The M.I.L.F. Man

Patti Part 1

If Jan had Googled "Rae Reynolds," he would've come up with a Black teacher from a tiny town in Arizona that had only two stop lights: one at the start of Main Street, the sole "commercial" street in the entire town right on Route 66, and another at the end of it only about 10 miles away. Before and beyond those two lights...just open desert and a two-lane highway.

But let's rewind. You haven't met the woman who used that name and introduced me to that town. And God, I am so glad I met her—honestly, a revelation, she was.

She'd borrowed that name and a few others, my potential client, to keep press and public at bay. Though no longer technically a "celebrity," she was a former model and the wife of an obscenely rich man about whom the public and paparazzi—and the FBI--were very curious.

He was on the run from some deep, deep legal trouble. Living, for the time being, in a country that would not extradite him. In fact, they were thrilled to have and to protect him.

Problem was, they also protected him from her lawyers who were trying to make sure she got a cut of all that money before his funds were frozen. That, she'd discovered, could still happen even in a country taking such great pains to keep him safe.

There were laws that could freeze his assets for the duration of whatever investigations the various governments involved deemed necessary. And that process was underway.

Her real name was Patricia Wisniewski—went by "Patti," though, with friends. And at 48 she was still a gorgeous woman--resembled that German model—Klum. Heidi Klum, yes? Perfect body, amazing blond hair--sassy like her, too. Only in a more American way. Cussed like a sailor, Patti.

And that modeling career was responsible for that now deeply troubled marriage. She'd dated all sorts of rich and famous men for a bit before he put in the highest "bid."

That is exactly how she put it. It was a Jackie Onassis sort of thing. She was tired of dating, he dangled a separate bank account and pre-nup with big numbers in them--done.

"No stars in the eyes by then," she said. "I just wanted off the runway. A home—not even kids, just...no more parties, no more...press and all that. He protected me. Until he became the monster in the closet..."

"But I have to ask...why someone like you would reach out to...well... someone like me?" I said. "Someone for hire..."

She sighed and sat back from the huge ribeye that she had attacked quite lustily—most women try to eat sparingly on first "dates"--and said, "I used to joke about it sometimes. That I'd love something straightforward, uncomplicated. Money up front, wham, bam—Barb's been doing it for years just to scratch the itch. And when she told me you apologized for all those assholes who'd gotten after her—she wasn't expecting empathy. And right now, frankly, I need that more than the other thing."

I raised my glass and said, "To empathy then."

And she smiled and shrugged and said, "And you're this beautiful young thing--I want...to feel like I did when it was all...new, you know? When I was a teenager back in our tiny little town. It's like a movie set, the town Barb and I (ding, ding, ding, ding, ding) grew up in. They used it for movies, back in the day. Picture perfect. All colors, cultures. All of us poor as church mice, but I think that was why it worked. You had to rely on other people."