The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for adults in
locations where it is legal. If it is illegal in your location, DO NOT
read. This is a copyrighted work. Reposting or any other use strictly
prohibited without the express, written permission of the copyright holder,
except may be posted as part of a review or posted to free-access,
noncommercial archive sites.
Copyright 2000 by E. Z. Riter.
E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
Please! Give me your comments!
Dear Readers, This is a romance and doesn't contain sex. Thanks to Gail
for editing and assistance. Enjoy. E.Z.
DOORS
I opened the door to find Carla at thirteen. Big blue eyes with long
lashes. Overpowering eyes. Gangly, coltish, flat chested and hipless.
Long, straight brown hair. Lips of brown from a Fudgcicle she innocently.
"I'm Carla. You're Bill, Bessie's grandson who lives here now. You're
twenty-six and working on your Master's in English at the university.
You're a writer, too, but you've never published anything. You're single
and you don't have a girlfriend. See. I know all about you. Can I come
in?"
She bounced by me to spend the first of countless delightful hours.
Creaking, the rusted hinges on the door of my heart began to open.
Carla at fourteen slammed the door behind her. Angry eyes, perturbed
expression. Sweatshirt hiding. Shorts revealing long legs starting to
ripen. Brown hair, slightly curled, to her shoulders.
"I hate boys."
"Why?"
Hands on hips, eyes flashing.
"They all want to play with me. Do I look like a toy to you? Well,
Bill, do I?"
How do you talk about love, about sex, to a beautiful woman
starting to blossom? How do you talk about those things you desperately
wish to share with her?
Carla at sixteen closed the door softly behind her. She sat on the
couch. Blue eyes sensual. Brown hair streaked with redblonde sunlight.
Shapely leg tucked under her. moved rhythmically as if an offer
given only to be withdrawn.
"How's Jane?"
"We broke up."
"Of course. She wasn't the woman for you. I could've told you that.
Do you have a new girlfriend?"
"No."
"I don't have a boyfriend."
Brow furrowed waiting for me to speak. She leaned forward hesitantly.
"I want to be your girlfriend, Bill."
"Carla, I love you," rushed from me.
She flew onto my lap. Arms around my neck. Lips hot against mine.
"I love you, too. I want to make love to you, Bill. I want you now."
Insane for a of twenty-nine to take a of sixteen? Yes.
Insanely in love.
Hot Carla. Sexy Carla. Laughing, loving Carla. Carla and I for the
first of many times.
I opened the door to Carla at nineteen. eyes swollen with tears and
guilt. Face puffy. Shoulders slumped.
"What's wrong?" I asked apprehensively.
"I... oh, God, Bill. I . . ."
Slumps to the floor. Sobs rip the air as she rocks, cradling herself in
her arms. Voice tortured.
"I cheated on you. Please, Bill, can you forgive me?"
The doors of my heart opened wider, telling me this woman, with all her
faults, held the key.
The doors at the back of the church opened. The organ played and Carla
entered. Veiled, all in white. Radiant at the altar. Tears of joy
slipped down my face. Her love enveloped me.
I opened the front door to find Carla at twenty-nine on the floor,
pregnant belly resting on her crossed legs, our three children piled around
her.
"Daddy's home!" a small voice squealed.
Carla smiled up at me and the weight of the world evaporated.
"I'm glad you're home. I don't think I can get up."
"Not with three kids sitting on you anyway."
"Oh, Bill, aren't they wonderful. And it won't be too long until
there's another one."
I stood behind her as Carla at forty opened the front door. Our
daughter was there. Beaming, Shining. A reflection of her mother. A
young at her side.
"Mom. Dad. This is Jason."
In front of the church, I opened the car door for Carla at forty-two.
"I can't believe I'm the of the bride. Good Lord, I'm not that
old. How do I look?"
"Ravishing. Magnificent. More beautiful than ever."
Lips warm and loving against mine. Eyes twinkled.
"I shouldn't have asked you. You're too much in love to give an honest
opinion."
I gave my eldest away. Her two sisters were bridesmaids. Her was a groomsman.
Carla at fifty opened the door.
"Merry Christmas," they shouted.
Giggles. Laughter. Little feet quick and light. Little hands seeking
mine. Little kisses wet and tender. Christmas. Gathering of the clan
rocked the house, overflowing it with love.
I threw open the doors to the emergency room. Terror filled my heart.
"I'm Bill Brown. Car wreck. My wife."
"I'm sorry. We tried, but . . . "
I sat by her grave as the minister spoke. Sunlight beamed down. Our
children and grandchildren surrounded me.
The doors to my heart slowly closed.
Not in anguish or fear, but to hold safe the most precious thing I have.
Memories of Carla.
The End
Please! Give me your comments!
E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
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