Treading Lightly. Elise Lanier
Breathing and talking were a complicated enough combination…
Add the two blaring, competing televisions in the gym that hovered to Janine’s upper right and left sides, the mind-numbing Muzak being piped over the loudspeakers placed strategically around the large room, assorted nubile and robust young forms running around half-naked, and the huffing, panting man beside her—who could not be ignored no matter how much she tried—and she was on system overload.
Any minute now she was going to blow. Or trip. Both were possible; neither favorable.
She looked over at the man, hoping and praying he wouldn’t keel over, based on the sounds he was making. Having a man die on the treadmill next to her would definitely put her over the edge.
She looked at Mr. Locomotion again, wondering how he could go out in public to make such guttural, almost animalistic sounds. By animalistic, she was thinking swine, possibly boar.
She was obviously oblivious to her own auditory articulations.
“You okay?” the man asked.
Elise Lanier
Elise Lanier is a pen name for Elise Leonard, who also writes children’s books under her real name. Elise earned her undergraduate degree from LIU-C.W. Post, and her master’s at SUNY Albany. After teaching for almost twenty years, she now writes full-time in the home she shares with her husband of twenty-five years and her two cool, smart, attitude-packed teenage sons.
Treading Lightly
Elise Lanier
Acknowledgments:
My heartfelt gratitude to the world’s greatest agent,
Jay Poynor, for his hard work, his perseverance, his constant attention and his wonderful friendship. He gives far more than anyone would expect from a man in his position.
Special thanks to the agency’s V.P.,
Erica Orloff, for everything.
I’m sincerely grateful to my editor, Tara Gavin.
Your insight is pure genius, and I’m thrilled and honored to have you as my editor. Thank you. (And just so you know, I really wanted to put exclamation points after each of these three sentences, but I restrained myself.)
To my husband, John: How does one thank another
for giving them unconditional love and unwavering support for twenty-five years? “Thank you” seems inadequate, but…thank you.
Michael and John. You are my sons, you are my
inspiration, you are my life. You totally amaze me. Keep tackling life head-on. And never forget… I’ve got your backs!
To my mom: You really lived. Thanks for showing me how
to do it. I miss you and think of you often.
To my dad: I’m so glad I got to share your best years,
however few. I really miss you.
A special shout-out to Lieutenant Colonel
M. Noyes, my first writing contact and now my friend. Had I never been published, I still would have won. I stayed the course, and yes, you told me so.
Finally, a word of thanks to my readers…
Honoring the light in you, Knowing the light in me, We are one.
This book is dedicated to all women over forty.
We’ve earned our wings, ladies. It’s time to fly.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
EPILOGUE
LETTER TO READER
CHAPTER 1
“Jesus, Mom! What the hell happened in here? It looks like a testing sight for curling devices.”
“Don’t say ‘Jesus,’ Craig.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re religious,” she said distractedly, while plucking at an errant wisp of hair, making it stand up straight.
“No we’re not.”
“Oh. Right. Well, it’s blasphemous.”
“No it’s not.”
“Well, don’t say it anyhow. And before you ask your next question, it’s because I said so!”
“So, what the hell’s going on?” he persisted.
“Now that I cut my hair, I don’t know if I need the three-eighth-inch curling iron, the half-inch curling iron, or the five-eighth-inch curling iron to fit my curls. My old hot rollers won’t stay in. It’s too short. Oh, and don’t say ‘hell’ either.”
“How come? You say it all the time!”
“It’s not attractive coming from the mouth of a twelve-year-old.”
“I’m almost thirteen,” he claimed, throwing her a sideways glance that would have weakened a lesser opponent. “And it’s enchanting coming from your mouth?”
“Hell, yeah!”
Her attempt at irony didn’t escape him. “Okay, Mom, I get it. Let’s not overdramatize things.”
She burned her finger on the hot curling iron, grimaced and cursed. “Why stop now?”
“Yeah,” he said, snorting a laugh and stubbing his huge, adult-sized, boot-covered foot into the bathroom rug. “Good point. So what’s for dinner?”
She could handle his mood swings—they mirrored her own. Perimenopause and the teenage years were a lot alike. Well, except for the drooping, the sagging and the bloating. On the bright side, her pimples weren’t as bad as his. On the not-so-bright side, he applied his makeup far more artistically than she applied hers. But both only wore it for large-scale social occasions; another thing mother and son had in common. “Spaghetti.”
“Again?” he whined.
“Well, did you remember to take something out of the freezer?”
“I didn’t know it was my job.”
“It’s both our jobs,” she said, trying the five-eighth-incher out for size.
“Why don’t you just take it all out of the freezer so we’ve got it on hand?”