadn’t released his photographs, I hadn’t kept them safe either.

I jerked up my phone and dialed another number, but reached voicemail again. “Michelle, it’s me, Nicole. I want to know what you were thinking stealing Tyler’s photos. I’m furious with you.”

I tried Tyler four more times, but never reached him.

At ten o’clock after Tyler hadn’t taken any of my calls or returned them, I knew it was probably over. I was exhausted and beaten down when I fell on my bed and let the tears come. I sobbed for the great sense of loss I had.

Poor Scottie didn’t know what to think during all of this. He had whimpered and followed me around the house earlier. Now, he curled up by my side and shivered.

“Shh, everything’s going to be okay,” I told him, wishing I could believe it.

A loud knock jarred me awake. I looked at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. The knocking continued, getting more insistent. I stumbled toward the door, not even fully awake yet.

“Who is it?”

“Open up, Nicole.”

Tyler’s voice sent a shockwave through my body. My hand shook as I twisted the deadbolt and opened the door.

“I’m ticked,” he said and barreled into my apartment. “What a B! I got here as soon as I could, because I had to look you in the eye.”

Just as I’d feared, Tyler hated me. “I’m so sorry, Tyler. Really, I am.”

He looked taken aback. “Sorry for what, sweetheart?”

I blinked, really confused. “Don’t you know about the pictures?”

He dropped his backpack on the floor. “Heck, yeah, I do. And that hack job writer at Exposed is going to pay, making up that idiotic story about posing for money for drugs.” With a frown, he stepped forward and held out his arms. “Are you okay? I can’t believe Sarah took credit for your work.”

Sarah? My best friend? “It was her?”

Tyler wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. “I’m sorry, Nicole. Didn’t you get my messages?”

I shook my head before pulling from his embrace to go check my phone. Sure enough, I had four messages. I’d put my phone on silent somehow. “Are all four from you?”

“I left three of them.”

I listened to my messages and learned one was from Michelle. “I feel awful. I accused Michelle.”

“Well, call her and apologize.” Tyler plopped onto the couch. “I can wait.”

I called Michelle and apologized profusely for being such a moron, and fortunately, she forgave me. To make it up to her, Tyler promised her two tickets and backstage passes to the Minneapolis show. She gladly accepted with a shriek that almost burst my eardrum.

With things smoothed over with Michelle, I felt a little better, but I still felt awful about Tyler’s photos being plastered on TV. “If I hadn’t ever taken those shots—”

Tyler held out his hand. “Come here, Nicole.”

I joined him on the couch and almost cried with relief when he put his arm around me. “Those shots were amazing, and though I’d prefer not to have my butt shown to millions of viewers, it’s not bad publicity for a musician. In fact, the other guys want to know if you’ll photograph them, too.”

He kissed the tip of my nose before nuzzling my cheek. “I’ve missed you. Please, say you’ll come with me on the road. I can’t do this anymore without you.”

I pulled back, needing to break contact to think straight. “But, I have to work. I have bills to pay.”

“You’re a banker. Don’t tell me you don’t have a savings account.”

“I do, but it’s for emergencies. I don’t think running off with my rock star boyfriend counts.”

Tyler grabbed my hands in his. “Nicole, this is a chance to live your dream. I wasn’t joking about the guys in the band. We love your work, and we’ll pay you for your photos. Our manager wanted some new publicity shots, too. Think of all the subjects you’ll find traveling the world.” He pulled me close. “Please, come with me. I thought being part of a successful band was everything I ever wanted, but I was wrong. I want you by my side.”

If I did this, it would be the biggest risk of my life. But really, it was everything I’d dreamed as well, following my passion and loving a wonderful man. The fact that I’d turned thirty probably had a lot to do with my decision. It seemed silly to wait until age forty to begin living my life.

“I’ll come with you,” I said.

“Yes!” Tyler kissed me and sent a jolt of electricity to my toes. “I’ll never let you regret it.”

And Tyler has kept his promise. This September we will celebrate our second wedding anniversary, and every day is a dream come true.

The Father of My Child

dad and soncrop

The Father of My Child
June 1951 True Romance

It was the best of intentions that she invited her first husband to meet her second. And when it was too late, she realized what a mistake she’s made.

Carefully I spread the quivering meringue over the still warm lemon pie. I wanted so much for everything to be right for tonight, Steve’s and my first wedding anniversary!
“Make sure Dickie feels part of it,” Steve had whispered to me that morning as he kissed me good-by.

There was a wistful note in his voice that tore at my heart, and made me wish again desperately that I knew the key to the riddle of Dick and Steve. “Time, give the boy time,” Steve had said in the beginning, but time only seemed to have made matters worse, and each day Dickie’s resentment appeared to grow rather than decrease.

The change had come over him so mysteriously, so insidiously, that it took me a few months to realize that instead of being gloriously thrilled and happy with his wonderful new stepfather, my eight-year-old son was miserably the only source of conflict in the one precious year Steve and I’d had together.

When I first met Steve I guess the thing that attracted me to him was the way he went out of his way for Dickie. Not in any over-display of affection, as some men would, showering him with grand presents and making a big fuss, but in a quiet, almost grave companionship.

Steve made a point, from the very beginning of coming to take me out on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, when Dick could come with us. Of choosing movies he would enjoy, of doing all his courting via circuses, rodeos, country fairs and all the things entrancing to a small boy. And I loved him for it.

Dick had been only two when Barney, his father, had skipped off, not even having the courage to ask me for a divorce, but leaving it to a lawyer. And even. in those two years Barney had spent considerably more of his time “on the town” than with us. After the dismal misery of that unfortunate marriage, and the years later alone, meeting Steve, falling in love, was like stepping out of a wretched, lonely wasteland into an almost forgotten world of laughter and affection, of slowly remembering the simple every-day joys of living, and the deep, mysterious magic of love.

When Steve whispered, “Meg, will you marry me?” I felt as if God had given me a reprieve, as if He had said, “You’ve suffered enough. You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve been through horror. I’m going to give you and Dickie, too, another chance now.”

And I still felt that way. I loved Steve with a passion and a tenderness that was unlike anything I had ever known before. Everything about him seemed blessedly different, new to me, even his looks. Big, blond, slow-moving, he was almost the direct opposite of Barney, who was narrow, slim and dark with a kind of graceful nervousness.

Naturally Dickie asked questions about his father and I answered them the best I knew how. After all, I couldn’t tell a small child that his father was selfish, irresponsible . . . about the ruthless disregard he had for anything and anyone, including Dickie, if it interfered with his own pleasure. So I picked out a few things and built up from there, about how gay he was, fun to be with, always ready for a laugh. The lies started out innocently enough soon after Barney was gone and Dickie had a broken wagon I couldn’t fix.

“If my daddy were here,” he said, his big brown eyes solemn, “he’d fix it, wouldn’t he?” I thought for a minute of the destruction Barney had left behind him, the unpaid bills, the broken window pane that still had a cardboard stuck in it because Barney couldn’t be bothered and there wasn’t any money to call in a glazier —and I had taken Dickie in my arms and said, “Of course, darling, your daddy would fix it.”

For a few years after that it seemed that everything that went wrong in Dickie’s life could be fixed and comforted by the words, “Yes, sweetheart, if your daddy were here it wouldn’t have happened.” It was such an easy way out for me—to stop the tears and the upsets—I didn’t realize the awful magnitude of the superman I was building up for the child to cling to. It wasn’t until he was around five or six that the magic ceased to work, and instead in any crisis he screamed, “I want Barney, I want my daddy.”

When Steve first came along, I think Dickie was as excited as I. The delight of having a man around was almost pathetic, and when I told him Steve and I were going to be married, he shouted with glee, “I’m going to have a daddy, just like all the other kids!”

But after a few months the novelty wore off, and having a new daddy wasn’t all fun when he told you what to do. Suddenly, came back again the old cry, “I want Barney, I want my own daddy.” I suppose I should have expected it, and yet somehow I had hoped that Steve with his kind, patient goodness would have wiped out the thought of anyone else.

“Hi, Mom.” I had been so lost in my own thoughts I hadn’t even heard Dick come in. “What’s all the decoration for?”

“Why, I told you, sweetheart. It’s our wedding anniversary. Steve and I have been married one year today. We thought we’d have a little party to celebrate.”

“Who’s coming? Will they bring me presents?”

I smiled at his only interest in parties. “No one’s coming. It’s a family party, just you and Steve and me. I don’t think there will be any presents.”

“Well, I want to go to the movies anyway. Can I, Mom?”

“No, of course not. I said we were having a party, and we want you home with us.”

“But I want to go to the movies.” Dick’s face looked stubborn. “Having a party with you and Steve ain’t no fun.”

“Oh, Dickie!” I could feel despair. Please, not tonight. Don’t build up to a scene tonight, I prayed silently to myself. “You wait and see, I think it might be fun,” I said aloud.

“Maybe for you and him,” he answered sullenly. “But not for me.”

I was glad to hear Steve’s key in the door, and overjoyed to see him come striding into the kitchen carrying two long boxes. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart!” he exclaimed, taking me in his arms and holding me close. In Steve’s arms I felt as if nothing could ever really be wrong between us.

“Hi, Dick.” Steve turned to Dick as soon as he released me. “Here, this is for you.” He handed him one box and gave me the other.

Dick’s face lit up for a minute as he tore off the wrappings. “Oh, boy, this is great.
Thanks,” he said a little sheepishly, taking out a fine baseball bat.

I was busy with my own present, my favorite long stemmed deep red roses. I was filling a vase with water when I heard Steve’s voice behind me say, “Dick, don’t swing the bat around the kitchen,” and a second later the crash, of shattered glass.

“Oh, Dickie!” I spun around to see two of my best tumblers in tiny pieces on the floor.

“Why did you deliberately swing that bat, after I told you not to?” Steve’s voice was kind but firm.

“‘Cause I wanted to.” Dickie was defiant. “Besides, I don’t have to do what you tell me.”

“I think it’s time you started learning,” Steve said patiently. “Take a dust pan and sweep up that mess.”

“I’m not goin’ to do it. You ain’t my father, and I’m not going to do anything you tell me!”

Dickie’s eyes were darting around the room, looking for escape. “Mom, give me my supper so I can get to the show.” He turned to me, pleading.

“I thought that was all settled, Dickie,” I said, trying to keep my voice quiet. I could feel the tension in the room, the fury in Dickie’s little body, mounting up to something enormous, frightening and terrible. . . .

“Of course you’re not going to the movies,” Steve said, stooping down to take care of the glass himself.

“Why not?” His voice was high and shrill. “Why not?”

Steve stood up and faced the boy. “Because first of all it’s a school night and you know you don’t go to the movies then, and secondly your mother went to a great deal of trouble to fix up a nice party, and I think you should help us celebrate our wedding anniversary.”
Then it came. The anger, the temper, the bitter resentment and hate. Dickie burst into loud sobs, his face red and wild looking, his foot stamping up and down. “I don’t want to celebrate your wedding. I hate it. I hate you—you’re not my father and you never will be. I want my own daddy. I want Barney,” he shouted so loud people must have heard him blocks away. Suddenly he ran out of the kitchen and we could hear the door to his room slam after him.

My whole body trembling, I sank down on the kitchen chair and heedlessly let the tears roll down my cheeks. Steve put a hand gently on my shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, Meg.”
Steve was pacing around the kitchen restlessly. I tried to make myself stop “Maybe you should have let him go to the movies,” I said dully.

“Nonsense!” Steve’s voice was strangely sharp “If he got the movies, it would be something else! That’s not what he’s crying about. It’s this idiotic picture of his father you’ve been building up all these years. Nobody in the world could live up to that!” He ran his fingers through his hair impatiently. “If Barney were someone real I could cope with him. But not this image of perfection the kid has!”

“What do you want me to do? Tell the boy his own father’s no good?” I felt myself getting angry now. It all seemed so hopeless, so confused. . . .

Steve swung around in front of me. “Why not? You can’t keep on kidding him forever. Barney never comes to see him, hasn’t been around here since I knew you. He doesn’t give a hang about the kid, and yet he’s ruining his life—and yours and mine too. And you’re the one who’s letting him do it!” I had never seen Steve like this before. His face was white and his eyes blazing.

I said the cruelest thing I could have. “If you were his own father you wouldn’t be talking this way.”

There was a long silence which Steve finally broke in a toneless voice. “I guess you’re right, Meg. He is your son, and from now on you can run the show any way you please. You give the orders and I’ll try to keep my mouth shut.”
I

knew, and Steve knew too, that that was no solution. It was about the worst thing in the world that could have happened. But I was too weary, too emotionally spent, and I guess too stubborn, to say anything except, “That’s okay with me,” in a terse voice.

After supper Steve said gruffly, “I’ll do the dishes, you take care of the boy.”
Slowly I pushed open the door to Dickie’s room. He’d been so quiet I suspected he was asleep, and sure enough he was curled up on his bed, his face still wet and streaked, and clutched in his hand was the one snapshot he had of Barney. . Gently I undressed him. He hardly woke up at all, just a few times he cried in his sleep, “Daddy, I want my daddy!”

After that Steve kept religiously to his word. Every time Dick asked if he could do anything, it was always the same answer from Steve. “Ask your mother.” Whatever discipline there was had to come from me, and that was getting harder and harder to maintain. So far as Dick was concerned, Steve was like a polite guest living with us—and with every advance that Steve made toward the boy Dickie got bolder and bolder in rejecting. It seemed if Dickie couldn’t have Barney he didn’t want any father at all!

It would be foolish of me to say this didn’t affect things between Steve and me. How could Steve be a husband to me and not a father to the boy? In my desolation I thought of all kinds of things. Even of leaving Steve, my wonderful, strong Steve, whose eyes were carrying around a pain that seemed to say, “What have I done? Why can’t the child love me?” And my tormented heart answered him silently, “It was done before you were here. . . . I did it, I’m the one.”

Some words of Steve’s kept nagging at my mind. “I could cope with a real father, but not with this image. . . .” Why not, I wondered. Why shouldn’t Dickie see his own father?
I had covered up for Barney so much, why couldn’t I go one step further and ask him to come around. I was sure he would if I asked him, Barney wasn’t mean or vicious—just careless, thoughtless, disinterested. I remembered an article I once read saying how to tell a kid that a stepfather was something extra . . . that gave him two fathers, his own and another one, which was more than other children had.

Maybe that’s what Dickie needed, some part of his own father once in a while, and then he wouldn’t mind so much about Steve.

Barney lived only sixty or seventy miles away from Torrington. . . . I’d ask him over for Sunday dinner and surprise Dickie.

But I was going to have to tell Steve, I knew that. That night after Dickie was in bed, my heart hammering violently, I said as evenly as I could that Barney was coming over on Sunday. Steve’s face flinched and the pain shot through his eyes. “What brought him to, after all these years?”

I got very busy with the dishwashing. I couldn’t tell Steve I’d called him. I just couldn’t, I knew he would hate Barney even worse for that. “I dunno, maybe he just has a yen to see Dickie, or,” I added, laughing a little, “maybe he wants to give you the once over.”

“I hope it makes Dick more happy than it will upset him,” Steve said quietly.
I felt a pang of uneasiness go through me. “It won’t upset him—why should it? He’s been clamoring to see his own father and now he will,” I said, wishing I felt as convinced as I sounded.

Sunday dawned clear and pleasant. Right after breakfast Steve announced that he was going for a walk. “Want to come, Dick?” I could tell by Steve’s face he didn’t want to be around when Barney arrived.

“Naw,” Dickie muttered.

When I called Barney I’d told him to be sure to be over by twelve, figuring he’d get there around one, but a few minutes after twelve the bell rang. My heart was hammering furiously as I stopped to powder my nose before letting him in.

“Hi, Meg,” Barney said easily, as if he’d been coming around for Sunday dinner regularly for years. “How’s tricks?”

“We’re all fine,” I answered, surprised at the evenness of my voice. “You’re looking well.” As he walked around the living room on an inspection tour I was able to look at him. He did look well, very well … he was even fat and he was extremely well dressed. Steve’s best suit wasn’t as good as the carefully pressed pin-stripe Barney was wearing, nor could the tan shirt and perfectly matched tie have been bought at a cheap store by any means. “You look very well,” I repeated, “and certainly prosperous.”

“I’m doing all right,” he answered casually, perching himself on the arm of a chair. “I’ve got a nice hunk of territory selling booze, keeps me moving. Where is everyone?”

“Dickie’s downstairs, I’ll call him. Steve’ll be back soon.”

My knees were shaking as I went to the window to call Dickie. It was easy for me to see Barney, but Dickie . . maybe I should have told him, warned him, but it was too late now.

“Dickie, come on up, there’s someone here to see you.”

He came running into the room breathlessly, and stopped short when he saw Barney. I don’t think he knew who he was until Barney said, “Hi, son, how are you? Come here and let me look at you.”

Dick stood quietly in the middle of the room, not moving, not daring to look up. “It’s Barney, darling, your own daddy,” I said encouragingly. “Don’t you want to say hello to him?”

“Don’t tell me you’re shy,” Barney said, laughing a little too loudly. “No son of mine is shy! Come here and say hello like a man.”

Finally Dickie said “Hello,” in a tiny voice and ran out of the room into his own.

Barney looked annoyed. “Don’t you teach the kid any manners? That’s a heck of a greeting to give his own dad after all these years!”

I bit my lip hard. I must control myself, this is no time to have a scene with Barney . . . remind him that the years were his responsibility, his fault, not his son’s. “This is a big moment for him, Barney,” I said, “maybe he needs a little time to digest it. Why don’t you go in and ask to see his toys?”

“Well, maybe,” Barney replied. but he didn’t move. “You got a television set? There’s a show I wanted to see at one o’clock.”

“No, we haven’t. I’m sorry, besides we’ll be eating then. My heart felt heavy as lead. What had made me think Barney was going to be any different . . . that my bringing him here was going to achieve some magic?

After a while Dickie couldn’t resist coming out, but he came timidly, carrying a box of puzzles he’d gotten for his birthday “Can you do these?” he asked, shoving the box at Barney.

“Sure, sure,” Barney said expansively. “Of course I can.” He sat down on the floor with Dickie and I felt relieved This was more like it. But after struggling for a few minutes unsuccessfully with one of the puzzles, he excused himself, “Forgot to buy cigarettes,” he called from the door, “be right back. . . .”

By the time he got back Steve was there and we sat down to dinner. Then I realized the enormity of the mistake I’d made.

Barney kept the conversation going. but there was nothing in it that included
Dickie at all. He talked about himself, his trips as a salesman, and he talked cars with Steve.

A few times Dickie shyly said, “Daddy. . .” Steve, his face rigid, looked
the other way, and Barney would say,

“Yes, son?” and go right on talking. I was relieved when the meal was over and
wondered how soon Barney would leave.

Steve excused himself after dinner, saying he had a job to do over at the garage where he worked. Barney picked up the newspaper and turned on the radio.
Dickie hung around for a few minutes, his face tense and white. Finally he announced he was going downstairs to skate

“That’s fine,” Barney said easily. “Too nice to stay indoors, you should be with children, not hang around grown-ups.”

In about ten minutes Dickie was back upstairs again, carrying his skates. “Daddy,” he said solemnly to Barney, “can you fix this for me, please?”

He held a loose wheel in his hand . . . they were practically new skates, he’d hardly used them.

Barney put down the paper. “That was fast,” he said lazily, putting the wheel on to the axle.

“Here, ask your mother for a screw driver and tighten it. It’s easy.”

“No, you do it,” Dickie said quietly.

Barney laughed. “I’m too comfortable to move. Sunday’s supposed to be a working man’s day of rest, son, you can do it.”

Dickie was trying hard to keep his face from breaking up into tears, but the cry was there, drawing his mouth down. “I wanted you to fix it.” He couldn’t hold back any more, and the sobs came.

Barney looked surprised. “What a silly thing to cry about, if you’re big enough to skate you can fix it. Now go ahead, don’t be such a baby.”

I forced myself to get busy with the dishes, trying to push out of my mind the tragic disappointment on the child’s face. Perhaps I should have gone after him then, to comfort him, try to ease him with the warmth of my love. But my own heartache was too much, too stifling. . .

It must have been around four o’clock when Steve came in.
“Where’s Dickie?” he asked, surprised.

“Didn’t you see him downstairs when you came in?” I felt a funny little flutter in my heart.

“No, but I’ll go down and look again.”

Barney stood up, his face flushed. “Must have fallen asleep. Gosh, I didn’t know it was this late. As soon as the kid comes in I’ll say goodbye and beat it. This was darn nice, Meg, haven’t eaten as good cooking as yours in a long time.”

There was nothing I could say to him. I wanted to take my fists and pummel his face, wipe out the too-bright restlessness in his eyes, shake him until he couldn’t move, but all the time I knew it wasn’t entirely his fault. I had been the fool. The stupid, stupid, fool to have asked him here today. Hadn’t those years with him been enough to know he’d never change, that there was no understanding, no recognition, nothing in the world for him beyond the capital letters BARNEY. .

Steve came back with his face set in hard lines. “The kids said they haven’t seen him for about two hours. . . .” His eyes went past Barney’s and looked at mine accusingly. . .

“Maybe we’d better call the police. Dickie doesn’t wander off without telling us where he’s going.”

Standing there, my face glued to the window, hearing the grim plans for a search in the low tones of the men behind me, I would have given my life to take back the fairy tale I had spun, take back the easy words of comfort I had invented about Barney, because I couldn’t stand hearing Dickie cry.

I had given him a make-believe father he had to discover was a fake, and I had made it impossible for Steve, or anyone I might have married to be a father to him.

I guess it was close to midnight when Steve called to say he’d found him, way over the other end of town, curled up in an alleyway sound asleep. I sank down in grateful prayer, feeling that God was kinder to me than I deserved.

We were alone after Steve came speeding home in a police car. Steve, Barney, Dickie and me—the four of us. Dickie was in my lap, clinging to me hard and tight.

“Sweetheart, don’t cry. You’re home now, safe and sound with Mommy. Please don’t cry, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” he mumbled, “but I wanted to run away. I didn’t want to come home. Steve shouldn’ta brought me home. . .”

The knife was turning in my heart so sharp I wanted to cry out with the pain of it. Steve came over to me and with one swift movement lifted the boy out of my arms into his own. “Why not. Dickie, why shouldn’t I bring you home?” he whispered, as if he didn’t want anyone but himself and the child to hear.

The boy looked around at the three of us uneasily and then covered his face with his arms.

From the depths of his despair his voice came to us, small and shaky. “‘Cause I don’t like having two fathers, it’s not like the other kids have. Besides I ain’t—I haven’t,” gravely he corrected himself, “I haven’t been nice to Steve, so he don’t like me—an’ Barney, he don’t like me at all either—so what’s the use of havin’ two fathers if neither one of them cares?”
“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake there, son,” Steve said quietly. “I can’t explain it all to you now, because some of it’s going to take a long time, and maybe it won’t be for years, until you’re much older that you’ll understand it all—especially about Barney. But one thing you’ve got to take my word for—you’ve got to believe and never forget—no matter what you do or say I’m your father and I love you. Nothing you can do can stop that—and nothing I do, even when I’m angry, ever lets that stop, even for a second.”
Dickie took his hands away from his face for a minute and looked at Steve. “Even when I say I hate you?”

Steve smiled. “Even when you say you hate me—to tell you the truth, Dickie, I don’t think you always mean it.” He took the boy’s face between his hands. “And I don’t like you running away from home. You must never, never do this again.”

Dick flushed, and said, almost as if he didn’t know how to stop himself. “What you going to do to stop me?”

Steve’s face was serious. “You gave us a pretty rough time of it this afternoon. I think you’d better give up movies for a month, just to be sure you remember.”
Dickie’s face looked sullen, and then he looked up and caught Steve’s eyes on him. There was no mistaking, even for an eight year-old, the love that shone out of those eyes. “Okay, Dad,” he muttered, and broke out of Steve’s arms. Without looking at any of us he ran out of the room.
father of my child

In the hallway we heard him stop.

“Good night, Barney,” he called out, “and Dad, will you fix those skates for me so I can take them to school tomorrow?”

Steve and Barney exchanged one swift look. “Sure,” Steve answered,

“I’ll do them before I leave in the morning.”

The three of us stood in the room in an uneasy silence. “I guess I better help him into bed,” I said lamely.
For once Barney seemed without words. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “Guess I’d better run along,” he said. “I guess I missed my chance to be a real parent—long time ago. You two can do it much better than I ever could. Good-by.”

There was something in the way he looked around the room, his eyes lingering on the doorway through which Dickie had vanished, in the way he shook Steve’s hand, that made me feel so choked up I couldn’t even say good-by.

After the door closed behind him I was grateful for the strength of Steve’s arm around my shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, Meg—I think it’s going to be all right from now on.”

By the tenderness in his eyes, the firm clasp of his arms around me, I knew it was going to be all right. My boy had found a real father at last—and, in a way, a different, wiser and better mother than he had had before.

 

 

 

 

Book Clubs Often Give Short Stories Short Shrift

book clubBy Katherine Sharma

In an upcoming book club meeting, we are discussing the short-story collection Runaway by Canadian Alice Munro, winner of the 2013 Nobel Prize in Literature as a “master of the contemporary short story.” Despite the prestigious award, Munro wasn’t an obvious choice. There is a hesitation in book groups to tackle a story collection; it’s hard enough to structure a conversation about one plot and set of characters, much less multiple ones! That’s a shame because some of our most iconic fiction is in short-story form. Consider the authors: Start with Chaucer and move on to O. Henry, Anton Chekhov, Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain, Jack London, Ernest Hemingway, Franz Kafka, Henry James, Guy de Maupassant, James Joyce, Flannery O’Connor, William Faulkner, Thomas Mann, Kurt Vonnegut, J.D. Salinger and Jorge Luis Borges, to name only a few. What about sci-fi giants Bradbury, Asimov and Clarke, icons of the eerie Stephen King and Shirley Jackson, or mystery masters Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie? There are hundreds of great writers of short-story gems. Some recent collections include Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman, Magic for Beginners by Kelly Link, Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies, and John Updike’s My Father’s Tears and Other Stories. As Publishers Weekly said of Munro’s Runaway stories of love, betrayal and time’s surprises: “One never knows quite where a Munro story will end, only that it will leave an incandescent trail of psychological insight.” But how to tap those insights in a single discussion? Short-story writers liken the process to appreciating an art gallery or rock album collection, meaning pieces appeal individually yet the collection is more than just the sum of its parts. Unique style and story-telling combine with recurring themes or characters to heighten the overall impact on readers. For book clubs who want to add a story collection to their roster, here’s a general plan of attack from one author, and for Runaway in particular, BookBrowse offers a discussion guide at http://www.bookbrowse.com/reading_guides/detail/index.cfm/book_number/1495/Runaway

ABOUT  KATHERINE SHARMA

Katherine Sharma’s family roots are in Louisiana, Oklahoma and Texas. But after her early childhood in Texas, she has moved around the country and lived in seven other states, from Virginia to Hawaii. She currently resides in California with her husband and three children. She has also traveled extensively in Europe, Africa and Asia, and makes regular visits to family in India. After receiving her bachelor’s degree. in economics and her master’s degree in journalism from the University of Michigan, Katherine worked as a newspaper and magazine writer and editor for more than 15 years. She then shifted into management and marketing roles for firms in industries ranging from outdoor recreation to insurance to direct marketing. Although Katherine still works as a marketing consultant, she is now focused on creative writing.

Wife Swap Clubs: A 1960′s Scandal

From the pages of the October 1962, True Love Magazine, the following article on wife swap clubs was published:

WIFE SWAP CLUBS: How They Work
The characters and places in the accompanying story have been fictionalized to protect the innocent. But, fantastic as they may sound, the events in this story are true. They happen all the time, all over the United States—perhaps even in your neighborhood. And the story is usually the same. Here, for example, is the way one recently exposed wife-swapping operation worked: Continue reading

Sold At Auction!

True Love Stories Award-Winning Story from March 1965:

A woman’s amazing experience

It’s so easy for human beings to make a wrong decision, leading to grief for ourselves and sorrow for those who love us. Then often, when things seem darkest, we find the way to happiness has been open before us all the time—if we’d only had the faith and courage to see it. That’s how it was the day I learned I was to have a baby.

I’d suspected it, been panicky about it for some time, before I climbed the flight of stairs to Dr. McGee’s office and asked to be examined.

I didn’t know Dr. McGee . . . had picked him at random. “There’s no doubt about it, Mrs. Winters,” he said cheerfully. “You’re pregnant. From your condition and what you’ve told me, I would say the second month is well advanced. Have your husband come and see me as soon as he’s able. We can arrange for regular visits and proper treatment, and we’ll be having that baby before you know it.”

I left Dr. McGee’s, trembling. How happy I’d feel to be having Paul’s baby if things were different! But with Paul and me living the way we were—a long shudder ran through me, thinking of Paul.

What would this mean to him? To his plans for going back to college? It would upset them all! Or—would it?

I twisted the wedding ring on my finger—the ring I had no right to be wearing. All my evasions, my telling myself I was really Paul’s common-law wife, crumpled now in my need to face the bitter truth.

I had no claim on Paul or his future. Paul had made no commitments, no promises that would have to be broken. He

had merely taken me in when I’d had no other place to go.

He’d never said he wanted it to be a permanent arrangement.

Soberly, my thoughts went back to those months when Lola Newcome and I had shared an apartment in New York…back to that fateful party on my nineteenth birthday when Paul had bought me—for cash. It was at an auction that’d begun as a joke, but had led to our living together.

Now our baby was on its way—and he had no right to be.

I’d come to New York to become a dancer. Mother’d wanted to be one herself, and she’d transferred her ambitions to me. My father died when I was six. She’d scrimped from her small wages as a store clerk to give me dancing lessons and put a little aside for my future.

“You’ve real talent, Dotty,” she kept saying, though my teachers never did.

The same week I graduated from high school,’ Mother died of a heart attack. I settled up her small affairs, then headed toward New York with the money she’d put aside for that purpose. It wasn’t a lot, but it should see me through long enough to get launched on my career, I thought.

One of our neighbors gave me the name of her cousin, Lola Newcome, a bookkeeper in New York, and she, luckily, was looking for a new roommate. Our understanding was clear from the start. I met my share of the expenses and did my share of the work, or got out.

I went from one theatrical agent to another, walking the hard pavements of the city day after day, before I finally landed anything. It wasn’t much of an engagement, just a couple of weeks in a small night club across the river in Jersey City. But it was a start, and I was thrilled.

I liked living with Lola too. She was four years older than I, hard in some ways, but fun-loving and popular with both men and women. Her friends accepted me in their easy way.

Our apartment had a tiny bedroom and an even tinier kitchenette, but the living room was large enough for six or eight couples to get together for parties, which Lola had three or four times a week.

When I was working, I could only be at the Sunday night parties. But most of the time I was free, for the occasional

engagement I managed to find was usually for just a week or two at some small club. So I had plenty time for Lola’s parties.

They weren’t wild parties in any way. We would listen to the radio or records, drink a little, dance a little, or just talk. There was some smooching, and sometimes a boy got too familiar, but that was as far as it went. Lola was firm on that.

Not that she was straight-laced. We both knew, for instance, that Fred Vincent and Marilyn Blake, who came often to our parties, weren’t married but were living together. And Lola herself made no secret of the fact that she spent an occasional weekend at a Connecticut resort with her office manager.

“The main thing,” she told me once, in her sophisticated way, “is to be choosy about who it is, discreet, and then be careful!”

I’d been living at Lola’s for several months when I met Paul Winters at one of our parties. The boy I’d been dating couldn’t come, and someone brought Paul to fill in. We liked each other immediately, and after that he was invited as my date. I was glad, for we both still felt a little lonely among people who were friendly enough on the surface, but wanted nothing to do with your problems or troubles.

Paul was a quiet, nice-looking boy from a small town in Maine. He’d run out of money while studying engineering and was now working in a construction firm, saving toward going back to college later.

“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” he told me once. “I don’t like New York. It’s too big and too busy. When I get my degree I’d like to go to a small place where there’s my kind of people, then marry some nice girl like you and raise a family. But that’s years away. I don’t believe in obligations before you’re ready.”

I felt a warm sympathy for Paul, since I knew what it meant to have your eyes on a goal ahead.

Certainly, neither of us could have foreseen what took place at my birthday party. Lola’s birthday was in February. We’d had a party then and had so much fun, we decided to have one on my birthday, April twenty-fifth.

Soon after Lola’s party, I’d gotten what promised to be a real break, getting into the chorus of a new musical comedy. Elated, I’d gone out and bought a stunning dress for my birthday, on time. But after a week, I was let go, and this time being out of work was not only discouraging, but serious.

My share of the March expenses took most of my remaining funds. On the first of April, I could only give Lola part of my share. By then, I was desperate, and day by day, I could see Lola getting grimmer. I couldn’t blame her. It had happened to her before, and the other girl had never paid.

One day, after another fruitless hunt on my part, she said bluntly, “Why don’t you give up this dancing bug, and get a job where you can eat regularly? If you were really good, Dotty, you wouldn’t be having so much trouble!”

I looked at her, dumbstruck. I’d just had a run of bad luck, but my break would come! Mother’d known it, and so did I. “Just give me till the end of the month, Lola,” I begged.

By my birthday, I was really worried. To my surprise, Lola didn’t suggest calling off the party, and after it got going, I managed to cast off my gloom.

Maybe I drank a little too much, but Lola was drinking more than I and was still as grim as before. She sat with Belle Meredith. The two were talking earnestly—about me, I knew. I suspected that Belle would be glad to move in with Lola if I moved out. Then, as I was passing a plate of sandwiches, the general conversation turned to the fact that I wasn’t working again.

Belle looked up in her wide-eyed, baby-doll way to say, “But what are you going to do, Dotty? I mean, you can’t just go on sponging off Lola this way.”

Her bluntness nettled me, and I was angry with Lola for letting her think I’d been sponging. Still, I held my temper.

“Oh, I’ll do all right,” I said as airily as I could manage. “And I’m sure Lola is quite capable of looking after her own interests.”

Fred Vincent sensed the tension in our words and tried to divert us by joking. “What I do in a case like this,” he said, “is have an auction. Sometimes I sell everything, then use the money to start over, so I can buy it all back.” I could have kissed him when everyone laughed.

“That’s good advice,” I answered. “But what I own wouldn’t bring enough to pay off this dress. So all I have to offer is my own sweet self.”

“That’s fine, Miss Shaw!” Fred shot back. “Fancy packages bring fancy bids. It’s been done before too. Why, I got Marilyn by outbidding two other boys. Here—I’ll show you how.” He took the sandwiches and gave them to Marilyn. Then, taking my elbows, he lifted me onto a stool.

“There you are! Lola can be auctioneer, because she has first claim on the proceeds. Here, Lola—”

To my relief, Lola laughingly entered into the game. She held up my hand, looked around solemnly, and then began.

“All right—all right, ladies and gentlemen,” she chanted. “What am I offered for this luscious bit of femininity-ee? She walks. She talks. She dances and plays post office. In fact, she does everything! Now, what am I bid?”

Lola was really good, and everyone laughed when Fred bid ten dollars and was promptly pulled down by Marilyn.

“Ten dollars!” Lola scoffed. “Ten dollars wouldn’t pay for her bra and panties, much less the charms they conceal! Think, gentlemen—what it would mean to have these charms for your own—”

Quickly, there were bids from all sides. “Twenty dollars.” “Thirty.” “Fifty.” Sixty.” “Sixty-one!” When someone bid a hundred, Lola smiled at him.

“There! I’ll entertain that bid. A figure to justify the figure being auctioned. I’m bid a hundred! Do I hear more, or do I sell to the gentleman with the eye for figures? One hundred once—twi- ”

Paul had come up with his billfold in his hand. “My bid—” he counted hastily, grinning— “is a hundred and ten.”

“A hundred and ten is bid,” Lola intoned. “Do I hear others? A hundred and ten once—twice—and sold! A whole package of pulchritude for a hundred and ten dollars!” She scooped the bills from Paul’s hand and gave him my arm. “There you are, sir! You pays your money and you takes your purchase.”

She’d give the money back later, of course, and it had been loads of fun and everyone was laughing. . Someone proposed a toast for a last drink, and Paul sat with his arm about me while we drank. The party was breaking up, the others going by twos and threes into the bedroom for their wraps. Then everyone was gone but Paul. He mumbled something about “time to go,” and I went with him to the bedroom for his hat and coat.

Lola was clearing away, putting things in the sink. She came toward the bedroom, and I was sure she was coming to hand back Paul’s money. But she stopped at the door.

“Say, guy,” she said. “What’s your hurry to be off? Isn’t it unflattering to lack curiosity in what you’ve bought? It’s late, so you two can have the bedroom tonight. I’ll sleep on the sofa.” She closed the door.

I stood transfixed, Paul’s coat in my hands, realizing in panic that Lola had actually meant the auction and intended to keep the money!

Paul looked at me, his eyes questioning. “She sounds as if she meant that. Do you think she’s a little tight?”

“She does mean it—and she’s more than a little tight where money is concerned,” I said shakily.

“But she wouldn’t do that, Dotty,” Paul insisted. “Turn a joke into a—a thing like this. She couldn’t!”

“She has,” I choked. “She has your money and she intends to keep it for what I owe her. She feels it’s up to us from this point on.”

He was looking at me strangely. His voice was almost a whisper as he asked, “Dotty, you mean—you would?” Suddenly, all my tiredness and discouragement flowed through me like a burning ache. Weeks of tension, of fruitless going from agent to agent, overwhelmed me now. I felt a desperate need to lean on someone. And I did like Paul so much!

“Oh, Paul!” I sobbed. “I—I—”

His arms were around me then, and he was kissing my lips, my eyes, my throat. What followed is still hazy in my mind. I had a sense of timeless unreality, a mixed feeling of being both ashamed of what I was doing and glad that I was doing it.

For Paul’s arms around me, the sweet intimate touch of his caress seemed to dissolve all my worries. . . .

The next morning, as we dressed, I avoided Paul’s eyes. By daylight things appeared differently, and nagging in my mind was the thought that on my nineteenth birthday, I had spent the night with a man—for money.

Sensing my shame, Paul drew me into his arms, where I mumbled shakily against his chest, “You don’t think I’m so nice now, do you?”

He took my chin; turned my eyes up to his. “Nicer than ever!” He said it almost fiercely. Of course, any decent man would say that. I tried to drop my eyes again, but he held them. “Don’t be sorry, kitten. Those things happen.”

But I couldn’t feel that way.

Lola wasn’t in the apartment. A note on the kitchen table said simply:

Dotty, sixty dollars is all you owe me.

You can give the rest back to the boy friend or pay your other bills with it. I’ll be gone all day, so don’t wait to say goodbye. L.

Paul read it, tight-lipped, then put the money in his pocket. “You can’t stay here,” he said. He hesitated, then said slowly, “Look, I know what it means to be broke. If—if it’s okay with you, you can stay with me till you get a break. You will, you know.”

I should have said no, but I had nowhere else to go. More than that, I needed somebody to show faith and interest in me this way.

A rush of tenderness for Paul surged through me. But all I said was, “It’s all right with me—with the understanding that what happens, or may happen, doesn’t bind either of us.”

I said that because I knew Paul’s plans for the future, and felt I should let him know I wouldn’t ever stand in his way. But there was a funny little ache in my heart as he gave me a long, appraising look and said, “Agreed!”

So I moved into Paul’s tiny apartment, and I bought a wedding ring, telling him, “So nobody’ll be suspicious.”

“Good idea,” he said, touching it. None of us likes to acknowledge ugly truths, so I’d finger the ring when I was alone, telling myself that I was really Paul’s common-law wife.

The summer was hot, the tiny apartment airless, but I liked taking care of it and of Paul. We spent most of our spare time on weekends at Coney Island, taking sandwiches with us and stretching luxuriously out on the beach. Evenings, we explored the city together, and I loved the feel of Paul’s arm around me, his dark eyes laughing into mine as he’d say, “It’s fun doing things together, Dotty!”

I still made the rounds of the theatrical agencies, driven both by ambition and because I felt Paul expected it, from the things he said. Like the time he paid my overdue bill at the dress shop.

“You shouldn’t have done it, Paul,” I told him. “But I’ll pay you back when I get my break!”

“Don’t worry about it, Dotty,” he said. “The important thing is to get that break. I want to see that you do.”

“But I owe you so much!” I protested.

“Forget it,” he told me. “You don’t really owe me anything. I’m saving more now than I did before. If the truth were known, I guess I’d owe you.”

Did he mean that it was unnecessary for him to spend money seeing other girls? It was an ugly thought and I rushed out of the room, my eyes brimming, then was sullen and quiet for the rest of the evening.

At breakfast, I was still depressed and silent. Paul behaved as if nothing had happened, but before leaving, he came around to my chair.

“Look, Dotty,” he said gently. “You’re worried sick over the wrong things. If you left here tomorrow, the only thing you’d owe me is a promise not to get mixed up with another iceberg like Lola.” He bent and kissed me, then left for work.

I thought of what Paul had said, and suddenly I knew why I felt so miserable. I was in love with Paul, utterly and completely. He was the only thing that mattered!

Face it, you ninny, I told myself. You don’t care about being a dancer; you don’t care about anything but being Paul’s wife! If you ever lose him, you’ll die, and men leave even wives they’re legally married to—and you’re only a common-law wife at best!

So at last, I faced part of the truth. From that minute on, I felt driven by a constant need to do more and more for Paul—to make myself so indispensable to him, he’d never let me go!

I cleaned the apartment like a demon, did all the laundry in the apartment washroom, shined his shoes and mended his socks.

Paul always gave me his pay check to cash at the supermarket. I’d tried to be careful before, but now I shopped so frugally that each week I put almost half his salary in the bank. That would be for his college.

I thought often of Lola and what she’d once said about doing too much for a man. “They get to think they own you, and start to treat you like a slavey instead of a lady. And who wants to be a slavey?”

Well, I was a slavey—and I loved it!

And Paul didn’t take advantage of it. Except for our physical intimacy, he was no different than when he’d dated me at Lola’s. Even there, he hadn’t been demanding. Now, he never acted as if our living together gave him the right. In fact, he was so tender and solicitous at times, that I could almost believe he was really in love with me.

Yet doubts crept in too—doubts any girl living with a man in anything but legal marriage can’t help having. Perhaps, with Paul, it was just a physical need that I could fill because of my youth and well-formed body. Perhaps he could never really love or respect a girl he’d won so cheaply. A girl he’d actually bought at auction!

I didn’t know the answer, and with Paul not too happy in his work and worried about losing so much time out of college, I didn’t dare raise more worrisome questions. I could only go on salving my pride with the thought that he let me use his name and wear a wedding ring—and that, surely, made me his common-law wife.

Despite my doubts, though, I took pride in my ability to please him physically, to feel him relax in my arms, free of tension and worry.

That’s how things stood that day late in July when Paul came home, bringing his kit with personal things with him from the office.

“What happened?” I asked uneasily. “Did you quit your job?”

“Yes,” he said briefly. “It was nip and tuck whether I quit or got laid off, so I thought I’d quit.” He took a restless turn about. “It’s too hot to talk here, Dotty. Let’s take some sandwiches down to the river. We can talk there.”

I found myself shaking with suspense as we settled down on the grass in Riverside Park. Paul looked up at me, hesitating a moment before he said, “Dotty, I have an offer from a brick firm in Pawtucket. Engineering. The kind I trained for and need to do.” He waited a moment, then added, “Pay’s good, too, and Pawtucket’s more my speed than New York.”

My heart was pounding so that I was sure he must hear it. Maybe this is it, I thought. Maybe this is where you lose him! I could hardly force myself to say, as casually as possible, “Do you think you’ll take it, Paul? When would you have to go?”

“I have to let them know within the week. I thought I’d talk it over with you.”

“With me, Paul?” My heart was smothering me now. “Why with me? It’s your future, and if it’s what you want—” I couldn’t force myself to go further.

“That’s true, I guess. But we are—well, together. I wondered if you’d want to go too—if you’d be happy away from here—where there’s always the chance to get that break you’re looking for.”

What was he trying to say? That he wanted me? That I wouldn’t be in the way? I had to know before I committed myself, but dear God, how I wanted to go! To be with him!

“I guess,” he went on, “you could stay here. I could leave you money—I’d want to know you were all right and I could come down some weekends—that is, if you didn’t mind. It’s up to you.”

My heart filled with relief. But my words were careful as I said, “If you want me to go, Paul, I want to go. And I don’t think I’ll lose any chances. It’s all pretty slow in the summer.”

He gave me a long, quiet look, then patted my hand, “Good! It’ll take a couple of days to get ready. You can pack our things while I scout around, pay bills and get the things we’ll need.”

The next day, when he came in, he deposited an armload of packages on the divan. Selecting one, he gave it to me. “Glamour for my kitten. You can model it for me later.”

He had this way, at special times, of bringing me gifts. A bra, panties, a pretty nightgown. I had grown to anticipate them, not for the gifts but for what followed. Always, after these “modelings,” Paul would pick me up in his arms, bearing me into the bedroom with an ardor I loved. This gift indicated clearly his pleasure that I was going with him to Rhode Island, and my heart sang with happiness.

Paul wouldn’t have asked me to go if he didn’t think of me as his wife, would he? Maybe he’d even told his new employers he was married. They asked such things, didn’t they? But Paul said nothing about this, and again, I was afraid to bring up the question.

We found a small, furnished cottage on a quiet street on the outskirts of Pawtucket. It felt good not to have to keep up the pretense of tramping around to agents when I didn’t care any more. But now…

I’ve heard a drowning person may review a whole lifetime in those last few moments before unconsciousness. I can well believe this, for all these things had run through my mind before I was halfway up the hill to our house, on the day Dr. McGee confirmed that I was going to have a baby. Each remaining block seemed a mile, each step to require an individual effort.

Somehow, I couldn’t kid myself any longer that I was a common-law wife. I was just a girl having a baby she had no right to be having, by a man who’d never made her any real promises. A man who wanted no permanent responsibilities.

What would Paul think now when I told him? What would he do? Suppose he said, “Well, Dotty, I guess this is where I get off. We’ll call it quits.”

I had an urge to run away, but where could I go? Back to New York? To take any kind of job now? Perhaps, but what of the time when I could no longer work, when I would need someone to help me and the baby? No, I couldn’t run away. I could only tell Paul and hope he’d stand by me.

For the rest of the day, I was like a zombie, moving in a nightmarish dream. I swept the floor, dusted, prepared Paul’s supper. All the time, my mind was turning over words, phrases, that I would use to tell him.

When he came home, he was full of what had happened at the plant that day “I guess I’m in, kitten! I was talking with Barton, the plant superintendent, today He says he needs someone for his assistant now that Lyons is leaving, and he thinks I’m it. If it works out, it’s a real break.”

As he went on, I knew I couldn’t tell him then. Couldn’t spoil his enthusiasm and bring new problems into his life at a time when he felt he was getting a real break.

I let another week pass, growing more and more scared. The doctor’d said regular visits and proper care. They must begin soon! Paul had finished his supper, the evening I decided, it must be tonight–now!

I looked across the table to where he sat with his book. How calm he looked. How serene and confident. Would he look that way after I’d told him? Well, I’d soon know.

“Paul. I—I—” Panic boiled up in my throat, stopping the words. Go on, tell him there’s going to be a baby, his baby, part of me cried. Tell him that after accepting his help, his home and protection, you’ve been caught, and now you really need his name for yourself and your child.. . .

The thought ended there. Paul had looked up. “Huh? Did you say something, kitten?” His very calmness added to my distraction, but I forced out more words in a tight, hoarse voice I didn’t recognize as my own.

“Y—yes. I’ve got to tell you something, Paul. I—I’m afraid—”

“Afraid of what?”

“I’m going to have a baby!” I blurted it out desperately.

Paul put down his hook and came around the table, his face incredulous. He put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake. “A baby? Dotty, are you sure?” I nodded dumbly. “How long have you known?”

“A w-week,” I said as tears overcame me.

Paul looked at me for a long, searching moment, during which I died over and over.

“Why didn’t you tell me right away Dotty? Because you don’t want my baby? Because you couldn’t face that it might mean the end of your dancing career?”

“Oh no, Paul! I don’t care about being a dancer any more! I don’t care about anything but you!” I protested wildly, between choking sobs. “I was afraid of m-making t-trouble for you—of keeping you from g-going back to college and—”

His arm came around me then. “But I’m not going back,” he said. “Barton says I don’t need more technical training. It takes a certain knack to direct the efforts of trained personnel, and he thinks I have that knack.”

I stopped crying from sheer bewilderment. “Then, Paul—you—you mean you don’t mind? About the baby, that is?”

“Mind?” he held me tighter. “Why should I mind? Don’t you think I’d like to see our spare room turned into a nursery? Don’t you think I want—”

He stopped abruptly, and every ounce of blood oozed from my heart. He wanted kids, but not mine. Was that what he was suddenly realizing?

Then he ran my finger over my wedding ring. “Before we fix up that nursery, don’t you think we ought to make this official? Really get married, darling, I mean. When it was just the two of us, well–I knew it was a career, not me, you wanted. I understood. But we’ll both love the baby, and then—then maybe you can love me too.”

I looked at him unbelievingly. He’d always called me kitten or Dotty before. Now he was calling me darling—and as if he meant it! He’d asked me to marry him, and he was actually begging me to love him!

“Oh, Paul—” I clung to him, trembling. “I do love you! I’ve loved you for so long! But I couldn’t say it, for fear of losing you. I knew how much you wanted to finish college, to feel you had no ties. And—and you never said you loved me—” I choked on that.

“How could I?” he asked. “Maybe you’d have married me out of gratitude. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you to love me, if you could ever forgive me for taking advantage of you at a time when you were so desperate and confused. I wasn’t ready to think of marriage that night, Dotty. But I did love you, even then. Loved you and was weak enough to take advantage of your situation.

I’ve always felt, since then, that I cheated myself out of any chance of your really loving me in return. So I kept telling myself you wouldn’t care for my kind of life anyway. Then it wouldn’t hurt so much when I finally lost you.”

I never dreamed anything as small as my heart could hold so much happiness. I couldn’t have said another word myself, and I stopped Paul from saying more by pulling his lips down to mine.

The time’s coming close for my baby to be born, and every day I say a prayer of thankfulness that I’m not waiting for him in some shelter for unwed mothers. For when you cheapen love, have to lie and be afraid, it’s only pure luck when things work out, the way they did for me And even then, the heartbreak you go through leaves a scar that never quite heals.

Yes, our happiness—Paul’s and mine—will probably be shadowed for years by the memory of that shameful night, of the months we took our love without having the right to it. THE END