Georgia, Better Known as Heaven

© P.J. Stewart

Chapter One

I looked around the courtyard. People having fun. Laughter, conversation, children playing in the pool. The Sea Island, GA, getaway was quite luxurious. We were at The Cottages on Sea Island, although I’ll never for the life of me determine how they justify calling a nine-bedroom house a cottage. Oh, well. I’d been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time when Kiefer invited the Douglas side of his family and several of his Toronto friends and their families for a four-day vacation. He’d rented three cottages, two of them side-by-side and a third that was located down the way. I hated to think so positively about my friend Karyn’s illness, but if she’d been well, I wouldn’t have been invited to this get-together. When Karyn phoned to say she was sick, she told me that Shirley—Shirley Douglas, Kiefer’s mom – had invited me to stay with her since Karyn was indisposed. It was through Karyn that I’d met Shirley several years ago.

When Kiefer called Shirley to invite her for a long weekend in Georgia, I was somehow included by default. Lucky me. So, here I was. Shirley was busy entertaining a few nieces and nephews on the other side of the pool located at the nine-bedroom cottage. Rachel, Kiefer’s twin, and Tom, his half-brother, were arguing over a chess game. Kiefer snoozed in a chaise about fifteen feet to my right side.

I had been trying to read all afternoon, but couldn’t keep my mind on the book. I felt uncomfortable. It was more than the sun and heat that had made me uncomfortable—not sickly uncomfortable, but uncomfortable nevertheless. All day, well, since we’d been around the pool, Kiefer had been staring at me, looking away quickly when my glance would catch his. It was so unlike him. I’d never known him to stare at anyone for any length of time without going right up to them and introducing himself or speaking to them! Since meeting him, I’d had many opportunities to observe him in various venues. He’d never struck me as the reserved type. So, what was with this furtive behavior?

My opportunities to learn about Kiefer had been provided on two fronts. It was strange, really, that two separate areas of my life would link me to his. Decades ago, I’d had a lengthy relationship with Don Gay, the still-reigning world-championship bullrider. Don had gotten to know Kiefer after sharing a few moments with him in the 2000 film Cowboy Up, and Don had made sure that everyone he’d ever known had been present at the Mesquite Rodeo arena when Kiefer showed up for a visit.

This had been almost four years ago. I was interested in meeting Kiefer because Don had never been awestruck by anyone. When pressed, Don revealed to me that he really liked Kiefer—was interested in Kiefer because Kiefer was so interesting. Hmmm. Quite a compliment from Mr. I-don’t-care-who-he-is-he-puts-his-jeans-on-the-same-way-I-do. So, I eagerly awaited the arrival of Mr. Sutherland that night at the arena. He was charming. Elegant. Filled out those Wranglers in all kinds of lewd ways. He was funny. Smart. Urbane. Down home. The voice was what I termed wettening. I didn’t mean rain.

Don hoarded Kiefer all evening. But we all got a sense of the restrained enthusiasm lurking beneath Kiefer’s cool exterior. Around midnight, Don wanted to show off one of his new acquisitions, Sasha’s Luck—a beautiful horse given to him for his birthday by his wife. Kiefer turned into a five-year-old around the livestock. When he saw Sasha’s Luck, he melted. So much cooing and patting. Even Sasha’s strong legs buckled, surely.

Don urged Kiefer to ride her, and he gladly mounted the beauty, prancing around the arena in what appeared to be a blissful reverie. Kiefer exhibited a good seat and looked quite comfortable on Sasha. The evening passed a bit quickly for the guests—we agreed the following time we gathered that the starshine had certainly affected us. Don smugly announced to those of us who’d been skeptical of his famous friend, “Told ya so.” We demurred.

Oddly enough, it would be only months before I met Kiefer again. My familiarity with his career was minimal. I had seen Cowboy Up, of course, at Don’s urging, no, insistence. Other than that, Flatliners was the only other Kiefer Sutherland movie I’d seen, and, truth be told, I didn’t even recall him being in that movie. It wasn’t that Kiefer wasn’t prominent or good in the movie, I just didn’t recall him—must have seen it with someone I was “in love” with at the time. Ha. Knowing nothing of his background, I was very surprised when I met him the second time because it came through a contact that I’d never have associated with him. As an educational consultant and seminar facilitator, I had opportunities to travel and to meet people all around North America, Central America, and South America. I was affiliated, via a league of innovative colleges and universities, with Humber College in Toronto. My dear friend there, Karyn, had made me quite comfortable in her home while working in Toronto. She and her husband both taught at Humber.

While in Toronto on a month-long assignment, Karyn encouraged me to attend a rally with her. No, thanks, I said. Large crowds don’t do a thing for me. No, she countered. This is a small gathering of influential women. There will be no more than fifty to seventy-five people there. Influential women? Why would I want to be there, I asked her. I just want you to go with me, she replied. I want you to meet some of these strong Canadian women.

Hmmm. If they were all like Karyn, it’s a wonder they didn’t run the world. And quite well, thank you. I reluctantly went with her, but was later delighted she’d talked me into it. The gathering was not so much a rally, per se, as a congregation of powerful women who came together, apparently three or four times a year, to remind one another of things they had yet to accomplish. They fed off of one another’s determination and strength.

I enjoyed myself and met many interesting women. I overheard Karyn, on our way out, promise a group of women that we’d meet them the next day for lunch. Little did I know that one of the women I’d met and admired and was destined to have lunch with the next day was Shirley Douglas, Kiefer’s mom.

I have no idea if Donald Sutherland is funny. I haven’t met him yet. But I know that Shirley Douglas is very funny. She has an almost perverse humor, rather dry and British. Later, when I learned that she was Kiefer’s mother, I felt that he’d been hardwired with her wit. She’s also immensely intelligent. Score more points for genetics—Kiefer is possessed of quite the intellect. His brain appears as a trap ever-ready to capture its prey—knowledge—and make it his own.

The most vivid memory of the luncheon conversation was provided by Shirley. Even before knowing she spoke of Kiefer’s life, I had been struck by her powerful emotion when she told, vehemently, of her opposition to her youngest son becoming involved with older women. As the story unfolded, she revealed that he had a “perverse” and “morbid” fascination with older women. Shirley resented her son’s first wife, claiming that she had “snagged” him by getting pregnant.

I thought to myself that the woman didn’t get pregnant by herself and started to voice this thought, but Karyn must have divined what I was about to say and struck me in the ribs with her elbow. Then it occurred to me that perhaps her son was drawn to older women because of her—Shirley, that is. She must have been, she must be, a force in her children’s lives. Shirley had spoken of all three of her children, but the younger son seemed to be the one she was more interested in. She referred to them as “the older one,” “the younger one,” and “my daughter.”

My tongue would not be restrained, despite the earlier poke in the side. Have you ever thought, I addressed Ms. Douglas, that your son is interested in older women because he’s searching for a suitable version of you? All movement at the table ceased. Eyes riveted to my face. Shirley, however, didn’t miss a beat. Of course he’s not looking for me, she replied testily. He’s no Oedipus—although I wouldn’t mind too much if he killed his father. She delivered this last bit with a wicked grin, followed by a genuine apology and the excuse that she just couldn’t help it.

No, she shook her head side to side as she continued, saying that she didn’t think that was it at all and that she thought she even scared him a little. Why, she asked, would he want someone to scare him when he had her? This, followed by another wicked grin. Looking back, I don’t see how I could have missed the resemblance during the wicked grins. I have since seen that grin widen Kiefer’s face many times.

I followed her question with a question aimed at gathering more information. Did he, I inquired, have only the one relationship with an older woman, the marriage? No, no--happens all the time, she revealed. It’s a young one, then an older one, then one his age, then, well, you get the picture, she sighed. Hmmm, I thought to myself. Sounds a bit flighty to me. But that thought I did manage to keep to myself. I pressed on though, determined to figure out why she should be so emotional about her son’s tastes in women and why, if indeed he really did, he had a penchant for older partners.

Does your son have long-term relationships, I asked her, and how old is he? How long is long, she grinned again, and he’s almost thirty-five. Well, I observed, he’s not old enough yet to have a mid-life crisis thing. Maybe he just likes women, I said. Likes all kinds. Shirley rolled her eyes and threw back her head. A throaty laugh issued. Another clue. Should have recognized the timbre of the voice.

Likes women, she roared. Yeah, I guess you could say that. Been liking them for a couple of decades now, she giggled. Yep. She actually giggled. Suddenly, her face sobered. She looked me in the eyes. You know, she said, I don’t really know if he simply likes the company of women or whether he’s promiscuous. I worry, she continued, about his health. She looked upward, than back down, and said in a soft voice: you know what I mean. Her face reflected concern. I understand, I replied, shaking my head in affirmation.

You think I’m being silly about this, don’t you, she directed the question to me. No, not silly, I said. But you’re so overtly negative about it. Did your son’s wife do something to anger you? I mean, specifically? Shirley began shaking her head and looked at her plate. A few seconds of silence was followed by her quiet voice saying that she thought the marriage, at such a young age, that fatherhood, at such a young age, had somehow stunted her son’s emotional growth. She spoke to the plate.

I couldn’t arrest it. It came out. I laughed. Shirley’s head snapped up and she stared at me with angry eyes. What is so funny about that, she hissed. I didn’t hesitate to answer. I thought her logic was faulty. Well, I told her, marriage and fatherhood are highly unlikely to stunt emotional growth. In fact, under even fairly normal circumstances, those two things should encourage emotional maturity.

Well, what the hell do you know about it, Shirley snarled. I wasn’t backing down though. I could see in her eyes that she, too, felt the weakness of her argument. I don’t claim to know anything about your son, I admitted. But I don’t understand why you’d associate marriage and fatherhood with emotional immaturity. Maybe your son just is emotionally immature. Maybe he suffers from Peter Pan syndrome, I continued, but was cut off by Shirley’s sudden outburst: Peter Pan syndrome, she screamed. Oh, screw that psycho-babble bullshit!

Shirley rapidly pushed back her chair, stood, placed her napkin over her plate, turned, and headed to the restaurant’s entrance. The five other women at the table stared at me—heat rose to my cheeks, enhanced by the heat in the eyes trained on my face. I struggled for the right words to say. Finding none, I determined to go after Ms. Douglas and apologize, but by the time I reached the sidewalk, she was not in sight. Imagine my huge surprise when I received a phone call from her the next morning. She called Karyn’s home looking for a number at which to reach me and discovered that I was staying with Karyn.

Dr. Traylor, Ms. Douglas said, I’d like to meet with you when possible. I’d like to talk with you about some of the things you mentioned yesterday. I’m busy in the evenings all this week, but mornings and afternoons are fine. Well, I told her, I’d love to meet with you, but I’m busy every day this week except Friday. Evenings are the only time I’m free. Friday, Ms. Douglas mused aloud. Friday will work. She told me to meet her at Auberge du Pommier on Friday at one o’clock.

Our lunch went well. I started the conversation by apologizing and telling Shirley that I wasn’t being a busybody, but that I was struck with her vehement emotions concerning her son’s choices in women and her resentment towards her former daughter-in-law. Eventually, our discussion revealed several things. She really did believe that her granddaughter’s mother had purposely gotten pregnant, but she blamed her even more for not being able to make the marriage work. That one surprised me, given what she’d been saying about older women and her son.

When I voiced my surprise, she, too, looked surprised. She contemplated silently for a few moments. Finally, she admitted that she really didn’t know what she meant. She said that her son hadn’t seemed really happy in a long, long time and that she didn’t know whether it was because he had gotten married too early or because the marriage had ended or whether it was something else altogether. She had always blamed her former daughter-in-law for her son’s unhappiness because she didn’t know who else to blame. I can’t blame his second wife, Shirley argued, because he was sad for such a long time before that.

I asked Shirley if she’d ever discussed any of this with her son. She looked surprised and said no. I then asked her if she felt she communicated her negativity to her granddaughter, a person she apparently cared for very much if her voice and eyes were clues to her feelings. Oh, noooooooo, she said. I hope I don’t do that. Do you suppose I do? She was distraught now.

I took Shirley’s hand in an attempt to calm her, a hand she promptly retrieved from my loose grip as she reached inside her handbag for her ringing phone. Shirley’s eyes lit up as she crooned the word Kiefer. Sweetheart, what a surprise to hear from you, she said. You’re what, she almost screamed. Where? A slight pause. Oh, Kiefer, we’re at Auberge du Pommier--have the taxi drop you off. We? Oh, a new friend. Hurry, sweetheart. I can’t wait to see you.

Okay. So what’s the likelihood that there are many Kiefers in this world? My face must have had a look that begged explanation. Shirley’s excitement over her son’s unexpected impending arrival was arrested when she looked at me. Dear, she said. Are you all right? I shook my head up and down. Yes, yes, I’m fine. Is your, I paused, swallowed, is your son Kiefer Sutherland?

Ah, she said. The name is rather unusual, isn’t it? Are you a fan of his, she inquired. Well, I replied, I’m not sure. I met him a couple of months ago in Texas at a rodeo arena. I was just surprised when I heard you say his name. I paused. Then I drew my breath in quickly. Shirley, I said softly. Have we been talking about Kiefer?

Oh, dear, she responded. I’ll never learn to keep my mouth closed. You won’t use any of this information against him, will you? I was a bit stunned, not by her question, but by the realization that we’d been talking about someone I’d met. It was a legitimate question. Oh, no. No, no, Shirley. I would never do anything like that—to you, to him, or anyone else. Private things are just that—private. She seemed to take some measure of relief from my impassioned response.

Although the first season of 24 had already aired the year I met Kiefer, I admit that I had not been watching it, and I still had not seen him in any films other than the two I’ve already named. I mention this because when I’d met him before he’d been dressed in Western clothing and I was taken aback as he literally glided across the restaurant’s floor to his mother’s side. He was gorgeous. Period. The deep navy blue suit fit him perfectly. He smelled divine. I hadn’t expected him to look so stylish. The icy blue tie accented the blue tinge in his eyes.

His mother had stood and turned towards him as he approached the table. No one announced his presence nor was Shirley facing the entrance. She, and everyone else in the room, simply knew when Kiefer arrived. That happens all the time when he steps in a room. That Sagittarian thing. Whew. They lightly embraced, did the “kiss-kiss” thing, and then Kiefer stepped back taking his mother’s hands in his. He smiled at her and turned his head slightly in my direction. Another smile. A glimmer in the eyes. A slightly tilted head now. A quizzical look.

I smiled and held out my right hand, then I reminded him of our earlier meeting—we met in Mesquite a couple of months ago—at the rodeo arena—Don Gay. Ohhhhhhhhhh, came the reply. I knew you looked familiar. Kiefer Sutherland, he said as he shook my extended hand. As if I didn’t know. Jossey Traylor, I replied. Yeah, that’s right. I remember you now, Kiefer politely responded. I doubted if he remembered anything about that meeting. After he motioned for us all to be seated, he surprised me by asking how Sasha’s Luck was doing. He did remember—at least the horse. Oh, Sasha’s well, I replied. And Don, too. You enjoyed riding her didn’t you? The rest of the lunch was mostly a blur. I was bedazzled, listening to the mother and son catch up on family gossip, Kiefer’s eyes bulging at the latest escapades of a fourteen-year-old second cousin. He just shook his head, reminding Shirley of how lucky he was that his Sarah wasn’t that way.

And so it was that over the next few years I was blessed with opportunities to be around Kiefer. More often than not, these meetings were in Toronto when I was there on business and he happened to be in town. Other times I saw him at rodeo events. He made the National Finals whenever his schedule allowed. But his true enjoyment of cowboying was most evident at the smaller rodeos—New Mexico, Arizona, Montana. When at rodeos, Kiefer was apparently alone. A half-dozen or more times in Toronto he’d been with someone when I ran into him.

Well, I didn’t just run into him. Shirley and I had determined that we liked one another well enough and I always let her know when I was in town. We weren’t best friends or anything, but I think she felt comfortable talking to me. So, at times I’d be visiting Shirley or she’d invite me to some function and I’d run into Kiefer under these circumstances. Once, he was with his former second wife, Kelly. I asked Shirley if they were getting back together. She just shook her head and said hell if I know. I believe they did make a few attempts to reconcile, but there didn’t seem to be much spark between the two. Since then, though, I’ve learned that Kiefer is quite friendly with some of his exes—wives and girlfriends included. He chats with Kelly about her sons. I’ve heard him have conversations over the phone with both boys, and he seems genuinely interested in their welfare. He’s not overly stern with them, but he plays the parent role well.

Perhaps one of the best memories I have to date was when Kiefer taught me to ski. Snow, that is. The southern states aren’t blessed with enough snow to make skiing a childhood-learned sport unless lucky enough to be born into a family able to travel to the slopes during the season. I think what makes this such a good memory is that Kiefer’s patience was displayed to a great advantage while he taught me the basics. Plus, it was the first, and only, time he’d touched me other than through handshakes or simple touches during greetings. When he first got behind me and placed his hands on my waist in order to show me a couple of stances, I thought my heart, or perhaps it was my stomach, would leap out of my throat! There was no denying that I felt a jolt of something when his body brushed against mine. It was a wonder I learned anything at all that day. But I did. And we had fun.

Of course, this anecdote doesn’t provide an account of all of the times I’d been around Kiefer, but it does set the stage for the day’s events. Brings me back to where I began—Kiefer staring at me. I had known him for awhile. We’d had conversations. I had come to realize that his wit and charm were endless, but that he had a melancholy streak in him, too. Oh, sure. He was the life of the party. The lightbulb in the dimly lit room. But this river was deeper than the surface betrayed. I wanted to know what the surreptitious stares meant.

This time when I caught his gaze I didn’t look away. I stood up and slowly began making my way towards the chaise lounge in which he sprawled. The other twenty or so people present were all dozing, swimming, drinking, or otherwise keeping themselves occupied. Kiefer had attended this function alone. It wasn’t that unusual. As I headed his way, he quickly shifted away from me, facing the opposite direction. I walked around the lounge and sat down in the middle of the one now facing him. He couldn’t avoid me.

“Oh, hi,” he said.

“Oh, hi, to you, too. Why are you staring at me?”

“What?” A pause. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a bad liar. You know that, don’t you?”

Kiefer looked down at the flagstone, then up again.

“Ummm. Uh, yeah.”

“So, answer the question, bud. What’s up?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.”

“’Cause why?”

“’Cause you’d slap me if I told you.”

That surprised me. I’m sure my eyebrow raised.

“Slap you? I’m hardly in the habit of slapping people. Why would I do that? And how do you know I would?”

“’Cause.”

“God, you’re monosyllabic today.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Is the reason you’re staring at me so horrible that you’d think I would actually slap you?”

“Yeah.”

I sighed in exasperation. As I shook my head, I stood up. Kiefer’s right hand shot out and briefly grasped my left forearm leading me back down in a sitting position.

He just stared at me, waiting for me to say something it seemed.

I shifted my weight onto one buttock and placed my hand on the lounge under the raised one then shifted to the other side and placed my other hand, too, underneath my body.

“Now, I can’t slap you. Why are you staring at me?”

“Sure you won’t hit?” Another pause. “I know my mother. She’d hit me.”

“What does your mother have to do with it?”

“If my mother likes you, and it’s obvious she does, then you have to be down on male chauvinists.”

Again, I was surprised and must’ve looked it for his eyes widened. Kiefer was no male chauvinist.

“Male chauvinists? Are you talking about you?”

He sheepishly shook his head affirmatively.

“Kiefer, you’re hardly a male chauvinist. I mean, I suppose you’re a bit chauvinistic when it comes to a few things, probably more than I know about, but I’d certainly not lump you into a group of chauvinists by even loose standards.”

He looked slightly relieved.

I continued. “Why might I think you’re a chauvinist?”

“Well, not, uh, not really a chauvinist. Just a pig.”

He looked me squarely in the face, grinned wickedly, and let out a loud pig squeal.

I remained exasperated, but still on my hands.

“Look, I’m on my hands, I can’t hit you, tell me what’s goin’ on.”

Kiefer’s face remained mischievous. He mimicked me and sat on his own hands. He leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes narrowing, and whispered huskily.

“I’m lookin’ at your boobs. Been lookin’ at ’em all day.” He paused, then continued.

“And other stuff, too.”

I was stunned.

He looked down, then up, then away, then at me again. He leaned back and removed his hands from under him, a movement I then completed, too.

“Are you mad?” He was genuinely interested in my reply.

I couldn’t say anything. I was so completely taken aback by his answer. It was wholly unlike what I thought his response might be. Staring at my boobs. Why? Which is what I finally got out.

“Why?”

“Why do I wanna know if you’re mad? That’s silly. I don’t want you mad at me.”

“No. Why are you staring at my, uh, my . . .”

“Boobs?”

“Yes.”

“’Cause.”

“’Cause,” I asked. “’Cause why?”

“’Cause I’ve never seen ’em before. I’ve never seen you without your clothes on. I can’t help but stare at ’em.” He grinned at me. “They’re awesome!”

“Awesome?” I was bewildered. “They’re just average. Nothing special.”

Indeed my breasts weren’t anything outstanding. They were neither small nor large. The bikini top I wore was flattering, but I didn’t think they deserved an “awesome” tag. Well, they were better than okay. I liked them really. But I was still surprised by Kiefer’s admission, so I sat, silent, still contemplating what might have brought on this turn of events.

“You are mad at me, aren’t you?” Kiefer looked regretful.

He stood up quickly, walked to the end of the chaise and paced back and forth at the pool’s edge for a full minute before I responded.

“I am not mad at you. Not at all. I’m simply surprised that you’d be looking and that you’d think they were awesome. It seems, well, uncharacteristic. I don’t recall you ever checking me out before.”

Kiefer had stopped pacing when I started to speak. Now he looked at me with yet another grin.

“I check you out all the time. You just don’t notice.”

“You check me out all the time?” Another surprise. “Why?”

Kiefer’s face screwed up. Eyes squinched. Cheeks and mouth pinched together.

“Why?” He seemed exasperated, but his face returned to normal. “Are you serious?”

When he determined that I was, he shook his head and held out his hands, palms up.

“Because you’re a woman. I’m a man. That’s what happens!”

He paused. Then he looked taken aback. Then embarrassed.

“Oh, god.” He started shaking his head back and forth. “Oh, god. You don’t ever check me out, do you? You’re not interested at all, are you?”

Another pause. “God, how embarrassing,” he almost whispered.

He started walking away.

“Kiefer. Stop.” I had started laughing now.

“Don’t laugh at me. It’s not funny. I thought you might at least have a little curiosity about me.”

“Oh, please. Don’t be so melodramatic. Of course I’ve checked you out. But I certainly had no idea that you ever checked me out. You’ve certainly never been very obvious.”

“Well, no, not obvious. I thought you’d be mad.”

“Why in the world would I be mad?”

“Well, I . . . well, I figured Mom had warned you off.”

“What does that mean? Warned me off?”

“I figured she probably told you what a loser I am and not to pay any attention to me. Besides, she gets all weird when I ask out anyone who’s more than a day older than I am!”

Ah. So he had caught on.

“Yes, she does get upset. Do you know why?”

“No, and we’re not talking about her right now. That’s another whole conversation. We’re talking about you now.”

“And I’m sure she doesn’t think you’re a loser.”

“Like I said, we’re talkin’ ’bout you now.”

“Me? How’d this get to be about me?”

“’Cause you’re who we’re talkin’ ’bout. Do you not like men?”

“What?” Now I’m sure my eyebrow must’ve shot up. “What do you mean? Are you asking a sexual preference question?”

Kiefer looked stunned. Then embarrassed again.

“Oh, shit. No, I wasn’t, but, oh, shit. Is your preference for other women?”

I was now giggling uncontrollably.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny? Really, I really wasn’t asking about preference. I just meant do you not like men! You know, lots of women Mom hangs out with don’t like men.”

I managed to calm down and motioned for him to be seated again. He rather reluctantly took his seat.

I smiled at him. Before I could speak, Kiefer held up his hand for me to wait

while he spoke first.

“Before you say anything, let me ask a question in my defense.”

I nodded okay.

“Well, do you have a boyfriend? Are you in a relationship? I’ve never seen you with anyone, so it wasn’t so crazy that I asked about whether you like men.”

I smiled again.

“Of course I like men, silly. I like men a lot. I like you a lot. But I had no reason to think you’d be interested in me, so I never made any overtures. Besides, who’d wanna have to deal with Mamma Douglas’s ‘older woman’ issue?”

Kiefer laughed a soft laugh.

“Yeah. You’re right. She can be pretty intimidating. But you’re not that much older. Are you? I’d say forty something.”

“You’d be right. Forty-five.”

“Well, good grief. I’m thirty-eight. That’s not that much older. Surely she wouldn’t freak over that.”

“Kiefer, I have no idea what would make your mother freak, as you say.

She’s about as much of an enigma to me as are you.”

“Enigma? Me? What’s so enigmatic about me? I’m pretty straightforward.”

I smiled. He was enigmatic. I didn’t think it was on purpose. He was just lost in the clouds a lot.

As he was beginning to be right now. Lost. Lost in deep thought. I let him be lost.

It was probably a full ten minutes before Kiefer spoke again. He had no idea it’d been that long, I’m sure.

“So, you didn’t answer me. Are you in a relationship?”

“No, not right now.”

“Why?”

“Hmmm. Well, I just haven’t met anyone lately who’s, well, suitable.”

“What’s suitable?”

“Uh. Goodness. What a question. That’s hard to say.”

“Well, try.”

“Well . . . funny, intelligent, adventurous, warm—I dunno. Lots of things.”

“There must be zillions of funny guys out there.”

“Well, yeah. There are some funny ones. But they don’t have all that other stuff, too.”

“Hmmm. You didn’t say handsome and rich.”

I laughed.

“Well, handsome is a bonus. Great abs are simply a miracle, so they’re unexpected. Rich? Not necessary really. I have plenty of money. I mean, plenty to do what I want to do. I don’t need a guy to pay my way or anything. And I’m not greedy.”

Back in the clouds again. He was back in the clouds long enough for me to go all the way on the other side of the pool to the bar and get us both a beer. When I returned, the movement directly in front of his face brought him back to the moment.

“So, when was your last relationship,” he inquired.

“What is this, twenty questions? When was your last relationship?”

“This morning before breakfast.” He didn’t bat an eye. Then he grinned widely.

I made a face at him. He returned the gesture.

“Why are you asking about my love life?”

“Have you ever been married,” he asked very studiously.

I paused.

“Yessssss. Once. A very, very long time ago.”

“Was it bad?”

“The marriage? No, not at all.”

“No, not the marriage. The breakup. Was it bad?”

“Uh, not really. I dunno. Why are we talkin’ about this?”

“So, if the marriage wasn’t bad, what happened?”

“None of your business. Period.”

He stared at me.

“I’m sorry, Kiefer. I don’t mind answering questions, most of them. But that one’s just a bit too personal for me to answer. I don’t feel I know you well enough to answer it.”

“But you do know me. We’ve known one another for years now.”

“Well, yes, sort of. But not enough to share that. It’s not easy. But I’ll talk about other relationships.”

He tilted his head to one side. “No, I don’t want to dig where I shouldn’t. The main thing was just to find out if you liked men.” He looked away, then back at me with a sheepish grin before he finished his thought. “And, you know, if you liked sex.”

That voice saying the word “sex” was almost more than I could bear. I smiled, thinking to myself oh you don’t know boy-o just how much I’m thinking about sex at this moment.

“I love men. Really. I love sex, too.”

Kiefer’s head straightened up again as he stared into my eyes with a playful grin.

“Oh, you do, do you?”

His eyebrows went up.

“Yes, I do.” It occurred to me that I didn’t want to mislead him, despite the warm thoughts and warm physical reactions I was having at the moment. I continued. “But I’m not, well, I’m not one to just give it up because a good-looking guy walks by.” I looked him squarely in the eyes and grinned. “Not even if they have a Golden Globe or two.” He chuckled and I finished my thought. “Too cheap. I think I’m worth more than that.”

Kiefer modeled a look of mock shock.

“You mean . . . you don’t spread ’em for every Tom, Dick, and Harry, or is that Tom’s Hairy, spelled h-a-i-r-y, Dick?

I laughed.

“I like it when you laugh,” he said.

“Well, I love to laugh.”

“Hmmm. You love sex, you love to laugh. What else do you love?”

I shook my head as I smiled again.

“No, no. No more questions this afternoon. Too many. Turn about’s fair play. I should ask you some questions!”

Kiefer wrinkled his nose and crossed his eyes.

“I’m not too fond of questions,” he announced.

“Well, that’s too bad. I’ll ask only one, okay?”

“No, I do not have a ten-inch penis,” he delivered with a straight face and then laughed.

I really laughed at that one. His deep, throaty chuckle was delightful.

“That wasn’t my question, silly. Besides, I heard from Rachel that it ain’t no big thang.”

“Wha-at? You heard what?” his eyes got huge as he delivered the questions.

He leaned over and contacted my upper arm with his fist in a few playful jabs.

“She did not, you liar!” he almost screamed.

“Did, too,” I returned.

“Did not. She wouldn’t do that. Even if it is true.”

He broke up at his own self-deprecating comment.

“Look, goofy. My real question is this: do you think that your first wife got pregnant on purpose in order to snare you?”

Kiefer’s eyes widened, then narrowed, then returned to normal. He got quite serious.

“Well, that’s a helluva question!”

“I know. And I know it’s intrusive. So, you don’t have to answer it. But I’ve always wondered since I heard your mom say that.”

Kiefer was incredulous. He was genuinely surprised by my statement.

“Mom said that? She thinks Cam got pregnant on purpose?” He shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. If anyone did anything on purpose, I did. I thought Cam was hot, hot, hot. Still do. I thought she was so cool . . .”

“You just said she was hot . . .”

“Oh, shut up, smart ass. She was, I thought, so experienced in the industry. I admired her knowledge of film and filmmaking. She had history!” He delivered that last word as if it explained everything.

“So, you don’t think the pregnancy was on purpose?”

“Hm. Well, no. But even if it was, I don’t really give a shit. That pregnancy probably saved my life. I’d be six feet under by now if I hadn’t given up coke when Sarah Jude was born. Dead. Dead for sure.” He mused a few seconds and added, “Besides, I wouldn’t have Sarah either. That would be very bad.”

And, just like that, he was gone again. In reverie. Deep thought. Oh, what the hell, I thought. I’ll just drink his beer. He’ll never know.

A quarter of an hour passed before Kiefer returned to the present. I’d already finished his beer and mine and moved back to my former chaise where my book and suntan lotion rested. I was attempting to get into the book when Kiefer rushed to the chaise next to the one I now occupied.

“So, do you think we should go out tonight?”

“Huh?”

“Should we go out? Tonight? Get something to eat?”

“Kiefer,” I uttered in surprise. “There’s a whole staff inside the kitchen right now preparing a five-star meal. Why would you want to go out?”

“To be with you!” He sat still for a couple of seconds before he looked at me and resumed. “Shit. I haven’t made myself clear, have I?”

“Well, I’m not sure. What were you trying to make clear?”

He paused. A grin crept across his face before he delivered his next line.

“That I like your boobs.” He now smirked.

I hit him. He laughed and took my left hand between both of his. I felt it. That feeling I’d had when he touched me while teaching me to ski. He looked straight into my eyes when he continued.

“I’d like to go out. Like to know you better.”

I was flattered. No, that’s not right. I was ecstatic. No, that’s not right. I was euphoric. He allowed my hand to drop, but I continued to feel a tingling sensation where his own had been. I glanced to my left, trying to ascertain if anyone was watching us, but everyone seemed to be occupied. Kiefer followed my train of thought and spoke softly.

“They’re all busy. No one’s paying any attention to us.”

“You told me,” I said, “that I knew you already. If that’s true, how come you don’t know me?” I grinned.

“Hey, if you don’t wanna go out, just say so.” He grinned, too.

“You know, maybe we’d better check with Mamma Douglas and see if it’s okay.”

“Yuh.” Kiefer rolled his eyes. “Hey. Why don’t we eat here and then slip out?”

“Now there’s a plan. I like it. Two adults sneaking out. There’s something kinda special about that—kinda hot!” I was giggling.

Kiefer smiled, but followed the smile with a question.

“Okay, so what’s your suggestion?”

“No, I’m serious. I think it’s great.” I paused. “Hey. Do you think we could just go walking on the beach? I love that.”

Kiefer’s face split into a huge smile.

“Yessssssssss. Yes, that’s great,” he murmured as his head moved up and down in assent. “I really like that, too.”

We just looked at one another for a second or two, then he followed up.

“So, it’s a date then. You slip out after the main course and I’ll follow after dessert.”

“After dessert? Why the hell do you get dessert and I don’t?”

“Well, that’s just the plan. I made the plan, so I get to choose who leaves when. Okay?”

“No, that’s not okay. What if it’s a great dessert. You leave after the main course and I’ll have dessert.”

“Hey. You’re monkeying with the plan. You can’t do that.”

“Screw your plan. Plans should include dessert for all concerned.” I had purposely injected mock venom in my voice.

Kiefer gave me a close-lipped, one-sided smile as his left eyelid dropped halfway down over his eye.

“Oh, all right. We’ll both have dessert. Nothing wrong with people takin’ a stroll after dinner.”

“But I wanna sneak away, Kiefer.” I emphasized the word “sneak.” “Can’t we have dessert and sneak?” This time I emphasized “and.”

He laughed softly and shook his head.

“Yeah. We can sneak. I’ll formulate the sneaking plan and pass it to you in the soup course.”