I had just graduated from high school and was spending the summer before college driving down the west coast from Portland to San Diego. I picked up odd jobs along the way for gas and food and finally found myself in the sleepy little town of Cambria.
I landed a gig at a Bed and Breakfast at the beach and basically did anything that needed to be done, from minor repairs to delivering room service to the guests. The owners were in their late 40s. Rich was a corporate mucky muck in San Francisco while Teresa ran the B&B.
A New York City native, Teresa was a tough cookie and ran a tight ship. The B&B had been her grandparents and she was fiercely determined to maintain the standards set up generations ago. Rich saw the B&B as the investment it was yet didn't have the passion for the property.
You could tell she was lonely, often hanging around the office long after her desk was clear. It was on those occasions that we would end up chatting about this and that. "Rich is a good guy," she would ultimately confide in me, "He just spends long hours at work and is too tired to drive down for the weekends."
She didn't notice or didn't care how young I was. And while I took charge in my constant fantasies about her, I had never been with a married woman. I'd never been with an older woman. Truth be told, I had never been with any woman, but that's not something you go around telling women, especially one who seems to be flirting at every opportunity.
One night as I was cleaning up the shop, enjoying beer number two, she came out front and sighed, "I wish I would have met you when I was younger." I don't remember exactly what I said next since my sudden stiffness sucked any breath right out of me.
I gulped hard and licked my suddenly dry lips. She lifted her beer bottle, clicking against mine, "We would have had a lot of fun together if we had met at 18."