Sweet as Sugar, Hot as Spice

by Kimberly Raye

  Maybe not. But maybe there was and Morty just didn’t have a big enough spark to start things flaming.

  She clung to the last thought, pushed her doubts and her dead husband’s voice aside, and focused on finishing her tapioca. And then she shook Morty’s hand, bid him good night, and headed home to go through the dozens of ad responses she’d received that morning.

  If at first you don’t succeed . . .

  She was not going to panic.

  Jacqueline Farrel told herself that as she paced the Berber rug in the front hallway of her apartment and waited for her mother to return.

  Her apartment?

  The question echoed in her head as she glanced toward the living room and glimpsed Donovan sprawled on her lovely Victorian sofa. White brocade patterned with pale pink tea roses. His sock-clad feet were planted firmly atop one of her favorite books, The Divine Female, which sat on her cherrywood coffee table right next to a hand-sculpted female vagina done by one of her favorite New Reality artists.

  Conservationist magazines cluttered the rest of the tabletop, along with the leather billfold she’d purchased for Donovan last Christmas, his discarded T-shirt from the previous night, a plate with a half-eaten slice of pizza, and the real bee in her bonnet: an empty Bubba Beer can.

  Why, she could barely pass the beverage in the grocery aisle without feeling sick to her stomach, and now he’d brought the stuff into her apartment—yes, her apartment because she’d yet to add his name to the lease—and he’d had the gall to actually drink it right in front of her . . .

  Her thoughts ground to a halt as the doorknob turned and the door opened. Ruella Farrel walked in, a sheepish look on her face.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Without waiting for a reply, Jacqueline blurted out, “It’s practically midnight.”

  “It’s ten fifteen,” her mother pointed out as she closed the door and set her purse near the coatrack.

  “That’s practically midnight. I was worried sick, Mother. You can’t traipse around Los Angeles at all hours of the night. It isn’t safe.”

  “I’m a grown woman, dear. I’m not defenseless. I have mace. Besides, I wasn’t traipsing. I was having dinner.”

  “With a man you hardly know.” Jacqueline waved the note her mother had left, which read simply “Having dinner with my new male friend. Don’t wait up.” “What if he had turned out to be some serial killer? Which is a very likely possibility, given that ninety-nine point nine percent of all serial killers are male.”

  “He wasn’t a serial killer.”

  “Obviously, otherwise you would be in pieces in his refrigerator right now instead of here with me.”

  “He made me dinner. A very delicious dinner. He could really cook.”

  “That’s nice, but—”

  “Yes, it is nice,” Ruella cut in. Her face drew into a frown. “That’s the problem. I don’t want nice. I mean, I do. But I want nice and exciting, and Morty was only one out of two. Of course, if he bought a new tie and changed his denture cream, maybe that would help. What do you think?”

  “I think I don’t want to think about new ties or denture cream or an exciting man named Morty.”

  “He wasn’t exciting at all. That’s the problem.”

  “No, the problem is that you’re running around a strange city looking for men. You’re a grandmother, for heaven’s sake.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re a mother, too. My mother.” Oh God, had she just said something that close-minded? She had. Even worse, she’d meant it.

  Jacqueline ignored the sudden urge to drop to her knees and say a dozen I’m sorry’s to the Big Feminist Upstairs. Instead, she put on her best smile. “It’s just that I thought we could play a game of Scrabble. You like Scrabble.”

  “Scrabble is boring, dear. I’m through with boring. I want heart-pounding, blood-pumping excitement. I want to go all weak in the knees when a man looks at me. I want to have a real”—her voice lowered to a whisper—“orgasm. With a man.”

  More power to you. That’s what Jacqueline should have said. What she’d said to countless women the world over. Every female, regardless of race, creed, color, or socioeconomic status was entitled to a good orgasm. It was every woman’s basic right.

  Every woman except the one who baked cookies for your second-grade Christmas party, and made a Joan of Arc costume for your first school play, and fed you milk shakes every time you got your braces tightened, and argued on your behalf when you got suspended for picketing school officials when they refused to let you join the varsity football team (not that you wanted to play football, but it was the principle at issue).

  “Let’s play Scrabble,” Jacqueline pressed, trying to tamp down her sudden panic. Scrabble was safe. Familiar.

  “Sorry, dear. I have a few letters to answer.”

  “These?” Jacqueline held up the monstrous stack that had been sitting in the mailbox when she’d come home from the studio a few hours ago. It had been less than a week since Eve’s impromptu wedding and Ruella’s decision to stay for an undetermined length of time, and already the woman was getting mail.

  “Is that all?” Her mother looked disappointed.

  “There are over fifty letters here, Mother.”

  “I got one hundred and eight yesterday. I’ll definitely have to broaden my territory and try a different singles site. Or maybe I’ll sign up for one of those dinner party dating deals—Eight at Eight—or something like that. The more men I meet, the better my chances of finding my perfect match. Oh, Donovan,” she called out as she plucked the rubber-banded stack of letters from Jacqueline’s hand and walked past her toward the living room. “Did you tape my favorite show?”

  He glanced up. “Taken care of, Ruella, and I must say you look really fetching tonight.”

  Ruella blushed and sank into an armchair while Donovan swung his legs to the floor and pushed to his feet. He walked over to the VCR/DVD unit that sat on the dark cherrywood entertainment center just to the left of the television.

  Jacqueline felt a measure of relief for the first time in days as she watched Donovan press the REWIND button and ready the tape to play. Her gaze shifted to her mother, who settled into the soft leather, an eager light in her eyes. Here was the woman who made it a point never to miss any event in her only daughter’s life.

  Jacqueline smiled. “Donovan doesn’t have to go to so much trouble to tape my show for you. I can bring home a fresh copy from the studio. I would have if I had known how anxious you were to watch today’s episode.”

  “Not your show, dear.” Ruella motioned Jacqueline to be quiet as Donovan returned to the sofa, a remote control in each hand. A careful aim and a few clicks, and the television screen fired to life.

  The minute Jacqueline heard the familiar theme song, she knew something was very wrong. A few frantic heartbeats later, an announcer’s voice confirmed it.

  “If it’s a man you need, don’t be blue, Cherry Chandler’s here with a wealth of advice for you!”

  The air rushed from her lungs and her heart jumped into her throat. “You taped Cherry Chandler?” she finally managed, her voice little more than a croak. “Since when do you watch Cherry Chandler?”

  “Since I decided to have my very first—”

  “Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.”

  Excitement lit Ruella’s gaze. “Tonight is ‘Come-and-Get-Me Hair’ night. Cherry’s going to talk about proven hairstyles that men find irresistible.” She touched her gray bun. “I’ve been thinking about getting mine cut.”

  “You’re going to cut your hair?” Jacqueline tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “For a man?”

  “In the interest of finding a man, dear. Then again, maybe I’ll get it permed. Or maybe I’ll color it and then do some of those highlights that have become all the rage.”

  “I think you would look good with color and highlights,” Donovan said.

  “Really?” Ruella smiled. “I just might do it if
Cherry thinks it’s a good idea. I’m sure it will take off years and give me a softer edge.” Her gaze shifted to Jacqueline, who was still too stunned to talk. “You don’t need to color, dear, but you might think about doing some of those low lights to add depth.”

  “I think low lights would be great on you, honey.” Donovan eyed her with a look that usually made her toes tingle.

  It would have, if she hadn’t been this close to having a nervous breakdown. Cherry Chandler and “Come-and-Get-Me Hair” and Jacqueline’s mother?

  “They would definitely spice up that pale hair of yours,” Ruella said. “You could do brown or maybe red. Why, Cherry said on ‘Color Yourself a Man Magnet’ that men absolutely love red.”

  “I don’t care what men love,” Jacqueline blurted out as the realization of the situation finally hit her. Cherry and her mother. Her mother and Cherry. “I’m not coloring my hair for a man.”

  “What if I asked you to?” Donovan pushed to his feet and stepped toward her. “Not that I would. But if I did, would you do it for me?”

  “Of course not. Why don’t you color your hair for me?”

  “I thought you liked my hair.”

  “I do, when it’s not attached to the brain that thought it was a good idea to tape Cherry Chandler, of all people.”

  “I did it because your mother asked me to, and I care enough about your mother to overlook my own personal preferences to do something just because it means the world to her. Because it makes her happy. And I think you would look good in red hair.”

  “I’m not coloring my hair for a man.”

  “I’m not just any man. I’m your man, and you’re my woman.”

  She was not hearing this.

  “I am not your woman. I am my own woman. An individual. A separate entity.”

  “Who happens to share the same space with me.” He closed the distance between them and stared down at her. “And three beautiful daughters. And thirty-six years of memories.”

  She knew that look in his eyes. She’d seen it way too often over the past several weeks, and it didn’t bode well.

  “We share so much already, honey, which brings me to my next point.” Donovan captured her hand in his before she could run the other way. “I wanted to do this in a more proper fashion, but you’ve been avoiding me lately. So I’m just going to say it.”

  “Okay, okay,” she blurted out. “I’ll open a joint checking account.”

  Surprise flickered in his eyes before fading into a determined light. “It’s not about the checking account.”

  “You can have the monogrammed towels with your initials.” She tried to pull her hand free.

  “Will you—”

  “I’ll get the damned low lights.” She pulled and twisted, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “—marry me?” he finished.

  “I . . .” Can’t jumped to the tip of her tongue, but for some reason, she couldn’t seem to spit it the rest of the way out. Not with Donovan looking at her so intently and Cherry Chandler chattering in the background about short versus long hair and the floor tilting this way and that.

  “I . . .” She swallowed. He leaned closer, his hand tightening around hers, his massive frame taking up all her space. “I—I think I need to lie down.”

  Chapter 13

  Mom, what are you doing here?” Eve blurted out when she opened her front door to find her mother standing on her doorstep.

  “I need to lie down.”

  “O-kay. Is there some reason you drove all the way across town to do it?” Eve was getting a bad feeling about this, particularly when she noted the large black leather suitcase sitting near her mother’s feet.

  “Your grandmother is looking for the perfect sex partner. Not that I have anything against a mature, independent woman looking for great sex. But she’s taken out a singles ad in a strange city and . . .” Jacqueline shook her head. “She’s your grandmother, for heaven’s sake. And then there’s your father. That man is even crazier than my mother. He wants to . . .” Her body started to shake violently as if she were trying to ward off an incredible evil. “I can’t even say it.”

  “He wants to marry you?”

  She shivered again. “Just hearing it makes my skin crawl. Can you believe he asked me to . . . That he wants us to get . . . Can you believe it?”

  “After thirty-six years?” Eve shrugged and tried to ignore the suitcase. “It makes sense.”

  “Only to a warped, twisted, disturbed, married mind.” In other words, you.

  “I can’t see why you’re so surprised.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’m outraged. He knows good and well that enslaving myself to anyone is not an option. So why he’s persisting in pushing me, I have no clue. On top of that, your grandmother is actually encouraging it. She even cried when he . . . when he asked . . .”

  “When he asked you to marry him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m sure it was touching.”

  “It was outrageous. Your father has obviously gone off the deep end and taken your grandmother with him. Not that it’s their fault. It’s society, I tell you, what with those backwards, cretin-ish Himanists ruling the television with their Monday Night Football and Thursday Night Smackdown and all the other stuff in between. Then there’s Cherry Chandler, who’s spreading her vicious propaganda in the name of ratings. She’s warped both of their minds, and no amount of reasoning on my part can help them.”

  “But you’re going to try, right?” She cast a hopeful gaze on her mother.

  “Of course I am. I’m going to formulate a reasonable course of action to prove to them both how silly they’re being, which is why I’m here. I simply can’t think straight with the constant nagging and— You really should try to tone down the makeup, dear. Anyhow, with so much harping on the same old, same old, I’m this close to throwing myself onto the nearest freeway.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “In the meantime—”

  “You’re going back home to tough it out in the propagandist trenches with the two people you love most in the world?” Please, please, please.

  Her mother picked up the suitcase, straightened her shoulders, and marched past Eve into the small hallway. “I’m emancipating myself from the insanity and moving in with you until I come up with a plan. Cherry can’t get away with this. Why, she’s been ruining my life since we roomed together at Harvard. Always influencing our instructors to get her way and promote her backwards belief in a perfect man and a perfect relationship. Do you know that she took my internship at Masters and Johnson with that load of baloney? Professor Mathews and his cronies might have bought that bunk—what do you expect? They’re men. But I don’t. If only I could figure out a way to debunk her. I will, but it’s going to take time. Meanwhile, you and I can get to really know and appreciate each other.”

  Eve meant to breathe. But the minute the words registered, everything seemed to stop. Her heart paused. Her lungs froze. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  Hello? You saw the suitcase?

  She had, but Eve hadn’t wanted to think . . . It couldn’t mean . . . No!

  “Eve? You don’t look so good. You look pale, despite all that makeup.” Jacqueline peered closer. “What’s wrong?”

  “I . . .” Eve forced herself to take in a breath. Her lungs constricted before spitting the air back out and demanding more, and more. “I think I’m the one who needs to lie down.” Or fall down. Yep, she was definitely this close to keeling right over. “You can’t . . . I mean, I’m married, Mom.”

  Her mother looked as if she wanted to say Don’t remind me. Instead, she seemed to force a smile. “I realize that, dear, but Linc will be gone so much of the time with his racing and everything, won’t he? So it’s not like you two are joined at the hip and there’s no room for me. Besides, I’m your mother.” Jacqueline set her suitcase off to the side and peeled off her beige blazer. “It’ll be fun. It’s been forever since we’ve sp
ent any real time together.”

  The statement sent a rush of panic through Eve that quickly swamped the dread. Her gaze darted past her mother to the small hallway that led to the closed door where Linc had disappeared not more than fifteen minutes ago. There were still drops of water on the hardwood floor where he’d walked from the bathroom to the guest bedroom.

  She’d been sitting on the sofa with her computer when she’d heard the footsteps and glanced up in time to see him pass the living room doorway wearing nothing but a fluffy white towel and a grin.

  The picture he’d made, all hard, tanned muscle drip-dropping past her, had been enough to kick-start her heart and make her seriously contemplate a full running tackle. But then he’d disappeared, the guest bedroom door had closed with a solid thunk, and she’d been safe.

  “Don’t bother to show me the way,” her mother told her. “I know right where the spare bedroom is.”

  “On second thought,” Eve blurted out as her mother stepped forward. “Forget lying down. I really think I need to throw up.”

  But Eve didn’t have time to toss her cookies. Her mother was this close to blowing her Happily Married cover.

  So she grabbed the woman by the elbow and spun her around toward the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You look thirsty, Ma.”

  “I had a cup of coffee on the way over—black with extra sugar. I thought the caffeine might make me feel better, more alert, so as to better figure out a way to fix that Cherry and save my family, but now I just feel jittery. I need to relax and get settled in. A good night’s sleep will clear my head and give me the right perspective. I tell you, that woman should have never been put on the air in the first place. She’s a danger to our society.”

  “Great,” Eve said as if her mother hadn’t uttered a word. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She flipped on the overhead fixture. Light flooded the black and white kitchen.

  “I told you,” her mother said as Eve steered her toward the stainless-steel, glass-topped table, “I’m not thirsty.”