Proverbs 1:33
Saturday 17th November: "Vicky?"
Baxter had been doing nothing. He did nothing most of his days at the moment.
"You'd better come in."
Vicky Walters was wearing her brightest smile when he answered the door. But it dissolved when she saw the man she had loved.
"I was so sorry to hear about Maria."
Baxter shrugged. "Yeh. The police were with me earlier. They have no idea who did it."
He led Vicky into the house she had never entered when he'd been with Angie.
"I am so sorry Baxter. About your marriage too. I heard you and Angie had separated." She hesitated but screwed up her courage. "That wasn't because of me Baxter? I don't want to be a home wrecker, really I don't."
Baxter, to his credit, didn't laugh. "No Vicky. It wasn't you." They were standing in the sun room. Then perhaps a little cruelly he added, "No. It was over between us."
Baxter looked at this too-young-for-him girl. She had abandoned her usual hippy garb for a short yellow skirt and yellow top and jacket. It looked new. The thought crossed his mind that she might have bought this outfit for this meeting. If so, he was flattered. She was pretty, her long brown hair cascading like a silk fan from her shoulders.
She sat then, abruptly, on the sofa in the sun room. She took her jacket off and put it beside her, like a barrier, lest Baxter sit next to her. She couldn't think clearly. She knew what she had to say but couldn't bring herself to tell him. She couldn't bare to look at him. Her arm rested on the little table beside her, the sunlight from the window glistening on her bare shoulder. She was conscious of everything, of Baxter watching her, of the tears that were already brimming into her eyes, of how she must look.
And to Baxter she looked magnificent. Like many men, Baxter was aroused by a weeping woman, empowered. But whereas in others, the reflex action might be one of compassion, for Baxter other emotions were dominant. He was never one to think. He simply reached for her jacket. Moved it to one side, took her face in his hands, and kissed away the tears.
To start with.
At first Vicky wasn't aware of what he was doing as his hands moved lower and his mouth moved to her neck. Then she felt his hands caressing her and she stiffened, moving her head away.
"No Baxter please," she said, as his hands continued to move over her with an insistence with which she was familiar. She knew that part of her wanted this, had wanted this from the morning. And even as she cried, she felt his hands lift her blouse, pulling at it, releasing her breasts. And Baxter knew, as he kissed her, that she was ready for him. He reached down then, and pulled the clothes from the woman, until he had her stripped bare, still weeping. He remained fully clothed, only pausing to loosen his belt; and, without any attempt to undress himself, he lifted her from the sofa, carried her to the rug, and took her.
And Vicky, the tears still coming in great gulps so that she could barely breath as his mouth covered hers, surrendered to him, yelping as she raked her hands down his back and back up under his shirt. He paused then, long enough to strip away his own shirt, then moved back into her with all the fevered passion of his broken soul.
Afterwards, as he lay on top of her, his full weight so heavy, she told him. She said, "Baxter, I'm pregnant with your child."
"Uh huh," said Baxter as he lifted himself a little, taking his weight on his elbows, and looked down at her. "You want a drink?"
Surprised by his equanimity, she shook her head. "Bad for the baby."
And Baxter moved from her, making her sigh as she felt him leave her.
"Baxter."
"Yuh."
"You heard me?"
"Yuh."
"You don't mind?"
And Baxter looked at her then. Angie had never given him a child. Not that he'd wanted children. But something stirred within him and he looked down at her then, naked, young, full of need. She was way too young for him but what the hell.
"Nah Vicky. I don't mind." And he buckled his belt and went to fix his drink, whilst Vicky still lay there, just lay there, for the first time in a long while feeling truly good.
"Baxter."
Baxter paused.
"You don't need the drink." She arched her back and looked at him slyly. "Have me instead."
And Baxter laughed. "You gonna reform me?"
"Nah Baxter. Nobody could do that."
But she knew that soon he would take her again. And she ached for the completion that this second and less hasty act of sex would be, and as he came back to her side she felt her small hand moving, almost instinctively and without her volition, towards his thigh, knowing that next time it would be good. And she shuddered in anticipation.
And he doesn't mind, thought Vicky. And for her nothing mattered. Not now. Nothing at all. She knew in her heart, in her soul, that her man had come back. That he was hers. That she owned this old bear. And she wasn't ever going to let him go.
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