Triangles (12 page)

with a schoolmarmish woman in a low-cut dress. “
Widows along the Trail
? What
is
it, exactly? A western romance? When
did
you start reading that crap?” She glances toward Trace, whose head is completely immersed in the fridge.

Drops her voice very low.
Remember
I told you I wanted to write…
She mouths the word
erotica. Well, I joined a writers’

group and two of the ladies write romance.

Some of it’s pretty…
whispers,
steamy.

I’ve been looking into it—reading a little
of it—and I think I could write it too.

She looks at me expectantly. I’m not sure how to respond, though. “Wow.

I thought the writing thing was a joke.” Trace emerges from the refrigerator.

Oh, no. She’s serious about it. Like
she was serious about painting.

And before that, ceramics. And before that, hydroponic gardening. And before that, hosting fantasy birthday parties.

200/881

This is different,
Holly insists.
Because
I could actually make money writing.

At least, eventually. I mean, I have to
get good at it. But I’m willing to work
hard. Wouldn’t it be cool to get paid for
making up stories about … you know?

THAT EARNS

A major eye roll from Trace,

who clomps across the polished

tile to the table, nibbling a cold

chicken leg.
You want to write

racy books, Mom? Why not a nice
paranormal? Or maybe zombies.

Oh,
says Holly,
they have those too.

They’re not
all
westerns, you know.

I think she missed his point.

“Not sure I’d want to read about

hot zombies. I mean flesh eaters

aren’t exactly what I’d call sexy.”
Guess it depends on what kind

of flesh they’re eating.
Deadpan.

I spit my mouthful of coffee

halfway across the table.

Trace!
But Holly’s laughing too, as she hands me a paper towel.

202/881

He rolls his eyes back and forth

between us, grinning.
Just saying …

WHEN DID HE GROW UP?

When was the last time I really

looked at him?

talked to him?

acknowledged him?

He used to tag along sometimes

on the girls’ playdates.

to the girls’ parties.

with the girls to the movies.

Seems my view of him has been

filtered through the girls.

colored by his mother.

distanced by distractions.

Somehow, over the past decade

he has stretched tall.

he has muscled up.

he has come into his own.

And all that makes me wonder

what else I’ve ignored.

what else I’ve slept through.

what else I’ve missed.

While I let my own life slip away.

AS I MUSE

Jace cruises into the kitchen,

polished brass hair sleep-tousled.

He is shirtless and wears only

a thin pair of flannel shorts

beneath his smooth-skinned

chest. He comes over to Holly,

kisses her cheek, draws his

black walnut eyes even with mine.

Morning, ladies.
Then, to Holly:
Thanks for letting me sleep in.

Trace is the image of his father,

except for the narrow high-bridged

nose inherited from Holly. He says,
Did you see what Mom’s reading,
Dad?
He’s a trouble caster too.

Jace picks up the book, opens

it, turns to a page somewhere

about halfway in. Skims it for

a second or two.
Holy lima beans!

Hope you’re picking up pointers.

205/881

Holy lima beans? Half amusing,

half confusing. And very Jace,

whose Kansas roots cling to him,

though his parents moved him west

as a kid, close to forty years ago.

He puts down the book, heads

toward the coffee maker, and

I can’t not notice the attractive

outline of his butt beneath his clingy shorts. He pours a cup of brew, and as he turns, I have to force myself to look higher than his waistband.

God, I’m almost as bad as his wife.

Then again, I do have an excuse,

because while she has easy access

to regular sex, I most definitely

do not. I haven’t slept with a guy

in six months. I’m getting a wee bit antsy. “Those girls should be about ready, don’t you think?” I take

my empty mug to the sink. “Trace,

would you mind rounding them up

206/881

for me? We really should be going.” The “round them up” remark reminds

me of Holly’s book. Pointers, indeed.

FROM HOLLY’S PLACE

To Truckee will take over an hour,

the three of us and our overnight

stuff pretty much crammed into

my elderly Subaru. The girls sit

in back, annoyingly thirteen—

whispering,

giggling,

waving at semis,

discussing boys.

The main boy being Chad, who’s—

almost seventeen,

like, really cute and buff,

on the basketball team,

amazing at gaming.

Funny. I remember him with—

greasy long hair,

a face full of zits,

basketball height, but

not much in the way of muscles.

For some idiotic reason, that

makes me think of Jace, half

naked in the kitchen. He’s not

exactly “buff” either, but that

208/881

didn’t detour my inappropriate

semi-lust for his pretty-damn-

good-for-a-guy-his-age’s body.

I really need to get a [sex] life.

I TRY TO TUNE OUT

The backseat boy chatter.

The highway begins to wind

up the mountain, and I’m really

glad I’m driving. The last time

I rode shotgun along this stretch

I almost asked Geoff to pull over.

He would not have appreciated

puke-spattered leather upholstery.

That man was unreal. Charisma,

personified. At least until he had

a drink or two, and then he was

anything but charming. Geoff

was, in fact, the guy who made

me swear off men for the past

several months. No sex, not even

amazing sex (and it was that),

is worth the kind of verbal

abuse that man threw at me.

To top it all off, I found out

he’s married but he expected me

to stay with him. Uh … right. I put an immediate end to it. To us. To

amazing sex, or any sex except

210/881

the battery-operated kind. But

while that might take the edge

off, it only whets my appetite

for a more impressive menu. Solo

orgasm isn’t even a decent appetizer.

THE MENU

At the Cottontail Ranch is five-

star-rated by politicians and

rock musicians and well-heeled

truckers, heading east from Carson

City. Porn princesses serve

Hand Job

and pretzel snacks, along with

fifteen-dollar drinks. Order

appetizers from column one:

Girl-Girl

Massage (Give or Get)

Oral Delight.

Everything is à la carte,

with entrées from

Around the World:

Full French

Asian Wet

Neapolitan.

While your main course

is prepared, you can enjoy a

Vibrator Show.

Front-row seats run a little

more, but you don’t want a

Half-and-Half

view. Finish your meal with a

Whipped Cream Party

212/881

Champagne Party

or maybe just a little

Love at the Y.

Holly

RUNNING IS A CURE

And not only for stress and blubbery butts. It also alleviates writer’s block.

Can’t believe you can get stuck writing sex scenes. Then again, since most

(make that all) of the sex I’ve had for the past couple of years has been

pretty uninspired, trying to write

a believable orgasm is taking a lot of imagination. Jace said he hoped

I’d pick up pointers from my current reading. I felt like telling him he should study the book as a sort of refresher course. Can’t remember the last time he went down on me. Cunnilingus

is barely even a memory. Maybe

I need a girlfriend. One with an active tongue. I’ve never been with a woman.

Should I put that on my prefortieth birthday wish list? Where would I even 214/881

find one? On craigslist? Nah. Too

many crazies. I could pay for one,

I suppose. Take a little trip out to the Cottontail Ranch? Oh my God.

What’s wrong with me? Hormones?

MORE LIKELY

It’s too much erotic romance

reading. I push myself harder

uphill, lusting only for solid

thigh muscles. My own, that is.

I got a bit of a late start this

morning. It’s nine-ish, and

the mercury must be approaching

eighty-five. Sweat rains from

my face and soaks my sports

bra and shorts. The temp will

climb close to a hundred by late

afternoon, but it should cool off

to just about right when the sun

goes down. A great evening for

Reno Aces baseball and Fourth

of July fireworks on the river.

Jace is a huge baseball fan.

He hoped Trace might take up

the sport, but the only one of

our kids who gives two hoots

about baseball is Bri. Go figure.

She even played Little League,

216/881

until she decided she liked boys

too much to kick their butts at ball.

SMART GIRL

Takes after her mother, who

is currently downshifting for

the final long uphill driveway

push. I reach the top, winded and

dripping. Excellent run. I need

water and coffee, in that order.

As I reach the back door, I can

hear voices. Okay, the neighbors

can probably hear them. Jace

and Mikayla are at it again. I half consider backing away and letting

them yell themselves into a stupor.

Better not. I push through the door.

“What is going on? Do you two know

any other way to communicate?”

Mikki is flushed, sour cherry

red.
Dad says Dylan can’t come

with us to the game tonight.

You’re still grounded!
yells Jace.

Grounded means no proximity to

your boyfriend, who, just by the way,
218/881

is the reason you’re grounded in
the first place. Why is this even
an argument?
He looks at me for help.

Why must they always plop me

smack in the middle? I want to

argue for Mik that it’s been almost three weeks. Well, two and a half,

anyway. But if I make Jace look

like the bad guy, the whole day—

and evening—will be miserable.

He doesn’t much like having

his authority questioned. Not by

the kids. And not by me. “Honey,

this was supposed to be a family

evening. Dylan probably has plans—”
He does! He planned on hanging

out with me. Please, Mom. I haven’t
seen him in weeks. He’ll buy his
own ticket and everything. Don’t
you get it? I have to see him.

I … I … am in love with him.

Jace snorts.
You don’t know the first
219/881

thing about love. And if you believe Dylan
is in love with you, you’re crazy.

Shut up, Dad. You think you know
everything.
And now she shatters.

Why are you so fucking mean?

OOH, BAD MOVE

I jump in immediately. “You apologize to your father right now, Mikayla Jean.” Please, please

apologize. If

you don’t, he’s

going to plant

his will deeper.

The two of them sit there, arms crossed.

“You want to get ungrounded, don’t you?” Plum-faced, jaws

rigid, the two of

them look so much

like each other

I want to laugh.

Jace starts to blow, but I shake my head.