I hated working in these “gated” communities, but lately times had been harder with lesson requests coming less frequently. My band was working a regular gig at a club in Fort Lauderdale, but the revenue from this wasn’t much of a living by the time we divided the money three ways. I knew that if things didn’t start improving soon financially, I would have to get a regular day job. This thought made me cringe, so I left no request for lessons unanswered, as frustrating as they could be.
I had been at home, practicing a new jazz tune that we had been trying to fit into our set when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver half expecting it to be one of those obnoxious phone solicitors.
“Hello?” I said.
“Is this Patrick Stephens?” a female voice inquired.
“Yes, it is.”
“Good! My name is Renee Tompkins, and I am interested in taking guitar lessons.”
“Really. Why is that?” I said.
She paused for a moment, temporarily taken aback.
“Well, to learn how to play like Melissa Etheridge!”
She followed this response with a trite, girlish laughter that immediately piqued my interest. She sounded sexy. I had always loved the sound of a female voice, and hers had an almost musical quality. We talked for a while, agreed on a price, and set up a time for the first lesson. 
Coming in, I got mildly irritated at the security guard posted at the entry gate. As I approached the guard shack, he had inspected my old station wagon, a look of mild, head shaking disgust on his face.
“Where you headed, son?” he said in a southern drawl.
“The Tompkins residence, Sir.”
“Sam and Renee? What business you have there?”
I immediately felt my anger rise at this unexpected inquisition.
“What the hell business is it of yours?”
However, thinking better, I replied in the most congenial tone I could muster.
“I’m giving a guitar lesson there today.”

He then looked at my loose fitting, slightly discolored T-shirt, my faded jeans, the array of guitar cases and sheet music haphazardly thrown into the backseat, and suspiciously returned his squinting gaze to my eyes. He looked at me sternly, raising his hand to his cocked, green hat, and had pushed it back a little, revealing the line of sweat on his forehead. I noticed large rings of sweat under his arms showing through his white shirt. He was an older man, probably retired military, and had no patience for the likes of me, especially on this very hot, South Florida summer day. I was just an annoyance in his life, and I obviously deserved a little harder scrutiny than the average visitor to this “privileged” development did. 
I was lost in these thoughts as the guard came back out of the shack. He gave me a disinterested look.
“Ok. She is expecting you. Third left, then the fourth house on the right. Watch your speed.”
“Yeah, right. Thanks.”
I rolled my window up, and, I muttered “Asshole.”
The pivoting rail opened, and I guided my beat station wagon into the development.
I stood on the edge of the paved street, my old, worn guitar case in one hand, and my lesson folder in the other. I looked up at the well-kept, single story, sprawling house with my usual cynical admiration. 
“Yep, she’s got money.”

The house, painted a light peach color, had the white tile roof that was so common to these South Florida homes. The lawn was immaculate, as if someone had spent hours trimming it. I made my way up the concrete walkway to the front door. My eyes scanned the area around the door in search of the bell button. There it was, almost hidden behind a potted palm tree. I set my case down, and pushed the button. I heard the almost inaudible ring from somewhere inside of the house. The scent of a jasmine plant caught my nostrils as I waited, and I drew my breath in, enjoying its sweet aroma. I closed my eyes, and transported myself to a tropical island with the sound of a steel drum playing quietly in the background. Just as I was admiring the huge fronds of a palm tree swaying in a southern breeze, the metallic sound of someone releasing a deadbolt on the other side of the door snapped me back to reality.
The door swung open, and I found myself gazing into the soft, brown eyes of Renee Tompkins.
“Patrick? How are you? I’m Renee.”

I was at a loss for words. The first thing that hit me was her smile. She had one of those disarming ones that immediately seem to put me at ease, and I felt myself almost involuntarily returning it with my own. She looked Hispanic, with a dark complexion and almost black, shoulder-length hair pulled back and tied into a girlish ponytail. It reminded me of all of the high school crushes I had endured over girls that resembled her. She had retained a youthful, cheerleader radiance despite the fact that she was now at least in her mid- thirties. She wore blue jeans, a little on the tight side, and a loose fitting, white blouse that tucked into them. She was not petite, but very well proportioned, and my eyes fell first to the gentle slope of her large breasts, and then to her narrow waist. I quickly caught myself, and brought them up to meet her gaze.
“Nice to meet you, Renee. Had a little trouble at the guard shack.”
“Yes, everyone says that! I guess it’s a good thing, though, security wise.”
“Yes, I think so.” I lied.
“Royal pain in the ass is what it is.” 
Her eyes looked into mine, and then dropped, perusing my casual dress, and finally resting on my battered guitar case. 
“Come on in. We’ll work on the back porch.”
I picked up the case and followed her into the house. I always thought that it was interesting checking out people’s ‘stuff.’ You could tell a lot about a person by their dwelling. This one was strictly upper class fare with the contemporary furnishings of Florida’s wealthy. The matching living room furniture, the fake plants, a fireplace that was never used, the sliding glass doors covered by ornate, heavy curtains. I heard the sound of my boots clacking on the white marble tile as I followed her through the living room and into the kitchen. 
“Mmmm, nice ass.”

I pushed these thoughts away and tried to stay in ‘professional’ mode, looking away from the soft curves of her rear end as she walked. She made her way around a large ‘island’ in the center of what appeared to me to be a commercial sized kitchen, to a set of sliding glass doors on the far side. She pulled it open, and stepped out onto what appeared to be a pool deck. I followed her through it, and immediately smelled the chlorine mixed with the heavy humidity. It was a ‘figure eight’ pool surrounded by a very large screened in enclosure. Outside of it was the back lawn of the house, which only consisted of about five feet of grass on each side and the back, which surrounded a very high wooden fence. 
“Geez! You’ve certainly got privacy here, Renee!” I exclaimed.
There was a large bar on the far side of it adorned with various nautical decorations. I immediately liked this room, and felt comfortable in the surroundings. Renee walked to a comfortable looking couch, sat at one end of it, and almost in the same motion reached down the side of it. I watched as she pulled a brand new looking hard shell case out from its place by the couch.
“My husband bought this for me about a month ago. I’m not even sure how to tune it.”
I walked to the couch as she laid the case down on its side and unsnapped the latches. She opened it, and I looked inside.
“Mmm. This is a nice guitar. A Yamaha. You’re husband is good to you.”
At this, she just looked up at me with a thoughtful, half smile on her face.
“Yes, I suppose he is, in his own way. He’s almost never here. He has one of those high stress sales jobs, you know, always traveling.”
I immediately detected a tone of sadness in her voice, and decided that this was probably not a good topic of discussion.
I sat down on the other end of the couch and opened my own case, pulling out the old Takamine guitar that had been my faithful companion through many years. I strummed it softly, checking the tuning. Renee held her guitar and looked on, trying to mimic my movements. She strummed it awkwardly, and it wasn’t very long before I realized that it was badly out of tune. I looked into her eyes, and we both broke into childish laughter.
“I guess I have a long way to go. “