Ex and the Single Girl Page 4

  “Offer’s off the table, Sir Ian. Back to the farm with you.” He laughed, stepping out of his pants and flipping his T-shirt over his head. He was wearing a pair of flannel boxer shorts. I withheld my sigh. He looked good.

  “I’ve never left a woman in the middle of the night,” he said, pulling the covers up and hopping into bed next to me, “and I don’t intend to start now. You’re not the only one with a reputation to protect. Or sully, as the case may be.” He lay down on his side, propping his head up on his palm. “You’re a very complicated woman, Eloise.”

  I put a glare in my voice. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Right,” he said. “Bad form. I apologize. Would you set the alarm for six? I write in the mornings.”

  I gave a frustrated sigh, then reached for the alarm clock and set it for six. I could feel him settle on his side, his back to me. I huffed, pulling myself up out of bed and over to the dresser.

  “Can you keep your eyes closed for a minute, please?” I asked.

  “My back is to you,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. “Humor me.”

  He chuckled. “Consider yourself humored.”

  I stepped out of the sundress and into a T-shirt—Huey Lewis, Sports Tour, 1983—and a pair of sweats cut into shorts. I sneaked into bed next to him, flat on my back, arms tight at my sides over the covers.

  “Can I open my eyes now?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He rolled over until he was facing me, his head perched up on his hand. There was just enough light coming in through the window for me to see he was smiling.

  “You are a highly unusual woman,” he said in a rough whisper. I locked my eyes on the ceiling. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I swallowed and forced myself to look into his eyes. “This is going to sound suggestive, but the offer to Fly for real is still officially off the table. Understood?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Understood.”

  I closed my eyes, letting the room spin around me. “Do I...repulse you?”

  He drew back, as though he’d just touched something sharp. “What?”

  Am I the kind of woman who will drive every man away screaming? I thought. Am I made of Penis Teflon?

  “Let me put it another way,” I said out loud, my voice stretching tight and thin. “Do you think I’m...attractive? You know, as a woman?”

  I felt him plop back down on his pillow. “Bollocks.”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that out of a barmy lot, you’re the barmiest.”

  “You keep saying that word. Barmy. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He rolled back to face me, leveraging one elbow under him to elevate his upper body. “It means you’re all crazy.”

  “We’ve already covered that,” I said. “Now answer the question.”

  “You know damn well I can’t answer that question.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I answer yes, you’ll think I’m lying. If I answer no, the whole barmy lot of you will beat me senseless.” He fell back on his pillow. “Either way, I lose.”

  I could hear the subdued sounds of partygoers saying their good-byes outside. We were both still and silent for a minute, staring at the ceiling, until I spoke again.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay if you lie to me. I just...I need to hear the words.”

  A heavy sigh escaped, whistling through his lips. “If you don’t know you’re beautiful, then there’s nothing I can say to convince you.”

  The tears started on “beautiful.” I kept them a secret for a minute, but one quiet sob caught in my throat, and I felt Ian’s head turn toward me. A moment later, the back of a rough finger brushed against my wet cheek. I tightened my eyes shut and swabbed at my face, rolling onto my side with my back to him, too mortified to chance seeing his expression. Worse than the Crazy Cat Lady, worse than the Girly Giggler, I had now sunk to being a Bed Weeper.

  I don’t know how long we stayed like that, me on my side, him on his back, but it was long enough that I was almost asleep when I felt him spoon himself behind me, one hand resting lightly on my hip.

  “Whoever neglected to tell you you’re beautiful is a complete sod,” he whispered in my ear. “And if you see him again, you can tell him I said so.”

  He reached over and smoothed some hair away from my face, then relaxed next to me. I heard his breathing grow ragged, and a few moments later I felt a small lurch where his crotch was snuggled against my backside. He pulled away from me, flopping on his back again with a rough exhale. I feigned sleep as a small smile spread across my face.

  Chapter Three

  Thump-thump-thump.

  I opened one eye. 8:17. Good God.

  “Go away,” I whined into the pillow. Must have sounded like “Come on in,” because a half second later, Mags was poking her head through the door.

  “Are you alone?”

  I flipped over and looked at the empty space next to me, then back at her.

  “Unless he’s under the bed, I’d say so, yes.” I had a vague memory of the alarm going off, of Ian’s soft lips bussing my cheek, of the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.

  Mags bounded in and bounced on the edge of the bed.

  “Well?” she said, her eyes dancing. “How was it?”

  I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “How was what?”

  She grabbed a pillow and threw it at me. “Oh, you are the most impossible child that ever did walk the planet. Don’t make me tell you again about giving birth to you, which was so painful that Vera had to take morphine. Is it too much to ask to be rewarded with the occasional bit of girl talk?”

  I groaned. “Is it that you don’t know it’s wrong for a mother to want to know about her daughter’s sex life, or is it that you just don’t care?”

  She grinned and leaned forward. “Is he a gentleman in bed? He seems the type who’d be concerned about your pleasure.”

  “Ah!” I said, cringing and waving my hands at her, trying to shake off the whole conversation. “Stop! I can’t afford enough therapy to cover this.”

  Mags sighed dramatically. “How did a daughter of mine grow up to be such a prude? I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “I’m not a prude. I just don’t want to discuss my sex life with my mother. That’s not prudish. It’s normal.”

  “I don’t understand what your problem is. Vera and Bev and I talk about sex all the time. How can you live your life without girl talk? What fun is it?” She looked at me and grinned. “At least tell me if you got a good orgasm out of it. You know that’s all I wanted for you, baby.”

  I sighed and spoke loudly upon her apparently deaf ears. “I am not discussing this with you. Is there coffee downstairs?” She gave my leg a playful pat and stood up. “Yes, that’s what I came to tell you. And you’d better get a move on. You’re helping Vera run the bookstore today.”

  “Me?” I said. “Why? Your back’s fine.”

  “Because it’s the family business and you’re family.” She looked in the mirror and poked at her hair, smoothed out her lipstick. “And I have plans today.”

  “Plans?” I got up and nudged her away from my dresser as I pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. “Since when did you start making plans outside of running the store and torturing me?” She turned away from the mirror and leaned against my dresser, crossing her arms over her midsection. “Well, I must say I’m disappointed. For such a promising Flyer, I see no change in your demeanor whatsoever. Maybe we should try for Greg Feeney. Didn’t he used to do gymnastics?”

  “Enough!” I forced on a smile. “I’m great. I’m fine. Happier than I’ve ever been. Best sex of my life. And you’re avoiding the question.”

  “Oh? And what’s the question?”

  “What’s so important today that you can’t go to the Page?” She gave me a wry smile. “Is it that you d
on’t know it’s wrong to interrogate your mother, or that you just don’t care?” I smiled. “Don’t be a wiseass, darlin’,” I said in my best honey drawl. “It’s not attractive.”

  “Now there’s my smart-mouthed girl.” She gave me a sharp pat on my behind. “It’s good to have you home, baby.”

  Then the woman who hadn’t missed a day at the bookstore since she was sixteen flitted out of my bedroom, leaving a wisp of perfume hanging in the air behind her like a big lilac question mark.

  At 8:45, Vera and I were out the door and on our way to the Page. Jimmy the mailman waved as we passed him, the same way he did when I was fifteen.

  And sixteen.

  And seventeen.

  I looked down at my feet and mindlessly stepped over the cracks, a habit I picked up at the age of seven when I felt a certain responsibility for the health of my mother’s back. Even the cracks hadn’t changed.

  “Brigadoon,” I muttered with a laugh.

  “What, baby?” Vera waved across Pine Mountain Road to Bella Thomas, who sat knitting in her rocker the way she had since the beginning of time.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly, hopping over some cracks to catch up with her. My mind was on Mags’s weirdness, but I thought I’d edge in with a softball first. “So, tell me, Vera. What’s up with Bev?”

  “Bev? Nothing. Why? Did she say something to you?”

  I shook my head. “No. That’s just the thing. She’s been weird. Distant. Pissy.”

  Vera smirked. “That’s not weird, baby. That’s Bev. You’ve just been away from home too long. But you know she doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s just got a little vinegar in her, that’s all.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.” We turned the corner on Main just as Marge Whitfield was pushing up the awnings over the pharmacy. Pearl McGee waved to us as she unlocked the front door of the salon, pointing a mock-accusatory finger at me. I waved, then put an instinctively protective hand to my ponytail as Vera stepped up on the stoop to the Page.

  “So, what about Mags?”

  I caught a momentary stiffness in Vera’s shoulders. I was right. Something was going on with Mags.

  “What about her?”

  “Oh, please. It’s been you and Mags every day at the Page since I can remember. And today she’s not coming in. Why?” Vera rummaged around in her humongous macramé purse. “Well, it’s hardly something to make a federal case over,” she said. “Sometimes people take days off.”

  “Not Mags.”

  She gave me a tight smile. “Well, today she did. Now tell me about your Flyer. You haven’t given us any details and I think that’s just rude.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Oh, honey, everybody tells.” She pulled out the keys and stuck them in the front door. “Some take more time than others, but eventually, everybody tells.” She pushed the door open, and we stepped inside.

  I inhaled deeply and smiled. As a little girl, I spent every day after school roaming through the shelves, touching the books, flipping through them, living in the scent of fresh pulp and ink. Whenever I needed to lighten a black mood, a trip to a bookstore or library would almost always work, but the Page was still something special. I turned and gave Vera a wry smile. “Okay. I’ll give you one detail.”

  She grinned. “Do tell.”

  “He said we were a barmy lot.”

  “Barmy.” She tucked her purse under the counter. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means we’re all crazy.”

  “Honey, there’s no such thing as crazy. There’s just degrees of interesting.” The phone rang in the back office, and Vera sighed. “I’m gonna go answer that, but don’t you think I’m done with you yet. I won’t rest until I know how a British Flyer kisses.”

  I shooed her away, stepping around the mismatched easy chairs and simple swivel-topped barstools that huddled around the coffee bar. I went into autopilot, scooping the coffee into the filtered basket, filling up the hot water carafe for tea. My mind drifted elsewhere, back to my room the night before and to Ian Beckett’s lightly dimpled smile.

  I stepped out from behind the coffee bar and listened. Vera was still on the phone. I could tell by the tone of her voice that it wasn’t anyone from Truly. That probably gave me about five more minutes; someone from Truly would have taken a good twenty. I stepped out from behind the bar and made a beeline for the fiction section. My finger ran quickly along the B’s, my eyes popping up to the office door to make sure Vera wasn’t going to catch me.

  Barnes. Baxter. Beals. Bebey. Bederman.

  No Ian Beckett, which was fine by me. The Page was a small bookstore, which meant we could afford shelf space only for the stuff that was selling well, and literary fiction wasn’t always on that list. I smiled again. Maybe I’d look up his books later and special order them. Set up a book signing for later that summer. After all, it was the neighborly thing to do, and the Miz Fallons were nothing if not neighborly.

  The bell jingled, followed by an excited wail. I turned around and saw a pregnant belly waddling toward me, arms outstretched, followed by the round, freckled face that had smiled at me through many guilty trips to the principal’s office.

  “Portia, baby!” Beauji’s belly hit me in the gut, bending me into her embrace. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and we wagged from side to side as a single, excited unit.

  “What did you do to your hair?” I said, running my fingers over the half-inch or so of red that puffed out of her head. It was shocking to see, as Beauji had always kept her hair in long, fiery locks. Well. At least something in Truly had changed.

  She pulled away and swept one hand on her scalp. “I’m gonna be bald during every pregnancy,” she said. “Even hair irritates me now. Pearl almost cried when I made her take out the clippers.”

  “I don’t know why. You’re gorgeous. As always.” I stepped back, holding her arms out, staring at her smiling face, her bright blue eyes, her ruddy cheeks. Beauji had always been what you’d call a natural beauty, the one the boys notice in the sixth grade but then pass over for the made-up Barbie types in the ninth grade. Somehow, it never fazed her. She was the only woman Id ever known who really never gave a rat’s ass how she looked.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, well, I need to sit my gorgeous self down,” she said, turning from me and waddling over to the comfy chairs surrounding the bar. “I hope motherhood is pleasant, because pregnancy is a right pain in the ass.”

  I followed her, tucking myself behind the bar to make some herbal tea. In Truly, there was always a pregnant woman in the general populace requiring entertainment at the Page. We had a special store of teas set aside, organized by touted effects: peppermint tea to mitigate nausea, red raspberry leaf to encourage labor.

  “How far along are you?” I asked, poking my fingers through the sweet-smelling box.

  “Thirty-four weeks and counting,” she said.

  “I just can’t believe—”

  “Ow!”

  I looked up, my eyes wide and my heart beating like a jack- hammer. “Beau? You okay?”

  She winced and pushed at the top of her big lump of a belly, shouting downward. “I told you! Get your damn foot out of my ribs!” She shifted in her seat, sighed, and leaned her head back, talking to the ceiling. “I hate my life!”

  I tucked my finger behind an index card marked “irritability” and pulled out a bag, then stood up and set the full teakettle on the hot plate.

  Beauji whistled out a breath of air and shifted again, her legs and arms splaying out so that she looked like a spider squashed by a tremendous, spherical rock. “I’m not very good at being pregnant,” she said after a moment.

  I smiled. “I think you’re doing fine.”

  “You’re a big fat liar, but I love you for it.” She shifted in her seat again. “By the way, I would have come to your party last night but the idea of standing around with everyone feeling my stomach all night long…” She rolled her eyes. I smiled and drop
ped the tea bag in a mug.

  “You’re forgiven,” I said. I leaned my elbows on the counter and grinned at her. “How’s Davey doing?”

  “He’s fine,” she said. “Of course, he’s not carrying seven pounds of wriggling baby on his bladder.”

  “I still can’t believe he’s a cop.”

  “Yeah, well, if he wasn’t, I’d still be a size six.” I raised my eyebrows at her. She patted her stomach. “First night with the new uniform. He can’t wait to see you, by the way. You’re coming over for dinner Friday, I suppose I should tell you.”

  “Good to know,” I said, laughing. “Should I bring anything?” She grinned. “A British Flyer, perhaps?”

  “Good God,” I said. ‘You heard about that already?”

  “You kidding me?” she said. The teakettle began to whistle and I grabbed it off the hot plate. “You’re back in Truly now, darlin’. You fart in the tub in this town and the news will be marching down Main Street within the hour.” I brought her mug over and she watched me with interest as I sat down in a sinfully comfortable but inarguably hideous orange easy chair next to her.

  “Anyway, word has it you paraded that Brit straight out of the back lawn and up to your bedroom in front of half the town. You’re a Miz Fallon and he’s a famous writer. Don’t even pretend to be surprised that people are talkin’.”

  “He’s hardly famous,” I said.

  “You don’t consider Alistair Barnes famous?” she said, now raising an eyebrow at me and taking in my blank expression. The other eyebrow went up, and she laughed. “You did know you were sleeping with Alistair Barnes, didn’t you?”

  I leaned closer to her, and spoke in a low voice. “Look, first of all, I didn’t actually sleep with him…”

  Beauji waved her hand at me. “Oh, please.”

  “...and second of all, his name is Ian Beckett.”

  I paused, and a memory from the night before flashed through my head.

  So, you really don’t know me?

  I’m sorry. Should I?