Love Triangle: Three Sides to the Story

Love Triangle.

There are three sides to every love-triangle. And the why's and the how's are best discovered when the individuals involved tell the stories through their own eyes and experiences.

George was a faithful churchgoer and bank manager. He had an affair with Karen, a young woman who worked at his bank and who knowingly got involved with him, though he was married to Marie. What plays out offers a glimpse into the world of lovers and infidelity. As it unfolds, the story is told through the eyes of the wife, the mistress and the husband. Someone will get hurt. Who will it be?

LOVE TRIANGLE

BRENDA BARRETT

JAMAICA TREASURES

Love Triangle

A Jamaica Treasures Book

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person or persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2011 by Brenda Barrett

Book Cover Design:
Yorkali Walters, www.theimajination.com

*****

Discover other titles by Brenda Barrett:

Private Sins (Three Rivers)

The Preacher and The Prostitute

New Beginnings

Full Circle

The Pull of Freedom

The Empty Hammock

Di Taxi Ride and Other Stories

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CHAPTER ONE

Karen

The rain fell steadily as I stood under the eaves of a bar at a bus park in Mandeville. My suede work shoes were squishy and I was feeling uncomfortably cold and wet. I was jostled between a fat lady and a young schoolgirl who was peering at her face through a rain-splattered mirror; the fat lady smelled decidedly of fish and had a scale in her hands.

I glanced behind me at a mirror towards the rear of the bar and shuddered at the state of my hair. Not only would it be frizzy tomorrow, but I was looking positively frightening. I involuntarily shuddered when I thought about George seeing me so drowned-looking. He should have been here by now. He was probably dropping his children off at home.

My pulse quickened as I thought about George, I was fighting my attraction to him but it felt like I was losing the battle.

I was going to cook for him this evening—I had coyly promised him a meal earlier in the week, and he had accepted with a sultry smile on his face. Until that moment, I had been uncertain about him. It was good to know that his kind gestures and gentle smile were not just a figment of my fertile imagination and that he actually liked me too.

He is the manager at the bank where I work as a teller. My first impression of him was of a tall, handsome man who had warm brown eyes and a smiling mouth. He was not the hot-guy type like the man my housemate, Shauna, had. He looked solid and dependable and was everything I wanted in a man.

Unfortunately, he is married and so my initial interest was firmly thrust onto the back-burner of my mind. I had to constantly tell myself that I don’t date married men, and I definitely don’t date married men who had children, and a married man who had three children was absolutely out of the question.

But my attraction to George would not go away—what started out as a kindling of interest was a now full-fledged obsession. I anticipate seeing him in the morning when he picks me up for work. I even endure the baleful stares of his children until they are dropped off at school and I anticipate the time when I can be alone with him and he’ll tell me something witty or glance at me sideways, his warm brown eyes melting me from head to toe. He never blatantly flirts, but there was just something under the surface that filled me with anticipation.

I must have been smiling to myself because the schoolgirl with the mirror was smirking at me with a knowing look in her eyes. I shuffled closer to the bar entrance and gazed out at the grey skies. It did not take long for my thoughts to wander back to George—I can’t stop thinking about him.

Today was his birthday, everyone at the office had been happy for him; he is a good manager and fair in his dealing with employees—they had thrown him a surprise party at lunchtime. I waited patiently until I could get him alone to invite him to dinner. I wanted him to taste my cooking and to impart to him, in some small way that I was just not another pretty face but I was domesticated too. He hesitated at first, for so long, that I was squirming with embarrassment. Then he smiled that lopsided smile of his, the one that turned his dark brown eyes to burnished honey and said he would come. My heart skipped extra beats when he acquiesced. I had boldly gone after a man, and the part of me that was still thinking logically had been appalled at my daring, but I squelched the voice. And here I was waiting for him to pick me up to take me home.

Every time a white Honda accord passed I strained to see if it was George.  The rain began to ease a bit and I checked my cellular phone for my balance, but as usual I had a zero balance on my account.

Then I saw George driving into the park, his windshield wipers working frantically against the pouring rain, he was cruising slowly in order to see me.

I waved from the bar and he stepped out with an umbrella. Typical George always prepared for an emergency. He smiled as he led me inside the car, his hand brushing my breast, but he didn’t seem to realize it.

“How was your day?” George asked smiling, his teeth white against his dark skin.

“Fine until now. I must look like such a mess,” I said, while peering into a mirror I had in my bag.” My naturally curly hair was now switching to frizz mode.

“You are fishing for compliments, Karen. You look fine. Beautiful as usual but you don’t need me to tell you that; you must have scores of admirers.” He glanced at me and I pretended that I was not flattered.

“Do you Karen?” he asked as he turned onto Flowerfield Avenue.

“Do I what?”

“Do you have many admirers?” he said patiently as he drove up outside my rented two-bedroom house, which I shared with my best friend Shauna.

“Not that I know of,” I said, as I hurriedly exited the car and ran toward the shelter of the veranda.

The truth is, I knew where the conversation was going. He was going to say he admired me or something like that. But in his presence I was suddenly jolted back to reality: George Cameron had a Mrs Cameron waiting at home for him, and I was setting up myself for a fall.

I'm a stupid romantic girl and I should have known that my life was not like the movies. I fumbled for my keys and gave myself a lecture.  At thirty-nine, George was practically twice my age, more experienced and bore the big red flag … married! And let’s not forget the three children.

I let myself into the house and held the door for George who was looking curiously at me. Suddenly I was acting gauche and jerky unlike the confident woman who had invited him to dinner.

“Nice place,” George said, looking around. “It doesn’t seem so spacious from the outside.”

“Well, let me give you the grand tour,” I said nervously clasping my hands in front of me. I was not used to George in any other setting but work, and now he was in my house looking at my things.

“May I take off my jacket first?” George asked, “I am a bit hot.”

“Oh sure,” I said, heading for the French design windows and opening them wider to let in the air. Shauna must have closed them before leaving for work.

George had taken off his jacket when I turned around; his lean body was fit and sturdy. I swallowed convulsively as I realized that he was looking at me, looking at him, and he had that intensely serious look on his face.

“Well …” I cleared my throat, “this is the hall. Shauna made all the cushions in the settee. I chose the colours though.”

He wandered over to a cabinet and began looking at the pictures Shauna and I proudly displayed.

“Is this Shauna?” he asked, as he stared at my friend dressed in her nurse’s uniform.

“Yes,” I said, “She is a bit overweight in that picture but that’s her.”

“And who is this?” he asked tensely as he pointed at a picture of Boyd, Shauna’s boyfriend.

“Shauna’s current love,” I said.

He relaxed instantly and I thought, how ironic. He’s married and was obviously jealous over Boyd, thinking that he meant something to me.

He picked up a picture of Shauna’s family and had me tell him who each person was. Then he picked up a picture of my family and I had to give details again.

“My mother is a housewife and my father a farmer in South St. Elizabeth. They have five of us, and I am third, smack in the middle of two older sisters and two younger brothers.”

He nodded, his hand gently caressing the frame of the picture.

“So what are you doing in Mandeville, shouldn’t you be helping on the farm?” He asked, his eyes laughing at me.

“Farming is a hard task master and my parents always wanted us to have other options. I chose business, went to community college and got a diploma. My two older sisters are married to farmers, so I guess I broke the cycle. My two younger brothers are at university doing agricultural sciences in the hopes of going back to farming with new ideas.”

“I always envy people with a large family background,” George said smiling, “I’m an only child so my parents are extremely happy that they have three grandchildren.”

I tensed at the mention of his children. I almost forgot that he was married and this was no regular date with a regular guy. This was my boss for crying out loud.

“Anyway,” I said briskly, our intimate little talk over, “through here is the kitchen.” It was big and spacious and overlooked a vegetable garden of sorts; neither Shauna nor I was into serious gardening. “And here is my bedroom.” It had a walk-in closet, side tables and a big double bed.

George looked at me and then back in my room. He walked further into the room. “It’s nice,” he said, “the colour scheme is calming.”

It was painted cream and so was the furniture. He peaked into my bathroom and nodded in approval. It seemed as if I passed the clean bathroom test.

I told him to have a seat in the hall after I showed him Shauna’s room and bathroom and the library.

I showered quickly and prepared the dinner. George had hinted that he was a fish lover. So I prepared fish fillet in batter, served with rice and gungo peas and vegetables.

Dinner was delicious. We ate at the table in the kitchen. The rain was steadily drizzling outside. I was eating a birthday dinner with a very attractive man in my kitchen. He kept looking at me. I knew I was dressed provocatively in a sheer, spaghetti-strap summer dress with splits at the side, with my hair piled high on my head that gave me an exotic look.

I wanted him to look; I felt powerful. Another woman’s man was looking at me like I was the last woman on earth. It was heady stuff and I felt sexy. I felt like I owned him right here and now.

But on occasions like these, reality sets in because God alone knew what I would have allowed him to do if he made the first move.

He looked at his watch, jumped from the table like a scalded cat and said, “Karen that was the most delicious dinner I have tasted in ages. I’m sorry I have to go. Marie is planning a party and I have to be there by six. Its quarter to … ” his voice trailed off, “Karen … ” I looked up questioningly, “can I get a birthday kiss?”

The moment I’d both dreaded and anticipated for months was finally here. The kiss would be symbolic of another level, another milestone.

Could I?

Should I?

I stood up and he came around the table and hugged me. His body felt hard and warm. I felt my breasts push into his chest. It felt right, the song 'If loving you is wrong I don’t want to be right' kept playing in my head.

He eased away from me a bit. His heart was hammering in his chest, and I could feel his arousal. His warm lips touched mine and the world stopped. It was the best kiss I’d ever had—and I have had a few. I was on cloud nine for the entire weekend.