Hot Flash (17 page)

“Jill, it sounds like a hot flash to me.”

“I’m too young!”

“I’ve heard of women going through the change as early as their mid thirties. You’re not too young. It runs in families.”

“All I know, Susan, is, if this is a hot flash, I might spontaneously combust!”

“Ask your mom and maybe call your—”

I didn’t hear what Susan had to say next because that was when I heard Wesley’s voice. “Hot flash? I know what to do about it!”

I caught a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. The next thing I saw was a frozen okra label smashed against my nose. My head had been dunked into the frozen food bin.

I came up sputtering. “You jerk! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I thought I was helping. If you bend back in there—-”

“What are you, some mad Mr. Fixer of My Universe?” My hand searched my face and I cut him off. “I lost the reading glasses!” I bent back to look for them and found them squeezed in between the boxes of broccoli and the bags of rutabaga. When I grabbed them, one of the arms dangled drunkenly. “You broke them.”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to help you.”

“You’re going to help all right. These aren’t my glasses. They belong to the store. And now you get to help by paying for them!”

“I’ll pay for them and for a new pair, too.”

“You bet you will.”

“Jill? Jill?” I realized Susan was still on the phone, which was also in the freezer bin.

I snatched up the phone. “Sorry, Susan. I’ll call you back.”

“Everything okay?”

“Fine. Mr. Wesley was just showing me how to overcome hot flashes by wading through frozen food bins.” I snapped the phone closed and stuck it in my pocket.

Wesley pulled something from my hair. “The temperature setting must be off.”

“I
knew
it was hot in here.”

“I didn’t mean in the store, I meant in the frozen food bin. The food isn’t as frozen as it should be.” His expression was guarded, as if he expected me to snap at him. I was wondering why he expected me to do that, when he pulled something else from my hair.

“What
are
you doing?” I felt all trembly as I pulled away from him. Had to be another menopause symptom. It could
not
be because of Wesley.

“If you hold still, I can get all the corn out.”

“Corn?!”

He reached for me again, and I retreated behind my shopping cart.

“Corn’s stuck in your hair.” He pointed at the bin and I saw there was corn scattered around where a box had come open.

“I can’t believe this. First you try to freeze me and now you make sure I have to shampoo my hair again before my date.”

“You have a date?”

“Does that surprise you? You’re the one always accusing me of being a party girl. I have a date. Sue me. I’m cooking dinner for him, so don’t come over tonight. Stephen is at his dad–Stephen is with Stormy.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw. “I never said you were a party girl, but I do owe you an apology.”

I agreed that he did, but it seemed churlish to say so. Besides, even I was thinking my attitude was somewhat bitchy. Did Susan mention irritable?

Maybe it was menopause. Maybe it was Wesley. Maybe I’m just a bitch.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re neglecting Stephen. He explained the other night that you’ve rarely dated. That’s why I was surprised you had another date so soon.”

“Like, who would ask me out?”

“No. Like, I’m making a mess of this.” He looked down for a moment and seemed to gather his thoughts. Or maybe he was looking at the box of condoms I was self-consciously aware of in my shopping cart?

“You’re very attractive. I just thought maybe you weren’t much into men because of the number your ex did on you.”

“Oh.” He thought I was attractive? At least he didn’t mention the condoms. “Well.” I cleared my throat while shifting the Häagen-Dazs carton in my cart to cover the condoms. But just in case—”I
am
into men. Or at least salesmen. The ones who travel.”

“You’re kidding, right? Salesmen?”

I should have known we couldn’t have a real conversation without him making fun of me. “Just forget I said anything.”

I began wheeling my cart away, but he grabbed the cart and held out his hand. “Your glasses?”

I tossed them back into the freezer bin. “Forget about them.”

“I said something wrong again, didn’t I?” He pulled the glasses from the freezer bin, then looked at me with an unreadable expression. Almost like he really wanted to know what I had to say.

“Either you think I’m a loser or you feel sorry for me. Neither is good.”

“I don’t think either of those things.” He brushed more corn from my hair. “I admire your strength. You don’t let anything or anyone get you down. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re also sexy.”

My jaw dropped.

“I always seem to say the wrong thing when I’m around you.” This time I had no trouble reading his expression. He looked confused. “I’m not usually this way. Usually people like me. Think I’m a nice guy.”

“Well.” I wasn’t sure what to say, but he appeared to be waiting for me to comment. “We don’t know each other very well.”

“Maybe that’s a mistake.”

I thought about him dunking me in the freezer bin. I thought about Aiden and how right he seemed for me. “Maybe it’s not.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll break more glasses?”

I was afraid of lots of things, but broken glasses weren’t one of them.

Every instinct in my body warned me not to let that on to him.

What made it difficult for me is that Davin was actually a very nice guy when he wasn’t behaving like a member of the Spanish Inquisition. He was thoughtful and very sweet.

But sweet doesn’t pay the bills. Sweet doesn’t cover college tuition. And while sweet is fun to play with, it tends to cloy if it sticks around too long.

“I’d better run,” I said, hoping to make my getaway at last.

He reached forward, smoothed my hair, and tucked a curl behind my ear.

Oh, Gawd. He
was
nice. I quickly headed my cart away from him. Broken glasses were so the least of my worries.

CHAPTER TEN

Dear Jill,

I don’t imagine your survey respondents will be frank enough to tell you the true secret to a successful marriage.

One word.
Viagra
.

Yours truly,

DDS

P.S. Good dental hygiene doesn’t hurt, either.

Preparing food is one of the delights in my life. I love cooking. I love the feeling I get, as if I’m nurturing through nutrition.

Aiden seemed like a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, so I decided to make one of my standbys for dinner, prime rib.

My recipe is incredibly simple. I smear the roast on all sides with margarita salt, freshly ground coarse pepper, and dried cilantro, then stick it in the oven with a little foil over the top. The salt melts into the roast and takes the pepper and cilantro flavoring along with it.

To add a little Southwestern flair, I made my own version of Yorkshire pudding, which I call Vegas Pudding. I substituted one-quarter of the required flour with cornmeal. I like the texture, it doesn’t rise as much as the Yorkshire version, and when I add drippings from the prime rib, the cilantro gives it zing.

A fresh salad and Chocolate Pots de Crème completed the menu. All are easily prepared in advance and very impressive when served.

I was excited while waiting for Aiden to arrive. I’d prepared so much ahead of time that I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself until he arrived. Stephen was at Stormy’s, I had gotten all the corn out of my hair, dinner was ready to be served whenever I wanted, and my apartment was as clean as it had ever been.

I set the table with my best stemware, dishes, and candles, which I’d light just before serving our meal.

All I needed was my date.

I checked the clock. Aiden was four minutes late and I hoped he wasn’t the fashionably late type. As far as I’m concerned, parties are time-optional, but not dinner dates. Even dinners with built-in holding patterns don’t keep forever. The phone rang and I jumped to the conclusion it was probably him, calling to cancel.

Wrong.

“Hello,” I said in my best sexy-throaty-voice.

“Are you coming down with a cold, dear?” said Aiden, with my mother’s voice? I held the phone away from my ear, wondering what had gone wrong, then realized it actually
was
my mother.

Damn. Why was I paying for caller ID when I always forgot to check it? “I’m not sick, Mom. I’m just busy.”

“It’s Saturday night. What are you busy doing?”

I didn’t want to mention my date because she’d start planning my wedding, which is why, thank God, I had the foresight never to introduce her to the Asshole P. “I’ve been cooking dinner.”

“That’s nice. You’ve got time then, to discuss my anniversary photos.” My mind wandered as she rattled on about how brilliant I was for talking the warden into doing my evil bidding and, “Blah, blah, blah …”

I wondered if I should have mentioned I had a date, after all, because then perhaps she wouldn’t have launched into one of her monologues. I concentrated on making “Uh-huh” noises periodically, while I went to check on the prime rib to make sure it was still warm and not blackened.

Mom was in midyammer, and I was getting ready to ask her about menopause, when the doorbell rang.

“Mom, someone’s at the door, and I have to go.”

“What? I thought you were alone.”

“Not anymore. Dinner plans.” I started to hang up, but remembered. “Oh, Mom, how old were you when you went through menopause?”

“Um …”

By this point, Aiden had progressed to knocking on my door.

“I think around forty,” continued my mother. “The doctor said it was unusual to start so early, but not abnormal. Why do you ask?”

“Hang on, Mom.” Shifting the phone to my shoulder, I unlocked the door and opened it.

Aiden was sooo cute, wearing jeans, a snug, dressy T-shirt, and carrying a stuffed teddy bear and a bottle of wine.

“Hi!” he said as I signaled for him to come in.

“Is that a man’s voice?” asked my mother in a scandalized tone, although why she felt there was anything more than mildly titillating about her forty-flipping-year-old daughter having a dinner date was beyond me. Did she believe I was unable to find a date without her help? “Gotta go, Mom.”

I clicked off the phone and closed the door behind Aiden.

“You look great,” I said.

“So do you, and something smells just as good.”

Time to ‘fess up. After my mom confirmed my worst menopausal fears, and after the way my body had begun falling apart, I was relieved that Aiden thought I looked okay, and there wasn’t some huge neon
M
(for
menopause)
flashing on my forehead.

We headed to the kitchen where he placed the bottle of red wine he’d brought on the counter, then handed me the stuffed bear. “It made me think of you.”

It was really cute.

“Press the button,” he instructed.

I did as he asked and the bear jiggled while playing “Wild Thing.”

“Too cute.”

Things were going swimmingly and I was starting to calculate all his assets.

A) He looks
really
good.

B) He likes my dazzling smile. (I shot him another dazzling smile for good measure.)

C) He’s got great taste in wine—I knew because I’d peeked and checked the label.

D) He gives cute gifts.

All he had to do was pass the audition and I’d have a winner, assuming I passed whatever tests he had in mind for me.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, while doing an air putt—like a golfer’s swing—in the middle of my kitchen.

My brow furrowed. “You’re into golf?”

“Yeah. There’s something about yelling, ‘Fore!’ that gets my juices flowing. Do you play?”

“I never had the opportunity,” I said, then explained the menu. He grinned with pleasure.

“Why don’t you have a seat at the table while I open the wine?” I indicated the dining room.

He nodded and proceeded to the table. When I stuck the corkscrew in the wine bottle, I noticed he’d stopped in front of the decorative mirror that ran along one wall of the dining room.

I continued opening the wine, but as I poured it into goblets, I realized he was still at the mirror.

He was making different faces at his mirror image—surprise, sexy, intrigued, sad.

Ah, hum. How cute.

As I carried our wine into the room, I saw him making an exaggerated scared expression.

Odd. Very odd.

He saw me in the mirror reflection and smiled, then turned around. “I do impressions.”

“Cool. Who do you do?” I asked as he took another air putt.

He stopped midswing and looked at me as if I was a total ditz. “Harrison Ford, of course.”

“Oh.” Since he resembled him, that wasn’t too surprising. “Who else?”

“Just Harrison Ford.”

I swear he said that in all seriousness.

“Oh. How nice.” I handed him his glass and hoped my incredulity didn’t show on my very not-a-poker face. “Here’s the wine.”

“Let’s have a toast.”