Double the Love

by Taggart, Molly

  “You don’t blame yourself, do you?”

  “No. But I do wish…I don’t know. I wish I had done a dozen things differently that night. I wish it hadn’t happened. I did get counseling. I told a counselor. But I didn’t tell anyone I know personally, you know? Except you. Just now.” When she looked up from her hands, his eyes were moist. “I wish I’d met you sooner, Jeb. I wish we’d talked and danced and fallen in love at Becky’s wedding. Becky and Roger are so damn lucky. They started dating as teenagers. They’ve never had to go through all the different kinds of mistakes we’ve made…I think of all the stupid stuff I’ve done over the years …all the heartbreak…the wasted years…But Becky and Roger, they’ve almost always had each other.”

  He kissed the top of her head. He drew her close. She put her head on his shoulder. “Don’t do that,” he said. “There’s things in your life you’d like to undo, but there’s plenty of things you wouldn’t. Same for me. Some people’s paths are more direct than others’. You and I, we took the long and windin’ road, but it brought us here. Together.”

  She pulled away and looked in his eyes. He rubbed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You’re my husband,” she said.

  “That I am, darlin’. And ever shall be.” When he bent to kiss her, his lips were tender and warm, and she clung to him, one hand in his thick hair, one at his back, surrounded by his arms, safe in his embrace.

  Chapter Nine

  “Mare,” said Jeb, easing open the door to Mary Ellen’s room. The little girl, who had been signing aloud to herself, stopped suddenly. “It’s the middle of the night, little darlin’.” The sound of her voice had drifted into their bedroom just as Jeb was putting the finishing touches on a song. “If you can’t shush, I’m gonna have to take away your Wii time tomorrow. Fletcher’s already asleep in his room.”

  After several conversations, Jeb had finally convinced his ex-wife to allow Fletcher and Mare to live with him and Shannon this summer. It had been a great opportunity to bond with his son, but the living arrangement had also allowed his new wife a chance to get to know his children better.

  “I’ll go to sleep,” Mary Ellen promised him.

  Jeb shut the door again. Behind it, the singing recommenced. He was shaking his head as he walked into the master bedroom. Shannon, lying on her stomach with her bare feet in the air, paged through Highlights. “No luck?” she asked.

  “She started back up the second I shut the door,” he said as he sat on the bed and put a hand on the small of her back. “You want to give it a try? You’ve done it before. You’re brilliant with the little ones.”

  “Watch me work.” Shannon flicked her magazine shut and crawled backward off the bed.

  Jeb sighed, lay down on the bed with his hands behind his head on the pillow, and waited. He hoped Shannon resolved the issue, because he was looking forward to a little more adult time with his wife tonight.

  Fifteen minutes later, beneath a blessed curtain of silence, Shannon returned to their bedroom.

  “She’s asleep,” she said as she slid onto her stomach at the end of the bed and picked up her magazine again.

  “You’re amazin’.” He smiled, changed positions until he was lying next to her, and kissed her cheek. “Want to?” he asked.

  “Want to what? Discuss quantum mechanics?”

  “Sure, if it’ll turn you on.”

  She laughed. “We just did it three hours ago, and I’m reading.” She flipped a page of her magazine. “I’m getting some ideas for craft projects for the preschool next year. Maybe tomorrow night.”

  “Seriously?” he asked. “You’re turnin’ me down?”

  “Oh, poor baby.” She folded her lip over and looked at him.

  He gave her that puppy dog expression that he knew made her want to squeeze him. “I just want to be close to you, darlin’. I like bein’ close to you.”

  “You are close to me.”

  He sighed and rolled on his back, stretched his arms out above his head, and looked at the ceiling. “Are you punishin’ me for somethin’?”

  “I’m not punishing you, Jeb. But clearly the sex is getting too easy for you. You’re going to have to work harder in the future and not take it so much for granted.”

  “A’ight. How ‘bout I recite you a love poem?”

  She shook her head and flipped another page. “That’s not going to do it. You’ll have to write me one. An original.”

  “I can’t do that off the top my head.” Of course, he could probably give her one someone else had written, and she wouldn’t know, but he wasn’t one to plagiarize.

  He put the back of his hands over his eyes, saw the white glowing reflection of words. His lips moved silently. He tried a couple of different rhymes in his mind, scrapped them, and then tried again. He went over the same frivolous verses five times in his head, scanned them, and altered them.

  “Are you asleep?” she asked.

  He might as well have crafted a dirty limerick. His pathetic poem was that insubstantial, and there was no way it was going to impress her. Nevertheless, he went ahead and said it aloud, since it was in his mind, and he knew, if he didn’t get it out, the silly lines would keep running through his head all night. “She drinks her wine with a Twizzler straw,” he half said, half sung to a tune of his own making. It was true. She’d done that once: the red licorice sticking up unceremoniously from the crystal wine glass, the white liquid turning almost pink as she slurped. “And she likes her men just a little bit raw. / She’s got a laugh like the burst of a cannon, / but that’s just my crazy girl Shannon. / And I know, oh I know, / can’t ever let her go.” He took his hands away from his eyes and turned his head. “Sucks, don’t it?”

  She smiled indulgently.

  “I know something that’s good for inspiration, though,” he said with a lecherous grin.

  Shannon laughed, flipped her Highlights shut, and rolled over to face him. “I guess that’s enough effort,” she said just before she kissed his smiling lips.

  Tonight, they made love slowly and playfully, the soundtrack to their union a medley of moans, chuckles, and satisfied sighs. Their past lives might have been full of flat notes and disharmony, but they had found their rhythm, finally, with each other.

  THE END

  Author’s Note: Out of Rhythm is a sweet and sensual epilogue to Roots that Clutch. Discover how it all began by reading the novel-length prequel, which is available in trade paperback and as a Kindle eBook.

  Roots that Clutch (ASIN B00FN8EI6Q | ISBN 978-1492957348)

  The Caterer’s Husband

  A romantic novella of

  married love, male friendship,

  and comic misunderstanding

  by Molly Taggart

  © 2013

  CHAPTER ONE

  From the drink table, Aaron Mitchell grabs a scotch, his second of the evening, and they’ve barely been here forty minutes. The brick walls of this historic house, which is the formal home of the university president, seem to be closing in on him. His wife Janice is at the moment busily engaged in a conversation with a professor of Bisexual and Transgendered Literature – whatever that is – and another from the Classics Department. (It took Aaron a while to realize Classics meant Greece and Rome and not Charles Dickens and Jane Austen.) A moment ago, the two professors started arguing, so Aaron adjusted his red silk tie uncomfortably, muttered he was getting his wife a drink, disappeared, and left Janice alone there to work her conciliatory magic.

  Yet Aaron isn’t getting her a drink, because he’s in no hurry to get back there. Instead, he’s getting himself a drink and slinking off to the corner behind the drink table, from which he can watch Janice as she smiles and nods and moves a calming hand from one professor's shoulder to the other. She’s stunning tonight in her red sequined dress and matching high heels. The fabric clings closely to her womanly curves, and her long, reddish-brown hair billows over her bare shoulders while her lively green eyes twinkle in the light of the chandel
ier that hangs not far above her.

  Aaron feels stiff in his dark suit, which fits tightly across his broad shoulders. Janice, on the other hand, looks entirely at ease with these people, even though she never finished college herself. For years she worked as a stay-at-home mother, but last year the Mitchells moved from Georgia to Pennsylvania so Janice could take over a faltering catering business from her older sister. She rescued the business and grew it in a matter of months, and she’s personally prepared much of the food the faculty is now consuming. Her crew is serving tonight, but Janice is actually in attendance as a guest, and she’s schmoozing with the faculty in hope of becoming the go-to caterer for all university events.

  Aaron hates these formal affairs. Now that it’s his turn to be the supportive husband, he doesn’t have a clue how to play his role. He knows he owes her, but he just isn’t any good at this. Aaron has no difficulty speaking up to high school boys on a soccer field, or even in front of a microphone at a sports banquet, but he completely loses his voice in a group of adults gathering for social purposes. Janice always fills the gaps that would otherwise be swallowed by silence.

  When Aaron isn’t coaching the Franklin High Falcons or teaching P.E., he prefers spending his time quietly at home, but Janice has been busy since starting her career as a caterer, and he’s been feeling out of his element and a little lonely.

  "So," says an approaching man, who has just grabbed a scotch from the drink table, "let me guess what you're a professor of." The man is about an inch shorter than Aaron’s six feet, and his light brown hair is thin compared to Aaron's own dense black mop. The stranger looks like one of those men who could shave his head and actually appear more attractive.

  "Economics," the man says, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. "You're too stocky to be teaching literature. You're too young to be a classics professor. You're too old to be teaching any of the b.s. Mickey Mouse courses. You look too much the every man to be a math or science professor. It's got to be economics."

  Aaron dreads being asked what he does for a living. It seems like it’s the first question out of everyone's mouth here on the east coast. "What do you do for a living?" Not like Georgia, where they might ask, “Where do you go to church?” or “What sports teams do you like?” Here it’s just "What do you do?"— right off the bat like that.

  "Uh…no," Aaron replies. "I’m the caterer’s husband, but we’re actually guests tonight. I'm just a high school P.E. teacher. And a soccer coach." He waits for the condescension to filter like a flickering shadow across the man's face. Instead, relief fills the stranger’s eyes.

  "Oh, thank God!" The man slaps him on the shoulder. "You're a trophy husband too." He lets his hand fall away from Aaron. "Now please," he says, raising his scotch, "please tell me you can't stand this pretentious chatter."

  Aaron nods vigorously.

  "I’ve gotten to know this house pretty well,” the man says. “I know a spot out back where you can pretend you're at the event but you'll still be left mostly alone. You want to get out of here with me?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  The two men settle several yards outside the house into some wooden chairs by a garden with a small, bubbling fountain. There’s a cool, early fall breeze that makes Aaron glad he has a suit coat. The stranger fishes in his pocket and pulls out two cigars. "Want one?" he asks.

  Aaron nods and takes the proffered cigar, puts it between his lips, and then grabs the matches the man hands him. Once Aaron finally has the cigar lit, he slouches down into his chair, lets his neck fall back on the top edge, takes a single draw, exhales, and then holds the cigar down at his side between two fingers. "Thanks," he says.

  "We'll have to venture in eventually to appease our wives with an appearance, but, for now…"

  Aaron takes another slow draw on his cigar. It’s peppery and makes his whole mouth tingle, but he likes it. He turns his head to the side and blows the smoke out across the grass.

  "I think technically we're not supposed to smoke here," the man says. "But a man's got to have some peace."

  Aaron half nods.

  "You don't talk much."

  How are you supposed to sustain a private conversation with someone you just met? What are you supposed to talk about? Besides soccer, of course? Aaron sits up straighter in his seat. "Aaron Mitchell," he says and extends his hand to the man.

  The guy has a firm grasp. That’s a good sign. "Daniel Harris. Where are you from originally? You’ve got an accent."

  Daniel can tell all that from the few words he’s spoken? "Georgia."

  "I’m from New York, but when you're married to an English professor, you've got to be willing to go wherever they'll take her. You've got to wait until that one old guy dies somewhere and vacates a spot." Daniel reaches down for the scotch he put at the foot of his chair. "You say you're a soccer coach?"

  "Yeah."

  "I coach the rifle team over at Grant High. I started coaching when my son went to high school there. He's in med school now though. I used to be in business, but I quit working to stay home with my twin boys when they were born. They're five now."

  Aaron’s blue-gray eyes widen slightly. It’s the first time he’s ever met a real, live stay-at-home dad, though he’s heard they exist.

  Daniel studies the end of his cigar as though he’s afraid it’s going out. He turns it and takes several quick successive draws to make sure it remains lit. Then he asks, "Do you have any kids, Aaron?"

  "We've got two girls. Sophie’s five. Emily’s twelve. Hey—" Aaron gestures with his head back to the house "—thanks for helping me escape all that."

  "It can make your eyes glaze over." Daniel laughs and then says, "You know, they actually have a class here called—I am not making this up—Polytheistic Marxist Morals in the Postmodern Era."

  "Polytheistic Marxists? I thought Marxists were atheists." Aaron doesn’t ask what the postmodern era is. How could you be in a postmodern era, anyway? Wouldn't that put you in the future?

  "And there's another one called—I swear to you, I am not making this up—The Potential of Aesthetic Homosexuality and the McCormick-Shull Principle."

  Aaron laughs and then coughs and then laughs some more. "The who-what principle?"

  "Yeah, exactly." Daniel continues, "And—get this—one called Com- haha Compu- haha, Computer- haha…" Daniel finally manages to control his laughter enough to speak the title: "Computer Science as Analyzed in Suburban Pacific Islander Folklore. Suburban Pacific Islander. Is that specific enough for you?"

  Soon both men are experiencing an acute laughter that means they will either have to stop laughing or stop breathing.

  When Aaron catches his breath, he asks, "Have you memorized the whole catalogue?"

  "Oh, I pass my time memorizing it just so I can mock my wife, because I've got to have something to humble her, you know? Otherwise she'd ride roughshod all over me. You want to know my favorite course title?"

  "Oh, do I."

  "The Effect of Egyptian Literature on 21st Century Radical Classical Cubism— " Daniel is laughing again and holding up his hand, "— wait, I'm not finished, there's a colon, there's colon after all that! A colon and then it ends— Critical Issues Facing The 21st Century Minority."

  Aaron chortles.

  "Do you know how many words that is?" Daniel asks. "I counted. Eighteen words. Eighteen words!"

  "What happened to Econ 101?"

  Daniel puts his empty glass down at the foot of his chair. "My wife teaches Shakespeare. She gets fewer students enrolling every year, especially since they stopped making it a requirement for English lit majors."

  They’re quiet for a while, sitting and smoking in silence.

  "You shoot?" Daniel asks.

  "Shoot?"

  "Guns."

  "Uh…not really. I have a rifle. Once or twice a year maybe I go to the range."

  "Want to go to the range with me?" Daniel asks. "You can bring your rifle, but I'd be happy to let you try out some of m
ine."

  "Sure. I'm kind of rusty though."

  "I can refresh you. Oh, and if you want to see something fun, next time we're at one of these university events, watch me mention how many guns I own in front of Professor Laroche. He teaches a course— it's only got a two word title — get this— The Phallus. The phallus in literature, the phallus in art, the phallus in architecture …he talks about how impotent men own and shoot guns as an extension of their phalluses – phalli? Is it phalluses or phalli?"

  Aaron shrugs.

  "Whenever I run into Professor Laroche, I love to let it drop that my gun safe is well stocked and that my firearms are large and accurate."

  Aaron is coughing again. Cigars and laughter are not a good combination for him. He pounds his chest.

  "So, target shooting?" Daniel asks. "Got anything going Saturday?"

  "A soccer game in the morning.” His game is over at noon, but Janice is catering a lunch on Saturday, so he’ll need to be home for the kids.

  "Meet at 4:30 then?"

  "Sure," Aaron says, wondering if he’s just managed to make what his older daughter Emily calls a "man date."

  "Let me give you my cell number."

  Aaron fishes in his suit pocket for his cell phone and flips it open. He pokes around for the address book. He’s never gotten very quick at typing with two fingers, but he manages to type and save Daniel's phone number eventually.

  "There you are," comes a feminine voice from behind them. Aaron turns to see a tall, exotic, dark-skinned woman dressed in a tight-fitting, green gown. He doesn’t immediately assume she’s Daniel's wife. She looks too young to have a son in medical school. She also isn’t exactly what he pictured when Daniel mentioned being married to a Shakespearian professor who was the mother of twins. But apparently the woman is Daniel's wife, because she comes and stands behind him and begins raking her fingers softly through the thinning hair at the back of his neck. "Daniel," she murmurs, "come back inside. You're the only accessory I brought for this dress."