I’d like to personally thank everyone who has taken the time to read The Only Thing Better Than Good Is New.
If you have yet to order your copy, I am posting chapter one for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!
Chapter One
“Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” I said, feeling George’s goatee tickling my inner thigh.
“Good morning, princess,” George reciprocated in a muffled voice.
“Hmm. You are the best alarm clock ever,” I uttered growing more aroused by the second.
After George’s tongue retreated from my love, he moved his face toward mine. He gently kissed me on the lips. “I’m sorry I woke you,” he said seductively, “but I’m hungry.”
“What would you like for breakfast?” I asked, knowing full well he wanted me.
“I want you…I will always want you.”
I repositioned myself slightly so George could cradle me in his arms. I closed my eyes as he kneaded his fingers in my back the way he knew I liked. I felt so safe when I was wrapped in his muscular arms. “George, do we have time for a quickie before you leave for work?”
“My princess deserves more than a quickie. The office can survive without me while I indulge my beautiful, always-willing-to-please-me wife, who brightens up my everyday.”
“Umm…there’s nothing like a sweet indulgence,” I murmured as I slid my head under the covers.
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Reeling from my morning adventure well after George left for work, I sat at the island in the kitchen, propped my elbows on the countertop, wrapped my hands around my chilled glass mug, and sipped on a nutrient filled, disgusting green drink, brimming with odd clumps of blended fruits and vegetables. I stole a quiet moment to reflect on how great it felt to have love wake me up everyday. My husband, George T. Wayne, was a surprise-filled, perfume, candy and flowers sort of husband. He stood six-foot-two inches tall—had round Coca-Cola-colored eyes, high cheekbones, with the sweetest smile that made my insides quiver. His nose was not too pointed and not too large, it was a fine one for his face. Bar none, he had the best-shaped legs I had ever seen. And he loved me. He was my protector, and he provided me with a highbrow lifestyle. We had a beautiful three-month-old baby girl named Olivia who became more adorable everyday. She had the most perfect heart shaped lips that said kiss me.
Shortly after nine, Olivia and I loaded into the car ready to tackle my never-ending laundry list of errands. As I exited our gated community in the Hancock Park section of Los Angeles, I cheerfully greeted the guard standing in the guard station.
“Hi, Charlie.”
“Beautiful day today, Mrs. Wayne,” Charlie bellowed. It was one of those perfect Southern California spring days—seventy-four degrees, great airflow, and not a cloud in the sky.
I wondered if I would miss all the meticulously manicured lawns with huge beech trees placed strategically in front of every other home. George and I purposely chose our home because it did not host a tree in the front yard. Beech tree roots are known for tenaciously spreading and wrapping themselves around underground pipes. I loved the shade they provided, but the potential plumbing problems, hmm…not so much. The landscaper was right when he suggested we replace our original turf with pricey Bermuda grass. Our lawn’s lush, deep green color was the envy of all the neighbors.
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I headed home, exhausted from a day of being bumped around by a flock of paparazzi trying to get a “Money shot” of any and every celebrity coming out of Fred Segal’s as I was going in, then dashing to Petit Tresor to pickup a few things for Olivia, taking on the daunting task of going inside the post office to ship a package, and lastly, a major shopping adventure at Whole Foods Market.
As I prepared to turn into my driveway, Mr. Barnett, our next-door neighbor, signaled for me to stop. He explained how he had just received a huge fine from the homeowners association for replacing his beech tree with a dogwood. He ranted, “No self-respecting Virginian would own a home situated on a half acre of land and not have a dogwood in the front yard.” He went on and on about how the dogwood was the official tree, flower, or something or other in the state of Virginia. Mr. Barnett was both funny and cantankerous. The only reason I engaged him in conversation was because his accent reminded me of my college days in Virginia.
Having had my fill of Mr. Barnett for the day, Olivia and I slowly eased away from him, and I steered my S65 AMG Mercedes toward home. Halfway down my long aromatic gardenia-lined driveway I clicked the garage door opener. I had hoped to beat George home from the office, but as the garage door rolled up I could see our SUV and sports car’s tires resting in their parking spots.
I absolutely dreaded carrying Olivia, her car seat, and all the bags full of the day’s purchases into the house through the garage. First of all, when all three of our cars were parked inside the garage there was barely any room to maneuver. It was always a gamble as to whether or not I would be lucky enough to get past the cars uninjured. From the garage, I entered the house through the door that led into the laundry room. Once in the laundry room, I was faced with the challenge of making it passed the washer and dryer unscathed.
“Ouch. Damn it.” I hit my shin on the corner of the washer and knocked over George’s oversized black leather briefcase. Its contents splashed all over the floor. Why he left his briefcase in the laundry room remained a mystery to me because without fail I knocked it down with Olivia’s car seat.
I was anxiously awaiting the completion of our new home. It had eight bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and thankfully a huge underground parking structure with an elevator that lead directly into the house. One of the only nonnegotiable requests I had given the architect was: the laundry room is not to be an entryway into the house.
I placed Olivia in the kitchen while I put all of George’s stuff back in his briefcase. As I picked up a FedEx envelope that lay in the center of the pile of papers, a stack of pictures fell to the floor.
Umm, this is strange. I wonder why this woman sent George pictures of herself to his office. Each of the pictures had notes posted on them. One read, I just finished working out, and another read, Getting ready to leave for work.
I didn’t jump to any immediate conclusions for two reasons. One, the pictures were totally not sexy. In one of pictures the woman had on an oversized sweater that was in style when I was in the seventh grade. I remembered the sweater clearly because Sasha, my best best, (that’s how we have referred to each other since we were ten years old) and I had matching yellow ones. Secondly, George and I had just had our first child, and I felt we were happily married.
I walked into our family room where George was relaxing with his feet up on the dark caramel colored leather ottoman. “George, Olivia and I dropped your briefcase, but don’t worry because I put everything back in its place.”
“No problem,” George responded, appearing unaffected.
George and I had been married for three years, and we were one of those affectionate couples that looked at each other like we wanted to excuse ourselves to go make ardent love.
You two lovebirds look just like Jerry and I did on our wedding day, was what my friend Nelly told me at our wedding reception (It’s amazing how foreboding comments stick with you and you don’t know why).
George and I loved games. In the beginning of our marriage, we would study the dictionary, and oftentimes when we arrived home from work, we would tear through the door, ready to begin a game of Scrabble fully armed with a new batch of words. We played together, laughed until our sides ached, and at bedtime we snuggled all night every night—when one turned, the other turned. I believed we had truly become one, so after a year of George and my mother begging, I decided to get pregnant.
I attentively observed George’s demeanor after I told him about the briefcase. Although his expression remained the same, and he reacted nonchalantly to the news about his briefcase being knocked over, unconsciously I shivered, as though Mother Nature had blown a cold breeze into the house.
George and I had a relatively drama-free marriage, yet I discovered an envelope full of a strange woman’s picture.