by Sandra Brown
"No, I'm frying the meat tonight."
"Aw, Mom, they taste so much better when you cook them outside."
"Not tonight."
"How come?"
Brother! Did she ever get sick of that question. "Because I'm the mother and I said so. Now go wash up, then come back and set the table."
They slunk out, muttering about her unfairness. Elizabeth's mouth watered at the thought of meat cooked over charcoal, but she wasn't about to go back outside tonight. All summer, she had been uncomfortably aware of Thad Randolph sitting on his screened back porch watching TV until late every night. Each time she had to go outdoors, she debated with herself. Should she call out a greeting, as she did to all her other neighbors? Should she give him a tentative little wave? It was nerve-wracking, this never knowing what to do.
If he hadn't seen her, she didn't want him to think she was trying to attract his attention. And if he had seen her, she didn't want him to know that she knew he had. So it had always seemed prudent just to ignore him.
Her behavior was juvenile at best and rude at worst, but a widow couldn't be too careful with her reputation. At the risk of being unfriendly, Elizabeth had been unapproachable to the opposite sex since her husband's death two years earlier.
She had waved John good-bye on his way out the back door that morning, never suspecting it would be the last time she would see him alive. In fact, she'd been distracted by Megan, who had just remembered that she needed a spool of thread and a paper plate for an art project at school. Elizabeth hadn't even noticed what shirt and necktie he had on that day. She hadn't realized that he needed a haircut until she'd gone to the morgue to identify his body, which had been pulled from the wreckage of the freeway pileup. It took her days to recall their last private conversation. Their last kiss. The last time they'd made love.
What she would always remember was his smile and his laugh, his kindness and caring, his sweet lovemaking and his dreams for their future. He had been a darling man who had given her two beautiful children and a great deal of happiness. His death had left a vacancy in her heart that would never be filled.
That gaping wound was bothering her more than usual tonight. That's why when she tucked in Megan and Matt, she drew them to her and hugged them so tight they became embarrassed by her emotion and squirmed free.
Her ardent hugs represented more than her love for her children. They indicated her desperate need for human contact, for intimacy of any kind. She missed being on the receiving end of someone's love and affection. A grownup's love and affection. A man's. Sometimes her body and soul were so hungry for it, she thought she'd die.
Once the lights were out in the rest of the house, she entered her own bedroom and switched on the floor lamp. It stood beside her bed on a brass pole and had a glass shade shaped like a lotus blossom. She'd redecorated the bedroom several months after John's death because it held too many poignant memories.
Now, it was arranged just the way she wanted it, but she could find no joy in it. A beautiful room should be shared. Her boudoir might just as well be a cloister. Lilah was right. Living a nun's life was no fun unless you were a nun. Going to bed alone every night was nothing to look forward to. She missed the comfort of having a warm body lying against hers while she slept.
But what could a decent widow with two children looking to her for moral guidance do about her celibacy? Nothing. Contrary to Lilah's advice, she couldn't rush out and net a man just to cool the fevers of her body. Would that one could take a pill to eliminate sexual urges the way aspirin staved off fever.
Thanks to Lilah's half-baked psychology, her mind had run amok today. She had behaved like a total idiot in front of Thad ... Mr. Randolph ... this evening. He was probably over there now laughing at how flustered she'd become when he rescued her from the tree.
Impatient with herself for acting like such a simpering ninny over a nice pair of shoulders and blue eyes that would give Paul Newman's competition, she turned off the lamp and got into bed. But she couldn't resist the temptation to peep through the slats of her shutters to see if his lights were still on.
Yes. She could see him through the screened walls surrounding his porch. He was slumped in an easy chair, staring into the silver, flickering TV screen. He was alone too. And she wondered if his solitude was by choice, or if he hated loneliness as much as she did.
* * *
"And then what happened?"
"And then he had to reach up there and lift her down."
"Mr. Randolph did?"
"Uh-huh. He put his hands ... here."
"But that was after her petticoat got torn."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that."
"Her petticoat got torn? You skipped that part. Go back to that."
"Good morning."
Three heads turned at the sound of Elizabeth's sleepy-hoarse voice. Knotting the belt of her chenille robe, which was way past retirement age, she shot her sister a poisonous look and headed for the coffeepot.
"Why didn't you wake me up?" she asked, stirring Sweet'n Low into black coffee.
"Because it sounds as though you needed a good night's rest." Wearing a feline smile, Lilah bit into a piece of crisp bacon.
"I see you've already had breakfast." On the round kitchen table were three syrup-sticky plates.
"I fixed pancakes for the kids. Want some?"
"No," Elizabeth snapped ungraciously. Ordinarily she would have been grateful for Lilah's dropping by to cook breakfast for Megan and Matt so she could sleep late. On Saturdays she kept Fantasy open only from noon until five. It was her one morning a week to sleep past six-thirty. "Go do your chores," she told her children crossly. "Make your beds and put all your dirty clothes in the hamper."
"Then can I go out and play?"
"Yes." Breaking her first smile of the day, Elizabeth swatted Matt on the seat as he sped past her chair. Deferring to Megan's maturity, she gave her a brief hug.
"Cute kids," Lilah remarked when they were alone.
"And talkative. Especially when they've got a busybody pumping them for information."
"I didn't pump," Lilah said righteously. "I merely asked what was new and they told me." She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Did the mysterious Mr. Randolph really rescue you from the tree last night?"
There was no use denying it. "Yes, he did."
"Bingo!" Lilah chortled, clapping her hands together.
"It was no big deal. Not nearly as melodramatic as you're making it sound."
"We were just getting to the good part when you came in. What was that about the torn petticoat?"
"Nothing. My petticoat got caught on a twig."
"And he got it off?" Lilah's smile was downright lascivious.
"Yes, but it was a humiliating experience. I felt like a fool."
"What's he like? What'd he say?"
"Forget it, Lilah. He's ... he's elderly."
"Elderly?"
"Well, you yourself noticed that he has gray hair. He's too old for me."
Lilah frowned. "How gray? How old?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask," she said peevishly.
"Hmm, well, it's a start. At least you attracted his attention."
"I didn't do it on purpose."
"The net result is the same.
"Get this through your conniving head, there is no net result."
"Stop shouting at me, Elizabeth. I'm interested for your sake."
"Well, don't be!"
Lilah sat back in her chair, sighing in exasperation. "Brother! You're as cranky as an old bear this morning. Know what I think? I think you'd be in a much better mood if he'd spent more time unsnagging your petticoat."
"Lilah," Elizabeth said warningly.
Lilah was unfazed. "Here, read this while I'm doing the dishes." She tossed a magazine toward Elizabeth before she began clearing the table. It was a popular monthly publication which had an enormous female reading audience. "Page ten."
Elizabeth thumb
ed forward to the specified page. Upon reading the headline of the advertisement, she glanced up at her sister, a glance Lilah pointedly disregarded.
By the time Elizabeth had read the lengthy ad, Lilah had rinsed and placed all the dishes in the dishwasher. She returned to the table. The two sisters stared at one another.
"Well ?" Lilah said at last.
"Well?"
"What do you think of the idea?"
"You're not serious? You expect me to write out my fantasies for publication?"
"I do."
"You're sick."
"I'm normal. And so are you. And so are your fantasies. Only I'll bet they're much more detailed and romantic than most. What could be the harm in writing them down and submitting them for the book this publisher is putting together?"
"The harm?" Elizabeth cried. "The harm could be that I have two children."
"They won't be buying a copy, will they?"
"Don't be cute, Lilah. Your idea is absurd. I'd never feel comfortable about doing something like this. I'm a mother. A widow."
"But you're hardly Granny Grunt. You're a young, attractive woman whose husband happened to die prematurely. It says right here that they want stories from 'average' women. You qualify. The only thing that's not average about you is your love life, which is zilch. But," she added hastily when she saw that Elizabeth was about to take issue, "it can be a bonus. If you're deprived, then your fantasies should really sizzle."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward. "I can't do it. I don't know where you ever came up with the hare-brained notion I could."
"Look," Lilah said, flattening her hand on the table, "you write the fantasies, as many as you want. I'll do the rest. I'll submit them under a pen name. You'll remain anonymous. I'll do everything but cash the check the publisher sends you when your manuscripts are selected."
"Check?"
"Didn't you read that paragraph?"
"I didn't get that far."
"There." Lilah pointed to that part of the text. "They're paying two hundred and fifty dollars for each fantasy they select to go in the book no matter how long or short it is, historical or contemporary, first person or whatever."
In spite of herself, Elizabeth's interest was piqued. It had taken virtually all of John's life-insurance money and their savings for her to open Fantasy. From the beginning, the shop in the well-trafficked lobby of the Hotel Cavanaugh had made a profit, but a small one. She wasn't destitute, but she couldn't afford extravagances. As the children grew older they became more expensive. She'd often worried about how she would finance their college educations.
On the other hand, earning money by writing out her most secret fantasies seemed like a disreputable thing to do. "I'm not a writer."
"How do you know? Have you ever tried? You always made A's in English. Besides, from what I understand ninety-nine percent of writing is imagination. You've got gobs of that. Lizzie," Lilah said, warming to her subject. "This is something you've been preparing for all your life. No one daydreams more than you. It's time you converted that pastime into an enterprise."
"I couldn't."
"Why not? It will remain our little secret, just like the time we glued Grandma's house shoes to the closet floor."
"As I recall that was your bright idea too. And I got a spanking for going along."
"The hilarity was worth the spanking," Lilah said with a dismissive shrug.
Elizabeth sighed, knowing that Lilah never took no for an answer. "I don't have the time to write even if I wanted to."
"What else do you do at night?"
She had a point and Elizabeth conceded it. She left the table and moved to the coffeemaker on the counter. "I'd be embarrassed for anybody to read my fantasies."
"Good! That means they're hot and juicy. That's just what they want. See? "Explicit, but tasteful," she read from the magazine. "That means make them good and dirty, but not crude."
"I think that lost something in your translation."
"Well, are you going to do it or not?"
"I'm not. If you're so high on the idea, why don't you do it?"
"Because I don't have your creativity. When we played make-believe, you always made up the scenarios. I only acted out the parts."
She could feel herself weakening. It would be a catharsis of sorts, wouldn't it? A way of venting her sexual frustration. A challenge she needed. Something to do that was hers and hers alone. Not something she was doing for her children or for her business, but for herself, the woman. She had so few personal indulgences.
"I don't know, Lilah," she said, unready to capitulate entirely. "It seems so ... so..."
Her voice trailed off as she spied something across her yard. Thad Randolph was nailing together lumber and wiring to form what looked like a pen. Probably for the puppies. Matt was assisting him by holding the nails. Megan, sitting in the old swing which a former owner of Thad's house had suspended from the branch of an oak, was giving advice. Baby was napping on Megan's lap.
But what captivated and held Elizabeth's attention was the man. His shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a sturdy chest and flat stomach. Patches of dark, curly hair grew in strategic places. The supple muscles of his arms and shoulders contracted and relaxed each time he moved. A lock of sweat-damp hair had fallen over his brow. He laughed at something Matt said. When he did, he threw back his head and revealed a strong, tanned throat. As he stood up and brushed sawdust off his jeans, Elizabeth couldn't help but notice how they clung to his thighs.
"What's the matter?" Lilah moved up behind her and peered through the window over the sink. Elizabeth heard her sister's gasp. For several moments, they stared at Thad Randolph until he heaved the contraption to his shoulder and carried it into his garage. Matt and Megan trooped after him.
Elizabeth turned her back to her sister and busied herself with pouring another cup of coffee.
"Elderly, huh?" Lilah said wryly.
"I told you I couldn't guess his age."
"Lizzie, men who look like that don't age, they ripen. Looking like that, what the hell difference does it make if he's fifty? A hundred and fifty?"
"It makes absolutely no difference to me. A vital point which seems to escape you.
"What color are his eyes?"
"Sort of blue." Sort of sparkling, shimmering, sapphire blue.
"What does he do for a living?"
"He, uh, owns a cement company, I think. That's what one of the neighbors told me when he moved in. His Jeep has the name stenciled on the side."
Lilah snapped her fingers. "Randolph Concrete. His trucks are on every construction site in town. He must make a bundle."
"Mother always taught us it was vulgar to discuss someone's finances."
Lilah had stopped worrying about what their mother considered vulgar years ago. She was unabashedly gazing out the window in hopes of catching sight of him again. "Did you see the way he handled his tool?"
Elizabeth's head snapped around and Lilah giggled. "Gotcha! I was thinking about his hammer. What were you thinking about?"
"What you're thinking is all wrong," Elizabeth said with asperity.
"And what's that?"
"That there's a romance brewing across our backyards. He's a nice man. He's patient with my children."
"A real tribute considering his advanced age," Lilah said sarcastically. "Don't they disturb him during his afternoon nap?"
Elizabeth glared at her. "Frankly I'm grateful for the time he spends with Matt particularly. He needs a man's influence. But it stops there, Lilah. I could never be attracted to a man like Mr. Randolph."
"Have you checked your pulse lately? If he doesn't attract you, you're dead."
Elizabeth sighed. "He's not my type. He's too ... physical. Too large..."
"Um-hum." Lilah smacked her lips. Elizabeth made a supreme effort to ignore that too. "I could never go for a hard-hat type."
Lilah grinned wickedly. "I'll bet his hat isn't all that's hard."
"Oh! Will you
go wallow in the gutter? I'm sure your mind would enjoy the company." Lilah only laughed at her. "And you can forget about my writing down any fantasies for publication. I don't even have any fantasies!"
* * *
Chapter 3
«^»
The figures blurred in front of her eyes again. Impatiently Elizabeth tossed down her pencil and gave up trying to concentrate on Fantasy's financial records. It was Monday morning. The shop had been open only half an hour. So far she'd had no customers. She was catching up on some bookkeeping while waiting for Mr. Adam Cavanaugh to arrive. She'd been notified that he would be circulating through the hotel later that day.
