Authors: Debra Salonen
Tags: #romance, #comedy, #sexy, #black humor, #aging and sex
He followed her lead,
pulling himself out of the deep end where he'd dropped his towel.
He dried off quickly and yanked on the sweat pants, flip-flops and
T-shirt he'd brought outside. He paced beside the door of the
cabana deliberately postponing the trial going on inside his
mind.
Could I love her? How is that even
possible?
The jumble of emotions coursing
through his mind and body made the feelings he'd had for both his
wives seem pallid by comparison.
Third
time's a charm? Or three strikes you're out? Which was
it?
"Gorgeous place, Wiley,"
she said closing the cabana door tightly. "The bathroom makes me
want to redecorate my whole house."
"Nerve block number seven,
I think."
"Pardon?"
"Julie would go in
periodically for a procedure to ease her pain. It worked for a few
months in the beginning. A few weeks toward the end. I could point
out projects all over the house that she tackled during those
respites. This--" He pointed at the small, charming building so
perfect it could have been airlifted into place from some exotic
island resort. "--was one of her last. There's a hairdryer in the
vanity, if you want it."
She fluffed out her damp
blonde waves. "I'm good. Thanks."
He held out his hand and,
after a momentary hesitation, she took it. "Can we sit for a
minute? I want to make sure we're okay with what
happened."
She squeezed his
fingers--bringing back the memory of her hand squeezing a different
part of his anatomy. "I'm fine, Wiley. You didn't do anything
wrong."
Once seated under the
lighted umbrella above the glass and teak table, he admitted, "I
feel like a cad. I got off, but it wasn't good for you."
"I wouldn't say that. I was
very turned on, and when you came, I climaxed. Maybe not your
classic starbursts and bottle rockets, but definitely the safe and
sane type of fireworks they sell nowadays."
"You're a terrible
liar."
She covered her face with
her hands. "Okay. So, my coochie didn't get cooed. No big deal. I'm
not sorry about the hand job. To be honest, I've tried screwing in
a pool and it's really not as cool as they make it look in the
movies. The water messes with my internal lubrication. Besides,
I've been trying to cut back...so getting your rocks off actually
worked out for the best."
"'Cut back'?"
Even in the dim light he
could see her blush.
"I'm fifty-four, Wiley. A
few months ago, I decided life was passing me by. I'd become
invisible and was on the verge of drying up completely. Over the
past couple of years, I tried every online dating service on the
planet. Men my age want girls Clarice's age. So, I told myself,
screw it. I'd have fun any time, any way, with anybody who asked."
She paused to give him a serious look. "Within reason."
He put his hand on her knee
and squeezed gently, supportively.
"Buddy Fusco and I had been
going out as friends. I knew he wanted more but I resisted. Then,
one day, I thought, 'What the hell am I waiting for?' The rest is
history."
"Unfortunate timing, but
not your fault."
She shrugged. "That's what
I tell myself. Then Jed came along. I'm blaming our affair on
PTSD."
"Who's Jed?"
"The contractor who built
my deck. We were both mourning Buddy and one thing led to
another...for a week or two. I was his Mrs. Robinson. He was my
pre-Star Wars' Harrison Ford. But his work took him to Tahoe where
he found the love of his life. I'm really happy for him. I mean
that."
Wiley believed her. And he
sure as hell couldn't condemn her considering what he'd done with
Wendy, his late wife's married sister. "We all have things in our
past we wished we could do over."
She shrugged. "Hmm...now,
that's what you don't get about me, Wiley. I'm not apologizing for
Buddy or Jed. Or for what happened in the hotel room with your son
and the others. I had a good time. A real good time, actually. Was
it dirty? Sexy? Naughty? Yes. All of the above. But I'd do it again
in a heartbeat." She stood. "I could call a cab, if you're rather
not drive me home."
A part of him wanted her to
stay. A part of him needed time to process the many revelations
she'd shared. He could honestly say he'd never met anyone like her.
But what was that a good thing? Or bad?
"Let's take the Prius. I
don't trust the Mustang's battery."
Chapter Six
Judy parked in her usual
spot out of habit. She hadn't been to Heritage House in over a
week, and if the lump of solidified oatmeal in her stomach was any
indicator, she didn't want to be here today. Talk about highs and
lows, she thought, staring at the three-story structure. Only its
jaunty color scheme--rust, green and off-white--kept it from
looking like a prison.
Her fist closed around her
phone. Wiley's text had arrived at dawn. Six-thirty-four, to be
exact.
"Good luck this morning. Free 4
lunch? Midtown 12:30?"
Two cups of coffee and
eight mind changes later, she replied: "Ok."
The Midtown Cafe, despite
the rather pedestrian name, was one of the few legitimately swanky
spots in town. The owner/chef trained in San Francisco. The food,
reputedly, was to die for. Judy didn't know because she'd spent her
lunch hours juggling the wants and needs of three hundred Herry
souls. And, now, God help her, her mother was moving into the very
place that knew nearly all of Judy's faults and more than a few of
her secrets.
She clasped her phone to
her breast.
I have to tell Mom about
Buddy. Beat the gossip grapevine to the punch.
"Shi...," she started to mutter her usual swear word but
stopped. "I mean shoot."
She'd decided her language
needed work. Not because she had the hots for a sexy judge. Not
because the last company she sent her résumé had those fishy
Christian symbols in the wallpaper of their Facebook
page.
Cleaning up her language
went hand-in-hand with the "life overhaul" she had in mind. Step
One: eat better. Hence, the oatmeal. Hopefully, someday she'd learn
to like it without maple syrup, walnuts and bananas. Step Two: get
more exercise. Fortunately, she'd been getting great feedback at
her Golden Sneakers class. As long as she had a full class, she'd
make enough to buy healthy food. Step Three: put the brakes on her
runaway train sex life.
The last should have been
the easiest--just say no when...if...Wiley called. Unfortunately,
that meant waking in a tangle of sheets, pussy pulsing from dream
sex with Wiley Canby. Her thinking brain may say "No, no, no," but
every other part of her shouted, "Bring it on, baby."
Why does life have to be
so tough?
She got out of her car and
took a deep breath. Her armpits tingled. Summer on the cusp?
Hormonal spike? Or nerves? She looked around. Her brother-in-law's
pick-up truck occupied the designated parking spot for Mom's
unit.
Nerves. Definitely.
She paused at the edge of
the tiny concrete slab each first floor resident of Heritage House
euphemistically called a patio. The screen door was propped open
with a battered olive green Army locker.
Dad's.
Judy had begged to take it
with her to college, but Mom had been appalled by the suggestion.
"No normal person would want this smelly, dented old thing in her
dorm room. Absolutely not. We'll run to Wal-Mart and pick up
something girlish. First impressions don't come with second
chances, Judy. You'd be smart to remember that. But you probably
won't."
"Morning, Judy," a deep
voice said from behind her.
Judy jumped sideways,
nearly twisting her ankle on an exposed root from the magnolia
tree. Buddy had hated the messy tree and used to threaten to cut it
down in the dark of night and blame it on vandals. "Oh, hi, Pete,"
she said, giving her brother-in-law an awkward hug given the moving
box in his arms. "Thought I spotted your truck in Mom's spot. Need
help unloading?"
His San Francisco Giants
ball-cap swung from side-to-side laconically. Judy always said the
only way anyone could survive in a household made of up Nancy and
Mom was either alcohol--her father's escape of choice--or earplugs.
In her brother-in-law's case, chronic ear infections in childhood
left him partly deaf. When tensions got too high, he'd switch off
his hearing aids and zone out. "Last box. It's light. I just
returned the dolly back to the office. Furniture got delivered
yesterday. Your sister hired some guy who works here to haul
it."
Hector, she figured. "Okay.
Good. Any bites on your house?"
"Won't go on the market for
another week or so. Gotta do some fix-ups. Nanc has been watching
some house-hunter shows on cable." He rolled his eyes.
She knew that look. The
acid in the pit of her stomach started gurgling again. She made an
ushering motion. Pete grinned. "Naw. Ladies first." They both knew
how close Judy was to sprinting in the opposite
direction.
"Don't you want to see what
it's like to be the golden child for a change?" he
asked.
She couldn't ask him to
explain his cryptic question because a second later her mother's
voice pierced the warm morning air. "There you are, Judy. Finally.
I was starting to think you abandoned me, too. Bad enough your
sister kicks me out and moves me half-way across the state, but
then I find out you don't work here anymore. What's wrong with
these people? You were loved. I've heard a dozen people singing
your praises. Do I need to have a conversation with that Ron
person?"
Judy's throat clenched. Not
a
conversation
.
Mom's word for shredding a subject so finely no trace of the
original fabric existed. "Your mother's a loony tune, Judy," Shawn
told Judy after his first--maybe, only--"conversation" with Mom.
"We'll see your family at major holidays, but I will hold you
personally accountable if I ever get stuck talking to that fruit
cake again. Are we clear?"
How had she laughed off
that offensive attitude at the time? Had she truly possessed so
little self-esteem she couldn't raise a single defense on her
mother's behalf? Or did she remain silent because he said exactly
what she'd thought for so many years?
"Hi, Mom. Are you getting
settled? Please don't bother Ron on my account. I've got a couple
of good job prospects in the works." A lie. The only one that
looked even halfway promising was managing Fletcher Canby's sex
club. And that sure as heck wouldn't happen as long as she
continued to lust after his father.
"What's to settle?" Mom
asked, her tone bitter and sarcastic. "I go from a four-bedroom
ranch to a one-room--oh, excuse me, they call that itty-bitty
toilet area a room--a two-room
apartment
with practically none of my
things. Look at this ridiculous excuse for a kitchen."
Judy had heard similar
complaints from new residents over the years. She blamed their
negativity on fear of change--a universal human condition. Seeing
her mother react so typically surprised Judy. She automatically
delivered her canned spiel, as she would have with a stranger.
"Have you seen the Heritage House resident's kitchen, Mom? It's a
gorgeous, full galley just down the hall. All the pots and pans
you'd ever want. You can bake, steam, broil, grill...anything but
flambé. Open flames are highly discouraged."
Mom blinked her watery gray
eyes. Her mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Judy
honestly couldn't remember seeing her mother speechless. She
quickly turned to Nancy, who'd continued unpacking dishware as if
someone had a cattle prod up her butt. The sour expression on her
face spoke volumes.
"Hi, Nanc. Sorry I couldn't
get here sooner. I had my first job interview via Skype this
morning. I kinda like the high-tech approach--saves time and money.
And you only have to look nice from the chest up," she
joked.
Not a flicker of a
smile.
"Where do you need me to
start?"
Nancy, a taller, thinner
version of Mom, shrugged. "Maybe you can get her to hang pictures.
Mom's terrified of putting nails in the wall. She wants Pete to go
to the store and buy some of those stick-up thingies." Nancy
returned to her job but not before rolling her eyes. Judy swore she
could see smoke coming out of her sister's ears.
"Mom," Judy said, grabbing
a hammer from the table, "residents are encouraged to pound as many
nails on they like. Heritage House wants you to make the place feel
like home. When you leave, they hire professional painters to putty
and paint. It's factored into the non-refundable part of your
cleaning deposit." She picked up the box of brads and looked
around. "Where should we start?"
Mom glanced from Nancy to
Judy and back. She must have been confused by the paradigm shift.
Usually, Nancy spoke with the voice of authority--even on subjects
she knew nothing about. "Are you sure?"
"Sending Pete to the store
would waste a lot more money than filling in a couple of holes.
Let's hang your watercolors first." A few years back, Mom had
gotten a wild hair to explore her artistic side. She'd taken
classes at a junior college. Most of her completed pieces wound up
as gifts to family members. Judy's still-life hung in the spare
bedroom/slash junk room. No one ever complimented her on
it.