Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer
I hold the book up so the group can see the bland cover.
Everyone groans. Even Doris and my mother.
“Okay. I’m open for suggestions.”
As they debate whether the next title should be a mystery, a family saga or an action adventure, I return both books to my briefcase. That’s when Penelope’s Passion catches my eye. The story has become my new addiction; I can’t get enough of it. Or, to be honest, I can’t get enough of the captain. I’ve been trying to squeeze in a paragraph or two between patients whenever possible. I tell myself it’s a healthy diversion from reality. What’s the harm in a little fun?
Well, I’ll tell you.
Yesterday I met with two of my regulars, a sixty-year-old shoe salesman and his wife of thirty-five years. They blame his mother’s penchant for going barefoot and wearing red toe-nail polish when he was a boy for his obsession with women’s footwear and feet. Toes specifically. He’s partial to sucking them and struggles to restrain the urge at work. While they talked, I caught myself thinking about a scene in Penelope’s Passion where the captain and Penelope make love for the first time. In my daydream, though, I was Penelope.
Pathetic, I know. My mind should be on my patient’s abnormal preoccupation with Jimmy Choo shoes, not on being seduced by some make-believe macho man. Still, the toe-sucker left my office happy, so I suppose it didn’t hurt that my mind wandered a bit while he talked.
Studying the wrinkled faces before me, I remember Mother’s bread beater, which I’ve nicknamed “BOB,” as in battery-operated-boyfriend. Maybe she isn’t the only one here, me included, who misses intimacy. These senior citizens would probably appreciate a healthy diversion, too. The next best thing to sex I’ve found. Some relatively harmless fun. I’m betting even The Frans’ relationship could use a shot in the arm.
“Ladies,” I say in a raised voice to be heard over the chatter. I stand, put my open briefcase on the stool and clap my hands. “Ladies! You, too, Oliver.”
The talking stops. They all look up at me.
“What do you think about this?” I pick up Erin’s book, turn it over, read the blurb on back….
“When Lady Penelope Waterford stowed away on
The Voyager
She wanted only to escape an arranged marriage
To be carried away in the arms of a powerful ship
Toward a fresh start in a new, untamed land.
When Captain Damian Stonewall set sail
He wanted only to deliver his cargo on time,
To see his crew safely to the opposite shore
And collect the money owed him.
The captain never suspected he harbored a passenger
Or that one glimpse of her creamy skin, flaming hair
And flashing blue eyes would force him to question
His priorities and tempt him to break his own rules.
The lady never expected she might be forced to marry
The hot-tempered captain who found her hiding, soaked
And exhausted, below deck. Or that his touch would
Make her tremble with lust as well as with anger.
But as land disappears from sight
And the wind rages around them
Penelope and the captain discover their biggest
Surprise of all:
A passion more vast and powerful than the sea….”
I lower the book to my lap and look up.
Doris whispers, “Oh, my.”
The Frans snort, then smile at each other.
Oliver chuckles. “Now you’re talkin’.”
Mother looks from my briefcase, to the book, to me. She lifts an eyebrow.
Shrugging, I smirk at her. “Ladies and gentleman, I believe we just found our next selection.” I turn the book around to show the group the sexy cover. “I give you, Penelope’s Passion.”
A hush falls over the room, but is broken seconds later by the sound of an ear-piercing alarm.
I hope it isn’t someone’s pacemaker going off.
CHAPTER 5
My kitchen smells like chicken and dumplings tonight. I think Mother’s trying to fatten up Erin, but I’m sure it’ll be me who ends up waddling, not my teenaged daughter. She can exist on a diet of French fries without gaining a pound.
We’ve fallen into a routine. One instigated by Mother. She cooks. We eat as a family at the table. Erin and I clean up. I’m amazed it’s lasted an entire five nights; I don’t know how she managed to recruit Erin in the first place, much less keep her coming back. But, though I enjoy the family time, I’m also a tiny bit jealous that my mother pulled off what I couldn’t. Since this school year began, my offers of a home-cooked meal have been turned down. Erin’s either had other plans for dinner or says she’d rather get takeout. I realize I’m not Julia Child or even my mother when it comes to the kitchen. But I whip up a decent omelet, and my spaghetti’s not bad. I add spices to the Ragu.
“Did you talk to your dad today?” I scrape chicken into the disposal, then hand the plate to Erin.
“Yeah. He called right after school.”
Right after I called and gave him an earful. If that’s what it takes for Erin to receive some attention from her father, so be it. I’ll bug that man from now until he drops dead.
Erin places the plate into the dishwasher. “Did someone straighten up my room?”
I laugh. “If so, they didn’t do a very good job.”
“I’m missing a book.”
“Penelope’s Passion?”
A blush stains Erin’s cheeks as she reaches for another plate. “Yeah.”
“I borrowed it and forgot to put it back. Sorry. When we finish up here I’ll get it for you. I’m planning to read it at Nana’s group so I’ll be buying my own copy and copies for all the members.”
Pausing with the plate in her hand, Erin’s eyes widen. “Mo-ther!”
“What?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No. Why?”
“You can’t read that to people their age.”
I wet a dishcloth, turn off the faucet and wipe down the counter. “Why not?”
“There’s stuff in it.”
“You think your generation invented stuff?”
Erin lowers the plate she’s holding. “But, they’re old.”
Mother enters the kitchen, headed for the breakfast nook and the hutch where she keeps her knitting basket. “Listen here, smarty-pants,” she says to Erin in a teasing voice. “We old people could teach you youngsters a thing or two about romance. There’s a lot to be said for wooing.”
“Wooing?” Erin scowls.
“That’s right, wooing.” Mother tucks the basket under her arm and smiles. “Candy and flowers. A walk in the moonlight. Stolen kisses on a front porch swing.”
I want to sigh. It sounds so old-fashioned. And wonderful. In my dating days, an evening was considered romantic if the guy paid for the movie without trying to cop a feel afterward. How did my