The two men sat in easy chairs in the library on that cold autumn afternoon. Each had a snifter of Remy Martin VSOP brandy in hand. They casually sipped it, gazing out beyond the patio to the lawn and a small lake. In the distance were oaks to whose limbs clung the last dying leaves of the season. It was a time for quiet reflection; for remembrance of things past.
John Ashley and his guest Ken Mason had much in common. Both men were in their early sixties, with thinning gray hair and wrinkles on their face to prove it.
Just two old friends. They had met long ago, fresh out of college, teachers at East Side High School in nearby St. Louis. Ken taught science; John had joined the faculty a year later as a math teacher. They shared the challenge of teaching in public school; it forged a bond between the two young men. After his second year, Ken had left East Side High to go to graduate school to study chemistry. John had stayed the course; he had recently retired after thirty-five years in the classroom.
As the decades went by, they kept in touch, exchanging Christmas cards and the occasional e-mail. They were friends but not close; two men whose best years were behind them. Whose only tie was that of long ago experiences.
"It's been, what, fifteen years since you visited St. Louis?" remarked John.
"That sounds about right," replied Ken. "Brenda and the kids and I stayed here with you and Andrea and your girls. We were on our way to the Grand Canyon. You took us to a Cardinals game."
"So what brings you back?'
"Brenda's doing a week-long pottery class up in Minneapolis. I had time on my hands, so I thought I'd take a road trip. I've always liked St. Louis."
"But is there more to it than that?" John was a man perceptive of others' moods.
Ken nodded, and took a quick sip of brandy. "Uh huh. Something has happened. Nothing earth-shattering. But you're the one I wanted to talk to. So here I am."
"I sense you have a story to tell," smiled John.
"Yes. A story I've never told anyone. Would you like to hear it?"
"Why not? We've good brandy and it's a pleasant afternoon. Andrea won't be home for another two hours. So whatever you want to tell me, I'll listen."
A mantel clock quietly ticked away the seconds. Finally, taking a deep breath, Ken began to speak. "My first year at East Side, there was a student named Cheryl Denson. She was a senior. She wasn't one of the elites; not a cheerleader or class president or anything like that. Just an ordinary girl. Hundreds of them in every high school. She had short dark hair and wore glasses. Had a slightly husky voice."
"So what about her?"
"That first school term, this would have been about 1977, I often stayed after school to prep my science labs for the next day. Some of my students, who were sophomores, would wander by and we'd talk for a while. Many of them, for various reasons, weren't eager to go home."
"Anyway, Cheryl was assisting Mrs. Weyland's biology class next door. She'd come over. Soon she was part of our little after-school group. As time went on, Cheryl and I began to talk about ... well, personal things when the others left. I could tell was flirting with me. And yet I didn't put an end to it, you see."
"The thing is, John, I was new in town. I had no friends, and lived by myself in an apartment. I was so lonely; Cheryl picked up on it. She suggested that maybe she'd come visit me some time. I knew I should tell her no; but somehow I could not."
"So one Friday night in late October, there came a knock on the back door to my apartment. Of course it was Cheryl. She'd been on a date with some guy. She'd told him she was spending the night with a girlfriend, and asked him drop her off near my apartment."
"Cheryl had just turned eighteen, so she'd had a few beers. She and her date had gone to a bar or club where there was lots of smoking, which clung to her clothing. We talked for a while; I got Cokes for us to drink. Then she said she'd like to take a quick shower to get the smoke out of her hair and freshen up."
John shook his head. "But you knew what was going on, didn't you, Ken?"
"Of course. A pretty young student, late at night in the apartment of a teacher only a few years older than she? Cheryl was of age, but students were still off limits to the teachers. So I knew I was risking everything. I was scared to death when she came out of the bathroom, just a towel around her. I think I was trembling. But it didn't matter; by then it was too late. It had been too late the minute I opened the door for Cheryl."
Ken took another long sip of brandy. His voice became lower as he relived that moment. "She came to me, dropped the towel, and put her arms around me. She smelled so good. Cheryl didn't have a spectacular body; her breasts, as I recall, were average. But she had the loveliest pink nipples; I still remember that. Holding her, I was just astonished how warm and smooth and soft a young woman's body can be. Never more so than that night."