‘Not any higher, please,’ she whispered.
Charlie groaned, but immediately lowered his hand down her legs, stroking the tender insides of her thighs until she felt she might explode. She writhed beneath him, feeling his desire escalating and taking a hold of him in a way that George had never been able to show. She held herself apart from him as long as she could, wishing that she were no longer married, that she could permit her lover to become one with her. His hands rose to her blouse, reaching beneath it to fondle her breasts through the delicate silk of her brassiere. He moved to push it upwards but again she stilled his hand.
‘I can’t, Charlie,’ she told him.
‘It’s fine,’ he returned. ‘Whatever you want to do or not do, that’s fine. I’m just so happy to be here with you.’
And they continued this way for nearly two hours before they reluctantly broke away. This time, they’d agreed, Molly would go home to Jesse’s and get a good night’s sleep before going to work in the morning. She doubted, somehow, that she would ever have a good night’s sleep again.
For the entire day after their tryst Charlie peppered her with love notes and letters, all expressing awe and joy at what had happened the night before. Molly felt herself blushing more with each note, and eventually had to visit the stock room.
‘You have to stop,’ she hissed to Charlie. ‘I must look as guilty as anything.’
Charlie closed his eyes, remembering. ‘No. I know exactly what you look like.’
‘Charlie, please stop. Your notes are turning me tomato red. We’re still married, and I don’t want to cause any gossip.’
At last, Charlie nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but only if you agree to meet me again tomorrow night.’
And she knew that nothing on earth could stop her.
Now that she knew where she was going, Molly drove herself to the cabin and let herself in, walking around dreamily as if this was her home, and she was just waiting for her husband to arrive.
Then he did arrive, and they walked to the bedroom like newly-weds, holding hands, locking onto each other’s eyes. It was difficult to remind herself that they were both close to forty years old, and married to other people.
They caressed each other, moving together as if they were one. Molly had never experienced anything like it, and this time when Charlie’s hands reached for the clasp of her brassiere, she didn’t stop him, relishing instead the heat of his lips on the delicate skin as he kissed and fondled her breasts.
‘Molly,’ he moaned, ‘I can hardly hold back. They’re the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen, ever imagined.’
His words ignited her passion still further, until she simply had to push him away.
‘I can’t, Charlie,’ she gasped. ‘Not while we’re married. Not like this.’
Charlie’s head sank to her shoulder.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I understand. You know I would never have dreamed of stepping out on Muriel. I just can’t seem to help myself.’
She understood that exactly. It was precisely how she felt herself.
Charlie stood abruptly and pulled on his trousers. ‘Okay,’ he said resolutely. ‘Then that’s decided. Come on, Molly, get dressed.’
‘Where are we going?’
Charlie’s actions had surprised her. One moment he’d been lying in her embrace, the next he was almost out the door.
‘You’re going to your father’s,’ he said, kissing the back of her hand.
‘And what about you?’
Charlie gave her the longest, slowest smile, that didn’t quite tally with the sadness in his eyes.
‘I’m going to ask Muriel for a divorce.’
Molly drove home in a daze. How had it come to this so quickly? True, their love had been growing for months now – Muriel was about to have her fourth baby in a week or so, for crying out loud – but suddenly she was confronted with how far they had come. It had reached a point of no return, she knew. They couldn’t carry on like this. Neither of them had intended it, and neither of them wanted to be disloyal to their spouses. But if their meetings at the cabin had told her anything, it was that neither of them had ever known love like this. It was deep and devout, and they owed it to all concerned to make a go of it, properly and decently.
So, after a restless night in her old bed back at Jesse’s, Molly called in sick to the factory, and went home to wait for George.
He looked surprised to find her there as he came through the door, but then he saw her slumped demeanor. Instantly, he put his bag down and rushed to her side.
‘You’ve been crying,’ he said, holding her hand. ‘Is it Jesse?’
The last time he’d seen her this upset was when Aunt Dolores died, so it was a typically reasonable question from her attentive and reasonable husband.
Molly shook her head slowly. ‘Dad’s fine, George. It’s … it’s us.’
‘Us?’
‘We need to part.’