She turned away toward the open door leading into his house. “Theresa and the kids are awfully lucky, too.”
“Don’t know about that.” He couldn’t tell whether her angsty expression was from some internal thought or the dizzying black and red wallpaper lining the hallway. Either way, he’d probably poured the sappy family man shtick on a little thick. “I’m sure Theresa expects me around a lot with two new babies and all the work she wants done to the house.”
Hope took a step closer to the back hall. “Did you put up the wallpaper or is that the work of the former owners?”
“Here when we moved in.”
“I’ve heard the Smithers had some out-there taste,” she said.
“Theresa calls the wallpaper brothel chic.”
Hope graced him with that low, throaty giggle.
“You’ve never been inside?”
“They invited us over one night, but it didn’t… It wasn’t…”
Somehow, asking about the swapping rumors he’d heard about them, even given his not entirely pure intentions, seemed tawdry.
“I always wanted to see this mural of Paris everyone talks about,” she said.
“Wish you could, but Theresa insisted we paint over it right away.”
“Probably a good idea.” She looked slightly disappointed.
Not as disappointed as him. Luckily, there were plenty more Smithers touches for an interior decorator to marvel over. “We’re so overwhelmed by the rest we don’t know where to go next.”
At least Theresa was.
“From everything I’ve heard, I can only imagine.”
“Don’t have to.” Tim smiled at the opportunity that fell like a plum in his lap as he grabbed the last flat of peonies from her trunk. “Come on in and I’ll show you.”
***
“The Electrician, The Handyman, and Pool Boy are in stock so you can take them home today.” Kitty spritzed the air with a spray bottle. “And all Household Helpers over $50 come with a complimentary bottle of antibacterial Clean’m up.”
Laurie, who lived three streets over and had triplets, wrinkled her nose.
“I can’t imagine cleansing spray alone can clean that stuff up properly.”
“You don’t want to use anything else.” Kitty caressed a metallic dildo with ROTOROOTERMAN tattooed along the shaft and handed it to the woman on her left to pass around the room. “Regular soap can crack plastic and latex, harboring nasty little germs. ”
“Just like the real thing.” Jane, sitting two seats to Will’s left, shook her head. “That Roto Rooter scares me almost as much as a real Roto Rooter man.”
“I’d be scared of men if I were Jane too,” Lisa whispered. “With her ex-husband becoming her ex-wife and all.”
“Can’t even imagine.” Distasteful as the current toys sounded, Will couldn’t help but appreciate the social lubricant inherent in edible shaving cream and crotchless lingerie, if not dildos named after workmen.
“I don’t know what’s worse, finding your husband in bed with another woman or having your husband turn into one.”
“Hard to say,” Will said. “At least for me.”
“Anyone here ever wonder about your spouse’s whereabouts from time to time?” Kitty set The Cable Man, a black dildo with rotating balls, back into a silk-lined carrying case. She reached into a plastic tub marked His Pleasures. “Especially when he’s out of town or off on an extra-long business lunch?”
“Or she!” Will said.
Kitty held up a hot dog bun–sized gel-filled equivalent of a toddler arm floatie. “It’s called the Love Slave.”
“Never mind,” he added.
Giggles erupted around the room.
“You laugh, but send him off with one of these and some strawberry Love Him or Lube Him and he’ll come back head over heels.” Kitty squirted a blob of lubricant into one end. “And you’ll know exactly who, or, should I say, what he’s in love with.”
Kitty stepped around the table, headed across the room, and handed the lubed sleeve to Will.
He ran his hand through his already mussed hair. “Pour moi?”
“Put your fingers inside and roll the casing back and forth over your hand,” Kitty said.
“Here goes nothing.” He plunged his fingers into the hot pink tube.
Felt his face erupt in a goofy smile.
***
“Theresa’s going to love your advice about removing those poufy curtains and repainting in a neutral color,” Tim said, taking in Hope’s depth and breadth as he followed her up the stairs.
“The more natural light, the better.” A ray of sunlight punctuated her point by reflecting off the gold in her hair. “It can be a real challenge to transform someone else’s idea of a dream nest into your own.”
Or successfully seduce the dreamy woman who lives on the other side of the shared fence.
“The master bedroom is relatively tame compared to some of the other rooms in the house,” he said, reaching the top step.
They started down the hallway together.
“Is this… ?” Hope stopped and turned to look inside the gold-papered former guest bedroom. “The nursery?”
Before he could take a step in his intended direction, or at least away from the potential emotional minefield inherent in showing her the nursery, Hope disappeared into the room.
She looked toward the window. “You might want to move the cribs against the opposite wall. With the angle of the winter sun, light will flood onto the babies at an ungodly hour.”
“Crucial observation,” he said, noting the light in her smile.
“Especially with the reflection off that wallpaper,” she said.
“Theresa mentioned something about taking down the paper and painting lavender in here.”
“Benjamin Moore has a color called Pale Iris that would be amazing in this light.” Hope eyed the pastel patchwork crib bedding sets. “That or Easter Bonnet would complement the bedding perfectly.”
“You can come up with colors that specific off the top of your head?”
She picked up a comforter and ran the silky border through her fingers. “Designing nurseries is sort of a specialty.”
Despite what seemed to be genuine enthusiasm for baby decor, his inclination to comfort her, tell her he was sure her attention to detail would pay off soon in shades of both pink and blue, could still lead down the wrong slippery slope. An appeal to her business savvy, was, well, infinitely more savvy. “What do you think it would take to get this room pulled together?”
“Money-wise or time-wise?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Depends on what you’re thinking in terms of budget.”
“Theresa already blew that on the cribs and bedding.” He chuckled. “So I guess as cost effectively as possible.”
“If she buys retail and picks in-stock furniture and accents—”
“Or I do,” he said.
“Or you do.” She paused. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to presume—”
“You presume correctly.” He smiled to relieve any embarrassment, but more in recognition of the brilliant idea that had begun to percolate. Instead of the birthstone necklace Theresa had been hinting about, he might as well capitalize on the opportunity of a dual-purpose gift that allowed him to avail himself of Hope’s services in the process. He’d hire her to decorate the room. Despite, or, with any luck, because of the complications, she’d eventually succumb to his charms. They’d have their affair. Before things got dicey, her husband would knock her up and things would necessarily have to end.
She’d move on to motherhood.
He’d move on.
“Thing is,” he said. “I need to deliver big this Mother’s Day.”
Hope nodded. “I suppose you do.”
“Can it be done?” he asked.
“I’ve always wanted to try one of those While You Were Out remodeling jobs.” Her voice trilled with an almost sensual enthusiasm. “The only thing is, I�
�d need two days—a full day for wallpaper removal and priming and then another to paint and get the room set up.”
“I can get her out of the house for some kind of an outing two days in a row, but once she smells primer, she’ll know what’s up.”
“Good point,” Hope said, looking around the room once more.
Neither said anything for an overlong moment.
“You know what we could do, though…”
“Hmm?” he asked, struggling to keep his eyebrow from rising enthusiastically.
“Design a mock-up nursery, complete with furniture and accessory choices, paint colors, swatches, and window covering options she can pick and order from herself.”
“And I give her that for Mother’s Day?”
“I’d love it. I can only imagine she will too.”
He loved the cost-benefit analysis of not having to go all out that much more.
“All I’ll need to do is get in and do some measurements.”
“I think we can arrange that, say, on a Sunday morning when she’s at church?”
“Sure.” She looked wistful. “But…”
“But what?”
“I didn’t come in here intending…” Her cheeks colored. “One minute I’m standing in your garage, and the next, I’ve not only talked my way into your house and pointed out everything that needs work, but I’m decorating your babies’ room.”
“Clearly you’re a relentless mercenary.” He smiled broadly. “The least you can do is offer a good neighbor discount.”
Her blue eyes sparkled with possibility. “For a nursery, I’ll give you better than my usual neighbor discount.”
His eyes had to sparkle that much more. “You’re hired.”
***
Will licked cinnamon lubricant from his fingers and stared at the device Kitty nestled lovingly in her hand.
“The Mini-Mixer has seven fully adjustable speeds.” She lowered her hand toward her waistband. “Just place it in your panties, dress as usual, and go about your day.”
“You’re saying it gives you an orgasm whenever?” Sarah Fowler asked.
“And wherever. Use it in line at the grocery store or on the way to pick the kids up from school.” She held up a palm-sized remote control. “Just pick pulse or blend and the next thing you know…”
“I’ve gotta have one of those,” Stephanie whispered in his ear.
Never again would he think about standing in a long line at the grocery store or sitting through an arduous PTA meeting in the same way.
Kitty pressed a button. “Or give it to your partner to control.”
With the whirring sound, Will shifted to readjust his boxers, leaned back in his chair, and enjoyed the sound of hash marks as women marked their order forms.
Stay-at-home fatherhood definitely had its advantages.
***
What would Frank do?
Maryellen quickly passed the quivering Mini-Mixer to the woman next to her and took a calming, calorie-free taste of the wild honey body powder sprinkled along her forearm.
Would he believe, like she had, that accepting an invitation to a Mother’s Helpers party meant socializing with friends and neighbors over clever must-haves for homemakers? She didn’t want to think about what he might have said or done had Laney answered the door for him in high heels and a skin-tight skirt, apologetic about the silly fun they were about to have. Was there any way he’d have listened to his intuition and turned for home because of the way things were shaping up or made a scene at an event to which he was specifically invited by a parishioner?
Question was, what did he expect her to do?
Once they’d hugged hello and she’d assured Laney she loved surprises and was looking forward to such a great time she’d taken the day off work, what else was there to do but take one of the few remaining empty seats in the front? Maryellen had heard about these kinds of parties, but never imagined anyone she knew would put her, a minister’s wife, on the guest list.
“Bring it on,” Laney, seated behind and to the left of Maryellen, said in response to whatever unspeakable item was making its way down her row.
Only Laney had both the nerve and the verve.
Apparently, more so after reading Bring It On, which had just made its way back to the library return bin. Maryellen didn’t buy into the nonsense of wishing something into reality professed by that kind of self-help book, but for someone like Laney—attractive, fearless about going after what she wanted, and forced to be a breadwinner due to Steve’s health—a message like that could make an event like this seem almost sensible.
“Smell this.” The woman next to her said, passing what turned out to be a pleasant citrus-scented body wash.
Truth be told, Maryellen sort of appreciated being included, feeling like one of the girls at something that, for once, wasn’t G-rated.
As long as Frank didn’t find out.
“We won’t have time to showcase everything,” Kitty said. “But here on my table, there’s an assortment of pleasure ware, from anal balls to the Zipper Zapper to check out after the presentation.”
She was also counting down seconds until appetizers and her best chance for a graceful exit. No one would mention a sex toy party to Frank unless she caused a scene by getting up. If she did, she was afraid she might inadvertently spearhead an exodus of the surprised, horrified, and merely uncomfortable. There was no telling who might feel compelled to brag to Frank about Maryellen’s leadership in getting them out of Satan’s clutches.
And there was no telling how Frank would react.
Would he be mad she’d made a spectacle of herself?
Mortified she was there in the first place?
Maryellen spotted a muzzle in a bin marked Assorted Pleasures.
Or, worse, make her recount every detail of the party and role-play the highlights.
Laney and Sarah, all matching cleavage and leather, appeared beside Kitty, picked up matching baskets, and proceeded to toss assorted samples into the crowd.
Maryellen couldn’t help herself from thinking about the rumor she’d overheard concerning just how close of friends Laney and Sarah really were. She managed a quick pinch to her forearm before a small bottle of Lord knew what fell into her lap.
Laney sneezed.
“Bless you,” Maryellen said.
“Thank you.” Laney noted the product she’d just tossed and winked. “And you’re welcome.”
Maryellen flashed a cursory return smile and avoided eye contact by sliding the sample into the pouch of her purse where she kept gum wrappers, useless receipts, and all other ready-for-the-nearest-trash items.
As she looked back up, a flash of silver reflected in the morning sun from out the side window.
Over on the next cul-de-sac, a Volvo inched out of the Trautmans’ open garage.
Hope Jordan’s Volvo.
Tim Trautman, tucking in his shirt with one hand and waving his cell phone with the other, ran to meet her car before she exited the driveway.
Instead of feigning interest in the various uses for the latest cream Kitty held in her hand, Maryellen watched them key numbers into their cell phones.
If only she’d had Hope’s good sense to do something other than show up at the wrong place at the wrong time.
***
“If you don’t buy anything else today, Second Honeymoon is the stuff happy, satisfied memories are made of.” Kitty held up a tube and waved it for effect. “Use it on him and he’ll last longer.” Her crooked smile promised equal parts mischief and rapture. “Use it on yourself and plan on multiple, multiple O’s.”
“I know a certain Quick-Draw McGraw who could use a tube,” Samantha Torgenson said from the recliner.
“My wham-bammer won’t try special creams.”
“Tell him it’s a lube,” Terri from Aerobics class answered. “That is, unless he considers lube insulting to his arousal abilities.”
“My husband’s very arousing. I just close my eyes and
pretend he’s George Clooney.”
“I’ll toast to that!”
The clink of champagne glasses filled the room.
Someone behind him said, “George Clooney doesn’t do it for me, but that Robert Pattinson in Twilight…”
Leslie Johnson, whom he now knew to have a husband gunning for anal said, “I still have a warm spot for Tom Cruise in his Top Gun days.”
Will eyed the $9.99 price point beside Second Honeymoon. Despite a sneaking feeling that a few of the products sounded far too good to be true and enough TMI to keep him from making eye contact with almost any husband he chanced upon mowing his lawn this summer, he was enjoying the wide world of sexual aids more than he could have anticipated. “I guess I’m more a Brad Pitt man, myself.”
Kitty squirted some cream on a handful of Q-tips. “I need a couple of volunteers.”
Stacy Simon, whose predilection for tea-bagging had him willing to follow her just about anywhere, grasped his hand and pulled him with her toward the front of the room.
Kitty waited with three Q-tips for her, and him, four. She pointed them in the direction of the front hall and basement bathrooms respectively. “Rub it on all the cracks and crevices, hang out for three minutes, then come back and give us the report.”
The next thing he knew, Will found himself in a windowless bathroom, cream-covered Q-tips in hand, looking at the mildewed bottom edge of the plastic shower curtain.
Catcalls and laughter echoed from upstairs.
Will swabbed his left testicle.
He was about to play demo stud for a room full of hopped-up women.
He swabbed his right.
A fantasy he planned to relive in detail, again and again.
He cinched up his jeans, opened the door to the bathroom, and headed across the brightly lit, but strangely doggy-smelling rec room toward the pool table. With three minutes to kill before he was the center of rapt attention, he decided to hit some balls while he waited for his own to do whatever it was they were guaranteed to do.
He picked up a stick and cued up.
The Big Bang Page 11
