by Linda Apple
“You betcha. This called for some serious revenge. I thought all night and came up with the perfect scheme. The next morning I gave him a kiss on the cheek as usual and said, ‘Don’t worry about a thing, honey. It will all work out.’ You should have seen his face. He was so relieved. Then he said he was late and hurried out the door saying we would talk again later in the evening. I just smiled and thought, like hell we will. The minute he was out of sight, I called the lawyer my husband detested because she was the county’s best prosecutor and she hated doctors. I told her I was Dr. Toby Lowe’s wife and I needed to talk to her now. She cleared her morning appointments. After I explained my situation, I asked if she could draw up the papers that day. She assured me she could. When I finished with the lawyer, I went to the bank and cleaned out our accounts. Well, I left a dollar in each one. Then I drove to Booneville and opened up an account in a local bank there.”
“Lexi Lowe, you are evil.”
“Honey, you haven’t heard the best part.” I pushed my swing back and forth. “On the way home, I stopped at Walmart and bought him a baby gift—a pack of diapers, wipes, earplugs, and condoms, in case he decided to do to her what he’d done to me, and I stuffed them in a gift bag. Then I bought new locks for the house.”
Avalee laughed out loud. “Condoms? New locks? Shame on you.”
“Well, when I got home I asked your momma’s help, Felix, to change the locks. Then I got all of Toby’s things the lawyer said he had a right to and piled them in the front yard. Then for the pièce de résistance I put the baby gift on top of the pile with a note saying he would soon be served with divorce papers.”
Ava laid her hand on my knee, and her voice turned serious. “I know we are laughing, but it had to be a hard time for you.”
The tenderness in her voice melted my snarky exterior, and I let myself feel the pain I had buried deep inside for the past four years. My throat constricted making it hard to swallow.
“How could he, Avalee? How could he? I did everything for that man. My whole life was all about him. I gave up my dreams, my interests, and worked like a slave to get him through school. Then I did all the things expected of a doctor’s wife. Entertaining, going to every social event, working every charitable function, making sure we were in the society page. It was a good thing we didn’t have children, or I would have ended up raising them alone.”
At the thought of being childless, I broke down. I had wanted children, but he refused. Said there wasn’t time for it. The irony of it all still left a raw place in my heart. Avalee waited patiently for me to pull myself together.
“I never had a life outside of Toby. We didn’t have friends, just important acquaintances. We never went anywhere, heck, we didn’t talk. I begged him to go to counseling, but he was too arrogant. Too proud. After all, what would people say about the town doctor going to marriage counseling? He was supposed to have it all together. By the last year of our marriage, he’d become a stranger whom I occasionally had sex with.” I crossed my arms across my chest and stared at the stars winking in the blackness. “And all the while he was doing a girl in another town. Shoot, for all I know, he was probably tomcatting around here. Everyone wants a piece of the doctor, and I don’t mean him, but what he has in his bank account.”
“Did he marry the girl?”
For the first time since I’d quit smoking, I wished for a cigarette no less than nine feet long. “No. He didn’t.”
“Then what happened?”
“I guess you could say justice. Seems this girl lied to him about her age. He met her at an all majors career day at Ole Miss, where he was talking to students about opportunities in the medical field. She was there with her sister who had just enrolled. The girl told him she was a sophomore and apparently she had some real crowd pleasers under her sweater, if you get my meaning. So, my college-educated, hormone-soaked twit of a husband assumed she was a sophomore at Ole Miss and at least twenty-one. Which would have been bad enough. He turned on the charm with plenty of cash, because really? That was his only charm.
“Then out of the blue he developed an interest in Ole Miss sports. Thinking back, he was always going with the guys to football and basketball games. I should have been suspicious because he never watched the games on the television or went to one of the guys’ homes to watch. It turns out he went to Oxford by himself and met her at a hotel where they played their own games. Then when she told him she was pregnant, she also admitted she misled him and informed him she was a high school sophomore. The kid was only fifteen.”
“Oh my word. You’re not serious?”
“Yep. The idiot. Her parents had him charged with statutory rape. Toby lost his license and is now in prison, flat broke. A fat, bald nobody. Serves him right.”
“Goodness.” Ava shook her head and silence filled the pause in our conversation. “And the baby?”
“A girl. They put her up for adoption. At least they did one right thing.” I breathed deep and slowly blew it out. “I just don’t think I will ever be able to trust a man again. The shock...the rejection...was too much. Now I’m hyper vigilant. I pick up on the smallest sign of deceit in every guy I meet.”
“It is hard meeting good men at our age, that’s for sure.”
Reliving this despicable memory left me feeling like a limp rag. I needed sugar. The conversation had sucked all the serotonin right out of my system. “I need another piece of that better than sex stuff. I think I have a one-inch space left in my stomach. How about it?”
“On one condition. We must start jogging tomorrow. There isn’t any more space left in the seat of these jeans and I will go naked before I buy a larger size.
“Now that I’ve gotta see.” I hugged my friend. It was so good to have her home again.
The next morning I woke with the perfect column idea, thanks to my conversation with Avalee the night before. One I could explore for weeks—the incredible double standard some men hold over women and their complete inability to value a relationship with women over fifty. Especially if a younger woman shakes her double d’s at him.
On my way to the office, I made my regular stop at Molly Kate’s. Instead of ordering my usual double-shot skinny latte, I got a triple-shot full fat latte and whipped cream. I didn’t give a rat’s rear what men think of my expanding old woman’s girth. They sure as heck didn’t worry about theirs. Plus, I needed a triple-shot to get my brain working.
My editor, Vince, waved as I rushed by his door. When I lay this week’s column on his desk, he may be kicking me out of his door. Ty’s office was dark. Probably on an assignment.
While my old clunker of a computer warmed up, I sipped my latte. When the caffeine finally kicked in, the ideas started coming, and I attacked the computer keys.
MOONLIGHT MADNESS
~ For Women too Old to be Young, but too Young to be Old
HYPOCRITE, THY NAME IS MAN
Readers, as you know there are certain things that drive me mad. And this fifty-something woman always has her say. Today is no exception.
The topic of this week’s column is an extension of a conversation I had with my friend who is also in her fifties. Our little tête à tête made me want to spit hellfire.
Curious about what has me burning?
Well, I’ll tell you. It is that certain group of middle-aged and beyond men who think they are too good for their middle-aged wives or women who are fifty or older. You guys know who you are. You only have eyes for young, thin women with big breasts.
And yet, you also have the uncanny ability to totally forget the reflection you see in your mirrors. You ignore your bellies that lap over your belt, your bald heads circled with a horseshoe of hair, and flabby muscles.
Can someone please explain this to me? Oh, I get you wanting girls in their twenties and thirties. After all, these gals have tight little bodies and clear, wrinkle-free faces. And of course there are those with saline-filled breasts that look like beach balls stuck on their chests with Velcro.<
br />
What I don’t get is how you men actually think these women are attracted to you. Really? Why? Besides your fat stomachs, your teeth are yellow and what hair you have left is now growing out your ears and nose. And your chest? Forget it. By now your muscles are flaccid. (And that is probably not the only thing.)
Let me fill you in, guys, if these girls are paying attention to you, it isn’t because you are sexy. It is what you have behind you. And no, I’m not talking about your butt. It is what is inside your wallet. Don’t fool yourselves.
Why can’t you men get past the outside of a woman and see what is inside their minds? Here’s a newsflash for you. You are stepping over dollars to pick up dimes. Women in their fifties and sixties are very interesting. They have lived long enough to have something to talk about besides themselves, the latest fashion, shoes, purses, or Hollywood gossip. They are fun and nurturing, in other words, they think of others first. Imagine that? And they are very sexual. They are comfortable in their own skin and are not worried about getting pregnant or wanting to get pregnant. What is wrong with you pot-bellied, wrinkled, hairy-nosed men? Did you lose your good sense when you lost your hair?
So here’s the deal. I would like to hear from single and divorced women over fifty. I want to know about your frustrations, complaints, fears, and insecurities with dating. Did your husband leave you for a younger woman? Do you have any advice? What about in the job market? Are you passed over for younger women?
And men, since I’m a fair-minded person, you are free to write me and defend yourself. But I’m warning you, there may be hell to pay. After all, this is MOONLIGHT MADNESS.
My fingers were numb from all the pounding, but wow, did it ever feel good to get this off my chest and onto the computer screen. And when my column went to print, that is if it made it past Vince, you better believe I’d send a copy to Toby. I sat back in my chair and took another sip of my full-fat latte.
A soft tap sounded on my office door, and Avalee stuck her head in. “Hi there. Busy?”
For pity’s sakes. That woman totally destroyed the credibility of my guys don’t appreciate women over fifty rant. Men probably salivated over her. She had a flat stomach, absolutely no wrinkles in her heart-shaped face, her blond hair was thick and wavy and her sea-blue eyes sparkled, not to mention a smile that people paid dentists thousands of dollars to get. And on top of everything else, she even had respectable boobs. Real ones. Darned her.
“Yoo hoo? Earth to Lexi.”
“Oh, yes. I mean no. I’m not busy. Come on in.” I motioned to the chair beside my desk. “I just finished my column. Want to read it?” Without waiting for her to answer I pushed the print button.
“Sure.” She sat and crossed her long legs. What I wouldn’t give for her height. Weight looked better on tall gals. There you go again, Lexi. You are not supposed to care. Remember? Geeze. I threw the rest of my latte in the trash anyway.
She scanned the paper, occasionally smiling. Once she laughed out loud. When she finished she laid it down. “You can get away with this?”
“Yep. It’s my madness, after all.”
“Even the flaccid part?”
“Especially that. I mean, medicine for men with flat tires is blared on every television channel. Don’t you get sick of seeing it on your screen?” I slapped the desk. “Think about it. Here we are in our sexual prime having to deal with men who aren’t what they were in their thirties, so they take medicine to help them, for crying out loud. But these same men think they are too good for us and look for young women? Frankly, I’d like a younger man with that immediate at your service body part. But these young men want young women too. It’s just not right.”
Ava blushed. “I know what you mean. But there isn’t a thirty or even forty-year-old man who would even consider a woman at our age.”
“I know of a forty-two-year-old man who would. And his member requires no medicine.”
I jerked my head up. “Ty Jackson! How long have you been eavesdropping?”
“Sorry, Lexi, but your conversation grabbed me by the ears and wouldn’t let go. I mean, you had me at sexual prime.”
Ava sat as if she’d been hit with a stun gun. Ty’s smile faded. “You okay?”
She shook her head, then nodded. “Sorry…”
Ty knelt beside her. “It’s Marc. Isn’t it?”
“It’s just that you look so much like him. I’ll get over this. I promise.”
“Hey, I still get that look from my mother sometimes. I’m used to it.”
I thrust my column at him. “Here, let me know what you think.”
He stood and took it. Leaning against the desk, he read the column and then handed it back to me. “As usual, you don’t hold back.” His smile caused tiny lines to form around his bourbon eyes.
“Well? Can’t you see why I’m so frustrated?” I threw my arms up. “Heck, every woman in the United States is frustrated except for our friend here, Miss Avalee Preston who defies age. The rest of us are screwed. And not in a good way.”
Ty gave a bemused smile. “Not necessarily. I like women in their fifties.”
“Yeah. Right.” His mollifying irritated me. I waved him off. “Go on. Get back to work.”
“What? I’m serious.” He picked up the copy of my column and thrust it at me. “For the very reasons you list here.”
Ava watched us with a hint of a smile. Ty turned to her. “And I’d like the opportunity to prove it. How about it?”
She tilted her head. “What part do you want to prove? That you don’t need the medicine?”
Ty tapped his jaw and feigned deep thought. “An excellent place to start.” He held his hand out and took hers. “Seriously, I’d like to catch up. One adult to another. How about if I come over tonight?”
“One adult to another? As opposed to one teenager to a child?” Her smile broadened. “I would like that.”
This exchange between Avalee and Ty got a little tedious. I hated being ignored. And, she obviously forgot she had plans, so I spoke up. “She can’t.”
They both turned their gaze toward me.
“It’s Martini Monday, Avalee. Remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Sorry Ty.”
“Martini Monday?” He held his palms up. “I like martinis.”
This guy just wasn’t giving up. “Sorry, just us girls.” There was no way he was going to crash my party.
He turned his attention back to Avalee. “How about Tuesday night?” His lopsided grin could have charmed the feathers off a peacock. I’ve seen that look on a man before. Ty wasn’t only interested in catching up. He was interested in catching. Period. Ava flushed like a smitten teenager. “All right. How about coming to supper?”
“Now you’re talking. I’ve heard about your mother’s cooking and have always wanted to put my feet under her table.”
I couldn’t resist. “And just where would you like to put your shoes later?”
Avalee turned hot red. “Lexi. Really?”
Ty laughed. “Yep, Lexi. You have never been one to hold back. I’ll see you girls later.” He waved and walked out.
The vibe in my office had definitely changed after Ty entered the scene. “Well. You two have given me my next column idea.”
Ava tore her attention from the door. “What’s that?”
“Older women who seduce younger men.”
She snatched a paperclip off my desk and threw it at me. “You are so bad.”
I laughed. But truth was? I wasn’t kidding.
Chapter 7
LEXI
Martini Monday
I dumped biscuit mix into the bowl, added sausage, shredded sharp cheddar cheese, and plunged in with both hands. Greasy sausage cheese balls would go perfect with martinis. And of course fudge. I had a pan cooling on my counter.
While I squeezed the ingredients together, my thoughts went to Avalee and Ty. What if...? I shook my head. No way. But, then again, what if they did get together? Wouldn’t t
hat be a hoot? I could see why he was attracted to her. Except for the barely perceptible crow’s feet around her eyes and a couple of creases across her forehead, she looked gorgeous.
My nose began to tingle. Why did that always have to happen when I was up to my elbows in goo? I rubbed the crook of my arm against it, but sneezed anyway. Good thing these things were going in a 350-degree oven.
While I rolled the mixture into walnut-sized balls, I imagined Ava getting tipsy and eating about twenty of them. Between her mother and me, my New York City friend would soon look like the rest of us. Pleasantly plump. At least that was my evil plan.
After sliding my fat and carbohydrate-laden snacks in the oven, I checked the fudge. Good. Nice and firm. The aroma of warm chocolate still lingered in the air. I eyed the stove and slunk toward the pot coated with butter, sugar, and cocoa deliciousness. No time like the present to clean up the pot. I snapped up a spoon, scraped it around the sides, and licked it like a cat cleans its leg. This was my kind of kitchen duty. As usual, guilt nagged at me. So, in order to shut it up while I finished scraping the pot, I promised myself I wouldn’t eat any fudge when the girls got here.
Yeah, like that is going to happen.
The fragrant aroma of sage wafted from the stove and the timer sounded. I took the pot to the sink and filled it with water before I fell into a sugar coma, slipped on the potholders, and opened the oven door. A blast of savory, moist heat warmed my face and made my mouth water. I set them on the counter to cool and slid in the other pan. There was just enough time to set up the bar and look for a funny DVD in my collection.
While I sorted through my movies, I thought about my fudge orgy in the kitchen, and remembered the I Love Lucy show when Lucy and Ethel worked in the candy factory. Excellent. I found it next to the Vitametavegimin episode. Yes. After a few martinis, we would all be in Lucy’s shoes trying to pronounce that word. I chuckled just thinking about it.
With just minutes to spare, I set up the snack table, set out martini glasses, filled the bar sink with ice, pulled the bottle of Grey Goose from the freezer, and plunged it in the basin.
