by Dee Ernst
“Maybe.”
I could feel other things pressing into my front. I took a deep breath and pushed him away. “I’ll see you next week,” I said with difficulty.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll call you. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely by Thursday.”
“Right.”
He called the next morning. I was on the back porch, busy reading Sylvia’s notes on chapter three, but when I saw his number, I jumped up to answer.
“Hey, Mitch. Hi.”
“Hi yourself. Am I interrupting anything?”
“What? No, not at all. Well, yes. Book stuff. But it can wait.”
“What kind of book stuff?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I’m interested.”
“Well, I sent my agent my first draft, and we had a long conversation last week about her suggested changes, and I took copious notes that I can’t understand because I was writing in my lap, and so now I’ll have to call her again and ask her what ‘sex, Jack, ladder’ means.”
“Jack has sex with a ladder?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Jack has sex on a ladder?”
Maybe. I had a great time yesterday.”
“Me too.”
“How do you feel about caller ID?”
“What?”
“Caller ID.”
“This is a test, right?”
“No, of course not. Not in the sense that there’s a right or wrong answer. I’m just curious.”
“None of my phones, except my cell, have caller ID.”
“Not even your business phone?”
“No. Do you have strong feelings about caller ID?”
“Me? No.” I took a sip of iced coffee. “ Nope, not at all.”
“I seem to be missing the guy gene that makes me want to use all available technology, even stuff I don’t need. I have a cell phone, a flat screen, and an iPod, but no caller ID or electronic ignition on my gas grill. I also don’t have a home theater system. Does this mean I can’t come back down next Tuesday?”
“Actually, your disinterest in all things electronic is a plus. Brian couldn’t take a shower without some new technological marvel helping out in some way. But caller ID, well, that’s another story.”
“Every year, on Margaret Mitchell’s birthday, I watch Gone With The Wind.”
“Good save. Come on down.”
He called again Monday. “I can’t come down. My store manager broke her leg last night, and my assistant manager is in Nova Scotia. The manager from my other store is still in rehab. I can’t get away.”
I was surprised how disappointed I was. “Of course, do what you’ve got to do. I’ll be home in two weeks anyway. I’ll see you then.”
“I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too. Call me, though. You can call, right?”
He laughed. “I’m not a big one for talking on the phone. I don’t do small talk.”
“So, we’ll have short conversations instead of small talk. Please call me.”
“I will.”
He did. What a nice guy.
Amanda Witt called me. We normally e-mailed each other when we wanted to chat, or actually met somewhere for lunch. Amanda hated talking on the phone. But when I e-mailed her asking about Nationals, and she actually called back in reply.
“You should put your name up for the Board,” she began. “I know that this is Lillian’s last year. She’s started breeding King Cavalier Spaniels, of all things, and wants to spend more time getting that off the ground. I don’t understand why writers just can’t sit around and write. We’re such an insecure lot, always worried that our current book will be our last. Anyway, she’ll be gone and I couldn’t sniff out any other serious contenders. The election is over a year away. If you started talking it up now, you could get a lot of support.”
Hmm. Brian had never wanted me to become too involved with the RWA because he wanted me to play at all the parties rather than network. But now that he was out of the picture… “I’ll think about it,” I told her. “What else?”
“The weather was cold and rainy. Fabulous shrimp. Louisa is roughly the size of Hummer and she spent the whole week sipping diet Coke and pulling carrot sticks out of her ass. Terry G. wore nothing but black leather the whole time. I know she’s into her characters, but really. She might as well have had a cloak and false fangs. Barbara One and Barbara Two asked me about you. They are the sweetest women. Lots of new fan girls. If MaryAnn gets another facelift, she’ll look like a Siamese cat.”
I laughed. “Was it fun?”
“It’s always fun. Worked my tired old ass off, but it’s always fun. We’re a great group of people. Everybody missed you. Really. People understood., so no damage done. Seriously, think about the Board. It could be a feather in your cap.”
“Even if I’m leaving the fold?” I teased.
Amanda paused. “You’re going to lose fans. No, that’s not quite right. Some of your fans will not even try to read your new book because it’s not a romance. It won’t matter how good it is. You can’t take it personally. Remember that. The RWA will forgive you as long as you let them know romance is your first love. In fact, start doing something about that new idea of yours. As soon as people know that you’re back on the romance track, the smoother things will go.”
I sighed. “Thank you, Amanda. You always have the best advice.”
We hung up a few minutes later and I stared at the phone. Being on the Board of Directors of the RWA would be a big deal for me. I’d have to seriously consider this.
Chapter Eleven
I returned home just before Labor Day. My new bathroom was fabulous. It was the first thing Aunt Lily showed me when I got home. It looked like a spa – calm colors, elegant fixtures, ferns and candles. I called Ben Cutler to thank him.
“It’s amazing,” I gushed. “Really. Better than I imagined. How can I ever thank you? How about I buy you dinner sometime this week?”
He chuckled. “I’m so busy for the next month I won’t have time to breathe. In fact, the only free time I have is today for about ten minutes.”
“Then how about coffee in an hour?”
He paused. “I could do coffee. In fact, I’d love coffee. Starbucks?”
I shuddered. “I can’t. Long story. World Coffee?”
“Deal.”
Thank God Westfield was the kind of town that could support more than one overpriced coffeehouse. We managed two armchairs by the window. He was attracting all sorts of looks from the morning Mom crowd. I was attracting pretty much nothing.
“When is David off to Yale?” I asked him when we got settled.
“I took him up this past weekend. He’s so excited. He’s a smart kid. He’ll do well there.” He seemed impervious to the stares. “Why not Starbucks?”
I related the story of Starbucks Marty. He laughed through most of it.
“I went out with someone like that once,” he said. “I called her Black Cloud Carol. On our first date she choked on a chicken bone and had to go to the ER. I asked her out again, to be polite, and she was late because she set her kitchen on fire.”
“You must date a lot,” I said.
He looked at me quizzically. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re straight, single, employed, and quite the hunk. A perfect catch. Don’t you have women crawling all over you?”
‘Gods, woman,’ he said angrily, ‘don’t you realize that those other women mean nothing to me? You’re the only one who matters.’ He bore down on her, taking her into his arms and crushing her to him. ‘You’re the only one I want,’ he muttered, and then he kissed her, and she felt the earth beneath her give way.
Ben shrugged. “All the good ones are taken. You, for instance.”
I felt a tingle. “Ah, yes. The Good Ones Who Are Taken. You know about us?”
He grinned playfully. “I’ve heard rumors.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I know that you’re a quasi-
religious group with strong political ties. When you’re not dancing naked in a circle during the full moon, you’re planning world domination through a series of leveraged buy-outs and subtle brain-washing techniques.”
“Ben, I had no idea you were so aware. You realize, of course, that now I have to kill you.”
He laughed. “Please don’t. Your secret is safe with me.”
I sipped my chai latte and grinned. “This is a goofy side to you I’ve never seen before.”
“Well, mix physical exhaustion, no sleep, and a double shot of espresso and anything can happen. How’s the book coming?”
I sighed. “Good question. I think it’s done. Anthony says it’s perfect and keeps wrestling me away from the computer. I had a habit, when I first started out, of over-thinking what I wrote. Then I would end up editing all kinds of junk out. Because this book is something new for me, I’m afraid I’m going to do that again. I sent it out to two friends of mine, fellow writers, and asked them to give me an opinion. One got back to me right away, and loved it. Amanda is taking longer, but I knew she would. She’ll be an honest critic.”
“Anthony isn’t?”
“Usually, yes. I’m just feeling very cautious about this book. It means a lot.”
He looked down at his watch. “Whoa. Gotta go. Thanks for the coffee. It was really good seeing you. Don’t worry about your book. I’d trust your instincts. They’ve always been right before.” He looked at me strangely, as though he was going to say something else, then shook his head. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
He was leaving. I stood up. “Thanks again for my bathroom. See you.”
I watched him leave. Everyone else watched him too. I felt like calling out, hey, he’s my plumber, but didn’t. Let them think what they want. It felt good to be the object of so much envy.
Anthony, as it turned out, knew Mitch. When I explained that Mitch was no longer an object of ridicule, and why, Anthony recognized Mitch’s website, and then realized that Victor was a steady customer of Mitch’s Jersey City store. The world, I swear to God, keeps getting smaller.
Mitch and I had spoken to each other about every third day for the last two weeks. He was, in fact, pretty bad at small talk, so we talked about bigger things, like movies and books and why Larry David was a genius and Bill O’Reilly was an idiot.
We decided to meet in Summit for dinner. I spent all Friday morning getting my hair done and, just to be on the safe side, another bikini wax, which was something I hated to do, except for the bathing suit thing, and made me wonder about my subconscious. If I was willing to endure physical pain, not to mention normal, everyday embarrassment on the mere possibility that Mitch might want to see me naked, and therefore all the aforementioned pain and embarrassment would then be worthwhile, what kind of person did that make me? Simple enough answer – a horny one.
On Friday night my daughters all had previous social engagements. Aunt Lily was to meet with her fellow anarchists at an open mic poetry reading. But since I had a date, all other entertainment took a back seat.
“Why are you wearing that?” Lauren asked, frowning critically.
I squinted at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty good. Simple navy dress with a splash of hot pink down the front. My ivory pashmina against the early fall chill.
“I look fine,” I told her. “This is a universally accepted going-out-to-dinner outfit.”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in pants?” she asked.
Actually, I would have been. I was wearing the dress for easy access. “I want to show off my new heels,” I lied.
“But you hate heels,” she pointed out. “You always say they’re uncomfortable.”
Yes, I did hate heels. But the extra few inches would make for an ideal kissing height. “These are very comfortable,” I lied again.
“Why can’t we meet him?” she asked for the fifth time.
I rolled my eyes. “Honey, you did meet him. At the shore, remember?”
Jessica appeared at my bedroom doorway, looking interested. “I think you have something to hide. Otherwise, he would come here and pick you up.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” I told them. “It’s just easier to meet him halfway than to have him come all the way out here.”
“If he was my date, he’d have to come to the door so you could check him out,” Lauren observed.
I sighed. “I don’t ‘check out’ your dates. I just make sure there’s minimal piercing and no beer-breath.” I gave myself a final look and went downstairs.
Aunt Lily and I had reached a very comfortable agreement last spring without ever sitting down and talking about it. She made coffee in the mornings and dinner when I was running late or rushed. She spent a great deal of time out of the house plotting or in her room reading and watching TV. She was available to the girls but not intrusive. She was pleasant and didn’t ask questions. But tonight she was parked in the kitchen with Miranda , and it was obvious they had been talking about me, because when I came through the door, they both pounced.
“I don’t think you should be running around meeting strange men in restaurants,” Lily said. “It sets a bad example.”
“Aunt Lily,” I said, trying to be patient,” he’s not a strange man. And it is no longer 1958. My example is fine, isn’t it, Miranda?”
My oldest shook her head. “What you shouldn’t be doing is meeting anyone for a date in a mini-van. Johnson is fine for car-pooling and the food store, but for dates, you really need a red something. Maybe a convertible.”
Miranda, she had just reminded me that morning, was getting her driving permit in nine weeks and four days.
“Johnson is just fine,” I muttered as I grabbed my keys. “Don’t call me unless there’s a coroner involved.”
I got to the restaurant a few minutes before he did, and was nursing a martini at the bar when he came in. I watched him make his way across the room. His hair was thick and glossy, his eyes warm, his features strong and chiseled. He moved easily and with a certain grace. His smile took my breath.
After dinner, we walked through town, holding hands, and my skin felt on fire. We stopped in front of the library, under a leafy oak, and he kissed me. Hard. And for a long time. So long, in fact, I kept waiting for somebody to yell at us to get a room. When I came up for air, I looked around quickly – the street was deserted. We could probably take our clothes off right then and there and no one would notice…
“What are you thinking?” he muttered, his hands still moving.
“I’m thinking that I want to tear off your clothes. Right now. And teach you things.”
“Things? Like what things?”
“You know. Things. Trashy things.” I kept unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and then buttoning it back up. “To show you my vast world of maturity and experience.”
He pulled back and looked skeptical. “Maturity and experience? How old are you anyway?”
“Forty-five.”
“You’re only three years older than I am,” he pointed out. “What maturity are you talking about anyway?”
“Shut up, Mitch. I’m having a Mrs. Robinson fantasy, okay? Let me enjoy it.”
He dropped his hands. “Does that mean I should pretend to be totally inexperienced?”
I grabbed his hands and repositioned them. “Probably not. Do you think it’s too soon for sex?” I asked.
“Maybe. We should probably wait. How long would it take to get to your place?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“That sounds long enough.”
“But I have a dog, three cats, three kids and Aunt Lily.”
“Shit. Okay, my place then. I’ve only got one cat, and she ran off this morning.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He was running his hands up and down my back. “No problem. She always comes back. Follow me in your car?”
It took us seventeen minutes to get to Chatham. I parked on the street and he met me halfway up the dri
ve, grabbing my hand. His back door was heavy and old-fashioned, and we had to fumble up a few steps in the dark into the kitchen. Once inside, we were kissing again, and my back was up against the counter, and his hands were up under my dress, pulling down my panties, and I was done with his belt and working on the zipper when the door creaked, and a small voice called.
“Mitch?”
The light went on. I pushed Mitch away for a second, then stepped around to stand in front of him. Although my panties were halfway down my thighs, if I kept my knees together, no one would ever know. Mitch, on the other hand, had a belt, snap, and zipper to deal with. Not only that, but he was, as we romance writers like to say, in extremis erectus, so I thought it prudent to shield as much of him as I could.
A frail looking older lady, who could only be his mother, was standing there, looking extremely embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I didn’t see another car in the drive, and-“
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, smoothing my hair with my hands. “We were just making some, ah, coffee. I’m Mona.”
I leaned forward, extending my hand as far as possible without moving from in front of Mitch or unclasping my knees. She took a few steps to take it.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said faintly.
By this time, Mitch had arranged things and had turned to face his mother, but I could tell by the bump I was getting in the small of my back that I’d better stay put.
“Hey, Mom, no problem. What’s up?”
I choked back a giggle and he bumped me again.
“It’s just that Lucy came back,” she explained, “and I wanted you to know.”
“Lucy?” I asked.
“Cat,” Mitch said shortly.
“Well, that’s great news,” I said. “I have a cat I’m quite fond of myself.”
Mitch’s mom beamed. “Really?”
“Yes. Well, three cats,” I went on. “And a dog.”
“Oh?” By her tone, Mitch’s mom was not a dog person.
“And three daughters,” I finished proudly, which pretty much did her in. She smiled weakly, waved vaguely, and backed out the door.