A Slight Change of Plan

by Dee Ernst

  It was. It’s not that I expected Jake to refuse to settle for anyone else after he found out that I was possibly available to him again. Well, maybe that was a momentary fantasy, but I didn’t think he’d want no one else but me. I had hoped that he’d want someone else like me. But instead, when given the choice of all the women on the dating site he could have chosen, he chose someone like Sandra.

  I shook my head. “Hey, at least her name isn’t ‘Autumn’ or ‘Fawn.’ I’m glad he’s seeing someone. Now, if he does happen to get back to me, there won’t be any question about why. We’ll just be two old friends checking in.”

  I shut the laptop and looked at Alisa. “And by the way, if I don’t come home tomorrow night, don’t call the police, okay?”

  She smiled. “Okay.”

  In the end, I bought the underwear, because although I was pretty slim and relatively toned, the same genetics that kept the weight off made me completely flat chested, and I felt the need for a little pizzazz. Tom was very appreciative, but they didn’t stay on all that long. We ran into a few technical difficulties.

  “Do you need help?” he asked. I was trying to unhook my bra. The wine I’d just had certainly relaxed me, but my powers of concentration were slipping. Besides, I still had my wineglass clenched in my fist. I wasn’t used to reaching around behind me and unsnapping the thing with one hand, all the while maintaining a come-hither expression on my face.

  I spun around. “Please.”

  He moved his hands down my back. The bra dropped to the ground. I hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since Adam. That had been a long time ago, and I found myself feeling just a little insecure. Which is why, when the bra fell to the floor, I didn’t turn around.

  He came around to face me. “You’re nervous,” he said, taking the glass from my hand and putting it on the nightstand.

  I nodded.

  “But you want to keep going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. But here’s the deal. You’re taller than I am.”

  I had to giggle. “Yes.”

  “Yeah. About that. Can we lie down and continue this?”

  “Can we turn the light off?”

  He smiled. “But I really want to see you.”

  I smiled back. “Okay.”

  Once lying down face-to-face, I didn’t feel quite as exposed. He didn’t seem quite as short, and once skin started moving against skin, the remaining wisps of clothing came off very easily.

  I didn’t mind the light on at all.

  I had decided to spend the whole night, because I wasn’t as sharp at driving in the dark as I used to be. I had only two hot flashes during the night, which I cleverly disguised as trips to the bathroom. On my way back from the second trip, I put my sexy underwear back on, so neither of us would have to face my naked body in the harsh light of day. But he was up and out of bed before me, so I got to make an entrance with the benefit of full wardrobe and makeup. He was one of those chipper morning people, which normally would have irritated the hell out of me, but I was in a pretty good mood as well, so after hot coffee and bagels with cream cheese and terrific lox, I got into the car and headed home.

  I had turned off my phone at the beginning of the previous night’s activities, but once I was on my way home, I turned it back on. There were six messages. All from Cheryl. All left between nine and midnight the previous night.

  I pulled over. Yes, I know I could have just used that Bluetooth thing, but I never really figured out how to work it. She answered right away.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “At Tom’s. What happened?”

  “Really? Already?” she said.

  “Cheryl? You called me, remember? Like, a million times? What happened?”

  “Can you come over? I had a little sexual adventure myself last night, and I may never recover.”

  I turned around and headed toward Cheryl’s. She had left my name at the gate, so the little man let me through. She must have been watching from the window, because she had the front door open before I turned off the car engine.

  She was silent as she closed the door behind me. Her face was tight. We stood for a moment in her hallway. I wasn’t sure what to do or say, so I just looked sympathetic. Then she threw her arms around me and started sobbing.

  I hugged her, my mind racing. Had she been hit? Raped? I patted her back and made mother-hen noises until she pulled away from me, wiping her face with both hands.

  “What, honey?” I asked gently.

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me out to her patio, where we sat in the morning sunlight. She took a deep breath.

  “I finally decided to sleep with Marco,” she said at last.

  “Marco? Okay, Cheryl. That’s good. What made you choose him?”

  She shrugged. “He’s a musician, and very romantic. I mean, he has a deep, loving soul. And I love all artists, you know that. He hadn’t been pressuring me, I mean, not really, but I could tell it would mean a lot to him, so last night I invited him over.” She sat still, staring off into space.

  “And?” I finally prompted, when it looked like she could be meditating on that particular thought for quite a while.

  “Well, I cooked for him, of course. My cassoulet. And I had some great wine, and a rustic apple tart.” She tilted her head, as though remembering a fond but far-off memory.

  “And,” I prompted again, hoping she would not start describing what each of them was wearing.

  “And he was very happy with everything, especially the part where I told him we could finish our wine in the bedroom.” She took a deep breath. “I was quite looking forward to, well, everything. He was a very good kisser. It looked as though he was going to be very good at everything else.”

  She stopped again, but there was no wistful look in her eye. “I farted on him,” she blurted.

  I think my mouth dropped open, but I recovered quickly and snapped it shut. “You what?”

  “I farted on him!” she yelled.

  I jumped back a bit. What in the world was I supposed to say? “Ah…”

  “He was down there, you know, trying really hard, and the damn beans from the cassoulet, well, you know what can happen. I tried to move his head out of the way, but he was very intent, and I just couldn’t stop myself.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was so nice about it, but it was ruined for me. I was too embarrassed, so I put my clothes back on and sent him home. And now he’ll probably never call me again, and I liked him best of all.”

  “Oh, Cheryl,” I said, getting up and hugging her again. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I really am. But stuff happens all the time. I bet if you asked him, he’d love another chance.”

  “How can I even talk to him again? It’s not like we were an old married couple, where all those body noises are just, well, nothing much. I wanted everything to be really special for him. I had candles. I even wore my custom-made black bustier. And it was all ruined.”

  She was crying now, blubbering on my shoulder as I hunched over her, trying to pat her on the back without losing my balance. I finally stepped away, ducked back into the house, grabbed a handful of tissues from her bathroom, and ran back outside. She grabbed the tissues and blew her nose, wiping her eyes, and snuffling just a little. She finally took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

  “See what happens when I decide to have a real relationship with somebody? I fart in his face.” She glared at me. “But I bet you and Tom had a cosmic experience, worthy of a letter to Penthouse magazine.”

  I laughed out loud. The two of us had often sat up in the tree house on warm afternoons, reading from her father’s copy of Penthouse, marveling at all the inventive ways people could have sex, and wondering if either of us would ever be so adventurous and lucky.

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Cheryl. It was fine. I mean, I hadn’t been naked in front of another person for the purpose of pleasure in years, so I wasn’t expecting instant ecstasy. The earth didn’t move, although he was very ge
nerous. No revelations, no new positions, no celestial choir singing out praises. For two fiftysomething people having sex for the first time, we did okay.”

  She sniffed. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I needed wine; he needed Viagra. We took a while to get going, and things moved a little slower than I remembered, but it was lovely. What exactly were you expecting?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But at least you didn’t fart on him.”

  I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. There she was, sitting in the sunshine, dressed impeccably in white slacks and a gorgeous lime-green top that clung to her breasts and wrapped around her waist, with her hair perfectly done and her makeup, although slightly streaked, just right. She looked as poised and sophisticated as ever, the visual so completely out of sync with what she was saying.

  She started to laugh, too, thank God, and we sat there for quite a while, unable to look each other in the eye without erupting into another round of giggles. Finally, she waved her crumpled tissues in the air like a ragged white flag of surrender.

  “Marco has a great sense of humor,” she said. “I’ll call him up right now and see if I can coax a laugh out of him.” She pointed a finger at me. “Don’t move. If this goes badly, I’ll need you again.”

  She got up and went inside. I took a brief tour of her garden, admiring the roses and noticing the little sprouts of marijuana peeking up beneath the thorny bushes. She was going to have quite a crop here soon. I wondered whatever happened to the seeds we had scattered at my house. I’d have to remember to look for them. I’d hate for my adult son or, worse, his girlfriend to discover I had an illegal harvest on my deck.

  She came back out a few minutes later, beaming. “He thought I was adorable and funny. We laughed together, and he’s coming back over tonight, and I’m having grilled chicken and something else totally lacking in fiber.”

  “Good,” I said. “Can I go home now?”

  We said good-bye and I drove home. Sam and Alisa were gone, so I took a long bubble bath, something usually reserved for snowy Friday nights, then took Boone for a walk.

  I was both pleased with myself and a little disappointed that I felt no urge to wait by the phone for Tom to call.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I did not like Elaine Pendergast, the woman who would soon be tied to me indefinitely through the marriage of our respective children. Mainly I didn’t like her because she did not think Regan was good enough for her son, Philip Evans Pendergast. My feeling was that she wouldn’t think that Pippa Middleton would be good enough, but that did not soften my opinion of her. I think my kids are pretty special, too, but I try not to get too nasty and superior about it.

  Elaine had divorced Phil’s father twenty years ago, and never chose to remarry. Perhaps if she had, she would have had something else to occupy her time, and she would not have been such a continual pain in her son’s behind.

  She did not like me, either, because we once had a minor pissing contest—that she started—and I topped her “Philip’s great-grandfather was an executive with the Union Pacific Railroad” with “Regan’s great-grandfather was on the Board of Trustees at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.” She is exactly one year and one day older than I am, a fact I remind myself of whenever I doubt the existence of God.

  She has probably called me fewer than a dozen times in the three years we have known each other, but she obviously thinks I should recognize her voice, because she has never identified herself to me. I have caller ID, but I refuse to play along.

  She called the Sunday after I’d spent the night with Tom. “Kate, have you spoken to anyone about a shower?” she asked.

  I sounded annoyed, mostly because I was. “Who is this?”

  “Elaine. Is there a bridesmaid or someone doing anything about this?”

  “Hello, Elaine. So nice to hear from you. How’s the weather out there in Denver?”

  “The weather? Really? How droll, Kate. Is there going to be a shower, or should I fly out there and try to organize something?”

  “Everything is under control, Elaine. The shower is going to be the Wednesday before the wedding, and the bachelor party on Thursday. Rehearsal dinner Friday night. This is so that people who are flying in can just come out for the shower and stay, rather than make the trip more than once.”

  “How odd. Who else is coming from a long distance?”

  I settled into the couch. It was a faded floral, peonies and cabbage roses, with a great fringe around the bottom in moss green. “Well, Regan’s best friend from high school, Kim, is the maid of honor. She’s in Dallas, but her family still lives in Morristown. She’s in charge of the shower. Phil has a couple of friends from Pitt coming out. My old college roommate is going to be staying with me—she’s from Chicago—and, oh, yes, your ex-husband is flying in from London. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  The silence on the phone was deafening. “He’s coming there?” she said at last.

  I was really enjoying myself. “Is who coming here?”

  “Dammit, you know. Edward. He’s going to be at the wedding?” She sniffed. “Philip didn’t mention it.”

  “Did he have to? I mean, this is his father. Of course he’d be at the wedding.”

  “He is a philistine,” Elaine huffed. “I only hope he stays sober and doesn’t try to pick up one of the bridesmaids.”

  Well, that was interesting. Regan had met him and never mentioned that he showed any undesirable character traits, but I wasn’t giving her an inch. “That would be tough. Kim is married with twin two-year-olds, and the other bridesmaid is a lesbian.”

  Elaine snorted. “You’d be surprised. They refused any help from me, you know.”

  I sighed. “Yes. They refused me as well, so don’t take it personally. They are two very independent kids, and they know exactly what they want.”

  “Is the food going to be good, at least? Regan isn’t a vegetarian or anything, is she?”

  I bit back a nasty crack. “Why, no, she’s not. Just because she’s a vet doesn’t automatically make her a vegetarian. And I helped her pick out the caterer. It’s a very good group; they used to cater the functions at my old law firm all the time.”

  “Old law firm?” Her voice took on a little life. “Did you quit law?”

  Damn! Why had I let that slip? “Yes, a few months ago. I wanted to free up my time. I have a new place now, you know, and I was thinking about taking up golf for the summer before looking for something else to do. It’s not about the money, of course,” I lied, but only a little. “But at my age, I can’t imagine just sitting around the house all day.” Which was exactly what Elaine did.

  But she was a smooth operator. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find something, dear, provided you don’t hurt yourself while learning your new, uh, sport. Well, I feel a little better about this. What color is your dress?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Really, you can’t have two mothers of the bride and/or groom wearing the same color. I was thinking something metallic, but not too showy, of course. Not silver. Maybe a nice bronze. Or gold. Those are very hot colors this season. I’ll let you know as soon as I pick the dress. Don’t want to look like bookends, now, do we?”

  God forbid. “No, Elaine, we don’t. Listen, I have to go. Thanks for calling. If something comes up, or if I find a dress first, I’ll let you know.”

  I hung up and immediately called Cheryl. We had planned on having lunch that afternoon, but I asked if instead we could go mother-of-the-bride dress shopping first. She was agreeable, so we met at the mall instead of the restaurant.

  Short Hills is the kind of mall where you need to get dressed up to shop there. All the major designers are represented in beautifully decorated shops, each with a person whose only job is to bid you welcome. There is no food court. There are palm trees, piped-in classical music, and valet parking. Cheryl spotted me gazing up at one of the fountains, and sneaked up behind me, hissing in my ear, “I bet this is all about Elaine
.”

  Ah, what a good thing it is to have a friend who knows you so well. “She wants metallic, preferably bronze. The good news is that because of the time difference, I have a jump on her. I’ve got to find something before ten o’clock, Colorado time.”

  Cheryl laughed and followed me into Bloomingdale’s, where a very helpful young woman grabbed every appropriate metallic dress in my size the store had to offer. But I’m pretty tough on myself, and after nine try-ons, I wasn’t happy.

  “This one is too short,” I griped.

  Cheryl shook her head. “No, it’s not. You’ve got great legs, and it’s mid-knee. It’s perfect. And the draping around the neck almost makes it look like you have boobs.”

  I straightened my shoulders. “I like the third one better, with the drop waist?”

  “No. The sleeves made you look like you were wearing Batgirl’s cape.”

  I looked around. The helpful salesgirl was nowhere to be found. I didn’t blame her, really. After she heard my first three critiques, she realized what she was dealing with and got the hell outta Dodge.

  “How about the one with the jacket?” I asked, shuffling through the rack. “See? It’s not as short.”

  She fixed me with a look. “Maybe you’re having low-blood-sugar issues. Why don’t we eat something, and you can tell me what is really wrong, because all those dresses look perfectly fine, and you are in a real mood.”

  “I am not in a mood.”

  “Yes, you are. Buy that one. If, after a nice lunch and a good night’s sleep, you still think it’s too short, you can return it.”

  I snarled, but just a little, paid for the dress, and made for Joe’s American Bar & Grill. I completely ignored every healthy thing on the menu, and when the waiter came I ordered fried chicken with a double order of mashed potatoes. When the waiter left, Cheryl smirked.

  “See, I knew there was something wrong. What’s up?” she asked.

  “Elaine is a bitch. I waved back to Jake a week ago, and he hasn’t gotten in touch with me. I mean, he’s dating somebody now, but I figured he’d at least want to say hello. I had sex with Tom again, and it’s still more work than I remembered. I need a job. Oh, and yeah, I have my first golf lesson tomorrow, and I don’t want to play golf.”