Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer
gasp is quick and sharp. The color drains from her face, then rises again, bright red now rather than pink. Her eyes blink. Rapidly.
I glance down at my hand and immediately drop the object I’m holding. I’m no expert on vibrators, but I’m pretty sure I know a neck massager from…well…the other kind. The one on the floor at my feet is not for sore muscles, I can promise you that. Flesh-colored, it has a switch on the side that must’ve engaged when it hit the bathroom tile because the dismembered member pulses and vibrates and buzzes.
“Um…” I can’t tear my gaze from the quivering body part, which fake or not, is quite impressive in size and energy. “Uh—”
“Well, for heaven’s sake!” Mother’s voice is high and panicky. “How did my bread beater get packed with my bathroom things?”
“Your bread beater?”
The next thing I see is her hand wrapping around the thing, which is an action I would’ve been happy never to witness in this or any other lifetime. She lifts it from the floor and turns off the switch while I reluctantly peer up at her.
My mother no longer blushes or blinks. In the space of a few seconds she has pulled herself together. She couldn’t look any more prim or proper if she stood in front of her church choir to lead a hymn. Squaring her shoulders, holding the “bread beater” in front of her chest like a baton, she meets my eyes.
“That’s right. My bread beater. Haven’t you seen them advertised? It’s a clever new device that kneads dough, easy as you please.”
“Well…” I clear my throat. “Isn’t that…something.” Mom turns and starts off through the bedroom. “I’ll just go find a place for it in the kitchen.”
I watch her go, then shift my attention to the mirror and stare at the dumbfounded expression on my face. I picture Erin going after a fork and finding Mom’s newest kitchen gadget in the silverware drawer.
First Bert, now Mother. Wouldn’t you know it? At the age of seventy-five, even she has more of a sex life than I do.
LATER IN THE EVENING, after a trip with Mother to the grocery store, she cooks a dinner that brings back memories of all those childhood meals she mumbled about earlier. She, Erin and I actually sit at the kitchen table rather than at the coffee table in the den, my usual place to dine. We carry on a conversation instead of watching the news.
Afterward, stuffed with savory fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, Erin and I clear the table while Mother takes off to watch Wheel of Fortune. An apple cobbler bubbles and browns in my oven; Mother left the oven light on, and I glance at her culinary masterpiece with longing each time I pass by. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the foreign aromas of cinnamon and spice drifting through my kitchen, but I’m unusually relaxed and content as my daughter and I load the dishwasher together.
“I’m going to rent a movie, then watch it at Suzanna’s,” Erin declares when we finish.
“Before you leave, I want to see your concert dress.”
“I didn’t find one. I’ll try again tomorrow or next week.”
“Make it some time I can go with you.”
Erin crosses her arms; her eyes shift away from mine. “It’s no big deal. Suzanna will help me.”
Okay, I admit it; for the second time in one day I feel like an overemotional teenager. Only now, instead of butting heads with my mother, my best friend is replacing me with someone else. I can’t help it; silly or not, I’m jealous.
“What about that book report you said was due on Monday?”
“I’m not doing homework on a Saturday night. I’ll work on it tomorrow.”
“Be home by eleven.” I eye her tight hip-hugging jeans, the inch of bare flesh between them and her T-shirt. Revealing so much skin is a new look for Erin. A fashion side effect of her friendship with Suzanna, I imagine. Though I don’t like the change, I’ve decided not to make a big deal of it. I counsel families with kids younger than Erin who are promiscuous, have alcohol problems and worse. If an exposed navel is the most I have to deal with, I count myself lucky. I’ll just keep an eye on her and make sure that’s as far as it goes. “Got your mace?” I ask.
She gives me the eye-roll she spent middle school perfecting. “You know it’s on my key ring.”
“Just make sure you keep it in your hand if you’re returning the movie and walking through the store parking lot after dark.”
“I know, Mom.” She hugs me and laughs. “You’ve only told me a million and one times. Anyway, there’s a movie drop. I won’t even have to get out of the car.”
“Let Maxwell in and feed him before you go.”
After Erin leaves and Wheel of Fortune ends, Mother and I watch CNN together while eating ice-cream-smothered pie. Maxwell peers at us with pleading eyes. He sits in front of the sofa, whining quietly each time I lift my spoon. Mother gives me The Look again when I place my bowl on the floor to let him lick it. I laugh at her and proceed to fold a couple of loads of laundry.
I’m placing a stack of clean underwear on Erin’s dresser when I see the novel on her bedside table. I figure it must be the assigned book for her report since I’ve never known my daughter to read a novel unless it’s required. I hope she’s not getting sidetracked by her newfound social life and putting off the report until the last minute. But I remind myself that, though she’s spending more time with friends these days, it’s still not in Erin’s nature to procrastinate. She’s a typical only child. Fairly responsible as teenagers go.
I walk over, pick up the paperback, read the title. Penelope’s Passion. A hazy cover creates the effect of looking through steam at a woman’s naked back. A man’s hand lifts the damp, curling tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck. I have my doubts Erin’s English teacher chose this particular read.
Settling at the edge of my daughter’s bed, I open the book to a random page.
Penelope sensed rather than heard the captain’s approach. Pulling the sheet to her breast, she watched the door…and waited. Her heart fluttered like hummingbird wings, her stomach felt as unsteady as the ship, tossed and swayed by the turbulent sea.
Flickering candlelight painted shadows on the walls. For only a moment, Penelope glanced away to watch them dance, and when she looked back, he stood there…filling the doorway…his dark eyes devouring her, looking more a pirate than captain of a ship. His unbuttoned shirt revealed a powerful expanse of muscled chest. The sight of it made Penelope aware of her own chest, bare beneath the bed sheet. Her only garment had mysteriously disappeared while she bathed, so she’d had no choice but to retire naked.
Penelope lifted her chin. “Do you intend to rape me, Sir?”
The captain pulled off his shirt as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Since you now share my name, I intend to consummate our marriage.”
She kept her gaze on his face, too nervous to glance lower at his body, afraid if she did he might see the excitement in her eyes when she looked up again. “And if I refuse you, Captain?”
He chuckled, his smile quick and heart-stopping. Then he reached for the buckle on his belt and moved closer to the bed.
Penelope could no longer refrain. She glanced at his broad chest, then lower still, down his flat, muscle-corded belly to the thin line of dark hair that trailed to the top of his breeches. Her breath caught, her stomach tightened involuntarily and a warm, sweet ache spread like heated honey through her limbs. To her shame, she yearned to touch him, yearned for him to touch her in all the places no man ever had, or should.
“Dear Lady,” he said, his voice a deep, arousing caress, “you won’t refuse me.”
“Well, hell,” I mutter, closing the book. Penelope isn’t the only one with a warm, sweet ache.
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