Sandwiched
Jennifer Archer
What's a fortyish woman to do if…Her free-spirited elderly mom's movingin, her previously do-gooder teenage daughter's sneaking out, her prize-winning stud bulldog can't get it on and her soon-to-be ex-husband can't get his mind off girls half his age?A. have nervous breakdownB. run awayC. eat massive quantities of ice creamD. see a counselorCiCi Dupree chooses. She doesn't have time for a breakdown, can't afford to run away and she is a counselor.Until she fears her daughter–and even her widowed mother–are repeating her mistakes. CiCi realizes she has to do something, because after all, her family ties might be a bit frayed, but they still could bind nonetheless…Jennifer Archer has survived maneuvering through life in seven states, raising two teenage boys and, this year, her very first hot flash–all without serious medication.
A quote from our heroine:
“First my daughter, now my mother. And here I am, sandwiched in the middle like a pickle in a bun, trying to keep them from ruining their lives.”
—Cecilia Dupree, generationally challenged
Praise for Jennifer Archer
“Lighthearted, funny, a delight to read.”
—Jodi Thomas, New York Times bestselling author, on Body and Soul
“A fun, exciting, humorous, fast-moving story!”
—Romantic Times on Once Upon a Dream
“…well written and clever. It’s an all around fun book to read.”
—The Romance Reader on Shocking Behavior
Jennifer Archer
Jennifer Archer has survived maneuvering through life in seven states, raising two teenaged boys and, this year, her very first hot flash—all without serious medication. She is the author of four novels and two novellas, and currently resides in Texas with her high school sweetheart, whom she married more than twenty-five years ago. Jenny is at work on her next novel, while awaiting the words every mother longs for, “Mom, I finally graduated and found a job! I’m off your payroll!” She loves to hear from readers through her Web site www.jenniferarcher.net (http://www.jenniferarcher.net).
Sandwiched
Jennifer Archer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Like the women in Sandwiched,
I lived under one roof with some fabulous females
for many years. This book is dedicated to them
with love and gratitude:
My mom, Joan Browder,
who is patient and supportive, loving and wise.
You mean the world to me.
And
Linda Heasley, Charla Walton and Angie Prince—
sisters by fate, friends by choice.
My life would not be nearly so fun
or interesting without you.
Thanks to my editor, Gail Chasan, who is
a dream to work with; and to Tara Gavin and all the other
wonderful people I’ve met at Harlequin.
Thanks to my agent, Jenny Bent,
who challenged me to make the proposal stronger, and
stuck out the tough times with me.
Thanks to the Thursday night Divas,
who offered wine and whine sessions,
encouragement and their invaluable expertise
and suggestions: Dee Virden Burks,
Jodi Koumalats, Marcy McKay, DeWanna Pace,
April Redmon and honorary Diva (whether he likes it
or not) Robert Brammer. And to the
long-distance Divas, Britta Coleman and
Candace Havens, who encouraged from afar.
Thanks to my friend, Ronda Thompson,
who met me at Schlotsky’s and saved my sanity
by helping me figure out how to
structure the dreaded synopsis.
And as always, thanks to my husband, Jeff,
who didn’t complain when the alarm went off
every morning at 5:00 a.m.; and to my son Jason who
sometimes remembered to call and let me know he was
going to miss his curfew (again);
and to my son Ryan, whose funny phone calls from
college gave me nice breaks away from the writing.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 (#ue3522036-4e8e-51c5-ae4f-3abc0c87031c)
CHAPTER 2 (#u3c5487e8-e9c2-5527-b916-bfdd78ff92b7)
CHAPTER 3 (#u7b762b23-b57a-5307-9a12-6c2aff5f6b59)
CHAPTER 4 (#u15345ed7-b2ae-5f5e-bbb3-f494ca72f53a)
CHAPTER 5 (#u366b913d-1581-5d42-8586-3ecb8d49fbfe)
CHAPTER 6 (#u3debfe3a-eeba-5362-85a2-6b07a06db89d)
CHAPTER 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 1
Cecilia Dupree
Day Planner
Saturday, 11/1
1. Unpack Mother.
2. Grocery store.
3. Shop for Erin’s concert dress.
Instead of filing for divorce, I should’ve buried Bert in the backyard, in the spot beneath the willow where our bulldog likes to pee.
I realize my mistake on a Saturday morning while driving home from the Donut Hut. The sun shines bright in a lapis-blue sky; the autumn air is as sweet and crisp as my mother’s famous gingersnap cookies. It seems a shame to go back to the house so soon on such a gorgeous day, back to Mother and a bedroom full of boxes containing her things. So I decide, instead, to take a little drive.
After rolling down the windows, I choose a chocolate long john from the doughnut sack then proceed to lick off the icing. Which might give you a fairly clear idea of what’s lurking at the back of my mind, though I have a difficult time admitting, even to myself, why nibbling the pastry gives me such an inordinate amount of pleasure. I pretend I’m only attempting to satisfy my sweet tooth but, after more than six months of sleeping alone, deep down I know better.
Since the separation, I’ve spent my days and nights trying to keep up with my teenaged daughter, checking on my widowed mother, putting in long hours at a demanding child-and-family counseling practice. No time exists for sex; at least that’s what I tell myself. So I avoid anything and everything that might remind me of what I’m missing.
It isn’t easy.
In case you haven’t noticed, sex is everywhere these days. Television. Movies. Books. Doughnut sacks. Even my late Friday and Saturday nights of safe, celibate solitaire have turned traitor on me. After a couple of months alone with the card deck, the King of Hearts has started to look appealing; I’d swear he has a frisky gleam in his eye.
But back to Bert and why I should’ve buried him.
Somehow or another, I wind up on his street this Saturday morning. And just in time to see him step onto the front porch of his condo with a young, buxom redhead attached to his side. The girl doesn’t look much older than our daughter Erin, the only worthwhile thing Bert ever gave me during our nineteen years of marriage.
It’s the kiss that does me in. I can’t tear my attention away from their passionate lip-lock, from Bert’s hands kneading and caressing that tight, round, voluptuous butt. Because of that kiss, I don’t see the curve in the road. I hit the curb, run up onto the sidewalk, jerk to a screeching halt only inches from a mailbox in front of the condo across the street from Bert’s.
That forces my attention away from the kiss. Bert’s too, apparently, because before I can catch my breath, he’s beside my window, looking down at me with the smug, disdainful sneer I know so well.
Swallowing a creamy bite of pastry that, luckily, I didn’t choke on, I meet his gaze and attempt to act as if nothing is at all unusual about my minivan, aka “the grocery getter,” being parked on his neighbor’s walk. “Hello, Bert.”
“Cecilia.” His eyes shift to my lap where the prior object of my desire now sits in a smear of chocolate, soiling my gray, baggy sweats.
Bert, I notice, wears boxers. No shirt. His feet are bare. He’s lost weight and bulked up since the last time I saw him barelegged and bare-chested. Muscles bulge I never knew existed. My once soft and pudgy soon-to-be ex looks buff and disgustingly great, which only makes me wish all the more that I’d chopped him up into little pieces and planted him beneath the willow tree. Maxwell, our bulldog, would’ve loved me for it. The dog never cared much for Bert. I imagine he’d take great pleasure in a daily tinkle over the remains of the guy who called him “girly-dog” and once kicked him for eating out of the trashcan.
When I realize Bert sees me sizing up his pecs, I shift my attention to beyond his shoulder where a little red convertible backs out of his drive. “How upstanding of you to volunteer to teach the Girl Scouts mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”
Bert doesn’t even flinch. I guess nothing embarrasses him anymore after being caught by me in the arms of Tanya Butterfield, our neighbor’s twenty-one-year old daughter.
“You’re looking good,” he says, eyeing my sleep-mussed hair and the pimple on my chin, compliments of my frequent flirtation with chocolate. I always thought blemish-free skin would be one of the few perks of perimenopause. I thought wrong. This morning, I left for the Donut Hut straight out of bed and didn’t bother to use a comb or wash my face, much less put on makeup to cover the zit.
Bert sweeps a finger across the side of my mouth and comes away with a glob of icing. “I see you gave up on your diet.”
Before I can think of a barbed comeback, an old man steps out of the house in front of the mailbox I barely missed demolishing. He stands in the yard wearing his pajamas, arms crossed, glaring at me over the tops of his reading glasses.
“Hello, Mr. Perkins,” Bert calls out. “Everything’s okay. She missed your box. I’ll have her off the sidewalk and on her way in no time.”
Bert steps away from the van, and I put it in Reverse then back out into the street. I consider shifting into drive, slamming on the accelerator and leaving him choking on exhaust. But Bert’s arrogant declaration to pucker-faced Mr. Perkins changes my mind. He’ll have me on my way in no time? We’ll see about that. No one controls Cecilia Dupree. Not anymore. I press on the brake and wait for him to walk back over.
“So…” Bert bends down to look into the window again, leveling one forearm on the edge and his gaze on mine. “What brings you to my neighborhood at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, CiCi?”
Birds twitter and cheep, serenading my humiliation. “Yesterday Erin and I moved Mother out of Parkview Manor Retirement Village and into the spare bedroom. Today we’re unpacking. I went to get breakfast.”
“I’m not exactly on your route home.”
There is no way in Heaven or Hell I’ll admit that I’ve ended up on his street because I’ve been thinking about him day and night for the past week. Our wedding anniversary passed uneventfully three days ago and, the truth is, I’m having a tough time learning to live single.
Seeing Bert doesn’t help matters. While he has obviously been working out at a gym, dating, having a life, I’ve been paralyzed. Unable to move forward. Wallowing in the predivorce doldrums while feeding my face with whatever I can find in the fridge to fill the hollow spot inside of me, the gaping hole Bert left behind.
Don’t get me wrong; I stay busy. During the day, my life is chaos. And most every evening, I’m at the kitchen table studying patient files. When I’ve had enough of that, the King of Hearts and I fool around a little until Erin comes home from wherever she spends her spare time these days. When it’s time for bed, old movies on late-night TV keep me company until I drop off to sleep.
It’s not so much that I miss Bert; I miss what felt familiar. Being one half of a couple. Having a warm body in the bed beside me at night. Lately, I’ve even been tempted to give in to Maxwell’s sad eyes and let him sleep on the bed at my feet.
Determined to salvage my pride, I lift my pimpled chin and meet Bert’s stare straight-on. “It’s been so long since Erin’s heard from you, I was afraid you might’ve skipped town. I thought I better swing by and make sure your car was still in the driveway.” I hope it doesn’t occur to him that I could’ve just picked up the phone.
“Erin’s cell’s always busy. I’ll try her again today.”
Shifting the van into drive, I motion toward the old man who still stands in the yard, arms crossed, watching us. “Tell your neighbor I apologize.”
Bert smiles. “Say hello to Belle for me. I’ll miss her cooking this Thanksgiving and Christmas. She’s okay, isn’t she?”
“Mom’s fine. For the most part, anyway.”
He frowns. “For the most part?”
“Her eyesight’s getting worse. I think she’s depressed about it. She doesn’t socialize at all. She’s stopped cooking for the other apartment residents, and you know how Mom loves to cook. Anyway, Erin and I talked it over and decided she’d probably be happier and more active living with us. We’ve hired a woman to come over and be with her during the day.”
“That’s a big step. I admire you for it.”
“Yeah…well.” I shrug. “I do my part for the elderly of the world, you do your part for the youth.”
“Youth?”
I nod toward his condo. “The mouth-to-mouth?”
Bert surprises me with a blush, which gives me a small measure of satisfaction as I drive away, this time leaving him alone and embarrassed.
Sweet justice.
AROUND 11:00 A.M., Erin declares her work duties done, blows her Nana a kiss and takes off for her best friend Suzanna’s house. They plan to eat lunch at the mall, then spend the afternoon shopping for a dress for Erin’s yearly holiday orchestra concert. I’d planned to go along, but too much is left here to do, and Erin didn’t seem to mind if I begged off.
Mother shakes her head as she watches Erin go. She mutters something about families eating together, about homemade meals and how life was better back in the old days when my brother, Jack, and I were kids.
The mention of Jack makes me want to crush the box at my feet. Nothing’s changed. Even as a kid, my brother could always find clever ways to weasel out of his responsibilities. I have to give it to him this time; moving eight hundred miles away just before Dad’s heart attack is his best scheme yet. I want to be here for Mother. Still, some backup would be nice. Even long distance, you’d think Jack could help with the decision-making, with trying to boost Mother’s frame of mind. But, no. His idea of involvement is a fifteen-minute phone call once per week.
As I drag the box to Mother’s bedroom and start unpacking clothing, knickknacks and books, my early morning drive-by comes to mind. So. Bert has a life. Not only a life, a sex life. Women actually find him appealing. Maybe he really wasn’t just a mercy lay or a boredom diversion for our neighbor’s not-so-innocent young daughter.
And that pisses me off.
All these months while I’ve been raising our child alone, coping with all the stress that goes with having a teenager, juggling family and career, struggling with ending our failed marriage and putting it behind me, Bert and his penis have been out on the town. Literally.
Mother’s humming drifts to me from the kitchen where she’s putting away her gourmet cooking utensils, pots, pans and bakeware. The sound makes me pause. I can’t recall hearing her hum like that since Dad died almost a year ago. The anniversary of his passing is a week away. Next Saturday.
The humming pleases me…and makes me feel guilty. The truth is, I haven’t come to terms with her moving into my house. I love her and want the best for her. But is her moving in best for Erin and me? I haven’t lived full-time with a parent since I left home at the age of eighteen for college. I’m accustomed to doing things my own way, not Mother’s. And Erin is finally starting to have friends come around. She likes her independence and privacy, and so do I. But did all that walk out the door when Mother walked in?
“You okay in there?” I yell.
“I’m making headway, Sugar, but it’s going to take a while,” she calls back. “Your cabinets are a mess! You could die of starvation before you found a pot to boil water in or a pan to scramble an egg.”
“Which is why I don’t boil water or scramble eggs.”
“For heaven’s sake! What do y’all eat?”
“Takeout.” I pry open a box filled with colognes and bubble bath and other bathroom stuff. “Frozen dinners.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Breakfast? What’s that?”
Even the two walls separating us can’t block her sigh. “No wonder Erin’s so skinny, poor thing. Now that I’m here, I’ll take care of that.”
I drag the box toward the adjoining bathroom, reminding myself that this is what matters. Family pulling together during tough times. My mother’s happiness in the winter years of her life. Not my pride or privacy or independence. And most certainly not Bert’s extracurricular activities.
I groan. Bert. I can get over the fact that he has a social life and a sex life and I don’t; I will get over it. Nothing good ever came of sex anyway. Well, nothing but babies and orgasms, but I’m long past the baby stage of my life.
As for orgasms, let’s just say Bert never put much stock in the motto “it’s better to give than to receive.” So, while I could argue that some is better than nothing at all, I haven’t really given much up in that department. Anyway, if not for raging hormones, Bert would’ve lost interest in me when the first date ended. It wasn’t my brilliant mind he probed in his bachelor apartment when we were seniors at the University of Texas.
Hefting the box onto the bathroom vanity, I start pulling out floral-scented bottles and small brown medicine vials.
“CiCi?” Mom calls from inside the bedroom.
“In here.”
My petite, plump, pink-cheeked mother appears in the bathroom doorway, a bright smile on her face, her eyes unnaturally huge behind the magnified lenses of her glasses. She holds my thick, white plastic cutting board, which she lifts up in front of her. “Not that it’s any of my business, Sugar, but don’t you think it’s time you threw this ol’ thing away?”
I blink. Rarely, if ever, do I use the board, but still it’s mine, and after her previous criticism of my kitchen organizational skills, I’m starting to feel a bit defensive. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I’m blind as a bat, but even I can see there’s mold growing on it.” Mother wrinkles her nose. “It isn’t sanitary.”
“It’s sanitary. I bleach it after every use. The green just won’t come off.”
“Surely you can afford a new cutting board.”
“Why should I spend the money when that one’s still perfectly functional?”
Mother gives me The Look. You know, The Look? Head tilted to the side, one brow raised, lips pursed?
I realize how ridiculous I sound, a forty-one-year-old woman arguing with her mother over a moldy cutting board I haven’t seen in months, maybe years. So what if her scrutiny of my life and home makes me feel fifteen again? I don’t have to act fifteen. “Okay, okay. Get rid of it,” I tell her.
Mother’s sweet countenance returns. She steps toward the trashcan by the desk in the corner and drops the plastic board inside. “Thank you so much for making space for all my things. I can’t wait to start cooking for you and Erin, and it isn’t the same if I don’t have my own pots and pans.”
I reach into the box, run my hand across smooth, cool glass, over peeling labels and bumpy plastic. “It’ll be great having your home-cooked meals again. Cooking’s just another of your many domestic talents I didn’t inherit.”
With my gaze still on Mother, I pull out another item.
Mother’s gasp is quick and sharp. The color drains from her face, then rises again, bright red now rather than pink. Her eyes blink. Rapidly.
I glance down at my hand and immediately drop the object I’m holding. I’m no expert on vibrators, but I’m pretty sure I know a neck massager from…well…the other kind. The one on the floor at my feet is not for sore muscles, I can promise you that. Flesh-colored, it has a switch on the side that must’ve engaged when it hit the bathroom tile because the dismembered member pulses and vibrates and buzzes.
“Um…” I can’t tear my gaze from the quivering body part, which fake or not, is quite impressive in size and energy. “Uh—”
“Well, for heaven’s sake!” Mother’s voice is high and panicky. “How did my bread beater get packed with my bathroom things?”
“Your bread beater?”
The next thing I see is her hand wrapping around the thing, which is an action I would’ve been happy never to witness in this or any other lifetime. She lifts it from the floor and turns off the switch while I reluctantly peer up at her.
My mother no longer blushes or blinks. In the space of a few seconds she has pulled herself together. She couldn’t look any more prim or proper if she stood in front of her church choir to lead a hymn. Squaring her shoulders, holding the “bread beater” in front of her chest like a baton, she meets my eyes.
“That’s right. My bread beater. Haven’t you seen them advertised? It’s a clever new device that kneads dough, easy as you please.”
“Well…” I clear my throat. “Isn’t that…something.” Mom turns and starts off through the bedroom. “I’ll just go find a place for it in the kitchen.”
I watch her go, then shift my attention to the mirror and stare at the dumbfounded expression on my face. I picture Erin going after a fork and finding Mom’s newest kitchen gadget in the silverware drawer.
First Bert, now Mother. Wouldn’t you know it? At the age of seventy-five, even she has more of a sex life than I do.
LATER IN THE EVENING, after a trip with Mother to the grocery store, she cooks a dinner that brings back memories of all those childhood meals she mumbled about earlier. She, Erin and I actually sit at the kitchen table rather than at the coffee table in the den, my usual place to dine. We carry on a conversation instead of watching the news.
Afterward, stuffed with savory fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, Erin and I clear the table while Mother takes off to watch Wheel of Fortune. An apple cobbler bubbles and browns in my oven; Mother left the oven light on, and I glance at her culinary masterpiece with longing each time I pass by. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the foreign aromas of cinnamon and spice drifting through my kitchen, but I’m unusually relaxed and content as my daughter and I load the dishwasher together.
“I’m going to rent a movie, then watch it at Suzanna’s,” Erin declares when we finish.
“Before you leave, I want to see your concert dress.”
“I didn’t find one. I’ll try again tomorrow or next week.”
“Make it some time I can go with you.”
Erin crosses her arms; her eyes shift away from mine. “It’s no big deal. Suzanna will help me.”
Okay, I admit it; for the second time in one day I feel like an overemotional teenager. Only now, instead of butting heads with my mother, my best friend is replacing me with someone else. I can’t help it; silly or not, I’m jealous.
“What about that book report you said was due on Monday?”
“I’m not doing homework on a Saturday night. I’ll work on it tomorrow.”
“Be home by eleven.” I eye her tight hip-hugging jeans, the inch of bare flesh between them and her T-shirt. Revealing so much skin is a new look for Erin. A fashion side effect of her friendship with Suzanna, I imagine. Though I don’t like the change, I’ve decided not to make a big deal of it. I counsel families with kids younger than Erin who are promiscuous, have alcohol problems and worse. If an exposed navel is the most I have to deal with, I count myself lucky. I’ll just keep an eye on her and make sure that’s as far as it goes. “Got your mace?” I ask.
She gives me the eye-roll she spent middle school perfecting. “You know it’s on my key ring.”
“Just make sure you keep it in your hand if you’re returning the movie and walking through the store parking lot after dark.”
“I know, Mom.” She hugs me and laughs. “You’ve only told me a million and one times. Anyway, there’s a movie drop. I won’t even have to get out of the car.”
“Let Maxwell in and feed him before you go.”
After Erin leaves and Wheel of Fortune ends, Mother and I watch CNN together while eating ice-cream-smothered pie. Maxwell peers at us with pleading eyes. He sits in front of the sofa, whining quietly each time I lift my spoon. Mother gives me The Look again when I place my bowl on the floor to let him lick it. I laugh at her and proceed to fold a couple of loads of laundry.
I’m placing a stack of clean underwear on Erin’s dresser when I see the novel on her bedside table. I figure it must be the assigned book for her report since I’ve never known my daughter to read a novel unless it’s required. I hope she’s not getting sidetracked by her newfound social life and putting off the report until the last minute. But I remind myself that, though she’s spending more time with friends these days, it’s still not in Erin’s nature to procrastinate. She’s a typical only child. Fairly responsible as teenagers go.
I walk over, pick up the paperback, read the title. Penelope’s Passion. A hazy cover creates the effect of looking through steam at a woman’s naked back. A man’s hand lifts the damp, curling tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. I have my doubts Erin’s English teacher chose this particular read.
Settling at the edge of my daughter’s bed, I open the book to a random page.
Penelope sensed rather than heard the captain’s approach. Pulling the sheet to her breast, she watched the door…and waited. Her heart fluttered like hummingbird wings, her stomach felt as unsteady as the ship, tossed and swayed by the turbulent sea.
Flickering candlelight painted shadows on the walls. For only a moment, Penelope glanced away to watch them dance, and when she looked back, he stood there…filling the doorway…his dark eyes devouring her, looking more a pirate than captain of a ship. His unbuttoned shirt revealed a powerful expanse of muscled chest. The sight of it made Penelope aware of her own chest, bare beneath the bed sheet. Her only garment had mysteriously disappeared while she bathed, so she’d had no choice but to retire naked.
Penelope lifted her chin. “Do you intend to rape me, Sir?”
The captain pulled off his shirt as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Since you now share my name, I intend to consummate our marriage.”
She kept her gaze on his face, too nervous to glance lower at his body, afraid if she did he might see the excitement in her eyes when she looked up again. “And if I refuse you, Captain?”
He chuckled, his smile quick and heart-stopping. Then he reached for the buckle on his belt and moved closer to the bed.
Penelope could no longer refrain. She glanced at his broad chest, then lower still, down his flat, muscle-corded belly to the thin line of dark hair that trailed to the top of his breeches. Her breath caught, her stomach tightened involuntarily and a warm, sweet ache spread like heated honey through her limbs. To her shame, she yearned to touch him, yearned for him to touch her in all the places no man ever had, or should.
“Dear Lady,” he said, his voice a deep, arousing caress, “you won’t refuse me.”
“Well, hell,” I mutter, closing the book. Penelope isn’t the only one with a warm, sweet ache.
First Bert, then Mother, now Erin.
Maybe the person who came up with the old saying, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” knew what he or she was talking about.
Tucking Penelope’s Passion beneath my arm, I leave Erin’s room. At the end of the hallway, I poke my head around the corner into the den where Mother sits knitting and watching TV, with Maxwell snoring on the rug at her feet. The knitting needles click out a rhythmic beat.
“I think I’ll turn in early and catch up on some reading.” Mother’s needles pause. The clicking stops. She looks up at me. “I hope for once you’re reading for pleasure instead of for work.”
The corner of my mouth spasms as I think of Penelope’s captain. “Purely for pleasure tonight, Mother. You have my word.”
CHAPTER 2
To: Erin@friendmail.com
From: Suz@friendmail.com
Date: 11/1 Saturday
Subject: Tonight
Hey. Meet me at the mall at 11:30. We’ll eat, then shop for something to wear out tonight to The Beat. You’re going. No excuses.
I look at the outfit spread across Suzanna’s bed and wish I’d never checked my e-mail this morning. The skintight, one-sleeved red-and-black striped top will leave one shoulder completely bare, while the pleated black pinstriped miniskirt is barely long enough to cover my scrawny butt. But the worst of it all sits in an open box; a pair of ankle-high, pointy-toed red boots with buckles on the sides and short spiked heels.
This afternoon at the mall, I gave into Suzanna’s arm-twisting and bought it all. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The outfit was great for laughs in the dressing room. But the thought of actually wearing it in public makes me want to puke up Nana’s fried chicken.
My stuff has been in the trunk of my car since I left the mall. It’s bad enough having Mom to deal with, but now I have Nana, too. It’s not like I don’t want her to live with us; I do. But I’m afraid if the two of them saw these clothes, Mom would go ballistic and Nana might have a heart attack. And two against one makes it that much harder to defend yourself. I’m sure Mom didn’t have this sort of outfit in mind for my concert. Which, now that I think of it, I totally forgot to shop for. The concert, that is.
“This all goes back,” I say, shaking my head and turning to face my friend. “It’s not me at all. It’s more like something you’d wear.”
Suz grabs the top and holds it up in front of me. “Oh, get over it. You’re just nervous. You’re gonna look amazing.”
“I’ll feel like a skank.”
“Are you saying I dress like a skank?”
“No. I’m saying that you can pull off wearing slutty things without looking skanky. I can’t.”
Suzanna tosses the satiny top in my face. “That’s just stupid.”
I catch the shirt and start to refold it. “It doesn’t matter what I wear tonight. If I’m with you no guy’s going to notice me anyway.” Not that they pay me much attention when Suz isn’t around. It’s just worse when she is.
“That’s only because you’re so quiet. They probably think you don’t want to hook up.”
“Okay.” I sit at the edge of her bed, wishing she’d turn off the rap music, which I hate. “Then explain why it is that guys who’ve never met me, guys who don’t know I’m quiet or that you’re outgoing, completely look past me whenever you and I are together? Even before we ever open our mouths?”
Suz rolls her eyes. “As if.”
“It’s true.”
“If it is true, which it isn’t, then maybe it’s because…” She pauses to nibble her lower lip. “Well, I hate to say this, but maybe it’s because you dress like an orchestra member.”
“I am an orchestra member.”
“Exactly.” Suzanna flips back her long blond hair.
“Playing the cello doesn’t have anything to do with the way I dress. Lot’s of girls who aren’t in orchestra dress like me.”
“They probably can’t hook up, either.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I glance down at my jeans and T-shirt, bought last week, though they aren’t my style. “I’m showing skin.” I point at my belly button. “See?”
Suz eyes my jeans. “At least they aren’t your usual. Baggy, khaki or black.”
“Samantha Carter dresses like a nun and she has boyfriends. My clothes aren’t the problem.”
“Then what?”
I lay the folded skank-top on the bed beside me, cross my arms and stare straight at her chest. “Remember yesterday after school when you ran up to me in the parking lot while I was talking to Todd Blackburn about our science project?”
She nods. “What about it?”
“When he saw you coming, he forgot I existed. At first I thought it was your bouncing ponytail that threw him into a trance. Then I realized your hair wasn’t the only thing bouncing.”
Her eyes widen. “Shut up! I wasn’t bouncing!”
“Yes you were! And Todd wasn’t the only guy in the parking lot who noticed. Instead of ‘follow the bouncing ball,’ it was ‘follow the bouncing boobs.’”
“That’s disgusting.” Suzanna’s face flushes, which is a total surprise since nothing much embarrasses her.
“Well, if that’s the problem,” she says, “I can solve it.”
“If you tell me to stand up straight and stick out my personality, I’m out of here.” Back before Nana quit sewing, she’d say that to me. She’d be fitting a dress or whatever, pinning it at my shoulders or under my pits and getting all bent out of shape because I was slumping.
Suz makes a face and starts for the door. “Wait here.”
While she’s gone I turn off the music and swipe a piece of mint gum from her dresser. I think how weird it is that two people so different wound up friends. I moved to Dallas as a sophomore two years ago when Dad expanded his business. Since then, I’ve been pretty much alone when it comes to a social life. I hate my school with all its little groupies. Until Suz transferred in at the beginning of the year, I didn’t have a best friend. The truth is, I didn’t have any close friends at all. Just kids I hung out with sometimes. Other girls from my orchestra class, usually. Most of them quiet, goody-two-shoes nobodies. Which is probably how people think of me, too. I didn’t share secrets with anyone or talk on the phone ’til late at night. I never laughed so hard I peed my pants. Mainly, I studied a lot, practiced my cello, made the honor roll and spent time with Mom.
Then Suzanna showed up and everything changed. She lives nearby in a Dallas suburb. Suz isn’t exactly honor roll material, but she knows how to have fun. She should’ve graduated last year, but she didn’t pass a couple of classes. Instead of retaking the first semester of her senior year at her old school and being totally humiliated, her parents let her transfer. I still can’t figure out why she chose to hang out with me. At her old school, she was a cheerleader with more friends than she could keep track of. She says they’ve all taken off to different colleges. I’m pretty sure some of them made her feel stupid for not graduating, though she’s never come out and said it.
Some friends.
I think she realized that. Or maybe she’s just had enough of the whole “high school popularity” thing. Whatever the reason, she latched on to me the second she heard me playing cello in an empty classroom one day after school, and she’s never let go. Okay, so sometimes I feel like her ugly stepsister. But at least I have fun now that I’m not hanging with Mom 24/7.
I’m dabbing some of Suz’s spicy perfume on my neck when she walks back into the room and hands me two pale pink oval blobs. “What are these? Dead jellyfish?”
“Silicone inserts,” she says. “They’re Katie’s. She takes after Dad. I take after Mom.”
Katie, Suzanna’s fifteen-year-old sister, is so flat she’s almost concave. “She actually wears these?” I press the blobs against my 32-A’s. The inserts even have nipples. Hard ones.
“Sometimes she does.”
“Well, I can’t,” I say. “I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s false advertising for one thing. For another,” I pinch the nipples, “I’d look like I’m chronically cold.”
Suz snickers.
“Besides, if a guy’s only interested in me because he thinks I have big boobs then maybe he’s not worth knowing.”
She sits beside me. “Let me explain guys to you. They can’t help it. They’re drawn to ta-tas like flies are drawn to picnic tables. It’s the way they’re wired.”
I lay the blobs on the bed beside the red boots. “In that case, I have no hope.”
“Not true. You just have to trick them into noticing you so that they’ll stick around long enough to get to know you better. Once they do, and they realize how funny and smart you are, your booblessness won’t matter so much.”
I stare at her. “Yeah, right.”
Suz sighs. “Okay, maybe not. I’ve never met a guy our age that mature.”
I think of Dad. Mom doesn’t know I figured out about him and the sleazoid who lives next door. But I’m not stupid. I saw how his eyelids got all heavy-looking whenever he saw her out in the driveway wearing only a little bikini top with her short shorts. I heard how his voice changed whenever they spoke, how his deep drawl got deeper and more drawn out, like the words were coated with molasses. “I’m not sure they’re ever that mature,” I say to Suzanna. “Even the old ones.”
Suz sighs. “We’ll have to concentrate on something besides funny and smart then.” She studies me. “You have great eyes. I wish mine were big and brown. And your hair…” She twists it up on top of my head then lets it fall. “I like the color.”
“You have a thing for muddy brown?”
She makes a face. “It’s chestnut.”
“Whatever you say.”
Suz picks up an insert. “Quit being so negative and just have some fun with these, why don’t you?” She tosses it at me. “At least try them on with the clothes.”
Five minutes later, I strut back and forth in front of Suzanna’s full-length mirror laughing like a crazy person. “Hey, dressing like a slut is sort of fun.”
“Ohmigod! You’re so not slutty-looking. I swear! You look like a model. You have to buy some of those thingies to wear all the time. They look real!”
Jumping up and down, I watch them jiggle. I laugh so hard tears run down my cheeks. I admit to Suzanna that I think I might like pretending to be the girl in the mirror for just one night.
“Then let me change clothes and we’ll get out of here,” she says, clapping her hands together.
My stomach twists. I wipe my eyes. “I want to, but I can’t.”
“What now?”
“My mom. She’ll freak if she finds out I went to The Beat.”
“We won’t be drinking. If you’re under twenty-one, they put a band on your wrist so the waiters won’t serve you.”
“I’m not eighteen yet. I can’t get in.”
“My cousin Trevor works there. He’ll be taking cover at the door tonight. He’ll let you through.”
“I don’t know. I could be eighteen and swear not to drink, and Mom still wouldn’t let me go.”
“Come on, Erin. Please? All the college guys go there. When I went with Trevor last weekend on his night off we had a blast.”
“I want to….”
“Then do it! I like your mother, but she’s so strict. You’re not a little girl anymore, and if you don’t stand up to her and make her see that, you’ll never get to have any fun. What does she expect you to do? Sit around with her and your grandmother on weekends? You might as well just skip the next twenty years of your life and go straight to the old folks’ home.”
“I can’t stand up to her. I know my mother. I’ll lose.”
“I think you should try. It’s either that or go behind her back.”
I imagine telling Mom I’m going to The Beat. After she gets over the shock of it she’ll forbid me to leave the house. I imagine saying that she can’t stop me. Then I think of my car, which she bought, the gasoline, which she pays for, the allowance she puts in my pocket. She has plenty of ways to make my life miserable.
“I choose going behind her back.”
Suz raises her brows. “Ooh-kay.”
“It’s my only chance of going.” I glance at my watch. “We’re not going to have much time. I have to be home by eleven on weekends, and it’s nine now. By the time you get ready and we drive out there, we’ll have to leave again.”
“Eleven? Your Mom is strict.” Suzanna frowns. “Things don’t really even get going until after eleven. But don’t worry.” She thinks for a few seconds then smiles. “I have a plan.”
It’s easier than I thought to sneak the sack of new clothes into my bedroom.
“Erin? Is that you, Sugar?” my grandmother calls from the den when the front door slams.
“Hi, Nana. Be right there.” I stuff the sack under my bed.
Even before I get to the den, I hear music playing. The kind with a lot of brass and piano, with some guy’s silky voice weaving through it. I’m sort of weirded out when I find Nana on the floor with Maxwell tucked up beside her. Leaning against the sofa, she scratches his belly, her eyes closed, her glasses on the coffee table beside her. Socks cover her feet, and her toes tap the air to the beat of the song. I don’t know why seeing someone her age sprawled out on the floor with her shoes off seems strange, but it does.
For a minute, I just stand and stare at her, afraid to break the mood. It’s like her mind is someplace besides this room, in a different time, a happy one if the smile on her face is any clue. It may sound stupid, but I almost feel like I’m spying on something private, something I shouldn’t disturb. Deciding I should just tiptoe away, I start to turn.
Nana’s eyes flutter open. She squints. “Oh, Erin.” Lifting her hand from Maxwell’s belly, she places it on the sofa. “Come sit and talk with me.”
Maxwell raises his head and whimpers until she touches him again. I understand. I remember the comfort of being cozied up to her. When I was little, we’d sit together in the rocker and she’d read to me. She smelled soapy clean.
Suzanna waits outside for me, three houses down the block. The excitement she offers tugs me one way at the same time Nana’s warmth pulls me the other. I hesitate then cross the room, settling on the sofa beside where she sits on the floor. “I thought you might be asleep.”
“No, just resting my eyes.” She sits up straight, reaches for her glasses then slides them up the bridge of her nose. “How was your evening? Did you have a nice time with your friend?”
“We just talked and tried on clothes.”
“Your mother said you rented a movie.”
“I did, but we didn’t watch it yet. Maybe tomorrow.” I glance toward the door to the kitchen. The lights are off. “Where’s Mom?”
“She turned in early to read.” Nana covers her mouth and yawns. “I think I’ll take a quick soak in the tub then do the same. I’m having some trouble settling down after all the day’s excitement.” She reaches up to me. “Would you give me a lift?”
I stand and face her. Nana’s hands are dry and powder soft. As I pull her to her feet, I try to figure out what excitement she’s talking about. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
“Happen?” Nana’s brows pull together. “Your mother and I just ate pie and watched television. I couldn’t have stood much more after all the unpacking and putting away. And then there was the trip to the grocery store. And the cooking.” She pats my arm. “Mind you, I’m not complaining. It’s a joy to be busy with my family.”
I hug her, realizing the excitement she talked about was just the move. Shame tightens my throat. This day meant a lot to Nana. I guess I should’ve known that, but until now, I didn’t. I probably should’ve stuck around instead of going to the mall with Suzanna.
Ending the hug, I stand back and look at her. “I think I’ll go to bed, too. I’m sort of tired.” I almost choke on the lie. What started out smooth and clear is all twisted and cloudy now. I didn’t expect my escape route would have ruts, guilty feelings to dodge along the way.
“I love you. Sleep tight,” Nana says. “Stay warm.”
“Love you, too.” Heat creeps up the back of my neck. My heart beats too fast. “I’ll put Maxwell out.”
Max trots toward the front door, his bottom twisting in the prissy way that always used to earn him a rude comment from Dad. “Oh, no you don’t.” I hook a thumb in the direction of the backyard and lead him that way. Once outside, he squats to pee, then lifts his head and sniffs the air, as if he smells freedom beyond the fence and wants to explore. I watch him a minute, thinking of Suzanna waiting out front, of the night ahead. Then I go back inside.
I decide I better cover all my bases. A light shines under Mom’s bedroom door so I knock and tell her I’m home. Usually, she tells me to come in and we talk for a while. By some miracle, this time she doesn’t. She sounds sort of funny, like she’s startled or something. We speak through her closed door for a few seconds then say good-night.
Twenty minutes later, after changing clothes and fixing my hair and makeup, I’m halfway out my bedroom window when the buckle of one spiked-heel boot catches on the inside latch. I have my free foot on the ground, the snared one raised high above the sill. I’m leaning forward, mooning the street. The temperature outside has dropped from comfortable to chilly. A breeze lifts the pleated hem of my miniskirt and scatters goose bumps across my butt. This is more than a rut, this is a major pothole.
Leave it to Suz and her great ideas.
I hear an engine and look over my shoulder. Her Honda Civic passes slowly by with the headlights turned off. She’s supposed to wait down the street, but since I’m ten minutes late, I guess she got worried.
Before going through the window, I tossed my purse out. It’s on the ground beside my foot. My cell phone’s inside of it, ringing nonstop. It’s a quiet muffled trill, but I panic anyway, sure Mom or Nana will hear it. My breath comes fast; I’m so scared I’m dizzy.
The second the phone goes quiet, I hear Nana humming on the other side of my door. I quit struggling with the boot buckle and stand still in spite of my cramped thigh. Her bedroom is next to mine; she probably finished her bath and she’s headed there.
I’m shivering from coldness and fear when I finally hear Nana’s bedroom door close. The humming stops. I twist my foot from side to side to work on the buckle again.
The bushes alongside the window rustle. I gasp, but see it’s just Suzanna.
“Jeez!” I hiss. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry,” she whispers. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m stuck.”
“Here.” Suzanna squeezes in beside me. “Let me see.” She leans in through the open window, reaches up, wiggles the latch with one hand while wiggling my boot buckle with the other. In no time, I’m free.
“I knew these boots would cause trouble,” I mumble, pulling my leg from the sill, stumbling as I put my foot on the ground. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up.”
“You are.”
I reach for my purse as Suzanna slides the window closed.
She grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Her car idles at the curb. Giggling, our ankles wobbling on our spiky heels, my silicone boobs bouncing like her real ones, we run across the dark lawn toward it.
CHAPTER 3
From The Desk of
Belle Lamont
Dear Harry,
Last night was my first at home with Cecilia and Erin. With remnants of our life together packed away in boxes around me, I dreamed of your roses. The dream was so vivid that, as I woke, their cloying scent filled the room and I felt the velvet petals brush my cheek.
I miss you so. Now, more than ever, I need your strong arms around me, your whisper of reassurance, your rational advice.
Just moments ago, I looked out my bedroom window and saw Erin sneaking out her window. She and another girl were dressed to kill—an appropriate cliché in this case since I know it would kill her mother to see her in a skirt so short and heels so high. Her father, too, if Bert even cares anymore. Sometimes I wonder.
The two girls made a beeline across the yard, climbed into a car and sped off, leaving me here wondering about my role in all this. My duty. Do I go to Cecilia and tell her? Or do I bite my tongue? Wait up for Erin, listen to what she has to say, then try to talk some sense into her? I’m leaning toward the latter. I have Erin’s cell phone number, and I can always call her if she’s not in by midnight. Besides, Cecilia’s too strict with the girl. In this day and age, an eleven o’clock curfew on a Saturday night for a young woman of almost eighteen is going overboard if you ask me. Of course, Cecilia didn’t.
I think our daughter lives in deadly fear that if Erin’s allowed to be a normal teenager, the girl will put her through the same grief Cecilia put us through at that age. Which would serve CiCi right; I’m sure you’ll agree. I say that with a smile on my face!
I don’t think poor Erin has ever had a date. How could she when she’s stuck beneath the weight of CiCi’s expectations that she act like a middle-aged adult when it comes to everything except boys? With the opposite sex, she’s supposed to stay ten years old and uninterested.
Being a man who raised a daughter, you’d probably be tempted to agree with Cecilia on that. But I’d have to remind you that at eighteen, I’d already received a marriage proposal. From you. You smooth-talked me into tying the knot, and I had already dated enough young men to know that you were the one for me.
So, there you have it. Only one day living under our daughter’s roof and already I worry about overstepping my bounds. Though, to do whatever’s best for Erin, I’ll gladly suffer the wrath of both her and her mother. I only wish you were here to help me decide what is the best thing to do. Was this a mistake? My moving in with the two of them? Maybe I’m being selfish, but I need them. And they need me, though they don’t know it. They need me, Harry. CiCi lives life in a blur. Because of it, she’s missing out on so much, and so is Erin. Which is why it’s a good thing I’m here.
But do they want me here? They act as if they do, but I’m not certain that isn’t pretense to spare my feelings. Is their love for me sturdy enough to weather so much togetherness?
I realize something now that I didn’t last week, or even yesterday. This won’t be simple. For them or me. Maybe it goes against nature for parents and their adult children to live in the same house. Maybe Cecilia and I, maybe all mothers and daughters, are only meant to know one another as parent and child, not as grown women with more shared fears and desires than we care to admit. Which brings to mind a certain bread beater incident.
That blasted nasty Jane Binkley and her silly birthday gag gift! I swear, I thought I’d thrown the thing away, but CiCi found it in my things. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details. Suffice it to say, I had to think fast to come up with a story. And even then, I didn’t fool Cecilia.
Back to the subject at hand. After you left, I thought Parkview Manor was a good solution for me, the answer to CiCi’s worries about me living alone and so far from her. I didn’t mind moving there, really. Like I’ve said before, Parkview isn’t a nursing home; good heavens, I’m not ready for that. It’s simply a community of retirees, but they do have a nursing staff on the premises in case they’re needed. Still, it wasn’t what I’d hoped.
One day I may have to accept moving back to Parkview Manor or someplace like it. But for now, while I’m still able to care for myself and able to help CiCi with Erin, I couldn’t bear to spend another day in the place. Gather that many old men and women together in one building and what do you get? A big ol’ bunch of busybodies with too much time on their hands, that’s what. Why, just last week, Ellen Miles tried to pry gossip out of me about Jane Binkley. I didn’t waste a minute before setting her straight. I told her I don’t make a habit of talking about other people’s business. “Just because my apartment is next door to Jane’s and I’m privy to most of the woman’s coming and goings,” I said, “doesn’t mean I’ll tell you or anybody else about the late hours men spend over there, or about all the giggling I often hear on the other side of my wall.”
I swear, Harry, you should have seen Ellen’s face! Her eyes bulged and she slapped a hand over her mouth like I had offended her, instead of the other way around.
Busybodies aside, Parkview just isn’t for me. It doesn’t seem natural to see only old, wrinkled faces day by day, to go out into the courtyard and never hear children laughing, to never see or speak to young families playing together or taking bike rides or walks around the neighborhood. A happy, healthy life requires a certain mix of ingredients. Babies and children. Teenagers. Middle-aged people and old folks. Most of those ingredients are missing at Parkview, and what remains is a very stale cake.
The only things I liked about the Village are a few dear friends I met and the reading group, which I formed and CiCi led. She’s promised we can go on with it, that we’ll keep meeting each week and she’ll still read aloud for those of us with eyes too weak.
Speaking of my eyes, Cecilia would probably tell you a different story about my ability to take care of myself. Because my sight’s getting worse, she’s hired a baby-sitter to stay with me during the day. She won’t listen when I tell her that, other than driving and reading and the like, I’m as self-sufficient today as I was five years ago and the five before that. My new glasses help with my vision. My only complaint is that the magnification is so strong my eyeballs look as if they might pop out of their sockets. I’m trying not to be vain, but sometimes I’m glad you can’t see me like this.
I’ll be thinking of you every moment next Saturday, the anniversary of our last day together. The truth is, I still think of you almost all the time on every day. I try to concentrate only on the good times, but often my mind drifts to the difficult times, too. Oh, how I wish we had had more patience with one another. Why did we spend even one precious moment on pettiness, jealousy or pointless blame? Because of your stubbornness and the resentments I collected like rare coins, we wasted minutes that could’ve been spent making joyful memories. If only we had it to do over.
That said, I must admit that sometimes I even miss our arguments. I miss your hard head, our standoffs. Without them, there’d have been no making up. And making up was the sweetest thing, wasn’t it?
I’m asking Cecilia to drive me to Cleburne and by our old house next Saturday to check on your prize roses. If the weather held, they always lasted at least through mid-November. I hope that’s true this year. I missed having you give me the first bloom this season. It was always my favorite gift from you, especially during our tough times. It seemed a promise that everything was all right between us. That you were sorry, or I was forgiven, or you’d given in and life would go on.
Saturday, when we turn the corner onto Bentwood Drive I will see your tender smile in the blooms. And I’ll remember.
As always, your yellow rose,
Belle
CHAPTER 4
Cecilia Dupree
Day Planner
Wednesday, 11/5
1. 9:00—Hoyt Couple—New patient appt.
2. 1:00—Mom’s Parkview reading group.
3. Call Bert. Remind him he has a daughter.
By nine-thirty-five, I’m wondering if Mr. Roger Hoyt will ever open his twitching mouth and start talking. He sits stiff and straight as a ruler beside his wife of twenty years, hands clutching the chair’s arms like he’s on a roller coaster that’s about to take off. His expression tells me his tie is too tight. Only, he isn’t wearing a tie.
“Mr. Hoyt…Roger. May I call you Roger?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Cut to the chase, I decide. Ask him point-blank. I lean forward. “Cindy has said that she feels you don’t love her anymore. That you’re bored with her.” I catch his gaze, hold it. “How do you feel? Are you bored with your wife? Have you fallen out of love with her?”
Roger Hoyt reeks of fear, or it might be his aftershave; I’m not sure. He glances at the woman in question and clears his throat. “I still love my wife. It’s just, well, I’m not in love with her. Not anymore.”
Cindy’s lower lip quivers.
I flash back to the moment Bert made the same admission to me, and I sympathize with Cindy Hoyt. “Okay, Roger. When did you realize this?”
He clears his throat again. “I can’t put my finger on an exact moment. It just sort of happened over time. We stopped having fun together, stopped talking about anything except the kids and the bills. That sort of thing.”
“So, you’re saying you’re more like brother and sister now?”
“Yeah, but we still…you know. We’re more than brother and sister, but it’s not enough.” He shifts in the chair. “I want more.”
“You’ve got commitment, the security of family, but no passion?”
He nods.
I turn to Cindy. “What’s it like for you to hear all this?”
“It hurts.” She blinks tear-bright eyes. “But he’s right. We don’t have fun anymore. We don’t really talk. And our sex life has suffered. But I think we can work things out if we try.”
I watch for Roger’s reaction. Interesting. Cindy sees it, too, and looks down at her lap.
“Roger, when Cindy just said that, you cringed. Why?”
“I don’t know. I, um, I guess I’m not sure if I want this anymore. I—”
Cindy sits straighter; her expression hardens. “That’s just what I thought, Roger. Do you think I haven’t noticed how much time you’ve been spending at work?” She turns to me. “I think he’s starting something with his secretary.”
“I am not!” Roger’s face flames.
“Not an affair,” Cindy adds quickly, anger replacing the hurt in her voice. “Not yet. But I saw the e-mails, Roger. I saw them. The woman couldn’t be more than twenty-five.” She crosses her arms and leans back.
A switch flips inside me. I stare at Roger and cross my arms, too. “Would you care to tell me about these e-mails between you and…?”
“Bitsy,” Cindy hisses. Our eyes meet then narrow in unison. In unity.
“So, Roger, you and Bootsy have been flirting with infidelity through e-mails, is that—”
“Betsy. Her name is Betsy. I—we’re—” Roger scoots to the edge of the chair. Glares at Cindy. At me. “We’re not…I…” He stands. “Fuck this! Fuck it! I won’t sit here while a complete stranger and my wife gang up me.”
Oh, no! No! Damn it! What’s wrong with me? What am I doing? I reach my hand toward him. “Calm down, Mr. Hoyt. No one’s ganging up on you.”
“Oh, really?” He paces and tugs at his collar, at the tie that isn’t there. “What would you call it then?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, I was simply asking a question. Perhaps I should rephrase.”
“Perhaps you should.” He flops down in the chair.
“It seems that the two of you are at a point of decision, would you agree?”
Roger’s Adam’s apple bobs. He and Cindy look at one another. The two of them nod.
I tap my index finger against my thigh and study the immature jerk, trying to see deeper. Will he choose some temporary, ego-boosting fun with little Miss Bootsy who, judging from the looks of Roger, is probably only after his money? Or will he decide to make an effort to revive what he once had with the mother of his children, this intelligent, attractive woman he chose to marry? This woman who has washed his dirty socks and underwear, stuck with him through the early, sparse-money years after he started his business, believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself.
Realizing my thoughts pertain to my own marriage, not necessarily the Hoyts’, I take a deep breath. This is about them, not me. “Both of you need to spend some time thinking about what you really want, what’s really important to you.” I zero in on Roger. “Do you want to preserve your commitment or move on to something else? Think hard about that. This affects not only your life, but also Cindy’s. And your children’s lives, too. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.”
I turn. “And you, Cindy.” Her efforts to control her emotions trigger my own. My throat knots up; I tell myself to breathe. “If Roger stays, are you willing to work on the marriage? Can you put your suspicions and bitterness away and trust him again? And if he chooses to leave, what will you do? Your life will change dramatically. How will you deal with that? It’s something to ask yourself.”
We end the session. And while Roger doesn’t promise to come back next week, he does say he’ll consider it.
In the meantime, I have a lot to think about, too. It’s clear I still have Bert issues. I thought I’d worked through the worst of them, buried the pain, cynicism and anger in a deep, dark grave. But judging from what just happened, they’re all still alive. And thriving.
The paperback novel lies open in my lap. A Room For Eleanor. The current literary rage. Four hundred pages of angst and introspection.
Perching my funky new reading glasses on the bridge of my nose, I glance down at the page. The final chapter, thank God. If I have to spend one more week reading about the depressed and depressing Eleanor, I’ll need a room, too. At the psychiatric pavilion.
I look up for a moment, scan the group of four women, all wearing glasses of some kind or another, and one man whose vision must be better than mine, since he’s lens-free. Ten folding chairs sit empty behind them. We started the club a year ago with fifteen members. Fourteen women and Oliver something-or-other, the sharp-eyed old charmer who sits at the end of the first row beside my mother. The club has dwindled to these five people; I don’t know why.
Lifting the novel, I begin to read aloud from chapter twenty-three.
“Eleanor locked the bathroom door, turned to the mirror then lifted the tweezers to her right eye. ‘No more,’ she whispered, plucking one lash then another and another, numb to the pain. ‘No more…’”
As I read, my mind drifts to my session with the Hoyts this morning. I almost crossed the line, let my personal feelings affect my professional objectivity. I transferred my anger at Bert to Roger Hoyt. That scares me. I have no business counseling couples if I can’t keep my own emotions out of the equation. I should’ve made every effort to connect with the man, prove myself to him, gain his trust, not put him on the defensive.
“She turned on the faucet and water spilled out, over her hand, into the tub, warm, soothing water to wash away the pain. And Eleanor whispered, ‘No more…’”
It’s just that, when I saw the Hoyts sitting across from me, middle-aged, miserable, together yet miles apart, I felt I was looking at a photo of Bert and myself from a year ago. Then Roger Hoyt finally started to talk, and I saw my own feelings reflected in his wife’s eyes. Humiliation. Self-doubt. Fear. For a second…okay, maybe more like five minutes, I envisioned the two of us tackling the balding Don Juan, strapping him to the sofa, face-up, castrating him with a dull pair of fingernail scissors.
Not good. Not good at all.
“The water surrounded Eleanor; her legs, her body, her face, filling her with peace, with truth. All her life, she had tried to avoid what she knew in her heart. ‘No more,’ she thought now. ‘No more.’”
I yawn. Okay, so maybe I do have an idea why the reading group has dwindled.
Halfway through the second scene, a loud snuffle brings my head up.
Mary Fran Hawkins and Frances Green, otherwise known as “The Frans” since they share not only similar names, but also an apartment, snore in rhythm, their chins on their chests. Mary Fran’s book is on the floor. Frances still holds hers open, though it’s migrating toward her knees.
I guessed the first second I met them that The Frans are lesbians, but Mother refuses to discuss it. According to her, it’s an inappropriate assumption on my part and none of our business one way or another. But whether she’ll admit it or not, I’m sure she knows it’s true. Like she’s always telling me, her eyesight’s bad, but she’s not blind.
Between The Frans and my mother, Doris Quinn files her nails and hums quietly to herself. Not a single silver hair on her head is out of place. She’s a tiny, twittery, totally feminine woman. Always upbeat. Always ready to bat an eye at any man who happens to glance at her. Eager to sympathize with their hard luck stories. I can imagine Doris being the “other” woman in her younger days. The equivalent of Roger Hoyt’s Bitsy or one of Bert’s baby-faced…
There I go, doing it again. Transferring my anger at Bert to someone else. Comparing a sweet, romantic woman of eighty who loves people and life to one of Bert’s bimbos.
At the end of the row of book lovers in front of me, jolly Oliver something-or-other, his book face-down in his lap, grins as he whispers something to Mother. She blushes, but pretends to ignore him, her gaze fixed on her copy of A Room For Eleanor, which she holds in both hands upside down.
“Eleanor opened her eyes, gazed up through the rippling water. Life shimmered above her, painful, chaotic, unpredictable life. She—”
“The End,” I say five paragraphs before the final line. I slap the book closed. The noise snaps The Frans to attention.
“So, what did you think?”
Doris stops filing her nails and sighs. “Remarkable. A masterpiece.” She presses a palm to her chest. “The ending…” She sighs. “It makes a person think, doesn’t it? There was so much wisdom in it, so much hope, so much—”
“Bullshit,” Mary Fran mutters, rubbing sleep from her eyes and eliciting a snicker from Frances.
Doris flinches. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought it was an interesting selection, Cecilia,” Mother cuts in before Mary Fran can elaborate. “Another fine choice on your part. Very thought-provoking, as Doris said.”
Oliver smirks at her. “Come on now, Belle. It was a real stinker, and you know it.”
Doris points her fingernail file straight up. “Perhaps one person’s odor is another’s perfume.”
The Frans snort.
“Thanks for the show of support, Mother. You, too, Doris. But I have to agree with the others.” I tap a finger against the book’s cover. “I don’t get it. The book’s been at the top of the bestseller lists for over a month.”
Oliver winks at me. “There’s no accountin’ for taste, CiCi.” He scans the room. “No offense, but we’re gonna have to liven things up around here or pretty soon you’ll be reading to a bunch of empty chairs.”
I’m surprised by the look of distress that passes across Mother’s face at his comment. Wondering about it, I reach down for my briefcase then place it in my lap. I pop the latches, open the lid, pull another Oprah-esque book from inside. “I’d planned this for our next selection.” I hold the book up so the group can see the bland cover.
Everyone groans. Even Doris and my mother.
“Okay. I’m open for suggestions.”
As they debate whether the next title should be a mystery, a family saga or an action adventure, I return both books to my briefcase. That’s when Penelope’s Passion catches my eye. The story has become my new addiction; I can’t get enough of it. Or, to be honest, I can’t get enough of the captain. I’ve been trying to squeeze in a paragraph or two between patients whenever possible. I tell myself it’s a healthy diversion from reality. What’s the harm in a little fun?
Well, I’ll tell you.
Yesterday I met with two of my regulars, a sixty-year-old shoe salesman and his wife of thirty-five years. They blame his mother’s penchant for going barefoot and wearing red toe-nail polish when he was a boy for his obsession with women’s footwear and feet. Toes specifically. He’s partial to sucking them and struggles to restrain the urge at work. While they talked, I caught myself thinking about a scene in Penelope’s Passion where the captain and Penelope make love for the first time. In my daydream, though, I was Penelope.
Pathetic, I know. My mind should be on my patient’s abnormal preoccupation with Jimmy Choo shoes, not on being seduced by some make-believe macho man. Still, the toe-sucker left my office happy, so I suppose it didn’t hurt that my mind wandered a bit while he talked.
Studying the wrinkled faces before me, I remember Mother’s bread beater, which I’ve nicknamed “BOB,” as in battery-operated-boyfriend. Maybe she isn’t the only one here, me included, who misses intimacy. These senior citizens would probably appreciate a healthy diversion, too. The next best thing to sex I’ve found. Some relatively harmless fun. I’m betting even The Frans’ relationship could use a shot in the arm.
“Ladies,” I say in a raised voice to be heard over the chatter. I stand, put my open briefcase on the stool and clap my hands. “Ladies! You, too, Oliver.”
The talking stops. They all look up at me.
“What do you think about this?” I pick up Erin’s book, turn it over, read the blurb on back….
“When Lady Penelope Waterford stowed away on
The Voyager
She wanted only to escape an arranged marriage
To be carried away in the arms of a powerful ship
Toward a fresh start in a new, untamed land.
When Captain Damian Stonewall set sail
He wanted only to deliver his cargo on time,
To see his crew safely to the opposite shore
And collect the money owed him.
The captain never suspected he harbored a passenger
Or that one glimpse of her creamy skin, flaming hair
And flashing blue eyes would force him to question
His priorities and tempt him to break his own rules.
The lady never expected she might be forced to marry
The hot-tempered captain who found her hiding, soaked
And exhausted, below deck. Or that his touch would
Make her tremble with lust as well as with anger.
But as land disappears from sight
And the wind rages around them
Penelope and the captain discover their biggest
Surprise of all:
A passion more vast and powerful than the sea….”
I lower the book to my lap and look up.
Doris whispers, “Oh, my.”
The Frans snort, then smile at each other.
Oliver chuckles. “Now you’re talkin’.”
Mother looks from my briefcase, to the book, to me. She lifts an eyebrow.
Shrugging, I smirk at her. “Ladies and gentleman, I believe we just found our next selection.” I turn the book around to show the group the sexy cover. “I give you, Penelope’s Passion.”
A hush falls over the room, but is broken seconds later by the sound of an ear-piercing alarm.
I hope it isn’t someone’s pacemaker going off.
CHAPTER 5
My kitchen smells like chicken and dumplings tonight. I think Mother’s trying to fatten up Erin, but I’m sure it’ll be me who ends up waddling, not my teenaged daughter. She can exist on a diet of French fries without gaining a pound.
We’ve fallen into a routine. One instigated by Mother. She cooks. We eat as a family at the table. Erin and I clean up. I’m amazed it’s lasted an entire five nights; I don’t know how she managed to recruit Erin in the first place, much less keep her coming back. But, though I enjoy the family time, I’m also a tiny bit jealous that my mother pulled off what I couldn’t. Since this school year began, my offers of a home-cooked meal have been turned down. Erin’s either had other plans for dinner or says she’d rather get takeout. I realize I’m not Julia Child or even my mother when it comes to the kitchen. But I whip up a decent omelet, and my spaghetti’s not bad. I add spices to the Ragu.
“Did you talk to your dad today?” I scrape chicken into the disposal, then hand the plate to Erin.
“Yeah. He called right after school.”
Right after I called and gave him an earful. If that’s what it takes for Erin to receive some attention from her father, so be it. I’ll bug that man from now until he drops dead.
Erin places the plate into the dishwasher. “Did someone straighten up my room?”
I laugh. “If so, they didn’t do a very good job.”
“I’m missing a book.”
“Penelope’s Passion?”
A blush stains Erin’s cheeks as she reaches for another plate. “Yeah.”
“I borrowed it and forgot to put it back. Sorry. When we finish up here I’ll get it for you. I’m planning to read it at Nana’s group so I’ll be buying my own copy and copies for all the members.”
Pausing with the plate in her hand, Erin’s eyes widen. “Mo-ther!”
“What?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No. Why?”
“You can’t read that to people their age.”
I wet a dishcloth, turn off the faucet and wipe down the counter. “Why not?”
“There’s stuff in it.”
“You think your generation invented stuff?”
Erin lowers the plate she’s holding. “But, they’re old.”
Mother enters the kitchen, headed for the breakfast nook and the hutch where she keeps her knitting basket. “Listen here, smarty-pants,” she says to Erin in a teasing voice. “We old people could teach you youngsters a thing or two about romance. There’s a lot to be said for wooing.”
“Wooing?” Erin scowls.
“That’s right, wooing.” Mother tucks the basket under her arm and smiles. “Candy and flowers. A walk in the moonlight. Stolen kisses on a front porch swing.”
I want to sigh. It sounds so old-fashioned. And wonderful. In my dating days, an evening was considered romantic if the guy paid for the movie without trying to cop a feel afterward. How did my generation miss the boat? The one with champagne, candlelight and a string quartet?
“When I was young,” Mother continues, “the boys pursued the girls, not vice versa. At least not in such an obvious way like I see today. We didn’t call them on the phone or chase after them. A young man came to a girl’s house and met her family before any dating went on.” She pauses to give us The Look. “And I might add that he came to the front door.”
Erin tucks her lower lip between her teeth, and for a second, I sense a silent message passing between my mother and my daughter. But then a memory hits me full force, and I realize the message is for me, not Erin.
“Oh, I get it.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “You’re taking up where Dad left off, is that it? You’re not ever going to let me forget about that time when I was seventeen and he caught Dave Baldwin outside my bedroom window.”
“According to your father, the boy reeked of beer.” Mother chuckles. “Harry was fit to be tied.”
“You can say that again.” Shaking my head, I look sideways at Erin. My laugh sounds nervous even to me; I hope she doesn’t notice. “And after your grandpop put the fear of God into poor Dave, he tore into me like I was the one who’d been drinking beer. Which, by the way, Dave hadn’t been drinking, either.” It was strawberry wine. “I never convinced your granddad of that, though.”
Mother joins us at the sink. “He thought—”
“I know, I know, he thought I was going out the window.” I glance at my daughter again. She’s reading the instructions on the dishwashing detergent, which strikes me as odd, but lately everything she does strikes me as odd, so I blow it off. “Just so you know, Erin, I wasn’t about to sneak out.” Not that night, anyway. “Dave and I were just talking. But your granddad never believed that, either. And for the rest of his life, he never tired of teasing me about it.”
“Suzanna and I are going back to the mall to look for a concert dress tonight,” Erin says, as if she hasn’t heard a word of our story.
“What about See Dick Run?” Erin and I always watch the popular reality-TV program together on Wednesday nights. Without fail. The show is completely ridiculous. Twenty steroid-enhanced jocks compete in physical challenges to win a week in paradise with a life-sized, walking, talking, breathing blow-up doll. At least, I’m convinced her head is full of air. But Erin loves the show, so I pretend I do, too. It’s one of the few routines we still share. And, okay, I’ll come clean; I’m caught up in it, too. It’s silly fun.
“Would you tape it for me?” Erin talks over her shoulder as she hurries out of the kitchen. “I don’t have time to watch tonight.”
“Sure.” I try to sound unaffected. “Don’t forget it’s a school night. Be home by nine.”
“Nine-thirty,” she calls from the entry hall. “The mall doesn’t even close until nine.”
“You know the rules.”
“Jeez!” The front door squeaks open; I hear the rustle of her jacket as she slips it on. “Whatever.”
The door slams, and I feel the distance growing between us in more than just a physical way.
At the sink, I rinse the dishcloth, avoiding my mother’s gaze.
“About that incident with Dave at the window,” she says.
“Good grief, are we back to that?” I wring out the cloth, then gather a stack of mail from the counter and shuffle through it. “It happened twenty-some-odd years ago. Could we just forget it?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t forget such things. What’s that you always say? What goes around comes around?”
“If you’re implying what I think you are, Mother, don’t worry about it. Erin’s a hundred times smarter and more levelheaded than I was at seventeen. She isn’t the least bit boy crazy.”
Hoping to escape a lecture, I take the mail and head for the backyard.
The patio light provides enough of a glow that I’m able to read.
Max looks up from his bowl and blinks at me, then returns his attention to his food.
I settle into a wicker chair, flip through the mail again, then place all but one piece on the patio table. The evening is cool, but not uncomfortable. It’s already dark out, but I don’t care; I’m numb and blind to everything except the texture of the expensive envelope beneath my fingertips and the return address in the upper left corner. Gosset, Dusseldorf and Klein.
Shooing away a fly, I turn the envelope over to open it, but can’t bring myself to lift the flap. “This is it, Max,” I say, eliciting a tiny moan from him. He stops munching and trots over. “The end of life as I knew it. No more Bert. Hurray!” My throat tightens. Erin might as well be gone, too. From now on, it’ll just be Mother and me.
It won’t be so bad, I tell myself. Who needs men anyway? Who can trust ’em? I’ll learn to knit. That’s something Mother and I can do together. Night after night. In front of the television. Wheel of Fortune. Mother will cook delicious meals for me. What better way to fill the emptiness than with smothered steak and buttermilk biscuits? Blackberry cobbler? She might even make my favorite chocolate éclairs. I’ll gain so much weight that I have to buy my clothing at the tent and awning store. Which won’t be an issue anymore since I won’t be trying to impress a man. Think how comfy I’ll be. How content. Fat and happy.
And alone. With Mother.
Max yelps. I look down at him. He tilts his head to one side. His brown eyes appear sympathetic.
“I’m sorry Max.” I sniff. “It won’t be just Mother and me. I’ll have you, too. Since Dad’s gone, you’re the only male in my life worth bothering with, anyway. At least you don’t leave dirty underwear on the bedroom floor.”
His butt wiggles, like he’s trying to wag his nubby tail.
“Your ass is cute, too. And you never expect me to kiss it.”
He nuzzles his cold nose against my hand. “In fact, you’re the best-looking guy I’ve seen in a long time.” As I size him up, I have to admit, he is. His coat is smooth and shiny, his body looks strong, his eyes are sad, but clear. He comes from a long line of prize-winning English bulldogs, and it shows.
“I think you’ve got potential, Max,” I say, perking up a bit. “A good-looking stud like you? I bet if your services were for sale, every bulldog hussy this side of the Mississippi would be panting at your doghouse door. Someone in this family besides Bert might as well get some action.” At least I’d get paid for Maxwell’s philandering.
Max prisses over to the grass.
“Another point in your favor. You don’t leave the toilet seat up when you pee.”
He hunkers down.
“Really though, Max.” I swat at a fly. “You might want to start lifting your leg. I don’t know what the hussies would think of a squatting stud.”
When Max finishes his business and comes back over, I scratch between his ears. “I might even enter you in one of those stuffy shows. I bet you’d take home the blue ribbon.”
With one final scratch to Max’s head, I return my focus to the envelope. I open it, pull the paperwork out, unfold it, then set it aside, facedown. Why not see what else came in the mail and put off the inevitable? I make my way through bills, flyers, an invitation to a party to celebrate an associate’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Good for her. Thanks for rubbing it in. I reach for an envelope from Erin’s school. The letter inside is for parents of seniors. A meeting’s planned next week to discuss graduation plans; announcements, caps and gowns, the class party. Already.
A wave of sadness sweeps over me.
Erin. She’s not a little girl anymore. But she’s not as grown up as she thinks she is, either. She’s pulling away from me, but still requires my guidance. More than ever. But I need a different approach now that she’s older.
With a sigh, I return to the legal papers. Can’t put them off forever. Maybe I’ve been looking at this divorce all wrong. Maybe it’s a new beginning rather than an ending. A chance to discover new interests. To rediscover old ones. To do something for me, for a change. I should redefine my relationship with Erin, focus more on my career, spend more time with Mother. Can’t all that be enough?
When I flip to the last page, Bert’s signature jumps out at me. Then mine. I suck in a breath of cool air.
My tears taste salty and bittersweet as I stare at the document that ends my old life and launches a new one.
New and improved.
CHAPTER 6
To: Suz@friendmail.com
From: Erin@friendmail.com
Date: 11/6 Thursday
Subject: Judd
Hang up your phone! I’ve been trying to call you! I’m hyperventilating! He’s coming over again! Right now! If you get this message, call me on my cell at midnight in case I need an escape. ~ Erin
Stuffing my phone into my jean pocket, I hurry to the closet and look inside. What was I after? I scan the shoes on the floor, the clothes on hangers. My mind whirls, my heartbeat’s skipping. I am seriously having a panic attack.
I tug off my girly pajamas, the ones Nana gave me for Christmas last year, and wiggle into my newest pair of hip-hugger jeans, the skintight T-shirt I bought yesterday, and a pair of pink rubber flip-flop thongs.
After hurrying into my bathroom, I get started on my face. Blush on my cheeks. A little red lipstick, then a whole lot more. I blot my lips on a square of toilet tissue then apply mascara. Several coats. My hand shakes so much that the wand bumps my cheek, smearing black across it. “Not now!” I snarl, as I reach for the toilet paper roll again and knock over a perfume bottle. It clatters as it falls, making my heart thump all the harder. The last thing I need is to wake up Mom or Nana.
When my cheek is finally clean, I bend over at the waist and ruffle my hair, then straighten again and spray it. I step back and take another long look at myself in the mirror. Something’s not right…something…I glance down at my chest. The jellyfish!
I return to the closet and put on a bra, then find the silicone inserts I borrowed from Suz’s sister. When they’re in place, I check my reflection again.
A girl I don’t recognize stares back at me. A girl with wild hair, too much makeup and a big set of ta-tas, as Suz always calls them. A phony. A fake. A Britney Spears clone with brown hair instead of blond. Exactly the kind of girl I can’t stand. So why am I doing this?
I cross my arms, turn away from my reflection. Because I’m sick of being boring, straight-laced Erin. Because I’m tired of sitting home with Mom while everyone else is out having fun. Because Judd wouldn’t give the real me a second look.
Judd. Judd Henderson.
I met him Saturday night at The Beat. He’s twenty, about to be twenty-one, a junior at North Texas. He thinks I’m also twenty, and that I’m a junior at S.M.U. At the club, he didn’t look twice at Suz, though she stood right beside me. He walked straight over and asked me to dance.
We danced all night. Then, when his ride was leaving and he had to go, he kissed me. Nothing major, just brushed his mouth against mine and said he’d call.
He did. Night before last at ten. I almost died. He wanted to come over so I had to come up with an excuse really fast. I said I was sick. Strep throat.
He said he was sorry and promised not to kiss me. Not on the lips, anyway.
Just the thought of him kissing me again anywhere, especially with Mom and Nana close by, almost gave me explosive diarrhea, so I said that, according to the doctor, the strep throat was highly contagious and he shouldn’t even come in the house.
So what did he do? He came to my window.
Like, how romantic is that? Totally romantic, if you ask me, no matter what Nana says. I’m pretty sure she hinted about Judd yesterday in front of Mom. She must’ve seen him at my window. At least she didn’t come right out and say it. Which I can hardly believe.
Anyway, for maybe the best forty-five minutes of my life, Judd smoked cigarettes and talked to me in a low voice through the window screen. He told me he likes how I act all quiet and shy, but my look says something different. I didn’t tell him that my “look” is the act, and that quiet and shy is the real me.
Before he left, Judd laughed and said hanging outside my bedroom window made him feel like he was back in high school. I said it did me, too. Then I remembered that I am in high school, and I felt even phonier than I do now.
Judd promised to call again to check on me and, a half hour ago, he did. Since I can’t pretend to be sick forever, and he’d probably think it weird that a twenty-year-old woman would have to sneak out of the house to meet a guy, I told him Mom caught my strep throat and that the house is still pretty much off-limits. So, I’m meeting him out front at eleven-thirty.
Except for the strip of light beneath Mom’s bedroom door, the hallway outside my room is quiet and dark. I decide it might be safer to go out my window again instead of risking her hearing the front door open and close. That way, I won’t have to worry about the security alarm, either. I duck back into my room and lock myself in. What I’m really doing, though, is locking Mom and Nana out.
Ten minutes later I’m beside Judd inside his pickup truck, which is parked at the curb in front of my house with the engine and headlights off.
Judd turns down the music. “You sure you don’t want to go somewhere?”
I shake my head. “I still have homework to do. I can’t stay out long.”
He pulls a pack of cigarettes off the dash and offers me one.
“No, thanks.” I point at my neck. “The strep. I mean, I’m well and everything, but I don’t want to push it yet.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot. I won’t smoke, either, I guess.” He tosses the pack back where he found it. “Sorry I didn’t call yesterday. School and work have been kicking my ass.”
“Where’d you say you work?”
“At the convenience store on campus.” Judd reaches across the seat, tucks my hair behind my ear. “Just part-time. Until I graduate.”
“Oh.” I nibble my lower lip. Oh? Oh? Why can’t I think of anything else to say? It’s like my mind erased the second he touched me. “I don’t work.”
“Maybe you should.” He smiles. “Then you could rent a place with some friends and we wouldn’t have to sit out in front of your mom’s like a couple of teenagers.” He looks out the window at the house then shifts back to me, tracing the curve of my ear with a fingertip. “Let’s go for a ride. I passed by a park on the way here.”
My heart does a backflip. “I can’t. Really.”
I have the strangest feeling. Like there’s this hum of energy between us, a current of electricity stretching from Judd to me, connecting us. Being this close to him makes me excited and freaked at the same time, though I don’t know what I’m freaked about. It’s not like we weren’t even closer on the dance floor Saturday night. But this feels different. Tonight, we’re alone.
Judd takes my hand and jerks his head, nodding me over. “Come here.”
I scoot across the seat, closer to him. He puts his arm around me, and I tilt my head back and gaze up at him. No guy has ever looked at me the way he is, like he’s seeing me inside out and naked and memorizing every detail. I could fall right into his dark, narrowed eyes, but something tells me I’d never find my way out again. I don’t want to turn away, but I’m afraid not to, afraid I’ll lose myself, as weird as that sounds. So I move my focus to his lips. They’re not too thin, not too full, nicely shaped, parted a little. Beneath the lower one, there’s a soft shadow of beard stubble.
When I got into the car, I was sort of cold, but I’m not cold now; that’s not why I shiver. His fingers stroke my arm, right beneath my shoulder, scattering goose bumps across my skin and making the muscles in my stomach pull tight.
“Erin,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine, soft and firm at the same time, warm, drawing me in, tasting of cinnamon gum and menthol as our breaths mix. It’s not like I’ve never been kissed before; I have. But never like this, like I’ve stepped onto a roller coaster and there’s no stopping it, no turning back. My control is whisked away on a rush of air while another part of me comes alive. The world outside blurs until the only things vivid are Judd and me; the texture of his hair between my fingers, the pull of his cinnamon lips and musky male scent, a soft scrape of beard against my cheek.
Quiet, insistent sounds come from deep in his throat. He shifts our positions so that I slide down some, my head pressed into the seat back, and he is centered between the dash and me. I feel surrounded, enclosed, cocooned by his hard body, his arms. His warm, dry hand cups my chin then skims my face, across my collarbone, my shoulder, down the side of my breast. Before I realize what he has in mind, his fingers inch beneath my T-shirt and he’s touching my stomach, making my body hum and vibrate…vibrate….
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