by Jacqueline Gum

Created on: January 29, 2010   Last Updated: July 16, 2011

CHAPTER ONE

Ingots of morning light invade the bedroom forcing my eyes open earlier than I would have liked. The brown paper I used to cover the  sliding glass doors wasn’t adequate. Gradually, I recall…. I’m not in Milwaukee anymore, where the only balmy place in December is beneath a bundle of feather down. I leap out of bed, run out the balcony door, and look up, searching.

It’s there! A hazy  full moon hovering in the morning sky. Like me, unwilling to succumb to darkness; defiant in its violation of curfew. I wink at my pale compadre; a fellow rebel.

Bending over the twelfth story railing, I survey the lush landscape dotted with lavender ground orchids. Boats bob affably in the waters of the intracoastal, sunlight raining on their bows. Tropical Florida air swaddles my bare legs and  my fingers curl in tentative greeting to a palm frond bending my way. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee overrides the smell of the Atlantic Ocean, beckoning as it wafts through the open door, coaxing me back into the kitchen.

I’ve barely mixed the dollop of milk into a steaming mugful when I hear the front door open softly. Closing my eyes, I wait for it. His arm snakes around my waist and I shiver as his lips brush the nape of my neck.

“Good morning Roberta Gunn,” he whispers.

Harold Wilson is the new man in my life.

“How are you today, Sugar?” he drawls. Though born in Miami, Florida, a stint in Charlotte, North Carolina would tinge his language for a lifetime.

I turn then, wanting the warmth of his smile. Harold is taller than my ex-husband and I like having to stand on tip-toe to capture his neck. As I bury my face in his chest, my giggle gurgles onto his starched work shirt…unsophisticated, girlish. I can feel his strained zipper against my belly as he walks me backwards into the bedroom.

Dampness materializes between my legs and a hot flush stains my cheeks. Who knew anyone named Harold could do that? My sheer nightie falls to the floor just before he gently lifts me onto the unmade bed. It’s not just the bright sun that reminds me, I’m not in Milwaukee anymore.

I’d been married sixteen years, together with him eighteen. To me, divorce felt like falling into a deep dark well. It was an accident, really. I didn’t do it on purpose….I was pushed. The problem was, after I fell, nobody called 911.

There’s a long

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