12-08-2026, 03:44 PM
CHAPTER 8: I’LL BE ALRIGHT...‘TIL THE HURTING START
Everything ends. And we pay a price for every moment of happiness in this life.
I wish I could be 18 again and have no idea what was coming. At 18 I had known my share of heartbreak, but at that age you’re immortal and you know things will ultimately work out.
It’s only later that you realize that’s the bait that God or whoever sets out in front of us to keep us going.
SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 10, 2005 -- 9 P.M.
We stood on the River walk watching the big yacht gently roll on the waves lapping against the river bulwark. The lights of restaurants and stores lit up the darkness behind us, but here there were only a few isolated lights on poles casting shadows onto the water of the St. Johns.
“It’s beautiful,” Aline said. It was cool enough that she shivered a little in her off-the-shoulder red dress.
We had had dinner at Benny’s, arguably the best steak house in Jacksonville, then walked along the St. Johns looking at the private yachts anchored at berths along the river. Their owners boated in to eat at restaurants and hit the few night clubs worthy of the name in Jacksonville.
The yacht was all gleaming gold and polished metal outlining polished wood, nearly a hundred feet long. I stole a glance at her eyes.
There was a hunger and a hurt in them so raw that it was almost sexual. I knew in that instant that she’d never stay, even if she left Philippe. She loved the sea and that life more than she could ever love me. Or Philippe.
She looked up to meet my eyes and saw that I had seen. She leaned into me, her arm snaking around my waist and leaning over to kiss me on the side of my face.
“I love you more than you will ever know,” she said softly. “More than I should, more than I would ever have believed I could love another man.”
“It’s owned by a member of the Saudi royal family. It has been priced at more than $50 million. It’s a floating home that can stay at sea for six months without having to come into port. There’s a spa, gym, every luxury you could possibly imagine. The owner, they say, has four wives that sail with him and about a dozen kids.”
She searched my face as I talked about the yacht rather than her words. I didn’t know exactly what she wanted me to say. Or maybe I was afraid to put my feelings into words.
Since that call from Philippe at the beach, I felt like a man walking across a rotting bridge, gingerly feeling each plank as I stepped from one to the other, not sure when one would give way and leave me falling forever. He had been a name and a memory. Now he was real and standing between us.
“You don’t have to say anything, Bill. I know how you feel. I have since the Bonne Chance. I hope you know how I feel.”
I pushed her away from me and despite the feelings running through me grinned as I said, “This is like some 1950s Hank Williams song—‘I’ll Be Alright...’Til The Hurting Starts.’ We’re living in a sad country western song.”
She nestled against me and said, “Don’t you believe in fate? Destiny, Bill? What are the odds against the two of us meeting? Of my being ordered, in effect, to meet you? Of you’re insulting me and breaking down my anger and resistance and then seducing me with that damned, wonderful Fleur-de-Lis. And your lawyer words.
“Those can’t be accidents. No matter what happens afterward. They were meant to happen.”
“I don’t know that I believe in God. Or destiny. I believe in coincidence, because I’d rather believe that than believe God is a crazed monster who enjoys setting us up for pain, heartbreak, destruction and death.”
She pulled away from me and led me by the hand down the Riverwalk away from the yachts. We were alone for a moment, no one walking nearby, under a streetlight. The St. Johns River’s black water gleamed in the light and somewhere close something leaped out of the water and plopped back in.
She leaned back against the wooden railing and touched the Fleur-de-Lis pin, moving it so the light of the streetlight glanced off it.
“You and I both know what this means, what it represents. You won my heart with this.”
Debbie and my mom and everyone I’ve ever known have told me that at times I can be a smartass. They’re right. I’m not sure where it comes from.
“You are so easy, lady. One pin and-“
She slapped me not too hard on the side of my face and then leaned in to kiss the pain away.
“It’s not the pin. It’s what it represents, and that is you.”
After we tongue wrestled for a minute she broke the lock and took my left hand in hers. She held it up to the light. My wedding ring gleamed so bright it could have been a spotlight.
“Why do you still wear her ring, Bill?”
“It’s not her ring. It’s my wedding ring. And I don’t know why. I...just got used to having it on. Habit.”
“It’s her ring, Bill and everyone knows it. It’s why I know there’s still a part of you in love with her. You can’t make yourself take it off because as long as it’s on there at least a part of her is still with you. And, Bill, don’t fool yourself, she knows it too.”
“Maybe it looks that way, Aline. But it’s not.”
“Then take it off. Take it off, Bill, and put it in your pocket or on another finger where it will just be another ring. If you don’t still love her.”
I reached out with my right and gripped that circle of gold that represented a half of my life and the best times and the worst pain I’d ever known. Then I tugged until it slid off. Losing weight had ended the ordeal it once would have taken to get it off.
I had a gold nugget ring on the next to little finger on my right hand. The little finger wasn’t wide enough to hold it. I tried the middle finger. It was a job, but again the weight loss made it possible to slide it on.
I held my left hand up to the light and there was only the groove of pale skin where the ring had been.
“You’re not the only person who can give presents, Mr. Maitland.” I shook my head for a second.
“If that’s real, it’s too expensive. You could explain away the pin, but how do you-“
“I have my own money, Bill. Philippe does not pry into my personal spending. And it’s real. And it didn’t take a fortune to have it made. Will you wear it for me?”
“I will, but why?”
“You remember you said that you hoped I’d think of you when I wore the pin? Well....no matter what happens...I want to think that you will not forget me. And if you’re wearing my ring, I know that you won’t.”
She kissed the naked finger and handed me the Fleur-de-Lis ring. It felt oddly formal as I slipped it on. It went on as if it had been made to go on that finger. It
was a moment that meant everything, and yet nothing.
And I took her home and we re-christened the kitchen table, the rug in the living room, the bathtub and finally my bed.
Lying next to her trying to catch my breath, my dick so sore I thought I was going to have to put some vaseline on just to get my pants later in the morning, I said, “Well, that’s got to be some kind of personal best for me. I’d have thought what I just did was medically impossible for a 42-year-old male.”
With my semen gleaming on her lips and nipples and the reddened vagina that lay between her splayed legs, she looked like a poster child for Porno movies. She smiled and reached out to touch the Fleur-de-Lis ring.
“It’s magic, Bill. It’s magic.”
Everything ends. And we pay a price for every moment of happiness in this life.
I wish I could be 18 again and have no idea what was coming. At 18 I had known my share of heartbreak, but at that age you’re immortal and you know things will ultimately work out.
It’s only later that you realize that’s the bait that God or whoever sets out in front of us to keep us going.
SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 10, 2005 -- 9 P.M.
We stood on the River walk watching the big yacht gently roll on the waves lapping against the river bulwark. The lights of restaurants and stores lit up the darkness behind us, but here there were only a few isolated lights on poles casting shadows onto the water of the St. Johns.
“It’s beautiful,” Aline said. It was cool enough that she shivered a little in her off-the-shoulder red dress.
We had had dinner at Benny’s, arguably the best steak house in Jacksonville, then walked along the St. Johns looking at the private yachts anchored at berths along the river. Their owners boated in to eat at restaurants and hit the few night clubs worthy of the name in Jacksonville.
The yacht was all gleaming gold and polished metal outlining polished wood, nearly a hundred feet long. I stole a glance at her eyes.
There was a hunger and a hurt in them so raw that it was almost sexual. I knew in that instant that she’d never stay, even if she left Philippe. She loved the sea and that life more than she could ever love me. Or Philippe.
She looked up to meet my eyes and saw that I had seen. She leaned into me, her arm snaking around my waist and leaning over to kiss me on the side of my face.
“I love you more than you will ever know,” she said softly. “More than I should, more than I would ever have believed I could love another man.”
“It’s owned by a member of the Saudi royal family. It has been priced at more than $50 million. It’s a floating home that can stay at sea for six months without having to come into port. There’s a spa, gym, every luxury you could possibly imagine. The owner, they say, has four wives that sail with him and about a dozen kids.”
She searched my face as I talked about the yacht rather than her words. I didn’t know exactly what she wanted me to say. Or maybe I was afraid to put my feelings into words.
Since that call from Philippe at the beach, I felt like a man walking across a rotting bridge, gingerly feeling each plank as I stepped from one to the other, not sure when one would give way and leave me falling forever. He had been a name and a memory. Now he was real and standing between us.
“You don’t have to say anything, Bill. I know how you feel. I have since the Bonne Chance. I hope you know how I feel.”
“I do. And I know you love Philippe, or was that ‘Je Tamie’ a lie?” “No, but I wish it was. It would make it so much easier if it was.”
I pulled her to me and smelled the fragrance of her hair. “This is a mess.”
“You’re sorry now that I came?”
“I will never be sorry that you came back. I might be hurting later, but right now, I’m glad you came back.”I pushed her away from me and despite the feelings running through me grinned as I said, “This is like some 1950s Hank Williams song—‘I’ll Be Alright...’Til The Hurting Starts.’ We’re living in a sad country western song.”
She nestled against me and said, “Don’t you believe in fate? Destiny, Bill? What are the odds against the two of us meeting? Of my being ordered, in effect, to meet you? Of you’re insulting me and breaking down my anger and resistance and then seducing me with that damned, wonderful Fleur-de-Lis. And your lawyer words.
“Those can’t be accidents. No matter what happens afterward. They were meant to happen.”
“I don’t know that I believe in God. Or destiny. I believe in coincidence, because I’d rather believe that than believe God is a crazed monster who enjoys setting us up for pain, heartbreak, destruction and death.”
She pulled away from me and led me by the hand down the Riverwalk away from the yachts. We were alone for a moment, no one walking nearby, under a streetlight. The St. Johns River’s black water gleamed in the light and somewhere close something leaped out of the water and plopped back in.
She leaned back against the wooden railing and touched the Fleur-de-Lis pin, moving it so the light of the streetlight glanced off it.
“You and I both know what this means, what it represents. You won my heart with this.”
Debbie and my mom and everyone I’ve ever known have told me that at times I can be a smartass. They’re right. I’m not sure where it comes from.
“You are so easy, lady. One pin and-“
She slapped me not too hard on the side of my face and then leaned in to kiss the pain away.
“It’s not the pin. It’s what it represents, and that is you.”
After we tongue wrestled for a minute she broke the lock and took my left hand in hers. She held it up to the light. My wedding ring gleamed so bright it could have been a spotlight.
“Why do you still wear her ring, Bill?”
“It’s not her ring. It’s my wedding ring. And I don’t know why. I...just got used to having it on. Habit.”
“It’s her ring, Bill and everyone knows it. It’s why I know there’s still a part of you in love with her. You can’t make yourself take it off because as long as it’s on there at least a part of her is still with you. And, Bill, don’t fool yourself, she knows it too.”
“Maybe it looks that way, Aline. But it’s not.”
“Then take it off. Take it off, Bill, and put it in your pocket or on another finger where it will just be another ring. If you don’t still love her.”
I reached out with my right and gripped that circle of gold that represented a half of my life and the best times and the worst pain I’d ever known. Then I tugged until it slid off. Losing weight had ended the ordeal it once would have taken to get it off.
I had a gold nugget ring on the next to little finger on my right hand. The little finger wasn’t wide enough to hold it. I tried the middle finger. It was a job, but again the weight loss made it possible to slide it on.
I held my left hand up to the light and there was only the groove of pale skin where the ring had been.
“Convinced?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a gleaming circle. She held it up to the light. It was a silver ring with a square head. On the head was a Fleur-de-Lis inlay of white gold and there was a small, gleaming diamond in the center. It was the sister-ring to the pin she wore.“You’re not the only person who can give presents, Mr. Maitland.” I shook my head for a second.
“If that’s real, it’s too expensive. You could explain away the pin, but how do you-“
“I have my own money, Bill. Philippe does not pry into my personal spending. And it’s real. And it didn’t take a fortune to have it made. Will you wear it for me?”
“I will, but why?”
“You remember you said that you hoped I’d think of you when I wore the pin? Well....no matter what happens...I want to think that you will not forget me. And if you’re wearing my ring, I know that you won’t.”
She kissed the naked finger and handed me the Fleur-de-Lis ring. It felt oddly formal as I slipped it on. It went on as if it had been made to go on that finger. It
was a moment that meant everything, and yet nothing.
And I took her home and we re-christened the kitchen table, the rug in the living room, the bathtub and finally my bed.
Lying next to her trying to catch my breath, my dick so sore I thought I was going to have to put some vaseline on just to get my pants later in the morning, I said, “Well, that’s got to be some kind of personal best for me. I’d have thought what I just did was medically impossible for a 42-year-old male.”
With my semen gleaming on her lips and nipples and the reddened vagina that lay between her splayed legs, she looked like a poster child for Porno movies. She smiled and reached out to touch the Fleur-de-Lis ring.
“It’s magic, Bill. It’s magic.”
How the hell do you argue with reality. But I tried.
“You’re the magic.”
Of course it wasn’t magic. She couldn’t get me up a fifth time. But she tried.
God damn, but she tried.Like, Comment and Give Rating.
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