Prologue

From a purely personal point of view, happiness is extremely difficult to describe. We are either happy, or we are unhappy, and it seems that there is little we can do, however hard we may strive, to make ourselves happy. The story I am going to tell, is about two people, and how they eventually found happiness. Before the events described here, if they had thought about it, neither would have described themselves as particularly unhappy, although they were both aware that there was something missing in their lives. However one fact stands out, and that is that they were both extremely lonely, filling their time with ‘doing’ in an attempt to fill the emotional void by being busy.

Chapter 1 – Tony’s Story

The best place to start is by telling you something about myself. My name is Tony, Prof. A. Alexander as the nameplate says on my door at the university where I teach, Prof T to my students. I was born in a small town in New England, where my father’s family had lived ever since my paternal grandfather had migrated from Scotland in the latter half of the nineteenth century. My mother’s family had an even longer American pedigree, having been among some of the earliest Puritan settlers from England back in the early seventeenth century. When I was thirteen, my father was posted to the Embassy in London as a cultural attaché, where he remained for the next ten years. It is for this simple reason that, though I am a U.S. citizen, I sound more English than American, as my colleagues delight in pointing out.

We rented a nice house with a large garden in what is referred to as the Home Counties, a few miles from the center of London, and I went the local grammar school, and then when I was eighteen, to study for my BA at Cambridge. At school, we played football, soccer to Americans, in the winter, and cricket in what passes for summer in the U.K. I found soccer quite an easy game to pick up, but it took rather longer to understand cricket, a game which seems quite impenetrable to most Americans, so much so that I have given up trying to explain the rules to colleagues and friends. There was a great deal of cricket on terrestrial television in those days, although these days it has become the exclusive preserve of pay-to-view satellite channels, and after a couple of years, I became an ardent follower of the game. I became a quite passable spin bowler and played for the school first team in my senior year, and I for the college team when I went to university. These days I still try to follow the game, mainly via the Internet, which would otherwise be impossible in the U.S.

At school, I gravitated to the arts, although, being a very forward-looking establishment, all students studied a core curriculum of both arts and sciences. At A level, the examinations students study for in their last two years; I specialized in History, Geography, and English, and I graduated with the top grades necessary to get a place at Cambridge University. As a family we took our holidays in Europe, visiting many of the art galleries and museums, which is what sparked my interest in art history. However, I was never more than a competent artist myself, although in recent years I have developed an interest in photography of the more artistic kind. However, my first visit to Europe was not with my family, but happened when in the spring just after my fifteenth birthday, when I stayed with a family in Paris, as part of a student exchange program. Ever since I have had a fondness for Europe, with its rich cultural history going back more than 2,000 years.

At Cambridge, I studied for a BA in History, although I found my inclinations gradually changing, and for my final year dissertation, I wrote a paper on the use of art as a political tool during the French Revolution. After three years I graduated with a first class honors degree, which was enough to get me a doctoral place at The George Washington University in Washington DC. Of course, life at Cambridge was not all about study. As I have said, I played cricket for my college Pembroke, but I also joined in the debates at the Cambridge University Union Society, more commonly known just as the Cambridge Union. I even did a little bit of acting in Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, although by no means could I be described as a good singer, although it was good fun. Cambridge University in those days was a predominantly male establishment, so chances to meet girls of my own age were rather limited. It was perhaps my lack of experience that might have been one of the reasons for the later failure of my first marriage.

It was at George Washington that I met my first wife, Carol. She was several years younger than me, studying for a first degree in English, with the view to becoming a school teacher. We first met at a ball, and I was immediately captivated by her vivacity. Despite my shyness, I plucked up the courage to ask her to go with me to a play the following week, and we started dating soon after that. Armed with my Ph.D., I managed to get a job at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC, and although the salary was not all that great, it was a secure position with good prospects for advancement, sufficient we thought to set up home together, and Carol and I got married a few months later. Carol was able to get a job as a junior teacher in an elementary school, and after a year in rented accommodation, we had saved up enough from our joint salaries to be able to buy a small house in Fairfax VA. However, I’m afraid that I wasn’t particularly successful when it came to marriage, and Carol left me when we had been married for just over ten years. I suppose that one reason might have been our failure to have children — we never did find out why — but I have to admit that the fault was chiefly mine, most of my energy going into establishing my career. As an art historian, it was necessary for me to be away from home a lot, studying at the major museums and art galleries in Europe and America. These trips were often for quite extended periods, and I suppose it was no surprise that my wife found consolation for her loneliness with another man. After she had left, we lost contact, and I never bothered to file for divorce; more surprisingly Carol didn't either, but she must have had her reasons.

It is necessary to talk about sex at this point; this is a story of a relationship between two mature people after all and intended for an adult audience. I do not intend to go into such explicit detail as D H Lawrence, but it is necessary to be rather more graphic in my account than Thomas Hardy, that other great writer of realist novels of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Although I was separated from my wife, I had my share of intimate liaisons. I was still a young man in my prime when Carol left me, and definitely not asexual, though I have met some academics in my time who were. Like all men I found relief looking at pictures of scantily clad young ladies in girly magazines in those early years, but with the development of the Internet, I found a number of websites that suited my taste and inclinations. I was never drawn to the more extreme sites, pictures of pretty girls displaying all their naked charms was quite enough for me, and I discovered a number of models who became favorites. Because of my profession, I was particularly interested in variations in the human form, and I became rather an expert on nude female anatomy, though a nice smile was still the most attractive feature of these young ladies.

I also had a number of brief liaisons with women I met in the course of my travels, but I always drew the line at my students, which I knew would have been unethical and an abuse of my position. There was one third year student who crossed the line, but I quickly dealt with the situation. She asked me if she could see me in my room to discuss the grade I had given her for her latest essay. I asked her to sit down while I looked in the filing cabinet for her folder, and when I turned round again, she had stripped down to her underwear and was about to undo her bra. I smartly opened the door, and called for my secretary, although I knew that she had gone home for the night, and when I turned round again, the student was struggling back into her jeans. Once she was fully dressed, I told her firmly that such behavior would not get her better grades, and never to try anything of the sort again.

I do remember with particular fondness a beautiful young French woman, who was a fellow lecturer at the Sorbonne in Paris, where I spent several months as a visiting professor in the spring and summer of 2008. Paris in the spring is a magical place, and if you have never been there on the first day of May, when there are street sellers everywhere, with their bunches of Lily of the Valley, then you haven't really lived. The delicious scent of those flowers still brings back wonderful memories of days and nights with Jeannine, and of making love in the long grass by the banks of some backwater of the Seine after a day spent touring some of the quaint little villages made famous by the Impressionist painters. Jeannine was wonderful company, a highly intelligent and entertaining conversationalist, and a very kind and sweet person. Our dalliance lasted right through the summer, and when I had to return to America in the autumn, there were a lot of tears and promises to write, and we have indeed kept in touch sporadically. A couple of years later, I was delighted when she wrote to tell me she was getting married, and I sent her a gift of a bronze sculpture of a bucking horse in memory of our brief love affair.

In 2010 I had a rather longer liaison with the wife of a colleague in the Department of Geography, while he was on a year-long posting in Antarctica, studying the effects of climate change. While it was not with his connivance, she did tell him about us, and after his return, we ended our affair, with a few tears on both sides, but without recriminations. I cannot deny that sex with Karen was very good, but there was no chance of us falling in love more than just a little; we had known each other for many years, and she was deeply in love with her husband. It was merely a matter of favorable circumstances, our mutual physical attraction, and Karen's need. She was a passionate woman who enjoyed sex, and she found Geoff’s absence very difficult.

We were very discreet, as neither of us had any desire to see Geoff humiliated, so we limited our sessions of lovemaking to Saturday nights, usually at her home, but occasionally at mine. Since we didn't live very far apart, we would walk rather than take the car, in order not to arouse any suspicion, and to prevent tongues wagging. Generally, we would meet for a leisurely dinner, with candles and wine — Karen was a much more accomplished cook than me, which is why we usually met at her home, and only then would we make our way to the bedroom for a pleasant and mutually satisfying night of love.

I did feel some guilt at cuckolding my friend in this way, but I rationalized that it was better that Karen assuaged her need with me rather than a succession of unsuitable and unscrupulous men, who would only take advantage of her loneliness. Relations between Geoff and me were a bit strained at first after his return from Antarctica, but after a long night in a bar, when we both drank rather too much whisky, we agreed to let bygones be bygones, and we are still friends, though perhaps not quiet as close as we once were.

In all the years since Carol left me, I never really fell in love with anyone, certainly not enough to want to have a long-term relationship, and on the whole, I was quite content to continue in my bachelor life. That was until I met Lacy, who is now my wife, but that is the subject of a later chapter. But before I recount those events, it is necessary to tell you all that I learned about her in the weeks we were courting.

Chapter 2 – Lacy’s Story

Lacy was born in the city of San Diego, the second child in a large family, and the first girl. I got the impression that her childhood was not all that happy, except for those times when her father would read to her at bedtime. Unfortunately, he worked long hours as a civilian at the US Naval Base, and Lacy, who was devoted to him, found his absence very difficult. Her mother came from a poor family in Los Angeles who had lost everything during the Great Depression, harsh years which had turned her into a rather joyless and critical person. As soon as Lacy was old enough, she was given a list of household chores to carry out, which left very little time for play.

When she was six or seven years old, her father was posted to Hawaii following a promotion, and these were idyllic times, but when she was eleven, he moved again for the final time to the Naval Base in Norfolk Virginia. Perhaps it was the result of moving at critical times in her schooling, but also perhaps due to lack of parental encouragement, mainly on the part of her mother, but Lacy did poorly in school and left at the age of sixteen to work in a shop. Despite the long working hours, she was still expected to help with the cooking and cleaning at home, and also in looking after her younger siblings. Deep in her heart, however, she knew that she could do better, and in what little spare time she had, she taught herself to type using an antiquated machine she found under a layer of dust in the attic. Armed with this new skill, she applied for, and got, a job as a very junior clerk at the major city hospital, and slowly began to work her way up the ladder by hard work and diligence.

One of her tasks was to prepare the requisitions for equipment needed by various hospital departments, and this was how she met the man whom she later married. Jim was the head of the hospital maintenance department, and would regularly bring lists of things that were needed, and Lacy would then find the best suppliers and cheapest prices, before typing up the list for the finance department, which would place the actual orders. After several months of this, one afternoon, Jim didn't leave after giving Lacy his list, but hung around by her desk, and then quite out of the blue, told her that he had tickets for an amateur performance of Rogers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma at his church, and wondered if she would like to accompany him. She was very surprised by this, as Jim was at least fifteen years older than her by her estimation, and she had thought that he must certainly be married, but she accepted, as much to get out of the house for an evening than in any attraction. That first date led to others, and over the course of the next few weeks Lacy found out that Jim was a widower whose wife had died from an inoperable brain tumor a couple of years before.

Lacy and Jim were married a few weeks after her twenty-first birthday, and led a very ordinary, but contented, life for the next twenty-two years, although sadly they were unable to have children. After they had been married for five years, they moved from Richmond to a new house in Fairfax, not far from where I was living. Lacy was fortunate enough not to have to work, as Jim's income had more than provided for them both, and she left her job at the hospital just before they moved. Although she was sad not to have a family, she didn't mope about it and spent her time with charity events and sports. While Jim enjoyed his weekly round of golf, she loved tennis, running, swimming, and was a member of a women’s softball team for over 20 years. When I met her, she was still in very good shape for a woman of forty-seven, with a trim figure, and a nice bosom. It was shortly after his fifty-eighth birthday that Jim had his first heart attack. He seemed to have recovered well at first but started to develop severe angina after a couple of years, and his doctor told them that he would need a bypass at some point in the future. Unfortunately, two years later, he had another heart attack while Lacy was out visiting her family in Richmond, and by the time she got back home it was too late, and he died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

The two years after her husband died were very difficult for Lacy. Her friends were very kind to her, and she says that she couldn’t really claim to have been lonely, and at times would have valued a little space to come to terms with her loss. But as she told me, what she missed was not the company, but the physical intimacy that she realized she had often taken for granted, the loving cuddling, the touch of Jim’s hands, the sound of his voice, and above all his masculine scent.

Of course, once a decent period of grieving had passed, her friends went out of their way to introduce her to eligible men of her own age, mainly widowers, although some were living in sham marriages, where all love and intimacy had died, and there was one very nice man whose wife was in the final stages of dementia and who no longer knew who he was. However, none of them really attracted her as a potential partner because the vital spark just wasn’t there. She had known friends who became so lonely and desperate that they were willing to say yes to any man that would pay attention to them, but she was determined to avoid this because it could only lead to disappointment and pain. If she was to enter into a long-term relationship with anyone, she at least wanted it to be someone who ignited her interest in them as a person.

Like many long-married couples Lacy and Jim’s sex life had become rather unexciting — vanilla sex she called it — more a matter of habit than passion, but no less loving for that. In the last year of her husband's illness, sex became impossible, and she found other ways to satisfy her libido. At first, she just pleasured herself with her fingers, but she found that she missed the feeling of a man inside her and bought a couple of sex toys from an online store. While she did not find these as satisfying as the real thing, they did allow her to have a very satisfactory climax, and occasionally she would reach levels of pleasure comparable to sex with her husband.

This all changed in a fashion that Lacy still describes as miraculous. In an attempt to get out of herself she enrolled in adult education classes in art history at a local college, where a series of visiting experts would come to give lectures on subjects as diverse as the techniques of the early European masters, and the place of art in shaping social attitudes. It happened that one evening in early November, an otherwise dreary and depressing day, I was the lecturer, and Lacy claims that she was immediately attracted to me. She tells me that she thought I was quite distinguished looking with well-groomed hair and near little beard, which is very flattering, and she particularly noticed that I had taken good care to keep myself in trim. For my part, I really cannot see what was so special about me, an ordinary middle-aged man in my fifties, but attraction is such a mysterious thing.

Chapter 3 – Falling in Love

When I met Lacy, I had been unattached for over a year, and to assuage my loneliness, had applied myself a new subject, the study of Native American Art, and was close to completing a major paper on the subject, which meant many hours at the computer. When I was invited to give a talk to Lacy's adult education class on the influence of Native American art on the modernist school, I only accepted on a whim, mainly as a way of getting out of the house for the evening, and perhaps to meet some interesting people, having been something of a recluse for several months. At the end of my talk, I suggested that those who were particularly interested might like to join me for a drink afterwards at a well-known restaurant close by. As it turned out, the only one from the group who accepted was Lacy. Perhaps it was fate taking a hand, who knows?

In the restaurant, before ordering our drinks, she let me know that she was the Lacy Middleton on the enrollment sheet, although she was rather embarrassed that she was the only one to accept my invitation. At first, our conversation was rather strained, partly because of Lacy’s lack of self-belief I suspect. She still says that she cannot see what I might have found attractive in her that evening, a middle-aged widow without makeup, in faded jeans and a shapeless plain sweater

Despite her protestations, Lacy was a charming and attractive companion, and the conversation soon became easy, especially when she told me that she had a few pieces of native art, mainly because that was when she started to relax. Sensing her enthusiasm, I encouraged her to describe them and to tell me how she had got them, although I was also genuinely interested. After that, conversation quite naturally moved on to more personal matters, and she was soon telling me about Jim and his illness and death, and her loneliness. As a teacher, I learned long ago the value of listening attentively to my students as much as talking, and perhaps that was why Lacy found it so easy to confide in me. She says it was because I was sympathetic in a way that her friends has ceased to be, familiar with her situation as they were, and possibly just a little bored.

After what seemed like minutes, but must have been nearly an hour, during which Lacy had talked almost nonstop, the manager indicated that it was time to close the bar and lock up. She feared that would be the end of it, but I thought it would be rather interesting to see her small collection, and I wrote my name and telephone number on a piece of paper. I also asked her if she would give me her cell number and address so that I could give her a call to arrange a convenient time to go round, and it was at that point I discovered that we lived within a couple of miles of each other. I could not recall having ever met her, although that is unlikely as I am sure we must have frequented the same shops.

When I went home after that evening, I found that I was unable to get Lacy out of my mind. Her story moved me, and she touched me in a way that had not happened for a long time, absorbed as I had been with my work. I was also surprised to discover that I wanted to share something of my situation with her, recognizing in some inchoate way that she was perhaps the soulmate that I had been seeking, but given up any hope of finding. Lacy has told me since, that she hadn't felt so comfortable, and yet so physically drawn to anyone since Jim's death, and she was anxious to see me again. She also added that she couldn't believe her good fortune, and was like a teenager again imagining all kinds of fun we could have together, even allowing herself to feel aroused at the thought of being physically close to me in while we were looking at her Indian art.

I had been invited to attend a dinner in a few weeks time where I was to receive some kind of award for my work, and I wondered if Lacy would consent to be my partner for the evening. Her company would make the time pass so much more pleasantly — the conversation of my fellow academics could tend to become tedious after a time, and once the dinner was over I would be left alone and lonely. The next day I phoned the organizers to say I would be bringing a partner, and would they reserve another room in the hotel for the night? In retrospect, this all seems rather presumptuous of me, but I have always been decisive, and in my arrogance, I was sure that I would be able to win Lacy round.

At that stage, there was nothing sexual in my feelings, just the belief that I might have found someone from outside my normal circle of academia to share something of my thoughts and feelings as a friend. When I went round to her house to look at her few pieces of Native American art, I still had no idea that this would be the beginning of something quite wonderful. Lacy looked different that morning. There was a glow about her that I found very attractive, and I began to see something of the lovely woman who had been hiding beneath a drab exterior.

Lacy has confessed that on the morning that I was going round to her house, she was so keen to make a good impression that she frantically went round plumping the cushions, and moving a decorative piece an inch this way, and then going back and moving it back to where it had been originally. This was just an ordinary meeting over a cup of coffee, but she says she felt just like a young girl going out on a first date. She spent hours getting ready, arranging her hair, and putting on makeup for the first time in ages, nothing too much, just blusher and eye shadow, and a nice demure lip gloss. She also wore a freshly pressed pair of jeans and a pretty ocean blue top that she thought set off her eyes and blondish hair. The top was rather low cut, showing enough cleavage to announce what was underneath, and she felt like a woman again after so many months of not caring about her appearance.

Lacy noticed that I wore a wedding ring, and politely enquired about my wife and family. Most unexpectedly, I found myself spilling out all my loneliness, and telling her things that I had kept hidden so long. I explained that I had been married but that my wife had left m some years before, and that we had totally lost contact — not even a Christmas Card. I admitted that it was mainly my fault, I had just been too busy developing my career and had neglected Carol shamefully, so it really came as no surprise when I came home one Sunday after a symposium to find a terse note. When I looked, her car was no longer in the garage, and her clothes were all gone, so I guessed that was that. I told her about my parents and my only sibling, a brother, and his wife and children. I said that I tried to see them as often as my schedule allowed as they were only about three hours drive away.

Lacy’s sympathy began to thaw my heart, and I found myself experiencing emotions that I had kept bottled up for years. Two hours passed in a flash, and when we eventually looked at her small collection together, the brief touch of her hand was like an electric shock, a human contact that created in me a hope that we might become much closer in time. Of course, nothing happened that morning, but I knew in that moment that Lacy might be the person to share the rest of my life with. I thought that I was being very discreet. However Lacy tells me that I seemed to be interested in more than what she had to say and that I was betrayed by the way I kept looking at her body, something that she found more than a little arousing.

As I was reluctantly getting ready to take my leave, the morning had been so pleasant and Lacy such a perfect hostess and companion, I told her about the dinner and to my joy, she accepted my invitation. I told her that I would phone the organizers, although as I have said, I had already done that, so I told her a bit of a fib. I could have handled it a bit less clumsily, I guess, and Lacy has said that she did wonder why I always seemed to mention these things as I was about to leave as if they were an afterthought? The thought going through her mind at that moment was that this was very sudden, and was I attracted to her in the same way as she was to me. In spite of her misgivings, she nearly snapped my hand off, eager as she was to carry on with our relationship, half hoping I suppose, that it might lead to something more intimate, although she still admits this rather shamefacedly.

The next few days passed so slowly, and often in the midst of writing my talk, I would find myself daydreaming of Lacy. I wondered what she would look like in a posh dress, and to my shame, what she would look like without her clothes. Once or twice when I was masturbating, it was her face that I saw, her eyes looking into mine, and her name on my lips as I climaxed. What I didn't know at that time was that Lacy was experiencing the same mixture of doubt and desire, and that morning after I left, she was so aroused thinking about what might happen that she went up to her bedroom, and undressed, imagining me watching her as she ran her hands over her body.

As soon as I arrived at the hotel, I arranged with reception to exchange my luxury suite for the standard double room that had been reserved for Lacy. After all the trials and difficulties of the last couple of years, she deserved a treat, and I had no need for the suite, just a place to dress for dinner and to sleep once the evening was over. As it turned out, I did sleep in the luxury suite that night, but not in the circumstances I might have envisaged. I arranged for a vase of roses to be left on a table, along with two champagne flutes on a little tray, and for a bottle of champagne to be put in the refrigerator. About half an hour later I asked to see the suite to check that everything was as I had ordered, and I left a signed note card, expressing the hope that our weekend together might be just the beginning of lovely times to come.

I had requested that reception should ring to let me know when Lacy arrived, and once she had had time to unpack and settle in, I called her on the internal telephone to ask if everything was okay.

She thanked me effusively and said that it was very nice indeed, and far more than she had expected. “I even have the most luxurious king-sized bed,” she replied, and I suspected she might be blushing as she was speaking, “and the bathroom is simply palatial.”

“Nonsense,” I replied, “a special lady should be given the very best, and I hope that once the dinner and the formalities are over, we will be able to enjoy the opportunity to get to know each other very much better in comfort. I will leave you now to get ready, and I will call to pick you up in an hours time.”

What is certain is that I wasn't prepared for the beautiful woman standing waiting for me in the corridor outside her room, nervously twisting her wedding band round her finger, and when I saw her standing there in her little black dress, my heart leapt at the sight. I must admit that in my surprise and delight to see this beautiful butterfly, that I looked her over with a silent whistle, which made her blush. When I complimented her on her appearance and told her that she would be by far the most beautiful lady at the dinner, Lacy blushed again, and admitted that she had butterflies in her stomach, and felt just like a girl going on her first date, rather than a widowed woman of nearly fifty. Taking her arm in mine, I led her to the elevator, and down to the large function suite where the dinner was to be held.

As we entered the room, I felt her stiffen, and pull back slightly. “I didn't know that there would be so many people,” she whispered, but I held on tight to her arm, and led her to our places at the top table.

A few minutes later, after she had had a chance to read the program card that was on the table in front of every place, she dug me in the ribs, and whispered again, “You didn't tell me that you were the guest of honor and that the purpose of the event was to present you with a very prestigious award.”

The dinner itself was not really all that memorable. The food was reasonable, and there were the usual conversations at gatherings of academics, about the lack of respect of students these days, the problems with research funding, and the failures of the government. Then after coffee, it was time for the toasts and the speeches. I graciously accepted my award and thanked the organizers for the great honor they had bestowed in me, and then I gave my own speech about the importance of Art in Contemporary Society, which was applauded rather more enthusiastically than it deserved. Lacy was very quiet and appeared to be in a dream much of the time, rather overawed by the occasion, and as she admitted later, bemused that she should be there amongst all those top academics and leading representatives of the Nation’s Artistic Establishment.

To be quite frank, I was glad when the evening was over, and we were able to escape back to Lacy’s suite. I was glad that she had agreed to be my companion, but also worried that she might be discouraged from allowing our relationship to go any further. When we got back to her suite, she kicked off her pumps and sat down on the sofa with her feet curled up under her. I opened the refrigerator and poured us each a glass of champagne, before sitting down beside her. “A toast,” I said, raising my glass, “to a beautiful and remarkable lady who did me the greatest honor by consenting to be my companion this evening.”

She blushed most becomingly, “I am the one who is honored,” she replied, “I hadn't realized that you were such an eminent and important person, while I'm just a rather ordinary middle-aged woman.”

“Nonsense,” I said, for the second time that evening, and smiled. “It would have been so tedious without you, all those pompous men, and their boring speeches.

My feelings at that moment were a curious mixture of tenderness and desire. Lacy is a beautiful woman, and part of me wanted to make love to her very badly, but at the same time, I felt a hesitancy that I had never know in any of my affairs over the years. Deep down I realized that this was something different, something more than mere lust. Not knowing Lacy’s feelings, I didn’t want to give her the idea that this was just a one night stand, or worse, scare her off completely.

I was gently stroking her hair while I was speaking, and when I had finished my little speech, I took her glass and put it down on the table with mine. Lacy looked so lovely that I could not resist kissing her, and cradling her chin with my hand, I turned her face towards mine and softly kissed her on the lips. We kissed for several minutes, gently at first, but then more deeply and passionately, our breaths mingling, and our tongues exploring each other. Lacy tasted so sweet, and her lips so warm and soft against mine that I would have been content to go on kissing her for much longer still. However, it was Lacy who took the initiative, and she told me later that she knew that she wanted to make love to me after that morning when I visited her house. Women are so much more in tune with their emotions, I suppose, and when they make a decision, much faster to commit themselves than me.

When we eventually came up for air, slightly breathlessly, Lacy excused herself, saying that she needed to go to the bathroom. When she returned, she just took my breath away, looking so beautiful and desirable in a pale green silk negligee. The look of invitation in her eyes, sparkling with love and desire, and the sight of her beautiful mature loveliness, barely concealed by the soft material, drove any reservations I might have had from my mind, and I wanted to kiss and caress every inch of her body. I knew at that moment that I was falling hopelessly in love with her and that I must have her, not just this one night, but forever.

My mind was in a delicious turmoil, with feelings of physical arousal and a deep longing to love and care for this woman all jumbled together. I could hardly get my clothes off quickly enough in the urgency of my desire. I managed to take off my jacket and remove my bow tie easily enough, but my passion made me clumsy, and I struggled with my shirt studs and cuff links, and Lacy had to help me. All the time, she was kissing my face, and when she removed the last stud, she slipped her hands inside my shirt to caress my chest, making my nipples harden as she ran her hands over them. After a struggle, I managed to get out of the rest of my clothes, although I almost fell over taking off my dress trousers, which made her giggle girlishly.

We made love for the first time there on the sofa, and it was truly wonderful, a time of exquisite joy and mutual ecstasy. If anything, Lacy’s passion was even greater than mine, and she showed no hesitancy in letting me know what gave her the greatest pleasure. Most miraculous to my wondering mind was the way our physical union seemed so complete as if our souls had also become one in our moment of rapture, as Lacy said, it was almost mystical the way she felt completely whole in my arms.

Later, as we lay there, blissfully relaxed in each other's arms, murmuring endearments to one another, I felt like a man returning home after a long voyage. The world was somehow brighter, illumined by the light of this woman who had entered my life so unexpectedly and thawed my frozen heart. Eventually, we did make it to the bedroom, so I got to sleep in a luxury king size bed after all. The remainder of the night was spent sleeping, waking and being drawn to one another for more wonderful lovemaking. And finally, as I lay there in the grey light of early dawn with Lacy sleeping peacefully in my arms, her head on my chest, I knew that I truly believed that this could be the beginning of a new chapter in my life, filled with hope that one day we might even become more than lovers. Now that we are married, every day I look in wonder at Lacy's beloved face and thank fortune for the chance circumstance that brought us together.

Chapter 4 – Our Marriage and Honeymoon

After that weekend we started dating regularly. Sometimes we would go to a concert, or take in a show, followed by dinner at a nice restaurant. At others, we would just walk in the park hand in hand, just like a pair of teenagers. We didn't move in together for some time, but would either spend the night together at her place or mine. Our love making continued to be as wonderful as that first night, and Lacy began to bloom like a lovely rose. I filed for divorce on the basis of estrangement from my wife, and then one weekend in early spring, I went down on one knee and asked her for the honor of making her my bride. As soon as my divorce came through, we had a quiet wedding, with just a few of our closest friends as guests.

In the weeks before the wedding we talked about where we should go for out honeymoon, and together we decided on Europe. It was a grave temptation for me to try and cram in as many of Europe's multitude of galleries and museums as possible, and to dazzle Lacy with my knowledge. This was her honeymoon, however, and not an opportunity for me to show off, and there would be many years ahead of us to explore the riches of that continent, and its centuries of history. For her first trip to Europe, indeed her first time outside of the United States, I planned for us to fly to Paris for a week, and then to hire a car and make our way in a leisurely way down through France and into Italy as far as Rome, before returning to Paris by way of the Loire valley and its world renowned châteaux.

This could so easily become a travelogue, which would be boring, so I will confine myself to mentioning a few highlights, concluding with one memorable night in Rome, when we made love more passionately than ever, inspired by the air of love that seemed to surround us in that fascinating city — Rome is for lovers they say.

In Paris, we visited the Louvre, which was a bit exhausting, although it is laid out far better than when I first went there as a fifteen-year-old. Of course, we had to see Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, which was surrounded by the usual throng of tourists, many of them taking selfies with their smartphones and tablets. In the same gallery, however, there were other, equally great masterpieces, by Leonardo and other great Italian Renaissance masters, none of them attracting more than a handful of art lovers. Lacy was particularly struck with a small painting by the Italian Renaissance artist Domenico Ghirlandaio, depicting a moment of tenderness between an old man with a warty nose and a child, the gentleness of the man's expression giving the picture a special emotional quality.

We went to the Palace of Versailles, ascended the Eiffel Tower, and ate lunch surrounded by the artists in the Place du Tertre on the hill of Montmartre, whose cafés and theaters had been a favorite haunt of the Impressionist painters. Lacy was delighted by the paintings of the Impressionists in the Musee d'Orsay, and she was particularly drawn to the works of Berthe Morisot, probably because of the intimate way they celebrated domestic life. But the highlight was Monet's life-sized paintings of the waterlily pond in his garden at Giverny, where she sat entranced for almost an hour, and I promised to take her to see the garden one day when they were in bloom.

In Italy we spent several days in Florence, wandering the streets where Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo had walked, and spending hours in the Uffizi and the Galleria dell'Accademia. Like millions of tourists before us, we gazed in wonder at Michelangelo's "David," and oohed and aahed at Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” and Leonardo's “Annunciation.” On our way down to Rome, we stopped for an afternoon in Orvieto, where we were blown away by the exquisite frescoes by Fra Angelico, Benozzo Gozzoli, and Luca Signorelli in the Duomo, paintings that seemed to glow with an internal light.

Finally, we reached Rome, where we planned to stay for a week before turning north again. How can one describe in a few paragraphs all that Rome has to offer, with over 2,000 years of art and architecture, from the ghosts in the Roman Forum, the majesty of the Coliseum, even in its ruined condition, to the glorious splendor of its Renaissance Palaces, and the majesty of the Basilica of St Peter. Lacy wept a little at the poignancy of Michelangelo's "Pieta," and again at the sculpture of "The Dying Gaul" in the Capitoline Museum, and laughed in delight when she saw the sculpture of the little boy removing a thorn from his foot. We queued for two hours under the Bernini colonnade that surrounds St. Peter's Square, to visit the Sistine Chapel to see the recently restored Michelangelo frescoes, just two out of the six million visitors each year. Surprisingly, we both agreed that we preferred the frescoes in the cathedral at Orvieto, and it is said that they were admired by Michelangelo, who studied them before starting on the Sistine Chapel. And like all romantics, we sat on the Spanish Steps, threw our coins in the Trevi Fountain, and walked beneath the stars in the Pincio.

Looking at what I have written, I realize that I have made it sound as if all we did was look at art and architecture, but nothing could be further from the truth. One would have to be a philistine to be in France and not to sample the rich variety of the cuisine, and the wine. We ate wonderful food in simple auberges, and expensive restaurants, and one Sunday we were invited to share in the family lunch at a farm, a lunch that lasted almost all afternoon, with seven or eight courses. While we were in Burgundy, we spent a rather splendid afternoon visiting one of the vineyards, and sampling the wine, at the end of which we were just a little inebriated. It was in Italy, however, that we had our greatest revelation. It is sad that the only Italian food that has seemed to reach America is pasta and pizza. We discovered that Italian cuisine has a richness and variety to rival France, and were delighted to sample many regional specialties, of which I remember a hearty cannellini bean soup in Tuscany, which was almost a meal in itself.

And we made love; every night a voyage of discovery and wonder. The joy we took in each other and in giving each other pleasure in new and exciting ways was the real highlight of our honeymoon. We had both loved before, and we were both sexually experienced, but our lovemaking had a new dimension to it which stemmed from the deep spiritual union that we had discovered with such delight the very first time, and which grew even stronger each passing day. I think I can safely say that we had discovered in each other someone who made us complete as if we were two souls that had been separated at birth and who could never be truly happy and content until we were united once more.

A couple of days before our wedding, one of my colleagues, on hearing that we were going to be in Rome for a week, told me that he knew of a number of very good private adult clubs. On second thoughts, he added that he realized that I wasn't into that kind of thing, although privately I guessed that he must be, the old dog and that there were also some high-class clubs with both female and male acts. “You really ought to give one of them a try,” he said, “strictly for the experience, of course, although it might give you a few ideas!”

Lacy and I talked about it, and agreed that it might be fun, and so it was that one evening, after an excellent dinner in a very good restaurant, we found ourselves in the Club Paradiso, which was situated quite near to the center of the city, in a small Renaissance palace, probably originally built for one of the old patrician families. Once we had paid our entrance fee, which wasn't cheap at over €100, we found ourselves in what was originally the ballroom. I was rather pleased to see that the original decorations had been retained, with large gilt framed mirrors around the walls, and rather fine chandeliers. The only clue to its current use was the rich ruby wallpaper, and a small stage at one end of the room.

We were shown to a small table by the attendant, who was suitably dressed in eighteenth-century costume, complete with powdered wig. Once we were comfortably seated in the plush armchairs, we were approached by a female attendant, also in appropriate costume, exactly like one would expect to see in paintings of the period, and asked what we would like to drink. By now I knew what Lacy’s tastes were, so I ordered a good dry white wine, rather overpriced at €100 for a bottle, but I suppose that was normal for such establishments.

After about half an hour, by which time the room was full, mainly middle aged couples like ourselves, the lights dimmed, and the first act started. This was a young woman who looked exactly like a Fragonard painting, and who removed her clothing slowly and decorously to the music of Jean Philippe Rameau if I wasn't mistaken, just as if she was a lady preparing for bed. Once she had removed everything except her pale gold g-string, she put on a diaphanous robe, and leaving the stage, walked down into the audience, going from table to table, giving the patrons a good look at her charms. I was interested to see the discomfiture of some of the men, especially when she sat on their knees, much to the amusement of their wives.

Over the next hour and a half there were several other acts of increasing eroticism, by the end of which, in common with the rest of the audience, both Lacy and I were quite definitely aroused. Looking at her flushed face, I suggested that it might be a good time to leave, and continue with our own private show back in out hotel bedroom. We stood up to leave during a break, and once outside I hailed one of the taxis in the rank at the front of the building and gave the driver the address of our hotel. Once we were in the taxi, we could hardly keep our hands off each other, just like a pair of randy teenagers, and once back in the privacy of our room we made love with an extra urgency and passion.

We did not go back to the club during the rest of our stay in Rome. Nights like that should be an occasional treat and not the staple fare of a marriage. To live at such a peak of sexual excitement can eventually dull the senses to the more mundane pleasures of conjugal bliss, and the daily delight in lovemaking of a more tender nature, an expression of love and commitment, as well as mutual desire, the cement that binds two people in the sacrament of marriage.

As I had promised, after making our way beneath The Alps through the Mont Blanc Tunnel, instead of turning north towards Paris, we made our way east until we reached Orleans on the River Loire, a city famous for its association with Joan of Arc. Over the next few days, we explored the Valley of the Loire and its wonderful Renaissance châteaux. Only a few out of the hundreds that were built on the banks of the Loire and its tributaries are now open to tourists, and we limited ourselves to the most renowned, from the largest at Chambord, built as a hunting lodge by Francis I – some hunting lodge – to the exquisite jewel which is Azay le Rideaux, on its island in the middle of the River Indre. Sadly most were ransacked of their treasures during the French Revolution, so although one can admire the architecture, it is possible only to guess at their former splendor. We also made sure to sample the wines, which include some of the world’s best-known names, from vineyards that were first planted by the Romans.

Finally, we turned north, making a small detour to visit the castle of Pierrefonds on the edge of the royal hunting forest of Compiegne, about 40 miles north of Paris. It was partially destroyed by order of Cardinal Richelieu in the early seventeenth century and left as a romantic ruin until it was restored in the the late 1850s. It has been used in many films and TV shows, and really is the epitome of the fairy-tale castle. When she saw the life-sized statue of a medieval knight on horseback, Lacy clapped her hands with joy and exclaimed that I was her knight in shining armor, riding to her rescue in her darkest hour.

All too soon it was time to catch our flight back to the U.S., but we carried so many wonderful memories in our hearts, so much more so because they were shared. Once in the familiar surroundings home, and back in harness, Lacy and I began to plan our future life together, but that is a story for another time perhaps.