Sex and the Widow Miles (The Women of Willow Bay)

by Reinhardt, Nan

  “When’s the last time you checked this email box, Julie?” Will glanced up at me, his brows furrowed. He gently tugged his hand from mine as a pinging alert sent him back to the email program. It was done.

  Good lord, 1,092 new messages.

  “I’ve never checked it before—this was Charlie’s laptop. I brought it along with me because I couldn’t find the charger for mine and his was all together in one bag. Plus, it’s newer and nicer than mine.”

  I tossed the towel on the countertop behind me and pulled a chair around to peer at the screen with Will. The inbox list was stuffed with emails, the last one dated yesterday, a year and month after Charlie had died. Will scrolled through the list, stopping at one from Tuckaway Winery—most likely an ad or something. As far as I could see, there wasn’t anything there related to cardiology or the hospital.

  My God, this is Charlie’s personal email.

  Why had it never even occurred to me that Charlie might have a separate personal email box? When the kids emailed me, they’d always copied Charlie at the hospital. He never mentioned having a personal email. I tried to think back, but I couldn’t place a time when I’d seen Charlie use this computer at home. He’d always put it in his office with strict instructions to leave it alone. Will’s finger twitched on the mouse button.

  Unnatural cold clutched in the pit of my stomach and I grabbed his hand. “Close this out, Will. It isn’t any of our business.”

  “What?” Will’s eyes widened as he gave a snort of disbelief. “Why?”

  “It feels wrong to go through his private email. It’d be like reading his journal or something. Charlie and I respected each other’s privacy. Hell, I never even opened his wallet without asking him first.”

  “Really? Aren’t you even a little curious?”

  “No. Close the program, okay?” My tone had an edge that I immediately regretted, but I couldn’t explain my reluctance. I simply did not want to peruse those emails.

  “Okay.” With a concerned glance in my direction, he clicked out of the program.

  “I’m sorry.” I searched for the right words as he sat patiently, one hand on the keyboard. He deserved an explanation if for no other reason than because I snapped at him. “I–I just can’t face that right now. I’m so much better, you know? And it’d be like sticking your tongue in a sore tooth to see if it still hurts. Probing into the past, reading those emails and seeing what interested him besides me and the kids and his work would only open up the healing places.”

  “I get it, Jules. You don’t have to apologize.” He closed the laptop and stood up. “But if you want me to set it up for your email, I can go in and add it to the program.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with the webmail for now.” When I caught Will’s eye, he was staring at me, confusion evident on his handsome face. So I gave him a big smile. “I appreciate you hooking me up.” I extended one hand toward the kitchen. “How ‘bout dessert? It’s chocolate molten lava cake from that bakery by the shop. Have you ever had it?”

  I warmed the chocolate cake in the microwave, then added hot fudge and whipped cream before I put it in front of him with flourish.

  “Ta da!” I handed him a fork. The extra hot fudge and whipped cream were my idea. “Sarah introduced me to these wicked things, she calls ‘em a mountain of sin on a plate and she is so right.” A mischievous little devil took over and I gave him a coy smile. “Carrie and I have our own special term for desserts like this.”

  “Really? What is it?” He poured rich red zinfandel into glasses. I’d opened it when I got out the dessert because red wine always tasted great with chocolate.

  “UFOs.”

  “What?”

  “We call them UFOs.” I flipped my hair back with a slight head toss.

  “UFO? What’s it stand for?”

  “Guess.” God, I was flirting again. Elbows on the countertop, I rested my chin in my palm as an impish smile played on my lips. This guy brought out the naughty in me like no one else had but Charlie. I straightened up, trying to recover some semblance of propriety.

  “I’m not a good guesser,” he said. “‘Fess up, okay?”

  “Um… no.” I turned and pulled open a drawer behind me. Silverware rattled as I rummaged. “I think I’ll let you give it some thought.”

  “Oh, come on, Julie. You’re the one who brought it up, so tell me.”

  “Nope, I don’t think you’re old enough.” It was the old defense, but at the moment, it was all I had. I gestured to the plate in front of him. “Eat. Go on before it gets cold.”

  “Where’s yours?” He glanced around, but there was only one serving of molten lava cake. “Do I have to eat this in front of you?”

  I produced another fork from behind my back. “No silly, you have to share it with me.”

  “You obviously aren’t a serious chocolate lover, Ms. Miles.” He stuck his fork into the cake and scooped out a huge bite covered in fluffy whipped cream.

  “Excuse me?” I got my own forkful of chocolate decadence from the other side of the plate. “I happen to be a world-class chocolate lover, Mr. Brody.” The cake practically melted in my mouth, chocolaty and velvety smooth. I took a sip of the zin. The combination of chocolate and red wine was incredible.

  “I beg to differ.” He took another big bite of cake, the expression on his face one of utter delight. “A real chocolate lover would never share or expect anyone else to.”

  I licked chocolate sauce and whipped cream from my lips. “You couldn’t be more wrong. A true chocolate lover always shares because we know how important it is that everyone have the opportunity to know this kind of deliciousness.” I winked. “My boy, never ever try to best a menopausal woman when it comes to chocolate. Didn’t your momma ever teach you that?”

  He grimaced at me around another mouthful of cake, swallowed, and then said, “Um, Jules.” He reached across the counter. “You’ve got a little whipped cream… uh… “With a quick swipe of his finger, he snagged a fluffy dot that had somehow ended up on the end of my nose and then brushed it over my lips.

  My tongue slipped out to catch it, but caught his finger instead. He lingered there on my lower lip, which trembled when he touched it. When he ran his finger over my mouth, heat flushed my cheeks. I blinked and sucked in a quick breath. “Will, I—”

  “Shhh.” He cupped my face and stroked my cheek with his thumb, tunneling his fingers under my hair. Tugging me closer, he leaned in and lightly touched his lips to mine.

  When I didn’t pull away, he increased the pressure, letting his tongue trace the seam between my lips. I put one hand up, ran it over his shoulder and around to the back of his neck, and opened my lips to him.

  He stood and balanced himself with his other hand. For one second, I wondered why he didn’t come around the island and take me in his arms, but I wasn’t about to let go of the kiss to ask. His tongue met mine, and I tasted chocolate and sweet cream and Will. A moan escaped into the kiss as he leaned in even more and the fire in my core increased. After a long delicious moment, I pulled away, slowly dropping back off my toes.

  When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me. Heat flared in his expression, his pupils were pinpricks of emotion, and he swallowed hard.

  My libido shouted at me to grab him and haul him to the closest bed. When I met his gaze, I knew in that moment all I had to do was give him a sign and he’d make love to me right then and there. Dear God, I wanted to, more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life, but I didn’t say anything.

  His breathing stuttered and his hands on my face shook. Then he surprised the hell out of me. He closed his eyes, and a deep breath later, tucked my tousled hair behind my ear and brushed his lips over mine.

  “Good night, Slugger, thanks for dinner. It was great.”

  NINE

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the door closed quietly behind Will. I released it in a giant whoosh before I laid my forehead on the cool granite of the co
untertop.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  My heart still pounded, every nerve humming from that sensual contact. Good Lord, the boy could kiss. The man could kiss, because most certainly Will Brody was all man. I whimpered into the granite. This was not good. Not good at all. Raising my head, I cradled it in my palms and tried to gain some semblance of common sense.

  Sex had reared its frustrating little head again, and I hadn’t been so shocked about anything since the night Charlie dropped dead in my arms. Taking a deep breath, I poured some more wine into my glass and slugged it down. It never occurred to me that I’d desire anyone except my husband. I’d never wanted any man but Charlie, so when he died, I assumed I’d live my life as a widow and one day a grandmother, but never again as someone’s lover. When was the appropriate time for a widow to start having carnal thoughts about another man? Only a year after her husband dies? And what would said husband think of me salivating over a man only a few years older than our son? Yeah, my life was changing and I was so much better, but was a fling with Will Brody the right path to take?

  La Belle Femme had brought significance into my existence again, a way I could get out of my own head. I was having the time of my life assisting Sarah in putting together looks for those brave women. Who knew that my fashion sense would turn into a way to help others? I really believed it was my mission now, what would fulfill me. I could live happily by myself being a grandmother, a friend, and finding good causes. But Will Brody had thrown a monkey wrench into that line of thinking.

  Did I need something more to feel fulfilled? Was he the something more?

  Damn him anyway. Why did he have to be such a nice man? So kind and considerate and smart and talented? Okay, and he was damned good-looking, too. And why, oh why, did he have to tell me he was attracted to me? That particular declaration had stuck in my head like a frickin’ earworm.

  Maybe I should sleep with him and get it over with. Clearly, the heat between us wasn’t going away. I could pretend that fire didn’t exist, but when it flared like it did tonight, I had a hard time ignoring it. Maybe the sex would be terrible—hell, what did I know from good sex? The only person I’d ever been with was Charlie. We always had a very nice time in bed, at least as far as I was concerned, and he never complained.

  But what if I slept with Will and the experience turned out…bad? What if we got naked and he was disgusted by my older body? I’d always taken good care of myself, but the effects of gravity after fifty-two years and the pale streaks on my belly from carrying babies were pretty evident—all the things Charlie had said he loved. Surely Will was used to younger, more toned, more experienced, sexier women. Idiot! Of course he was.

  I finished the wine and tried to put him out of my mind. Eventually, I would have to deal with my attraction to Will—probably sooner than later—but tonight, he’d been the one to stop. He’d walked out after one kiss. Maybe I wasn’t what he wanted anymore. Maybe it had occurred to him that he was kissing a woman who was way older than him and he’d lost his taste for cougar.

  What a disheartening thought.

  I smacked my forehead. What was I thinking! This game of emotional volleyball was wearing me out.

  As I put the dishes in the dishwasher, my mind turned to Charlie. What would he think about Will? He’d always told me that if anything ever happened to him, I should go out and find some young stud and raise him up the way I wanted him. Charlie had been eight years older than me and already kind of set in his ways when we met. We joked all the time about me being his child bride. I’d done most of the adjusting in our marriage and was always happy for it to be that way. He’d raised me up the way he wanted me, no question about that. I became the perfect doctor’s wife. He always said so.

  “Ah, Charlie.” I sighed and tossed the damp tea towels in the laundry room. “God, I miss you. I need your wisdom. I don’t know what’s right, but this guy is getting to me. Couldn’t you just give me a little sign? Maybe a quick flash of lightning if it’s okay for me to try Will Brody on for size.” A glance around reassured me I was alone in the kitchen. Anyone who overheard me would be convinced I’d lost my mind, talking out loud to my dead husband. I peered out the window. No streak of lightning—the Chicago sky was dark except for the city lights reflected in Lake Michigan.

  Thanks a bunch, Charlie. You are no help at all.

  Grabbing my reading glasses from the bar, I wandered over to the computer and lifted the lid. The laptop hummed to life and Charlie’s wallpaper appeared—a photo taken from the top of our beach steps, looking north up the shoreline of Lake Michigan toward Sleeping Bear Dune. A wave of homesickness washed over me. The view of the lake from my family room window was entirely different from Carrie and Liam’s Chicago view. City lights gave an eerie yellow reflection to the water beyond, and I missed the blue-gray chop of the winter lake in Willow Bay.

  Plopping in the chair, I clicked the browser, ready to check my email, then map out details of the fashion show so I’d have some hard facts for Sarah tomorrow. Money for a venue and a caterer was going to be the main issue, but I was hoping to get plenty of donations. Plus I figured I could convince Carrie to help me sell tickets. I’d considered a luncheon on a Sunday afternoon, maybe at a hotel. But a dinner dance would be fun too. My mind whirled as I scribbled a few notes and waited for webmail.

  Will was right, having the email program set up for my account would be a ton easier than going through the Internet every time I wanted to check my messages. Maybe it was a simple thing to do. Idly, I clicked the email icon and watched the program open before me. Geesh, there were a lot of notes there for Charlie. I scrolled through them, mostly they were promotional things from wineries, gardening sites, and boating places. A marina in Traverse City had sent a message that the part he’d ordered for our pontoon was in. That arrived the day after Charlie died. I figured they’d restocked it, so I deleted it. The boat was in storage at Dixon’s in Willow Bay. I had no idea when or if I’d ever use it again.

  I continued scanning the list—eBay, Amazon, a company that sold parts for Jaguars, and a music store in San Francisco telling him that they were having their annual “Dollar Disc Days.” I’d thought all this kind of thing went to his hospital email since he’d never once mentioned this other account. I touched Shift and deleted about thirty more junk emails before an address I didn’t recognize appeared—EJT135@sugartree.net—with the simple subject, “Hey?” The message was dated three days after Charlie had died—the day before his funeral.

  I double-clicked and it opened in a new window. My heart caught in my throat as I read the words:

  Hey, Handsome,

  Where’ve you been? I’m sorry I missed your call the other night. I was out with Peter and couldn’t answer. But I slept with the phone under my pillow and your delicious message in my ear. I’m so hungry for you, so anxious to see you and touch you… just three more weeks and you’ll be inside me…

  E

  I blinked twice, my mind still full of images of runways and dresses even as it occurred to me that something wasn’t right. But I couldn’t quite figure out what wasn’t right, because it was like reading an email about how the sun didn’t rise one morning. Impossible. So my mind went blank trying to figure out what this could possibly mean, since there was no way it could mean what it seemed to mean.

  I scrolled down and found another one dated a few weeks earlier, but this time the subject was RE: This Morning… I opened it, my heart pounding in my ears.

  I know, my lover. Mornings are my time to dream about you too, to remember your kisses, your hands on me. I lie in bed and wonder what you’re doing at that very moment… probably a surgery or seeing patients, but I know I’m in the back of your mind. I loved talking to you while you drove home last night. One day, someone’s going to stop at the overlook and you’re going to have a hell of a time explaining what you’re doing in the front seat of your Jag with your pants unzipped. But thinking of you touching yourself while I do the s
ame here in my bed is incredibly erotic… June can’t get here soon enough.

  Missing you, Doc… and wanting you…

  E

  Below it was the note E was responding to.

  Hey, Gorgeous,

  I woke up this morning thinking about your beautiful breasts … I miss their softness, letting my fingertips touch them … I miss taking one of your nipples between my lips and gently sucking on it, and hearing you moan with pleasure … Jesus, I miss hearing your sounds of pleasure … I’m tempted to take my friend out right now, but I’ll wait until tonight … There’s something very erotic about stroking myself to an orgasm and knowing that you’re on the other end touching yourself, too…

  Doc

  His friend?

  What the hell?

  This couldn’t possibly be my Charlie. Charlie Miles never once referred to his dick as his friend. I jokingly gave it a name when we first got married, and if we ever called it anything, it was Big Chuck. Heat rushed to my face and as I scrolled further, my fingers trembled. The emails were not frequent, maybe once every month or so, but the oldest message in the inbox, dated six months before Charlie died was again from EJT135.

  My Doc,

  Dear God, are you never going to arrive? I’m half-crazy with waiting, and longing to touch you again. Your plane should be landing in an hour and soon you’ll be in my arms. I know it’s not safe for us to text, but how I wish I could have a welcome text waiting on your phone for you when you land. Something titillating to make the drive up to me painfully erotic.

  The wine is breathing and I’ll be naked in bed… hurry, my lover…

  E

  Doc? Really? He hated being called Doc. Hell’s bells, he damn near decked one of Kevin’s poor buddies when he gave him a perfectly innocent “Hiya, Doc,” one day on the beach steps. That was at least ten years ago. There was no way on earth these messages were Charlie’s.