Kayla - It Begins

Thank you, Erik Thread for your editing skills and suggestions.

This is the beginning of a mystery and an obsession, of a man who is seduced and captured by an alluring woman. The end is finished and will be posted tomorrow.

More than a century ago, groups of artisans found their small neighborhoods invaded by young families with little interest in carrying on the family tradition of fathers teaching sons a trade. However, a few of those sons did join their fathers in learning the time-honored skills of quality craftsmanship. This younger generation drifted toward each other and sought out a location where they could build homes to pass to their own sons.

Because their craft took so much time and energy, they cared little for lawns, gardens, or time-consuming chores around the home. Instead, they built houses adjoining their neighbors into what became a long string of townhomes, larger than an urban family would find when they went house hunting, but less labor intensive than a stand-alone dwelling.

When Emilio the woodcarver was ready to install windows at his home, he exchanged his skills for Malcolm's expertise as a glazer. Federico the stone mason shared his craft for the wainwright's skill in making or repairing wagons. Both of them helped Emilio in exchange for his skills when they built their homes.

The site the craftsmen chose for their dwellings was on a high bluff with a vista of clear sea water that occasionally gave them views of merchant and pleasure vessels. The long pathway in front of their homes became a road and later a street as the city slowly encroached on their neighborhood. Although they were able to defeat attempts at commercial construction on the grassy verge of the cliff, they could not defeat city hall and reluctantly accepted the property's designation of the area as a long, continuous city park.

Most of the original owners had some kind of workshop behind their homes, and over the years those shops were often converted to garages to keep their vehicles out of the weather. The narrow lane at the rear, originally used by horses pulling wagons, remained a somewhat ill-defined dirt lane that wandered in and out of the haphazard buildings. The city didn't want the lane to become a street because it would require extensive excavation to straighten and pave it, so the homeowners themselves generally kept the holes filled and added new gravel when needed.

When the city began construction of two parallel concrete walkways in the city park, the townhouse owners held their breath. When the construction equipment was finally removed, the residents breathed a sigh of relief that there was nothing to obstruct their view of the sea. They didn't mind the lighting and soon enjoyed sharing the space with others from the community.

In a few places the sidewalk had a gradual slope, along with a few long, deep stair steps to accommodate the uneven surfaces of the land. The length of the sidewalk became a favorite place for people wanting their morning and evening walks. The wide sidewalks easily allowed five people walking side-by-side, but the city had painted some colorful arrows and distance markers that usually kept the pedestrian traffic moving in the same direction. From one end to the other, down one side and then back to the starting point on the other side was a long, not-quite-straight trail of just a little over three miles.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the artisans sold their homes to city dwellers, attorneys, shop owners, and other upper middle class residents. In a roundabout way, that is how I became the owner of one of the townhomes.

My father's older brother never married. He worked until he had enough money to live on if he invested it carefully. He bought a few acres of land near a small river, and built himself a log house at the edge of a forest. It wasn't a log cabin. It was a fairly large two-story home, with two bedrooms and all the modern conveniences. Yet the construction was primarily logs. He was sort of a lazy man. All he really wanted was to go fishing when the weather permitted, and the rest of the time he lived alone and read books he ordered by mail.

Dad and I would go visit him several times a year for two or three days. We would enjoy the fishing and go home with a box of books. More than half of them would be first editions. After Mom, Dad, and I read the ones we cared about, Dad put the box into the attic.

When I was a junior in college, my uncle died. Dad said because of some provisions in the will, I needed a lawyer. I didn't know any lawyers, but a friend of mine who lived down the street from my parents' home had an older brother who was an attorney, so I called him for an appointment. He took care of everything for me and changed all the inheritance I received from my uncle's investments to my name.

As part of an assignment in college, I wrote the first chapter of a western novel filled with adventure and what I came to learn was a good degree of humor. I wasn't a big man on campus, so I had a lot of spare time and I spent much of it writing, adding chapters to my novel. Almost as a lark, after I graduated college I submitted the book to a publisher and it sold. I really wasn't expecting anything to come of the talks about a movie. If the book were ever made into a movie, it would be many years away. In the meantime, I had nearly finished the sequel and received a sizable advance, based on the record my first book had made. I had some ideas for the third and fourth books.

As I had done with the first book, I took the contract for the second book to the same lawyer who had helped me with my uncle's will. I was sitting in his office when he took a telephone call, saying he hated to interrupt our conversation, but the call was important. I didn't mind. I wasn't in a hurry, but I couldn't avoid hearing some of the conversation. I'd noticed a Home For Sale sign leaning against the wall.

After he hung up the telephone, I asked, "Are you serious, Hollis? That lady wants to sell one of the townhouses on Craftsman Row?"

"Yeah, she's doing sort of what you had to do, dealing with an uncle's estate. She's doing it for her mother."

"Which one? How much? Can I go look at it?"

"Whoa, whoa, are you serious?"

"Oh man, you don't know."

"Now, about the price, I won't know until the appraisal is done." Hollis held up two fingers then started to raise the third finger, but put it back under his thumb then opened the lap drawer on his desk and held up a ring of about six keys. "But keys I can give you. It's the boob house, Wendell. Bring the keys back in the morning."

I think I grinned all the way to the townhouse. There is no way to know who first called it the boob house. The front of the house was two overly large bow windows that reached from below knee level to near the ceiling of the first floor. The recessed front door was like a woman's cleavage when she wore a push up bra.

For two hours, I walked around the inside of the townhouse wandering from room to room. Most of the houses on Craftsman Row had been refurbished, but this one hadn't been updated except for a small half-bath downstairs and a full bathroom upstairs. It still had some furniture in it, but it looked like someone had removed the better antiques. The carpet was lighter where some pieces of furniture had sat and what remained was old and dingy looking.

Some of the previous owner's possessions were still in the house. I found an old battered cedar chest filled with bundles of newspaper tied with string. The papers looked about 25 years old. I didn't take the time to read much, but the headlines looked interesting. I thought I might have the details of a real mystery novel I could write after I finished the books that I had committed to write.

The next morning I returned the keys and sat while Hollis wrote a contract for what I learned was the average value, based on two separate appraisals. Because he knew what the deceased owner's niece wanted, he included a clause that stated all contents would convey with the sale. Hollis suggested I get a loan, but I didn't want to worry about payments so he helped me cash in some of my uncle's investments to add to some book money. I realized, at the age of twenty-three, I was rather young to own a home of that size and value, but I had the money and wanted to make good use of it.

* * *

As soon as the contractor finished the work on the bathrooms, I moved into my new home. Several days later, I took a leisurely stroll around the full three mile circumference of the park by following the sidewalk in front of my home.

About mid-way through the renovation, I hired a stunning young woman to do some of the interior work. She had a skill with wallpaper few people cared to develop. Kayla's eye could see the misalignment of a seam that was off by one sixteenth of an inch. She would spend hours correcting it when I would have let such a minor detail pass. I watched her work, climbing up and down ladders as she was removing the old wall coverings and replacing them with newer wallpapers. With her advice, I selected products more in keeping with modern decorating ideas of small prints or stripes rather than large bouquets of flowers or dark lifeless scenes of eighteenth or nineteenth century still-life paintings.

While I was going to school I'd had an occasional girlfriend, but none of them were long term. I have no illusions; I'm not the good looking hunk. I'm a plain and simple man. Most of my life I've been overweight and I was teased accordingly. Let's face it, I was a slightly pudgy, round-faced man, with thinning hair, and besides all of that, I was just a little pigeon-toed. I was usually rather studious and made good grades, but was never at the top of my class.

The day Kayla Rogers announced her work on my home was completed I was fairly surprised that she asked me to join her at one of the local clubs for a celebratory drink. I suggested I drive, to make sure I could find the club. Instead of returning home afterwards, I offered to buy her dinner and was additionally surprised she agreed.

By midnight, Kayla was in my bed and I was making slow, gentle love to her, amazed that she returned my first fumbling kisses. When I collapsed on top of her, she held me, as tears filled my eyes. I'd never felt such a deep physical and emotional reaction.

I'd never had a woman spend the night with me. I awoke sometime in the middle of the night and carefully reached over to move a curl of hair off Kayla's forehead so I could look at her. She opened her eyes and moved nearer for a kiss. Then she totally surprised me as she threw the covers over our heads and crawled down, engulfing my hardening cock in her wet, warm mouth. I shuddered, nearing the brink of a climax.

A moment later, Kayla and I were nose to nose, "Now, fuck me, Wendell, and don't quit or cum until I stop breathing."

I'm not sure how successful I was at getting her to the point of being breathless, but it was our first of many more efforts. For several weeks, she spent almost every night with me. She complained of being sore and so did I, but it didn't stop us from having sex. Occasionally she allowed me to make love to her, but most of our evenings were fast sex, rough sex, just plain fucking.

By that time I was taking my daily three mile walk at a fairly good clip, I'd lost thirty pounds. I was also involved in a torrid romance with Kayla, The Wallpaper Lady.

My townhouse was my pride and joy. In less than three years, I had updated the home to something I felt I could enjoy for the remainder of my life, sacrificing one upstairs bedroom for a hall bathroom and a large master bath. Yet that still left me with three good-sized bedrooms in addition to the master suite.

Downstairs I had a full study with all the bookshelves I could ever expect to fill, plus more living spaces than a huge family would ever need. In addition to the well-lit kitchen, there was a breakfast room and a formal dining room. Although I didn't need the two living rooms, I kept them, immediately designating one a formal living room and the other a den where I put some of the older furniture. At the rear of the house was a small, single-bedroom apartment that I never expected to fill with the housekeeper for which the space was designed. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I might eventually have a child who would grow up and live at home while attending college. The rear, outside entry would allow some freedom I never had when I lived with my parents as I was attending school.

Not long after the work on the complete house was finished, I asked Kayla to marry me. She went with me on a couple of the book tours my editor arranged to publicize my book. I was nothing like the hero in my book, but with Kayla's careful attention to the way I dressed and a decent Stetson hat, I could pass for a speaker to whom readers would listen. By then I was jogging the full three miles and had dropped almost fifty pounds from my six foot one inch frame.

* * *

During the first year of our marriage, Kayla grew her business from barely getting by, literally working out of the back of her van, to a small storefront. She sold wall coverings to home improvement customers and provided custom installation for refurbishing projects. She also did some work for new home builders and had built up quite a reputation as the best wall covering artist in town.

After three years of marriage, Kayla's business was growing larger. She had two full-time employees and as much work as she could handle. I was still jogging, but had slowed the pace to about the same as most of the other joggers. On a rare occasion, I would make two full rounds of the park. If I missed a day of exercise, I'd feel dull and lethargic.

After I sent the first draft of my second book to my editor, I hit a dry period in my writing and knew I needed to do something besides sit in my study all day, staring out the front windows and preparing dinner the few nights Kayla and I managed to eat at home. I purchased a small tee shirt shop a little over a mile from home. It was located in a unique area between the edge of our park and the beginning of the old downtown central business district. The downtown had grown from department stores and shopping into high-rise office buildings and my shop was within walking distance of the largest office buildings. An enterprising developer had created an "old town" atmosphere by moving more than twenty old homes into a space the size of two city blocks, calling his collection of buildings Heritage Park. The houses became businesses, including restaurants, gift shops, an art gallery, along with offices that would stimulate walk-in traffic.

My shop was located in one of the old houses. I had the smaller side because I had the old home's bathroom as part of my space. I used it for storage, but I also fixed the old tub so I could take a quick shower after my jog without needing to go home to shower and change into work clothes. I'd dress in jean shorts and sandals, with a tee-shirt to advertise my business, switching back to my jogging clothes and cross trainers for the walk home. I was determined not to return to my pudgy high school and college physique.

* * *

One day a tall slender woman walked into the tee shirt shop. She looked familiar, but I was having trouble placing her. I'd lived in the city all my life and I was sure I knew this woman. Suddenly it dawned on me. Instead of the running shorts and sports bra I remembered, she was wearing low heels and a conservative dress. The long ponytail I was used to seeing bouncing between her shoulder blades was a neat, twisted bun at the back of her head.

I approached her with my most professional, but casual, customer service voice, "Hi there. May I help you?"

"Hello." She looked at me for a moment then looked again.

"City Park Jogger," we both said at the same time, as we pointed to each other. It was the label the older residents of my neighborhood called those of us who used the city park from about dawn until nine in the morning and then again from about six until dark in the evening.

"Yeah," I answered and offered my hand. "Wendell Gannaway."

"Patrice Appling ah ... Patrice Harriman." She held up her left hand showing a shiny gold wedding band.

"New?" I asked.

"Yes, only a month. I'm not accustomed to saying it yet."

"Don't be embarrassed, Patrice. I don't think my wife has used my name but two or three times in the three years we've been married. She's still saying her maiden name because that's how everyone knows her."

"Well, my husband doesn't like me to say my old name. He's sort of the jealous type."

"It'll get easier." I was trying to reassure her as the blush faded from her cheeks. "What can I do for you today?"

"That's sort of the problem. He doesn't like it that I run in just the sports bra. He wants me to wear something that covers me. I'm looking for some options that won't ... I don't know ... I guess that won't restrict movement."

"I think I can help you there." We walked toward a rack with the shirts I kept on display, telling her to find the style she liked and I'd get clean ones in her size from the back as soon as she decided what she preferred.

Eventually Patrice picked out three different style tee shirts, saying she would try each one to see what worked best and then come back for one or two more of those.

* * *

By default, I'd become the one who prepared most of the evening meals. Kayla often went to lunch with friends or clients and would not want a big dinner. If that happened, I'd take any leftovers with me the next day. If she had an early day, Kayla might start something for our dinner and sometimes I'd finish it if she needed to go out for an after-hours appointment.

That was happening more and more often and sometimes she wouldn't get home until late in the evening. Many of the patrons for her custom work preferred to meet after business hours and often in their home. There were many days when she would come home from a full day of working in her store, shower, and change clothes for an evening appointment. She'd done it that way ever since I'd known her. She enjoyed getting dressed up for an appointment with clients who would pay more than the average rate because of her skills. "Hi sweetie," Kayla greeted me when she walked into the kitchen. "What smells so good?"

"Chicken and lemon slices in some of the left-over celery soup from last night," I answered. "Do you want a baked potato to go with it?" I didn't always fix a fancy meal, but I tried to eat as healthy as I could. I usually didn't eat much for lunch, but I'd snack on fresh vegetables when I got home from work if I was too hungry to wait for our meal.

"Are you going back out, or do you get an evening at home tonight?"

"I don't know yet," she answered as she sat on the kitchen stool watching me take the chicken out of the oven. "I'm waiting for a call."

"Oh hey," I chuckled. "I met one of my City Park Joggers today."

"Yeah? Which one? Was it the guy with no ass or the little ol' lady?" We had nicknamed a few of the joggers, particularly those who were new to the park and we knew they weren't going to last long.

I leaned back against the kitchen counter as Kayla and I talked. She had leaned forward with her elbow resting on her knee and her chin on the heel of her palm. It was her 'thinking posture' as I thought of it. When she was trying to work out some design or problem, she'd sit just like that for a while then lean back in her seat when she had the solution.

"Ponytail," I answered. "Her name's Patrice Harriman."

Kayla sat up straight, as if she was startled, and looked at me. "Harriman? Did you say Harriman?"