Hot Under Pressure. Kathleen O'Reilly
had never imagined herself divorced. She thought her marriage to Jacob would be forever. He was comfortable. They were comfortable. Why would anyone want to leave that? But Jacob had, and Ashley had no place to go but home. Home was good.
By the time the grandfather clock struck eleven, Mom was sacked out in the recliner and Brianna was curled up with her head in Ashley’s lap, fast asleep.
Val picked up her daughter in her arms, sagging a little from the weight. “I think you’re overdoing the mac and cheese.”
“She’s only eight once. It’s too early for her to start dieting,” Ashley replied, as would any overindulgent aunt who thought her niece was perfect.
“You’re not her mother, only the auntie.” Val looked down at her daughter and shook her head. “How did I get this kid?”
“The old-fashioned way.”
Val’s laugh was harsh and self-directed. “What if you screw her up with all your spoilage and worrying?”
“I won’t,” assured Ashley automatically, not insulted at all. It was a conversation they’d had many times, and usually late at night, when doubts were prone to wander in on creeping shadows. They weren’t talking about Ashley. Deep down, Val had the same paranoid Larsen heart they all did, certain that when anything good happened in her life, it was going to disappear, just like the mac and cheese. Golden and gooey and warm, and then poof, you look down and the pot is empty, and your stomach curdles with an angry hunger.
“Swear you won’t screw her up?” Val asked.
“Swear.”
Val looked at Ashley, still doubting, but hopefully not quite so much. “Okay, but I only believe you because secretly we know you’re the smart one. And because you’re here.”
“You’re smarter than you think, Val,” said Ash softly.
Accustomed to performing feats of unimaginable flexibility, Val used one knee to power off the television remote. “A ‘searching and fearless moral inventory’ Ash. That means you don’t lie to yourself. You don’t tell yourself you’re smart when you’re on your third job in five months. You don’t tell yourself you’re smart when your bank account is DOA.”
As it always did when the doubts grew larger, Val’s voice also got louder, a little bit brassier. Brianna stirred in her mother’s arms. “Hey, loud people, I’m trying to sleep here.”
Val swore, completely unacceptable to eight-year-old ears. Nobody minded. “Wake Mom, will you?” she asked Ashley.
Ashley fought back a yawn, uncurled from the couch and rubbed her mother on her shoulder. “Mom. You need to get to bed. You have to work in the morning.”
Joyce Larsen blinked her eyes and came awake abruptly. “Did I miss the news?”
“Yes, Mom, you slept through the news.”
“Darn. I wanted to hear the weather. I bet it rains tomorrow. You should have woke me up.”
“I’m waking you up now. Go to bed, Mom.”
“I’m glad you’re back, Ashley. I always worry about you flying. You’re going to crash someday and die.”
“I know, Mom. Get some sleep.”
And people wondered where she got it from.
Thirty minutes later, Val dragged herself into the kitchen, obviously knowing where Ashley would be. When faced with the complications of life, some people turned to the church, others turned to sports. Ashley turned to the kitchen. To be more precise—cheese. “What should I do?” she asked, slicing up a wedge of swiss into small bite-sized nibbles.
“About what?” Val asked. “Your pathetic excuse for a love life?”
At that, Ashley almost told her. The words nearly slipped from her lips, but even with Val, she couldn’t share. How could she talk about something she didn’t even understand, and still didn’t quite believe? “I’m talking about the stores.”
“You’re going to figure out what’s wrong and fix it.”
Fix it. Yeah, just fix it, Ash.
It sounded so easy, so completely staring-her-in-the-face easy. So why couldn’t she figure it out? Forcefully Ashley hacked off another square before handing the cheese to her sister. “Why don’t the women of Chicago realize that not only am I providing non-cookie-cutter clothes at a decent price, but by shopping at Ashley’s Closet, they are contributing to the livelihood of struggling fashion designers everywhere?”
Val shrugged. “You could have a sale. A big sample sale thing.”
“Sales, schmales,” mocked Ashley, sawing furiously again.
“Tell me how you really feel.”
“I need something pizzazzy, jazzy.”
“You’ll find it. You’ve got jazz.”
I need jazz.
Ashley watched as Val popped a cube of swiss into her mouth, glad to see her sister’s confidence level back to normal.
Val was a fast-spinning top that could fall off with only a word, a look, or a doubt. Unlike most people, when Val tipped over, it wasn’t minutes or hours before she got up, it was weeks and months. It was Ashley’s job to make sure she didn’t tip.
“What’s your schedule tomorrow?” Ashley asked.
“Seven to three. Why?”
“I’ve got a lot of catch-up to do at the stores. The Lakeview manager isn’t returning messages, so God only knows what disaster will befall when I walk in the door. You won’t see much of me. You and Mom have Brianna covered?”
“Yeah. We’re good.”
“Night, sis,” said Ashley.
“Night.” Quietly she took the last bit of cheese, then flicked off the light. Ashley could hear the soft sounds of Val padding down the carpeted hall behind her, and she ended the night the same way she always did.
“Val, I’m proud of you.”
“As you should be.”
Ashley smiled.
ONCE IN BED, Ashley pulled out The Card. She should have slipped him hers as well. But no, she didn’t, she’d been cowardly, and because of that, if she wanted to ever see him again, it was all up to her
Ash, you go to Manhattan lots of times. Go see that new designer on the Lower East Side. You’ve been dying to see his work. This is your chance.
And what was the polite time frame to call up a man, whom you expressly told that it would be a mistake to see again?
There was no statute of limitations on a booty call.
He truly did have a fine booty.
Her hands curled and uncurled like a happy kitten because she could remember the feel of that firm piece of flesh under her fingertips, remembered the pleasuring fill of his thick sex. Now that was jazz. And no, she wasn’t completely cheap and shallow. She liked him. He made her comfortable with herself. With everything, really.
That was the pull of one David McLean. He wasn’t exotic, or vain, or some slutty billionaire.
He was, quite simply, the man she wanted.
Ashley stared at the card, recalling how his voice whispered against her ear, and she knew. That was it. Decision made. She’d set up an appointment in New York. Then she would call him, and if things were meant to proceed, he’d be ready, willing and available.
A long-distance affair.
Decadent.
Her mouth curved up at the corner,