Thirty minutes later, she emerged from the store, her MasterCard still steaming. She had gone whole-hog and gotten far more than she needed just to get connected to the Internet…for which she still needed to arrange for broadband service from the cable company.
She pulled out her cell and dialed Lylah’s number. As she’d expected, Steve answered. “Hi, hon. It’s me, Kari. What are you doing Friday night—assuming I can get my broadband service hooked up by then? I need your help, my electronics genius friend. Want to do me a favor?”
“Does this one involve helping you test out one of your new recipes?”
“Optimist! No, but it involves messing with my computer. Isn’t that almost as good as eating my cooking?”
“Nothing beats your cooking, but you know I can’t resist the siren song of a computer. What d’you need?” Kari told him, and Steve agreed to meet her at her place on Friday evening, subject to her being able to get the broadband installed then.
The lechón asado was yummy, and the plátanos were perfection, but Kari rushed through it all, not even ordering flan after the main course. Hurrying back to her car, she zipped home and put on a pot of cinnamon coffee, unpacking her purchases and eagerly laying them out in advance of Friday.
Friday took its sweet time in getting there, but at least the broadband service was installed on time. No glitches there. Steve arrived early, got everything installed and up and running, and first showed Kari how the email program, different from the one at work, functioned. Then he gave her a tour of the Internet, with special attention to cooking sites, which he knew had a particular interest for her.
Though impatient for him to leave so she could get back to the computer, she checked her eagerness and talked with Steve. “I’m jealous of you and Lylah,” she admitted. “A baby. Here I’m so up about my new software, but your wife really has something to look forward to. Not to mention that when she looks in the mirror and sees she’s growing outward, she’s got a good excuse for it.” She laughed, then turned serious again. “In a few more months she’ll be thin again...and have a new life entrusted to her, too. Lullabies. First steps. Pride. A little mini-person that was given to you to take care of. God, it’s so exciting!” She couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her voice.
“Yeah,” Steve said with unmistakable sarcasm. “It’s exciting to have no sex now so in a few months our lives can be totally disrupted by a demanding little creature with a loud set of lungs who always needs attention and is a regular poop-and-pee machine. Diapers—ugh!”
“God, Steve. You make it sound like a baby is all negative.”
From the look he gave her, it was obvious she had vocalized his thoughts.
“I’d trade places with Lylah in a heartbeat.”
“Great. Who do I get to trade places with?”
“Steve!” she chided him. “Maybe you need to do something new—like me with the Internet—to get your mind off your blues.”
“I’m ten steps ahead of you, hon,” he answered. “You’re looking at the latest volunteer member—very low on the totem pole, I admit—of the campaign staff of Ron Larrimore, our next mayor.”
“You’re working for Larrimore?”
“I am...and if you know what’s good for our town, you’ll vote for him.”
“Oh, I intend to! Save your speeches. What are you doing on the campaign?”
“Mostly working the phones in the evening. But as long as I’m among the ranks of the unemployed, they have me coming in days a lot, too. Hey, why don’t you join? You’ve got untapped talents. Put ’em to use for Larrimore. A lot of it’s grunt work, mailing flyers, nailing up posters, stuff like that. But chip in. Lend a hand. You’ve got time.”
That last remark stung. But it was true—she did have time, and she was looking for something new in her life. Still, she’d always been pretty apolitical. Though she voted every year, she’d never gotten involved in campaigns or causes. And now that she was connected to the Internet, she expected that to keep her busy. Email. Recipe sites. Maybe even chat rooms. She was wary, remembering Audra’s fate, but now that she had taken the first step, why not chat rooms too?
She gulped at the thought, then realized Steve was waiting for an answer. “I’ll think about it,” she promised, draining the rest of her rapidly cooling coffee in one gulp.
“Well, I’m outta here,” Steve said, rising from his chair. “You okay with that computer, now?”
“You did the hard part. I can take it from there.”
“G’night then.” He gave her a chaste peck on the cheek.
“Love to Lylah.” She waved as he walked down the driveway to his car.
“Call if you’ve got any questions with that thing.”
“Will do.” And she eagerly locked the door behind him and rushed to her computer.
Chapter 2
The computer, long a mere convenience, now became as seductive as a lover. Kari hurried home to it every day, logging on, browsing, talking to people in several different chat rooms, exchanging email at long last with all her friends, including some new friends she’d met online. There was a whole world waiting for her “inside the screen,” as she thought of it.
She posted inquiries about recipes, and soon she had several new friends with whom she was trading hints and tips. One Friday evening, logging on after getting home from work, she found a letter:
Hi—
Tried your pot roast recipe—great
Where do you live? I don’t know if I’m trading recipes with someone across the street or across the country. Here in Elm Ridge, we’re having mild weather for September—I’ll barbeque this weekend. Do you barbeque? Got any recipes for the grill? Want any?
Got to go now. Got a pork roast in the oven, and the smell is calling me. :)
See ya—
Max
Kari had learned by now that
Hi, Max,
Am sending a file with several recipes in it. Hope you like them, especially the potato pancakes, which go well with pot roast. Let me know what you think.
As for location, you’re in Elm Ridge? The same Elm Ridge that’s four hours drive from here? (I’m in Jeffersonville.) Yes, we’re having the same warm weather. Yes, I barbecue. Ever take a boneless pork roast and bathe it in barbeque sauce, then cook it on a covered grill for about an hour? The only trouble is, it tastes so good it’s hard to stop after “seconds”—I want to go on and finish it all in one night instead of saving some to have cold tomorrow.
She stopped, reread that last sentence, and thought it made her sound like someone who probably weighed over 200 pounds. Which, in fact, she did, but why advertise the fact? Self-consciousness immediately assailed her, followed by annoyance at herself. Why should I care what some anonymous, faceless correspondent thinks of me? Does it matter if this Max knows I’m fat? For all I know he weighs three hundred pounds, is eighty-five years old, is toothless.... Then she had to laugh. A previous letter had mentioned a fondness for corn on the cob. Toothless was one thing he was not.
She backed up and deleted the offending sentence, feeling guilty over her vanity even as she did it. Then she chatted about the weather for a minute, and closed out the letter.
A reply was waiting in her inbox the next day.
Hi, nearly-neighbor,
Jeffersonville, hmmm? If I ever find myself in your part of the state, I’ll take you to dinner at Woody’s Wagon Wheel. Ever been there? Simple food, but hearty. Not a fancy place, but a great place for folks who seriously love good food...and I take it that’s you as much as it is me.
I had a good day today. Oh, I guess I haven’t told you—I’m a stockbroker. And what do you do? Or are you a housewife? (That’s an honorable profession too.) Have y
ou lived in Jeffersonville all your life?
That’s a sneaky way of trying to find out how old you are, a question I know better than to ever ask a lady outright. But I like to have some feel for the people I correspond with. I trade recipes with a few other folks, and correspond with several. Since “tit for tat” is only fair, I’ll admit to being thirty-six myself.
Well, I have a peach pie in the oven. I’ll “see” you here tomorrow.
Max
Kari got up, checked on dinner, which was simmering, then composed a reply:
Hi, fellow gourmet,
No, I’ve never been to Woody’s Wagon Wheel. If you ever find yourself in this part of the state, I’ll take you up on dinner.
You could have asked me about my age outright. I’m not sensitive about my thirty-three years.
No, I’m not a housewife. I’m not even married. I’m in the publicity department of one of the larger corporations around here. I like my work, which mostly involves writing brochures, press releases, and similar stuff. Not exactly as exciting as writing The Great American Novel, but the money’s more secure. The work’s steady, and it pays the bills...and if you’ve got to do a 9-to-5, well, hell, it’s not a bad way to earn a living.
How did your peach pie turn out? I love to cook, but don’t bake. There’s a wonderful bakery three minutes drive from here. They sell some of their goodies by the portion, too. Tonight I’m having a piece of “To Hell in a Chocolatebasket.” Tomorrow I’ll probably buy a piece of “Mocha Sin.” They’re as clever with the names as they are with the creations themselves.
I’m a lifelong resident of Jeffersonville; never lived anywhere else. And you? Tell me about yourself. Including what you look like. I like to have a face to keep in mind when I write to people. I’m new at this email thing, but I’ve asked my other online friends what they look like too.
Kari went on for a few more sentences, and as she did, she constructed a mental image of Max. The picture, when it arrived three days and as many letters later, was no disappointment. Max had dark hair, lively eyes, handsome features, a trim physique, and a nice smile.
Of course he wanted her picture in return, and Kari selected a head shot. Her shape was not visible. She didn’t want him to know what all that cooking and eating had done to her.
In picturing him, she’d imagined someone roly-poly. By all accounts, Max had a good appetite. Yet his picture showed a lean body. Apparently, he had a great metabolism, or else he worked out extensively. Either that, or the picture was awfully flattering in comparison with reality. Enviously, she mailed off her picture to him.
Meanwhile, their correspondence was warming up. From cooking, they had progressed to miscellania. They chatted about their respective jobs, friends, towns. And then Max told Kari,
You seem a very sympathetic person, just the sort I’ve always enjoyed being around. Warm, friendly, caring. And a woman with your appetite for food probably has other appetites that are equally voracious.
Tell me, my dear--are you a passionate woman? Do those lips that love coq au vin also love to kiss? Do you pucker for a man as eagerly as to swallow stroganoff? Could this hapless, smitten suitor be a course in your banquet of love?
And then the letter went on to deal with more innocuous matters. But it had left Kari with a taste in her mouth for Max. She fell to fantasizing about him. Only four hours away—it wasn’t an impossibility. They could get together...feast on each other...and maybe have time for some food, too.
She had printed his picture out, and now she taped it up on her computer, keeping an eye on it as she typed away. She had any number of online friends now, but the letters she searched for most eagerly were those from Max. His letters mixed passion with prosaic matters, ranging from what he’d like to show her in his town to what he’d like to do to her when he got her alone.
Have you ever had your toes kissed? You can’t make love to a woman’s “private area” only. You have to make love to the total woman. You have to be a connoisseur of fine women as you are of fine foods. You have to appreciate the full woman as you do a full banquet.
I would love to make love to you. Not just to the flower of your womanhood, but to all of you. I would love to devour you as if you were a sumptuous six-course meal.
The first course is your lips. I would feast on them extravagantly, kissing them, licking them, parting them with my tongue.
The second course is your fingertips, which I would lavish my attentions on, sucking on them and kissing them. The third course is your toes. I leave it to your imagination just how I would treat them. (I have to reserve some secrets, my dear, or you’ll know it all in advance and be bored before I get there.)
The fourth course is your neck. Let me kiss all over it, nuzzling into it, inhaling your perfume—not just the scent you have dabbed on or sprayed on, but the scent of you, your skin, that personal essence any woman has, individualistic, sensual, and seductive. Let me nibble and graze at the soft skin of your neck, burrow into the warmth of it, feel the satiny skin enfold me.
Perhaps the other courses will be the subject of another letter, or perhaps I’ll let you tell me what you’d like me to do for you.
But rest assured, I am a man who knows how to appreciate a delicious woman as well as a delicious meal. And, my dear, I know you are a feast for the soul, a treat for the eyes, a lavish banquet for all the senses.
Now the only question is, when we can get together? I cannot undertake a four-hour drive each way lightly. So for the moment, we will have to let this affaire du coeur remain a matter of email and dreams.
Sweet dreams to you then, my Kari, and think of how you will feast on my body in return.
Eagerly,
Max
Wow! Kari jumped up from the computer and looked into the mirror. Her face was flushed with suffused heat; her eyes were glistening with anticipation. Her nostrils flared with excitement, and her hair, which she’d been running her hands through, was as wild as if she’d just climbed out of bed with the man.
Would he like what he saw when he met her? She studied her reflection in the mirror for the bazillionth time. Her face wasn’t that of a chubbette. Though softly, gracefully rounded rather than angular, it didn’t betray the degree of excessive heft she carried below. To look at Kari’s face, one would think she weighed a little over what she should, but one wouldn’t expect the extent to which her body was out of proportion.
Could she lose weight quickly? Years of previous attempts had failed, but she’d never had the same incentive before. Max was in her life now. Max wanted to come for a visit some time. Max thought she was a banquet. He could find plenty to feast on without discovering this much amplitude.
With all the new recipes coming in from her new online friends, she knew she hadn’t a hope of dining on tuna salad at night, but maybe if she stuck to salad for lunch...?
Returning straightaway to her chair at her living room desk, she wrote right back to Max.
A six-course feast? I have been called many things, but that’s not one of them...not that I’m objecting, you understand! You would eat this banquet by hand, wouldn’t you? Forks would seem out of place, and knives...ouch!
Teeth are excellent for eating, and fingers work well at such a banquet. I can feel your fingers now, holding my face as your teeth softly graze my nose, then drift to my lips, softly, gently chewing on each lip while my heart leaps in delight. Can you feel my heartbeat in every fiber of my body, every inch you touch?
I could continue in the same vein—I, too, appreciate fine and exotic tastes—but I confess, I’m a bit shy of speaking as frankly to you as you do to me.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not at all upset by your candor. To the contrary, your descriptions thrill me. I just don’t know you well enough to dare to be too candid in return, yet. But I hope that in time we will get to know each other much better.
Any plans for driving in this direction yet? I’m eager, and not just for the sex. (That too!) I feel we are
compatible people with similar interests—cooking, the old movies you’ve spoken of enjoying, and the sunrise walks you’ve mentioned.
As for your political involvement, which you’ve spoken of, I’ve recently had it suggested to me (by a friend’s husband) that I get involved with a local mayoralty race. I’ve been thinking of doing it—I want to see a candidate named Larrimore get elected—and your example has pushed me into deciding to definitely volunteer.
Tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll log on when I wake up, and see if there’s any mail from you (or anyone else—but don’t worry, I don’t carry on the same kind of correspondence with the others!) and then I’ll head over to Larrimore’s headquarters. I’m going to do more than just vote to make a difference this year!
And now I think my pork chops in cider are fully baked and ready, from the smell of them, so I’m logging off to go enjoy them. I would rather be dining on select parts of you!
Yours,
Kari
Chapter 3
She could have slept later. It was Saturday, after all, and Kari had no commitments. But her head was a froth of plans and possibilities, and how could she sleep with so much bubbling around up there? Opening one eye, she peered warily at the clock and confirmed her worst suspicions—though she was wide awake, it was only 7:00.
Well, at least she had managed to sleep later than if it had been a workday...though not by much. She closed her open eye, rolled over, and made a determined effort to return to the cloak of oblivion. But sleep played hard-to-get. Her mind kept boiling with the day’s possibilities, chief of which were more email from Max and volunteering at Larrimore’s headquarters.
MacGregor, Cynthia - An Appetite for Passion (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 2