Chris Williams. The cop. He was a flirt. He was also twenty years her junior, but the way he’d checked her out, I didn’t think he cared one lick if she was thirty or eighty.
“What am I doing?” My hands tightened on the wheel. “She doesn’t need or want you looking out for her. Leave. Now.”
I didn’t leave.
I had no answers for myself.
So, I stalked.
Chapter Five
*Diane*
“There is a time in our lives, usually in mid-life, when a woman has to make a decision - possibly the most important psychic decision of her future life - and that is, whether to be bitter or not.”
Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype
~Several More Months Later~
“You know what’s difficult?” The actress gracing my television screen sniffed, blinking away tears and lowering her eyes to the snowy sidewalk. “Loving you, Carter.” She shook her head and my heart twisted wistfully as she added on a whisper, “Loving. You.”
The camera panned to the hero, his square jaw tense, his eyes and mouth betraying inner turmoil. Tall, dark, and handsome hurried forward and he embraced his love while emotion rushed to my eyes. The music swelled. He cupped her jaw. He kissed her.
I sighed. My daughter also sighed. Ah . . . fictional love.
I glanced at Jennifer, she glanced at me, and then we sighed together.
“That was a good one.” Her eyes were shining, her smile blooming sweet and misty.
Our tradition every December had always been to watch Hallmark Christmas Movies. Despite everything we’d been through over the last year, all the changes—good and bad—we hadn’t broken this tradition. I loved a good, heartfelt, uncomplicated, fictional romance. I always had. And so did my Jennifer.
“Pass the clicker.” I made a grabbing motion with my hand, and she passed it over.
“My favorite was the second one, with the animal shelter and the vet.” Jennifer’s smile was dreamy and warm.
“That one was good. The production values are getting better every year.” I scootched forward on the sofa as my eyes moved over the mess of hot chocolate, marshmallows, and the remains of Jennifer’s fantastic gingerbread cookies.
She’d used orange peel in the cookies, almond extract in the frosting, and candied ginger as part of the decoration—all her idea. I grinned at the spread of sugar. Everything we’d just eaten used to be contraband under this roof. My ex-husband hadn’t tolerated sweets in the house throughout our marriage. Truth was, he had me so keyed up about gaining weight, I’d spilled a lot of that anxiety over to my daughter. Shame on me.
In the year since I’d kicked the bastard out, I’d put on fifteen pounds and enjoyed every single bite of the cakes and cookies and wine and cocktails that helped me get here. I hadn’t traveled yet, but I would soon. Once Jennifer was settled and married, I would take a year off and see the world. Or maybe more than a year. Maybe I’ll only come back to visit.
“It’s getting late and the forecast called for snow overnight. Do you want any more of these gingerbread men?” Jennifer reached to wrap up the expertly decorated cookies.
“Just leave them be.” I stood, shooing away her efforts to tidy. I hadn’t told my daughter about my travel plans yet. No reason to discuss such things now when her wedding should be the center of attention.
“Momma, let me help clean up.”
“No need. You’re right, it’s getting late. That man of yours will be storming in here any second if I don’t get you home on time.”
Jennifer pressed her lips together, looking pleased but also suppressing laughter. She knew what I was talking about. “He didn’t storm in.”
“He did too. And he was wielding an axe.”
Jennifer laughed. “That was part of my Halloween costume.”
“Red Riding Hood and the Woods-woman.” I lifted my eyes to the heavens.
“Cletus made an adorable Red Riding Hood.” Jennifer pulled on her coat and turned for the door. “Admit it.”
“He dressed up like the hood of a car, Jennifer. A red car. He’s a nut,” I said, because he was a nut. My soon-to-be son-in-law was one of a kind.
“You know you adore him.” She prodded, wagging her eyebrows.
“Of course I do. But I wish he wouldn’t hide mistletoe all over my house. If he wants to kiss his fiancé then he should kiss his fiancé. He doesn’t need to bring in a hemiparasitic plant or make up stories about it being good luck.”
“He didn’t say it was good luck. He said it would—”
“‘Deliver unto me a very merry Christmas.’ Yes. I remember his pronouncement.” I dismissed Cletus’s prediction and gazed at my daughter with warm affection. “I think I’ve found all of the bunches he left tied to the ceiling, thank goodness. Obviously, he loves you. Actually, it’s obvious he more than loves you. He worships you. And I’m glad because I don’t want you to settle for anything less.”
She gave me a tight, bracing smile, but said nothing. I knew why. She didn’t want me to continue; she didn’t want me to say what was on my mind.
But I couldn’t help it.
“And another thing—”
“Oh dear Lord, please don’t say it!”
“I hope he makes sure you orgasm before he does. Every. Single. Time. Do you hear me? A man—if he’s worth his salt—can do it. He can do it several times before, during, and after he pleases himself.” I spoke from experience.
Granted, my experience was relatively new given my age, but it was real-world experience nevertheless. Kip, my ex, may have been as skilled as a handless, tongueless eunuch and as motivated as a sloth in a zoo. But I knew for a fact—FOR A FACT—that not all men were terrible between the sheets. In fact, some men were very, very good between the sheets.
Or on top of the sheets.
Or on top of a dresser.
Or on the floor.
“Momma . . .” Jennifer covered her face and shook her head. “Can we not talk about this?”
“If that man truly values you, he’ll keep you satisfied. I don’t care how many times I have to say it, I don’t want you to—”
“You don’t want me to waste twenty-six years without an orgasm and fifteen years without sex. Yes. I know,” she finished for me. Her soft voice held an edge of exhausted mortification.
But I didn’t care if this discussion embarrassed her. “You need to stand up for yourself early on, otherwise men will just walk all over you and steal your feminine power.”
Her hands fell away from her face. She opened her arms, an exasperated expression on her pretty features. “I have to go.”
“You know I tell you these things because I care about you and your feminine power.” I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed as she groaned. Ignoring the sound, I continued, “I’m ashamed of myself that I never talked to you about these things, that it took your father cheating for me to open my eyes. You know I love my therapist, but I’m also still watching those videos and following that blog about sexual healing, and I think you should too.”