Hot Flash (5 page)

And he held still for it.

“Mrs. Rosemoor said he’d be on his feet again soon. Losing his job at the zoo is only a tiny setback.”

This begged the question, other than finally getting my mother off my back, how would becoming involved with an unemployed, zoo-keeping mama’s boy solve all my problems?

One of the things I’ve come to value as I ripen (a.k.a. mature), is quiet time to spend alone. After work, I came home to a peaceful apartment because Stephen was with his fa—other mother and he wouldn’t be home until morning. Since my ex’s sex change was completed last year, our relationship had devolved into
competitive mothering
. If Stormy could afford Stephen’s tuition, I’d even consider letting her win. Unfortunately, she’s still paying for her surgery and likely will be for the next ten years.

I took a seat at my writing desk and thumbed through the stack of survey responses from the couples celebrating significant anniversaries.

I grinned at one respondent’s answer to what makes her marriage last. She answered, “Hot sex.” Farther down the survey, her answer under her spouse’s character traits said, “Sensitive lover.”

Another response came from a woman who hadn’t had sex since 1990, but stated that her husband had never been any good anyway. Sounded like my non-relationship with Stephen’s father.

As I scanned the stack, I saw there were two golf widows, three military wives, and several others whose husbands traveled as part of their jobs.

I was left with a series of questions:

How would I find anything useful from such diverse women?

How had any of these marriages lasted?

How had Mom and Dad’s marriage lasted for so long?

What makes successful marriages tick?

As much as Mom’s attempts at matchmaking annoyed me, I wanted to find someone. Although I had many people around me and I wasn’t lonely, I wanted to be in a good relationship.

I missed the close friendship of a man. I missed the emotional intimacy. And I really missed having an escort. I’d realized that after the Asshole Professor had dumped me. The sex hadn’t been that great and there wasn’t much in the intimacy department, but I always had a date to take with me to social functions. Plus, there was the side benefit of not worrying about Stephen’s tuition.

What I missed most, however, was my skillet. It was perfect. It was iron. It was well seasoned. I felt naked without it. And the jerk hadn’t returned it or my phone calls.

I was tired of doing everything by the rules, by doing things the right way, when all it got me was nowhere.

Being forty flipping years old wouldn’t be so bad if it meant I could do things differently, if I no longer believed it was so damned important to be a good girl.

I was no longer a girl.

I was ripe, dammit.

Maybe it was time to take chances, time to leap out of my usual comfort zone, time to act out in general! I wanted to act out, act up, and kick up my heels a little.

No matter how many times I looked at the survey responses, nothing seemed to jump out at me until … Wait a sec. All of the responses that ranked their martial happiness as awesome had one thing, and only one thing, in common.

They all had absentee husbands!

Could the answer to marital happiness be to marry a traveling salesman?

Could solving my problems be this easy?

I wanted to cheer, but at that moment, the phone rang. I checked the caller ID and it was Connie. I couldn’t wait to tell her about the scheme that was percolating in my head.

I didn’t bother with preliminary pleasantries. “I have a great idea!”

“So do I,” purred Connie. “I’ve thought of the perfect thing to cheer you up. Have you gotten your skillet back yet?”

“No …”

“You still have the key to his condo?”

“Yeah? Are we going to break in?”

“You got it. I’ve been watching his place and the coast is clear. Wait for me outside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t forget the key!”

“What? Have you become some kind of ex-boyfriend stalker?”

“No. A skillet-getter-backer.”

“We can’t break into his condo.”

“You’ve got a key. That’s not breaking and entering. Besides, he’s got your skillet. There’s probably some statute about unlawful possession. We’re not stealing anything. Unlocking is legal.”

“What if he changed the lock?”

“Then we’ll leave. I promise not to smash windows. Well, unless there’s a good reason. You can tell me about your great idea when I pick you up. Be there in a minute!”

“Wait,” I said again, but she’d hung up. I was hoping she’d called to invite me to a party or something glamorous, not to commence a life of crime. On the other hand, within the hour I could have my skillet back. Wasn’t I just contemplating kicking up my heels and moving outside my comfort zone? Unlocking and entering definitely qualified as acting out.

What would Connie think of my idea and the glimmer of a Salesman a.k.a. Tuition Plan that my subconscious had just about fully hatched? I couldn’t think of anything better for improving my mood and returning my optimism.

Twenty minutes later, I unlocked the Asshole Professor’s front door.

“Hurry up,” said Connie as I stood still, listening for any sound indicating he might be home. All I could hear was my heart throbbing in my ears. “Shh.”

She pushed past me. “Quit shushing me. I told you he’s gone.”

I followed her inside and closed the door.

She made a beeline to the bar. “Get your skillet and I’ll make us a drinkie winkie.” After fumbling around in the cupboard, she pulled out a bottle. “Sour apple martini sound good to you?”

“A sour apple martini sounds delicious.” It was the perfect accompaniment to breaking and entering. I definitely needed a drink. His condo had a kitchen open to a living area with a wet bar on the opposite wall. I walked over to the kitchen counter and laid down my purse.

While Connie began mixing our drinks, I pulled open the drawer where the pots and pans were kept just below the cooktop. My forehead wrinkled when I didn’t see my skillet. I moved pans around. No luck.

Quickly closing that drawer, I opened the one below it. My skillet wasn’t there, either. “I can’t find it.”

“Keep looking. He probably moved it somewhere to keep it safe for you.”

I threw open cupboards, doors, drawers, anything and everything. I tossed towels, hot pads, and utensils on the floor. Hiking my skirt to hip level, I placed my knee on the counter and vaulted up. Feeling like a gymnast, I searched the cabinets where he stored rarely used items. “It’s not here.”

Connie walked into the kitchen area, raised an eyebrow as she looked at the mess I made, then calmly handed my martini up to me. “Drink up and tell me about your great idea.”

I took a sip, allowing the tartness to linger a moment before I slithered back to the floor, my dismount anything but graceful. “It’s about my survey responses.”

“Have you gotten many?” Connie began rifling through the cupboard behind her.

“Twenty-seven.”

“I bet they all had hot sex.” She pulled out a frying pan. “Is this yours?”

“No.” I shook my head and she replaced it in the cupboard. “So far the surveys haven’t said too much about sex, except for the lack of it.” I addressed her posterior because she’d burrowed almost all the way into the cabinet. “The only responses with anything in common have a husband who is never home. Traveling salesmen, golf widows, even a restaurant site selector—the guys are always gone.”

“Ohhhh. Traveling salesmen?” She pulled her head out of the cupboard. “You could do a lot with a traveling salesman.”

“That’s what I was thinking!” I stuffed some utensils back in a drawer, then began stacking the pots I’d pulled out.

“With your job, you have lots of opportunities for meeting salesmen.” She emerged from the cabinet and began going through the pantry.

“There always seems to be a sales convention of some sort going on.” I nodded, getting into the idea. “I’ve been worrying about tuition for Stephen. So, here’s my thinking. A traveling salesman is the perfect answer to all my concerns. One woman wrote that she had one week on and three weeks off each month, so I’m thinking one week of sizzling sex and then he’s gone again, leaving me to do my own thing. He sends home his paycheck and Stephen’s tuition is covered.”

“I love it.” Connie tossed back the last of her martini.

I loved it myself. Maybe the surveys really had given me the answer I was looking for. Surely I’d have lots of salesmen to choose from. It was only a matter of applying myself to meeting as many as possible.

“Have you considered holding auditions?”

“What kind?”

“Sexual auditions. With all the bad luck you’ve had in the bedroom, let me tell you, the last thing you want is a man who’s not sexually compatible.”

“Great idea.” Connie had bragged about Mind-Blowing Sex ever since I’d known her. I never got any and wondered if I ever would. This could be my shot at it.

A muffled thud and the sound of the front door lock turning made Connie shriek. She grabbed her purse and mine, then dragged me by the arm to the sliding door exiting onto a patio.

I glanced back through the hedges we’d ducked behind and took in the disorder we’d created, just as the Asshole Professor stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t appear to see us as we sneaked behind shrubbery and made our way back to the car. I wondered if he’d know it was me or think some mystery lush had raided his wet bar.

“Do you think he’ll call the police?”

“We didn’t steal anything.” Connie shrugged as she started the car. “What’s he going to say? ‘Hello, Officer. I want to report a mess?’“

She had a point. Although I was disappointed about not finding my wayward skillet, I was pretty revved about the decision I’d made. The answer to all my problems was to hunt down the perfect traveling salesman. I could become a salesman groupie.

CHAPTER TWO

Dear Unhappily Single Woman,

Are you nuts? Instead of sending out surveys, you should be counting your blessings!

My husband retired a couple of years ago and has been under my feet 24/7 until I insisted he find a hobby because he drove me nuts. He started working out at the spa. Now, after thirty-two of the best years of my life, the louse left me for a slut half his age. His personal trainer!

I hope she has better luck training him than I did.

You want the truth? Men are just children in larger bodies. Honey, you don’t want the heartache. Stay single and invest in a Rocket Propulsion Vibramatic Model XXX19.

Yours sincerely,

Over the next week, more survey responses trickled in. I sat at my desk in the corner of my dining room, riffling through the survey responses like Midas counting gold coins and daydreaming about auditions and M.B.S. (Mind Blowing Sex).

After reading a survey questioning my sanity for wanting a man at all, doubts about my traveling salesman plan crept in.

It did seem sort of harebrained. Would setting my sights on a salesman classify me as a gold digger? What made me think a relationship with a salesman would be any better than the ones I’d already been involved in? And, bottom line, was I really that desperate yet?

I guess I was. While the idea seemed nutty on the surface, it appealed to my sense of adventure—and Stephen’s college tuition might be the payoff.

I’m not sure if other people have a secret dream, but I did. A dream that sort of embarrassed me, which is why it was a secret. I once asked Connie if she had a secret dream and Connie reassured me that of course she does. She dreams of winning the lottery and having sex with lots of younger men.

That isn’t the kind of secret dream I mean. Her fantasy is the kind that could come true, or is at least more likely to come true. After all, someone has to win the lottery.

I pulled my wallet from my handbag, stuck my hand in the little pocket behind the change purse, a pocket you wouldn’t realize was there unless you’d explored the wallet carefully, then slid out the magazine photo of my dream.

It was a house in Lexington, Kentucky, surrounded by a white picket fence. Between the house and the fence was lots and lots of Kentucky bluegrass.