Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  I secretly love surprises when they're true surprises. I hate when someone says “I have a surprise for you” and makes me wait. This type of surprise makes me feel like a little kid believing in Santa on Christmas morning.

  My fingers dance along the flap of the box, tearing at the packing tape in my eagerness. My beautiful logo winks up at me from the box in a soft, peacock blue encircled by gold laurel leaves. Sighing in pleasure, I suddenly choke as the rest of the banner is revealed.

  "Emma! What the hell?"

  "Isn't it great?"

  "Why? Where did this come from? This isn't what we discussed," I choke out.

  "It's not that different. Todd and I thought it needed a little spice. You'll see. It will grab everyone's attention."

  "That's not the type of attention I was looking for!"

  "Why not? I think it's hot!"

  I'm nonplussed. She's not wrong—the design is essentially the same. But where the corset laces once enclosed a graceful back and shoulders, it's been turned around to harness some very full, barely contained breasts threatening to spill from the unlaced bodice.

  At least she chose a more traditional type of corset design versus the more modern, separate cups that are so popular now. Still, the effect is much more provocative than anything I would have ever chosen.

  "You really don't like it? I thought as long as I made the color softer…"

  It is a beautiful turquoise, which complements my logo.

  "It's not that it's not beautiful, it just sets a different expectation of what my stories are about. Someone who sees this is going to expect more steam in my writing. What if it offends my more traditional readers?"

  "Offends how? It's just boobs. We all have them, especially you. Maybe they should learn to flaunt them proudly. I wanted it to look more like you in the photo. Like you were the heroine of your own story."

  "I don't want people thinking those are my boobs! They'll think I'm a total narcissist."

  "Oh, for God's sake, Josie, it's advertising. All we're doing is capturing their eye. You'll see. These postcards will fly out of the booth. You'll have muscle cramps from autographing."

  "I already told you, I'm not autographing postcards. One day, I'll autograph books. Until then, fine, I'll give away the boob shots. Let me see the shirts."

  The doorbell interrupts us as I grab my wallet to tip the delivery guy, temporarily distracted by the whiff of ginger and lemongrass that emanates from the bag. The tension building from Emma's unexpected show and tell begins to back down as I close the door, ready to dig into our fragrant bag of treasure. Until my stomach plummets to my feet.

  "You have to be kidding me!"

  "What? Trust me, these are going to be a hot ticket! That newsletter list will be our bitch when we start to raffle these off."

  I stare in disbelief at the t-shirt Emma has pulled on while my back was turned. The same corset photo with all the excess boobage now appears to be real-to-life when plastered across the front of a tight t-shirt. It's almost like the campy shirts you see girls wear at the beach that look like a body in a bikini, until you see their denim-clad shorts below. Except those shirts are usually loose, while this one is either meant to look like a second skin, or she's wearing the toddler size.

  "No. That's too much. No one is going to wear that." I shake my head firmly. "That's just ridiculous."

  "Are you kidding? I had to practically pepper spray two girls in my office who wanted to steal them. These are going to fly. And look, your logo is done as a tattoo over the heart."

  "Emma, must I remind you they didn't have tattoos during the Regency period?"

  "Pffttt… Have you forgotten that Marie Antoinette and all of her little liaisons wore fake patches and beauty marks? Same difference."

  Damnit! I hate when she's right. Not that I don't still think we've gone completely over the top now, but I've learned when to fight my battles and when to give in gracefully. At this point, it's not like I can throw them away, that would be ridiculously wasteful.

  Her self-satisfied smile tells me she knows she's won. I should have more faith. She was the marketing major. Maybe I need to ease up and release control.

  "All right, you got me there," I concede graciously. "Just tell me there aren't any more surprises waiting for me in the box."

  The delighted grin scares me to my toes.

  "Come grab plates before you completely ruin my appetite. I'm not certain I want to know what else you have hidden in there."

  "You'll love it."

  "Why don't I believe you?"

  "Because you like to pretend you're all prim and proper when really you're so casual about sex. It's a crime more people can't be that way. You should help set a good example."

  "What does that mean? I take sex seriously." I'm dumbfounded by her assertion, the unpacking of dinner temporarily halted as I stop to defend myself.

  "Sure you do. But you don't get uptight about it, and you don't make it mean more than it should. I'm just saying you're comfortable in your skin, Jos. You don't go out of your way to hook up with random men, but you don't freak out over a one night stand. Those are good qualities to have. That's why men find you sexy. They may say it's the curves, but really it's the confidence. I don't think you realize how many women don't have that."

  "That's stupid. I'm casual because I don't get enough sex to take it for granted. And there's no point freaking out over a one night stand. Sometimes, you just have to scratch an itch."

  The image of Simon flashes into my mind before I push it firmly away. Instead, I focus my sudden hunger on the small carton of spicy Thai noodles, stabbing them vigorously with my chopsticks.

  "It's not like I'm choosing some loser off the street. They're usually friends…with benefits."

  "Preaching to the choir, sister. I get it. I just don't think you realize that other people don't see it the way we do. I don't know why you can't put that attitude into your books. Do you know how reassuring that would be for girls who are pretending to look for love when what they really want is sex?"

  "I'm looking for love! I just recognize that at a certain point, it's ok to settle for sex until love comes along. Maybe it's because I'm old."

  "We're not old! Forty is the new twenty."

  "Then why do I look at girls like Kenzie and feel like I'm eighty?"

  "Because they've already maxed out the Botox by twenty-five and you're keeping it real. That's why they need a sugar daddy. It's just one long, expensive, slippery slope of constant maintenance for them now."

  "True. We should probably say a prayer for them. Dear Lord, please shed your mercy on those who know not what they do. The young, the siliconed, the clueless. May their breasts be free of leaks, and may their foreheads be frozen in surprise for all time. Amen."

  "Amen," Emma echoes the word with a snicker.

  "We're awful." I laugh ruefully, surprised by the slight edge of bitterness I rarely acknowledge in myself. It's unworthy of me.

  "That doesn't mean it's not true. It's not like I'm totally against that stuff, but at least wait until you've actually developed some age lines to fill or freeze."

  "Or are old enough to drive."

  "That too."

  "Ok, show me what else you bought that's going to make me think you've completely lost your mind."

  "Shut your eyes."

  "I'm trying to eat." Granted, I gave up on the plates, but sometimes food is meant to be eaten straight out of the container while standing. Who says I can't be low maintenance? Besides, it saves on clean up.

  "Just do it," Emma orders as she rifles through the box in the living room. It's not easy maneuvering noodles and chopsticks with your eyes shut. There's a certain hand eye coordination involved that requires sight. The plopping sound annoys me as I wonder how much is now on the floor, or better yet, probably decorating the cleavage of my t-shirt.

  "Open."

  A soft breath of unexpected delight escapes my lips. Fingering the brocade, I'm awed b
y the design of old school gold fleur de lis on a muted turquoise blue corset with satin laces. It's traditionally styled, more structured than the image on the postcards and, more shocking, it looks like it would fit me.

  I have a weakness for beautiful lingerie that I rarely get to indulge. First, because it's so hard to find pretty designs in large sizes. Then when you do, it's always double the cost. This had to be expensive, because it has stays and boning to add structure—crucial when you're trying to contain the bounty of my breasts.

  Making grabby motions, I finally pluck it from Emma's hands to hold against my body, wanting to see if I'm right about the sizing.

  "Where did you find this beauty? It's gorgeous, and I'm amazed to say it looks like it could really fit me."

  "Of course it will fit you. I wouldn't have gone to such great lengths to find it if I didn't think you could wear it. Happy QuillCon, Josie. You deserve to celebrate. Consider this your symbol of success."

  There's a point where you recognize how important friends are to your existence. It's awful when you realize that marriage and motherhood have become a secondary desire, and some friends drift away because you no longer fit into the mommy pack. Even if you're genuinely interested and supportive, your opinion no longer matters. You can't talk about birthing coaches or lactation, potty training or terrible twos.

  It's as if people assume you're missing some critical genetic code rather than accepting the fact that you understand your limits.

  You can't talk about your love life, because you're either selfish for indulging your sexuality, or they're resentful because your sex life isn't dependent upon PTA meetings and carpools. Little do they realize that sometimes you'd take carpool duty for the chance to wake up to someone who takes out the trash or takes your car for an oil change.

  At what point did the divide between the haves and the have nots become so wide? Why is it so hard for both sides to say 'I see you, and I honor the choice that you've made'? Why is it so hard to recognize that there can be love and success on both sides of the divide?

  Men don't seem as inclined to make those judgments, perhaps because they're not as encumbered by parenthood as women are. Their sexuality isn't as hampered by breastfeeding and nine months of incubating new life. Single life for men over forty comes with less judgment, unless they're still living with their mother.

  Having a friend like Emma, who understands where I've been and what I want, is a gift. More so because it seems like there are so few of us. We're a small but tight sorority of sisters chasing a non-traditional dream.

  That's why I don't even make a pretense of anything other than pleasure at this gift, which I know had to be expensive, because this is the type of gift that comes from the heart. The one that says I see you, and I celebrate all that you are and who you can be.

  Enfolding her in a hug, I let my actions say what my words never can. That in life, our girlfriends are what sustain and nourish us.

  They say men become our better half, but they're really the fence posts that mark the experiences along the road in our lives. If we've chosen well, they have a strong enough foundation to support us down the path.

  Our sisters are the crossbars that hold everything together. They travel with us along every post, every step of the way, and they stack one upon the other to protect us and to lift us up to where we need to go.

  "Who should I wear it for first?" I ask, wondering who will appreciate it more. Mark or Heath?

  Simon says…

  Chapter 33

  Here's Where the Story Ends

  "I've got an idea."

  "No good ever comes from that," I tease, although it's not necessarily true. Emma was the one that said it was okay to want both Mark and Heath. Of course, she was also the one that convinced me that baby bangs were a trend I should try a few years ago. That's eight months of my life I'll never get back.

  "Come on, when have I steered you wrong? Recently!"

  "Fine, what's your idea?"

  "You need to put Lady Sydney up for preorder."

  "No! I don't have a cover yet or a name. Not to mention, I haven't finished the book."

  "It doesn't matter. We need to promote it at Quill. We'll do one raffle exclusively for people who show us their preorder! If nobody bites, so be it. But if they do, we'll have a great jumpstart on sales!"

  "Em, you're not listening. No cover. No release date. More importantly, no ending! Has it escaped your notice that I don't know what happens to Lady Sydney yet? I can't see how this ends!"

  And there it is. My biggest fear just reared its ugly head. I don't know how any of this ends. I love where my life is right now. I'm involved with two sexy men—you know it could be three, my inner harlot whispers before I squash the thought—I have a new book that's close to being finished, my first major, public exposure to the book world, and a job that's moving along effortlessly. It doesn't come with a big paycheck, but I'm respected as being a leader in my territory.

  Just one small change can tip the balance right now. The reason Lady Sydney doesn't have her HEA is because I'm afraid to believe that a happily ever after exists. I'm steadfastly invested in 'happy for now.'

  Now is better than it's ever been, even though I secretly crave more. I just don't know how to get there. Something tells me that it can all fall apart faster than it came together, and I don't know what is real and what is illusion.

  "Then write the ending. What do you want to happen? Because I think you know how you want it to end, and you've never been a coward. Why are you acting like one now? You're not some damsel in distress waiting for someone to save you. Choose a damn ending!"

  "Are you talking about me or Lady Sydney?" I ask Emma, my unexpected panic finally beginning to subside.

  "You tell me. Although I think we both know that deep down, it's the same thing. Once you started mirroring Lady Sydney's story as your own, you were able to find her passion. Where's your passion, Jos? What's it going to be? You get to write the ending, you just need to own it."

  My best friend has an uncomfortable habit of forcing me to acknowledge the things I'd rather pretend not to know. We both recognize when we need to push each other to our limits. It's not something we practice often, and it goes mostly unacknowledged, but Emma's message is loud and clear. I've started the journey, it's time to commit to the consequences of my actions.

  "What should I do?" I whisper.

  "Seal the deal. Commit to the now, and let the future take care of itself."

  Mark's ringtone interrupts us, as if responding to some silent bat signal, beckoning him to my sphere.

  Smiling wryly at Emma, I answer the call.

  "Josie's cave of culinary delights."

  A moment of silence greets me before Mark's slow drawl assures me, "I agree. Your cave is delicious."

  Heat flushes across my chest at the thought, leaving me with a particular craving.

  "Let's rewind shall we? I miss you. You've been neglecting me. How's New York? Do we have a deal yet?"

  "We have a deal." The pride in his voice resonates through the phone as I give Emma a thumbs up and she claps in delight.

  "Congratulations! I want all the details! When can we celebrate? We should get Heath and Simon for a special dinner."

  "I'd like to talk to you alone first. Is Heath with you tonight?"

  "No, Lori left him in the lurch again. Honestly, what's with her and your sister? It seems like they find any excuse they can to offload Tracey lately. Heath always accepts it with good grace, but they're really messing with our schedule."

  "Good. Not good that they dumped Tracey on Cliff, but it gives us some time alone. Can I come over?"

  "Of course! Emma's here, but she's on her way out. Have you eaten?"

  "I grabbed something at the restaurant when I dropped in to check on them. See you in an hour?"

  "I'll be waiting."

  Dropping the call, I turn to Emma and watch her gather her purse and coat.

  "Isn't it great
?"

  "Jos, you realize that you are going to be sleeping with a soon-to-be celebrity? You better prepare yourself. Simon's not the only one who's going to be attracting groupies now."

  "Don't worry, I can take them. For what I endure, my pen is as sharp as my tongue dost cut."

  High-fiving me, Emma heads for the door.

  "Go get 'em, Jane!"

  * * *

  The slight chill of air from the open door causes light goosebumps to erupt all along my skin.

  "Hi, honey, you're home," I call out, the clink of keys hitting the coffee table alerting me to Mark's arrival, although Daisy's disgruntled meeps track his short progress from the living room to the kitchen.

  Damn, he looks good. I suddenly realize how little I've seen of him these last two weeks, the new growth of scruff along his jawline adding an unexpectedly rugged accent that heightens his already sexy appeal.

  My heart taps an uneven tattoo, waiting for him to kiss me, but he just waits, slouching in the doorway, an uncertain look on his face. For someone who just made what I assume is the deal of a lifetime, it's not what I expected.

  "Don't I even get a kiss?" He's making me jumpy. Where's the joy and satisfaction of being at the top of his game? Of seeing me again, and celebrating his victory with the one he loves?

  An awareness that I didn't realize I possessed stuns me into silence as I watch him, realizing that I have now acknowledged something I was pretending not to know. I love him. And I have no clue if that's even close to what he feels for me. Judging by his current expression, I may have just come to that knowledge at a most inopportune time.

  "Uh oh. Is this where the story ends?" I barely recognize my voice. The small sound doesn't belong to me.

  "What story?" A small furrow between Mark's brow signals his confusion, my heart leaping slightly with hope. "What are you talking about?"

  "Why are you looking at me so seriously? Are you ready to end this?" I'm impressed with how matter of fact I manage to sound, even though I'm holding my breath inside.

  Quick strides eat up the space between us, my chest settling against his, breath heavy in my ear as he whispers, "Are you crazy? That's like asking me if I'm ready to give up cooking. You don't give up the thing that gives you purpose."