Hot Flash (6 page)

Other people might fantasize about winning the lottery, but I dream of white picket fences. Nevada doesn’t especially run to houses with picket fences, at least not the sort surrounded by bluegrass.

I’d pulled out the photo so many times that the edges had frayed and a crease at the corner fell off in my hands. Perhaps I should take it to be laminated? Technically, the house wasn’t my dream it was what the house symbolized. I didn’t actually need a picket fence, or bluegrass, or this particular house. What I craved was the safety and security and the feeling of home and peacefulness that stole over me whenever I looked at it.

Now that I was forty flipping years old, my dream seemed farther away than ever.

I was angry. I was alone. And I was scared.

It was time to take myself and my dreams seriously. I’d scheme, plan, devise, forecast, concoct, hatch, frame, and design.

I’d make accountant types seem like screw-offs and anal compulsives seem relaxed, and mostly, I’d be more organized than Susan, who’s the most together person I’ve ever met. If I didn’t love her, she’d scare me half to death.

And, dammit, I’d find the perfect traveling salesman to pay for Stephen’s schooling and provide me with M.B.S.

I pushed the growing stack of surveys away and gave the newspaper a fast scan. For once no family member was featured in it. A few months back, I flinched every time I saw the paper because I knew my dad would be front-page news.

I heard the front door open and Stephen called out, “I’m home,
Maman
“

“Welcome home,” I answered as he neared and pressed a quick smooch to my cheek. “Did you have a good time?”

He rolled his eyes. I hadn’t truly expected an answer.

Although I wanted him to spend time with his fa—other mother, knowing he was back gave me a sense of security. Even though he’s a head taller than me, I like having my chickling safe at home.

I always worry when he’s gone, even when there’s nothing specific to worry about. However, now that my ex has her own entertainment business (too bad it isn’t successful enough to run to college tuition), occasionally she fills in for sick or missing employees. I insist that she return Stephen home on those occasions and not take him with her while she does her cross-dressing diva act. Stephen has enough confusion over the whole sex change issue. I know I do.

The good news was I’d almost stopped cringing whenever I saw Stephen’s blue hair. The bad news was that the French beret perched jauntily atop said blue hair still made me cringe.

“S’up?”

At least he hadn’t added
Maman
. The mix of high school slang with street French made conversation with him confusing—that is, whenever he decided to converse. He’d actually found a way to give his grunts a French accent.

“I’m getting ready to run some errands. Want to come along?”

“Can you get me some new pastels?”

I looked at him closely. At the sweet nose I’d kissed a zillion times that had now bloomed into youthful manhood. At the cat-green eyes that seemed to capture more life and energy from his surroundings than any other eyes I’d ever known. At his strong chin that so reminded me of the man who’d been his father. “Do you have an inner woman aching to break out?”

He rolled his eyes. “Just because Stormy—”

“You’ve told me this before.
Just because Stormy had an inner woman doesn‘t mean her son does, too
. But pastels?”

“I’m working on a new version of
Las Vegas après Holocaust
, Mom. I ran out of orange and black.”

Did I mention his artwork generally gives me nightmares?

“I’m going to Target. Will they have pastels?”

French grunt.

“Come with?”

More eye rolling.

“I can’t be expected to pick the right kind of art supplies. You said so yourself. Besides, I might need a big strong man like you to help little ol’ me load my purchases in the Animal.”

The Animal is the name of my Saturn ever since Stephen got a learner’s permit and on his first outing drove into the McDonald’s drive-thru window. Literally into.

Insurance paid to fix McDonald’s but not the Saturn. Fortunately, it still runs. Unfortunately, with the combination of dents, rust, and green paint, it now looks like a tarantula on PCP.

“I’ll come. Just don’t talk to me.”

“That’s hard, Stephen. What if there’s some danger? I’ll need to warn you. Even if it’s only to say, ‘Watch out for the Bounty avalanche.”‘

French grunt.

I shrugged, grabbed my keys, and we headed out the door.

Our trip to Target began as expected.

I like going out with my son. I really do. Honest. Even when he walks ten paces in front of me so he can pretend we aren’t together.

Before long I realized I’d left my list at home and now I wandered aimlessly wondering what the hell it was I needed besides Stephen’s pastels.

After Stephen chose his pastels, I grabbed a packet of laminating sticky paper to see if I could do some repair work on my dream house photo. As we walked amicably down the aisles in pursuit of whatever it was I’d forgotten, I decided it was a good time to find out about his report card. Since he spent the night before with his fa—other mother, he’d managed to avoid me so far.

“Did you get your grades on Friday?”

French grunt.

“So, how’d you do?”

“Got an A in French.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Maybe he’d turned a new leaf and his grades had skyrocketed?

“Mais oui
.“

“Any other As?” I couldn’t keep the hopeful note out of my voice.

“Art.”

He stopped to gaze at a computer game display, indicating our discussion was over. I, however, am never one to take a broad hint, especially not when in pursuit of my son’s grades. “How do the rest look?”

“Two Cs and two Ds.”

My stomach churned. Definitely no hope for a scholarship reprieve. Unless … “Water polo?”

Stephen rolled his eyes, then walked back up the aisle.

I rushed to catch up with him. “Darts?”

No response.

Just then a cute pajama set caught my eye. Immediately behind it was a colorful bra display. I needed another bra. Hey, there’s a chance it
could
have been on my list.

As a decoy, I quickly grabbed the cute pj’s, which I had no intention of buying. Stephen was more likely to cooperate while I shopped for pj’s than if he thought I was looking at bras. “Stay right here. I need to check this out and I’ll be right back.”

This time his grunt didn’t sound so French. It was more guttural, but he remained in place, which was all I wanted.

I darted to the bras. They were made of cotton, didn’t have any froufrou lace, and I particularly liked the bright colors. Most especially, I loved the price.

It didn’t take long to become absorbed in choosing which color I liked best. I didn’t look up until I heard the sound of Stephen’s voice.

He was in conversation with a man. I couldn’t see his face. I selected one of the bras, then headed in their direction.

As I moved around the pajama rack, bits of the man came into view. I came up behind him and noted his close-fitting black T-shirt and black jeans. I admired the muscular tightness that formed the shape of an award-winning male physique. Whoa. Even from the rear, this man exuded confidence. His posture was relaxed and yet there was a hint he would spring at the first sign of danger.

Curious how Stephen knew a man like this, I approached, unable to take my eyes off him. Wide shoulders. Oh, yeah. Trim waist. Oh, yeah. Dark hair. Oh, yeah. Dark eyes with incredibly long lashes just like George Clooney’s. Ah, shit.

It was Stephen’s third-grade teacher, Mr. Davin Wesley. Stephen had adored him but he’d been a total pain in my parental butt.

Eight years ago, Mr. Wesley had been an attractive man. But eight years of maturing had done incredible things to him. Who would expect the young, eager teacher to now appear more suited to a boardroom? The few crinkles age had sprinkled in the corners of his eyes didn’t make him look older. Instead, they added character. His chiseled nose was still straight and strong, but now it fit his face in a way it hadn’t before. The youth had left his cheeks, leaving sexy planes in their stead. And his lips …

I shook my head, determined to remember how Stephen had told this guy about seeing his father wearing my peekaboo nightie. Davin Wesley knew too many intimate details about my past. Intimate and humiliating details.

He was annoying. He was controlling. Hell, if I thought about it long enough, I might find some way to blame Mr. Wesley for most of my mother/son problems.

“Hullo,” I said in as snooty a tone as I could muster. It must not have worked, though, because he smiled at me.

He was one of those men with really white teeth and I wondered whether he bleached them or if they were natural. I also wished he had asparagus or some other noxious vegetable caught between his teeth. Sadly that wasn’t the case.

Not wanting to further embarrass Stephen by discussing his grades in front of his ex-teacher, I sought some safe subject I could turn our conversation to—like the weather. However, this being Nevada, there’s usually not much to talk about in that regard.

I didn’t need to change the subject, though, because Mr. Wesley directed his attention back to Stephen. “You’re a senior now, aren’t you? Are you busy applying to colleges?”

“I’m trying to decide which to apply to,” said Stephen.

My stomach churned. College. Tuition.

“You’re still painting, aren’t you?”

“Oui
. I want to be an artist.”

“Have you considered the Massachusetts College of Art and the School of Visual Arts? They’re both top art schools.”

“Thanks for the suggestions.”

“My class would enjoy having you demonstrate how to use pastels. Would you consider speaking to them?” Mr. Wesley smiled while I mentally calculated the tuition at top art schools.

Stephen glowed. There was little he enjoyed more than talking art. “Sure.”

“I knew when I saw your entry that it would be a winner at the Henderson ArtFest.”

“You went to the festival?” Stephen asked. “Did you know all of my artwork sold out?”

“Awesome.” Davin nodded, said to me, “I bet you’re proud.”

“I’ve been bragging about it for weeks. Stephen is very talented.”

“He is. I suspect he gets that from you?”

I chuckled. “No way. I’m an artist with a pastry brush, not a paintbrush.”

He leaned his head to one side and looked at me intently. Like he was interested in what I was saying. “It seems to me that a gift for art of whatever kind is something you both share. I hear you’re a famous chef.”

“I’m not famous, but I enjoy my job as sous chef at La Papillon.”

“I’m impressed. I bet you’re proud of your mother, too, Stephen.”

“Oui
. Mom’s a great cook.”

Davin glanced my way again. “Oh, yeah?” His gaze lowered and I realized I was standing there with the fuchsia bra I’d selected clutched to my stomach. I quickly yanked it behind my back, but not before he noticed, because his lips slowly turned up in a lopsided smile as if he was fighting back a laugh. It was damned sexy.

“I like to think I’m a good cook,” I replied with as much dignity as I could muster. However, it’s hard to be dignified when you’re holding a fuchsia bra in public.

Davin’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “I like to think I’m a good taster.”

Was he hinting he wanted to taste some of my cooking? Was he flirting with me?
Say something
, I said to myself.
Say something so you won’t seem like a total dweeb standing here with your mouth drooping open and lingerie hidden behind your back
. I blurted, “And all this time, I thought you were a teacher.”

“Between tasting engagements, I try to get my third graders interested in something other than snickering over body functions. Is there any chance for a tasting engagement with you two?”

Speaking of body functions, before I could reply two young women stopped in their tracks to ogle Davin. They were probably wondering how his body functioned, based on the way one of them—the youngest one—stared at his mouth.

Did I forget to mention his lips? Besides the George Clooney eyes, it was Davin Wesley’s best trait. His lips speak directly to a woman’s inner lust. You can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have
those
lips touching you, teasing you. Considering the way the young woman was clutching her shirt, that’s exactly what was on her mind, too.

She nudged her friend and the two of them approached. Okay, they made a beeline so fast they could have competed in a track meet. They were all dimples and grins as they said in singsong unison, “Hi, Davin.”

He’d been smiling impishly at Stephen, who seemed particularly pleased with himself for some odd reason, so Davin hadn’t noticed the women until they’d spoken. He turned and addressed them, “How are you doing, Jessica and Tanya?”

“Fine. It seems odd to see you outside the classroom,” said the younger woman. She was blond, blue and dewy-eyed, and you could tell she had an enormous crush on the teacher. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be that young and that obvious. Her friend was dark-haired, slender, and made me think of deer and gazelles.

The blonde smiled and glanced first at Stephen, then oddly at me. What did she think, that I was competition? Hardly. Like the Asshole Professor, Davin Wesley apparently attracted much younger women. Their combined ages couldn’t add up to much more than my forty flipping years.

“Speaking of the classroom, I’d like you to meet Stephen Storm and his mother, Jill …” He looked at me, “You haven’t remarried, have you?”

I shook my head.

He smiled again. Warmly. Maybe he really had been flirting with me?

“Jill Storm,” he continued, now addressing the women, while I was still reacting to the warmth of his smile. No wonder women tripped over themselves to come talk to him.

“I’ve invited Stephen to talk to the class,” he said.

“That’s great,” said the blonde, extending her hand to shake Stephen’s. “I’m interning in Davin’s class right now.”